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raepliica · 1 year

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(content warning: blood)

Sewed Up Heart

[ID: A Trigun comic done in grayscale with red accents. First, an anatomical heart gushes blood, forming a puddle which shifts into Vash's coat. Vash's gloved hands can be seen sewing up a tear at the hem.

Vash raises his hands, which are now bare and covered in blood. He looks sweaty and distressed, and he raises his coat to his face and cries into it. His clenched hands rip the sewed portion apart, and the red thread leads to a heart whose own stitches are tearing apart. The background gets darker and darker, and the red looks brighter and starker against it.

Then the background returns to white, and brown-skinned hands using embroidery scissors snip a red thread. Wolfwood holds up Vash's repaired coat, grinning proudly, and does a happy thumbs-up in Vash's direction. Vash lifts his head, seeming distant.

Wolfwood holds out the coat. As Vash puts out his hand to take it, the cloth is replaced so Wolfwood is dropping a sewed-up heart in Vash's hand. Vash rubs the coat against his face with a teary smile. End ID] ID CREDITS

#trigun #trimax #cw blood #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #vashwood #my art #his coat as an external representation of his emotional wounds🤌#a coat riddled with bullet holes tells so many stories #also wolfwood hc of him being good at sewing bc he probably had to patch up many clothes when he was at the orphanage #and now his hands are bloodied but he still has this one thing -this one skill- that helps him make things a little better for once #and it doesnt fix everything but at least he's giving back a bit of the kindness he's being shown #ww actions over words love language *explodes*#i cant stop rotating these thoughts in my head i need to make a comic focused on his pov #image described #thank you for the id!!#raepliica_art

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starppleb · 1 year

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I need more Danny ‘No more hero’ Phantom, so here I will be reasoning why he’s an Anti-Hero (in Dp x Dc prompt)

Danny doesn't see Death as the worst thing. He's too familiar with it (He is Death).

Sometimes it's better than 'living'. It's like a 'new beginning', a chance to let go like he tried to he did.

He left hero things with everything in his hometown. Where no matter what, he's been The Villain, The ghost, the menace.

People Humans only see in him what he did while being mind-controlled or forced to. Not that he saves them every day. They are afraid of him, of his power.

Just how are people still like Superman and other heroes who are more powerful than regular humans? They get mind-controlled and forced to be evil sometimes too.

That isn't fair.

And while They chose to save other people's asses because they wanted to, Danny didn't have a choice, if he didn't step in, the town would be destroyed in days.

He hoped that his parents Fentons would finally realize why ghosts were coming into town, but they just blamed Ghost Boy for all of the wrongdoings and never considered they were wrong.

So after 2 and a half years of hope, he burned out and just destroyed the portal, cleared out all of the ectoplasm, and left.

Now if ghosts wanted to 'visit' living they needed to go to Danny and personally ask.

This means no more Technus 'I will take over the world' and Emder 'I will make everyone love my music by mind-control', and just Technus 'I'll only check new tech stuff' and Ember 'I'll hang out with Kitty in the park and play some guitar', of course in more human form.

Danny himself decided to stick around Gotham because one - Bats are interesting, and two - ectoplasm (which he tries to clear out, at least a little bit).

So now he messes with Bats and humans while he's Anti-Hero - Phantom.

And gets yelled at by people at Batburger while he's a regular worker - Danny Nightingale.

But what will the Justice League do when Phantom will save the world from some big bad ghost with impressive ease, and just leave…

That powerful being is not just some generic troublemaker in the streets of Gotham.

He's the end and sawing of the world (and Infinite Realms).

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 2 years

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I was talking to a client today about "how to identify masking" as part of the process of learning how to shift masking from a reflexive coping strategy to a voluntary and conscious one and I feel like it led to a really important shift in framework FOR ME about masking and social distress.

Paraphrasing, the ideas we came to are as follows:

One of the reasons masking can be so difficult to recognize is because, essentially, masking is the act of performing "yourself" as a mirror for the other person you are interacting with. It's this idea of "I will micro-manage my own mood, affect, behavior, mannerisms, and environment in order to reflect back to you whatever version of "self" you need from me because if I don't there will be consequences". So because masking is essentially performing "mirroring" as selfhood by amplifying or minimizing aspects of yourself based on what you think the other person wants to see in you, it varies significantly from one context to another. The major commonality is that it takes up an INCREDIBLE amount of energy, mental and emotional resources, cognitive processing power, etc. So you don't identify masking by specific behaviors so much as by the feeling of "having a significant amount of your mental/emotional resources be occupied by the act of social interaction" to the point that it doesn't leave enough left-over for other cognitive tasks, or leaves you feeling exhausted and worn out, or basically by the impact that masking has on you during and after.

In this framework, part of why we get so anxious about new or unfamiliar people or situations is because we don't know how to mask in that context yet, and so until we get there and figure it out, we're basically just terrified of what could go wrong since we don't know what we're walking into.*

*This is the underlying framework of anticipatory and obsessive anxiety as well. Anticipatory and obsessive anxiety functions as the mechanism by which we conduct both predictive reasoning-basd advance planning and review/self-correctionof our mental predictive model.

Autistic aversion to uncertainty has a lot to do with our need to be able to use predictive reasoning-based advance planning to cope with "social deficits" aka how much harder it is for us to interpret subtextual/nonverbal cues, learn/meet social expectations, and work through/around disordered sensory processing. That predictive reasoning requires us to be familiar, in advance, with the stable constant factors that influence decision making in social contexts. If we aren't familiar with the constant variables than we can't plan, if we can't plan than we are more likely to make noticeable social mis-steps, and if we take notable social mis-steps there are consequences. It becomes necessary for us to be hypervigilent to observable patterns in other people's behavior in order to try to reverse engineer the social interaction playbook on the fly. That ends up making us more likely to assume personal responsibility for predicting and managing the emotional regulatory needs of people around us at all costs, replicating the behavioral/cognitive impacts of chronic traumatic stress due to the activation of our sympathetic nervous system from chronic hypervigilence.

Essentially, masking is a cognitive defense mechanism to severe and/or persistant traumatic interpersonal stressors. As the neurological impacts of chronic traumatic stress heal, we mask less frequently. But in order to heal from chronic traumatic stress, the human brain requires a safe environment that does not trigger a retraumatization episode or replicate feelings of helplessness/fear for safety. In other words, reducing/terminating masking safely requires us as autistic people to have consistent access to social environments in which we are able to utilize autistic interpersonal boundaries without fear of consequence or chonically unmet need. This requires the people around us to be able to respect not only autistic interpersonal boundaries, but also autistic self-expression/advocacy modalities and mediums.

I feel like a lot of the pieces of this framework have been rattling around in my head for a while but the flavor of words hit just right today and all the connections snapped into place.

Anyway, I'm still sort of sorting through the clinical implications of this framework but I think it's a direction I want to keep exploring for sure.

#i love my ASD client sessions it's so fucking MAGICAL how much those clients are thriving as we work together #like I don't know how to describe how well therapy goes when the client and clincian are speaking the same language it's really cool #anyway I feel like this is going to be part of how I assert the validity of my new modality because hot damn does it sync up perfectly #this framework so perfectly outlines the logical justification for the modality's clinical foundations #which will be really helpful in asserting the extant body of literature/evidence base for those clinical foundations as relevant #i need to update the files for my thesiiiiiiiiiiiiiis #actuallyautistic

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inaflashimagine · 11 months

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i truly am excited for the numerous miguel o'hara fics flooding my feed, but as someone whose first language is spanish i have one plea:

please do not use google translate for writing sentences in spanish bc 90% of the time they will sound quite off

some recommended resources:

spanishdict

linguee

deepL

word reference is also handy for understanding the context behind certain phrases or words

or maybe a friend you know who speaks and writes spanish!!

if anyone else has suggestions please feel free to rb!

Edit jun 7: shameless plug to read my Miguel O‘Hara x reader fic (latine reader) if you’re interested!

#i love the love miguel is getting and it's cool seeing writers branch out and try incorporating a language they might not be familiar with #but using the above resources will help with making the spanish in your fic flow better #i also might need to write another post on the latin lover stereotype bc phewww #that's for another day lol #a lil friendly psa from a tired latina lol #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #not sure if these are even the right tags?#discourse #just in case?#fanfic #there's a reason why the spanish teachers hated google translate LOL #man i also need to hop on the miguel o'hara fanfic train i'll get there

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rosiesriiveters · 16 days

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Keep thinking of Rosie allowing everyone else to experience the trauma of war around him in any way they need to. Whether it be after listening to his crew member choke through the Munster story, reaching a hand out to comfort him, making sure the replacements are all settled and feel comfortable with him - establishing that he's someone who can be trusted with any issues - and listening to Crosby tell him he's scared he's becoming a monster and reassuring him, and yet refuses to give himself the same grace.

Thinking about how he doesn't tell Crosby about what he saw after he was shot down, what he witnessed in that camp. He's never really the one telling any stories in the series. He listens and watches, lets others say whatever they need to, all the while keeping his cards close to his chest.

Thinking about Rosie smiling while watching his crew and the other airmen enjoying themselves at the flak house, and yet not allowing himself the same enjoyment. Thinking about how the doctor at the flak house got Rosie to look after himself only when he framed it that looking after himself is looking after his crew.

Thinking about Rosie re-upping, choking slightly on his words as he explains he can't bare the thought of sending some rookie in his place to only get himself and his crew killed.

He won't give himself the grace or patience he deserves, but by god he'll take care of everyone around him.

#rosie rosenthal #masters of the air #robert rosenthal #rosie's love language is acts of service but his 'acts of service' are like. 'i will destroy the fascist regime for you'#like he doesn't judge others when they are upset/crying and yet!! will not let himself do the same #it's why i loved the doctor at the flak house... just figuring rosie out so well and taking the pieces rosie gives him and working out #what will resonate with rosie the best. and it was framing it so that rosie needs to look after his crew #which he WILL DO come hell or high water #i have to find the quote from the masters of the air book but at the very end rosie says the war wasn't over for him until he'd helped #prosecute some of the nazi's. that he could only move on from the war when he could see it through to the very end. his war was finally ove #and that just fits him SO WELL.#the horrors of war run deep but rosie rosenthal's love for his friends will always run deeper #these tags are so messy lmao just a jumble of thoughts #ch: rosie #tv: masters of the air #rosie mota

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zarlev · 1 year

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hey guys the last Unangam Tunuu speaker on the russian side passed away recently, it’d be pretty awesome to help the folks on the american side keep up their work on preservation and teaching with a donation here if you can please

#ive become a fan on the language and try to learn it as a passion project hobby #they need the help and attention somewhere so heres another attempt from me #ill release my little game for them eventually #god i wish i had time and focus

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chamerionwrites · 1 year

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Basically I think that if you're going to insist on the importance of direct and honest communication, you have to not punish the behavior you want to see. You can't go around saying "Don't expect your family/friends/partner/etc to be a mind reader! If you have an issue, you need to communicate it!" while also repeatedly dismissing/belittling/ignoring people who do that, and then act as if someone is dishonest/manipulative/cowardly/bad at expressing themselves when they stop directly telling you what they're thinking or feeling. You're the asshole here, bro.

#i have met people who are very good direct communicators!#i have also met a lot of people who think they're very good direct communicators but are mostly just dickheads.#likewise a lot of people who say ''if you need help just ask!'' but give repeated intensely negative reinforcement for doing so #i'm not the bad communicator here i'm responding very rationally to a repeated pattern of being punished for requesting support #language #my posts

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mlyakotea · 8 days

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hello everyone!

just joined studyblr and langblr to meet some lang lovers and generally get my ass to study, never used this app before so be patient with me i beg i have no idea what i am doing lol

speak: 🇵🇱🇬🇧

intermediate: 🇯🇵🇨🇳

basic: 🇫🇷🇧🇬

want to learn: 🇷🇺🇰🇷

let’s be study buddies !!

#langblr #studyblr #how it even works help #japanese studyblr #chinese studyblr #russian studyblr #linguistics #study blog #i need language friends or i will go insane my motivation is ZERO

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serenescribe · 5 months

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Bit of an odd request but I was listening to a bit of music and I was hit by an idea-

Idk if you know the tale of the Snow Queen, but essentially snow queens powerful ice mirror shatters, all but two pieces are recovered. One shard lands in a boys eye making him turn icey and Queen snatched him up.

However consider- Snow King Silver dragging a “mortal” who has a piece of something that was his. Unaware said “mortal” is actually a fae whose intrigued by this King’s combination of harshness yet tenderness.

the snow prince Twisted Wonderland | 3.9k Summary: A mysterious spell afflicts one Lilia Vanrouge, encasing his heart in frigid cold. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51960883

FREED FROM UNI, I AM! I actually had this written for a while, but put off posting it to save it for a more appropiate season. I really love Snow Queen retellings and AUs, so this was a LOT of fun to write! Thank you, Olive! :D

(An aside: There are extremely minor spoilers for TWST CH7 in here; they're all under the cut and mentioned in passing. If you're trying to avoid every little detail of CH7, I'd suggest passing up on this!)

In the heat of a sweltering summer that sweeps Briar Valley like a storm, Lilia feels a prick of something sharp enter his eyes.

It happens so fast, so swiftly, that had Lilia not been one of the fair folk, he likely would not have noticed it at all. If he were a human, for example, with their sluggish reflexes and oblivious tendencies, lacking a natural affinity for magic in comparison to the fae, Lilia would have chalked up the prick in his eye to a stray lash falling in, rubbing around until he feels as though he’s flicked it out before moving on with his day.

But Lilia is not human. He is fae.

He knows, at once, despite trying and failing to dig out whatever it is that has entered his eye, that it is not a stray lash or a speck of dust. There is a strange magic emanating off of the tiny sharp splinter, an aura he picks up on in an instant. It’s peculiar, the way it makes him shudder as he brushes against it, the sensation likened to the cold of a dead winter. It is unlike anything he has ever felt before.

But gradually, Lilia has to put a pause on his efforts. He is out on a journey to meet with humans for talks of peace, for their centuries-long wars are slowly crawling to an end. His soldiers look at him in concern, clicking their tongues as they ask him, “General, are you alright? Do we need to stop for a while?”

“I am fine,” Lilia says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I simply got something in my eye, is all.”

It is not wrong to say that, for it is not a lie at all. But Lilia knows as well as anyone else that the strange prick of magic infesting his eye warrants further inspection.

Later, he tells himself, as they continue on with their journey on horseback, for the stalemate in their war has allowed for easier travel through ways of steed.

Time ticks by, the lazy heat of summer dipping into the beginnings of a chilly autumn. But despite the changing seasons, the months that have passed since that fateful summer day, Lilia comes no closer to discovering what it is that ails him so deeply.

He is not oblivious to the changes occurring to him; quite the opposite, in fact. Lilia has carried about him a strange self-awareness about his shifting attitude, only realising the differences in how he’s been acting when he reflects on the changes in hindsight. He’s never exactly been the pinnacle of warmth, and especially not after his beloved friends died, but he’s always held a fondness in his heart for the few he opens up to — namely his second in command, Baul Zigvolt, and the young heir to the throne and son of his deceased friend, Malleus Draconia.

But now?

Lilia stifles a sigh as he reminisces, trudging through the gardens of the castle. The leaves are shifting to warm hues, leaves fluttering in shades of vermillion red and golden yellow, and the fallen leaves give a satisfying crunch when his boots stomp into them.

He exhales, twisting his lips as he raises his head up to the world around him. It looks as it always has, Lilia knows that well. And yet… something about it has felt different since that day.

Everything has begun to feel… boring. Banal and bland at best, wickedly ugly at worst. The crunch of the leaves irritates his ears, the drought of the autumn air makes his nose feel too sore. He turns his nose up at the food the castle staff serve, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of a dish he used to love, and he turns down whoever offers him a mug of beer, the foam that guzzles over the rim leaving his hands sticky and gross.

Lilia knows he’s changing. It’s not just his emotions, but also in the way he sees the world — everything is so intimately different in the worst way, and every waking hour he spends feels like a chore, an obligation he drags himself through. Where he used to spend time with Baul and his fellow men, or with Malleus most of all, being the one to raise him since he hatched, he now spends it all… alone.

But knowing something logically is different from knowing it emotionally. There are only so many apologies he can force out with his insincere tongue, schooling his expression into a facsimile of sincere regret. At the end of the day — of each day — Lilia truly feels nothing at all except the vacant void of a howling gelidity, frostbite nipping through his very veins.

At the very least, his men have respected this change, regardless of how perplexed they seem to be. Baul had pulled him aside once or twice to ask if he was feeling fine, but had he not been so preoccupied with his daughter’s sudden interest in the Valley’s newest dentist, a peculiar human who’d chosen to move here, of all places, he would have surely pressed the matter further.

On the other hand…

“Lilia!”

He sucks in a breath at the sound of that familiar voice. Once, it had lightened his heart to be greeted to such a cry upon returning to the castle from one of his many campaigns. But now?

“Hello, Malleus,” Lilia greets, making a deliberate effort to soften his voice as he turns to greet the young prince. Malleus has grown a great deal since he first hatched, now towering slightly above Lilia. Still, the boy has an inclination for continuing to call out to him childishly — something that had endeared Lilia in times past, but now only serves to irritate him by no fault of Malleus at all. “Is there something you require of me?”

“Not require, per se,” Malleus answers, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He toys with the chain of his cloak with one hand. “I was merely hoping that you could spare the time to join me today for some tea. It has been quite a while, after all. I understand you’ve been busy as of late, but you do not appear to have anything on today, so I thought—”

“You’re rambling again.” Abruptly, Malleus’ mouth snaps shut. Lilia winces internally at his misstep; why had he interrupted the prince like that, in so cold a tone? He sighs. “Apologies. I have been under… a great deal of stress recently.”

“It is no matter, Lilia.”

Well that’s good, at least, Lilia thinks. Averting his gaze, he says, “Unfortunately, I do not believe I can join you today.”

A pause.

“Truly?” He hears it, the surprise in Malleus’ voice, mixing in with a forlorn misery. “I was certain that you had nothing to do today, given your schedule…”

“I—” Pressing his lips together, Lilia thinks before he says, rather stiffly, “It is true that I may not have anything on. But I would like some time to myself if you would be so kind, my prince.”

Ah, another slip up of his. To refer to Malleus by his title rather than his name… the gap between them only widens, and the only reason why Lilia worries about it is because he fears that he may go too far, say the wrong thing when it’s far too late to take anything back. But what’s done is done; Lilia raises his head in time to see Malleus recoil, hurt glimmering in those chartreuse eyes of his.

If Lilia stays longer… will he continue to mess up so miserably?

Before Malleus can speak, Lilia cuts in. “If there is nothing else that requires my attention,” he says, “I would like to return to my walk. Good day, Malleus. Give my regards to the queen.”

And, abruptly, he turns on his heels and leaves.

Oh, Lilia knows that Malleus is displeased. He knows it because, within mere moments, there is a gentle flutter of snow wafting down from the skies. He raises his head, blinking up at the fluttering snowflakes — so delicate and fragile, a byproduct of the prince’s tumultuous emotions, his magic far too powerful for him to properly handle when his emotions explode past his limits.

And yet, when he sets his eyes upon the swirling snow, Lilia feels…

Something.

He raises a hand, watching a snowflake land on his finger — so tiny, so delicate, an eight-pointed speck weaved into such an elegant pattern. It melts almost instantly against the warm flush of his skin — and yet, Lilia is transfixed, mouth parting slightly as he steps back, watching as the snow begins to flurry down faster and faster, cascading through the skies. How long has it been since he’d felt anything other than such apathy, such revulsion, such irritation and disgust? Now, Lilia only feels a sense of childlike wonder.

When was the last time he stopped to stare at the snow as it fell? He cannot remember. Has he ever stopped to observe it like this? Or had war stripped away such inconsequential pastimes from his life?

Lilia does not know how long he wanders around, watching the snowflakes dance until he goes numb, so numb with the cold. He only knows that his fingers are frozen and his lips are blue when he finally returns to the castle in a daze, barely cognisant of the way his entire body is battered, pushed past the natural limitations of his faerie strength.

Winter crashes into Briar Valley like an enemy ambush, a sudden attack spurned from the shadows of nothingness. It is the worst winter they have had in an eternity, everyone says, peering outside the frost-tinted windows as they bask within the toasty walls of the castle grounds; the fire-spells keep everyone warm for as long as they stay inside.

With the thick layers of snow barring any method of safe travel, the ongoing talks of their peace treaties with the humans have been temporarily suspended — more for the children of men’s sakes than that of the fae. If she so willed it, Queen Maleficia could wash away the snow with a flick of her wrist, but such matters, in her opinion, are trivial; nature is not something to be fixed at an instant, so why should she expend her energy for such things?

So during those days, cooped up within the castle walls with little to do, Lilia winds up lounging in the cushioned nook of a window, a little alcove tucked away in a winding tower towards the murky corners of the castle. Few fae ever roam here, save for a scant few servants pattering about cleaning the dusty hallways, and Lilia spends many languid hours with his head pressed against the cool glass, so intensely transfixed on the dancing snowflakes outside.

They are beautiful. Perhaps they are the last bits of perfection he shall ever witness in his life.

He has found no information about the shard that pricked his eye, nor has he found any sort of cure. Lilia has spent many a month searching, sifting through the treasure trove of books in the castle’s library to no avail. He had, at one point, considered going to the queen and telling her of his predicament — “In the month of summer, I believe a magical spell of some kind has afflicted my eye.” — but his own apathy stops him every time; there is simply no point in dragging others into this matter, not because Lilia does not wish to trouble them, but because, try as he might, the larger part of him just doesn’t care.

So, with his head pressed against the cold glass, Lilia closes his eyes and sighs.

The winter solstice is approaching, the longest night of the year. As nocturnal fae, creatures of the night, it is a joyous cause for celebration for their kind. Despite the blizzard that rages across the Valley night and day, many servants, guardsmen, people of their kingdom have been looking forward to the events; the castle town shall be open to all, shielded from the elements. All fae, young and old, can look forward to a night of dancing and festivities, dining on the finest food at the banquets, and celebrating the longevity of the night.

In years past, Lilia would have looked forward to it. But now, like everything else in his life, he feels nothing at all.

“Lilia? Are you here?”

He stifles a groan at the sound of Malleus’ voice. Again and again, the boy continues to scour for him, to seek him out and spend time with him. Lilia tries to indulge him, he really does! But each occasion spent together, needing to force himself to fake sincerity the whole way through — “Oh yes, Malleus, I would like to try the new blend of tea! Thank you kindly for the offer. How is your grandmother doing? I heard she has spent some time with you as of late—”

He can’t stand it. He can’t. It gets harder and harder with each passing day, the chill that permeates his skin sinking deeper and deeper, turning his heart into one carved of ice. His eye prickles with pain whenever he grits his teeth in a false smile; across the table from him, the young prince looks detestable, a selfish beast with far too much time, uncaring of what his servants are subjected to in their indulgence of him.

So he avoids him. As soon as Lilia hears him, he flicks his wrist, a swell of magic surrounding him. Bat-formed, Lilia takes to the rafters, huddling away in the corners of the ceiling as he listens to Malleus come and go. It is only when he hears that familiar voice fading away that he dares to leave, flapping his little wings as he makes a break for another isolated corner of the labyrinthian castle.

The day of the winter solstice arrives, and with it comes the worst blizzard the valley has ever seen.

Cold winds lash against the fortifications of the castle, howling and rattling. Snow crashes from the sky, piling higher and higher upon the dead ground. And yet the castle is alight with the buzz of festivities — the many servants bustle about, wrapping up the last of their preparations, ensuring the banquet is ready with food for all, that the decor floats about in place, that the spells wrapping the castle and its town in a bubble of warmth remain solidly intact.

Throughout the day, Lilia sticks to the shadows, hovering out of sight. Today he feels… he doesn’t know how to describe it. Cold and dead as usual, his heart no longer the warm, affectionate thing it was before — but beneath the thick layers of apathy, there is something nestled beneath: the barest twitch of a muscle, a flutter of something. Lilia finds himself distracted with it the entire day as he meanders about, waiting for the clock to tick to a point when the festivities can start.

And when they do begin, the many residents of the valley teleporting into the castle en masse… Oh, how does Lilia even begin to describe them? Laughter rings freely, the merry melody of music from a string band sweeping the air as dancers circle across the floor. Wine glasses clink as people toast to prosperity and magic, hoping to see the weather ease up soon, and even the queen herself is out and about, walking amidst the crowd, a smile on her face as she mingles with the few faeries bold enough to approach her.

But Lilia—

He feels nothing watching all this. Nothing at all.

And yet… there is something else. That peculiar emotion buried underneath… it sings to him, calls to him, as though someone’s voice were tugging at a string. It only strengthens as the night goes on, likened to an unbearable itch; it is the first blissful thing he has felt in what feels like an eternity, and Lilia—

He misses it. He misses being able to love, to feel something other than apathy at best, and all these horrible, miserable emotions at worst — a repugnance, a rage, an irascibility that sparks every time someone tries to converse with him. Lilia misses being able to love freely, his heart softening as he grows older, brought on by the loss he’s experienced, and the love he mustered up to be able to raise Malleus into the man he is today.

So who can blame him for slipping off, for finding a way out of the castle grounds? Lilia answers the call, sneaking past guards who are far too drunk on wine, laughing and shouting as they play games at their stations. He does not bother with whisking up thick clothes for himself; Lilia merely plunges into the blizzard, battered at once by shrieking winds and a pelting of snow against his face, of a storm so deadly chilling that it would ravage even the strongest of faes.

And yet, he does not feel cold.

He grits his teeth as he presses on, dragging his legs through the thick boughs of snow. Lilia knows not how long it takes for him to trudge, only that it feels like forever — but he knows he is getting somewhere, because with each step he takes, the tugging in his chest grows and grows, the intensity of the emotion exciting him for the first time in months.

Is this the answer to his ailment?

Is there a cure tucked within the heart of the storm?

Lilia takes one step, and then another. He takes a third, and—

All at once, everything stops.

The wind dies away. The blizzard softens to a gentle snowfall. Little flakes of snow dance through the air as Lilia walks forward, head turning to and fro. How peculiar this is! He raises a hand, watching a flake fall into the open palm of his hand and rest there, and it is only the sound of hooves clumping against snow that snaps him out of his reverie.

Lilia turns his head, and sees a child.

A boy, who gazes at him with wide eyes that reflect the northern lights — auroras of shifting veins tinted shades of pink, purple, and blue, lights that Lilia has only gotten the chance to see once during a journey across the world. His hair sweeps across his forehead, locks of the purest silver as though spun from the nighttime stars, streaked with white like the pristine paleness of snow. He sits on a white stag, ice-spun crystals hanging from its glacial antlers, and around him is a fur-lined cloak and hood that swallows him whole, far too big for his tiny body.

Lilia’s breathing hitches—

Because the boy before him is the most beautiful thing he has seen in a long time.

“Hello,” the boy says after a while, a glimmering curiosity in those wide eyes of his. His mount trots forward, bringing him closer. “I’ve never seen you before,” he says, looking at Lilia closely.

At that, Lilia laughs. “I could say the same to you, little one.” He rests a hand on his hips, relishing in the joy, the curiosity, the emotions that flood him in full force; it has been so long! “It is a rare sight to see a young boy riding a stag in a storm like this.”

The boy’s face falls, and Lilia feels… worried. Did he upset him somehow? “I’ve been trying to stop the storm for a while now,” the boy explains, auroral eyes flicking to the storm that rages outside the bubble they’re within, continuing to ravage the valley to no end. “B-but it’s my first time really trying such a thing, and I don’t… really know how.”

Ah, Lilia thinks, finally coming to understand. A lost child. A boy with power over the very elements itself, who can control the season of cold and snow. And yet, who would place such responsibility upon a child, one so very young? He feels the fervent urge to lean in and coddle him, to reassure him that it’s alright, you’re trying your very best, I can help you if you just let me.

And why shouldn’t he do such a thing?

“I can help you, if you would like.”

In a flash, those pupils lock on him. “Would you?” the boy breathes. “I-I wouldn’t want to trouble you, mister—”

“It’s no trouble at all!” Lilia insists, stepping forward with a beaming smile on his face. He reaches out for the stag, feeling the beast nuzzle against the palm of his hand as he strokes it gently. Why should he return to the castle, to that unyielding, endless void of apathy and misery? Here, with the boy with eyes like the auroras and hair like the stars, Lilia feels something — the warm glow of parental affection, already growing so attached to such a young child.

“Then…” the boy mumbles, “would you come with me?”

Lilia only smiles. “Of course.”

And as he clambers onto the back of the steed, he asks, before they leave, one final question: “Pray tell, little one, what is your name?”

“My name?” the boy echoes, furrowing his brows. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Lilia arches an eyebrow. What kind of a lonely life must this boy live, if he has not even considered his lack of a name? “Then would you mind if I gave you one?” he offers. Oh, it is such an incredibly forward move to suggest such a thing, with how important names are to his kind. But already, he is attached, his very soul bound to this child who gazes at him in wonder at the possibility of wielding his own name.

And the boy nods.

“Silver,” Lilia says, the name coming to him at once. Like the shine of the gleaming moon, the glitter of the stars, the wispy fall of the snow around them. Love blooms in his chest, the warmth cradling his very soul; Lilia curls his arms around the boy, his body so cold even through the chilling fabric of his cloak, pulling him against his chest into a hug. “That shall be your name.”

“Silver,” the boy echoes, testing it out on his tongue. He tilts his head back, a small smile gracing his rounded cheeks as he looks up at Lilia. “Thank you, mister. Could I ask what your name is?”

“It is Lilia, dear one,” he croons, relinquishing his name without a second thought. The two of them are bonded in mere moments, Lilia filled with a fulfilment he has not felt since that prick of a shard entered his eye.

There is nothing left for him here. That is what he tells himself as Silver leads them away, commanding his steed to take off into a prancing gallop, bursting from the tranquil heart of the storm into the raging blizzard, whisking them back to their home.

(Lilia fails to notice the figure that bursts through the clearing, chartreuse eyes widening in horror as a mouth parts to scream his name. He does not notice the horned boy who shivers in the cold, eyes wide as the wind whips at his long hair, watching the stag prance away, the boy who leads it ripping his guardian away from his grasp.)

#twst #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #twst silver #my writing tag #writing requests #twst fanfiction #twst writing #uhh i'm gonna start moving my fics to ao3 in the future so. rip tumblr drabbles tag? aha #need to do housekeeping when i have the energy...#anyways hi i'm listening to a 3 hour video of 50+ languages of let it go from frozen while prepping all this #help me :')

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voids-voyager · 10 months

Text

I have no clue why they didn't make Amity more akin to a rival character instead of a bully. Because it would have solved A Lot of problems in regards to Amity and Willow, and Lumity becoming a thing.

The thing is that Lumity feels Super Weird at the start when Luz is trying to befriend Amity long before the girl shows any remorse for bullying Willow and making up for it. And it's not something easily brushed off when Amity is introduced being condescending and a dick to Willow. The bullying isn't something of the past, it's still going on.

Willow comes off as an afterthought in this dynamic, when she's the one who's been wronged by Amity the most. Their arc never feels like it resolves itself either, it just kinda peeters out.

If you've watched Little Witch Academia, Diana is who I think Amity should have emulated more. Diana is the top student at the school, she's stern and no-nonsense, a bit stuck-up, she comes from a prestigious family, she gets in conflict with the protagnoist, Akko, not because of bullying but because they have very different personalities and butt heads because of it. Akko considers Diana her rival, but this is one-sided on her part.

Willow and Amity could still have been friends in the past, but Amity instead pointedly ignores Willow's existence after their friendship has ended. She doesn't call out her friends for bullying Willow(that would make it seem like she cares) but she doesn't participate or encourage it. She's still not a good person, she still has to apologise to Willow, but changing their relationship from 'active bullying' to 'pretending Willow doesn't exist' would do a lot going forward for them I think. Still terrible, but more palatable in my eyes.

#the owl house #toh critical #i guess?#better safe than not #luz noceda #amity blight #willow park #lumity #honestly one-sided rivalry could have easily been part of the early pre-lumity dynamic #with luz still seeing TBI as a fantasy considering amity to be her rival because in stories like these the protagonist always has a rival #but it would lead to luz struggling to see amity as a person beyond the 'rival' trope #like less we forget this girl had no friends before coming to TBI #so she'd struggle communicating with amity outside of how this is 'supposed' to go #or how it went in the azura books between azura and hecate #but their friendship doesn't need a big event or battle to form and it actually complicates things instead #and just like in canon lost in language is what helps luz see more of the real amity and it's what begins the connection between them

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