#might be nonresponsive

[agentmarcuspike]

hey @ universe i could really use a break right about now, stop this or sedate me pls lol k thanks bye

#going thru it #it’s ok im ok #just might be a little distant and nonresponsive #even tho I want nothing more than to communicate #!!!!!!!!:) #Alexa play feel like shit by bo burham

[sophaeros]

im making a sideblog to archive a bunch of articles for a musician and i figured a fansite theme would be good for that but it turns out a fansite's inherent complication makes it very ill suited for responsive themes which is Really annoying

#sophaerostxt #i know i know i could just use a nonresponsive theme but if i can i really want to bc i use tumblr on my phone browser a lot and i like #looking at pretty themes #tbh i might give up and see if i can modify a responsive non fansite theme to display the info i want

[rollercoasterwords]

hey guys btw there is actually never a good reason to loudly and publicly talk about how much u dislike a fanfic!! Like. let's break this down for a sec:

i don't like it

ok, understandable. i've dnf'd lots of fics because i didn't like them. but the people writing fanfiction are doing it for free and for fun, and you don't know anything about their lives. they could be a young writer just starting out! they could be an older writer getting back into writing after years of being unable to! they could be someone going through a rough patch whose only source of joy right now is writing their silly little stories! talking about how much you dislike a fanfic literally does nothing except hurt the person writing it. that's it. it is not productive, it is not necessary. even strangers on the internet deserve basic human empathy.

ok but i really don't like it

babe, i feel u! i'm a hater too. rant about it privately. shit on it in private messages or group chats with friends. u can dislike something without dragging its creator into the town square to throw tomatoes at them, yknow?

ok but i really don't like it AND it's popular

ok? shouting about that on the internet doesn't make you cool or special or unique. it just makes you kind of mean and, honestly, bitter. like i said before, this is fanfiction. nobody is paying for it. nobody is profiting. there is no standard that these writers are obligated to meet. clearly, other people like the work. why not let them enjoy it in peace?

no u don't understand it doesn't deserve to be popular there are better fics that deserve it more!!!

talk about those fics then!! post about how much u love them!! uplift those writers!! ur tweet or tiktok or tumblr post is not going to suddenly make a popular fic lose all popularity, no matter how undeserving u perceive it to be. if this is actually coming from a place of frustration because you feel like there are other fics that deserve more attention, then just give those fics attention.

no but it's problematic

mmm ok. let's sit with this one for a second. i want you to ask yourself--is it really, really problematic? is it perpetuating harm against a marginalized group? remember, this is fanfic; it is outside the consumer economy, and the stories it tells will almost never make it to a mainstream audience. so is the story actually hurting people, or is the author just exploring something that you're uncomfortable with? because if you're just uncomfortable, then assuming the work is tagged properly, the best course of action is to just click away. as uncomfortable as it may be, people are allowed to write stories that you might find upsetting or gross or weird, and those stories existing is not inherently harmful in and of itself.

it is actively reinforcing harmful stereotypes/rhetoric/etc

okay! ok. if you are deeply concerned because you feel that this fic is genuinely harmful, then go to the writer. leave a comment. send them a message on tumblr or twitter or tiktok or wherever. explain your situation and see what they say! nine times out of ten, i'd bet that an ao3 writer means no harm and would be willing to listen and address your concerns. in fact, they might even be grateful to you for being kind enough to make them aware of a problem and educate them on it. every ao3 writer i've ever spoken to is an incredibly kind and thoughtful person; you don't need to immediately go on the attack

the writer is unreachable/nonresponsive/not willing to address or change the problematic thing

alright. if you truly feel that this fanfiction is actively harmful and can't reach any kind of conclusion with the writer, and you want to warn others who might read the fic, then do that. do that. make a post that says hey guys btw, x thing in this fic is not a good representation/perpetuates a harmful stereotype/whatever the problem is. and leave it at that! you don't need to go further and insult the writing or the person who wrote it. that is helpful to exactly no one, and if your goal is actually to make the world a better place, then you should learn how to draw attention to an issue in a way that encourages actual dialogue instead of dog-piling and personal attacks.

anyway the next time you feel the desire to post about how bad you think a fic is, feel free to use this as a guide before u do! xoxo

#like i genuinely don't understand u guys sometimes #why do i keep seeing posts w hundreds or sometimes even thousands of likes #that are literally saying nothing except #i think this fic is bad and i don't like it #if someone was making cookies and handing them out for free and u didn't like them #would u go stand next to that person and shout about how shitty their baking skills are?? #or would u just move tf on!! #bc they are doing something nice for free!! #and if u don't want to eat it u don't have to!! #like if u post abt disliking fics u are literally just mean #im sorry but u are just mean #and not even in a fun way #i love talking shit i love hating on things!! #i do it in PRIVATE #in PRIVATE!!! #where it's fun for me but i know it won't hurt anyone's feelings unnecessarily!! #some of u guys treat fanfiction like a product to consume and it's NOT #it's a gift! #it's a piece of art that someone is giving u! #so for the love of god stop thinking like a fucking little capitalist consumer for a moment and think like a human being w empathy!! #ranting and raving #txt

[strange-destinations]

Kitty can I please request the Mysterious Benedict Society squad (all of them, not just the main four) as to ''who will survive castle dracula''?

(......I initially meant ''the Benedict twins and Rhonda and Number Two and Milligan and SQ'' when I said ''all of them,'' but ngl a hilarious bonus question is ''if the ten men got trapped there too what chaos would ensue'' so I'm gonna add that on as well XD)

sigh, here we go. @canyourfavesurvivecastledracula, tell me if you want me to stop tagging you.

Overall, I don't think many of the characters in the Mysterious Benedict Society series have a really huge belief in the supernatural regarding vampires and things that go bump in the night.... but then again, a lot of the plot revolves around a machine that influences everybody with subliminal psychic messages, and also there's a toddler who's inexplicably naturally psychic. And everyone pretty much takes all of this as 'a bit strange! But okay, I'll believe it!' So in general let's assume a baseline of, 'sure, vampires, why not' from the entire cast.

okay, let's go kids first. That's right, we're subjecting children to the horrors of Castle Dracula.

Reynie Muldoon - is very much a Jonathan Harker-like kid to start with, actually. May accept the crucifix out of politeness. Most likely to be able to hold Dracula's attention in conversation. I feel like Dracula is like Mr Curtain in a lot of respects, and the vibes between Reynie and him would be similar. Many tense, charged games of chess may occur. I believe in his ability to survive the psychological torment, because he's got a hell of a strong will, but I don't believe in his physical ability to escape. Either the GFs get him or Dracula himself does.

Kate Wetherall - would accept the crucifix, not out of any particular politeness or religious belief, but just because you never know when you might need a handy cross-shaped trinket! Into the bucket it goes! Least likely to hold Dracula's attention, she's way too ADHD and not really the sort of person who'd interest him apart from being an adrenaline-filled bloodbag. MOST likely to stage a daring escape using the contents of her bucket, which Dracula will not be able to steal or throw out the window because of the crucifix handily concealed within. Most likely of all the kids to survive this.

Sticky Washington - oh boy, Sticky. His encyclopedic knowledge of vampire lore will probably give him a bit of an edge... but not much. Sticky on-his-own isn't brave enough to go exploring/sneaking around extensively unless things get really dire. And Dracula himself would scare the shit out of Sticky to the point of near-nonresponsiveness, to the point where I don't think Sticky would seem that interesting to Drac after a while. Would a photographic memory and lots of vampire trivia help him survive? Probably, for a while. Would it help him escape? Probably not. Sticky's only sticking around in Castle Dracula for a little bit. Also Dracula would smash his glasses 'by accident' as a power play.

Constance Contraire - grumpy toddler showing up to Castle Dracula?Cool, it's basically vampire DoorDash! ...would be Dracula's first thought - before he realizes that she's psychic. Constance doesn't have a lot going for her, all things told. She's not particularly physically able, she's obstinate and stubborn and not a great conversationalist, I doubt she'd take the crucifix out of that same stubbornness, and also she'd compose some really unflattering slam poetry about Dracula, Dracula's castle, Dracula's girlfriends, etc etc etc. Escape isn't really an option here. It would all come down to a battle of wills between Dracula and Constance.... which I'm not sure Constance would win, on her own. Sorry, the baby's dying here without help.

To nobody's surprise, the Society would be able to survive Castle Dracula if they were all trapped in it together, and in fact that's an incredible fic idea that I don't have time or energy to write. However, on their own... they're just a bunch of kids. They're not going to do so great.

What about the others?

Mr Benedict - is most certainly accepting the crucifix, but his good luck ends there. Everything about Castle Dracula is designed to heighten anxiety and make your emotions go into overdrive. And it's definitely not a good place to go around falling asleep in random places because you get upset or overwhelmed. The moment Dracula twigs to the narcolepsy situation, Mr Benedict's pretty much fully screwed. The one thing that might save him is the fact that he's an incredibly intelligent and brilliant man, and Dracula might want to pick his brain a bit.

Mr Curtain - would most certainly NOT accept the crucifix, he's too proud for that. Assuming he somehow manages to get his wheelchair up the mountain - or going by TV!Curtain, where he doesn't have a wheelchair at all - he's immediately going to set about trying to strike up a business deal with Dracula to expand his global reach. Either the Count kills Curtain, or they make each other worse and everybody else is going to have a bad time. It's kind of up in the air on that one.

Number Two - has an incredible advantage over literally everyone else here in almost never needing to sleep. I don't think she's going to be especially happy about it, but having the full run of the castle during the daytime despite Dracula's best efforts (and, if we go by the TV show, being a completely unhinged force of destructive chaos) is going to mean that she'll probably manage to sneak out using an inventive and clever strategy.

Rhonda Kazembe - I can't think of anything that gives Rhonda more or less of an advantage than your average person - would probably take a similar approach to Number Two in escaping, with a bit more social skills re: talking to Dracula.

Milligan - doesn't need a crucifix. Beats up Dracula singlehandedly and throws him out a window because he left Kate down in the town and promised he'd be back for her. Does the same for the vampire GFs, no problem, not even a moment of hesitation. Rips up his own clothes to fashion a rope to climb down out of the castle, treks by foot all the way down the mountain. Rocks up to town several weeks later, heavily injured and looking awful but still alive.

SQ - there's no easy way to say this: SQ doesn't have anything at all going for him in this situation. He is, unfortunately, not particularly smart and not particularly agile. He's a great artist, but that's not helpful here. I think he's just a handy snack to Drac unless someone shows up to help him.

#dracula #canyourfavesurvivecastledracula #the mysterious benedict society #couldn't come up with anything neat for the Ten Men. maybe someone else can take that.

[devastator1775]

Uzi needs an extra dose of TLC from Dr. N!

The sound of the door slamming shut made N look up in surprise from the book he was reading. Was Uzi home from work already? He turned on his internal clock and found himself surprised at how late it already was. It’s funny how times flies when you’re reading “1001 surprising facts about Golden Retrievers & basic door maintenance”.

“Hi, Honey! How was your day?” N called out as he closed his book.

No answer.

“Uzi?” N called out again. Again, no reaction from her. That surprised him. Normally she would greet him and then go off about – in her own, caring words – the ‘woeful idiots without any sense of self-preservation or basic common sense’ had visited her clinic that day. No matter how much Uzi Doorman might love her job, she still hated interacting with people. It was one of the few things that never really changed since the day they’ve met, now so many years ago.

But this silence …

N stood up from the couch and made his way towards the hall. As he turned the corner he saw Uzi walking up to him. Her expression was blank – in the most literal sense, as her visor didn’t show anything. Before N could ask what was going on, she had rushed forward, closed the distance between them, bonking her head against his chest, her gaze downwards and arms wrapped around his waist.

Now this felt worrying to N. It wasn’t like that Uzi avoided affection – in fact, she could get quite cuddly when it was just the both of them lounging on the couch after a long day. While she was always very eager to accept any form of physical affection when N offered it to her, she would rarely be the one to initiate it. At least, not out of the blue, like she had done now. It wasn’t like her. Something must have happened.

“Uzi?” N asked cautiously, slowly bringing his hands unto her shoulders. “Uzi, are you okay?”

Uzi shrugged.

“Did something bad happen at work today?”

After a few nonresponsive moments, Uzi shook her head.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of N’s lips and started rubbing her shoulder. “You want me to cuddle it better?”

Uzi didn’t respond for a few moments, but eventually N felt her pushing her head harder against his chest.

A sly grin formed on N’s lips. “Well, I’ll take that as a yes.”

The soft gasp, quickly followed by the giggle Uzi made as N suddenly lifted of the ground made whatever mechanical device that resembles his heart flutter, but the way Uzi instantly clung to him nearly made him melt. She almost desperately grabbed onto his jacket, digging her fingers into the fabric. She pressed herself so tightly against him, as if she wanted her body to have as much contact with his as possible. N couldn’t help himself of blushing as she nuzzled against his cheek, moaning softly as she did. He could however feel how tense her entire body was.  

N smiled as he pulled her closer against him as he made his way towards the couch. He knew Uzi better than most people. Uzi often played it cool, presenting herself with this air of independence and self-reliance, a person who was strong and steadfast, but N saw right through that. The years without a mother caring for her, a negligent father that showed more love to doors than his own daughter and peers that wanted nothing to do with her had left a mark.

Uzi craved affection in all its forms, even more than she would admit; and N was more than happy to oblige in providing it for her.

“Woah, someone seems needy tonight.” N chuckled as he sat down on the couch, allowing Uzi to get a bit more comfortable. He could hear her grumble a response, but the way she had effectively buried her face into his chest it was barely audible. Sensing she still was tensed up, he placed his hand on her back and started softly rubbing it in a circular motion. After a few moments passed, he felt her relax. She eventually removed her face from his chest and pulled herself up to rest her chin on N’s shoulders, prompting N to start caress his fingers through her hair.

N resisted the urge to ask Uzi anything, knowing very well she’d tell him eventually what was bothering her. As on cue, he suddenly heard Uzi let out a wistful sigh.

“A mom and her daughter came by the clinic today.” Uzi spoke up. “This spry, curious kid, recently transferred from Untrained Neural Networks to a new body: one of those new “JCJenson toddler models” Tessa designed for us, y’know?.”

N hummed an acknowledging response.

“Nothing was wrong with her, too.” Uzi continued. “Just a regular check-up; seeing if the personality matrix was attuned to the new body, oil level check, things like that. Completely healthy and ready to grow up in this safe new world we helped make for her.”

“Something you should be proud of, Uzi.” N commented.

Uzi let out a soft chuckle, before sighing again.

“So …what happened?” N finally asked.

“Nothing, really.” Uzi replied. “It’s just …I was looking at how this young mom and her kid: all happy, laughing, playing games while they waited and …I don’t know, I got …envious or something?”

N waited for Uzi to continue.

“I never knew my Mom.” Uzi continued softly. “And what I eventually did ended up knowing about her …. But still, I …I sometimes wonder what it could have been if she had been around when I was growing up and that thought just …wouldn’t. Let. Go.”

N had no idea how to respond, but he felt like he couldn’t say nothing either. He was about to open his mouth to say something, but Uzi sat up, finally making eye contact with him.

“I know, it’s a dumb thing to get upset about and I shouldn’t be pouring this out on you, and-“

“Hey-hey-hey, what are you talking about?” N interrupted her, cupping her cheek and gazing softly in her eyes. “If I’m not the one you can go to when you’re having a bad day, then who will?”

Uzi smiled softly. “I know, N, but you do so much for me already and I don’t want to-“

N planted a finger on her lips, chuckling as a bright blush appeared on her visor. “And I will keep doing this for you, because I want too. Whenever, for whatever reason, you need some extra TLC, I’ll be happy to give it to you. I promise.”

Uzi opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but nothing seemed to come out. She eventually smiled softly and leaned forward to plant a kiss on N’s lips, who eagerly accepted this. Uzi then started to nuzzle against his cheek, almost in a catlike manner.

“I don’t deserve you…” Uzi exclaimed softly, wrapping her arms around him.

“No, you do. You absolutely do.” N countered, pulling her closely against him. “You deserve receiving love and affection as much as anyone.”

N could hear Uzi sniffle. “N, I …thank you.” She kissed his cheek a few times. “A-and you do too! Maybe even more! I just wish I was as natural at it as you.”

N chuckled, endeared by her nervous tone. “Uzi, just the fact that you’re willing to try despite the trouble doing it naturally, means the world to me. You’re the world to me.”

“You’re a dork.”

“I’m your dork.”

“Wow, what an original counter argument, N.”

“It’s a classic.”

“You’re a classic!”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Uzi.”

“I know, bite me!”

“Maybe later.”

“Promise?”

Their banter went on for a while, throwing cliché sweet nothings back and forth at each other. Eventually, they fell into a comfortable silence, with Uzi resting on N’s chest. The latter was happy to see that Uzi’s mood had improved. N had just picked up his book again, when Uzi suddenly spoke up.

“N?”

“Yeah?”

“I …uh…”

“Yes?”

“I want a baby.”

“0_0”

#Murder drones #MD Fanfiction #Uzi doorman #serial designation n #murder drones N #Biscuitbites #enzi #nuzi #murder drones nuzi #fanfiction

[arto-rhen]

Here's my full post of Rayne which I will direct future related posts to. I will tag her with #TavRayne if anyone wants to start following along with her journey. She is my Tav OC from my first finished playthrough of BG3 and she is a Tiefling Sorcerer with Draconic Bloodline. I had this character made for a dnd game for a while but I never got to play her and then when Baldur's Gate 3 launched, I had my chance of playing her this way and I had lots of fun roleplaying her.

Her backstory was slightly changed between the original dnd story and the BG3 version so that it fits better with the setting, but I kept most of it the same.

It's pretty long, but I decided to put it here in case anyone might like to know about her more. I am not the best with descriptions sometimes and I was still trying to be brief, I also did not make her story while checking if any of it is connected to lore or not, I went along with what I thought was an interesting idea for a character, and the dnd sessions I was part of didn't require full knowledge of all of the books that contain the lore. In case anyone may feel like something doesn't feel lore accurate.

She was raised in her first years by her family that consisted of her father that started her sorcerous bloodline by entrapping the soul of a dragon in secret, her mother that was partly coerced into a marriage with her father and 3 siblings that were close to her age but not allowed to see her.

Although on the surface, it seemed like a family of a powerful Sorcerer that is successful, in reality, Rayne was raised for one purpose only, which she was not aware of yet. Her connections to her siblings and even to her mother were frayed in order for her to train her abilities, and although she received praise an approval for being able to overcome any challenge in her training, she would usually sneak away to play with her siblings as well.

One day, they decide to play a game where they each present something secret to each other, and she decides to bring her father's spellbook which she always sees but isn't allowed to look into. Because she was taught how to write mostly infernal and primordial and mostly spells, once she opens the book and decides to tell her siblings what she found, she finds a lot of sacrificial ritual spells and learns of her father entrapping a dragon's soul and using his successors of infernal heritage that would gain the draconic power to absorb their power and maintain his own, where one successor that has inherited the draconic power would be trained to be the strongest and then used as the primary sacrifice, while the siblings are used as collateral for ensuring the success of the ritual. The ritual also requires a type of lettering on the body of the main sacrifice, and Rayne already had it done. She half doesn't believe that they would actually be sacrificed, but ultimately tries to devise a plan with the siblings to find out more and what they can do in their situation.

In the end, the father was already close enough for the ritual to commence, and when he sees his book missing, he transports his kids in the ritual and starts it. Because the ritual also needs Rayne and anyone in her place to be willing with the transfer, it ruins the ritual and instead makes her powers go haywire and burn down the entire building they were under. She wakes up only to see ash everywhere and nobody in sight, and she stays there for an indeterminate amount of time trying to process what just happened until a fearful group of guard approach and take her away. Some of the inscriptions on her body remain etched into her skin as burn marks, and she remains with some of the marks always on her.

Most people in the vicinity don't understand what happened in that place and believe that she was at fault and the authorities plan to take her to a special prison. By that point, Rayne is heavily traumatized and nonresponsive.

On her way to the prison, a member of a powerful wizard guild shows up and takes her instead after hearing of the incident that her powers caused and Rayne solely accepts because she's given food. That is where she starts learning and realizes that there is more to the inscriptions that she was taught for the ritual and she also learns to read and write common. As she is given better conditions there, she gradually becomes more receptive to others over a few years but she still has a feeling that she might once again be trained in order to be used, so after she starts learning more of the world that she realized she was isolated from by her father, she begins to look into their operation closer, only to find out that they were using different people of tiefling descent in order to harness magical abilities from them, and she ends up making another plan to evade and help those tieflings.

She uses some of the things she was taught for her father's rituals to instead use that power herself and breaks the device that hold the tieflings and harness their powers one night. That night, she helps the tieflings escape on their own and she then runs away being chased by guards and wizards from that guild. This is where she makes her way to a city where she hides. For the game, I made it so that city is actually Baldur's Gate where she winds up for good.

Her life in the new city starts from the very bottom, as she tries to dodge the guards that are after her bounty, and she doesn't have any food or shelter and she is still in shock after the previous events. In the end, she becomes harder to find when sitting among the homeless and sells anything she owns in order to buy food for the small group of homeless people. When she hears some adventurers talk about a failed quest for the retrieval of a special item that the local apothecary needs, she decides to try for herself in order to make some money. Using her innate abilities, despite her still young age, she manages to get the item and deliver it to the apothecary for a reward.

That sparks curiosity among adventurers and people involved and she begins to take on different jobs on retrieving and finding magical and special items, working with both reputable sources and networking around the underground, which becomes her job for a long time in the city. Due to her charismatic nature and ability to always deliver on her quests, she is able to have strong enough connections in the underground of the city to rid herself of the initial accusations due to her past, being able for the first time to live for herself and start once again enjoying using her magic without being reminded of her traumatic past.

At the start of the game or story, she is pretty much in a decent place both in spirit and the house that she owns in the Baldur's Gate, but along with the kidnapping of the mindflayer ship and becoming infected, she finds a group of companions that are more similar to her and each other than they first realize.

For the dnd game, I also noted that the sorcerer father was still alive and could become a challenge in the future, along with the wizard that found her afterwards, both becoming obstacles at one point.

Overall, I really liked playing as her because some parts of her story fit well with the companions. Her experiences with abuse of magic can contrast Gale's nature of being both chill and overly confident when it comes to using magic, but also relates by loving magic just as much. Her story of a father that wants to control her and absorb her power through a ritual and giving her no other purpose can relate to Astarion's story with Cazador, and the idea of his possible apparition really puts her story in the same trope as his. Dealing with a father/authority figure that presents themselves as having her best interests when in reality they are training them to be used can relate to both Shadowheart and Lae'zel, and her sense of adventuring and heroing, can relate to Karlack and Wyll.

Overall, if anyone got to read up to this point, I am looking forward to showing you through a mini comic series different parts of her story with these companions. Thank you for reading up to this point! And if anyone wants to he tagged to future posts, let me know.

#Rayne #TavRayne #baldurs gate tav #my tav #bg3 tav #tav oc #oc tav #baldurs gate fanart #baldurs gate iii #baldur's gate 3 art #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate 3 #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #baldurs gate gale #gale #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #wyll #shadowheart #karlach #karlach bg3 #character design #character art #my art #bg3 tag #minthara

[destinysbounty]

I was gonna put this headcanon in a fic but i probably will never write it so instead im gonna share with all of you. Do with this idea as you wish

The fact that Pixal just up and built herself a new body in season 7 suggests she could have done it at any time, but chose not to. And i refuse to believe Zane and Borg didnt at least offer to give her a body - Zane admitted he preferred having her physical, im sure he at least suggested rebuilding her at one point. As he said in season 8, "The choice has always been yours, Pixal." Which leads me to believe she was the determining factor in her own reconstruction. She chose to stay in Zane's head, and Id like to think her reasons for doing so are similar to her reasons for hiding her identity as Samurai X: self-imposed guilt.

Let me explain.

Think of it like this. Pixal was built to assist, right? Even from the beginning of their relationship, she has been put in several positions of saving, protecting, and looking after Zane. Their first bonding moments involved her repairing him and later rescuing him from a junkyard metal shredder. Just as Zane has an integral need to protect built into the core of his existence, so too does Pixal have an integral need to assist.

When Zane gave her half his heart, he seriously disadvantaged himself in combat. Not only that, but it was his heart being unable to withstand the Golden Power that killed him in the end. Im sure there was at least some small part of Pixal that blamed herself for this. Not just because she might see this as a failure to uphold her reason for existence (helping people) - but also bc maybe if he'd had his whole heart during that fight, maybe if she'd just given it back to him, he might have had a fighting chance. It would have only marginally improved his chances of survival, but that small .003% probability increase is enough to make her blame herself. A probability that small is statistically irrelevant, but she cant help using it as an excuse to blame herself - or perhaps, to give her a rationalization for her survivor's guilt. Because the heart inside her, powering her, is the same heart Zane could have used to defend himself against the Golden Power, and the feeling of it inside her is unbearable.

Then Zane comes back, and she gets scrapped. And Zane forgets everything, and his mind is in shambles, and she has to help him piece himself back together again.

She blames herself for this, blames herself for his death and for the scrambled state of his memories that came as a consequence. So she figures, she caused this, so its her responsibility to help him fix his broken mind. Its her responsibility to assist.

So she stays in his head, where she can hold his memories together and keep his mind from falling apart. She insists she prefers it this way, likes being close to him, but deep down she longs for her physical freedom and hates herself for wanting more than she deserves.

Then Borg is kidnapped. And Zane is nonresponsive. And she has a choice. So she chooses to rebuild herself and leave Zane behind.

And...she feels good. Free. She's...happy about it.

But shes also deeply ashamed. Thinks she doesnt deserve to enjoy the experience of leaving Zane's head. He needs her, she's less useful to him outside his headset...and yet here she is, being Samurai X, having the absolute time of her life. She loves it, and she hates herself for loving it so much.

So out of shame, she tells no one. Shes worried theyll be just as disappointed in her as she is in herself.

And Zane...well, maybe theres a reason the Ninjigma didnt become a problem until after Pixal left his headset. Maybe she was the only thing holding him together, and the moment she left, all his memories started spiraling out of control. Maybe the events of Decoded turned out to be for the best, and allowed Zane to sort through and finish repairing his memories on his own, without relying on Pixal for help.

When Pixal reunites with Zane, shes worried he'll be upset. "Was i more...useful...inside the computer?" But to her surprise and delight, he prefers her in whatever form makes her happiest, not whatever form makes her most useful.

And Pixal, backed by the support of Zane and their friends, flourishes in her new role as Samurai X - not just in an assistive capacity, but exploring and embracing her interests in engineering and tinkering. Things are good, for a while.

But then Zane ends up in the Never Realm. And he comes home, and she learns what happened. She hears what Vex did, how she sabotaged his memories and twisted his own sense of self against him.

Once more, she blames herself. Begins to believe that maybe if she had still been in his headset, she could have prevented all that suffering.

Anyway, Pixal with survivors guilt and a raging hero complex my BELOVED

#a lot of fics place the blame on zane for never bothering to build her a body #but! let! pixal! have! agency! over! her! own! existence! #i think pixal deserves some agency over her life. as a treat #ninjago #pixal borg #pixal ninjago #pixane #ninjago decoded #ns3 #ns8 #ns11 #destiny post

[geeks-universe]

Can you do a request that’s Spencer Reid x female reader and she’s not part of the BAU and she gets super anxious and Spence calms her down?

There were some certainties you’d come to accept having Spencer as a boyfriend.

The first being, he wouldn’t always have the time, or the ability, to contact you. His line of work could leave the both of you unable to so much as speak a word to one another for days, if not weeks.

Most of the time, he’d just lost his phone, or he was in a remote town, or he was really deep into a case and couldn’t spare the mental capacity quite yet.

You’d allowed yourself to believe it could be any number of those small things for the first six days.

The seventh day, however, a familiar churning in your stomach began, leaving you with an inability to sit still. Sleep was evading you, as was an appetite. Each call echoed in your mind, whispering dark thoughts of what could’ve possibly happened to him.

Three more days passed with no word.

You were visibly shaking, had been for hours, and nonresponsive. Luckily, you’d had a long weekend off work, most likely due to your behavior. It was obvious you were struggling, and the longer you sat in the solitude of your normally shared apartment, the worse it got.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

So you were stuck with a whirlwind of thoughts, buzzing in place, as you tried to calm yourself down. A grimace pasted itself onto your lips as the taste of bile began rising in the back of your throat. You felt hollow, yet your mind was full. You were tired, yet your body refused to stop moving.

The world had been reduced to your tiny apartment, locked away from the harsh reality you feared opening the door would bring. You would waste away there before you dared face whatever truth might be waiting for you.

Had the beating of your racing heart not been so loud in your head, you might’ve heard the door open.

Alas, you didn’t, and you’d convinced yourself you must be hallucinating when you saw Spencer standing in the living room, looking the same as when he’d left over a week ago.

A word slipped from your lips, one that sounded like a mixture of “Spencer” and a sob. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably now, and despite how much you wanted to reach forward, you couldn’t seem to move.

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring the look of concern etched into Spencer’s brows as he took three full steps to you.

He whispered your name, pulling your frame into his, and holding on tightly. At some point, you had begun sobbing.

He was shushing you, so softly, his lips against the crown of your head. His voice was so gentle, words barely discernible against the sharp intakes of breath. You released the tension in your shoulders, desperately clinging to Spencer.

His embrace seeped through your bones, warming the very core of your being, and reminding you that he was there.

You didn’t need to worry.

You could breathe.

He was there.

He was okay.

You squeezed your eyes shut, repeating it over and over in your head, as your heart began to slow down to a gentle, steady rhythm.

“Let’s go to bed,” Spencer hummed, pulling just far enough away to look you in your eyes.

He kept one arm around your waist, while the other wiped a few stray tears. A shadow of a smile appeared on his face, prompting your lips to turn up. 

“How do you do that?” You asked softly, nuzzling your cheek into his hand.

His thumb traced along your cheekbone, his gaze staring so intently into your eyes.

“Do what?” He inquired, reveling in your touch. The time apart had been difficult on him as well.

“Make me smile.”

He breathed out a laugh, his hand now pressing against your chin, forcing you too look up. As you did, he leaned down towards you, his lips only a fraction of an inch from yours.

“You made me smile first.”

Then he closed the distance.

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #soft boi hours

[dessarious]

Misconceptions, Miscommunication, and Misinformation Pt105

So I tried to put my tag list on this and it keeps giving me an error about too many characters in the text block (did it even before I pasted the draft in) so I'll try to figure out where the problem is before I post anything else.

Beginning   Previous  

"Mari, look at me, sweetheart." Her Papa's voice made her blink. When had he come in? She looked over to find him kneeling next to her, worry written on his face.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking, what were you saying?" Everyone around her was exchanging looks. That couldn't be good.

"Mari, you were completely nonresponsive for close to fifteen minutes. Why don't we go upstairs and talk?" That explained the looks, at least.

"It's okay, I'm fine." She couldn't really place the look on his face.

"Maybe so, but it's been a long time since we've spent any one on one time together. I thought we could talk, or even just play UMS."

"Feel like being taken down by a little girl, do you?" That got a shocked snort, before he laughed. Really laughed. It felt like it had been a long time since he'd done that.

"Only by you, sweetheart. But, I might surprise you. I've been practicing." He whispered the last part with a conspiratorial wink, and she giggled.

"You're going down, old man." He laughed again, and she realized how much she'd missed it.

"That's my girl. Let's go make sure you live up to that confidence." He picked her up, and she caught the worried frowns from everyone else before he carried her upstairs.

"I didn't mean to upset you Papa. I really was just lost in my thoughts." The smile he gave her was understanding, though a bit strained.

"I know, sweetheart. I just wish you would share more of those thoughts with us. You've always taken after me with the way you internalize everything. I want you to know that you can talk to us about anything. We understand why you had to keep certain things secret, and may still need to sometimes, but we'll listen to everything you're willing to say."

"I don't want to worry you. I've already put you both through so much." All the things that happened since she took down Hawkmoth were bad enough, but she'd been causing them problems far longer. Her Papa set her on the couch before kneeling down in front of her again.

"Mari, we're your parents. Worrying is part of our job. Being there when you need us is part of our job. Your job isn't to make us feel better or tiptoe around our feelings. Hawkmoth is gone. There's no chance of me overeating and locking you in a tower of thorns." She couldn't help but giggle at his dry tone. "We want you to be happy, and we want to help you. Not to mention, what hurts the most is feeling like you're pulling away from us." His voice cracked and tears were threatening to fall from his eyes.

"Oh, Papa. I'm so sorry." She tried to pull him into a hug, but he grabbed her hands instead.

"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, and I know that children grow up and leave the nest. Of course, we weren't prepared for it to be this soon, but that's beside the point. We just want to support you, but we can't do that if you don't let us back in."

"I just... I didn't want to make things worse for you. All of this happened so fast and I know you haven't had a chance to process it all yet. I didn't want to make things harder for you." Her Papa just rolled his eyes.

"I'll say it again. We are the parents. Honestly, the less information we have, the more we worry. Not to mention, we know you too well to believe that everything is fine just because you're smiling. I know we haven't been as present as we should have been in the past, but we wanted to give you space. If I had any idea what you were actually going through, I would have done something."

Mari felt herself wince. She knew that both her parents would have helped, but it wasn't a chance she was willing to take after the Weredad incident. She honestly was afraid to even think about what her mother would have been like to fight.

"I thought I could handle it on my own. I didn't mean to seem so distant." He was rubbing his thumbs along her knuckles. "Do you think I should forgive everyone?"

"Define everyone." His words had a hard edge, and it took her a moment to realize he was probably thinking about Gabriel.

"Did Chloe tell you about our run in with Nino?" Her Papa nodded. She figured she had more than enough time to tell them when she was trapped in her head. "Is it fair of me to blame them for being weak-willed enough to let others make their decisions for them? Isn't that the same as blaming Hawkmoth's victims for what they did?"

"It's not the same, Mari, you know that. Hawkmoth's victims were completely taken over. Once he was in, they were no longer themselves, and they didn't remember anything after. Your classmates let themselves be led. They let someone else make decisions for them despite everything you've done for them. You don't owe anyone forgiveness. At the same time, it's not healthy for you to hold a grudge. If you want to cut them out of your life entirely, I wouldn't blame you, and we'll support whatever decision you make. Be more cautions in the future, but don't let what happened fester inside you and turn you into a different person."

That made sense. It wasn't about forgiving, or even forgetting. It was about learning from the past, but not letting it determine your future. She should be able to do that. Right? She finally managed to lean in and hug him.

"Thank you Papa. I promise I'll be more open."

"We love you sweetie, and we'll be here for you, no matter what happens." They stayed that way for a few minutes before he pulled back. "Now, are you ready to take on your old man?"

————————————-

"I warned you." Mari's voice was smug as she looked at her father's confused expression.

"I know you haven't had time to practice. How are you beating me this easily?"

"Ladybug reflexes." The dry look he sent her said that was bullshit, but she just shrugged.

"In that case, I need to teach Chloe how to play and see if she can beat you." Mari giggled.

"You just want to teach her so you can win again." He rolled his eyes but she could see the smile trying to form. "You should offer, though. Chloe's parents never really taught her anything. I think she'd like having you or Maman teach her something, even something small. But maybe you could suggest teaching her how to cook or bake. I think she'd be happy you trust her enough to offer." Her father started muttering, but the only words she caught were mayor and catacombs. Probably for the best.

"You think she'd enjoy cooking?" He sounded a bit skeptical, and she could understand why.

"I think she'd enjoy learning to be more self sufficient. But once she has the basics down, I think she'd actually like cooking itself. It's a part of life that's fairly easy to control. What?" She wasn't certain what to make of her Papa's frown.

"We need to find a way to get you both into therapy, and keep Chloe away from her parents as much as possible." Well, she could agree to the second.

"Papa, you know that therapy isn't a good idea. What's the point if we constantly have to lie or tell half-truths? But I think Selina plans on running interference with Chloe's parents. She really doesn't like them."

"Well, I'm glad someone's on her side that actually has the power behind them to do something." He muttered for another minute. "But there has to be something we can do about therapy. You both need it, and I'm not just going to ignore that. There has to be a way. Have you talked to the Kwami about some sort of magic that would make it so the person couldn't talk about what you told them?" It was her turn to frown at him.

"I don't like the idea of taking away someone's freewill, even if it's just a little bit. It's not something I want to get comfortable doing." Tikki popped up in front of her.

"What about a memory spell? If they go to talk to someone about anything you and Chloe have told them, they'll lose all memory of talking to either of you." That was better... sort of.

"That might work, but how do we find someone that can deal with both sides of things? I mean, it's not like anyone specializes in secret identities."

"Technically, the Justice League does have someone for that, but I doubt they'd agree to take you on as a patient, given the current climate there. I know someone who could do it though, if you'd be okay talking with a former rogue." Mari jumped. When had Selina and the others made it upstairs?

"You mean Quinn?" Damian sounded skeptical, at best.

"I do. Even you have to admit that she and Ivy have gotten better. The only time they did anything big in the past two years was that factory that was completely destroying the habitat for some endangered plants, and Ivy did try to go through proper channels first. She only escalated when it was obvious people were being paid off to look the other way." Damian grumbled at her, but otherwise didn't disagree.

"Quinn? As in Harleen Quinzel?" She'd studied other heroes and their villains extensively in the beginning, trying to find someone she could ask for help. Fu had nixed the idea as soon as she told him, but she'd gotten a lot of information. Damian nodded at her. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. She's made a lot of progress and I don't want to be responsible for making her regress."

"Well, you see, that's the thing. If she and Ivy were to come here, we could keep an eye on them. Not to mention it would take them out of that toxic environment. So really, you'd actually be helping them heal as well." Mari wasn't certain what to make of the look Damian gave Selina when she finished. It did make sense though.

"Are they even allowed to leave the US? Or be in France for that matter?" Damian didn't sound like he was protesting, just confused more than anything else.

"Neither one of them has any active warrants out, and surprisingly enough, they've never been charged with anything in France either." That got looks from just about everyone.

"Can they be trusted?" Mari looked to Damian for the answer.

"You can always do a failsafe so they can't talk to other people about you, or wipe their memory if they try. But I know they are in possession of information that could be disastrous if it were to get out and have kept their word to keep it to themselves."

"I suppose we could try."

"Great! They'll be flying over with Barbara." Damian raised an eyebrow at Selina.

"My father agreed to this?"

"Not yet, but he will."

"Is this one of those 'better to ask forgiveness than permission' things?"

"No, this is more of a 'get him to think it was his idea' thing. Don't worry, I've got this." Mari was certain Selina's confidence was well founded, despite Damian's dubious look. She just wasn't certain how to feel about therapy now that it wasn't an impossibility. When she looked at Chloe though, her partner just looked relieved. She'd quit her other therapy when she found out Mari was Ladybug, for fear she might say the wrong thing. Given everything that happened since, especially with her parents, Mari was glad she'd get that outlet again.

Beginning   Previous  

#maribat #marinette dupain cheng #tom dupain #damian wayne #chloe bourgeois #sabine cheng #selina kyle #everyone needs therapy #father daughter bonding

[femsolid]

“Everyone in the group has equal time to talk - in this case, a half hour each - uninterrupted and without evaluation. This is a revolutionary experience for some women. Being seriously and completely listened to, being genuinely heard, hardly ever happens to women in ordinary everyday life. Many women cry the first time they try this process. Their being so avidly heard in the present causes them to realize how deeply they have been wounded by being ignored and disregarded, shut up, talked over, and found inconsequential or amusing during most of their past lives. It is also often the first time women have ever listened to somebody else for a half hour or so without responding, without murmuring, "Oh yeah?," "I see," "Um hum," "I know how you feel," at appropriate intervals. Or laughing, or making sympathetic noises. It is often the first time they have ever listened to somebody else without allowing their facial expressions to communicate understanding, puzzlement, disagreement, or a host of other reactions. 

It is not easy for women to learn not to respond. We are thoroughly conditioned to respond. We always respond. That is one of our roles in patriarchy - to be the responders, the chorus. Men talk, and we nod and say breathlessly, "Then what happened?" or "Oh, yes, I'd love to hear about your childhood rock collection!" Our children have legitimate needs for our attention. They need to have us laugh when they're witty or cluck with dismay when they tell us their woes. Our faces are infinitely plastic: we are required to register admiration, servility, sympathy, concern, sorrow, and understanding all day long every day. We almost cannot not respond by this time in our lives. We almost cannot allow somebody to set forth upon this quest for their own ideas in our presence without our solicitous questions and reassurances, our reactions stamped clearly on our visages, our oohings and aahings - we are such active listeners. When we first try to listen passively to others, some of us feel like traitors; we feel as if we're doing something illegal, as if we might be arrested for it any moment. And because as women we have been taught to be primarily outer - or other-directed, we in our turn as speakers have come to rely on the cues our listeners give us, the little "I'm listening" noises they make, to judge where we are in their estimation, and where our discourse should move next if we are to win their approval, consolidate their sympathy, etc. Some of us become very disoriented without constant feedback. 

But in Hearing into Being, for every participant's sake, listeners and talkers must break their addiction to response and evaluation. The process works, if we will just give quiet attention and the speaker can just forget about us. The reason for the nonevaluation, the nonresponse, is that evaluation and response make storming our brain's barricades impossible. Most of the time that we are conversing with people, we know we have to hurry and make our point before they break in to make theirs. Even as we're talking, they're judging what we're saying, how close we are to being finished, shaking or nodding their heads, and making impatient little gestures that tell us they're getting ready for their turn. Always being acutely aware of how little time we have before we're going to be interrupted, we focus very narrowly and exclusively upon the point we're making. We can't afford to extrapolate, to associate, to let extraneous thoughts claim our attention. 

What's happening while we're concentrating and talking on this one subject, however, is that a lot of related material is emptying out of our mental files, as well as other ideas that are sparked simply by the fact that we're thinking, our mental sap is running. The mind doesn't just hand us evidence to support the one idea we're concerned with at the moment; we single it out from lots of other information. These other ideas, fragments of ideas, and musings are competing for center stage, but because we're so focused, we can't hear them begging from the wings to be let into the act. They seem irrelevant to our argument; they're not going to help us convert these people. But when we are free to talk without threat of interruption, evaluation, and the pressure of time; when our listeners are attentive and interested, nonjudgmental, and not waiting impatiently for a chance to rebut or agree, or just to say their piece; when we don't have to defend what we say, now or ever; when we don't have to persuade anyone; when we don't have to elaborate upon it to help someone understand (because it doesn't matter whether they understand or not; this is personal, not inter-personal, communication ) - when all these conditions are met, we move quickly past known territory out onto the frontiers of our thought. 

Knowing that no one but us is going to say one single sound for that half hour, no matter what, helps us relax our minds. And when we relax, we can begin to hear and explore the other ideas that are clamoring to be heard. We begin to notice that there are hoards and flocks of them. We are astonished at how fast and how thickly they are rushing upon us. Sometimes we think, "Oh, I can't get all this organized. I can't talk about it because I won't be able to be logical; I won't make sense." 

This is a powerful process. Being heard in this way lets us peel off layers of our minds, come closer and closer to what I call our wise old woman's mind. We may not have an epiphany in the first half hour, although every time I've been with a group doing Hearing into Being, most women have been amazed at themselves the first half hour. They have hardly been able to believe they are the source of such fascinating insights. But if exciting ideas don't occur to us in the first half hour, they almost certainly will in the second, and by the end of the third session, women realize that what they thought they knew, and how intelligent they thought they were, was the merest beginning. The kind of free-wheeling thought this process aims for can only emerge in the absence of all interference, no matter how well meaning. Any evaluation, even praise, hangs us up at that level. Perhaps especially praise. Since a little praise whets our appetites, we tailor what we say to get more. We also fashion our discourse to bring down raised eyebrows, or to change looks of disagreement or perplexity. Almost every facial expression, except pleasant interest, detours us quickly right back into familiar territory. Although Hearing into Being is of highest value for brainstorming, for coming up with many and varied ideas, for making connections, putting everything together and coming up with something new, from the beginning I understood and liked another aspect of it even more: it eliminates competitive talking, one of the major pleasures in men's culture.

Here is a place where we can concentrate exclusively upon how the world would be if it were just exactly as we want it to be, without having to be 'realistic,' without having to deal with ours and everybody else's old perceptions of how the world is. Who says it's this way anyway? We are, after all, living in someone else's dream. Is the patriarchal dream more "real" than ours?”

- Going Out of Our Minds by Sonia Johnson

#going out of our minds #sonia johson #quote #feminism #mp

[roffmychest]

My Near Death Experience

[CW for death and mentions of religion]

I had a near death experience towards the end of 2019. It all started when I began experiencing severe tachycardia. I had tachycardia before, but this was much worse than anything I’ve ever dealt with, so my roommates convinced me to go to the emergency room.

Once I was there, it only got worse. I think I was around 200 BPM. They ran some tests and discovered my potassium was extremely low, but didn’t know why. They decided to keep me there for observation. I was given a horse pill of a potassium supplement that I couldn’t choke down and Ativan.

After the Ativan, my condition stabilized enough for them to let me go home sometime in the early morning. The Ativan made me very cloudy headed. I cannot remember how I even got home. The only thing I remember is that one moment I was On the phone with my roommates in the hospital and the next I was on the couch back at the house.

I don’t know if I was sick or if it was just the Ativan but I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I had never been that tired in my life. I collapsed on the couch with all my clothes and shoes on. I remember feeling an extreme heaviness in my chest just before I dozed off and feeling like I was drifting out of my body.

At first, it felt like I was waking up from the deepest sleep I’ve ever had. I was near a river with black water that had a bunch of sticks floating in it. Everything was dark and gloomy like I was Underground. I think I might have been on a small boat or some thing because I wasn’t in the water, but I was moving and I kept dipping my hands in and moving the sticks around like if I moved them out of the way, some thing else would be behind them.

Then I felt a falling sensation and woke up feeling like I have been dropped from somewhere very high up. Paramedics and my roommates were standing around me. I had no idea what the hell was going on. I later found out that I hadn’t been breathing. Apparently one of my roommates Tried to wake me up to give me something to eat, and I was completely nonresponsive, which isn’t like me. She was concerned and held a mirror in front of my nose. There was no fog.

Apparently I was not breathing and did not have a pulse. She was really worried about me and tried to get my other two roommates to call somebody but they didn’t take the situation seriously. She finally called the paramedics herself. While all of this was going down, apparently she had texted my girlfriend at the time freaking out, saying that I was dead on the living room couch. Apparently I was like that for quite some time before they got to me and I woke up for no apparent reason.

Anyway, I was clinically dead, and I didn’t think much of it until later, but I think I saw the veil. I didn’t see any deceased family members. There was no sense of peace. I saw neither Heaven nor Hell. I didn’t meet God or Jesus. I just remember going down a black underground river full of sticks.

I haven’t told this to anybody, except for one friend. He’s big into Greek mythology, and he thought perhaps I saw the freaking river Styx. We don’t know though. It was very strange.

.

#r/offmychest

[zaritarazi]

onwards (six of crows red dead redemption franchise au)

There’s a suspicious lull, a rare window in the time they have to finish their meal before nightfall, when business really begins. “And what about the man that’s been following you?”

Jesper points to himself, muscle-memory or habit, and when Inej shakes her head, his sort of general nonchalance turns quickly. He looks to Kaz with “You’re being followed?” 

It’s the nonresponse that makes the situation worse, Kaz pointedly ignoring the way the room’s turn to pin the light on him as he pretends to finish his meal.

“By-” Jesper offers, to fill the space. “Not by anyone important, right? Not a lawman. Right?” He tilts his head forward, a gesture that’s supposed to goad Kaz into making the next sentence. “You wouldn’t just-”

And maybe Kaz had only kept the pretense of his meal so he could toss down his fork, a gesture that makes Wylan jump. “I am being… pestered,” Kaz says, and he would shoot Wylan some kind of look of sympathy, but he first has to glare at Inej. 

It's not entirely shocking, how intensely she returns it.

“An accountant,” Kaz says, looking to his lap, tossing his napkin on his plate. “And mostly just a nuisance.”

The light above them glows too brightly, filament not spaced out quite right, and it holds the silence of the room trying to gauge where Kaz has hidden the half-truth in his statement. 

That’s the fun thing about Kaz. The lie might not be there yet- It might not come until later. He likes to hide it, likes to watch everyone sift for the story first.

“An accountant?” Nina asks. “Like a tax man?”

“A tax-man is just another word for Pinkerton,” Kaz says.

“So what, then,” Jesper says. “Like… a debt collector?”

“Who’s going to collect on Kaz?” Wylan asks. 

Kaz validates him with an errant point of his index finger. “And who would know we’re stranded up here?”

“That is a great question,” Nina says. “So what’s the answer, Kasimir?”

“You’re all so dense,” he snaps. “No one knows we’re here. I’m being lightly tailed, sometimes, by a local. Someone from around here.”

“Matthias,” Inej says. “Can’t you do what makes you useful?”

Matthias pulls his attention from the window and the darkening night sky. “What?”

“Inej wants you to beat up an accountant,” Nina says.

“Any one of us could beat up an accountant,” Inej says. “You know the area.”

“You’d like me to go through every accountant…” Matthias says. “In Fjedra?”

“I’ll draw him, if Kaz describes him,” Wylan says.

“Inej can describe him,” Kaz says, holding out his hand to her, a mockery of an offering. “Since she’s been paying such close attention.”

“I haven’t lived in these mountains since I was ten years old,” Matthias says. “How am I going to know?”

“Maybe he’s from the capital,” Jesper says.

“Matthias isn’t good with faces,” Nina says. “His memory lapses from time to time.”

“I remember everything that’s ever happened to me,” Matthias says. “What I choose to disclose-”

“Are you two fighting, still?” Jesper says. “I wasn’t sure if you were passing it off to the other two, or if you’d made up- I’ve seen him drag himself to your room right before the sun rises, but-”

“I don’t know,” Matthias says. “Nina prefers to surprise me.”

“Oh, we’re talking about surprises?” Nina says.

“He’s tall,” Inej interrupts, putting her hand down on the table, looming beside Kaz. “He wears a very fine suit. Whoever he is, he’s very rich.”

“Accountants are rich,” Kaz says. 

“You should’ve been an accountant, then,” Inej grouses. 

“I’m well aware, Inej dear,” Kaz says. “But how could I deny you the pleasure of the backwater mountains of this frozen, horrible country?”

“This is a beautiful country,” Matthias seethes. “But… there are not many rich men. Not many who are very rich, I mean.”

“I don’t know how you’d like me to draw this,” Wylan says. “What kind of suit is it? Did he have a vest, or just a jacket? Was he wearing a tie? Black? Navy? What’s the twill? Single or double breasted?”

“He looked like he worked at a funeral parlor,” Inej says.

Kaz shrugs. “Maybe he has two jobs.”

#six of crows #soc fic #soc au #capinejghafa #tovezza #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #matthias helvar #my fic #this one is going to be... long. and maybe never end #anyway in this scene kaz will not tell people he's being stalked by... you know ;)

[rxttenfish]

i think ideally i want to include more of merfolk spirituality in the way that they casually think and do things - not necessarily in an overt way, no, but in the sort of ingrained way that works its way into all that they do that shows what a cultural force it is and to help them feel unique in thought.

thats something that always sits at the back of my mind, on how to depict the thought process of an entirely different species, and its something that i never quite feel fully happy with since i worry that itll then be either nonsensical in a way that doesnt feel lived-in or that it'll just feel like a carbon copy of my own thought processes.

for merfolk, thats mostly a lack of hard borders around everything and everything being majorly tinted by their social dynamic, adding in a lot of non-linear thought. they think of things primarily as either song or as a social dance, and tend towards thinking of things in "three-dimensions", being creatures who evolved in an environment where moving up and down requires effectively the same energy as moving backwards or forwards, and being able to conceptualize things better in three dimensions helps with navigation and existence inside of the medium they live in. this also correlates to their songs, aiming for complexity with the higher amount of information they can pack into that same space and to navigate tightly around the social bounds (merfolk having very stiff, non-emotive faces for instance, with most emoting being seen with their fins, means that the majority of how they convey emotion, especially over distance, is with sound and noises.), to the point of being able to form mental maps of their area based solely off of listening to the merfolk around them and what they're saying and singing.

however, all of this means merfolk can also be extremely confusing for landfolk, seemingly leaping from one topic or another or taking great care to restate things and being highly specific or broad and unclear without much of a difference by the merfolk at hand, or just otherwise treating relatively complex topics like theyre much simpler and self-evident than perhaps they might be to others. alternatively, merfolk can end up feeling like conversing with landfolk is too slow or nonresponsive, having a harder time moving at rates that feel natural to them without having to enunciate themselves or go back and explain things that are easy to grasp. to them, landfolk entirely miss most of their emotional complexity and non-emotive, which is fair, because landfolk think the same of merfolk, when we dont really have to specify our emotional response and intent inside of what we have to say and expect body language to serve the majority of that duty. this isnt to say tone doesnt also play an important role, but merfolk are effectively playing with an advanced version of tone which doesn't always map onto ours, and is quickly lost in translation.

but one of the big things to be a "merfolk-ism" would be how much they tend to treat everything as a part of their emotional group, and don't bother drawing hard lines between entirely different objects or contexts. for them, a group might be indistinguishable from the area that they inhabit, buildings and environmental structures being just as important as living elders, or from their relationship to their neighbors, all being as much "defining traits" as the people themselves who live there. which can get confusing, as merfolk might refer to and speak of the dead or historical events as though theyre still alive or still happening, mostly expecting the other person to know that they are dead or in the past, and viewing them and their continued impacts upon the present, or even just them being used as building blocks for the present, as essentially just as meaningful as the presence itself.

#all the care guide says is 'biomass' #fucking hell i need to get earplugs #like a good pair of earplugs #this feels so meandering because i couldnt focus on what i was writing for how thin the walls are here #lmfao the person with massive sound sensitivities is writing the fish who hear everything all the time and find it comforting

[dragoncityinteriordesign]

Shen Wei does own white undershirts. On two occasions, we get to see them (presented here alongside their corresponding outfits). This is very normal of him. White undershirts are normal, especially under other light-colored articles of clothing. Even if you’re going to wear yet another layer (or two!) over everything, it’s reasonable to have your undershirt be white.

And then he strips down for Lin Jing’s fun-time brain tests and suddenly is wearing a slutty little black undershirt.

It’s straight-up an undershirt, too -- look at what Chu-ge wears under his coat for comparison. When Shen Wei gathers his clothes after he gets up off the table, he grabs his sleeve garters, his shirt, and his vest; there’s nothing else hanging on the ladder for him to grab. It seems like he just woke up that morning, opened his dresser drawer, and thought, you know what I really need under this light blue shirt? The least subtle bottom layer ever.

However, we’ve also seen that he can change his clothes at whim. Maybe his clothes also change at not-whim. Maybe instead, he put on a regular white undershirt that morning, but he’s so stressed out about the idea that Zhao Yunlan might know his secret identity that, whups, he thought about it too hard and all of a sudden he’s the Black Undershirt Envoy. And now he’s got to play it cool, but he overshoots and plays it too cool, and suddenly he’s so nonresponsive on the table that even the instruments think he’s dead.

The best thing about Shen Wei’s character is when you realize that no matter how cool he is on the outside, on the inside he’s just constantly going aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

#guardian #zhen hun #dragon city fashion #shen wei #the black undershirt envoy

[apparitionism]

Tabled 2

Hi again, @barbarawar ! Here’s a continuation of your @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange  present... it’s the second part of what has apparently decided to become a longer-than-two-part story. (This is kind of a short part, and I’m trying mightily to keep it to three, I swear.) In any case, a narrative wants what it wants, and given that this one is trying to deal with what might have happened if Myka and Helena had the “coffee” suggested by Helena in Instinct, I guess some difficulty of resolution is the price of doing business. I postulated in part 1 that Myka didn’t deal at all well with that “coffee,” and that it in fact initiated a cascade of lies, subterfuges, and all-around poor choices. Is that a sustainable mode of living? We’ll see. She might need a wake-up call. Who could deliver such a thing? Hm...

Tabled 2

Myka had run to the book because using her body to lie belonged, so clearly and painfully, to a new and different equivalence class of untruths.

If only she could have narrated a relationship with Pete instead. Sat at a table and told a series of story-lies about it—to herself, to him. Then she wouldn’t have so desperately needed the book to speak a different story.

Despite her need, however... nothing. From that nonresponse, Myka had taken the lesson that with regard to the future, what you see is what you get. What you see is all you get.

That being the case, she’d begun the work of reconciling herself to it.

She had soon thereafter received a text from Helena: a brief “Coffee?”, to which she had responded “Sorry, busy” without even asking for details, because one thing to which she could not reconcile herself was the way in which, even now (especially now), her heart leapt to see “Helena” appear in a notification.

The leap, its shock familiar yet striking her anew with its force, was a piercing reminder of those times before, when she had been so high-wire alive. Even as the coffees themselves had left her unsettled, incomplete, each new heralding text had lacerated her with frustrated want, the hot pain of things once were different. The prod of Myka, you once were different.

A fall into love had ripped her open; one into sin was now closing her up. She didn’t want to be reminded of either.

“You will never lose this friend” seemed now a curse, not a promise; another way of saying that she would never lose a particularly turbulent priest.

Will no one rid me...

****

As the wake of Artie’s are-you-the-culprit interview widens, Myka sees that she must rid herself of that priest. She cannot, in fact, endure the heart-leaps of more “coffee?” texts; and, beyond that, she needs fewer tables. If she can shed these sit-downs with Helena, where the lying began... it may be a false idol, but now she is choosing belief: that she can edit herself down to a way of living that is rational, even cold, such that she can functionally confront each new hour, day, week, every measure of time to come.

So. Initiating a “coffee,” which she has never done before, she texts Helena. It’s terse but, ironically, true: “I need to talk to you. In person.”

She is surprised to be surprised when she receives a nearly instantaneous reply, a simple “yes.”

Myka texts back her plan, which begins: “Meet you halfway.” Halfway is Chicago: between South Dakota and New York, where Helena now resides—with, Myka presumes, or at least near, the ideal Giselle.

Helena can have her. Myka will be her own ideal: she will be the person who sits at the table, the person who says the necessarily dismissive, lying words. Rationally. Above all, rationally.

She hopes the book will be willing to help that person.

Now, for what she knows must be the last time—the real third time, the real charm—she confronts the volume. “I’m making an end,” she tells it. “I need a shape.”

Could a book roll its eyes? Of course not. But an artifact certainly could.

That artifact may be adolescently scornful of Myka and her request, but it is no longer unresponsive. She resists considering what that means, concentrating instead of the book’s actions: it once again page-turns her to the later questions. She understands immediately why, as she is blinded to everything but question forty-three: “What will be the result of what I am about to undertake?”

She turns the page to reach the chart. She closes her eyes.

Superstitiously (not hopefully; hope is a drug she is trying to kick), she’s sharpened a brand-new pencil for the occasion. She now lowers its point to the page deliberately (not hopefully), but the instant it makes contact, her hand spasms, bouncing the spike of graphite elsewhere, jamming it there against the page, and she feels it snap and splinter.

She opens her eyes to find that she’s made two very clear selections, which is to say, she’s marked the book rather than simply touching it: the first is a right-pointing three-pebble triangle; the second—the one she twitched to and broke against—is a similarly small triangle, this one pertly upright. The first she knows as mathematical, about subgroups and containment; the second, obviously and cross-disciplinarily, is the delta of change.

“Both?” she asks, but it’s rhetorical. Surely the book itself produced her twitch, either via artifactual telekinesis or a physical nudge of its pages, to offer her two answers. The confirming page-ruffle is just punctuation.

And so she proceeds to the prophecies. The first, the right-pointer, is “You will only commit blunders.” Well. The book has known her for a while now, so that’s not a difficult prediction to make. She’s surprised, in fact, that it hasn’t given that one to her every time.

She turns to the second, the one corresponding to the delta. That one yields, “It will be of a satisfactory nature.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says. Sarcasm, but she shouldn’t be so cynical; the book is sensitive. These conjoined answers might feel like a joke, but even a joke has a shape. “I’m sure I’ll do it,” she tells her counselor. “The blunders of course. Satisfactory, though?”

No ruffle, no sigh. Myka is on her own.

****

Myka has arranged to meet Helena in the airport, for she is trying to make this excision as surgical as possible. Her return flight (well, the first of two) leaves three hours after her arrival; the layover is that long only because getting to and from South Dakota means bowing to airline schedulers’ ideas about which places merit reasonably quick access. Regardless of how pressing a person’s need to escape O’Hare might be.

In any case, the significance of the word “terminal” is not lost on her.

She catches her first glimpse of Helena from an entire length of concourse away—it’s a flicker, a mere suggestion of Helena-ness—but Myka knows it’s her. Once upon a time, she might have reveled in the intimacy of it, the way she knows the sight. Other people, indeed every other person, in the airport, the city, the country, even on the planet, might appreciate that sight, but Myka knows it. She knows the stride; she knows the toss of hair. She knows the bravado... knows it as a front. Knows it paper-thin.

But she can spare no sympathy for Helena’s fragility, nor for whatever it might cause her own heart to pulse.

This is the end, though, so she offers herself a tiny dispensation: for the length of Helena’s walk from gate B14 to B11, she will imagine this meeting is taking place in a different world. “Let’s start again,” she might say, in that different world. “Let’s run away and start again.”

Helena passes B11. That different world is no more.

Myka schools her face—her face that has been so revealing in the past—as Helena nears.

The line at the gate-adjacent Starbucks is short, yielding no time for much talk past “hello” and “how was your flight,” and that’s fortunate, because Myka has been witless to prepare anything cogent. She has, however, compiled a list of several synonyms for “ended.”

She’s considering launching without preamble into those, just pronouncing them all, one by telling one, then turning her back. But once she and Helena have collected their cardboard cups and sat down across from each other at a high table among a cluster between gates, Helena is the one to deliver the first salvo: “I presume you’re here to tell me about you and Pete.” She says it with a head-toss that seems rehearsed, but does she mean to convey nonchalance? Or is it nothing more than vain look-at-my-hair emphasis?

Myka can’t deal with either one. “Do you,” she says, as blandly as possible, but inside she is seething. She had not intended to say anything about that. She had intended to pretend it did not exist, to let that sin of omission be a relief, but someone has thwarted her. She suspects Steve... suspects it might have something to do with protection. She begins prepping a high-minded rebuke to be delivered later, even as she tells him now, in her head, where he and his truth-detection have taken up residence, You will not alter what I am here to do. “How did you hear?” she asks, again bland. Matter-of-fact, because of the matter of this fact.

“Claudia told me,” Helena says.

So much for the rebuke. Everything about this is going in the wrong direction. But there’s no right direction, so of course it is.

“I guess she’d know, wouldn’t she,” Myka says. She isn’t able to fully disguise her sourness at the idea of Helena and Claudia being in contact, but ultimately that’s all the more reason to detach. Helena has plenty of Warehouse connections, and that means Myka isn’t special. Here, too, she needs to be reasonable, to curtail any wish for that. Among so many other things.

And so she lies even more extensively than she did at the Round Table, despite the absence of Mrs. Frederic and Steve to goad her, telling a story about a story, investing her gray despair with cartoonish color, reciting again her ultimate line—her ultimate lie. Saying it out loud again, she feels her lies folding in on themselves, then expanding outward, untruths about untruths. She pushes on, however, ignoring the entanglement: “That was really my defining moment,” she concludes. “When I realized.”

She wishes Helena’s face would change, but it doesn’t. Yet another wallop of finality. The end, the end.

A moment passes: a suspension of time in which nothing at all happens. If only it could last forever...

But then Helena’s eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you,” she says. It’s blunt. It’s also defensive, and that is a change.

Myka does not know whether to rejoice in or lament the fact that she is not, here at the end, a competent enough liar for an audience of H.G. Wells. So she punts: trying for flippant, she says, “Well, congratulations, you and Pete finally have something in common, because he didn’t either. Not at first.”

That conjures the scene in which she had persuaded him... and that in turn brings home to her the fact that she has no bodily way to persuade Helena of anything. Her disruptive id, however, offers up an alternate scene, one in which she pulls Helena to her, Helena instead of Pete, into a kiss intended to convince somebody of something.

But even as Myka would do that, still, now, if she could, the back of her neck prickles with “maybe I can hurt you like you hurt me.” Because while she has tried to see that Helena must have had her reasons (for Nate), and must have her reasons (for Giselle), she doesn’t care about reasons. She cares about pain. Then, how guttingly she felt it. Now, how retributively she might inflict it.

“You and me. This is the end,” she says, hoping Helena feels the snap of the words. Hoping she feels it against her neck.

“Because of you and Pete?” That’s contempt.

Myka is about to say yes, to lie and throw that contempt right back in her face, to lie and throw it and then stand up and walk away and never look back.

But she owes the entirety of the situation just this bit of truth. “I want to say yes,” she begins, and Helena frowns. Myka can’t, now, spare the space to cherish that frown. “But the real answer is no, because it’s me. I can’t sit at tables and pretend to drink coffee and act like small talk matters. I wasn’t your roommate at...” She pauses for what she intends as a condemnatory moment. “Idaho Tech.”

Helena exhales in response a disdainful sniff. “Don’t misquote me. You remember precisely the lie I told.”

Righteous, even now. Myka can’t contain her resigned sigh. “I’m saying it doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve got Giselle, I’ve got Pete, and we’ll both be fine.” Now she does stand up—trying for the physical embodiment of “it doesn’t matter anymore”—but she moves her hands too dramatically: she knocks her cup over, and coffee from the untasted container glugs like slow blood from its plastic lid onto the innocent tabletop.

Well, there’s an obvious blunder. That book... its truth. Myka hurries to right the cup, then uses a comically inadequate single, flimsy napkin to begin mopping the spill (another obvious blunder: not having anticipated needing a stack). But while her clumsiness annoys her, as does the delay, she appreciates the latter as providing one little extra indulgence before she says and, worse, hears, the last goodbye.

She is in any case discomfited by the way Helena watches her attempted cleanup: silent, appraising. It feels like the past, but having that attention focused on clearing a slick of cold coffee from a table is so... inappropriate. It’s a waste. It’s small, so small; not scaled to the past. The pathetic downsizing offers yet more reason to know this as a sunset.

Of course Myka is not, and will never be, ready for the fading end—of the sight of this face, of the sound of this voice—but she has nailed herself to this cross, and she can’t climb down now (never mind what she ever said to anybody about crosses and getting off them and... never mind). She’s going to live out her life in a way that makes continuous sense, not as a trudge punctuated by interludes that make her wish for a more electric timeline. The Warehouse had, via Helena, shown her such a bright flash, but that light is gone. In its absence, surely, the Warehouse will show itself as big enough, will offer enough, to fill a different unfolding’s worth of life.

In any case, her future is set. The evidence of her having committed blunders is clear. Now must be the time for Myka to turn to whatever it is that will be “of a satisfactory nature.” Whatever it is, it’s probably the best she can hope for, going forward.

She draws in a breath and begins, “So I guess this is...”

But she doesn’t finish, because she’s distracted by movement from Helena’s side of the table.

What is she doing?

She’s pushing her chair back and standing, taking up her own untasted coffee container into her right hand. She’s looking not at Myka but at that cup, and Myka can hear, in this flash of relative silence, a tap-tap-tap of Helena’s fingernail against the cardboard. That draws her attention to the cup, to the hand—and suddenly Helena’s left hand swoops in to rip the cup’s lid away, and her right hand moves back then forward—and in that blink of motion, the cup’s tepid contents rush toward Myka, dousing her torso.

Myka looks down. Her shirt is soaked—soaked—with coffee.

She looks up.

Helena is gazing at her in something very like triumph.

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Tabled #B&W holiday gift exchange #part 2 #barbarawar #I wish this story were unnecessary #because I wish someone with power in production had said #'you know what we should do? #we should write this HG-returns episode as a romp #something really fun and funny #because the audience might enjoy that #particularly those viewers who want this Myka-and-HG thing we're never going to give them #and they should have something entertaining as a consolation prize' #but alas

[deusvervewrites]

SLC X Cousin Rumi X Cousin Shoto:

“What do you mean, our uncle is ALL MIGHT?!?!

Todoroki stares at his hands completely nonresponsive

#asks #secret love child au #cousin rumi au #cousin shoto au