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awyeahitssam · 8 months

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A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

“You’re late.”

Harry considered his response as he stepped farther into the room, head tipping up to take in the fifty some-odd witches and wizards that made up the Wizengamot. They were all watching him keenly, some with open derision and others with curiosity. His head pulsed faintly at the weight of the attention on him, their emotions eagerly battering his Occlumency shields. Harry worked to think through the sensation even as he reinforced his mental defences. He could already tell by the sweat beading on his back that this would be a trying experience. The fact that this section of the Ministry was deep enough to obstruct the weight of all other presences did not make up for the fact that he was in front of fifty people rather than the expected four to six. He hasn't practised for this, has had no means to.

Fudge sat in the middle of the first row, and the smugness he and the witch to his right were emanating made it rather easy to pinpoint who had been responsible for the sudden change in the time of his trial.

"Am I?" Harry asked, and the jolt of astonishment, annoyance and fury that swept through various members of the court almost had him gritting his teeth. Harry imagined that Fudge's anger and embarrassment would have been obvious to him even without his abilities. The man had turned faintly red at the question, face pinching.

"You were sent notice of the change in time this morning," the Minister barked out. "It is not the Wizengamot's fault you are late. Now sit down."

Harry allowed his eyebrow to quirk, slow and incredulous. This version of Cornelius Fudge was far different from the one he had met two years ago.

“While I would hardly blame the Wizengamot as a whole, it sounds as if whoever is charged with correspondence is at fault. Per a standing law written in 1839, all changes in time and venue must be completed in excess of twenty four hours prior to a trial's start time. Said correspondence must have been confirmed as seen by the person or persons on trial and their representatives at least sixteen hours before the scheduled start time.”

“That is for an official trial,” the Minister returned, voice sharp despite the fluster and anxiety Harry could sense beneath it.

“Apologies for my presumption, then,” Harry said dryly. “I assumed that any trial which our entire governance presided over would be considered official.”

“Besides which, there is no such specificity to that law,” A broad, square-jawed witch to the left of Fudge said, giving the Minister a quelling look.

The Minister did not respond to the implied reprimand, instead puffing himself up a bit and saying, “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry was surprised to see Percy Weasley, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stared down at a piece of parchment, quill poised to write. Unlike most everyone else in the room, his attention did not seem to find sole focus on Harry. Harry didn’t expend any effort to attempt to see how Percy felt about the entire situation, his focus drawn to an approaching presence. It was a whirlwind of concern, faint annoyance, and a dash of enjoyment.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, emphasising the word hearing, and Percy began taking notes at once, “into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Fudge continued on, listing interrogators, and Harry’s attention was distracted from Fudge’s words, the approaching presence, and his Occlumency shields by a jolt of glee and greed. His gaze flickered up to meet the icy grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy. The realisation dawns quickly that the Dursleys address was now a matter of public record. Harry had already decided he wouldn't go back, and this only provided more incentive.

He hesitates around the thought of whether the Dursleys will be targeted. Whether he should warn somebody that they need to be moved. Whether he cares enough to, after so many years of their oppressive hatred.

Behind him, the door presses open.

“—Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Dumbledore’s voice isn’t projected like Fudge’s, but there is no doubt that he is heard. The press of the Wizengamot’s emotions is momentarily overwhelming: annoyance, bemusement, fear, anger, respect, deference, joy… Harry’s own anger is hardly a blip amongst the cacophony.

When he strides into Harry’s view Dumbledore's expression is serene, but Harry can feel his spiteful enjoyment at the reception his disruption has created. He looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his crooked nose.

A few of the Wizengamot members muttered to one another, but most were quiet, eyes locked on Dumbledore.

While Harry’s presence had invoked interest and curiosity, the reactions to Dumbledore were far more substantive. Perhaps it was that the Headmaster had interacted with all of these people personally, socially, and they knew him by more than reputation. They had personal feelings and opinions fully developed about Dumbledore, while Harry was still, largely, an unknown.

“Ah,” said Fudge, thoroughly disconcerted and flustered by Dumbledore’s presence. “Dumbledore. Yes. You—er—got our—er—message that the time and—er—place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

It was a lie, Harry recognized, and one the Headmaster took a good deal of amusement in stating. Some of Dumbledore’s lingering frustration seemed to melt the longer he watched Fudge, the genial cast to his face a farce. He took joy in Fudge being wrong-footed, and the longer he fumbled, the more Dumbledore’s contentment with the situation grew.

“Yes—well—I suppose we’ll need another chair—I—Weasley, could you—?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest.

Harry had never thought of Dumbledore as anything approaching petty before, and perhaps he typically was not, but there was no denying that he was fond of making Fudge feel foolish. Well, his name had been dragged through the Prophet by the Minister's word; Harry couldn’t be surprised by a grudge. Seemingly omniscient or not, Dumbledore was only human.

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.”

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, not looking at Malfoy this time.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” interrupted Fudge. Harry felt his vindictive pleasure at cutting him off—even with Dumbledore here, he was finding his footing—but as Harry failed to answer this question, his irritation rose to overtake it.

“You are expected to answer,” the witch to the left of Fudge said, raising a brow at him. She had been the same woman to defend the law he had parrotted.

Harry lets his silence linger for a moment, feeling the anticipation of the Wizengamot build, before returning, “Will I be allowed to do so in full?”

His voice is perfectly respectful, but Fudge’s outrage still blooms. Dumbledore, a glance away, feels of surprise-concern-suspicion, and it makes the hairs on Harry’s nape stand at attention.

“Yes,” the woman gave the Minister yet another quelling look, “of course you will.”

“Thank you. To your last question, Minister, I did receive an official warning three years ago. The warning was,” it took a moment for Harry to recall the right term, said by three other representatives in three other trials, but the momentary pause has the interesting effect of focusing attention on him all the more, “improperly dispersed. The magic that triggered it came from a visiting House Elf. Being the only known magical in Little Whinging and without the supervision of an adult witch or wizard, the charms used to enforce the Statute of Secrecy were triggered. If anybody would like to see a memory of the event in question, I would be more than happy to provide it, assuming there is a pensive available.”

“There is no pensive,” a man with dark hair and an austere demeanour said, then emphasised again, “This is no trial.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising as he glanced tellingly down at the chair in which he sat, wrapped in chains. “Very well.”

“Either way, it is rather late to be blaming your troubled past on elf magic,” Fudge dismissed, and let out a short laugh, as if he expected others to join him in it. At his side, the woman still cloaked in shadows let out a titter. “A unique and unprecedented excuse, as, I suppose, we should have expected from a young man trying to squirm out of trouble.”

It is Fudge’s tone, a mix of condescension and chiding, even as his emotions are anything but, that does it. Behind his Occlumency and building headache, Harry realises that he's angry. He is disgruntled, disgusted and dissatisfied. He had accessed the public records available, he had pulled transcripts from previous underage trials, and this—this is a farce.

This is Fudge, afraid to believe that Lord Voldemort is alive and smearing Harry’s name because he can. Because Harry has nobody looking out for him, and he’s been fair game since nobody stepped in the first time Rita did it. Beside him, Dumbledore is perfectly silent.

Harry is a symbol, but he's also fifteen, and it's an odd thought that reeks of his Godfather.

“You're fifteen, pup,” Sirius had insisted mere days ago, like it meant something, like it mattered. “You deserve the chance to be a boy without all of this added pressure.”

The glimmer in his eyes had been just as telling as the mingled pain-grief-exhaustion-despair. He was speaking from experience, Harry had thought, throat tight. It made Harry want to fight for his Godfather, for the boy that he once was. Where, then, was that impulse to fight for himself?

“You matter, Harry. What you want matters.”

Harry does not want to play their games, though he has already begun to. He does not want to use the information he's researched, as he sits in a chair with chains, and struggles through polite phrasings. He won't let his research go to waste, though. He knows something for once, and he'll use that knowledge.

The look he levels to Fudge, then, is faux-concerned. “I understand you've had no reason to research this, Minister,” he says, voice kind in a way that is mockery and can not be called such, “but I take the threat of having my wand snapped very seriously. According to public records, the Statute of Secrecy charms have been proven defective in the exact scenario I've discussed once before, in the case of Richard Pike, who’s classmate had an elf deliver things on multiple occasions until he was brought between a five-panel jury to plead his case.”

“Mind you, the Ministry hadn't been running a campaign to discredit Richard Pike,” Harry added casually. The reaction from a simple remark didn't disappoint; Fudge spluttered, the woman beside him leaned out of the shadows, revealing an overwhelmingly pink ensemble, and someone burst out, “Now see here, young man—!” before being abruptly silenced. “He was fifteen, too, but he actually had adults willing to advocate on his behalf.”

Dumbledore’s concern is growing beside him, but Harry doesn't turn to meet the man's eyes, and Dumbledore does not speak out, despite Harry’s accusation.

Harry’s rage is bubbling at the back of his throat, and he wants to shout, but he had learned about the ineffectiveness of screaming his ire long ago. That lesson had only been reinforced after his outburst at Ron and Hermione, and he is more than willing to try something else now.

He takes a moment to consider his approach, and then goes with something that feels natural, a release that will keep his shouts in check; Harry laughs.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?” A cold voice comes.

“Not really, Something is ridiculous, though, and I’m sure you’d all rather I laugh than deal with a moody teenager's temper tantrum.” He lets his smile go a little sharper, and feels the good his reminder does. There is a particularly keen sense of culpability from a woman he faintly recognizes from his research; Head of the Panel for Underaged Sourcery, Irena Covey. Is the guilt for allowing this to spiral so out of hand, into a room meant for criminal proceedings, or something else?

“I have before me the entire government of magical Britain, wasting their time at a hearing for underaged magic which is typically handled by an empaneled jury of four. We are in the bowels of the Ministry, in a room that has not been used for anything but trials of the most dangerous criminals, and yet this is not a trial, but a hearing to decide disciplinary methods, as if there is no doubt of my guilt and I must be punished.”

“My ‘crime,’” he uses the air quotes readily, “is using the Patronus Charm to protect myself and my cousin from a dementor. My cousin, who knows about magic and does not count as a breach in the Statute. If you'd like to see the memory of the encounter, I give full permission to have it pulled from my head. If you'd like to give me veritaserum—well, I have no parent to consent to the use of a regulated substance, but that's never stopped anybody before. I’ll submit myself willingly to that as well. And if,” he smiles sharply, “you'd like to handle this especially quickly, and get back to your doubtlessly busy lives, I will swear upon my magic that I'm telling the truth. How's that?”

It’s nothing that can be compelled or asked for, not ever, but the offer is a powerful thing. Vows on your magic can be taken as irrefutable testimony, and are rarely given, as they rely on objective rather than subjective fact, a twist that always leaves one with the slightest chance of turning squib.

He feels the shift in the air, the reconsideration of biases, the sharpening curiosity.

“I find your tone disrespectful, boy,” says a man with the longest straw-coloured hair Harry has ever seen. It lies in neat curls, soft and touchable, but the man’s face is cold and his tone hard, and Harry can’t pinpoint his intention with so many other people in the room.

“Perfectly understandable, sir. I find this entire theatrical display disrespectful. You are all very important and busy people, so I can understand that you are frustrated with having your time wasted. However I hope you'll forgive if my frustration outweighs your own, as I am being treated like a war criminal rather than an underaged child due to a bewildering grudge that our Minister seems to be harbouring.”

“You want to snap my wand?” Harry asked the Minister if Magic, eyes blazing but posture relaxed, “Then you can be certain I will put up a fight.”

He let his eyes trail over the rest of his jury, the heady, odd feel of their captivated attention allowing his shoulders to relax into something looser and more confident.

“Magic is the only thing I have of my mother and father. So forgive this fifteen year old orphan for his sentimentality,” Harry bared his teeth, “but I plan on keeping it. Especially considering that I have broken no laws, and there are clear caveats in place that allow an underaged witch or wizard to use magic when in fear for their life.”

He let his gaze slide over the Wizengamot and paused to meet every set of eyes that were not looking away. His point has been well and truly made. Dumbledore is surprised by his outburst, or perhaps by its effectiveness, and faintly suspicious for some reason.

“Strong words prove nothing,” a man larger than Harry’s uncle says when Harry’s gaze lands on him, and he doesn't believe Harry, but he is used to that.

Harry thinks back to the books on magical vows he had studied during the tournament, and the book in the Black Library that he had read two days ago. He thinks of the vow that he had carefully drafted, under Sirius’ supervision. His godfather has emphasised the importance of his wording, so that there could be no mistake.

“Harry, wait.” Dumbledore’s order comes curt and harsh, but Harry pays it no attention. He knows what has caught the Headmaster’s attention; the golden glow that had encapsulated Harry the moment he chose his words. It hazes around his form, and Harry looks down at his hand with interest and curiosity.

There is a sudden murmuring from his audience as they catch on.

“I, Harry James Potter, vow on my magic that on the night of August 2 I used a patronus charm to ward off dementors in Little Whinging, Surrey, in fear of losing my soul.”

The golden glow retreats. Several people gasp at the act, but it is no mere dramatics; the shock he feels pulsing through the room is genuine. He allowed the pause to linger for a moment before saying, “I would cast a spell to prove my claim, but this is a disciplinary hearing for underaged magic.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, but before he could speak a worn voice sounded from the top tier of the gallery. “I vote an exception be made. Raise your wands if you are in agreement.”

It was nearly unanimous, and Fudge’s expression was taut. His emotions were hard to pinpoint, though multiple people were radiating fear, stomach-churning and vile. Madame Bones glanced around the gallery, expectant. “Mr. Potter, if you would?”

Obediently, Harry drew his wand and murmured a spell under his breath. It was a rather cheeky choice, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. His patronus burst into existence and lifted its head regally, sightless eyes fixed on the Wizengamot. After a moment it turned to Harry and met his gaze before bowing its head. Harry bowed his head back in respect, tension lessening as he felt the warmth and serenity his patronus gave to him, deeply soothing. It took a step forward and pressed its head to his chest, and Harry smiled.

“Fantastic,” Madam Bones murmured. “Very impressive.”

She said it, but Harry could feel it radiating from all around the room; respect, wariness, keen interest. A couple of people even seemed amused by his gall, which, he supposed, was better than offended. Fear was regulated to an undertone in the room, pervasive but not overpowering.

Harry’s patronus raises its head, a huff ruffling his hair. He raised a hand to brush over its snout, feeling the warm, welcoming peace it emanated more than its fur. It stares into his eyes for a long moment, grounding Harry, before lowering its head one last time and glimmering out of existence, purpose served.

“Well then,” the shift in the room was abrupt. With two words the attention of the Wizengnot had been captured by a dark-haired woman, whose brown eyes were cataloguing Harry. The abrupt pull and shift of emotions might have been startling had his patronus not left him so balanced. “I might have agreed that all of our time was wasted on this day, Mr. Potter, if not for this exquisite demonstration of a mastered patronus. That it is tactile as well as spiritually corporeal is a rare and impressive feat, especially given your age.”

Beneath her intrigue and open interest, the turn of her emotions had an odd chill to them. Her fascination is detached and clinical. Her regard had the effect of sharpening the interest towards Harry all the more. Dumbledore’s emotions pulsed behind him, an odd mix of wary, vexed and rueful.

“Perhaps, Lady Laurier, it would be most appropriate to turn our attention to how a dementor managed to make its way to Little Whinging in the first place.” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Bones clears her throat. “That is certainly a matter that needs attention. First, however, Mr. Potter’s verdict.”

“I believe that Mr. Potter’s vow constitutes irrefutable proof, and this tria—hearing should be closed.” Covey spoke up, her slip made all the more apparent by its correction.

“So it shall be,” agreed Bones. “As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I accept into the record Harry Potter's magical vow. In combination with his subsequent proof of magic, this vow is considered irrefutable evidence. As such, all charges against the accused are dismissed with the Ministry's sincere apologies. I put forward my professional recommendation that future cases of underaged sorcery are dealt with by the bench traditionally empaneled.” She added pointedly.

#my writing #Empath Harry #I'm desperate to start writing this story again #but as in love as I am with the premise I've set up and other scenes that've been written #writing this is like pulling teeth #Harrymort #unless I'm incapable of continuing

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priscirat · 3 months

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the moon got a shine of her own

#project sekai #hinomori shiho #mochizuki honami #honashiho #did i read the new event yet ? well giggle and twirl my hair #so its basically based on the set itself #and the premise of honami being leoneeds leader #and how the light of the set comes from her #and shiho in her card turns around to look at it/at honami #and how theyre both the sun and the moon and the moon only shines bc of the light of the sun #and how this time around shes the one illuminating everyone on her own etc etc #word soup that makes sense to me

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feintenstein · 8 months

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Aziraphale baking & trying his best to make meringues the human way (breaking lots of icing bags)

#featuring my bunk coloring #'human' jumpscare #btw those are some humongos meringues im realizing... good luck angel o7 #good omens #digital art #fanart #aziraphale #doodles #the quarantine audio set the premises for him baking and i have never stopped thinking abt it #bcs like... i can do tgat too.... thats a form im familiar enough with to draw....

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dharmafox · 5 months

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@seekingskywhales asked me to talk about Sasaki, so here are my theories on this weirdo, rendered as coherently as possible.

Like most of my other Mononoke theories, the ones on Sasaki are based on the premise that everyone and everything in Mononoke is connected to the Medicine Seller.

Evidence of Sasaki's connection to the Medicine Seller:

He's associated with swords, the colors of his clothes are similar to those of the Medicine Seller's sword (dark red, bright red, green), and he's particularly fixated on the Medicine Seller's sword.

The eye images that appear on the hands that emerge from his sword and then on the sword blade before it breaks are a very similar color and pattern to the eye images on the Medicine Seller's clothes. The Umi Zatou's eyes also change to this color.

His name has no apparent meaning but could be a fusion of "Tamaki" and "Sakai," the names of two characters that are significant parts of the Medicine Seller's memories.

There's also evidence that what happens to Sasaki is connected to what happens to Genkei at the end of "Umi Bozu."

Evidence of Sasaki's connection to Genkei and Oyou

Sasaki is weirdly fixated on Oyou when she appears. Apart from Genkei, he seems to be the only one who actually sees her.

Genkei's merging with Oyou occurs just before one half of Sasaki's broken sword appears to merge with him through his eye.

I interpret these connections this way:

Connections to the Medicine Seller's sword: The Medicine Seller's sword contains a part of him, his "other self"; it's even implied in this arc that the sword is alive. Genyousai also remarks that tools and objects have souls. The Medicine Seller also implies elsewhere that the sword may actually be him:

A figure of speech, maybe. Maybe not.

Sasaki could embody part of the life within the Medicine Seller's sword, a part of his psyche, and what goes on with him could represent what goes on in that psyche.

Connections to the eye images: The association of the eye images with Sasaki's victims and with the sword blade suggest the people Sasaki has killed were somehow part of the Medicine Seller, and that those people still haunt the sword as they haunt Sasaki. Because they're eye images, they could appear on the blade because of an emerging awareness of what's happening in Sasaki's mind. That awareness causes the sword to break.

Connections to Tamaki and Sakai: The implication of these names suggests that Sasaki's mental instability and violence are linked back to the violence between Tamaki and Sakai in "Umi Bozu." Sasaki could embody the memory of that violence and/or a reaction to it.

Connections to Genkei and Oyou: Sasaki responds to Oyou as if she's significant to him, but as far as we know she is only significant to Genkei. But, Genkei's fusion with Oyou nearly co-occurs with Sasaki's fusion with something we know was important to him—one half of his broken sword. The suggestion is that those fusions are interdependent, and what Oyou meant to Genkei may be mirrored by what that half of the sword meant to Sasaki.

What about the other half of the sword?

The first half of Sasaki's sword fused with him because Oyou fused with Genkei—because the Oyou mononoke was exorcised. The other half of the sword is most likely another part of Sasaki that he hasn't merged with. There's a duplicate of Sasaki at the end of "Umi Bozu" because he's split into two halves: the half of him that he's merged with and the half of him that he hasn't. Since those halves are part of him, they're also both him.

The "Umi Bozu" arc ends with Sasaki still fixated on the broken sword, and there's no resolution of his fragmentation. But if...

(1) Sasaki embodies a conflict within the Medicine Seller, and (2) the parts of those conflicts come out as mononoke, and (3) everything in Mononoke connects back to the Medicine Seller...

...then the second half of Sasaki could be the next mononoke the Medicine Seller meets, Ochou.

And I'll point out here that the similarity of the names Oyou and Ochou also suggests a connection between them (and also to Kayo, but that's a whole other analysis).

I've also written an analysis of sorts on the Medicine Seller's connection with Ochou.

Accepting all of these premises, what do Sasaki's existence and actions actually mean?

If Sasaki is part of the Medicine Seller and has also been killing parts of the Medicine Seller, then Sasaki's victims are not really other people; they're other parts of the same whole. Sasaki has been attacking himself.

The same is true of Genkei and Ochou, most explicitly of Ochou. Genkei and Ochou both perceived a problem outside of themselves and reacted with hostility that turned out to harm only them. The identity that Genkei saw as a threat, pushed away, and allowed to die was a vital part of him. The people that Ochou killed were her own thoughts and feelings.

I think that Sasaki embodies all of this internalized violence, which the Medicine Seller's psyche created out of the events of A. "Bakeneko." Genkei/Oyou and Ochou/the Nopperabou are the component parts of that violence, the feelings and identities that lie beneath it and fuel it. Sasaki, Genkei, and Ochou all reveal that their violence is self-violence, something they can't understand because their identities are fragmented: They imagine parts of themselves as external enemies.

This fragmentation can go two ways: It can either continue in the direction it's been going up to the point where Sasaki appears, or it can be reversed. If it continues, the identities of Sakai and Tamaki will eventually re-emerge from components of every story we see in Mononoke. If it's reversed, a different outcome will emerge. The purpose of the Medicine Seller's intervention with Genkei, Ochou, and everyone else is to reverse the chain of karma that's led up to this point by re-integrating them all.

Once the components of Sasaki's violence are separated from each other (the broken sword) and then understood (the exorcism of the mononoke), they reintegrate with him (the dissolution of the first half of the sword), which will ultimately allow him to re-integrate with himself. The undoing of Sasaki's mental fragmentation is also the undoing of the fragmentation within the Medicine Seller's psyche —its re-integration into the sword, and its re-integration with him.

#mononoke 2007 #kusuriuri #mononoke theory #umi bozu #nopperabou #basically the premise of mononoke is that the medicine seller is a parent whose kids are running around setting fire to things #and he's trying to catch them all before they burn down the fucking church #AGAIN

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joshuaalbert · 1 year

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every time I see someone pitch a picard spinoff about [insert character here] I just get so tired like. I know I’m years late to pick this battle but I genuinely just don’t think single character focused shows are the right choice for star trek given that at its core it’s about a group of people working together for a better future. obviously the main character would still have a crew, and obviously the captains have always been closer to main characters than the rest of the crew to a degree, but naming the show after one person means that everything that happens on that show ultimately happens in service of the titular character, and that very individualistic mindset feels wrong for trek imo.

#also like. yeah I guess technically the 90s shows all spun off each other but a) they each had a distinctly separate premise #and b) they each set up basically entirely new casts of characters that were specifically crafted for that show and that situation #vs if you spin off an established character you ultimately limit how new it can get I think #worf is an outlier to a degree but he had to adapt to the show it wasn’t built around him #idk the point in the tags is I guess a lesser complaint I just find it limiting #san rant

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puppyeared · 5 months

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Been LOVING your lil magician folks recently please continue they're beautiful and very cute and cool and also very well-designed!! 🥺❤️

thank you for the kind words !!! im not much of a writer, but i do have some sort of story in mind for them.. theyre bitter rivals who end up as roommates bc of their scatterbrained elderly landlord lol

#idk how much of it im gonna keep or change but thats basically the gist of it ^_^#i dont know if i could ever write a solid linear story bc im very indecisive and tend to change things a lot so most of what i make ends up #very abstract or nonlinear.. just short drabbles or stuff that can be slotted into a general setting or premise #although i do want to challenge myself to try and write some sort of enemies/rivals to friends because i have a huge weak spot for that #dynamic!! i tend to be a little soft on my characters which i think has to do with me being a conflict avoidant person. so maybe exploring #this kind of dynamic will help me experiment with my sense of storytelling. although i cant promise it will be written well lol #im also thinking of making their story part of a bigger world so kinda like an omnibus?? i have another story in mind i think i can fit int #the same canon and itd be funny if theres like a bunch of wacky going ons between different apartment tenants nichijou style #but we'll see!!! thank you for your interest in these little shits!!!!#my art #myart #my oc #oc #presto #shuffle #house of cards #oc talk #ask #doodles #yapping

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lbhslefttiddie · 24 days

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ruminating once again on the concept of murdering shen yuan for fun suspense and ghosty reasons and like. i like the concept of trying to write a murder mystery but fanfiction doesnt really Work for murder mysteries because you know what everyone is about before you read the first paragraph. there's very little mystery to be had in guessing between a set of likely candidates, and a lot of it has less to do with logic and puzzling things out and more to do with judging how the author interprets 7 and also 9 so ive been stuck ruminating on it for ages.

and then earlier i had a stroke of what im not going to call genius because i thought "the best way to add a twist to a scum villain murder mystery!!! would be if the person who murdered shen yuan!! was also shen yuan!!!"

#rambles #i mean really what i think would work best would be if it was not murder mystery at all but a thriller #yeah it a fanfic we all know what everyone's about there's little room for surprising reveals of hidden motivations and such #so lets just get this out of the way. here's shen yuan. he is dead. here's the guy who killed him #and then make the suspense tied not to figuring OUT the killer but finding a way to stop/incriminate them before they escape/kill more ppl #also i love melancholy settings such as ghosts tied to once loved now abandoned places but i do NOT like sad endings #if we get to the end and its like yayyyyy you did it!!! you stopped the killer!! yippee (shen yuan dissolves into mist) i will kill and mai #maybe thats my real issue i love the premise but cant visualize a satisfying ending #for the record this is the same premise i had in mind for an art i did back in the twitter days. i just enjoy the aesthetic i guess LOL

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vulturevanity · 1 year

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Babygirl you are smitten

#my next life as a villainess #hamefura #was catching up on the manga. still extremely creeped out by geordo keith and sora #and to a lesser extent... mary #which sucks because i really enjoy their characters otherwise #legit this is such an amazing premise with great characters and setting #i wish they did more with it than just play reverse harem tropes straight #romance in chiaroscuro

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changelingart · 30 days

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Me, throughout college, writing stories for professors: “meh, no one will notice this historical/cultural inaccuracy, I’m fine”

Me, two days after graduating, writing a fanfic: “if I cannot find out what the EXACT most BENIGN MEAL these two would eat at a tense dinner in a diner in northern Massachusetts during the early spring, I will hold an archivist hostage.”

#yeah this is jarthur #but like not really because I’m a QP truther #Harlan Guthrie how dare you make a podcast that’s set in one of my favorite times to research and learn about #I’m also researching British terms of familial endearment and children’s books from the 1930’s #and the fanfic’s premise is literally that every scene is impossible based on canon #so none of this matters #arthur lester #john doe malevolent #malevolent

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serenescribe · 11 months

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true love feeds on absences (like pleasure feeds on pain) Twisted Wonderland | 3.6k Summary: A departure, a reunion, and everything in-between. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48061801 (Spoilers for Chapter 7 of TWST!)

Was listening to “Set The Tigers Free” by Villagers yesterday. Felt the urge to write something to get out some pent-up emotions. Thought about Lilia leaving in the end, even after everything that has happened. Thought about Silver grappling with it. Spat this out before the newest update drops.

This one’s short enough to be directly cross-posted to Tumblr, so... enjoy!

In the end, Lilia still leaves.

After the overblot, the tears, the emotions—

The frantic reunions in everybody’s dreams, hands finding comfort intertwining in each other; the promises whispered to each other to break free, the defiant attempts to strike back at and stop Malleus—

Lilia still leaves.

“I shall keep in contact,” he promises with a smile, the corners of his weary eyes wrinkling. It’s more sad than anything else, a stark contrast to the lively send-off he’d wanted back before Malleus had ruined everything, cast all of Sage’s Island into an unyielding, neverending dream. At the very least, this time they have had some time to process everything, to recover and work through all their unspoken fears before the day of departure finally arrived. This time, it is not a sudden, abrupt exit with no closure. “But you all know I cannot remain here, not with my magic as weak as it is.”

Malleus’ expression is pained. It has been, ever since they’d all dragged him back from the throes of his overblot. There’s a seemingly permanent downturn to his lips, pressed thin, and his eyebrows always dip downwards, leaving creases in his forehead. “Lilia—”

“Shush, Malleus.” With a single flick of his wrist, Lilia effectively silences the prince. Perhaps before, Malleus would have pressed the matter, pushed harder — but now, humbled by the outcome of his selfish decision to throw everyone under his magic’s effect, he is quiet. “I know what you wish to offer,” Lilia says, with a dip of his head. “My answer, however, remains unchanged. I do not need, nor do I desire, any of your magic. Understood?”

The stormy silence that fills the air says it all. Distantly, there is a rumble of thunder somewhere outdoors, the sound peeking through the half-opened window of Lilia’s room.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Lilia sighs, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Is that truly how you are going to send me off? And I’m not just talking about Malleus for once,” he adds, eyes turning to the two other figures in the room. “All those sour looks on your face… I ought to have thrown another farewell party if I knew the mood would be as sullen as it is.”

Silence fills the air again, a palpable fog of far too many emotions, tangled together until it’s thick, sticky, and oppressive.

Sebek recovers first. He shouts something about how grateful he is — and shall always be! — to Lilia for teaching him everything he knows, for training him to be the guard that he is today. Malleus is second, his dissatisfied expression softening into one of a reluctant acceptance. Despite the sadness that seems to permeate his eyes permanently now, he still embraces Lilia, leaning down to wrap his arms around the smaller fae.

And Silver—

When strong arms curl around him, he clings to them, leaning into the hold. His chest aches, a visceral, tangible pain that has been with him for such a long time. Silver has felt it for weeks, ever since his father had first dropped the bombshell that he would be leaving in a matter of mere days, completely throwing Silver’s world upside down in that one, small instance. He leans down, rests his head against Lilia’s shoulder, and as he feels his father’s arms squeeze him tightly, he cannot help it — tears prickle in his eyes, a sob escaping his lips.

“Shh, shh.” His father tries to calm him, rubbing his back, soothing him, but— Damn it. It still hurts so badly, a gaping wound cleaved right through his core, one that Silver thinks will never heal, will never scab over or scar. It will remain with him for as long as he lives, leaking rivulets of blood that no one can see, a broken heart caged between his aching ribs.

He almost whines as Lilia pulls away, the sound only cut off when two cool hands come up to cup his cheeks. “Do not cry, dear,” Lilia murmurs. “Otherwise you’re going to make your old man cry too. And then where will we be, hm?”

Silver tries to choke out a laugh, but it only emerges as another sob.

It hurts.

The cabin is yours now, Lilia had told him, pressing the keys into Silver’s hands in the lead-up to his initial departure, days before Malleus’ overblot.

At first, when he was still at Night Raven College, going through the remaining years of his education, Silver held a particular plan in mind. He would move back into the little cottage, help to maintain it — for it was where he had grown up, so many lovely childhood memories nestled within those wooden walls.

But upon his graduation, upon returning home and spending more than a few weeks living there—

There are ghosts haunting every nook and cranny, hiding in the corners and shielding themselves away until Silver stumbles upon them. He finds letters and drawings in a chest of drawers in his father’s room, and spends hours sitting there on the floor, looking through every scribbly artwork and wonky letter he’d ever given his father as a child, silent tears dripping down his face until it grows too dark to read. He discovers old gifts Lilia had given him after returning from his travels — trinkets nestled in the back of his wardrobe or under his bed, covered with thick layers of dust that makes him sneeze. He finds his father tucked away in everything he left behind — the ruined kitchen utensils, the dusty clothes hanging in his wardrobe, the weathered books on the shelves, all of it.

It grows too much for him to bear, every moment spent inside his house causing the wound in his heart to tear open a bit more. Blood gushes out as tears involuntarily gather at the corners of his eyes, time and time again.

Before long, he begins to spend more time at the castle, or at the Zigvolts’ place, staying away from his childhood home.

(A home that is little more than a house now, for Silver knows—

His true home is somewhere far away, in the Land of Red Dragons, all by himself.)

Even with the letters they receive — individualised ones, delivered every once in a blue moon, that familiar, messy scrawl indicating whose is whose — the pain still does not get any better. If anything, it feels worse.

Lilia writes with such informality, in a way that makes Silver able to imagine him speaking the exact words scrawled on the paper. Every time he cuts open the envelope, unfurling the paper to read ‘My dear boy!’ or even just ‘Silver!’ written with such an enthusiasm that he can practically hear him, Silver has to stop himself, put the letter down in favour of sucking in a deep breath. To quell the permanent pain in his heart before his emotions overtake him, drag him down until tears stain the ink and paper.

Lilia is fine. He’s content, even, spending his days travelling around the region he’s moved to, befriending the locals, assisting them where necessary. Even without his magic, his father is still capable of a great many things. His body has not begun to fail him yet — but it is the yet that Silver lingers on, every new letter reminding him of just how much time they are spending apart.

Him, growing older, attaining the knighthood status he’d been training all his life for.

(His father, growing older, tucked away somewhere far and foreign, his body slowly, steadily, beginning to give out on him.)

‘I hope you are doing well,’ Lilia writes, as he always does in some variation or another. ‘Malleus has told me of yours and Sebek’s knighting ceremony; I only wish I could have been there to witness it.’

Lilia learns of these things through Malleus, through Sebek, because they write back to him. Because they send off letters to take the long voyage to where Lilia stays, keen to keep in touch, sharing their lives with smiles on their faces.

Silver has never written back to his father. It has never been for a lack of trying; he has wanted to pen a response so many times, aching to spill his life, everything he has done, to his father. To speak to him, to get a response back telling him how proud Lilia is of him, how much he loves him, to ask questions about every little detail of what Silver tells him about.

But every single time he sits down with a pen and paper, every time he tries to write—

He can’t. He can’t.

(‘I’m proud of you,’ Lilia always writes at the end of his letters. ‘I love you, Silver. I always will.’

It is those words that break him over and over again, tears splashing into the empty parchment in front of him until he inevitably crumples it up, throwing it to the ground in a fit of childish rage.

Of a desire, so deep and innate, to see his father again.)

The years pass. Silver gets older.

He stumbles through life, clings to his routines like a lifeline. Time only makes the wound ache worse; he has never managed to finish a single letter to send back to his father.

(He keeps all the ones he receives tucked away in a locked chest in his room at the castle. He has long since moved out of the cabin, only returning every so often to upkeep it, to keep it clean and pristine.

He strings the key to the chest around a chain, tucked away under the cloth of his clothes. It lies there, close to his broken heart at all times.)

New faces come and go. He and Sebek get the honour of training future soldiers and guards, settling into a routine with a refined ease.

Sebek matures, though slower than Silver does. He is less scathing with his words, less derogatory with the way he treats humans. He smiles more now. It looks nice on him, Silver thinks.

Malleus looks the same as always, save for a mature air of composure that surrounds him, a certainty he carries himself with. He opens up more now; the servants have gossiped about getting swept up in conversations with their prince, tittering to each other as Silver passes them in the hallways.

Silver changes faster than them. His physique shifts, appearance maturing into something he knows people whisper about. He has been subjected to his fair share of suitors clamouring for his hand, the fact that he is human irrelevant to them in favour of his beauty. He accepts the compliments with a small smile, having learnt how to express himself better over time, but always turns down anyone who requests to court him.

Whenever he looks into the mirror, an unexplainable feeling always overwhelms him. A hollow ache in the middle of his chest. A vortex that always churns and eats at him.

(The wound over his heart still leaks blood. Over a decade has passed, but it has never healed.

Silver knows what he feels whenever he looks into the mirror. He feels vulnerable, young, a fervent desire within him to run back into the arms of his father and never let go.)

Lilia still writes to them all. His letters always arrive consistently at the same times.

Silver has still yet to ever reply.

“I am dismissing you from your duties as a knight.”

Silver blinks. He stares, not quite wrapping his head around the words.

Malleus stares back at him, narrowed eyes piercing from where he sits, one leg crossed, on the elegantly curved chair used at the table in his study. There is no room for argument in his expression, only a resolute firmness, the made-up mind of a soon-to-be king.

And then he processes the words. “What?” Silver blurts out, undignified and startled, his usual decorum with his prince lost upon him. His heart hammers against his chest, the sound pounding in his ears. Fear seizes him. “I— My lord—”

“Malleus,” the fae corrects, with a swift interruption and a dip of his head. “There is no longer any need for such formalities between us, especially not in the privacy of this room.”

“Malleus,” Silver corrects, still trembling, feeling weak all over. Like he is a teenager again, his emotions a struggle for him to comprehend, his heart too big for him to express. “I strongly urge you to reconsider your decision—”

“I have already made up my mind.”

Silver sucks in a breath. “Why?” he asks, the question coming out as a soft pathetic whine. Has he failed somewhere? Shirked his duties as a knight? But Malleus had expressed no discontent prior to this — and even now, as Silver calms from the surge of irrational emotions that swung him by surprise, he can sense no dissatisfaction from his prince, only a calm certainty. It only serves to puzzle him even more.

Those sharp, yellow-green eyes almost seem to soften as they land upon him.

“Is it not obvious, Silver?” Malleus says, not unkindly. “Your heart is not in it — in any of it. It has not been for years. My only mistake was not realising sooner, how unhappy it made you to remain here.”

Silver stares, shell-shocked, mouth parted in his confusion.

“I—” A lump chokes his throat, and he swallows it down. “What gave you the impression that I am unhappy?” he asks, a little carefully; his hands ball into fists, shaking by his side. “I have always wanted to serve you, my lord—”

“Malleus.”

“—Malleus,” he corrects, wincing at the pointed look shot his way. “It is what I was raised for, is it not? Everything I have gone through, it has all been for your sake.”

Malleus hums, pressing a hand against his chin. He looks contemplative. “Perhaps,” he says, after what feels like a tense eternity to Silver. “But is that what you desire? Or is that merely what has been instilled in you since young?”

Silver freezes.

(A realisation looms over him, one he has always pushed out of his mind from how deeply it hurts him, burying it after it had gotten too much for him to bear.

A fervent desire shared with Malleus long ago, on an abnormally snowy night at Night Raven College, during the eve of his father’s departure.)

“I have always wondered,” Malleus says, “why you have never written back to him.” He does not need to specify who he is talking about; Silver already knows. “At first, I had presumed it to be out of anger. A betrayal, perhaps, similar to what I had felt when I overblotted. And yet, such an assumption directly contradicts how you act whenever his letters arrive. You are always first to retrieve yours, retreating to your room to look through its contents.”

Malleus exhales, closing his eyes.

And then he opens them, and smiles.

“I give you my permission to depart,” he says, in a firm voice that leaves no space for any protest. “And with that, my blessings alongside it.”

In the softest, kindest voice Silver has ever heard from him, Malleus says:

“Go home to him, Silver. You have waited long enough.”

The wound in his heart has stopped bleeding.

It is still not healed, still open and raw. But there is nothing dripping from it, a strange, suspended feeling that Silver experiences as he packs what meagre belongings he has into a single bag, and prepares to depart.

(He brings all the letters. He has to, after all.

He needs to answer every question written in them when they meet again.)

Malleus sees to his departure, ensures that Silver has enough funds to get there, readies the magic mirror within Briar Valley to take him somewhere with an airport. He sees Silver off personally, smiles at him with such a knowing look in his eyes — “Give him my best regards, would you?”

Sebek shows no surprise when Silver springs the news upon him. All he says is, “IT’S ABOUT TIME!” in that booming voice of his, slaps Silver on the back and laughs heartily. He is there when Malleus sees him off, a private affair shared between the three of them. Silver is surprised at how teary-eyed his friend is when they embrace — though when he brings it up, teases Sebek with a light smile, Sebek merely says, “I am only crying because I am thinking of all those suitors of yours I must handle!”

When he steps through the portal, he blinks in jarring disconcertion at the modern world, so unused to it after so much time tucked away in Briar Valley. The valley is still far behind the times, modern inventions only slowly beginning to snake their way into its populace’s daily life, and to face the sleek shininess of an airport is a little much for his mind to handle.

Still, he somehow finds his way through everything, asks for assistance wherever necessary — he is taking a flight to the Land of Red Dragons, would someone happen to know where he must go? And before long, he has boarded the plane, settled in for the long ride, leaning back in his seat as the vehicle takes off.

A ball of anxiety unfurls in his chest, threads of nervousness creeping their way through all the corners of his body. Though he tries to sleep it off, sinking back into his habits as easily as ever, he wakes with consternation still festering in his veins, claws still gripping his chest.

The Land of Red Dragons is as he expects when he steps outside the airport, mind dredging up every little detail described in his father’s letters over the years. Slowly, with his nerves only mounting as he goes through each necessary step, Silver finds someone willing to drive him as close to wherever his father is staying as they can.

He dozes off during the drive.

(In his dreams, he stumbles into his father’s own, watches at a distance as he has done countless times over the years.

How long has he longed for this? To reunite, to embrace, to hold him again in his arms, allowing his tears to spill easily, some inner child within him finally soothed?

He does not remember anything when he wakes, as he always does.)

Before he knows it, Silver is here.

He is dropped off at the edge of a wide and open plain. The wind whips at the tall strands of grass, blows at his hair and clothes as he stares down at a little house nestled between bumpy hills. There is smoke emerging from the chimney, the walls made of burgundy bricks, and there is a little wooden porch out in front, a swing chair resting there. The lawn is unkempt — and Silver stifles a smile at that, a warmth swelling within him at the sight of thick throngs of weeds and wildflowers — and there is a little mailbox with the red flag turned up. Peeking over the fence around the backyard is what looks like a large, wooden coop.

He makes his way down slowly at first.

And then he speeds up. A leisurely walk turning into a run, until he’s sprinting and panting, heart swelling so full with a longing desire that he has stifled for over a decade, unwilling to wait any longer—

(The cut through his heart is beginning to stitch itself back together, mending itself in a way that it has not for such a long time.)

And when he stumbles up the porch, rings the doorbell, rocking nervously backwards on his heels—

The door swings open, a familiar face peering through the crack, crimson eyes widening with a thousand emotions upon landing on him, before the door is flung wide open—

Silver surges forward, sweeping Lilia up into an embrace long overdue, arms curling tightly around his father as he buries his head in his hair — longer now, reaching just past his shoulders, streaks dyed a pale, delicate pink. He just about sobs at the scent of that familiar shampoo, tears beading up at the corners of his eyes.

And when he feels arms curl around him, returning the embrace?

He finally breaks.

“Father,” he gasps between choked sobs, fingers curling into the soft knit of Lilia’s sweater, tears dampening his cheeks as he cries unabashedly — an adult now, a grown man, rendered but a child after so long spent missing his papa. “I missed you so much, I—”

The words escape him.

Silver only sobs, trembling and shaking in Lilia’s hold, soothed by the circles being rubbed into his back, the gentle murmurs of his father’s voice as he whispers, “There, there, dry your tears, dear.”

And when they finally pull away from each other, after what feels like an eternity of letting loose every emotion he has buried, Lilia raises his hands to cup his cheeks, and Silver feels like bursting into a fresh flood of tears all over again.

His father smiles at him, face more wrinkled than it was before, his age finally catching up with him. And yet, he still looks young, young enough — It is only how the fae age, Silver thinks with a small, shy smile, graceful and glorious until the very end.

Soon, Lilia will usher him in, will demand to know why and how he has come here. Silver will tell him of how Malleus relieved him of his duties, knowing before Silver did what he needed, and granting him the opportunity to take it for himself. Lilia will show him his house, the guest room filled with all his various trinkets and junk, and the spare bed that Silver will take as his own. They will talk and laugh over a meal, before clinging to each other on the sofa, catching up after over a decade apart.

But for now, Silver allows himself to relish in his father’s tender embrace, feeling thumbs brush over his tear-stained cheeks so delicately.

(The wound in his heart has finally healed, after everything.)

He is home.

“True love feeds on absences like pleasure feeds on pain So no matter where I’m standing, I still love you all the same And I hope you feel the same way when it’s your turn to disappear I’ll be cheering from the sidelines with a sandwich and a beer” — Set The Tigers Free (Villagers)

#twst #twisted wonderland #not as rampant spoiler-wise but still. whole premise is a spoiler #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #my writing tag #is it a drabble if it's 3k? well. considering i usually wrote >10k...#idk. go stream set the tigers free by villagers #thank you for reading if you do <3 #personal writing

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