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oswald-privileges · 3 years

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ALL RIGHT BUT YOU ASKED FOR IT

Power of Three as a series is just. full of weaknesses, most of which come down to poor continuity and structure. I'm not gonna try and fix ALL of those, bc that'd be laborious as hell, but I will pick out things that I feel are the most egregious as case studies.

What Po3 does have, tho, is an absolutely shining strength in the concept of its three main characters. After twelve books of Blandly Heroic Protagonist Syndrome, Jayfeather is an absolute godsend. He's angry! He's rude! He's unhappy! He's not nice. I Love Him And He's My Son. Lionblaze has his invincible pride (hah) and emergent bloodlust, and Hollyleaf has her moral absolutism and certainty. These are good starting points for characters. Sadly, the lack of continuity undermines what could have been three really good character arcs.

So! I present to you:

HOW TO MAKE "WARRIORS: THE POWER OF THREE" NOT COMPLETELY SUCK ACCORDING TO MY PERSONAL TASTE; A NON-EXHAUSTIVE, NON-CONSECUTIVE LIST BY ME

ONE

- Have there be a persistant, overarching series threat. Sol is a character with amazing villain potential who does literally nothing except hang around, and do exactly 2 Bad Things completely off-screen. This Is Not Good.

- Instead, have him be present from the second book onwards- initially introduced as a friendly but enigmatic outsider who is slowly revealed across the series to be a complete black hole of a personality, a social parasite quietly rearranging whatever community he's a part of to just-so-happen to benefit him as much as humanly possible. His "preach individualism not starclan" methods are not so much values as one strategy out of many. (to those who know me- yes i have a type. no i will not apologise.)

- Maybe his ultimate goal is to dissolve and centralise the clans or something so that he can live out his life as a political puppetmaster in all the cat-luxury he likes. idk it's hard to imagine overall stakes for this rewrite BECAUSE THE ORIGINAL DOESN'T HAVE ANY

TWO

- For gods sake you don't have a series based on the premise of "the main characters develop super powers" and then only have the second power confirmed by the end of the fourth book. I understand the first book mostly focusing on Jayfeather- his powers are obvious from the start, he's got the strongest personality of the three, he gets access to most of the prophecy plot stuff because of them. But you NEED to have the other two show an interest in something concrete happening to them beyond that, and you need to at least hint towards the other two having something unique to them even if nobody clocks it yet.

- Have Jayfeather tell his siblings about the prophecy by the end of book two at the latest. The amount of time he spends noodling around not sharing it with them is inexcusable. It's not that it's out of character for him to hang onto a secret for a bit, it's just that there's no point and it slows everything down. It would be equally in character for him to go to his siblings and be like "look, i'm SPECIAL. well you as well but ALSO ME". Boy starts off as desperate for recognition, what can I say

THREE

- Have Jayfeather discover that StarClan don't withhold signs or information on purpose for the sake of "building courage and faith" or whatever nonsense. Seeing and communicating the future is metaphysically very difficult, so interpreting signs and messages is a genuine skill, or even an art. The cats of StarClan, however, really are just ghosts, much more similar to living cats than the currently living believe. This is the impotus for Jayfeather's discarding of his reverence for StarClan, which remains consistent throughout the series.

- Have Hollyleaf and Jayfeather both still change their cat careers in the first book, but put place more attention on the fact that they basically switched jobs. Have a scene where they end up yelling at each other, because can't the other see how lucky they have it? The tension breaks when they realise they've both lost something important to them- Jayfeather his chance to prove he's as capable as a sighted cat, and Hollyleaf her path to helping her clan in the way she thinks is best. They commiserate together, and reluctantly promise to do the best they can with their lots, so they don't waste the path the other wishes they'd taken. This closeness is eroded over the series as they disagree more and more on the subject of StarClan and its role in their moral choices and obligations.

FOUR

- Speaking of Hollyleaf! I nearly threw my phone across the room when the first Omen of the Stars book claimed that Hollyleaf "worked so hard to discover her power to help her clan". Where, Ms Erins??? I would have LOVED to have seen that!! Hollyleaf expresses absolutely no concern over the details of what power she has/will develop, and only has a couple of scenes even touching on her ambitions to help her clan. She has some vague ideas about becoming leader and like one scene where she gets to do some leadery things, but that never gets followed up on. What does happen is that the whole "warrior code" thing becomes more and more a part of her personality (for no clear reason) until she snaps.

- Hollyleaf going off the deep end is something I wanted so badly to get into and be moved by, because I could see where it comes from! Her moral certainty is fascinating, especially since it's based in something as abstract as the warrior code- which, when you think about it, isn't really... anything. There's no concrete set of rules that make it up, no traditional wording or cat philosophers, not even any fables. It's a handful of agreed-upon, common sense rules- don't cross boundaries, don't take prey that isn't yours, respect your ancestors, and don't murder. That's it!

- So, combining the above points, I think Hollyleaf not being one of the Three should stay, but both the audience and the characters are given good reason to believe she is. By around the third volume, make it so that Hollyleaf has found that her power is to get cats to "Do The Right Thing"- i.e. what she wants them to do. She sneaks off often to see Sol, who teachs her how to use this power. Her siblings are concerned about this new power, having already gotten a glimpse at what Sol can do, but she's confident that she can only use this power for good. Volume-specific plot happens, Sol manipulates her into causing him to win, she is shocked and horrified, and vows to stick ridgedly to what she knows is right i.e. The Warrior Code

- However, the more fervently she tries to stick to this abstract idea, the less it gives her results, the more her power seems to be failing. Believing that StarClan is taking her power away from her, she becomes caught up in a faith-guilt spiral that puts her in the position to snap at the end of the series. By that point it's clear to her siblings that Hollyleaf has no power- she was just very, very good at persuading people to do what she wanted.

FIVE

- Lionblaze is a girl now because I Said So. This Cat Is Trans And There's Nothing You Can Do About It.

- Her relationship with Heathertail stays the same- childhood sweethearts who are torn apart as they begin to understand the nature of the societal divides that exist between them.

- This can be used to contextualise the whole "half clan/outsider blood" thing as a cultural contradiction. In reality, inter- and outer- clan relationships aren't at all rare. They can't be, otherwise the whole society would be inbred out of existence in like five generations. But if at least one society of humans can spend a good 200 years pretending Sex Is Bad And Sinful Actually then cats can have persistant cat-racism in the face of all logic. Heathertail clocks this contradiction, Lionblaze doesn't.

- Her relationship-to-power arc doesn't need changing all that much either, other than starting much sooner and being more consistent. At first, she's completely overjoyed by her power, since unlike her siblings, it lines up so well with her ambition- become the finest warrior any of the clans have to offer. As the berserker rage aspect becomes more prevelent, she becomes more and more disturbed by the fact that she isn't disturbed by what she can do, and that she doesn't want the escalation of her power to stop.

- Tigerstar still does his thing, but Brambleclaw knows about it. He recognises the signs from when his father used to visit him, and tries to train Lionblaze in his own way. She ends up caught between wanting to be a good warrior, and testing the limits of her power.

SIX

- Jayfeather can stay basically the same because he's my perfect little angy boy and nothing needs to change. His arcs can be strengthened by having a more robust relationship with Yellowfang where they try to out-bitch each other, and coming to terms with his internalised ablism. Maybe he has a chat with Mothwing about faith a couple of times. Him furiously lashing out at being offered help transitions into an acceptence and understanding of his abilities more naturally. He never stops being A Grumpy Old Man.

- All fucking past-lives unexplained time travel goes in the BIN. Doesn't fucking happen. You can have that lore dump sprinkled across the books, or come from going deep into the tunnels and having a surreal meeting. Make it properly eldritch-level scary, shake Jayfeather's confidence in the idea of them being just a bunch of ghosts.

SEVEN

- Have the way Brambleclaw and Squirrelflight present very clearly as parents to the Three be explicitly, textually unusual. One of the things I liked so much about the first series was an almost total lack of emphasis on who was mated with who, and who was related or not. It felt very real to how feral cat colonies form, where raising kittens is a communal job. This gets completely dropped the moment series 2 starts and now the cats have monogamy.

- This emphasis on the family unit and fostering close relationships between parents and kittens is deliberate on the part of both Leafpool and Squirrelflight. Their aim is to cover for Leafpool so she doesn't lose her role as medicine cat- something she already gave up Crowfeather for before she was pregnant.

- In that little bit of backstory, have a robust reason for both Leafpool and Squirrelflight to leave the camp while Leafpool is pregnant and giving birth, possibly one that ties into the present day story in some minor way. I don't know how, it would just make that element of the story a lot more ground than "we left, the kits were born, then we came back and everyone was cool with it"

- When it comes to the "I am Not your mother" reveal, Jayfeather and Lionblaze are confused and hurt that they were lied to, but come to the reasonable conclusion that well, since they were raised mostly by Squirrelflight, saw Leafpool often, and are loved by both, they don't hate her. Lionblaze has something of a crisis over being half-clan, possibly initiating an attempted reunion with Heathertail. Jayfeather is more concerned with how other cats will think it makes him lesser, something he's still sensitive too.

- Hollyleaf, meanwhile, completely fucking snaps at the way her mother Violated Part Of The Code. It's a completely irrational reaction, but expected because she's been growing more and more reliant on The Code for the whole series, and less and less stable in her attempts to aid her clan and train to be its new leader.

- Squirrelflight is the one to murder Ashfur. This is easy to work out while reading- she's literally the only one of the four with a motive who isn't a perspective character. The mystery is less around finding out who did it, and more about why she did it (it's very ambiguous as to whether it was an accident or not). The main tension comes from who finds out when.

- Lionblaze is shocked, awed by how far she'd go to protect the three of them, and reassures her she did the right thing (as a way to salve her own uncertainty over her own longing for violence). Jayfeather makes it all about himself because he's Jayfeather- upset that he didn't know immediately, instead of, you know, figuring it out in a few hours because he can basically read minds. They try their best to hide it from Hollyleaf, who is already rattling around the final volume as a full-on antagonist, but are unsuccessful. This almost costs them something incredibly important- possibly Squirrelflight's life.

EIGHT

- the whole plot with the Tribe Of Rushing Water is a MASSIVE can of worms that could be removed from the series without issue. As it is:

- Characterize the Tribe as uncertain of how to fight other cats, because yes, they haven't had to do this before. DON'T characterise them as pathetic, doing whatever their leader says without thinking, and with ancestors who have Given Up

- Have some of the Tribe be really good at the violence. Worryingly good. Have others be sickened by what they're being asked to do.

- Have some of the clan cats reflect on what they've done. Hollyleaf would be all for introducing this society to jesus The Code, but even she might be horrified at being thanked by a tribe cat who can't wait to get out there and win themselves glory, only to be killed a few hours later

- The Tribe begin a new tradition of marking the walls in the mud they use as camoflage in order to commemorate their battles, and memorialise the fallen. One of the characters reflects on the fact that in a generation or two, the Tribe will feel like it's always been this way. How many of their own traditions- those that feel almost like natural law- started out the same way?

- Have Sol as the leader of the invaders, or maybe having insinuated himself into the tribe as a "mediator" and doing his charismatic cult leader thing.

NINE

- Cinderheart isn't a reincarnation of Cinderpelt. She's just named after her bc Cinderpelt saved her mother from a badger. this is because I think the reincanation thing is stupid and I can't think of a way to make it good.

TEN

- No more using tails as hand gestures like covering people's mouths. Never. None of it. It's expunged from existence.

Disclaimer: I haven't read Omen of the Stars yet, so I can't account for anything that might happen in that series that's grounded in Po3. I'm like... two thirds of the way through the first volume. I'm Not Impressed.

#Warrior Cats #warriors #The Power of Three #Jayfeather #Hollyleaf #Lionblaze #long post

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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So as part of my push to fill the world with soft fluff while we all need it, @sparkkeyper requested Aziraphale warming up a cold Crowley. And, well, things got a little out of hand with this bit of hurt/comfort. Also fills the @bingokisses prompt for “Brush of Lips, Almost-There Kiss/Bridal Carry” so that’s exciting!

Not clearly established, but this fic is just-barely-pre Arrangement.

“If that’s the way you feel,” Aziraphale said, hand on the door to his one-room hut, “then I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

“Good! Maybe I can find one who isn’t a self-righteous prick.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the apology dripped with sarcasm, “that I choose not to blindly trust a devious…manipulative…snake.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Crowley sucked in a breath, tasting a hint of frost in the late-autumn air. “Fine,” he growled, turning away. He’d have to walk through the night to get back to London, but at just that moment he felt angry enough to march all the way to China and back. “Good riddance,” he snapped from the gate around the little garden, but Aziraphale had already shut the door.

“Call me a snake,” Crowley grumbled, pulling the thick black pelt more tightly over his shoulders. He’d thought the wilderness look – loose hair, black fur wrap, boiled leather jerkin belted over his tunic like armor – would make him look intimidating and cool. But as the temperatures dropped with the sunset, he really just wished for a good wool cloak.

“I’m not the one who’s manipulative and…whatever else he said.” The wind shifted, slapping across his face, sending his hair spinning behind him. “Cold-blooded. I’m not cold-blooded.”

He snapped his fingers, summoning a cloak, but the wind immediately ripped it out of his hands. It got caught on a tree branch, just out of reach. “Ah, never mind. Just slow me down anyway.”

Stuffing his hands into his armpits, Crowley marched deeper into the woods. Just follow the path west to the little creek, follow that out of the forest, main road was on the other side. Quickest route to London.

As the last light faded from the sky, the snowflakes began to fall.

“Coordinate our activities – of course we can’t coordinate, you fool, we’re doing opposite tasks.”

Aziraphale waved his fingers at the fire, making it burn just a touch brighter, and continued angrily chopping vegetables to drop into the pot of water. “And I certainly can’t just – just tell you what Heaven’s plans are for the north, or for the Holy Roman Empire, or for…for…blast!”

He glowered at the deep cut on his thumb and quickly healed it, an almost blinding burst of holy power. Well, that was probably enough for soup, anyway.

“All I’m trying to say, you foolish creature,” he grumbled, lifting the pot to nestle against the hot stones that circled his hearth, “is that we can’t talk…business when we meet. Is that so hard? Can you not get that one idea in your head?”

The shutters rattled in the wind, one breaking open to crack angrily against the wall. Aziraphale hurried over to push it shut, pausing to look across the dark fields to the woods beyond. Already a mix of snow and freezing rain had turned everything to a muddy slush.

Crowley would be fine. Crowley always found a way to be fine, and more often than not that way involved finagling himself into some comfortable circle where dozens of humans happily did his bidding. And when he couldn’t find that, he came to Aziraphale.

Well. Aziraphale would not – would not be duped into doing Crowley’s work for him.

“Enjoy getting yourself out of this mess,” Aziraphale said, pushing the shutter closed.

Bracing himself against a tree, Crowley tried to pull the back of his tunic up to protect his neck. Tiny spears of ice had assaulted it for hours, and he could feel the cold drops worming their way down his spine, soaking into his undertunic. His boots were drenched through, squishing a little with every step.

“Bloody creek,” he grumbled, searching desperately through the ceaseless fall of ice and snow. He should have passed it ages ago. He should be nearly out of the woods, and instead here he was, surrounded by mounds of wet, icy snow as deep as his ankles.

Everything looked strange. Everything looked different. Every rock transformed into something unfamiliar, every tree a shapeless mass of white. He was…

Crowley was lost.

“It’s fine,” he said as the wind shifted and the tree dropped another freezing glob of ice into his hair to ooze down his neck. “It’s bloody fine.” He pushed away from the tree and snapped his fingers, trying to summon a fire.

Nothing.

“Oh, for Sssatan’s sssake!” He pictured a cloak again. Nothing. A windbreak. A pile of blankets. A lantern.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

With each failed miracle, Crowley felt the panic rise further, which was stupid. The only reason he couldn’t perform them was because he was panicking, so the thing to do was to stop panicking.

Useless, Aziraphale had called him. I don’t know what’s worse, that you come to me to help you with every little thing, or that you do everything in your power to get out of even thinking about working.

No, wait. Aziraphale hadn’t said that, not out loud. But the look in his eyes…it was obvious how he felt. Why wouldn’t he? It was true enough.

“Stop that, stop that!” He marched on through the forest. West. Just keep going west, London had to be somewhere around here. “It’s not my fault. Pointless assignments, impossible tasks, and you, you running around undoing everything I do – it’s not my fault I can’t get anything done!”

Useless. Failure. Worthless snake.

Had that been Aziraphale? Or Hastur? Or one of the other demons? They all thought the same, didn’t they? They were all right, weren’t they?

“No!” He waved his arms, visualizing a clear path through the slush.

Instead, he slipped on an icy patch and fell, chin cracking against the ground, one arm shoving into a particularly deep mound, filling his sleeve with snow.

“Fuck, fuck.” He scrambled to get purchase, to push himself up, wriggling around on his stomach like—

Like a snake.

“I’m not,” he whispered, but without conviction. “I’m not.”

Aziraphale tried to keep himself busy. Cooking, preparing herbs, copying pages out of texts, bits of wisdom that would be carefully left on the right desk at the right time, according to Heaven’s guidance.

He never quite knew when he’d be called to take care of something, never quite knew when Gabriel would announce he was coming down for an inspection. So Aziraphale always had to be ready, always had to look busy. Always had to be sure he was where he was supposed to be.

Maybe Crowley didn’t have to worry about that. Maybe Crowley didn’t have superiors checking in at random intervals, making sure he really had traveled to York, or Venice, or Kiev, or wherever else a bit of Holy assistance was needed. Maybe Crowley’s superiors actually trusted him to get the work done without…(Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut, carefully removing any accusations of micromanagement to the deepest depths of his subconscious)…without their careful direction and helpful input, but that wasn’t the case with Aziraphale.

He sighed and put the manuscript pages back on the bench. It was far too dark for a human to be doing copy work, and rather too dark for an angel. Perhaps he could take a break, just for a few minutes.

It’s always another excuse with you, Crowley had shouted. Well. Not shouted, but the words had hit him just the same.

But they weren’t excuses, they were – a thousand perfectly valid reasons why he couldn’t…couldn’t let Crowley interfere with his work, and yes perhaps some of them contradicted each other, but that wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault and…

“No, stop that.” He rose to his feet. Needed to keep busy. “A bit more water from the well. Better to be prepared.” The villagers often came up, looking for medicines, for advice, for a bit of food more varied than their usual diet (Aziraphale could miracle up fresh spices and vegetables any time of year, and that wasn’t…entirely cheating). Bad weather usually kept them away, but likely it would all clear up by morning.

He opened the door.

The wind that blasted Aziraphale’s face sent him staggering back. A fistful of mixed snow and rain hit him in the face, somehow colder than ice. By now, he ground was covered almost knee-deep in some places, and he could barely see the fence from where he stood, never mind the well.

“Oh…”

But, surely, Crowley had made it back to London by now.

Surely.

He had to keep moving.

Crowley huddled below a tree, knees pulled up to his chest, fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, trying to shield himself from the weather.

He shivered so hard his teeth nearly cracked, his ribs ached, and he felt sick to his stomach. Stupid mammal bodies, weren’t they supposed to retain heat?

He couldn’t feel his toes. The boots were packed with snow from trying to push through drifts. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He moved them back inside the pelt wrap again, pressing them into his already-wet tunic. The boiled leather jerkin clung to him like…well, like only leather could, getting stiff where he needed it to flex, getting soft where he needed it to stay rigid. Bloody useless.

Clenching his eyes tight, Crowley braced against another blast of wind, cutting through his layers like a dagger. What was the point of all this clothing if it didn’t help?

Some part of his mind kept reminding him to move. Not time to burrow yet, not time to conserve energy. Movement would create heat, warm him up.

No it won’t, argued the part of his mind that would never not be a snake. Moving uses heat. Stay. Conserve. Burrow down and wait for the sun.

“D-d-d-doesn’t matter,” Crowley groaned. “N-n-nowhere to go.”

His joints locked up, skin trying to pull itself away from the damp clothing pressed against it. He was tired. Mammal and serpent, both so tired.

No. He had to keep moving.

Crowley wasn’t sure how he managed to get his feet under him, managed to take the first shuffling, stumbling steps.

West. He was supposed to go west. Whichever way west was.

He picked a likely direction and started moving.

Was that hail pounding on the thatch? Or was the rain that strong?

Aziraphale waved the fire stronger, almost enough to over-boil the pots of soup arranged around the outside.

He didn’t really need that much soup. It just. Kept him busy.

The sun rose just as Crowley reached the edge of the woods.

It hurt to lift his head, to shift the muscles that had been hunched and braced against the cold for so long. The brightness of the sky hurt his eyes.

At some point, it had stopped snowing. He didn’t know when, his skin was completely numb. Wasn’t even shivering anymore. It was nice, in a way. Just the comforting darkness all around.

Now even that was gone, but he could look around the endless ocean of…snow was too strong a word, it was really slush…under the blood-red of the sunrise.

He wasn’t lost anymore. The hill, there to the right, the hut on top of it –

That was Aziraphale. He’d gone in a bloody circle.

I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

Fuck.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to hear it. He’d wonder why Crowley hadn’t just miracled himself to safety, and he didn’t have the strength to explain that he didn’t have the strength. He knew his miracles had failed in the night – that he hadn’t been able to focus. Couldn’t remember exactly why.

Couldn’t really focus now.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to help. He’d still be angry over the things Crowley said. Still be stuck in his holier-than-though me-versus-you mindset. Probably want to send Crowley away.

But Crowley would never make it to London now. Might not even make it up the hill.

He pushed himself forward.

I can do this, Crowley grumbled at himself. Just need a plan.

Aziraphale would let him in. He just needed a really clever argument to convince the angel first. Tempt him, trick him. Make him think helping Crowley would somehow help himself? No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe threaten to cause trouble in the village? Though he could hardly look capable of it in this state.

He stumbled through the gate – half-open, and held in place by a mound of ice that crunched under his feet. Just a few more steps to the door.

Well. Looked like Crowley would be going with his favorite plan: winging it.

He tried to knock on the door, but his arms had stopped obeying him, his hands wouldn’t budge from where he’d tucked them in his armpits. He tried kicking the door, but the snow and slush piled in a drift almost up to his knees, so he only succeeded in making a wet crunching sound.

The wind shifted again, another volley of ice, and the last of his heat was stripped away.

He was going to discorporate here, literal inches from safety. He was going to wake up in Hell and spend the next decade trying to convince his superiors to give him another body after he’d been so careless with this one. Worthless, stupid snake…

“Aziraphale,” he tried to call, throat too raw to make a sound, his jaw irrevocably clenched. He surged his whole body forward, smashing his shoulder against the door. “Angel! C’n see…smoke…lemme in…”

The door vanished in front of him so quickly, Crowley nearly tumbled through it. Barely managed to wedge his shoulder against the door frame to keep himself upright.

“Oh, my word!”

Blinking the ice out of his eyes, Crowley could see the look of shock and horror on Aziraphale’s face. Knew he wouldn’t want me here.

“G-g-got caught,” he managed, struggling to unclench his jaw. “Sssssstorm.” It was more a puff of steam wrapped around a vowel than a word.

“But – you – that was hours ago!”

“Nrf.” Something was spilling out the door, like a wave of…the opposite of pressure. As if the air was somehow lighter, easier to move in. So close. Just had to convince Aziraphale. “Look. ‘Ngel.”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear it.”

“B…” He shook his head, long, slow, dizzy loops as he tried to clear his mind. “Jus’lissen. Yer side…I mean, my side…”

“Don’t start on that now.” There was that stubborn edge to his voice. No point in arguing.

“Fffffine.” Another white puff filled the air between them and he tried to turn, one shuffling step at a time. He was still upright, that had to be good, maybe he could make it to the village before—

“No, you ridiculous—! Get in.”

“Wah…?”

Aziraphale grabbed the back of his fur wrap and hauled him through the door, kicking it shut behind him.

Something prickled across Crowley’s skin. It must be the heat, but he couldn’t feel it. Not really. The blinding light of the morning sun reflecting off the white landscape had been replaced with the cozy darkness of a shuttered hut, fire burning low in the hearth at the center. Oil lamps burnt here and there, giving a cheerful glow that reflected off the brass cookware, the earthenware pots tucked close to the fire, then bench covered in parchment, the neat white linen of the bed.

Then Crowley did feel something: the ice trapped in layers of clothing melting, sliding down, soaking further into his tunic. He bit back a groan.

“Come along, move faster.” One hand still clutching his furs, the other pressed into the small of Crowley’s back, propelling him forward.

“I c’n walk,” Crowley griped, but before he could even finish forming the words, he was in front of the fire, being pushed firmly down to sit on the floor.

“Yes, I’m sure you can, you always make such a display of it.” Aziraphale crouched beside him, brow furrowed. “Look at you. Look at your hair.”

“S’wrong wi’m’hair?” Aziraphale reached behind Crowley’s ear and pulled out an almost fist-sized lump of snow. “Oh. Nice trick.”

“Don’t be…Crowley, this is serious!” He grabbed Crowley’s chin in both his hands, ran thumbs across his cheeks, then pressed a palm to his forehead. “You’re too cold.” Cupped his hands around Crowley’s ears. “Not frozen, at least, but…couldn’t you at least wear a hood?”

“Nah. M’hair’s too good.” He tried to toss his head, despite Aziraphale’s grip, and he heard the splat of more snow working loose. “Lost it. Cloak. Wind.”

“And you didn’t just – just miracle yourself to safety?”

“Nrrrrrrgh.” Crowley bent his head, ready for the recriminations. He could stand them. Probably. Long as he didn’t have to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale ran his hands across the thick pelt, scraping through melting snow, which still clung thick enough to turn it white. “My dear fellow,” he said, voice strangely soft. “If you were in trouble, you should have…have come back.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, searching for Aziraphale’s face. It was hard to focus but, yes, his eyes, not angry. Something else.

“Didn’think…y’wanted me…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment, but his fingers sprang into action, twisting the furs free to drop in a pile behind the demon.

“Wha…Angel, what’re you…”

“Isn’t it obvious? Trying to warm you up.” He grabbed the heavy pelt with one hand and tossed it aside, as easily as if it were made of cotton. “It’s hard enough to heal a demon with holy power in the best of times, but if you’re too numb to even tell me if it hurts…”

“M’not.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His hand rested on Crowley’s elbow, tracing it up to where one hand tucked into his armpit. Aziraphale tugged, but the hand didn’t come loose. “Crowley, please. We don’t have time for you to be petty.”

“S’nice coming from you,” he grumbled, and tried to shift his arms. “Can’t. Too cold.”

Aziraphale tugged at Crowley’s arms, rocking him in place, and made a noise of dismay. “Your clothes are soaked through! Of course, all that walking.” He turned to Crowley’s boots, started tugging them off. “You’ll be lucky if you still have feet under here.”

“M’fine. M’a snake. Don’ need feet.”

“You’re delirious.” Aziraphale jerked the first boot off Crowley’s foot, water and ice pouring out of it. He tugged off the wool wrapped around Crowley’s foot and ankle and inspected his toes. “Not black, at least. I think you’ll be fine. Can you feel this?” He breathed out heavily.

“Nnnnh.” Was that a little curl of warmth across the back of his foot? Or was he just imagining it? “Not delirious,” he added. “You called me snake. Las’time. Other thing, too. Untrustworthy.”

“Did I?” He started on the other boot. “Well, you can hardly blame me, Crowley, an agent of Hell repeatedly asking me to – to neglect my duties. What am I supposed to think?”

Crowley groaned. He didn’t want to argue. Couldn’t argue. Some of the feeling was returning to him, along the side closest to the fire, but that just made him feel colder. More miserable.

“Look, I know you’re tempting me, Crowley. I don’t know what your goal is, but I’m aware of what’s going on.” The second boot came off, and Aziraphale began unwrapping his foot. “I…I may have been…harsh. Defensive. But I’m just…trying to be cautious. You’re very good at what you do.”

“You think I’m g-good?” Odd, he couldn’t actually feel the grin on his face, but he could hear it in his voice.

“Hmmm, no. Obviously not. Demon and all that. But you are very clever.” He stretched Crowley’s feet out towards the fire, stopping them just shy of the ring of stones. The flames, Crowley noticed, didn’t feel very hot. “There. Let those warm for a moment.”

“You…” Crowley shook his head. Wished he could focus. “C-called me w-w-worthless. Ffffailure.”

“I most certainly did not!” He rested his hands on Crowley’s arms again, but they still wouldn’t relax. “I never said anything of the kind. Why would you even think such a thing?”

“Fine. You th-thought it.” Was he shivering again? Or were his lungs just seizing up?

“No. I didn’t. Truly, Crowley, I have never thought that of you.” He moved behind Crowley, crouching down, wrapping fingers around his narrow waist, tugging him slowly back. Away from the fire. “I have the utmost respect for what you do, even if I disagree with all of it, both your methods and your goals. I cannot deny that you are effective, that you get results even when you hardly do any work at all. I do not think you’re a failure. Or worthless. Nothing could be farther from the truth.”

Crowley stared ahead at the fire, which kept flaring up, brighter, redder. Tried to wriggle his toes. One of them stirred a little.

“How is that? Too hot?”

“Nah.” The shivers seemed to have faded, leaving him just tense. Hard to breathe. And move. “Not hot’a’tall. Some’n wrong wi’ your fire.”

Before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale’s arms wrapped fully around Crowley, and pulled the demon back into his lap. He gasped out a protest, even as soft arms crossed over Crowley’s and large hands rubbed at his biceps.

“Just what I was afraid of,” Aziraphale murmured, voice close to his ear. “You’re very, very cold. So cold you don’t realize it.”

“Aziraphale—! I don’t need you to…to…”

“Come, my dear fellow. You know you do. You wouldn’t have come to me otherwise.”

Long, slow movements of Aziraphale’s hands up and down his arms. He could feel the heat of them, of the chest pressed into his back. Better than fire. “M-m-maybe I’m t-tempting you.”

“No.” His grip slid once more to Crowley’s wrists and with a little pressure his hands popped free of his armpits, feeling damp and oddly distant. Aziraphale took one, then the other, giving them a few slow rubs each. “No, I know when someone is…truly in pain. You can’t fake that.” He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder, bringing his fingers closer to blow on them, one hand, then the other. “And as you well know, I won’t turn away anyone in pain.”

“Do I know that?” He was feeling strangely tired. Well. Not strange, all that walking all morning, but it wasn’t the normal exhaustion. It tugged from somewhere deeper.

“Why else would you come here, even though you were angry at me?”

“N-n-nowhere else to g-go.” He leaned back a little, soaking in the warmth. “’Sides. M’not angry. C-can’t stay m-mad’t’you.” The movement of Aziraphale’s hands against Crowley’s slowed, briefly. “Y’r mad’t’me.”

“Am I?”

“Called m-me sssssnake.”

“I…But I always call you…serpent. Foul fiend. All sorts of things.”

“S’different.” He didn’t know how to explain it. How serpent was clever, chaotic Crowley, slithering around, outsmarting his opponents; but snake was stupid, useless Crawly, begging for his life, cowering in fear, hiding from every failure. Aziraphale couldn’t understand. He didn’t have two selves – a true one he tried to project, a wrong one that everyone saw anyway.

But even still. It hurt.

“I see.” One of Aziraphale’s hands dropped to rest against his stomach. “But you aren’t angry? That I sent you away like that?”

“Naaaah. Yer’n’angel. Gotta ssssay th-th-things like that.” Aziraphale still held one hand, thumb rubbing circles on his palm. Crowley wiggled the fingers of the other, and smiled to see them move. “Just…wish you’d trust me.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I trust you.” He tried to squeeze Aziraphale’s hand, but his fingers still moved stiffly, like twigs on a frost-covered tree. “I like you.”

Now both of Aziraphale’s hands were at his waist, pressing him back. It was nice. “Do you mean that, Crowley? Do you trust me?”

“Course.” Crowley turned his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and found the angel’s face alarmingly close. His eyes were right there. His lips. Right there. “N-nerrer trusted anyone b’fore. N-not a lotta trust in Hell. Erryone’ll b-b-betray you.” He smiled, or at least he thought about smiling. No telling what expression his face wore. “You, too. You’ll b-betray me. S’fine. Don’ mind. J-j-just hope I see it comin.”

“Crowley…”

They were right there. Crowley thought of leaning forward just a little. See if that heat was in Aziraphale’s lips, too. Drink it in. Warm him from the inside.

“But even so. Yeah. I trust you.”

Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath. “Good.” His hands grabbed at Crowley’s belt and began to unbuckle it, loosening the leather jerkin. “You need to take your clothes off. Now.”

“Oh. Oh.” He dropped a hand to pat Azirphale’s…something…missed entirely, anyway, and landed in the dirt. “Angel’s g-gonna tempt me.”

“Stop that, you ridiculous…” He huffed out his annoyance. “Crowley, your clothing is soaked through and it’s making you colder. Let me help you out of it and into the bed.”

“You g-gonna j-j-join me?” He’d only said it to make Aziraphale uncomfortable, indignant. He really liked those little huffs. Instead, he was only met with silence. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley…you’re always a little cold. Barely produce enough heat even when you aren’t…” He’d unwrapped the soaking leather, and one hand clutched at the hem of Crowley’s tunic. “No, I won’t. Not if it will make you uncomfortable. You can keep your clothes on, too, if you prefer. There are other ways to warm you up.”

“Oh.” He wished he could see Aziraphale’s face. “D-don’t mind. Ssssaid I trust you. Meant it.”

“You…ah…”

“Gonna haf’ta c-c-carry me tho. M’feet’re…” He tried wriggling his toes again, succeeded in flexing his whole foot together. “Do what you gotta. Trust you.”

He hadn’t realized how awful the tunic felt, clinging to his ribs and back, until Aziraphale peeled it off over his head, ran his hands quickly over damp skin. The rest followed soon after, and Crowley felt…not warmer. Lighter. As if some burden had been removed.

Aziraphale slipped on arm under his knees, the other around Crowley’s back, and lifted him easily, carrying him across the little hut to lay him on the bleached-white linens of the bed.

“S’nice,” Crowley murmured, as Aziraphale found more blankets to pile on him. Miracled up? Possibly. Lucky bastard.

“Oh. Ah. Glad it’s comfortable. Don’t really use it myself. Only have it because visitors expect it. Like the chamber pot.” He gave the blankets one more tug, then brushed his fingers across Crowley’s hair. “Is this better?”

“Mmmmh. Sleep?”

“One moment.” A rustle of fabric, and then the bed shifted and another body slid in beside him, tugging him against the soft, warm chest. “Is this better?”

“N-now’m warm.” He ran his fingers across Aziraphale’s back, feeling the way his skin dipped under the pressure, as if Crowley could truly sink into him. “Y-y-you’re n-nice.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, but his hand didn’t stop rubbing a slow circle across Crowley’s back. “That really is enough of that.”

“No. I m-mean you’re n-nice.” If he wiggled a little, he could rest his head on Aziraphale’s arm. Hmmm, that was good. “Y-you d-didn’t need t-to help me. M’a demon.”

“I told you. I will help anyone. Even you.” A hesitation, and Crowley could swear he felt something brush across his forehead. Maybe his hair. Everything still tingled a little. “Especially you,” Aziraphale said, voice even softer.

“Won’ help me wi’my work,” Crowley grumbled.

“That’s…I can’t…it’s different.” Another hesitation, and now he could feel Aziraphale’s other hand, still running evenly up and down his bicep. “What…did you want me to help you with? I…suppose I…wasn’t really listening.”

“Nrf.” Oh, he could feel himself shivering now, in a distant sort of way. “J-J-Jus’wanna know f’you’re…gonna…cancel out m’next j-job. S’along way t’walk for n-n-nothing.”

“And if I am?”

“I sssstay’n London. Ssssay you th-thwarted me. Sss’all g-good.”

Crowley could hear the rhythm of Aziraphale’s breaths, of his heartbeat, of the hands on his skin. It was all nearly enough to lull him to sleep, even without that glorious heat that surrounded him, reflected back from the blankets. It was the closest he’d ever come, in this body, to that luxurious feeling of basking, gathering the sunlight on his scales.

“You know, Crowley…perhaps we should talk. When you’re better.” His forehead pressed against Crowley’s, and he continued in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry I threw you out. I’m sorry I called you a snake.”

“Ssssss.” They weren’t supposed to say those words. “Can’t ssssay m’sorry for wha’I said,” Crowley muttered. “Umm. Cuz. Fffforgot what it was.” He remembered being hurt. Angry. But the words themselves escaped him. “I was jus’…jus’…”

“I understand.” Another of those funny brushes by his hairline. “Sleep now. I have you.”

Aziraphale’s lips still tingled where they’d brushed Crowley’s forehead.

For a moment, back by the fire, Crowley had been too cold. Too still. Aziraphale had come very close to losing him, and that frightened him more than anything. He couldn’t say way. It was just discorporation, and yet…

I trust you.

One last brush of lips, so gentle it could hardly be called contact. Even still, Crowley sighed in his sleep, pulled a little closer. He was shivering now. That was a good sign.

“I think I’ll trust you, too,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve…never trusted anyone before, either. We’ll have to learn together.”

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #emotional h/c #there was only one bed #hypothermia #snow storm #medieval #crowley is bad with emotions #hurt crowley #protective aziraphale #my writing

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natsubeatsrock · 3 years

Text

Should Hiro Mashima die?

My answer is no.

Though, this isn't about actually killing Hiro Mashima. Kinda got you with the title, though, huh? (This was originally going to be titled “Is Hiro Mashima dead?” and released on his birthday. You’re welcome.)

This post is about a widely debated topic of analysis known as the "death of the author." I've talked about this a few different times in passing in a few posts over the years. You could argue that this belongs in my series rewriting Fairy Tail and I considered placing it there. However, I feel that it's better that I keep this detached from that series. This topic concerns criticism of any series. Naturally, being a Fairy Tail blog, I plan on engaging this with the context of Fairy Tail's author being dead or not, hence the title. Still, this is helpful to think about for analysis of plenty of other series.

Again, though, my answer is still no.

Let's start with the origin of this term. The term comes from an essay by Roland Barthes called "La mort de l'auteur". Use your best guess as to what that translates to. I highly encourage you to read the essay as it's pretty short. It's about six or seven pages, depending on the version. There are three main points to his essay.

Creative works are products of the culture they come from and less original than people expect.

The idea of the author as the sole creator and authority of creative works is fairly modern.

The author's interpretation of a work shouldn't be considered the main or only interpretation of a work.

Of these three points, I'm sure you recognize the last point. But first, I want to talk about the other points. I believe it is important to understand the arguments being made as a whole.

The first point should be fairly uncontroversial. The vast majority of creative works use established language, tropes, and elements to create a new thing. I wouldn't go as far as Barthes does in this regard. Not to mention, this is somewhat weird to know considering his third point. However, I agree that creative works should be considered products of the culture and genre they come from.

The second point is a bit trickier for me. To be clear, the point is true. You only have to look at various cultural mythologies as an example. There isn't a single version of the Greek myths. There are several versions and interpretations of the various stories and myths.

Even recent popular fictional characters have had several different interpretations. This is especially true with comics. There have been multiple different Batman interpretations, Spiderman runs, and X-Men teams that fans love. Fans even love and appreciate numerous forms of established characters like Frankenstein's monster and Sherlock Holmes. So, as a consumer and critic of art, I can understand this.

My problem is as a creator of art. I understand this being contentious when it comes to something like religious myths. But, if I create something, I want to get the credit for it. I want people to love my music or writing. But I also want people to recognize me for my skill in crafting it.

This is true even if you hold to the first point Barthes made. Even if you believe that no art is truly unique, isn't the skill of synthesizing the various tropes and influences around a person worthy of credit in and of itself?

Then again, I am not without bias in this. Barthes says that the modern interpretation of the author is a product of the Protestant Reformation. As a Protestant myself, I get that my background plays no part in my view of this. Barthes also blames English empiricism and French rationalism, but personal faith is the biggest influence on me that Barthes lists.

That being said, there's also something Barthes completely misses in his essay. In the past, stories were passed down by oral tradition. As the stories were passed down from generation to generation, they slowly evolved and became what they are known today. Scholars today can gather a general consensus of what a story was meant to be and some traditions were more faithful about passing traditions down than others. However, you can't always tell the original author of a mythological story the same way we know who gave us stuff like the Quran or the Bible.

As time passed, stories were written down. With this, it was easy to share single versions of a story and identify its creator. We know who made certain writing of works even before the 1500s. For example, we have the Travels of Marco Polo and Dante's Inferno and know their authors. We could tell the authors of works were before the Protestant Reformation.

By the way, the Reformation happened to coincide with one of the most important inventions in human history: the printing press. Now you can easily make copies of an individual's works and you don't have to rely on word of mouth to share stories.

I can't stress how important an omission this is. The printing press changed the way we interact with media as a whole and might be the most important invention on this side of the wheel. And yet Barthes doesn't even mention as even a potential factor in "the modern concept of the author"? In his essay about understanding written media? That’s like ignoring Jim Crow in your essay about Birth of a Nation bringing back the KKK.

Now, we get to the final point. The author's original intentions of their works are not the main interpretation. This is understood as being the case after they create the series. Once the work is written and sent into the public, they cease to be an authority on it.

It's worth recognizing how this flows from the other two points. Barthes argued that works of fiction are products of their culture and our current understanding of an author is fairly modern. Therefore, the interpretation of the reader is just as valuable as that of the author. As Barthes himself wrote, "the birth of the reader must be at cost of the death of the author."

At best, this means that a reader can come away with an interpretation of a work that isn't the one intended. With Fairy Tail, my mind goes to the final moments of the Grand Magic Games. My view of Gray's line "I've got to smile for her sake" has to do with romantic feelings for Ultear. I don't know of a single person who agrees with this. Mashima certainly hasn't come out and affirmed this as the right view.

It's good to recognize that a work can have more meanings behind it than the ones intended by its creator. Part of the performing process is coming to a personal interpretation of a work. In many cases, two different performances will have different interpretations of the same work, neither of which went through the creator's mind. At the same time, both work and are valid.

That being said, there is an obvious problem with this: readers are idiots. Not all readers are necessarily idiots. But enough of them are idiots. The views of idiots should have as much weight as that of the creator. Full stop. Frankly, I maintain that idiots are the worst possible sources to gauge anything of note. (At the very least, policy decisions.)

I know this as a reader who has not been alone in misunderstanding a work. I know this as an analyst who has had to sift through all kinds of cold takes on Fairy Tail. (Takes that are proven wrong simply by going through it a second time. Or a first.) And I definitely know this as a creator who has to see people butcher my works through nonsensical "interpretations."

At the same time, the argument Barthes made comes with an important caveat. He also argued that works are the products of the culture and surroundings of the author. Barthes isn’t making the argument that author’s arguments don’t matter.

As far as I can tell, Barthes doesn't take this to mean that those influences are worth analyzing. Doing so would be giving life to the author. However, there should be some recognition that a creative work didn't come to exist out of nowhere. There's a sense in which Fairy Tail didn't just wash up on the shore chapter by chapter or episode by episode. It came to be as part of the culture it came from.

Now, you'll never guess what happened. Over the years, the concept of "death of the author" lost its original intent. Nowadays, people usually only care about the third point. "Death of the author" is only brought up to dismiss "word of God" explanations of work, after its release. I'd venture to guess that most people using the term casually don't know anything about its roots. I honestly don't know how Barthes would feel about this.

I can understand what might fuel this view. A writer should do their best to write their intended meanings in a work. It would be wrong of a writer to make up for their poor writing after the fact. I don't love Mashima's "Lucy's dreams" explanation for omakes. I know Harry Potter fans don't love the stuff J.K. Rowling has said over the years.

At the same time, my (admittedly Protestant) understanding of "word of God" and "canon" is that they have the same authority. After all, the canon IS the word of God. It is a small section of what God has said, but it isn't less than that.

Of course, it's worth recognizing that nearly every writer we're talking about isn't even remotely divinely inspired or incapable of contradiction. This understanding should cut two ways. An author should never contradict their work in talking about it. Write what you want and make clear what you want to. On the other hand, writers can't fit everything they want to in a work. I'll get to this soon, but their interpretation should be treated with some value.

By the way, people will do this while throwing out the other arguments made by Barthes in the same essay. People will outright ignore the culture and context that a work comes from in order to justify their views. Creators are worshiped and praised for their works or seen as the sole problem for the bad views on works.

What worries me most about this modern interpretation of "the death of the author" is its use in fan analysis. People seem to outright not care about the author's intent in writing a story. They only care about their own interpretation of the work. Worse still, people will insist that any explanation an author gives is them covering up their mistakes. Naturally, this often leads to negative views of the work in question.

This is just something I'll never fully understand. It's one thing if you don't like something. If you don't get why something happened, shouldn't your first move be to figure out what the author was thinking? Instead, people move to the idea that it makes no sense and the writer's a hack.

If all of this seems too heady, let's try to bring this down to earth. Should Hiro Mashima die so that his readers can be born?

Hiro Mashima is one of many mangakas who were influenced by Akira and Dragon Ball. He considers J.R.R. Tolkien to be one of his favorite writers. Monster Hunter is one of his favorite game series. He's even written a manga series with the world in mind.

It would make sense to look at Fairy Tail purely through this lens. You could see Fairy Tail as a shonen action guild story. Rather than seeing the guild as a hub for its members, Fairy Tail's members treat those within it as family. Rather than focusing on one overarching quest, the story is about how various smaller quests relating to its main characters threaten their guild. Adopting this view wouldn't necessarily be an incorrect way to engage with the series. (Mind you, I haven’t seen this view shared by many people who “kill Mashima”.)

Though, there's more to Fairy Tail than the various tropes that make it up. If you were to divorce Fairy Tail entirely from its creator, you'd miss out on understanding them. There are ways Mashima has written bits of himself into the series. Things that go farther than Rave Master cameos and references.

My favorite example is motion sickness. I often think back to Craftsdwarf mocking motion sickness as a useless quirk Dragon Slayers have. It turns out that its origin comes from his personal life. Apparently, one of his friends gets motion sickness. He decided to write this as part of his world.

This gets to the biggest reason I don't love "death of the author" as a framework for analysis. I believe the biggest question analysts should answer is why. Why did an author make certain decisions? You can't do this kind of thing well if you shut out the author's interpretation of their own work. Maybe that can work for some things, but not everything.

I've had tons of fun going through Fairy Tail and talking about it over the past seven years. More recently, I've been going through the series with the intent to rewrite the series. I've made it clear multiple times in that series that I'm trying to understand and explain Mashima's decisions in the series. I don't always agree with what I find. However, trying to understand what happened in Fairy Tail is very important to me.

It's gotten to the point that I love interacting with Mashima's writing. I talk about EZ on my main blog. I can't tell you how much fun I've been having. I'll see things and go "man, that's so Mashima" or "wow, I didn't expect that from him." HERO'S was one of my favorite things of last year and I regularly revisit it for fun. It's the simplest microcosm of what makes each series which Mashima has made both similar and distinct.

Barthes was on to something with his essay. I think there should be a sense where people should feel that their views of the media they consume are valid. This should be true even if we disagree with the author's views on the series. But I don't know that the solution is to treat the author's word on their own work as irrelevant.

There's a sense where I think we should mesh the understandings of media engagement. We recognize that Mashima wrote Fairy Tail. There are reasons that he wrote the series as we got it and they're worth knowing and understanding. However, our own interpretation of the series doesn't have to be exactly what Mashima intended. We can even disagree with how Mashima did things.

I know fans who do this all the time. They love whatever series they follow, but wish things happened differently. Fans of Your Lie in April will joke about [situation redacted] as well as write stories where it never happens. You love a series, warts and all, but wish for the series to get cosmetic surgery, or take matters into your own hands.

And who knows? It's not as if fans haven't affected an author's writing of a series. Mashima's the perfect example. I've said this a few times before, but Fairy Tail has gone well past its original end at Phantom Lord (or Daphne for the anime fans). Levy rose to importance as fans wanted to see more of her.

Could Mashima have done that if we killed him?

Before the conclusion, I should mention another way “death of the author“ comes up. People will invoke “death of the author“ to encourage people to enjoy works they love made by messed up people. Given everything we’ve said up to this point, that’s obviously not what should be intended by its use. For now, though, I do think that we can admit that we like the works of someone even if we don’t agree with everything they did as a person. (Another rant for another day.)

In Conclusion:

“Death of the Author” is an imperfect concept, but it’s not without its points. I don’t think we should throw out the author’s intent behind a work. However, we should be able to have our disagreements with the author’s views without killing them.

#fairy tail #hiro mashima #death of the author #i'm back #and what a way to return #i've been meaning to do this forever #fav

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runrunruno · 3 years

Link

Title: Black lingerie

Fandom: Danganronpa (V3)

Characters: Kaito Momota/Maki Harukawa

Warning: Smut.

Maki held both garments in her hands, not at all convinced. She just got out of the shower and while she was looking in her drawer for any panties to wear that sunday morning, she came across a package that she had hidden there months ago.

She remembered that Kaede had suggested going shopping that day, just like she had encouraged her to try on that extravagant set of black lingerie. It certainly suited her, but she had only agreed to do it to please her friend. However, when Akamatsu offered to buy it – warning her that she would not take no for an answer – she could do no more than accept her fate and try to hide it from Kaito's prying eyes.

She sighed and rewrapped the garment. Her husband was about to come home from the store with lunch, so she didn't have much time to think about nonsense. She thought for a moment. Her doubtful eyes returned to the package and, surrendering to the guilt that the memory of her friend provoked in her, she dropped the towel to the floor.

The set was small and did not leave much to the imagination. Two harnesses around her waist ensured that the tiny panties stayed static in place and putting them on correctly had been as complicated as it sounded.

Once she checked that everything was in place, she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. She, again, had to admit that it fitted her very well. She stroked her hair, overwhelmed by the security the garment afforded her, despite exposing the numerous scars that ran through her body. She pouted and shook her head, trying to push the negative memories out of her mind. She was fine, she was safe, she was with Kaito.

It was at that moment, as the image of the man with the lavender gaze crossed her thoughts, that she became aware of the noise coming from the stairs. She turned around, desperately searching for a piece of clothing to cover her near-nudity, but it was too late: the doorknob turned slowly and the man with whom she had decided to spend the rest of her life entered, oblivious.

“Maki Roll, I bought the tampons you asked for-...”

She watched as he suddenly fell silent, as he involuntarily dropped the bag he was holding to the floor, while he stared at her absolutely stunned. Maki was not able to identify any kind of emotion in the eyes of the man she loved. She swallowed hard and tried to cover herself with her hands, embarrassed.

“Don't look, you idiot!” She shouted, picking up the towel that laid on the floor, “do you want to die?”

He arched a brow and parted his mouth. She could see his troubled look and how, in vain, he tried to find the right words for the situation. She knew him like the back of her hand and he was, without a doubt, a great idiot.

However, what was not expected was that after a couple of seconds a malicious smile took over Momota's face. Now it was she who raised her eyebrows, trying to understand what was wrong with him. She glanced back at the mirror next to her and turned back to her husband, who was involuntarily licking his lower lip. That sight made her shudder, made her realize the situation she was in.

And she had to admit that she was not bothered by it at all.

“Why are you wearing that?” He said, taking off his glasses and placing them on a nearby table “you can't do this to me, Maki Roll”.

Okay. Two could play that game. She gave him a smile as she dropped the towel at her feet again. She laughed, feeling comfortable in her own skin, in the lascivious gaze that her husband gave her. The one he wasn't trying to hide. The one that was just for her.

"That looks fucking good on you, Maki Roll," he said, approaching her. A chill ran down her spine “Where did you have it hidden?”

She could feel the heat emanating from Momota's body, as well as the tension taking over the environment. It was clear that Akamatsu's intention in offering her such a garment was to unfold events like this.

"Akamatsu gave it to me," Maki replied, forcing her usual serious and cold tone.

“Akamatsu?”

As Kaito spoke, he grew closer to her. She backed away.

“Yes.”

She moaned when she felt the edge of the bed crash against her legs. Without anticipating it, the young man's hands were pushing her against the mattress, leaving her lying down, absolutely exposed.

“Looks like I'll have to thank Akamatsu then.”

Harukawa felt the weight of her husband on her. They exchanged challenging, desire-filled glances as Momota licked his lips one last time before engulfing the girl in a deep kiss. She opened her mouth and introduced her tongue, transforming their kiss into a desperate fight for control. He would win, anyway; she knew it, because she was the one who allowed it.

Kaito kept kissing her, going over every place inside her mouth that he could. He bit her bottom lip, causing a moan to escape Maki's lips. His lips descended to her jaw, where he left soft kisses as he slowly caressed her body. Finding himself satisfied, he allowed himself to descend even lower until he reached her neck. She raised her head, allowing him better access, eager to receive his attentions.

He buried his face in the space on her neck, licking slowly and leaving soft bites on the extension of it. He paused for a moment to suck on Maki's sore spot, the one that drove her crazy, and rejoiced himself at the girl's trembling reaction. He continued his task until her skin began to darken under his kiss.

He pulled away from her grasp for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Harukawa could see his pupils dilate, as his cock hardened against her stomach. If they hadn't had a good season having that kind of sex — dirty and rough — she'd think he was about to lose control.

“Good. I think that's enough for today,” he said, getting up from the bed and adjusting his pants.

“H-hey!”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She was lying on the bed, totally red and unused. The fabric of her lingerie, despite being of a rather dark tone, allowed to perfectly show the stain that adorned her panties.

“What?” he inquired, looking at her from above. Their height difference was evident as she lay helplessly on the bed.

"Finish your work," she ordered, clearly angry.

“Hey, hey. I’m in charge here, Maki Roll.”

A chill ran through her entire body, her crotch immediately reacting to Kaito's provocative words. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, trying to entice him to continue his attentions. She was a brat and she always got what she wanted. She knew that when they were in bed he preferred to take on a more dominant and possessive role, something that totally contradicted his natural idiot personality.

She stirred again, feeling desperate, and she looked at the purple-haired one with a countenance intoxicated by her plea.

“But look how cute I made myself for you”.

And that was a lie, but he didn't have to know. From her position, she could see how his dick trembled back into his sweatpants. It was obvious that he was dominated by lust and craving, but he stood there trying to appear strong just to annoy Maki.

After a few seconds of meditation, he flashed one of his typical innocent, silly smiles and shrugged.

“Fuck it. Come here.”

She opened her arms to receive him, trying to hide - in vain - the smile that crept across her face. Kaito positioned himself over her and directed his hand to her crotch, caressing the texture of the lace fabric that adorned her panties. She knew he could perfectly feel her wetness and she grunted, finding herself desperate for the man's caresses. He kissed her again, leaving a trail of kisses from her jaw to her neck. He lowered himself a little further and closed his mouth around her bra-covered nipple, gently massaging the button onto the fabric.

"Fuck," Maki moaned.

"Indeed," he replied, turning to look at her from the position he was in, "Fuck. I think I'll leave this as is.”

Maki raised an eyebrow, but she didn't ask any more questions about it; she couldn't risk saying something that would stop him from the way his mouth was traveling on her abdomen. He looked at her again when he reached the elastic of her panties, looking for an authorization that he knew he already had. She just nodded, resting her head on the bed, and staring at the ceiling, trying to prepare her mind for what was to come. She felt Kaito's tongue slip through the lace of the garment and whimpered, clinging to the sheets. As soon as he put off her panties, she knew that there was no turning back.

However, the sensation of intoxicating pleasure did not come.

“What are you doing?” she asked, holding her weight on her elbows and lifting her head in his direction. He was silent, calmly observing the intimacy of his wife.

“Nothing,” he said, running a finger over the wet skin of her vagina “you know what would be very hot?”

Uh. She already knew in which direction this conversation was heading. She let out a long breath and fell back on the bed.

“Do you want me to sit on your face?”

“I want you to sit on my face.”

Momota leaned back on the bed, winking at her and pointing at his face. Maki snorted, trying to hide how excited she was by the idea, and she rose from her position. Feeling only slightly uncomfortable from her exposing, she rested her pussy carefully in the boy's mouth. Kaito's tongue slowly ran her skin, beginning a circular and enveloping motion around her clitoris.

“Shit, Kaito. Like that.”

He let out an affirmative moan, sucking and licking the bud. He felt the girl above him trembling, shaking her hips unconsciously back and forth. He smiled to himself, content with the sensations he managed to provoke in her. He thrusted his tongue deep into her intimacy, traveling every place his nimble mouth would allow. She stifled a groan as she felt her orgasm begin to form in her lower belly.

Maki was anything but vocal, that was a role entrusted to Kaito. However, she was there rubbing herself desperately against the lips of her partner, letting out moans every time she felt his tongue touch that sensitive spot that made her go crazy, sighing when a certain spank landed on her butt. Unable to silence the sensations and looking for something to hold onto, she pulled the boy's hair and screamed, being engulfed by the waves of pleasure that her orgasm mattered. She kept enjoying her high as Momota licked her battered clit one last time.

Once she descended from her orgasm and managed to regain her breathing, Kaito lifted her from his face and placed her on the bed again. He licked his lips, savoring the traces of her coming and placed a soft kiss on the girl's forehead.

“I told ya’ that you’d feel great, Maki Roll.”

She just closed her legs and pouted. Kaito got up from the bed and started taking off his clothes. He started with his slippers, then his shirt, and finally his sweatpants. The star boxers weren't a surprise at all, but there was something Maki would simply never tolerate in their sex life.

“Take off your damn socks, Kaito.”

“Huh? But they match my boxers!”

She rolled her eyes.

“Make up your mind, me or the socks. You can't have us both in bed.”

He snorted and reluctantly agreed. Okay, he was dominant and possessive, but it was impossible to say no to Maki, especially when she was acting like a spoiled child. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his socks, showing them to her and tossing them on the floor. She nodded satisfied in response.

“Do you want me to suck you off?” she asked, kneeling on the bed. He nodded with a wink.

Maki approached him, careful. Kaito had leaned against the head of the bed, his hands behind his head, looking at her with a haughty smile. She sighed, trying to ignore his obvious display of control over the situation, and lowered his boxers just enough for his cock to be exposed. She ran her fingers down the length and gave him a couple of strokes, closely watching the boy's reactions. He didn't flinch, he kept his gaze serene on her actions.

She finally decided to put it in her mouth, concentrating on tracing the tip with her tongue. She descended a little more, trying to wrap him as much as she could, looking for a rhythm that would get a couple of moans out of Kaito. The back-and-forth movement of her head became more and more frantic, her tongue ran as far as it could, and even though her husband had a considerable size, her mouth managed to swallow him almost completely. She was so stubborn in her work that she did not notice the moment when he began to gently stroke her hair. She looked up, only to meet Momota's rapt countenance.

“That’s so good, Maki Roll”.

His words played havoc with her, as always; she tried to avoid thinking about the pain that lodged again in her crotch because of her arousal. After a few moments, and being aware that Momota's climax was probably approaching, she stopped her cadence and looked at him, outlining a small smile.

“Is that okay?” she asked, making evident her hunger for what was to follow.

He laughed and gently stroked her head again.

“I see that someone is more anxious than usual.”

She pouted. Kaito smiled at her, patting the place next to his on their bed.

“Come here.”

He spread his arms and she, rolling her eyes, relented. She smiled, climbing over him and gladly accepting the kiss he offered her. It was slow, calm. Their mouths danced a quiet dance, they had all the time in the world to love each other like that. He scooped up a lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, taking advantage of the angle to hold the nape of her neck and deepen their kiss.

Kaito broke the contact a few seconds later, taking his time to scan every inch of her face with his gaze. Somewhat overwhelmed, Maki tried to hide behind her hands, which were carefully removed by the boy.

“You are beautiful, Maki Roll,” he said, “but you already know that.”

Maki shrugged into his embrace. He walked over to her to steal one last kiss.

“Do you want to continue, Maki Roll?” he asked with a wide smile on his face “we can stop if you want.”

She shook her head, reaching over to give him a brief kiss on his neck. Momota positioned himself over her, lining up at her entrance. He stroked her pussy with his cock, gently rubbing her clit. Maki gasped and before he could get inside her, she stopped him with her hand.

“Something’s wrong? Seriously, if you don't want, we can stop, Maki.”

She sighed, feeling her cheeks warmer than normal. She was trying, in vain, to find the right words to say what she truly wanted.

"It's okay," she admitted, stirring, "but, uh… I'd like to try something else."

“Huh? You mean anal?” he asked tilting his head, not understanding, “I dunno if we have any lubricant left though...”

“No, idiot!” she exclaimed, hiding her face under her hands, “I meant doggy-style, stupid”.

“Oh, that makes more sense.”

Harukawa snorted. Momota was a huge idiot. She moved away a little to position herself, turning her back on the boy. She lifted her ass, feeling the adrenaline rush and the excitement of anticipation completely intoxicating her. One of Kaito's hands caressed her butt, while the other lowered to her hips for grip.

He carefully entered her, watching his member disappear into her and feeling the lips of her vagina envelop him completely. Momota groaned, overwhelmed by the sensation of heat in his crotch. He stood still for a few moments, giving Maki time to get used to the intrusion inside her.

“You can move now,” and that was music to his ears.

He began a slow sway, bumping his hips against her rear. They always started like this, with a calm rhythm that ended up leading to a complete lack of control. He could be gentle, he sure could, but he liked the sounds that came out of Harukawa's mouth much more when he was rough. He reached up with the hand that was on her butt and spanked it, rejoicing in the gasp of pleasure the girl let out. Involuntarily her hips began to move in time with his thrust, deepening the friction.

Maki whimpered, burying her face on the bed. Kaito thrusted into her quickly, deeply, savoring every moment inside her. He gasped as he found a position that let him go even deeper, allowing himself to enjoy how her vagina tightened on his cock.

"Maki, you're too tight," he sighed, throwing his head back. He hit the girl's butt again, causing her to scream.

“Fuck, Kaito.”

Harukawa was ecstatic. She shook her head from side to side, clinging to the sheets, trying to maintain the sanity that Momota snatched from her with each thrust. His grip on her hip was so strong that she knew he would leave marks on her, and that turned her on even more. Her hips moved involuntarily against the cock of her partner, trying to keep up with the rhythm that was driving her crazy. She moaned when she felt Kaito grab her hair.

"Touch yourself, Maki Roll," he said, without stopping his movements for a moment, "now."

She let out another groan, just by the implication of the order her husband had given her. She lowered one of her hands to her crotch, caressing her swollen clit. If she continued like this, she felt she might explode. The only thing that kept her on Earth was the strong grip that Momota had on her hips and her hair.

“Kaito, I'm going to cum,” she warned. She couldn't even keep her eyes open anymore.

"Look at me," he ordered, pulling her hair harder. She exhaled heavily, turning her head as far as she could and looking with her narrowed eyes at the deep irises of the young man, “you like it, right? You want to cum, don't you?”

She nodded. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't even speak a word. Kaito was the same, even if he wanted to tease her, he couldn’t do it; he was too close himself. Feeling her orgasm consume her completely, Harukawa let out a cry and fell onto bed. Momota, suffering the ravages of the girl's coming, came inside her, releasing his hot seed. He continued with his movements, making his cadence more and more calm to accompany her in her coming. He withdrew from inside her and they both sighed.

Momota's body fell, exhausted, next to Maki. He snuggled into her side, wrapping her in a tight hug, gently stroking her back. He filled her with kisses on her temple, on her cheeks, on her lips. He ran his fingers over the marks he had left on her neck, on her collarbone.

"It seems I overdid myself a bit today," he said, scratching the back of his neck in shame.

“Looks like it” she answered, releasing an imperceptible laugh.

They stayed like that, hugging each other for a while. Just enjoying them, their company, the loving caresses they shared after sessions like that. It was Kaito who got up first, going to the floor to pick up the woman's panties and hand them over to her. Then, he began to dress himself.

"Seriously, if you don't thank Akamatsu I'll do it," he warned, "and that's going to be very weird and awkward."

Maki smiled, seeing how he finished pulling up his sweatpants. He returned her smile, approaching her again and placing a kiss on her forehead.

“I'm going to make lunch, okay? I'll let you know when it’s ready,” he said, “Take a rest, Maki Roll.”

She nodded, watching him leave the room. Momota was right, she would probably need a good rest after what they had done. And thanking Akamatsu for the risqué gift didn't seem like a bad idea after all.

#danganronpa #dr #drv3 #momoharu #kaimaki #harukaito #fanfic #smut #mw #yeah this sucks but im gonna post it here anyway lmfao

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itsbenedict · 3 years

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Two-Faced Jewel: Session 1-B

(Part B, for length- see Part A first.)

Zero and @eternalfarnham are Looseleaf and Saelhen du Fishercrown, a mothfolk animist and a half-elf conwoman whose travels take them to Blacksky University, where the discovery of an unknown magical artifact sets them on the path to discovering the secrets of a shattered world.

Saelhen du Fishercrown has just involuntarily bonded with a magical bracer under false pretenses. The deans of the School of Natural Arts and the School of Arcane Arts have reached a compromise- send Looseleaf (equipped with a wand of Locate Object) to keep an eye on her. None of this bodes well for her plan to skip town and pawn the thing- if she doesn't follow the magical arrow, it's going to be hard to explain.

So... she figures she might as well find out where it's pointing, and see if there's a way to remove it and/or shake her tail at the end.

Saelhen du Fishercrown:Saelhen is best served by seeming a bit silly, here. So I think she's going to follow the arrow directly and just straight-up cross over the fences. Looseleaf:Looseleaf fidgets a bit. "I mean, honor has to tarry for things like, classes, and stuff, occasionally, right?" "Not to mention, you still, like, need to do a whole interview." "And you can't just- like, at the least I'd want to get the campus news department involved, y'know, put this in the news and stuff, right?" Saelhen du Fishercrown:"I will be proud to answer any questions you have as we go, Madam Looseleaf." Saelhen approaches the campus fence and begins to struggle over it. Looseleaf:Looseleaf is only vaguely sure that this campus has anything like a newsletter, but something about this lady's insistency on walking off into the sunset as quickly as she can is making Looseleaf's antennae twitch, a little bit. "Uhhhhhh," Looseleaf says. "Okay, sure, then."

They take a pretty direct route to where the arrow's pointing. On the way, Looseleaf puts the screws to Saelhen by poking at her cover story.

Saelhen continues to roll crazy good on Deception, vs Looseleaf's History, and Looseleaf can't find any fault in Saelhen's staggeringly-detailed hand-calligraphied forgery.

Benedict I. (GM): So- it seems like this was written by someone who's at least read A Flawless History of the Elven Peoples cover to cover. There aren't any obvious contradictions, and a lot of supporting details- it's hard to believe someone could've just made all this up. Looseleaf: But, okay, wow, Looseleaf is... absolutely engrossed in this book. This is the good stuff. Benedict I. (GM): You're familiar enough with the vagaries of the biographical tradition that there could easily be creative reinterpretations or doctored facts in here, but you don't have any way to distinguish them from reality. Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen keeps up a running commentary while they walk. Looseleaf: But presumably there is no mention of any kind of accession ritual? Saelhen du Fishercrown:Jack nothing! Looseleaf:And definitely nothing along the lines of a stone bracer being involved in some kind of ancestral spirit worship ritual.

Yeah, something's fishy here. But it's a long book, and it takes a long time to read, and before Looseleaf can get through it, the arrow starts to swerve.

The bracer seems to have lead them to Yoshimimoto Plaza, a wide pavilion in the middle of a ring of government buildings owned by the Oyashio Port Authority- the city's secular government. Saelhen recognizes the design as remarkably similar to the floor of the Ryokou Temple in Kanzentokai.

The Ryokou Temple, hundreds of years ago, was once a great hub of teleportation, where travelers from all over the world came and went. Thanks to teleportation magic, the concept of "cities" and "nations" and "regional governments" didn't make a lot of sense back then, and the world was something of a fragmentary monoculture featuring several different competing governments- distributed governments which claimed authority over their members, not over geographical territories.

(If you've read anything of the Terra Ignota series, they were basically like the hives.)

Two or three centuries ago, though, something called the Blackout occurred. Teleportation magic suddenly failed- planar travel broke, as did the teleportation hubs in each of the world's major cities. Suddenly, the world was shattered into geographically distant territories, which suddenly had to administer themselves without contact with the rest of the world. The world as it is today was shaped by the effects of this Blackout, and how people rebuilt.

Yoshimimoto Plaza, now an unremarkable empty square, used to be the city's teleportation hub.

Saelhen, following the arrow, touches the bracer to the center of this plaza, and all hell breaks loose.

The bricks underneath them all suddenly fall into a pit, landing about twenty feet down on a squishy surface that yields under the impact. Despite the cushioning, Saelhen takes 5 bludgeoning damage from the fall. (Looseleaf can feather-fall with her moth wings, so she's fine.)

So, what you've landed on... first and foremost, it smells. It smells of mildew and decay, of something sealed up and left to rot. The walls of the pit aren't dirt or stone- you're not sure what they are. They're gray-green and porous, interwoven with what might be vines. The floor has a ton of bricks on top of it, but where those bricks fell unevenly, you can see the floor is a mass of these squishy vines- or maybe tentacles, it's not entirely clear.

What's not fine is the old man who was feeding the pigeons on the plaza, who's broken his legs and is screaming for help. Also not fine are a couple of Oyashio Port Authority guards, who were chatting there and are now very perturbed.

Also not fine are the walls of this pit- they've got holes in them. Holes from which horrible little fleshy winged creatures are crawling:

These bloodsucking fiends claw their way out of the weird porous walls, and begin divebombing people with unholy shrieks.

The party rolls for initiative! Saelhen readies an action to intercept the enemy, and it's a good thing- she downs one of the stirges with a hidden blade when it gets close. (Looseleaf notes how suspicious it is that a noblewoman had a hidden blade up her sleeve.)

Looseleaf uses Rend Spirit on another one- a magical attack that uses animism as a blunt force weapon. The spirit of something is different from its soul- a living thing has a mind, but it also has a spirit, which is just sort of a semi-sentient magical handle on its body and the nature thereof. The spirit of something's muscles says "I want to expand and contract in response to nerve stimuli"- and Looseleaf can tell the muscles "No, you want to snfdkdfrksfjklafdr." The muscles' spirit gets real confused by this and tries to make its physical host do some snfdkdfrksfjklafdr, which makes no sense and results in chaotic flailing and tissue damage. Or, uh, "force damage", D&D's vaguest damage type.

She seizures the other stirge to death, but three more crawl their way out of the walls. Two go for the guards, who call for help and manage to take one down- but the third goes for the defenseless old man. Saelhen whiffs her thrown knife to intercept it, and the stirge buries its proboscis in the man's side and begins to drink.

Looseleaf: Holy shit, this woman is going to get people killed. Her nonsense- and probably confabulated- ancestral quest is going to get people killed.

Saelhen follows up by charging the stirge and slaying it- but four more stirges crawl out of the walls. There's no end to the damn things!

Looseleaf, who has wings, remembers them- and also remembers her starting gear! When do players ever do that? She gets out her 50 ft of rope and drops a rope ladder to help people escape.

The stirges are on the move, though- those not distracted by the guards go for Saelhen and Looseleaf. One of them gets through and impales Saelhen- who only had 6 hit points left after the fall damage, at level 1. It rolls well, and she goes down.

One of the guards grabs the old man and begins climbing out of the pit, just as reinforcements arrive with crossbows- but it's too late for Looseleaf, who gets herself divebombed by a stirge, which beats her AC and latches on. She tries to Rend Spirit it off her, but fails- and its next attack finishes her off. Meanwhile, Saelhen is still down in the pit being fed on, and rolls a critical failure on her first death save, counting as two failures! The party is completely KO'd by these horrible bloodsucking monsters they uncovered.

Luckily for them, they went down... in the middle of the administrative center of a highly populated city, surrounded by emergency services personnel who were actively trying to save them. As a result... they wake up in the hospital, not dead.

Looseleaf: "When the inquiries come in, I just want to make it clear, miss du Surplus," Looseleaf says in her hospital bed, "I do not know you and I do not know who you are and I am pretty sure that this is all your fault." Her antennae are swishing furiously, which is moth for 'fuck everything about this'. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "In my defense," says Saelhen, "I have no frigging idea why that bracelet summoned infinite bats, haha." "Ow."

It seems- from the chafing on her wrist- that someone tried to steal the bracer off her arm while she was unconscious, to no avail.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "If your university wants it back, you're maybe going to have to use a cleaver. Ha ha. You know, I've actually been to places where they chop off your hand for stealing." Looseleaf: "You better hope they don't decide to chop off your arm," apparently Looseleaf's got more of a vindictive bent to her than you'd expect! "You folk only have two arms." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Gonna be a super dishonorable wound." Looseleaf: "Yeah, we're dispensing with the whole, elegant elf politese thing entirely now, are we." "Not that it exactly made sense for a dignified hyper-polite elf to run around with a dozen daggers tied to them under the robes." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "For what it's worth, if you weren't dogging me so closely, I would have probably screwed off, tried to sell it, found out I couldn't and... I guess left town with the next circus. Amazing halfbreed with bad taste in jewelry." "But it's obviously not your fault, right? No idea your actions would lead to that." "Yeah, the mysterious maiden of the orient thing gets old after a while but so many people buy into it." "I am disowned, though, if it helps."

Saelhen pretty much spills all the beans to Looseleaf- and tries to lay out a plan for how they can both avoid taking the blame for this. Looseleaf is shocked that Saelhen has the audacity to try to keep up the con, after what happened- and horrified at the implication that she was somehow responsible for this.

Looseleaf:"You're thinking of trying to keep up the scam," Looseleaf says in disbelief. "By Harmony, you actually want to double down." Benedict I. (GM):"...suspects, wanted for...!" "...my students..." "...jured patients!" There's an argument happening outside your door. Looseleaf:"Oh, there it is," Looseleaf sighs. She folds her arms and looks up at the ceiling of the hospital room and resigns herself to be utterly annihilated by terrible inexorable fate.

The door opens, and in walks... uh. A nurse? It's a round tiefling woman dressed in... not so much a nurse's outfit as a sexy halloween costume of a nurse's outfit. It's... a lot. She seems to be playing the part of an actual medical professional, though, and after a quick checkup, asks which of their two guests they'd like to speak to first.

Who are these guests? Well, the first one is Provost Hamori, from the school. The drow lady. Something in Looseleaf's moth bones shudders as she enters the room and the trailing of her dress masks a skittering noise.

Luckily for them, the provost is very happy with them! Earth-shattering magical discoveries that unleash hordes of blood-sucking monsters on the populace of the city are not at all occasions to be mourned, in her opinion. There's so much new research to be done! It's exciting!

Plus, apparently, while they were out, refugees crawled their way out of the tentacle-floor in the pit! Supposedly descendants of people who disappeared from the face of the Jewel when the Blackout occurred. They'd managed to survive in that sort of horrible Stranger Things-ass upside-down horror-world for hundreds of years! Very exciting!

Provost Hamori reassures them that everything will be fine, and asks them to tell the truth to the nice police lady who's about to have a friendly chat with them.

Said police lady takes her turn to speak to the hospitalized party.

Benedict I. (GM): "My name is Stella Lastwave. I am captain of the Port Authority city guard. I am required to disclose this information." Then she leans in. "Would the two of you like to tell me what the fuck is happening in my city?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Good question! Benedict I. (GM): "Dozens of bloodsucking hellmonsters are menacing the citizens, a troop of ultraviolent feral children are wreaking havoc in the streets, and the Yoshimimoto Plaza is a ruined crater of necrotic energy!" "I have fourteen witnesses stating that you walked up to the middle of the plaza with a magic item, touched the ground, and unleashed hell on the innocent citizens of Oyashio!" "You're going to explain what the hell you thought you were doing, right now!" Looseleaf: “Um. It was an accident?” Looseleaf begins, and then hedges, because this intimidating cop lady is intimidating her, and all of her prepared lines of explanation have gone right out the window. Benedict I. (GM): "An accident." "Again."

Captain Lastwave is highly suspicious of Saelhen's story- as the de la Surplus family doesn't exist in any of the shipping records they have for the world's busiest port city. If they're not in the records, they either don't exist, or they're smugglers.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "We have... fallen on difficult times as of late. It is a stain on our honor that we have failed to contribute to Kanzentokai's glory, I realize." Saelhen sighs. "...it was my hope that I might restore our reputation by completing the succession, when the means were lost to us for so long." Benedict I. (GM): "Yeah? And your 'succession' means siccing demons on a city of innocent people?" Looseleaf: “They just assigned me to her as an anthropology assignment,” Looseleaf babbles. “I was supposed to follow her doing her rite thingy and write it down and turn it in as an essay for my self-directed project.” Whatever the splash radius of this negotiation is going to wind up being, Looseleaf is absolutely making sure that she ends up outside of it. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Strange are the ways of my ancestors. It is my hope that I will be allowed to serve the free citizens of Oyashio, as I have served those citizens long-imprisoned by the Blackout." Benedict I. (GM): "This is the seventh goddamn evil magic apocalypse that witch up in Blacksky has tried to wipe out Oyashio with! Even when it's not them, it's them, or-" "-what, are you talking about the murdercrazy teenagers running wild in the streets?" Looseleaf: Looseleaf looks at Fishercrown. ”Oh.” Saelhen du Fishercrown: "So I have been told." Looseleaf: "So that’s what the Provost meant by... whoof." "So, ‘we found humans on the other side of the portal’ was definitely a euphemism, huh.”

Thanks to Saelhen once again rolling absurdly high on Deception, Captain Lastwave lets them off with a warning, and leaves. They leave the hospital- or rather, the Temple of Karou, Heartlifter, God of Joy.

as you leave the Temple of Karou, you learn that the Temple of Karou comprises the upper floors of the building, 2 and up the first floor, run by the local bishop of Karou (Vermillion Hansen, the tiefling "nurse" you met) is the Pink Lips Pleasure House- an official government institution funded by the Ecumene of Joy. it is a brothel. the Ecumene of Joy is a little weird.

So with that crisis officially Not Their Fault, Looseleaf and Saelhen return to Blacksky, where the Provost- in exchange for keeping it Not Their Fault- will be having them conduct further research on this bracer- which has sprouted a new arrow, pointing off somewhere to the northeast.

Next session, we'll see what that research entails!

#twofaced jewel

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danganrambling · 3 years

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Inspiration for Tsumugi Shirogane’s Exexution:

I’m basing this off of two myths. Anansi and the Box of Stories, and Arachne. I think that, even though Kirumi is the one with the spider motif, they represent Tsumugi better.

They spin silk. Which is the most obvious connection. But that also leads into other metaphors, like spinning stories, spinning tales, and spinning lies. Tsumugi, though her talent is technically cosplay, is a seamstress. It works very nicely.

You all probably know the story of Arachne. She got that Hubris™️, loudly proclaimed that she could weave better than Athena, and got turned into a spider for her nonsense after a tapestry competition with the goddess herself.

Anansi may be a bit less known. He’s also a spider guy, but more of a trickster protagonist. He wants to get all the world’s stories from some guy that’s hoarding them all, and is challenged to do a bunch of weird, seemingly impossible tasks in exchange for the stories. He uses his trickery to win.

The Execution:

Tsumugi is given a challenge by Monokuma. In order to survive, she must create quality outfits for each of the Monokubs, and do it better and faster than him. She seems calm about this.

But it is not that easy.

The first string attached is that the needles are tipped with painful poison. Completely fine for robots, but dangerous for Tsumugi. Especially when she’s rushing.

She presses onward.

Yet, somehow, Monokuma is going at incredible speeds. He has several copies of himself working. She grimaces, and speeds up. But she keeps pricking her fingers. And soon they start to swell beyond recognition, slowing her even further.

Yet another obstacle is the demands of the Monokubs. Each screaming over the other that they want this, they want that, often contradicting themselves in the process. There’s no way for Tsumugi to give them what they want.

Monokuma has an unfair lead.

The swelling travels up her arms.

Soon, Monokuma is finished, and calls time. Tsumugi has finished her outfits, though not without immense pain.

Her body is entirely swollen, reminiscent of her cospox, and there’s her own blood smeared across the fabric. Though the clothes are lovely...

The Monokubs reject her anyway.

Thin steel fabric shoots out from all angles, impaling Tsumugi, though not killing her, and lifting her into the air. It resembles a spider’s web.

The killing blow is dealt by a giant storybook, coming down on her from above. As if killing a spider.

After she’s dead, the Monokubs are seen wearing her outfits, posing vainly for cameras.

Her blood is still on them.

#danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #danganrambling #tsumugi shirogane #Tsumugi Shiro game execution #danganronpa execution

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tfw-no-tennis · 3 years

Text

mtmte liveblog issue 35

ooooh baby functionist universe time

the cover with the neon ‘everything is fine’ sign is rlly good but also the pile of dead data stick bots makes me so sad omg noooo they're so cute leave them alone :(

minimus and rewind...! its so cool seeing them interact

also I just love the crowd shot, and you can immediately see that there are a ton of data stick bots like rewind around - which isn't what we’re used to at all

also some good ole totalitarian govt stuff like the ‘you are our eyes’ sign (which, in retrospect, is fucking evil damnnnn)

also I'm so [eyezoom] on this functionist universe stuff bc like, this is basically the only time we ever see dominus be a character (rather than hearing abt him thru other characters), and even so he remains pretty ambiguous

like, minimus clearly isn't thrilled that dominus didn't show up to see him at the space airport or w/e when they've been apart for two million years - and even tho we later see why he didn't show up, it still shows that there's some tension there

the amount of crowd shots in this issue is insane

oooof, the fact that they sold luna 2 - and to the black box consortia, who we just heard about last chapter when they previously got into a space battle w/the galactic council and the djd

fu!minimus being part of the primal vanguard is interesting, I wanna see more about that. what was he doing w/them for 2 million years?

rewind just casually saying this completely fucked stuff, like that the govt ‘outlawed the intellectual class’ and ‘deported the knock-offs’ (which I'm assuming is cold constructed bots?)

I really like the sense we get thru minimus and rewind’s convo that all of this fucked up stuff has happened slowly enough that its become almost normal - like, they talk about it casually, even though its clear they don't necessarily agree with any of it

plus the sense of ‘even if things get really bad ill be okay’ that both rewind and minimus seem to adhere to - rewind having been upgraded from being in the disposable class due to his connection w/dominus, and minimus saying ‘I like to think that obsolescence is something that happens to other people’

I love all the fucked up signage this issue. ‘take pride in being a means to an end,’ yikes

god and the fact that there isn't MORE data sticks, there's just LESS of other alt modes bc of how many alt modes the govt has wiped out completely...

oof, and continuing the whole ‘slow change’ thing - minimus saying that ‘the council never touches the astro class,’ and maybe that used to be true, but the govt will keep pushing that line, clearly...

and we get to see minimus’s alt mode! altho we the readers know that this isn't minimus’s true form...

‘amazing, the lengths some people will go to cross class boundaries,’ minimus says, as if he isn't doing exactly what rewinds describing, but even moreso as a loadbearer wearing an entire suit of armor

and then the casual public execution of the last lunabot...oof.

love the ‘cybertron. the present day’ text overlay...I was so confused about this when I first read it lmao. I figured it had to be some sort of au/quantum nonsense but STILL

back on the lost light, chromedome is going full kool-aid man on rewinds door

mannnnn I absolutely love the plotline of rewind 2 and chromedome 1...im so glad the story acknowledges that they ARE different, they did experience different stuff on their own lost lights, and rewind 2 being a quantum duplicate doesn't mean he had the same experiences as rewind 1...

and I love so much that chromedome just Doesn't Get It, bc of course he wouldn't - he’s too relieved that rewind is back to even consider that its not quite the same, that the rewind he was forced to blow up is still dead (which is a fucked up thought, so of course chromedome, the master of pushing the past away and moving right along, would want to avoid thinking about that in favor of continuing his relationship w/rewind 2)

it also makes a lot of sense that rewind, who records everything and puts a huge emphasis on history/the past, would be hyperaware of all the differences between him and rewind 1, and his chromedome and this chromedome

AUGHHHH and chromedome referring to an offer he made to rewind that was pretty clearly ‘if your memories of the djd slaughter are too much, I can remove them for you’ ooooof...I love these two so much, like...their absolute opposite approaches to trauma is fascinating

oooh mannnnn and then rewind starts ‘remembering’ stuff from the functionist universe...the plot thickens...!

I really like how one of the main ‘things’ in a lot of tf universes is energon/energy shortages, its interesting when the angle is kinda like, ‘energon is a finite resource and the methods to obtain more often involve destroying other planets,’ that's a pretty unique, alien problem for the tfs to have

it also makes sense that the functionists would form partially in response to that (perceived) shortage, and any sort of scarcity would push them further into their extremist views

I like how expressive the characters with visors are...its cute...

poor rewind has to go thru So Much

WHY can just anyone go into the morgue and touch the dead bodies. I mean I guess megatron being one of the captains explains why he’s in there, but that still shouldn't be allowed

‘megatron mountain’ vhbjdkshfbjskfbhhk that's so fucking funnyyyyy I love rodimus....I quote that line a lot, especially when watching g1 lmao

the fact that swerve diluting his engex bc he’s a cheapskate saved everyone's s lives is amazing lmao

also like...damn brainstorm sure tried to murder Literally Everyone huh. like I guess the logic would be that if he succeeded in changing the past it wouldn't matter that they had died there cause the timeline wouldn't exist, but STILL. I guess that shows how confident brainstorm was in his plan

it makes so much sense somehow that rung doesn't drink. and we’ve seen firsthand why magnus doesn't lol

mannnn that panel of brainstorm shooting magnus with some wacky beam and causing the magnus armor to fall off in vehicle mode...Super Cool, just peak mad scientist vibes there

ok but if minimus switches to alt mode when ultra magnus does - as we see here, where minesweeper-minimus is inside big-ole-car-magnus - does that mean that inside the minesweeper is turbofox-minimus?? I want to seeeee

ghsdufjkbvksadfbhjs the panels of rodimus telling megatron that brainstorm time travelled are so fucking funny

and megatrons rant about how absolutely bonkers the lost light is....hvbhjdskfbasjh that's so funny oh my god. like yeah dude you're right and you gotta roll w/it sorry

'on this ship, a minor breakdown is practically a rite of passage’ vbjdsnfbkasdfn its true and I love it

goddddddd it kills me how at this point in the story its So Obvious to everyone that brainstorm travelled back in time to do evil decepticon double agent stuff - and we as the reader can even buy that bc brainstorm has been so sketchy until now, and nothing he’s done contradicts what rodimus suggests - but it turns out in the end, it was all just for love. AUGHHHHHHHH its about the LOVE!!!! that's why I love this arc so much.

back in the functionist universe - god I cant believe rewind waited until Now to reveal to minimus that dominus has a tv face...like I get that that's a difficult topic to bring up in conversation but like, a little sooner might've been good hbvhjkdhnfbjaksl

oh man it hurts...rewind saying that they're in a ‘blind spot...’ oh man :(

rebel rewind, tho!! I love it sm

oh man and rewind never even broke the news about dominus to minimus oof. that's a tough reveal

MANNN I really like the whole ‘flathead’ thing, its so awful and brutal. its such a logical extension of empurata, and as dominus says, once people get used to seeing empurata’d bots, it loses its punch...and the flatheads thing is even more invasive

and writing wise, both empurata and the tv-heads are such good devices to show evil govt bs. I talk abt it a lot but I like all the ways jro gets creative with the ‘alien robots’ thing; a lot of these concepts wouldn't work at all with humans or other organic aliens

GODDD and dominus’s chilling speech being interrupted by the functionist propaganda....fucking horrifying I love it

also seeing dominus here is fascinating - clearly the council managed to pin him down enough to turn him into a flathead, but they never discovered his true alt mode...same with minimus, actually

the cog is so fucking ominous. just floating there...

and the council is scary too! their names, and the fact that they all look the same...seems about right for an evil alien governing body

mannnnnnn and then the reveal that the data slug alt-modes will be ‘recalled’ next...rewind noooooo...and the one council guy even admitted that they still served some purpose in society, BUT that their ability to mass store data made them dangerous to the goverment...evil!!

meanwhile, rodimus doesn't know enough about science to be appropriately frightened about their timeline being wiped from existence, so he’s having a grand ole time

‘no one’s nodding, perceptor’ bvhjdbfasdfhbk their expressions....the lost light command crew are all clearly team ‘leave the science to the scientists’ lmao

I do love the paradox stuff, and brainstorm’s way around it all

‘so I'm not allowed to take an interest in magic?’ hvbjhsdkfbjhkdf ily sm rodimus

but also like....rodimus suggests a parallel universe could've formed and perceptor is like ‘no way, that's not scientifically possible,’ as if brainstorm didn't basically defy science by time travelling at all...and more to the point, functionist cybertron DID get created, so rodimus was actually RIGHT this time

love that we’re already seeing perceptor’s admiration for brainstorm and his invention even here....sapiosexual mfer

a time travel chase....so beautiful...I love sci-fi so much

seriously time travel is one of my favorite tropes ever, this arc was inevitably gonna be my fav

‘he’s going to kill orion pax.’ DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNN

meanwhile, on functionist cybertron...aw, is that bulkhead? great cameo! oh wait what's going on with all the data sticks...? uh oh!

the fact that their heads just EXPLODE....soooo fucked!!

god and then the council picks up their dead bodies, for...probably something evil, I’d assume

god and then dominus got even more fucked....

‘there are certain words you cant afford to lose’ ;_; REWIND....GODDD IM SAD

GOD GOD GOD the reveal that minimus has CAMERAS in his EYES GODDDDDDDDDDDD that's so FUCKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and rewinds reaction...ME TOO BITCH TF!!!!!!

all the ‘you are our eyes’ messages are even worse now huh!!

they did it while minimus was asleep...that's so fuckedddd

FUCKKKK and then rewind’s impassioned rebel speech, which I adore.....rewind ily sm...he’s such a good revolutionary, I wish we could've seen him leading an anti-funtionist rebellion....BUT THEN ‘oh? what about the back up?’ and its just like HHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH and then his head starts smoking and we see another billboard, but this time it says ‘WE are your eyes’ - is the implication that everyone is now a surveilling spy, whether they like it or now, so now it’s ‘we?’ like, we’re all in it together, spying on each other! ooooof

also. this is like the third time rewind has died on-screen in this series lmao (well, if you count the fake-out death where he thought he’d be cancelled out during slaughterhouse)...he ALMOST died in issue 12 too....poor rewind

‘the custom-made now’ is such a great title. jro always killin it w/the titles

plus ‘elegant chaos’ is such a cool arc name. fucking epic

M A N NNNNNNNN THIS ISSUE WAS BALLER...this ARC is baller....I talked a lot hvbhdjkhfndsak lmao but there's so much to talk abt!!! I love the look into the functionist universe, I love seeing alternate versions of characters and settings so much, and I love time travel, so this issue is basically made for me

plus I fuckign love alien robot politics and seeing the absolute control the govt has over cybertronian society in the functionist universe is fascinating - plus from a storytelling standpoint, I think it was brilliant to show the ‘other side,’ aka what things would've been like without the war...which is something ill talk about later when its more directly addressed in the story but man do I enjoy that

basically I love this arccccc I cant wait to read more hhhhhhh

#lj rereads mtmte

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nancywheelxr · 5 years

Note

i know half the fandom is writing these but could you write something about aziraphale and crowley the night after the almost apocalypse? maybe they go back to crowley's flat together? i just need more content and your writing is always perfect

Ooh, anon, I love this, everyone’s take on the missing scene is so valid, but I’m so glad to try my hand on it! Thank you so much, and I hope you love this one too!

The bus ride back to London is quiet and ordinarily uneventful; as if the World itself had exhaled deeply and retreated early after being forcefully faced with imminent destruction and escaping only very narrowly.

That sort of thing really does take a toll on you, Crowley thinks.

It also takes a few more minutes than necessary wandering the streets of London; first towards Aziraphale’s bookshop before Crowley remembers it burned down, then a couple contradicting turns around downtown before Crowley realizes Aziraphale is also doing the persuading but seems to have no idea where Crowley’s flat is or how to go about it on wheels.

Finally, the bus does what it always does when faced with confused passengers that don’t quite know what to do with themselves– it takes them to the nearest hotel, leaving shortly after with half a dozen people still inside wondering why on earth they detoured so.

“Room?” Crowley asks the receptionist hopefully, and she gives them a key without asking for any personal information. She forgets why Room 308 is booked seconds after they slip past her desk.

The silence hangs on steady during the elevator ride; it does try to play its usual cheerful elevator song, but Aziraphale huffs once, reproachfully, and it ceases and desists, properly remorseful, taking them straight to their floor.

It’s only when he’s finally inside the room, staring blankly at the bed and the quaint wallpaper and the tacky curtains that it hits Crowley.

Armageddon came and went, and yet they’re still here.

Freedom is a tangy taste on the tip of his tongue, intoxicating as a good wine, and Crowley feels drunk enough as it is.

“D’you reckon they’ll look for us here?” He says, sitting down heavily in what he refuses to think as his side of the bed. The blankets are a bit rough and a ghastly green color, but Crowley has just seen Satan get told off by an eleven-year-old, so he supposes his worldview can shift enough to allow for a bit of ugly in it.

“No, we bought ourselves a small reprieve, I believe,” Aziraphale answers absently, in that soft voice of his that shouldn’t travel so well in the space between them but does. He stays there, standing by the small desk as if considering the merits of remodeling the whole thing. “For all that it’s worth,” he adds even quieter.

Aziraphale looks tired, unbearably so, and it’s ridiculous how much Crowley wants to reach for him.

It occurs to him then, suddenly and striking, that there’s no reason not to, not from now on; however long that lasts.

“It’s worth enough,” he decides. Somewhere inside his chest, an unnamed emotion unfurls– well, not unnamed so much as ignored, stomped on, and hid snugly between his ribs where he daren’t look. Now, it flutters, and Crowley doesn’t have to breathe but his lungs still ache terribly. “Come on, angel.”

He leaves the invitation intentionally open-ended, lets Aziraphale choose how to interpret it. In his experience, all six thousand years of it, it’s best to let the angel be at his own pace; Crowley may prod and push, but ultimately it’s always Aziraphale that sets the tempo to their dance.

And it would be so easy– he sees the possibilities playing out in Aziraphale’s eyes, laid bare by their shared exhaustion and bubbling nerves from nearly dying mere hours ago.

Aziraphale smiles, a small and quiet thing that illuminates the room. Ineffable, indeed.

It’s a good thing Crowley still has his sunglasses on.

“Should’ve asked for a bigger bed,” is his only comment before taking off his suit jacket, leaving it meticulously folded over a chair. Crowley twitches, coiled tight on his skin, feeling drowsy and wide awake at the same time. “Are you planning on sleeping?”

Crowley considers this. He’s tired, exhausted, really, dead on his feet and his body still smells faintly of smoke and grease. “Yes, possibly until the next century if I could,” he says honestly, following suit and discarding of his jacket and shoes. After a minute of deliberation, the sunglasses go as well. “You?”

“I don’t normally indulge– never quite seen the point, truly– but if there ever was an occasion,” Aziraphale trails off, perhaps realizing there was no need for an apology here, or even an explanation. It had been a simple question, yes or no, and the answer is, perhaps, both a given and not at all, like many things regarding them are. “I do believe a couple hours of rest would do us well.”

The mattress dips, creaking as Aziraphale gets under the ratty covers, and Crowley sighs– the full-body kind, the we nearly died for good and where do we go from here? kind. You see, it’s a very heavy sigh. “I’m assuming we’ll figure out things in the morning, then,” he reminds him, thinking of the displeased, angry snarl in Beelzebub’s face and the incredulous one in Gabriel’s. They’ll be coming for them soon, that’s a given. “Regarding the whole implied doom situation.”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says, almost shushing him, the bastard, and Crowley would have things to say about that, capital letters Things, too, if he hadn’t shifted, hand closing over Crowley’s in that tentative sort of way Aziraphale gets whenever he ventures in taking first steps of any kind, and it all gets jumbled in Crowley’s throat. “We’ll sort it out in the morning. Dawn is only a few hours away.”

Crowley sighs again. It’s as heavy as the first but perhaps a little shakier; his plants would lose all respect for him if they ever heard such a forlorn sound coming from his mouth.

They lapse into an easy silence, warm and familiar, lulling them back from the keyed-up state this whole Apocalypse mess had put them in, only broken when Aziraphale suddenly breaks into giggles. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When you think about it, now that it’s all settled.”

“What’s so funny?” He drawls, wary. This level of childlike glee is too similar to the cheap coin trick to be any sort of good.

“You and me,” Aziraphale says simply, like it’s perfectly obvious, “looking after some… some human child! For eleven years! And for absolutely no reason at all!”

Well, when you put it like that, and when Aziraphale is still giggling quietly into the night, Crowley supposes he can’t be blamed for cracking a smile or two, or snorting into his pillow. There are some things that are too infectious to be resisted– some types of bacteria, black mold, invading species in areas without natural predators, and, specifically in Crowley’s case, one very particular angel’s laughter.

“It was awful,” Crowley agrees, grin still infuriatingly in place, and gives up pretending today’s events haven’t shaken up things in the Arrangement and derivations thereof. His arm wraps around the angel, tugging him to his chest, and Aziraphale goes easily, no complain at all, if anything, he snuggles closer because his ultimate goal is clearly to end Crowley for good. “But it could have been worse, all things considered.”

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” Aziraphale sounds almost wistful, as if he’s reminiscing a time long past and not the blink of an eye for immortals like them. “Then again, it wouldn’t have been half as bearable if it hadn’t been with you.”

The same viciously unnamed feeling from before swells on Crowley’s chest. It cackles, singsonging its name even though Crowley had refused to hear it the other hundreds of times during those 6000 years. It should not be possible for it to exist at all, not in Crowley and not over Aziraphale, and it should not be so light, and good, and true. See, those are not qualities you usually find in a demon.

Still, it grows.

“Go to sleep, angel,” he says, hoarse and too aware of how far from over this whole ordeal is. How it’s too soon to say to hell with it all and skip along to any sort of hopeful ending, to say anything along the lines they’ve been dancing around since the Beginning. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale relents with a final huff, relaxing further against Crowley, their hands remaining tangled, but something in his voice is insufferably knowing. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley agrees, and it sounds an awful lot like I love you.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffableboyfriends #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #crowley x aziraphale #look an ask #good omens tag #ineffable tag

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jentrevellan · 4 years

Text

Believe Again: Chapter Five

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo

MASTERPOST:

A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER->

CHAPTER Five - Elsie

...so I met the Herald of Andraste this morning. She’s already becoming pretty famous around these parts but after meeting her, I was struck by how normal she was. A woman just shy of thirty, and a mage. I watched as she helped drive away the apostates and rogue templars from the Crossroads and I was impressed. Her magic is scary, like all mages, but from the little I know of the art I could see that she had immense control and I felt like I was witnessing something special to see her wield it. I know that contradicts what I said about her being normal. Maybe that’s why people like her already - myself included

- Part of a letter sent by Scout Lace Harding to her mother

5. Elsie

Although horse riding was in her blood and she had been on horseback more in the past year than most of her life put together; Elsie was still desperately out of practice, especially when travelling roads she didn't know with a mare who was almost as stubborn as she was. By the time they had made camp that first evening on their journey, Elsie was no closer to getting on with her horse who had the most ridiculous name of Buttercup. Normally such a name would not offend her, but Buttercup was so unlike her namesake in both looks and temperament that Elsie couldn’t help but resent it.

Perhaps she was projecting her bubbling anger unknowingly on the poor mare. For most of the day, Elsie’s thoughts had been consumed with that of Commander Cullen. Cold, calculated, emotionless ex-templar, she thought bitterly as she set up her tent by a stream with the others.

“I think I’m going to pitch my tent away from the Herald,” Varric said with a wink. “She looks like she’s about to set something on fire, and I’m rather fond of my chest hair.”

Elsie rolled her eyes but managed a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

“Brooding?” Varric interjected.

She frowned at him. “I wasn’t brooding,” she muttered.

Varric laughed. “Believe me Dimples, I know brooding when I see it. I learnt from the expert also known as Fenris.”

Elsie didn’t reply and continued to pitch her tent in silence but tried to act more calmly. She was annoyed with the Commander and frustrated about how they had left things: she would much rather resolve the conflict upfront than sit and stew, which she had done for most of the day. Also, considering he had stayed in Haven, his obvious resentment towards her would no doubt be exacerbated by her absence, especially as she was not there to defend herself.

She heaved a sigh and instead turned back to Varric who was now reclining on a blanket outside of his tent.

“You’re from Kirkwall, right Varric?” she asked slowly, taking a seat on a log near him.

“Well if that’s not a loaded question, I don’t know what is,” he chuckled. “Out with it Dimples - you know I’m from Kirkwall...for better or worse.”

Elsie spread her hands as she searched for the right words. “Alright - Commander Cullen was from Kirkwall too, yes? Did you know him? Was he part of the mage uprising?”

Varric looked at her closely before shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll tell you Herald… but you’re not going to like it.”

The ride the next day was even more subdued as Elsie mulled over everything Varric had told her. Oh, like many apostates she had read his ‘Tales of the Champion’, whilst on the run, with the desire to know more about the mage couple who had started the rebellion. Her sister Evelyn had even been stationed at the Gallows before the trouble really started and had once mentioned in passing that she had met the Champion. Not for the first time, Elsie wished she could speak to her sister again, to ask her if she knew Cullen - surely their paths would’ve crossed on occasion, especially if he had been a commanding officer? She made a mental note to ask him about Evelyn once they were on better speaking terms… if that were to happen.

“So the Commander of the Inquisition just… turned a blind eye? Let things escalate and did nothing?” Elsie asked Varric that following evening.

Varric blinked at the sudden change in subject but recovered quickly. “I suppose that’s something you would need to ask him yourself. But he stood up against Meredith with us in the end.”

“In the end,” Elsie repeated slowly. “Some of what I’ve heard from mages who escaped the Gallows-”

“Are exaggerations, no doubt,” Cassandra interrupted, walking past them on her way to her tent. She looked down at them, her hands on her hips. “None of us were truly there in the Gallows or in the ranks. A Templar doesn’t question orders - that’s what makes them excellent soldiers.”

“But people died because he chose to look the other way!” Elsie replied heatedly, getting to her feet. She had been sitting and stewing on this fact for most of the day, and could feel her hands shaking.

“I think he knows that, Dimples,” Varric said quietly.

“Indeed,” Cassandra continued. “What matters now is that he made the right choices and was invaluable with the relief efforts in Kirkwall. That’s what I saw when I sought to recruit him - a brilliant soldier and swordsman, unafraid to admit he was wrong and more than willing to atone.” With that, Cassandra retreated into her tent without another word.

Varric and Elsie lapsed into a companionable silence, and the dwarf plucked at his crossbow idly whilst staring into the campfire, his mind obviously back in Kirkwall or someplace. Elsie thought over Cassandra’s words and offered a small smile to Solas who sat down opposite her and pulled out a book. She watched the elf set his staff down carefully on the ground by his feet and flick open a couple of pages before finding his place where he had left off. A prickle of magic she was now becoming familiar with and Elsie knew that Solas had just returned from setting wards around their little camp. She felt his soft magic flow silently around them and that’s when she remembered something that she had been sitting on since her talk with Varricc the previous evening.

She peered over her shoulder at Cassandra’s tent before leaning in closer to Varric, her voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already have, but I guess you have another question?” he grinned, and Elsie gave him a gentle swat on the arm in response.

“Just something you said about Commander Cullen yesterday that’s been on my mind… does he really not see mages as people?” her mouth felt dry as she asked and Solas looked up from the book he was reading.

Varric’s good and contemplative mood evaporated and he looked down at his feet, rubbing his chin as he decided how to answer.

“You don’t forget something like that,” he admitted slowly. “But Curly has changed an awful lot since then; you would have to ask him yourself.”

Elsie rolled her eyes. “Sure, because we are such good friends.”

“Perhaps we need to give Cullen the benefit of the doubt,” Solas said, ever calm. “It’s the least we can do if we don’t want him to judge us as much as we are apparently judging him.”

She noted the quiet rebuke but didn’t comment on it. “I just feel like he’s watching us all the time - like when we were training before we left Haven.”

“With all due respect Elsie, it wasn’t me he was staring at,” Solas said, a wry smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

“Oh really?” Varric said eagerly, threading his fingers together. “Do tell me more. Would you say he was ‘enraptured’? Besotted?”

Heat coursed through Elsie. “Really Varric,” she shook her head.

Varric ignored her. “Is the Commander Templar pining for the Herald mage I wonder? Opposites do attract after all.”

Elsie crossed her arms and regarded him coolly, hoping her warm cheeks didn’t give her away. “The journey must be making you weary for you are delusional,” she said calmly, although her gut twisted at the thought of him watching her as a person, as a woman, and not because she was a mage. “Besides, I don’t think the Commander could manage friendship with a mage, let alone be intimate with one.”

“Who said anything about intimacy?” Varric grinned, and Elsie wanted to put her fist in her mouth. She looked over at Solas for some support but the elf was smiling down at his book, refusing to meet her eye.

“Come now Dimples! Curly isn’t exactly hard on the eyes now, is he?”

He’s right about that , she admitted silently, thinking of his strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones.

“Don’t forget the thrill of a forbidden romance,” the dwarf continued.

“What are you, a smutty romance writer?” she said, playing close attention to her gloves.

“I have been known to dabble.”

“Maker’s balls,” she swore. “If you are quite finished, I’m going to bed before you say any more ridiculous nonsense and start naming children or some other hogwash,” she said, waving a hand.

“That’s some pretty strong denial there,” Solas smiled.

Elsie glared at him. “Traitor,” she mumbled, hiding a smile as she got to her feet. “This conversation is over. Goodnight!”

She strode to her tent, the sounds of the elf and the dwarf’s laughter following her. “Have pleasant dreams of Curly!” Varric called after her.

Oh, how she wished she could slam a tent flap shut.

Needless to say, Elsie took a few moments to collect herself, although the taunting words of Varric and Solas rang in her ears. Cullen was a troubled, complicated man with a dark past and perhaps she had given him too little credit. And yet, as Elsie undressed and slipped into a simple nightdress, her hands lingered on her collarbone and her waist and she wondered what it would feel like if his breath tickled her neck and if it were his hands on her instead of her own -

Abruptly, she snatched her hands away, as if scolded. Maker, am I that desperate for comfort? So eager for the touch of another person that she would fantasise about a man she barely knew and antagonised her so? Stupid handsome Commander , she thought. It was his fault being - as Varric had said - not so bad on the eyes. She wasn’t sure if that made her dislike him more or less.

Despite her self-scolding, Elsie did dream of the Commander and as was typical of the Fade, it distorted the reality. She saw him as a Templar in Ostwick, walking the hallways she had known so well for many years. And in her dreams he was softer but strong, and pressed her quietly up against the library shelves, tucked away in secret corners, giving in to temptation.

A cold dip in the river the following morning chased all heated thoughts away, and as their journey continued, she sobered greatly as they faced demons and closed a rift which had already taken the lives of a small farming family. The next few days were much the same, which gave the small group a chance to practice working and fighting together. As they finally descended into the Hinterlands proper, Elsie was too full of simple wonder admiring the luscious green landscape to even complain about her saddle sores. The tall trees, the long grass and the tame fennecs were enough to calm her soul and soon all confusing thoughts of the Commander of the Inquisition had fled her mind.

The beauty of the landscape was a sharp contrast to the bloodshed they soon encountered.

The Crossroads were a mess. They left their horses to recover at the forward camp with Scout Harding and descended into the valley on foot. As the screams and shouts became louder, Elsie exchanged a worried glance with Cassandra, who nodded grimly and drew her sword. They rounded the corner and saw the scuffle between Inquisition soldiers, Templars and mages; so the foursome prepared themselves as they had practiced: Solas set a ward over them all, Varric slung Bianca from over his shoulder and Cassandra braced in a warrior pose whilst flames licked Elsie’s fingers.

Despite their plans to not fight them, both the Templars and apostates refused to listen. Elsie wrapped her flames around a Templar who boiled in his metal armour screaming in agony. She then felt a dreaded tingle of blood magic from behind her and spun on her heel, twirled her staff and shot a fireball at an apostate before they could finish summoning a demon. Their robes were set alight and the blood mage screamed in both pain and frustration as she summoned an ice cloud over her to douse the flames. However, she was too slow as Cassandra skidded on her knees past Elsie and lunged upwards with her sword to dig her weapon into the mage’s gut.

She spluttered blood from her mouth, her eyes wide, before she grinned sadistically at Cassandra. In a pool of blood and magic, the mage transformed into a hideous abomination and Elsie shuddered involuntarily as it screeched at them. It swung its huge, unnatural arms down at Cassandra, who quickly blocked with her shield, but she was too slow, and the abomination ripped it away from her arm, causing the Seeker to cry out in pain with what Elsie quickly summarised was likely a broken wrist.

Instinct took over and Elsie summoned fire to wrap around the abomination as she ran forward and reached behind her back to grab her dagger. As her flames distracted the creature, she lunged up with her sharp blade and slashed its throat. It screeched in agony, but the cut wasn’t deep enough to be fatal. Elsie spun on her heel and swung her staff over her head, which was alight and burning with her magic. She went to strike again, aiming her dagger for the gut this time, but the abomination reached down and grabbed Elsie by the throat, dragging her off her feet. She dropped her dagger from her left hand and her staff from her right, and both fell to the cobbled ground with a clatter. She clawed desperately at the creature’s grossly malformed hands that were squeezing her throat, but her vision began to blur, even when the abomination leaned closer and whispered, with rotted breath ‘traitor’.

Elsie almost stopped struggling as she processed the word it had uttered. Fear groped her and she tried to gulp for air but its grip was strong -

Shuck.

She fell to the ground, suddenly free and sucked in as much air as she could with large, rasping gasps. Confused, she pulled herself to her feet and peered over at the now still abomination. A crossbow bolt was embedded between its rolled, bloodshot eyes. She turned to see Varric give her a quick wink before he turned and helped Solas with the final stragglers.

Cassandra stood leaning against a fence post, cradling her arm. “It’s over,” she said, looking around them.

Elsie nodded, unable to summon her voice. She looked around and saw body after fallen body litter the ground. Almost all the deceased were rogue templars or apostates and yet she did not feel particularly relieved about that fact. She didn’t really feel much of anything and went over to heal Cassandra’s wrist with a flick of magic she barely had to think about.

Traitor

Rubbing her neck sore neck and shrugging off Cassandra’s thanks, Elsie walked between the bodies as Inquisition soldiers began to sort and pile them up. Cassandra and Varric followed her every move like her shadow, but Solas remained apart and went to help with the physicians and offer his healing magic. Elsie knew she needed to join him and offer her limited skill of healing, but for her at that moment, it was important for her to look down on the faces of the people who had died - the people she had killed. Faces of men and women, elves and people passed her by, but the body of a blonde elven mage in tattered Circle robes gave her pause. The elf’s eyes were open, her green gaze staring at nothingness. She had no markings on her face, save for the bruises and blood from the skirmish and her ashen hair was clumps of blood tangled in it. She had one lone earring in her right ear and the metal was worn, as if regularly rubbed. Elsie wondered if it had been given to her by her mother, or a friend or a lover?

“It is war,” Varric mumbled from beside her, as Elsie let out a ragged breath. She reached forward and closed the elf’s eyes, her skin already cold.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she replied bitterly. How many did I kill today? She thought. How many fellow mages? How many of my sister’s comrades?

“Herald,” Cassandra said, crossing her arms. “Elsie?” she said quietly when Elsie looked up at her. “We should report to Corporal Vale-”

“No, not yet,” Elsie said, regaining her composure and turning her back on the dead elf. “I need to help heal the wounded and speak to Mother Giselle. The rest can wait.”

“But-”

Elsie strode on past the Seeker and headed towards Solas who was crouched by a row of stretchers. “By all mean go and see the Corporal - but I’ve got work to be getting on with,” and with that, Elsie knelt down next to Solas and downed a lyrium potion before setting her hands on a soldier’s thigh and applying pressure.

Three days after the skirmish, Elsie had spoken to Mother Giselle, but she had still not left the Crossroads, much to Cassandra’s agitation. The injured were many and everyday more came in the hopes of being seen by a healer or someone who could help them. Broken families and quiet children became a common sight to Elsie as she helped heal those in the greatest of need.

It was on the fifth day that Cassandra finally dared to approach her directly. They had not spoken to one another since Elsie’s cool dismissal and she had barely spared a thought for the Seeker - Elsie’s primary concern was helping those in need and she said as much to Cassandra when they spoke as Elsie finished wrapping a bandage around a young man’s arm.

“I spoke to Mother Giselle before she left for Haven,” Cassandra said levelly, watching Elsie work.

“Did you indeed,” she replied, not looking up from her task as her fingers worked deftly to complete the dressing.

“Yes and she said she spoke to you about appealing to the Chantry directly in Val Royeaux-”

“And I will,” Elsie interrupted, tying a knot, and tugging on it to test the strength. “But I cannot even think about journeying to Orlais when my work here is not finished.”

Cassandra frowned and crossed her arms. She was silent for a moment as she considered her next words. “You are needed elsewhere, Herald. We must return to Haven at once to plan with the others about how we approach the Chantry in Val Royeaux!”

Elsie remained silent as she checked her handiwork and smiled at the soldier. “How does that feel?”

The young man nodded gratefully. “Much better, thank you, Your Worship.”

She got to her feet and wiped her hands on a cloth. “You’re welcome. Now, make sure you rest and you’ll be back swinging a sword in no time.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes.

Elsie walked into the main cabin and approached the desk where she made a note on the patient’s care on a ledger. She idly rubbed her neck as she wrote, as the bruising there was still painful and was turning a grotesque shade of purple. Cassandra followed her and waited as patiently as she could, which Elsie knew she was pushing. Finally, she turned to the Seeker.

“I’ve spoken to Corporal Vale - there is much work to be done here: much more than healing these people.”

Cassandra bristled. “So let the healers and physicians take over and let us return to-”

“No, I cannot,” Elsie said sharply, cutting Cassandra off. “Whilst the healers can now cope with the wounded here, what about outside of this valley? Cassandra, the King’s Road is not safe for these people to leave and return to their homes. We need to stop the Templars and apostates, not to mention the raiders and mercenaries, otherwise our leaving would just undo all of the work done thus far and endanger the lives of those we have already saved!” she exclaimed. Her voice had risen unintentionally and a few patients in the beds around them looked over at them both curiously. Closing her eyes, Elsie took a breath before continuing more calmly. “Don’t you see? If we alleviate the threat in the Hinterlands, word will spread of the good and sustainable work the Inquisition is doing - which will hole more sway and influence when we eventually do go to Val Royeaux.” Elsie’s hand’s shook, so she clasped them together, hoping the Seeker had not noticed. “And I know it must be me that helps - you must’ve read the reports from Vale: there are rifts all over the Hinterlands only I can close.”

The two women stared each other down for a moment until Cassandra finally spoke begrudgingly. “It seems you’ve thought a great deal about this.”

Elsie shrugged. “It helps to think and keep the mind busy when you’re wrapping bandages and the like,” she replied, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Cassandra signed and conceded. “Very well. Your theory is sound, even though I don’t fully agree. I know for sure the others back at Haven won’t approve either.”

Elsie smiled faintly. “Well I am sure they will cope,” she said dryly, just knowing the reports the Commander would receive about her stubbornness to cooperate to his orders would drive him mad. “In any case, I will write to them - personally - to explain our plans.”

“That would be helpful, I suppose.”

“Excellent,” Elsie grinned, rubbing her hands together. “Now, will you help me give these poor folk some lunch?”

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

#Believe Again #Fic: Believe Again #my writing #writing #long post #fanfic #fanfiction #cullen #cullen rutherford #elsie trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #cullen romance #cullen stanton rutherford

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sserpente · 6 years

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A/N: Request from anon. Yes. I kept some.

Words: 1891 Warnings: smut, slight dub-con

When you told your family you would move out to accept the job you had been offered just recently, they had shaken their heads in disbelief. Arkham Asylum. It wasn’t exactly the place the most skilled nurses with the highest education possible ended up but at least, they paid well. Your salary was twice as high and your colleagues were mostly friendly.

There was only… this… constant depression hovering in the air like poisonous gas—you couldn’t blame anyone for that. Working in a place that locked away homicidal lunatics with a criminal record longer than a child’s wish list for Santa did things to your mind on the long term.

A vacation was overdue, especially for you. Unfortunately, however, this week, routine examinations were overdue as well. Even if mostly, the prisoners of Arkham Asylum got treated like laboratory experiments rather than actual human beings who had simply made the wrong choices, the government made sure to have their health checked semi-annually; and given you were, as of now, the only female nurse licensed to undertake gynaecological exams, it was up to you to check on every female prisoner there was—with none other than Harley Quinn leading the way.

You swallowed thickly when the male guard rolled her in on the chair she had been restrained to, her face lighting up with utter amusement upon seeing you.

“You’re new here. Welcome to the circus.” She grinned smugly. Your blinking was your only response.

“Alright, I’m assuming you know the drill. This medical exam is just a precaution.” You started, pretending to be all but unaffected by her playfulness. The guard was still blocking the door, his legs spread a little as he held the heavy gun in his hands.

“You can leave now.” You said, the tone in your voice allowing no contradiction as you nodded to underline your words. He was here for your safety rather than Harley’s, however, you would be doing things a little different from how your predecessor had done them. First off—no men during a gynaecological exam, if anything to make her feel more comfortable. She might be a criminal but you were not going to go against human rights, after all.

“Are you sure? She’s crazy.”

Her eerie grin proved his points as she attempted to move her head to stick her tongue out. “Uuuuuh,” she mused. “The lady wants some alone time with me. Are you jealous?”

“I am sure. Wait outside. I will call you if there’s any problems.”

Hesitating, the guard nodded and then obliged. The door fell shut with a thump. Only after you heard the lock click, you moved to remove her restraints.

“I’m Doctor (Y/L/N) but you can call me (Y/N). As I said, this exam is just a precaution. I won’t do anything you are uncomfortable with.”

Harley’s grin grew even wider as if some kind of devilish plan formed in her mind. It was hard not to feel insecure about her strange behaviour.

“Whatever you say, Doctor (Y/N).”

You tilted your head.

“First off, I am going to examine your breasts. Checking if there are any lumps or anything else abnormal... Can you take your top off?”

Harley sighed. “Sure,”

She wore no bra, of course. They took it away from her after she had attacked one of the guards with one of the metal pieces inside.

Looking straight into her blue eyes, you took a step forward as if to ask for permission. When she didn’t react, you slowly brought your hands up to palpate her breasts one at a time. They were gorgeous. Beautifully shaped with round and perky nipples inviting anyone who took a glimpse to suck on them… they felt absolutely amazing when you squeezed them a little.

“You’re enjoying this so much, am I right?” Harley giggled, causing you to roll your eyes. She cannot read minds, calm down. You had had a lot of patients who were both charming and sexy. You could deal with this.

“It’s my profession, Doctor Quinzel.” Calling her by her real name calmed you a little. It reassured you she was a normal woman who had lost her mind.

“Call me Harley, pumpkin. You’re literally touching my boobs right now.”

She had a point there.

“Does anything hurt you here?” You asked, looking up to meet her blue eyes once more. Harley shook her head like a cheerful child.

“Alright, then please remove your underwear, sit down on the chair and put your legs on the knee rests.”

Turning your back to her rather reluctantly to prepare the lube, she surprisingly did as she was told. Stripping completely naked, climbing on the gynaecological chair and wiggling her pretty toes until you returned.

Only when you finally sat down in front of her and began examining her vulva, you realised you wouldn’t need any lube after all. Harley was soaking wet and apparently, in a very playful mood to act on it. The way she was biting her lower lip made your heart beat faster, yet you only cleared your throat and slowly brought your fingers to her vagina.

“Do you experience any irritation, redness or discharge beyond the normal?”

“Nope. I’m all good.”

At least, you wouldn’t have to ask about her sexual habits. Here in Arkham Asylum, what came closest to a sexual experience was when she was allowed to take a shower.

Nodding, you inserted two fingers into her wetness and rested your other hand on her abdomen to palpate her once more. Just a routine examination, you reminded yourself.

“I betcha doing this turns you on.” You suddenly heard her say, wiggling her eyebrows in the process.

“Again, it is my profession, Harley.”

The crazy woman shrugged.

“Does anything hurt?” You asked then, applying a little bit more pressure.

“Nope. Not there.”

“Not there?”

“Go a little higher.”

Frowning, you did as you were told.

“A little higher…” She dragged on her words like chewing gum and when you finally reached her desired destination, she moaned.

That clever girl had tricked you. Harley arched her back when you grazed her g-spot.

“Yes, right there, pumpkin!”

“Harley! This is a medical exam! Stop this nonsense.”

Giggling, she started biting her fingertips and bucked her hips when you attempted to remove your fingers from her to get the metal speculum.

“I used to be a psychologist, Doctor (Y/N). That look in your eyes is so obvious. You want me. I can tell.” She mused in a seductive voice.

“Can you?” You replied, unbelieving. “Harley, I am your nurse. I am here to make sure your body is all sound, nothing more and nothing less.”

It was exactly what you were trying to convince yourself of. She was right. You did want her. The way she was gushing around your fingers made your own pussy soaking your panties. You longed to take off those gloves and palpate her without any rubber drowning the sensation.

“And nooooow you’re trying to convince yourself.” Your heart skipped a beat. She might be crazy but she was right, she did use to be a psychologist.

“Harley… regardless of what I do or don’t want, anything between us beyond this medical exam would be illegal. So if you please let me do my job.” You mentally patted your shoulder. That was a persuasive response.

Harley, however, only smirked again.

“Are there any cameras in this room?”

“No. This is a confidential medical exam, there is no—“

You were rudely interrupted when she suddenly yanked you forward and pressed her soft lips against yours, wasting no time in capturing them in a passionate kiss. Her tongue darted out to push into your mouth, playing with yours in a dominant manner while simultaneously, her hands travelled underneath your shirt to caress your stomach and after she had successfully pushed your bra out of the way, she began groping and kneading your breasts. With every single touch, you melted against her.

This is wrong. She is your patient!

Harley giggled when she pulled away to let you catch your breath, grabbing your hand to place it on her wet pussy again.

“Finish what you started, pumpkin!” She growled against your lips as a devilish grin spread on them. You didn’t object this time.

Quickly, you got rid of those stupid gloves and tossed them to the ground, a moan escaping your lips when your fingers connected with her moist warmth. Her pussy was perfect—and you instantly stroked over it a few times in joyful anticipation before seeking out her clit and massaging it rhythmically with your thumb, two of your fingers once more disappearing in her core.

Your whole body was on fire, the arousal rushing through you like adrenaline. Harley leaned back again, her hands playing with her hardened nipples as she watched you playing with her.

One advantage of being a trained nurse licensed to do gynaecological exams was knowing exactly how to make a woman cum quickly. Again and again, you curled your fingers to massage her g-spot, your thumb never ceasing to flick and circle her clit.

Harley’s toes curled. She was whimpering by the time you felt her tightening around your fingers and then, with a loud scream that possibly alerted the guard just outside the door, she came.

Panting hungrily, you watched her riding out her orgasm, her juices wetting your hands as she kept contracting around you, sighing contently when she relaxed again.

“Is everything alright in there?” The guard. Your blood ran cold.

“Yes! It’s fine, no worries!” You shouted, your voice shaking a little.

Harley only grinned.

“Let’s swap, watcha think?”

“Harley…”

“C’mon, pumpkin...” You sucked in air when she bit her lower lip again, climbing off the chair entirely naked only to practically push you against it. She placed your legs on the knee rests, wasted no time in tearing off your pants and panties and then noticed with smug satisfaction that you were wet for her.

“Such a pretty little pussy…” You suppressed a blissful moan.

Only Harley decided not to use her fingers. Instead, after examining your most intimate parts with her hands for a while, she suddenly knelt down and licked over your slit to lap up your juices, the vibrations of her moans sending jolts of electricity right to your clit.

Eagerly, she started eating you out, nipping, biting and licking over your flesh until you buried your fingernails in the soft leather of the gynaecological chair.

You were sure to lose your mind when she wrapped her lips around your clit, sucking on it until you saw stars. She certainly knew how to send a woman flying too. You came with a high-pitched scream, contracting and gushing against her skilled lips and tongue until you were completely spent.

A knock on the metal door startled you.

“How much longer is it gonna take? I’m supposed to take her back to her cell in five minutes.”

Harley stuck her tongue at you, winking as she did.

“We’re almost done. Tell the boss we will need another appointment tomorrow though.” You shouted, sliding off the chair when Harley giggled again at your little white lie.

“What, seriously?”

Well, there was going to be another appointment—only not the way the guard outside this very door thought…

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, would you care to support me by buying me a cuppa? I would appreciate it so much! ko-fi.com/sserpente

#harley quinn #harley quinn imagine #harley quinn smut #harley quinn x you #harley quinn x reader #margot robbie #dc #dc imagine #suicide squad #suicide squad imagine #suicide squad smut #harleen quinzel #arkham asylum

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hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger · 6 years

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I got some things to say about Child Within and Death of Vermin

Back when ASM v5 #2 got released I had problems with how Peter and the Lizard were characterized, specifically due to the shadow of Shed and it’s infanticide cannibalism. To dive deeper I looked at the Child Within and Death of Vermin story arcs by DeMatteis. My thinking was we are discussing Spider-Man’s reactions to a character who was a man mutated into an animal hybrid who engaged in cannibalism and well, there was already a precedent for that in Vermin.

However in diving into the stories there were other things I wanted to say about the stories more generally.

The big thing I should qualify is that these are good storylines but those come with certain qualifyers.

They are not badly written on a craftsmanship level per se but that is dependent upon whether you look at the stories in isolation vs. within the broader context of Spider-Man’s history or from the which particular character’s perspective.

The thing is DeMatteis who authored both stories (as well as KLH which Child Within is a pseudo sequel to) created Vermin and he was plainly an author’s pet character. I dunno from where DeMatteis’ affection for Vermin comes from but it’s plainly obvious from KLH, Child Within, Death of Vermin and his Captain America run from which Vermin originated.

And that’s the big deal when it comes to Death of Vermin. The Death of Vermin is kind of a Vermin and Ashley Kafka story first and a Spider-Man story second. It isn’t that Spider-Man doesn’t appear, or is passive within the story or unimportant. Its more like it’s not his story, it’s Vermin’s and Ashley Kafka’s. Whilst DeMatteis’ later invention of Judas Traveller was an example of an author indulging themselves most of the Traveller stories still were rooted in their focus upon Peter and/or Ben Reilly’s characters and used Traveller as an opponent or plot device for exploration of said characters. Death of Vermin provides a weird reversal wherein it is better written than...well every scene Traveller showed up in, possibly better written than every story featuring Traveller (except stories where he appears only briefly, e.g. ASM #400). And yet it places the majority of focus upon characters other than Spider-Man himself.

In truth the story could be regarded more as a wrap up arc for Captain America than a Spider-Man story, but even that’d not be wholly accurate. There is greater resonance offered to Spider-Man’s presence via his connection to Ashley Kafka via Child Within and to Vermin via Kraven’s Last Hunt. However Cap could’ve arguably had resonance with Vermin too from his interactions with him and of course Zemo’s presence in the arc makes much more sense if this was Captain America.

Possibly the solution would’ve been if Death of Vermin was a mini-series/crossover that featured both heroes. But in truth either way it just underscores the fact that this wasn’t truly Spider-Man’s story, nor Cap’s. It was Zemo’s (a non-Spider-Man character), Ashley Kafka’s (a then very new addition to Spidey’s word) and most of all Vermin’s (a Captain America character then recently adopted into Spider-Man).

So in truth Death of Vermin was...a DeMatteis pet project arc.

And hey if you like Kafka, if you like Vermin, if you like Zemo and if you liked Dematteis Cap run then this is for you. Problem is apart from those last two I don’t think the audience for those first two was big enough or enthusiastic enough to warrant a story like this. More poignantly if you are telling a multi-part story arc within the pages of a main monthly Spider-Man title...shouldn’t Spider-Man himself be the main point? Shouldn’t aiming it for an audience who first and foremost want to see Spider-Man and important/notable Spider-Man characters get focus be the point?

All this in spite of the story again not being bad per se. It’s more that it’s bad from a certain point of view. But that point of view is from the pov of a Spider-Man fan/reader wanting to read about Spider-Man in a Spider-Man title.

That being said this was just one arc and at the time there were after all 3 other monthly Spider-Man titles to choose from. Perhaps the mentality at the time was that there was space to do more different stuff. If you didn’t want to read a story arc where Vermin and/or Ashley Kafka to all intents and purposes are the main characters and would rather read a story where it was in fact Spider-Man then you had the chance to do that every three weeks before or after the publication of any given part of Death of Vermin.

If you do feel it’s bad though or at least overly indulgent of DeMatteis remember that even the best writers make mistakes or are prone to that from time to time. Unlike with Slott DeMatteis didn’t do that stuff routinely, Vermin, Scrier and Judas Traveller were basically it. And for Ashley Kafka specifically it did add a lot of character development to her to be fair, character development pissed away by Slott when he killed her off.

Moving on we have Child Within.

Again...an incredibly mixed bag.

There are two major retcons to Child Within and one works great the other not so great.

The gist of Child Within is that DeMatteis compares and contrasts Peter, Harry Osborn and Vermin in terms of them coming face-to-face with traumatic childhood memories they’ve been repressing.

For Vermin this is the realization that he was sexually abused by his father. This is another example of DeMatteis wanting to develop Vermin because he loves the character but in context of the story it works as effectively as the ways in which Kraven and Peter and Mary Jane are contrasted against one another along with Vermin in KLH.

For Harry, he realizes that his father was physically and verbally abusive towards him, even before he got the Goblin formula. Additionally Harry remembers Peter’s identity as Spider-Man and comes to grips with the fact that his father killed his friend Gwen Stacy.

For Peter he realizes that he’s always had a guilt complex even pre-dating Uncle Ben’s death stemming from the internalized blame and guilt he felt over his parents’ deaths. I also suspect this story choice was connected to the soon to be published return of Peter’s parents in ASM #365.

It is Harry and Peter’s revelations that are specifically retcons.

Ironically both (more or less) date back to the same moment from the same issue: ASM #39 (the first Romita Senior issue and reveal of Norman as the Goblin). In that issue Peter and Harry bond over their childhoods, with Harry telling Peter he and his father were pals up until a few years ago (the subtext being that his Dad changed due to the Goblin formula). Peter for his part claims he doesn’t even remember his father since he died when he was too young to remember.

Later stories would further explore Peter’s childhood with varying levels of contradictions. Half the time (such as when Howard Mackie or Paul Jenkins were writing the series) it seemed Peter was a young boy in the 4-7 age range when his parents died and he came to live with Ben and May. The other half the time Peter was a baby or a toddler when that happened.

Confusing matters more is the fact that even the stories that put Peter in roughly the same age range don’t jive with one another. Roberto Aguirre Sacasa and Stan Lee both wrote stories depicting Peter as a baby or a toddler but whilst Lee claimed that the Parkers died whilst Peter was in May and Ben’s care (prompting them to continue that as his guardians), Sacasa depicts them as picking Peter up from somewhere after the fact and resolving to raise him. Yet other writers (like Michelinie) depict Peter as not remembering his parents yet still apparently knowing certain details of his life with them.

As far as canon goes though I think it only really makes sense to side with Stan on this one. He established Peter as not remembering his parents in ASM #39 and his account of Peter’s early years from ASM Annual #5 was the first such account and jives with issue #39. Plus you know...he created Spider-Man.

DeMatteis’ retcons in Child Within thus contradict both peter and Harry’s established childhoods but whilst Harry’s is workable and enriching, Peter’s is nonsensical and reductive. DeMatteis is a superb writer and Spider-Scribe but like I said, nobody’s perfect. Even Stan and Steve had the odd faux pas with the characters.

With Harry Child Within was the start of DeMatteis’ character arc for him which would culminate in Spec #200, with the issue and arc over all regarded as the best Harry centric story of all time, and one of the best Spidey stories of all time to boot. The storyline developed Harry beautifully as a character, making him a complex yet sympathetic villain.

At the same time it’s contradictions to ASM #39 and what we thought we knew of Harry made sense. He was repressing all this stuff so of course there would be contradictions. More poignantly ASM #40 depicted flashbacks wherein Norman himself is clearly out of touch with the reality of his past relationship with his son and the picture they paint doesn’t exactly showcase Harry and Norman as pals either.

So there was already something of a precedent for Harry or the Osborns in general having major memory problems, drugs, goblin formulas or blows to the head or not.

And you know thematically this worked really well for Harry. Painting him as this messed up helped explain his outings prior to that as a villain, his initial antagonism towards Peter, his drug abuses and his devotion to his father and even his own family. After all he was a devoted father to his own son Normie. Could he perhaps have been seeking subconsciously a more positive relationship with his own son than he had with his father (a father who his son was named for)?

If you take Child Within in isolation the retcons to Peter’s own past and how Harry was key to awakening them work really beautifully in symmetry and contrast with Harry. These two friends inadvertently unearthed painful childhood memories connected to their parents which had subconsciously shaped them into who they were today. And in awakening those memories it had set them on a path towards their futures to. In Peter’s case it was a form of closure, or at least the start of a healing process wherein he could walk forwards in life more whole than he was before, more able to be a god family man. In Harry’s case it started him on a road to madness as self destruction that would scar his family. This is of course summed up in the closing pages of part 6 wherein we get complimenting splash pages of Peter brightly and triumphantly swinging away from his parents’ graves whilst Harry scared and sad flies away from his living wife and child.

Great writing. Beautiful writing.

In isolation.

The problems then arise when you put the story within the wider context of Spider-Man’s established history, the defining themes of the character and the genre considerations for a superhero series like Spider-Man.

See it is theoretically possible for Peter to have blamed himself for his parents’ deaths and then repressed that blame creating the examples of guilt we’d seen for 30 odd years by that point.

If he was old enough.

But as I said ASM #39 established Peter didn’t remember his parents because he was too young and the very next elaboration upon that we see is in ASM Annual #5 where Peter is at a humungous push maybe 3 years old tops. Both written by the same person before anyone else says anything about Peter’s early years and that same person happens to be the co-creator of Spider-Man himself.

At which point you have to say “This makes no sense, of course he wouldn’t blame himself he wouldn’t be old enough for that to have happened.”

In fact in Spec #254, DeMatteis does another psychedelic story in which Peter symbolically revisits the moment Uncle Ben informed him of his parents’ deaths and in said scene Peter is in a crib, which again would render him too young to remember his parents.

Spec #254

You could always explain this one away as a glorified dream sequence but it’s food for thought.

There is an even more pressing problem with the retcon though.

The retcon clearly leans hard upon the interpretation that Spider-Man is defined by guilt. That in fact guilt is the root of his motivations to be a hero. This story goes further as to essentially say up until now Peter has essentially been a hero due to...well....not getting enough therapy over the years.

Child Within inadvertently codifies that Spider-Man is Spider-Man not because Uncle Ben died so much as because Spider-Man has if not a mental illness then very serious unresolved childhood issues which have unhealthily manifested in his internalizing blame and guilt and alleviating those feelings by...risking his life all the time...

...er...can you see how this is something of a problem within the big picture of the series?

This isn’t saying Spider-Man is a hero in spite of some serious condition he has or he is able to take the unfortunate circumstances of an illness and use it to propel him into something positive.

This story essentially (though perhaps unintentionally) spelled out that Peter has been suffering with something very serious for the entire time we’ve known him and that is the actual reason he is a superhero. The idea being that if Peter was to treat this, was to make himself well or had been well the entire time he WOULDN’T have been a hero in the first place. Because he’d have lost the root of the thing that compelled him to be Spider-Man in the first place.

I adore DeMatteis but in this respect Child Within can be seen as his most reductive Spider-Man story.

This retcon invalidates/undermines Uncle Ben’s death and Spider-Man’s actual origin story and the central message of great power=great responsibility.

It presumes Spider-Man’s sense of responsibility is interchangeable with or stems from a inherent sense of guilt when this is just plain not the case and goes against the ‘rules’ of the superhero genre. Or at least the rules as they apply to a character like Spider-Man.

Spidey is supposed to be an everyman, someone to relate to and be inspired by. In this sense codifying his motivation and central message as one about learning to use the powers you have responsibility to help others makes sense and is powerful and resonant. When it’s actually nothing more than the by-product of a serious personal issue that he’s unhealthily left unresolved you seriously mess with the foundation and heart of the character.

It is the same kind of nonsense which presupposes Batman must be insane and traumatized and have unresolved issues to go about being a crime fighter in a bat costume, as opposed to someone who went through something bad and used his pain to safeguard innocent people from the source of that pain, using his costume as a (highly effective) battle tactic.

To be honest I think this change to Spider-Man’s early years and driving emotions came from again a place of indulgence on DeMatteis’ part. I have spoken at length about how Slott indulged himself so much during his run so I want to make it clear I don’t mean DeMatteis indulged himself in that sort of way.

Rather I think he was maybe putting a lot of himself or people he knew or stories he’d encountered which struck deep within him into Peter’s backstory as seen in Child Within. It was a sincere attempt to develop the character and dive into who he is and why, he just came at it from an ill considered and problematic angle.

Moreover the story talks at length about needing to admit to and deal with these repressed childhood memories and get help to cope with them.

But then...DeMatteis doesn’t depict Spider-Man doing that. There is no ongoing subplot of Spider-Man coping with this newfound knowledge that the root of his tendency to blame himself for everything stems from this messed up childhood trauma. It comes up a little bit in DeMatteis’ run as throwaway lines but it essentially goes uncommented upon in consequent Spider-Man stories in other titles and even within the same run by DeMatteis that established it. I don’t even recall it coming up much when his parents seemingly come back after being presumed dead, though I admit it’s been a long while since I checked those stories out.

Is that a faux pas on the part of later writers and editors. Kind of but this is also a case of something that really doesn’t belong in Spider-Man lore being essentially ignored because it has to be for the character to function properly. But if you buy into the Child Within retcon (which I do not advise you on doing) it paints the horrible picture that Spider-Man basically didn’t address this trauma and backslide into old habits of blaming himself and repressing the root of why that was the case.

To be honest, this is honestly why I always advise against doing stories with the main or highly recurring supporting characters who essentially show up every issue wherein you put them in situations where they’d need a lot of therapy over a long period of time. It’s just not practical to do a story like that when you got to put out a monthly (in this case basically weekly) action adventure series.

Mini-series like Lost Years with characters who exist for that story alone or with infrequently recurring villains like Vermin or less vital supporting characters ever, where you can park them and let us presume they will be getting better off panel, is fine.

But this just wasn’t practical at all for Spider-Man.

What compounds the issue is that we see in Death of Vermin the deep scars childhood trauma results in and how it takes a lot of time, effort and hardship to recover from them. But here Spider-Man is basically fine a few months (publishing time, less time in-universe) later just...over it.

Both stories are ultimate a gigantic testament to how great writers can still make missteps, even ones born out of good intentions and creative instincts, whilst the end results can still possess plenty of merit nevertheless.

#Spider-Man #peter parker #J.M. DeMatteis #Vermin #Edward Whelan #Marvel #marvel comics #Ben Reilly

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