#and use it as a neutral descriptor like it always should have been
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Three Weeks on the Nimrodel
Well, here it is. My first (and oldest) piece of fic. I'm going against my brand here by posting something set in Lorien when Rohan is really my jam. But this is the first thing I ever wrote, so it seems fitting that it should be the first posted, too.
Pairing: Haldir x reader (The reader is gender neutral beyond 2 uses of the descriptor "beautiful", which is still neutral to me but your mileage might vary.)
Genre: Romance, I guess
Summary: Two elves who are frequently misunderstood by others find the joy of having someone really see and value them for who they are.
Inspiration: This all came from the well loved gif above, in which Craig Parker does beautiful work communicating a whole emotional arc (surprise, confusion, acceptance, appreciation) when Aragorn unexpectedly shows Haldir some loving affection. In that half-second of screen time, I see an entire book of backstory about Haldir's character--about being someone who is very reserved by nature, who isn't necessarily comfortable freely expressing feelings and innermost thoughts, but who still feels deep emotional connections to others that can come out under the right circumstances. As a very reserved person myself, I can relate--if you tend to keep your thoughts and feelings close to the vest, people will make a lot of assumptions and judgments about you that probably aren't right, and that can be exhausting. When someone finally does understand you and allows you to be comfortable enough to open up on your own terms, it's a life changing experience. So that's what I tried to write.
Word count: approx 3200 (~ 6 pages)
**********
It is still early when you arrive in the center of Caras Galadhon, joining the crowd of elves waiting to find out where they will be posted for the next few weeks of guard duty. Most in the group are veteran marchwardens, deeply familiar with each other and the daily routine of life near the borders. By contrast, you are a city warden, often dedicated to the direct protection of the Lady of the Wood. But you have been asked to serve a temporary rotation on the borders while several of the regular marchwardens are away with Lord Celeborn on a visit to Mirkwood.
The change of pace is not unwelcome to you. While you love Caras Galadhon and are honored to spend time in the service of Lady Galadriel, you frequently find yourself craving distance from the city in favor of the quiet outlying areas, where it is easy to hear clear birdsong, the rustling steps of small animals scampering by, and the patter of light raindrops falling on mallorn leaves.
The crowd begins to murmur as the deputy captain appears and begins handing around sheets of paper with duty assignments. As the pages spread through the crowd, the murmurs turn to both sighs of disappointment and quiet expressions of satisfaction.
“All I want is to avoid the Nimrodel,” you overhear the elf next to you mutter to a friend of his. You recognize him as Calendil, who, like many of his companions, is well known for carousing around Caras Galadhon any time he is home on leave. As a group, the marchwardens are a boisterous company who seem always determined to pack several weeks of fun into the few days of free time they’ve been given. “Three weeks posted with the captain is more than can be asked of me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at this mention of Captain Haldir. You know him a little–everyone in Lorien knows the leader of the marchwardens–and have never before heard a negative word uttered about him. Your path does not often cross with his, but you admire his impressive record of achievements and have never seen him treat another elf with anything but courteous respect.
“You speak truly,” replies Calendil’s companion. “I cannot spend so much time with someone who has so little to say. That much silence is enough to drive one a little mad.”
A wave of indignation rolls through your body. It is undeniably true that Haldir is very reserved. He says little that isn’t necessary to the conduct of his duties, and what he is truly thinking behind his large blue eyes is often a mystery. But that has never seemed a negative trait to you. Indeed, you appreciate that he does not talk simply for talk’s sake and that he does not seem concerned with always making his own opinions known. What’s more, you recognize a fair amount of his inherent reserve in your own nature. If you didn’t often force yourself to satisfy others’ expectations by taking on a more outgoing, sociable persona, perhaps your own wardens would describe you just as these elves have described their captain.
Calendil’s conversation comes to an abrupt end as a copy of the assignment sheet makes its way into his hands. Peering over his shoulder, you quickly find your own name allocated to a remote post near the edge of the Dimrill Dale. A glance further down the list confirms what you already know from the quiet groan that has just escaped from Calendil’s lips: he has been assigned to the Nimrodel post.
An idea quickly forms in your head, and you tap him on the shoulder. Why should he spend three weeks feeling miserable with his posting–and, no doubt, making anyone around him miserable as a result–when you have no particular attachment to your own assignment? Calendil can go to the Dimrill Dale, and you will spend your posting with Haldir instead.
“If such a trade is permitted within your ranks, I will gladly make the exchange,” you offer. “I have always loved the river. And I have no objection to the company of someone who takes his duty seriously and does not revel in idle chatter.”
Calendil’s face registers a moment of regret as he realizes that his prior conversation has been heard by others, but it is quickly replaced by a wide, beaming smile that reflects his rapid change of fortune. “It is permitted,” he says, “and I happily accept. Remind me the next time we are both on leave, and I will reward your generosity with some of my own!”
You doubt that whatever reward he has in mind will suit your inclinations, but there is no need to worry about that now. Calendil has already sprinted off toward the deputy captain to report the change, and you turn toward home to gather your supplies.
****
Two days later, you are approaching the Nimrodel post, which is located in a lovely old mallorn tree with twisted roots that hang over the river’s edge. You raise your hand to your lips and whistle the signal. The return call echoes off the trees before a slim rope ladder drops from the branches above you. You run lightly up the rungs, making easy work of the climb to the talan perched near the great tree’s crown, where it commands a wide view of the river and much of the western section of the border.
As you hoist yourself and your pack onto the platform, you look up to see a single figure standing a few feet away. It is Haldir, leaning against the wind screen with his bow slung loosely over his shoulder and his white-blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze.You are surprised to see him there alone; wardens generally keep watch in pairs or groups of three for safety. You are there to relieve Arthalion, who is due now to return home for a break, but there is no sign of Arthalion or his things.
“Mae govannen, Captain,” you say, placing your hand on your chest and bowing your head slightly. “Is everything well?”
Haldir returns the gesture with a small smile. “Yes. It has been blessedly uneventful. Perhaps it is the threat of the weather.”
This makes sense. Just last month, an orc party attempting a surprise attack during a thunderstorm found themselves nearly washed away by sudden flooding from the Celebrant. Since then, even the hint of rain has tended to keep them at bay.
“And Arthalion? Is he out on a task?”
Haldir shakes his head. “I sent him back early. You might have passed one another in the forest except that he planned to meet a small hunting party further north. As I said, things here were quiet, and he was anxious to join his friends.” He gives a small shrug and looks down. “I will do the same for you, if circumstances allow and you desire it. I do not wish to keep anyone from their enjoyments unless duty requires it.”
You permit yourself a brief moment to wonder what Haldir’s own enjoyments might be. You have heard that he is a talented artist, making detailed pencil sketches of the forest, but he does not often show his work to others.
“That is a thoughtful offer,” you say. “But I have no pressing need to return, and I would not have you out here alone, even if there is no other elf in Lorien better able to protect himself.”
He acknowledges this compliment with a modest smile and gestures toward a small shelf where you can store your belongings. His own are few in number but neatly stacked or folded with military precision. You note that he does, in fact, have a small bundle of pencils and a notebook, but, as expected, there is no sign of any actual drawings.
After stowing your things, you settle into a position opposite him on the talan, and a silence ensues. It is of no bother to you–you’re enjoying the smell of the damp air and the touch of the light wind on your face–but you soon notice that Haldir is looking increasingly discomfited as the quiet minutes slip by. His gaze shifts frequently between the horizon, his hands on his bow, and your face.
“Was…your journey here pleasant?” His face is studiously neutral, but his voice sounds strained and he picks at a splinter on his bow. You realize that he is trying to make conversation for your benefit, to fill in the noticeable silence with casual talk that clearly does not come easily to him. You feel a sudden rush of affection for him, this intensely quiet being who is making himself uncomfortable so that you will feel welcome. You wonder how best to put him at ease.
“It was very pleasant,” you reply. “I am so rarely outside of the city these days that any chance to enjoy the forest is a gift. I can understand why being a marchwarden is an attractive job, at least during times of relative peace.”
He looks up, reappraising your face, and nods his agreement.
You hesitate before speaking again, unsure about how directly to address his uneasiness.
“Captain,” you begin, “it sounds like we may have an uneventful tour here. If that is the case, please do not feel that you are obligated to occupy my time. I am quite comfortable with quiet activity and my own thoughts and would gladly afford you space for the same if that is something you wish.”
His cheeks and ears flush slightly but, despite his apparent embarrassment at being accurately perceived, he seems immediately relieved as well. “Thank you,” he says. “If you are as good a warden as you are a reader of people, I feel myself in safe hands indeed.”
The next several days pass by peacefully. Between occasional scouting trips up or down the riverbank and regularly monitoring the view from the talan, you mostly spend the time together in companionable silence. You take turns preparing simple meals, and during breaks in the intermittent rain you make minor repairs to nearby rope bridges and other hidden defenses in the area. In the evenings, you read a book by lantern light while Haldir sits next to his own lantern and sketches in his notebook, occasionally transferring completed drawings into a closed leather folio at his side. Every so often, you both glance up at the same time, and you give him a warm smile when your eyes meet before turning back to your respective pages.
*****
One evening, as you clean up the remains of your small dinner and take out your book again, Haldir lightly clears his throat.
“That book seems to engage you much,” he says. “May I ask what it is?”
Surprised, you hold it out to him, and he takes it, examining the cover and flipping through a few pages.
“I do not recognize this script,” he says, looking at it with curiosity.
“It is a representation of Rohirric,” you tell him. “My brother was a skilled linguist who passed on some small portion of his knowledge to me. He spent many months visiting a friend in the court at Edoras and helped them to start preserving some of their oral traditions with a system of letters. This is a copy of one of his first completed projects–the story of the founding of Rohan–which he sent to me as a gift.”
Haldir looks again with renewed interest at a few pages before handing the book back to you. “Your brother sounds like an impressive scholar,” he says. “Does he remain in Rohan?”
You hesitate slightly before responding. “In a way. Two years ago an orc band in search of horses raided a village near the Limlight while my brother happened to be visiting. They caught him and his hosts unaware. The Rohirrim buried his body in a place of honor with their people, though his spirit has surely gone to Mandos.”
You relate this with downcast eyes, tracing over your brother’s name on the cover of the book with your thumb. After a few moments, you look up again, expecting to see Haldir withdrawn from the conversation. You know that many elves are uncomfortable with death, which is an unnatural state for your kind, and there is nothing in your interactions so far to indicate that Haldir will want to continue such a personal discussion. You are surprised once again, however, to find that he is looking at you intently.
“I am deeply sorry,” he says. “Working as I do, I have known many elves who met a similar fate in battle, and it is never easy. My own brothers are a treasure to me, and I cannot imagine losing them. I hope I have not contributed to your suffering by unwittingly bringing up a painful subject.”
You blink back a few tears and smile. Through your sadness, you are moved by the warmth of his response and honored that he was willing to share something personal of himself. “Of course not,” you say. “Talking about my brother is one way to keep him with me. Thank you, Captain.” You reach forward and squeeze his hand. He flinches slightly at the unexpected touch, but then gently returns the squeeze.
“Please,” he says, “call me Haldir.”
*****
After that night, things are different between the two of you. You both speak more often, tentatively at first but then with increasing comfort. You trade stories about old adventures and talk about the joys and frustrations of your daily lives. You discover that he has much to say when he finally feels more at ease. He is even quite funny, with a dry wit that you did not expect but thoroughly enjoy. You walk together in the forest and rest your feet in the waters of the Nimrodel during the day, and in the evenings he asks you to read to him from your book. You happily relate tales of Cirion and Eorl and the coming of the Northmen to Calenardhon as he draws quietly, occasionally interjecting a question or a brief comment.
The time passes quickly and easily, and soon your rotation will be at an end. You realize there is a growing pain in your heart each time you think about your imminent departure. Your old life suddenly feels dull and uninteresting to you now. You do not want to go back to a time without his companionship. You debate whether to say this to him, but you cannot imagine how he might react to such a confession. Paralyzed by uncertainty, the last days of your assignment tick by.
On your final evening, you are preparing for one last opportunity to enjoy what has become your nightly routine. Just as he is about to settle with his notepad and folio, however, he notices your canteen is empty and insists on climbing down to fill it for you. As he reaches the ground and disappears over the riverbank, the wind changes direction and a sudden gust rips across the talan, flinging back the cover of the folio and sending papers flying out in all directions. You cry out in dismay and throw yourself desperately onto the pages whipping around you, seeking to hold them down long enough to gather them safely together.
It is only after you have retrieved all the loose pages and are preparing to neatly stack them that you first look at the drawings themselves and are stunned by what you see: beautiful illustrations of the stories you’ve been reading to him, the words of your brother’s book brought to vivid life in graceful pencil lines and delicate shading. You leaf through the stack in awed amazement only to nearly drop the whole pile again when you turn a page and find an image of yourself as you must look to him each night, sitting by your lantern with your book in your lap. You keep turning pages and find more of yourself…braiding your hair first thing in the morning, standing at the wind screen and scanning the horizon, unlacing your boots at the end of a day. Your breath catches in your throat as you absorb these images. You have never looked more beautiful than you do here, seen through his eyes.
A sudden noise behind you tears your attention from the papers in your hand, and you turn to find Haldir standing there. You are immediately overwhelmed by panic and begin to stammer out an explanation for how you came to be holding his personal things, violating his privacy. “I…the wind…they were blowing away and…”. Hot tears well up in your eyes and are soon spilling down your cheeks, partly from embarrassment at the situation but mostly as the feelings you’ve been keeping pent up threaten to come flooding out all at once. “I was not trying to…I…”. An involuntary sob robs you of the ability to finish your sentence, though you aren’t sure how you would have finished it had you been able.
At the sound of your sob, he moves forward, quickly closing the distance between you. He hesitantly cups a hand under your jaw and uses his thumb to brush a tear from your cheek. “Please do not cry,” he says. “I would not ever see you in pain if it were in my power to prevent it. I am not upset. These drawings were for you, for your book. You were meant to have them, except the last few, which I hoped to keep as a reminder of these days and how happy I have been.” Your eyes snap up to his face, searching for confirmation that you have correctly understood his words.
“You know that I am not much for talking,” he continues. “But I am a very good observer. I know that you see me for who I am, just as I see you. I see all of the ways that you are kind and interesting and intelligent and beautiful. I have no expectation that you return my feelings, and if all I ever have with you are these three weeks then I will cherish the memory of these weeks through all the long ages of my life. But I would….”
Before he can complete his thought, your body reacts on its own impulse, a pure release of elation. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his broad chest, still crying but now with tears of joy. You hear a sharp intake of breath as he processes your reaction, and for a fraction of a moment he stands motionless and silent before breaking into a smile and wrapping you in his arms. You could live in those arms forever, and now perhaps you will.
#haldir#haldir x reader#haldir x you#lotr#lotr fanfic#lord of the rings fan fiction#haldir of lorien#tolkien fanfiction
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Dawn Patrol (Homelander x Reader)
Summary: You never thought you’d see him again. Your soulmate, your other half, your partner in crime-fighting, the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with. It seems like the universe is giving you a second chance when you end up in this place with Homelander. Except, this one isn't quite like the man you remember, but he's not letting that stop him.
Note: Gender-neutral reader, and no descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request and also a different take on the “love of your life died and came back but something's wrong” horror trope. Title comes from the Megadeth song (which is about living in a dystopia). Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 3.3k
Warnings: Extremely unhealthy relationship. Intense feelings of loss, confusion, and self-doubt on the reader’s part. Some elements of unreality? Homelander is extremely manipulative, possessive, and gaslights the hell out of the reader in this, but no physical harm is done. Do not interact if you’re under 18.
The man standing in front of you wasn’t John, not your John, at least. He acted strange whenever you called him that. Homelander felt so impersonal, though, a title and persona rather than the man you loved your whole life. You silently scolded yourself. You shouldn’t complain so much, not when he believed you, against all reason, despite never having met you before in this version of reality. If it were even real.
You had crumbled the first time you saw him. Weeks of being locked in a lab, poked and prodded and tested before he entered with an unfamiliar coldness. It had to have been a cruel trick, these people using your greatest vulnerability against you. John had been presumed dead for years. The ache that consumed you at his loss made it hard to even breathe sometimes, and you’d spent countless nights alone in your formerly shared bed, wracked by guilt for not doing more as you silently implored the universe to give you one more chance. You should have known it’d come with plenty of strings attached.
His name echoed through the room in a desperate howl. You strained against the titanium cuff you were chained to, and he froze upon hearing one of the links break. Rabid, desperate, tears streamed down your face in your delirium. You needed to touch him, to feel for yourself that it wasn’t your brain tricking you again. It has to be real this time.
His breath hitched as he approached you, the way animal control does a feral dog–cautious and gentle, but still regarding you with a level of distrust. Your struggle subsided with each step he took, until he was finally in arms’ reach. Looking into his blue eyes for the first time in years, your hand trembled as you lifted it to caress his cheek. Soft and warm like you’d remembered.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m your–Gemini,” you said. “‘Cause I can–”
“Make duplicates of yourself, they told me. Who are you?”
“Not here, but somewhere else, I'm your partner in, well, everything. We grew up across the street from each other,” you told him. “Your powers showed up sooner than mine, but your mom always said we were a package deal, so when we started fighting crime together, it just made sense that we’d fall in love too.”
“My mom?” he whispered.
“She was the one who came up with the name Gemini for me.”
His gaze softened, his eyes turning cloudy. You recognized that look. Deep in thought, a million miles away, the only place John wouldn’t take you. This one didn’t seem eager to do so either. Did he and his mom not get along here? Was she dead, even?
He cleared his throat. “Go on.”
“We called ourselves Dawn Patrol because we’d get up before school to do our superhero stuff, and it stuck.”
“How did you end up here, then?”
“I already told them–”
“I want to hear it from you.”
You recoiled a bit. Your story began at the end, and while you managed to tell it to a group of seemingly indifferent white coats, recounting it to the man himself, or some version of him, was almost too much to bear. Still, you pushed through.
Phantom, that’s what he called himself, selfish and conniving with the ability to teleport in the shadows and seemingly shift reality itself. He was a particular menace that you and Homelander could never quite get the upper hand on, the situation imploding when Homelander, your Homelander, tackled the supervillain mid-teleport. The last thing you saw of him was his back as he disappeared with Phantom.
No one had seen him since. Despite Phantom’s insistence that he didn’t know what happened to Homelander, you kept an irrational, unrelenting grudge against him for taking the love of your life away from you. Guilt and rage fueled you, and in your most recent, and presumably last encounter with your arch-nemesis, you made the same mistake Homelander did, and ended up wherever the hell you were.
“Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re an unprecedented liar,” he hissed through his teeth, grabbing your wrists, “but I believe you.”
A beastial imitation of your first and only love transformed before your eyes over the following weeks. In his absence, your yearning had grown teeth, long and sharp, hungry to tear through flesh and for your flesh to be torn. This new man’s rib cage cracked open to offer part of himself to recreate you. You looked into the crimson void and saw his beating heart, a long-suffering shrine to you as yours was to his, or at least some memory of him. A loneliness you were all too familiar with was already settled deep within him. Why needlessly suffer though a monastic existence any longer?
You, in turn, indulged in him. Allowed your hunger to overtake you and break your involuntary fast as you devoured him. Insatiable, your lips pressed against the skin of this stranger that nevertheless you knew by heart. In your grief, in your anger, you’d pulled him out from the ether. You wondered if you could put him back together as the man you knew he could be, bloody your hands raw clawing back the damage that had been done to him by whoever came before you.
The first few days, you tried as much, the two of you hardly letting up from your entanglement in his bed. You stared at the mirror on the ceiling, taking him in with the attentiveness of the crowds that gathered around the tragically small Mona Lisa in the Louvre. Then, in the quiet moments, in tones hardly above hushed whispered, he’d ask you questions about this other life and upbringing he never got to experience, pensive at your answers, almost bothered at times.
Most of his questions seemed to be about his parents, especially his mother. Though your phone had been returned to you, it had no signal, but you were able to show him photos. Some of the last ones of you and John together was at a Fourth of July party in his parents’ backyard. One of his aunts had taken a candid photo of you, John and his parents sitting together at one of the patio tables, smiling and laughing. You had everything documented, from weddings to birthday parties to school days. John always poked fun at you for taking the phrase “take a picture, it’ll last longer” so seriously.
Now, reflecting on these times with his other, you clung to him as you watched him swipe through this other version of himself’s life. Studying it, silently reflecting on your stories and anecdotes as if to memorize them, be able to recite them by heart.
Despite the distorted period of reunited bliss, you could tell something was off about Homelander. He talked his way around your questions about his own upbringing, never quite giving you a straight answer and occasionally snapping at you when you pressed for more details. Your eyes widened the first time he did so, heart skipping a beat or two, you couldn’t recall John raising his voice at you like that before. Homelander noticed your reaction right away, soothing you with reassurances that he wasn’t mad at you, he could never be.
It seemed like he was mad at a lot of other people, though. He’d go on long rants about people at Vought, this corporation that didn’t exist where you were from but somehow controlled so much of his life and that of every other superhero. Walking around the tower with him, you noticed the way people’s demeanors shifted when he was there, a nervous submission he seemed to bask in but made your stomach feel sour.
His attempts not to scare you, to put you at ease with the prospect of spending the rest of your life with him were never quite as successful as he hoped. The warning voice in your brain knew something was off about him. You ignored it as best you could, figuring you could manage a way to handle him and chalking it up to the loneliness he was entrenched in before you came along. One night, a rarity wherein you were alone in his suite and finally had a chance to think the situation through, you panicked, hatching a messy escape plan.
Leaving a duplicate of yourself behind in the living room, you slipped out of the suite, walking down the long hallway to the elevator. The tower was so tall that it required switching elevators to get from the top floor to the lobby, and so you made the initial descent to the 50th floor.
The ride down was excruciatingly long, and every time the elevator stopped to let someone in, you felt yourself freeze up. No one acknowledged you at any point during the descent, filtering in and out, minding their own business.
When you switched elevators, you knew you were in the home stretch. Your heart raced as you pressed the ‘L’ for the lobby, the star next to the button assuring you that the ground floor would be your ticket out of there. By the time you were on the single-digit floors, you were alone again.
At least, you were until you reached the lobby. The doors opened, revealing Homelander waiting for you behind them. You backed into the wall on the opposite side of the steel box, as if that’d do anything to protect you.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And where do you think you’re going?”
He entered the elevator, reaching over to press the button back up to the 50th floor. Silence for nearly twenty floors, though you were sure the sound of your rapidly beating heart was deafening to him.
Finally, you spoke. “How did you know?”
“Your duplicate’s pretty convincing, but they don’t have a heartbeat,” he said.
John had never told you that. Your duplicates were perfect copies of you, your abnormal physical strength sapped to create each one so that they could take damage from attacks in your place. It never occurred to you that they were so blatantly lifeless.
The doors opened on the 50th floor, and instead of going in the next one over to continue the ascent, Homelander pulled you into an empty office. He closed the door, darkness engulfing the room. When you reached for a light switch, he caught your wrist in his hand instead.
“If you have a problem, you talk to me about it. You do not try to fake me out and run,” he hissed. “Do you really think the fucking white coats I saved you from would just let you walk out of here? You’d end up right back in that room. All of those things that he had, the loving parents, the pretty suburban life with your childhood sweetheart that's straight out of a fucking romcom? I didn't get that because of them."
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "You didn't deserve that."
"No," he said, almost shocked at your acknowledgement of how horrific his upbringing was. "I didn't. You're here, now, though, so we're both getting what we want."
Not like this. Not you.
Yet, you were stuck with the hand you had been dealt. This corrupted imitation of the man you loved, who nevertheless was so desperate for the intense emotions you felt for him otherwise that he was willing to believe you despite all logic telling him otherwise.
The way he spoke about the people back in the lab you’d been held in, as if he knew, experienced what you did and even worse. Saved you from it. Maybe you could try. Maybe that could get you somewhere.
You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. Being around him rendered you emotionally vulnerable. He looked just like him, and at times acted almost exactly the same. If you closed your eyes long enough, you could convince yourself it was him. How long could you go on doing that before you walked around blindly?
“Babe, did you hear a word I just said?” Homelander asked.
You looked up at him. “Got distracted, sorry.”
He rolled his eyes, the slightest smile on his face. “I’ll chalk it up to my good looks. I know you’ve been cooped up for a while, so I want you to do a team-up with me tomorrow night. It’ll be Dawn Patrol, just like old times.”
Old times? There were no old times. Not with him.
Nevertheless, you agreed. “Yeah, it’d be nice to get back out there. Haven’t done it in a while.”
“Once you’re back at it, you won’t even have to think about it, like riding a bike,” he paused for a moment, “I guess.”
His excitement the following day was infectious. You hadn’t done any crime-fighting in a long time, and doing so with him would surely help you ease into it again. He was always the best of the best, but it seemed like here, not only was he deified, but he reveled in it.
When he brought you to his superhero team’s private gym to train, he was almost shocked at how well your powers and fighting style seemed to compliment him. Elation filled your chest. Maybe you’d jumped to conclusions too soon about him. You just had to be more flexible, willing to compromise to make it work.
You were thrown off upon being presented with a crime-fighting schedule that night. A self-professed crime analytics team explained their methodology to you. When you looked to Homelander in disbelief, he seemed unfazed by the information. Being able to predict crime down to the minute just to bolster careers and social media followings seemed far from ethical, but from what little you’d learned of Vought in the weeks you’d been there, that wasn’t a concern of theirs.
Flying with him again was almost too overwhelming, bringing back memories of you and John in your teenage years. Instead of partying with your peers, the two of you would pick up fast food late on Saturday nights, sitting on suburban rooftops with your police scanner, eating burgers and listening for trouble. He’d grab you by the waist, flying off with you to stop some bad guys. Of course, people complained to your parents that you’d leave chicken nugget boxes and ketchup packets on their roofs in your haste.
By the time Homelander landed in an alley just a block away from where the crime would supposedly take place, you were crying.
“You okay? I thought you’d be used to it.”
“I am. It’s just been a while. Brought back a lot of memories.”
He smiled, kissing your forehead. “You won’t have to go so long without flying with me again. I promise, babe.”
You sniffled, giving him a weak smile. “Let’s go get some bad guys.”
“That’s the spirit!”
The next few minutes were silent as Homelander listened for the sound of a bank alarm. Late-night robbery, the crime analytics team had told you, it couldn’t be easier. You weren’t sure what time it was when Homelander grabbed you, the familiar gesture of his arm around your waist making you feel overwhelmed again.
When he landed, you could see the glass doors leading into the bank had been smashed, leaving shards of glass scattered on the sidewalk that crunched beneath your boots. There’d be three bank robbers, one lookout while the other two took what they could from the vault. You and Homelander already agreed that you’d take on the lookout and then join him in subduing the others.
You hesitated for a moment when you and Homelander split up, but you didn’t let it distract you too much. The lookout froze upon seeing you duplicate, his hand shaking as he pointed the gun between you and your temporary clone. Whichever one he shot, you’d heal fast enough, though you’d get less damage if he shot the duplicate rather than you.
His impulsiveness proved to be his downfall, as your duplicate began to walk toward him, and he pulled the trigger, nearly passing out when the clone de-materialized before him.
In his moment of distraction, you knocked the gun from his hand, grabbing a nearby desk phone and hitting him in the temple with it. You kicked the gun to the other side of the room before he could reach for it and hit him in the head again. He dropped to the ground, unmoving on the floor.
You set off to find Homelander. The vault was empty when you got there, a mess of valuable and still smoldering scorch marks in the wall where either the thieves had used explosives to break their way in, or Homelander had lasered them into oblivion. Regardless, there was no sign of anyone.
“Homelander?” you called out.
No response. You looked around frantically for any sign of him.
You couldn’t lose him again, not even this terrifying version of him. “Homelander, where did you go?”
Silence again. Your pounding heart rang in your ears as you turned around, setting off for another part of the building in hopes of finding him. There wasn’t anyone else you could count on here, and for all his faults, he was the only person you trusted.
Just when it felt hopeless and your brain was about to implode on itself at the sinking notion that maybe he was gone, a loud bang came from the other side of the bank where the vault was. You rushed over without a second thought for your own safety. Besides, the injury your duplicate had taken on your behalf was already healing. You'd do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping him safe.
Homelander stood in the middle of the previously empty vault, the two thieves knocked out, or maybe they were dead. It didn’t matter, because he clearly wasn’t.
“Where were you?” you asked, your voice cracking.
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“No you haven’t. I came over here and there was no one. I called out for you and—“
“And what?”
“I wanna go home,” you cried, clinging to him. “Please, let’s just go home.”
He nodded, his superhuman strength allowing him to scoop you up in his arms with ease. You always felt safe in them, and you pressed your head to his chest, trying to focus on the sound of his heartbeat as he flew back to his suite at the tower.
His heart always beat faster than anyone else’s, having to maintain the life of the most powerful superhero to ever live. It was a heavy burden, though you tried your best to offset it, you sometimes felt too reliant on him. He never made you feel bad for it, neither version of him did.
You were still a bit dazed when he landed, shuffling into his living room and leaning against the back of the couch. He said he had been in the vault, but you knew it had been empty when you walked over to it. You knew what you saw.
“You did great with the lookout. I can help you train more, and we’ll try again in a few days,” he said. “I’ll get the crime analytics team to find us another softball one.”
“Homelander,” you began tentatively, “back there did you–did you do that on purpose? Disappear on me?”
“Of course not, darling, why would I do something like that after everything you've been through?” he asked, his voice soft enough that if you let yourself, you could pretend for a few moments he was your Homelander. “I told you, I was in the vault the whole time.”
“I can’t lose you again,” you said, your voice cracking. “I can’t—“
“You won’t. I’ve always been here. I love you.”
He’s lying, the voice in your head screamed, he’s not your John. There’s something wrong.
You ignored it, choosing instead to kiss him, to drown out the rational with the feeling of your lover’s lips again. You would take this Homelander over none at all. “I love you too.”
#homelander x reader#the boys x reader#homelander#the boys#the boys tv#the boys amazon#homelander x you
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Dear readers, writers, and simply friends alike,
Below are some thoughts I’ve been cooking up since I started writing/posting. I believe it to be the holy grail of my blog — what I stand for, and essentially the morals of what my writing is built off of. I wanted to have this here and ingrained into my blog/navigation for purposes of making my positionality known from the start, so people know what kind of open and inclusive space they are entering when being on my blog and interacting with me.
back to navigation ->
As someone who is on the curvier side, physically disabled, Asian, and queer, I strive to make every story I write as neutral as possible in order to give everyone the chance at being able to experience seeing themselves in written word. I know what it’s like to be underrepresented (if any representation at all), and if I have any control over it, I don’t want another human to have to experience it either — so at the very least, I don’t want anyone to experience that on my blog.
At the same time, these stories are as much for me as it is for you. With that being said, I’m also going to dabble into certain physical descriptors. Why, some may ask? Well, that’s simple. Representation. (I do want to note that my creative representation cannot go beyond the marginalized groups I am a part of — I do not, cannot, and should not create on behalf of experiences I do not have. I also want to note that creative writing and advocating are not the same! I will always advocate for every human in every sense of wrongdoing, justice, etc.).
It’s one thing to be able to fit into the neutral “one-size-fits-all” window, but it’s another thing to actively see someone like you within a work of art (whether it be a literal painting or a book or a film).
These creations are often associated with idyllics and the notion of “perfect,” but because there’s been a lack of diverse representation early on in these creations, society decided that anything not fitting under the skinny, white/eurocentric, able-bodied, cis-heterosexual normative was wrong. And I’m here to tell you that it’s simply not true. And with my words and my creations, I will show you how that’s not true.
Additionally, because of society’s standards that were forcibly instilled into us, we sometimes forget the capability of humans. Often we see characters (and especially within the PPCU and even Joel) carry his counterpart (whether it be an OC or a reader-insert). Now, there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with whatever you write as long as it’s original, you give credit where needed, and you give content warnings/tags accordingly. However, whenever the idea of “carrying” comes around, often the automatic assumption is that the person being carried is smaller or of a more “fit” body. And that’s entirely okay! For my stories, though, I want to clarify. This is not the case unless I specify.
To my thicker body individuals, you are seen and you are capable and worthy of all the freak nasty shit my brain shares with the internet world. As someone who relies on other humans to carry me — you don’t have to be skinny or petite or “fit” in order for this to happen. You simply need a person who is capable, and in my stories, with any PPCU character I write, they will always be capable.
To my people with disabilities, you are seen and you are capable and worthy of all the freak nasty shit my brain shares with the internet world. I know I don’t have disabled!reader-inserts yet (this statement is subject to change! I’ve got some stuff cooking🩶), I hope you can understand — this is something that is especially close to my heart, and disability is also something that is the most subjective human experience any of us will face. I will try my best to represent this lifestyle in the way that I know best, and I hope somehow, someway, there’s details in there that we can all relate to and see ourselves in.
I love you. All of you. No matter what you look like, or what lifestyle the universe has given you. You are human, and with me, you are seen. I can promise you that.
My ask box is always open, and if there are any questions or things you’d like to address with me — I’m always open for the conversation, and I’m always open for more ways to grow personally and mentally. I’m also always open if you ever just need another human to talk to or even to listen. I’m here.
If any of these beliefs and morals don’t sit right with you, then this isn’t the blog for you, and I hope we can simply scroll along. And I also hope you can find a blog that aligns with what you’re looking for.
Endless love,
L <3
#navigation#blog disclaimer#about my blog#18+ account#ppcu fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfiction
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hi um. can i ask what the cloth mother/wire mother chart means? me and my friends have been trying to break it down for like half an hour of back and forth constant debate and external sources. we understand the experiment, but could you explain each point separately as an axis?
we think that the monkey/mother is what mother they prefer.. but then what is the object? the object cant prefer a mother as an object, so then does that mean that they /are/ the mother? it.. has been a topic of much debate please explain your research i am fascinated and need to know more
let it be known, this is the best ask I’ve ever gotten. you are in for it. For reference, here is the blank graph.
short answer: this is a personality chart. The measure is How Much ____ person is Monkey/Diabolical Object vs Cloth/Wire Mother
long answer: AUTISM. let’s talk about autism shall we? yes… I think we will. Autism. I do not choose the inanimate objects I identify with. The autism chooses. And if you are a psych major in college you may know that every professor on the face of the earth talks about harlow’s monkeys. They are everywhere. I’ve been lectured on the monkeys MANY a time. Now when you’ve seen these videos about this experiment over and over again (as well as watching them on your own time because as established, your ass is not normal) you start to.. identify with them. SPECIFICALLY when you are a blunt, outwardly colder kind of person. Someone with sharper edges. Someone who has a hard time making friends and fitting in and finding people who YADDA YADDA YADDA THIS IS TUMBLR YOU (reader) GET IT. Now we see wire mother yes? Do you see a similarity? Do you see all those memes about her, DISRESPECTING HER, MISUNDERSTANDING HER, SHE’S TRYING HER FUCJING BEST AND YET SHE IS OUTCAST, SHE IS DISCOUNTED.
she also looks like this. actually, let’s take a look at all of them, shall we?
no further comment. this is peak design. diabolical object in particular is ?!!??!!!?? great. more pictures now.
NEEDLESS TO SAY. I am wire mother. I am a wire mother (on the graph I fall between wire mother and diabolical object) and I am so abnormal about it, if any person that vaguely knows me sees any post on any platform that so much as mentions this experiment it goes Directly to me.
Maybe this isn’t important. But maybe it is. Maybe you need to get to know them, to know them like I do. But now for what you’re really here for. What does it mean.
Let’s begin
THE X AXIS: Cloth/Wire Mother is primarily about Warmth. It’s about Affect. (psych term for the way people emote, simply. You can have a positive affect, a negative affect, a neutral affect, it’s used often in the context of neurodivergence. For example a person with schizoid personality disorder expresses an extremely low range of emotion, and therefore, often shows neutral or negative affect. It’s a useful descriptor for autism as well.) Do people feel comfortable around you upon first meetings? Do people feel comfortable around you upon first meetings when you AREN’T masking? How easy/difficult is it for you to mask? Do you feel the need to mask at all? Sociability is big here. It should be noted the x axis has nothing to do with someone being a ‘nice’ or ‘mean’ person. This entire graph isn’t about Nice or Mean, it’s about perception, it’s about how people hold themselves.
Cloth Mother: Cloth Mothers are warm, they are approachable. These are the type of people you’re drawn to, the type of people that make others laugh. Cloth mothers do not have to be socially adept, but they often are, or at the very least they’re outgoing enough to provide the illusion of adeptness. For example, one of my good friends is very socially outgoing, very extroverted, but at the same time, struggles with social cues in the ADHD way of not always knowing when to stop or start talking, etc etc. Cloth mothers typically have a more positive affect. They can be passionate and excitable, you take one look at them and you just know they’re so happy to be here! :D
Wire Mother: Wire Mothers tend to be colder, not as approachable. They often struggle to reach out, especially among neurotypical friend groups, and may often be perceived by other people as sad or unhappy due to a neutral or negative affect. Other people think Wire Mothers don’t like them, or that they’re mad at them, when in reality, Wire Mothers just look like that. Wire Mothers can make people who don’t know them uncomfortable, but they’re literally just vibing, I’d try not to worry about it. There’s so much joy stored in the Wire Mother, it just doesn’t always touch the surface like it does for more expressive people. It does come out though; you get a Wire Mother going and you’ll be there all day. Cat coded.
THE Y AXIS: Diabolical Object/The Monkey is definitely a bit harder to describe. I think this relies more on personal identification, as a lot of it Is Vibes. The Y Axis is about personality, but it isn’t to be taken too seriously. But put simply. Do you air on the softer side of insanity, or do you bite with teeth. Are you a little more sensitive to the world or is your typical approach BITING RIPPING TEARING GGRRBBARKKABRKABRKABKR KILL KILL KILL KILL. Do you feel a little bit bad/aren’t very good at (MUTUALLY) making fun of your friends or are you engaging in gorilla warfare, claws, teeth, kicking and screaming, all of it. It’s sopping wet and pathetic vs LITERALLY EVIL. :) vs >:) The most important thing about the Y Axis is that Being Soft versus Complete Bastard is that both sides can go completely apeshit about literally anything. Being soft does not mean you any less crazy than the Diabolical Object. You may have a little more chill But You Are Still A Monkey.
The Monkey: You take things a little slower. You are not (outwardly) as intense as your other friends. People look at you and wonder if you were raised by two inanimate objects, periodically having your pants shit by The Embodiment Of Pure Evil, and then afterwards were unable to reintegrate into regular monkey society. (Harlow’s monkey reference) You’re 15lbs sopping wet. If you have a bigger build or any muscle at all, the fandom would probably draw you as a twink. They’d probably do that anyway if you were evil, but it’s just a little more baffling in your case. This is about TangoTek. There’s more to be said about The Monkey, but like. Idk man. You’re a monkey. Everyone does a little 🥺 from time to time, but for some reason people associate it more with you.
Diabolical Object: You have zero chill all of the time. You take things way too far, you’re running at 1000% constantly and you are Going to crash and burn in a fiery explosion, but dude it will be SO SICK. You couldn’t give less of a fuck. You REALLY want people to think you couldn’t give less of a fuck. You are a devious, evil little creature. Rats, We’re Rats, We’re The Rats <- YOU. People think you’re evil. They’re right. You are the bane of your friends’ existence, and proudly at that. Part of you needs to see how far you can push everyone else’s patience because GOD you just want them to Snap. Sometimes this is with love. Sometimes you’re just bored and want to see how much of a nuisance you can be before getting kicked from the voice call. You are the cat that starts the fights.
And so here we have it again. Further questions are welcomed and encouraged. Maybe I’ll spend another hour answering them! I hope someone reads this entire thing without realizing it was, in fact, a Minecraft post. Who cares. This shit is so much fun, I highly recommend throwing your own ocs on it or other fandom stuff who cares, it’s a good time. Maybe it’s Just me.
#hermitcraft#long post#harlows monkeys#wire mother#cloth mother#psychology#psych#autism#neurodivergence#life series smp#diabolical object#the monkey
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[platonic] Tim Wright & Brian Thomas & Proxy!Reader
By Mod Galileo 🪐
The reader lives with Tim and Brian, and (like them) is dealing with the typical consequences of life as a proxy. However, the reader is a lot newer of a victim, so Tim and Brian are there to help them through their turmoil.
(CW for: talk of dissociative and paranoid symptoms, prescription drug usage)
Story will be in second person. Reader will be gender-neutral, and I will not be using any y/n or physical descriptors that might exclude a good amount of people (and if I do accidentally slip up, please don't hesiatte to comment about it! I want these fics to apply to as many people as I can).
❌ PROSHIPPERS: Please don’t interact! Thank you ❌
Another restless night. That's how it was for you in this new lifestyle. It's not like you chose to be here, but here you were.
It started with just a single greeting. You had spoken to this sweet couple of men when out and about in your neighborhood. It was a simple conversation, nothing out of the ordinary. After a few other encounters with these two men --- Tim and Brian, as you would learn --- they exchanged numbers with you. Considering you were feeling especially lonely before meeting Tim and Brian, you felt as if you were seeing the eye of the storm that is life.
But then it happened.
You started to see things that weren't there. You were convinced that at all times, you were being watched. You knew this wasn't a normal intensity of fear. What made it worse was the blackouts. You would lose hours of your days, seemingly at random. What you assumed was a few minute break from work ended up being a month-long dissociative fugue that caused you to lose your job. That incident was the final straw.
You had told Tim and Brian about what was going on, and they asked you to meet them in person the second they heard the news. Brian explained it fairly calmly, although Tim looked as if he was going to vomit the entire time. Since you no longer had enough money to afford rent due to losing your job, Brian offered to let you move in with him and Tim. You learned that the two of them were experiencing the same symptoms as you, and that this was something caused by an eldritch horror called the Operator. Although it would never go away, Brian and Tim helped you learn how to suppress the symptoms.
Most of the time, that is.
So, again, here you were, months after moving in with them. You were in bed, struggling to sleep, as your mind was racing about the potential of being watched. You whimpered, curling into yourself. You wanted to bother Tim or Brian, but you weren't sure if they were awake. They struggled to sleep just as much as you did. You supposed this meant you were on your own.
As you returned to the constant scanning of your room for intruders, you heard a knock at the door (at least, as well as you could over the light ringing in your head due to how hardly it seemed to be pounding --- did you always have that migraine?). You put your fingers to your forehead, the balls of your hand touching against your wet cheek...
Wet cheek? You moved your hands to the source and realized that you had, in fact, been crying without even realizing.
"Hello?" Tim called out. "Are you alright in there?"
You went to speak, but as you did your throat felt grated and sore; a groan of discomfort was all you could muster.
"Can I come in?" Tim asked. "Brian's here, too."
You pushed out a low "uh-huh", signalling Tim that it was okay.
He opened the door, him and Brian walking in and toward your bed. Brian sat on the edge of your bed, while Tim stood next to him. "Another bad night?" Brian asked.
You nodded weakly.
Brian sighed. "Us too," he tiredly chuckled. "Guess it's just that kind of night, huh?"
"We should fix you up something to drink," Tim suggested. "All of us, actually. Wouldn't hurt."
You looked around the room again. "Are you sure we're...?" you start to ask, voice raspy from your tears.
"You're safe," Tim replied, finishing your thought before you could. "We all are, it's just..."
"It's just what happens," Brian finished. "Sometimes it means something, but this time I promise we're fine." He gave you a warm smile; it was amazing how positive Brian seemed to be about the situation.
Tim, however, did not look as confident as Brian did about the situation; he did his best not to verbalize it though. "I'm thinking about putting some tea on, how's that sound?" he asked.
You weakly smiled. "Um... alright, sure," you replied.
Brian got up from the bed, reaching his arms out to help you up. You obliged, and he yanked you off of the bed, causing you to stumble and fall into his arms. You wanted to apologize, but Brian simply giggled. "Whoops, sometimes I forget how strong I am," he teased. After making sure you were still upright, he and Tim led you to the kitchen, where Tim filled up a kettle with water and put it on the oven to heat it up.
Brian leaned against the counter, and you followed suit, as you were still too tired to stand for long periods.
After a few moments of silence, you looked at Brian. "Hey, um," you asked, "how do you know for sure that we're safe? From whatever's out there."
Tim tensed up, keeping his attention to the kettle by him.
Brian took this as his cue to answer. "If I'm being totally honest, I don't know. It's something you learn over time, figuring out if the danger is real or if it's in your head." He pulled out an orange pill bottle. "Guess it's that time of night then, huh?"
The kettle started to whistle, signalling it was time for it to get everyone's drinks ready. Tim pulled out three mugs, placed a tea bag into each one, and then poured in the hot water. "Should be just a minute," he murmured.
"Awesome," Brian smiled. "I'm parched. Can't wait to drink it and get to bed."
"Hopefully before the sun rises, yeah?" Tim half-joked, bringing two mugs to you and Brian. "Careful, it's still hot."
You thanked Tim as you took the mug from him, Brian doing the same. After preparing the tea how you wanted, the three of you each took a pill from the bottle Brian had. While Tim and Brian dry-swallowed the pills, you instinctively went to take it with liquid and burned your tongue in the process. You opened your mouth to breathe in air and cool down your mouth.
Tim noticed this and moved to grab you some cold water. He filled up a small glass and handed it to you. "I warned you, didn't I?" he teased.
"Hey, if I had any less impulse control, you know I'd be jumping on the tea as well," Brian responded with a chuckle. "I'm thirsty as ever right now."
"You could always get yourself some water too," Tim suggested. "If they can have it, you can too."
"I'll live. One less dish to do in the morning." Brian blew on his tea, bringing it closer to his face.
Tim chuckled. "Oh yeah, the hardest thing to wash out of a cup: water."
Brian rolled his eyes. "C'mon, you know what I meant."
As the two bickered, you took another sip from your drink, this time more carefully now that it had cooled down a little (you did pour in some of your cold water to lower the temperature faster).
Something was so comforting about the way Tim and Brian acted, both with you and each other. Months ago, you felt so alone in this town, but now you had two wonderful people you could confide in, people who understood what you were going through. Even if the three of you were stuck in this horrifying, life-draining situation, at least the three of you were experiencing it together.
Brian and Tim both looked over at you. "You holding up alright?" Brian asked. "You're a little quiet."
You perked up. "Yeah, I'm just thinking about stuff..."
"Hopefully it's all good stuff."
"Agreed," Tim nodded. "Whatever'll help you get back to bed, even. Are you thinking you'd be ready for that soon?"
You looked at both of the men in front of you. They made you feel so secure. In fact, even if that Operator thing was here, at least you would have Tim and Brian here to protect you during it. For that, you were eternally grateful.
You cracked a small smile. "Maybe just another minute with you guys. I like how safe I feel right now."
Brian let out a small "aww" in response. "Take as long as you need, okay?"
Tim smiled as well. "Let us know if you need us to do anything."
"For sure!" Brian added. "We're always happy to help a friend."
A friend, yeah...
It felt nice having those now, didn't it?
#platonic x reader#platonic self ship#marble hornets x reader#tim wright x reader#brian thomas x reader#mod galileo 🪐
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Holding Back
Spamton x Reader
-----18+ ONLY-----
2.8k words
Contains: Sneeze kink, nose kink, ambiguous/implied contagion, sneeze stifling, messy sneezing, sneeze inducing, sniffling, nose blowing, mask kink (just a little bit), sexual content (arousal references), very infrequent swearing, unspoken love confession, flirting, kissing, cuddling, spooning, pet names
Additional descriptors: Sick fic, Reader is gender neutral, Reader is not Kris, Reader is a Lightner, Reader is anxious, Reader is afraid of rejection, Reader takes Spamton home, Spamton likes being held, No use of (Y/N)
Synopsis: You are a Lightner living in Cyber City, and you've had a crush on Spamton for quite some time. You often go into his store and buy something just to have an excuse to talk to him. You've decided that today is the day you'll finally work up the nerve to tell him how you feel...but when you arrive at his store, you find that he's feeling under the weather. He's trying very hard not to sneeze in front of you, but you want just the opposite...
AO3 Link
Okay. Today is the day, you think to yourself as you walk down the alley full of trash that has been becoming more and more familiar to you. I'm finally going to tell him how I feel, once and for all. You have wanted to tell him for a while, and this isn't the first time you've gone to his store with the intent to confess your feelings, but you've always backed out at the last second. You're pretty sure he feels the same way about you - he's flirted with you multiple times before - but you can't seem to shake the nagging doubt in your mind. You've been rejected before, and it's a horrible feeling.
No. I'm putting my foot down. I'm not backing out this time. You've grown tired of the anxiety that comes with not knowing how he really feels about you. You can't stand it anymore.
You take a deep breath and try to stop your hands from shaking as you walk down the path to Spamton's shop. Just the thought of seeing the big smile he always has on his face is making your heart flutter. You steel yourself, open the door, and step inside.
Spamton is sorting through some items, and when he hears the door open, he turns to greet you. "HEY-HE Y HEY!!! IF IT ISN'T MY FAVORITE [[Valued Customer]] !!"
A blush spreads across your face. Favorite customer? He's never called me that before... "Hi Spamton, it's good to see you!" you respond, unable to stop your voice from shaking.
"A [[Pleasure]] AS ALWAYS, LIGHT nER!! WHAT KIND OF [[Specil Deals]] ARE YOU IN THE MARKET FOR TODAY?"
Shit. You forgot to decide what you were going to tell him you came to the store to buy. You scramble to think of something. "Um...Well..." Your eyes drift to a clothing rack in the corner. Aha! "The coat I have is getting pretty worn out, and I think it's time I got a new one. Do you have any for sale?"
Spamton's eyes light up. "YOU 'VE COME TO THE [[Right Place]] LIGHT nER!! COME WITH ME !"
Hmm...is it me, or does his voice sound...different than usual? Lower? Quieter? He walks over to the coat rack and motions for you to follow him. When you come close to him, he backs away. That's weird. He doesn't usually mind me being that close to him. What's wrong? Is it something I did? You feel disheartened.
He looks you in the eyes as he gestures to each coat. "WHAT [[RGB or CMYK Color]] ARE YOU LOOKING FOR? I'VE GOT [[Red]], [[Blue]], [[Brown]], [[undefined]], AND [[Colors Only Shrimp Can See? This Will Blow Your Mind]] !!"
You can't help but smile. You've always found his adspeak endearing. "Hmm...I'm not sure, actually. I think I'll take a look at each one."
Spamton nods. "GO AHEAD!!!"
You take the first coat off the rack - a bright red one. You take your time inspecting it, but you're only half-focused on it - your thoughts and your heart are racing. Should I ask him out? He's keeping his distance from me...is he mad at me? Then, as you try the coat on, you hear Spamton sniffling next to you. You discreetly turn to look at him, and that's when you notice how red his nose is. He starts sniffling harder...
"HHH...H-HIH..." His nostrils flare and he presses one finger under his nose, clearly stifling a sneeze.
Oh... Your breath hitches and you feel a sudden jolt of arousal. You've wanted to see Spamton sneeze with that big, handsome nose of his for a while, and you've certainly thought about it more than once...could it finally happen today?
"IS EVERYTHING [100% Satisfaction], LIGHT nER?" Spamton's words snap you out of your daydreaming. You realize that you've been staring at him, and you should probably check up on him.
"Spamton, are you feeling okay?" you ask.
"OH, I' M 4LRIGHT [[Valued Customer]]!!" He pauses to sniffle again. "I'VE JUST GOT A LITTLE [[Cold]]..."
So that's why he's been trying not to get too close to me. Against your better judgment, his admission makes you feel even more excited... Snap out of it! Your friend needs help.
"Spamton, you should be resting. Why don't you..." Your heart starts to pound and your vision becomes blurry, but you push yourself to continue speaking. "Why don't you come to my apartment? You can rest and take a shower there, and I'll make you some soup." The poor man shouldn't be running a store or sleeping in a dumpster in this state.
"BUT LIGHT nER!!! I'VE GOT TO SELL YOU YOUR [Coat]!! I'VE GOT TO MAKE [[HotD3als]] [[50% Off]] [[Buy Now]] !!!" He leans against the wall and seems out of breath.
"Forget it. Your health is much more important to me than getting a new coat. And you can't keep making deals if you push yourself like this."
Spamton sighs. "OKAY...IF YOU [Insist]..."
You smile at him. "Follow me. It's not too far of a walk from here." You exit the store, and he trails a few feet behind you, locking the door on his way out.
Hmm...if he doesn't want to get anyone else sick, why wasn't he wearing a mask? The thought crosses your mind as you and Spamton walk down the street. You answer your own question when you try to picture a mask fitting over his sharp, absurdly long nose. You can't help smiling at the mental image.
Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear him sniffling again. "hh...HHH-HAH...!" He once again stops himself from sneezing, and you can feel your face flush. You turn to look at him, and he looks more run-down than he did a few minutes ago.
"Spamton, you look really tired. We're not even halfway there yet... Do you want me to carry you the rest of the way?"
You swear you can see Spamton's eyes light up at your question. "LIGHT nER...WHAT A [[Genoris]] OFFER!! ARE YOU SURE...?"
You smile. "Yes, I'm sure. Come here." You approach him and lift him off the ground. The four-foot-tall puppet man is much lighter than you expected. You carry him with both your arms, and he wraps his arms around your neck and shoulders for support. You see him blush lightly and look away. Does he...like being held? That's so cute...
His face is now closer to yours than it has ever been, and you try not to stare at his nose. You have complemented him on it before, which surprised him a bit, but there's no way he knows just how much you like it...He flares his nostrils and sniffs loudly while you're looking right at his nose, and you bite your lip.
He's surprisingly quiet throughout the duration of the trip, and after several more minutes of walking in silence, you finally reach your apartment. "Well, here we are," you say, gently placing him on the ground. "Go on in." You open the door and let him enter before you. "Sorry it's a bit of a mess, I wasn't expecting company. The bathroom is right over there. Why don't you go take a shower, and I'll get a change of clothes ready for you and start cooking the soup?"
Spamton looks around with his jaw hanging open, seemingly in awe. "WOW !! [[Nice Digs]]!!!"
You laugh lightly. Right, I guess anything is better than the dumpster he's living in. "I'm glad you like it, Spamton. Now go on and freshen up."
Spamton nods and enters the bathroom. You go into your bedroom and search for some suitable clothes for him. You settle on a t-shirt featuring your favorite band and a pair of comfortable shorts. These should be okay, you think to yourself before returning to the bathroom. "Spamton, I'm putting the clothes right out here, okay?" you say loudly before setting them down in front of the door.
"OKAY!!" he responds. You walk to your kitchen and dig through the cabinets for a can of soup. Ah, here we go. Chicken and rice soup. You pour the soup into a pot and begin cooking it on the stovetop. As it cooks, you open a plastic sleeve full of crackers and arrange them all on a plate.
Several minutes later, the soup is done, and you hear Spamton calling you. "LIGHT nER? WHERE ARE YOU??" His voice sounds a bit scratchy.
"I'm in here, Spamton. I just finished cooking your soup," you say as you pour it into a bowl. You hear his footsteps as he approaches, and you smile immediately when you see him. His usually slicked-back hair is down and messy, and he's in your oversized t-shirt. God, he's so cute...
Then you notice how tired he looks. He has bags under his eyes, which are half-closed. "Aw, Spamton..." You pick up the bowl of soup and the plate of crackers. "You really need some rest. Come on, get on the couch and make yourself comfortable."
He sniffles again. "OKAY..."
Poor guy. He certainly isn't his usual talkative and energetic self. He walks slowly to the living room, lifts himself onto the couch and sits down. You notice him shiver. "I'll go get you a blanket," you say as you hand him his soup and place the plate of crackers on the end table next to him. "Feel free to put something on the TV."
He smiles at you, and you walk to your bedroom to retrieve your spare blanket. The situation you're in finally sinks in. Oh my God, the man I'm in love with is in my apartment... You blush and your heart speeds up. You try to ignore it and return to your living room with the blanket. "Here you are," you say as you gently wrap the blanket around Spamton. "How's the soup?"
He seems to perk up just a bit. "IT'S [[Top Notch]], LIGHT nER," he says with a weak smile. You sit down beside him and see that he's put on the shopping channel. There is a male Darkner gesturing towards an expensive-looking watch on a slowly spinning pedestal and talking about how great it is. Not something I would have picked, but if that's what Spamton likes to watch, then sure.
The two of you watch the television together, and Spamton finishes eating his soup and crackers in just a few minutes, setting the dishes aside. Aw, poor guy must've been hungry... Then, you hear Spamton start to sniffle once again.
"G-HH...HHEH...H-HAH-!" This time, he has to grab his nose with one hand to stop himself from sneezing. You feel a strange mixture of arousal and concern for him.
You turn and look at him gently. "Spamton...why won't you let yourself sneeze?"
His eyes widen, and he sounds congested when he speaks. "I-I CAN'T [[Sneeze]] IN FRONT OF A [[Valued Cust0mer]]...!!" He sniffles very wetly.
"And why's that?"
He frowns. "IT WOULDN 'T BE VERY [[Number 1 Rated Salesman1997]] OF ME..."
You lean towards him slightly and look into his eyes. "Spamton, it's okay. You can't keep holding back your sneezes. It's not good for you."
"BUT I..." He begins to speak and is interrupted by another oncoming sneeze. "I-...HHHEH..AH!" He stifles it again. You can't help blushing. I can't believe this guy... He sniffles even more wetly than before.
"Spamton, I'm not going to let you keep doing this to yourself."
"I'M FINE...! DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME..." He sounds more congested than ever.
You get an idea... Okay, that does it. You stand up and walk over to where you keep your feather duster. You pick it up, pluck off one feather, and put it back.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING LIGHT nER??"
You get back on the couch, practically on top of Spamton, and point the feather at his nose. "Spamton, this is your last warning. I'm serious."
You see Spamton's expression change as the realization dawns on him. "YOU'RE...GOING TO MAKE ME SNEEZE??" You lean closer to him and nod slowly, trying to hide that his acknowledgement of your intention is turning you on...
Spamton softens his voice. "I...DON'T WANT YOU TO [[Catch my cold]]..."
You stop to think for a moment. Can I even get sick from a Darkner? He's from the Cyber World. Doesn't he technically have a computer virus?...You'll worry about that later. You take a shaky breath, lower and tilt your head...and give him a gentle kiss right on the base of his nose.
He gasps, and a blush spreads across his face. He places a hand on his chest and takes a few moments to connect the dots. With just one gesture, you've told him everything he needed to know...
His look of initial shock turns into a half-lidded smirk. He looks you in the eyes and starts to gently stroke your hair with one hand, and he speaks to you in a quiet, soft voice you didn't even know he had.
"You want me to sneeze...don't you, [Angel]?"
His words send an intense wave of arousal through you. You can barely keep yourself together. Is this really happening? All you can do is sheepishly nod your head.
"I see...go ahead, [sweetheart]..." He tilts his head back to give you a better view of his nostrils, still looking you in the eyes.
Still barely believing what's happening in front of you, you shakily raise the feather to his nose and gently brush the tip of it against his red nostrils, causing them to twitch. You brush them again in the opposite direction, and his breath hitches.
"hhHHH...HEH...AH..." It seems like he's finally about to sneeze, so you pause for a moment, but it subsides.
I guess that wasn't enough... You insert the feather into one of his nostrils and gently brush it against the sides.
"EAHH...AH-HH...ATCHOO!" He finally sneezes, spraying all over your hand and face. His whole body glitches for a second.
"Wow..." you whisper under your breath. You feel like your face is redder than it's ever been.
"hhHHAH...ATCHHXK!" He glitches and sneezes again, and it's even messier than the first one.
"Bless you," you whisper as you stroke the side of his face with your cleaner hand and kiss the tip of his nose. You take a moment to catch your breath and then ask, "Do you feel any better?"
"I DO!!" he responds, and his voice sounds much clearer. "DID YOU..." He winks at you. "...[[Enjoy That]] ?"
"Y-yeah," you answer, smiling meekly and breaking eye contact. Even more than I could have imagined...
Spamton thinks for a moment. "THIS WORKED OUT [Well] FOR US, DIDN'T IT, [[Angel]]? A [[Win-Win Situation]]!!"
You smile at him and nod in agreement. "I'm going to get us cleaned up, okay? Wait here." You go into the bathroom and return with a towel and a box of tissues. "Here..." You grab the towel and gently clean the mess off his face - you're not exactly in a rush to get yourself cleaned up. You hand him the tissues and begin drying yourself off. You hear him blow his nose, and you can't help turning to look...
He notices you staring at him and raises an eyebrow at you. "YOU [[Like That]], LIGHT nER?"
You blush deeply and smile involuntarily, quickly looking away and getting back to drying yourself off. You hear him chuckle lightly at your reaction. Once you've finished, you turn back to Spamton and see that he's falling asleep while watching the TV.
"Spamton, I know this couch isn't too comfortable, so..." Now that you're sure Spamton has feelings for you, you feel comfortable making this proposal. "...would you rather come rest in my bed?"
A light blush spreads across Spamton's face. "SOUNDS LIKE [[A Good Deal]], [Angel]!!" He coughs after speaking.
You smile and show Spamton to your room, bringing the box of tissues along with you. "Here, go ahead and make yourself comfortable," you say as you gesture to your bed. "I'll be back in a couple minutes." Spamton nods, and you go back to the living room to tidy up the dirty dishes, used tissues, and everything else. When you return, you see that he has tucked himself in and is already dozing off. You get into bed with him and wrap your arms around him from behind, pulling him into your chest and resting your chin in his hair. You hear him hum in contentment.
"So," you begin asking him, "you don't like to sneeze in front of people because you're embarrassed that it makes you glitch?"
He sighs. "[You're Correct!]..."
You lightly ruffle his hair. "Well, for what it's worth, I think it's cute."
"OH..." He sniffs. "REALLY? THANK YOU [Angel]..."
You blush in response, still not completely used to his new pet name for you. "Of course," you say as you use one hand to run your fingers through his hair. "You know, Spamton, you're welcome to come here anytime you like."
"I'LL HAVE TO [[Take You Up]] ON THAT [Genoris Offer]," he responds drowsily. A few moments later, you can tell he has fallen asleep by the sound of his gentle snoring. You hug him tighter and close your eyes, focusing on your rampant thoughts about today's events as you eventually drift off.
#deltaruined#snz#snzblr#snz kink#sneeze kink#fanfic#fanfiction#x reader#nose kink#nasophilia#snzton#my post
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carnation : what is your muse’s relationship with their gender ? how do they express or not express this relationship ?
magnolia : describe your muse’s relationship with nature & the natural world .
sunflower : what brings your muse the most joy in life ?
botanical headcanon prompts
carnation: what is your muse’s relationship with their gender? how do they express or not express this relationship?
The Emperor’s gender is strange because neither she or her family adhere to human/organic concepts of gender. I would classify the Emperor as being nonbinary, but I would also do the same for most members of her family. (Especially the shapeshifters like Nyarlathotep, Yhoundeh, Lilith, and Alucard.) It’s probably the best descriptor there is in regards to what her gender even is. She’s nonbinary in the very literal sense that she is beyond the gender binary.
Both of the Emperor’s forms (her true form in the Black Palace and her regular Reaper Emperor form) are masculine, complete with working male parts. During her time amongst humanity as Shepard, her shape was masculine but with female parts. She is a daughter, the No Life King's own flesh and blood; she had her bat mitzvah when she-as-Shepard turned 12 years old. She is both a mother (the Xenomorphs were born from her blood alone) and a father (she sired the Princes of Entropy with Nyx). Her titles are masculine-as-gender-neutral: Emperor, Great Lord. Her pronouns are feminine and gender neutral: she/her and they/them, but most people simply use she/her when referring to her individually and they/them when referring to her and the Reapers collectively. She uses the term wife because that is what Nyx calls her, to her it holds more power and more romance than just the neutral term "spouse": the wife of the Night Incarnate, the wife of the Eternal Night.
She’s never felt conflicted about her gender or how she presents herself. Why should she care if organics can’t comprehend her? Why should she bend to their perceptions of gender identity and presentation? The Emperor has always been comfortable with who she is, what she is, even during her time as Shepard. She’s not completely dismissive of gender, as a concept, she understands that it’s important to a lot of people and cultures. For that reason, she doesn’t mind it if organics mostly perceive her as female. (I’m particularly thinking of when Urdnot Bakara/”Eve” tells fem!Shepard at the end of their conversation in ME3, “I’m glad to see humans treat their women with respect. Your people have placed a lot of responsibility on you.”)
Lilith and Alucard’s parenting had an impact on how she presents herself. Lilith, like her father and mother, takes whatever form she wishes, whatever form is suitable for the situation, whatever form she needs, whatever form fulfills her desires the most. Alucard’s vampirism from Lilith has made him into something of an eldritch horror, he can change his form at will: a shapeless mass full of eyes and gore and centipedes, an old Voivoide, a handsome Count, a beautiful woman, a sadistic teenage girl. Gender doesn’t mean much to him anymore, he detached himself from the concept a very long time ago. The Emperor is naturally indifferent to gender and the gender binary, but organic life doesn’t do well with indifference. However, both Lilith and Alucard have spent a long time amongst humanity and are sensitive to the way organics perceive gender, so they made sure the Emperor-as-Shepard understood that so she may navigate a world that is vastly different from her family.
Her gender's a complicated thing to put into words.
magnolia: describe your muse’s relationship with nature & the natural world.
The Emperor respects the natural world, but it is not her realm. Not entirely. Her great aunt, Shub-Gorgoroth, is the Dark Lord of the Wood. She and her Thousand Young govern the life and death cycles of the natural world. Many times when she was the young Shepard, Lilith would take her to see Shub-Gorgoroth so she could impart upon the young entity her knowledge and lessons about nature and the natural world.
At the same time, the Emperor also knows and respects that organic life has always tended, stewarded, and shaped the wilderness. Nature is never truly untouched, it requires both the natural events of the planets and the hands of sentient organic life in order to evolve and thrive. It doesn’t make sense to her that the ideal form of nature is one that is untouched by humans/organics. It is a process that every species has done in every cycle. Sometimes they do it too much and sometimes it’s difficult to go back after doing so much damage. She’s seen countless examples of species who have rendered their worlds inhospitable because they weren’t careful, like the drell. Earth was nearly one of those worlds, but then humanity discovered Prothean cache on Mars.
So, the Emperor curates.
In the Ziggurat, there is a garden level. Full of the Emperor’s favorite flowers from all over the galaxy, the most sensitive and sentient ones kept in special greenhouses where they are cared for. Xenomorphs sleep under cascades of violet from wisteria trees. Benches under weeping willows for whenever anyone in the Ziggurat wants a reprieve. Walls of blood red roses, a request from Lilith. Marigolds for Cassilda and Hastur. Great Grecian vases filled with lavender under a black gazebo, built just for Nyx. There are flowers that only bloom at night and some that grow only in the darkness.
In the deepest parts of the garden, there are fungi and alien mycelium that have recorded the cycles of extinction in their vast networks. Archives of the Reapers and the Emperor's work, gifts from Shub-Gorgoroth herself.
sunflower: what brings your muse the most joy in life?
A not at all comprehensive list of daily/current things that bring her the most joy:
Nyx
The Great Family (even when they’re annoying)
Her daughters, the Xenomorphs
Her sons, the Princes of Entropy
Her new granddaughters, the Nyctomorphs (born from the Third Prince)
Spending holidays like Passover and Rosh Hashanah together with the Great Family
Watching night descend upon the city
Having sex with Nyx, some may even quantify it as a lot of sex
Sometimes all Nyx wants in bed is to just to be in her arms, nothing makes her happier than fulfilling her wife's wishes; not every time needs to be filled with lust and passion, the quiet moments are just as wonderful
Every morning, the First Prince presents her all the newly born Xenomorphs and she spends time connecting with each one before giving them their names
Sometimes, the Queens (the ten original Xenomorphs, her first daughters, born from her blood) will detach themselves from their ovipositors and seek out her true form in the Black Palace, where they are cradled by her as they rest in her presence.
When the youngest Xenomorphs return to her and repeat all the gossip they heard on the Citadel
Pride still bubbles up inside her chest whenever her father calls her “little dragon”
Surprising Nyx with a visit while she’s working
Getting summoned by Nyx while she’s working to help relieve her stress and satisfy her needs
Lilith and Alucard still fuss over her, which she finds endearing
Nyx sharing a bottle of Ambrosia with her
Sometimes when they're sitting and enjoying the beauty and calm of the garden level, Nyx will rest her head on her shoulder
Running her finger's through Nyx's hair
Whenever she and Nyx get a visit from the people they have particular fondness and affections for
Receiving kisses on her cheek from family members
Getting a visit from Liara (by the time the events in Andromeda begin in 2819 CE, Liara is 742 years old; she, Grunt, and EDI are the last ones in the universe who remember when the Emperor was Shepard.)
Eating stars, especially ones that are on the edge of death
Gazing out at a night sky full of stars, admiring her wife's work
and many more things I can't think of at the moment
#messages from the deep#echthr0s#the reaper emperor#puts my hands on my knees like i've just run a marathon
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Could you share the issue regarding the inclusivity poll please? The one you said was resolved? Just so it helps other writers. I think it's important to share such information<3 or maybe do some notes us other writers should be aware of?
I didn't vote because I am not a poc but since we're on the topic of reader insert: the one thing I felt a bit uncomfortable with was "your mom's name" when reaper was visiting her mom. I personally don't have an issue imagining myself as an oc persona such as a ripped reaper but my mom is so nice and that part bugged me. For example, I feel like parents' names shouldn't be inserted or mentioned at all. OR give them a random name at the beginning as a starter disclaimer. Just a personal thought. Everything else is very much well thought through. Kudos as always 😉
hello!!
so the issue that was brought up from the poll was solved here, but i have so far not gotten a response for the "not good" answer. i suppose it could have been a misclick or perhaps someone just wanted to see the answers and didn't read the title first, but if there was an issue (or issues) that caused them to genuinely pick that answer, i'd love to be able to fix it!
some general notes when it comes to writing a race-neutral mc:
don't describe showers (or really, certain morning/night routines); it's important because a lot of people don't wash their hair every day. whether it be for preference, for hair type, or for how they wear their hair, it can be alienating to detail every shower as "washing your hair."
this mistake was actually corrected in the tagged post-- but be aware of how some skin scars! it had slipped my mind that not all scarring ends up pinkish-- it'll just be a dimmer version of the person's skin tone.
don't use major descriptors for hair. "billowing in the wind," "[your ponytail] pulled at your scalp," "curling around the face." all of these can be linked to a certain hair type, usually.
when describing skin, use vague terms. for example "the light from the shades dappled across your skin," instead of "the light sheened off your pale skin."
"your cheeks grew pink," "your face went red," can't always be applied to people with darker skin tones. but yk what can? growing physically warm, sweating, getting goosebumps, or feeling rushes of adrenaline! if you're gonna write something fluffy, make sure everyone gets included.
sometimes eyebags aren't easily seen, either. a lack of melanin means the purple under the lids sticks out more, but eyebags are also sometimes visible with creases, puffiness under the eyes, or a slight droop.
don't go into major detail with facial features. when describing reaper's facial scarring, i keep it general and try not to describe how lips look, whether freckles are cut up from the scarring, etc.
also, when i talk about reaper's mask, i don't talk much about her nose. obviously, larger noses might stick out more from the base of the mask, but plenty of people have flattened noses, so that wouldn't really work. instead, i used a general description (not verbatim) "fits perfectly to your nose."
bonnets and durags! people wear them all the time! in the house, out of the house, but for sleeping, too! mention them as an option for your readers to better immerse them.
really try to remember, especially as a white person, that most fanfics (intended or not) use white people as a default. there're probably a lot of people who will enjoy your fic more if they can see themselves in place of the mc. if you don't sit back, reread your chapter and think "yeah, i could picture anyone in this position" (unless the fic is specified to be black!reader x character or something of the variation), you might want to change it up.
thank you for the comment on reaper's moms name! i sort of can't change that much considering how far we are into the series, but I've removed the times where specifically "your mom/mother's name" (or a variation) was mentioned. (let me know if i missed anything).
sorry about dissing your mom, I'm sure she's lovely :) (/gen)
i also partially didn't add any details on reaper's mom's name because i didn't want to allude to any specifics on reaper's background
thank you so much for the support!
as a small disclaimer... i'm really grateful to get this kind of feedback, from my readers of color and not, it's great to hear how I'm doing because i want to make a fun fic for you guys! if the change is something quick and easy (like this and the tagged message), i don't mind it!
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I guess I'm confused with this fatphobic reaction from some circles, here as well, people want taylor to be more open and outspoken an when she is and does something that contextually is HER story people get upset? I think it's very unfair to come at her the way people have. Its fine to be uncomfortable with it but dont make her change her art. Its HERS.
being fat has NEVER been part of taylor’s story ever. taylor swift is not fat nor has she ever been. it’s not her word to throw around. being fat is not a bad thing despite what society has tried to brainwash us into believing.
taylor swift with her platform with billions of eyes on it does not have the right to frame the word “fat”, which SHOULD be a neutral descriptor, as a negative. she doesn’t have the right to do that. she is thin and always has been.
she has the right to show her relationship with the scale and her body and share her story about having an ED. she does not get to demonize the descriptor for millions of people as though the way they are is unacceptable or something to be ashamed of.
the edit she has made fully fixes the problem and shows she’s had a hard time with the scale and her body without demonizing a neutral word that doesn’t even apply to her. i’m proud of her for listening to valid constructive criticism and making a change. imo this was a mistake but not an unforgivable one. not the biggest deal or the end of the world, but a genuine misstep she made by accident. it’s good that she changed it.
but it’s like if a straight person called themselves gay to describe some aspect of themselves they disliked. that’s rude and homophobic. it’s not their place to throw that word around willy-nilly.
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don't worry!!! i wanna see more people use 'fat' as a neutral descriptor because it's true! i mean of course, people have the right to not want to be called that/have that word used to describe them and we should always honor that, but seeing it be used in a neutral way makes me happy because it helps destigmatize it!
Agreed! Fat is a descriptor and shouldn't be used or taken as a slur (though I understand whatever ugly feelings some may have about the word possibly based on their own experiences). I personally like to see it being used neutrally and even as a means to empower. I feel like it's another one of those words that have been recently "taken back" in a sense and I'm here for it
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Different anon…“All the listeners are men” “All the listeners are women” “All the listeners are white” “All the listeners are non-binary” “All the listeners are trans” “All the listeners are POC” “Cutie is autism coded” “Darlin has a raging temper problem” Every time I see someone post stuff like this (without being facetious ofc!) I’m like ‘to you’ these things are true only *to you* lol. And that’s okay, but it doesn’t make it canon for everyone and it’s definitely weird to get upset over it. Like my Freelancer is a short WOC with depression and my Darlin is a big hulking white dude lol but that’s just me! Getting upset that other’s head canon images or traits don’t align with yours is odd. Not aligning is the point lol! He tries to be gender neutral so all genders can enjoy and so the characters can be any gender to you, he tries (to less success sometimes especially in the early days lol) to be race neutral so the characters can be any race, same with size generally etc etc. Not aligning image wise is fun! I love seeing/reading about other people’s listener characters.
And with Cutie omg I’m so glad you brought up Cutie lol. People using their head canons to explain away *canonically* awful behavior. It is not canon that Cutie had an abusive household, it is not canon that they have autism. And I’m sorry but using them being “autism coded” (to that viewer!) to excuse why they constantly ignored consent even when their partner asked them not to and even coming from a job they work at that wouldn’t use reading minds without consent on literal Quinn (powerful vampire Quinn!) to find a *victim* to save that victim’s life is ridiculous and idk if it’s harmful to associate ‘character can’t read social cues so autism and that’s why they ignore consent! don’t get mad at them for ignoring their partner saying stop over years because they are autism coded!’ together but it is weird.
Thanks for the ask! <3
on your first point: I agree. Not aligning is the point, and its fun to do so. But no one should be shoving their interpretations on other as canonical. The only thing i would even slightly disagree with what you labeled is that the listeners could actually be referred to as canonically nonbinary? I mean, aside from calling them gender neutral, nonbinary is a good descriptor to use for characters who are exclusively referred to by they/them pronouns. That in and of itself could definitely be viewed as debatable, pronouns don't always equal gender. The closest thing we have to say about the listener characters' genders is that they are exclusively referred to with gender neutral terms and pronouns, which would be a lot more accurate to say.
on your second point: i saw yet another person say something like this about Cutie yesterday. I find calling Cutie autistic when they barely have a personality outside of abusing their partner and ignoring consent just... disgustingly offensive. Like this is just ableism at this point. Autism doesn't fucking make you incapable of respecting consent and boundaries, especially not when literally told straight forwardly and bluntly. If you routinely disregard boundaries and consent even after they have been clearly laid out, you don't deserve to be in a relationship because you obviously aren't capable of respecting your partner as a person. They're not "autism coded". They're abusive.
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Ultimate Deity Communication Tarot Spread
This is my own spin on the Ultimate Deity Communication spread. I combined two spreads when originally trying to identify my deities, and it resonated really strongly for me. This and this are the originals I combined. I did NOT write the bulk of the descriptors, that goes to The Tarot Guru who has some AWESOME material! The numbers on the cards are NOT a strict order to lay them in, they are simply for identification with the meanings. I lay them in different orders depending on where my intuition is calling me. Make sure to consider the interplay of different cards in this one! I always wait to flip the middle card until the very end because I want a good picture of the deity before I prejudice myself. I prefer to do this spread with my most neutral deck, specifically a Rider-Waite, because I have found that my deities have very different preferred methods to communicate with my but all of them can make this work. I only use this for identifying spirits, I use other spreads once I have identified them.
1. Past Relationship
This may not have been the first time that you are receiving either communication or an outside influence from this particular deity, you just may not have been aware of it. This card will inform you whether they have influenced your life previously, as well as the instance that they involved themselves in. If you experienced a moment in your life that you did not understand, or if something happened with no explanation, you may finally get the answers you were seeking.
2. Present Relationship
Similar to the previous card, this one will inform you of the current influence that this deity is having on your life. Again, this may provide you with an explanation of events currently occurring in your life, or clarify any confusing feelings you may have. This card will, more than likely, relate to the influencing sphere of the deity.
3. Sphere of Influence
The third card to be drawn will represent that deity’s sphere of influence. This will provide you further insight into the identity of the deity, as each deity has its own specific spheres of influence. The sphere that has been represented on this card may relate to the conversation or advice that the deity wishes to share with you, usually meaning that this sphere is going to change or is changing within your life.
4. Personality Traits of the Deity
Now that you have an overall image of what the deity is like, the following card will inform you further on their specific personality traits. This card may represent the deity’s most overwhelming personality trait, alternatively, it could symbolize a personality trait that the deity shares with yourself. The personality trait could also be one that you should either develop or become more attuned to.
5. Why work with this Deity?
At this point of the tarot reading, you may be wondering why you should work with this deity, this card will provide you with the answer. Perhaps you have been seeking help relating to this deity’s influencing sphere, or maybe change is coming in this sphere within your personal life. Either way, the deity will know whether you need their help or support. They are here to help you, and you should absorb and understand the guidance and advice that they are giving you. Remember that just because a deity wants to work with you doesn't mean that you have to accept.
6. What They Desire From You
Most of the time, deities will wish to communicate with you when they want to give you advice relating to their influencing sphere. This card will inform you of what they wish you to do after understanding the conversation. This could be an action that they wish for you to complete or inner contemplation and reflection that you should partake in.
7. How to Respect the Deity's Wishes
If the previous card confuses you, or you require further information, then this card may help. With all the information that the deity has provided so far, it may confuse you on how you should proceed. This card will provide you with insight on how you can respect the deity’s wishes and follow their guidance to the best of your ability.
8. How This Will Improve Your Relationship
This card will symbolize how you can improve your relationship with this deity. Whether you already have a strong relationship, or if this is the first time you are communicating, every relationship always requires work to either maintain its high level or improve it. This card will inform you on what you can do in order to improve the relationship, whether that is following their advice or opening yourself up to further communication.
9. Past Lessons
What lessons have I learned from you in the past that can benefit me now?
10. Present Impact of Past Lessons
What is the best way to learn this lesson? How should I use what I gained from these lessons?
11. Signs
What signs should I look for from you?
12. Preferred Offerings/Service
Do you have any preferred offerings or things you would like me to do for you at the present moment, or in general?
13. Card Representing the Deity
The last card to be drawn will symbolize the deity themselves. This will be the strongest card to provide an overall representation of the deity rather than a specific part of their personality or attitude. You must remember, however, that this will not directly identify the deity but will simply provide you with a deeper insight that will allow you to trust and bond them.
Additional Cards
I often lay additional cards to get further clarification or additional details. Where that card is placed in relation to the others is very much based on your intuition. A few cards I usually lay are a card that they will use to represent me, and my other deities. I usually lay the one to represent myself crossing the 13 card, and the deity cards also go in the center. These give perspective on how the deity will work within and with your current pantheon and life.
#tarot#tarot spreads#deity#deity work#deity communication#witch#witchcraft#pagan#pagan witch#thetarotguru
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On the use of ‘masculine’
Like many, I tend to use ‘masculine’ a little willy-nilly. Carelessly. Because despite—and irrelevant of—what I wish for, the word is not a neutral descriptor, and using it cannot be done neutrally. There’s always a judgement being made, whether we like it or not, when we employ it. The same could be said of “feminine”.
In an ideal world, ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ would signify ‘of or relating to women/girls’ and ‘of or relating to men/boys’, ie be synonymous with female and male and not bear value judgements of themselves. No one would feel the urge to sneer at anything deemed feminine; masculine wouldn’t be upheld as inherently better. And they wouldn’t necessarily be opposite. There would be some overlap, because there is overlap in the behaviours and choices of women and men, and the need for ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ would be way lessened, because there is no situation which would warrant its use.
It’s not the case though, we’re not living in an ideal world. The prevalence of ‘masculine’, and my own use of it, bothers me. Especially when it’s used to describe practical clothes. Especially when it’s used to describe women who wear these practical clothes. Especially when it’s used to describe women who have and display any skill that’s outside of the restricted, ‘feminine’ scope which has been assigned to women.
None of us are masculine when we wear pants or shirts or suspenders; none of us are masculine when we do plumbing, or fix a car, or use any sort of tools. None of us were masculine for climbing trees and playing in mud and slaying dragons. Dating a woman does not make us masculine; wishing we were dating a woman doesn’t make us masculine either.
None of these are feminine behaviours either; because feminine doesn’t means ‘of or relating to women/girls’. ‘Feminine’ means ‘of or relating to the dainty and meek practices of the weaker sex (additional note on the usage of the word: a sneer should be displayed while uttering ‘feminine’ to really mark you contempt)’. That leaves us in a sort of limbo; how can we characterise these instances, because while they are ‘of or relating to women/girls’, they are not shared by a majority of women nor are they in line with our oppression (which is really what the word ‘feminine’ carries across).
We should be more careful about describing ourselves and other women as ‘masculine’. It doesn’t help us. Practical clothes serve us better. Comfortable, confident women does us more justice. Skilful, resourceful, competent, self-sufficient women summarises us more accurately. Imaginative, creative, free, normal was what we were. Lesbian or bisexual is enough.
A normal woman isn’t one who’s wearing a dress, useless with her two hands, sitting still through childhood, and heterosexual. Wearing pants, knowing the basics of welding, having had muddy knees and pockets full of acorns or dating a woman do not make us non-women. We should stop entertaining the fact that it does—we’re not even using subtext.
Using ‘masculine’ is inaccurate.
#on the use of masculine#when referring to women#a lesbian perspective#frankly tired of it#we don't need men#and we should be accurate#using masculine is not accurate.
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Obey Me! and Angelology and Demonology
alternatively titled Lets Get Into Lucifer
This is yet another long, long post about the lore of Obey Me! from the perspective of historical and theological angelology, and demonology or the study of angels and demons respectively, because I think it’s neat. I also talk way too much. I’m scared to check the word count on this.
Disclaimer: I am not an expert on anything, and certainly not on religion. I just like comparative theology. Also, spoilers for lesson 43/44.
What is an angel? And what, in turn, is a demon? It depends on who you ask. All religions that have angels have a general consensus that they are spiritual beings, intermediaries of some kind of higher power. Demons, on the other hand, are much more vague beyond general malevolence toward humanity. Any connection between the two is entirely dependent on the culture and religion in question. Some have angels but not demons, and many have vice versa.
There’s generally four kinds of spirits that are considered demons:
Dead people with extremely bad vibes (think mogwai, yuurei, and other revenants)
Neutral-to-malevolent energy, physical form optional (think djinni or yokai)
Cult subjects (including foreign gods and ancestor worship)
Corrupted angels (either fallen or Nephilim)
The word demon comes from the Greek δαίμων, or daimon, but the concept of a demon is much older than the Greeks. The original daimon had none of the malevolent, evil associations that we now think of. Instead, daimon just described a kind of powerful spiritual entity (for example, δαίμων is the term Euripides uses for the new god Dionysus in The Bacchae). What we think of as demons now didn’t exist in Greek culture, and the negative associations came when the Tanakh was translated from Hebrew to Greek, but even then shedim aren’t identical to the contemporary depiction of demons that we see in Obey Me!, which, like everything else in Western society, came about through the domination of Christianity.
Shedim, the precursor to the Christian demon, was more or less a term for false gods, a title for the various Levantine pagan gods (see: origin of Beelzebub, Belphegor, and pretty much every demon that starts with Bel- or Bal-).
Obey Me! pretty much canonizes Type 2 and Type 4 demons, with characters like Diavolo, Barbatos, and Satan as Type 2 and the other brothers as Type 4. Historically, Beelzebub and Belphegor are Type 3 (Beelzebub and Belphegor being Levantine gods), Mammon being Type 2 (a general personification of Wealth, although Milton did write him as a Type 4 in Paradise Lost) and Asmodeus being somewhere in between Type 2 and 3 (being heavily derived from a Zoroastrian daeva of wrath). Lucifer is, historically, the only consistently Type 4 demon.
I don’t think I have to explain what a fallen angel is to any OM! fan. But I will.
Let’s talk about these guys. We’re all familiar with Satan’s weird complex about Lucifer, and I’m sure we’re all equally familiar with how Satan and Lucifer are terms used interchangeably for whatever being is The Big Bad of Hell. However, they’re not synonymous.
Satan derives from the same Proto-Semitic root as shayatan, which... should be pretty obvious, but nonetheless has a pretty analogous role as a tempter of men in the Abrahamic religions. Beyond that “tempter of men” title, though, the actual details of what Satan is is incredibly varied, including whether or not “Satan” is a name or a title. In Christianity, the view of Satan as an extremely powerful and evil corrupter of man, wholly opposed to God, came around the Middle Ages, when witchcraft hysteria spread.
Lucifer, on the other hand, is simultaneously a figure originating in Christianity and much, much older than it. The term of course means “light-bringer”, and is heavily associated with the morning star, aka the planet Venus. To make a very long story short, many Mesopotamian, Levantine, and Mediterranean cultures saw the lowering of Venus toward the horizon at night and thought, “hey, thats a pretty neat image!” and created stories about heavenly beings falling toward the earth. Of course, they didn’t use the ‘term’ Lucifer, that’s Latin, and came from the Vulgate Bible.
The term Lucifer does not exclusively refer to The Evil Fallen Angel™ in Christian texts (some very sacred things like the Exsultet explicitly refer to Jesus as Lucifer), but it sure is the most popular interpretation. In works like Paradise Lost or the Divine Comedy, the general idea is that the angel Lucifer rebelled against God in some way and was cast out of Heaven, then becoming Satan, and thus the two are one and the same.
(inb4 some Quora-type chews me out for accuracy’s sake, the “lucifer” mentioned in Isaiah 14:12 refers not to any angel, but to a Babylonian king. The whole fallen angel thing, much like the beatitudes or Bethlehem or Christmas, is a fusion of pagan influences.)
In other words, Lucifer is always and has always been a fallen angel. Satan, on the other hand, doesn’t have those connections to angelhood, and the two figures have an undeniable connection despite their clear individual differences. Sound familiar?
The next question is then what kind of angel is Lucifer anyway? to which you might be thinking, wait, there are different kinds? Yes, holy shit, there are so many kinds of angels and very little consensus on what they are. In terms of Christian angelology (because again, Lucifer is a uniquely Christian/derivative Christian figure unless you exclude Leland’s Aradia which I don’t because lbr they were Italian anyways), most hierarchies are based on the work of this guy:
This man has the incredibly succinct name of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, and sometime in the 5th century he wrote a book called De Coelesti Hierarchia. It orders the *WTNV voice* hierarchy of angels into three levels called spheres, and each sphere has three sub-levels called choirs. Many, but not all, of the choirs are adopted from various Jewish angelic hierarchies. If you thought that it was just angels and then archangels were, like, the middle management version of angels then you are very wrong. I’m sorry that television lied.
You know who also lied? Tumblr dot com and any post that implies that the true form of angels is a big wheel with a bunch of eyes. That is, in fact, a descriptor for only one kind of angel: ophanim, or thrones. The depiction of angels runs the gamut from winged humanoids to multi-winged humanoids with multiple animal heads to burning snakes to vague heavenly mist.
Archangels and angels are the eighth and ninth lowest choirs of angels, respectively. Angels, or malakhim, are the default messengers of God and the choir from which guardian angels come from. Generally, if someone claims to have a message from God delivered to them, it will be an angel doing it. If it’s really important, it’ll be an archangel. Everyone else literally has more important things to do. No one’s getting visions from dominions.
Lucifer’s (the theological one) actual designation is kind of a mystery. Depending on the text, Lucifer has been described as a seraph (the highest), a cherub (the second highest), or an archangel (the eighth). According to Thomas Aquinas:
Lucifer, chief of the sinning angels, was probably the highest of all the angels. But there are some who think that Lucifer was highest only among the rebel angels.
Not very helpful, but hey. The question remains: what kind of angel is Lucifer, and this time I mean our Lucifer.
We know that Michael, just like his namesake, is an archangel. We also know that (SPOILERS) Simeon, unlike his namesake, is an archangel as well (Simeon is a saint, not an angel.) Lucifer likely was at their level, if not higher.
However, Lucifer was also a six-winged angel, a depiction generally reserved for seraphim (and cherubim, but far less frequently).
Moreover, in terms of role, an angellic Lucifer fits well with that of the powers, the sixth choir. Powers are in charge of moving the heavenly bodies, and are depicted as powerful warriors dressed in beautiful armor. It's fitting for a being so closely tied to the morning star to be a power, after all.
So, with all that considered, what is Lucifer?
Well, he’s a seraph (or saraph, technically). Why? Because Simeon is somehow a seraph and an archangel (I have already written too much to unpack that bullshit), and Mammon was a throne (remember those wheels with eyes?) and Beel was a cherub and therefore Lucifer had to be higher than both of them (interestingly big brother Mammon is in a lower choir than little brother Beel). This makes Michael kind of, well... weird, given the archangels’ low rank.
Some like to differentiate between archangel the eighth choir and Archangel, with a capital A, as a term for any high-ranking angel. While this is likely what Solmare is doing, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that this has zero basis in any religious text whatsoever and is solely done for the convenience of not remembering anything besides angel and archangel. Which is like, fine, but I’m a pedantic jerk who I found claims to the contrary while researching and I felt the need to correct that.
Anyways, the more you know.
#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me theories#obey me demonology#obey me angelology#obey me lucifer#my theories#YEEHAW that was a lot. my god#anyways besties dont let this flop
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Falsely Accused: Begin Anew
Primus had it out for him, it seemed. Prowl must have done something truly terrible in a past life to deserve everything that had happened to him in this one. Pits, he wasn’t even considered an adult by Cybertronian standards. He was no longer a youngling, that much was true. He had aged out of that descriptor in Trypticon. He was, however, what most bots would consider a mechling. Not quite underage anymore, but still not yet a fully fledged adult. Had he still been on Cybertron and a free mech, he would be legally old enough to work but not yet old enough to consume engex. In some city-states, he would not even be old enough to consume high-grade, which was considerably weaker and not as intoxicating as engex.
All that was to say, was that he had experienced a significant degree of pain, suffering, and general bad luck for a bot was was still so young by his species standards. Sometimes, Prowl couldn’t help but question why. He had been happy, when he’d been training under Master Yoketron. His life before the Dojo had been hard, and much of it had been spent in the Praxian Youth Center, and then he’d escaped and lived as a street rat. It had been difficult, but at least he’d not been forced into any sort of role or job; at least he had been free. Then he’d been taken in by Yoketron, and everything had looked up. But even that hadn’t lasted, and he’d lost the last of his youth to Trypticon and the wardens who had so despised him.
And then, not even a full deca-cycle since he had been freed from his prison and escaped Cybertron, he had been discovered on what he hoped would be a refuge by Neutral Cybertronians. Not just any Neutrals, either. A cyber-ninja master and his student, of all things. Prowl knew that here could be multiple cyber-ninja masters at one time, though there was only ever one Master of the Cyber-Ninja Corps at a time. What caused him so much distress with this new revelation was that he distinctly remembered Master Yoketron telling him that none of his students, graduated or otherwise, had yet reached the necessary skill level to be called a cyber-ninja master. Which meant either the strange bot, Wing, was either lying, or he wasn’t one of Master Yoketron’s students. But if he wasn’t one of his Master’s former students, Prowl couldn’t think of where else he could have come from.
Unless…?
Wing looked young. Much younger than Master Yoketron had. But…he knew it was possible for mechs who were millions upon millions of stellar cycles old to look like they’d only just been freshly upgraded to their final frames. So was is possible that Wing was Master Yoketron’s age, or perhaps older? It was all he could think of. It would also explain how Wing could be a jet, yet not be a Decepticon.
Prowl shook his head roughly to clear his processor of the spiraling train of thought, immediately regretting the action when it caused his processor to shriek in agonized protest. He winced, pressing his hand to his forehelm, his thumb brushing over his broken chevron. After a klik, he lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. He had to put that aside. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. He had left Wing and Drift behind at the cliff where they’d found him. He refused to take any chances with Cybertronians. Unfortunately, now that he knew they were here, he had to get off this planet. He had enough shanix to buy himself another trip on a cargo ship. He didn’t care where it took him, he just needed to get away.
He forced his processor back on track. Prowl was in the cave now, and he had gotten away from the odd pair, so he would be safe. It had been a few couple solar cycles since he’d encountered them. He would need to go out for energon, soon. But he was fairly sure that as long as he was careful, he wouldn’t be found. First though, he needed rest. He was exhausted, and he wouldn’t be able to track down fuel if he was too tired to function. So, he curled up in the back corner of the cave, facing the entrance, and let his optics slip shut. He would worry about fuel – and the two cyber-ninjas – later.
As he slipped into recharge, his processor replayed his encounter with Wing and Drift, and for once he blessedly wasn’t plagued by nightmares in the form of memories.
——————————
“Ah, but how rude of me! I should introduce myself and my companion before I ask so many questions!” The jet gave him another warm grin, gesturing first at himself, then at the racer beside him. “I’m a cyber-ninja master. My name is Wing, and this is my student, Drift.”
Prowl froze, his optics going wide behind his visor. “…what?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Wing’s expression shifted to one of concern. “Are you okay, little one?” He asked.
Prowl flinched back from the hand that reached for him. “I’m fine.” he said roughly. “But what did you say?” He had to have misheard.
Wing shared a worried look with Drift. Then he looked back at the frightened mechling. “My name is Wing. I’m a cyber-ninja master.” he nodded at the racer beside him. “This is my student. Drift.”
Prowl reset his vocalizer, spark pulsing frantically. So he hadn’t misheard. But how was that possible? He had thought Master Yoketron was the only surviving cyber-ninja master. But this Wing claimed to be one as well? It didn’t make sense. He was a jet, a flyer. Weren’t most flyers Decepticons? Yet, Prowl saw no faction markings on the mechs in front of him.
“And you, little one?”
“What?” Prowl was jerked out of his panic by the older mech’s voice.
“Your name?” Wing asked, tone gentle.
“…Prowl.”
“Well met, Prowl.” Wing greeted, his expression warm.
“Well met.” Drift offered up, dipping his helm in a friendly nod.
Prowl hesitated, then ducked his own helm quickly. “Well met, Wing. Well met, Drift.” he said in return. He paused for another moment, but then he had to ask. “You…you are truly a cyber-ninja master? Like Master Yoketron was?”
Wing’s optics lit up. “Indeed!” he said brightly. His grin widened. “You know Yoketron, then? It’s been a long time since I saw him last.” he mused.
Prowl flinched. “Master Yoketron-“ his vocalizer cut off into static, and he had to reset it before he could finish. “Master Yoketron has joined the Well of All Sparks. He was offlined many mega-cycles ago.” he said haltingly.
At that, Wing visibly saddened, his wings dipping with his drop in mood. Drift lifted a hand to his Master’s shoulder, his field pulsing a beat of comfort.
“I know.” the jet said softly. “We may not be affiliated with any Cybertronian faction, nor have we returned to Cybertron for many mega-cycles, but I did hear about Yoketron’s fate. Every Cybertronian, both those on planet and those not, know he was offlined. The loss of the Master of the Cyber-Ninja Corps is a grave blow.” he murmured.
Prowl swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he was apologizing. It wasn’t his fault. He supposed he had gotten used to apologizing to bots who were angry or upset with him, even when he had done nothing wrong. It had often been the only way to avoid the ire of the guards at Trypticon, though it didn’t always work.
“You have nothing to apologize for, it was not your fault.” Wing said, sounding confused.
Prowl winced, wanting to change the topic. “You said you have no affiliation to any Cybertronian faction. You are Neutrals, then?” he said suddenly.
Both mechs looked at each other, clearly catching on to the very unsubtle attempt to shift the conversation. Blessedly, neither said anything about it.
“Yes.” Wing answered smoothly.
“Then what is it you do?” Despite himself, Prowl was curious.
“Exploration, mostly.” Wing hummed. “Though we occasionally take jobs as bounty hunters, of a sort, in order to earn credits.”
Prowl tensed, his vents hitching and his armor clamping tight to his frame. Bounty hunters. Oh Primus, he’d made a mistake. They were here for him after all. Why else would Cybertronian bounty hunters be so interested in him? He knew this hadn’t been a coincidence. Pits, but he shouldn’t have let his guard down.
Wing seemed to notice his fear, because the large mech stepped forward. “Prowl? Are you well?”
The two-wheeler jolted as if he’d been shocked, and then he dived forward and down, folding into his alt mode despite the painful protest his frame made, and as soon as his wheels hit the ground he was speeding off. He heard noises of alarm from both mechs still on the cliff, but he didn’t dare slow down. He had to get away. He wouldn’t go back to Cybertron, he refused to.
And so, spark pulsing at a painful rate, panic overriding his thoughts, he drove until he couldn’t hear them anymore, and then he continued to drive some more. The cave he’d found earlier was well hidden and far away. He’d be safe there.
He had to be.
——————————
Prowl wasn’t sure what woke him, at first. He just knew he hadn’t come out of recharge on his own. He onlined his optics, and was about to sit up when he saw the white form sitting a few paces away from him. Immediately, he froze, fear swamping his EM field before both it and his armor clamped tight. Wing. Somehow, the jet had found him. He flicked his gaze up to see that the older mech was staring at him, expression unreadable. For a long moment, the two bots simply stared at each other in silence.
The groaning of Prowl’s tanks broke it.
Wing frowned, then slipped a hand into his subspace and pulled out an energon cube. Prowl fought the urge to whimper at the sight of the clean, obviously good-quality fuel. He was immensely surprised when, instead of drinking it, Wing set it down and leaned forward to push it towards him. He lay still for several sparkbeats, unable to understand what was happening. He still didn’t sit up, remaining curled up and pressed tightly into his corner.
“Drink, Prowl.” Wing’s voice was gentle, when he finally spoke. “That cube is yours. You need it.”
Prowl hesitated, but in the end he knew he couldn’t deny it. Not with how starved he was, and with how Wing was blocking the exit. He sat up slowly, his damaged and neglected limbs aching, and reached out for the cube. When Wing didn’t make to snatch it back, he curled his fingers around it and pulled it close. He peeled back the seal, distantly noting that if it was still sealed it was not as likely to have been tampered with, and lifted the cube to his lips. At the first slide of proper energon over his glossa, he almost gagged. The energon that the prisoners at Trypticon had been given was low quality, just the bare minimum of what was needed to survive without negative consequences, health-wise. Even this energon, compared to what he knew energon could be, was of fairly average make. But it was far, far better than anything he’d had in a very long time.
As soon as that initial moment passed, and he adjusted to the more intense taste and better fuel, he started gulping it down almost frantically. In the back of his processor, he knew that wasn’t right. He needed to take it slow, after so long without proper fuel, but his frame and his systems were starved and desperate. He flinched back against the cave wall almost violently when a white hand was laid over his wrist, gently pushing it, and the cube, down and away from his mouth. He didn’t notice that some of the energon splashed out and over his armor at his sudden jerk. He was too worried over how Wing had gotten so close without him noticing.
“Easy.” he admonished the terrified Praxian gently. “Slowly, Prowl. I know a starved mech when I see one. You need to take it slow.”
Prowl reset his vocalizer, visor locked onto Wing’s optics. When the pressure on his wrist eased up, he slowly brought the cube back up to his lips and sipped at the fuel within. He still wanted to gulp it all down, but the hand still on his wrist served as a good reminder fo take it easy. He drank in little sips, stopping whenever Wing pushed his wrist down to let his tanks settle and adjust, until he’d finished the contents of the cube.
Wing took the empty cube back, then. He released Prowl’s wrist, subspacing the cube and then leaning back from the uncomfortable mechling’s space. The jet was silent for a moment, his amber optics boring into the smaller Cybertronian’s visored ones with a sort of piercing intensity. Prowl stared back, remaining silent. Already, he could feel his systems processing the fuel, his frame feeling leagues better than it had even a breem ago.
“Why are you here?”
Wing tilted his helm, staring at him for another beat before he answered. “Because you’re very young, Prowl. Far too young to be on your own when you’re so damaged and starved.” he said firmly. “You’re hurt, and I won’t pry into how you got into this state but the fact that a cyber-ninja mechling is so damaged and so far from Cybertron worries me.”
Prowl flinched, processor turning over those words. “You said you are bounty hunters. Cybertron did not send you for me?”
“No. We don’t take jobs from Cybertron. The universal currency is credits, not shanix, though they do accept shanix on planets with Cybertronian connections.” Wing explained. “Drift and I do a lot of traveling. We take jobs from other planets we visit, like finding rare resources, defending against threats, bringing in escaped convicts, and in return we get paid in credits. So it’s not really bounty hunting.” He shrugged. “That was simply the easiest way to explain it, at the time. I don’t realize that doing so would scare you, and for that I apologize.”
Prowl reset his vocalizer, relaxing a little. Wing could still be lying, he supposed. But he didn’t think he was. If the jet truly was a proper bounty hunter, he would have dragged Prowl to his ship as soon as he found him, not waited for him to wake. He also wouldn’t have given him fuel. All of Wing’s actions up till now supported what he was saying.
“I see.” Prowl said after a moment. He still had one question, though. “How do you know I am a cyber-ninja? And why do you care?” Two questions., he supposed.
Wing chuckled. “You referred to Yoketron as “Master”. That tells me you were his student, once.” he explained. “And I care because cyber-ninjas are meant to be a fairly close knit bunch. There aren’t many of us, so we need to look out for each other.” he smiled, warm. “Besides, like I said. You’re very young. That’s worry enough as well, for me.”
Prowl didn’t know how to answer that. “I’m am no cyber-ninja. I never completed my training before Master Yoketron was offlined.” he said, thinking it would get the mech to leave.
It did not. “Wait, that was a while ago. None of the other graduated students took over your training?”
“None of the other students had achieved the rank of master.”
“Even so, the old traditions of the Corps dictate that if a master falls before they can complete their student’s training, then that master’s already graduated students should complete it themselves in the absence of another master.” Wing said, clearly displeased.
The Praxian went still, unsure how to feel about that. He knew why that had never happened to him. He’d been accused of being his Master’s killer. He doubted he was even considered a cyber-ninja, even one in training, by the others. Still, it stung to know that he’d lost even more to the false conviction.
“That never happened.” he said dully.
“So I see. That makes it even worse. What is a cyber-ninja student doing wandering so damaged and so far from home?” At Prowl’s stiffening frame, Wing winced. “Ah, yes. I promised not to pry. Apologies, little one.”
Prowl shook his head, feeling wrong-footed. He didn’t understand why Wing was being so kind. “I doubt I would be considered a student still. Much happened after….” he trailed off. Wing would know what he meant. “After Master Yoketron fell, I doubt the others consider me as a part of the Corps.”
The jet was clearly even more displeased, but as promised, he didn’t pry. “That’s slag.” he said blandly. Prowl almost gaped at the curse. “Even so, I won’t ask for details. But do you need a ride back to Cybertron? If you got stranded, I would be more than happy to return you there. We have a ship.”
“No!” Prowl blurted, then flinched back and curled into his corner again. “No. I don’t ever want to go back.” he said, tone haunted.
“Okay.” Wing agreed easily. “Then would you like a ride to another planet? One were you can get repairs and energon and a way to earn shanix? I know a few small colonies that would welcome you.”
“No.” Prowl shook his helm. “I want nothing to do with Cybertron or it’s colonies.”
“In that case, I know planets that have no affiliation to Cybertron whatsoever, where you can get repair, fuel, and anything else you might need.” Wing said.
He frowned. “Why are you insisting? Do you want shanix? I don’t have much left.”
Wing shook his helm. “No, and I’d refuse payment if you offered, I just want to see you brought someplace where you’ll be safer. That’s all. I knew Yoketron. He was…very dear to me. I want to see his student safe and well.” He paused. “And also, for the reasons I explained before.”
Prowl stared for a long time, unable to wrap his processor around someone offering so much for so little in return. He glanced down at his frame, knowing he probably did need repair, and winced at the energon staining his dull and dented armor. But, that brought up another thought in his processor.
“Do you have more energon?” To his horror, he’d asked the question before he could stop himself. He was just so hungry, even after the cube he’d had.
Wing stilled, then laughed lightly. “Yes. We have plenty aboard the ship. You can get cleaned up and have as much fuel as you need. I won’t ask for payment, either. It wouldn’t be right to ask that when you clearly need food.” he smiled.
Prowl ducked his helm, turning it over in his processor. He was terrified, and still didn’t trust Wing. But this might also be his best chance at getting someplace he could actually, properly start a new life for himself. He did risk Wing turning out to be lying and taking him back to Cybertron, but everything he’d seen and heard from the mech suggested he truly wouldn’t do that. Given his state, this really might be his best chance.
“Alright.” he agreed. “I…would very much appreciate if you could bring me to one of those planets you mentioned.”
Wing beamed, nodding and standing up. He held out a hand to Prowl to help him to his pedes. The Praxian ignored it, using the wall instead to push himself up and leaning against it for support at the wave of dizziness that assaulted him. Once it passed, he looked up to see that Wing had dropped his hand. The jet was still smiling, though the expression had relaxed and softened.
“Come on, then. The ship is this way. Drift went to get it and land it nearby.” He said.
Prowl pushed himself off the wall, then followed Wing out of the cave as the jet took the lead. They walked in silence for a few breems when Prowl suddenly sensed a presence on his right. He jerked his helm wildly, gaze landing on the white racer from before. Drift. He ignored the concern from both the bigger mech’s at his sudden, panicked movement, armor plating flared slightly as he shifted around until he had both the other two on his left. He saw the look they shared, but was infinitely grateful that neither mech made a comment on his behavior.
“Master Wing.” Drift spoke up. “I did as you asked. The spare room on the ship has been emptied and cleaned, and everything in it was transferred the the storage bay. Also, I put him in the ship’s system so he can use the energon dispenser, washracks, and anything else he might need.”
Prowl stopped walking. He knew Drift had been talking about putting him into the ship’s system. But that wasn’t right. If he was just a temporary passenger, then why would he be put into the system? Why would a berthroom be cleared for him? If he wasn’t staying on the ship permanently, then they wouldn’t have cleared out another room for him. Cleaned it up, perhaps, but cleared it out completely? No, this wasn’t making sense. Had Wing lied after all? But then, why do all that if he was just going to be turned in? None of this made sense to him, and as his panic grew it bled into his field.
Wing winced, turning a look onto his student. “I hadn’t actually gotten to that part yet, Drift.” he sighed. “Prowl is too skittish. But thank you, now I have to calm him down again.” he said wryly.
Drift had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, Master. I didn’t realize. I’ll go ahead to the ship and get it ready to go.” At Wing’s nod, he folded into his alt mode and drove ahead.
Wing turned back to the frightened Praxian, stepping closer. He expanded his EM field to wrap it around the smaller bot, pushing soothing comfort and easy calm into it to try and help Prowl relax. He didn’t get closer than that, though, remembering how scared he’d been of touch and close proximity.
Prowl looked up once he’d calmed enough, his hands curled into fists. “What was he talking about? Why would you do that on your ship if I’m just a temporary passenger?” he demanded.
Wing chuckled, shaking his helm. “Because I would like to have you as more than just a temporary passenger.” he sighed. “I had hoped to make this offer when you were fueled and rested and felt better, but it seems Drift inadvertently pushed things along.” he said, tone dry.
“What offer?” Prowl asked, fear warring with confusion in his processor.
Wing clasped his hands behind his back, smiling soft and warm. “If you would be willing then learn, then I would very much like to take you as a student.”
———————————————————————————————————
So, what did y’all think? Things are starting to pick up now! Let me know your thoughts, if you’re so obliged! Feedback is a huge motivator for me to keep writing, as I am a writer who craves to know what my readers think about my stuff.
Also, poor Prowl. He’s starving and injured and terrified and has no idea what’s going on. Wing just wants to help! Maybe now things’ll turn around for him, eh?
Until next time, folks!
#falsely accused au#transformersanimated#tfa#transformers animated#prowl#tfa prowl#wing#tfa wing#drift#tfa drift#tfa au#transformers au#wing takes in strays#prowl is his newest one#and there is still the question of prowl’s optics!#what’s wrong you ask?#it shall be revealed next time!#transformers#maccadam
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Makes me wonder if Eggman didn't even mean "You, FAT one!" as an insult when he addressed Zommon in Lost World. Since he's a proud fat man himself, he might've just meant it as a neutral descriptor rather than trying to put a fellow fat man down.
Hmm I don't know, it could've been genuinely used as a description but it kind of seemed like an insult to me as he was purposefully disrespecting the D6 a lot when they were under his enslavement, he was toying with and being cruel to them with his treatment towards them and usage of the conch and he didn't even refer to each by name.
He's also pointed out Big's weight and called Storm fat, who I didn't consider such since he's kind of built like Boom Eggman. Maybe with Big he was just using it as a way to describe him but he seemed to be trying to find ways to insult all the good guys in the menu dialogue there. XD Either way, he definitely intended it as an insult towards Storm:
This fucking guy is just a big bully fr I have the receipts and I will call him out for it gjskgnskgnskh
Despite being a fat guy that's confident with his own weight and appearance, he does use fat as an insult to others. He'll look for literally anything to insult people he doesn't like for in hopes of making an impact and hitting a nerve, even if it's something they have in common. He likes to get at people his enemies in any way he can, so it's not surprising. I imagine he also takes the opportunity to do so because he's usually always the one on the receiving end and he wants to finally take the chance to change that.
I've seen people assume he might do this out of insecurity in his own weight and is taking it out on others but I really don't like that theory. One, it makes me sad lol and two, there are obviously a ton of things that prove he absolutely isn't, otherwise he wouldn't embrace his egg shape so confidently in his name, have his creations share his shape, and make big statues fully accurate to his appearance. It's not an act, he truly believes it and is proud in it.
And of course he dislikes it when others try to turn it into an insult towards him because why wouldn't he? But I imagine that it's not that their insults make him feel insecure about his weight, I see it as him instead being mad because he doesn't like how they're implying that he should feel bad/uncomfortable/etc for being fat when he actually doesn't and try to make him insecure when he isn't as he clearly embraces it instead. Of course he wouldn't like it for that reason, aside from the obvious of him not liking that they're insulting him in general.
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