#it is long | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theyhavetakenovermylife · 5 months

Text

Shadows Entwined: Part 1

BatmanVsTmnt!Leonardo x Sidekick!reader

Heyo! I saw someone ask for a Batman Vs Tmnt, Tmnt x reader, and I thought hey, why not try it out. I’ve decided to make it with Leo because, well, he’s my fave.

Sorry for any spelling mistakes or any Batman misinformation. I’ve only seen this movie a few times, and TMNT have always been my heroes of choice.

Spelling and grammar mistakes be warned! English is not my first language.

Also I’m totally guessing what his eye color would be.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Plot: The reader is a sidekick of Batman from Gotham City, and meets the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And well, you and Leo like each other’s eyes.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Bonus (18+)

(H/N) = Hero name.

The reader and the turtles are 19.

—---------------------------------------------------------

The night cloaked Gotham City in a shroud of uncertainty, with what seemed to be the everlasting bad weather that had been over the city you called home, for all the time you could remember. In the heart of Gotham, you, the trusted sidekick of the Dark Knight, (H/N), patrolled the streets with unwavering determination. Your skill with gadgets and hand-to-hand combat had earned you Batman's trust, but tonight, the shadows whispered of a danger that required unconventional alliances.

Batman's investigation led him to believe that the lizard men Batgirl had told about, were ninja. Metahumans, Batman had called them. Just what Gotham needed! More monstrous beings roaming the city. Only more to keep you, Batman, Batgirl and Robin more busy. Well, it didn't hurt keeping Robin more busy… He had started nagging you like the worst little brother would.

From the top of Wayne Enterprise, you saw it. Penguin. You knew Wayne Enterprise would likely be the next target of these ninjas, but you had never expected the Penguin to be here, with all of his colorful umbrellas. The Penguin had never been smart when it came to colors.

You were just about to call Batman, to tell him to come outside, when all of a sudden, a small yelp, and one of the Penguin’s men was gone. No trace. And then another. The Penguin turned, just in time to see something blue, flapping in the wind.

“It’s him!”, he yelled. “He’s here!”

You frowned in confusion as the Penguin started pointing, yelling it was the bat. But you knew Bruce Wayne, and you knew Batman, and whatever it was, it was not Batman.

Moving fast and out of the shadows, you were shocked to see a tall turtle, standing on its legs with a red bandana covering his face. Even more shocked were you, when it asked the Penguin if it looked like a bat. More came out of the shadows. One in orange, one in purple and one in blue.

You looked on as the four humanoid turtles knocked all of the Penguin’s men out. You couldn’t lie, when the blue disarmed the Penguin with a ninja star, you were impressed. Confused, shocked and impressed.

“Gotham is bonkers yo!”, yelled the orange one before falling over on its shell with a big smile.

“It is indeed”, you whispered to yourself, watching the four terrapins. No doubt they had been the lizard men Batgirl had been talking about.

As they tied the men up, you continued to study them from your hiding spot. They were… not really what you expected. The orange one continued to goof around, even teasing the others. But as loud as the so called ninja was, it was the blue one that caught your attention. Even as the red one started yelling, he stayed calm and stoic.

That was until the sudden break of character, a look of shock washed over his face, as the red one pushed the Penguin’s men away from the purple one with his foot, causing them to crash into a dumpster in the alleyway.

As the four turtles started screaming and yelling over the red one's rash decision, you felt a pressens next to you. You looked to your side to see Batman, as stoic as ever, not even turning his head to look at you. You caught the small glimpse of blood on his lip, but before you could ask, he spoke up.

“Got anything out here, (H/N)?”

You pointed to the alleyway, where the four terrapins were staring at the Bat Mobil. “Seems like Batgirl’s lizard men like your ride”.

Batman narrowed his eyes. He spoke no words before jumping into action, throwing his Bat Stars at them. You followed suit, staying on the roof above them, keeping out of sight as they took in the presence of the bat. You were not surprised to see the red one attack before the blue one told him to. You were much less surprised to see the same red turtle being thrown back against the orange one.

“Take him down!”, the blue turtle yelled. “We need answers”.

You watched as the four turtles fought against Batman, only to be thrown away one by one, before coming right back into action. As Batman threw the orange one through the backdoor of a pizza place, the purple and red one engaged him in battle. You saw the blue one, getting ready to jump in, his two katanas ready. You took this as your que and went straight down in front of him. He halted, eyes widening in surprise.

“You’re welcome to try”, was all you said, before swinging a fist at him. He dodged, gritted his teeth in a frown, jumping in for an attack. You dodged his sharp blades, standing right between them, straight in his line of sight. Amidst the standoff, your eyes met those of the blue-masked leader. They were white, but for a split second, you could see color in them. Blue? Like the mask on his face. You would have wanted to study the color further, but decided against it with a kick to his plastron. He slid across the ground before standing, with the same white in his eyes as before. He ran and swung his blades at you, as you blocked his attack with your forearm. You made a mental note to yourself, to once again thank Bruce for putting metal inside of your gloves. You could no longer count the amount of times they have saved you.

As you stood there, fighting with your forearm against the impressive strength he was putting into his katanas, you once again noticed the color of his eyes. Definitely blue, with an inner circle of light gray.

“I like your eyes”. You couldn’t stop yourself. “They’re pretty”. You just had to say it. And his reaction was worth it. He was caught off guard. Pupils snapping straight to your eyes in shock. “Would look good in black”, you finished, using his moment of hesitation to punch him in the face.

He stumbled back a few steps, giving Batman more than enough time to attack a hock to the back of his shell, which sent him flying across the alley, straight into the purple one.

Batman turned his attention towards the red one, as the orange one came flying for you with his nunchucks out. Screaming about nunchucks to the face while leaving his own face open for attacks. That sent him flying to the ground, right next to the purple one yet again.

With a taser shock from the Batmobile, the red one was down too. That left the blue one, who continually refused to stay down.

“Who ever you two are”, he said, pointing with his swords. “You better back the hell away from my brothers!”

As he came towards the two of you, Batman rushed in to block his swords. You found the flash bombs from your belt - yet another of the many reasons for you to thank Bruce, throwing them at the blue terrapin. The white flashed left him dazed and confused. The last thing he saw before being knocked out cold, with the blunt end of his own brother’s sai, was your eyes.

Those damn eyes.

As Batman threw him to the rest of the turtles, that was all you could think about. He did indeed have pretty eyes.

Growning, the purple one looked at his brothers. “That’s it. I’m calling this”. He stood up, throwing a smoke bomb to the ground leaving you and Batman back in the alley, covering your faces from the smoke. “It’s ninja vanish time!”

Batman looked to the sai in his hand. You started at the spot where the turtles had been just a moment ago.

“Ninja… turtles”, you heard the dark voice of Batman say.

“I liked metahumans more”, you mumbled, still starting at the place you had last seen the blue turtle.

—--------------------------------------------------

Part 2?

160 notes · View notes

thatscarletflycatcher · 1 year

Text

Colonel Brandon is not stoic or reserved

Stoic: a person who has great self-control and doesn't let themself be guided or carried away by their feelings.

Reserved: a person who keeps silent or says very little.

So, let's do this (hopefully) once and for all: who is colonel Brandon?

The first bit of important context to remember is that Sense and Sensibility was in origin, an epistolary novel, and that even more than Pride and Prejudice and other Austen novels, free indirect speech reigns supreme here; how characters think of each other doesn't necessarily line up with what the characters show themselves to be, and sometimes an opinion will evolve throughout the book.

Our first introduction to colonel Brandon is through the eyes of sir John Middleton: he describes him as "neither very young nor very gay."; the first impression the Dashwoods make of him is that he is "silent and grave", "his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike"; Marianne and Margaret in particular see him as "an absolute old bachelor".

That very evening he listens to Marianne play with attention, but without raptures; Marianne sees this as a sign of his having outlived sensibility, Mrs Jennings as a clear sign of his being smitten with her playing, and consequently, with her. The same action is being read by two characters in incongrous ways. What he specifically thought or felt from his pov, we do not know.

So Mrs Jennings starts her teasing of them both, which is implied to be conducted when they aren't together: "At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne." Brandon's reaction to this regarding himself is probably, perfect indifference.

Time passes, Marianne has her fall, and sir John gives the opinion that Brandon will be jealous, as he is "quite smitten already". This is sir John's opinion, but is it the truth? We are never shown Brandon behaving jealously, and his feelings towards Marianne only begin to be apparent to Elinor when a little time has passed and everyone has moved on: "the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility." Elinor thinks there is opposition between Brandon and Marianne's characters, as he appears to her silent, grave, and reserved, but she also thinks that this is not his natural disposition: "his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper.".

You'd say "well, there you have it! That's how he is described in the book!" but then as Elinor debates over Brandon with Marianne and Willoughby, we discover she is the one that has been seeking to chat with him, and that all the subjects they have talked about are rather technical: "I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.” He clearly is pleased to talk to Elinor, and talk extensively about whatever she asks. So... silent? doesn't seem like it.

Marianne, who at this point apparently hasn't had any of the sort of conversation Elinor has had with him (and so Elinor tells her, that her opinions are based on her own imagination) says "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression." In Willoughby's company, she has lost her respect and compassion towards Brandon; this description is an echo of Willoughby's feelings towards him, for which he gives no reasonable explanation ("he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare.").

Till this point we have never personally seen him talk; the first time we do, is an evening at the park, there's dancing going on and Elinor and him are sitting close, watching the dancers in silence. This time it is he who opens the conversation instead of Elinor, and what does he want to talk about? Marianne's thoughts about second attachments. He's thinking about what would she think of his now having fallen in love again; he's thinking if an allowance can be made for his own situation, where his first love was frustrated without fault of his own or his beloved. Seeing Willoughby and Marianne together makes him remember himself and Eliza when they were younger (rather than make him jealous, as sir John would say). He's thinking all of this out loud with Elinor, and naturally starts to explain himself, when he realizes some of the story isn't really his to tell freely to a stranger, and so he stops. In the middle, he also defends Marianne's sensibility, and while he acknowledges it is extreme, he cannot agree with Elinor that a complete change of ways is desirable.

This is not what reserve and gravity look like at all. It may be that Elinor has been led by sir John's first description, it may be that she set the tone of all their previous conversations, it may be that, as he is the only agreeable person around her, she has projected some of her own character onto him, it may be a bit of each, but her description of him does not match what we see here. Does that change later on?

Next time we hear of him, he's joining lady Middleton in talking about the weather when Margaret starts talking about Edward, as he is "on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others". That same day the party to go to Whitwell is formed (spontaneously, apparently, as sir John makes parties to go there twice a year) for the next day, when Brandon receives the mysterious letter. How does he react to it? upon seeing the address, he changes color and leaves the room before opening it. This is not what stoicism looks like.

He refuses to tell what his errand is, apologizes to everyone and specially to lady Middleton, asks Elinor if he'll see them in London, bows to Marianne and leaves. His not telling them is part of the mystery that makes the plotline, but also you don't need to be particularly reserved to avoid telling a party of people (including the Careys, two complete strangers) that your missing ward has turned up, pregnant. If there was any doubt that Marianne, when with Willoughby, thinks as he does, she agrees with him that Brandon invented the whole affair to avoid going to Whitwell.

Next time we hear about him, is from Mrs Palmer. She's, probably, the most unreliable of the characters, and most of the humor of her character comes from that: she tells Elinor that Brandon confirmed to her that Marianne and Willoughby are engaged, but when pressed she says that he didn't say anything but looked as if he knew it to be true (which means it is more likely that he was given the impression from her rather than the other way around). She also calls Brandon "grave and dull" right after calling him "charming". She tells Elinor he wanted to marry her, to then confess it was something sir John seemed to want, and that Brandon had never shown her any particular signs of affection and that he hadn't seen her more than twice at that point. Nothing to be learned here, but it is interesting that Brandon, hinted here and in his conversation with Elinor about second attachments, has not sought marriage after he lost Eliza; clearly the practicality or convenience of marriage for the sake of home and heir was not something on his mind; he's not pragmatic, not even to the level of Wenthworth and his boasts that any woman of suitable age would do for him.

He then goes on visiting them, to talk to Elinor and look at Marianne; Elinor guesses it's just his growing love for Marianne, and so do we because we don't know what he knows yet. He's still deciding, and does go back and forth between attempting to start saying what he knows, and silencing himself. His saying that he has no right or chance of succeeding carries a double meaning we will only understand later. Under the guise of """revealing""" his feelings for Marianne, he's trying to gauge how his revelation of Willoughby's character would be taken and if it would be believed or not, if it can be useful or not. He decides on the negative, but even then he cannot help but hint at what he knows, as he says "in a voice of emotion" “to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her".

Brandon shows up next to visit Mrs Jennings, Elinor and Marianne, once they have arrived in London. This is the section where we see the most of him. Elinor watches him see Marianne leave the room, and to her he seems astonished and concerned, so much so he outright asks if Marianne is ill, before even greeting Elinor properly. They make small talk but they are both distracted by things they cannot talk about to each other. He replies to Mrs Jennings inquiries with his "accustomary mildness", and grows even more thoughtful and silent when Marianne comes in again, and soon afterwards, he leaves. All these reactions are manifest, there's no concealment. In retrospective, we know at that point he had dueled Willoughby, and was trying to decide if he should tell them about the affair or not.

When everything comes crashing down, Mrs Jennings tells Elinor that Brandon will have Marianne now, that they will be married by midsummer, and that he will chuckle when he hears the news. Yet another case of Mrs Jennings not knowing what she's talking about XD That afternoon Brandon shows up, she thinks he doesn't know what happened, but Elinor thinks he does, and she's right. He asks Elinor about how Marianne is feeling and what does she think of the affair, and he's still serious and thoughtful; he's still thinking what to do, and will leave this time without telling what he knows.

When he does finally tell Elinor, he still has scruples of conscience about his own motives: "where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" (which reinforces the idea that his asking Elinor about the engagement was more about what he knew of Willoughby than about his chance at pursuing Marianne being lost, besides the obvious fact that he kept away from Barton even after young Eliza's affair was completely resolved).

He tells his story to Elinor (including the attempted elopement with Eliza, his leaving to try and protect her, his looking for her until he found her, and his taking care of her and her child, and how the whole thing haunts him so many years later. This is not what an unromantic, pragmatic, stoic character does), and these are the things he does while at it: "sighing heavily" "He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on." "he continued, in a voice of great agitation" "He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room." "He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure." "Again he stopped to recover himself". Nothing about this, again, shows stoicism, reserve, or lack of tender, passionate feelings.

By the end of his tale, as he tells Elinor of the duel, she "sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it." She's now pretty much rolling her eyes at what she thinks is excess; her opinion on Brandon is changing.

Brandon keeps on visiting them in London, making "delicate, unobtrusive enquiries"; he is invited by John Dashwood and attends the dinner at Mrs Ferrars because he's happy to be where the Miss Dashwoods are; he compliments Elinor's work, and when Marianne defends her, he "noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.", while Elinor (the sensible character token) is mortified by Marianne's rudeness. When she starts crying, he instinctively goes to them. Brandon is not being sensible or pragmatic here.

Next time we see him, he comes to offer the Delaford parsonage to Edward, and engage Elinor's help so that Edward's feelings are spared; as we were told before, he's always mindful of the feelings of others. His own feelings about the whole affair he expresses with "great compassion" as “The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,” he replied, with great feeling, “of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible." Brandon is not being sensible, stoic or pragmatic here. John Dashwood says later on that a sensible person would have sold the living, which is very fitting to his own sense of greed, but it also gives greater relief to the fact that Brandon did this for a stranger out of sympathy with his situation.

By the time Elinor and Marianne are at Cleveland, Elinor's judgement of Brandon has been completely transformed since her first impressions of him: "she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;—and while his looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne’s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady’s observation;—she could discover in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover." (as a side note, this is yet another case of Elinor being wrong, as Marianne does fall dangerously ill soon later).

When Marianne finally falls ill, he makes great exertion in offering to go, but is clearly relieved when he's asked to stay; "He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more."; he makes haste to go to Mrs Dashwood as soon as it is suggested, and he says goodbye to Elinor "pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear". This is not what a stoic, dour character does.

When Mrs Dashwood tells Elinor of Brandon communicating his love for Marianne to her, we cannot be certain how and how much he said; Mrs Dashwood says that he loved her since the moment he first saw her, but we know that was not the case: she's not a reliable narrator. Elinor, despite having heard and seen what she has, still tells herself that Marianne could not be happy with Brandon considering their ages (fair), their feelings (fair), and their characters (not so fair); she's also not completely reliable, because, as the end of the chapter tells, Marianne being at Delaford would force her to go there where Edward would be with Lucy.

We are given a contrast of what Brandon thinks of the case ("He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her." - he doesn't mean to propose and refuses to accept any encouragement from Mrs Dashwood on that front; that's why I say that he would not have asked if Marianne herself had not provided heavy encouragement) and what Mrs Dashwood thinks of the case (his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour... the Colonel’s manners are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby’s ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other."). It is for the reader to make up their mind, but ultimately we know Mrs Dashwood tends to be too sanguine , and Brandon too melancholy: the truth likely lies on a middle ground, which fits the ending of the novel. It takes Marianne a time to give up Willoughby and another time to love Brandon, but she does in the end and is truly happy with him.

Similarly, when Marianne asks him to visit her, Elinor thinks he's remembering Eliza and therefore very melancholy, while Mrs Dashwood thinks he just looks in love. How he really feels, we never get to know. Elinor has a personal motivation to believe a match won't happen, Mrs Dashwood has a personal motivation to believe the opposite (it is worth noticing that once Elinor was engaged to Edward, all her aprehensions about Brandon and Marianne not being suited for each other vanished).

Once the Dashwoods leave for Barton, he says he'll visit in a few weeks and goes to Delaford, where he stays until Mrs Dashwood's insistence by letter makes him visit. In the meantime, he "in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s language, to make it cheerful." This is an emotional man who also very much respects the space and the feelings of the woman he loves, and is aware of the difficulties.

All that we hear of him after this is his leaving with Edward to prepare the parsonage, his efforts to make it comfortable for Elinor, and that once married to Marianne "her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness."; his gloominess and melancholy were as much part of his character as Marianne's were when she was grieving the loss of Willoughby; the text itself connects their life journeys in that parallel: "and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment".

TL; DR (it is, indeed, a very long post, I'm sorry but I wanted to be thorough): Brandon's actions and speeches show him to be emotional, passionate, sensitive, and emotionally open and demonstrative; whenever he is called grave, silent, reserved, etc, it comes from a place of a character not knowing him well yet, having a much more boisterous personality than him, projecting onto him, or his very own melancholy talking. Readers should keep in mind the extensive use of indirect free speech that Austen does in this novel.

#Jane Austen #Sense and Sensibility #Colonel Brandon #Meta #It is long #but the belief is so deeply rooted in fandom that it really takes all this work and evidence I think #It is unlikely that the people I would like the most to read it will #But I have given myself satisfaction at least #I think

172 notes · View notes

voltstone · 1 month

Text

ib awoke. violet bpd essay done. i dunno how i wrot 30k wods in 3 day.

(if you are interested in the essay, wanted to do a deconstruction of violet since the fandom has a bad habit with how it judges her. comes from a lot of stigma, and even though violet's not diagnosed, she's textbook bpd. lol. so. i go into it. talk about her and the schoolkids, especially minnie and brody, some louis and aj, and of course clementine. so ye. anyway. imma actually write my fics now.)

ebby way i lub violet. i lub clementine. and i lub lub louis and violet frendship.

#volt's shit #twdg #the walking dead game #twdg violet #twdg clementine #twdg louis #twdg minerva #twdg aj #twdg brody #violentine #twdg essay #or well an update or something #IT IS LONG #because i also go into bpd and a lot of its concepts and the like with my own experience #because theres family history and then myself lol #but #i just wanted to talk about a really neato character and a really stigmatized disorder and how it became a clustterfuck for the fandom #cuz like shes demonized a lot #not necessarily on tumblr as opposed to other spaces on the internet but im not on those spaces so they can hush

11 notes · View notes

lolabearwrites · 5 months

Text

I watched Dakaichi and boy do I have thoughts on them as a couple.

#dakaichi #i have a draft #it is long #their toxic but im invested #kinda what to make a canon rewrite but *shrugs*#idk #lola rambles

12 notes · View notes

imaginaryari · 4 months

Text

Meet Iris

this is old and i havent touched it in years and needs a touch up

Sunlight

A cup of milk tea in one hand and the other releasing the wards on her shop, Iris starts her day just like usual. Inspecting the shop to see if everything is still in place, prioritizing the garments she’s tasked with today, flipping the Open sign with a flick of a finger. The shop just has Tailor in a scripted font on the door and along with the wards to keep the humans in the area at a distance.

There isn’t much today. The finishing touches of a vest made from greenest grass and the scent of rain and a corset made from the blood of an ex. Her clients always have the most interesting requests but it’s fine. She’s the only one who can complete them without asking dangerous questions.

She calls the two clients in for final fittings and considers giving herself the rest of the day off. That is until a very pristine looking envelope sealed with a red wax stamp flitters onto her workstation. It pains her to open it and ruin the gorgeous seal but the request has high importance. New clients are exciting but royals seeking her out is unexpected.

“Greetings! I’ve seen your work and I’m most impressed with your waterfall dress. I have a request for a dress made from sunshine for my daughters wedding. She and her entourage will be on their way shortly after this letter gets to you.” ~ Queen Iliana

She recalls the dress mentioned fondly. The bodice was made with the blue stone of the north and the skirt the white rushing water that flowed, unrelenting. The most difficult piece she’s ever made. Until this request. Trust the fae to have near unrealistic goals.

Key word: near. She could say no, but the challenge is so deliciously tempting. — Collecting sunlight sounds easy in theory. Set a container out during the day. Wait. Cap before sunset. Enjoy. I guess you suppose collecting rainwater is easy too.

She usually uses sunlight to make accessories, small things to catch the eye. Headbands made of rays to mimic halos. So her items for collecting sunlight aren’t efficient for the task at hand. The pitch black jars seem to taunt her. It would take weeks to collect enough for the dress and then there’s the question of binding.

One thing at a time. She needs something bigger than a jar. And perhaps, assistance.

A bell jingles alerting the shop owner that she’s arrived.

“What can I do for you today Iris?” the shop owner asks.

“A cauldron,” the seamstress says. “The biggest one you can give me, Wanda.”

“Oh? What are you cooking?” Wanda asks, disappearing amongst her endless rows of shelves.

“Not cooking, I’m collecting sunlight.”

“…how much sunlight exactly?” Her voice yells over the aisles.

“Enough to make a dress.”

There’s quiet before Wanda returns with a cauldron more than big enough, wheeled to the front by a charmed flat cart. “Will this do?”

“It’s perfect as always Wanda.”

It takes 5 days for Iris to collect the sunlight. Binding it into sheets right before sunset and then storing it away in a special black box. On the last day, she places a prism into the cauldron just to get wisps of a rainbow. The binding for rainbows is a lot trickier because colors want to separate. She succeeds, and thinks it would make a beautiful veil. She takes the next two days to rest.

Next is the spinning, her least favorite part. The wheel has seen better days but hasn’t retired yet. Another cup of milk tea and a playlist of songs of which their genres wouldn’t mix in a blender, she starts the arduous task. When the first ball of light is done she breaks. Stretches. Remembers to stay hydrated.

Moonlight

Collecting moonlight is even more taxing. For one, the moon is a slippery entity never in the sky where it was the day before and not always full. There is a cheat, although Iris wouldn’t call it a cheat. If anything it’s more work than waiting every month for the full moon. She’s on a time crunch and doesn’t have much time. The next full moon she finds herself by the water with crystal clear buckets and determination.

She fills the first by walking out into sea, along the moonlight path, and dragging it back the way she came. It’s heavy and she’s glad to rest it down in the sand to soak up any more of the moon's light. She takes a breath and reaches for the next bucket. Four more to go. The moon is high in the sky when her collecting is done. The buckets emit a silvery glow and she smiles tiredly. Satisfied that she’s gotten enough to work with and that she’s gotten enough exercise for the week, she carefully seals them and loads them into Wanda’s van. She crashes like the waves onto her bed when she gets home.

Working with moonlight is far easier. Shades are unnecessary as it is nowhere near as bright and moonlight is cool as opposed to the warm rays from the sun. Spinning is much smoother and she relishes the touch of the silver light and the shine it leaves on her hands.

Stardust

Oriana is a celestial witch. Quite in tune with the darkness of space and all celestial bodies. Iris and Wanda can tell just how powerful she is. It’s just that she spends her time among humans as an astrologist. A great hustle, for witches like her. She gets the money and sows tiny seeds of conflict and chaos. Iris has yet to formally meet Oriana and Wanda hasn’t spoken to her in years because,

“Your Scorpio sun and Gemini moon still do not vibe with me dear Wanda.” Oriana says. “Who’s your triple Aquarius friend? I’m absolutely terrified right now.” Her eyes widen almost comically.

“Oriana, her name is Iris and she needs a favor.” Wanda says after a sigh.

“I’m a seamstress and I was asked to make a dress made from stardust. I was told you were the most powerful celestial witch in this area.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. Even if you don’t mean it.” Oriana says with too bright a smile. “So…you want some from me? You know I can’t part with something as rare as stardust. As a celestial witch it’s unheard of!”

“I want to know how to collect it myself.” Iris says cutting her off.

“Oh…a first. Well, there are many ways!” Oriana starts pacing around her home, looking for something Iris and Wanda could only guess.

“You could get on a rocket ship although that’s excessive you’re a seamstress not an astronaut. You could wait for a comet to pass earth the collect the dust that rains down but you know that’s nearly impossible and not for the impatient. Oh! you could find a meteorite and grind the dust yourself- “

“That! That one seems most plausible.” Iris says, cutting her off once again. “Would you know where to look?”

Oriana pops out from a ridiculously huge chest, pulling out an object as big as a baseball. “Apparently in here,” she says. “Like I said I can’t part with rare material like this but I can at least show you what it looks like.”

“Looks like any old rock.” Wanda murmurs.

“That’s the beauty of it, no?” Oriana says tossing up and catching it like a baseball.

#it is long #fair warning #this may be deleted #mine #seamstress story

6 notes · View notes

clockwork-stars · 12 days

Text

I am supposed to have a 4 hour class this afternoon, and it's a "new" teacher. As in : it's the 1st time that he is giving us a lecture this year, but he was already here previous year. Just for some reasons the class has 2 teachers, and it's finally the turn of this man.

That class is scheduled to start at 2pm, it's currently 2'30pm and he is NOT here. We have no mail nor anything telling us that the class is canceled-

We are afraid that he forgot about us since it's his 1st week (But come on man, it's the week RIGHT AFTER the spring break, it's easy to keep in mind). I don't know at which point I need to give up...

#icare has uni troubles #i don't think that he'll come #we are currently waiting for 2 people that went to ask faculty reception #but yeah #it is long #people are giving up btw #update : he was supposed to send us an email to tell us that the lecture was canceled #he hadn't.#no thanks sir

2 notes · View notes

oldestenemy · 10 months

Text

every me, every you, every moment passing through - finale

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

There is a very long moment where nobody moves.

Penny catches Malorn’s gaze with a look caught between horror and sudden realization that he’s sure is mirrored on his own face. A shared moment of ah, so that’s what that was.

Had they always been able to do that? At least recently?

Had it been on purpose?

Had it been because of the extra circle?

How had they drawn an additional battle circle and had it work?

“Ashthorn, c’mon, help me carry them out.” Duncan is halfway to the wizard’s body before Malorn manages to break Penny’s gaze and move.

They each thread one of the wizard’s arms around their shoulders. Like the claws of the shadow creature, their fingers and hands are stained blue with spider blood. Their eyes and mouth are running that dark sparkling purple, but it seems to be drying out. Malorn isn’t entirely sure if that’s good or bad…

“There’s a new teleporter in here—” Marla calls from where she’s looking through the hole that had been blown through the dungeon wall. “—one of the big round exit ones.”

“Oh thank the gods.” Malorn mumbles, “Let’s get out of here.”

He and Duncan clamber somewhat akwardly after Marla through the hole, trying not to bump the wizard around too much. Penny follows behind them, arms wrapped around herself.

The exit teleport leaves them all standing outside the moon door inside Nidavellir. Nobody questions why.

The bear standing at the outer doors takes one look at the wizard’s limp form and says he’s escorting them to the King’s Hall. None of them have the energy to protest, but Duncan and Malorn refuse the offer to let him carry the wizard up.

Words are exchanged between their escort and the guard at the door—the Thane, Bjorn Ironclaws—but the doors are swung open and they are led to a side room set up with a small bed. None of the words Malorn hears are really registering. His head is buzzing. Too much happened, and all of it so fast.

Is this what it’s like for them?

All of the time?

“I am told you four rescued our hero from an unexplored depth within Nidavellir.” A rumbling voice greets them in the doorway, and they are met with the King of Bears, Valgard Goldenblade. “Grizzleheim thanks you for that service, we owe much to the wizard for stoping the Coven and the Everwinter.”

“Right.” Malorn just blinks, he’s out of his depth by miles. “Thank you, I’m sure once they’re awake we’ll be on our way.”

Mercifully, the king seems to understand that none of them are used to dealing with this. “Stay as long as you need. The doors of this world are open to you.” He says, and returns to the main hall.

Penny is working on cleaning the blood and starlight from the wizard’s hands, she’s been silent since the fight had ended and is still somewhat glassy eyed. Duncan is in the corner, inspecting some of the strange starlight liquid from the wizard’s face, drawing little symbols in the air and looking increasingly irate when nothing happens.

“So are we just not going to talk about them turning into some kind of monster?” It’s Marla who breaks the quiet. “Or how they broke through a wall into a dungeon already at capacity and then joined the duel by finger painting?”

“I don’t know,” Malorn admits, sitting down on the foot of the bed. “I’ve never seen magic like that—it wasn’t Myth, it didn’t even seem like the Astral stuff we’ve seen them use before.”

“Do you think the spider mage—Lorcan—do you think he was trying to draw it out of them?” Marla asks.

“No,” Penny says softly, “no I don’t think he knew what he was getting into. The same way we didn’t.”

She’s probably right.

Malorn thinks about the flash of fear in all those eyes. “Hey, Penny?”

“Mmm.”

“They’ve usually got a ring on them, full of spiral keys.” It’s a shot in the dark, but a fairly straight one. If anyone could tell them what was going on, it was probably someone the wizard had met more recently than not.

Penny digs a hand into the wizard’s backpack, which is on the floor next to the bed, surfacing with a ring full of mismatched keys. She holds it out to him in silence, the look she’s giving him is enough to know that she understands.

Duncan frowns deeper in the corner, “Ashthorn we just got ourselves beat to dirt by a bunch of spiders—you’re not suggesting—”

“—Do you want to find out what that was or not?” Malorn snaps “We don’t know how long they’ll be out for, we know they weren’t… weren’t like that before Azteca, we can’t go to Azteca, we can go to Khrysalis.”

“No. No way, we could have been seriously hurt in there—and for what?”

“What if it’s killing them?”

“Who cares—they did it—they won, the fight is over! Bring them to the headmaster, tell him they turned into a weird winged beast, and let him deal with it!”

“Duncan—”

“What! Not everything has to revolve around what happens to them! Honestly they’d probably prefer if we just ignored it and moved on! That seems to be their default, pretend things just didn’t happen.”

“Well we can’t!” Penny isn’t usually one for anger, she’s too bright, too worried about what everyone else is doing. “They’ve been throwing themselves into danger and wars and titans know what else since they enrolled—you might not think you owe them anything, you might not think any of us are friends but I do! Malorn does!”

“Then you two can drag yourselves across the spiral without me, see how long you manage.” Duncan shoots back. “I’m not dealing with this anymore—I’m going back to nightside and I’m finding a way through that portal.”

He storms out, Malorn hears the creak of the great doors swinging open, and then slamming shut.

“I’ll go after him.” Marla says, “Either just try and convince him the portal is a dud without them—or else get him to come back. No offense, but please don’t go throwing yourselves at anything until we’re back—You’re both miserable fighters.” She looks reluctant to go, but swings her staff over one shoulder and vanishes into a small explosion of bats.

“You know the levitate cantrip right?” Penny asks once they’re alone, picking up the wizard’s backpack and shouldering it.

“Yep.”

“Perfect.”

~*~

“This is stupid and you know it.” Marla finds him where she expected to. “Exactly how are you expecting to win if you make it through?” Duncan, to his credit, is trying to mimic the wizard’s voice. Failing miserably, but trying. So on some level he’s aware it’s hopeless.

“Once the portal is open I can get help.”

“Yeah, sure, I bet you’re just dying to go running to Susie and Nolan for help.” Marla snorts, “Duncan come on, the best way to do this is going to—”

“—to what? Wait for the wizard to rescue us again?”

“To do this as a group, to do it together, to give all of us closure. Not just the wizard, and not just you.” Marla doesn’t stop the irritation from coloring her words. Duncan acts enough like he’s the only one who cared when they all thought Malistaire had died, like he was the only one betrayed when they were told what he was trying to achieve. “You don’t get to take that away from the rest of us.”

~*~

They’re floating.

Sleep feels like that sometimes.

It’s gentle.

It’s quiet.

Until it’s not.

They’re floating, and it’s not because they’re asleep.

They’re floating and their limbs are all aching and their head feels like it has split down the middle and there is still the faint echo of blood and starlight in their mouth, sour and metallic. There is a faint twinkling noise from below them. The wizard groans, tries to sit up, and falls straight down. Landing with a musical thud on the rainbow bridge that separates Grizzleheim from its spiral door.

How—?

“You’re okay!”

Penny’s voice hits their ears like a siren, and the wizard groans again.

“Why am—wait—” Jumping to their feet makes the world spin, but they look down towards the doors of Nidavellir, barely visible beyond the bridge. “—Lorcan, and the—wait—”

“—It’s alright.” Malorn takes them by the arm and they’re not going to admit it but without the added stability they might be at risk of tumbling right off the rainbow. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

“No.” The wizard shakes their head, squeezing their eyes shut when it makes the pain spike higher. “No, how did you know where to find me?”

“Malorn heard a voice.”

Their eyes snap open.

Brown. Gold. Brown again.

“What voice?”

Malorn leans back just a little, like he isn’t sure why that’s important, like their intensity is concerning. “A—a woman’s voice—she said you were—”

Raven. This had been Raven.

“Have you heard her since then?” Malorn shakes his head and the wizard lets their shoulders drop, lets the tension ebb slightly. “Good. If you do—tell me. I’m not—” they try to take a step and the world spins violently again.

“—Woah, hang on, you’re still really out of it.”

Right.

The shadow circles must have really done a number on them.

“How did we…get out?”

Malorn and Penny share a look that they do not like at all. “What do you remember?” Penny asks.

“I—the last round, and then the circle went out, and—I don’t know, I passed out didn’t I? You all carried me out.” That makes the looks get even worse. “What? What happened? Duncan and Marla are fine right—Lorcan didn’t—”

“—No, no they’re both fine!” Malorn says hurriedly, “Duncan stormed off while you were unconscious and Marla went to find him—we—you—” he lets out a nervous little laugh. “—you kind of—turned into…something.”

“I turned into something.” The wizard repeats blankly, looking between the pair for some kind of context. Any kind of context. When none is offered, the wizard sits slowly back down on the bridge, holding out a hand to both of the others and pulling them down too. “Do either of you know how to use conjuration sigils? I know that’s mainly a myth discipline, but it lets you turn memories—at least, short ones—into something other people can view.”

When neither of them do, the wizard reaches back for their bag, stomach dropping momentarily when they find it missing until Penny slings it off her back. It takes a moment, but they dig out some parchment and charcoal. “Okay, this is the sigil—it’s easy, and it doesn’t take a lot of effort, just—whichever one of you wants to try, just draw it, think of the memory you want, and activate it the same way you would if you were doing a cantrip.”

Penny is the one who does it. She and Malorn exchange one more look like they’re worried about what’s going to happen afterwards. Like they don’t quite want to know.

The dark grey glow of death magic forming a flickering image.

Within it, they can see Lorcan kneeling on his frontmost legs, and something throwing itself at him. Claws digging into the segments of his body and ripping it apart. Something that looks almost like one of the shadow creatures. An amalgamation of them all, winged and clawed and—

—and then it dissolves.

And the wizard sees their own body.

Sees backlash, sees payment for creating the extra dueling rings, slam them into the wall of the dungeon.

Penny waves her hands through the image to banish it just as that happens.

“I—” they trail off, feeling a tremor work its way up their spine and force through their whole form. “—I don’t—I didn’t—” It’s not supposed to come out like that. Uncalled. Unsummoned. It’s supposed to be under control now. They’re supposed to be able to handle it now. If they can’t— gods and starlight if they can’t—

“—Don’t run away again.” Penny says quietly, reaching out for one of their hands and not letting go when they try to flinch back. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Shadow is a dangerous chaos unleashed upon the spiral. Oftentimes too destructive to allow. Its dangers must be understood. Its creator must be dealt with.

Raven’s voice is as soft as usual.

It sends a jolt of white hot anger through the wizard. She had told them to enter the lunar dungeon. She had guided Malorn to Nidavellir in search of them.

…Had she known Lorcan was waiting? Had she sent him here too? Lorcan had wanted them to deal with the wayward spider and his kin. Old Cob, his children, things they don’t have answers for.

What do they fear more?

Facing Malistaire again?

Or the idea that they are not as in control of their magic as they should be.

That they are walking the same razorwire of those before them.

Running away again.

Prodigal Problem Child.

They want to get out of here.

They are in no mood to humor Raven.

So perhaps spiting her is the better option.

What better way than to continue bending the laws of this reality.

“Come with me,” the wizard says quietly, pushing to their feet and taking one of Malorn’s hands with the one they have free. Pulling both him and Penny towards Baldur’s ship. “I should talk to Professor Drake before we go back to Nightside.”

Once more.

For good this time.

read the rest here <3

#wizard101 #wizard101 fic #wizard101 fanfiction #wizard101 fanfic #wizzy fandom #lark is still playing funky wizard game from their childhood #did it! fuckin did it!#took me a while but i did it!#kinda got a little very fucked up in the last couple weeks of june so forgive me the wait #please enjoy #it is long #the darkmoor fic will likely ALSO be multiple chapters #anyways #enjoy #im so tired #i love every one of you

9 notes · View notes

sarcasticdolphin · 1 year

Text

“History” Todolf. Dark (but actually less dark than I thought this might end up). In response to a prompt from @theoverthinker-thoughts

Cut is necessary, and not for sexy times. You have been warned. Rudolf is supposed to be ~16-18 here, so he is not married yet. (Also some sacrilege snuck in).

Rudolf is trying to concentrate, trying to read the biography of Caesar. But the soft pressure on his thigh, the lovely warmth of Tod’s head, is so very distracting.

He stole a glance at Tod’s eyes, golden and half-lidded, and at his beautiful face. The eyes flick toward him and Rudolf is spellbound under Tod’s gaze. It was only when Tod shifted, giving what was almost a half-purr, that Rudolf realized he’d been staring for so long. He glanced back at the page. Where had he been again?

And just when he had found his place, Tod shifted once more, like a great panther, utterly sure of himself and so incredibly strong.

He looked down at Tod again, meeting those golden eyes.

“Continue.” Tod’s voice was like a honey trap, matching the rest of him perfectly.

Rudolf glanced back at the book, finding his place and beginning again.

He was reading of Caesar’s Gallic Wars, of his campaigns in what was now Belgium.

The author took issue with the number of men Caesar had reported slain, and Rudolf tended to believe him. Some of Caesar’s numbers defied belief and would have exceeded even Napoleon’s. And Napoleon had guns and canon. Caesar had gladii and pila.

“Is it true?” He lowers the book after asking the question, to gaze at Tod once more. His friend is playing with his fingers, but shifts his attention to Rudolf.

Tod slowly sits up, stretching as a cat would, lithe and graceful, before sitting against the headboard beside Rudolf and pulling the prince into his lap, reaching out to twirl the stray hair by the prince’s ear.

“Yes and no.”

Rudolf’s eyebrow raised of its own accord and Tod’s lips quirked up in amusement.

“Caesar was never the best at counting. But you aren’t the first to worship me, sweet prince.” Tod’s hand had moved from playing with Rudolf’s hair to stroke his cheek, then drifted down to Rudolf’s hip, where the other hand already rested. The touch was so very gentle, but Rudolf knew well that he would never escape without Tod’s permission.

“I-” The rosary isn’t around Rudolf’s neck. It’s on a side table somewhere, forgotten. But what he does is not worship, is it? Tod’s hand goes back to his cheek, tilting Rudolf’s face up to meet those entrancing golden eyes.

“Different kinds of worship, my prince.” His hand slowly trails down, coming to a rest just over Rudolf’s heart. “You long for me with all your heart, with every fiber of your being.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true. Rudolf wants Tod more than anything in the world.

Tod’s hand seems to turn to ice, the cold easily penetrating Rudolf’s garments, seeping into his being. “You’ve offered yourself to me, freely and of your own accord.”

Rudolf leaned forward, and Tod did as well, touching first their foreheads, then their noses, and finally brushing their cheeks together. Rudolf nuzzled himself to rest in the crook of Tod’s neck, resting against Tod’s body.

“Caesar’s worship was different. He feared me as much as the next man, but he seemed unable to live without me by his side.” Tod was so warm now, nothing like his hand earlier, and the hands on Rudolf’s hips had started to trace soothing circles. “He had his army of legionaries, his builders and his soldiers. But there were times-” Tod eases Rudolf off his chest, earning a whimper from the prince. “They were as angels.”

Rudolf glances over to where he knows Tod’s entourage are - all pale and blonde and beautiful, just like their master - but in a way far more unnerving. Tod seemed to warm and inviting. They were cold as snow-covered statues.

Gentle fingers turned his face back to Tod, and the confusion on his face seems to be enough of a question.

“Sometimes there were prisoners. Sold as slaves, but alive. Other times-” Tod flips through a few pages of the book, still open on the bed, but discarded. “He gave me whole villages, tribes even. Every last person.”

He pulls Rudolf closer, so their foreheads touch once more. “I rather prefer your brand of worship, my prince.”

Rudolf can feel the flush in his cheeks as Tod’s hands gripped him a little tighter, pulling him close as can be to there is no space left between their chests.

“But there is nothing like a constant stream of offerings. So many that even the angels tire. So many the ground itself becomes damp with the blood, with the tears.”

Rudolf doesn’t dare even breathe, Tod’s words echoing in his mind. The kiss to his cheek, colder even than Tod’s hand had been over his heart, so cold it burns, rouses him. But Tod simply disentangles himself from the prince, his hand coming to cover Rudolf’s face, to calm him for a moment before Tod places a second kiss - warm and soft - on his forehead.

“Rest.” And so Rudolf lays his head on his fine pillows, watching Tod glance once more at the page before placing a bookmark in Rudolf’s place and putting the book on the bedside table.

“Sweet dreams.” Tod is gone, but his parting words echo still in Rudolf’s mind. He misses his friend already.

#todolf #my fic #tod being creepy #mentions of julius caesar's warcrimes #well #mostly the genocide #general consensus is he did fudge the numbers #sometimes more than other time #but that doesn't change the fact that what he did to some of the gallic tribes was genocide #there is a good podcast #called the celtic holocaust #if anyone is interested #it is long #but I think worth the listen #subject material is obviously heavy #I feel like this should have a tw but I'm not really sure which one

2 notes · View notes