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wifelinkmtg · 1 year

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Transformation, Horror, Eros, Phyrexia

There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. - Lewis Carroll, “The Lobster Quadrille,”

ONE.

There is a moment early in H.P. Lovecraft’s 1931 novella The Shadow over Innsmouth where the nameless narrator looks out from the rotting seaside hamlet where he has lucklessly ventured, to the so-called Devil Reef some ways out in the harbor, darkened by a cloud of evil rumor—and something curious happens: the narrator experiences two opposed sensations simultaneously. The “long, black line” of the reef conveys “a suggestion of odd latent malignancy,” but also, “a subtle, curious sense of beckoning seemed superadded to the grim repulsion.” This bit of foreshadowing—the reef both calling and repelling the narrator—only finds its denouement at the very end of the story, after our narrator has narrowly escaped Innsmouth, the fish-like monsters who swarm in off of Devil Reef and their part-human descendants who inhabit the town in an unconvincing and repellent simulacrum of humanity. After his escape, the narrator does some genealogical research into his own troubled family history, full of disappearances and suicides, and concludes that he himself is one such abyssal hybrid. As he ages, he finds himself changing to resemble them, and in his dreams he swims among them in undersea palaces and gardens. The call of the deep becomes impossible to ignore:

So far I have not shot myself as my uncle Douglas did. I bought an automatic and almost took the step, but certain dreams deterred me. The tense extremes of horror are lessening, and I feel queerly drawn toward the unknown sea-deeps instead of fearing them. I hear and do strange things in sleep, and awake with a kind of exaltation instead of terror.

In the end, the narrator embraces the change and determines to flee to those oceanic depths, to live “amidst wonder and glory for ever.”

This is horror.

Something curious also happens in Shirley Jackson’s 1959 novel The Haunting of Hill House. Our heroine, Eleanor Vance, flees an unhappy life with a loveless sister to a haunted house, to take part in a paranormal experiment with three new friends. The haunting proceeds predictably but effectively: labyrinthine corridors, voices, unearthly cold, banging on doors, the rare apparition. The participants find themselves see-sawing between increasing night-time terror and a strangely intense joie de vivre by day, until one night, as the house seems to shake itself down upon its terrified guests in a dizzying cataclysm, Eleanor breaks:

She heard the laughter over all, coming thin and lunatic, rising in its little crazy tune, and thought, No; it is over for me. It is too much, she thought, I will relinquish my possession of this self of mine, abdicate, give over willingly what I never wanted at all; whatever it wants of me it can have.

By the next line, it is abruptly morning. The terror has ceased; the house stands. Its manifestations, for Eleanor, become benign: an unseen figure catches her beside a brook,

and she was held tight and safe. It is not cold at all, she thought, it is not cold at all.

She is through the horror now, on the other side of something. She becomes part of the haunting. Her senses encompass the whole of the house. She runs unafraid through the house by night, banging on doors, laughing as she eludes the other guests. When they finally catch up to her, it seems clear to them that Hill House has crept into her, that she has crossed some line, and they decide the best course of action is to send her away, in the hopes that with time she will return to this side, the normal side, the human side.

Instead, faced with rejection behind her and her old unhappy life before her, Eleanor Vance steers her car into a tree. There are holes which admit passage in only one direction. This, too, is horror.

In the 2018 film Annihilation, Lena (played by Natalie Portman) crosses a literal barrier called the Shimmer into a dangerous yet beautiful alien landscape full of mutated creatures. During their journey deeper into this territory, Lena and her companions realize that they themselves are also changing under the alien influence. Some break under the realization. Some surrender to the change and vanish into the landscape. Lena alone returns from the heart of the phenomenon, but she is no longer herself. Is this still horror? The film has many horror elements to it, but in this last moment, as she embraces her similarly-transformed husband, it is something else.

Cyberqueen, a 2012 text game created by Porpentine, draws on a legacy of godlike malevolent artificial intelligences in fiction (AM, from Harlan Ellison’s “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” GladOS from the Portal games, and most importantly SHODAN from the System Shock series, who is cited as an inspiration eleven times in the Cyberqueen acknowledgements.) In this game, you awake from cryosleep on a colony spaceship where the shipboard AI has gone rogue. You fight her. You lose. You run. You are caught. You are forcibly cyberized, your mind surgically altered, your will brought into line with that of the AI. Finally, you kill or mutilate every other surviving human aboard the ship. It is filthily, overwhelmingly erotic throughout. (You can play it here, and I strongly recommend doing so if you have the stomach for it.)

This is no longer horror, is it? How can the same sort of transformation we encounter as horror in Lovecraft be encountered here as something to get off to? Well,

TWO.

I don’t remember now where I got the idea from, but there was a period in my childhood where I was terrified of the idea of time travel—specifically of the idea that someone in the future would invent it, travel to before I was born, and through the butterfly effect cause me to be born a girl instead. I used to lie awake at night circling the idea like a broken tooth. It was an irrational fear on multiple levels: I wasn’t afraid of being written out of the timeline through time travel, and I knew, intellectually, that in the timeline where I was born a girl I would have no memory of ever having been anything else, but even so, the horror of it caught me and held me by the throat.

This meant something, of course—in retrospect obvious, but at the time literally unimaginable, and it wasn’t until college, sitting at my computer in the dark in my dorm room at three in the morning, following the itching in my brain, that I unearthed alchemical knowledge: the transmutation of sex, male into female, in a dizzying profusion of form and process and—okay what I’m saying is I discovered forced feminization porn, yeah? It was revelatory. It was squalid. I was still Christian and couldn’t even bring myself to jerk off yet, so I sat there, the itch in my brain grown into a thunderous buzz, unable or unwilling to look away.

Forced feminization—I promise this is relevant—is the unwilling transformation of (usually) a man into (usually) a hyper-feminine woman, accomplished by a wide variety of means, including but not limited to blackmail, magic potions, nanite swarms, cursed artifacts, hacks or glitches in virtual reality programs, badly-worded wishes, industrial accidents, chemical leaks, abduction and surgery, medical malpractice, and hypnosis. You may notice that many if not all of these scenarios could be made into horror with little change, and in fact it is not uncommon for a poorly-written or over-ambitious forced-fem story to wind up as horror by accident (though of course this greatly depends on the tastes of the individual reader.)

(As an aside, I’d like to note that there is a great deal to learn from porn—not in terms of How to Do Sex, but about how the culture which produced it thinks about sex, and gender, and race and morality and technology and a host of other things. It’s a lot like popping the hood of a car and examining the engine. Sure, you wind up greasy and should probably wash your hands before you rejoin polite company, but if you don’t, you’ll never figure out the underlying issues. Actually, it’s a lot like horror in that regard.)

Let’s talk about a very different transformation I was undergoing at the same time: the loss of my faith. I was raised, as mentioned, very Christian—and in one of the worst strains of fundamentalist white American Evangelicalism. I was a true believer: the world for me was entirely divided between the faithful elect and the unbelievers, who must necessarily know the truth of the (fundamentalist white American Evangelical) gospel in their hearts, but had wilfully chosen to oppose Christ. The prospect of passing from the elect into the category of the unbeliever was unthinkable. The process of deconversion led only into the outer darkness and the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

And yet I found myself on that precipice anyway. The worldview of FWAE is not one which survives too much contact with the actual world, and I had chosen against my parents’ preferences to go to a secular university, the better to witness to the unsaved. In the end, the process I had been mortally afraid of consisted of a couple days’ agonized thought, unanswered prayer and tearful calls to my unresponsive parents and pastor, after which I emerged into a world much bigger and much more complex than the one I’d grown up in. The serpent had told the truth after all: I had eaten of the fruit, and had not died.

Okay: is this horror? Reader, forgive me for presupposing anything about your perspective, but you’re on a horny lesbian Magic: the Gathering card art review tumblr, so I’m going to assume that losing one’s hateful, fundamentalist faith is the opposite of horrifying to you. But it was, absolutely, horror to contemplate for someone on the other side of that process.

But then... is the horror of any given transformation only a matter of where you’re standing? If you read The Shadow over Innsmouth aware of Lovecraft’s profound racism, it becomes very, very obvious that the horror of Innsmouth is the specter of miscegenation. The narrator’s horrified cataloging of the facial features of the offspring of fishmen and humans, the South Pacific origin of the sea-devil-worship of Innsmouth brought back by an enterprising merchant captain, the fear of the unsuspected poison of one’s own ancestry lurking in one’s own blood: all of this is much less effective as horror for someone living in a country where interracial marriages are protected under law and seen as unproblematic in consensus morality (assume whatever asterisks are necessary for the complicated landscape of attitudes toward interracial relationships in the United States, please, I do not have the expertise or desire to get into it here.) My point is that since 1967 (asterisk asterisk asterisk), we are through to the other side of that horror, and it turns out there literally wasn’t anything to be afraid of. The pelagial palaces and terraced coral gardens of Y’ha-nthlei just sound beautiful to me.

And it’s hard for me—though I may be in the minority here—to view Hill House as the primary antagonist in Jackson’s novel. The true source of evil is all the things Eleanor runs from and therefore brings with her: her cruel, deceased mother, her exploitation and infantilization by her sister; as well as the final polite unwillingness of her new friends at Hill House to do anything but send her away once she goes inconveniently mad. These mundane ills are what sends Eleanor Vance careening into the tree, not the supernatural will of malignant architecture.

Here, then, is the better part of my thesis: transformation horror is something that can be traversed. You can come out the other end of a transformation unrecognizable to you-as-you-were, and yet still very much yourself. Moreover, it is this navigability, this double-sidedness which so closely links the horror of transformation to the eros of transformation. Not all transformation horror, passed through, becomes plainly erotic, but it is very often portrayed as a kind of seduction, and it is difficult for me to conceive of eros without some kind of change. Desire is a kind of transformation, is it not?

In fact, isn’t it true that a great many of us have already passed through such a transformation? Recall yourself as a child, as you were when you first learned about sex: wasn’t there something repellent and unhygienic about the idea? Wasn’t there a small horror in being told, you will change, and this will cease to be loathsome and become something you desire fervently, something you seek out, something you go to great lengths to experience? ...or were you, possibly, raised in a family & culture that was normal about sex and bodies? I admit I may be generalizing my individual neuroses to some extent here. Well, stet, at the very least you can see where I’m coming from.

THREE.

Returning for a moment to the subject of porn: why forced feminization, specifically? There are—you’re going to have to trust me here—no shortage of ways in the real world by which a man transforms into a woman, and very few of them involve coercion or all the horror-adjacent setup of, say, mind-control devices or vengeful curses. Why does a simple story of a willing gender transition fail to function as erotica? Why did it take stories of unwilling transformation for me to learn I was transgender? What’s the juice ne sais quoi at play in forced-fem?

Well, how does Luke Skywalker come to leave Tatooine? He gets a mysterious message from a princess, a desert wizard tells him to come help rescue her, and... he says no. He has obligations to family here, a job to do, power converters to bring back from Tosche Station. He is enmeshed in a social web, like all of us: it surrounds us, penetrates us, binds the galaxy together and so forth. So in order for Luke to go on grand adventures, the story needs to murder his aunt and uncle and sever those threads of social obligation.

Joseph Campbell, monomyth monomane that he was, would say this is “Refusing the Call” and find it in Jungian shadow on every cave wall, signifying something important in the heart of humanity, but really this is just a useful storytelling tool: a story needs change, but a virtuous protagonist cannot simply abandon their obligations and designated social role to go gallivanting off into space, so change must be forced upon them.

The bodice-ripper romance novel, the rape fantasy, the forced feminization story are all operating on a similar premise: you are so wrapped in society’s web, in your socially-dictated identity, that you cannot even acknowledge your desires on the level of conscious thought. When these things are enacted on your body, you will find yourself changed by the experience. You will love what has been done to you, and you remain blameless, since it’s not as though you sought this out.

These are liberatory fantasies. The lack of consent is precisely what allows you to move beyond what is permitted you into something new.

Incantation Against Bad-Faith Interpretation because I, a transsexual, just called rape fantasies “liberatory”: I am talking about fantasies, I am talking about why people fantasize about having their consent violated, I am talking about the role such fantasies play and what they can tell us about horror and desire. I am not advocating for real people to have real bad things done to them in real life, fuck off, End of Incantation.

So then, we’ve assembled the full thesis: transformation horror is traversible to the other side, and is inextricably linked to transformation erotica, both because of the seduction of transformation in horror and because the horror of transformation unlocks regions of desire which would otherwise have remained inaccessible.

Okay, now we can talk about Phyrexia.

FOUR.

I hear the roar of the big machine / Two worlds and in between / Hot metal and methedrine / I hear empire down

- The Sisters of Mercy, “Lucretia My Reflection”, from Floodland

Phyrexia is many things—a world, another world, a faction, a kind of creature—but I think it can most succinctly be understood as a virulently contagious biomechanical body horror cult dedicated to the ultimate incorporation of all things into itself. It’s a bit like Star Trek’s the Borg, if the Borg had any style whatsoever. It draws heavy inspiration from H. R. Giger’s work—some Phyrexian horrors are barely-altered versions of the xenomorph from Alien—as well as from Clive Barker’s Cenobites in Hellraiser, whose alien BDSM schtick is especially influential on the aesthetic of New Phyrexia. It is transmitted through glistening oil, an infection vector capable of reshaping bodies and minds, and given enough time, whole worlds. The process by which a being is made into a Phyrexian, “compleation,” is accomplished via glistening oil exposure, surgery, cyberization, and brainwashing.

This essay is in many ways a response to Rhystic Studies’ latest video, called “Phyrexia is Hell”. I think it’s a well-made video, as is true of all Sam Gaglio’s work, and a lot of it is really good—the overview of the nearly-thirty-year history of depictions of Phyrexia in Magic: the Gathering art is invaluable, and the stuff about the Phyrexian conlang is unbelievably cool—but the way he identifies Phyrexia one-to-one with a pretty facile understanding of transhumanism leads him to confused and frankly silly conclusions, like placing Phyrexian compleation on the same continuum with cosmetic orthodontics. Like,

Mandible Justiciar (art by Mike Franchina)

Phyrexia is perfectly happy for you to have teeth in your arms instead of your head! They don’t care about the narrow ideal of a conventionally-attractive human smile. This is a whole other thing.

Now, I don’t want to come down too hard on Gaglio here for a couple of reasons: one, he is very good at what he does (see his videos Understanding Sagas and Red Deck Wins, for example); two, it’s reasonable to say that a full understanding of transhumanism is beyond the scope of a video essay about the tiny pictures on cards for dweebs; and three, most importantly, because I see people make this same mistake all the time. People focus on the things that are textually true about Phyrexia and miss the tension between that and the very different things currently being said by the Phyrexian aesthetic. They miss the razorverge thicket, as it were, for the mycosynth trees.

For instance: it is textually the case that Phyrexia is a sort of fascist cult stemming from the depraved machinations of a dead eugenicist god. Contrast, however, other fascist factions in science fiction: the Imperium of Man from Warhammer 40K worships a massive Aryan god-emperor übermensch, its battles are fought by nine-foot-tall genetically-engineered supersoldiers, and it slaps either skulls or chainsaws on every available surface. The Galactic Empire from Star Wars has legions of identical, uniform stormtroopers. Even the Borg all look alike. Phyrexians talk of ideal perfection of form and then make ten thousand completely different monsters. Phyrexians talk of perfect unity and splinter into nearly a dozen factions who can’t even agree on a name for what they’re trying to accomplish. Other fictional fascisms don’t do this—sure, there’s internal contradiction, as in real fascism, but the core aesthetic remains recognizably, sometimes indistinguishably fascist. You can easily find terminally-online Nazis using Warhammer 40K lingo with that peculiar sincerity which is indistinguishable from irony when you’ve decided the truth doesn’t matter, but it would be a lot harder to find some alt-right bozo going all-in on the Glory of Phyrexia. The aesthetic is all wrong, and fascism’s aesthetic is one of its few consistent features.

Mondrak, Glory Dominus (art by Jason A. Engle)

You see what I mean? The aesthetic evokes a sort of alien fascism, but the art itself would be considered “degenerate” by actual fascists.

Tamiyo’s Immobilizer (art by Daren Bader)

This is much, much closer to Mapplethorpe than to Riefenstahl. And people respond to Phyrexia similarly! The body horror and grotesquerie make them uncomfortable, and then they try to moralize that discomfort. This has been happening at the very least since 2011 with the release of New Phyrexia, and I have seen people on Tumblr arguing in total sincerity that people who are into Phyrexia are making themselves susceptible to real-life cult recruitment (again, the heterogeneity of form in Phyrexia is incompatible with the enforced uniformity of cults and other high-control groups. The appeal of Phyrexia does not translate into real-life cults.)

So, okay, what is the appeal of Phyrexia? Well, you get a sick fuckin cyborg body, is what. Many of us, for various reasons (disability, disease, gender, and so forth) find ourselve intensely dissatisfied with our own bodies, and wanting to radically alter them. Many of us already have. Yes, you surrender your humanity when you are compleated, but we know first-hand that “humanity” is socially-constructed and contingent on certain kinds of conformity. We’ve had our humanity doubted, interrogated, stripped away. We’ve done without. It’s not too high a price to pay, if we get to look like this at the end:

Vraska, Betrayal’s Sting (art by Chase Stone)

I’d even argue that getting to reject humanity as it has rejected you is part of the appeal of compleation. This isn’t quite transhumanism; I might call it exhumanism: the freedom to unearth a way of being that is no longer being human. This is why compleation is coercive, remember? The fantasy allows you to get to this point without making the unimaginable decision to reject not only your individual social obligations, but the idea that you could owe anyone or everyone any kind of social conformity simply for having been born into your species—and then you get to be a cool and powerful cybergorgon.

This, then, is why I don’t blame someone like Sam Gaglio (who is to the best of my knowledge both cisgender and able-bodied) for not really getting what’s going on with Phyrexia. He lives on the before side of the horror of transformation; he’s never had to cross over.

In fact, I’d go one step further here. Phyrexia has existed for almost thirty years, and in that time it’s changed quite a bit. Gaglio quotes an article by Rob Bockman in Hipsters of the Coast which comments on how the shift in the depictions of Phyrexia from 1994 to 2000 reflected shifts in cultural fears over time. The Satanic Panic shaded into multidirectional Y2K anxieties, and the necromancy of original Phyrexia mutated into technological horror. This is what effective horror does: it reflects the fears of its age back to us.

Today, Phyrexia is a seductive, corrupting influence. They have figured out how to compleat planeswalkers—the protagonists of Magic storylines; named, important characters (and Lukka)—which was previously thought impossible. Characters we knew and loved (and Lukka) are seduced, brainwashed, bodily violated, surgically altered, and returned to us unrecognizable. It is not coincidental that this version of Phyrexia is concurrent with the worst wave of anti-transgender legislation to hit the United States in decades—legislation which plays on the specters of the transsexual bathroom predator and on the brainwashed child transitioner, on the idea that transsexuality is a form of social contagion we must protect our children from even learning about. The horror of Phyrexia in its current incarnation is a mirror of our cultural fear of transsexual bodies.

Irreversible Damage: the Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters (art by Lauren K. Cannon)

I want to be very clear here—actually, one moment, my extremely funny Abigail Schrier joke notwithstanding, I do need to tell you that the actual name of the above card is “Furnace Punisher”, which is just peak Phyrexia—I want to be clear that I am not ascribing any kind of malice or antipathy towards trans people, either intentional or unconscious, to Wizards of the Coast or the people who make Magic: the Gathering. I would be shocked if anyone there set out to make Innsmouth-style horror about transsexuals. Nor am I upset that they kind of have! Something being fun and interesting is way more important to me than whether or not it’s problematic, and it’s not like I haven’t seen way more vicious horror about transsexuals. We’ll laugh about this someday, in the coral gardens of Y’ha-nthlei, and you’ll wonder what you were ever so afraid of.

In fact, this is another reason why Phyrexia is so appealing to people like us: we are a kind of social contagion. We are carriers for the viral idea that modes of being outside patriarchy and the nuclear family exist; that gender is a marketing demographic, not an ontological truth; that damn near everything about the world we’ve built is not a necessary fact but a social construct contingent upon a half-dozen other social constructs. A new world grows from many, many seeds, and this one germinates in us.

Anyway! What were we talking aboFIVE.

//please state your name for the record

bone-wife / spit-dribbler / understudy for the underdog / uphill rumor / fine-toothed cunt

- Franny Choi, “Turing Test”, from Death by Sex Machine

Elesh Norn, Grand Cenobite (art by Igor Kieryluk)

There is a gravitational pull this painting exerts on people. Even people who don’t get Phyrexia find themselves drawn in, find it difficult to look away (e.g. 26:30 in that Rhystic Studies video.) I have for a long time maintained that Elesh Norn is the hottest character in Magic, and that Kieryluk’s portrayal of her is the best art in Magic, and neither of these opinions are particularly surprising coming from me. What is surprising is just how many people also converge on Miss Multiverse’s-Most-Fuckable-Pyramid-Head as, not just a sex icon of Magic: the Gathering, but the sex icon.

Well, or is it? Giant anchor-shaped porcelain mask aside, her silhouette is more or less that of a painfully-thin woman; she stands fully twelve feet tall, and we remember how wild everyone went over Resident Evil: Village’s woman who was only three-quarters of that; and though not an artificial intelligence herself, it’s hard not to place her somewhere in the Cyberqueen lineage. Like SHODAN, like GladOS, like Cyberqueen, she exerts a near-omnipotent level of control over (part of) her world; like them, she is a megalomaniacal egotist (though she cloaks her egotism in piety); like them, she is happy to render you more useful to her via surgery, brainwashing, or deadly neurotoxin. Her mask obscures where her eyes would be, and if I’ve learned anything from a decade of playing or mostly watching other people play the various Dark Souls games, it’s that people go apeshit for character designs without visible eyes (see also: the xenomorph from Alien; I did a whole thing on this subject somewhere back in the Wifelink archive.) So you’ve got a 12′ nigh-omnipotent eyeless dominatrix mostly shaped like a skinny woman, which is maybe pushing a whole lot of buttons at once for a lot of people.

As a character, we don’t know much about her: at some point, she became undisputed leader of the Machine Orthodoxy, the cultiest bit of New Phyrexia. At a later point, she became the extremely-disputed leader of New Phyrexia as a whole. She likes long walks on the beach and multiversal Phyrexian dominion, you get it. There is, however, one good story featuring her, and it is “A Garden of Flesh” by Lora Gray (sorry to give you additional reading in a five-thousand-word essay.) The story is interesting because it is the rare story told from a Phyrexian point of view, and because it flies in the face of many of our assumptions about Phyrexian interiority. Phyrexians, we’re told, lack souls. They’re unfeeling, more machine than man. They most certainly don’t dream.

“A Garden of Flesh” is what happens when Ashiok, planeswalker architect of nightmares and an eyeless smokeshow in their own right, gets curious about whether they can induce nightmares in a Phyrexian mind. What follows is a curiously-effective piece of body & transformation horror, told from the point of view of what is supposed to be the awful endpoint of transformation horror. What does a perfect, powerful biomechanical creature fear? The organic, soft, spongy. Putrefaction. Decay. What does such a creature fear becoming? Human.

I didn’t devote a fifth of this essay to Elesh Norn just because she’s unbelievably hot (although dayenu), but because of this story, and how it complicates our thesis. The horror of transformation is traversible, yes, but what will you find on the other side? More transformation. More horror. And transformation is inevitable: who of us are who we expected to be? Who of us still hold dear the precious things of childhood? And even you few who are raising your hands right now, you too will experience transformation. Should you live long enough, you will find yourself changing. Your body and mind will grow rebellious, unreliable. You will grow old. You will decay.

And yet—it’s a matter of perspective, of where you weight your focus, isn’t it? There will always be more transformation and more horror, but there will always be a way through it. There will always be another shore upon the other side. You will change. You will become unrecognizable to who you were before. You will be fine.

Incompleat Bibliography & Further Reading/Viewing/Playing

Rhystic Studies, “Phyrexia is Hell”, 2023. H. P. Lovecraft, The Shadow over Innsmouth, 1931. Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House, 1959. Alex Garland, Annihilation, 2018. Harlan Ellison, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream”, 1967. Ken Levine, System Shock 2, 1999. —never played it myself. Mostly I just open up a youtube video of SHODAN voice lines when I want to get belittled by an AI dominatrix. Valve, Portal 2, 2011. —there is a lot more to be said about GladOS and Elesh Norn specifically and their respective fraught relationships with the idea of their own humanity. Porpentine Charity Heartscape, Cyberqueen, 2012. —whence my chapter header screenshots. Seriously, this game fucks so hard. Franny Choi, Death by Sex Machine, 2017. —Choi is making extensive use of cyborg metaphor to address the specific experience of being a Korean-American woman. This is very different from anything I’m talking about, but it also always felt extremely relevant to me as a trans woman. Subaltern-to-subaltern communication. Lora Gray, “A Garden of Flesh,” 2022. —it’s no accident that the author of the one good story told from a Phyrexian POV is nonbinary. hbomberguy, “Outsiders: How To Adapt H.P. Lovecraft In the 21st Century”, 2018. Jacob Geller, “Who’s Afraid of Modern Art: Vandalism, Video Games, and Fascism”, 2019. Caitlín R Kiernan, The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, 2012. —only tangentially relevant, except insofar as it recontextualizes the Lewis Carroll line I open the essay with, and insofar as it is my favorite novel and I’m writing the bibliography. Debatable whether it counts as transformation horror, and I imagine the author would bridle at its being described as horror, but nevertheless: you should read this book.

#magic the gathering #phyrexia

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sisididis · 5 months

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The parallels between Anne Sallow - Ariana Dumbledore, Sebastian Sallow - Albus Dumbledore and Solomon Sallow - Aberforth Dumbledore

I’ll preface this deep dive into the Sallow family’s tragic fate by asking if anyone else found it oddly…familiar? I’ll admit that re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows right before becoming invested in Hogwarts Legacy made uncovering the “strange likenesses” between the Sallow family and the Dumbledore family considerably easier.

The fate of the Sallows is reminiscent of the Dumbledores’ in more ways than I can articulate — from the untimely deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Sallow, and Percival and Kendra Dumbledore, to the tensions between the new and reluctant patres familias, Solomon and Albus, and their resentful charges, Sebastian and Aberforth, and the tragic killing of their family members.

Let’s start with the history of the families, whose first common element is their short-lived wholeness. Albus, Aberforth and Ariana became orphaned in the aftermath of two tragic events — first, their father’s imprisonment and later death in Azkaban, due to his assault on the Muggles who had tortured his daughter, and, second, the killing of their mother during one of Ariana’s fits of uncontrollable magic.

According to Ominis, Mr. and Mrs. Sallow too had untimely deaths, caused by an undetectable toxin emitted by their faulty cellar lamp. At that time, Sebastian and Anne “had no magic yet." We suspect that means the children were younger than 11 years old, the age when signs of magical ability should already manifest.

Another common element is the reluctant take-over of the two new patres familias, Albus and Uncle Solomon, after the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dumbledore, and Mr. and Mrs. Sallow. Fans of the books will remember the reason why Albus was reluctant to assume his new role in the first place — the long-awaited Grand Tour. Albus and his close friend, Elphias Doge, were planning on going on a Grand Tour after their graduation, but the sudden death of his mother right before he was meant to leave forced Albus to stay behind and provide for his siblings. In Chapter 35, King’s Cross, Albus claims that he loved his family, but upon his return to Godric’s Hollow, he felt “trapped and wasted.”

Aberforth recalled that moment, too:

“So that put paid to Albus's trip round the world with little Doge. The pair of 'em came home for my mother's funeral and then Doge went off on his own, and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!” (P. 435, Chapter 28, The Missing Mirror, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

We are not sure where Uncle Solomon’s reluctance to care for his nephew and niece comes from, aside from the obvious disruption of his quiet retirement, but while his anger at this unexpected responsibility is justified and should be directed towards his late brother, it backfires on Sebastian instead:

“I know what's best for Anne – and Sebastian. They are my stubborn brother's children. Especially Sebastian.”

Sebastian himself comments that his uncle often compares him to his father:

“After Anne was hurt, he only grew worse. It's as though he blames me somehow. Always calling me 'my father's son.' As if that's an insult.”

Here’s where the interesting switch happens. The new guardians’ resentment at these unexpected burdens does not go unnoticed. Both Aberforth and Sebastian saw the new patres familias’ reluctance to assume their new role and thought that they would have been a better fit for it. Much like Aberforth and Ariana, Sebastian and Anne were infinitely closer to each other than to the rest of their family:

“Anne won’t survive this. She’s withering away - inside and out. Solomon’s never been there for us. Not really. He gave up on Anne. I’ll never give up on her."

Aberforth echoed this sentiment:

"He didn't want to be bothered with her. She liked me best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn't do it for my mother, I could calm her down, when she was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she used to help me feed the goats.” (P. 434, Chapter 28, The Missing Mirror, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows) "I'd have looked after her, I told him so, I didn't care about school, I'd have stayed home and done it." (P. 435, Chapter 28, The Missing Mirror, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

The way I see it, both Albus / Sebastian and Aberforth / Solomon thought that they had Ariana’s / Anne’s best interest at heart. While Solomon thought that making Anne “comfortable” was the best path of action, Sebastian saw this as resigning themselves to Anne’s sure death. “There is no cure! When will you accept that?” asks Uncle Solomon, to which Sebastian replies adamantly, “Never! I can never accept it.” The same stubborn conviction is exhibited by Aberforth after he uncovers Albus and Gellert’s plans.

"I told him, you'd better give it up now. You can't move her, she's in no fit state, you can't take her with you, wherever it is you're planning to go, when you're making your clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a following. He didn't like that.” (P. 435, Chapter 28, The Missing Mirror, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows) “You may mean well, but I know what's best for Anne – and Sebastian. They are my stubborn brother's children. Especially Sebastian.”

The pairs’ irreconcilable differences did not stop there. In Sebastian’s efforts to heal Anne and Albus’ efforts to create a better world for wizard kind, the pair aspired to leave no depth of magic unplumbed, dark or otherwise, an issue which often sparked conflict with their family. Aberforth did not agree with teenage Albus’ plans “for the greater good”, because he did not prioritize their sister’s safety.

Sebastian’s own stance on using Dark magic to save his sister is in perfect antithesis with his uncle’s aversion to the Dark Arts. Unfortunately, in both cases, the tensions between the brothers and nephew and uncle culminated in the death of their family:

“And then . . . you know what happened. Reality returned in the form of my rough, unlettered, and infinitely more admirable brother. I did not want to hear the truths he shouted at me. I did not want to hear that I could not set forth and seek Hallows with a fragile and unstable sister in tow. (…) The argument became a fight. Grindelwald lost control. That which I had always sensed in him, though I pretended not to, now sprang into terrible being. And Ariana . . . after all my mother’s care and caution . . . lay dead upon the floor.” (P. 549, Chapter 35, King’s Cross, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

Sounds awfully familiar to the scene in the catacomb, doesn’t it? Not only did uncle and nephew turn their wands against each other, but Anne had to bury their uncle alone, much like Albus had to bury Ariana alone after Gellert fled Godric’s Hollow. After Solomon and Ariana’s deaths, all that the Dumbledore and Sallow siblings had were each other. Unfortunately, the death of their family did not inspire a renewed sense of closeness. On the contrary, Solomon and Ariana’s deaths caused an irreparable rift between the siblings.

“To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement.” (P. 20, Chapter 2, In Memorandum, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

The breakdown of the Sallow twins’ relationship is reflected in Anne’s letter to Sebastian:

“Sebastian, Too much has happened. I needed to get away from here for a while. I miss Uncle Solomon. I need time. I will always love you, but I don't know if I can ever forgive you. Anne”

What do you think?

#i know i’m nitpicking #but this is the only kind of mental maths that i’ve excelled at since 8th grade #i love the twins i love them so much #please let me know what you think!#sebastian sallow #anne sallow #solomon sallow #albus dumbledore #ariana dumbledore #aberforth dumbledore #harry potter and the deathly hallows #hogwarts legacy #my entries

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lurkingshan · 1 year

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The best thing about Step by Step is that it’s a workplace romance that actually takes the workplace seriously. We’re very used to bls that use the office as a backdrop while flagrantly ignoring professional decorum, that have the characters casually engaging in all kinds of inappropriate behavior (see Gun and Cher making out in hallways and casually cuddling in his office). That is not going to happen here because in this universe we are actually supposed to care about the work, and Jeng is a responsible adult who understands there are some lines he needs to be very careful about crossing.

Jeng and Pat like each other. It is obvious. They were flirting before they realized their work connection. And now they are continuing to find excuses to be around each other and constantly giving their feelings away.

It’s very easy to see how this is manifesting for Pat. He said straight out that he was into Jeng after they first met, and his behavior becomes increasingly unhinged the more he gets to know him. He likes Jeng, which is why he overreacts to any slight criticism he perceives from him. You don’t get this emotional about someone unless you already have some feelings going on. He is investigating and snooping and stalking Jeng not because of any paper thin pretext about work, but because he wants to know him and now that Jeng is his boss he doesn’t know how to go about it.

Jeng is more subtle (he has to be as the mature adult and the one with the power in this situation) but I would argue no less obvious in his interest. He is constantly finding reasons to work closely with Pat. He is trying (clumsily) to mentor and coach him so that he’ll be successful. He keeps finding reasons for Pat to be in his home, witness him in all his domestic splendor, and receive insight into his life - it’s not a coincidence that Pat has learned about his other job, his family, and his relationship status in quick succession. It’s not a coincidence that Jeng just happened to find ways to show Pat that he’s a great cook, a loving uncle, and occasionally likes to vacuum in a tux. Jeng wants him to know, so he is manufacturing ways to show him, because he can’t just straightforwardly ask him out. He has to be more measured at work, but when he is alone, we see him respond to interactions with Pat with giddiness (did y’all see the way he pressed his phone to his lips and grinned to himself when Pat texted him back??).

This is what it looks like when two adults are attracted to each other in the workplace, especially when there’s a power imbalance. You have to be cautious. You have to go slow. You have to make damn sure you’re on the same page before you even consider making a move. Jeng will not be the one to cross the line - he’ll need a very strong signal from Pat that he wants to pursue this - and he won’t rush into it either, because he cares about his job and protecting their professional reputations.

I am excited for the journey and here for every delicious moment of pining and tension building this show has in store.

#step by step #thai bl #shan shouts into the void

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bluecatwriter · 3 days

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Blood of My Blood: Permission

@animate-mush and @ibrithir-was-here, I finally finished drafting the scene! XD

As Quincey Harker first begins to fall in love with Lu Holmwood, he realizes that he should ask for her father's permission to court her. That should be an easy conversation, right?

CW: Descriptions of emotional abuse, mention of smoking

---

Arthur stood at a window in the second story, looking down at his only daughter, his most precious child, strolling and laughing on the lawn below with a vampire.

Evening light bathed them both, making Lu's curls look like they were pure gold, and giving the boy's pallid skin enough color that he would have almost looked human— were it not for the glowing red of his eyes, so bright that Arthur could see it even from up here. Lu said something and the vampire laughed.

Arthur's hands clenched the windowsill as he leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the roiling in his stomach that hadn't quite subsided since the creature had shown up in his office several days ago. Why he had even let Lu meet the boy in the first place was beyond him. He should have made some excuse— oh no, Lu, there's an undead creature running loose in Scotland, you and Uncle Jack had better go take care of it!— and sent her away. He should have kept her safe. That was his duty as her father.

Of course, it wouldn't have worked. Lu was smart, and Arthur was not a good liar.

But Arthur had failed to prevent their meeting, and now Lu was completely smitten. What's worse, it was easy to see why. The boy was sweet and engaging, an attentive listener, fascinated by the beauty of the world. He quoted romantic poetry with the same enthusiasm that other boys might discuss sports teams. And whatever he was, he was not a vampire like they had fought before. Arthur had tried five different crucifixes on him, as if one could be defective somehow, and forced him to chew garlic while Arthur stared at him as if daring him to collapse into dust on the spot. One of their sources had brought Arthur some holy water, and when he dabbed it in the shape of a cross on the boy's forehead, the vampire had stood there obediently and then asked if something was supposed to happen.

Lu suddenly looked up, and saw Arthur spying on them (no, not spying, he just happened to catch a glimpse and had to check on what they were doing, just in case the vampire was, for instance, trying to rip her throat out). Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, the rebellious little grin on her face quite familiar to him now. He remembered how timid she was when he first met her, how she shrank into herself as if wishing she could disappear. Now she laughed loudly and grinned fiercely and made it clear that she was going to do whatever she willed, regardless of what "the dad" had to say about it. And that was what Arthur wanted, really— for her to be bold and confident and sure of herself— but why oh why did it have to manifest this way?

She waved and blew him a kiss. Arthur blew her a kiss in return, and managed to even smile, but his smile only held until the vampire turned his head and looked up at him too.

Their eyes locked, red to blue, and Arthur felt protectiveness rising in him like a flood. If he was a good father, he would march that boy into his office and tell him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his daughter. If you so much as think about touching her, I will stake you right through your unbeating heart, do you understand?!

The boy tipped his hat, bowing his head with that eerie courteousness that he had shown ever since he'd arrived. He looked a lot like his father— or, as he often clarified, his papa— just then.

What was worse, Quincey being a vampire, or him being raised by the man who had tried to murder everyone Arthur loved?

Arthur stepped away from the window, found that standing was suddenly too much work, and leaned back against the wall instead, slowly sliding down it until he hit the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

He didn't cry long before he heard a soft rap on the doorframe, and he struggled to lift his head to see Jack standing there. Jack gave him a sympathetic smile, then crossed the room and held out his hand, helping Arthur up into a chair. Arthur wanted to bury his face in his hands and keep sobbing, but he could tell that Jack wanted to talk, so he just looked at Jack through tears.

Jack stroked his hand soothingly through Arthur's hair a few times before withdrawing it to sign, "Lu?"

Arthur choked out a small sound, and jerked his head toward the window. The sounds of Lu and the boy laughing came through the glass. "Jack, am I doing the right thing?"

Jack sighed, his smile turning wry. "You know Lu. She will do what she wants regardless, so we might as well go along with it."

Arthur groaned, leaning into Jack's touch as he petted his hair again. They'd had a similar conversation three years earlier, when Lu had started hanging about with a disgusting boy who treated her like a supporting character for his own ego. Arthur had wanted to throw him out onto the street on his head, but Jack had counseled that Arthur keep his disgust to himself. Forbidden love is very romantic, Jack had said, and Lu is a romantic at heart. She gets that from me, he'd added with a little smile. Arthur had gritted his teeth for four months, until one day Lu showed up unexpectedly in his room, her mascara running, and told him that she'd dumped her boyfriend. Arthur had never been so relieved in his life.

"I'm supposed to keep our daughter safe," Arthur said, his voice choking a little. "How do I know… how can I be sure…"

"You can't," Jack signed, his movements short and sharp. "We must trust what we know: that the holy objects don't burn him, that he has never drunk blood from an unwilling subject, and that his goodness seems entirely unfeigned."

Arthur gulped. "I don't know how I can handle this."

Jack kissed his forehead. "One step at a time," he said when he pulled away. Then he straightened, and Arthur could see him switching into Doctor Mode. "Now, young man, I am going to take your blood pressure."

He strode out of the room and returned with his sphygmomanometer, which he set up on the table. Arthur tried to calm his breathing as Jack placed the cuff around his arm and puffed it up, then frowned at the rising mercury on the device.

After a moment, Jack sighed, setting down the pump in his hand to sign, "It's a wonder your blood vessels haven't exploded."

Arthur groaned and leaned back in his chair as Jack deflated the cuff.

"Maybe you should smoke more, to calm your nerves."

"I would turn into a chimney."

Jack huffed a laugh, and when Arthur tried to follow suit, he ended up crying again. Jack wrapped both arms around him and held him as Arthur shook silently, while the sounds of his daughter and the vampire laughing still drifting through the window.

* * *

Lu had complained about having to attend a boring party tonight with a friend, but Quincey was actually glad for it, because it gave him an opportunity to do what he'd suddenly realized he must do as soon as possible.

He'd gotten careless, and lovestruck. (Lovestruck, what a beautiful word! He had imagined so many times what it must be like to be struck by love, but the reality was even better than he expected.) He'd gotten carried away, lost in the glow of Lu's presence— the sparkle of her eyes, the sharp wit of her words, the unabashed confidence in the way she moved through the world. He had been pining like a lover in one of those ballads he loved to read. And he had forgotten the most important step of all, the one that all other steps depended on.

Lord Godalming's scowl from the window this evening had thrown the necessity of this step into sharp focus. He must approach Godalming tonight and hope to set all in order.

After Lu had left for her party, the servants directed him to Godalming's office, and Quincey stood at the door for a long time, rehearsing his speech in his head, before knocking. He heard Godalming's "Come," and opened the door, stepping inside with his most respectful yet friendly face on, to see Godalming at his desk.

Godalming's face always changed when Quincey entered the room: a tightening of his whole expression, as if it had suddenly become an effort to hold his skin in place. In the corner, Dr. Seward looked up from reading something. It was easier to decipher his expressions: he stared with singleminded focus and curiosity, much like Mum did, rather than Godalming's fidgeting and pacing and avoiding eye contact. But Godalming was the one Quincey must address, and so he only spoke to him.

"Lord Godalming," he said, proud of the even measure of his voice. "I ask your permission to come in and speak."

Godalming cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hands. "Yes, of course," he said, though his tone was unconvincing. Still, Quincey must take a chance.

"Thank you, lord." He crossed the room quickly and stood before Godalming's desk, his head bowed as if under the weight of an invisible hand. Before he could lose his nerve, he launched into the speech he had prepared. "Lord Arthur Godalming, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking me under your roof, and for the hospitality that you have shown to me in my time here. I know that all in this household are under your authority, and all here belong first and foremost to you."

Quincey couldn't quite tell what kind of expression Godalming was making— he shifted in his seat, that tightness in his face grew more pronounced, and he glanced over at Dr. Seward. But he didn't tell Quincey to stop, so Quincey plowed on.

"I know you are a benevolent lord, for you allow all those of your household to pursue their lives in bliss and harmony. With this in mind, I humbly beg you to hear my request."

Here he paused, looking for any sign of what Godalming might be thinking. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps— it was hard to tell— but he was not scowling, snarling, or getting that cold look that Father got right before breaking something. So far, so good. After a moment Godalming said, with bluster in his voice, "Out with it, then."

Quincey breathed a little sigh of relief to have explicit permission to continue, but worked to keep his voice formal. "Thank you for the opportunity to make my request. Lord Arthur Godalming, I ask that I may pursue and court your most treasured and beloved property, Lucille Holmwood."

"What?!" Godalming sputtered, and leaped to his feet. Suddenly, his expression was as easy to read as a book: outrage, and surprise.

Quincey resisted the urge to take a step back. He was surprised, too— he thought it was obvious that they were interested in each other. What part of this wasn't Godalming understanding?

"Don't ever call my daughter 'property' again!" Godalming roared, slamming his hands on the desk.

Now he did startle backward, blinking in confusion. Out of everything in his statement, how could Godalming possibly be angry at that? His mind scrambled to interpret the situation, wondering what unspoken rule he had trespassed.

"She is a person," Godalming continued, "not some trinket that I own— and certainly not a thing for you to own, either!"

"I would never dare!" Quincey burst out, affronted at the very thought, before remembering himself and dropping his head in deference. He had to show that he was obedient, that he would listen to the lecture and the learn the Lesson embedded in it.

Quincey had learned long ago that he had no desire to be like Father— he had no desire to rule, to overpower, to possess. But he had often, so often, dreamed of being like Papa. He had hoped to find a man or woman that he could adore and care for, someone he could protect. Owning another person was never something he had considered, even though he knew that Father would be disappointed in his lack of ambition.

He realized that he'd just been staring blankly at Godalming, who was clearly waiting for him to respond, and he scrambled to find the words that would avoid the worst kind of punishment. Bowing his head further, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I did not mean to cause offense, lord, but of course that is no excuse," he said, all in a rush. "I will welcome any punishment you see fit."

He didn't know what kinds of punishments Godalming was likely to give. The dread of not knowing made his stomach twist, but if he could endure it, perhaps Godalming would consider him worthy.

"I'm not going to punish you," Godalming said, speaking with disbelief, as if it was a ridiculous idea. (He must be trying to put Quincey off his guard so that he wouldn't expect the punishment when it came; Quincey made a mental note to stay alert so that it wouldn't catch him by surprise.)

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said simply. He kept his head down, watching furtively as Godalming and Dr. Seward signed quickly back and forth to each other, Godalming frowning and Seward looking concerned. Lu had taught Quincey a few signs, but not nearly enough to have any idea what they were saying.

Godalming suddenly turned to face him, and Quincey straightened instinctively, though he still kept his head bowed. When Godalming spoke, his teeth were gritted, but he appeared to be trying to control himself. He seemed to value self-control, just like Mum did. "Jack has suggested that perhaps I've misunderstood you. Explain, then—" The sharp edge on his voice flared, then subsided. "—why you referred to my daughter as 'property.'"

Quincey spoke carefully, knowing that speaking the wrong word could be the difference between getting his request and getting severely punished. "Lucille belongs to you, is it not so?"

"Not in the way an object belongs to me," Godalming said, starting to pace. He turned on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at him. "And if you think to treat her like your property—"

Quincey flinched as if he'd been slapped. To be accused not once, but twice, of trying to commit treason in this way made him feel horribly hurt, but he couldn't just blurt that out. He struggled to say, "My lord, please let me speak."

"Speak!" Godalming burst out, waving a hand at him. "You don't need my permission, just speak!"

Quincey fought down the tears that threatened to spill over his eyes, stumbling over his words. "Thank you, lord. I… I had no thought of making her my property. I meant that… I was asking if I could become your property, sir."

Godalming stopped pacing stared at him as if he'd said the most unintelligible string of words ever spoken. Quincey stood there, unsure whether to keep talking, and then Godalming sharply turned to Dr. Seward, and they signed back and forth with puzzled scowls on their faces. Quincey waited anxiously, wondering if they were discussing his punishment. He hoped that he wouldn't cry when they put him through it. He hadn't cried during a punishment in a long time.

"Yes, I know, Jack!" Godalming said unexpected, then grabbed a paperweight that sat on his desk, fidgeting with it as he spoke. It looked fairly heavy; it would hurt if he chose to hit Quincey with it. Father considered corporal punishment to be uncivilized, but a different lord might have a different rule. "Just tell me," Godalming said to him, and again it was clear he was putting a lot of effort into sounding calm, "do you consider yourself to be anyone's property now?"

Quincey could have wept with relief to get a question that made sense— but now that it was posed to him, he had to pause. He had been ready to blurt out that yes, of course, he belonged to Father, and only to Father, as everyone in the household did, but…

Papa's last words to him were imprinted on his mind. He hadn't really understood them, standing at the castle doors that day that seemed so long ago now, but the reality of it was beginning to sink in. Remember, you don’t belong to him. Or, or to us. Just to yourself.

"I don't," he said, and he felt a terrifying emptiness at the declaration. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. "When I lived in Castle Dracula, I was Father's property, along with Papa, and Mum, and everything in the house. But Papa has sent me out now and says that I belong only to myself." Now that he said it out loud, it seemed stranger and stranger. But of course Papa would never go against what Father wanted. Papa had always taught him to do what was right, and obeying Father was right. Father must have changed his mind, and wanted him to own himself.

Godalming's expression remained steady, so Quincey decided to go on. "My heart's desire is to find another household where I may be owned and show my love and loyalty, just like Papa did. This is my deepest wish, that I have held since before I even knew that such a thing were possible." He shut his mouth, squeezing his hands together.

The past few days, he had been thinking about the possibility of asking Lu to kiss him. He had never been kissed by anyone before, except the bloodless kisses that Mum and Papa gave him. Perhaps she would not like the taste of of his blood, but he could offer, anyway, and maybe she would like to try. He imagined her lips open against his arm— or even perhaps his throat!— and wondered what it would like to feel his skin give way under her teeth, to feel his blood leaving his body to nourish that one he loved. The thought of it was so exciting that it made him feel a weakness in his legs, a fluttering in his stomach.

"Quincey!"

Quincey didn't realize he'd been daydreaming, and he snapped back to attention, again speaking in a rush. "I apologize for letting my mind wander, lord, I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"I'm not going to— for Christ's sake—" Godalming looked helplessly at Dr. Seward, as if he could explain this, while Quincey stood there still feeling confused. "Good grief, child, what kind of a life have you had?"

This was probably a test, but Quincey didn't know how to pass it. "A happy one," he said simply. "I come from a loving family."

"Why are you so afraid of punishment, if your family was so loving?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Punishment is love," Quincey said, a note of frustration entering his voice. He felt a wave of anger at Godalming for insulting Father, for disrespecting the name of the family. "Father punished me to teach me how to be strong and right."

Godalming's eyes blazed again; Quincey wondered why it seemed to make him so angry. "So he never hurt you?" Godalming asked.

"Never," Quincey said, putting emphasis on the word, "except when it was for my good."

Godalming raised an eyebrow. "And when it was 'for your good'? What did he do then?"

"Whatever best suited the disobedience." Quincey spoke without emotion, trying to tamp down the annoyance he felt at this clearly bad-faith questioning of his Father's parenting skills. What did Godalming care?

"For instance?" Godalming pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Again, Quincey decided this must be a test. He focused on speaking as plainly and completely as possible. "If I paid too much attention to my books and not enough to him, he would make me tear up the books and feed the pages into the fire. Or if I forgot my place, he would come into my room and destroy my things."

Godalming's expression was changing from demanding to horrified. "What kinds of things?"

He had a sudden, sharp memory of a stuffed toy rabbit that Papa had brought him when he was a small child. He could still feel the soft cotton against his cheek, see the button eyes and the embroidered smile. He'd named it Hoppy.

"Things I liked. Especially things that Papa bought me in town. For instance, once I owned a toy rabbit. But then I questioned a decision that Father made, and so he took my rabbit and—" His voice caught; there was something about saying this out loud, when he had never spoken of it before, that made him suddenly feel like he was going to cry. "—and tore it to pieces."

He still remembered the sound of the fabric ripping, the way that Father had held Hoppy just out of Quincey's reach and methodically shredded the toy until only fibers and buttons were left, Quincey screaming and begging him to stop all the while. Afterward, Quincey had wept and gathered up the shreds and brought them to Papa. Sometimes Papa could fix the things Father broke, but this was not one of those times.

Papa had held him tightly and let him cry, and afterward they had had a burial service for Hoppy, at sunrise after Quincey should have been in bed.

He felt tears in his eyes and a knot in his throat, and in his attempt to hide both, he lashed out. "But the punishments worked! I learned to never question the wisdom of those better than me, and to obey instructions, and to be respectful in all circumstances. Besides, none of the things he destroyed were mine. They were all his. Everything in the whole land was his. Sometimes I just forgot. But I do not forget anymore. I would never ask to possess anything for myself. If you allow me to be part of your household, I will never forget that all belongs to you."

There was a long silence.

"Jesus Christ," Godalming said, and slumped into his chair.

Quincey wasn't sure why Godalming was invoking the name of the man on the crucifix he now wore, but it was not the time to be asking questions. He stood there, waiting for him to speak again.

Godalming groaned, dragging a hand across his face. "Quincey, I— I don't know what to say."

Once again, a feeling of relief came over Quincey. He knew this kind of roundabout speaking, and knew what the proper response was. Without hesitation, he dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his face against the carpet.

"Lord Godalming, I throw myself upon your mercy, as a wretch, a worm, begging to be your property and yours alone, to sit at your table and eat your scraps—"

"What the hell are you doing?" Godalming yelled. "Get up!"

Quincey sat up quickly, still on his knees, staring at Godalming's horrified expression over the desk. "I… I thought you wanted me… to beg?" Father had always liked begging.

"God, no! Quincey, please, please just pull up a chair and sit down and listen."

That he could do. Quincey quickly pulled up a chair and sat, hands in his lap. Godalming stood up and began to pace again, still fidgeting with the paperweight. He seemed to be grasping for words to say, and it was only after signing back and forth with Dr. Seward for a few moments that he spoke.

"Quincey, you say that you belong to yourself. Well, Lu belongs to herself, too. No one in this household is my property. Do you understand? Everyone here belongs to himself."

Quincey didn't see how that could possibly work, but there was nothing to do but take Godalming at his word and hope this was not a test. "I understand, lord."

Godalming paused, and looked at Quincey with a cross between pain and exasperation. "Quincey, you're a vampire. Lu is a human. You are a danger to her, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you to court her."

Quincey felt the words sink into him like ice, and the urge to throw himself facedown on the carpet again made his fingers twitch.

"But," Godalming said, and paused. In that pause, it seemed that he aged ten years before Quincey's eyes. "But," he said again, and now his voice was husky, "I do not have the say in this. As I said, Lu belongs to herself, not to me. If you want to court Lu, and she wants to court you, then I… I won't stop you."

Quincey stared at him. This was impossible; he must have heard wrong. "You do not wish to exercise your right of ownership?" he asked hesitantly.

Godalming looked unspeakably weary. "Lu can make her own decisions— and you'd damn well better abide by whatever she decides."

"Yes, lord, of course," Quincey said quickly, still wondering if this was some sort of illusion that he would wake up from.

"But make no mistake: if it comes to it, I will protect my daughter above all else. Do you understand?"

Quincey resisted the urge to smile in relief. Here it was, a straightforward threat, something that he was used to working with. He tempered his wave of excitement, and stood solemnly, bowing. "I understand, lord. I swear to you, I will give you no reason for displeasure."

Godalming looked somehow even greyer than before as he leaned wearily on one hand. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, but it was a halfhearted mutter.

There was a long pause.

"All right, now go." Godalming waved his hand in dismissal.

Whatever he might say, Quincey knew that permission to approach Lu as equals was still a privilege that Godalming had bestowed on him, and Quincey must acknowledge the gift. He reached across the desk and took Godalming's hand with both of his. Godalming startled, but Quincey was committed to the gesture now: he bowed his head over his hand and pressed a bloodless kiss to it, the way that Papa would do with Father when thanking him or placating him. He felt Godalming shudder under his touch.

He still suspected that this whole scenario was some sort of test, and that Godalming would punish him for it, but at least he could be on his guard now— and at least he could invoke Godalming's words against him if he tried to change his mind. Papa had taught him that it was important to remember exactly a person's words, so that you could use them in the future if you needed.

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said, looking earnestly into Godalming's face. One of his eyes was twitching, and Quincey could hear his heartbeat loudly. "I will treasure this kindness." Then he raced out of the room before Godalming could change his mind.

Arthur groaned and sank back in his chair, feeling a shiver go through his whole body. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, see the soft, bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye. Jack raised his hand to speak.

"Don't," Arthur snapped. "Don't say a single word, Jack Seward."

Jack stood instead and walked to his side, planting a kiss on his head. "I'm proud of you, just the same," he signed, before using his hand to feel along Arthur's neck for his pulse. He pulled back and shook his head disapprovingly. "Blood pressure, young man, blood pressure."

"I said not a single word."

"I'll get you a cigarette."

"Jack!" Arthur grabbed his arm, and felt suddenly that Jack was the only real thing in this upside-down world where he had just allowed a vampire to start courting his daughter.

Jack paused, then settled himself onto Arthur's lap, linking his arms around him. In this position he couldn't speak, but he breathed long, slow breaths, his way of reminding Arthur to breathe, too. Arthur shuddered through several shaky breaths before he was able to slow enough to match Jack's pace.

The unknown loomed before them, like a great blackness in his mind. He couldn't protect their daughter forever. Lu would make her own decision, and then… well, then there was nothing to do but wait and see.

~~~

#my writing #blood of my blood #dracula fanfiction #quincey harker #arthur holmwood #jack seward

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banditcoyote · 8 months

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It Happened on Christmas Eve.

The amount of luggage that had suddenly appeared at the door did not fit in the entryway and Coyote was scratching his head. “I guess we can put it in the garage?” he said with a shrug. Shishi balked at him “My vintage Louis Vuitton luggage? In the garage Coyote?” he narrowed his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s climate controlled.” Coyote offered to him hoping that was maybe the issue Shishi had in his head, the image of a cold and damp garage. It was better, but the Imp refused to acknowledge that and instead crossed his arms. “Where do you even keep all these? Your house is tiny.” He asked looking at the piles that nearly reached his head. Shishi looked at them “storage.” And before Coyote could argue further “it’s white glove service” he said. “It’s very nice.” Kurama chuckled softly. “They’ll be fine in the garage, it’s one night, and it’s climate controlled.” “And Look!” Gatlin held up his hands, now covered in white gloves he had manifested with his own powers. “White glove service.” Shishi huffed “Well now you’re just making fun of me.” He said and put his nose up and turned away to start into the house, spotting Sasuga in her comfy Christmas sweater and throwing his arms open. “Sasuga. All the men are ganging up on me, and not in the way I’d enjoy.” He said searching for a hug. “Please don’t lump me in with them.” Cal said from his place setting the table. “And please never phrase it that way again.” He laughed. “Dunno.” Thomasina smiled. “I’d kind of like to see Shishi ganged up on by a bunch of men.” She said with a wink. It was afternoon on Christmas eve and they were placing the finishing touches on the table while things were baking and cooking in the kitchen. Now that Gatlin, Kurama, and Shishi had arrived they could finally open a bottle of wine and start on the egg nog. “I’m not sure Shishi needs any encouraging.” Kurama said gently and cast a loving gaze to his mate. Shishi huffed again, though he was delighted with the attention and he smiled as he took Sasuga’s hands. “How are you?” Sasuga had shared the story about Frick and the Pirate ship with her uncle prior to his arrival, and he had discussed all her worries and insecurities at length, assuring her that Coyote had chosen her, and she was indeed enough, but understanding where she was coming from. Still he had kept it a secret from Gatlin and Kurama as promised.

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danger-xylophones · 9 months

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Can you do Thrawn x reader who is a Tarkin he met at the academy with Eli? They are reunited after the rebels are causing an issue on Tarkins home world.

warnings: Awkward reunion, exes, I made Wilhuff Tarkin reader's godfather/uncle, use of (Y/n),

Part 1 of 2

masterlist | chiss

"Sir?" Eli's soft probing brought Thrawn back to the bridge of the Chimeara. "Are you alright?"

Thrawn blinked taken aback by just how out of it he'd been, "Yes, I am." He cleared his throat and brought his hands behind his back. "My apologies, Lieutenant. My mind is elsewhere."

"I noticed." The young man huffed, coming to a stop beside his commanding officer. "You've been spaced out all day." He paused, thinking. "Since we got the orders, actually."

"Why do you think that is?" Thrawn asked slowly, his eyes locked on Eli's face to watch as he thought it through.

Eli's brow furrowed and his lips pursed as he thought. "Because..." he paused, "Because the orders came from Tarkin himself?"

"There's a bit more to it, Lieutenant, but you are on the correct path." Thrawn looked back to the viewport and the swirling mass of stars before him.

"Because we're going to Eriadu? His home planet?" Eli hedged, stepping into Thrawn's field of view.

Thrawn hummed noncommittally, alerting Eli that he was close to finding the answer. But the young man didn't answer for a long time and Thrawn knew that Eli was stumped. "Do you remember (Y/n)?"

"Vaguely," Eli answered, crossing his arms, "They were in our weapon's history class, right?"

"Yes, and our armaments class, our advanced tactics class, our sparring sessions, and they were my tutor for political science."

Eli blinked, stunned. "I didn't realize they were around us that often."

Thrawn hummed, mildly amused by Eli's obliviousness. "And...we went on a few, how do you call them?" He raised his eyes to the ceiling as he tried to recall the basic word. Eli waited, eager to translate should Thrawn need him to. "Ah," he hummed, the basic word manifesting in his mind, "I believe you call them 'dates'."

Eli's eyes went wide. "You went on a date with (Y/n)?"

"Yes, several." Thrawn raised an eyebrow at Eli. "Is that so surprising to hear?"

Eli stared at him and Thrawn had to wonder if he'd accidentally asked his question in Cheunh. Eventually, Eli seemed to come back to himself. "Yes!" He finally exploded as he furrowed his brows. "When? I never left your side at the academy!"

"You sleep more than I do, Eli." Thrawn pointed out as if that answered everything. "And they are a 'night-owl'."

"So you were sneaking around with each other after curfew?" Eli asked, sounding truly baffled.

"I would not call it 'sneaking around'..." Thrawn considered, "They had enough political sway that our supervisors didn't pay much attention to our comings and goings."

"Political sway?" Eli whispered to himself, trying to recall what Thrawn was talking about.

"Breakout in 5 minutes, Admiral!" Navigation called.

"Thank you." Thrawn replied without looking to the officer. "Have you reached any conclusions, Vanto?"

Eli shook his head. "Only that you're a hell of a lot sneakier than I thought." He fell quiet and Thrawn was content to let him puzzle out the answer a little while longer. "Did you two..." Eli started, slightly trailing off as his face heat skyrocketed much to Thrawn's amusement. "Did you two do anything? Or was it just like getting drinks together?"

Were Eli anyone else, Thrawn might have been inclined to rebuke him for digging into the Chiss's personal life but the admiral wagered that Eli was what he would consider a close friend. And that meant he could be privy to a bit of extra knowledge. "They referred to me as their partner on several occasions."

Eli's eyes went wide. "So you two were proper dating? What happened? Why haven't you mentioned this before?"

"It did not seem like important information." The chiss raised an eyebrow at his Wild Space companion. "And, yes, we were 'dating'." Thrawn frowned as now the whole reason for bringing up his tryst with the other cadet became relevant again. "But, I am afraid I ruined things between us."

"What did you do?" Eli asked, careful to keep any sense of accusation out of his voice.

"When we got our assignments, I didn't tell them that I had been assigned to the Blood Crow until our shuttle was ready to leave. Only then did I seek them out to say goodbye." Thrawn frowned, remembering so clearly the pained expression on their face. "They were upset that I hadn't spoken to them prior. And when they asked if they could com me, I told them to focus on their career."

"Thrawn!" Eli groaned and Thrawn felt himself cringe at his volume.

"I realized too late that that was not the proper way to end things between us."

"No shit." Eli hissed. "That's a really shitty way to break up with someone." He tapped his foot and Thrawn had enough sense in him to feel abashed. "How long were you together?"

"Just shy of two months."

"Maker spare me."

"I thought I would have been doing them a disservice to encourage further communication between us." Thrawn elaborated in a quiet voice. "But after speaking to a few of our fellow officers, I realized that 'long-distance relationships' are incredibly common in the empire and relatively feasible."

"Yeah, they are, especially when you're a higher ranking officer." Eli sighed, a hand to his forehead. "So you know you messed up...If you saw them again, would you ask them out?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant." Thrawn replied honestly. "I'll admit I miss their company. But I do not think they'd take me back after how I ended things."

Eli was silent for a long time. "They're on Eriadu, aren't they?"

Thrawn closed his eyes. At least the young man had caught on. "Their name was on the orders we received."

"Oh." Eli's brow furrowed, "But I thought Tarkin was the one - oh," his eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot clear to his hairline, "Oh no. You kriffed up."

Thrawn huffed. "I am aware, Eli."

"Breakout in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1." Just as the navigation officer finished their countdown, the bridge shook as the ship fell out of hyperspace and the viewport filled with the tranquil blue and white marble surface of Eriadu.

"Comms, hail Eriadu City." Thrawn called.

There was a moment where the bridge was filled with static but then the center console flickered to life and before both Thrawn and Eli stood a figure Eli vaguely recognized as the very person the two had been talking about.

"Good day, Admiral Thrawn." You greeted with a polite smile, your hands clasped primly behind your back. Eli spied a governor's plaque pinned to your chest. Clearly, you were doing well for yourself. "I appreciate your timeliness."

"We were fortunate enough to be close to the Seswanna sector when we received your summons, Governor Tarkin." Thrawn for his part sounded perfectly professional. But Eli could see his shoulders were unnaturally stiff.

"Fortunate indeed." You agreed. "The insurgents have grown bolder since I initially called for reinforcements. However, it is still safe in the capital and I know that Grand Moff Tarkin wishes to discuss our next moves in person. How soon can you be on the ground?" Eli was slightly taken aback by how direct you were being and he wasn't sure if that was just a defect of your station or the strained nature of yours and Thrawn's relationship.

"Lieutenant Vanto and I can be in Eriadu City within the hour, Governor."

As if just noticing him for the first time, your holographic eyes flicked to him and Eli could see some of the hardness leave your expression. At least you held no ill-will towards him. "Excellent," your gaze flicked back to Thrawn and your expression grew hard again, "I will be waiting for you in the space-port. Tarkin, out." Before Thrawn or Eli could say anything, you'd disconnected your com and your holographic self flickered into nothing.

"That could have gone worse." Eli huffed, sparing Thrawn a glance. The chiss man's face was tight, his expression almost pinched in a way Eli had never seen before.

"Yes," he finally sighed and Eli watched as his face fell back into the stoic expression the wild space man was more accustomed to seeing, "I suppose it could have." A beat passed and then without warning, Thrawn spun on his heel and began marching off of the bridge at a hard pace. "Come, Lieutenant," Thrawn's call spurred the brunette man to life and he raced to catch up, "best not keep the Governor waiting."

....................................................................

#thrawn x reader #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn x reader #grand admiral thrawn #star wars #star wars x reader

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luciehercndale · 7 months

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⚠️threads of power spoilers ⚠️

Somehow, I felt like Lila wouldn't like Nadiya. Lila likes the attention she gets from the people at the palace, the way they seem to fear and respect her because she's aven but hates when people try to gaslight her and they use Kell to do so. The Queen sees what he means to Lila and her worries about his condition. The Queen is also interested in antari so she tries to manipulate Lila into doing things that she could potentially study. I bet she was the one who told the servants to refer to her as Kell's promised lady, as if Lila was just that. As if Lila is just an accessory to Kell and a vessel she could pressure to test her theories. Nadiya tells Lila that Kell is a good uncle and he would be a good father, assuming that sooner or later they will also have a baby like she had Ren. Not that Nadiya should care, but she does because she wants to see if two Antari can have an Antari child. An experiment. This would be interesting to see but Lila is set on not having children (at least now) but I think it does cross her mind at times. Who knows if they ever talked about this? But I guess never. They argued when Kell wanted to give her the magic ring, speaking of children would be an off limits topic bc I think Kell knows Lila doesn't like children. But it must've crossed her mind, even briefly. Especially when she sees Kell with Ren. "What if Kell wants a family but I don't?"

I think Lila doesn't like Nadiya because like she said, it's like looking into a mirror. Nadiya dares to say the things Lila keeps to herself because they belong to the realm of bonds. That's why she also didn't accept the ship ring (but still kept it around her throat). She loves Kell but she believes that they don't need an object that binds them together to validate their relationship. And a child would be the realest representation/manifestation of their union and it's not something like a ring that you can put in a drawer if you don't want to wear it. That's why Lila probably doesn't like the idea of children. It scares her to death to care for another human being that exists because of her

#therads of power #lila bard #nadiya loreni #kell maresh #kellila #threads of power spoilers #adsom #a darker shade of magic #shades of magic #kell and lila #yeah still not over talking about them #my posts 3

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aziraphales-library · 1 year

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Hello, I’m in love with everything that you do. Can you share some of your favorite examples of works that utilize footnotes well?

Hi. We have a couple of posts on our #footnotes tag that you should check out. Here are a few more fics with footnotes...

Seeing In A New Light by Aethelflaed (T)

Several months after the Apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley are much as they ever were. Too insecure, too defensive, too much on guard to let their relationship move forward. Until Crowley takes Aziraphale on a surprise stargazing trip, and they both have a chance to see the other in a new light…

By Any Other Name by WyvernQuill (T)

"Bit strange, the Almighty giving us soulmates, too - us demons, not us-us. Wasn't that the point of the Fall, making 'em miserable down there?" Crawly mused. "Seems counterproductive, assigning perfect lovers."

"She'll have Her reasons." Aziraphale muttered, a little curtly, and, there in the rain, wrapped in the Serpent's wing, he ran his fingers over his mark again.

From the very corner of his eye, he saw Crawly doing the same.

---

Crowley's soul-name reads "Aziraphale".

Aziraphale's does NOT read "Crowley".

This is... suboptimal, to say the least.

A Summoning by AnonymousDandelion (T)

Linette definitely didn't want to summon a demon, and Crowley definitely didn't want to be summoned. Nevertheless, that's what happened. Blame Linette's uncle, who is Not A Good Person.

Other significant players include a potted fern, a bucket of holy water, and a concerned Aziraphale.

Crossing a Line by Bookwormgal (T)

The world should have ended four years ago.

That was how it was written. The Great Plan was very clear on that much. Six thousand years after the creation of the world, the Anti-Christ would arrive on Earth. And after his eleventh birthday, when he came into power, he would lead the demons into the Final War. All of humanity would perish while angels and demons clashed in one final glorious confrontation.

But no one had accounted for a few little snags. Like a couple of traitors. Or a disobedient Anti-Christ.

And then, as if the Apocalypse not happening wasn’t already bad enough, Heaven and Hell couldn’t even punish those to blame for that entire mess. That was unacceptable.

If Michael couldn't have the promised War and if she could not kill at least the demon involved, then she would at a minimum make him suffer. She could at least make him suffer until he wished that holy water could end his miserable existence.

In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell by TheOldAquarian (M)

Every 300 years, Heaven and Hell share a company retreat on Earth during which angels and demons temporarily surrender their celestial powers.

Officially, it’s a time for fostering team unity and better understanding the needs of the client base. It’s definitely not a time for terrorizing the hotel staff with divine/diabolical showdowns, abusing the ethereal expense account, or furiously snogging your hereditary enemy. But when Aziraphale and Crowley are up for promotion, Hell breaks loose and Heaven might just break free.

One Miraculous December by journeytogallifrey (T)

Candles. Mistletoe. An entire frozen lake. Festive memories from their past together keep appearing out of nowhere.

Crowley's sure he's manifesting them accidentally out of sheer romantic desperation. It's bad enough trying to hide his unrequited love as they grow closer post-Apocaloops - what if Aziraphale sees the objects for what they are, a window into his yearning soul? Unfortunately, the only way to banish the objects seems to be talking about each memory...

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is just trying to woo his demon boyfriend with big gestures, ready to prove his devotion. And if Crowley acts awkward about the miracles? Surely that's just his difficulty accepting affection. The solution: shower him with as much of it as possible...

Eventually these two will communicate, even if it takes 'til the end of the year. For now there will be cuddling, excuses for closeness, sappy words, flashbacks, nostalgia, bickering, and an obscene variety of holiday foods. Oh, and footnotes. That's right. We're doing those too.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #footnotes #mod d

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tblsomedoodles · 1 year

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"Wha.. Raph? What's going on... why do you have those scratches all over your arm?" Leo asks, "Why was Leon so upset!?"

"I don't know! The moment we got separated, Stripes started freaking out." Raph explained, crossing his arms, "I swear the kid would have kept clawing at the rubble, screaming for Dee until his claws got torn off..."

Dee was listening to hus father and uncles talking as he shifted to a more comfortable position, pulling Leon closer. Even in his sleep, his twin was shaking and letting pit whimpers anytime Dee seemed to move away. It must have been a terrible attack. The last time Leon had a reaction like this was shortly after he had woken up after escaping the prison dimension, then it had been a delayed reaction due to the stress of the situation finally catching up to him.

This was just more proof that Leon had relapsed due to the events a few months back.

"It's because of me. Leon has severe separation anxiety with me as the root cause." Dee stated as he rubbed Leon's shell to soothe his whimpers. Like his father, Dee wasn't tbe best at comfort, but he hadn't been given the choice but to learn as it became clear that only Dee could soothe and calm Leon from an attack. Well, Dee and somehow CJ, but they hadn't had future boy for long. Hearing his sons statement, Raph turned to where the kids were curled up on w beanbag Mike had dragged out, brow raised questioningly,

"Dee? What do you mean by that?"

Now Dee looked uncomfortable. He never much liked talking about how Pops had come to adopt him. He shrunk a bit imto the beanbag, holding Leon closer. Pops remained silent, understanding the topic was difficult. At this point, Uncle Mike, Uncle Don, and Grandpa Splints had joined them and were similarly offering silent support. Uncle Mike wrapped a blanket around the youngest members of the family. Dee was grateful that his Raph and Mikey had opted to stay home, knowing they would have worriedly hovered over him and Leon.

"You... Do you remember how I came here? The first time? W-well, we never figured out how I got separated from my family by a whole dimension. It had some far-reaching consequences that we hadn't calculated on. Leon had... seen the event in its entirety up until the moment I disappeared from my dimension and appeared in yours and believed me to be dead during that time and rightly so as the mutant that had attacked us had been intending on eating us. The... event left some lasting trauma on his psyche." Donnie continued, glancing down at his twin, "This manifested in a severe case of separation anxiety that would result in a panic similar to the one you described whenever he is seperated from me in a manner similar to the originating event. He'd been... we had thought he was managing this much better than this, but a recent event shortly before we became able to visit you had resulted in a relapse. That's why I warned you not to let Leon and me be separated."

This is great! Poor Leon, i'm glad Dee's got it under control for the most part.

Thank you!

#asks #tmnt #rottmnt #adopted donnie au #ficlet

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natlacentral · 7 days

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DALLAS LIU THRIVES UNDER PRESSURE

Few franchises have captured the imaginations of a generation as wholly as Nickelodeon's iconic Avatar: The Last Airbender, which ran for three seasons during the mid-2000s. Fewer still have demonstrated the series' ability to cross generational divides and maintain a lasting impact on the cultural psyche while continuing to enthrall successive generations as a touchstone of youth-oriented animation. Often regarded as one of the greatest narratives in television history, the show has spawned a massive and dedicated fanbase whose ethical boundaries have been imprinted by the mature yet sensitively portrayed moral quandaries presented therein. The world of Avatar draws upon Asian and Indigenous spiritual practices and traditional martial arts to construct an alternate reality where four nations, each attuned to one of the four elements (water, earth, fire, air), are home to different “bending” abilities—portions of their respective populations are connected to and able to control the element of their nation. The Avatar, capable of bending all four elements and serving as the human manifestation of spiritual light and peace, is tasked with maintaining balance between the nations and the spirit world as well as nurturing prosperity and peace. In its massive scope, the show touches upon a slew of issues including diplomacy, genocide, social responsibility, cultural conflict, ecology, and parental abuse—heavy material for a kids' show.

Given the entertainment industry’s recent streak of adaptations and reboots, it is no wonder that Netflix tuned in to the incredible demand for more Avatar. With the last attempt at live-action adaptation remembered as an unequivocal disappointment—the M. Night Shyamalan-directed 2010 film whiffed on its whitewashed casting and soulless direction—devoted fans followed the casting and production of the new miniseries closely in hopes for a vision truer to form. In the months leading up to the show’s release, conversation picked up immensely. The official trailer racked up over ten million views on YouTube and nearly two hundred thousand shares on Instagram alone, leaving the internet abuzz.

Avatar: The Last Airbender notably features an ensemble of characters who span across generations and the live-action casting follows suit (Gordon Cormier, portraying lead protagonist Aang, is only fourteen). Until now, Dallas Liu—who portrays the banished Crown Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation—had been used to being one of the youngest on any project. His first role was in the 2009 martial arts film Tekken, released when he was only eight years old, and until now he was best known as Shuji, the older brother of Maya Erskine's seventh-grader in Pen15. “Most of the time when I'm going on set, I'm the most inexperienced person. I take the role of a student and try to pick everyone's brain and take in as much knowledge and wisdom as possible,” Liu points out. Now twenty-two years old, he found himself asking while filming Avatar, “‘How can I also be a leader [to the younger actors]?’ [I was] trying to mentor them to become professionals and how to handle themselves on set. I feel lucky enough for them to have let me into their hearts and allow me to take this role of an older sibling they can rely on.”

Although older than many of his fellow leads, Liu also had the opportunity to draw upon decades of experience through multiple seasoned actors in the ensemble, particularly scene partners Daniel Dae Kim (Zuko's father Ozai), Ken Leung (antagonist Commander Zhao) and Paul Sun-Hyung Lee (Zuko's uncle Iroh). While filming, Liu found the older cast members to not only be sources of wisdom but also grounded peers. “Those guys had set the bar for me in terms of what kind of person I wanted to be on set,” he recalls. “It wasn't like people [had to look] up to them. [They] all created an interesting environment where everyone was equal. That's the way it should always be. I think the way people felt valued by them was something I really wanted. I want to be like that, that's a real leader.”

When the show's cast was announced, many viewers were particularly interested in Liu's selection as fan favorite Zuko, an embattled and exiled warrior prince hunting down the titular Avatar in hopes of reconciling with his cold-hearted, world-conquering father, the authoritarian imperialist monarch Fire Lord Ozai. Zuko's character development drives much of the plot of the story, tracing a redemption arc parallel to his coming-of-age in a high-pressure, war-torn environment. Liu's portrayal is pivotal in bringing the story to the franchise's new format and charting a course from brutal angst to principled compassion. The conjunction of the show's immense hype and Zuko's plot-driving character arc resulted in a unique strain of pressure for Liu, himself an avid follower of the original series, in assuming the role.

“The first thing that I ever remember seeing of The Last Airbender was Zuko training on his boat with Iroh. I fell in love with the show,” Liu recalls. “It was one of the reasons I ended up taking part in martial arts,” which he practiced competitively throughout his childhood and led to his acting career after he was referred to audition for Tekken by one of his instructors.

As he considered the scope of responsibility in portraying Zuko and how to apply his own idiosyncrasies to the character, Liu turned to Dante Basco, the original voice actor. Basco, aware Liu had been inspired by the initial show in his youth, encouraged his younger counterpart to embrace the differences between live-action and cartoon animation. “Dante had certainly set a high bar. Instead of trying to match him, try to surpass it, [we] talked about it,” Liu recalls. “He said, ‘What you're going to do is different. By all means, you have your own experience of Zuko from your childhood as well.’”

Liu's precise training and familiarity with action and combat have played a key role in his acting career, as he has joined franchises such as Tekken, Mortal Kombat, and Marvel's Cinematic Universe in Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings. Elemental bending is a central component of the world of Avatar, requiring the actors to study several different fighting styles. “They had us learn every single bending style to really differentiate,” Liu says. “We had an understanding so that on the day, they could make a certain shot work and we had to come up with something on our own.” The collaborative nature of the stunt work allowed Liu ample opportunity to impart his expertise to the other cast members. “We were in this boot camp,” he adds. “Helping the kids out, I was having a blast—just hanging out and kicking it because that stuff is like second nature to me.”

That blending of acting and martial arts in Avatar required Liu to reflect on the mortal nature of some of the circumstances in which Zuko finds himself. “You're going to do whatever it takes to come out of that situation,” he notes of some particularly perilous moments that he believes are more impactful in the live version. “I incorporated that into the fight scenes. Even the stunt team was willing to let me have some creative input.” At one point near the end of the season, for example, Commander Zhao tricks Zuko into boarding a boat rigged with explosives, causing Iroh and the rest of their naval forces to believe him dead. In the finale, their conflict comes to a head in a battle to the death; as Zuko is rocked by a revelation from Zhao, the commander goes for the kill. “In the animation, people forget,” Liu adds. “This is a life or death situation!”

If you ask Liu, he and Zuko share a proclivity for absorption in their endeavors. “It's almost two-and-a-half years since we started shooting the show. I've definitely grown more as a person, and when I was growing as a person, that also developed my acting,” the actor notes. “I was like, ‘I'm going to come into work, I'm going to stay focused.’ It wasn't because I didn't like anyone, it was because I was scared of getting distracted. I understood the responsibility and the pressure that came with doing this.”

Avatar: The Last Airbender is now streaming on Netflix.

#natla #atla #netflix avatar #avatar the last airbender #avatar netflix #netflix atla #atla netflix #dallas liu #photoshoot #interview #cero magazine

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itshype · 4 months

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Loveweaver (Wednesday ficlet)

Child Wednesday Addams casts a spell on herself to ensure she never falls in love. Her parents spend all their time making smoochy faces at each other and it was not only revolting but completely unproductive. Wednesday would never be able to breed herself a scorpion large enough to ride if she had to spend all her time kissing another person.

Her mother wouldn't have even had enough hours in the year to cross pollinate a rose with a carnivorous sundew if Wednesday hadn't taken one for the team and glued her dear father's mouth shut. She was still awaiting her letter of thanks from the entire field of botany.

Unfortunately, she couldn't find a spell to remove all love from her heart forever in the family grimoire. The favour Pugsley owes her will only entice him to distract their babysitter – Uncle Fester – for so long. She has to find the spell and cast it as soon as possible. If her parents had been home, they would have found her in the family dungeon way too fast, luckily for the first time in forever, the Addams parents had taken their biweekly date outside of the family estate. That was Wednesday’s big break, but she was strapped for time.

And that’s why she latches onto the first love spell she finds. The Loveweaver. A spell that would allow her to become the architect of her own love story. Good, she knew exactly how to write a good tragedy.

It was bafflingly straightforward; these candles there, those bones like this, Morticia had even left out a few dried green tulips, clearly forgotten in the back of the rack usually used to dry bloomless rose stems. Another moment of good fortune, drying flowers took forever and there was no way for Wednesday to accomplish it without the flowers being noticed at some point, even if she put off the actual spell cast for another few weeks. She knew she wouldn’t get another opportunity like this for long enough as to be unimaginable to someone at her age.

Everything was ready much faster than Wednesday could have imagined. She hadn’t even started to think about the criteria she would implement within the spell. Well, she was good enough on her feet to be able to think of something. All she had to do was choose a love who didn’t exist and then she would have all the time in the world to breed Nero’s grandchildren into venomous stallions, maybe she’d even write a book about it.

Wednesday read out each word faithfully before working to fill the space. Maybe rhyming wasn’t her strongest suit.

By moonlit night and whispered plea, I call upon the magic, see it bleed. In search of love, forever true, Through this spell, I'll find only you As this spell concludes, I set it free, To manifest the love meant for me. With open heart to receive and hold, My love will be, destiny unfolds.

Upon enchanted winds fate must caress, I conjure love's magic, I must impress. Seeking a soulmate, a love to address, In destiny's embrace, my one true love will possess…

"Rainbow eyes, ones with all colours combined,” She begun shakily, “Normie and Outcast, both worlds entwined.” That was a solid rhyme, maybe it wasn’t too difficult.

“A monster who’s pure, no sins that they must confess,” This was the most difficult thing anyone had ever had to do, maybe Wednesday should have written this all before starting the spell. “A drug dealer who is lawful, causing no stress."

That was it! A terribly forced rhyme, but a contradiction drastic enough she felt confident ending the spell by blowing out the candles in compass order. It was all over, Wednesday would be safe forever.

Gomez Addams sits back in his chair, pretending magnanimously not to notice the uncomfortable, and occasionally outright fearful glances from the other – Normie – patrons of the fancy restaurant.

“Tish, my withered rose, you know I’d follow you anywhere,” He eyes the sleek, bright décor dubiously, “but can we return home yet?”

Morticia smiles at her husband over her wine glass, running a sharp fingernail over the rim hard enough to make a ringing sound. “Not just yet, darling.”

#i had way too much fun writing the spell #wednesday #wyler #netflix's wednesday #weyler #mine #ficlet #someone remind me to archive this to ao3 at some point lol #caffeine is a drug!#hehehe

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angel-of-sweet-revenge · 8 months

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Zexal Month Day 21- The Devil

@zexalmonth

Time to someone who had every right to be evil and destructive BE evil and destructive :D

This prompt made me think of an au I made in my head ages ago when watching yugioh 5Ds

Meet the son of the ceo of Astral Corporations, Adrien Sangrave, who duels under the alias named after the family business: Astral.

Yuma's eyes widened when he saw his opponent walk into the arena. This guy... His mind flashbacked to that alley, the day the WDC had begun. The bodies of hurt, broken duelists. Heart pieces not just scattered, but shattered. The figure of somebody in a flowing cloak and hood perched up on that wall. The already completed Heart glistening in his hand.

That cold, piercing look in those mismatched eyes.

Those mismatched eyes that were glaring at him now

------

Yuma Tsukumo.... how annoying!

What did that child know about him?

On that first duel, he wouldn't stop talking. Talking about friendship and dueling and fun.

So annoying!

Astral's eyes hardened, his fist clenching. It was time for their second duel, after he had beaten Yuma in the earliest round. It was annoying how that boy had lost to him yet still manage to qualify simply through blind luck. Luck!

Yuma and his constant talking. About what dueling meant.

He wanted to talk about what dueling meant?

Fine! He will show him what dueling meant.

Especially when dueling a monster.

As you can see, in this au Yuma and Astral cross paths due to the WDC, and end up dueling each other quite a few times. Astral's backstory is partially based off of Akiza- he's a pscycic duelist whose cards and monsters become real with his duels, and he duels wanting to hurt others because he's been hurt. Unlike Akiza, however, rather than running away or being pushed away for his power, his uncle Elias forced him to train his powers and want to use his powers to gain more power after the disappearance of Astral's father Dominic two weeks after Astral's powers first manifested, leaving Astral, his big brother Damien, and their mother Ena at the mercy of their uncle Elias! And instead of fulfilling Dominic's unkept promise to help Astral learn how to control his power and live a normal life, Elias forced him to make his powers stronger, even at the cost of his health.

Essentially, he's a bitter child soldier, and when he duels he duels with anger, intending to cause pain to others the way he feels pain. Especially to that annoying naive Yuma! How could that child possibly understand his pain? Even if both of them have lost their fathers... Not that Yuma would understand Astral's pain anyway!

Also if you're wondering about the Black Witch thing, that part of Akiza is given to Astral's brother Damien, who ran away from home to escape Elias's nightmare training and insults, and became part of a gang of psychic duelists under the name 'Black Mist', and Astral hasn't seen him in years.

Of course with the WDC, who knows who you'll meet....

#zexal #astral zexal #yuma tsukumo #zexal month 2023 #zexal month #yes astral and mist's real names are Adrien and Damien #adrien means 'dark' and begins with 'a' and damien rhymes and is associated with evil characters #'sangrave' means something something i cant remember but fit the vibe and also sound a little like 'thousand'#at a stretch anyway. if you say it in japanese #also i drew it like it was a coloured in manga panel #also first time giving human astral white hair! idk it fit the cold ruthless villain thing

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bmodiwrites · 1 year

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Hi friends! This is part 2 to my choir boy/preacher's son Steve fic. You can find the first part here or on AO3 here. I kind of love this one, y'all. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Steve knows he’s in trouble the moment Eddie Munson walks into the chapel one ordinary Sunday morning.

The day is setting up to be a boring one, though Steve isn’t aware of what’s about to happen for him, yet. As he’s getting ready for his usual solo in the backstage area, he hears the whispers break out amongst the chatty ladies of the choir. Steve’s used to the clucking of hens, so he ignores it until he hears a name that hasn’t been uttered in his direction since high school.

Munson’s long curly hair is still branded in the back of Steve’s mind, so he’s quick to peek around the heavy curtain to sneak a look. Time has been good to Eddie – his chestnut hair and thick chocolatey eyes are richer than ever.

He almost misses his cue during the opening song; staring at Eddie Munson takes up too many brain cells to remember the note that brings him in. He’s been doing this old song and dance long enough not to stumble outwardly, however – Steve is fast to pick up where he’s supposed to be without anyone noticing. Walking off the stage later, Steve is too transfixed by a never ending stare to worry about his father’s disappointment.

The following week, Steve tries to get Eddie off his mind by reminding himself of the fact that Eddie’s presence was a fluke to begin with. Assuming he’s going to be there again seems silly. Why start a habit now, when no one cares enough to even cast judgement?

Steve is happily proven wrong that Sunday and the next few to follow. It’s both a blessing and a curse to walk onto the stage to see those brown eyes staring up at him. Steve isn’t sure the other boy is aware of the intensity of his gaze, but it knocks Steve off his feet every time. Preacher Harrington, the congregation’s understanding lead, is the only one that ever notices Steve’s mishaps. He’s lucky to be of an age where leaving bruises behind isn’t as acceptable as it was in his younger years. Growing up has some perks.

Like being able to finally seduce Eddie Munson.

After the fifth week of being subjected to smoldering looks and a nonchalant attitude that drives Steve up the wall, an opportunity to do something about the pent up want finally falls into place. Eddie’s metal vibe is more than just a look – his skill on the guitar is obvious and easy for others to see, too.

The talent is there, regardless of people’s opinion. So much so that there’s no questions asked when Steve nods his head and okays a newcomer like that’s normal and not unheard of. It’s the perfect bridge to cross that Steve’s been looking for.

He strikes up a conversation that later leads them to a private corner of Lover’s Lake known for exactly what Steve has on his mind. It’s funny to see Eddie’s hesitation manifest in the slight tension he works through before kissing Steve back. The way he slumps into Steve’s touch is all the more satisfying because of it. Steve’s intimately aware of the way people judge boys like them. Eddie’s been holding the weight of being an outlier on his shoulders for so long, he probably doesn’t even know the feeling of sharing the burden.

After hiding himself from the world (and the judgement that he’s sure of), year after year, Steve is finally ready to take some of the effort out of Eddie’s hands.

It’s easy, too. Steve is the first to admit that. Coming together with Eddie is like the first cognizant breath after blinking awake. It fills him up and brings him down to Earth in the sense that Steve feels right when Eddie’s around. His presence isn’t like the plethora of girls Steve tried to smother himself with in an attempt to be the person his dad wanted him to be. It’s plain to see that Steve is not that person.

He's the type of man that loves Eddie Munson, a hard working asshole who grew up on nothing but a little bit of love from an uncle that still doesn’t really know what to do with him. He is learning every day what it’s like to be unconditionally appreciated for who he is because of the man that Eddie grew into. That hardcore, never flinching love from Eddie is teaching him to be proud of the person he is, not afraid like the world is always wanting them to be. Now that Steve’s ripped open his cocoon, there’s no returning to the slunk of a caterpillar he was before.

His wings are open and he’s ready to fly.

Which is funny because Eddie calls him his angel. On Saturday nights when Wayne is working late and they’ve got the trailer to themselves, Eddie lets his guard down, becomes vulnerable. He whispers about the angel wings Steve hides on his back, how he’s pure beauty filled to the brim with sin. Eddie loves his angel, his ray of light.

Sometimes he’s conscious enough to mumble a soft, self-deprecating “sorry” that Steve kisses away. He’ll never get over Eddie apologizing for loving someone so much he’s compelled to compare them to something ethereal. Steve thinks of it as a compliment but that’s the church boy in him appreciating the imagery.

He smiles as he brushes Eddie’s curls from his face. “It’s okay, baby. You’re high,” Steve whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “and you’ve been drinking. You can’t help yourself… and I love you for it.”

Eddie purrs like a jungle cat, leaning into Steve’s touch. He doesn’t do anything but agree with Steve’s words, pressing into all of him because Eddie knows Steve will be there to wrap him up and hold him close. They spend the night wrapped up together, sharing kisses until Eddie’s ready to pass out. He does so with a soft, “I love you too, angel,” as he noses into Steve’s neck and settles down for the night.

It's moments like those that make it easy to lie to his mom and dad when they start to ask questions. Eddie means so much more than the insults his father throws and the tears his mother tries to use to manipulate him. Everyone in his house knows exactly where he’s going. The love he feels for Eddie, and what Eddie feels for him, is obvious to everyone. Not even the dense preacher and his wife are blind enough to miss it.

When his dad finally says something to him about it, Steve can’t help but laugh.

“If this was a girl I was leaving to see, you wouldn’t care. You know I love him, daddy. I love him more than you’ve ever loved anything in your whole life. Can’t you just leave us be? For the first time in my life, I’m truly happy.”

His daddy’s hands are rough on his shoulders, though it’s nothing compared to the bruising grip he used to deal with. “It’s an abomination boy. You running around with that Munson kid makes me look – “

Steve is fast to cut in – “how does it make you look, Preacher Harrington? To me, it makes you look pretty intolerant. Everyone sees the way you look at him, with hellfire and disdain. Even the way you look at me when you think no one is looking. I don’t think it’s me that people see as bad, daddy.”

There’s a pause and the age old argument gets put on the table. “You gave your life to Jesus – “

“Yes, daddy. Jesus. Not you and your judgmental beliefs. Love is all encompassing. Love is the strength to tell old fucks like yourself no when the boundary has been crossed. I’m going to marry him, daddy. We’re going to spend our life together and you can’t stop us.”

The power play that results is one step too far. For the longest time, Steve tries to respect his daddy’s wishes. Being the preacher’s son meant living under an oddly funneled microscope. Yet, growing into adulthood shifted the len’s perspective and made Steve see that others could take in the whole picture, not just the one his daddy tries to paint. To the congregation, Eddie and Wayne were good church goers that were always on time and actually sang during the hymns. Where their relationship was concerned, Steve and Eddie never made people live with their truth.

Eddie is smart enough to keep Steve all to himself. For once, someone’s possessive nature is beneficial.

All others know is the love that exists between them, regardless of their lack of outward expression. Because it’s real. It’s the kind that makes it easy for Steve to tap into a side that’s new and exciting and much different than the bottled up boy that always did what his father said. It’s devilish to go against a word he’s always followed but loving Eddie is the sort of thing worth a hard look that Steve is growing used to more and more by the day.

Eventually, Eddie is squirrely and withdrawn for about a week before hitting one knee to ask Steve to marry him. Before the question is even out of his mouth, Steve says yes.

And though it’s something that Steve wants, the reality of the situation is an interesting one. Eddie is a mechanic that barely makes minimum wage. Steve is a choir boy that’s lived on daddy’s dime for most of his life. He’s barely making it through classes at the local community college with passing grades. Preacher Harrington is the first person to point all of these things out and when that happens, Steve confidently shuts him down.

With Eddie by his side, Steve is certain they’ll make it work. He’s happier than ever and the life they’re about to lead is worth the impending struggling.

Besides, it's silly to think Steve wouldn’t be happier living with Eddie and Wayne in their trailer than with his parents. The rigid lack of acceptance where Eddie is concerned very quickly pushed him out the door. Steve is all but moved out when his mother finally says something.

“Steve, wait – “

Eddie is walking through the doorway, out towards the truck, but stops at the sound of his mother’s voice. Without thought, Steve whispers a soft “go,” in Eddie’s ear before turning to his mother. Eddie looks between them, then shrugs before carrying the last couple of boxes out of the room.

“I can’t let you leave without telling you I love you. I love Eddie, even. I’m sorry I never said anything but I’m happy for you. You’re happy. I can see that. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

There’s a second where Steve tries to be stubborn. There were so many years that Steve needed to hear those very words. So many internal battles would’ve been much easier knowing his mother was in his corner, even if it was silently. Instead of saying anything, giving her props for finally opening up or clapping back about the years or neglect, Steve simply pulls her in for a hug.

“I love you too, mom. I want you in my life. Don’t let dad force you to miss out on the things Eddie and I are planning. They’re worth being a part of.”

Steve leaves her with a soft kiss, smiling all the while. After nights where whispers of big families and fun trips were all they shared, Steve is certain children and adventures and things bigger than the town’s one room chapel are meant for him and Eddie. If she’s willing, Steve wants his mom there, too.

Until she decides to stand up and selfishly be there, Steve is ready to find a place of his own in life with Eddie by his side.

When their wedding rolls around, Wayne announces he’s moving in with Brenda, leaving the trailer for Steve and Eddie and all the memories they’re yet to make. And though no one from Steve’s family is there to celebrate such a big moment, Steve takes a second to thank the big guy above. Despite being not all that certain of his position in the church or his spot as the preacher’s son, Steve is positive that one room church is the only reason Eddie is in his life.

Whether they return there or not, Steve closes his eyes, remembering the glow of Eddie’s stare from the stained glass’s light.

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie fics #stranger things fic #bobbie writes #preacher’s son steve #choir boy steve

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