Posting about feederism? Damn, this is a Louis Prima "The Bigger the Figure" moment

IT IS SOMETHING I DONT POST ABT AS MUCH due to it being a more contentious, slightly more ""cringe"" kink of mine but YES. what can i say?

i love fat girl.

I’m genuinely interested in what the difference between a visual novel let’s play and actually playing the game. I’m guessing it’s something about making your own choice in the moment rather than watching someone else make *their* choice, but I’d like to hear your thoughts if you’d be willing to share.

For those wondering, this is in relation to my tags on this post!

So the thing I'm discussing in the tags of that post is specifically games criticism and theory, which needs to be understood in the way you might understand "film criticism" or "literary theory", to be clear. We're discussing the kinds of analysis of games-as-texts, games-as-art, which you might see in academia and critical circles around literature or film.

So one of the things that comes up when starting to talk about games this way is: what's a video game 'text'? Think about it. Any game that allows any amount of choice, any, however small or inconsequential, is a game that you can start arguing about what its 'real text' is, if nothing else. Does a video game text constitute all possible permutations taken as a collective whole, all considered with equal weight? (If so, is any analysis of really complex games 'complete' if it does not take every possible tiny permutation into consideration? Do glitches count?) Does the text comprise one specific playthrough? If so, is every critic or analyst technically approaching different, if interrelated, 'texts'? Does it just comprise the stuff in the game program in the abstract, and if so what does the player have to do with it in that case? All sorts of weird shit comes to the forefront when you bring the whole idea of 'a text' into games, basically, because it's harder to intuitively understand the boundaries of most games compared to, say, a film.

This has been a thing folks argue about for as long as serious discussion of games has been a thing, which is to say, decades. Personally, I favour an approach put forward and codified by academic Brendan Keogh, who focuses on looking at games as primarily understood through a phenomenological framework. In his book A Play of Bodies, he describes his understanding of the video game 'text' as being located not in a single static 'place', so to speak, but the 'circuit' that is created by the interplay between the person physically playing the game and the game program itself, and how each responds to the other. The game isn't what's on the cartridge or what the player does, it's the way those two things combine to create meaning. A game's text is the way that players interact with what a game 'is', and so the text inherently includes the act of playing it.

This is true even in experiences with low or functionally no interactivity, I will add, because the experience of not 'acting' in a situation where interactivity could be present but isn't is fundamentally different to not interacting because the medium does not allow you to, even if it seems at first glance the same. You expect most games to be highly interactive, so sitting and not being able to interact with them produces a specific experience that is not necessarily present in mediums where non-interactivity is taken for granted.

Which brings us to Let's Plays; even a non-commentary uncut LP video of a completely linear game/VN is a meaningfully different text to watch someone else play as opposed to playing it yourself, because the text of a video game involves what you are doing with it as part of that imagined 'circuit', even if what you are doing is very little to nothing. A video you cannot interact much with and a video game you cannot interact much with are different experiences even where all other information is functionally identical; thus, an LP of a linear visual novel and the visual novel as played are two interconnected but distinct texts, and while the former is both interesting and a valid text in itself, they are not the same thing.

Most critics probably won't take this exact view, to be clear- as I said, arguments about what's a video game text anyway are extensive and different approaches favour different ideas! But basically all of them will have some element of this in it, that even 'low interactivity' games are fundamentally imparting some kind of artistic experience to a player by the fact that you are playing them in a medium that takes interactivity to be the default. The infamous game Mountain lets you "do" almost nothing, but that carries different meaning when playing a game than when watching a video, because you know that the reason you can't is not the medium, but the choice made by the dev(s). In this way, anyone insisting that watching a video of a game gives you the same story information as playing it and so can be used to identically analyse a game's text is... it's like saying I can do film analysis because I read a novelization. I can do an analysis of the novelization, and that's a worthwhile thing to do, probably. But it's not exactly the same as the film, because some amount of information is lost and/or changed in the transmission between mediums. Different folks may take stronger or weaker stances on how important this difference is and what a game's text is best defined as, but you won't find many who argue even very very linear games lose no information in the swap from game to video format, and the ones who do I think are. Wrong. LMAO.

Calm Your Mind

Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: Your bond with Din continues to grow stronger, as do your intimate feelings for one another. You open up to him about being stressed, and he offers his assistance. 

Warnings: fluff, light smut, fingering, Din being an angel and the king of consent

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: Ok so this is sort of a sequel to Stay but it can be read independently, which is why it’s named differently rather than as a part two. And just like that fic, the child isn’t with Din. It worked better for the plot I was writing. That remains the same in this fic as well. Side note: this is self indulgent

GIf is not mine

“Told you I’d win” you chuckled, throwing your cards flat in front of him.

He breathed out heavily with a subtle laugh trailing the end.

“You won because I’ve never played this before” Din attempted to justify his loss.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just really good at it” you teased.

“Probably a little of both” Din remarked.

You were both on your 4th card game of the evening, sat on the floor of the Crest’s cockpit so that Din could safely monitor the status of your trip. Unbeknownst to him, you stared at him, admiring his company, while he gathered his cards to start a new game.

A week had passed since you shared your first kiss together by the fire on Endor. You worried that things would be awkward. They were, at first, but it was your own fault for not knowing how to act with all of your built up romantic feelings for him. The issue of not being able to see him, though, thankfully didn’t create any barriers for you two.

That same night of your first intimate moment, Din asked if you would sleep in his bed with him. He claimed he felt bad that you were always shivering when you slept on the floor, but you know he needed your warmth and company during the night. It was so dark in his compartment that housed his small bed that he was able to comfortably sleep next to you while his helmet and armor were all removed considering you couldn’t see him. So now you sleep next to him every night. It’s cramped in his quarters but the comfort of his touch soothes you to bed every evening without fail.

To no surprise, you two couldn’t keep your lips off of each other. The access to his bare face in the darkness tempted you to no end. Overall, though, you were taking things slow with each other’s bodies. You’d not progressed any further than making out with him on nightly basis. His body provided a multitude of signals that he wanted more, some of those signals were more obvious than others, but you both understood that slower was better.

Through all of this, he also offered you a kindness that you’d never experienced before. He cared about you. He was protective of you. He never failed to make sure you were always feeling okay and that you were happy. Din was falling for you, too. That much was clear.

“Another round?” Din suggested.

“I’m feeling a little tired, actually” you announced, hinting that you were done playing.

“Okay. Get some rest” he looked back at you. It remained that you were only able to adore the reflection of the beskar that protected and covered his physical features. You stare for an obvious amount of time before he notices. Din observes the slight frown now present on your expression.

“Is everything ok?” He inquired with concern.

“Oh yeah, I’m okay. Really, I’m just tired” you admitted. That was the truth. You were tired. But you also had too much on your mind. Your past was haunting your memories. You hoped that sleeping would clear your thoughts.

“You seem stressed” he stated. How could he read you so well?

“Yeah...Just a lot on my mind” you confessed to him.

“Do you want to talk to me about it?” His tone was warm and worrisome.

“I know I haven’t been very open about my past, it’s just something I want to leave behind me. I used to live on my own...I was living life in constant danger” you started. Your eyes were glued to the floor. You were shy when discussing your life, specifically that part of it.

“You’re safe with me, y/n” he reminded you. “I’ll never let anyone or anything hurt you, cyar’ika. I promise”

A small bundle of tears formed in your eyes. You believed him, which made it more emotional for you. Memories of your cold, harsh past was absent now. All your attention turned to the warmth you felt for him inside your heart. He sees your sorrow building and pushes himself from where he sat to sit next to you.

“That means so much to me, Din” you looked up at him.

“You mean so much to me” he responded certainly.

His gloved thumb stopped the tear from trailing your cheek. Din was getting better at expressing his feelings, and you’d like to think you helped him achieve that.

“I don’t even know how to respond to someone saying something that nice to me”

“You don’t have to say a word, y/n. I just needed you to hear it. I needed you to know”

“Thank you” you said softly while leaning against his shoulder.

“No...thank you, y/n” he said, grateful for your presence.

“I haven’t always known how to express myself...or my...feelings I guess” he began “but somehow, with you, it feels easier”

“You say everything that you need to say” you consoled him.

“Are you happy?” He inquired suddenly

“I’m happy with you, yes. I just wish I could calm my mind” you breathed out in frustration.

“You really should go lie down, get some sleep” he suggested, wanting you to be able to relax.  “That might help”

“Okay” you agreed. Din rose to his feet and turned to lift you onto yours as well. You smiled sweetly as his gestures and migrated out of the cockpit.

“I’ll be there shortly, need to adjust some things on the ship first” He said, turning toward the ships controls, assumedly to set it to autopilot for the night. His attention snapped to you behind him once more to see you smiling back at him.

You changed your clothing. You remained only in a tank top and some shorts. As you crawled into the bed, you closed the door, waiting on Din to join you soon. You knew he had to remove his armor before entering and you wanted to close yourself off from accidentally seeing him helmetless.

As you laid there, you wondered if you had the time to masturbate. Your tension from your loaded stress and racing thoughts could likely be somewhat deflated if you could relieve yourself in that way. You feared being too forward by asking Din to help you, so you wanted to do it quickly on your own.

In the process of making the decision, Din knocked twice onto the door, meaning he was going to open the door and to shut your eyes.

You hear the latch close as the weight of his body joined next to you. When you opened your eyes, It returned to complete darkness as your mind is beginning to calm itself with his close presence. You couldn’t wait to feel his body against yours. As you turned over, you feel the bare skin of his chest, a new experience for you. Normally, he keeps his undershirt and pants on when he sleeps at night.

“It’s a little warm in here. Is it okay that I’m like this?” He asked. You never got over how lovely his pure voice was when he was without his helmet and so close to you.

You took in the feeling of his unexpectedly soft skin on his torso and firmness of his abdomen against you. Your fingers travelled from his neck to his stomach, admiring the way he felt. The way he really felt.

“This is more than okay to me” you said, a satisfied tone in your voice.

“Okay, sweetheart”

Your heart melted at this new name for you. You shyly giggled.

He responded by pressing his lips against your forehead delicately before bringing them down to your mouth and pushing his kiss deep into you. You savored his scent and his taste while you could.

“Goodnight” he whispered.

“Goodnight”

You tossed subtly back and forth, and in the small space, it was apparent to Din. You couldn’t fall asleep, not with your current state of mind.

“Y/n are you alright?” He worriedly asked when your restlessness persisted.

“I can’t sleep” you frustratingly stated.

“What can I do to help?” He inquired.

Here’s your chance, y/n...

“Well you could....” you started, unable to finish your sentence.

“I could what?” He awaited your request.

“Um, usually when I’ve got a lot on my mind I’ll...y’know...” you continued hesitantly

“What do you mean?...oh!” He realized what you meant after it processed with him.

“You don’t have to do that though, just forget it” you spit out, not wanting him to pleasure you if he didn’t want to.

“I...um, I’d like that, actually”

The way he said it you could just tell there was a giant smirk plastered onto his expression.

“Really?” You rhetorically asked, shocked at his response.

“I want to help you feel better...and feel...good” he struggled to find the words. Your heart began to beat faster, this was the first time he’d touch you, really touch you.

“Is that okay?” He requested your consent.

“Yes” you breathed softly.

“If you want me to stop just tell me”

“Okay”

“I’m gonna get on top of you okay?” He walked you through his actions because of the darkness inside his quarters.

You laid flat on your back and he placed one knee between your partially opened legs and the other knee to the left of your hip.

You heart fluttered and the butterflies inside your stomach were so excited that they tried to fly away from you. You were nervous, but you were ready for him to have his hands on you, and in you.

His lips crashed into yours again. He pressed them into you deeply and your mouths danced together in sync. It grew more intense while his hand wandered your body gently, his bare hand. His skins against yours. His fingers curled under the hem of your shorts and tugged lightly. You lifted your hips, allowing him the ability to remove them. As you shimmy them off at your ankles, the warmth of his hand slowly travelled up your thigh.

The kiss was removed from your mouth and relocated to your neck. Something barely resembling a moan was released from your mouth at the feeling of him exploring you. He smiled against your skin, continuing to place delicate pecks down to your collarbone.

His finds his way to your slit, barely accessible to him with the narrow opening you provided with your legs.

“This still okay?” He wanted to reconfirm with you before he went any further.

“Yes, please” you begged, so aroused already that you could barely stand it. You opened your legs slightly wider.

“You’re so soft” he whispered as he trailed his fingers up your slit, finding your aching clit and applying slightly pressure.

“Mmm” you moaned softly

He took it slow, responding your voice and body language as you rolled your hips up into him. He laid 3 fingers flat against your clit and rotated them slowly.

“Does that feel good, cyar’ika?”

“Yes, Din” you breathed.

He rubbed with more pressure, adding to your pleasure as he continued to focus on your sensitive parts. You whimpered at his touch while he hovered above you, listening to your sounds and focusing on making you feel good.

You didn’t think he had much experience in this area but he was proving to be a quick learner.

You were dripping wet now and needed to be filled. He must’ve read your mind because as soon as you felt your own wetness pooling between your legs, his fingers arrived at your entrance.

“Shit” you cried as he pushed two fingers inside of you. Your walls were tight around him while he pumped his digits slowly.

“That’s it” he encouraged you. “tell me how good it feels”

“It feels so good, Din” you moaned to him. His lips pressed firm against yours again, unexpectedly. You slipped your tongue between his lips and he gladly reciprocated the action. You continued to moan into his mouth in reaction to his fingers pumping faster.

Subtle, precious noises came form within him too. He was turned on by pleasuring you that it too brought himself pleasure.

He was consistent with his motions inside of you, making it easier for you to reach your orgasm quicker. His fingers curled as they retracted, hitting a deep sweet spot against your walls. 

“You like that? Huh? You gonna cum baby?” He seductively asked after pulling away from your lips, his mouth close to your ear.

“Yes, I’m so close” you breathed out hard to catch your breath.

“Cum around my fingers, cyar’ika. C’mon” he coaxed you closer to your climax. His voice was no doubt the sexiest thing about him, you could cum to the sound of his voice alone. His words words were filled with an alluring tone, something you really hadn’t heard from him before.

“Fuck, f-fuck yes, I’m gonna cum, Din” you whined with your climax arriving gradually.

“Yeah, there you go, cum for me”

On his command, your stomach tightened. The orgasm formed and washed over your body so gracefully.

“Yes, Din, fuck!” You cried his name before rolling your eyes into the back of your head, seeing stars, overwhelmed with the pleasure that flowed through your body. Your hips rolled up into his body still hovered above you and your back arched in response to the sensational feeling radiating through you.

Din slid his arm under your arched back and held you close to him. He focused intensely on riding you through your high. He showed how deeply he cared about your body and making you feel good.

“Oh my god” you whispered through your heavy breathing, realizing as you came down that it was one of the most intense climaxes you’ve ever had.

“You sound so beautiful” he spoke softly, removing his fingers from you gently.

You giggled and wrapped your hand around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. You pulled at the top of his pants, showing him you wanted to return the favor. He stopped you.

“This was about you. We’ll worry about me another time" he gestured. Unknown to him, you smiled at how polite he was.

“Are you sure?” 

“Let’s just sleep now, okay?” He kissed your forehead delicately and returned himself next to you. You feel his arms wrap around your body, and his hand pulled your head onto his chest, so that you could rest peacefully with a clear mind.

IDK WHY I FEEL LIKE THIS SUCKS BUT I AM POSTING IT ANYWAYS OK BYE :)

Wing and a Prayer

Had a pretty bad bout of writer’s block towards some of my WIPS so I took a break and wrote a quick wingfic, I’ve never written wingfic before and was intrigued to give it a shot. Shout out to @massivespacewren for the prompt :)

also on AO3

~~~

"Oh, shit-"

It was just a brief curse before Tony's comms cut out, and in the scheme of things, "oh shit" was rather mild given the situation. But there was a note in Tony's voice that made Bucky look up from his rifle scope to find him, trying to see the flash of his repulsers and the dark brown of his wings amidst the cloud of drones that were swarming the city.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky breathed when he found him. He dropped his rifle and started running, keeping his eyes on where Tony was dropping rapidly, his desperately flapping wings and the intermittent bursts from apparently busted repulsors doing little to slow his fall.

Steve was on the other side of the fight, covering some escaping civilians as the dive-bombing drones tried to knock them from the sky, and Natasha and Clint were too far away. "Tony, I'm coming!" He shouted, ripping at the velcro on his body armor and shrugging it off as he ran. This was Tony's nightmare, his repulsors failing him while he was in the sky now that his flight muscles were compromised by the arc reactor.  He left his ammunition and hand grenades with his tac belt on the edge of the roof as he jumped, his wings stretching to their limit as he strove for height. As he flapped he realized he was still carrying too much weight to catch Tony, so he glided for a second, catching thermals coming off of the sun-lit city streets to lift him up as he reached down and unzipped his combat boots, kicking them off to land somewhere below. Another roof was coming up, so he sprinted along the roof, ignoring the broken glass and rocks that dug into his feet, then jumped off the edge again with more powerful beats of his wings. He was gaining on Tony, who had somehow figured out how to use the failing repulsors to at least steer him towards a place to land that might be more forgiving than the city streets, wings spread for a few moments at a time before the muscles gave out and they crumpled.

“Come on, come on,” Bucky said breathlessly, chest and lungs burning as he struggled to catch up. Whoever was controlling the drones had seen that Tony was vulnerable, and he was having to waste precious repulsor power shooting them down as they attacked him. A small swarm spotted Bucky trying to rescue him and moved to intercept, but as they closed in on him Bucky twisted into a tornado flip, flicking out his wings so the the razor sharp vibranium primaries on his wings sliced through the drones, leaving most of them damaged or disabled.  It cost him some height, though, and he cursed as he tried to make up for it, ignoring the last remaining drone as it dived at him like a mobbing bird, until it got too close and he grabbed it, metal arm crushing the central processer and tossing it to the side.

“Tony, I need you to fold your wings,” Bucky said urgently, searching their surroundings for a good landing point. He was finally a little higher than Tony and tilted his wings on a course for intercept, steeper than a glide but not quite so sharp as a dive.

“What?” Tony said with surprise, and Bucky saw him craning his neck to see where Bucky was. “What do you-“

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but-“

“Wings in, now!” It was gratifying to see the speed that Tony obeyed, folding his wings tight up against his back even though it violated every instinct a person had, to close their wings while falling. He also stopped trying to use his repulsors and brought his arms to his chest and his legs together, turning into exactly the kind of target that Bucky needed.

Bucky hit him at a high enough speed that it almost knocked the breath out of him and he heard Tony grunt, but Tony didn’t move as Bucky wrapped his arms around Tony’s chest, even though he probably crushed a few feathers in the process. Bucky’s wings strained with the extra weight, and the glide turned into more of a dive than Bucky was comfortable with. He knew he couldn’t land like this; they were picking up speed too fast to even land safely – or even unsafely - on a grassy field, the force of the impact would be fatal. They had to get out of the sky now.

Bucky eyed one of the skyscrapers that was looming in the sky in front of them and groaned inwardly. This was going to suck.  As he steered towards one of the huge glass windows, he brought his metal hand up to tuck Tony’s head into his shoulder and protect his spine, then at the last second he curled his wings around them and prayed that the vibranium-reinforced bones of his wing wrists would be enough to break through the glass.

It did, but it hurt; the impact shuddered through his bones, and his muscles screamed at the effort of keepings his wings tight around them as they rolled through desks and cubicle dividers before finally coming to a stop.

“Ow,” Bucky said, letting his exhausted wings flop open to splay out on the cheap commercial carpeting as he opened his eyes to check the damage. He looked down at Tony, who was laying on his chest. “Are you okay?” he asked, as he let go.

“Am I okay?” Tony sat up sharply and scrambled off of Bucky’s chest to start checking him for injuries. “You flew through an industrial-strength window! Are you insane? Those things are specifically designed to not be broken by people throwing themselves at them!”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He wanted to say, I’m okay, but he wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or not – pain was starting to make itself known even through the adrenaline rush, the hot ache of overworked muscles, sharp pains that meant he was probably bleeding, and the throb of something that was probably torn or dislocated. But Tony seemed fine, judging from the way he was still scolding Bucky while his hands, gentle despite their briskness, ran over his arms and legs and combed through the feathers on his wings, searching for injuries. “Better than hitting the ground, right?”

Tony paused for a moment, sat back on his heels and looked Bucky in the eyes. Bucky wondered if he knew how his wings were hunched protectively over Bucky. “Thank you,” he said, and Bucky got a glimpse of the fear he must have felt as he fell. “Whoever is guiding the drones realized that the repulsors were helping me fly and also helping me shoot down the drones, so they had the drones suicide bomb me until they took them out.”

“Figured something like that had happened,” Bucky said, managing a wan smile. The pain was really starting to set in now, so he tried to sit up or roll over before he got stuck on the floor like a wet rag. The effort tore a groan out of him as he realized that yep, his maneuver had definitely dislocated his wings.

“Oh, God, Bucky,” Tony said, giving him a hand to help him sit up, looking with dismay at how Bucky’s wings sagged on his back, dragging limply on the carpet. He ran his hands along the wing bones, searching for breaks; Bucky could have told him that with the amount of vibranium that Hydra had used to reinforce his bones, they would probably be ripped off before anything broke, but instead Bucky watched and wished he could feel Tony’s touch around the unignorable shriek of pain coming from his shoulders. “I don’t feel any breaks, I think they’re just dislocated,” Tony said after a moment.

“Do you know how to reset them?”

“In theory.” Tony grimaced. Now he was smoothing down Bucky’s ruffled coverts, unconsciously grooming Bucky as his gaze searched the room that they’d tumbled into. Their impact had left a trail of broken or shoved aside office furniture, tangled computer cables, and dented filing cabinets, but it wasn’t like they’d landed in a doctor’s office so there wasn’t a convenient examination table with wing supports for them to use. “Guess we’ll just have to do it laying down.”

Bucky mourned when Tony stopped grooming to help Bucky move so he could lay down on his stomach, though the movement was less “laying down” and more “controlled topple” as Tony let him down slowly. Tony had to spread out Bucky’s wings by hand, fussing more than he needed to as he made sure that none of the feathers were torqued or twisted, staying carefully away from Bucky’s deadly primaries.  Tony also made tiny noises as he saw the places on Bucky’s back where the glass and debris had cut him on the way in, but reported that none of the injuries were major.  As Bucky rested his head on his arms, he directed Tony on how to reset his shoulder joints. “I need you to do it fast and hard,” Bucky warned him. “You can’t be afraid of hurting me, because doing it more than once would be even worse.”

“I will,” Tony said, patting Bucky between his shoulder blades reassuringly. “One, two, thr-“ and halfway into three he shoved hard, before Bucky could tense up, and even as Bucky choked on a scream of pain he heard the pop of the joint resetting. Bucky panted harshly as the pain on that side settled into an angry pulse that felt much better than it had before, even though it was going to be a while before Bucky would want to move his wings on purpose. “Do you want me to wait before I do the next one?” Tony asked, sounding concerned.

Bucky swallowed back a whimper at the thought of going through that again. “Yes,” he forced himself to say. “Just give me a minute.”

“Okay.” Tony sat against Bucky’s side, a warm weight at his hip, and started grooming Bucky’s wing comfortingly, straightening out the feathers, smoothing them down, and picking out the detritus that had gathered in them. Despite everything, Bucky felt himself relaxing; it had been a long time since anyone had cared for his wings with anything other than brisk professionalism.

He could have laid there all day letting Tony do that, but Bucky reminded himself that there was a battle going on outside their impromptu refuge and so he said, “Okay, I’m rea- FUCK!”

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Tony said, this time stroking down Bucky’s back as he shuddered from the second relocation. “It’s better when you’re not expecting it.”

“Yep,” Bucky agreed through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the feeling of Tony’s hand on his back rather than the pain radiating from his shoulders. “So what’s the plan now?” he asked, trying to find something else to think about. He had no idea what was going on in the sky outside, his communicator had been lost in the impact, and wasn’t sure that there was anything they could do now that they were both grounded, but he figured Tony probably had an idea, he always did.

“As soon as you’re okay for me to leave you, I am going to finish trying to disrupt the signal to the drones,” Tony said. While Bucky slowly tried to relax the muscles that had instinctively tightened up from the pain, Tony went back to grooming his wings to help. “That’s what I was doing when they swarmed me.”

“You should go do that,” Bucky said, shoving down the selfish urge to let Tony keep grooming him. “I’m just going to lay here for a little while, then I’ll cut strips to bind my wings until my shoulders heal.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky forced himself to nod, and then with a last pat on his secondary coverts Tony stood. “I just need to find this place’s IT closet and I think I’ll have everything I need,” Tony said, and Bucky lifted his head from his arms to watch as Tony disappeared through the maze of cubicles. After a few minutes, Bucky pushed himself to sitting, then to his feet, hissing as the movement jostled his wings. He unfastened the Velcro that held his shirt together along his ribs then pulled it over his head, trying to move his arms as little as possible, then started ripping it into long strips to help support his wings.

“Found it!” Tony crowed just as Bucky had gotten as far along as he could without help. Bucky looked up just in time to see Tony’s steps slow as he came around the corner and saw Bucky shirtless, and the way Tony’s eyes skimmed down his chest before coming back up to his face went a long way towards making Bucky’s day better. “I, uh, I just need five minutes with this router and we’ll be set,” Tony continued, dragging his eyes away to look at the electronics in his arms. He cleared the stuff off a nearby table and took a seat, leaning against the chest support as he started to disassemble everything and start plugging it into his headset, using his wings to brush the bits that he didn’t need out of his way. As Bucky took a seat too and watched, Tony started explaining what he was doing, which Bucky only listened to with half an ear, most of his attention on the sky outside the window to make sure they weren’t ambushed by any drones. He could tell when Tony was successful because suddenly clouds of drones started dropping all across the sky before Tony could even say “That should do it.” Bucky’s mouth quirked as Tony let out a smug ha as he turned to watch the black specks fall all across the city; it would never fail to impress Bucky how Tony could literally go from falling out of the sky to defeating the enemy in the space of twenty minutes. The newspapers had taken to calling him the Invincible Iron Hawk and even though Tony complained about the name Bucky thought the invincible part was spot on. Indomitable would work too, and as far as Bucky was concerned, he’d add irresistible to the list.

“Nice work,” Bucky said, and his face must have been showing more of his thoughts than he meant it to because when Tony met his gaze his face went red and his wings half opened before resettling against his back.

“Thanks,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I’ll bind up your wings, then we’ll hit the elevators and head home?”

“Sure.” Tony was an old hand at binding wings to carry the weight and ease the pressure from the chest and shoulders, making sure the strips went across Bucky’s chest and that it rested under the feathers to keep it from slipping and breaking any. “There,” he said when he was done, patting Bucky’s bare shoulder.

Bucky reached up and put his hand on top of Tony’s before he could pull it away. “Would you like to go flying with me sometime?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it, feeling his face flame. “Flying flying?”

Tony’s grin was rueful. “Flying flying? I don’t know, I think you did some pretty impressive flying to save my life back there,” he teased, but his wings were up and already unfurling, like he was ready to go right now. Bucky’s wings instinctively tried to match him, and the spike of pain made Bucky wince. Tony gave him a sympathetic look and refolded his wings, reaching over to squeeze his hand instead. “Yes, that would be lovely. I will fix my gauntlets, you heal, and then we’ll go flying.”

I haven't read ACOSF yet, and tbh I'm rather rusty with the characters but it was really interesting to read your opinion on Elain! I feel there's a lot of complexity to her. And how she presents herself as well because as you said we literally have no chapters from hers or Lucien's POV and I think that's the important point to note because right now we're all just guessing and assuming her to be like Feyre, but she's not. People deal/show their traumas in different way and l think people expect Elain to deal with it as Feyre did. But, Feyres trauma and Elains are very different!

I don't really know what I'm saying. But I read your answer and it made me go 'oh... Huh!' in a good way, it sparked my curiosity! So thank you! But I think Elain perhaps is the most complex person with their trauma. I know people say 'oh Nesta is so different' but (I specialised in drama therapy so I love psycho analysis) and what Nesta did is self destructive to prevent relationships to avoid hurt or more emotions that she doesn't want to acknowledge (in my opinion!)

Elain just shuts down. She doesn't drink, she doesn't screw, she just remains in her garden which in itself says a lot! That's a very grounding way to handle trauma and not a lot of people are aware of that side!

So yeah I don't know what I'm saying but I think it's a really interesting discussion!

I have so many thoughts about Elain! This took me a few days to get to because i knew I had a crapton of thoughts. So this is basically me using this ask to explain the way I see Elain post-acosf!

There are three important scenes in acosf off the top of my head: when Elain talks with Nesta and they fight, and then with Nesta and Feyre and she gets mad and leaves, and then Feyre and Rhys talk about her in their chapter. We’re getting a lot more information about her, and for me, it wasn’t so much about who she is, but why we don’t know who she is.

So far, what we’ve had is Feyre’s and Nesta’s POV. Even when Feyre and Lucien tried to help her in acowar, they were unable. So we’ve never had anything about Elain from someone who didn’t grow up with her and experience the same trauma (such as becoming destitute, their mother’s death, their father being beaten, the Cauldron, etc.)

The sisters do handle it very, very differently. And I think that at this point the fandom consensus is that Elain runs away from her problems, but I actually disagree, and partly because of what you mentioned - that she isn’t using those self-harming, destructive coping mechanisms. Nesta was avoiding her problems, hardcore. It’s absolutely possible that Elain avoids things, but I don’t think that she just runs from all of her problems because:

Elain grieves her father. Openly. She tries to accept the fact that it wasn’t her fault and that she couldn’t do anything about it. (See: her going to his grave in acofas, her first talk with Nesta in acosf.) Elain does not run from her grief, she doesn’t pretend it doesn’t exist, and she doesn’t hide it from others. As one of the most defining events we’ve seen her go through in the series, that’s a pretty big deal.

Elain does not cling to unhealthy coping mechanisms. There could be ways that she does this that we are unaware of. She does seem like the type who would be really, really good at making people think she’s okay, all while she’s silently imploding. But we don’t know that yet?

Elain does not isolate herself. 

However, Elain definitely needs to deal with some stuff! She definitely needs to deal with Lucien, and she needs to have an actual talk with Nesta because I don’t remember a single satisfying resolution between those two in acosf. Not like Nesta had with Feyre. 

I have this idea that is purely based on Elain’s line in acosf:

“I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow, all you think of is what my trauma did to you.” (pg. 233)

And then Feyre tells Nesta that yes, Elain was right. 

This is so so so sossosososos important. I cannot emphasize it enough. Elain is used to putting on a fake, smiling face because she doesn’t want the weight of her sisters’ concern. She has been pretending to cope for so long - and tbf, she seems to have been doing better than Nesta - that people not only forget that she has suffered, but she doesn’t feel like she can even express that suffering.

Emotional labor often means negating one’s own feelings in order to acknowledge or tend to someone else’s. And that is Elain’s major role, in the series. Feyre has been caring for everyone’s physical wellbeing (hunting), while Elain’s role has been to care for everyone’s emotional wellbeing. But, like with most emotional labor, it has gone unnoticed.

I’ve made posts about emotional labor in the past (four years ago!!!!) but I’m gonna spare you the link because a lot of it was about a ship that’s no longer a ship, so here is the relevant content:

What I am talking about is the regulation of emotion - any time that you give comfort, are especially attentive to someone’s needs, stop thinking about how you feel in order to focus on how someone else feels, try to cheer someone up, make sure that they are taking care of themselves, try to allay their insecurities, etc. Basically, helping them with any sort of emotional distress.

You know those posts you’ve seen, about women protecting men’s egos constantly? Or about making time for self-care? Or about recognizing toxic relationships? That tell you “if X is being demanded of you in a relationship, get out”? Those are ALL about emotional labor, broadly speaking. They are warning you not to do more than you can handle, more than you need to do, because it can be harmful to you.

If you have ever been expected to make a person or people feel better any time you are around each other (including when they are angry, upset, anxious, ill, frustrated, insecure, etc.), you have performed emotional labor. Pretty much everyone has done this at some point, unless you are a completely insensitive jerk.

Notice, though, that I said expected to and any time you are around them – this is where the problem comes in for YOU. This is not about just being there for a friend.

Making loved ones feel better is fantastic. Seeing people be polite and kind to one another makes my heart shine. That is not a problem in and of itself. That can be seen as emotional labor, but there are no requirements on you in those circumstances. This is something you are doing of your own free will.

The problem, again, is when this is expected, constantly, over time. Now, in my experience, the expectation is not necessarily coming from the other person. One of the problems with this type of labor is that not only do others expect women to perform these tasks, but women expect it of themselves.

It’s super easy to see this – who is expected to take care of a child when they fall? Who is expected to baby-sit? Who did you want when you were sick as a child, mom or dad? Who is expected to be sensitive and pay attention to others’ emotions?

For more info on this idea specifically, read Of Woman Born by Adrienne Rich. As a woman, I realized how much work I had been performing and how much it was harming me and I just… got real upset. She comes at this mostly from what a woman’s role is expected to be within the family, and might actually be a bit outdated in that respect because I feel like family structures and dynamics are shifting (that is a totally un-academic evaluation of the situation, don’t quote me on that), but still, it’s really informative.

While I was doing some research for this post I came across a peer-reviewed article about nursing and basically, high amounts of emotional labor led to anxiety and burn-out in those performing it. It literally will cost your mental health – not to mention your time, energy, attention, and it often requires you to ignore your own needs (this last part came from me, not the article). On the other hand, high levels of emotional intelligence (being able to recognize your own and others’ emotional states) meant less emotional labor (and therefore less anxiety & burn-out). One of the most important things to realize is that while you are taking care of someone else’s emotional needs, your own are frequently unmet. That is why it’s important to recognize this in yourself, not just in these characters.

So where does Elain fit in? Elain is the #1 emotional labor provider of the family, and she is about to freaking SNAP. I know, because once I realized how my trauma was hidden in order to spare someone else its consequences, I fucking SNAPPEd. I’ll also spare you the personal details, but Elain hasn’t been “okay”. She hasn’t been “boring”, or “nice”, or “chosen” Feyre over Nesta. She has literally been unable to express herself because (and I am NOT blaming Nesta or Feyre or her father one bit) her family’s emotional state has been so fragile, there hasn’t been room for Elain to feel or express her emotions in years. 

In the feysand short, Rhys says:

I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.

And that completely tracks. Everyone has gotten used to Elain being not just “nice”, but being the emotionally predictable one. The one they know they can go to for a smile. The one they can count on for never, ever making them realize that she has been through Some Shit Too. And being that person is exhausting.

When Feyre thinks about Elain not using Lucien’s gloves, 1) she still has them, otherwise she couldn’t think about Elain not using them, and 2) I like to see the gloves as something that she will come to use, once she realizes that she can feel and express those emotions without it causing a breakdown in the family. Right now, she just wants to feel. And she can’t do that emotionally, so she’s doing it physically. Once she heals and finds a better balance, she won’t need to resort to physical pain. (Which, lowkey has me thinking some other thoughts, but.... maybe later.) But anyway, once Elain does go through her very own special journey, I fully expect her to welcome those gloves. She won’t need physical pain to feel anymore.

Not to mention my completely unacademic and non-professional opinion that people will judge a nice women harshly for being rude once, but accept a woman with a history of rudeness for just “being that way”. It’s another way that Elain may feel trapped in her “nice girl” persona. I think she started out that way - kindness and light and generosity is 100% in Elain’s character in the first place. It’s not as if she went into the Court of Nightmares and suddenly Cassian thought, “wait, she fits right in to this shithole of depravity”. No, he still thought the literal opposite. It’s just that once people get used to you doing all their emotional labor, they will continue to take advantage of it, even if they don’t realize its cost.

tw: eating disorders

i was reading the asks about how (1) rb was giving jev other driver's numbers and (2) how jev was citing to daniil his weight.

(1) i could be reading it wrong but as someone who has a restrictive ed, it is a very competitive mental illness. you see someone's weight/bmi and think "oh if they could do that, then i could do better = i could lose more weight". so i'm reading it as rb knowing about jev's ed and triggering it constantly with the weights/ numbers so he'd lose weight. which is another level of fucked up.

(2) people with restrictive eds tend to be obsessive about weight/bmi/numbers? constantly weighting yourself, calculating your bmi, calculating exactly how many grams you'd lose if you eat X calories, etc. so jev knowing his own numbers could come from rb itself or his own. either way, while this isn't exactly a symptom of an ed, it kinda makes you go 👀

i'm just looking at what happened with jev and felt so awful because while i expect it to happen to athletes (they have very body-obsessive jobs like models) you'd think they are much stronger mentally than your average teenage anorexic lol. but mental illness affects everybody regardless of industry and it's scary.

Hey thank you for this insight, I hope you're doing well right now. I also have an ed but it's not restrictive so I don't want to talk over you and I won't add much except to say that the numbers jev cited was specific time lost between his and kvyats lap times that were "weight related". And like the sheer amount of calculations you'd have to do to work out something like that is what always suggested to me that it came from rbr and their computer data rather than him. But you're definitely right that it could have come from an obsessive focus with the numbers of it all. And I think the competitiveness of it would have been massively reinforced by the rbr and F1 environment

It really is awful (though I don't think there's any less or more strength in having good or bad mental health, we deal with it however and we're all just struggling in our own ways) but I think one of the reasons I love jev so much is he gives me hope for my own recovery. It's rare to have an athlete who has so openly and publicly struggled with mental health and their relationship to food like this, and when I look at how he recovered and how it really did Get Better for him... I feel less alone and hopeless I guess.

Anyway just a heads up I probably won't be answering more asks about this today? Not because I don't want to discuss it or anything a lot of people have had some good points. Its just a heavy topic and I know especially in the holidays it's an even heavier one with potential to trigger people quickly. I think we've covered most of what we can cover now. If you're reading this and struggling with an ed please don't hesitate to reach out to people in your life or helplines when it gets too much.

So I don't usually write here about any series and stuff, but I wanted to share some thoughts on final space season 3. It's been released 12 episodes out of 13 and the last one hit me really bad.

I love final space with all my heart for its comedy and I love it much more for its dramatic moments. Season 2 has this perfect blend of golden comedy (well, except the piss battle) and heartbreaking drama. I mean I liked season 1, I thought that avocato was amazing character and his death in the middle of season was brilliant move, but season 2? I fell in love with it. I managed to get through first episodes without caring much, yes, even episode 3 with ash and her sister. But episodes 4 and 5? They rip your heart out. (It's the one where little Cato gets stuck in time anomaly and the one where Gary's mom appears). They made me fall in love with themes of loneliness and family that the show invests so well, with so damn good animation and the perfect amount of comedy in drama and drama in comedy. So I rewatched those like 3 or 4 times.

So what about season 3?

I'm not gonna say it's bad or even that it's worse that previous seasons. Don't get me wrong - it's still great. I enjoyed every minute of watching it. Yes, I thought that episodes were a little less memorable as episodes in season 2. But that may or may not be because I rewatched season 2 for numerous times and I watched most part of season 3 within 3 hours (I tend to remember a little bit less stuff then usual when watching it in one shot).

So season 3 I liked a little bit less than season 2. And here's some thoughts about it - I tried to make them as little biased as possible.

Of course there are spoilers.

1. Opening

Why is it just Gary falling down? The story has never been just about Gary and it is shown in openings 1 and 2. My guess is that they didn't want to spoil who's gonna stay in team-squad and who's not. But in my personal opinion it wouldn't matter if they showed all members of team-squad from the beginning of s3 and then Fox died and so on.

Opening 1 was all of them standing together in nearly static fight scene and well it wasn't that interesting but the viewer was getting the ambiance of the show. Opening 2 was so good - it was well-animated, it showed characters' personalities and basically was fun to watch every episode without struggling or fast-forwarding (my personal favorite is when Gary throws KVN - it says so much about both of them). And I guess it wasn't so fun for me to watch Gary failing down alone for 12 times.

2. Comedy and drama

Like I said season 2 has perfect amount of comedy and drama mixed together. And for me it just didn't feel that way in s3. Drama is on a whole new level - Quinn episode or death of Fox, and don't even get me started on little Cato and his real parents. And while dramatic episodes still hit so damn hard, there's an episode with kinda new atmosphere for the show - the one with ash and her new (girl)friend evra. It's kinda melancholic but not in a sad way, more like in a reflective dreamy and wistful way. I'm really glad they're not getting stuck on the one and only way of doing things.

But sometimes it feels like they don't mix comedy and drama anymore. Like I can't really remember fun part of sad episodes, maybe just a couple of jokes but as for me they're not the same. For example, said 4 and 5 episodes of season 2. There's funny bonding moment in the ep.4 and hilarious loggins dancing scene, then little Cato stuck in this time zone and it's sad but also fun with Clarence, and Tribore others stuff and KVN becoming murderous crazy. And then it turns out that they had never been here, and the amount of loneliness little Cato had to face just tears your heart apart. Unforgettable, and it works so well because of the comedy and fun parts of the episode. Because you can only feel that devastated if you don't expect this while laughing. Same with ep.5 - you laugh on fun part with Gary not wanting save his mother from jail and pretty cliche (still funny though) moments of Sheryl befriending everyone except for Gary. And then it's not the betrayal that hits you with sadness, it's the realization during that heartbreaking flashback that Gary still had hope that he can be family with her. And the moment of him losing that hope.

What I'm saying that in these episodes comedy and drama coexist in the same space and inseparable from each other.

There's still funny parts in season 3 which are mostly hilarious (personal favorite - "I finally found him - father of beelzebub") but it feels like there's a little bit less of them and that they carry less weight for the story-telling and building the atmosphere purposes. And as an aftermath you can separate fun parts from sad parts without losing something. They don't support each other and the story feels less holistic.

Again, it could be that creators were trying to show that the stuff became so much more serious than it used to be, but personally I wish they mixed drama and comedy a little bit more.

3. Themes

So I don't actually know if I think of it as a good or bad thing. It's different for sure, though.

I think themes this season were much less obvious and straight shown as before. For example there's still loneliness theme - but sometimes it's so subtle you might not notice it right away. Like this last episode little Cato tries to spend some time with Gary or Sheryl but everyone shooshes him because they have stuff to do. And you know that they're still family but that feels kinda sad and a little bit familiar. (Also in the beginning of ep.12 there's this kinda sad intonation which with he asks Gary in which team he was).

There's a lot more moments with different themes which you maybe don't notice but feel I can't really recall what are they specifically.

So yeah while season 2 serves themes of the show on big plate and put them right under your nose, season 3 sprays them in the air and makes sure you feel rather then see them.

(Maybe I'm overthinking it but still).

4. Characters and stuff

I'm not really gonna say too much in this section because everyone has pretty much different opinion on each of them.

But some things have to be said.

I saw a lot of people hating ash arc this season and saying that it's artificial. But I find it quite natural. Like, yeah, she makes bad decisions and jumps to wrong conclusions but it's not like it's not in her character. She's always been proactive type and now more than ever she wants to take action, not to sit and wait. And it doesn't mean that if character does something you don't like it makes a plot poorly written or her arc artificial.

I like how Quinn's decision to stay in final space raises debates. There is no clear answer whether her decision was right or wrong, and it's amazing that the show can ask the audience this type of question. And again there's much more to discuss with no clear morally right answer than it was in season 2.

Every father-son bonding moment between Gary and little Cato is precious. Period.

Gary himself feels much more mature and this is amazing job with his arc and character development. Avocato has this inner (soon to be external) conflict with him killing little Cato's real parents and sometimes it feels like it's all that he got in this season, but it's fine, I guess. Tribore is simply the best as always.

Not sure I have something unique or smart to say about everyone else that is not obvious itself and I don't want to extend this so freaking long post for things that have already been said.

Except for that it's been 12 episodes and I still have no idea why it was story-wise necessary to add Biskit to team squad. He's not plot relevant. For me personally he's not even that funny.

So, I guess that's all for now. Definitely gonna update this when season finale is released. Just to talk things out.

Sorry, there are probably ton of mistakes. English is not my first language but I try my best to be better, so feel free to correct me.

handmaid - 26

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, mention of weapons and gunshots 

A/N:  will i ever write a chapter without a musical reference? no as i literally cannot help myself.

NEXT CHAPTER

The night was like a warm blanket tonight yet the world somehow seemed wider, brighter as she laid against his chest, hearing his heart softly beating against his ribcage. The sound itself sent her in a spiral of her own mind, the sound itself proved he was alive, he was real and he was there. Laying down next to him was just the right thing to do despite it being at the same time the wrongest of all wrong things. Sure, this was the man Gwen had been promised to ever since she was born but at the same time whenever she was next to him he seemed like a completely different person than the mythical mob boss her mind had fabricated over the years. When she was next to him he was her lover and at the end of the day that was what overwhelmed her overall perception. 

     - What are you thinking about? - Sebastian slightly raised his head with precaution as to not disturb her. - You’re very quiet.  

     - Just basking in the feeling. - she looked up to him without really moving the rest of her body, hand remaining in its imaginary circle drawing. - We should probably return to doing what we were doing.

     - I think there’s more boxes in the garage. - he sat up, arms wrapped around her figure so she didn’t fall off his lap and landed on the ground. If it was up to him, he would remain in that position for another hour with his nose buried in her hair smelling the scent of her fragrance mixed with her shampoo. - Maybe there’s something there. 

    - You don’t need to do this for me. - she pushed her hair to the side, cocking her head slightly as her hand searched the ground for her jumper which was colder than she would like due to the winter weather just outside. - I know you probably have your own business to take care of. 

    - I’m a good multitasker, my angel. - he kissed her naked shoulder before she slide her jumper on, shivering at the contact of her warm skin with the cold fabric. Y/N gave him a playful smile followed by a roll of the eyes before getting up, picking up his garments in the process and throwing them at him. 

Smiling like a fool who just won the lottery, and in a certain way he sort of had, he got dressed up in the wrinkled clothes and wrapped his arm around her natural waist before leading her out of his office and into the life to the garage. If there was a room in the house that was always, if not ever since its construction, in chaos, it was the garage. Whatever he didn’t want in his home anymore or anything for which he didn’t have space, he would send it down to the garage which meant the room was filled to the brim with boxes and boxes along with some record books and more contracts, most likely belonging to his father as Sebastian prided himself in keeping an electronic copy of all his contracts, just in case. Y/N couldn’t help herself but sneeze at the amount of dust that had gathered over the years as she grabbed one of the boxes. Surely he had enough money to hire someone to clean it, however it seemed to always escape his mind.

Sebastian took the other side of the box created walls while Y/N started to go through the first box which weirdly was filled with clothes, children’s clothes. She cocked an eyebrow in confusion, but continued to go through the box’s contents, carefully putting the clothing off the box by her side until she reached a silver picture frame of a woman holding a baby whose gaze was somewhere else. She smiled at the warm nature of the photo which looked to have been snapped unknowingly. Her fingers traced the contours of the photo as she wondered who the two individuals were until she felt Sebastian’s hand on her shoulder. 

   - That’s my mother. - he pointed at the woman in the photo. - And that’s me. 

   - Why is this photo here? - she asked, turning her head to stare at him. Y/N knew Sebastian clearly had a soft spot for his mother as he spoke of her like any kid spoke of their parents, something that didn’t seem to occur whenever he mentioned his father whose relationship seemed to be more apprentice-master than father and son. 

   - In all honesty, I didn’t even remember it was down here. My father got rid of most stuff related to my mother after the divorce. - his hand left her shoulder as he took a seat next to her. 

   - You’ve never spoke to me about your mother. At least not a lot. - it was in her nature to be curious, she found the most she knew about people, the best she could connect and help them out. Sebastian normally would’ve taken curiosity at harsh value but whenever she asked him something, he couldn’t help but feel wrapped around her kind nature. 

   - Well, they got divorced when I was 6 or 7. Bad divorce, my mother didn’t have enough money to get a legal team so my father got everything, including me. One visit a year ... she ended up dying when I was 14.

   - I’m so sorry, Seb. - she wrapped her arms around him, kissing his temple, trying to console him the best way she could. Sebastian however had closed that wound a long time ago and instead looked inside the box she was looking at, recognising most of the items as childhood belongings. With a curious look in her eyes, his hand rummaged through the box’s belongings taking an old teared by time stuffed bunny which gained Y/N’s attention. - What’s that?

   - Oreo. - he said nonchalantly. 

   - Oreo? - she giggled. - It has a name? You don’t mean to tell me that the mob boss had a stuffed animal named Oreo. 

   - Mob bosses aren’t born mob bosses. - he put the stuffed animal back in the box. - I thought one of my kids might want it someday but if they’re anything like Gwen, I think they won’t want something this old.

   - Right. - she swallowed her worries which kept telling her that she would never be the one to bore him a child. Mr. Williams words rang inside her mind like terrifying echoes. Mistress. Mistresses don’t get happy endings. - Well, you have good taste, Oreo is a great name. 

   - Good taste ... - his eyes seemed to rewind to a past time, leaving Y/N to look at him weirdly as he jumped on his feet to walk to a little shelf filled with books which turned to be photo albums. Looking through several pages in second-like intervals, he finally stopped in the middle of the album, a smile on his face as his memories proved right. Quickly moving towards the young handmaiden, placing the book in her lap. Her eyes glued to the photo which was of a round table filled with mostly men and little to no women, however, a specific woman stood out in the middle of everyone, a kind smile contrasting with the tight lipped smirks of the rest of the crowd. Around her neck a golden necklace just like the one which was wrapped around the young handmaiden’s neck. - I knew I remembered the name Robin. 

   - What happened to her? - Sebastian sadly couldn’t answer this question as he was rather young and most of the times forbidden to even be close to any of his father’s parties or dinners. Y/N flipped through the pages noticing she showed up in a few more pictures before completely disappearing. - She seems to stop appearing. 

   - Whoever she was, she was no mere worker. My father had a rather elitist taste when it came to who got to attend his dinners and parties. - the theory that her parents didn’t want her screamed at her again. At that point, it just sounded like the most plausible theory. Noticing this shift his attitude, Sebastian closed the photo album, putting it away from her. - You don’t need to keep going, angel. You turned out just fine without them. 

   - I know. - she forced a smile, trying to see if she could fool Sebastian but he was much too familiar with her characteristics to be easily fooled. Sighing, Sebastian took her hands in his, slowly yet surely getting her on her feet.

   - I think that’s enough detective work for today. - he leaned down, pecking her lips two times, a smile on his face. Y/N nodded, thinking it would be best if she didn’t dig in the past and together they returned to the lift which took them back to the penthouse. The lift doors slowly open and Y/N noticed her suitcase standing slightly to the side of the lift. She didn’t think much of it knowing Sebastian to be a man who had man for everything so he had probably gotten someone to grab it earlier than mentioned. Even with that, she felt a somber heavy vibe in the air as she located her suitcase, something that seemed to push her down, like a weight. - Your suitcase is here.

   - Oh ... I guess I should just unpack. - his words took her from the glued, almost hypnotic glare at her own bag. Sebastian shrugged, letting her do her own thing, only offering his help to help her move the suitcase into her bedroom to which she declined. 

Her intuition was telling her to be careful and as such, she closed the door behind her immediately opening her suitcase. There was nothing odd about it, mostly filled with the clothes she had brought to the Forrest along with other objects and personal belongings. Still there was a  heavy weight which seemed to grow heavier and heavier as she folded her clothes and put them back in her wardrobe which hit a climax as she noticed a piece of white like fabric right at the bottom of her suitcase. She took a step back however her hand leaned forward, her fingers lightly tracing the fabric as if the fabric itself were a bomb. 

The fabric itself didn’t feel worn out and as she raised it into the air so she could inspect it better. It was an old fabric which at his prime was white but had started to grow slightly yellowish with the passage of time, the material of cashmere itself however still had the same comfort of a new one, almost as if it had never been worn. However, the most notable feature of the blanket was the cursive embroidery spelling Ella next to the silhouette of a robin. Without much thought to it, she brought the blanket up to her nose, inhaling what was reminiscent of fresh rosemaries on a hot summer day spent in a garden. Then out of the sudden, just as her nose sensed the scent of the blanket, a loud gunshot sound seemed to reverberate from the back of her skull to the front. She let out a scared scream, dropping the blanket on the floor as if the fabric was burning her hands. Her eyes scanned the room, looking paranoiacally for where the gunshot could’ve come for but there was nothing in her bedroom, there was no one in her bedroom. That was until Sebastian broke into her bedroom, black revolver set in the air to which she immediately put her hands up, noticing there were few tears rolling down her cheeks and meeting at her chin. Sebastian lowered his gun, after inspecting her bedroom for any threats.

   - I heard a gunshot. - her breathe came rather harshly through her mouth, almost as if she had been holding in her breathe. 

   - There was no gunshot, angel. - his hands cupped her face, kissing the top of her forehead as she leaned into his embrace. - Your mind’s playing tricks on you. 

   - No, I heard it. - she heard it, she could still hear it ringing in her ears like a never ending sound. Sebastian’s lips tightened as he embraced her tighter, letting go of his revolver on top of her bed. - I heard it. 

  - I know, angel. I know. - he spoke very lowly, whisper-like even. - You’re tired, you need some rest.

  - I swear I heard it. - she looked around, her eyes convincing her that there was no real danger but her mind telling her to keep her guard up, specially when the blanket on the ground caught her attention once more like a cursed amulet. Like a child, she hid from it on Sebastian’s shoulders, the contrasting cedar wood scent almost erasing the soft and fresh rosemary from her mind. She had heard it, she knew she had heard it. - Maybe you’re right, I just might be tired. 

  - C’mon, I can make you a cheese toastie. - he rubbed her arm soothingly, a inviting smile on his reddish pink lips which just always looked so inviting. - It’s gonna be alright, angel. 

  -  Well, I’m surprised you can use a sandwich maker. - Y/N pushed the worries to the back of the brain, that part you only see when you’re trying to fall asleep or too lost in your own mind to visit those darkest parts which you hope disappear with time. 

   - I’m not completely incompetent in the kitchen. - she looked up at him, a seemingly calm smile masking all her worries. - I never set it on fire.

   - What an amazing astonishment. - she giggled, a hand coming to stand in front of her lips. 

   - C’mon angel, let’s get some food in you.

tag list: @lilya-petrichor​ @xoxohannahlee​ @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater​ @nikkipea​ @madisonpillstrom​ @cevans98​ @thelostallycat​ @sideeffectsofyou​ @anxiousdreamersworld​ @captainchrisstan​ @lookiamtrying​ @sarge-barnes-sir​ @stuffforreferences @thebadassbitchqueen @sebastianstansqueen@nsfwsebbie @strangerliaa @emzd34

Table for Two

A/N: Hi! This the first fanfic I’ve written for literally anything! (I’m an on and off writer in general tho) I’m hoping to write a collection of unconnected short stories currently called Smaller Sides to Life, that focuses on small/short moments in time during specific events. I’d be so grateful for any comment or feedback, but honestly I just hope you enjoy it first and foremost! >///<

Pairing: Logicality Words: 2468 Content: Human AU? A lot of descriptions of anxious waiting, so I guess it’s got a lil angst. Happy ending! (Please tell me if I need to mention anything I am very unfamiliar with how this works ;///;) Summary: Logan grows ever more anxious as he waits for his date, who, at this point, he isn’t even sure is coming.

If you wanna read my google doc for this instead you’re free to. (I like Cambria font u///u) I have an Ao3 but I am currently not using it.

Logan was alone, sitting comfortably at a table for two in the back of a halfway decent food establishment, silently watching as the ice cubes in his water shifted and tapped against the glass while they melted with each passing second. Well, “comfortably” was a lie, of course. There was absolutely nothing comforting about being in such a place on his own, with only the dim flickering candles on the table to keep him company. He didn’t really know what the worst part of the whole thing even was. Was it the ever encroaching chatter that surrounded him? The sickeningly sweet music that played in the background? The blank, unflinching cold stone wall in front of him? Or perhaps, it was the still empty seat that sat mockingly at the other side of the table.

Indeed, Logan was unhappy, uncomfortable, and alone.

The nervous tapping of his foot was practically synonymous with the pattering rain against the windows. The typically majestic city view now nothing more than an amorphous glob of glowing lights amidst the water droplets and fog. He couldn’t help but repeatedly switch between checking his watch and frantically clicking his pen, occasionally scribbling down a loose nonsensical thought or two onto his little notepad. The action barely made a difference in soothing his racing mind, but he had to do something to distract himself. He’d do practically anything to ease the agony that was continuously settling in his heart with each passing minute. The absolute dread hanging over him like an impending guillotine.

This was foolish. Logan sighed. Surely he was overreacting. There must’ve been a reason. He thought to himself, but it was no use. Not a single thing he told himself could possibly make the immensely slow sinking weight forming at the pit of his stomach go away. Not. A single. Thing. For someone who typically prided himself on being able to, and rather efficiently mind you, keep his calm in the most stressful of situations, this was quite distressing to say the least.

He’s simply running late. He reasons to himself. It happens. You know that. Well, of course he did. There were practically an infinite amount of possibilities that could’ve delayed the arrival of the person he was waiting for, and most of them were not inherently related to Logan’s personal character. That was the most logical conclusion, anyway. Did that thought comfort him any though? No.

It’s been an hour, Logan. You must be joking if you still think he’s coming. Another thought tore through his mind. Well, he may not have been joking, but he was well aware of how ridiculous it must’ve seemed. Just him, sitting alone at a table for two, growing ever more and more desperate by the second. To hold on to even a sliver of hope must’ve seemed utterly utterly foolish. Every pitying glance by the passing waiter refilling his cup only served to make him feel even more miserable. He wished desperately, in that moment, that he could just disappear; he hoped he could shrink down in size so small that he wouldn’t have to be seen anymore. He wanted to completely collapse in on himself and crumple up like the pathetic scraps of paper he’d been unconsciously tearing out of his notes. He wanted the world to just fade to black, and for him to simply drift away into an endless void, away from everything. Away from this. Maybe then he’d be free from the dreaded weight that sat heavily upon his shoulders. He didn’t think his heart could even beat this fast, but there it was, hammering in his chest like a hyperactive hummingbird. 

He hated it.

He’s not coming, Logan. That thought instantly sank itself into the depths of his soul. He felt a lump begin to form in the back of his throat; it was almost nauseating. He’s not coming because he doesn’t want to see you. Another thought that dug itself into his mind. He felt his teeth harshly grind against each other as his jaws clenched, begging himself to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He didn’t even give you a call. The world suddenly seemed to freeze. A quiet realization sent an absolutely disparaging chill down his spine. You didn’t even get the courtesy of knowing you’ve been rejected. He let out a weak shaky breath before finally lowering his face into his hands, completely defeated. This was beyond pathetic, honestly. How unbecoming of him to be this way. He wasn’t coming. He already fully knew how illogical it was to remain in his seat. Yet, a part of himself still refused to let him throw what remained of that practically shattered hope away. 

And so, the clock kept ticking still...

Logan wasn’t really sure how long it’s been at this point. Everything had begun to slowly meld together in his mind. Beyond the disappointment and despair was just the dull aching pain of rejection in his chest, not to mention the utterly dry and bitter taste in his mouth. He berated himself for being this pathetic about the whole thing, and a coward who couldn’t even muster up enough courage to stand up and go home. It was frustrating, because he knew better than this. It was both impractical and nonsensical to keep waiting. But he felt weak, and his two feet remained firmly stuck to the floor as if they were made of solid, immovable lead. The waiters have collectively decided to leave him alone at this point, which he had considered a small blessing. He didn’t want to bother pretending to smile or claim that everything was ok anymore; the energy was long depleted by now.

Logan let out yet another shaky breath, wrapping his arms around him and hugging himself tight, trying as he might to figuratively and literally “get a grip” on reality. What was he even waiting for? Why had he been so eagerly anticipating sitting at this table just a few hours before leaving work? What was the point? What was he doing? He still had tasks to do! There were still piles upon piles of work that had to be done at his desk but no, he was here. He was here, sitting alone, and doing nothing. Logan glanced down at his watch yet again, but its face was unreadable. His eyes blurry and unclear even as he rubbed the tears away, adjusted his glasses, and squinted. The only message it managed to send was just how much time he was wasting away by remaining where he currently was. Nobody was coming. His grip tightened, nails practically clawing at the sleeves of his suit. Never in his life had he felt so betrayed by something that originally had a perfect and fitting place within his schedule. What had he done wrong? Where did he make a mistake?

The gentle laughter and casual chattering of the surrounding atmosphere were  like needles in his back as he felt himself curl inwards. The sweet and decidedly romantic music that served as the loving backdrop for what was to be a pleasant evening for patrons was now mocking and decadent. It sounded almost like a distant echo, far far away. Something that he was always in the vicinity of, but will never truly be able to enjoy; a happiness he cannot obtain. He was trapped. He was trapped here, in a dim corner of a restaurant, with a lukewarm cup of water, weakly flickering candles, a cold unflinching wall, the pitter patter of rain, the incessant (and mildly imaginary) ticking of his watch, crumpled up scraps of note paper, sickening chatter, unappealing music, a dry bitter taste in his mouth, an unnerving feeling of cold sweat, a dizzying headache, a fast racing heart, a barely registering breath, a lump in his throat, and clearly watering eyes.

All at a half empty table for two.

He hated it.

He ended up sitting there for so long that he felt drained, empty. His eyes now only slightly stung when opened, but he kept them closed while he leaned against one arm against the table. By now he had, at the very least, managed to catch his breath. He felt so tired. Logan took a deep breath and glanced down at his watch yet again. It had only honestly been an hour and a half, not that much time at all in the grand scheme of things. And yet here he was, feeling like he had been stationary for several years. Perhaps it was finally time to go. He shifted his aching body to finally attempt to escape from this prison, but a hurried rush of footsteps instantly made him freeze up yet again.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

“Oh my goodness god, you’re still here!”

Logan jolted at the sound of the sweet, silvery voice that rang out, very obviously filled with concern. He turned towards the person who hastily ran up to him, the cold hands cupped around his face immediately snapping him awake from his previous haze.

“I can’t believe you waited for me for this long!! Have you been here the whole time?? I’m- Oh my god I’m so so sorry Logan I-”

He honestly couldn’t even process what he was seeing, much less feeling. A man stood in front of him now, frantically gesturing and apologizing, and absolutely soaked to the core. Logan could very much feel the gazes of dozens of patrons on them now, but it didn’t matter. All he could do was stare with wide eyes at his date, whose suit was completely muddied and shoes absolutely ruined by the rain. He blinked a few times as he tried to understand what the man was even saying as he kept pausing and stuttering while constantly sweeping his matted and wet light brown hair out of his eyes. Seeing him there, standing in front of him, was enough to make Logan feel his heart slowly begin to beat once again.

“God, Logan, I know you must be mad at me, I’m- How could I possibly ever make this up to you? Oh god, oh dear, I can’t believe I did this to you! I’m just so sor-”

“Patton…” Logan finally managed, taking one of Patton’s cold hands into his and finally stopping his rambling. He took a silent moment to just quietly immerse himself into the other’s sparkling and visibly apologetic blue eyes. A beautiful and comforting sight for his literally sore ones. He felt something start to bubble up inside of him, and it began to slowly rise in his chest. A warm, fluttering feeling that rose, higher and higher, until a soft laugh finally slips from his lips. Patton’s expression instantly lightens at the sound, and Logan could feel the once soul crushing weight that surrounded him finally melt away. He gives Patton’s hand a light squeeze, an absolutely relieved smile now upon his face. “Patton. It’s ok.”

There wasn’t a single moment’s hesitation when Patton sprang forwards to wrap Logan in the tightest hug he could possibly manage. Despite the water that slowly seeped into Logan’s own clothes, and the hug being admittedly cold on account of Patton being completely drenched, he had never felt his heart swell with so much warmth in his entire life. They stayed locked in each other's embrace until Patton remembered his current condition and quickly backed off with yet another series of apologetic bows.

“Dear lord, now look what I’ve done. I went ahead and ruined your clothes too!” He giggled, trying his best to wipe away the water with a napkin to barely any success.

Logan just couldn’t help but smile at the clumsy yet adorable gesture. “Don’t worry about it. It’s clearly not as bad as whatever happened to you.” He pointed out. “Say, whatever did happen to you anyways? You weren’t answering any of my calls and I...I thought you weren’t going to…” He paused for a moment before opting to take a long sip out of his cup instead before shrugging. “You know.” He murmured, his body unintentionally stiffening at the insinuation.

Patton looked crushed at the thought, which he was unfortunately terribly aware of. He embarrassingly rubbed at the back of his neck and lowered his head. “I-I know, and I really am so sorry Logan. I...I didn’t expect you to still be here either. And I couldn’t even tell you! Oh geez… After making you wait so long, you probably honestly should have just-”

“It’s ok, Patton.” Logan reassured with a nod, voice barely a whisper. He gently lifted one of Patton’s hands and brushed his lips against the man’s knuckles. “What’s important is that you’re here. That’s enough.” He felt a small bit of pride as he watched Patton’s face flush at the unexpected gesture.

The man quickly took the hand back with a laugh before settling down in the seat across from Logan. At last, filling the space that completed the whole picture. 

“Still, the fact that I made you wait that long is terribly unreasonable. So just please let me-”

Logan chuckled, gesturing towards a leaf that was still stuck in his date’s hair, to which the other quickly pulled out with a flustered huff. 

“Logan, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“You already have.” He stated, quickly dismissing the concern with a smile. The other clearly had no defense against him doing that, to which Logan was fully aware of. The smile then curled into a satisfied smirk upon his silence. “So, are you going to tell me?”

Patton blinked in response. “O-Oh! Right! You aren’t going to believe this, but-”

And as Patton energetically attempted to recall his unfortunate run-in with the storm while trying to rescue a cat from a tree, forgetting he’s allergic to them, slipping up and falling out of said tree, missing the bus, and losing his phone in the entire process, Logan simply sat comfortably across from him, fully content to listen to his story. It was ridiculous, it was nonsensical, and it was of course, entirely hilarious, but he enjoyed every word that came out of the mouth of the sweet and adorable man that now accompanied him. Patton’s rain stained glasses, half dried and now puffing up hair, and his freckled smile, completely lit up the once dim and lifeless corner of the restaurant they sat in. Nothing could have detracted from that moment in time. Not the rain, not the stares, and certainly not how the time just seemed to fly by, even during the comfortable silence that sat between them while they both enjoyed their meals. Logan wouldn’t have missed any of it for the world.

Here at this table for two.

"greek-Bros: The Return of an Old Enemy"

Chapter 9: The 'War' Room

It was approximately high noon, the Dionysian Games were at their peak, all was well for the residents of Delphi except for one. Dionysus was in his competitors tent near the game field, explaining to Hermes the whole situation. Dionysus had agreed to a challenge that had now put Delphi and Ariadne in a compromising situation, if Ares won the joust he would take everything from the land to sleeping with his beloved wife.

Dionysus was laying on a pile of pillows, deeply remorseful of his string of terrible decisions. "I can't believe I would put Ariadne in this situation I really am like dad!", he sobbed, "WHY the fuck did I even agree to this?!", he continued while crying into his pillow. Hermes sat next to him, patting his back trying to comfort him. He couldn't care too much about how it all happened but he had an idea on how he was going to help.

Hermes laid down on the pillows and let out a relaxed sigh, he already had the plan all mapped out. "Dionysus, you know very well even if Ares does win...I'm not letting him screw you and Ariadne. By the way....is he using his OWN horses for this?", he asked. Ares's chariot was pulled by a trio of horses that would be best described as literal Night Mares, these mystical fire breathing war horses are fast, aggressive and can pull a lot more than Ares's weight.

Dionysus turned, sniffling, "....I'm not sure why?", now he was curious as to what Hermes was planning, "why? What are you going to do?". He was desperate to find some way of winning. It would be devastating if Ariadne found out she was going to be a prize for Ares and lose her kingdom let alone have her husband lose a challenge he decided to enter.

Hermes gave a smirk, inspite of current events he always knew how to make time for anything. "Well, I remember correctly....his horses are pretty tough....if he is using his horses, I could let them out....replace them with some of the horses from here.....I mean...how does wine effect horses.... especially ones that....breath fire?", he asked with a sly grin. He leaped up, pacing back and forth. "We could.....get him drunk, throw him off his game...or...we can go a little more further.", he turned to Dionysus for some approval.

Dionysus was catching on with Hermes's plan. He stood up, "...yeah.....I see where you're going with this....yeah.....but how are we going to get the horses to drink the wine? I mean....you can't just lead a horse to water....also....what if an animal that BREATHES fire....wine is flammable you know...". The two were brainstorming, thinking of ways Ares could be sabotaged. Their brain power would get a boost in the form of someone outside. The two heard the familiar but eloquently frustrated voice of Apollo, demanding to see Dionysus. Dionysus rushes to the tent entrance and opens to see Apollo, talking to one of the satyrs guarding the tent. "Hey man how's it hanging?", Dionysus chimed.

Apollo turned around and the look on his face spoke a thousands that all could translate to "What the HELL did I tell you?!". He marched towards Dionysus, pushes him gently back into the tent to yell at him. "WHY IS THERE AN EVENT GOING ON?!?", he shouted, "I thought I told you to hold off on any parties or anything to make sure the people are safe from what's been going on!". He almost couldn't believe that Dionysus would go the point of risking the Delphians for the sake of having fun.

Dionysus slunked into himself like a turtle going into his shell. "W-well Apollo ol'pal...ugh....wow you are NOT going to believe what else....ugh...Ares is here too....aaaaaand I'm in trouble.....more specifically.... Ariadne is in trouble.", he tried to soften the news but even he knew it wasn't going to quell Apollo's mild fury.

Hermes stepped into help in his own way, "Yeah Dionysus bet his wife, Delphi itself and his patronship of Delphi to Ares if he lost.", successfully making the situation far worse. Apollo's usually fare glowingly pale face was slowly glowing a burning fiery orange with anger, it became hotter in the tent, melting any wax candles and drying any leaves from fruits inside. "Come on Apollo, are you really going to get mad inside of this highly flammable tent with your two favorite brothers in mine?", Hermes charmed Apollo. The hot glow dimmed back into the cooler pale tone he usually had, he knew no matter how angry he got it would be pointless to lose his temper.

Apollo took a deep sigh, sat down to further collect himself. ".....ok...now...what do you plan on doing then?", he asked. He could see both Dionysus and Hermes had a plan, and he knew he wasn't going to like it. "Oh good....it seems you both have something cooked up.", he begrudgingly assumed.

The two stood there looking at Apollo, Hermes walked to a table that had a bottle of wine. "Let's just say, Ares isn't going to drive his chariot straight if his HORSES have been drinking....oh..ugh....DID you see his horses?", he asked. Apollo nodded 'yes', so unfortunately, the plan of forcing Ares's horses to drink the wine would pose a challenge. "Ok, so....we will have to feed the horses something else....spiked fruit?", he suggested. The two looked at Hermes, both couldn't argue against the idea yet they found it to be a usable one.

Dionysus chimed in, "yeah I think I have some marinated apples somewhere. We could feed it to his horses if they don't drink the wine.", he left the tent to look for some at a food tent nearby, leaving the two brothers alone.

Apollo knew that Hermes wasn't here just to enjoy watching Dionysus's fake Olympic games, he had been watching what had been going on in Greece. "Hermes, now that we're alone. What have you seen as of late? Is what I've heard from Artemis true?", Apollo was referring to the wolf man that Hermes and Artemis had encountered. He had recently come in contact with Artemis, whom had come to him to ask about Zeus's whereabouts.

His mischievous demeanor calmed into a somber awareness. Hermes took a deep sigh, he got distracted with Dionysus's issue. He turned to Apollo, "yeah, it was pretty freaky...the thing didn't die on the first shot either. I haven't seen them appear during the day though. I think these creatures only come out of night.", he took off hat hat and scratched his head. "Dionysus was getting a lot of complaints....guess people here can't stand still for long....I can see why he caved in, he doesn't want to disappoint anyone....I can relate, buuuuut honestly the whole situation feels weird.". Hermes felt mildly uncomfortable about his encounter, he had been so use to seeing things die and stay dead, that it had never occurred to him that something could reanimate.

Apollo's stern face loosened up, "Well.....he always seems to listen to his mortal citizens more than me so I'm not sure why I always act surprised.", he relaxed a little but noticed Hermes a little bit worried, "Are you ok? Artemis did mention you didn't take too well to the.... creature.". He could see Hermes look like a someone who saw something he shouldn't.

"it's ok", Hermes replied, "....I just prefer dead things to be dead....that's all.". He turned to the shuffling tent wall and sees Dionysus come in with a jar of fruit pickled in wine. "Ah perfect Dio, I'll take the fruit and wine. Wait here and I'll handle the rest.", Hermes took the jar and an amphora of wine and jetted off, leaving Dionysus and Apollo in the tent.

Dionysus turned to Apollo, "sooooo........ugh....hehe, have you seen the games? Man the folks out there are having fun.", he tried to make it as if he wasn't caring about his dilemma but there was no point, "man I fucked up big time..... fucking Ares, the asshole.... should have asked for someone who wouldn't want to fuck Ariadne.....man I'm a terrible husband.", he slumped on to a pile of pillows. He was still worried about the joust, he was worried about losing Ariadne's trust in him, and above all he was worried if he resembled Zeus in the worst way possible. Dionysus let out a deep sigh, "guess I really am my dad's kid..."

Apollo could hear the hurt in Dionysus's voice, he got closer to him and placed his hand on his back. "Look, you messed up even for your standards.....but you're not a terrible husband, you two are young newlyweds, you've been married for a short amount time and mistakes happen.... don't be THAT hard on yourself. There's still time to fix things....does she know about the bet?", asked Apollo.

"No...she doesn't....and I don't want her to know about ANY of it. If I lose, I lose everything that's important to me....if I win...well...I have yet to see Ares be a good sport about losing....for all I know he'll tell her out of spite", Dionysus replied.

"Oh come now, Ares is a difficult person for sure and he's unbarable at times....but I doubt he will be that level of cruelty. Maybe he was just exaggerating...after all the man is the father of Fear and Terror himself, he would know a thing or two about making people fear him." Apollo reassured him. "Plus, I have no doubt Ariadne would forgive you. You've done quite a lot for her if you remember, she knows you love her and you'd end the world for her.", Apollo hoped his words would at least inspire Dionysus not to consider himself a failure of a husband. After all, he along with Hades, have seemed to have rather successful marriages and to compare one's marriage to Zeus's marriage is surly a blow to one's heart and soul let alone their ego.

Dionysus looked at Apollo and smiled, "....thanks....but I just don't want to mess up anyway.", he got up and took a quick peek outside to see how far into the games the people had gotten through. Unfortunately time wouldn't be on their side, it had seems the Delphians had gone through the whole games and have already started giving out makeshift medals. "GAH! THE GAMES ARE ALMOST DONE!", he loudly panicked, he ran towards the set of armor that he set aside so he can put on for the joust, "OH GODS IM FUCKED! Hermes better be done with what he was doing!", he quickly put on his armor.

"I'll go and distract Ares then, see if I can change his mind about the bet, good luck out there Dionysus.", Apollo quickly left Dionysus in the tent.

"Bye see you later.", Dionysus responded.

Elsewhere, Hermes was at a temporary stable where the horses for the joust. Hermes snuck into the stables in hopes no one noticed him. He looked around and could see Ares's three huge, scary looking chariot horses, he slowly tiptoed to them. The horses noticed his presence, these weren't friendly horses, these horses might as well have been the horses of straight from King Augeas's stable. Hermes took a bowl and pored the wine into it, he raised it to the opening of the stable up to the three horses. In a whispered voice, "...hey there buddies, you want something to take the edge off? Come on, it should smell irresistible.", Hermes was hoping the sweet smelling wine would attract their attention, one of the horses did I fact take a sip from the bowl. It drank the whole thing in a few sips, letting out a loud delighted whinny.

"Hehe, perfect.", Hermes poured another bowl to see if he could give more wine, the same horse drank the wine while the second horse became curious and took a few sips as well. Now all was left was to get the third horse hooked on the wine, but the third horse was different, this one was a stubborn mare that lead the trio while they pull the chariot. She wasn't going to fall for the wine as easily. Hermes took a quick peak at the mare, "c'moooooon, what gives?", he could see she was all the way in the corner, glaring at him while her brothers fought to take the last few sips. As Hermes poured the last of wine into the bowl, he went to take out a wine soaked pealed apple from the jar. He gently tossed to the mare, the other two horses could smell the wine on the apple and tried to go right for it, but the mare reared her head, snorting aggressively. The two other horses stopped, the mare sniffed the apple and took a small nibble.

It took a few seconds for the mare to understand why this apple was spicy, however, she seemed to have liked the spiked fruit and ate it in one bite. She clopped towards Hermes, intimidating him for more apples, he quickly obliged and held the jar to the mare. She shoved her muzzle into the jar, eating a few more bits of alcoholic fruit. Hermes wasn't satisfied yet, he left the jar with the mare and he quickly ran to get two more amphoras of wine. He quickly began to pore more wine for all three horses, the more the three sipped, the relaxed and tipsy they acted. The three swayed back and forth, bumping into each other, loudly snorting and whinnying.

Plan A, was a success. Hermes patted the three horses snouts, knowing damn well he would never have a chance to do this with Ares's horses ever again. "Ok, bye bye.", he darted off to see what Ares was doing, unfortunately, he was more focused than ever, he was now for some reason practicing using his sword on an innocent tree as if he was going to fight Dionysus to the death. "What the fuck is he doing, he isn't going to kill dionysus is he?", Hermes questioned to himself. He suddenly saw Apollo call out to Ares, wanting to have a conversation with him. "Ah oh, this is going to be good....or really bad.", Hermes hoped Apollo was going to help.

End of chpr 9

Half-Life

Summary: My first written story for Gigan and Showa Ghidorah. Gigan is trying so hard to go the honest route in earning Ghidorah’s forgiveness, but one’s true nature will always come to light eventually.

-

Never before has he felt so frustrated over one person...

Or was it three people...?

Eh, it was one person, all three heads spoke as if they were one, so...

He’s getting off track. He casted a glare at the golden dragon, wasting his time destroying plants of all things. This planet drew the serpent in with the promise of life, but the only life here were boring ass plants. Ghidorah didn’t seem to care, he was wiping them out anyway like it was the only thing he could think of.

Gigan wondered if there was anything else better for this three-headed asshole to do.

Guess he shouldn’t expect different. He heard about Ghidorah through his masters. He knew the dragon was created by another race, specifically to destroy. Not that different from himself, actually. He still remembered the days in the nest, back when he was all flesh. And fluff. And eyeball. And more fluff.

He would rather not be reminded of how cloyingly cute he looked, but alas, his masters thought it necessary to keep baby photos of him. And download them into his memories, never to be erased...

Point was!! He used to be mortal, whole, before he was old enough to leave the nest for his first hunt. He never got to enjoy that first hunt, for his Masters came and took him. Changed him. Kept him under that blasted mind-control Ghidorah hated so much. Blamed him for.

As if it was his fault. He wasn’t the one who studied Ghidorah’s creation. He wasn’t the one that got the bright idea to enslave him. Sure he was involved in his capture, but it wasn’t like he was in control of that.

The damn dragon and his damn grudges.

Not that different from himself, actually. Gigan can hold a mean grudge if he ever cared enough to.

Hell, he would probably hate Ghidorah more if it wasn’t for their shared past. Both created, made the way they are, by unnatural means. Both had their Masters destroyed (though from Gigan heard, it was Ghidorah that turned on his own creators, as well as destroyed Gigan’s Masters as revenge). Both were free of the mind-control and free to do and roam as they please.

And here Gigan is, spending that freedom following a dragon that didn’t even want him there.

But it’ll be worth it. He was never one to take “no” for an answer, and he admits, he saw something in Ghidorah. Perhaps it was his massive wings, resembling his own sails but much larger. Or perhaps, it was the gold scales that resembled the original gold feathering of his species. They were beautiful, the way they caught the light, as if from a well-preened female.

Gigan lost his own gleaming feathers a long time ago, gone was the last remnants of what he truly was. In the back of his mind, he wondered if THAT was the true reason why Ghidorah didn’t lust for him the same way.

He shook his head. He knew that was bullshit. He’s been following this dragon long enough to see that he showed no such interest in ANYONE. Not even fellow dragons, it seems, ones that resembled him far more than any other lifeforms he had stored in his memory’s database. No doubt, those draconian creatures served as blue-prints for Ghidorah’s creation. But even then, Gigan saw no courtship behavior, no attempt at casual conversation even. No interest outside of the usual “kill them all”.

Gigan loved the kill as much as the next person, but Ghidorah REALLY needed a hobby.

“Hey,” he called out from his seat upon a sizeable pile of boulders, his voice holding a mechanical edge to it. Ghidorah’s response to his voice was immediate and already full of tension so thick, Gigan can slice through it.

“Leave me alone.” Those words again, Gigan’s heard it plenty and it just sounded like noise to him at this point. So he ignores it, as he gave a casual stretch of his arms and tail, before leaning back on the larger rock behind him.

"Whaddya say we get outta here and go to the bar? Grab some drinks, have some fun. Kill a few folks."

"No."

"Heh, bet you don't even know what the bar is."

"Nor do I need to know." Ghidorah hissed, clearly not amused by the cyborg’s playful tone as he turned back to the forest blazing around him. “If you’re there, I want no part of it.”

Gigan frowned, but he doesn’t lose his cool yet. This was all a game of patience, a battle of wills, and he will not be the first to break. He will continue to wear this dragon down until he gives in. 

“You’re destroying plants, of all things!” he pushed. “The bar is a much better time than this place. I’ve sharpened these bad boys-” He lifted the blades on his arms for emphasis. “-for the past hour just hoping for something interesting to happen.”

“Then go,” Ghidorah grunted. “Do something useful for once and stop distracting me with your half-life.”

“Oh~?” Well, this was new and served as a confidence boost as he pulled himself up from his seat and stepped over towards the golden dragon. “I’m distracting you, am I? Tell me more about my ‘half-life’ then.”

Ghidorah’s left-most head turned to glare at him, while the other two Gravity Beamed the forest around them.

“I grow tired of having to filter out your presence when I’m looking for new victims to destroy. My crests constantly detecting you and throwing off my hunt for lives more worthy of my time than you will ever be.”

“More worthy?!” He shouldn’t feel so insulted by that, but he does. Especially when the three-headed monster turned away fully. “These are nothing but damn trees you’re wasting time on! They don’t even scream and you think this is more fun than I am?!”

“These trees,” Ghidorah continued without even looking at him. “It gives me great pleasure to snuff out their life-force. They scream in their own way. You, on the other wing, only give me annoyance with your constant blabbering and useless ‘apologies’.”

“Useless apologies?!” Gigan sputtered, his sails fanning open wider with indignation. “You’re lucky you’re getting ANY apologies from me! You know how many others I’ve apologized to? A grand total of ZERO!! But, nooo, apparently that’s not good enough for you!”

“Because I know what a real apology looks like,” Ghidorah growled. “I have seen many who fall at my feet, seeking forgiveness for whatever crime they felt they committed to earn the fate I bestowed on them. I see more genuine regret from those pitiful creatures than I see in you.” 

Gigan said nothing for a long moment, the red glow of his eye growing brighter as his anger begins to build. But his voice remains calm.

“So basically, you want me to beg at your feet.”

Ghidorah turned his heads again, watching him for a moment before a cruel look grows upon all three of his faces, his own red eyes gleaming.

“That would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

The cyborg’s tail tip clicked loudly with agitation before he broke eye contact. He should just leave, track the dragon down another day and avoid this bullshit altogether. But if this is what he had to do to finally make some sort of progress...

Ghidorah better be the best lay he ever had.

Swallowing his pride, he stepped closer and with another moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself down. One knee, then both knees. All three of his sails flatten to his back. It was the single hardest thing he’s ever done, and he dared not look up at the dragon. He didn’t want his embarrassment to be seen on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled through his teeth.

“For what?” Ghidorah pressed and Gigan’s tail tip gives another sharp spin. It takes another moment to respond, resisting his body’s urge to upper-cut the tip of his blade into one of those stupid chins. But he doesn’t and his voice softens.

“For what my Masters did. For what I did. I wasn’t in control, but I’m sorry anyway.”

“Hm...” was the only response he got and he finally gives a single glance towards those three faces. And no sooner than he did that than a golden foot slams itself right into his exposed chin and throat, causing him to fall back. He was stunned for a moment, his senses both organic and mechanic struggled to get back online. He almost missed the words being shot at him with venom. “As if I will ever accept anyone’s apologies, much less yours.”

.....

The amount of sheer rage that boils from within his core was unbearable. This game, he lost it. He broke as he pushes himself up with his elbows to glare seethingly at this good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit lizard!

“That’s it! I tried playing the nice guy with you, but I’m done.” He pushes himself to his feet, storming over to the three-headed asshole who stands his ground. “I’m done with your damn attitude!!”

“Then leave, or die.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m not leaving empty-handed. I’m getting what I want, whether you like it or not!”

He swiped for Ghidorah’s middle head with a scythe, the dragon pulling back with the slightest of nicks. Without hesitation, he slammed all three heads into Gigan’s chest to push him away. But the cyborg was not so easily swayed, as he kept his footing and jumped for him with an arm raised. His sights remained on the dragon’s middle head and he just needed one good hit to-

A Gravity Beam met his chest, causing him to fall to the ground. More beams around him brought rubble exploding from the ground and onto his face and chest. Before he can recover, he felt a heavy weight crash onto him, Ghidorah’s feet planted on his shoulders, wisely avoiding the buzzsaw on Gigan’s chest.

Those red eyes glared down at him, those three mouths opening to no doubt unleash another blast of energy. Gigan wasn’t giving him the chance and lifted his tail up, lunging it forward to stab the end into the dragon’s back.

This got a shriek, as a spray of blood escapes from the wound. Gigan gathered his strength, pulling his tail back to get Ghidorah’s weight off his shoulders. He shifted to get to his feet and swung a blade towards the middle head, but it struck the side head that thrashed in the way.

But Ghidorah can’t pull away from Gigan’s grip, those sharp ends fastening onto his spine. One wrong move would cause irreversible damage and clearly, Ghidorah was unused to having blood drawn. Those scales were hard and durable but even they were no match for the weapons the cyborg yielded. 

Such a shame though, that he had to stain those beautiful scales.

It’ll be worth it though, as he makes another swipe and successfully landed the tip of his blade directly into the base of Ghidorah’s middle skull, behind the horns where his mane met scales.

Got it!

The jolt that went through the dragon’s body can be felt, and Gigan couldn’t stop a smirk on his face as he met the wide eyes of his newest victim.

“What’s wrong, Ghiddy? Did you forget?” He opened the blades of his tail tip, and pulled his tail free of Ghidorah’s back violently, with another spray of blood. Ghidorah lets out another shriek, but he doesn’t run. “I know far more about you than you’re willing to admit. Have you never wondered how I’m able to track you down so well? You think being mind-controlled left you unscarred?”

The cyborg struck again with a blade; this time, across the dragon’s chest to draw more blood, causing Ghidorah to stumble backwards. Gigan snickered, stepping forward.

“You still have that chip,” He lifted a scythe once more, tapping the pointed tip right into the wound he left in Ghidorah’s head. He can see the blood already beginning to mat into that oh-so-luxurious mane. “The same chip my Masters and I activated when we first met, remember? Of course you do, that’s why you never tried to kill me, huh? Because you knew that I can do it all over again.” 

The blade tenderly moved from the wound left down to the dragon’s mane and all the way down that neck, tracing the dragon’s blood onto those scales. “I wanted to go the honest route for once, thought you would be worth the trouble. Figured it was the least I could do.”

Ghidorah still does nothing to fight back, even when Gigan kicked him and sent him crashing down onto his wounded back. Another shriek escapes, but this one was filled with anger. Gigan can see it, the way the dragon’s muscles convulsed beneath those scales. Ghidorah was fighting the chip, a battle sure to be lost.

“I guess I should thank your Masters as well as my own,” Gigan continued as the dragon carried on his mental struggle to keep control. “For being a rather stupid bunch, they chose such a strategic spot to ensure you can NEVER truly be free. For all your grandeur, you always were just a pawn for someone else. Even without the mind-control, all you’ve ever done was follow the programming given to you like a goddamn robot. Yet you call me the half-life?”

He planted a foot onto Ghidorah’s chest, staring down at those six eyes that began to lose focus. “Well, this ‘half-life’ owns you now. So let the fun begin~.”

Survey #420

lol blaze it (i’m funny i swear)

In your opinion, which fast food place has the best fries? Without a doubt, Bojangle's. Good. Shit. Are there hurricanes where you live? Yeah, they're common here. What do you hate the most about yourself? I'd really rather not get into this right about now. What song are you listening to right now? "Beast of Gévaudan" by Powerwolf. What was your first concert? Alice Cooper. Also my only concert. What’s your favorite Johnny Depp movie? Alice In Wonderland. Who did you last say “I love you” to? My sister. Do you like pumpkin pie? Anything pumpkin-flavored is a hell no from me. Do you know anyone named Austin? Knew, rather. Do you know anyone who is having a baby? My friend recently announced she and her husband are having their second child in December. What was the last thing you cried about? Just PTSD. Do you prefer regular or chocolate milk? I like both, but I prefer chocolate. Do you think you are an argumentative person? Definitely not. How many deep dark secrets do you have? Two or so, idk. What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten? Some wings at Buffalo Wild Wings with one of the hottest sauces. Wanted to die. ... Yet I continued to get that one whenever I went for years lmao. Who last called you sexy? I don't know. Would you class yourself as a good role model? In some ways, but in a lot of other ways, no. Are you scared of the dark? No. Do you have a motto? No. Who did you last see on webcam? The doctor that overlooks my TMS progress. Do you need a haircut? I need a trim for sure. How would you react if your mother told you that she was pregnant again? Well, considering 1.) she's way past menopause and especially 2.) she's had a complete hysterectomy, y'know... that's kind of impossible. She also hasn't been with a guy in many years, so she would have to be joking. You log into Facebook and see the red ‘1’ notification next to the message icon. Who do you want it to be? -___- Would you rather exercise alone or with other people? ALONE. You will NOT see me exercise in front of other people. What is the most difficult or involved video game you’ve ever played? The most involved is DEFINITELY World of Warcraft, and I guess you could consider it the hardest too, given some of the much more difficult things I've done in it. It itself isn't a hard game whatsoever, but you can pursue some really hard achievements. Ever watch the show Supernatural? If you have, then what’s your favorite episode? I used to love it, but just stopped watching eventually. My fave episode... Man, it's been too long to remember many. Probably one of the funnier ones. I remember I specifically liked the bit where they were in your everyday comedy show, as well as the one where I THINK Dean kept trying to prevent Sam from dying. I just remember the "Eye of the Tiger" bit that is pure gold. Ever heard of flavored honey? If so, what’s you’re favorite flavor? Oh, no, but that sounds good. Do you remember what your favorite show was when you were little? Yeah, Pokemon. Do you put anything besides cheese on grilled cheese sandwiches? Besides butter, which I think is pretty standard, no. When it comes to books, what do you think is the “perfect” amount of pages? Uh, I dunno. It depends on the book. I don't really care about page numbers. Would you ever be interested in going scuba diving? Yeah. Out of all of your friends/relatives, who would you say has the best vocabulary? Girt, probably. Are any of your fingers or toes deformed? What about the nails? I don't think so? When is the last time you cried? I was sobbing earlier today, fun stuff. Would you ever date somebody that has been divorced more than once? Most likely not. ESPECIALLY at my age. What are some stereotypically nerdy things that you like? Oh god. WoW, M:tG, big glasses, anime (does that count? idk really), video games... a lot of stuff, really. Have you ever attended a wedding that ended where the bride and groom didn’t actually get married? What happened? Y I K E S, no. That would be SO uncomf. What scares you the most about becoming a mother (hypothetically, if you don’t want to have children)? Actually raising it properly, physically and emotionally. Would you ever want a job in fashion? What would you enjoy about that type of job? No. Would you ever be a surrogate mother? No. What do you think would be the best and worst parts about being a twin? It'd be cool to have someone you feel an almost supernatural connection towards, but I'd also feel like I wasn't as "original" as I would be if I was born alone. Do you feel that your childhood was more rough compared to others around you? I mean it wasn't awful at all, but sure, in some ways compared to at least someone. How would you react if you found out today that you were actually adopted? Well today I'm a wreck, so don't tell me. I want to know that I wasn't lied to for 25 years. Have either of your parents ever cheated on one another before, that you know of? How would you react if you found out today that one of them cheated? I'm not entirely clear on this, but I'm 90% sure Dad cheated on Mom with his now-wife. Dad also accused Mom of cheating, but I HIGHLY doubt that's true. Do you like cleaning and organizing? Not really. How would you react if you found out you were infertile? If you don’t plan on having kids to begin with, what is a long-term goal you’d be crushed to find out was impossible to achieve? Fuck having kids. I'd be a terrible mother. So to answer the other question, I'll be pretty, pretty sad if I can't get permission to spread Teddy's ashes at Yellowstone. Would you take your dream job if it were out of the country? Well, obviously not considering my dream job is a meerkat biologist, and I'm not moving to Africa. Have you ever been robbed? No. Is anyone close to you an alcoholic? Not anymore. Dad was, but he's recovered. Have you ever dumped anyone? Yes. What kind of tea do you drink? I hate tea. Do you know anyone in a gang? No, and I hope I never do. What’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you? Risk his fucking sanity and health to try to hold my fucked up self up. What is your orientation? Gay? Straight? Metrosexual? Anything other? Bisexual. I've kinda been questioning pansexual of the late, though. I don't know. Have you ever done anything really dangerous or illegal with friends? Not to my memory. Name three feelings you’re feeling right now: Regret. Hopelessness. Loneliness. And the reasons for these feelings? Take a wild fuckin' guess. How do you feel about your life right now? It's an actual dumpster fire. Is it easy for you to like yourself? Why or why not? Fuck no. Because there's just not very much TO like about me. Even on my good days, I see flaw after flaw in myself. What subjects come naturally to you? English, some aspects of science. What subjects do not? Math, economics, politics, history... Do you read more fiction or more non-fiction books? Definitely fiction. When I read a book, I want an escape from the real world. How has today been for you? BOY HOWDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What did you do? Went to TMS therapy. Sat on the Internet. Cried. :^) Are there any candles lit in the room you’re in? No. Are there any lava lamps near you? No. I want one, though. Do you like cats or dogs better? Cats. Are any of your friends a pothead? Yes. What’s a goal you’re trying to accomplish soon? Start losing weight again. That'd be pretty goddamn grand. Are you a high maintenance person? Definitely not. The last time you yelled as loud as you could, what was the reason? I was having a nightmare. Have you ever been heartbroken? For sure. Who did that to you? First Dad, then Jason. Did you go through an ugly stage as a kid? Boy, did I. The last type of sandwich you made or ate: A pb&j. The last time you spent most of the day in bed: Literally every day. I do just about everything in bed. Pathetic, I know. The last friend or acquaintance you made: Ummmm idk. The last thing you took pictures of: A hydrangea bush. The last time you were scared: Now. The future is terrifying, my friend. The last thing you looked up online: The definition of a word to ensure I was using it correctly. The last thing you disagreed with: So I've been watching John Wolfe's old stream of him playing Alice: Madness Returns, and he went on a total soapbox about smoking being okay essentially because we're all gonna die eventually from something, and I really disagreed with it. Does your house have a separate laundry room? No, just like a closet. Do your parents still help you financially? I'm still entirely dependent on them. Does your car have a backup camera? No. Have either of your parents ever been in trouble with the law? Not to my knowledge. Have you ever had a pet that lived to be really old for its breed/species? REALLY old, no. Teddy was definitely up there, but beagles have lived longer. What was the last strong scent you smelled? Lysol. Have you ever told someone to their face that they were ugly? Christ, no. Is your bed against more than one of your walls? No. Have you ever been attracted to someone’s parent? Don't think so? Have you ever pole danced before? No. Have you ever broken into someone’s house? No. Have you ever seen a live bat? Yes. What is the most amount of money you’ve spent on a meal before? I dunno. Have you ever taken a woodshop class? No. How much time do you spend on Facebook, if you have one? Funny you ask, because as of today I decided to take a break from it for awhile. I've found it's nothing more than a breeding ground for envy and making me feel like a horribly incompetent adult. Has a teacher ever made you hate yourself/your work? I had one photography teacher in college that I was NOT a fan of. He was super, super hard on everyone, like to an unnecessary degree. We were students, not pros. Have you ever been on the barrier or front row at a concert? No. Are your parents supportive of you? Somehow.

Being in a medical field, I’ve always had a morbid curiosity about Hordak’s defects. And I think it’s high time I made a proper list, don’t y’all? 

Come. It’ll be fun! 

kind of I mean it’s kind of depressing to look at it all in one go but whatever let’s go!

**

Altered Pigmentation/Possible Scarring

We now know that a Horde clone should have a white face and an otherwise blue-grey body. The white on Hordak’s trunk and arms shouldn’t be there, though whether the skin there is normal and simply missing color, or actually diseased, is unknown.

The darker blue, somewhat vein-like tissue located where white meets the normal blue-grey does look like it is legitimately abnormal. It is hard to say if this is diseased tissue, scar tissue, or some other problematic lesion. It may be directly due to the defect, or perhaps it is a result of attempts at self-cure. 

Cachexia (vs. Emaciation)

Hordak has the typical look of what should be a fairly large humanoid man who has lost a severe amount of weight and muscle mass. The bones of his arms, his spinous processes, and his ribs, are overly visible. One can also appreciate the odd-looking, sharp definition of his shoulders: this exists because his arm, neck, and shoulder muscles have wasted significantly, leaving the bones very sharp and prominent. This gives the illusion of large shoulders, when really, his limbs are so wasted, that the clavicles and shoulder bones simply overshadow them.

Emaciation refers to severe weight loss, involving both fat and muscle, due to starvation or malnutrition. Generally, fat is lost prior to muscle, as this is a condition caused by inadequate caloric and nutrient uptake. It can be a result of simply not getting enough food, or of not being able to digest and absorb that food properly. Once the lack of nutrients is addressed, emaciation can be reversed.

Cachexia, on the other hand, refers to severe weight loss involving predominantly skeletal muscle tissue that is not entirely responsive to appropriate nutrition. This is a complex syndrome that is associated with multiple serious illnesses in humans, including but not limited to muscular dystrophy, neurodegenerative diseases, congestive heart failure, chronic kidney disease, and cancer. It differs from emaciation in that it is not predominantly due to inadequate nutritional intake, but rather due to metabolic changes caused by various illnesses. Even with good nutrition, it cannot be entirely reversed.

It’s hard to be absolutely certain which issue Hordak suffers from, but given that Horde nutrition is likely efficient and complete, I’d guess that the defect causes cachexia rather than emaciation. Even if Hordak had issues digesting nutrients, I’m sure he could find a way to intravenously feed himself. Such feeding, however, would not be able to fully address cachexia.

The predominant symptom of cachexia would be weakness, though more dangerous issues can occur as certain muscles are affected: if throat muscles or the diaphragm are affected, swallowing and breathing issues can occur.

Muscular Atrophy and/or Aplasia

Hordak is missing a significant number of muscles in his forearms, along with the interosseous membrane that should be connecting his radius and ulna. I’ve got a lovely post specifically about this right here. to be brief: he is missing the muscles that would allow him to move his hands and fingers. The nerves and blood vessels crossing that region are also either missing or moved to run along his bones, leading to potential vulnerabilities. 

It is uncertain, as of now, if these missing tissues are the result of atrophy or aplasia. Atrophy refers to a tissue wasting away, while aplasia indicates that the tissues never formed in the first place. Either way, the clinical signs are likely similar: inability to perform the movements said muscles are responsible for. In addition, his arms are likely more fragile due to the missing muscle and connective tissues. His ability to lift heavier objects is probably impaired without technology, while an enemy’s ability to seriously injure his forearms is likely higher.

I suspect he’s using internal cybernetics to compensate for this when bare-armed, while the armor provides him with appropriate strength for all of his rage-throwing needs. 

Altered Mucous Membrane/Ocular Pigmentation

I am putting one fucking cute picture of him in here you can’t stop me

Hordak’s red eyes and mouth are, according to one of the character designers, part of his defect. Whether this is simply a coloration issue, or whether it is connected to his individuality and free will, remains to be seen. Likely something we’ll learn more about next season!

Syncope

At this point, we have witnessed Hordak suffer an episode of what appears to be syncope once.

Syncope is the medical term for what most know as “fainting” and can be defined as a sudden loss of consciousness due to transient inadequate blood flow, and thus oxygenation, to the brain. Recovery is generally spontaneous. Syncope is thus different from loss of consciousness due to other issues, such as seizures, low blood sugar, or stroke. Given that Hordak’s loss of consciousness was rapid, with likewise rapid recovery and no evidence of convulsions, it is likely that the episode was one of syncope, rather than a seizure or other issue.

While many different conditions can result in syncope, the cause can generally be divided into three main categories: reflex, orthostatic hypotension, and cardiovascular.

Reflex syncope is the most common kind and involves a neurologically-mediated drop in blood pressure. Some sort of trigger activates an inappropriate cardiovascular reflex via the autonomic nervous system (the part of our nervous system responsible for unconsciously regulating our bodily functions). For example: stimulation of certain nerves due to emotional stress, pain, coughing, or a variety of other triggers can lead to simultaneous vasodilation, decreased heartrate, and low blood pressure, resulting in interruption of cerebral blood flow and, therefore, syncope. This is the most common cause of syncope and what most people think of when imagining people fainting in fear, for example. 

Orthostatic hypotension refers specifically to a drop in blood pressure upon standing. While this is something that can, in mild form, happen to anyone, orthostatic hypotension is most often seen in the elderly and in those on certain medications or with certain medical conditions. It is essentially an issue caused by the body not being able to properly account for the blood pooling caused by gravity, leading to decreased blood flow to the brain and thus syncope.

Cardiac syncope encompasses loss of consciousness caused by a failure of the heart itself to pump blood to the brain, either due to structural defects in the heart, or due to cardiac arrhythmia that prevents efficient cardiac output. Low output leads to low blood flow to the brain, leads to syncope.

Given that Hordak was already up and standing when he fainted, orthostatic hypotension seems a less likely cause for his episode, though given that he raised his upper body suddenly, it is still possible. Both reflex syncope and cardiac syncope appear viable, though without physically examining him and/or knowing specifics on his cardiac health, it is impossible to tell what the true cause was. Given his emotional outburst, reflex syncope is a real possibility, but if his defect involves his heart in any way, altering either structure or rhythm, then cardiac syncope is likewise a reasonable differential. Or, if he’s particularly unlucky, he could potentially be at risk for suffering from syncope for multiple reasons, mediated by both neurological issues and cardiac problems.

**

Well! I think that about covers what we’ve seen at this point. I will say that it’s hard to put a specific name to Hordak’s condition (though I feel like some sort of neuromuscular disease or dystrophy, genetic or otherwise, appears likely) without knowing all of the specific ins and outs of his issues, but this list at least covers the visible, clinical signs.

I didn’t really go into the armor-related shocks that he experiences in times of over-activity or stress, as these seem less biological and more mechanical in nature and can likely be mediated by improvements to his armor. 

As the series goes on, I’ll likely update this post with additional information, if we get any! For now, I hope it serves as a fun curiosity for some of you, or even a writing resource, if desired. Enjoy!

where do churches come from?

A schism, most simply, is a division. In church parlance, it refers to one group separating from another. Considered theologically, it is often framed in such a way that there is One Church, and a schism always entails some group separating itself from that Church. A schism can be driven by heresy--a difference of conviction--but it is always political.

When we talk about church history, certain schisms tend to stand out. In the fifth century, there were schisms that separated the Church of the East and the various non-Chalcedonian communions (Coptic, Armenian, etc.) from what we might loosely call the Catholic Church, or the Church of the Roman Empire. In the 11th century, there was the famous schism between what became known as the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches. And in the 16th century, there was the Protestant Reformation, which expressed itself in a series of schisms from the Catholic Church. Schism is often how separate "churches" form (I've already written about our problematic way of talking about such things), but it doesn't always go that far. A schism is a bit like an Ecumenical Council, in the sense that you don't necessarily know what kind you're dealing with until well after the fact. In this regard, it might help to consider two notable schisms currently ongoing within the Eastern Orthodox Church--one that probably won't amount to much, and one that could.

The first schism is between the Patriarchs of Antioch and Jerusalem. For several years now, they've been in a jurisdictional dispute about who has canonical authority over the Persian Gulf region. It involves a rather small number of faithful in a territory that has not had much Orthodox presence for many centuries. The Patriarchs don't commemorate each other and don't celebrate communion together, but that's about as far as it goes. It's meant as an expression that something is not right between them, and rather than brush their problems under the rug and act like everything's fine, they'll refrain from these symbols of unity until their issues can be resolved. But a layperson of the Antiochian jurisdiction can receive communion in Jerusalem, and even a priest or deacon can serve in the altar. I would guess that most of the faithful don't even know the schism exists. And this is probably typical of most schisms in their beginnings.

The second schism is between the Patriarchs of Constantinople and Moscow. It expresses a division that has been growing over decades, but it didn't formally start until 2018. Both claimed jurisdiction over the Orthodox Church in Ukraine but took different approaches to resolving its internal problems. The result was an establishment of parallel churches--one autonomous under Moscow, the other autocephalous (fully independent). Moscow views Ukraine as integral to the historic identity of the Russian Church, and its response was to withdraw from communion with Constantinople and pretty much anyone else who supported the autocephalous church structure it set up in Ukraine. And that goes all the way down to banning its priests, deacons, and laypeople from intercommunion, which is decidedly atypical. While there is no real issue of heresy per se, there are some pretty serious differences, and both sides seem quite entrenched. Given the organizational weakness of the Orthodox Church, I think it could evolve into a more permanent schism if left to run its course.

Now, what these two schisms have in common (at least for now) is that they are decidedly treated as schisms within the Orthodox Church. Even given the severity of the schism over Ukraine, no one else is participating. As far as I know, no other local Orthodox Church has broken communion with either side, and even Constantinople, for its part, has not broken communion with Moscow. So an Orthodox layperson under the Antiochian jurisdiction, for instance, can still receive communion in any other Orthodox church. Their clergy can concelebrate with Russian or Greek--just not both at the same time. So we would say definitively that the schism makes no theological difference--neither Constantinople nor Moscow has somehow left the One Church by virtue of being out of communion with the other.

Now, how does this relate to past schisms? What happened in 1054 was specifically a mutual excommunication of persons. Rome excommunicated the Patriarch of Constantinople, who in turn excommunicated the papal legates--significant actions to be sure, but probably not readily obvious as the start of some permanent reconfiguration. It was likely another 150 years before the laity were specifically forbidden from receiving communion across the aisle, so to speak, and that only in the wake of the Fourth Crusade, when the Latins seized Constantinople itself and set up their own churches in parallel with those of the East. Whatever differences of faith and practice may have existed before and after 1054, it was fundamentally the political climate that determined where one could receive the grace of the Church, not any clear spiritual boundary line.

We can talk in various ways about someone as being either Catholic or Orthodox, so long as we recognize what we're really saying. If the Orthodox Church is understood historically as the church of the Byzantine Empire, then a person born, raised, and living in Constantinople in the 12th century was probably Orthodox. But what if he moved to Rome? Would that suddenly make him Catholic? What would have to happen to change his identity? And is this just a historical question? Would our Byzantine abroad even have thought about it as a spiritual distinction?

Or what about a Latin soldier who came east with the Fourth Crusade, took part in the attack on Constantinople when he thought it was just to restore the rightful heir to the throne, but later sympathized with the Byzantines and chose to attend one of their churches? Was there a process for him to "convert"? Would such a thing even have occurred to anyone? Would it have been possible at that point in history?

Or what about today? If I was born and raised Protestant but "converted" as an adult to the Orthodox Church, what is my relationship to Rome? Am I supposed to have been Catholic all along? Am I somehow Western by birth but Eastern by choice? If I chose to become Catholic, I would be accepted by a simple profession of faith because I'm Orthodox. Would I then be Melkite Catholic so as to preserve my Eastern heritage? I'm an American convert from an American convert parish--what is the real significance of my Arab patrimony?

And speaking of which, what about the 18th century schism among the Arab Melkite Christians? Those who accepted Western support against Ottoman oppression became Catholic, while those who aligned with the Greek establishment in Constantinople were called Orthodox. Three centuries later, where is the substantive difference in their faith or practice? That one is theoretically in communion with all other Catholics and the other with all other Orthodox? That family allegiance marks them as one or the other? Where does this distinction put them with regard to the One Church?

So if we come at the question historically, I think it becomes difficult to rigidly identify the One (Holy, Catholic, Apostolic) Church with a specific institution. Divisions arise for many different reasons, and their interpretation depends on many different factors. Yes, everyone generally agrees right now to talk about Russian, Greek, Romanian, and Serbian Orthodox as all part of one Eastern Orthodox Church, and Roman, Ukrainian, and Melkite Catholic as all part of one Catholic Church. But the alignments and disputes over the centuries that have contributed to this picture seem to require only small nudges one way or another to have produced different results. Assigning theological weight to such historical details seems contrived.

And what makes matters worse is the force of inertia that seems to resist most efforts at reconciliation. After 15 centuries of separation, quite a few theologians have concluded that the doctrinal bases for schism between Chalcedonian and non-Chalcedonian Orthodox were minimal or non-existent. Political motivations have shifted to the point that it's probably in their interest to restore communion, but that's a lot of historical identity to overcome. On the other end of things, the two sides in the comparatively recent Melkite schism have almost everything in common and seem quite open to some sort of restoration; but relations with the broader Catholic and Orthodox Churches make it difficult to progress on the local level. And however promising overtures toward Catholic and Orthodox reconciliation might seem, it's difficult to envision a scenario that wouldn't split each Orthodox church down the middle and just exacerbate the divisions. Such reticence is understandable, I suppose, and only human--but as a basis for theological claims about where the One Church might reside, it seems pretty flimsy.

So all of this has me taking my identity as Eastern Orthodox much less seriously than I used to. Not that I feel inclined to give it up--I just don't know where the boundaries are, or even if I care. I've always known that these terms we use--One, Holy, Catholic, Apostolic, even Orthodox--are generically applicable to the claims of other apostolic churches (Catholic, Coptic, Armenian, etc.); but the reality seems similarly messy. We can't reduce it to One Church, excluding all else, or to various churches as branches of a whole. For me, it helps to think in terms of schisms, as they evolve through different historical moments and perceptions and prejudices and identities. If these divisions depended on human choices and actions in their formation, who's to say we couldn't end them just by changing our minds?

Headcanon/Divergence? [1] (Yosano): Childhood, The Great War, and life after the war.

Initial disclaimer and semi-related note(s)–

So if part of this looks familiar to you, that’s probably because you read it before in its original, rudimentary state. I have quite a few regrets of impulsively deleting my Yosano blog (vivificamortem) tbh due to having an episode, and one of them was not saving the original post of this when I first wrote it. That being said I still think it’s important enough to warrant a rewrite even if I don’t exactly recall the specifics. As this eventually becomes very Fukuzawa and Ranpo orientated/centric, I just want to make it clear this will not apply to your respective muses of these two unless we discuss it. These are considered backstory supplements and characterizations of Yosano and Yosano’s main verse. She does not have mains for Ranpo or Fukuzawa at this time, and I usually... don’t do mains? But for specifics like this, this would probably apply to potential, future mains and warrant mains of these two. If that makes sense. Anyway. This will also include a bunch of new HC details I didn’t have before.

I was going to be mean and not put this under a cut lol but I’ll be merciful since it is extremely thorough and lengthy. 2,300+ words lengthy, and that’s not including this disclaimer. I know I asked people to read this once finished but realistically I cannot ask that in good conscious unless you are genuinely interested/care and actually are into BSD lol. Fleshed out details+conceptualized explanations/characterization below. Content/mention warnings for suicide ideation + attempts, and neglect.

CHILDHOOD

Yosano was an only child. She was not a beloved child, a planned child, nor a wanted child. Her parents would have been inclined to give her away instantly had they not compromised to raise her as a sort of... ‘help’ for the couple’s wagashi shop. It was a regret far before the first sleepless night when she was a baby, but they decided to grin and bear it. Raising Yosano was an arduous task and they made it very clear in how they behaved toward her as she was growing up. Saying that she was simply neglected wouldn’t even begin to describe it. In response to this, as a young girl Yosano developed a loud, brash personality that would more often than not get her in trouble both at school and with her parents. Being punished was never fun, but at least it garnered their attention for a little while before they went back to essentially ignoring her presence. Her adapted personality would not lead to any fruition for her lonely soul at school either, most kids finding her annoying, scary, or would simply view her in scorn for being so outspoken and strange. She began to believe the outlook of her parents: her only use was to be a shopkeep of the family business. The girl debated with herself often what was the worth of life, what was the point to live, if not to live and be frowned down upon at every other moment. Troubled and depressed, Yosano tries her hardest to cope, keeping her chin up but her eyes glued to the floor when in seclusion.

At some point or another Yosano and her parents find out about her ability and the extent of it all. It freaks Yosano out at the start, thinking about how ridiculous it is that someone who contemplated on a daily basis what they truly benefited out of being alive could potentially alter the fate of someone’s life and grant them a second chance. Then for once, she finds worth in herself. It wasn’t something she could actively go and show off of course, but it gave her a purpose. Her dramatized exterior of self-entitlement and loudmouthedness proceeds on of course, but her outlook begins to shift. She has hope. She can do something good for people. And have a (figurative) place doing so. 

This new purpose was an open door opportunity not only for Yosano, but her parents as well. At the first opportunity to do so as they are tired of taking care of this child, they’re quick to send her off, knowing how valuable that ability and its potential was. In this case, it was the military (either catching wind of her ability or deciding to now call on her due to the necessary role in their war strategy) demanding for Yosano to take part personally. It was a ridiculously easy feat to get their permission to send her away. She was technically no longer their responsibility while she was away. Hell, they hoped she would never come back.

She wouldn’t. And that was that. That was the last time she ever saw and would be in contact with her parents.

THE GREAT WAR

It’s worth reminding everyone that Yosano was a child, and the gravity of her new circumstances didn’t quite dawn on her before it was too late. At the start, she was excited to show that she could have worth and be surrounded by people that would appreciate her for what she did. It would be the first time in all of her life that would happen. And it is for these very reasons that she has such strong, genuine, sincere reactions during the chapters/times she is midst the war. While maintaining her semi huffy and self-imposed air, she was also able to allow it to falter a little because for once, she didn’t need to resort to that to be paid attention to. In their initial praise, it did freak her out at first, the foreignness being so strange to her. But she appreciated it, she truly did. (Note: this obviously doesn’t apply to Mori lol.) The unnamed soldier that Yosano interacts with at this time especially strikes a chord with her. His kindness makes her think that maybe if she was fortunate enough, she would have liked to have someone like that as a brother. Maybe someone like that could have stopped the pain she’d endured with her parents. But that was in the past! He was lending her more toward the perspective of hope just as he told her that she was doing for him and the other soldiers. The creation of the butterfly clip, again, freaks her out because she’s unsure how to react to kind gestures. It is the first of its kind– a present, meaningful in its weight and sentiment in a way that she would learn later would continue to influence her life in various, monumental ways. His present interest in poetry is also something that Yosano would find herself enjoying, too. At the time.

Honestly, I really don’t even think it’s worth elaborating on Mori cause. Well. That whole ordeal speaks for itself. His manipulation and obsession grosses her out at its minimum / start and would later be the colossal trigger and collapse of her mental stability and lead to lasting trauma even as an adult. But anyways, back to other details worth note in this timeframe.

The war efforts proceed and we reach the point where things are looking grim and soldiers are getting near fatally injured faster, and coming back in droves. She realizes rather quickly that she bit off more than she can chew; to have to bear witness to these men being on the brink of death and quickly ‘revive’ them like some sort of automated robot would, naturally, mess up anyone. Her haughty behavior drops quickly as she becomes more quiet, tired, horror creeping up her body gradually in the form of slowly raising goosebumps. She’s wondering when the war will be over, and starts to second guess her purpose. Is what she’s doing right? But she’s not hit rock bottom, not yet at least, as the unnamed soldier reassures her the second instance. He relays how her saving him would bring him back to his family. He tells her: “I’m glad that you’re here.” And it makes way for Yosano’s first instance of ever crying in front of someone, feeling an overwhelming amount of gratitude to being seen and the need to trudge forward to protect. Protect those who had a life to return to. He’d been living proof of the importance of life– that life wasn’t always so cruel to others, that she had a chance to be surrounded by those who cared about her too. She cries in her vulnerability.

Things turn for the worst. Every day is a living nightmare. She can wipe away blood from her body, others’ body, but she will never be clean of the endless pools of blood that stained her hands after her treatments. Even at the age of 11, she comes to the realization that she is the single force that shackles all these people to the torture of having to throw themselves into battle again and again for futile efforts. She’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown constantly, but consoles herself with the thought that the unnamed soldier will be able to tell her it’s alright, maybe even help her figure out a way to get them all out of there. Yosano doesn’t want her ability, hell, she’d opt to having no purpose over this. She would trade her life for all of these people. She just needed this to stop. It’s all her fault. 

The person who was the embodiment of her last shred of sanity and piece of hope commits suicide and dubs her the Angel of Death, and that was her final breaking point. The sliver of belief that providing good for people and having a purpose is ultimately gone. Her worldview that she started to have hope for shatters. It was a cumulative, gradual raise of hope for a better life to have it all smashed to the ground. This tied in with the actual events she lived through, clearly, do not help. Trauma blocks it out of her memory later on, but there are plentiful, deliberate suicide attempts from the young girl afterward, wanting out of this hell that her own hands allowed to bear fruit, but for various circumstances and reasons, her attempts would not work and/or she would simply not be allowed to die at Mori’s hands. She is a hysterical, screaming, crying mess until she is no longer able to cry anymore. If not suicide, then alternative methods. Yosano would attempt to blow the ship up with the explosives that were stored at the bottom – it would have been a far crueler end than prolonging everyone’s destined death, but ultimately fails at that as well. 

LIFE AFTER THE WAR

She is apprehended and taken away to an institution where she spends three years in a void of a space, living on earth as if her spirit has long been faded. She is a shell of a person, succumbed to her own despair and doing the absolute bare minimum. Humanity only ever makes itself present in jaded eyes that blink sometimes and the agonizingly slow rise and fall of her chest to indicate that somehow, she was breathing. Living, but not alive. Not really, anyway. She may as well be rotting away, unkempt, unpure, and wishing life would simply put her out of her misery. Devoid of any hope, feeling death would be a start of repenting for her crimes. But it was never that easy. Why would it be? 

Ranpo and Fukuzawa rescue her. We all know how that goes. Let’s touch on some details of after that. 

After rescuing her, the duo have Yosano reside with them in Fukuzawa’s apartment. While Ranpo and Fukuzawa managed to recover a glimmer of hope in Yosano by rescuing her alone, the hope is discarded as she feels she is unworthy of it and they essentially are put in a position where they have to rehabilitate her. These two people cared enough about her to try to help her– she can see it, despite going about like a walking corpse some days. But guilt is overbearing, suffocating, and it shakes her down with constant night terrors that she is too drained to scream at as well as frequent moments where she blacks out without prompting. At this time, the butterfly clip she dares not to remove from her person is a reminder, a grim heavy burden she forces herself to carry on her shoulders that she was not a good person and that this was her karma and hers alone. She should not forget that no matter how good intentioned Ranpo and Fukuzawa were to her. There was absolutely at least one more time she attempted to take her life. Needless to say, it’s a painstakingly slow process, taking about a full year before Yosano can even start to really improve outside of talking to them here and there. 

(I feel like this behavior / state is EXTREMELY similar to how Kyouka starts off as, too, so my Yosano would definitely take to Kyouka more strongly than some others. But that is an entirely different conversation for some other time.)

Once she gets to a point where she can process things again and forcing herself to come to terms with the fact that these two will simply not allow her to remain dormant, Ranpo takes to tutoring her to help get her back on track to where she left off in her schooling, as she was getting stable enough to where Fukuzawa had confidence she could get better. This process was also slow, but Ranpo is quite the good teacher when he wants to be! The endeavor is a success, and she is able to enroll again in public school, where she is still piecing together why she was granted this second chance at life. It feels pitifully ironic, all things considered. As time does, it also grants an opportunity for growth and change. Eventually, she gradually shakes her way out of her shell at snail’s pace. Some days were still harder than others, of course. Getting poetry assignments would make Yosano have full on anxiety attacks where the only solutions of getting her to calm down were to have Ranpo or Fukuzawa at her side, or if at school and neither were present, to be sent home. These instances lessened over time, thankfully, and the episodes would turn to bitter, depressing moments where Yosano would tense up and try to pass it off to Ranpo if she was able in a way that while seemed lukewarm in how she expressed it, certainly held its weight of obvious trauma. 

(She never liked to talk about her issues. Never. And instead almost always opted for distractions as her method of coping. It is a major flaw of hers that you can absolutely call her out for even in present time.)

Yosano will never truly return to being 100% normal, but that’s fine, as she really was never at 100% anyway. Schooling in its own right helped her cope with things and served as a distraction from negative thoughts, and she found herself enjoying it and studying harder than ever before. Assisting in the preliminaries of helping around the detective agency also allowed her to grow into the figurative seat that Ranpo saved just for her. No longer did she have to be abrasive to garner people’s attention, either, becoming more comfortable with an occasional snarky tongue when the situation allowed it, and slowly being allowed to live as herself for the first time. It was truly shocking to see that people liked her for her and not the potential of weaponizing the dangerous ability that she had. Once more was her ambition to help people reignited, but it would be done on her own terms. Compelled by her convictions as schooling was coming to a close, she decided that she would go to pursue higher education at a university while formally getting a degree to become a doctor. It is then when she got accepted that her new self would truly shine, becoming as close as she could to be at peace. This endeavor was sped up to lightning fast speeds because of her drilled in skill of being all the more studious and essentially holding the knowledge of what it entailed already.

Not necessarily integral details, but while in university, she did pick up the hobbies of taking up Kickboxing Classes as well as Dance Classes and are longstanding interests of hers that she maintains even after finishing her schooling. These, too, serve(d) as time slot distractions to keep her thoughts at bay when her mind decided to be a little cruel to her at some moments. Poetry no longer leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and is now a newfound interest of hers. She even writes poetry of her own at times. As of present time, her butterfly clip is still a symbol of burden she chooses to carry and a reminder, but it is also representative of metamorphosis, a chance at a new beginning– a new life. That there was value in life, and that you should live on for those who could not.

Dead Cells and the weight of small lives pt.2 (NPCs, the dead and alive)

Continuing from part 1, now that I’m refreshed, rested, and ready to continue this monster post. I finished off last post talking a bit about the way Prisoner acts onto NPCs and interact-able bodies, so this chunk is picking up with that in earnest.

Here is the thing. If you punt the corpse of an executed prisoner, that’s generally a dick move, so this is another place I feel like I can understand why people might get the takeaway Prisoner is kind of a jerk. But I feel like it’s worth examining, in detail, the kind of interactions he has.

The mechanics of Dead Cells are very focused on scavenging, looting, and a limited amount of buying your way forwards- and, spoken as someone starting to dip my toesies in the higher Stem Cell counts- thus, more difficult runs- any random encounter you can get items from is a godsend.

It’s also where you get a lot of the lore of the game, in random events- some of which will show up in multiple areas, others unique- that tell you about the world.

It’s in these interactions, mainly, that I see Prisoner characterized as a fairly compassionate guy with a morbid sense of humor, and I struggle to see him as a total uncaring asshole. To gloss over a large number of interactions, here’s some common threads:

Prisoner is fairly flippant about death / used to seeing corpses. He will also sometimes kick the bodies with his bare feet to make them drop items, which, as a fairly tactile sensitive person, the thought makes my soul depart my body. Kicked bodies are seldom visibly disturbed from their position by this, though they do drop items. 

He is not opposed to looting said corpses / prying useful items out of their hands, though he may comment on riffling through someone’s stuff being a social no-no while doing so.

At the same time, he far more often uses “personlike” language rather than “objectlike” language to describe the bodies (“this guy” “her” “him” “population”) with the main exception being interacting with a bloated, waterlogged corpse.

You can virtually always examine a lot more than what has money or weapons and Prisoner will have salient thoughts about it suggesting he is proving keenly observant and not specifically looking for loot and ignoring all else.

From here, I’ll go into several incidents I think are pretty noteworthy. 

A fair warning that these are quite morbid and discuss/depict the kinds of things people do when everything is falling apart and people are dying all around them, so, not exactly gentle reading.

1. The Flower Loving Prisoner

This is a fairly common encounter you can find in the Prisoners’ Quarters and Promenade, possibly other places. It is a small cell, with several points of interest, mostly being the large number of potted flowers and the small window. Poking around will have Prisoner note that the flowers “have been a bit underwatered recently” and that the fabric of the mattress was torn up and used elsewhere.

Specifically, for a noose- the person occupying this cell hung himself, and his corpse is holding a single flower in its hands.

For the room, Prisoner remarks “looks like this guy loved flowers.” For the body itself,

“Guess he wanted to choose the time of his death. He’s holding a faded flower between his fingers. A moment of silence… NAH! I’ve got better things to do!”

The “nah” is punctuated by him kicking the body, causing it to drop a necklace- but not the flower it’s holding.

So here’s the thing. This is a flippant action. At surface pass, Prisoner is disrespecting this person who is characterized by growing flowers in a prison- and holding onto this small thing of beauty, even in death.

The thing is though, someone who doesn’t care at all wouldn’t, of their own accord, independently air the idea they should have a “moment of silence” for this person, even to veto it a second later. Nobody is here to see or care what Prisoner is doing.

Also to someone who doesn’t care at all, the entire rest of the room would be of no interest; it would be trivial that flowers were important to a dead person.

So this creates an interesting duality. On one hand: Prisoner very clearly doesn’t care much about bodies. This is a repeated pattern. The main time he’s particularly shocked by corpses is when they were someone who was alive the last time he checked (as is the case of the Tutorial Knight). He has a calculated angle and he’s interested in what he can get from them and how it can prevent him from dying, again.

On the other hand... Prisoner equally clearly cares about people. He thinks a lot about what people wanted, felt, what choices they made. He shows a lot of interpersonal intelligence and even to people who he has every reason to not listen to, his responses tend thoughtful and he socks this information away as important in a context where he is, by necessity, otherwise rigidly focused on survival. He hates the King, but will also talk thoughtfully about the way the royals of the island lived.

And of the two elements in this juxtaposition, while survivalism and gallows humor are clearly strong threads in him... it’s clear the caring part is the larger factor of the two. It persists, while his cheerful morbidity sometimes just utterly fails.

2. The Stilt Village family

In the fishing hamlet, you can find a small house featuring a hanged woman. A letter by her feet, that the Prisoner notes are probably her last words, reads:

“The Malaise won’t get us. I’ll protect you… I’ll protect you.”

The Prisoner, our usually quite chatty protagonist, has almost nothing to say here. The closest he gets is, on examining the woman’s body, notes she “opted for the fast method” and aforementioned observation that the note is her last words.

There is also a bed in the room. Two sets of small feet poke out from under the blankets. If you examine it, Prisoner only says “throats slit.” and nothing more.

There is nothing in the room to loot, no jokes made, and the overall attitude is deeply, crushingly somber. There are closed drawers, but there’s no prompt to go through them.

If Prisoner didn’t care, this would just be more of the same, what’s three more bodies, right? But it’s clear that he isn’t just idly curious about the way people live and what they thought and felt- he has a certain amount of compassion, so that faintly nauseous feeling we get as we creep through this room is probably simpatico with our protagonist.

These people are strangers. He never knew them. They’re villagers of a fishing hamlet that was a hotbed of rebellion, and disrespectful of the king; they are small lives. They are “irrelevant people”. Mechanically, you have no gameplay incentive to stand here and look around.

But it’s clear this encounter affects Prisoner a lot emotionally. He doesn’t know who these people were, never met these kids or their presumed mother- but it’s clear he didn’t want this to have happened to them. 

In particular Prisoner seems to be disquieted by young corpses any time he finds them; the closest he comes to joking is finding the executed body that he notes is “either a dwarf, or... no more than seven or eight years old. ...Let’s... say she’s a dwarf.”

Another half-joke, also in the Stilt Village, is he finds a desperate letter to the Alchemist, written by villagers pledging their bodies to his research and begging him to save them. Prisoner notes that it’s partially damaged by water and hard to read, and then frankly follows with “I don’t think I want to understand what I read.”

This is worth noting, in particular, because we find a lot of the Alchemist’s grimoires, and he mentions his “volunteers” often- the kind of things that happen to them in particular tend to be fatal. One setup in High Peak Castle notes that those exposed to the experimental cure became twisted half-plant beings, and then as a near afterthought, notes “the subject failed to survive.”

So Prisoner- who’s just trying to save his own hide at best- is pretty strongly depicted as more upset at what happened to the villagers than the Alchemist who was trying to work on a cure. This is significant, when we happen to know said Alchemist becomes the Collector, who basically spends the entire game using Prisoner to harvest resources from corpses (the titular Cells) in exchange for better equipment. The Collector also makes it quite clear from the start he knows who Prisoner is, but is not interested in disclosing this information.

(And, if you, like me, don’t think Prisoner is the same person as the King given the wild discrepancy of personality and other evidence- when he finally does “fess up” it’s in the form of lying to Prisoner’s face)

3. Moments of anger

This is actually not one moment but several. Part of what Dead Cells does with its dialogue is convey tone and intensity by changing colors. Most text comes in blue boxes- when it’s lit in red, it’s almost always for emphasis. Especially if the textbox shakes slightly and the text scrolls faster than usual, giving it a sense of slamming into place on the screen.

In several areas- the Promenade or the Ramparts- you can find a setup of “live target training” in which a human prisoner was chained to a post, and then shot at by archers. This is at first perhaps a bit morbidly funny, given the wall behind the prisoner is littered with arrows- but, overall, it’s just dark.

In particular, a single arrow has struck the shackled prisoner. When Prisoner observes this, he notes “Only one arrow hit the target.”

Then, in shaking red text, “Right in the head.”

He then turns and faces the empty stand where the guard stood, and flashes a thumbs-up that I struggle to read as not rather scathing in its condemnation. Again- to someone who doesn’t care or thinks of this as funny, that kind of emphasis doesn’t make sense.

But even some things he says calmly seem to suggest Prisoner’s pretty angry about the whole situation- sometimes, upon finding a large gallows section, it will have an order pinned to it:

By order of the King, all persons presenting behavioural disorders or noticeable deteriorations in their appearance... shall be imprisoned, and hanged by the neck until dead. ...(If the prison doctor confirms the diagnosis of infection.)

There is a distinct beat before the last line is read, and then Prisoner’s commentary ensues:

“Glad they added that. For a second there I really thought we were talking about genocide.”

He also at one point responds to a desecrated statue of the King, defaced with “We’ll skin you alive!” by calling it a “brave and courageous statement,” and seems mildly impressed that someone peed on a royal order in the Stilt Village relatively high up. Besides that, a lot of the area flavor text talks about the abuses of the guards, and in particular in High Peak Castle, it’s noted the royal guard were pulled back into the castle when the rest of the island needed them.

In a way, the way that Prisoner uses humor often trivializes his own anger, which again, ties back to what I said in part 1: everything the game says about small lives- about the “irrelevant little people” that suffered in the wake of the plague emphasizes that Prisoner’s perspective is that he is one of those little people. In the sewers, examining a strange cocoon, Prisoner seems to have a full-on crisis about what he is and why he’s here before interrupting himself with a joke.

Someone who thinks they are important and is used to demanding others’ attention and validation doesn’t treat their own genuine anger and revulsion like it’s something to shrug off.