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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 9 months

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I think Hobie brown is the one character I've seen written completely out of character the most

Like, he would NOT say that

He definitely is. I see people write Miles and Gwen as spot on (pun unintended). Miguel and Pavitr are usually butchered for linguistics reasons

But with Hobie, him being a punk - one from a very specific time - adds a whole new layer of difficultly and honestly. At this point, I can't even blame people.

I think Hobie's mischaracterization is caused by two primary things, one purposeful, and one not. Please allow me to rant.

Hobie Brown, Mischaracterization, and the Sanitization of Punk Culture

I think Hobie's characterization is the perfect example of the way media purposely deminished and trivialized the punk identity in order to erase it's political connotations.

In other words, people misunderstanding Hobie shows how the media warped and censored the definition of 'punk' in the last 50 years.

And that's on purpose.

Let's take the hippies for an example. When you think of them, what beliefs comes to mind?

Peacefulness, usually. Pot smoking. Music loving. And Anti-war. They love peace. The phrase 'Make Love, Not War' make come to mind.

But it's easier for the media to historically display hippies as people who were opposed to war - rather than people who were openly oppossed to the Vietnamese War.

As in, they weren't just opposed to war - which they were. They were also specifically opposed to the United States government crossing borders in order to push a capitalist agenda in Vietnam.

It's easy to say hippes loved communes - then to say 'Hippies were Communist'. With a couple words switched around - sanitization.

Punk is just like that.

It's easier to focus on the response rather than the source. It's easier to look at Hobie singing than to consider what he'd be singing about in those songs.

I feel like in the past 50 years the media has purposely centered the outrage of punk around music - as a targeted distraction, and a method of silencing. This goes from the outward hatred of Sex Pistols - to a President's wife literally taking a metal band to court in order to get the 'Explicit Content label' instated for the first time.(crazyyyy long story- crazy interesting. Google 'Mary Gore vs Twister Sister' - the videos of the band in court is hilarious)

But anyway the outrage of punk music in specific and the silencing of the message behind it kinda changed the way people viewed punks.

Media very much wanted to make punk something about senseless rebellion towards everything, the same way they tried to turn anarchy into 'unending chaos that never stops', when neither of those things are true.

Basically saying 'Oh, those people over there? They aren't angry oppressed people screaming and forming a community based around resilience, those are teeennagerrs. theyre just screaming cause theyre mad at their dads or something PLEASE dont look at them PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT CHECK IF WE'RE TELLING THE TRUTH'

And so people are presented with someone like Hobie, they see the loud music, but not picking up what he's saying if you get my drift.

And the other thing I'll try to keep short.

It's not purposeful, but I think it matters.

The Internet - Subculture vs Aesthetic

I don't think this is something that's been talked about yet.

But I feel like a lot of people misunderstand what a subculture is. So when they see Hobie, they see fashion, and music taste, and attitude. They instead perceive him as an aesthetic. Not someone who participates in subculture.

Subculture is a way of life. It encompasses not only your fashion and music tastes, but it can and usually extends to things like your morals, your behaviors, the spaces you exist in, etc.

Goth, Punk, Vegans, hell - even Nudists - are all subcultures. Because they effects the persons lifestyle. Subcultures are lifestyles.

Aesthetics are not.

An aesthetic is a (usually) visual ambience that is meant to evoke a specific emotion.

Aesthetics can extend to fashion, decor, and music taste - but not your morality or behavior.

E-girls, Emos, Hipsters, what have you - all aesthetics as they do not encompass morals, or behaviors.

And because of that - there are things that do or don't make you a punk. But there aren't really things that do or don't 'make you emo'.

Aesthetics don't have conditions, but subcultures do.

You have to be anti-government to be punk. You don't have to hate your life to be emo.

(Which is why when people bring this up, people are quick to call 'gatekeeping!' Because in the context of aethetics gatekeeping is seen as unneccesary, whereas in subcultures 'gatekeping' is more so protecting the underlying beliefs and motivations of the movement. People who see Hobie as an aesthetic will find these conditions odd because they're not seeing his punkness as a subculture.)

Today on the internet, it's a lot more common and easy to engage in an aesthetic. It's not uncommon for someone to purposefully pick an aesthetic - and go all out - simply because they like it. It's great. I engage with an aesthetic all the time.

But because of that, when people see Hobie it's easy to immediately be like 'oh okay hes doing it out of fashion hes doing it because he vibes with it cool.'

They look at Hobie the way they would look at an eboy (do those still exist).

______________________________________________

Sooo mixing the censored image of a punk along with the modern-day instinct to perceive something as an aesthetic rather than a way of life kinda causes.....this.

A Hobie tag were a lot of people completely misunderstand who he is as a person and his motivations as a superhero outside of 'I hate the establishment'.

Plus add in a dash of people just being totally blank on 70's politics. The Vietnam War, Margaret Thatcher coming to power, the IRA, etc. - all of those things I think tells us a lot about Hobie. I'm currently on a piece about that and an explainer of most of those events. Or if you want a brief rundown please feel free to ask, I'll do my best.

If you wanna know Hobie more - don't listen to punk music. Go read the lyrics, if you get what I mean. They truly do have something to say.

Hope this made some sense, thanks for reading if you made it this far :) also no proofread we die like kings but ill most likely do it later and delete this note.

#atsv anaylsis #hobie brown #spider punk #spiderpunk #across the spiderverse #spiderman #spider man

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little-cereal-draws · 1 year

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Ok so I think I figured out why the panic attack scene is so great (or at least in my opinion)

It’s told from an outside perspective.

Panic attacks are horrible. You feel like the worlds crashing down and you can’t breathe and you get tunnel vision and you’re dying and it’s the end of the world. But to outsiders, I mean they look bad, but it’s mostly just shaking and gasping and stuff. Not nearly as catastrophic as they feel.

Now, I can’t remember a ton of times a character in a tv show/movie has had a panic attack (that wasn’t used as comedic purposes) but the ones I can remember, mostly focused on the person having it. The warped sounds, tunnel vision, etc. We were experiencing it through their eyes. And this approach has its appeals; it shows the severity panic attacks can have, makes the audience more sympathetic to the character, and lets the creative team have a bit of fun w how they draw it. And puss in boots does that very briefly when Perrito is asking him what’s wrong but for the most part, it’s not told from puss’s pov.

It shows what panic attacks actually look like instead of how they feel and shows how scary they can be even wo all the artistic liberties. It’s still a terrifying scene, listening to him hyperventilate on the floor surrounded by dead trees but it just tells the audience, “this is what panic attacks are like.” No flashing colors or fisheye lenses, just not being able to breathe on the floor. And in my own experience, that’s a lot more accurate too than all the artistic liberties other shows take.

And the outside perspective also allows a whole new set of feelings to be explored. As an audience, we already know why puss is freaking out so staying w puss would just reenforce smth the audience already knows. Instead, we get to see Perrito worry about his friend and start panicking himself when he’s not responding to him. We get to see him figure out how to help and be relieved when it works. And that makes the forehead touch/talk afterwards that much better. We know the extent Perritos love for his friends in a tangible way, not just him saying it, and it’s the first time puss accepts help from someone else.

Anyway, it’s just a fantastic scene and I wish I was in the room when they scripted it

#puss in boots the last wish #puss in boots #puss in boots movie #puss in boots meta #tw panic attack

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alloftheimaginesblog · 1 year

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beautiful {flynn rider}

prompt: “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful? Cause you are. I think it all the time.”

character: flynn rider x reader

Honestly you were still a little confused as to how this adventure came to be however you weren't mad about it. You had met Flynn Rider in the forest because of course you would meet a handsome stranger who decided to help you get to where you wanted to go with the price of a place to stay for a while.

"Okay, you can come down now!" Flynn yelled as he cupped his hands around his mouth, "Just watch, it's a bit-"

Too late.

You'd already slipped at the top of the muddy hill and were currently screaming as you tumbled down.

"-slippy," he muttered as he prepared himself to catch you.

He hadn't been prepared for how fast you were rolling down the hill and instead of catching you gracefully and charmingly as he'd hoped, it ended up with the two of you tumbling down together and with you smacking your head pretty hard off of a mossy tree stump. The string of curses that left your mouth surprised even Flynn who cursed like a sailor.

"Are you alright?" He asked, panicked, as he scrambled upwards to crouch over you.

Groggily, you opened your eyes, vision spinning and warping slightly, as his face came into focus and all of a sudden you felt like you had drank too much wine, "Hi," you giggled.

"Oh, good, thank god you're okay," Flynn breathed a sigh of relief but when your giggles continued, his relief turned to concern, "Uh, (y/n)?"

You couldn't stop giggling and your cheeks felt hot, "My god, you're beautiful, aren't you?" It was true, to be fair. Flynn Rider was a beautiful man and he knew it. He knew that one smile and a person was putty in his hands.

"Uh, what? I mean, I know but what?"

"Have I ever told you that you're beautiful?" You asked, frowning, "Cause you are. I think it all the time actually."

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

"Oh really? So all those times you scoffed and told me you didn't find me attractive-"

"Lies, every single time."

Flynn's laughter was loud and triumphant. He knew you'd been lying! he stretched out a hand, "Can you sit?"

He helped you to sit up and everything started to spin again, "Ah, you're concussed!" He concluded as you grumbled in pain, "Or maybe you just got some sense knocked into you... either way, I think we should find a doctor to take a look at you. Let's get you up and I'll help you to walk."

As he helped you up and helped support you as you staggered along beside him, your hand found his bicep, "Strong too. God... you're gorgeous."

Flynn laughed, "I can't wait to tell you what you've been saying when you're back to normal. Can't wait to see how red your cheeks go!"

#one shot #flynn rider x reader #flynn rider #flynn rider imagine #flynn rider tangled #tangled imagine #tangled one shot #os #reader insert #long prompt #prompt #disney

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that-ari-blogger · 6 months

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Critical Role's Previous Cameraman

I put up a post the other day about critical role's new animated introduction and I couldn't help but notice a sudden spike in the analytical stuff that I don't really understand. A more tech orientated friend of mine informed me that this was a good thing, actually. So, I thought I might capitalise on that and examine the previous campaign's opening sequence through the same lens and do some more analysis.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

One notable thing about this song is when it starts. Exactly eleven seconds in. That's eleven seconds of wait before the final payoff. You catch glimpses of what's happening above, but nothing else.

And that is a key theme of this campaign. The unseen. The Mighty Nein was a party characterised by trauma, and a lot of the time, you don't see that, you only see glimpses. A flash of a fight they told you about, and the sensation of drowning.

But then we meet Fjord.

He's falling, and I'd like to point out the direction in which he is falling. You will notice the scars on his back, signifying he was probably in the process of running away, or was betrayed by someone, and he is falling towards those scars. Backwards. There is also a neat thing of falling away from the light, into the darkness, into the unknown. THis is someone out of control, leaning into the pain. And what is it that sees that?

There is a reason Uk'otoa's design looks so much like a leach. The creature is a parasite, it doesn't find someone strong to break down, it found someone weak, and at its mercy, and brought him under its control. What this shot does is highlight that creature's opportunistic nature, but it also associates it very clearly with the visual of that eye.

And it's that eye that carries through. When Fjord washes up on the beach, when he is finally safe, he carries with him a little piece of Uk'otoa, a little piece of that trauma.

It's also notable of that it is an eye. It's obvious, but it colours his vision, and changes how he views the world. Its effects aren't physical, but mental.

Beaureguard Lionet is a fighter. Not in the sense of class, because she isn't but in the sense of personality. Beau is a fighter in the sense that her first reaction to any problem is to punch it.

This transition is a wipe transition, but its important because of what it uses. It uses the opportunity to show off the uniforms of Beau's attackers, because otherwise the shadows of the rest of the shot make them hard to make out. These are wearing the same robes as her. Whoever they are, they are part of a team of some kind with her, they are people she should be able to trust, but look at how much damage they have done to her. Look at how heavily she is breathing. And look at what Beau does in response.

She fights back. This is how the animation gets across this character. She isn't complex, she doesn't need a great explanation, she doesn't have different sides to her, she just hits things until they stop being a problem.

I will also point out her eyes again. They are blue, not an unnatural eye colour, but they are the same blue as her robes, and the robes of those who are attacking her. Once again, the has warped the vision of its recipient, and in this case, it's creating a cycle of violence as all she knows how to do, is hit things.

We don't see Nott The Brave for a while in this animatic. We instead see, once again, the eyes. But I also want to point out that this was made before we knew about Veth. So we were just seeing the scared goblin.

This is as close as we get in this scene, and its Nott actively hiding from the light. The warmth scares her, and for good reason, its the same heat that we see emanating from her eyes. Once again, the trauma that has contaminated a character's vision is changing their reactions to the world.

And with that, I would like to talk about Jester, and I would like to do that in context.

The term "foil" in the context of a character was actually popularised by William Shakespear, who handily explained the metaphor for us.

"And like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off."

Put in English, I shine brighter when you have something to compare me to. And this is what a foil character is, a character who brings about elements in other characters that can easily be missed, or who shows off by contrast their personalities.

Jester is one of the two characters in the Mighty Nein who is not a child of trauma, and her introduction shows that. She reacts to her life by laughing, and contrast that with everyone else. Fjord reaches for a sword, the item of his trauma; Beau tries to fight her trauma despite that approach clearly not working; and Nott hides from it, unable to reach out for help.

And it is notable that the first time we see an adult Jester, she looks normal (if a bit over cheerful), then is immediately contrasted with the rest of the Nein.

This not only shows just how different her demeanour is from the rest of the crew, but it shows her effect on them. She makes them all smile. Jester and Caduceus are very much support characters in the truest sense of the word. They support others. Jester shows genuine kindness towards everybody else, and it reflects onto them.

This shot is neat but not too special. Its a tracking shot on the hat of all things, because thats what important here, and it shows the traveling dynamic of the group. It's a tiny bit of tension in an otherwise calm scene, so the camera is steady, but speeds up slightly to match the movement of the object, then comes to a stop when it is caught. There is very little stress, but there is a sense of comradery.

Similarly, this shot establishes some stakes with a rising pan to show the scale of the threat and to show some more information, but it is hardly a monster, so the camera isn't really in a hurry.

Enter Caleb Widogast, born in fire. I don't think they could write a more thematic entrance if they tried. An abrupt cut shows the night, then it is entirely consumed by fire, only to reveal Caleb.

There is no motion here. The camera is stock still. This is the exact same thing with Ashton and FCG in the Bell's Hells. Caleb is disassociating from the heat in front of him, and there is a fascinating reason behind that. Caleb has two characters that need to be introduced to better understand him, the man, and Bren, the boy.

The flames consume the screen again, and then part to show a boy, staring at the screen, in horror. This is what you need to know about this character, this is a character forged in flames, born from the Ashes. Bren is dead, Caleb Widogast remains.

And this shot, with Caleb, Astrid and Eadwulf silhouetted against the fire, shows what kind of trauma we are talking about, and what effect it has. This is guilt, and in contrast with the rest of his party, this guilt is paralysing.

Yasha, however, is introduced in a calm way, in contrast to everything around her. The camera shows you a woman, meditating, and then pans backwards to reveal this:

This is a woman surrounded by bloodshed, who has made a concerted effort to look away from it, and to look to the Storm Lord for guidance. This is a woman looking for healing, in comparison to everyone else, but that looking doesn't change the fact that that trauma is still there.

The next few scenes are cool, but don't really add anything to this analysis and I only have a few more images I can show here, so I'm going to skip to Taliesin's characters.

Caduceus has two introductions. One is this shot, which is a cool action shot of him casting an epic spell and vanquishing a crowd of enemies. But instead of the incredibly animated (in the sense of exaggerated poses) nature of his companions, Caduceus clay is calm and collected. He is unquestionably the anchor of the group, and where Jester contrasts them emotionally, Caduceus does so on a philosophical level. Caduceus is a gardener of fungus.

Mushrooms and other fungi are recyclers, they grow on dead trees and creatures and give a forest new life. They clear out the debris and make way for new things to take hold. That's what Caduceus does for the Nein, he helps them get through their trauma so that Jester can help them improve and become better.

Caduceus's actual introduction is muted, and there's a point to that. He's not trying to be the main character, you don't need to understand his family life to understand him. You need to understand that can stand in a graveyard and see the light, that he is at peace with what has gone before him and helps people to get past it, and that his entire mission, to regrow the grove, isn't to bring back what is lost, but to help regrow something new in its place instead of the blight that lingers there.

Mollymauk is introduced as a weapon transformed into a grave. That is what this transition is and I think that's really important. Mollymauk is, very clearly, a repurposed soul. He isn't the first person to inhabit that shell, and he isn't the last. I also want to point out how this character is represented here, not with a heroic memory, but with a quiet moment or remenicing on times gone by. He is a shadow that haunts the Nein.

This is by far the simplest shot in the entire video, and that's because it isn't telling you anything. You bring your own emotions to the table here, you bring the memories to the grave, that's how grieving works.

Once again, there is more to this video, but I'm only allowed to put 30 images in a single post. So I leave you with a quote from Niel Gaiman.

"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."

DnD likewise, and all TTRPGs for that matter, are powerful because in them, with a little bit of help from friends, any monster, no matter how personal, can be defeated.

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youryurigoddess · 1 month

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On love and sacrifices

There’s so much more to this scapegoating business and big sacrifices referenced in the Good Omens narrative than the literal goats. And they’re only getting bigger, louder, final.

But let’s take it slow and start with the beginning, quite literally — i.e., with the Good Omens 2 title sequence. As we follow Aziraphale and Crowley on their journey, the universe warps and their usual left and right side positioning switches during the magic show (not accidentally an act of trust and sacrifice required both from the angel and the demon). They stay so throughout the next scene, which is their little dance in the air, and after they seemingly get settled on the A. Z. Fell and Co.’s roof and back to normal, the flipped sky in the background suggests that something’s not quite right yet. In the central part of the shot looms a large, humanlike shadow of the Elephant Trunk Nebula.

The nebula is a part of a constellation called Cepheus, after an Ethiopian king from the Greek mythology who agreed to sacrifice his only daughter in order to appease the gods and end a local calamity started by her mother and his wife, Cassiopeia (talk about generational responsibility). With time and a delightfully ironic twist of fate, the name of said daughter, Andromeda, became more famous than that of her father. Although she was chained up to a rock and offered to the sea serpent Cetus, the girl was spotted by the warrior Perseus, casually flying over the sea — either on the back of the Pegasus or thanks to a pair of winged sandals — after his victory over Medusa. He fell in love on the spot, defeated the serpent (with the help of a magical sword or Medusa’s severed head, depending on the varying sources), and freed the princess. That’s not exactly where their story ends, but we won’t be getting into the rest here.

Not surprisingly, Neil has mentioned two parallel child sacrifice stories from the biblical context back in August. The first is one of the big ones — The Binding of Isaac. God's command to sacrifice Isaac, his only son, was a test of Abraham's faith. The angel of the Lord intervenes and provides a ram to be sacrificed in the boy’s place.

The second one isn’t nearly as popular, but you might have heard a variant of it in fairy tales or as the Law of Surprise invoked in The Witcher saga. In exchange for Israel’s victory over its enemies in battle, Jephthah had rashly promised God to repay the debt with the first thing seen on his return back home. The victorious warrior didn’t suspect to see his only child moving innocently "to meet him with timbrels and with dances" though. In horror, Jephthah covered his eyes with his cloak, but to no avail: ultimately, he was forced to honor his vow to God, and the girl was sacrificed. As grisly as it might look like in the Old Master’s paintings, it’s important to remember that human sacrifices weren’t limited to physical offerings only — Jephthah’s daughter might have been offered to God in the sense of officially shunning her family and dedicating her life to service instead, probably sequestered in a temple somewhere.

Interestingly, the main character of a big chunk of the Bible and the reason for the Second Coming happens to be THE most influential child sacrifice in the modern history. You know, a certain 33-year-old carpenter sent by his Heavenly Father to die on a cross for the sins of the mankind? Someone better call Aubrey Thyme ASAP.

Circling back to Aziraphale, he could be also seen as a representative of the concept of filial piety, since Eden willing to personally take a Fall not only for the humanity’s collective or individual transgressions, but the shortcomings of his Ineffable Parental Figure as well. Our favorite angel angel always fights for what is right and good, sure, but why would that be even a thing if God was truly omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent?

If Aziraphale’s medal is anything to go by, it looks like we might get an answer from the way it’s introducing another mythological narrative into the game, that is the story of Daedalus and Icarus. The most absorbing thing about this is the stark contrast to the recurring child sacrifice references for S3 mentioned in this post — Daedalus isn’t a father who wanted to sacrifice his son, it was his attempt to save him from imprisonment that ultimately drove Icarus to his death. The boy ignored his father’s explicit instructions, committing the grave and culturally universal sin of disobedience to one's parents that simply couldn’t go unpunished, one way or another.

But Icarus’s transgression could be seen both as high-flying ambition and striving for personal accomplishment as well as humanitarian sacrifice for knowledge and humanity’s advancement in general.

Similarly to a certain angel who left everything for what superficially seems like a work promotion, but is the ultimate act of love — both for his demon and the children they have been protecting and nurturing together for six thousand years. From the very Beginning, his white wings have been shielding everything he holds dear in this world.

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mdhwrites · 18 days

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You said the arcs of certain characters in TOH have an 'Us vs. Them mentality.' I take it that's because, as you say, the narrative pins the bad qualities of certain characters on separate parties (e.g. "Amity's flaws are only because of her mom"), but would you care to elaborate further on said mentality and how it sticks out to you in TOH?

So shockingly, not really. It plays into it but I am actually inherently talking about the same sort of mentality that Belos perpetuates but back onto Luz. After all, if you look at the main cast by even mid season 2 we have a problem forming. Eda: Has lost her criminal edge, has no personal interests, is defined by being nice in a way befitting Luz's worldview. Momma Eda.

Amity: No longer is studious and hard working but instead focuses more on her girlfriend and her nerdy interests. Is also now just nice. Was only shown genuine care by Luz, instead of just trying to fulfill her nerdy desires, once she finds out Amity is into Azura.

Lilith: Has turned into a nerd and given up on any ambitions that had led to her previous actions, becoming a nice cool aunt. Only now has Luz tried to form any relationship with her (admittedly, she didn't get many chances before now).

Hunter: Has only been being given kindness because he has shown a capacity for kindness that Luz only really started showing him, beyond not wanting him to die, once he showed he had a nerdy interest in wild magic.

Gus: Was a nerd from go and always nice, even if he could be slightly selfish.

Willow: By mid S2, is essentially out of the show for the past half season, has never had a strong personality and is just nice. Yes, she'll start her jock stuff soon... And never have a real conversation with Luz again, at least not until S3 maybe? So a full season where Luz and Willow, after Willow might have stopped being nerdy/an outcast, where Luz doesn't have an interest in her anymore.

And uh, just as a reminder to S3, Hunter gains a scifi interest post redemption and Luz explicitly listens to NOTHING her mother says to her during her big speech in For the Future until she reveals herself to be a secret nerd. At that point, suddenly Luz dials in.

For TOH, a show supposedly about the individual and self expression, characters either lose their personality and/or gain the personality that matches LUZ. There is less character variety in interests and personalities than even 90s cartoons much of the time by the end of TOH because these characters all lose so much of themselves fitting in with the good guys, especially the redeemed ones.

This is where your argument for this does come into play. I'll frame it as the fandom likes to with Amity: "She didn't have Luz in her life yet."

Amity is only a bitch while she is hanging out with the wrong crowd. Socialites, those with ambition and jocks. The Luz enters her life and despite the fact that the ONE time Luz ever calls Amity out for being a bitch being when Amity is being a bully to King and clearly trying to get a rise out of Luz, making that moment meaningless, that simple fact starts warping Amity. Starts making her turn back to her good, nerdy side. And because this is such an inherently good thing, there is no difficulty in doing this. She needs no motivation, no calling out, nothing. She just needs to desire to be like Luz/liked by Luz. She can discard her entire friend group and do things that should get her disowned with how evil Odalia is and face zero consequences because... I guess that's the power of becoming a nerd.

You are beyond reproach. You can only do good. Same goes for Hunter. Despite YEARS of potential propaganda and the like, Luz just getting into his life and admittedly jabbing at Belos/him a little, is all it takes for him to embrace the inherent goodness, displayed by his nerdiness about wild magic, and start becoming a better person. For this, he loses his home but that is only seen as a positive because indeed, he got away from those hostile that made him a bad person. He could now be a good person because he no longer had those influences and could embrace Luz's way of life.

With the show's themes, why is this the case? Shouldn't their base personalities be allowed to exist? Shouldn't a wide range of ideologies and the like be allowed since that is a part of self expression? Instead, when people don't like Luz approves, they are disapproved by Luz and either need to get the fuck out or conform.

And this is all without getting into how she becomes Jesus in the last episode...

None of this is intentional but if someone told me that the show felt hostile to them because they didn't consider themselves a nerd or because they tried to get somewhere in life, I wouldn't blame them. The show has a weirdly narrow belief in who is a good person. Who is allowed to exist in the main cast, a problem that cascades issues into a lot of its themes. I mean, this is the first show I've ever had to ask if character arcs are actually hurt the themes of the show because of this, a blog I sadly couldn't refind.

There is admittedly an element of this where I might not have thought about it without the fandom. Most people I know who are multi-fandom still agree that TOH is aggressive against others, even for a fandom. That it lashes out and blames others for its problems. Almost like a *gestures at the thesis*

And that doesn't help make any of this be less uncomfortable unfortunately. See you next tale.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#the owl house criticism #toh critical

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maisonaime · 1 month

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The Star Who Listened [Azriel x Reader]

My little contribution to @starfallweek 2024 ✨

Prompt: Character A is a fallen star, Character B finds them

Note: Angst with a happy ending. This prompt immediately reminded me of this quote from a very beautiful but heart wrenching spoken word poem about the power of friendship and of friends who dream together. Happy Starfall Week!

“You kept a rock on a satin pillow on your bookshelf and told me ‘It’s a star.’ You said you found in a junkyard. And it had been broken down for quite some time because too many people wished on it, and that’s a lot of pressure for one little star.” Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long, For Instance

There was no telling how long he had lain there. Long enough that the ground had given way to valleys and mountains, snow and grass, fire and rain. Long enough that the wind and the moon cooled his skin, warped from the burnout. Long enough that the bones that cracked on impact hardened in the same position they had come to rest. Long enough that he learned all of the parallels of nature.

First he learned the way the ground vibrates during an earthquake is almost indiscernible from the thundering of hooves and feet as armored men trample over him. His tears flow into the rivulets of blood from fallen warriors, which flow into the river that rages through the carrion. He wants to wash away with it.

Then he learned how the earth would split and crack and flow bright and hot, creeping across the ground like candlewax. It looks like his beautiful, ruined hands. He remembers the skin dripping off of bone when he could no longer hold the burning dreams they piled into his arms. So bright, and so beautiful, but so heavy.

Then he learned how the air would hang heavy before the sky cracks open. It reminds him of the weight that hung around his shoulders in the moments before he tumbled from the sky. Feels the despair, the failure in being unable to remain afloat. He waits for Hera’s wrath for his forsaking of Astraea.

Azriel could’ve recounted all the lessons he learned in all the hundreds of years he’d lain there. Could’ve stopped someone to tell his story, to beg pity or forgiveness, or simply for a listening ear. But how could he have proven his tale?

Who would believe that a small, rough-edged, unassuming rock was actually a fallen star?

How could he even begin to explain the thousands of dreams he had forsaken when he fell? He had seen some of those dreams dashed personally. Had seen the men whose safety had been prayed for fall screaming on their swords. Had seen a woman who wanted nothing more than a child bury seven silent born at the riverbed. Had seen the children who dreamed of their prince or princess and were instead sold into marriage beds with monsters and carted away from their homes.

So he could not move, he could not speak. He could only relive his failure and all the lessons he’d learned from it. Lessons he would never get to use. Lessons that meant nothing to anyone, because lessons don’t mean as much as dreams do.

Rocks don’t mean as much as stars.

But to you they do.

You, who look to the stars to guide you. But who also looks to the ground to see how far you have come. You who use rocks to mark the trail the stars take you along. You who collect the ones you find most beautiful, the ones that remind you of the stars.

You too have a gift for seeing the parallels in nature.

And yes, dreams are beautiful. But so are the lessons we learn when they do and don’t come true.

And so, this is how he finds himself in your pocket, after so many years in the dust. After so many years on the cold ground. The wool of your skirt is warm and soft, and it cushions Azriel’s hardened heart.

The next thing he knows he is resting on a satin pillow, high on a shelf in your room where he can watch over this strange savior. He watches day and night. Watches as you work and write and wander by day. Watches as you dream by night.

He wishes you had left him on the ground. He is stricken and terrified to be so close to another’s dreams, even as his very essence cries out to caress them. It is worse agony than he ever faced. At least before didn’t have to be so close to the humans who once depended on him.

He feels perverted because you haven’t even entrusted him with your dreams and here he is fantasizing about them. Prostrate before you trying to hold himself back, because he cannot warp your dreams with his horrible hands. Cannot bear the responsibility of ruining even one more dream. No matter how large or small.

He doesn’t even know why he is there. Why you plucked him out of his quiet obscurity and forced him to endure this proximity to such a vociferous dreamer. He loves and hates it in equal measure. Loves and hates you in equal measure.

And then the strangest thing happens one day. You are showing a friend around your room. And your friend points to him and laughs “Why do you have that rock on that pillow?” and Azriel would blush if he wasn’t a rock. But you smile knowingly and say “That’s not a rock, it’s a star I found. It fell from the sky when too many people piled their wishes onto it. Too much pressure for anything, don’t you think?” and the friend nods understandingly.

And Azriel glows. And Azriel cracks. Because he is awash with the forgiveness of a dreamer. And he remembers the child with eyes like yours but different, the first who looked up to him and wished. The one who made him want to take as many wishes as he could carry, and then take more after that.

And when the friend is gone, you reach up onto the shelf and bring down the satin pillow. You set it on your desk, and observe the crack that that splits your star down the middle. You gingerly separate the two halves, and behold the bright blue gemstone in the center.

You smile. “Do you think the weight of one person’s dreams is bearable? I promise to leave plenty of room for your own.”

Azriel glows as brightly as he once did in the sky.

#Starfall Week 2024 #acotar #azriel #fantasy #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #classic Azriel angst #because of course I did #angst #angst with a happy ending #night court #acotar crack

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15-lizards · 9 months

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It fucks that there are so many characters that are an antithesis to one of The Seven while still embodying their traits and technically representing them. Cersei is the Mother in that she only has love for her own children, but no mercy or any sense of nurturing. Tywin represents the Father’s protection, his justice, but that justice is always unfair, and serves only him, not even his own children. I have a Rolodex of all the knights that warp the values of the Warrior. Jamie and Arthur have to break one vow to stay true to another. Sandor is vile and cruel and dishonorable, but still protective of the innocent. Tyrion does his best to mend the broken city and protect its people like the Smith would do, but is also actively destabilizing things and fucking shit up for his own personal gain. Margaery had managed to maintain being the idea of the Maiden while being married three times, and hiding her plotting under the guise of innocence and virtue. Bran is a young Crone, his wisdom and foresight forced upon him instead of being obtained naturally through age. And Arya is a wanderer with no identity, a killer who takes life at random. But unlike the Stranger, Arya is still Arya, no matter how she tries to hide herself. She is a scared girl with a bias, not killing unthinkingly but rather in order to enact her revenge and seek justice, the opposite of what Death would do. Anyways these kinds of foils absolutely fuck

#asoiaf #AND the crone let the first raven in the world when she peered through the door of death like??? bran is so Crone kinnie #everyone always like arya stranger and yeah she is sometimes but she’s also an 11 y/o who kills ppl bc she needs vengeance of some kind #her ass is NOT unbiased and unmerciful like Death

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polichinelle · 2 months

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yeah fuck it i'm making this its own post. basically very long winded (but still not as extensively detailed as i'd like) thoughts on adam & ronan (sort of) & whelk & noah

i remember reading the raven boys back in 2014 (ten years of rot in my brain!) and being sooo disappointed that there was basically zero fandom interest in whelk & noah beyond "omg whelk is evil and awful and terrible, poor baby noah!" when that is not the narrative surrounding them, not really. i feel it's a disservice to both of their characters to do that, especially noah's:

there is nuance there. there are implications. like... it's ALL about the implications!!! we basically see nothing of whelk and noah beyond what's left after the carnage. and it's a theme in trc for characters to have irreparably changed before we ever meet them (gansey, ronan, whelk, noah). we don't know what they were actually like when noah was alive, when they were best friends. when they were tight as ticks.

what we do know is this: whelk was noah's gansey. whelk was cheating on his own girlfriend with noah's, which is a shitty thing to do for sure, but something we also have zero context for. we also don't know how true it is, because whelk has such a self-inflicted warped view of his past. he keeps rewriting his own memories to think lesser of noah, because his absence hurts that much! we know they were best friends, the same way adam & ronan are best friends with gansey. we know they did everything together

okay, changing gears a little.

i'll paste the part where adam is possessed, sorry for the amount of screenshots:

and this line from a bit further along the chapter:

then, from noah's possession scene:

compare this to whelk's recollection of killing noah, and the effects it had on him:

"red lines streaked in the corners of his vision" "in whelk's head, unearthly voices hissed and whispered, words blurred and stretched together" "dictated by something larger and more powerful than himself" "somehow invited into his body through czerny's death" yes i am going there, yes i am making that point. i think, to some extent, barrington was possessed when he murdered his best friend. neither noah nor adam get their own pov while possessed, so...

i mean, time is a circle. noah needed to die so that gansey would live. noah had already died, gansey had already lived. it needed to happen, and so it would.

where the difference lies, i think, is in barrington's reaction to being possessed, versus adam/noah. for all that i'm arguing possession, i don't think barry's a stand up guy, he's a kid who's never had good role models (need i pull out the quotes about his shit parents) and who was raised by money and objects and reputation, which is why i think the possession worked. the idea to kill noah might've seemed like his own in the moment, an escalation of the situation he was already in, but unlike adam/noah there was no one to hold him back (not to mention barrington isn't as familiar with magic things(?) as they are). in that moment, whelk did truly lost it. he did the unforgivable. but there is no universe in which he doesn't.

for every time we see noah reenacting his death, we also need to imagine barrington whelk, seventeen and shivering. realizing as he's committing the act that he can't go back. perhaps realizing too that he couldn't stop his hands from gripping onto that skateboard, no matter how much he wanted to after that first hit. ("But instead, he remembered the sound Czerny made the first time he hit him.")

there's also adam in this. both him as a parallel to barrington, and as a strange sort of part of noah in a way. adam and noah interact the least out of the main group, arguably, but they too are a two-headed creature; they started out as one singular character and you can sort of tell. something something hands and eyes, something something sacrifice. ronan sort of parallels noah, in that he is not the same lively person we hear about, and he never will be that person again. both are cabeswater personified (although in different ways).

some more things:

"he once had been tight as ticks with his roommate czerny" "only whelk and czerny, treasure hunters and troublemakers" "it was possible that czerny's death wasn't for nothing after all" "[...] his days a ribbon floating aimlessly in water" (in relation to: "he had been a swimmer himself, once") "czerny, you're in a better place than me, i think" "whelk, standing in the wreckage of his life, didn't laugh this time" "the dry, half-eaten burger on the passenger seat / the first fast-food burger he'd had in seven years" "these days, when whelk was trying to comfort himself, he told himself that czerny was a sheep, but sometimes he slipped and remembered him as loyal instead" "[...] took him back to that moment, the skateboard in his hands, the sad question gasped in czerny's dying sounds "we were friends like —"

also, whelk dying in the same place noah did. these lines:

both noah and barrington look the same in the end. broken, rumpled, forgotten. noah's family will never know his bones were reburied outside of their family plot. whelk's mother, however distant she is, will never be notified that her son has died. i think in a way barrington died at the exact same time noah did; something something invited into his body through czerny's death.

basically what i'm getting at is, noah and barry could've been ronan and adam i think, had the circumstances been different. they never will be, but i think about it sometimes.

and there's so many more things i'm not even gonna TRY going into, like noah and whelk both being parallels to gansey (the three of them kings in their own right), or the disparity between whelk talking about czerny vs adele talking about noah, or whatever the fuck is going on with whelk's backstory in general (what's the deal with his mother? how the hell did he get the aglionby job? a random headcanon of mine is that his and noah's search for the ley line lead them to fox way, seven years before the events of the book, and that's partly why whelk refuses to give out his name to maura, because barrington is hard to forget, and easy to trace back)

there is so much to talk about here and i'm so peeved no one is doing it properly... why are we still talking about declan bringing his weekly girlfriend over to monmouth for no reason when we could be talking about whatever the fuck kinda soul-fate-destiny bullshit noah and whelk have!

#i know trc has its villain of the book thing but i am sooo disappointed whelk is never really talked about beyond #the first novel. like he's one of the only tangible links we have to noah's life... he was RIGHT THERE #he's so interesting to me. i rotate him and noah over and over in my head like they're in a microwave #trc #the raven cycle #the raven boys #noah czerny #adam parrish #barrington whelk #ronan lynch

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neopuppy · 4 months

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I want to start writing and posting my very hush hush🤫 battle of the bands AU without anyone bothering me about updates. im not asking for a lot in actuality BUT……the way people act on here…

if I do this it would be a series. I think I will split up how each part gets posted too……since two groups are involved.

but also if it’s a waste of my time….I’ll just move along and keep rolling out one shots instead.

THIS WILL BE A CROSSOVER AU: nct dream/enhypen🤨

the premise: two childhood best friends(Heeseung/Jeno) fight over a girl in middle school and end up going to different high schools/both have little garage bands that play local shows but both gain notoriety in their districts, enough that a lot of people vote for them to make it to the top 5 for Battles of the Bands in their county

here’s where you come in- you are friends with the ‘00 liners and often help them sling demos/sell merch bc they let you go to all their shows for free, and offer to pay for stuff etc. throughout high school you always had the same boyfriend whose a year older than you and right before you’re ready to graduate you find out he’s been cheating on you in college. broken hearted and full of despair, your buddy Jeno’s like ‘hey if we win this battle of the bands thing we get a spot on Warped tour, you should come, it runs through summer. once in a lifetime opportunity.’

ur like nahhhh, but you go to the battle of the bands and meet their rival group(enha hyung line) for the first time and the singers REALLY into you, which leads to a run-in between him and *gasp* his ex-childhood bestie Jeno, they start talking shit to each other and you’re like😅😅😅??? ‘Why are you yelling at my potential rebound’ to which Jeno shouts ‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!!! HIM(yes.. its heeseung) NEVER!!!!’

yaddayaddya blah blah……you end up going on the tour, both bands come in as the top 2 finalists, and it ends up being the most chaotic memorable summer of your life……tons of drama, LOTS of guys, a lot of hooking up, some feelings, some confessions, jealousy, first times, etc etc. very coming of age with y/n running train on the whole squad as usual. I want to also really focus on each character and sort of how they all ended up in their bands/became friends, very ‘my teenage angst has a body count’-esque. each character has a song attached to them that delves more into their personal story/persona, etc……it wouldn’t be a super long AU, but maybe.

these updates would be SLOW, not weekly!!!! and tbfh if you even ask me once🤏 abt updates I may block you. Boom was like the last series I rly consecutively updated and it STRESSED me out/ruined how fun it was to write toward the end bc of the constant nagging for updates. its actually so much more annoying to read that message more than anything…maybe..

I want to write this bc, I love both groups and I think this type of story is something *I* personally could make something really fun out of, but yeah, like I’ve explained… the ‘when are you posting again/when will you update’ etc or snarky ass ‘FINALLY YOU UPDATED’ etc…..don’t do that!!!

with that being said..…I dare to ask the audience…

#🚶🏻‍♀️#not tagging bc whatever if u see it then ur opinion was meant to be used lol

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darkhymns-fic · 2 months

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This Dark Heart of Yours

“And isn’t that what they say? That your drunk self is your real self?” The hand by Husk’s head finally moved–only to place itself against his cheek. Nails ran through his fur. “You’re just so starved for affection. It makes you forget your place.”

When Husk drinks too much, he makes mistakes. It will never be the last time.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters: Alastor/Husk Rating: M Word Count: 5416 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Hey! So there's more unhealthy dynamics, implied past abuse, forced alcohol abuse, horror?? and other potentially triggering content in this fic. More tags are at AO3, stay safe thanks.

He had drunk too much. Again.

But it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain that the hotel bartender was getting wasted anyway. Not Miss Sunshine Princess who was always greeting Husk every morning, all smiles, pointedly ignoring his half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. Not Niffty, who was so eager to take away said empty bottles to keep like it was her own personal collection, staring too hard at the warped glass and most likely thinking of breaking them into tiny pieces. And definitely not the annoying porn star who frequented his bar too often, venting about some garbage flick of his instead of anything worthwhile.

And not his boss. In fact, Alastor seemed to always push another glass into Husk’s hand when he wasn’t looking. “Enjoy yourself! How grand it must look to everyone, to see the help partaking in their own little vices.”

Teasing. Condescending. Husk didn’t care. Another shot gulped down, and the buzz made the day just a bit more bearable.

But maybe. Just maybe, he had overdone it this time.

Husk couldn’t even remember why he was sitting in the lobby. Another morale booster by Charlie? Husk had learned to tune them out. Redemption was not in his cards, and with more than just what he had done when he was alive. He’d been clutching another bottle, half-laying on the couch. But, with enough sense to stay on his side. Just his side. To his right, it was like electricity, one that made his fur stand. But Alastor always sat wherever he fucking wanted.

He found himself waking up to static.

The revelation was slow. It’s what alcohol did; making him sluggish, wobbly, and too out of sorts. He could usually hold his own well enough, but he really went hard on the bottle this time. Old vintage. Probably from one of Alastor’s own personal stocks. The Radio Demon would sometimes just give what he had. Anything to amuse him, to make Husk ruin himself just a little more, piece by piece.

The warmth should have been surprising, and it was. It was like curling up against a fireplace, like pressing into something alive and malleable. He had fallen down at some point, letting his body drift off. One of his wings stretched out, reaching down to the floor. His hands pressed, and grabbed, and he buried his face to hide away. Hard to find something like it nowadays. So he had to hold on tight, for dear life, of whatever sort of life he even had left. His other wing furled around him and–

Him and–

The static fizzled and popped. And, just briefly, it keened like feedback. Still, it took him too long to move.

Husk opened his eyes to find himself half-laying across Alastor’s lap. His elbow was lodged within the crook of the demon’s leg. His claws were kneading against a torso, close enough to see a button’s details, down to the subtle engraving of antlers within its center. A head looked down. A shadow slithered within the darkness of the room. It was dark. The lobby was empty. It was just them both. Eyes lacking anything but sparks and fire.

No.

“Fuck! Sorry. I just–” Husk scrambled out of the way, as much as he could. He fell off the couch, hard on his shoulder. Red searchlights fell over his fur, his loose suspenders, no matter how much he tried to get away. “I didn't know that– It was you! I didn't know.”

Alastor remained seated. He held the long handle of his mic in both hands.

The man with a silver tongue was unusually silent.

And there really was no one else left in the lobby. The lights were dimmed, with only the sickly green walls of the bar showing anything bright left. How late was it? Husk could only imagine the scene from before; big dumbass cat falling asleep because he was drunk out of his mind, and he fell asleep over someone’s lap, which just happened to be Alastor’s lap. Some stupid cute image, all while Alastor just stayed still and didn’t move.

Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Husk had never felt so sober, so quickly, drowned out by confusion and worry and why the hell was Alastor just staring at him? Why didn’t he fucking say anything?

The silence was near-torturous, only interrupted by those bursts of static, not even a small melody playing or a laugh track to cover Husk in derision. Nothing but that one noise, endless as an ocean.

“How long was I…?” His mind briefly explored that line of questioning, stopped and turned away from any possibilities. Minutes were too long. An hour was too long. “You know what, never mind. I’m… going to bed.”

The shadows shifted. The eyes flickered, catching him in their sights.

“I said I was sorry… alright?” Husk walked backwards, trying to head for the stairs, a hand reaching out to feel for the banister. “Just… Let’s forget it. I’ll wake up early to work tomorrow to make up for it.”

He didn’t want to think about how he had reached out for Alastor’s touch. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

He wouldn’t have done that if he was sober. That was all there was to it.

Alastor said nothing still, continued to say nothing even as Husk got further away. And he didn’t move. He stayed perched on the couch, eyes fixated on a prey that slowly headed for escape without notice.

Husk hated the feeling, like he had somehow stumbled into forbidden territory. No, he had always been careful before. He just wanted to get out of here, and when the back of his foot finally hit the bottom step of the stairs–

The thing about the shadows though is sometimes Husk can’t fucking see shit through them. Not through Alastor’s. He thought those shadows were far away, lurking in the distance like trees with overhanging branches, with a pair of eyes peeking through, too impossibly far. But the colors melded, and Husk’s head was still spinning from his hangover–and then it was like those shadows transplanted right next to his feet. The hollow antlers stretched up to grasp the ceiling, the arms, crooked as they were, bent just so to grasp at him.

And the eyes were now only inches away, disembodied things, bright and piercing and latching onto him. They had always been there. To Alastor, the distance did nothing but give his next prey a false sense of safety. He had told Husk plenty of times before, how the terror was always a little added seasoning to his meal.

So Husk remained still, blinked–and then he was right next to his bar, back pressed against those green walls, matching with the swamps Alastor had once called home.

And with the shadows still lurking around him, a hand, seemingly so regular compared to everything else, slammed into that venomous wall right by his ear.

Husk was frozen. Don't move. Don't make a sound.

The creature before him continued to stare. The shadows of his boss’ face, framed by ever-growing antlers that seemed to grin within the green backlight.

Then that same face blinked. Then it leaned forward. The face of a monster dissipated, leaving him with Alastor as he knew him. Not much difference.

“You were clingy.”

Husk swallowed. His claws embedded deeply in the walls behind him.

“Now. Why is that?” There was a furnace inside Alastor's chest, the way it breathed out such heat and made Husk sweat beneath his fur. “Are you asking me for something?”

It was a question that demanded an answer. Husk overcame the fear, just enough, finding the old rage inside.

“You know I don't ask you for anything,” Husk finally said. “I was drunk. That's it.”

“Oh, I see.” The static grew louder. It garbled with small high-pitched notes before Alastor’s words pushed through. “Then you must be so needy .”

Alastor stretched out the word like torture. The sound of it dragged nails inside Husk’s ribcage. It was a knife that carved into his back, searching for nerves.

He didn't need…He didn't want… him .

If Husk thought about it any further, he knew he’d spiral. It took all he had to calm himself down, still hanging tight to the wall, keeping his eyes on Alastor for anything sudden, terrifying, unspeakable.

“I said I was drunk. You hard of hearing now?” Husk snapped, trying to regain ground. His wings stretched out, almost daring to take flight then. “Everyone acts a little stupid when they had too much. Even you fucking do.”

And this was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. His list of mistakes and regrets was already miles long, and it was agony to have this be part of it, especially when he wasn’t sure if he’d even live to get past it.

Alastor wouldn’t give him any fucking room to leave. The static kept doing a number on his head, making Husk want to drown it out with more whiskey. Never mind that was why he was in this mess in the first place.

“What more do you want from me?” he had to ask. Alastor was now his only reality. The awful antlers and shifting shadows were no longer as pronounced, but that smile hadn’t wavered, and the radio feedback just kept rising and falling in its awful airwaves. Husk shuddered, gritting his teeth. “If…you’re going to kill me for falling asleep on you, then just hurry it up!”

He had said it out of frustration, despite remembering awful screams through the radio, despite wondering, dismally, miserably, if those voices just kept living to be tormented again. Sometimes he heard repeat performances, though he was never sure.

And then, Alastor’s eyes lost their brightness. The static abruptly stopped. He laughed, leaning up slightly to let Husk finally take in a deeper breath.

“Oh Husker, you misunderstand me! I’m not mad at you!” A quick shake of his head, his shoulders still shaking from a chuckle. “I am simply fascinated.”

This failed to make Husk feel any better. “What…?”

He noted how the hand next to his head hadn’t moved an inch.

“It’s simple, really. I’ve seen you be such a pathetic drunk so many times, I’ve lost count! Amusing, but it’s usually the same. You’re always just such a grumpy kitty, but… this time it was different.”

Husk’s throat was dry. Claws very slightly gouged deeper in the wood. “Different,” he echoed.

“Yes, there's so much truth revealed when inhibitions are lowered. I suppose it takes certain spirits, or maybe even certain situations, to really unravel a person.” Alastor slowly, methodically, placed the head of the mic under Husk’s chin, pushing it up just slightly. “The kind that makes your body betray you at every moment.”

The way Alastor spoke, softly and with such intense focus, and for a moment, letting fall the radio filter so that Husk could only hear him and only him …

Husk felt himself slip against the wall, a right wing flapping to try and keep himself up. His head angled further, held by that mic.

Fuck.

He was still drunk.

Alastor’s eyes widened. The red was piercing again. There was a sound behind him, like boughs creaking from the night’s breeze.

In Alastor’s words, there were always sharp teeth and flowing poison. Husk felt it sift through his head, keeping him on high alert all while the whiskey still ran through his blood. It made him nauseous, made him want to find an escape. But the hand kept him in place, and the warmth there was hard to deny.

Husk nearly slipped again. The hand clutched the back of his head–then raised him up. The back of his heels no longer touched the floor.

The soft feeling of panic was small, distant. It drifted away so slowly with the heat. Still, he kept his claws in the walls, felt them carve through the wood.

Alastor didn’t seem to mind, only watching his every motion. Husk couldn’t take it.

“How is it fair?” He then asked quietly, keeping himself rooted. He hated it, how Alastor could pull out his weakness like drawing back a string. “You can do whatever to me, yet I'm…”

No. Husk was not allowed to want.

To be free. To be away. To stop repeating this cycle, again and again. To feel like he wasn’t just something to be kept around as a toy and nothing else.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, then chuckled once more. His voice fizzled, gaining back its filter like a veil. “Oh, I apologize, Husker. How silly of me to forget.” The shadows rippled beneath them both, and then Husk heard the familiar clink of glass, saw how the green light shone through amber. “You still need a little help.”

It was a small bottle, the neck of it long but its body bulbous and filled with whiskey. Husk could already imagine the taste on his tongue, the rush of it in his throat. He eyed it, but dug his claws even deeper into the walls.

“No, I don’t…want that.” Husk tried to shake his head, and couldn’t. The hand held him tighter.

Alastor’s head tilted to the right, slightly. “You’ve never refused before.”

The statement struck something so deeply inside Husk that he wished he could just vanish and never exist in the first place. He shook. His wings raised but they felt heavy, lethargic, barely a part of him.

“I’m fucking done. I don’t want it now.” A swallow, and his voice cracked. “You can’t just keep forcing me to be like this!”

God, his mouth felt so, so dry.

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, as it rarely did. But he saw it tighten, and how the demon’s eyes narrowed in turn. The mic underneath his chin quickly vanished, leaving Alastor with a free hand, while the other still held Husk.

It unnerved him again when Alastor said nothing. No static. No bursts of sound. Only the shifting tendrils that formed around him like arms, one of them dangling the whiskey bottle by the neck, popping open the cap which fell to the floor.

Husk’s ears flicked at the sound. What was this game now? Nothing Alastor did made much sense to him anymore, and even less when he was hardly sober.

Then, the tendril upended the bottle by a fraction, and the whiskey was poured straight to the floor.

It was instinct.

“Wait. Wait, what are you–Stop that!” Husk lunged forward, unearthed his claws from the wood to reach for the bottle. The tendrils pulled it back just out of reach. “Fuck, don’t just waste it! Hey!”

Another lunge. The tendril swayed again. The alcohol poured slowly, seeping into the carpet. Husk tried to move more, but the hand on his head was like iron, locking him in its grip.

“You didn’t want it,” Alastor said. “So, I was simply getting rid of it.”

“You piece of shit, you can’t just…” He could barely finish, watching in despair as the whiskey was being drained right before his eyes.

“So, there’s this side of you I know all too well. Desperate. Whiny. Anything to get more of your booze. If I let you go, will you just grab what’s left of it on the floor?”

Alastor’s voice was so low that it sent shivers down Husk’s spine. Still, he couldn’t even find it in himself to deny anything. Even knowing there would never be any lack of cheap beer or vodka or whiskey or anything at all, he couldn’t stifle the fear away.

“But I can be kind. Because it’s not just this–” He waved the bottle again, now half-empty, the downpour of whiskey thinning down to a trickle. “That you ache for, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to answer. He was just so thirsty. It was hard to even speak.

Alastor’s free hand reached out. Husk thought he would touch him, grab hold of his chin as he so often did. Instead, the tendril moved near, and poured the whiskey over Alastor’s open palm.

Husk watched the liquid trail down in rivulets, droplets falling in between fingers, winking in the green light. He watched it all, his throat getting drier with each lost drop.

“No,” Husk whispered, trying to turn away, failing utterly.

He didn’t know what pathetic sound he made when he spoke, but it was enough to make Alastor lean closer, enough to bring his hand, coated in alcohol, near Husk’s mouth.

The palm was just against his lips, giving him what little drops remained, like water in a desert. He should have bitten down on that hand, ripped those fingers off. The indignity should have left him with nothing but rage, but he suddenly felt so desperate and aching and aching.

Husk's tongue glided across the black gloved palm, searching, searching, wanting.

He wanted so badly.

Alastor watched him, all throughout, but Husk could only focus on the taste that was on his tongue. Still not enough. More drops from those fingers, even with their wickedly sharp points. He wanted and needed. The taste of it, and the warmth that held it.

Husk wrapped his mouth around one of those fingers, sucking the burn of it. It slid down his throat. Down, down.

He felt the heat of Alastor’s eyes on him, felt the curve of a finger just against the roof of his mouth. Dangerous, but it didn’t stop Husk from running his tongue along the skin and catch any whiskey that was left.

“My, you’re easy , aren’t you?”

If Husk was sober, maybe he’d react. And maybe, there was some part of him that burned at the accusation. But the other part was stronger, just wanting the drink to drown him. Just wanting to drown.

Eventually, the bottle was emptied. The last of the liquor slid across Alastor’s hand like branching rivers, some of it to flow into Husk’s waiting mouth, the rest to fall away to the floor. Husk took all he could, his body shaking all the while.

In his need, his hands reached out to grasp Alastor’s own. He couldn’t speak, but with everything else, he was begging.

He was getting more drunk. He wanted to get drunk. And he wanted–

Alastor.

If there was fear and revulsion at that, it drowned away in the seas of all that he ingested. Even as little whispers ran through his skull (No, I can’t do this again.) his mouth lingered on Alastor’s hand.

Tendrils moved again, small undulations that he could barely make sense of. And Alastor’s other hand no longer clutched his head as tightly, patting down his fur and caressing at the skin beneath.

Then, in a low tone. “Keep begging.”

A small shock, a brief intake of air to make him realize the horror–only to drown once again, Husk still clinging onto Alastor’s touch. His throat was dry again. “Please…”

“Oh, you can do better, Husker.” Another bottle floated within the shadows, its green glass melding with the dim light. “Or I’ll just have to keep you wanting.”

Husk shook his head. (Enough. That’s enough). But he watched Alastor open the cap of the gin, imagining all of it draining away. “Please, Al… I need…this…”

A small blip of static. Alastor tuning in to further find the root of Husk’s debasement. “What do you need?”

Agony. All Alastor ever gave him was agony.

And still, he kept clinging to his hand.

Husk couldn’t even remember saying more, but Alastor showed some mercy. He upended the bottle at Husk’s face, purposely missing his mouth. The alcohol stung his eyes, went up his nostrils, burning. But all Husk did was move towards the downpour, letting it scald his throat.

Drunker. The holes in his memory were growing bigger, no longer able to connect between moments. Because at some point, he had been moved to stand behind the bar. He felt the ache of his waist hitting the counter, of Alastor pushing him into it. Hard.

The gin bottle was only slightly empty. He needed more. Alastor’s hand moved down to grasp at his neck, hooking fingers beneath the strap of the bow tie and pulling at the hidden manacle that Husk always felt, always wore.

“Is it fair that you get to have all this?” Alastor said, or Husk thought he said. Words were muffled the further he sank into the depths. “But you’ve always been a greedy little kitty.”

Husk struggled, but his back kept being pushed into the wood grain of the bar. He watched in dismay as Alastor took a sip of the gin, wanting it. Wanting it. His hands reached out, grasping the front of Alastor’s coat to pull him near.

What happened next was hazy, dark, confusing. Moments of sanity interspersed with poison.

Husk had watched the alcohol pour down between them both, how it half-pooled on Alastor’s tongue. And Husk had leaned forward, taking Alastor's mouth, taking the demon's tongue for every taste. There it was. The familiar burn, the sting on his gums. Anything to fall. To keep falling.

Hands slammed into the bar next to him. Tendrils snaked out to writhe and hold onto limbs. Something pushed at his right knee, another pinned his wrists above his head until he felt they would snap. But Alastor didn’t stop the kiss. He pushed further, sliding his tongue around Husk’s, the alcohol pouring in-between them, still. The strong scent of it, the way it nearly cut off Husk’s breath, but still he seeked out the mouth coated in alcohol and blood and heat.

“So this is you…” Alastor spoke, making Husk whine when he moved his mouth away. But not far, still so close for Husk to feel his laughter rumbling against his skin. “How good to see you again, dear friend.”

His lungs were too filled to cry out. His skull was too filled to process anything of what was being said. There was only his mouth that wanted to find another. His head was the only part of him allowed to move, so he kissed Alastor harder, leaning in until sharp teeth clashed against his own, getting drunk off the taste of gin and whiskey, off the taste of Alastor’s tongue that made him choke.

It was warm, and wet, and hot, and scalding, and overwhelming and he wasn’t going to survive but he had always fallen so hard until there would be nothing but pieces of him left. Pieces that Alastor would leave on the ground to cut him open afterwards, but it was worth it all just to get ecstasy now. Just to feel something other than complete hollowness, even with a blade held to his throat.

If there were more touches that fell across him, more sounds that were pulled out of his throat, more names spilled out of him, again and again, he didn’t know. He just fell into warmth that was pitch-black, robbing him of all senses all at once. It was like being buried alive.

When Husk woke up the next morning in his bed, tucked inside blankets with his head on a soft pillow, the first thing he did was vomit all over the floor.

It had taken him ages to wobble to the bathroom, to expel whatever was left inside his stomach so that the fire inside him would stop. He knelt on the floor, hands shaking against the tiles, watching fur and feathers scatter from his shivering. Then he moved towards the sink, running the faucet over his head, hoping the cold water would douse the fever overtaking him.

He remembered too much. The fear that froze him in place, the monster shapeshifting in front of him, the alcohol pouring, the touch on his cheek, and the kiss that left him panting for more.

Then completely nothing after that.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

Husk raised his head to the mirror, dreading what he’d see, whatever would be left of him. But all he saw was unkempt fur, matted down from water, bags underneath his eyes, and a dry tongue.

Ordinary, because he would always drink before bed. Bottles of whiskey, vodka, gin and more were scattered all over his bedside table, or hidden in drawers. There was nothing different, and it fucking terrified him.

He ran his hand over his chest, swallowing hard. But even as his claws sifted through the fur, he couldn’t feel anything different. Everything in place. No marks of any kind. The only pain was the hangover doing a number on his stomach and his head all at once.

Nothing. But Alastor had always been good at covering his tracks.

And that very thought sent Husk’s mind reeling. He could’ve done anything with me. He could’ve made me do anything. He gagged, but there was nothing more to retch up except drips of saliva. His wings covered his shoulders on instinct, feeling cold in his bareness. But he always went to bed without clothes, so that wasn’t anything new either.

Hangovers were normal. Feeling like complete shit was normal.

He was going to shatter if he kept thinking about it.

Despite it all, Husk got to his feet, pushing everything away to just move. Went by routine. Gotta get ready. Gotta get to work. After all, he was the fucking front desk slash bartender for some goddamn reason.

Washed his face again. Half drunk the mouthwash. Did his business. Took a shower. Sat in the bathtub for ten minutes too long. He laid his wings flat on their sides. His claws kept kneading into his own legs. Finding nothing. Just nothing.

He left the bathroom. Went to the clothes closet that was half-open. Nice collared shirts, half-made ties, and jackets that hung around to gather dust, nearly falling off their hangers. He never bothered fixing them. He looked down, and saw the usual suspenders folded neatly on the bottom of the closet, his hat perched on top, right in the center.

Perfectly made. All set out for him. Husk stumbled into the closet, hung onto the side to keep upright. He breathed hard, harder, before he could finally calm himself down.

The bastard.

And still, he took the clothes, put them on. Clean and pressed, as if it had just been retrieved from the laundry.

Cover all the tracks.

It almost felt unreal to see Alastor just out in the hallways, like it was nothing.

The demon wasn’t even looking at him. Husk had turned a corner and found Alastor walking forward, occasionally drifting a gaze or two to a hotel room door. Inspection? Just a stroll? If he was going to the lobby to meet up with Charlie, he would have just teleported like always.

Watching him, Husk felt every old anger, every nauseous thought, every despair inside him.

Instead of half a hallway down, Husk found himself only inches away, enough to see the patterns in Alastor’s coat. He reached out and grabbed a wrist.

Alastor halted immediately, turning sharply with a raised eyebrow. “Starting early today?”

The words sunk into him. Husk shuddered and let go, but still kept his eyes on the demon. “What the fuck happened before? What did you do?”

Alastor turned to face him. “Oh, so typical of you to pin the blame on me. And all just for a little nightcap.”

There was so much he expected to hear and so much he didn't. But what Alastor said made him feel he was losing his grasp on what little sanity he had left. The simple casualness of it, like Husk had only stubbed his toe instead of feeling like absolute garbage, inside and out. “Enough with your bullshit! What. Happened.”

Alastor tapped his fingers against the mic, creating a faint feedback from the motion. His grin widened. “Only a lovely evening shared between old friends.”

Something hot over his neck. His throat burning as he became undone. And bright eyes peeling through his chest, straight through meat and bone and–

Husk shook his head, tried to control his breathing. Alastor stood still, with not a flicker of change over his face.

“I blacked out and that’s all you fucking say to me,” Husk said through gritted teeth. “You don’t care how much you ruin me. Or just…what I have to deal with afterwards.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful now. And after I made sure you would have a good night’s sleep.” He twirled the mic cane in one hand, the hum of it making Husk’s tail twitch in reflex. “Even rolled you on your side! Just in case, well, you know. You really should be more careful. One of these days you might not even wake up!”

Was that a threat? Husk couldn’t parse it, the words said so glibly from Alastor as if he was ordering a small cup of coffee. He breathed faster, his heart feeling like it would jump right out of his throat.

He just wanted to know what happened. He just wanted to know what Alastor did to him when he removed that block of memory from his head, shoving it away and only leaving him with invisible scars inside him. Ones he may never know about, or ones he would only find out when Alastor would reach for his hand out of nowhere.

And he just had to keep living like this.

Alastor leaned forward, towering over Husk, his shadow stretching out to cover him whole. Still, a certain distance was kept. One that could be broken at any moment. “I could see how much you truly missed it, you know,” Alastor said with a chuckle, pointing a finger right at Husk’s chest. “You told me so yourself.”

He didn't remember at all. Not a thing about that. No, he only remembered how Alastor had told him to beg and how he obeyed and how desperate he had been to get any drop left and he could only think how it must have gotten worse after that. It only ever got worse. His tongue felt like ash.

Something made his teeth rattle violently.

Husk blinked. Alastor was closer, but his boss hadn’t moved. The cane was held just before the demon’s face, blocking the claws that had reached out. Husk felt electricity run from his claws and up his arm.

He had aimed for it. For Alastor’s face. For his eyes. The undeniable urge to tear them out for what they must have seen.

There was always something that kept drawing him to Alastor. Teeth, claws, blood, hatred, fists, heat, despair, love, greed, everything, everything that was his. He didn’t know where it ever ended.

The grin widened. A red gleam that coated the hallway. “Husker. You have no idea how kind I am to you.”

He thought the chains would manifest, bring him to his knees and make him sink further and further into Alastor’s very being. Instead he was shoved. He was thrown away like disgusting trash and he couldn’t tell what were his thoughts or Alastor’s many whispers that sometimes trailed inside his head. Husk’s back hit the wall. He heard the cracks made in the plaster.

The only marks made. Easily fixed. But Alastor left the damage there for all to see, walking away as Husk struggled to breathe.

“Please do join us when you’re ready to be civil. The front desk can’t be unmanned for too long now.”

Husk waited and waited and waited. He didn’t know what for. His wings shuddered, and the pain in his chest finally felt so close to bursting open. Even though it wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t, ever since he first fell and couldn’t find a way to escape the pit he found himself in.

And if, for a second, he remembered being held within heat, a touch handling him as if he was fragile instead of worthless, precious instead of disposable, it didn’t really matter. Because he was still here, lying on the floor, waiting for something to change, knowing it never would.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #husk #radiohusk #fanfiction #one shot

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racefortheironthrone · 1 year

Note

With how much focus she has received since the beginning of the Krakoa era, what are your thoughts on Storm ? And do you agree on the perception that she's becoming something of a Mary Sue?

I’m going to start with a mini-rant about the Mary Sue.

To the extent that there is any validity to the term at all, it is solely and exclusively within the realm of fanfiction. A Mary Sue is an OC (original character) whose supposed annoying omni-competence is really secondary to the main problem with the character, which is that they warp the narrative away from the main characters of the source material - Kirk and Spock or Picard and Data stop doing things that drive the plot, and instead just stand around asking "where's Poochie?"

youtube

Outside of fanfiction and in the realm of the media that gives rise to fanfiction, a prominent character who is incredibly talented and powerful and who makes the plot center around them is called a fucking protagonist - so no, Rey isn’t a Mary Sue, Carol Danvers isn’t a Mary Sue, Katniss Everdeen isn't a Mary Sue - none of them are Mary Sues and anyone who claims otherwise is showing that they have deep-seated Issues with female protagonists in their fiction.

Is Storm a Mary Sue?

Even if we weren't talking about the most prominent black woman character in fiction, I would consider this question pretty damn offensive, both because no one would ever ask this question about a male character and - in a franchise packed to the gills with hyper-powerful women who make the plots revolve around them and who even get the complementary Love Triangle - no one sends me asks about any of those (white) women.

But to answer your question: no, Storm is not a Mary Sue - she's the main character of the X-Men.

See, when Chris Claremont took over X-Men in 1975, he did so with a brand-new cast of characters, the so-called "All-New, All-Different X-Men." In no small part because they were far more diverse and more colorful than the O5 (suburban WASPs one and all), most of these characters would become break-out stars and the core of the X-Men from that day to this.

However, Claremont didn't vibe with all of the All-New X-Men equally: he had Sunfire quit the team (repeatedly), he killed off Thunderbird for shock value (a death that has only been reversed this last year), he would have killed off Wolverine if John Byrne hadn't stopped him (Claremont would later turn around on Logan once he worked out his voice), etc.

But one character that he vibed with right from the beginning was Ororo Monroe. From the very beginning, Claremont's Storm is the most powerful of the All-New X-Men, both in terms of her powers and in terms of her personality, being the only person who can face down Logan. At the same time, she's complicated by her struggles with crippling claustrophobia caused by the Suez Crisis-induced trauma of her childhood.

After a few years, Claremont tired of the African Nature Goddess routine and had Storm experience an almost total transformation that nonetheless was completely grounded in her character. Feeling overly limited by the total emotional control required of her powers, Ororo undergoes a subtextual lesbian awakening in Tokyo's underground punk scene and emerges out the other side a free spirit, leader of the X-Men, and Queen of the Morlocks.

In his most audacious move in LifeDeath I and II, Claremont had Storm lose her powers thanks to Forge's anti-mutant tech - and then defeat Cyclops in a duel for command of the X-Men without her powers - and then regain her powers in an epic cycle that saw the X-Men die and be reborn as outlaw heroes in the Australian Outback.

In sum, Storm was clearly Claremont's favorite character and, as a result had the most interesting character journey over his 16-year run on X-Men.

Storm in Krakoa

And then Storm basically lay fallow for almost thirty years. In no small part due to the pioneering work done by Claremont with this character, later writers were frankly too intimidated to touch the character and so starting in the 90s, Storm was increasingly sidelined in the comics in favor of the characters that were commercially "hot" at the time - Wolverine and Gambit, especially.

In the 2000s, the most significant thing to happen to Storm was her marriage to T'challa. While I think Reggie Hudlin had mostly good intentions with this decision - he wanted to create a black power couple at Marvel and thus put together Marvel's most prominent black man and black woman into a relationship - the result was to make Storm a supporting character in Black Panther comics, rather than a main character in X-Men comics.

I would argue that it is only recently with the advent of Al Ewing as a major writer in the X-office with S.W.O.R.D, X-Men Red, and Storm and the Brotherhood of Mutants that we've gotten a writer who's not afraid to write Storm as she deserves to be written - as the most powerful of the X-Men, the Regent of Arrako and the Voice of Sol, the standard-bearer of Magneto's legacy, and a woman trying to balance the demands of two planets and her own desires.

#X-men #x men meta #xmen #xmen meta #krakoa #chris claremont #ororo munroe #storm

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thel0llip0p · 4 months

Text

A World Without Sonic

a sonadow prime ficlet, you can guess what it's about.

**disclaimer: i'm not a writer and I did not proofread it lol. this was the idea for my next comic but i got lazy to draw it so i wrote it out instead for now.

tags? sonadow , character death/mourning, platonic shadamy, mention of: tails, knuckles, rouge, big, eggman

____________________

Shadow finds himself in the last spot he was in right before the prism shattering, his arms held out and empty where the blue hedgehog once was, feeling disoriented for only a split second.

The cave!

Wasting no time, the black hedgehog dashes away making his way up to his destination. His heart racing wondering if Sonic made it alive and intact. A pit in his stomach grew on his way over, fearing the outcome. Like Schrödinger's cat, unfortunately there was only one way to find out, whether he liked it or not.

He makes his grand appearance at the mouth of the cave, and without thinking calls out

"Sonic!"

"Shadow??"

His heart dropped. At the scene, Eggman and Sonic's friends all staring blankly at him, both parties equally confused. But sonic was nowhere in sight.

This left him no choice.

"Chaos Control!"

and he disappeared just like that, along with the Paradox Prism.

___

Warping to a secluded location unbeknownst to anyone except himself, he sheltered the prism.

I guess this will have to do for now.

Against his will, he supposed he'd have to be the guardian of this thing for now, not unlike a certain echidna and the master emerald but he knew he couldn't entrust the prism with anyone else other than himself.

Now that the prism was taken care of for now, he could finally think about the burden on his mind.

Sonic...

Did he really not make it ?

He refused to believe that the bundle of blue joy was no longer in existence. He couldn't leave things at that, this warranted further investigation.

He needed answers now.

And he first person that came to mind was...

____

"I really... don't know who you are talking about?" Tails pondered with a hand to his chin. "Are you sure you're feeling okay, Shadow?"

"The name Sonic doesn't ring a bell? Really? Your blue hedgehog best friend? Try to remember."

"I feel like, it's supposed to be familiar but I don't really know. Nothing comes to mind. Sor-"

"Never mind, then."

Shadow walked away.

"Umm.. okay?" Tails shrugged him off, thought left a little dumbfounded.

On to the next one..

_____

"Hey redhead, where's your blue friend Sonic?"

"What did you call me?!" Knuckles didn't take so kindly to the nicknames and much less being interrupted during his midday nap.

"Where's Sonic?"

"Don't know 'im"

He sighed defeatedly and took his leave.

______

Tails didn't know. Knuckles didn't know.

Big and Rouge didn't know either.

Of course Sonic isn't going to be anywhere. He's not here. It's like he never existed. And even knowing this was venture was fruitless, he felt the need to ask everyone anyway, as if he was holding out hope for something.

How stupid. This behaviour wasn't like him.

And there was only one last person left, the only person who could possibly understand even a tiny bit how he felt.

____

"Oh Shadow nice to see you around. You don't normally stroll around so casually, did you need something?" Amy, oh so very cheerful as always.

"Have you seen Sonic?" Shadow was straight to the point.

"Sonic? Ummm.." she gave it some thought. She felt like she was supposed to know who that was and although she didn't, it did make her heart flutter a bit. "Is he your friend?"

"No, he's not my friend, just someone I'm looking for."

"Oh... well I noticed you've been asking and searching around endlessly. He must be someone important to you."

"...Yeah, I guess so." He melancholically looked off into the distance.

The two of them were sitting on a hill with a nice view of the green hill landscape.

"If you don't mind, can you tell me more about Sonic? Who was he? What happened?"

"He... was a hero, your friend.. everyone's friend.." he trailed off.

"..And I couldn't save him."

Tears began to well as he began to recall his last memories of their adventure together. A surge of pain growing in his chest and his suppressed feelings beginning to surface.

Amy turned to Shadow, concern on her face. He was normally never vulnerable with anyone but in this moment, for some reason he felt like he could confide in Amy with this. Even if he couldn't delve into detail.

"He sacrificed himself to save the universe, and now he doesn't exist and no one remembers him... except me." He did his best to hold back his emotions.

She listened to him with sympathy in her eyes.

"A world without Sonic, is not the same world at all. I can't imagine a world without him, and here I am. Here's not here anymore." Brushing away the tears, he turned away to hide his face from her.

Amy wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug.

"It's okay Shadow. I'm sure it's not your fault.

Knowing you, you probably did everything you could to try to save him. And surely Sonic is thankful for your effort."

He wanted to believe her but his emotions only welled further.

"It wasn't enough... I wasn't enough, and now he's gone. Forever."

She stroked his back, trying to comfort best as she could.

"As long as you remember him in your heart, he exists and lives on in your heart."

At this point , Shadow was basically crying into her shoulders, and although it was extremely embarrassing he couldn't help himself. The tears flowed like rivers, mourning the loss of the only hedgehog he saw as his equal, rival, possibly friend?

How could he live on like this ? First Maria, now Sonic.

His feelings of remorse, hopelessness and sorrow overwhelming him.

When would it end?

Amy's embrace brought him comfort, but oh how he wished he was in Sonic's instead.

He felt his sense of self drifting away until everything became black.

"Shadow?"

"Shadow ?"

Amy's voice tried to reach him but her voice sounding increasingly faint.

____

"Shadow ?"

A familiar voice...

"Hey you okay?"

"Nngh"

Slowly opening his eyes, he saw emerald green eyes looking down at him and a blur of blue and sunshine.

"S-sonic?" A sudden wave of relief came over him.

He sat up. "You're okay?"

"Of course I am?

He realized he had been sleeping on Sonic's lap? And oh, there was remnants of tears on his face?

"What was that about? Bad dream got ya?" Sonic teased as he layed back against a palm tree, hands behind his head.

Shadow sighed. "Guess you could say that," rubbing the back of his neck.

"I dreamt... you didn't make it back to Green Hill and everyone had forgotten about you. It's like you never existed."

"Oh you missed me so much you started crying in your sleep? Aww-"

Shadow grabbed his face with his hand, squishing his cheeks "Shut it, you." And kissed him.

"I'm just glad you're okay."

And the two resumed their peaceful afternoon by the beachside.

#sonadow #sonic prime #sonadow prime #fanfic #fanfiction #sonadow fanfiction #platonic shadamy #dropping this here and forgetting abt it bye #u kno its bad when an artist writes fanfic

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