#while also heaping blame for So Many things on him which are either

[notenoughdragons]

#what matters isnt if hes right or wrong#what matters is if what hes doing is REALLY funny (it is 💕)

While we're on the topic

Before Solas there was no discussion about how Thedas needed to be 'fixed' because the Veil was 'wrong'

So when people say they arrived to this conclusion naturally, or that this is obvious, and use that to prove he's 'right' or justify his actions and preconceptions re: choosing to disconnect from others, and yeah his racism, I feel very skeptical about it

[abbythewritor]

"Fairness" One Piece x Saitama reader twelve.

"Just a Normal girl looking for an everyday life. At least, if you call sailing across the seas with idiots with useless dreams a simple task, then you might wanna see a doctor. Seriously."

Warnings: Blood, gore, mentions of Luekimia, and heaps amount of blood and strength. It might be a little cursing, but not bad, and maybe some flirting in there, but it's mostly clean.

Other things:

-You didn't get bald due to your powers; you got bald to an extreme illness.

-You part of the straw hat crew, but others are interested in you and your power.

-Everyone that is a male is taller than you.

-Monsters from the OPM world will appear in One Piece, and I'll make some new monsters you will fight.

Enjoy the twelfth chapter everyone!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Man, it's been a while.

Last time we left off, I accepted to join Luffy's crew, and for the past two years, as a captain, he ordered everyone to grow strong, for two years straight.

Including me.

Yep, that's right, he trained his Haki with Rayleigh, and I trained my haki and strength with the Marine hero, Garp.

It's been interesting, as he didn't go as hard as he did with Luffy when he was a kid, but I still worked just as hard.

Every single morning, I start with a prestige workout.

10-kilometer run.

Upper body strength.

Core strength.

Lower body strength.

weight training.

Inner peace activities, Yoga, Stretching, and Balancing.

Then Garp worked on my strategy mindset, along with different defense techniques, attacks, and mind movements with chess, and other Japanese-like games that I wasn't familiar with.

He also taught me different Haki tequniques from himself, and stuff he learned from fighting Roger, who was the last king of the pirates.

At first, I was confused on why he would train a person who would become a pirate, then I realised he knew how important I was to Luffy, and wanted to make me storng so when he comes across me again, he won't hold back his strength, which I wouldn't blame him.

But, things aside, Garp also worked on combat training with me against Koby, who I formed some sort of bond with over the past two years.

The blonde didn't like me because I was a pirate, but I grew on him once the two years were coming to an end.

But, all of the harsh training and sparing, making new friends with some Marines, and people, the two years will soon come to an end, when Tomorrow I meet up with Luffy, and meet my new crew members.

It was a start of a new journey, and Journey of fun, excitement and Adventure, which was something I've been longing for forever.

Oh, and your probably wondering, what about Crocodile, buggy, and the ones who helped me and Luffy at Marineford? Well, let's say I was writing them all letters, and knew that Ivankov was training one of my crewmembers I've yet to meet yet.

All of them are doing quite well, Mister Three Joined buggies crew, while Mister One was working beside Crocodile, as they are trying to rise the ranks, to become something differemt which makes me proud.

Jimbei hasn't written back at all, which is understandable as he is a busy fishman all the time, but it makes me curious on how he is doing.

Luffy has seemed to be doing well, as he wrote back to me all rayleigh has taught him, all the jokes and fun things the two did these past two years, which made me excited to see him more and more.

Ace, however, did some training of his own, which is understandable from the Marineford incident, but he never really told me who trained him.

Either way, I'm glad he's living a fair life right now, as Pop's death is put behind everyone who fought in that war two years ago.

He told me he was doing quite well, finding hobbies to keep him busy, as well as rebuilding the Whitebeard Pirates into something more, which makes me glad his life is taking a turn for the better.

With many thoughts running through my mind, the sunset of this day was showing onto the sea, myself sitting on a grassy hill as the trees and the flowers danced with the sea brease.

You look a little different as well, grown up, as you were still Y/B/T, (Your body type.) but you looked stronger, happier, and more intelegent.

Wigs, the ones you used to wear, you got everything that could cover your bald head out of your life, as you learned that being bald, doesn't mean anything different about a person. You learned hwo to embrace yourself, and your bald head, as it is a symbol of beauty, and it shows a symbol of piece to people, just like Saitama did with his bald head-well, kind of.

As i continued to watch the beauty of the sunset in front of me, I felt a familiar presence behind, as Koby sat in the spot next to me. "It's quite beautiful isn't it?" I nod. "Yeah, I'm sure going ot miss doing this everynight....these past two years have been...." He chuckled. "Hard?" I shook my head with a smile. "No-well, yes, but I've never had to much fun in my entire life....learning new skills, eating different kinds of food that's not from my world, even making new friends." I nudge Koby, as he chuckled. "Never expected this when I was first recruited. Training with a girl who will become apart of a pirate crew who's run by Garps Grandson. Especially a girl from a different world. I say, when a mad man tells me that, I'd think their crazy, but a girl like you, with powers like yours, explaining everything that had happened, how can I not belive it?" I smile more.

"Your lucky I didn't turn on you, 'Admrial.'" He snorted. "Future, Admiral, well, that's still the plan anyway. It just makes me think how far both of us came, and it makes me wonder more how far Luffy proceeded, and how strong he became, guess you'll find out tomorrow, huh?" Sighing, I looked back at the sunset. "Yeah..." Many thoughts ran through my head, as I was quite nervous with meeting his crew, as koby could sense my uneasyness, as his head tilted. "Are you alright, Y/n? You seem to be thinking a lot lately..." I let out another sigh. "Let me ask you a question, before you joined the marines, where you ever nervous?" Koby was silent from my question for a moment, before he ssmiled. "Of course I was, all my life I was scared, but, once Garp trained me, and i've became stronger and knew what being a marine was like overall, all my nerves went away. I knew what my purpose was, to achiev the Marine Admiral title, and I know I can let my nerves get away from my goals." His words struck you in the heart, as you smiled again, your eyes then looking to the ground.

"I see...well, I guess I shouldn't be nervous then huh?" Koby chuckled. "Don't get me wrong, it's ok to be nervous when your entering a new chapter in life, but, trust me when I tell you this, the straw-hat pirates will be the nicest people you ever meet, because I know them too." My eyes widened slightly. "Ah, that's right, you told me you've encountered them a few times." He nodded. "Yes I have, and they are strong too, but now that two years have gone by, I'm curious too see how thye have grown, and how they will think of your strength, I have faith Y/n you'll fit right in, because Luffy asked you to be apart of his crew for a reason." Sighing, Koby was right, as my smily grew a lot more. Luffy didn't just ask me because I was desperate, or on the verge of death, he saw potential in me, he saw my strength physically and mentally, and he sought of it as a perfect fit. Plus he saw my loyalty to him, which a captian needs a loyal crew member in order to survive these treturous seas. "The boys right." Both of us looked to Garp, who held his usual smile, as a cookie was in his hands. Koby's eyes widened with the sight, as he got up. "Sir, are you sure your supposed to be have that?! The doctor said-“

“Bah! Screw what the doctor says; I’m grown up and can have anything I want! Besides, I earned this for training you idiots!” Garp interrupted, laughing while taking a bite of his well-deserved cookie. “Sir, with all due respect, sweets are nice to have oonce in a while, but with how old you are, having too much sugar is not the greatest idea-“ Koby got bonked “I CAN EAT THIS COOKIE IF I WANT TO IS THAT CLEAR?!” “Y-Yer sir!” Giggling from the usual antics, Garp sighed and took the final bite of his cookie while looking at me. “Nerves can be a great obstacle when sailing the seas, but trust me on this: my grandson can take your nerves away in an instant; besides all the training we did, all the battle strategies and studies I’ve shown you both, I have full faith you both will make it in this pirate world. Just remember the important tactics in the future when I’ll be chasing you down, and pray that your God will help you throuth. HAHAHAHA!”

His words made my eyes rolled. "I can achieve anything through Christ who strengthens me, so don't be surprised when I don't hold back." My smirk made him laugh more as he patted my back. "That's the spirit kid! Even if you are a pirate or a marine, a strong will and heart will always be a good power when facing tough opponents; just remember not to gloat about the positive attributes since you always have your crew on your side to back you up. Who am I kidding? I'm a marine, not a pirate. HAHAHAH!" Koby sighed. "I think you had enough cookies.." he took to bag, and Garp paused before slumping, and I giggled more. "Thank you guys…I know I'm going to be ok. I've worked hard for this; now it's time to start a new chapter in my life… I will never be more blessed to be alive right now." Turning to the two, I gave them a huge smile. "Thank you both for the best two years of my life; when we meet again, we won't consider friends or family; we'll be rivals with benefits." Koby nodded, smiling at me. "Right!" Garp put a finger to his chin. "Rivals with Benefits huh? I've never heard that before, but consider me a family Rival. Y/n, keep Luffy in check because he will need much help to get through the seas. Especially now that Ace is saved, just don't do anything reckless, alright? Don't wanna drop you off tomorrow, and something went wrong."

I nodded this time. “Of course, Sir. I’ll do my best.” Garp crossed his arms. “Now, you must know a few things when we arrive tomorrow. One, I will give you a 5-minute head start before sending my marines after you. I will give you coordinates to where Luffy’s ship would be, as Rayleigh told me. Find the ship, don’t get caught, and meet your new crew mates, understand?” I nodded again as he continued. “There will be a high chance the Kuma army will be there two, but nothing you can’t handle. Think smartly, not rashly. Therefore, I have nothing else to teach you; now get some rest; we set sail for Sabaody at dawn.” Me and I nodded again. “Yes, sir!” With that, he left, and Koby looked at me. “Are you going to be ok?” Signing, I smiled, looking at him. “Yeah, actually..”

“I have a feeling I’m going to be more than ok…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright, listen up!” It was the next day, as the marine ship you were on was approaching the destination, as Garp was telling you the plan. I had everything ready, all packed, as my excitement grew more. “Here are the coordinates to Luffy ship; before I give you a five-minute head start, you will run into familiar people, new foes, and some idiot lowlife pirates that boast about themselves. Just focus on getting to the Sunny, with no distractions or errors, understand?” I nodded to Garp. “Yes, sir!” He grinned. “Good, now here is a month's supply of food; since I know how Luffy eats, all of this is needed-“ “DID YOU STEEL THE COOKIES FROM HERE?!” Koby snapped as Garp froze, whipping at the boy. “ONLY ONE LUFFY CAN SURVIVE!!” “YOU DID NOT TAKE ONE SIR YOU TOOK A WHOLE BOX!” “LIKE I SAID, LUFFY WILL SURVIVE NOW. SHUT UP!!” Koby got hit with Garp's fists before handing me the food bag, which I could carry easily. “Now, the coordinates should be easy for you to understand since I wrote the instruction for kindergarteners, so don’t screw up and get lost. Once we dock, immediately hop off the ship, no of that emotional goodbye stuff even though I will miss having a girl to train…” he started to get emotional and turned as Koby approached him. “DON’T CRY THEN!” He snapped as I smiled. “It’s okay; crying isn’t a sign of weakness. I’ll see you both again. The two years was just the beginning.”

Koby smiled at my words as he walked closer to me. "Of course, I'll put up a good fight next time." I smiled at his confidence as he held out a fist, but I ignored it and hugged him, and he froze. His face was red; he was shocked that I was doing this. I was getting emotional when I felt his arms wrap around me. "Be safe. Koby… don't get yourself killed.." I whispered as he hugged me tighter; I could feel his breath on my skin. "Same to you, Y/n.." Pulling away, I wiped my tears before looking to Garp, who was still crying while facing out, as I sighed. "Garp." I knelt to him and smiled. "Thank you for training me and helping me to grow stronger. The techniques you taught me will also come in handy for defense. But sometimes, when good people part ways, it's always good to cry occasionally. But don't worry, I won't think any less of your strength because you are crying. I'll be ok, and keep Luffy safe, I promise." His brows knitted together. "You better; I don't want another brat to worry for when I'm chasing me. Besides, you'll be one hell of a pirate, a strong one at that." I smile. "And it's all thanks to you. Well, I guess I should go, huh? Thank you two again. Be safe!" As my five minutes were starting, I grew excited. I bowed, grabbed my stuff, and hopped off the Marine ship, running straight ahead. As Garp and Koby watched, Bogard walked up to the two and just glanced at Garp. "You're giving her more time, aren't you.." Garp laughed. "Of course I am; she'd be considered lucky since this place is confusing; she should be just fine. EVERYONE GET READY TO PULL TO THE FRONT BAY! WE'LL CUT THEM OFF!!" A bunch of 'Yes sirs' rang through the deck as the ship went out of the dock while you, of course, were looking at the directions as you followed the numbers on the trees.

This place was unique, full of bubbles which is meant for a five year old.

Everything looked plastic, even though it wasn’t, as you took a chance to take in the scenery, grasped the food bag and stuff, and adjusted it on your back.

Many people were here, and it was pretty lively with different people. The more I got closer to town, the more excited I felt.

Continuing to run, I tried my best to avoid many people and not make a big scene, as marines were already around the area, but they were probably not under Garp's command.

Making sure not to be seen, I kept a low profile as my posture was normal, my head was down, and my excitement was high.

It was not just excitement running high through me; it was also nervous because I hadn't seen Luffy in two years, let alone met his whole crew, and I heard rumors that they were just as strong as him.

Garp informed me of their names, as they all sounded unique, and I couldn't wait to meet them.

Roronoa Zoro: The fearsome swordsman.

Nami: Cat Burglar or Navigator

Nico Robin: the famous archeologist.

Chopper: The doctor.

Vinsmoke Sanji: The Cook.

Franky: The Shipwright

Brook: The musician

Usopp: The fearless sniper.

All of their titles seemed unique and different, and it made me even more nervous to meet them, as I didn't know where my strength and title stood against them, but I hope I get along with everyone.

As I kept running and running, I arrived at a green-hilled pasture, as more bubbles from this island were formed, until...I saw him.

That's right. I saw Luffy's big backpack on his back as he was in front of Rayleigh, who had trained him for the past two years.

Behind him were two handsome men: a tall, muscular, green-haired guy with a slash on his left eye and the other male beside him, who was blonde, elegant, and had a black go-tee.

"Huh, those two men must be a part of his crew.." I stated as I continued running that way, but as I was heading to them, the Marines yelled to stop Luffy and the two men as they were about to attack.

My eyes widened, and my teeth gritted as I jumped before the three. When I got close enough, my cloak blew in the wind as my fist went back. "NORMAL SPREAD PUNCH!" I yelled, Slamming my fist on the floor as all the marines that were in front of the three suddenly scattered in a large explosion.

The ground rumbled, and the leftover marines' eyes widened as they couldn't believe how much power suddenly occurred.

Dust arose, the chaos in front of Luffy, and the two men widened their eyes as my Silhouette was shown, making Luffy's lips form a bright smile.

"You're an Idiot, Luffy....for not having your guard up all the time.." I stated, a smile curling on my lips as I was revealed.

The marine's eyes widened more when they saw me, as some of them backed away with fear.

"I-It's Y/n L/N's..! The powerful girl that saved Fire Fist Ace years ago!"

"W-Why is she here?! Rumors said she joined a pirate crew; wait, don't tell me.."

"Stop her from helping the Strawhats escape!!!"

Luffy couldn't stop smiling. "Y/n!!! Is that really you?! Wow!! You look so different! HAHA!" Luffy hugged me, and his laughter brought warmth into my ears as I laughed, too, hugging him back. The blonde Male had hearts in his eyes and was waving his arms. "Wah! A pretty lady!!!" I blushed, flattered by the blonde's comment, as the green-haired male stepped forward, grabbing onto his sword handle. "Luffy, you know this girl?"

Luffy smiled, letting go of me as he began to pat my back repeatedly. "It's Y/n! I forgot you all haven't met her yet! She is a part of our crew!" Both of the men froze, as I smiled nervously, and I waved. "H-Hi...I heard a lot about you both...Garp has told me a lot of information...your Zoro and Sanji right?"

The two's eyes widened as Sanji's eyes turned into hearts, his nose bleeding a little. "She knows my name!!" Zoro stepped forward, a little shocked. "Yeah, those are our names... you said Garp told you information about us..which means you were with the Marines?"

Laughing nervously, I scratched the back of my head. "Well, I wasn't a part of the Marines; I just gotta taste what it was like for the past two years. Garp trained me, actually." Sanji paused his simpering as his and Zoro's eyes widened. "Wait, really, Garp trained you?" Sanji asked. "I'm surprised," Zoro added, then continued. "Being the hero of the Marines, I would expect the least of him to train someone who's part of a pirate crew. Well..it's nice to meet you, Y/n gotta admit, you're strong, but are you worth enough to fight alongside Luffy..?" Zoro's calm question caught me by surprise, but I wasn't hesitant when I firmly nodded my head to him before speaking."Luffy has a strong heart and a great dream. People like him deserve Fairness and to achieve his goals and actions in life. Two years ago, I fought alongside him to Save Ace. I won't stop fighting with him until he becomes pirate King. For the world to know even the lowest of people who are pirates or Marines or even just regular people, all deserve Fairness and to live in a world where they won't be bored but have a sense of fun and adventure." My words struck Zoro somehow, as he could see the determination, loyalty, and Kindness in my eyes. He didn't know who I was or what Luffy had brought to the table, but he knew I was loyal to Luffy, making his lips curl into a small smile as I saw his hand go out to me. "Well then, that settles things...dI like you Y/n.....Welcome to the crew..." My heart fluttered as I looked up at him before smiling, as my hand firmly grasped in his. "Thank you both!"

"You kids better go; I'm sure more Marines will be coming this way." A familiar voice spoke, and we all turned to see Rayleigh as I smiled at him. "Rayleigh!" He smiled down at me calmly, his tall form towering over me. Even though his age had seen better days, his looks never failed him, as he was as handsome as ever. "Hello there, Y/n-san; I must say, Garp trained you well. Did you lose weight?" I smiled more at his question as I nodded. "I did! I've never felt better about myself, and I have your Grandpa to thank for that, Luffy." Luffy laughed, holding his stomach with a smile as Rayleigh chuckled.

"Well, I'm proud of you, Y/n; you look good... perfect. Be who you want to be...don't let anyone else tell you who you are, because if you let them..well.." His hand reached out, gently popping a bubble about to land on my nose as my cheeks rose in color, and his smile continued to show the more he looked at me. "Your life won't be as bright as it is now...you don't want that, do you, Y/n?" My heart continued to beat rapidly; I felt like I was going to explode as my head quickly shook, which made him smile more, his hand going onto my head. "Good girl...because bright people like you deserve fairness, just remember that. I want to keep seeing your Kindness when you rise with Luffy on the Grandline; just don't forget to Visit this Old Geezer occasionally, ok? Can you Promise me that?" Nodding from his question, my eyes met his again. "Of course, I'll visit you, Rayleigh; that is a definite promise, right Luffy?" Luffy nodded also. "Yes! That's right! You are not alone anymore, Rayleigh! Your family to us now!" When Luffy smiled, Rayleigh got emotional as he wiped his eyes. "Family huh? I quite like the sound of that...you all better be careful...the Grandline is even more dangerous than ever, so remember to always keep guard and protect each other...you four better head to the Sunny; I'll take care of the Marines here.." Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, and I all nodded with Rayleigh's words, as we turned, and started running, heading to Luffy's ship.

Before the Marines could attack us more, Rayleigh fended them off, serving no match against him.

As the four of us ran, heading in the right direction, Luffy smiled brightly beside me. "We have so much to catch up on!" I nodded to his question. "Indeed we do. Luffy." As Luffy smiled brightly again from my agreement, a large shadow cast over the four of us as we paused to see a Giant bird, which widened my eyes.

But, before we could be hesitant, a familiar voice spoke, and we saw the familiar Doctor, known as Chopper, waving and Yelling to Zoro, Sanji, and Luffy.

"Chopper!" Luffy yelled, smiling more as the bird landed. My eyes sparkled when looking at the Reindeer, as he was so cute when he tackled Luffy into a hug, and Zoro and Sanji, the four of their laughter, warmed my heart.

As Chopper looked at Luffy, he looked at the bird. "Everyone is waiting for you, Luffy, at the Sunny!" Luffy's eyes widened. "Robin, Brook, Nami, Usopp, and Franky are there already?! Well, we can't keep them waiting! Zoro, Sanji, Y/n, let's get on the bird and hurry!"

The three of us nodded, soon getting on the bird, which took off, as Chopper directed it to the right path while it flew high in the sky.

I couldn't help but be in awe with the View of this island, as it was pretty beautiful. It was peaceful, flying so high in the sky as I closed my eyes, enjoying the calm wind hitting my skin. The bird continued to head to the Sunny until Luffy saw his ship in his eyes and smiled again. "There it is! OI! GUYS!! EVERYONE!!" He yelled as I looked down at him, and the other members of his crew smiled more, too, getting up from their spots and running to the edge of the boat, greeting him back with the same amount of kindness.

I noticed some of them crying, and it made my heart warm when the bird got closer.

But, then suddenly, a pool of blood came out of Sanji's nose as he flew off the ship, and my eyes widened with shock as the chopper yelled for him as he fell into the water.

Zoro wasn't bothered to get him, as it was customary for his nose to bleed like this; I was just concerned for Sanji as the bird was close enough to Sunny, allowing me, Luffy, chopper, and Zoro to hop on, as Chopper thanked the bird.

As the bird flew away, Usopp cried for Chopper to stop Sanji's nose from bleeding, as Zoro simply walked past, and I looked amongst the Chaos, not knowing what to do as Luffy was too busy admiring Franky's new form. "Excuse me." A voice spoke as I turned to Robin, who looked at me curiously as her tallness towered over me.

"Are you the new crewmember Rayleigh spoke of?" My posture was fixed as soon as she asked that, and I nodded. "Y-Yes, my name is Y/n; it's nice to meet you." My answer piqued Nami's interest. "Oh, so your Y/n! You helped Luffy save Ace!! I'm Nami! It's nice to meet you!" She offered me her hand, and I smiled and shook it. "It's nice to meet you, Nami. Luffy told me so much about you." My statement made her sigh. "I'm sorry if Luffy has caused you trouble. He's a good captain but can be a handful sometimes." I giggled at her statement. "Ah, not Luffy is fine, he's not a handful I promise-" I paused when a Skeleton, or Brook, approached me as he bowed like a gentleman.

"Hello there, beautiful Lady! My name is Brook! I do have one question, if you don't mind me asking." I smiled up at him. "Ok, sure, go ahead." He coughed in his handkerchief before he leaned down to me more. "May I see your panties?" My face fumed red before Nami suddenly bonked his head instantly. "STOP ASKING TO SEE WOMANS PANTIES! YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE HER UNCOMFORTABLE!" she snapped; I was shocked by the sudden outburst but then snorted when holding my mouth as this situation was quite funny. "Don't mind, Brook." I turned to look up at Franky, who had a smile on his face.

"He asks that question to every woman, so don't feel a bit embarrassed; the name's Franky and I gotta say, when I heard Luffy asked a girl like you to join our crew, I didn't believe you'd be this cute." His compliment made my face flush more as Nami's head whipped to him. "Don't add gas to the fire, Franky!" Franky shrugged. "What? It's the truth. Besides, I don't think she's too bothered by it, right?" His wink made me giggle as I nodded. "You're right about that. Say, Franky, I think you're pretty cool; I knew of a Cyborg once." His eyes widened. "Really? What was he like? Strong, tall, handsome?" Watching him smirk, I smile. "He was all three of that thing; sadly, he died when fighting a monster, but he still lives in my heart!" Franky's facial expression changed slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that; you have my respect, Y/n. He must have been a true good friend." I don't remember Genos, but he seemed to be a good friend of Saitama as I nodded with Frankie's command. "Yeah, he sure was.." I looked around before my eyes landed on Usopp and Chopper chatting with Luffy. "And you two must be Chopper and Usopp, correct?" The two pauses when turning to me, as Usopp nodded confidentially, his lips forming a grip. "That's right! I'm Usopp the Great, The most feared sniper of Luffy's crew!" My eyes sparkled with curiosity as I smiled. "That's so cool! So you shoot guns and stuff?!" He smiled nervously at my comment. "Well, not just guns; I can shoot lots of stuff and also make throwables to aid me in a fight, I know; hold your applause; it's awesome..." I smiled more, impressed with his Skill, as Nami glared at him. "We all know you are just being greedy now.." She growled as Usopp froze suddenly before laughing nervously. "I'm a pirate; what do you expect, Nami-"

"Oi, everyone heads up," Zoro spoke, as suddenly a Cannonball flew by Sunny, almost hitting it as it alerted everyone else.

Usopp and I ran over to the ship railing, looking more serious as we looked towards the Marine ships. "Oh no! When did they get here?!" Usopp asked as I glanced that way, as there were about three Navy ships. "It seems there are three Navy ships that way," I stated, as more Cannon balls barely missed the Sunny as I turned to Luffy. "Luffy, should we get rid of them?" But, before he could answer, more Cannonballs flew, heading straight for the ship this time, as the crew prepared to deflect them until pink-like arrows took them down, which alerted us to look at a familiar ship, Boa Hancock's ship.

Smiling, Robin walked up beside us; her face was blank. "That's Kuja's logo." Nami turned to her, confused. "Kuja?" "They're strong Amazonian pirates led by a pirate empress, Warlord." Robin's words shocked Usopp. "A Warlord?!!" Robin turned to him. "Her name is Boa Hancock. They say anyone who sees her will be attracted by her beauty." Brook stood on the other side of me, looking through the scope, as his face turned to shock, pink hinting at his bony facial structure. "Oh, too bright! She is dazzling!" He almost stumbled backward, as I giggled while Usopp caught the scope, looking as well as his mouth nearly dropped to the floor. "Wow! She must be a goddess!" His words widened Sanji's eyes as he hopped up from the floor, bolting to Usopp as he looked. "Goddess? Goddess! Let me see, let me see, where is she-" He paused when he saw her, turned into stone, and I Usopps eyes widened. "He turned into stone!" We both shouted with shock as Luffy came up behind us. "Oh, that's Hancock and the others!" He spoke as Usopp looked at him, as well as Brook and Sanji.

Boa turned her head to look at the sunny, as she saw me smiling which warmed her heart before she winked at me, which made my cheeks rise in color as Brook almost had a heart attack when he flung back.

"She helped us," Luffy spoke. "Let's set sail now!" he ordered, as Nami questioned if he knew her, as he nodded. "Yeah, I was sent to Maiden Island and I became friends with them. They helped Y/n too in keeping her in their country to recover her injuries." He stated as Usopp looked back at Boa's ship. " So that's the legendary female-only island, right? They definitely live up to their name." I nodded with his question before Sanji came up behind Luffy, a dark aura behind him. "Luffy..you were friends with the pirate empress?! HEY! WERE YOU REALLY TRAINING HARD?!" Sanji asked, tears of remorse coming from his eyes as Luffy smiled nervously at him. "Yes, Sanji, I really did train." Sanji slumped, going on all fours as he was crying more, I was then beside him, patting his back. "It's ok Sanji-kun, at least theirs other empresses out there in the sea..." He sobbed more, and my eyes widened as I felt like I made it worse as Zoro walked past, with a blank face. "Ignore his cries, he's grown more than an Idiot since two years ago." Sanji whipped to his feet. "SHUT UP MOSS HEAD!"

Nami sighed, as she spoke up before the two started fighting again. "Okay, let's get ready to set sail now!"

Everyone agreed, as no more marines were attacking us or stopping us from leaving, as a Marine ship was in my view, I saw Garp, Bogard, and Koby, and I smiled at them; waving. "GARP!! KOBY!!! BOGARD!!! THANK YOU FOR THE BEST TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE!!!" I yelled, catching the straw hat's attention, as Usopp and Chopper's eyes widened with fear when seeing Garp's ship.

But, Luffy told the crew not to attack, as everyone saw the tears brimming on Garp and Koby, while Bogard just smirked, as they stated their goodbyes, as it was an emotional moment.

Tears brimmed my eyes also, as the thousand Sunny continued to pull out of port, The three marines stayed until the Sunny's ship was out of sight. But, as the Sunny was sailing across the sea, a bubble roof was formed from the stuff coating the ship, as me, and everyone else's eyes widened as Nami spoke up again.

"Listen up everyone." She opened a paper. "A coated ship can reduce any kind of pressure. So once the floating bag at the ship's bottom which keeps it on the surface has been removed, it'll be less buoyant and start to sink."

"I see." Luffy, Zoro, and I spoke as Nami smiled. "Pretty easy to understand, right? Anyway, spread the sail now!"

Everyone nodded with the agreement as the straw hats, and I prepared to set sail.

Garp was right; Luffy and his crew weren't so bad, as from that day forward, I had a pretty good feeling about the future...as I will not stop fighting along side Luffy until.....

He becomes king of the pirates...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author: I AM SO SORRY, IT HAS BEEN A WHILE!!!

Author: You're probably wondering where I went, so I'll tell you! I have been away fixing myself and my mental health. Many things in my personal life have been going on, and I needed a break from activities to help aid myself and refresh my life.

Author: But now, after very long months and days, I'm finally back to writing. I am sorry if this chapter is a bit boring, but I promise there will be more exciting chapters in the future!

Author: Anyways, I am sorry again for being away so long. More chapters of this book will be published before Christmas, and the New Year, so I hope everyone is having a good last month of the year! Happy Holidays, and have a good day, everyone!

Bye lovelies!!!

[sweet-demiboi]

hello hello, it's me again, with another stupid thorin x male!reader idea! I have heaps of them in my backyard, it seems.

I love myself some good jealousy fics, and I love even more the concept of the reader being a bit overly jealous, so every time thorin gets too close (in his opinion) to another person, he kind of freaks out a bit. I tried this myself a while ago, but I'm not too happy with how it came out to be honest, so I'm asking once again!

hope I'm not too annoying at the moment, I can't even blame my sleep schedule this time, it's barely past eleven

Very stupid idea. I'm in.

A/n: It's getting a little sexual at the end, so, enjoy :)

You and Thorin were on a kind of business trip. As you were the kings of Erebor, you had to communicate with the other dwarf kingdoms and once in a year you all came together.

Not only kings and queens were there but also princes and princesses, mainly because their parents wanted them to get engaged to someone with power and wealth, but the sometimes teens wanted to meet with others too.

These meetings were also an excuse to just party around with style and to feast, so there were many drunken dwarfs around too, after the work had been done and the festival was going on for quite some time.

Of course, Thorin knew people here and he liked to talk to many of them. You on the other hand weren't much of a going-out-and-meeting-new-people-type and as you weren't born in a royal family either, you knew nobody. So you just sat at a rather lonely table and watched all that happened from afar.

It was pretty fun though at some points as you could observe Fili's and Kili's flirt attempts on both males and females. You grinned when you saw Kili dancing with a rather handsome dwarf and Fili flirting with a pretty lady.

You took another gulp from your beer and looked out for your own partner, but you couldn't find Thorin with neither his collegues nor on his way to you. You straightened your pose and tried to look over the heads of all the dwarfs (which wasn't really hard) to find him.

When you saw who he was with you could've gotten wild. Around him were five or more dwarven ladies, who were clearly flirting with him although your husband didn't seem to notice, as he was oblivious to such things when they didn't came from you.

You tried to make eye contact with Thorin but it didn't work and after one hot minute of consideration you walked over to the group.

"How is it to reign over a kingdom all alone? I bet it's so hard...", the woman fluttered her eyelashes and right when Thorin was about to answer you stood by his side, one arm already slung around the middle of his body "Well, he's not alone on the throne, I'm helping him with everything as a husband should."

The woman scoffed and signalized her friends that it was time to go. You let go of Thorin when you were alone again and he asked with upturned eyebrows: "What was that?"

"They were flirting with you.", you answered with crossed arms and he slowly started to grin when the realisation hit him.

"You were jealous."

You scoffed "No, I wasn't."

"You definetly were."

You scoffed again and turned your head away from him. Thorin chuckled and turned it again with his palm on your cheek where it stayed. He looked kindly into your eyes and said: "It's still impossible for me to believe that you really think I would choose some woman over you, amralime."

He kissed you softly and you let him. You let your arms lie on his broad shoulders and sighed into the kiss. You loved his lips and without exception every other part of him as well.

When you parted again Thorin brought your foreheads together and whispered words of admiration in Khuzdul until you blushed.

"First becoming jealous and now blushing. I have to say, (Y/N), you're acting a little bratty today.", he chuckled and you slapped his arm "Shut up."

"Gonna teach you a lesson for that, my love.", he said with darkening eyes. You bit your lip "I'd like that."

Thorin grabbed your hand smirkingly and pulled you over to your shared bedroom.

[argbursimp]

i would like to please cuddle the boy. as someone who’s cuddled with people and been told that they’re really really warm, argbur needs the warmth honestly (he/they pronouns pls)

note: this is about argbur, but i refer to him as wilbur! i am not talking about the content creator wilbur soot, but a character he came up with. this is also sfw. enjoy :)

the last thing wilbur was expecting when he broke into entered yet another home was for the owner to welcome him. they gave him a worried look when they saw him and immediately asked if he needed blankets.

of course, he said yes.

the owner moved quickly about his home, grabbing as many blankets as possible. his AC didn't go too far up and he was cold himself, but the man who broke into his home was shivering and dusted with layers of snow.

wilbur was instructed to lay on a heap of pillows and blankets on the couch front of the fireplace while his host covered him in the rest of the blankets. they made sure he was comfortable and no longer shaking, then went to brew hot chocolate, keeping an eye on the man.

"what's your name?" they asked.

he hesitated. "...will." he knew he could trust him at least with that, even if it wasn't his full first name. his host seemed harmless, simply wanting to make sure he was okay.

"nice to meet you, will," they said, and told him their name. the hot chocolate finished as they did, and they brought over two steaming mugs, sitting down next to him and handing him a mug. they were wrapped in a thick coat and boots, but clearly still cold.

wilbur set his mug on a table after taking a long sip. he moved the blankets to form an area where his host could sit next to him. they raised their eyebrows at him.

"it'd be easier if we shared warmth, right? human contact, and all that..."

his host contemplated for a moment before sitting down in the nest of blankets, wrapping them around himself. wilbur slowly laid an arm on his shoulders, and he leaned closer.

both had red cheeks, which could be easily blamed on the freezing weather.

the sky was dark outside. his host shifted, setting their now-empty mug on the table, then moved impossibly closer to argbur. they sleepily wrapped their arms around him, likely not even realizing it. they were asleep within a few minutes.

wilbur was hyper-aware of every place their bodies touched, and he held his breath to not disrupt his host's sleep. he looked too peaceful, with his head laying on wilbur's shoulder and legs nearly in his lap.

he could fall asleep like this, if it wasn't for his neck. it was beginning to hurt. perhaps his host wouldn't mind if they were lying on the couch... it would be much more comfortable.

he shifted them so they were next to each other, but they had other plans, even in their sleep. they somehow managed to roll onto his body, head resting on his chest. either it was a coincidence, or they weren't really asleep. no matter what, wilbur would not move them.

his eyes flickered between his host and the crackling fire, eyes drooping slowly. he let himself be consumed by sleep.

[god1ngs]

━‎ end of the world

synopsis; a forbidden love told for generations

contains; human reader, major character death, swearing, mentions of war, spoilers

god c!technoblade / reader, 3.4k wc

note; the title doesn't make much sense but whatever lol ,, this is for @mayasimagines 's 600 event! congratulations and i hope you like this :)

   throughout the fall of countries, the crumbling of empires, there stood a man. he gazed upon the vast land, the grass stained red. buildings had crashed down, debris staining the area around them. they layed in heaps of piles, taller than most. the fallen down buildings had been a sign of the empire's loss.

   there was no one alive to commemorate the loss however.

   screaming rung inside of his head, shouting and yelling, with some other tones mixed in. displeased and ecstatic and mocking tones blended together, sounds of chaos lingering in the mind of the man. he only sighed, walking away from the destroyed country.

   he's seen this happen too many times before, the repetitive cycle of watching a country build itself only to come crashing down years later. they never lasted long. always the one for chaos, he sometimes participated in the destruction of the countries, though most times he didn't need to.

   humans were savage, brutal creatures who only cared about themselves. by studying their nature, the way they go about certain scenarios, he had figured out that much. selfish, twisted beings who would betray each other in a heartbeat. all it took was more wealth or a promise of better gear.

   how easily swayed they were. technoblade sneered, his red cape dragging beneath him as he stalked the hallways. pillars of quartz, chipped at the edges from years of standing, lined the hallway. they reached the ceiling, some even going higher. the magnificent red carpet he stalked down had ended at a throne.

   a throne made of gold, the shiniest material he could get his servants to find. emeralds and diamonds and rubies lined the top of it, the same jewels lining the gold of his crown. at last, he sat down, the voices calming down at the familiar seating area. they always got loud whenever there was destruction.

   technoblade, the blood god. also known as the god of war and chaos to many, he wasn't very popular among the peaceful people. people often worshipped him for protection, to which he rarely granted. protection from him, a god of war, was seldom. often he didn't care about the hunans enough to waste his protection on them.

   yet, one mortal, had caught his eye. they were nothing too special, middle class and usually someone technoblade wouldn't even spare a glance at. they were different though. they outshined any ray of sun, their smile proving to be the brighter of the two. he found them, despite all odds, very interesting.

   later, after wine and more sparring, the man had caught wind of philza coming over. philza, the angel of death, had been one of technoblade's good allies, even so far as to consider the blond a friend. he brought saints to their knees in their final moments, allowing them either an eternity in hell or a peaceful life above.

   he wanted to meet them, and technoblade always gets what he wants.

   even before technoblade had become the god he is now, forever cursed to watch humanity rip itself apart, he knew philza. the two fought wars together, never straying from their path of loyalty. the blond perched himself on the windowsill, his striking white wings folding on his back, as he smiled at the other. "hello technoblade." he greeted, ever the polite man.

   technoblade only scoffed, shaking his head with an amused grin. "please, phil," he drawled, looking from his red wine to the angel of death. "no need for the formalities. just call me techno." the blond threw his head back with a laugh, wide smile painting his features as the other chuckled. "of course, mate."

   silence washed over the pair for a moment, a comforting silence that allowed them to bask in the moment od seeing each other. they didn't get to visit often, one thing they mutually hated about being in the sky palace, usually swamped with other duties. philza with guiding people to the afterlife, and technoblade with causing conflict.

   "i actually wanted to talk about somethin' with ya, mate." phil broke the silence, hopping off of the marble windowsill to come lean against one of the pillars. the pink haired man, ever so interested, hummed questionably. "and what did you want to speak to me about? come on, spit it out." the man said, looking down at philza.

   he sighed, glancing up at technoblade. "you've been acting off, mate. less wars are starting, and that's weird for you. i know you also started protecting that one mortal. fuck, what was their name?" he murmured, brows furrowed. technoblade sighed in annoyance, not wanting to be pestered with questions.

   "[name]." he answered phil quietly, not bothering to look back at the blond man. the clouds danced with each other in the sky, entertwining and morphing with each other freely. sometimes he wishes he could be as free as the clouds. "you know," phil said, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes. the blood god could only dread what he was going to say. "rumor has it that gods only protect mortals they're interested in."

   the teasing, despite only being light hearted, had a quizzical undertone. while technoblade had been acting strange, protecting somebody was something phil had never expected. either something was special about that mortal and their family, or someone had begun fantasizing. he could only hope it wasn't the latter.

   with more conversation, technoblade denying any feelings blooming for a human, phil left to go do his job. he was alone with his thoughts, the voices making him tug at his own hair to keep them quiet. they craved the mortal, despite how much he willed himself to stay in his throne room, the man had to go see them.

   it was a normal day for you. nothing was different, much less weird. it was only normal, a basket of bread in your hands as you walked home. you hummed as you stepped on the path, enjoying the peaceful walk back to your house. you were content with your life, having a few people and more deaths than you could count.

   and see them he would.

   you partially blamed philza, the angel of death, for the passing of your loved ones, but you also knew he wasn't the one to kill them. he simply took them to the afterlife, guiding them to where they would spend the rest of their days. the deaths in your family had piled up, mostly from war and some of falling ill.

   you spent your days worshipping gods now. you were always the lonely type, choosing to stay by yourself rather than interact with others. you never minded the comforting embrace of being alone, the silence enveloping you at every given moment. it provided you with a sense of comfort you couldn't get anywhere else.

   while you did worship other gods, you mostly worshipped technoblade. he was the primary god, you giving up all your offerings to him ─ ranging from bread to trinkets to gold galore. the tales of the blood god, always grand stories with daring adventures that had you on the edge of your seat, had always intrigued you.

   your favorite, the one you read the most to the slim amount of people you did contact, was the tale of the butcher army. when he was human, a detail that many didn't know whether to believe or not, he blew up many countries. it hinted at the start of him being the god of war many years later. for punishment, the butcher army hunted him down.

   they lied to the man, once they had captured him, in which they had prepared for his execution. some say he died that day, only to be revived due to the gods holy whim; others say he had never died, and broke out of the iron bars to kill the men who had hunted him down. learning about the magnificent god, a god you admired, had faced an army of four and won, allowed you to admire him even further.

   once you got home, setting down your basket of bread, you had sighed. you always liked coming home, your safe space filling you with a joy like no other. the everlasting comfort of your home, a familiar place you longed to be at constantly, helped you feel safe. the comforting feeling of being home at last filled you at peace.

   until it wasn't so peaceful anymore.

   from your kitchen came a clanging noise. there were a few grunts followed afterwards, your eyes wide. fear flooded your system, nervousness coursing through your veins. you stayed silent, hoping you'd either been dreaming or had been imagining sounds. however, once a voice spoke, you knew that was not the case.

   from your kitchen came, with his red cape dragging behind him, technoblade. you stammered, confusion replacing your previous nervousness. your grip came loose on the item you were holding, not being able to process what you were seeing. "well this is awkward." the god stated, putting your kitchen utensils he had just knocked down back on your counter.

   if anything, this was awkward. very awkward. who expected a god to come through their kitchen window? "uh, do you," you stuttered, voice measily yet you still tried to fight it out. "do you mind telling me why you're here?" it was more than odd to see a god in your kitchen, the sight one hard to believe for even yourself.

   technoblade had sighed, draping himself over your couch cushions as if he lived there. his arms, unlike your bare ones, spread across the back of your couch, the sight making you nearly sigh. "well, mortal, i had taken intrest in you." he answered bluntly, your mind still reeling from the fact that he was even here, but taking interest in you? no, this had to be some kind of joke.

   the visible confusion highlighting your features made the god chuckle. it was amusing, seeing the looks on mortals' faces whenever something odd or unexplainable happened. "what's so confusing? i took interest in you, and so i came down here to see you." the blood god explained, shrugging his shoulders. the confusion you felt only worsened.

   why was the question. why was a god in your house? why had he taken interest in you? you shook your head, suddenly feeling lightheaded. "sorry, i need to sit down." you muttered, trying to regain your footing. you sat down, going slowly as to not pass out in front of him. "so," you spoke up as soon as you had calmed down. "why have you taken interest in me?"

   a cloud of silence loomed over the two of you, technoblade falling into his thoughts. why had he taken interest in you? there was no particular shining traits in you, even if he studied you as if you had carved out the world with your own hands; he watched you as if you had brung down a fantastic reign upon everybody.

   "who knows?" he wondered aloud, a hum of amusement following his words. technoblade didn't know the reason for it, and despite itching with curiosity, he didn't bother trying to find out. he only let it be, coming to terms with the fact that you, a mortal, had piqued his interest. you kept him entertained, and that's all that mattered.

   after the two of you talking more, you still trying to get over the shock that the blood god was in your home, you had to say that he was fairly a nice guy. maybe he was kinder than all of the other ones, however you've never crossed paths with a god either, so you couldn't tell. when technoblade had stood up, braided hair falling against your couch, you knew it was time for him to go.

   he turned to look down on you, his towering figure highly intimidating. there was a reason he was feared across nations. he stared at you for a second, maybe deciding on what to say, though you couldn't tell with his blank expression. the man only sighed, wishing you a good day, and then turned to leave.

   "you've got me interested, technoblade."

   you only spoke to the god more after the first encounter. seconds turned into minutes and then minutes turned to hours. he was an interesting guy, choosing which emotion to show and when to show it. perhaps it came with being a god. as he came by more, each visit surprising you, you only talked to him more.

   "as you've got me, [name]."

   soon he started telling you stories. the butcher army, the l'manberg war, how he met philza. he told you great things of philza, the angel of death, so much so you nearly stopped disliking philza. you were always interested in his stories though, no matter how long or how action packed. each further lured you in to his grasp.

   technoblade, however, had stopped visiting so often. with more conflict arising everyday, he didn't have as much time to visit you anymore ─ philza was starting to catch on as well. how he wasn't home as often or how he lied to philza each time he asked him where he was. he was getting suspicious, and wanted answers quickly.

   philza confronted technoblade on this issue a while later. his wings puffed up confidently, he was so sure something was going on with his eldest friends, the edges torn at the seams. "technoblade." he addressed politely, standing in front of his throne once again, as he did not so long ago. he would get answers out of him.

   technoblade only sighed, his cheek pressed against his closed fists as he stared at philza. "yes, philza?" he asked, voice heavy with exhaustion. the recent wars, as much as he loved the excitement and panic that came with it, have been too tiring for him. he also couldn't visit you that morning, only pissing him off more.

   "have you been seeing the mortal you told me you had interest in?"

   silence crashed over the room, violent in its malicious intent. phil's questioned nipped at the blood god, desperately pleading for an answer. philza sighed, one of disappointment and perhaps even anger. the silence was enough of an answer. "mate, are you kidding me?"

   technoblade merely sighed, eyes narrowing at the blond. "you have no say on who i take interest in, phil. that is none of your concern." he dismissed the blond, turning back to look at the window. philza had no say in what technoblade done with his life, no matter how long the two have been friends.

   "none of my concern? mate, they're a mortal and you're a god! hell, the blood god! for fucks sake, mate, you can't be seeing mortals!" philza snapped, brows furrowed and cheeks red from anger. the trouble a god could get in from seeing a mortal was irredeemable.

   if technoblade got caught with the mortal, he would lose not only his titles, but his life. he would be executed.

   technoblade merely scoffed however, rolling his eyes. "as if i'll get caught, philza. those laws are stupid anyways. what, are you going to tell on me?" he arched his brows at the angel of death, sneering at him. how dare he barge into his temple and then go off at him; a beloved friend of his.

   however, the mortal was too intresting to not keep seeing. he may of even caught feelings. how laughable ─ the blood god, feared across empires, falling for a mere mortal. philza only sighed, rubbing his temples. he weighed his options: technoblade could continue seeing the mortal, get caught, and then both of them get in trouble.

   or philza could tell the council. tell them of his affairs, tell them why he hasn't been here as often. once more, a vicious silence swept over them. only for a moment, for philza had declared:

   "if you don't stop seeing this mortal, i'll have no choice but to stop it. don't make me do it, mate."

   his evening visit was late that night. you had already prepared dinner, setting it up for when he was to arrive. from what he's told you, he hasn't had human food in a long time. he told you that gods didn't need to eat nor sleep. you had decided to make him food for when he comes, wanting him to have food even if he doesn't need it.

   the gust of wind from deceiving angel wings swept across his face. messy hair cascaded over his face, and for once, the blood god had found a problem he didn't know he could solve.

   ten minutes. twenty minutes. thirty minutes. you sighed at the mocking tick of the clock, each passing second being another sign that he wasn't going to come. perhaps he had better things to do. frowning, you began to gather the food up, knowing you wouldn't eat it all, before the familiar two knocks came at your door.

   rushing over, once you had opened it, you were surprised to see something different than you were used to.

   technoblade was there, but he looked different. more angry, perhaps even upset.

   worried, you frowned at the god. "are you okay?" you asked, hoping the man was alright. the god only nodded, staring at the ground. he came back to you after a moment of silence, sighing. "yes, just got caught up in some things. nothing for you to be concerned of." he said, brushing you off before you could even speak.

   when technoblade had gone back to his temple, rubbing his temples with a sigh, something unexpected had greeted him. there was philza, perched on the window with a firm look of coldness. "visiting the mortal again, were you, mate?" he asked once he had came into view. technoblade had half a mind to tell him to fuck off.

   that night provided a great distraction from what would come the following days.

   no words were spoken from technoblade afterwards. the betrayal of another friend, a promise to do something about his meetings, had wounded him. he didn't want to lose philza, but also had begun to realise something ─ he had caught feelings for the mortal.

   for you, who had been the sunshine on his darkest days. call it a cliche, but technoblade truly didn't know happiness if you weren't by his side. having watched countless deaths and falls of kingdoms over the many, many years of being alive, the man had never found as great of a comfort than by your side. you were the sun to his moon, a forever shining force to his immortal darkness.

   though the moon and sun are destined to never touch.

   that night, philza had technoblade bring him to your house under promise of telling the council. they had shown up to your house late at night, when the world was asleep. it had been abrupt, the two males coming into your home. you were shaking, scared as to what this meant. the angel of death and the blood god inside your home could mean nothing good.

   and you were right. that night, that forsaken night, technoblade had been cursed in front of your eyes. the wide eyed look on his face, the shock of what a former friend could do. you tried to reach out for him, but were stopped by philza. he permitted you to stay still, or else your blood would be on your walls.

   "technoblade, the blood god and the god of war, i hereby sentence you to an eternity of reincarnation. as long as you are alive, your lover, [name] [last name], will be killed and reincarnated. only ever letting you get close enough to hardly touch them."

   your words were caught in your throat, the cruel punishment knocking the wind out of you. philza's eyes shone, bright in an unholy way, rising up with his wings behind him. technoblade had felt the burning sensation of a marking, a forever sign of the curse, on the side of his neck. a flower had been burnt into the side of his neck, your favorite flower.

   "i'm sorry, technoblade." were the last words you heard before a sword made of light had stabbed through your stomach.

   the blood god had frantically scooped up your body in his arms, panicking for the first time since you've seen him. he tried to get you to say anything, although the words were too hard to say, no matter how hard you tried to get them out. he reassured you would be okay, despite knowing the inevitable would happen.

   "you should've listened to him ... heh, you're a dumbass, you know that?"

   you took your last breath seconds later.

[jean-does-not-have-a-horseface]

Hello!! Could you please write an scenario where Levi got hurt (not badly) during an expedition but he refuses to go to the nursery when they got back, making the reader worried for him so she asks if she can tend to his injuries and he lets them? (Maybe while she's at it they kiss if u want) Just some care for our Levi:)) Sorry if my English isn't good, it's not my main language

Yoooo that was a rather hot thing to write 👀👀👀👀 I hope you enjoy, also, don't worry about your English. In fact English isn't my first language either❤️

Pairing: Levi/ Reader

Tags: fluffity fluff, smooches, slurpy hot smooches, yes I'm doing God's work, awkward Levi brrr

The Moon Is Full, I Guess

It was outdated at this point. Your hand clenched in a fist probing onto the dark mahogany door, the beating of your heart that throbbed inside your chest as the though of the person on the other side of the wall swirled through your mind, your ratched breaths, gulped by the lump in your throat, everything was tiring, dull.

The feeling was embarrassing and overwhelming. They way it overtook you, they way it threw you off tracks at his mere presence was causing anger to dwell in the pits of your stomach. But even if you had to look past that, you couldn't get over yourself for wanting to be of help.

It was an egoistical act before it was a selfless one. You wanted to be the first to reach out to him, you wished to be the only one to help him and you felt disgusted with yourself that your twisted brain created scenarios in which Levi felt enamored by your generosity. But love did that to you. And even if you despairately wanted to fight it, you couldn't realistically pick a fight a feeling.

Because if you could, love would have gotten your fists.

"State your name business."

"It's (y/n)." You puckered your lips as your name sourly slipped out of your mouth.

There wasn't anything that didn't plainly scream mechanical and awkward as Levi's grumpy voice ordered you to state your name and business and you anathematized it, cursing softly under your breath as your shagged, hardened palm reached for the door handle upon hearing the familiar grunt of approval to your request. That was it. The small victory of your ego dwelled inside you, poisoning the spit under your tongue.

You panicked, only momentarily, and only at the thought of a sour breath that tingled on the top of your tongue. Your eyes widened below puckered eyebrows as your mind repeatedly alarmed you of the bitter taste inside your mouth canal. Your cool though wasn't bugged further, with a stern inhale you composed your weaker side in the binds of your fond chest.

"Levi."

You stuck your palms to the door, bum extended on them as you leaned with your back on the wood, your goal to simply shut the door tenderly achieved as you heard the tiny click of the handle. It was your footstep that was heard next, the heel of your boot that clashed with the mahogany tile overpowered Levi's hiss of your name. You simply let your footing roll naturally in trying to approach him, although your lungs, agreeing with the part of your brain that accused you of being a rotting egoist, protested.

"Sit." He hissed and your breath hiccuped.

"No, Levi, I won't." Refusing to sit on the loveseat by his desk you set your fiery gaze onto him. "In fact, I'm not here for any reason you'd like to hear."

The movement of Levi's orbs was adorned with a short blink of his eyelids. It caused you to bite the side of your top lip harshly but your heart was already heaping at the sight by the time you felt your canines dig into the soft piece of flesh. You figured Levi didn't notice, whereas it was usual for him to pick up on any reluctancy in your antics, it seemed as if the pain of his injury overpowered his mind. And somehow, in some twisted way, you were thankful for that.

It meant you couldn't really degrade yourself more to him.

"Why didn't you line up for the infirmary when we arrived? You got injured!" You pouted, (e/c) eyes burning brightly into his.

"There were too many who were heavily injured and needed immediate help. My minor injury is not something anyone should be bothered by, probably a shitty broken rib, I'll be fine if I lay on the low for a while." Levi sighed and kept his voice low as he spoke to you calmly.

He averted his gaze off of you for a moment, his own foot started tapping obnoxiously without any certain rhythm on the floor beneath him. In a nervous movement he run his hand through his hair. There was sulk written on his face after he licked his lips. In an attempt to mask his pain, he even bit his own lip, mimicking your previous actions. Whether you considered this a symbolism or not, was completely up to you.

"You're not serious."

"I'm shit serious."

"I figured you'd deny anything actually, but," you sighed "can you at least let me tend to you?"

You were hesitant as you extended your arm to him, (e/c) eyes meeting his for the upteenth time in such a short period of time. There was no denying; the confidence it took for anyone to handle Levi like was something you didn't lack of, you could blame that for having spent half of your life with him in the underground but your stubbornness made up for that abomination of self respect you had. Thus yet, when you were definitely sure you'd have to pull your empty hand back to your embrassed self his palm confidently clasped over yours and your stubborn stomach immediately started churning in a mixture of emotions.

In only a matter of seconds you felt your head drifting and Levi's gaze somewhat softened as it landed on your linked palms, the man finally deciding to balance his weight between his foot and your grip. You forced your strength to gather on your hand to support him as he slowly got up, never letting his hand go off his side.

Levi's boot missed numerous steps as you took the task of carrying him onto yourself and grunts of pain filled the air with every marching you made towards his private quarter. The small chamber smelled incredibly strong of lemon and vinegar, but you chose to ignore it with a scrunch of your nose. You knew what it meant; Levi had pushed himself to meticulously clean the room in the early morning before the expedition began, probably due to his immense amount of stress and you were in no place to bring it to his attention right now. You shouldn't even try to interfere with anything else other than tending to his injury.

But that tiny little day dreamer in your head refused to let you get through with what you had in mind.

Setting him onto the edge of his bed, you clapped your hands on his thighs in a silent instruction for him to stay put. Levi simply bored his eyes into yours, watching as you bucked on your knees in order to straighten your posture and then marching straight to his dresser. You stopped absurdly, seemingly puzzled as you balanced your weight on your right leg, popping on your hip at the process.

His gunmetal gaze was nervously averted at the sight and his cheeks stung as if a thousand needles were punched through his skin; he felt noticably guilty and vague when he caught himself looking at you in such way. It was definitely something he could manage to hide well, he had figured that much at least, because he didn't want to cause anything awkward to inflict between the two of you.

"Where do you usually keep gauze and bandages?" You inquired, throwing your head over your shoulder to look over to his direction.

"In my underwear drawer, top right corner." As Levi spoke, you puckered your lips, despairate to turn your hot head away from him, setting your goal to find the medical supplies you needed to tend to him.

Turning around in triumph, you suppressed a smug smile from spreading on your face as you held the bundle of bandage tightly in your hand. Levi shot you another bored look followed by a sigh as he pushed his lips in a thin line. You couldn't figure if he seemed disappointed in your actions or he was just as bugged as he'd be most of the time, and your stomach punched the insides of your torso in quick anxiety.

Sitting next to Levi on the bed did nothing to stop your coiling stomach, if anything, it sent your whole body in churning fury. You felt miserable and vague, bringing yourself in this very position, but you couldn't simply resent it in the last moment, it probably would make things look worse for you.

Nevertheless, you let out a sigh and avoided his look as you brought your hands on top of his shoulders, quickly slipping them on the inside of his camel leather jacket and sliding them down his shoulders in order to push the piece of clothing away from him to save him from excessive movements. Levi darted his chin away from your direction as not to have his head collide with yours and you almost let out a hitched breath at that.

"Wait," Levi said as you tagged on the collar of his button down shirt. "I have broken rib, bandaging me up won't do any good."

Your head dropped when he finished speaking, your gut burning in the somehow gory defeat of your ego. You sweared under your breath and onto his clothed collarbone, cussing your silly clouded brain for not even considering his actual injury. Your lungs demanded to punish you by refusing to be satisfied with any oxygen you would try to fill them with and you knew you deserved it for being so engrossed with the thought of taking care of him instead of actually doing so.

"You good, brat?"

"Yeah, I- I'm just stupid aren't I?" You spoke, lifting your chin up to meet with his gaze.

"Once a moron, always a moron." He confirmed, almost playfully.

You fondly inspected the skin on his face and neck, trying to worry your guilty eyes away from his; you felt as if he was reading you like an open book, which he could easily do, yet your chest was dwelled with too much pride to allow him to speak any other word of concern.

Pushing any poisonous thought to the back of your brain you demandingly bit on your lip and pulled a few inches away, just enough so you could directly look into him. With another look at his gunmetal eyes you stopped your next breath from exiting your body, feeling your heart throb inside your whole body. With trembling hands you searched for his, engulfing his short calloused fingers into your palms almost immediately upon your blind discovery.

It was now or never.

Yet, you barely spoke. The inability to utter even the most incoherent sounds was conquering your body, probing you to duel with it in any case you wanted to expose the nature of your feelings. Nevertheless, you stomped your foot on the mahogany floor and furrowed your brows dangerously before you parted your lips. Though the line you chose to utter was supposed to be nothing more than an internal thought.

"Thinking of you is a poison I drink often."

"You into poetry yet or what (y/n)?" Levi blinked his eyes boringly into yours as he spoke, never flinching for even a mere second.

You knew, under any other circumstance you would have burst laughing in his casual sarcasm, but as all air exited the room, you weren't sure you could bring yourself to make another sound.

"The moon is full, I guess," Levi sighed, pulling his hands to his face, causing yours -thst never loosened their grip on him- to tag along. Your pointed and middle fingers delicately hung from the space between his thumb and his face, lingering just enough to make your presence still know to him. "I'm a lost cause. If you're looking for romance that is. That's as much as I can do."

Nervously looking back and forth you contemplated on the meaning of his words for a couple of moments, your heart churning as your mind hazed over every single syllabus he had just spoken.

Reluctantly, and only when you made up your mind, your hands came to loosely cup the sides of his sharp face while the gaze you were set to spared on his lips was hesitant and lingering. Your thumb idled with his cheek in soothingly soft circles as your breaths paced back and forth, forming uneven masses of fog inside the frozen room. Yet despite the jawbreaking cold that smothered the two of you in the well known piercing manner, in this very moment everything around you seemed to have gone extinct. Time was slowing down, just for the two of you.

You didn't know what pushed you to act upon that little flicker in your heart, but your head was immediately sent in vertigo as you felt his pointed button nose bump into yours. Nothing could break that moment, nothing could rip you off him now that your lips were hovering dangerously over his. With your trembling hands you pulled him closer, hoping on closing the gab between the two of you.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you steadily engulfed his bottom lip with your own mouth; you moved mellowy, painfully slow as you tried to warm him up, eliciting occasional whines to come out of your own self. It was painful and overally miserable to think about how you managed to drag the actions of your lips against his but your knees were weak with every passing second as you savored his taste.

There wasn't another way to make Levi understand how this over the border peck ignited every flame you had inside of you, but you wished the looked you spared him as you parted could do the job. His gaze was furiously set on you, eyes blinking hard into yours as if trying to predict your very next move. You couldn't simply leave him hanging; there was hunger in his eyes, you recognised as much because you knew him so damn well, thus as if on cue you pressed your lips to his, briefly.

And then you did it again.

And again.

And once more.

And then, before you could repeat the -now familiar- peck you felt his own hands cup the back of your head and in furious movements you were pulled into him, lips colliding and teeth clashing against eachother. It wasn't a serene kiss just like the ones you shared before, this one was sloppy and raw, it took all the air out of your chest and it made you unable to try and seek for oxygen.

Your head was prohibited from moving freely, yet you were mostly dominating over the kiss. With a speactacularly quick wit you sucked on his lips roughly, passionately enough to make him gasp more than a few times. Pulling away from each other wasn't an option -no- you weren't going to take such dispicable chance, you simply tagged on his shagged raven locks before daring to dart the tip of your tongue out of the crevice of your own mouth.

Levi accepted it eagerly, sending his own tongue to welcome yours inside his mouth, occasionally pressing it into his pallette before guiding it on the underside of your tongue. You couldn't know, but he wished your tongue was longer, long enough to reach deeper, simply because he needed it to. There was no explainatiom as to why he enjoyed such sloppy, saliva dripping kiss, but the way you scouted every single inch of his mouth was exciting to a point of no return.

It was only after letting you win over his mouth completely that he pulled back, his hands finally letting go of their grip on the back of head. You stayed in your position, however unable to move, unable to speak, unable to find enough oxygen to fill your lungs with.

"That much.. Sure I can do." Levi coughed.

You simply moved your orbs towards him, wide in despair and surprised by his unmatched sarcasm. Out of breath and flustered enough to ignore the fact that your brain had completely shut off, you hung your head lower before muttering something about having to bring him a cool pad for his injury. Now, you really needed to tend to him in order to repeat that again.

You couldn't help the enchanted smile that masked your face as your finger grazed over your lip, making sure to mesmerize the tingling sensation that boiled inside your swollen pieces of flesh.

Taglist go off 👉🏻👈🏻: @sasageyowrites (love you thanks for reading half of this hshshshhs and telling me it's good) @nobody-knows-anymore (full credit for the line you sent me to include my dear) @ladyofpandemonium @ackermans-freedom-inc @hawkssnugget @berrijam @callmepromise @alrightberries still am I forgetting anyone :( pls tell me if I forgot you, I only have one brain

[spvce-cowboy]

gentle things

ch. 2 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous- ch.1: “a strange beauty”

next- ch.3: “reunion”

rating: mature

8.5k words

warnings: mutual pining, masturbation (f), alcohol, descriptions of gore

summary: after a few months on the Crest, you find yourself growing closer to your new companions.

a/n: the gay agenda is finding a way to slip a dolly parton song into a star wars fanfic, i rest my case.

**

Most mornings you wake to the child’s soft cooing. Occasionally, the sound is met with a low, modulated voice, that murmurs incoherent phrases in response. It somehow puts your heart to rest before you even remember where you are. 

It’s strange, you’ve been a resident of the Crest for a handful of months now and it sometimes still takes you a few moments each morning to reorient yourself. You blame it on the strange limbo of hyperspace—it always throws you off for at least a day or two, and you swear your dreams are more vivid after. Sometimes you wake up panting for no reason at all.

You’re adjusting pretty well. A bit strange having a roommate/boss who doesn’t acknowledge your presence beyond the occasional but respectful nod. But it’s way better than you could have possibly imagined when you first started turning the idea over in your head. Granted, that was when you were about elbow-deep in his chest cavity, trying to fish out pieces of the shoddily constructed weapon that broke off inside him. You needed the first way out that presented itself to you, something you and Am’ile both agreed with, and well, when opportunity strikes or whatever.

Your first evening on the Crest, you asked the Mandalorian where you should sleep and he just shrugged, handing you a single, scratchy blanket with a “this is all I have.” Later, when you pass his bunk as he’s taking a nap, he’s curled in on himself on a bare cot and you realize that threadbare piece of fabric was literally all he had. You don’t bring it up, but something in your chest softens towards him after that. There’s a new quilt folded neatly on his bunk by the time he returns from his first mission.

Your second day onboard, you found a metal table in a junk heap and pushed it against one of the walls in the engineering bay. You spent the better part of an afternoon figuring out how to weld it to the floor. The medical supplies went on top, then you pushed your pillow and your rolled-up mattress underneath. Sure, there was technically a second cot in the Crew’s quarters, but you wanted to give the Mandalorian his privacy whenever possible. Besides, as long as there wasn’t too much turbulence, your set-up was pretty great.

After a few missions, you’ve visited enough markets to buy an ample supply of blankets, sweaters, and pillows to keep you comfortable on the floor of the ship. It’s freezing most nights, especially in hyperspace, and cocooning yourself in as many warm things as you could manage helps stave off both the chill as well as the occasional home sickness. The collection you’ve amassed thus far is in a various mis-match of pale jewel tones that remind you of Am’ile’s house. You didn’t realize that until you’d piled them all together on your bed and you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself a bit.

The child loves your soft things, happily snuggling up with you for naps while waiting for the Mandalorian’s return—though you suspect he’s just grateful for the new company. A consistent presence while dad’s away. You’re happy to give that to him.

The new routine is comfortable, the company is nice, the work is relatively easy. And, stars, the things you get to see. It’s honestly more than you could have ever asked for.

When your eyes blink open it’s already around eight in the morning. You’ve landed on Nevarro where the Mandalorian has already been gone for a day, attending some kind of “extended business meeting,” as he put it. Yawning, you eventually roll out of bed and stumble into the fresher, blearily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the spray’s cold water. Stepping out, you wrap your towel around yourself. In the tiny metal mirror suspended over the sink you pat on some lotion onto your face, eyes still heavy.

Reaching for your toothbrush, your knuckle grazes one of the Mandalorian’s facial razors. You wince, flicking your hand before examining it. A tiny nick. Sucking on it for a second to stop the blood flow, you glance at the Mandalorian’s side of the cabinet.

It’s strange to see the most banal traces evidence of what he is, who he is, behind the all that beskar. Like the facial razors—to think he’s in here, maskless, shaving his face, while you’re playing with his kid or whatever just a few steps away. To think he takes a shower every day—er, well, you’re not sure about that one, but at least when he’s on the Crest—stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist in order goes about his little tasks.

You swallow, removing your hand from your mouth and grabbing your toothbrush before your mind can wander anywhere else. You brush your teeth particularly well that morning.

The day is pretty typical from there. After feeding both yourself and the child breakfast, you settle on the floor of the hull with the small metal ball he’s obsessed with. You place him a few feet in front of you, he sways slightly on both feet before plopping down to mirror you, hands stretched forward in an demand to be put in your lap.

“Let’s do some of the exercises, yeah?” You know you’re essentially just talking to yourself as you hold the ball in the air, but you might as well make the effort anyway. Am’ile was no stranger to kids like him, or at least that’s how she put it—something about her people and some other group, the specifics completely slipped your mind. She didn’t really elaborate and you knew not to press.

Even though you don’t know much, you do try to mimic Am’ile’s drills-disguised-as-play at least a few times a day. He only seemed to do what you asked during those sessions when you weren’t looking, distracted by cleaning or studying whatever book you’d picked up hours later. You would always find the little ball in strange places, definitely not where you’d last placed it, and certainly out of the child’s reach.

At least it was good to know he was partially pretending to not listen to you. You could work with partially.

The kid has been fussy since waking, refusing to focus on any of the things you were trying to prompt him to do. Yesterday, you spent a bit too much time at the markets with him—growing sick of protein bars, you initially set out trying to find something closer to tasting like home. Really, you just liked getting out of the Crest so you could see all those people.

You’ve amassed a collection of language dictionaries, trying to do some fast learning and even faster practicing to get your way around. Sometimes the vendors are kind and help you stutter your way through disjointed sentences in their native tongue, others just huff and immediately switch to Basic as soon as you start talking. You don’t mind either way.

The marketplace as a whole is new and exciting, the clatter and clamor of movement, laughing and snarling, voices raised in argument and lowered in the smallest exchange of intimacy. So far removed from the quiet slopes of Am’ile’s home and—

You don’t let the rest of that thought happen, quickly scooping the kid up and wrapping him to your chest with a long swath of fabric.

“I’m goin’ a little crazy in here too, little guy,” you mumble, pulling your satchel over your shoulder. “Your dad should be back in a while—let’s try to find a contact for supplies until then, yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.” A total lie, it was way more difficult to find what you are looking for than you initially thought. You were particularly looking for a cauterizing instrument that was a bit more sturdy than the glorified cigar lighter the Mandalorian was currently using. Besides basic med-kit stock, it was nearly impossible to find anything more advance under the radar.

Yesterday was half-heartedly spent searching the markets in search of someone who might be tapped into Republic supply runs, which rendered you, predictably, empty-handed. Now you were on to your second best option, asking around the closest cantina where you could find the instruments you were looking for for without raising too much attention.

Okay, so maybe the Mandalorian specifically told you to keep out of the bars when you’re traveling without him. But you managed just fine on your own yesterday in an arguably more crowded environment. You’ve also dealt with… far worse than that hunk of metal could ever possibly imagine. You’re more than capable on your own. Still, you make sure to strap a dagger and a blaster to your belt before heading out.

You make quick work hurrying to the cantina, making sure to cover your head with the hood of your tunic and conceal the little one as much as possible. Basic survival instincts usually warrant drawing as little attention to yourself as possible, being a young human woman traveling alongside a small green wizard creature is pretty much the opposite of that.

He, predictably, doesn’t take very well to the concealed swaddle you’ve confined him to, and the two of you are in a constant back-and-forth of you attempting to wrap him up and him making quick work of wriggling out of any cover tactic you try. If it weren’t for those damn ears your life would be so much easier.

The bar has the quiet hum of activity, occasionally interspersed with a loud chatter of conversations rising to some kind of boiling point. You maneuver yourself to the counter and try to get the attention of the bartender, holding the kid to your chest until he squirms his way upwards and settles with his chin on your shoulder, one of his ears slipping out of the head covering you’d fashioned and thwapping you in the neck. You’ll deal with that in a second.

You’ve only just caught the bartender’s attention when the doors slam open. The clamor of the cantina quiets momentarily, and you see everyone shift slightly to eye whoever just entered. The two new patrons seem to be in the middle of an argument, voices low in secrecy but tense with frustration.

“I’d know that green mug anywhere.” With that you finally turn, heart dropping with anxiety. It’s the Mandalorian and a companion, a human man. The man’s voice, a deep bellow, is warm and inviting in a way that shouldn’t make you freeze completely as he addresses the kid. He then looks you up and down, pausing as the Mandalorian continues stomping forwards. You freeze anyway. “Ah—this is that girl you mentioned? Your caretaker?”

“She’s a medic,” the Mandalorian sharply corrects the man without moving to look at you. He quickly returns back to whatever conversation was initially at hand as the man continues his brisk stride towards a table at the back. There are three people already seated there, but by the time the Mandalorian arrives they have all left in a scuffling hurry. Neither of the men acknowledge it, just immediately slide into opposing sides of the booth. “Karga, this is ridiculous--I’m not a Republic spy, why would there be this many hoops on a bounty you’re just handing out?”

“I’m not just ‘handing it out,’ Mando, I’m giving it to you because I know you’re the most capable,” the man, Karga, addresses the Mandalorian then directs his attention towards you. “Come here, girl. Let me get a good look at you, I’m curious.” Turning to the bartender, he barks out an order for spotchka. You walk towards the table. There’s too much attention on the three of you to resist, you wouldn’t want to make things more complicated for the Mandalorian anyway. The bounty hunter’s voice almost immediately overrides his, low but gritty with anger as you slide into the booth beside him.

“I can’t—Karga you know I’ve never done something like this. This high-profile. Going deep-cover for a job isn’t something I can do.”

You feel Karga’s eyes on you, it’s brief but piercing. You busy yourself by looking up at the woman who serves you a small glass of the bright blue liquid, quietly thanking her.

“It’s all the fobs or nothing. The signal will be broadcast in a few hours’ time—they won’t expect something like this to be conducted semi-publicly. Keep monitoring the broadcast, but save that fob for last,” Karga places three fobs in the center of the table, then slides a forth a few inches removed from the rest. He can tell the Mandalorian isn’t convinced—stars, even you can tell he isn’t convinced. Karga heaves a sigh and makes a stab at reassurance. “You can figure it out. You’re the only one I can trust to get this done. The most capable.”

The Mandalorian’s hand slams down on the table, you jump, quickly looking between the intense but even staring contest going on between Karga and the infuriated bounty hunter. Slowly, and with more than a bit of melodrama, the Mandalorian drags the fobs under his hand towards him, slipping it into his pocket without breaking eyes from Karga’s.

He turns heel so quickly his cape whips behind him. You scurry after him as fast as you can manage.

You can still feel the frustration steaming off of the Mandalorian the whole walk back to the Crest. You keep quiet, trailing behind him by a few steps—you desperately want to ask what was wrong. Your mouth stays firmly shut.

Boarding the Crest, the Mandalorian immediately scales the ladder into the cockpit. After a few minutes you feel the Crest shutter into the air, quickly shooting into the empty sky and then hyperspace. You sigh and grab a book, turning the kettle on to make some caf and settling in your bed to an eye on the kid as he toddles around the expanse of the hull.

Hours later, when the child has exhausted all possible forms of entertainment, usually consisting of live wires and exposed paneling that you tug him away from, he begins to get fussy in a way that means he’s tired but refuses to sleep. It starts with the occasional whimper that quickly crescendos into a full-blown fit. You know all the warning signs at this point.

The little terror had a bit of a habit of doing this—once the Mandalorian and you are in the ship he refuses to fall asleep unless you two are in the same room. A part of you knows this is a symptom of separation anxiety—which you in no way can blame him for, given the circumstances of their bond—but the cockpit is just about the last place you want to be.

It’s not that you’re scared of the Mandalorian, or anything. It would just be… incredibly awkward with the mood he’s in right now to attempt to lull his kid to sleep in his presence.

“Listen, buddy, your dad is super grumpy right now so—" The child just starts crying even louder, little fists balled up to pound futilely against your chest, trying to push you away. “Okay okay okay! I get it. I get it.” You sigh, biting your lip and looking down at the kid, then up at the ladder. The kid starts screaming. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” You begin the climb up.

“Hey, sorry he’s being a little sensitive again,” you say as your head pops up onto the pilot’s deck, miraculously managing to pull yourself into the room with one arm holding the squirming kid against you. The floor seals shut behind you once you haul yourself over the edge.

The Mandalorian just grunts in response and continues flipping through radio channels, seemingly growing more frustrated with himself the longer it takes for him to find the frequency Karga directed him to. He’s in the pilot’s chair, back turned to you, shoulders hunched in concentration.

You settle into the copilot’s seat, resting the kid on his back on top of your legs. He settles almost instantly, big eyes no longer filled with tears.

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you tickle him lightly until he starts giggling, then scoop him back up into your arms, allowing yourself to slide back in the chair a bit. You stare out into the bright darkness of space, blinking back at the stars as the child coos gently in your lap.

“A coded civilian station, is he fucking crazy?” The Mandalorian mumbles to himself in his continued litany of abuses he’s slung Karga and the greater universe’s way since returning to the Crest.

The longer you’ve been here the more he’s started to do things like that, just talking into the air without the expectation of a response. You begin to think that that’s just the way he acts when it was just him and the kid. Though you’ve noticed that he has been cursing way more than he did when you first met. That might be a little bit your fault. Oops.

You look down at the child and rub one of his ears, leaning down to press a kiss at the crown of his head. His little three-fingered hand catches your hair and pulls. Wincing, you resist the urge to jerk your head back. Instead, you extend the pad of your index finger and lightly wiggle it against his button nose. He sneezes and lets go almost immediately.  

You let out a triumphant “ha!” then shake your head slightly and twist your face in a playful scowl. The kid resumes his giggling, batting at your hands when you try to tickle his tummy.

Glancing over at the angry hunk of beskar seated beside you, you notice he’s paused with his hand hovering over the radio’s controls, his head turned slightly towards his right shoulder to silently regard you and the child.

You quickly divert your gaze back down to the kid, resuming rubbing his ears as his eyes slowly, devastatingly slowly, ease shut. Only to snap open again with a playful babble, hands reaching up again for the free entertainment of the hair still attached to your head. Shit. You sigh. The Mandalorian goes back to flipping through the channels.

More static and garbled languages you’ve never encountered before. You try to ignore the pounding of your heart—that was probably the longest you’d ever seen him grant you any kind of attention—and keep trying to lull the child to sleep. As quietly as possible you try to stand, scooting around the copilot’s seat to gently bounce the kid in the limited space to the back of the cockpit. He’s quieted significantly, just enough that you could probably get him to sleep on your own, as long as you don’t jostle him too much on the descent back into the hull. You’re about to head down the ladder when—

The Mandalorian pauses momentarily on a channel that’s playing music. The opening swell of the first verse is unmistakable. Your chest fills with a certain warm feeling, pounding with memories you had long since tucked away.

“Wait,” you say it without thinking. Without even processing that the words left your mouth. “Wait, could you go back? That… that song…”

Wordlessly, he clicks back to the previous station. The cabin is filled with the music, a warm and bright voiced female vocalist smoothly intertwined with her male partner. The melody is plucky, something you could dance to—and have, more than once—and it’s overly saccharine in its pure, absolute joy in itself. But you suppose the cheesiness is part of the charm. You relish in it regardless.

You do something to me that I can’t explain. There is a memory that surfaces just as quickly as it disappears. You couldn’t have been more than four. Your father, spinning you around by your pudgy forearm. It’s his laugh you remember most of all, something boisterous and full-bodied. You are dancing around the kitchen of a home you can’t remember, the floor dappled with light from the pieces of stained glass your mother had dangling from the windows. Hold me closer and I feel no pain. You smile to yourself, bowing your head down at the little one, quietly murmuring what lyrics you remember, rocking your hips in a gentle little dance. It works, the kid is fast asleep by the last chord.

The song ends, the disc jockey begins speaking in yet another language you don’t recognize. The Mandalorian quickly turns the volume down, lest it wake the child. He has reflexes fast enough to startle you, luckily your jolt does nothing to bother the baby in your arms. You gently place him in the pram, hovering beside the pilot’s seat. You slide the shield doors shut to keep out the noise and step back.

“Thank you, Mandalorian,” you say it softly, but you can see his helm bob slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. You take a deep breath and begin to head towards the ladder as he resumes flicking through the stations.

“Hey,” the Mandalorian says your name. You pause for a moment, then turn. He clears his throat—the sound comes out as a rough crackle over the modulator. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he sounds a bit nervous. “You can uh… you can just call me Mando, you know. The full thing is a bit of a mouthful.”

You blink once, then nod. Turning heel you, mercifully, scale back down the ladder with as much grace as could be mustered, despite your shaking hands.

That night, when you touch yourself, you shove the blanket he gave you against your nose and mouth. To keep quiet, you tell yourself. It smells like his soap.

**

Days after the radio incident, you can’t help but occasionally find that you’re singing the song to yourself as you go about your chores. It just seems to pop in your head as soon as you open your eyes, and it’s just stuck there, but you’re not very mad about that.

Mando has landed on some bitterly cold planet that was made up of little more than ash and a thick red fog. He had left late last night/early this morning to start his hunt, telling you in a little scribbled note to expect him back in two days’ time. He has really bad handwriting, it’s strangely amusing.

You decide to deep clean the hull: washing the floors, doing laundry, organizing what meager new supplies you were able to gather from Nevarro. As you did, you sang to yourself. Out loud. Just for the pleasure of it.

Your mother taught you kulning, as was tradition for the young girls on your home planet. Your father taught you the low-bellied croon of the casino singers. When things were still good, you would sing for your parents friends at the parties they would throw and your father would play the piano. You wish you had more memories like that. It’s hard to recall anything through the foggy barriers of the past fifteen years, it makes something in your chest ache to even try.

Am’ile’s radio was for emergencies only, not wanting to draw unwanted attention with the signal. It has been ages since you’ve had access to one, ages since you’ve heard music that didn’t come from your own mouth. That was why you’d started the nightly calls at Am’ile’s because before that grassy little planet… well, speaking was barely an option. You’d seen too many girls hurt for things far less than murmuring a tune.

To sing in the way your mother taught you, with the whole of your body. To make yourself so boldly known. It was all you had ever wanted.

You start putting together dinner for you and the kid as the day winds down. Mando had a barely functioning hotplate that you were able to make the best of, having bought some fresh produce at the far more hospitable planet the three of you were stationed at the previous day.

The stew cooks while you finish up the rest of your work, slicing bread and setting up a little dining area for your and the kid because, frankly, why not go all-out? It’s good to treat yourself to the small, gentle things. Even when on an unforgiving rock hurtling through space. Especially then.

You hop in the fresher while you wait for the meat to get to the proper temperature, twisting your body to keep your hair out of the water’s blast. In the enclosed space, you feel a less self-conscious and allow yourself sing a little louder than the under-the-breath, partial-hum you’d managed throughout the rest of the day.

You don’t hear the hull opening between that and the fresher’s spray.

When you turn the water off, you recognize the sound of the last few mechanisms of the hull door stealing itself back in place. Anxiety settles in quickly as you dry off. God, please let it just be Mando please. There’s the sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall. You wince.

A low voice. “Pretty little bird you’ve got singing in here, just for me?” Then a wet crack. “Mother fuck—"

Your heart lurches in your chest as you quickly pull your clothes on, cracking open the fresher door to peer out into the hull. Mando is standing over the body of a target, now crumpled to the ground, holding a bleeding headwound with two long, thin hands. He nudges the bounty with the butt of the weapon he had presumably just used against the man’s skull. The man gives a choked moan, completely incapacitated.

“Do you…” your voice sounds far too small. You blink, inhaling and starting over. “Do you need to bring him in alive or do you need my—"

“The carbonite will stop the bleeding,” Mando’s voice is gruff. You nod, even though his back is turned to you, watching from the safety of the doorway as he leans down and lugs the whining body into the chamber. Once the bounty is sealed away, you step back out into the open.

Mando pushes past you almost without recognition, limping heavily.

“Hey—hey!” You trail behind him, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches. “Could you at least let me do my job?”

He regards you for an extended beat, then readily sits. It’s more of a controlled collapse.

“Is it your leg?” You ask, kneeling beside him and helping him peel off what armor you can. He shakes his head.

“It’s just more of a bruise I—my side, my hip. Onto the top of my leg.”

You nod slowly. “Okay, can you get to the fresher yourself or do you think you’ll need help? You have to rinse off before I treat you.” There’s an almost clay-like layer of red dust on his clothes and armor. It would be impossible to treat him properly without getting most of it off.

He wordlessly extends a gloved hand for you to help him up, you oblige—albeit struggling a bit with his weight. Once standing, you hover beside him on his limping walk to the fresher until he gives you a short: “I’ve got it.” You back off, returning to tend to your dinner while you wait.

When he emerges again he’s only wearing a sleep shirt, his mask, and a towel, the fabric held at the hip by his clenched fist to expose an already bruising thigh. He sits on a crate with an audible wince, easing himself back to lean against the wall slightly.

Your throat constricts as you move to his exposed side, but you try to breathe evenly enough to maintain an air of professionalism. Which gets increasingly difficult when he, with another sound of sharp pain, pulls up his shirt to reveal a series of small, shallow punctures traveling up his flank and over his hip that slightly weep with a mixture of blood and the cold water on his skin. He holds the shirt, just below his pectorals with his opposing hand, allowing the towel to drape over his lap while still revealing the side you need to work on. You can see the faint cut of his abdominal muscles, tracing south alongside a thin trail of dark hair leading--

“Shotgun pellets,” his voice stops your thoughts before they can get any worse. You’re partially thankful. Glancing up, you furrow your brow in confusion. He clarifies, “they’re a uh… a projectile type weapon. He was fighting dirty and desperate.” You nod, looking back down. The worst of the spray was able to score the skin right above his hip, but most of it had just bounced off his quad, leaving a series of raised, purpling welts. It was superficial at worst, but still not the best to look at. He seemed to read your mind. “Beskar was able to deflect them for the most part. I’ll be fine, just cauterize the worst of it.”

“The more you use the cauterizer the more of a chance you have of the scar tissue getting infected, you know. That’s some business you want no part of,” you say, digging through your kit for a pain ointment and the bacta you were able to refill on Nevarro. The more you looked at it, the more foolish of a blow for him to have taken it becomes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re doing this on purpose,” you’re muttering it to yourself before you can fulling think through the implications. When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him. “That was a joke.”

“You need to work on your material, then.”

You laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you get to work. It’s easier to feel more confident around him the longer you’ve acclimated on the Crest. You have a bad habit of using snark as a defense mechanism. The more you work with Mando, the less you’re able to keep that up. It feels nice, you can relax slightly when you’re given the reassurance of him reciprocating the conversation.

You finish pressing the last of the bandages against his side. “The pain stuff I used should start sinking in soon, it might burn for a bit beforehand but it’ll get better after a few minutes.” He nods, pulling the towel tightly around his waist before standing and limping back into his quarters. He returns, fully dressed, putting a little more pressure on his leg than he did before he left. You quickly, desperately, find a way to conceal your staring.

“Hey—I have a surprise for you,” you turn to the kitchenette, busying yourself by testing the stock with a messy sip. It’s not… the best thing you’ve ever made in your whole life, but it’s the closest thing to the meals you made with Am’ile that you’ve had since you left your old home. It smells lovely, enough to have filled the hull with the smell of the herbs you used. “I thought it was just gonna be me and the womp rat so I made dinner, if you wanna eat with us that is.” You pull out the bottle of wine you bought from one of the storage drawers, a slight heat rising to your cheeks. You hold it up triumphantly anyway. “I really just needed an excuse to buy this for myself. But I totally understand if you’d rather eat upstairs by yourself.”

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll… I’ll stay while you eat. I can take mine to the cockpit once you’ve finished.”

“Would you want to have a glass with me, at least?” You hold the wine bottle by the neck at your side. He’s grumpy. Part of you wants to find some way to fix that, knowing it would be hard for you to let yourself enjoy the rest of the night with him fuming over something just upstairs. “I’ll cover my eyes. It’ll be like when I brought you your meals, while you were fixing the ship. No peaking. I promise.”

He takes a moment, before nodding slowly, for some reason you’re kind of surprised he agrees. Maybe that’s why your smile is so big. Maybe it was the fact you’d already cracked the bottle open for a few sips before taking your shower, the warmth of it at the bottom of your stomach making it much easier to playfully prod at the bounty hunter. Probably a mix of both.

You kneel beside your bed to gather another pillow, placing it across the makeshift table you’ve fashioned out of two crate and one of your blankets. You turn to bring the rest of the food to the table, three wooden bowls and a plate for the kid. You’re in the middle of separating the meat from the broth for him when you glance up at Mando, who is still standing exactly where you last saw him. He points to the tuft of fabric you had placed on the floor for him.

“What’s that for?”

You’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Um, comfort?”

He doesn’t say anything, just cocks his helmet slightly to the left.

“Alright, old man,” you roll your eyes, refilling your cup . “Suit yourself.”

Mando pauses for a second longer before easing himself onto the pillow. He says your name softly, almost to himself. “This looks… really great. Thank you.”

“Well I wouldn’t take it to heart too much, chrome bucket. I was planning on hoarding all this for me and the kid. You just came back at quite the opportune moment,” you grin cheekily up at him before tearing your piece of bread and dipping it into the broth.

He reaches across the makeshift table and picks up his cup. You’ve repurposed the tops of two of his thermoses to make them. He examines it in his hand for a moment before speaking.

“Were you singing that song that was on the radio, yesterday? When I came in?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you reach over the table and grab the cup in his hand to fill it with the wine. “I haven’t heard it in ages, you know? Any music at all, honestly, but especially that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites,” you detract before either of you could linger on that last statement. “It’s been in my head all day. I was meaning to ask you, when it comes to the radio—it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to listen while you’re on the job, yeah? Tracing signals and all that?”

Mando mulls it over for a second, accepting his cup from you and staring down at it. “I’m not sure. Better safe than sorry, but I could ask around about getting a uh… one of those new portable ones.” You don’t want to tell him that those newfangled portable radios have been a thing since you were in the cradle—something about his technological obliviousness was oddly endearing. “I’ll ask around and see if there’s some kind of blocking signal we could install. If you’d like one, that is. I’d like to take a sip, now, if that’s okay?”

You nod, immediately putting your hands over your face. You know you could just squeeze your eyes shut like oh, maybe a normal person might? But to be honest, it was a little funny to do. To act this silly in front of one of the most effective killing machines in the galaxy, who you have somehow convinced to attend a quaint family dinner. Might as well mess around a bit with it, yeah?

You hear the hiss of the mask resealing but you don’t remove your hands from your eyes. “It’s good wine,” he remarks. “You can look now.”

Removing your palms from your face, you blink your vision back to clarity, reaching for your cup again. Your mouth is already growing warm in the way that let you know that when Mando meant good he also meant strong. You have to agree.

“The people on Am’ile’s planet would make this crazy strong liquor out of these peaches that only grew in the valley where we lived. The village that was closest to us got super wealthy off of the stuff--honestly I can’t stomach anything too sweet anymore after it, spent an equal amount of time coming up as it did going down, if you get what I’m saying.” You screw up your face at even the thought of the syrup-like drink. “The orchards were super beautiful, though. The tallest foliage in the valley and they were maybe only a few heads taller than you. All types of critters living in the roots—that little one loved it.” You gesture to the child, who was grabbing as much of the dish’s meat as he could in his stubby three-fingered hands. The rest of his plate remained untouched. “Am’ile and I used to take walks through it all the time, especially when I first got there. It was too dangerous to go into the forests by yourself so I would spend ages in the orchards if she wasn’t putting me to work, just for a change of scenery.” Your mouth kind of just keeps running. It just feels so… nice, to talk to someone without having to try and stutter your way through a new language. That and the liquid courage in your cup made you unapologetically chatty. “She had so many little trinkets and things from her travels as a Republic medic, but only like ten books tops, all on medicine. I literally have the things memorized at this point, they were the only things to read.”

“You could go back at some point, if you want. When there’s a lull in jobs I could probably drop you and the kid off, spend a few weeks with her while I keep hunting,” Mando casually picks up his glass again, and you automatically cover your eyes with your hands. You’re still smiling, just with a little weight behind it.

“No, no that’s okay. Am’ile would get in too much trouble with the locals, for good reason. It isn’t safe for them and—to be honest, Mando, I don’t think the kid could take being separated from you for that long,” you pause for a moment. “But that’s incredibly kind of you to offer, thank you. I mean that.”

His mask hisses back in place. You ease the index and middle finger of your right hand to peer at him playfully before lowering your hands again. It’s a gentle spar between the two of you, an easy rhythm to settle into.

“Your med-station,” he nods towards your table/bed set up, looking particularly messy in comparison to the hull you’d spent the day cleaning. “It’s…”

Your heart drops, ready for the scolding. “Ah—uh, I’m sorry.” You look down at your plate—even if he couldn’t see the heat rising to your face, you try to hide your embarrassment by stabbing at another bite of food. You glance up at him sheepishly. “It’s the only place on the Crest that’s tucked away enough, I didn’t want to get underfoot.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. You swallow. “I like it. A good idea. It’s like a reminder whenever I leave, not to do anything too stupid.”

“Oh, well,” you’re not sure why that catches you off guard so much. You honestly had no idea he even processed your presence since you’d first moved in besides the occasional medical assistance you provided. “I’ll make sure to put the more intimidating syringes front-and-center the next time I organize it.”

And he laughs.

Well—so, okay. It’s not a full laugh, more like a few low releases of air, but there’s a clear smile behind it that you can definitely hear. It’s enough to have you slightly grinning to yourself the rest of the meal.

By the time you’re finished, you’re a bit hazy off the wine and incredibly sleepy. You lean back slightly and yawn, looking at where Mando has settled the kid on his lap. “Sometimes I wish I could just snap my fingers and he’d just go to sleep. There’s too much energy in that little guy.”

“I can take him for the night,” Mando is currently engaged in a gentle dance of keeping the little one’s hands away from the food you’ve portioned for the bounty hunter. It’s more amusing than it should be. “If you could just help me take this upstairs I’d be more than happy to.”

You nod, clamoring to your feet and grabbing his bowl as he climbs up into the cockpit with the kid. You follow and place his dinner on a clear spot on the console.

“Where are we going next?” You ask, glancing over the control panel as if you had any idea what all those flashing lights and strange looking scanners meant. You should really pick up a flight manual at some point, just for the basics.

“The last fob,” Mando sighs. “Canto Bight. This—this is going to take a while, just warning you now. I still have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.”

You nod, yawning. You’re still a bit tipsy. “Okay, well, I think I’m gonna go to bed. Good luck brainstorming.” The food sits warm and heavy in your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this full. It’s nice.

He gives a small nod acknowledging what you said, then goes back to grumbling down at the control panel, pushing buttons and examining scanners. You lean down to kiss the kid goodnight from where he’s babbling in the co-pilot’s seat, then climb down the ladder and change into your night clothes, setting the lights in the hull to night-mode as the Crest rumbles into the sky. Climbing into bed, you wrap your biggest blanket around yourself, the chill of hyperspace already settling in the air.

**

You have a dream. A bad one. One you’ve never had before and don’t know if you’d survive again if you did. It starts with you already crying. It’s one of those full-body, hiccuping sobs that usually rouses you from your sleep before things gets too bad.

Mando is gone, so far gone not even the comlink your finger is hovering over would be an option. You know this because the dream starts with him calling you. When you answer, there is only the sound of a hard, driving rain.

You’re holding the child against your chest and he’s screaming into your ear but you know if you actually lift him away to look at him he’ll disappear into the rain, too, so you drop the communicator and turn and there’s blood all over the floor and you have to clean it, you do. You have to so maybe he’ll come back and so you’re here, mopping up the blood on the hull’s floor as the child wails the loudest you’ve ever heard him cry and you try to choke out reassurances through your own crying because.

Because the gore is on your hands and your elbows and on you and on the floor once its gone it’ll be okay it’s so dark but it’ll be okay and streaking across the front of you and your face where you’ve tried to wipe it away please go away because it looks just like when.

Looks just like when.

You wake up in the middle of screaming, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against the top of the table above you and the other curled into the mattress. It’s the first time that’s happened, waking up like that at least. The dreams are different each time and occur at different frequencies, but they always crescendo at the same point. Usually you just wake up, eyes slowly sliding open and fixing to whatever is directly in front of you as your vision slightly blurs. How banal it usually is, how banal it feels, adds to the cruelty. You’re mostly still able to go to sleep after, at least there was that.

Not this, though. This is that hand-scratching-at-your-own-throat kind of terror, the kind you’ve usually only seen in the holo-dramas. You haven’t had a nightmare like that for so long, so maybe the surprise of it is what made it so much worse—that it wasn’t just you. Maker, you can still hear the child’s squalling in your ears. That sound of raw, primal terror that—

You feel your stomach lurch. You scramble to the fresher, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Half anxiety, half afraid to close your own eyes, the dull thrum of raw energy does little to calm itself once you manage to shove the door of the fresher close. You let the metal rim of the toilet cool your face as you sniff, scooting back to lean your back against the wall, pulling the sleeve of the sleepshirt you’re wearing up your palm to wipe your eyes.

A low voice says your name urgently. You look up, dazed for a moment, before the door is cracked open by four broad-knuckled fingers. Your hand flies out, catching the handle before Mando is able to pull it the rest of the way open. He barely has time to get his hand out of the way before you slam it shut again.

“I--sorry,” you croak. “Please um… please don’t come in here.”

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough with sleep. You cup your hands over your knees and lean your forehead down to rest against them. When you don’t answer, he speaks again. “Was it, was it about before? Before Am’ile?”

“I—I haven’t, for so—I haven’t… Before… It was…”

“I know. She told me, it’s alright, I wouldn’t have asked I just… I thought it was something you didn’t want to talk about but I--”

“I’m not a charity case,” it sounds snappier than you intended it to and has absolutely nothing to do with anything he’d just said. At this point you’re just talking to yourself, it seems like he knows that. “That’s not why Am’ile pawned me off on you. I’m okay, I didn’t need her supervision anymore. I’m, I’m okay. It’s taken a long time but I am now so I don’t know why--”

“No,” and he says your name forcefully, cutting you off before you can continue. He repeats himself, this time softly, before: “It’s alright.” Does his voice sound… warmer? Even through a layer of reinforced steel? “I want you to feel safe, here. Comfortable. I don’t care, it’s okay. I just thought you were hurt.” He clears his throat. “I have them too, the dreams. So you, you don’t have to worry about hiding it. Them.” You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all. Closing your eyes, you lean the side of your face into the door separating the two of you. It’s so silent on the other side you think he’s left, so when he speaks again it’s all the more surprising. “And she didn’t pawn you off. I need you. Here.”

Something in your chest does a complete backflip. Your stomach is fluttering so ferociously you have to clear your throat before continuing. “Okay. Yeah, um. Thank you,” you wince. “I’m gonna freshen up and then get the little one out of your hair—er, beskar.” Idiot idiot idiot.

“It’s alright, you didn’t wake him. If you want I can… I can sit with you, until you fall asleep.”

“Okay.” You say it softly. “That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You quickly brush your teeth, then open the door the door slowly. Stepping into the hull and closing it behind you, you pad back to your mattress. He follows a few feet behind you quietly—it’s moments like these you’re grateful for his reserved nature. You don’t have the energy to try and brush things off by filling the silence with mindless chatter.

Kneeling beside your mattress, you wordlessly offering him an armful of your pillows. In the low light of the Crest’s night mode, the beskar helmet looks nearly featureless, save for the gleam of light that arcs up its surface as he looks down at what you’ve offered him.

“Could you—” your voice breaks. Heat rises to your face as you clear your throat again. “Is it okay if the kid um… slept with me? It was… some of it was about—”

“Yeah, of course,” Mando takes one of the pillows from the top of what you’ve offered him, tossing it at the ground of the opposing wall and then slipping out of sight as he goes into his bunk. He returns with a the child, standing above you as you crawl into bed, wrapping you blanket around yourself, setting up the pillows as you normally do for the naps you take together, preventing any accidental rolling-over. Mando crouches to place the kid beside you, then stands and settles where he’d dropped the pillow previously. You take a moment to look down at the child, running a thumb over the edge of his ear, before kissing his soft forehead where you normally do. He wrinkles his nose in his sleep, making a soft sound and twitching his ears before wiggling slightly to resettle. You rest your head back on your pillow. The specifics of the dream are already starting to drift away. It’s a small mercy, but it’s enough.

“Hey, Mando?” You lift your head, the low light reducing the man to a dark, featureless outline.

“Hm?”

“Would you mind if… um… would you mind if I just touched your hand? Just so uh… if I wake up I can know you’re there?” As the words spill out of your mouth, an unbearable heat rises to your face.

There’s the sound of him shifting, getting to his feet with a grunt. Then he’s right there, sitting with his back to the wall, just a few inches from the top of your head. Tentatively, you reach out your hand, resting your index and middle fingers against his palm. And it’s his palm, His palm, warm but rough with callouses, resting on the floor beside his extended leg just for you to be able to close your eyes, even for a little bit.

It takes a while but it works. Right as you drift back to sleep you think you feel his hand gently wrap around the fingers you’ve offered him. You really think you do.

**

a/n: thank you all for the engagement thus far !! it really means so much to me. 

that said i am .,..... beyond excited about the next chapter for two reasons of equal importance: fancy parties and Very Jealous Mando. my favorite things 😌 

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

[1/?] Sorry for venting. I just saw some bad takes that gave me a lot of feelings. Personally, JC stresses me out every time he comes on screen, but I don't mind it when JC fans say fan-typical things like how they like JC because he wears purple, or is grumpy, or they think he's hot, or that they ship x*ch*ng because the cql actors have nice jawlines. They're harmless, fun takes, and while I don't agree with some of them, I see where they're coming from

Hello there anon, vent away as that is what my blog is open for as I love/hate on Jiang Cheng as he is in the plot, as well as all of my beef with what has been done to him for the EN side of the fanbase! I am more than fine listening and engaging with the unsavory "unpopular" discussions of his canon behavior and this goes for anyone of course that needs an open play area. I'll try to engage with what you have sent point by point as succinctly as I can.

[2/?] (some of these are obviously crack, and I am a fan of a few problematic faves). But then there are stans that just have to put other characters down to make JC look good. Like, I think some fans take their freedom of interpretation for granted because most of these takes aren't even labeled 'headcanon,' 'ooc,' or 'crack' anymore. Stans feel that their interpretations are valid, and while they are, valid =/= canon, and they're treating these takes as canon, which becomes popular fanon.

I enjoy Jiang Cheng for what he is, however as I had said it took me another reread to get to my stance of him being the negative mirror to Lan Wangji's positive and my comfort with that for the story once I realized what purpose he served. He is only insofar tragic in regards to his circumstances, but it does not absolve him for what he is at his core (no pun, but I can make a very nice metaphor that even with a piece of Wei Wuxian in him he is still forever unable and unwilling to stand by him equally all while stagnating where as Lan Wangji is able to flourish, grow and mature with nothing of import left from Wei Wuxian in a technical sense). As for ships, I am a little dirty Xicheng whore for fun and can say there is a sense of entertainment for me making it work with two people where one is wildly ignorant and the other wildly rabid. But that is outside of what is established as canon in the work and I always try to keep the two strictly separate due to the skew fanon perpetuates.

3/?] And now, it's not clear what part of the fanon references canon JC or the canon events of mdzs. JC is an asshole; I don't like him as a person, but I do think that he's a complex character motivated by many issues (sup, YeeZY), which makes him fascinating to explore. Unfortunately, erasing his culpability also removes his agency. JC should be allowed to be an asshole character who makes his own decisions even if they're the wrong ones. He has made his own tragedy by constantly casting Wei Wuxian as the villain of his life.

Now thanks to you I will be using YeeZY to forever and now to acknowledge Madam Yu (this is your fault for the new tag). From a standing from storytelling I agree that he is complex in the Jianghu for MDZS. Where in the usual political intrigue of Wuxia, he would be the mustache twirling villain that is outright unforgivable in narration, it is by favor of Wei Wuxian's narration that has an early steeping of empathy for him. And he is not meant to be seen as ultimately sympathetic, the work builds up his hate against Wei Wuxian who tries to rationalize it all several times until he is finally unable to. Jiang Cheng is the antithesis to Lan Wangji and the false bait to get attached to in Wei Wuxian's first life. I will make the note their meeting in Yiling is lukewarm between both as they exchange nothing really in terms of conversation and all pleasantries are left in terms of Jiang Yanli for Wei Wuxian. By this point Wei Wuxian has already switched his yearnings of platonically wanting a part of Jiang Cheng's life, to subconscious romantic inclinations about Lan Wangji and the perceived loss of being in the other's life.

The very point of Jiang Cheng as the deconstruction, is that he has no passion in life despite his apparent exploits because he put a shadow to hang over himself as an excuse to say others think he is not good enough. He has no deeper motivations than pure selfishness by the end of the work and is pure frivolity that he has built up losing the meaning of his sect as a tradition. He had his agency (more than anyone I might add in the work due to his social position) that he used to build his reputation as a passive rich sect leader that has little to do with civilian problems.

4/?] And I think a JC, somehow, that realizes that he did something wrong and is working hard to change for the better and gain self-actualization to become that UWU best jiujiu the stans want him to be, who is ready to talk (not yell at) with WWX, apologize to him, and create a better, healthier relationship with him is a much more powerful reconciliation and happy ending than 'everyone is wrong and mean and they all apologize to JC, which magically gets rid of all his issues'.

He is forced out of culpability in reconciliation because simply put, his audience do not like the reality that relationships fray and dissolve with no further resolution other than we as adults both need to move on for safety and good health. It is not acceptable in real life and fiction is allowed to place that also in it's thematic relationships. He has a small, small spark of recognition at the end of the main story, however he himself seems to choose to ignore it, as change is hard and he has never taken to that well as was foreshadowed with his dogs and the idea of sharing a space with Wei Wuxian. To write this is an awful lot of work into his psyche which is not a nice place, he is a terrible being and downplaying that to make a sugar sweet person does not work instantaneously. He is the one responsible for the entire fallout with Wei Wuxian and he hysterically realizes that even as he tries to continue to blame Wei Wuxian.

The issue that I have with his current stan culture, is that they already view him as something he is not. They play at bicycle with all of the other protagonists that have positive traits that they strip as they see fit; Good affirming loving to children adult Lan Wangji, Self-sacrificing ultimately did it all for love and care Wei Wuxian, Hard exterior but softened to who they consider an annoyance Wen Qing, Loyal as partners in their exploits on the field and always have each others back Wen Ning. They even take Jin Guangyao's persona of playing damsel and using that as a positive to soften up Jiang Cheng into something he has never been for anyone for ships.

[5/5] Also, making WWX/WN/LWJ apologize just makes them look better than JC. Like, stans supposedly love JC, so they ahouldn't be lazy and work hard to give him actual character development. Again, I'm sorry for spamming your ask. It just really baffles me about where they get these 'hot' takes (All I'm going to say is that JC was ungrateful, and WN had a reason verbally dismantle him).

They see this, but, they will spin it in any way to excuse Jiang Cheng due to the story itself showing that he was in the wrong to everyone he flung accusations at and his hate. No one but him is at fault for his spite as he had gotten his revenge on the ones that had ruined Lotus Pier and killed his parents. His own resentment pitted him against good and well meaning people that he refused to help as he mimicked his mother's words about raising their heads higher out of goodness instead of keeping low and staying self-centered. There is the underlying criticism of taking individual arrogance as self-care at the cost of others. Each point that Wen Ning makes is exactly what Jiang Cheng himself knows as he hated Wei Wuxian for being something he could not be or even wanted to be. Jiang Cheng wants kindness but does not understand that kindness to others needs to be selfless and accept the hurt that can come with that in life. He encompasses the fall from the path of buddhist lifestyle, "The Three Poisons" to Wangxian's "Without Envy" at the stories end.

[6/5] P.S. I'm not saying I want reconciliation fics, but I just feel that if stans want JC to have a happy ending, then I think that he should actively work for it. I think it would be interesting to see what force of nature would push him through a character development because throwing a therapist at him would result in a murder.

"I'm not saying I want reconciliation fics, but I just feel that if stans want JC to have a happy ending, then I think that he should actively work for it."

They do not think he has to work for it, they say his tragedy is enough, while heaping accusations against Wei Wuxian and saying his own are not enough to absolve him. Something Wei Wuxian has never denied and told all present they are allowed to forever hate him for what he had done in the past, but that they need to find a way to live in a life that is always moving on. He learned that grudges do nothing once they are absolved and it leaves you with hate with nothing else to do with it once that object is gone. In terms of reconciliation, I do not ever think that either want anything other than a distant peaceful out of each other's life set up. Jiang Cheng does not need Wei Wuxian in his life to be satisfied and never has since he used him as the handicap to hide behind to stay angry and miserable. Being without that fallback opens the world far more for him to change than him ever interacting like an old friend with Wei Wuxian ever again, if he ever had the guts to do that.

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[tonystarktogo]

(this could’ve been) a villain’s origin story -- KHR remix

[this fic is my first attempt to write in the KHR fandom. i apologize in advance.]

II.

The first time it happens, Tsuna doesn’t see it coming at all. It’s not the kind of thing one sees coming.

He’s following up on one of the many, many anonymous tips they receive daily, about villain movements, suspicious sightings, potential collaborations, the works. Nowhere in the official Vongola Inc. recruitement speech do they tell you that working for the world’s largest superhero organization mostly means digging through trash and interviewing witnesses, rather than bashing a supervillain’s head in.

Granted, most teams go out and get at least some action and technically Tsuna’s team is no exception. Tsuna is, though.

“You’re more likely to get one of us killed than be of any help!” Mochida had snapped when he’d seen Tsuna trott after the others on their way to the briefing room. “Make yourself useful for once and stay out of the way.”

[continues under the cut]

[In all honesty, Tsuna can’t blame his squad leader. He never thought he, Dame-Tsuna, always too slow, too clumsy, too useless, would get recruited by Vongola Inc. The best, most powerful, most feared superhero organization the world has to offer and they wanted Tsuna.

Of course that turned out to be bullshit. Tsuna should’ve expected nothing less. Should’ve seen it coming. Why doesn’t he ever learn? But he’d been so shocked, so gratefulrelievedelated to know that someone saw something in him. That someone wanted him.

If he’d known all Vongola wanted was Sawada Iemitsu’s son -- his bloodline -- well. Tsuna knows himself well enough to realize that it probably wouldn’t have changed a thing. 

But that doesn’t stop him from wishing it had.]

Mochida is cold and cutting and often cruel, but he’s not a terrible team leader. He takes his responsibilities seriously. And even though Tsuna knows the man doesn’t like him, sees being saddled with Tsuna as some kind of creative punishment by his superiors, Mochida doesn’t let Tsuna’s inability to walk a straight line without running into a a door and his utter lack of super abilities get in the way of their job. It usually ends with Tsuna being sidelined and manning the coffee maschine or the phonelines -- wherever he can cause the least damage -- but Tsuna doesn’t mind much.

Sure, it’s not glamourous, but it’s still little things that need to be done and Tsuna is glad he can be of help, even if his co-workers rarely appreciate it. Mochida doesn’t expect much of anything from him and sometimes that hurts, but he never sets Tsuna up for failure just to have something to laugh at either -- and that means more to Tsuna than it probably should.

Besides it’s not like spending yet another endless day at work, following up on various anonymous tips, 98 percent of which always turn out to be a useless waste of time, is a bad price to pay for a steady job in a respected profession.

It’s only in retrospect that it occurs to Tsuna that what happens next is not at all surprising. That it is almost inevitable. Because no matter how many crazy, paranoid or joking people call the Vongola Emergency line, sooner or later Tsuna was bound to stumble over a nugget of valuable information. That this was why they kept a tip line in the first place -- because it occasionally proves to be useful.

In Tsuna’s defense, he’s pretty sure none of the others expected today’s calls to be real either. They sure wouldn’t have sent him out otherwise.

But here he is. Searching -- read: stumbling through -- a long abandoned warehouse that Tsuna just knows would have Hana sniff in disgust at the utter cliché of it all. Without back-up or any particularly useful weapon.

[His team learned in their first month together not to arm Tsuna with anything he could use to hurt himself with. Or them.]

Staring in horror at the supervillain staring at Tsuna with equal surprise.

At least I’m not the only one caught off-guard, Tsuna thinks hysterically. And he’s allowed to be hysterical when he finds himself trapped alone and unarmed in an abandoned warehouse with Skull De Mort of all people.

[Tsuna doesn’t have many hero-like qualities, but he’s got a lot of free time on his hands when manning the phone lines and pulling graveyard shifts on days where even villains prefer to catch a break and sleep in. Tsuna also, by virtue of his heritage, has access to the kind of high-level intel most field agents can only dream of.

As such, Tsuna has a better understanding on the recently active and inactive supervillains than most.

Whereas the average newsreporter likes to scoff and sniff derisively when Skull De Mort pulls one of his outrageous attacks that always mean impressive amounts of property damage and no civilian deaths because Skull is just an ambitious, loud-mouthed thug with ideas above his station as far as the general public is concerned, Tsuna knows better.

Skull De Mort is an Arcobaleno. As in one of the seven most powerful villains in the entire world. He might not drown the city in blood, but it’s sure as hell not because he can’t do it.

Sure, Skull baffles Vongola Inc. regularly with his antics, but his name is spoken in the same breath as Reborn, Fon or Viper and the point is oh god, Tsuna is gonna die here.]

With perfectly reasonable, if unhealthy amounts of panic and horror fighting for dominance within him, it takes Tsuna several long seconds to realize that Skull isn’t launching into one of his infamous supervillain speeches. Isn’t even throwing glitter bombs at Tsuna -- and those glitter bombs might not kill anyone, but walking into Vongola HQ and leaving a trail of glitter everywhere just might.

Hibari-senpai -- who isn’t even Vongola, is the definition of unaffiliated asset everyone is too afraid to alienate -- hates glitter.

Tsuna is so dead.

Except he still isn’t. He’s been standing here, gaping and panicking for close to five minutes and Skull still hasn’t made his move. In fact, now that Tsuna pays attention, it’s not just his breathing that’s unnaturally loud and heavy in the empty hall. And-- Tsuna squints. Skull doesn’t seem to be leaning against the wall so much as clinging to it and he’s watching Tsuna with a look that no one has ever directed at Tsuna in his life, something that almost looks like, like wariness and-- 

“Are you okay?” Tsuna blurts out before he can think of all the reasons why starting a conversation with an Arcobaleno is a terrible idea.

It’s just— this is a supervillain and that’s terrifying and Tsuna should probably call someone more qualified to deal with this situation, but also this is an injured supervillain and somehow that makes all the difference.

Skull scoffs, ironically putting Tsuna a little more at ease. People always scoff or scowl when he reminds them of his existence, this is no different. Besides it’s hard to take the villain’s derision seriously when he promptly sways on his feet. He’s not wearing his helmet, either, and despite being dressed in the usual black motorcycle suit, Tsuna is pretty sure his violett hair is matted with blood.

“You’re hurt!” he exclaims, horrified. Promptly drops the taser he’s been trying to pull out of his overstuffed bag with shaking hands and rushes towards the villain’s side, who’s eyes widen in alarm as Tsuna approaches.

Somehow that makes it easier to breathe, but it’s not enough to distract Tsuna from the long cut along the man’s temple and the dark bruises on his jaw.

“The Great Skull-sama is fine!” Skull protests frantically.

He’s clearly not, considering he promptly loses his balance when he tries to take a step back. Instinctively, Tsuna reaches out to catch him, realizing a second too late that one, he doesn’t have the strenth to keep the taller man upright and two, Tusna is a walking, talking disaster who inevitably trips and brings Skull down with him. They hit the ground hard enough to knock all the air out of his lungs and land in a graceless heap on the floor.

“Sorry!” Tsuna squeaks, breathless from where his face is smushed against Skull’s padded shoulder. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Skull-sama!”

Kami-sama, he’s knocked the poor, already injured man over! Trying to untangle them immediately, Tsuna accidentally rams his elbow into Skull’s side, which earns him a pained groan and Skull another flustered apology.

This is why his team doesn’t take Tsuna on missions. He’s a hazard not just for himself but everyone around him.

Scrambling away from Skull before he manages to kill the guy through sheer clumsiness, Tsuna forces himself to take one deep, steady breath — only one, though, else he’ll have time to think about how stupid what he’s gonna do in a moment really is — and starts to unpack his bag. Tsuna might not carry as many weapons as a Vongola Superhero on duty technically should, but his emergency kit would make any aspiring doctor proud. And Nana too, but that’s because Tsuna’s mom thinks he’s healing the innocent bystanders — "My Tsu-kun has such a gentle heart!" — not himself. 

"What are you doing?!" Skull asks while slowly pushing himself off the floor and into a sitting position.

"I’m just looking for the— there!" Tsuna knew he still has one of Irie’s newest ice packs. He kneads the white package for a few moments to activate it, then holds it out to Skull. "Here. Hold this to your jaw for at least ten minutes, but no longer than thirty. Ichi’s still working on some issues long-term use has on human skin."

Tsuna babbles like he always does when he’s scared. [It drives Mochida crazy sometimes because Tsuna is scared most of the time and Mochida hates babbling.] It doesn’t stop him from noticing the odd look Skull shoots him, a bit like he’s measuring Tsuna’s worth. Except that’s a look he’s intimately familiar with and would recognize anyone, so it’s something close, but not exactly that.

"Please take it, Skull-sama." Tsuna shakes the ice pack lightly, pretends like his hands aren’t trembling when those bright, violett eyes fixate on him. "That looks like it really hurts." 

[He’s not sure if all Arcobaleno carry their superpowers on the outside. If it’s part of the costume, colored contacts and all, or if their bodies are brimming with power to the point where they’re overflowing, where it pours out of them in any shape it can.]

Slowly Skull takes the ice pack. Looks at it as though he doesn’t know what to do with it.

"H-Hold it against your chin, please, Skull-sama." Tsuna busies himself with sorting through his various bandages and tries very hard to pretend his voice isn’t shaking and squeaky like a frightened mouse. "It’ll help keep the swelling down."

"…The immortal Skull-sama heals fast." Skull says the words like a question. Tsuna doesn’t look up, but he can feel the weight of the man’s stare.

Hunching his shoulders, Tsuna pulls what little courage he has together, and stutters, "That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, Skull-sama. Please, can you just take it? I— I don’t like seeing people hurt."

Skull is still staring, Tsuna can tell, but it feels less like he wants to lean over and rip Tsuna open to figure out what’s inside, and more like he’s just watching Tsuna drop the disinfect spray for the third time. After a moment, he presses the ice pack to his face and even though Tsuna’s still trembling a bit, he smiles.

"Thank you."

Skull doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t protest when Tsuna tells him to disinfect the gash above his eyebrow — not deep enough to need stitches, thankfully. He draws the line at more bandages, though, which is worrisome. Tsuna is pretty sure the man has at the very least bruised his rips, but Skull is a supervillain, not runaway kitten, and maybe that means he knows what he’s doing.

That would at least make one of them.

Finally convinced that there’s no other injury Skull will let him help with, Tsuna carefully packs up his things again and bids the villain a hesitant goodbye. Which brings up a somewhat awkward point.

"I have to go back to work now and someone might ask where I’ve been." Eventually. Maybe. Tsuna rocks back on his heels, not sure how to put this. "If they ask, they might come here. And you— might not want to be there when they come," is what he settles on.

Skull’s watching him with another strange expression, both eyebrows raised as he watches Tsuna make a fool of himself. "Why?"

Tsuna eeps. [It’s not a full-on shriek, thankfully, but it’s far too close for his comfort.] There’s an intensity to Skull just now that has the hairs of the back of his neck stand up and reminds Tsuna rather violently that he’s talking to an Arcobaleno. That he’s been treating an Arcobaleno’s wounds. For a moment, Tsuna sways on his feet, as though his body wonders whether it should just give up on him completely.

"Ireallyneedtogonow!" Tsuna rushes the words out so fast, they trip over themselves, grabs his bag and high-tails it out of there. "Please take care of yourself, Skull-sama!" he adds over his shoulder, almost walking into the door as he does so.

It’s not until Tsuna is sitting in his comfortingly safe work chair that it occurs to him that not once during the entire, surreal encounter [he still can’t believe he was in the same room as an Arcobaleno and survived] did it occur to him to call Vongola. Even now Tsuna is hesitating to speak up, to tell one of his co-workers. Because while his gut feeling tells him that Skull got out of that warehouse as soon as Tsuna turned his back on him, he isn’t one hundred percent sure and what if they catch Skull because of him?

Tsuna resolves to spill the whole story as soon as someone asks — he’s a terrible liar and he never promised Skull he wouldn’t tell, not that the man asked himto — and tries not to think too much about the many crimes he committed by letting the chance of catching a supervillain of Skull’s calibre go to waste. Not that anyone would expect Tsuna to catch a supervillain, but still.

[His team returns two hours later, bright-eyed, bruised and breathless with the enthusiasm of a successful mission tangible in the air around them. Mochida even greets Tsuna with a smile and doesn’t scold him when Tsuna drops his tea cup in response and Haru tells him all about the exciting and ultimately successful arrest they’ve pulled off.

No one asks Tsuna where he’s been or if anything interesting happened while they were gone. 

Tsuna tells himself he’s relieved, for Skull’s sake if nothing else, because the pang he feels at the thought that no one would miss me if I was gone has gone beyond pathetic a long time ago.]

[bigdlittleibignlittleozzo-moved]

@sebastianshaw​ asked  A, C, G, L, P , Q, S, T, W

A: Who are their exes? Do they still keep in touch?

It sounds funny to Tony, when he says he only has two exes and they’re both women. Well how can that be? He’s a gay man, and he’s never had sex with a woman, but both of his exes are women, and both of them (rightfully) pin the downfall of their relationship on him. 

At least with Wendy, they ended somewhat amicably, even if he stood at the front of that church for two and a half hours, waiting for her, worried that something had happened to her. When her bridesmaid had shown up and told him that Wendy was calling the wedding off, it had been a relief. Tony hadn’t really wanted to be married anyhow. It was just what had been expected of him, and that was the wrong reason to get married, the wrong reason to trap someone with him, tie them down.

Jeanne... well, what could he say about the woman who had accused him of murdering her father, who had tried to get him locked in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed? He didn’t blame her at all. After everything he’d done to her, the lies that he had told her, he’d deserved to be treated the way he was, to be accused of murder, to be treated however she saw fit. Hell, if she’d wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have blamed her. He was the reason her father was dead. 

Not being in contact with either of them was what was best for them, and him. They deserved better and he- well all he wanted was peace. He didn’t want fighting, didn’t want to feel the need to justify his actions. He’d done what he’d done, and it was terrible. He knew that. He could never take that back. Best for all of them if they just moved on.

C: If they had to pick one sport to play/watch which would it be?

Getting into football had been an accident. He’d needed to pick a sport when he was at RIMA and he hated riflery with a passion. But he could throw a ball like no one’s business, so he’d joined the football team. When he’d discovered that he was actually good at it- well it had taken care of his bullying problem almost immediately. No one wanted to bully the star quarterback, even if he was only a freshman with ADHD and behavior problems. 

Maybe that’s why he loved it so much. Football had been his sanctuary, the thing that had saved him from being harassed by the other kids. No one liked the rich kid, no matter that most of the other kids were also from well-off families. No one liked that he knew more about war than they did, despite not coming from a military family. No one liked that he was constantly making jokes, that he couldn’t hold still in class.

Oh, but they liked him on the field. When he threw that ball in a perfect spiral, everyone liked him then. That was when everyone cheered his name, wanted to be his friend. Football made him popular, in a way that he’d never thought he would be. It was amazing, how much people changed the second they discovered he was good at the sport. He just wanted to bask in it, in the praise that they heaped upon his head. It was such a nice change from the derision that was usually pointed at him, he didn’t think anyone would blame him.   

G: What was their first job? 

It was a busy Friday night. He was late to work because of the football game, the same football game that meant that they were busy. He skidded into the kitchen wearing his post-game sweatshirt and apologized in rapidfire Spanish, pulling off the sweatshirt and hanging it up, grabbing his apron instead. There was a sink full of dishes, but he was good with that. It wouldn’t take him long to wash them all up, get everything clean. He was good at that, at physical work like that. He’d had a lot of practice.

Tia Maria came and patted him on the shoulder, congratulated him on the big win, and Tony smiled at her, his entire face brightening. He loved this job, loved the family that he’d come to have here, the people he’d befriended. Between Maria and Pablo, the owners of the restaurant, he never went hungry. They were always sending him home with food, and Joaquin was always teaching him how to make new recipes when they had some downtime. There wouldn’t be any downtime tonight, but that was okay. He was ready to work. That’s what he was paid to do, after all.

L: How often do they post on their social media accounts? 

Twitter was a new thing to him, but he liked it. He could follow all his favorite actors, comment on their movies. He’d once upset Mark Hamill by mentioning the Star Wars Holiday Special, something his Nonna had gifted him with when he was six. 

He didn’t post often though. He couldn’t afford to. He was still an undercover agent, after all, and he couldn’t afford to blow his cover. Risking his job for the sake of posting a few selfies seemed dumb, childish and immature, and Tony wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t safe, for the people that he protected when he went undercover. It was why he didn’t have a Facebook, or any other social media outlet. It wasn’t like he knew anybody he would want to keep in contact with using social media. The only frat brother he was still friends with was Steve, and they called each other on the phone, met for coffee. There wasn’t the need for social media. 

Maybe he was just old. He didn’t see the point behind these websites he would never use, though. They weren’t for him. 

P: What are their thoughts on going vegan? Could they do it?

He’d gone kosher after Ziva started working for NCIS. It was an easy change to make for him. The hardest thing to give up was shellfish, but he’d made the adjustment. It was just easier. They didn’t always label their lunches, had habits of grabbing whatever bag was in the fridge and just eating what was inside, no care for whose it was. Tony wasn’t about to make Ziva eat something that she couldn’t because he was too selfish to give up pork, too selfish to adjust his diet. 

But vegan? He had no problem with vegetables. There were certain times of the year, centered around certain Jewish holidays, where Tony didn’t cook with meat at all. But that had everything to do with the fact that Ziva was always grateful when she grabbed his lunch and it was something she could eat, saving her the trouble of having to order out, hoping that the Jewish deli had someone who could get onto the Navy Yard. They both knew McGee wasn’t going to change the way he ate, so Ziva grabbing his lunch was out of the question.

Still, vegan... as much as he loved vegetables, Tony also loved meat, loved the taste of it, the way it added flavor to his food. He had no problem with other people going vegan, that was their choice. It wasn’t the healthiest dietary choice they could make, and that was coming from the athletic nutrition courses he’d taken when he was studying for his degree, but it wasn’t the worst either. It just- it wasn’t for him. He needed proteins from meat, needed the flavor too. He respected the choices others made for their own bodies but it wasn’t for him, that was for sure.  

Q: Do they have a good luck charm they often have with them? 

It was stupid. The thing had been given to him as a joke. Holding onto it was just silly. But there it sat, on the corner of his desk where everyone could see it, where it had sat for years, since his Captain in Baltimore had given it to him. He didn’t even like Mighty Mouse, had never seen the show. So why was it that the stapler meant so much to him? He couldn’t rightfully say. But the thought of getting rid of it-

He couldn’t do it. That stapler had been there through too many rough cases, too many cases that Tony shouldn’t have solved, by all accounts, but he still had. He’d used it on too many reports that he never should’ve been able to close. Maybe it was dumb, to consider a little blue and red piece of metal and plastic his good luck charm, but he did. Some cops had their St. Michael medallions, and he respected that, but he wasn’t Catholic, and he’d never really believed in the saints. 

His stapler though. His stapler brought him luck. It brought him success. He loved his stapler. Even after it came out that the Captain was a dirty cop, Tony couldn’t get rid of his stapler. It had seen too much, had done too much for him. The stapler and he, they were a team. He wasn’t going to give up on it. It hadn’t given up on him.

S: How do they tell someone they’re sorry?

Rule 6 existed for a reason. Never say you’re sorry. So Tony had to find other ways to apologize when he screwed up, because he screwed up a lot. He couldn’t just not apologize and move on. Because while Gibbs may hate apologies, he also hated it when Tony ignored his mistakes, completely acted like everything was normal. It was a tricky game he was playing, a complicated dance, but he was figuring it out, slowly but surely.  

He didn’t apologize anymore, not after the first half dozen times those words had passed his lips. No, now he owned up to his mistakes and sucked it up when the slap came to the back of his head, biting back the wince that was inevitable. Gibbs never pulled his punches with Tony the way he did with McGee and Ziva. 

“Right boss. Won’t happen again, boss.” That’s what Gibbs wanted to hear, the only apology he would accept. It left a dirty taste in Tony’s mouth, but if that’s what Gibbs wanted, that’s what Tony would do. This wasn’t about Tony’s preferred method of apology, it was about what Gibbs wanted.

T: How quick are they to cry?

He didn’t cry after Kate died. He was emotionally drained, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t think that he could, too drained and angry at the world, at Ari, at Gibbs, at himself. He couldn’t cry. He could only think about revenge, about getting back at the bastard who had taken his partner away from him.

He did cry when Jeanne left him. He’d loved her, in his own way. Loved her as best as he could. But everything he’d ever told her had been a lie. Everything about himself, about their relationship, about all of it. It had all been a lie. How could he have loved her if he had lied to her constantly, if he hadn’t been honest with her? So why did losing her feel the way it did? He hadn’t ever slept with her but their relationship was something more, something emotional, something that he could just- it hurt to lose it. And he cried.

He wasn’t positive what he was crying for. Maybe it was the loss of Jeanne. Maybe it was the loss of himself. After all, he’d given up a lot of his own self respect and pride in order to go undercover the way he had. He’d sacrificed a lot of who he was in order to be who Jeanne knew. He didn’t even know who he was anymore, half the time. Maybe that was why he was crying. Maybe it was just the broken heart. He didn’t know anymore.    

W: Would they be starstruck if they met a celebrity? 

Growing up the way he did, he’d rubbed elbows with a lot of old money, people with names that would be recognized. He’d met a lot of people who others would consider famous, and it had been just another Tuesday for him. It wasn’t unusual for Senior to namedrop someone important, even today, wasn’t unusual for Tony himself to have connections that went beyond what a normal NCIS agent would have. He didn’t think anything of it.

He wasn’t the type to really care about somebody’s fame. Why would he, when he’d grown up around money? He’d gone to school with Frank Sinatra’s nephew, the closest he’d gotten to knowing the man himself, and he’d never once freaked out about it. The kid was a bully, and Tony hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, even if his uncle was one of the coolest singers he’d ever heard. 

Maybe it was a rich kid thing, a money thing. Maybe it was a Tony thing. Fame and money just didn’t matter to him. Not really, not anymore. Maybe they never had.  

[bigskydreaming]

To be perfectly honest, my biggest issue with handwaving away Bruce’s worst behavior with his kids as bad writing is it results in not only Dick being expected to fix or compensate for his own father’s badly written bad behavior for the sake of his siblings in canon.....but ALSO throws Dick under the bus by making him solely responsible for the canon problems he’s stuck fixing, as if HE’S the reason those problems exist, not Bruce.

This is a huge part of the problem with how he’s written in fandom imo and it desperately needs addressing.

Example:

Bruce fires Dick in various canons, is unsympathetic and unyielding resulting in Dick leaving in frustration, callously gives his name to Jason.

Canon results: Dick eventually comes back on his own, takes all initiative in repairing his relationship with Bruce, the one broken by his father’s canon bad behavior, and puts aside his initial resentment of his feeling replaced by Jason, for Jason’s sake.

Fandom spin, because fans don’t like seeing Bruce written as this poor a father: mitigating the reasons Dick left in canon by mixing and matching continuities so sometimes Dick left because he gave up Robin on his own, thus also had little reason to be upset Bruce gave it to Jason, or else generally just de-emphasizing Bruce’s firing of Dick in favor of emphasizing his bad behavior with Jason thus rendering Dick unsympathetic and leaving readers unconcerned with what made him leave in the first place.

Or another example:

Bruce hits Dick, blames him for Jason’s death and kicks him out of the Manor telling him to leave his key with Alfred.

Canon results: Dick retreats to the Titans and avoids Gotham and Bruce while Bruce gets excessively more violent and reckless as Batman, leading to Tim seeking Dick out and begging him to return as Robin, and while Dick refuses to do that, he IS at least motivated to return to Gotham to check up on Bruce, leading to him and Bruce being endangered by Two-Face, rescued by Tim as Robin, and Tim then becomes Robin with Dick’s approval and help, leading to Dick returning to Gotham more regularly to help with his training and thus by extension resulting in his relationship with Bruce slowly repairing over time, with Tim often credited as being the reason Dick and Bruce started talking again.

Of course, this also means (unacknowledged) Dick once again took the initiative in regards to repairing his relationship with Bruce...while Tim might have been the catalyst, all of the above nevertheless required that Dick yet again put aside his legitimate grievances with his father and his actions towards him, forgive and forget regardless of the fact that like with his firing, while Bruce may at times express regret for the way things happened or express that he missed Dick, this also never involved or led to Bruce actually apologizing for any of his specific actions or taking accountability for them, as well as forcing Dick to put aside his personal feelings about there being another Robin at all, given that initially in his grief for Jason, he was not at all on board with the idea of him being replaced in any way, or another child similarly being put in potential danger.

Fandom spin, because fans don’t like seeing Bruce written as literally having abused Dick in his grief: Either Dick had simply retreated to the Titans and stayed away from Gotham and Bruce because of his own grief for Jason, in which case Tim really was more responsible for getting him and Bruce to talk again, because he convinced Dick to stop thinking just about himself and realize how this was affecting Bruce too....or else Dick was selfish in his grief and blaming Bruce for Jason’s death, and it took Tim to knock some sense into him....or else Dick just had no patience for Bruce’s grief or else simply no idea how to help him or else stayed away out of guilt, because he felt like Jason’s death was his fault for being ‘a bad brother’ or else simply hadn’t cared all that much about Jason so felt uncomfortable intruding on Bruce’s grief, and either way, not only is this why he wasn’t there for Bruce and why it took Tim to get him to step up, its also why he was so quick and able to be a better brother to Tim this time around, by choice, and also legitimizes Jason’s hurt and resentment about being replaced and no one caring and Dick being a better brother to Tim and more invested than he ever was with Jason.

Or another example, from the Reboot era for some variety:

Bruce loses his shit after seeing Dick die in Forever Evil, and unable to process it well or healthily or react to it or the future threats to Dick because of being unmasked in any other way than get him the hell out of Gotham at all costs, he guilt trips, emotionally abuses, manipulates, victim blames and physically beats Dick into accepting the undercover Spyral mission despite Dick’s extreme protests, almost all of them centered specifically around the effect believing him to be dead will have on the rest of their family.

Canon results: Dick is hung entirely out to dry, with all of his family effectively holding him and only him to blame for their feelings of hurt and betrayal, on the specific grounds that they expect Bruce to make shitty, callous choices like this and by extension they expect Dick, his son, their brother, to be the one to pump the brakes because he knows better, regardless of the fact that Dick is just as desperate for their father’s rarely doled out approval and thus just as vulnerable to going to extreme lengths to please him, those lengths logically being further and further the more desperate and vulnerable he feels....such as being in an intensely vulnerable state post being tortured and feeling guilty and responsible for failing Bruce and his family and friends by getting captured in the first place, the very things Bruce exploited to get him to agree to the mission.

Fandom spin, because fans don’t want to view Bruce as being capable of being so callous and cruel and outright hurtful to his eldest son (often hypocritically given how many MORE fans are completely willing to view the events of RHATO #25 as viable Bruce characterization, in order to milk the hell out of his abusive behavior with preferred family victim Jason, an ‘actual’ abuse survivor and thus thematically more compelling to have been abused by Bruce): All record of Bruce as the motivating factor in Dick taking the Spyral mission is stricken from fandom record by these fans, as are all of Dick’s protests for his family’s sake, ironically the very same points echoed by those characters when they later crucify him for not caring enough about them to take into account how they would feel because of all of this, or just Dick thinking the mission was more important than that anyway.

IN ALL OF THE ABOVE:

Notice how not only is Dick written in canon as being expected or responsible for compensating for Bruce’s worst written behavior in regards to both himself and his siblings.....but when fandom attempts to compensate for Bruce’s worst behavior by ignoring, mitigating or justifying any of his actions or choices in these matters...

It is always, always, ALWAYS additionally at Dick’s expense, as the inevitable end result of removing or lessening Bruce’s own culpability in character conflicts that he himself instigated....is inversely, MORE culpability is heaped on Dick for those same conflicts in order to justify or keep the conflict’s very existence, even if he bore NO initial culpability or responsibility for the conflict in the first place, in canon!

When the core conflict is between two characters, and Dick is one of them and the other, Bruce, is deliberately UPLIFTED on the conflict see-saw so as to raise him out of the depths of badly written canon behavior and restore him to the heights of Good Dad Bruce....of fucking COURSE the extension of that sees Dick dumped down to those same depths of shitty behavior that Bruce was just raised out of, in order to make this possible.

AND IN ADDITION TO THAT....

Notice how in all of those instances, its not just that Dick is spun by fandom to be worse than he is in the actual canon instances....first, fans actively ignore or erase or explain away the EXTRA MILE that Dick was written going, in all of these instances in canon, in order to....compensate for Bruce’s shitty behavior and ‘fix’ what Bruce broke in each instance....

Even BEFORE fans THEN proceed to make Dick go the extra mile in the REVERSE direction, such as when FIRST its ignored that Dick put aside his resentment for Jason’s sake, THEN its added on that Dick was a total asshole to Jason. Or like FIRST its ignored that Dick put aside his legitimate grievances with what Bruce had done to him when Dick went to CONSOLE Bruce in the first place after Jason’s death, in order to help train Tim...THEN its added on that Dick only ‘stepped up’ and patched things up with Bruce because TIM got Dick to see that the father he was avoiding because he kicked him out of his own home NEEDED him. Or like FIRST its ignored that Dick literally, physically FOUGHT Bruce over the fact that Bruce wanted him to do this thing he KNEW would massively hurt the rest of the family...THEN its added on that Bruce didn’t even play much of a role in Dick’s decision at all, definitely not something that Dick actively pushed back against for his family’s sake.

AND THEN.

AND THEN.

On top of ALL OF THAT, fandom repeatedly insists that the reason they go to all of these lengths when ignoring or avoiding addressing Bruce’s worst writing....is because they prefer him being a good dad, and having a good relationship with his sons, including and even especially Dick....and that’s WHY they do all this.

Ie....this is supposedly for DICK’S BENEFIT. In order to make Bruce a better dad FOR him.

So riddle me this.

How the FUCK does it work or make any kind of sense to take a son who has literally been written being abused by his father in canon - WHETHER YOU LIKE TO ADMIT THAT OR NOT - and THEN not only disregard how often canon expects Dick to essentially be the parent canon chooses at times not to depict Bruce as capable of being.....but ALSO actively write Dick as being WORSE than he is in ANY of these canon instances....in order to make HIM the catalyst, instigator or responsible party in these instances that BRUCE initiated....so as to avoid having Bruce be the bad guy.

How do you possibly spin that that’s for DICK’S BENEFIT?

I’ve said before that I don’t have a problem with Good Dad Bruce Wayne in and of itself, that in fact I WANT that, ideally, I WANT him being a good dad to Dick and the others, being good FOR Dick and the others - and I stand by that! 

But when the go-to default method of making this happen always ALWAYS seems to be....’make Bruce better.....by actively making DICK WORSE, so that Good Dad Bruce has an opportunity to actually ride to the rescue in situations that initially, in canon, HE CAUSED, and that DICK had to ride to the rescue on for himself and everyone else, like....we obviously need something for Good Dad Bruce to FIX, to make BETTER, to PARENT....ergo Dick logically has to fuck up some how, NEED Good Dad Bruce to fix it, to tell him its all okay, to make it better in the same way canon expects Dick to make it better for his dad’s fuck ups’.....

Like.

When that’s the modus operandi by which its believed Bruce is being made into or shown as being a better loving, caring, supportive father?

THEN HOUSTON, WE HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM.

You fundamentally just can not claim to be making things better, healthier, happier FOR a character....by literally writing that character as WORSE than he is in canon, particularly in specific canon instances like the above.

(And on a personal note, I really really wish the people who were as defensive and protective of Good Dad Bruce Wayne and all ensuing fics, headcanons and meta, could be as aware and understanding of the fact that many fans can and DO relate to various Batkids BECAUSE of canon instances of Bad Dad Bruce Wayne, because THAT’S specifically relatable to some of us, and while that doesn’t preclude us from wanting to see the inverse of that just as badly or as often as you do, it does mean it REALLY FUCKING SUCKS to see the kid we acknowledge as having been abused and neglected at key points in canon....ACTIVELY WRITTEN AS BEING RESPONSIBLE FOR THE HARM DONE TO HIM BY HIS OWN CANON ABUSE.)

[sleepymarmot]

My reactions to Clive Barker’s The Forbidden. Under the cut I end up quoting like half of it because I have no self-control.

Surprisingly, Trevor’s relationship with Helen is very fleshed out, and he plays a major part in her initial motivation for the investigation. Also, nice setting description!

It was a chilly business. She was not an expert photographer, and the late October sky was in full flight, shifting the light on the bricks from one moment to the next. As she adjusted and readjusted the exposure to compensate for the light changes, her fingers steadily became clumsier, her temper correspondingly thinner. But she struggled on, the idle curiosity of passersby notwithstanding. There were so many designs to document. She reminded herself that her present discomfort would be amply repaid when she showed the slides to Trevor, whose doubt of the project's validity had been perfectly apparent from the beginning.

"The writing on the wall?" he'd said, half smiling in that irritating fashion of his. "It's been done a hundred times." 

The mural is just as impressive as it is in the movie. Honestly, I halfway expected it not to be in the short story at all -- it’s such a cinematic image.

Here, the artists had also been at work, but had produced an image the like of which she had not seen anywhere else. Using the door, which was centrally placed in the wall like a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head onto the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen, rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones jutting through skin the color of buttermilk; the teeth, sharpened to irregular points, all converging on the door. The sitter's eyes were, owing to the room's low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp across the ceiling. [...]

Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: a facsimile, perhaps, of something from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living room and bedroom offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare's belly. The whole effect brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same unashamed intention to scare. And it worked; she stood in the bedroom almost stupefied by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly. 

After the entire beginning of the story set in the haunted neighbourhood, an absolutely stunning cut to the daily life of the Rich Intellectuals. I laughed out loud at the fancy italian name of whatever food that is, it was so jarring after the vivid descriptions of poverty and misery:

"The man apparently had a hook instead of a hand."

Trevor looked up from his plate of tagliatelle con prosciutto. "Beg your pardon?"

More of the Very Functional and Satisfying Marriage!

Helen had been at pains to keep her recounting of this story as uncolored by her own response as she could. She was interested to know what Trevor would make of it, and she knew that if she once signaled her own stance he would instinctively take an opposing view out of plain bloody-mindedness.

"He had a hook," she repeated, without inflection.

The story keeps bringing up how Helen and her circle are privileged and liberal. On another note, congratulations on being haunted! (I’m pretty sure in the movie this realization is shifted to the scene where she listens to Candyman’s horrific backstory, her expression distant and her face washed in a romantic soft filter.)

Why did it matter? Was it that she wanted to have her worst feelings about Spector Street proved false? That such an estate be filthy, be hopeless, be a dump where the undesirable and the disadvantaged were tucked out of public view—all that was a liberal commonplace, and she accepted it as an unpalatable social reality. But the story of the old man's murder and mutilation was something other. An image of violent death that, once with her, refused to part from her company. 

The book makes a point of saying that Helen feels alienated both by her own hollow world of academia, and the hostile impoverished world of the neighbourhood...

The suggestion that she investigate was not a bad one, though doubtless he had ulterior motives for offering it. She viewed Trevor less charitably day by day. What she had once thought in him a fierce commitment to debate she now recognized as mere power-play. He argued, not for the thrill of dialectic, but because he was pathologically competitive. She had seen him, time and again, take up attitudes she knew he did not espouse, simply to spill blood. Nor, more's the pity, was he alone in this sport. Academe was one of the last strongholds of the professional time-waster. On occasion their circle seemed entirely dominated by educated fools, lost in a wasteland of stale rhetoric and hollow commitment. 

From one wasteland to another. 

...And the only thing that electrifies her is Candyman’s portrait.

She made her way to number 14 and spent the next hour in its befouled confines, meticulously photographing both the bedroom and living-room walls. She had half expected the impact of the head in the bedroom to be dulled by reacquaintance. It was not. Though she struggled to capture its scale and detail as best she could, she knew the photographs would be at best a dim echo of its perpetual howl.

Much of its power lay in its context, of course. That such an image might be stumbled upon in surroundings so drab, so conspicuously lacking in mystery, was akin to finding an icon on a rubbish heap: a gleaming symbol of transcendence from a world of toil and decay into some darker but more tremendous realm. She was painfully aware that the intensity of her response probably defied her articulation. Her vocabulary was analytic, replete with buzz-words and academic terminology, but woefully impoverished when it came to evocation. The photographs, pale as they would be, would, she hoped, at least hint at the potency of this picture, even if they couldn't conjure up the way it froze the bowels.

Reflection on the nature of the monster and why he needs to stay mysterious:

Standing in front of the charmless building, the wind gusting around her legs, she couldn't help but think of what had happened here. Of the man-child, bleeding on the floor, helpless to cry out. It made her queasy even to contemplate it. She turned her thoughts instead to the felon. What would he look like, she wondered, a man capable of such a depravity? She tried to make an image of him, but no detail she could conjure up carried sufficient force. But then monsters were seldom very terrible once hauled into the plain light of day. As long as this man was known only by his deeds he held untold power over the imagination; but the human truth beneath the terrors would, she knew, be bitterly disappointing. No monster he, just a whey-faced apology for a man more needful of pity than awe.

Helen enjoys scandalizing the Polite Company with the horrors she has learned, and I say, good for her!

 The dinner guests looked gratifyingly appalled at the story, and Trevor, to judge by the expression on his face, was furious. It was done now, however; there was no taking it back. Nor could she deny the satisfaction she took in having silenced the interdepartmental babble about the table. It was Bernadette, Trevor's assistant in the history department, who broke the agonizing hush. 

Unlike the movie, by the beginning of the story, Helen and Trevor’s relationship has fallen apart almost completely. He’s cheating openly, and she can’t bring herself to care, especially now that she has discovered something (or someone) more interesting. More haunted.

She didn't go back to Spector Street until the following Monday, but all weekend she was there in thought: standing outside the locked toilet, with the wind bringing rain; or in the bedroom, the portrait looming. Thoughts of the estate claimed all her concern. When, late on Saturday afternoon, Trevor found some petty reason for an argument, she let the insults pass, watching him perform the familiar ritual of self-martyrdom without being touched by it in the least. Her indifference only enraged him further. He stormed out in high dudgeon, to visit whichever of his women was in favor this month. She was glad to see the back of him. When he failed to return that night she didn't even think of weeping about it. He was foolish and vacuous. She despaired of ever seeing a haunted look in his dull eyes; and what worth was a man who could not be haunted?

He did not return Sunday night either, and it crossed her mind the following morning, as she parked the car in the heart of the estate, that nobody even knew she had come, and that she might lose herself for days here and nobody would be any the wiser. Like the old man Anne-Marie had told her about: lying forgotten in his favorite armchair with his eyes hooked out, while the flies feasted and the butter went rancid on the table.

More self-awareness!

Frustrated to the verge of tears, she stood among the overturned rubbish bags and felt a surge of contempt for her foolishness. She didn't belong here, did she? How many times had she criticized others for their presumption in claiming to understand societies they had merely viewed from afar? And here was she, committing the same crime, coming here with her camera and her questions, using the lives (and deaths) of these people as fodder for party conversation. She didn't blame Anne-Marie for turning her back; had she deserved better? 

Helen is really in love with that painting:

One call demanded to be made before she returned to the car however: she wanted to look a final time at the painted head. Not as an anthropologist among an alien tribe, but as a confessed ghost train rider: for the thrill of it. 

And yet, as much as she loves the thrill of looking at disturbing art, she draws the line at gawking at real death:

She turned her back on the woman and jostled her way out of the crowd. There would be nothing to see, she knew, and even if there had been she had no desire to look. These people—still emerging from their homes as the story spread—were exhibiting an appetite she was disgusted by. She was not one of them; would never be one of them. She wanted to slap every eager face into sense; wanted to say: "It's pain and grief you're going to spy on. Why? Why?" But she had no courage left. Revulsion had drained her of all but the energy to wander away, leaving the crowd to its sport. 

Haunted!

"Forget the dog," Trevor said. "And the child. There's nothing you can do about it. You were just passing through."

His words only echoed her own thoughts of earlier in the day, but somehow, for reasons that she could find no words to convey, that conviction had decayed in the last hours. She was not just passing through. Nobody ever just passed through; experience always left its mark. Sometimes it merely scratched; on occasion it took off limbs. She did not know the extent of her present wounding, but she knew it was more profound than she yet understood, and it made her afraid.

Haunted so much that the neighbourhood feels like home now:

Nor was it simply the presence of so many people that reassured her; she was, she conceded to herself, happy to be back here in Spector Street. The quadrangles, with their stunted saplings and their gray grass, were more real to her than the carpeted corridors she was used to walking; the anonymous faces on the balconies and streets meant more than her colleagues at the university. In a word, she felt home.

Helen feels transformed already. And straight up goes on a date with that painted face...

She reached the maisonette and was surprised to find the door open again, as it had been the first time she'd come here. The sight of the interior made her light-headed. How often in the past several days had she imagined standing here, gazing into that darkness. There was no sound from inside. The dog had surely run off—either that, or died. There could be no harm, could there, in stepping into the place one final time, just to look at the face on the wall, and its attendant slogan?

"Sweets to the sweet." She had never looked up the origins of that phrase. No matter, she thought. Whatever it had stood for once, it was transformed here, as everything was; herself included. She stood in the front room for a few moments, to allow herself time to savor the confrontation ahead. Far away behind her the children were screeching like mad birds.

She stepped over a clutter of furniture and toward the short corridor that joined living room to bedroom, still delaying the moment. Her heart was quick in her: a smile played on her lips.

And there! At last! The portrait loomed, compelling as ever. She stepped back in the murky room to admire it more fully and her heel caught on the mattress that still lay in the corner. 

I like how the hypnosis is explained as a sleepiness of a warm summer afternoon among flowers and bees.

She turned, and the light in the bedroom diminished as a figure stepped into the gullet between her and the outside world. Silhouetted against the light, she could scarcely see the man in the doorway, but she smelled him. He smelled like cotton candy, and the buzzing was with him or in him.

"I just came to look," she said, "... at the picture."

The buzzing went on—the sound of a sleepy afternoon, far from here. The man in the doorway did not move.

The emphasis on the overwhelming sweetness is very different from the movie. 

The buzzing had quieted a little, and in the hush the man in the doorway spoke. His unaccented voice was almost as sweet as his scent.

"No need to leave yet," he breathed.

"I'm due ... due ..."

Though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them on her, and they made her feel drowsy, like that summer that sang in her head.

"I came for you," he said.

She repeated the four words in her head. I came for you. If they were meant as a threat, they certainly weren't spoken as one.

I am delighted to learn that Book Candyman looks like a clown. Very funny how his entire aesthetic was flipped 180 degrees to Tall Dark and Handsome for the movie. The original certainly makes the imagery more consistent!

"I came for you," he murmured so softly that seduction might have been in the air. And so saying, he moved through the passageway and into the light.

She knew him, without doubt. She had known him all along, in that place kept for terrors. It was the man on the wall. His portrait painter had not been a fantasist: the picture that howled over her was matched in each extraordinary particular by the man she now set eyes upon. He was bright to the point of gaudiness: his flesh a waxy yellow, his thin lips pale blue, his wild eyes glittering as if their irises were set with rubies. His jacket was a patchwork, his trousers the same. He looked, she thought, almost ridiculous, with his blood-stained motley, and the hint of rouge on his jaundiced cheeks. But people were facile. They needed these shows and shams to keep their interest. Miracles; murders; demons driven out and stones rolled from tombs. The cheap glamour did not taint the sense beneath. It was only, in the natural history of the mind, the bright feathers that drew the species to mate with its secret self.

And she was almost enchanted. By his voice, by his colors, by the buzz from his body. She fought to resist the rapture, though. There was a monster here, beneath this fetching display; its nest of razors was at her feet, still drenched in blood. Would it hesitate to slit her own throat if it once laid hands on her?

Book Helen seems to find Candyman’s offer more appealing than her movie counterpart:

"If you would learn," the fiend said, "just a little from me ... you would not beg to live." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "I am rumor," he sang in her ear. "It's a blessed condition, believe me. To live in people's dreams; to be whispered at street corners, but not have to be. Do you understand?"

Her weary body understood. Her nerves, tired of jangling, understood. The sweetness he offered was life without living: was to be dead, but remembered everywhere; immortal in gossip and graffiti. 

This dialogue makes much more sense as a single scene than it did as scattered dialogue in the film. I don’t think in the film he ever insist he won’t force death on her, which is fair, because he sure does absolutely everything to push her to the brink!

"I won't force it upon you," he replied, the perfect gentleman. "I won't oblige you to die. But think; think. If I kill you here—if I unhook you"—he traced the path of the promised wound with his hook; it ran from groin to neck—"think how they would mark this place with their talk ... point it out as they passed by and say, 'She died there, the woman with the green eyes.' Your death would be a parable to frighten children with. Lovers would use it as an excuse to cling closer together."

She had been right: this was a seduction.

"Was fame ever so easy?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'd prefer to be forgotten," she replied, "than be remembered like that."

He made a tiny shrug. "What do the good know?" he said. "Except what the bad teach them by their excesses?" He raised his hooked hand. "I said I would not oblige you to die and I'm true to my word. Allow me, though, a kiss at least...."

Oh, so Helen fainted during the kiss on purpose:

The hook was at her neck. If she so much as moved it would wound her. She was trapped, as in her childhood nightmares, with every chance of escape stymied. When sleep had brought her to such hopelessness—the demons on every side, waiting to tear her limb from limb—one trick remained. To let go; to give up all ambition to life, and leave her body to the dark. Now, as the Candyman's face pressed to hers, and the sound of bees blotted out even her own breath, she played that hidden hand. And, as surely as in dreams, the room and the fiend were painted out and gone.

The residents actively conspired against Helen. Which is interesting, because I thought the point of faith in Candyman was that nobody knew the truth for sure. I guess they acted on their own volition, never interacting with him directly?

They were crazy, these people. They had known all along what her presence in Butts' Court had summoned, and they had protected him—this honeyed psychopath; given him a bed and an offering of bonbons, hidden him away from plying eyes, and kept their silence when he brought blood to their doorsteps. Even Anne-Marie, dry-eyed in the hallway of her house, knowing that her child was dead a few yards away. [...]

She could just make out Anne-Marie's figure, moving to the edge of the piled timbers and furniture, and ducking to climb into its heart. This was how they planned to remove the evidence. To bury the child was not certain enough; but to cremate it, and pulverize the bones—who would ever know? [...]

She fought to be free of him, to cry out for them not to light the bonfire, but he held her lovingly close. The light grew: warmth came with it; and through the kindling and the first flames she could see figures approaching the pyre out of the darkness of Butts' Court. They had been there all along: waiting, the lights turned out in their homes, and broken all along the corridors. Their final conspiracy.

The bonfire caught with a will, but by some trick of its construction the flames did not invade her hiding place quickly; nor did the smoke creep through the furniture to choke her. She was able to watch how the children's faces gleamed; how the parents called them from going too close, and how they disobeyed; how the old women, their blood thin, warmed their hands and smiled into the flames. Presently the roar and the crackle became deafening, and the Candyman let her scream herself hoarse in the certain knowledge that nobody could hear her, and even if they had, would not have moved to claim her from the fire.

Apparently, the pile of sweets and razors was a summoning ritual. Also, even though Helen doesn’t outright win as in the movie, she is effectively seduced to accept her fate:

Soon the heat crept down Helen's throat and scorched her pleas away. She sank back, exhausted, into the Candyman's arms, resigned to his triumph. In moments they would be on their way, as he had promised, and there was no help for it.

Perhaps they would remember her, as he had said they might, finding her cracked skull in tomorrow's ashes. Perhaps she might become, in time, a story with which to frighten children. She had lied, saying she preferred death to such questionable fame. She did not. As to her seducer, he laughed as the conflagration sniffed them out. There was no permanence for him in this night's death. His deeds were on a hundred walls and ten thousand lips, and should he be doubted again his congregation could summon him with sweetness. He had reason to laugh.

I’m glad Book Helen still feels the power over Trevor. 

So, as the flames crept upon them, did she, as through the fire she caught sight of a familiar face moving between the onlookers. It was Trevor. He had forsaken his meal at Apollinaire's and come looking for her.

She watched him questioning this fire watcher and that, but they shook their heads, all the while staring at the pyre with smiles buried in their eyes. Poor dupe, she thought, following his antics. She willed him to look past the flames in the hope that he might see her burning. Not so that he could save her from death—she was long past hope of that—but because she pitied him in his bewilderment and wanted to give him, though he would not have thanked her for it, something to be haunted by. That, and a story to tell.

Alright, here’s my takeaway:

I liked the short story more than I expected! Didn’t think I’d enjoy a version of this story without the racial tension or the victorious ending, which were central to the movie experience. But even the short story’s more tragic ending doesn’t read entirely like a defeat. Which is helped by Candyman’s pursuit of Helen being much less horrifying and predatory than in the movie. The first meeting, the kiss, the bonfire are all a single sequence, unlike the movie, where he repeatedly hypnotizes her, terrorizes her, and systematically and purposefully destroys her life. This makes the dialogue between them flow better, too. So overall, I’d say I liked both the original and the screen adaptation, and neither of them really diminished my appreciation of the other, which for me is pretty significant praise.

[kinkandkreep]

Enemies of Everywhere: Chapter 9

A/N: Hey hey y’all, here’s chapter 9! Just like the last chapter things get a little spice between our two main characters, but it’s not quite as explicit as last time. We finally begin preparations for prom this chapter, and Kendra has to confront some unrealized feelings. Alrighty, enjoy!😁

Kendra awoke with a start, her room uncomfortably cold, the air dense. She was groggy, groaning and pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes forcefully, trying to wipe away the crud that had accumulated there overnight.

She shivered both from the cold and as she recalled what she’d assumed to be a very lewd dream. In it, Alaric had snuck into her room in the early morning and had gone down on her, whispering words of love and affection and being a tease all the while.

Kendra sighed, flipping her comforter, which had been neatly tucked around her, over her legs, pausing mid yawn when she realized her sleep shorts had been pulled down. A thick, clear substance had cooled and left a mostly dry, somewhat tacky mess along her inner thighs. As quickly as her foggy mind would allow, Kendra put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that her dream had in fact been reality, and something risque had occurred between her and Alaric the night prior.

The girl worked to maintain her composure, unsure what to feel about the situation. She realized that before she must have agreed, seeing as she knew Alaric would never even dream of forcing her to do something she didn’t want to. She entertained the idea that her sleepiness may have left her more susceptible to suggestion, but that sounded just as terrible and placed the responsibility (blame?) solely on Alaric.

Finally, after some minutes of contemplation, Kendra was forced to face facts and accept that she had secretly wanted what had happened between her and her best friend. She’d still meant what she said about not being sure that she loved him in a way that was romantic, but a part of her couldn’t deny that Alaric was attractive and had many desirable traits, and that most likely influenced a large part of her decision to let him please her.

“Geez Alix, the predicaments you put me in,” Kim shook her head, having accidentally exasperated herself. Quickly, the girl hopped up from bed, heading into her en suite bathroom to clean up and get ready for the day.

Today was a weekend, so Kendra’d dressed comfortably in some sweats and a cropped sweatshirt, shoving her chilly feet into her fluffy slippers. Grabbing her phone, she slipped downstairs for breakfast, deciding to take the initiative and shoot Alaric a quick good morning text.

By the time she got to the first floor of her home, Kendra’s mom had already whipped up a hearty morning meal consisting of omelets, hash browns. sausage links, an assortment of fresh fruit and a choice of either apple or orange juice, and coffee.

“Wow, if I’d known you were going to fix all of this, I’d have invited Alix over.” The boy was a big eater, and loved Imene’s cooking.

“You still can, though you’d need to hurry, as we wouldn’t want everything to get cold before his arrival. How does he like his omelets?”

“Do you have mushrooms?”

“I do, in fact. I bought some just yesterday when they were on sale at the supermarket.”

“Good, he’d appreciate a healthy heaping of those. He also prefers melting cheese specifically over regular cheddar.”

Kendra’s mother nodded and set to work. While she did that, Kendra shot Alix another text inviting him over for breakfast. He still hadn’t answered the first, but she figured he was simply still sleeping. Putting her phone away, she began setting the table, greeting her father as he descended the stairs.

The tall man replied with a grunt, meandering over to drape himself across Imene’s back. Kendra smiled despite herself, secretly finding her parent’s relationship adorable, though she’d never admit it.

Suddenly, an image of her and Alaric superimposed itself over Imene and Amaru. The soulbound pair were being just as if not more affectionate than Kendra’s parent’s, swaying slightly as imaginary Kendra laughed at something imaginary Alaric had said.

The image remained for a few seconds before disappearing once Kendra stumbled over on one of the legs of the dining room table, catching the attention of both her parents.

“Kaya? Are you alright,” her mother inquired, slightly concerned.

“Yeah Ma, I’m fine. Just stumbled there for a second.”

Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Kendra called as she headed towards it.

Opening the door, she was greeted by a closed-eyed Alaric leaning heavily against the doorframe. He was rocking slightly, apparently still sleepy.

“Um, Earth to Alix, wanna come in?”

He nodded without opening his eyes, making his way into and through the house on muscle memory alone.

Kendra chuckled, shaking her head and closing the door behind her.

About thirty minutes later the Desai’s and the youngest Ashford sat once again around the former family’s dining table. Alaric could barely keep his head up, and he sat the entire meal nodding in and out of coherency.

He was, however, conscious enough to ease his hand along the length of Kendra’s thigh, teasing around the inner portion of it. He stealthily circled a finger around her clothed pussy, pressing a finger in gentle pumps against her covered hole and clit.

The girl squirmed, trying her best to keep her noises of slight pleasure down. She was enjoying the feeling, and figured this was nothing compared to what she and Alaric had done the previous night.

This lasted until breakfast ended, about 10 minutes after it began. Once it was over, Kim and Alix headed upstairs to the girl’s room, the pair getting comfortable on her bed as they began to chat idly.

“That was real slick what you pulled earlier Emery,” Kendra spoke through clenched teeth as she playfully swatted at Alaric’s arm, chuckling along with him as he dodged.

“Yeah, yeah, but I knew my pretty girl could handle the situation. You always have exhibited such excellent self control after all.” He brushed his nose against hers, grinning when her own scrunched up cutely.

“Sure. And what’s with the nickname? Pretty girl? That’s a new one.”

Alaric’s smile faded slightly. “You don’t like it?”

Kendra canted her head to the side, appearing to contemplate the name for a second.

“Hmm, I suppose I could let it slide. It is a factual statement after all.” Kim shrugged matter-of-factly, a self-satisfied sort of smirk curling her lip.

Alix laughs. “My Kimmy, always so confident in her skin.”

“Speaking of confident, you know prom’s comin’ up, and we need to start thinking about what we’re going to wear. I kinda wanna get something tailored but, I feel like that’ll be a lot of work.”

Kendra stood, heading over to her closet to absentmindedly ruffle through it.

“But, if that’s what I decide, I need to go ahead now and see about the tailoring being done so that the seamstress has ample time.”

Kim sighed, placing her hands on her hips as she thought.

“Hey, no need to pop a blood vessel over it. Prom’s not for another month or so. Besides, you’ve got me here to help.” Alaric sat up in bed, fluffing up one of Kendra’s downy pillows behind him.

“Do you know how to mend and sew?” Kendra raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Alix chuckled awkwardly, absently scratching the back of his neck. “Well, no, I can’t actually be much help in that department. But I do have an eye for fashion, and I’ve known you as long as I’ve known myself, so I believe I’m quite equipped to help you choose something that will be both flattering and comfortable.”

Kendra thought about it, deciding that he had several valid points.

“Ok, you’re right. But let’s be honest; you wouldn’t have even let me go to prom without knowing what dress I’d wear down to the type of fabric used to make it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Someone’s got to supervise you you know. And for as much as I love mama Sai, she’s a bit of an enabler when it comes to your more lax dressing habits.”

Kendra snorted. “I’ll pretend not to be offended by that. For your sake.”

Alaric nodded. “Much obliged.”

The pair of soulmates spent the next hour or so scrolling through Pinterest and other websites, searching for prom attire inspiration and researching different fabrics and seamstresses in the area.

“Ooh, what about this one?” Kendra held up her phone to Alaric’s face. On it was displayed an image of a shimmery, midnight blue fabric. The site advertised 6 yards of it for only $15, and those who’d used it previously left mostly positive reviews in terms of the fabric’s quality.

“I really like this color. I feel like it’ll compliment my skin and eyes well.”

“Looks to me like someone’s going for Prom Queen this time round.” Alaric lifted a quizzical brow.

“No, not really, I just decided to take your advice to heart and go for something a little unorthodox for me this time. I mean, it is our Senior Prom we’re talking about. Go big or go home right?”

Alaric smiled, pleased with this latest of developments regarding Kendra’s attitude.

“That’s right Kimmy, go big or go home. Which, speaking of…”

Placing his phone down, Alaric leaned closer to Kendra, soft lips brushing against her cheek.

“Uh, Alix? You wanna do this in broad daylight?”

He shrugged. “Why not? As long as you keep down the noise, we shouldn’t have a problem, right, pretty girl?” Alix smirked as he felt Kendra shiver at his words and the sensation of his warm breath and moist tongue trailing her ear.

“U-um, well, I uh...I suppose this is ok. But you have to be quick. If we’re quiet for too long, my parents might get suspicious.”

Alix nodded, left hand ghosting over Kendra’s chest.

“I didn’t get to play with these last time. We should remedy that, don’t you think?”

Kendra didn’t answer, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to register anything more than what she was feeling physically.

The boy wasn’t deterred by her lack of an answer however, and instead he, with some gentle encouragement, maneuvered Kendra’s shirt and bra up and off, his tongue subconsciously licking lasciviously across his lips.

“You’re such a perv,” Kendra groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah? And you’re my pretty girl. Seems we’re in the same boat, my sweet Kimmy.”

Kendra could feel her cheeks heat from sudden embarrassment. Shyly covering her chest, she looked away, mumbling beneath her breath.

“Stop with the nicknames bastard, and get on with it.”

Alaric pouted playfully, gently coaxing Kendra’s arms away from herself. “There’s no need to be shy Kendra. You know I could never think of you as anything other than beautiful.” He spoke lowly, leaning closer to place a chaste kiss on Kendra’s lips.

Despite herself, Kimmy’s lips lifted into a small smile.

“Yeah. Would it be narcissistic of me to say that that’s one of the things I love about you?”

Alix laughed at that, shaking his head. “Not at all Kim. Now, lay back, relax, and let me make you feel good yeah? Just like before.”

Swallowing and nodding, Kendra leaned back against her many soft pillows, eyes closing in bliss as Alaric’s lips closed around one of her pert nipples.

Alaric bit gently at the sensitive flesh, soothing his tongue over the bite immediately after. He created a pleasurable suction around the dark bud and the areola, suckling like an infant hoping for milk.

Kendra, seemingly on instinct, moved to cradle Alaric’s head, scratching her fingers in soothing drags across his scalp.

“Good boy Alix,” she whimpered out, not sure whether or not he could hear her.

He could, in fact, and hearing those words directed at him and whispered breathlessly from Kendra’s pillowy pink lips as he pleasured her gave Alaric a heady sense of euphoria and power.

He didn’t leave the other nipple unattended for long, inching his right hand teasingly up her ticklish sides, nails dragging over the thin skin there, and eventually settling near her other breast.

He began to tenderly knead the soft mound, fingers coming to lightly pull at the nipple and massage it between his fingers.

Kendra was squirming now, steadily becoming desperate for more stimulation.

Alaric released the flesh in his mouth with an audible pop, mouthing across Kendra’s chocolate skin to the breast currently being fondled by his hand while maintaining eye contact with her.

“Aw,” he pouted, resting his head on her chest. “Does Kimmy want more?”

The girl nodded, too caught up to use anything more than gestures.

Alix grinned, beginning to grind his own clothed cock against Kendra’s covered sex, his lips placing soft kisses along the length of her neck.

“Al-Alaric,” Kendra moaned, hips subconsciously pushing up to meet Alaric’s small, full thrusts.

“Kendra, please,” Alix whined. He momentarily stopped his movements, leaning his forehead on Kendra’s shoulder. “Please let me make love to you.”

This gave Kim pause. She’d been so lost in the pleasure of their fooling around that she’d forgotten what motivated this all in the first place.

‘That’s right. Alix has feelings for me.’

“Alix I-...I’m sorry, we can’t. I still don’t know how I feel and that’s not fair to you and-and frankly i'm just not ready and-..."

"Hey, hey, it's ok Kimmy, I understand. That was pretty sudden of me anyway, I'm sorry." Alaric gave Kendra what he thought was an apologetic smile, but that really looked slightly more like a pained grimace.

Kendra sighed, feeling so terrible that she'd inadvertently been leading Alix on.

"You weren't leading me on," Alaric spoke quickly, seemingly reading Kendra's mind.

"Are- are you sure Alix? You don't have to be so complacent; it's perfectly ok if you're upset at me. I deserve it anyway." Kendra moved to put her clothes back on, & as she did, Alaric remained silent, wanting to comfort her but also conflicted by his own feelings.

Once Kendra was done, the two sat in a tense silence, both quietly contemplating the state of their relationship.

“Alix?” Kendra began timidly.

“Y-yeah?” Alaric responded in a voice just as small, mind racing with visions of Kendra breaking to him the news that she no longer desired to be his friend, that things had become too complicated between them.

“Do you still...have feelings for me? Like you said before, I mean. I haven’t...taken that away from you, have I?”

Alaric was shocked. Did Kendra really believe that a couple fun romps which he fully consented to and even encouraged, could cause him to fall out of love with her?

“Kimmy...no, not even close.”

The girl let out an almost comical sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s good. I wouldn’t want to be a heartbreaker and a thief.”

The two friends chuckled, simultaneously flopping back onto Kimmy’s bed.

“So,” Alix started. “About that midnight blue.”

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: 

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[bladekindeyewear]

Bloggin’ bout HS^2 Commentary from start to Mid-Jan-2020

Sigh.  Time to pay the piper.  Someone’s gotta extract whatever plot-important and plothole mentions get mentioned in this commentary, even though reading behind-the-scenes stuff about Homestuck makes me even more nervous than reading frontend stuff ever could so I don’t really want to.  FYI, that’s what you’re going to get out of my posts on these -- anything regarding plot stuff and plotholes, things we would’ve misinterpreted or missed otherwise, not any of the other paid content such as sketches or full quotes from them about things.

TWENTY FUCKING DOLLARS A MONTH!???!??  Is Andrew even seeing any of this cash?  --no, not much of it I guess, he would want to make sure the WP folks get paid enough after the--

Yeah I’m not gonna even think about that.

Fuck it.  I’m ponying up.

Alright, first commentary post on the Patreon, commentary and bonus sketches for Ghostflusters... whoa, this is long and extensive.  Is it going panel by panel??

I guess I’ll give you a small quote just for a taste of how this starts...

Page 33:  Not sure what any of this shit means. It’s pretty deep though. We were going for an echo of the beginning of the epilogue when John is dreaming in anime. Except here it’s Jake, and nobody is dreaming, at least not yet. Also an anime dream wouldn’t be a nightmare for Jake, since Jake likes anime. Or he used to. Now anime probably just reminds him of Dirk.

Good thing we’re never gonna hear from that guy ever again.

...because this commentary is sort of stylized.  They’re kind of riffing on what they’re doing, and I get that -- when you have to write commentary you’re asking people to PAY for you can easily feel like you have to be entertaining.  But they are describing the rationale for the shot choices they made and such.  They’re also going for a sort of Andrew-recap sort of attitude, and I don’t blame them for that choice, either.

[Candy] Jade is...well, you’ll see.

GOD DAMNIT.  Don’t remind me that Dave vanished on her forever while they were doing pro-revolutionary work and she’s probably going to be in a bit of a state!  Stupid knowing author future allusions...

Then again, that’s exactly why I’m here blogging about the commentary for you guys -- for me to relay Authorial Intent on Stuff That Happened That Seemed Plotholey and Hints About What’s Going To Be Relevant.

I just, uh... didn’t expect there to be that MUCH of it.  And that casual phrasing for that Candy Jade Is Going To Be Seen And Or Relevant hint is... kinda indicating to me that there’s gonna be a LOT more of that here than I wanted.  :|

Continuing... there’s talk of why they started with Jake here, being unused to writing for middle-aged characters in Homestuck terms, et cetera, but again, I’m only here to relay anything with plot impact or SERIOUS perspective on how we should / the authors are viewing this.  The rest stays behind the paywall for whichever of you all think it’s worth $20, I don’t really have a choice.  At least now I know why there was no one to tell me what details were actually BEHIND the paywall.  Seriously, that’s steep.

Speaking of how stylized the commentary is here, I can get why some might read it and view the authors as slightly callous -- I’m giving them PLENTY of benefit of the doubt, though.  Andrew was FAR from callous and he hurt us worse out of love of artistic intent with the Epilogues than the HS^2 folks could EVER hurt us.  Real Dirk-like, actually.  Dirk is practically half of a self-insert, as we well know.  No wonder Andrew thought the right thing to do was to take his hands off the story, what with Dirk’s villainous action being putting his own hands ON the story.

We like to make fun of Jake English as much as the next guy, but he probably is actually pretty good at “doing things” if the need arises. 

Mhmm; there are some jibes at how screwed up Jake has made his life, but I don’t believe these authors actually disrespect Jake at all.  He was dealt a bad hand by the story leading up to this point (quite INTENTIONALLY by Dirk’s narrative control in the Epilogues, too) and HS^2 and its bonuses so far have been exploring the heap of merits and potential he’s still got in him.

It’s kind of sweet how he wants to clean out his ecto-son’s house, even if most of that is to prevent the slow creep of mounting existential dread and narrative relevance. 

Huh.  So they think Jake can sort of feel that narrative relevance is seeping in around him, to him?  That’s not out of the question at all.

Continuing... they’re going on a bit about the same sort of things I mentioned about their choices in detail or detail-less-ness when depicting people in this new format, considering ages and the paired text descriptions and such.  That’s the sort of thing you’d traditionally want to pony up for commentary for, so rest assured that all that IS in their commentary posts if you want to do that.  I’m kind of extracting the plot stuff out of the paywall just on principle.

A lot of making this comic--and every other comic ever--is trying to convey as much information with as little space as possible.

Quite so.

From this conversation we find out a couple things. 1) that Brain Ghost Dirk knows about Ultimate Dirk, and he thinks he’s a dickhead. 2) Brain Ghost Dirk knows who Jeff Bezos is, and Jake doesn’t. This could be a sign of a couple things, all of which are probably stupid. 

This is ALSO what I came here for:  Legitimate “don’t worry about it” handwaves about stuff that shouldn’t matter to us.  I never ascribed the slightest bit of relevance or inference to BGDirk making a Jeff Bezos reference, and I’m glad I was completely justified in ignoring it.  So far I agree with this probably-plural-but-acting-like-a-singular author’s train of thought.

Come to think of it, it’s maybe strange that in this Cool Future Earth where all of our characters are rich as hell, none of them have bothered to have any sort of corrective eye surgery. Jane, Jake, John, and Jade all still wear glasses. I guess they do have “signature looks” to maintain in regards to their brand. 

I had to include this, I was legitimately curious.  Understood it was probably an artistic decision to stay on-brand a fair bit -- and losing glasses even temporarily has a lot of thematic significance whenever it happens in Homestuck Proper -- but it’s nice to have some confirmation that this was the understandable rationale behind the choice.

Here we find out what Dirk thinks about Jake’s behavior of the last few years. In other words, we find out what Jake thinks about Jake’s behavior over the last few years. [...]

[Brain Ghost] Dirk is manipulating Jake here, but he isn’t actually saying anything demonstrably untrue. 

Again, most of this was obvious at the time, but it’s nice to have authorial confirmation on what was being brought across as per the strange divide between Brain Ghost Dirk’s independent will and his mostly-part-of-Jake status.

Seriously though, shoutout to the conceit that god tiers can just fly endlessly, with no visible effort. It’s a really excellent form of narrative shortcut that fits perfectly into the bonkers vibe of earth c as a whole. Oh there goes one of the Creators, just flying over the Wal-Mart like an asshole. 

You know... who IS doing the commentary here?  One of the authors, all of them?  One of the artists??  This really is a COLLABORATIVE effort between the authors and artists involved here, I think, and it shows in their clear surprise and appreciation for each others’ work that only settles into a full understanding instead of just knowing what one intended off the bat.

It calls into question exactly how much of the Condesce’s mind control was actually mind control at all, and how much was just a lowering of inhibitions. 

Right, right.

We see Jane greeting Jake here with open arms, which makes you wonder exactly what is going on here. If you’ll remember from Candy, Jane has already served Jake divorce papers. A mystery in need of solving, for sure. 

HERE we go!  This is the potential plothole we were concerned about that got me alerted that the commentary had something to add in the first place.  John mentioned toward the trail-end of the Candy epilogues that divorce papers had shown up for Jake.  (And we also saw an HS^2 update ago or so that Jane hadn’t actually KNOWN Tavros was “awol” at all until he was literally a part of this whole clowncorpse logistics business.)  So in light of what this post continues to say:

It could be that Jane has put aside the nasty business of their divorce in order to have a strong chest to cry on. Can’t really say I blame her. Jake English has many flaws but he does seem like a good person to drape yourself across and really let loose on. And without Gamzee there, Jane needs another punching bag. 

...it all finally fits as pretty logically consistent, although the author is being deliberately coy in a way that leaves it open for more to be revealed later about exactly how this is happening.  Good!  No obvious plotholes in HS^2 (yet).  That’s an honest relief.  The more often they have something in mind where I’d previously worried they’d screwed up, the more often I can give them credit and speculate properly on those gaps in story-logic expecting something there, like we so often got to with Andrew before the retconsplit made even THAT kinda fucky.

If you’ve ever had a friend or family member go evil, you’ll know that one of the hardest parts is there’s always still elements of them that you like.

I can definitely say that from nearly personal experience.

Also, at this point in the story there is no lingering doubt that Jake and Dirk have had a sexual relationship. There’s a familiarity there that wasn’t around when they were teens. 

I assumed so, but I guess I never thought ABOUT how I assumed so.  Huh.

Do any of the creators have a moral leg to stand on if all they’re doing is curling up into a ball and hoping the world gets better without them? Actually, does anyone have a moral leg to stand on if they do that? 

Almost Riddley, there.

These posts are certainly interesting!  Steeply priced for what they are, but interesting.  Moving on to the second of four so far... this one’s about Catnapped Part 1.

Taking over Earth C's business world certainly would have required rubbing shoulders with the already-powerful on the planet.

--yep, which I never doubted even when brought up in the Epilogues is a large part of her supply-side government views.

Ah, looks like the bonus commentary is a good deal shorter!  But that bonus section was a good deal shorter than the story section covered earlier too, so.

On to the next one, for Clown Logistics.

Page 58: If you love Vriskas, i hope you enjoy more Vriska content. If you hate Vriskas, well. Here is another one that is kind of different. Feel free to contemplate nature vs nurture and how best to apply this dichotomy toward emoting about the vriskas of your choice how you see fit.

I’m starting to really enjoy this author commentary.

Tavros being named Tavros sure was a decision. Go back and reread the commentary for panel 58 but stop before the nature/nurture thing, since they are not clones, or even the same species. They just have the same name, which, in this universe, means you at least type kind of the same.

Hmhmm.

Page 65:  Sometimes you try and come up with something to say about a page, and you cannot, and so you wait 8 hours, and go see Knives Out, and then you have 2 white russians, and then you still can’t come up with anything to say, but oh well! Commentary needs writing. Tavros is experiencing an emotion here.

Now THAT’s a mood.  I gotta go see Knives Out sometime soon.

...Alright, I can see why some people think MAAAAYBE this author might be being a little disrespectful to the audience, but if they’re going based on THIS, I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.  This comment could have come from Andrew’s fingertips any day of the week!!!  I honestly wouldn’t WANT replacement authors who couldn’ comment like this in there for a page in paid commentary, especially in a lighter section of the story that doesn't need too much said about it.

And I paid $20 for this shit.

...Continuing, I’m loving all this commentary on Harry Anderson.  Representative excerpt:

Again, direct your eyes toward the boy. What a fucking asshole. 

...these commentaries are honestly improving my mood!  I didn’t expect that, really.

Ah, I didn’t even notice that the flying cars appear to be self-driving.  I think maybe the back of my mind MIGHT have noticed but only a bit.

Referring to the corpse-carry crew:

Page 82: Pokedex entry for Magneton in Pokemon Sun: When three Magnemite link together, their brains also become one. They do not become three times more intelligent.

Ain’t THAT a mood.

(...I just had an internal “Wait, am I using that right, it being a “mood”?  Isn’t that the hip new term, how do I have any right to latch onto that however much I feel it?  Ohhh gosh I’m so fucking old” moment.)

It’s clear from the commentator’s complaints that the crew never viewed this commentary ALONE as worth upping the pledge to $20, but that’s... not quite a bad thing?  I think it’d have been more disrespectful to think that they COULD make the commentary worth that.  I doubt there’s a single person on their team who feels quite right about the business model (besides the artists they have plenty of context to know how deserving they are of a living goddamn wage), but it’s what they have to live with and go with, here.  I feel weird for honestly understanding ‘em, and more than slightly pitying for how many people will look at all this and read “these assholes don’t care about us”.  I really can’t think that’s anywhere CLOSE to true from this without more context.  (And I really DON’T want more context, don’t send me any.  I’ve got to read HS^2 and I’m enjoying reading it so far so let me keep enjoying it please.  Background drama details make me nauseous, DON’T give me any if there is any (which I wouldn’t know about in the first place beyond an opinionated friend or two dropping hints in a bad mood).)

Did you know there are people who I’ve seen honestly believing “Undertale is pretty good but the creator is an arrogant asshole”?????

Because they saw his tweet about the game score passing Kojima’s MGSV on metacritic briefly and misinterpreted his wide-eyed disbelief, disbelief honed to nervous laughter to maintain sanity by Toby’s insecurity about his unprofessional work and work product???  They thought he was SERIOUS without any of the context of the usual insincere little dog persona they should’ve read into the game of his they played??

Awh man.  That just ticks me off.

Anyway where were we.

Page 91: This is a flashback so I didn’t write this one, which means I thankfully don’t have to say anything about it. 

Wait.  What?

Are they trading off writers between chapters, or...?  Hm.

Whatever they’re doing, it fits together pretty darn well SO far.

Alright, that finishes that off, time for the last commentary post on the second bonus update.

I don't know if you noticed, but everything is terrible right now. And I don't mean just in Homestuck's dumb fake earth. I mean in our dumb real earth.

Now that’s a mood.

I've been playing a lot of Death Stranding recently. Basically any media that you're making in 2019 has to either address what's going on around us or come off sanitized, sterilized, with its head in the sand. Kojima offers a simple power fantasy: Through Norman Reedus's sweaty, urine-filled labor, the things that divide us can be banished. America can be unified again.

Now THAT is a god damned MOOD.

The author(?) goes in about why this is happening, why Jane is being confronted this way, why she IS this way, et cetera.

Privilege, safety, and inherited wealth do funny things to the brain. People justify to themselves why they have what they have. If you have enough for long enough, you start to convince yourself you deserve it.

That’s one of the biggest goddamn reasons for the inequality and political landscape we have today IRL, yeah.

She saw a new world and chose, simply, to replicate the power structures of the 21st-century America she was raised in. Boardrooms, power pantsuits, formality and professionalism.

Jane's favorite comic, a noir-detective drama steeped in the pop-cultural trappings of pulp Americana, reflects this mindset.

So, our catgirl Seer of Light takes us through the looking glass, and we get to see an old friend.

Hm!

Nothing really to say, I just had to share this fitting context the author is giving.  How things fit together even better than they seemed to, and this was all far from random.

I feel warmly ensconced in the womb of nostalgia, gently cradled on Norman Reedus's chest.

Pffffffff

Yep, more of what we already surmised and appreciated, how Swifer and Cliper were giving us some much needed perspective... the commentary post even has little traditional-Homestuck sprites for ‘em.

And... that’s it for the commentary so far!  Again, I enjoyed all that more than I expected.  $20 doesn’t sting for me as much as it does for others in general, but it stung a lot less after I was through reading all that honestly somewhat-entertaining stuff confirming a lot of the insights I’d thought the plot was having.

I’ll probably wait to check for further commentary posts until like... after bonus updates come out, in the future, and then just blog about whatever I’m not caught up on.  Sound fair?  I’m going to blog as often as a real or bonus upd8 comes out, but I’m not going to pop in more often than that for my own sanity’s sake.  Have a good MLK weekend, y’all.  :)