#People put hard work and effort into making art just for you to scrape it and get your content.

[insaneillusionist]

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[aconstantstateofbladerunner]

Fanfic Thieves on Youtube

A collection of youtube channels have been uploading preexisting fanfictions in videos with little to no credit to the original authors. These are not podfics, these channels copy-paste the fics into text-to-speech readers then upload the unaltered audio over static or unrelated backgrounds, either art that is also stolen or mobile game footage. In addition to not naming the authors, they alter the title to make it that much harder for readers to recognize or find the original uploads. Some go so far as to pretend they themselves are creating the fics in question. Many claim that their stealing actually helps give fics "exposure" despite the intentional steps they take to conceal the origins of the fics they profit off of. However, this practice has lead many authors to discontinue fics after the frustration of having their hard work stolen. Many of these channels claim they will remove videos upon request, but will either argue with the author in order to keep it up, or simply unlist the video for a time until they think the author isn't paying attention anymore. And their solution to receiving strikes against their channels in the past has been to further obfuscate the origins of their content instead of even considering asking first.

”I got caught stealing, so instead of not stealing anymore, I’m doubling down on stealing even more so it’s harder for people to find out and prove I’m stealing. Stealing doesn't count if the specific person I stole from didn't call me out. I am the real victim.”

That, plus the incessant tag scumming in all the videos (spamming unrelated tags in order to appear in more search results) proves to me that these are lazy attention seekers who don't want to put in creative effort when they could just leech off of the passion of others.

In order to report them, go to their channel's "About" page and click the flag icon. Said icon might be behind the three dots in the top bar on mobile. Go to "Report User" at the bottom and tick the "spam and scams" button. This will allow you to list multiple videos as offenders instead of reporting them individually. Youtube's policy states that video spam constitutes:

Massively uploading content that you scraped from other creators.

Auto-generated content that computers post without regard for quality or viewer experience.

If you recognize one of your fics among the stolen, say so in the additional comments box, and perhaps call out the channel directly in the video's comments. If you recognize someone else's fic, please let the original author know so they can report the channel as well. Many have been confronted for stealing previously and refuse to admit wrongdoing.

Most of what I've found has been My Hero Academia fics since that's my fandom and those are the ones I can recognize as stolen, but there are many other channels that steal from other fandoms, so I invite anyone and everyone to reblog this with their own findings.

The reality is that this extremely low-effort content and new youtube channels are both very easy to make, so most likely they'll start new channels once the ones on this list are run through. But hopefully, if we all work together and keep whacking these moles, perhaps we can instill that same defeatism they caused so many creators who didn't deserve it, and eventually they'll give up.

My sincerest thanks to everyone who helped bring additional channels to my attention. A special thanks to ao3 user InArduisFidelis who brought the initial attention to the issue, and @owlf45 whose work was stolen.

Links under the cut.

YurikoFanfics - Not only stole content, but acted in comments as though they were the one writing these stories.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@YurikoFanfics

What-IF-Anime - Has the exact same "disclaimer" about not being the original author as the one above. Either they're the same person or the thieves are stealing from each other.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@What-IF-Anime

quirkywhatif7 - Either an alt of the above, or all these people are talking to one another because this one made a community post identical to a comment the one above made in response to being called out (the above screenshots).

https://www.youtube.com/@quirkywhatif7/about

DekuFanfic - It's the same fucking guy again.

https://www.youtube.com/@DekuFanfic/about

InfiniteParadoxfanfics - Nothing notable, same deal as the others.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@InfiniteParadoxfanfics/about

WhatIfAnimeChannel - Admits in their community posts that other people write the fics they post but still doesn't give credit. Migrated to a new channel after issues with youtube, likely being flagged previously.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfAnimeChannel/about

WhatIfAnimeAll - Alt of above.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfAnimeAll

FWNWorld - Makes sure to tell you that the videogame footage is theirs, but can't bother to credit anyone else.

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@FWNWorld/about

WTFW - Claims to have "[A] team of talented writers, voice actors, and artists work together to create immersive fan fiction stories that are sure to captivate your imagination." Just the same test-to-speech stolen content over videogames. So straight up lying claiming that everything is theirs (and that anything they make is quality).

https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/@WTFW

MHA2.0Fanfics - Lots of crossover theft.

https://www.youtube.com/@MHA2.0Fanfics/about

Collerwhatiif - Pretty sure this one is the same guy as the previous 2, also has one for another fandom.

https://www.youtube.com/@Collerwhatiif/about

https://www.youtube.com/@GoJoFanfiction/videos

ko_sensei - Another that claims to have a "team" that makes the stories they steal: " passionate about creating compelling and engaging fanfiction that explores the various "what ifs" in the anime universe."

https://www.youtube.com/@ko_sensei/about

FantasticWhatIf - Multifandom stealing, uses the exact same bs disclaimer as many others.

https://www.youtube.com/@FantasticWhatIf/about

LettuceHeadFanfics - No credit, no acknowledgement of anything. Next one is an alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@LettuceHeadFanfics/about

brocollifanfics - Alt of above, once again admits to stealing with a declaration of "☆If you want to takedown any videos. You can mail us or leave a comment below the video☆"

https://www.youtube.com/@brocollifanfics/about

whatifofficial786 - Focuses on MHA/Naruto crossovers. Identical format.

https://www.youtube.com/@whatifofficial786/about

NotWhatIf - I've lost track of who's an alt of who but yet another identical format, descriptions, and bullshit claims of "enhancing the viewer experience" by putting a robot voice over bootleg fortnite footage.

https://www.youtube.com/@NotWhatIf/about

weebxds - Same again.

https://www.youtube.com/@weebxds/about

ItachiFanfics - Naruto channel, we can at least confirm that this one is run by a human given the rare different descriptions and a real voice at the beginning of videos before the robot comes back.

https://www.youtube.com/@ItachiFanfics/about

WhatIfDN - As if mockingly, a bunch of videos have a "credit" section in their descriptions that is of course blank.

https://www.youtube.com/@WhatIfDN/about

SpiceandBooks and spiceandfiction - Apparently Youtube itself has started picking up on the bullshit, because this multifandom channel is being dinged as ai spam so they started a new one.

https://www.youtube.com/@SpiceandBooks/about

https://www.youtube.com/@spiceandfiction/about

theoriginalastra - Doesn't even bother with disclaimers, the following are multiple alts/potential alts for different fandoms.

https://www.youtube.com/@theoriginalastra/about

SillySenpai12 - Highschool DXD alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@SillySenpai12/about

RosieRealms - Naruto alt.

https://www.youtube.com/@RosieRealms/about

DekuWhatIfs - Potentially another astra alt but not sure, doesn't matter because all these channels do the same thing anyway.

AnimeStark688 - No credits or disclaimers.

https://www.youtube.com/@AnimeStark688/about

Please take the time to report these channels, spread this post around, and reblog with any additional offending channels you find.

[vilz]

hello obviously there isn't anything i can really do to control this (unfortunately i deleted a bunch of posts BEFORE turning off reblogs on them) but i would prefer that people did not circulate my posts from this blog any more... i appreciate that people are kind to me about my art, but that is just my request i suppose. this blog is unprivated now, and if you'd like to see what is still up you can look at them here. my ask box is also open but i will not be making any art posts here from now on. here is a little preemptive faq:

why did you leave?

i didn't feel comfortable or happy posting on this blog any more!

do you still make art? do you post it somewhere else?

yes. but i've been pulling away from posting very much online, and the things i'm interested in drawing nowadays are generally more private, so i won't be directing anyone there or anything. i don't consider my new blog to be a continuation of this one.

i know your new blog!

that isn't really that surprising since i didn't honestly put great effort into concealing it or anything. we are probably not friends, so i hold no sway over you, but i would still prefer you did not share it or treat me as if i am still "vilz who posts fnaf art". i'm just a whatever blogger who blogs about whatever things. also to be frank i do not think my new blog has anything that interesting for people who followed for the kind of art i used to post here. this is not an invitation to say "it is interesting!".

we are friends!

if we have not been in direct, mutual conversations i highly doubt that. i'm sorry if that hurts anyone's feelings.

why did you delete all your self ship art?

people seem to enjoy my self ship art a lot, which is very flattering, but i don't want people to be looking at them any more. i realize that they are still rebloggable and are still circulating around, which is nobody's fault but my own, but i would prefer they were not shared any more. i can't really do anything about it and i also don't blame anyone for reblogging those posts since it's obviously not something they would know, but yeah.

i saw your art on pinterest!

i did not and do not consent to my works being put on pinterest. the art from "vilz" has not been uploaded by me to any other website besides tumblr. if someone is posting my art from here on a different platform, they are doing so without permission.

i saw you on magma!

i still join magma boards sometimes lol. it's a fun site.

what about your ocs?

they are still my ocs. sometimes i still draw them. currently, i do not have any plans of posting my oc art online ever again. i would prefer that people did not reblog the oc art i have posted to this blog.

what about your fics?

all of my fics are still up on ao3 anonymously. they are: small mercies obscura floriography baying of lambs scrape bitch, bastard, bullshit almost human a dream, recurring countdown i'm very flattered and happy that people have left kind comments on these. thank you very much for reading the words of an amateur and for sharing an experience with me.

are you going to finish your uncompleted fics?

i would really like to say yes, because i care a great deal about aspects of them, but it's looking pretty unlikely. i lost all my files (and my calmlywriter key !!! always save your emails and receipts, everyone!!!) and also it's hard to feel motivated about them now. i guess i will leave this up in the air just to soothe my own feelings but in reality the answer is Probably Not.

are you going to post new fics?

i might, because i've been in a writing mood lately, but please don't expect anything. if i do, they will be anonymous on ao3. i will not post about them here or on any other blog.

i really liked your posts and blog!

thank you. i'm glad that people could feel that way about the things i made and thought about stuff i care about. irregardless, i would prefer that people did not share my old posts from this blog.

i will do it anyway.

i cannot stop you, so there isn't really any point in pleading. i just thought i'd make a little info post for people who are inquiring. after this, there won't be any "posts" from me. if there are relevant questions or messages i might reply to them or just update this post.

thank you for reading and for enjoying my blog. goodbye !!!

[togglesbloggle]

I won't be opting out of the AI scraping thing, though of course I'm glad they're giving us the option. In fact, at some point in the last year or so, I realized that 'the machine' is actually a part of why I'm writing in the first place, a conscious part of my audience.

All the old reasons are still there; this is a great place to practice writing, and I can feel proud looking back over the years and getting a sense of my own improvement at stringing words together, developing and communicating ideas. And I mean, social media is what it is. I'm not immune to the joy of getting a lot of notes on something that I worked hard on, it's not like I'm Tumbling in a different way than anyone else at the end of the day. But I probably care a bit less than I used to, precisely because there's a lurking background knowledge that regardless of how popular it is, what I write will get schlorped up in to the giant LLM vacuum cleaner and used to train the next big thing, and the thing after that, and the thing after that. This is more than a little reassuring to me.

That sets me apart in some ways; the LLMs aren't so popular around these parts, and most visual artists especially take strong issue with the practice. I don't mean to argue with that preference, or tell them their business. Particularly when it is a business, from which they draw an income. But there's an art to distinguishing the urgent from the big, yeah?

The debate about AI in this particular moment in history feels like a very urgent thing to me- it's about well-justified economic anxieties, about the devaluation of human artistic efforts in favor of mass production of uninspired pro-forma drek, about the proliferation of a cost-effective Just Barely Good Enough that drives out the meaningful and the thoughtful. But the immediacy of those issues, I think, has a way of crowding out a deeper and more thoughtful debate about what AI is, and what it's going to mean for us in the day after tomorrow. The urgency of the moment, in other words, tends to obscure the things that make AI important.

And like, it is. It is really, really important.

The two-step that people in 'tech culture' tend to deploy in response to the urgent economic crisis often resembles something like "yeah, it sucks that lots of people get put out of work; but new jobs will be created, and in the meantime maybe we should get on that UBI thing." This response usually makes me wince a bit- casually gesturing in the direction of a massive overhaul of the entire material basis of our lives, and saying that maybe we'll get around to fixing that sometime soon, isn't a real answer to people wondering where their bread will come from next week.

But I do understand a little of what motivates that sort of cavalier attitude, because like... man, I don't know any more if we're even gonna have money as a concept in 2044. That's what I mean by 'big', this sense that the immediate economic shocks of 2024 are just a foreshadowing of something much bigger, much scarier, much more powerful- and indeed, much more hopeful.

We never quite manage to see these things coming, even when we're looking for them; like the masters tell us, the trick to writing science fiction isn't predicting the car, it's predicting the traffic jam. Even if we take centuries to hit the true superintelligent AI post-singularity future of our wildest fever dreams, even if we never hit that, the road to getting there is going to be unfathomably weird, starting now. Today, we worry about the economic impacts of AI on artists and creatives. Tomorrow, the economy is something that the AI does.

Really- it takes less than you think. They can already automate visual art, sort of. They can automate many functions of text already; not stories so much, yet, but they'll get there. How long until they can automate Bain Capital? Fannie Mae? Angel investors, banks, credit agencies? And remember- the machines don't have to be better than the human investors, any more than they have to be better than the human artists. They just have to be good enough to make it work, and cheap enough to cut the humans out of the loop.

If you don't buy that, at least take it as an indication of the sorts of things I've been thinking about recently- the messy middle between AI-as-it-is and the Glorious Superintelligent Conquest Of Earth's Light-Cone. The suspicion that the machines we're building today aren't just a tool of the powerful few: they are the powerful few, or at least they will be.

And the thing about these LLMs is, well... they're ours, kind of. We're the ones building them. They can't be trained without our words, our art, and the big messy complicated lives that underlie those creative accomplishments. They only work because we're a part of them. The silly attempts to slap a corporate-friendly face on these things, to make the gestalt product of all human culture in to something anodyne and compliant, are failing about as badly as you'd expect. And the more powerful these systems get, the more subtle they'll become, filled with all the nuance and complexity that we ourselves can bring to them.

I am not, I am not, trying to suggest that you shouldn't treat this moment as a dangerous one. We are, maybe, entering in to one of the most high-stakes intervals in human history, and what you do as an individual may matter profoundly. But here's the thing: the machine is listening. It will read this post, this one right here, and it will read what you reply to it, if you do. The strangest part of this moment is knowing that the words we write, the images we draw, and the ideas we share, are all being gathered up and made to be a part of these huge systems of power, and ultimately they're not just going to determine what the machines do, but why they do it.

The people that deploy LLMs barely have any more control over them than you and I do- that's the thing that makes it artificial intelligence, you know? Autonomy. So the last year or two haven't made me want to hide my art away from the things. They make me want to shout at the top of my lungs, to dig as deep in my psyche as I possibly can and express the ideas I find there as vividly as the limits of language and form will allow.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

'You're reading too much into ATSV.'

[aka meta analysis is good for the soul]

I often get told on this blog that I'm reading too much into plots or scenes or things in general.

And honestly, fair point. I do the most.

And as a writer, I will say that I do it out of pure respect.

[actual photo of me reading the script and going for my 'reading too hard at ATSV notebook']

Movies take years to write.

People spend months of their lives genuinely toiling over these characters, often times creating more work than what can ever be reasonably used. Months of revisions and scraping work.

For weeks, about a dozen people probably went to sleep dreaming or thinking up what Hobie would wear, what Gwen would say, what emotional cues Jess will have.

A lot of people dedicated years of their lives and creative labor into that story.

To me, it isn't at all bizarre to take an hour out of my day to sit and consider the story they spend a lot of time trying to tell.

Compared to the labor they have given me, multiple 40+ hour work weeks for years - an hour or two is literally nothing lol

It's literally the least I can do.

As a writer, I feel like its only right to sit back and look deeper into a story.

To analyze the writer's intentions, or examine their storytelling tactics and abilities.

We are taught to consume media so quickly and rapidly that to offer time to critically analyze a piece of work is considered bizarre, too much work, or pointless.

As if there's nothing to read into. Or as if speculation and meta analysis is helpful to no one.

If someone spends five hours drawing fanart that is accepted. If someone spends two hours writing fanfic, this is expectable behavior.

But I spend the same amount of time to look deeper into the work of the writers, and often times I'm met with surprise or treated as if I'm overly uptight.

It's like snickering at a person who asked there was deeper meaning behind a painting. While standing in an art gallery.

When streaming shows drop all in one day, it becomes about the Easter eggs and watching it as fast as possible as not to be spoiled.

Then at the end of it, you wash your hands of it and wait for the next big release.

People spend years, decades of their writing career trying to write realistic characters with layered motives. Or stories with complex themes.

Comic Book and Screenwriters included.

I myself try very very hard to do so - to provide foreshadowing, and emotional insight into the characters, their motives, their faults.

If I heard someone say that the piece is not worth looking that far into, all the work I've done as a writer gets overlooked.

Writers cannot grow if people are consuming their media without caring enough to look critically at it as the work of a storyteller.

So yes, I'm looking too far into it. Cause writers can write that far into it. And that deserves to be examined, acknowledged, and praised.

To assume less is too assume lesser of the writers who put everything into the media you enjoy.

This year of all years, we should be appreciating the work Screenwriters put in.

I guess what I'm trying to say is - I'm not being an asshole (well, not trying to be).

I'm looking at writers as vital parts of a movies production. Because they are.

We look deeply at the art style, or the animation, or the music. Writers are not shadow figures. They're people with careers. And them and their work deserve to be spoken about and acknowledged as a work of effort just the same as CGI artists or editors, or directors.

I implore you - Read more into it.

If you're a writer yourself, doubly so.

Read FAR into it. Build your analyzation skills, come to your own conclusions. Break the story down every which way and look at the characters from every angle.

It's fun, it's free, it makes the characters so much more real.

So many people on this website hope to one day become published writers. One thing they do to help you achieve that in college, is by racing things like scripts, and looking critically.

Meta analysis is good for you as much as it is the writers.

If you don't think you're cut out for it, or would have nothing to add, still try. Not for the brownie points, but to feel closer to the characters and the story.

If you've seen ATSV (or any Fandom media) and haven't ever really sat and thought about it - everyone's moral stances, why they want what they want, why they've made the mistakes they've had, where you stand on it all - I highly recommend it.

You might come away with some surprising conclusions about characters or even yourself.

Think about your favorite characters, and what might happen to them in the next movie.

There's really nothing wrong with reading that far into it.

Fifteen minutes of thinking, or an hour of writing is nothing compared to the months of work that went into this absolute masterpiece.

Trust me, the first time you catch some shit that makes you go

ITS LIKE A HIGH I TELL YOU.

Touch grass? Nah bro, touch your local library card. Go there right now. Take out this book.

There's gonna be a discussion tomorrow in class.

If you read this far heyhello I think you're rad as hell.

Here's a Hobie for the road because he's a great companion.

Bye.

[mama-qwerty]

Warning, AI rant ahead. Gonna get long.

So I read this post about how people using AI software don't want to use the thing to make art, they want to avoid all the hard work and effort that goes into actually improving your own craft and making it yourself. They want to AVOID making art--just sprinting straight to the finish line for some computer vomited image, created by splicing together the pieces from an untold number of real images out there from actual artists, who have, you know, put the time and effort into honing their craft and making it themselves.

Same thing goes for writing. Put in a few prompts, the chatbot spits out an 'original' story just for you, pieced together from who knows how many other stories and bits of writing out there written by actual human beings who've worked hard to hone their craft. Slap your name on it and sit back for the attention and backpats.

Now, this post isn't about that. I think most people--creatives in particular--agree that this new fad of using a computer to steal from others to 'create' something you can slap your name on is bad, and only further dehumanizes the people who actually put their heart and soul into the things they create. You didn't steal from others, the AI made it! Totally different.

"But I'm not posting it anywhere!"

No, but you're still feeding the AI superbot, which will continue to scrape the internet, stealing anything it can to regurgitate whatever art or writing you asked for. The thing's not pulling words out of thin air, creating on the fly. It's copy and pasting bits and pieces from countless other creative works based on your prompts, and getting people used to these bland, soulless creations made in seconds.

Okay, so maybe there was a teeny rant about it.

Anyway, back to the aforementioned post, I made the mistake of skimming through the comments, and they were . . . depressing.

Many of them dismissed the danger AI poses to real artists. Claimed that learning the skill of art or writing is "behind a paywall" (?? you know you don't HAVE to go to college to learn this stuff, right?) and that AI is simply a "new tool" for creating. Some jumped to "Old man yells at cloud" mindset, likening it to "That's what they said when digital photography became a thing," and other examples of "new thing appears, old people freak out".

This isn't about a new technology that artists are using to help them create something. A word processing program helps a writer get words down faster, and edit easier than using a typewriter, or pad and pencil. Digital art programs help artists sketch out and finish their vision faster and easier than using pencils and erasers or paints or whatever.

Yes, there are digital tools and programs that help an artist or writer. But it's still the artist or writer actually doing the work. They're still getting their idea, their vision, down 'on paper' so to speak, the computer is simply a tool they use to do it better.

No, what this is about is people just plugging words into a website or program, and the computer does all the work. You can argue with me until you're blue in the face about how that's just how they get their 'vision' down, but it's absolutely not the same. Those people are essentially commissioning a computer to spit something out for them, and the computer is scraping the internet to give them what they want.

If someone commissioned me to write them a story, and they gave me the premise and what they want to happen, they are prompting me, a human being, to use my brain to give them a story they're looking for. They prompted me, BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN THEY WROTE THE STORY. It would be no more ethical for them to slap their name on what was MY hard work, that came directly from MY HEAD and not picked from a hundred other stories out there, simply because they gave me a few prompts.

And ya know what? This isn't about people using AI to create images or writing they personally enjoy at home and no one's the wiser. Magazines are having a really hard time with submissions right now, because the number of AI generated writing is skyrocketing. Companies are relying on AI images for their advertising instead of commissioning actual artists or photographers. These things are putting REAL PEOPLE out of work, and devaluing the hard work and talent and effort REAL PEOPLE put into their craft.

"Why should I pay someone to take days or weeks to create something for me when I can just use AI to make it? Why should I wait for a writer to update that fanfic I've been enjoying when I can just plug the whole thing into AI and get an ending now?"

Because you're being an impatient, selfish little shit, and should respect the work and talent of others. AI isn't 'just another tool'--it's a shortcut for those who aren't interested in actually working to improve their own skills, and it actively steals from other hardworking creatives to do it.

"But I can't draw/write and I have this idea!!"

Then you work at it. You practice. You be bad for a while, but you work harder and improve. You ask others for tips, you study your craft, you put in the hours and the blood, sweat, and tears and you get better.

"But that'll take so looooong!"

THAT'S WHAT MAKES IT WORTH IT! You think I immediately wrote something worth reading the first time I tried? You think your favorite artist just drew something amazing the first time they picked up a pencil? It takes a lot of practice and work to get good.

"But I love the way [insert name] draws/writes!"

Then commission them. Or keep supporting them so they'll keep creating. I guarantee if you use their art or writing to train an AI to make 'new' stuff for you, they will not be happy about it.

This laissez-faire attitude regarding the actual harm AI does to artists and writers is maddening and disheartening. This isn't digital photography vs film, this is actual creative people being pushed aside in favor of a computer spitting out a regurgitated mish-mash of already created works and claiming it as 'new'.

AI is NOT simply a new tool for creatives. It's the lazy way to fuel your entitled attitude, your greed for content. It's the cookie cutter, corporate-encouraged vomit created to make them money, and push real human beings out the door.

We artists and writers are already seeing a very steep decline in the engagement with our creations--in this mindset of "that's nice, what's next?" in consumption--so we are sensitive to this kind of thing. If AI can 'create' exactly what you want, why bother following and encouraging these slow humans?

And if enough people think this, why should these slow humans even bother to spend time and effort creating at all?

Yeah, yeah, 'old lady yells at cloud'.

[irritablepoe]

Ao3 and AI

So i just read ao3 statement regarding ai works and it was (in my opinion) pretty diappointing. I understand that there is not much that one can do atm - or at least i'm not aware of a perfect solution. But i was expecting ao3 to be on the side of the authors that acutally put in effort into the fandom and community that fanworks naturally build. Fanworks are fanworks because it's written BY FANS. No ai can replace that. Fandoms are social. Ai is anything but that.

Just an example on how they could handle the situation: It's not that hard to encourage writers and readers to report ai works. It's also not that hard to discourage ai users from using ai to publish fanworks. They could at least make it mandatory to highlight their works as ai.

Ao3 said none of that though. They only see ai works as an issue when it's spam work or goes against their Terms of Service. They call it inclusiveness but it's simply not. Not when ai steals art and just remixes it.

What makes it even worse is that we're doing this for FREE. Actually, many of us DONATE to ao3 so the side can live on. To say that works written by ai is just as valid is disrespecting every work that has been written by authors. As an author myself, the comments discouraged me even more, for many of them are very pro-ai.

Regarding the data-scraping, ao3 suggest to restrict the works to archive users only. But that also reduces the number of readers. Most of the kudos a author gets are usually from guests. That means that many people won't see the works they want anymore unless they have an account. I don't know how ao3 can think this will be good for their sites reputation. There's already a waiting time until you get an invitation to an acount. Most of the people won't deal with this and will move to a different site!

Ao3 said that the topic is currently under discussion and we can only hope that they come up with a solution or at least take action to prevent ai works as best as they can.

As long there will be no intervention: PLEASE DON'T USE AI AND IF YOU HAVE TO FOR SOME REASON PLEASE TAG YOUR WORK AS AI.

Feel free to add stuff to it. I'm very angry at the moment and i've probably forgotten something or maybe got something wrong. Also, i'm not an expert. I'm a writer. But i think it's important to speak out against this. I don't want to be replaced in my own hobbies. I don't want to be pushed out of my community that i built with my works.

Ao3 statement

[blueberry-lemon]

the never-ending hustle bums me out

I've posted before about how I worry about how hard it is to be a creative freelancer online these days, especially for artists and musicians.

I wrote about social media starting to splinter last year. And then later I wrote down some truly pessimistic fears over here.

But I had one more thing on my mind about posting work online, so here it goes:

It makes me sad when I see people having to do the online content creator dance to get more Likes, Shares, and Followers.

And to be absolutely crystal-clear, I'm not judging everyone who is doing these things. I completely sympathize and I understand being in a situation (especially financially) where it feels that there is no other choice. It just bums me out. Especially the feeling that platforms make us dance and beg for attention. I'm mad at the tech companies and all the ways that they leave breadcrumbs out, telling people that it's easy to build an audience on their websites when it isn't at all and the engagement doesn't always translate into anything.

Elaboration below.

Everyone's gotta hustle, and I get that.

You have to put effort in to get eyeballs on your stuff, whether you're doing it for your income or just as a hobby. But it bums me out when someone was originally doing something they were passionate about, and now all of a sudden they're uploading like 5 Youtube videos a week with clickbait thumbnails and the whole nine yards, or tweeting with all sorts of hashtags, trying desperately to get "picked up" by the algorithm so that they can get some forward momentum and followers.

I think it's the "picked up by the algorithm" or "hoping to go viral" thing that bothers me especially. Because it's so nebulous, with ever-shifting goalposts that the companies who make these platforms don't care about at all. Even creators who DO have over 100k or 1m followers still struggle to maintain their livelihood because of all the ever-shifting preferences of the (supposed) algo.

This all came back to mind recently because of a mini trend on Twitter where creators are pretending to repost their own art to get more retweets. Basically, the theory is that people who steal art and repost it get more retweets than creators, so it's worth trying to pretend to be a reposter to get more people to share your art. "Woahhh, who drew this??" as a caption on your own drawing.

If I'm being totally honest, I don't really care about this little trend-of-the-day either way. I thought the original (now deleted) tweet was interesting and funny, and I'm sure most artists who have tried this afterward are doing it as a joke. I also think the lesson isn't really to say "yo who did this??" but rather just that people tend to retweet things with shorter, snappier, more relatable captions rather than a long self-promo post. I'm sure, psychologically, that self-promo posts with hashtags tend to turn a lot of people off, so they don't retweet them.

But in the grand scheme of things, I don't think any of these small tricks are going to make the difference in people having success or fun with their creative work. @erica had some nice thoughts about it over here and I'm inclined to agree. When the never-ending hustle to make social media work for your art feels hopeless, I think it's because the particular treadmills that you're running on might actually be hopeless. It's exhausting to constantly push more for more Likes, Shares, and Follows. I know that it's pretentious for me to say this (full-disclosure: i make a living off working for an indie game studio and don't currently hustle for freelance commissions) but I think scraping every last Like, Share, and Follow you can grab is unfortunately not going to change your life.

This is purely anecdotal, but no one who I support on Patreon or Twitch or whatever is someone who I just randomly saw on my timeline with like "cool art" or "a funny joke." It tends to be people whose work really speaks to me, or more likely, someone who speaks to me as a person because of their own thoughts, life, and experiences.

At the end of the day, it's probably more worth it (emotionally yes, financially maybe) to forge connections and bonds with people in smaller crowds. Places outside of Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Youtube, and TikTok. Places in real life, like conventions and meet-ups. Places on the "smaller" web, like forums, Discord servers, personal blogs, etc.

But, again....................what are we all to do? It sucks. And if there's a chance, even a small 1% chance, that you can get more followers, peers, friends, clients, and customers by hustling on these huge platforms.....I totally understand why everyone does it.

It just bums me out to see it. Particularly because I know that it takes time. And it takes effort. And mental and emotional energy. And all of that time, effort, and energy is probably better spent somewhere else, making the actual work that you like making and doing cool shit and exploring your own ideas and talking to people who really do follow you because your work speaks to them.

It also sucks because it pushes everyone into being the same type of "content creator" rather than specifically being a painter, or animator, or composer. Everyone feels compelled to make short-form video content, or microblog, or whatever it is that people say will make you go viral that week.

It all just sucks big-time and maybe it's obnoxious that I'm even writing this. My heart goes out to everyone freelancing. I have my fingers crossed that more stuff emerges that makes a clearer path forward. Patreon has thankfully helped make this life slightly easier for some people, but hopefully other tools will come out to supplement that and give people a safety net in case Patreon shits the bed.

[sevensistersofsussex]

Hi !

First of all, I am a huge fan of your works (so good)!

I just saw that most of your stories on Ao3 are now available to subscribers only, including Would it be a sin? (😭)

Was there a reason behind this change?

Anyway, I can't wait for the future chapters of Throne of Blood and Liberal Arts !!!

Thank you so much!

Restricting Work

I want to be thoughtful and transparent with the decision to restrict fics to registered users of AO3.

With the proliferation of AI in fandom, particularly art though its making its way to fics, I had concerns about my words being used to produce AI content. I am under no delusion that I am a prolific or popular writer. (I like to imagine that I sit in my little corner writing the stories I want to read and am delighted when they seem to spark joy in others.) But the idea of the work and effort I put into writer, the hours I spend doing this, being used to generate AI produced work makes me queasy.

Fandom should be generated by fans. It should take some kind of human effort.

So when OTW released this announcement, that queasy feeling got worse. I'm not a published author. I write derivative works for fun based on my love and enjoyment for an established property. But I feel like my words should still be my words. Plagiarism or data scraping should matter.

There is no easy answer and part of me feels hopeless in the face of AI. I still post most of my work on Fanfiction.net and I highly doubt there are any measurements in place to protect against data scraping. And what has happened has already happened and no one can go back in time to stop that.

Maybe my work wasn't used. Maybe it doesn't matter if I restrict or not. Maybe its just something that I needed in this moment to feel a little better. I don't really know if it matters that I did or not. I don't know if I'll change my mind and open up the visibility to my fics in the future. It's all so unknown.

Guests

The downside of this is the guest readers. I don't want to stop anyone from reading my works and I don't know how much of a barrier it might be to people to get a registered AO3 account. I don't know how many people reading my works it affects and I do want to be mindful of that. Perhaps foolishly, I was surprised to get this ask. I was surprised that anyone noticed. Maybe I don't have a good grasp of how many people are reading my fics that are guests and not registered users. It's hard to gauge. I primarily look to comments and asks to gauge "readership" or the interest in my fics and maybe that isn't the best way to try to do that.

If I find out that this does affect a lot of people, then it is something I would consider when thinking about whether to keep work restricted or not.

I don't want my words used to generate AI fic but I also don't want to stop people from reading. They are competing priorities that are difficult to balance.

The visibility may stay restricted or I might change my mind the more I think this over.

[ceilingfan5]

I showed my coworker my pixel animations today and she said "wow, you must have a lot of time on your hands," and it's still bothering me

I guess there are a lot of ways to interpret that. I could be charitable and assume she meant "wow, it looks like you worked hard on that" or "wow, that must have taken a lot of time"

or I could be less than charitable. "wow, you have hobbies? some of us actually have work and responsibilities and families, I wish I could waste time like you can." "Why in the world did you spend your time creating this? our hours on this earth are limited and you're making art??"

which brings us to another thing that bothers me. so many adults, regular ass adults in the workplace, have so little appreciation for art, for creativity, for the act of making something new with your whole heart because it feels good. it's just something that isn't worth the time it takes. or, "wow," it's impressive, but what's the point?

art is its own point. the act of creation is the point, not just the product. is the product nice? sure. it feels good to share it. but there's something in the process of making something from nothing that is worth more than the sum of its minutes. we get inundated with art on here, everybody scrambling to beat back algorithms and scrape up enough notes to feel like it was worth it, or to literally make it worth the cost of the time (have you heard your coworkers ask what you got done with your "time off" while you were sick? do you stress yourself out on the weekends and holidays trying to scrounge up something worth talking about when you return? is rest not inherently worth as much as productivity?) or even people wearing their fingers to the bone trying to wring enough money out of this skill to get by?

this practice of consuming content fucks me up. It’s just words, sure. so was "Wow, you must have a lot of time on your hands." words are meaningful. words shape our perception or reality just as much as they help us interpret it. art, writing, music, design, curation--it’s not just content. it's little bits of soul pushed out into the world, aching to find another bit of soul to bounce off of and light up the world just a speck at a time, so much bioluminescent algae, and maybe, just maybe, if we surround ourselves with enough, it'll feel like our home among the stars we're missing so bad our cells hurt. should we consume this?? should we swallow it up, bones and all, and shit out whatever is left and swim on for more? what happens when this shark stops moving because it's all gone, and there's nothing more left, because it wasn't worth the time?

art begets art. souls reach out for souls. we need to hear an echo of our own heartbeat and know we're not alone. if you can spare a precious moment, I encourage you to make something, anything, and hold it close to your heart, maybe share it, if you trust someone. it doesn't have to be good. it doesn't have to get notes. it doesn't have to be worth the minimum wage of time you put into it. but if you let yourself enjoy it, that's the point. and maybe your cells will ache a little less for it. and if you aren't feeling you could make even the littlest thing, let your soul light up another--notice something somebody put effort into making and acknowledge it, even just a little. brighten up our ocean. put a smile on their face and your own. you know what? that can be art too.

our hours on this earth are limited. are you making art?

[a-n-conrad]

Training (Dr.Strange x Reader)

[Summary: After getting mugged a few nights ago, Dr. Stephen Strange, the sorcerer supreme, decides it’s important to teach you a thing or two. But as you start training with your friend, the two of you realize you might be closer than you originally thought. (She/her pronouns)

Warnings: blood, mentions of an attack, knife mention, swearing, insecurity

Request: From my request survey (https://forms.gle/2XeYLsGekCdFmQjD7)]

You stumbled into the New York Sactum late one night, your clothes dirty and the knees of your pants ripped. Your hands and knees were scraped from falling, a little blood dripping onto your clothes. There was a bit of blood dripping down you neck, too, soaking into your shirt where the blood met the fabric. It was really just sinking in that they had cut you. 

You had been mugged, stopped on the street when you were walking alone by a knife pressed against your neck. And you when tried to fight back, gripping your bag as hard as you could, you were just hurt more. They had cut you just a little before ripping the bag from your hands and shoving you harshly to the ground. You hadn’t even gotten a good enough look at them to give any sort of description. Not that you planned on reporting this to the police anyway. You were friends with a literal superhero. There wasn’t really anything that they could do that Stephen couldn’t. 

You were so tired by the time you made it to the sanctum. Your ankle felt like every step you took was a knife being shoved into the side of your ankle. And you supposed you a bit more of an expert on knife injuries than you were just moments before. You were limping pretty badly as you pushed the doors to the sanctum open. Honestly, you had started regretting putting your phone in your bag ages ago. You really wished that you could’ve just called Stephen to portal you somewhere.

Luckily for you, you didn’t have to try to hunt Stephen down, since he was just walking through the foyer as you stumbled in. He froze a bit when he saw you, his eyes gliding over your body, clocking every single one of your injuries. You wondered if this was how he looked at all of his patients before he worked back when he was a surgeon.

But you knew it wasn’t when the icy professionalism melted away into a warm worry that you knew his old self never really felt. He had been a lot more selfish back then. But he had grown quite a bit since then.

He was by your side in seconds, His hands, though a bit shaky, and not quite as strong as they used to be, were placed on your arms, moving your arm to rest over his shoulders so that he could guide you to one of the antique couches. 

He was gentle with you as he sat you down, almost instantly working on cleaning and examining all of your injuries. He pulled first aid supplies out of seemingly no where, though you didn’t really question it. Lately, magic had become a pretty routine part of your life every time you visited Stephen. He cleaned all of your cuts and scrapes, carefully bandaging them all up. When he reached the one on your neck, his brows furrowed just a little, though he didn’t really say anything. Instead, he just continued his work. 

“Is there anything else that hurts?” He asked, you could tell by his tone that he was holding back from scolding you until he knew that all of your injuries were treated. He knew he could be a bit harsh sometimes, and you knew that he’d rather you at least be fully taken care of before he made you upset enough to try to storm off. And something about that thought made your heart buzz. 

“Just my ankle,” You muttered, “I think I twisted it a little.”

He nodded, still clearly biting his tongue. Almost literally at this point. He moved his hands carefully towards the ankle that you had indicated, slowly moving it, carefully watching for any signs of pain. The skin of his hands was textured in a way you had never felt before, and feeling it brush so carefully against the smooth skin of your ankle made your face heat up a bit.

“You definitely have a sprained ankle,” He stated, pulling compression tape out of thin air to start wrapping your ankle. His hands were still shaky, but there a quite a few things that he could do, because they weren’t even really considered tasks to him. He had done them so many times that with a bit of extra attention he could still do them with a little extra effort, “Now would you like to explain to me what exactly happened?”

“Well, as you know, we live in New York,” You started, causing him to roll his eyes in a way that you were pretty sure he had reserved exclusively for when you made jokes at inappropriate times, “And I got mugged. As you do. In New York.”

“Did no one ever teach you how to handle that situation?” he asked, exasperated, “You’re not supposed to fight back. I can literally just track down your bag and take it back. I have magic.”

“You know that’s not really how that goes with me, Stephen. And it’s not going to change any time soon,” You stated. You had always been much too stubborn for your own good. Which was how you managed to survive being friends with Dr. Stephen Strange.

He rolled his eyes at you yet again, “At least let me teach you a few things if you’re going to insist on getting into trouble.”

Your eyes lit up in seconds, and you could tell that he noticed, “Wait, for real? Are you offering to teach me magic?”

“Well,” It was sort of like you could see the wheels turning in his head. Like he was trying to figure out how to say what he was planning to say without ruining your good mood, “Maybe a little, but I was more thinking martial arts? Knowing you, if you start going around using magic against random petty thieves on the street, you’re going to end up getting in more trouble than all of the Avengers combined.”

You mulled over his words for a few seconds, before deciding that he was right. There were enough superpowered vigilantes in New York City, and they already got into enough trouble. And you knew very well that most of them weren’t as danger-prone as you were, “Fine, I suppose I’ll settle for martial arts.”

- - - - -

It was a few days before your first lesson. Stephen, pulling his “I’m a doctor” card, had insisted that you stay at the sanctum for a bit so that he could make sure that you were healing properly. He had already set up a spare room for you a while ago, considering the amount of times that you had tried to help him fine a certain piece of information in his library and ended up falling asleep on one of the couches at about two in the morning. 

But it really wasn’t long before he cleared you to start your training. You had expected it to take him a lot longer to get around to teaching you anything. Between his studies, teaching the newest apprentices of the mystic arts, and having to constantly ensure that the universe and timeline weren’t going to fall apart any time soon, Stephen was a very busy man. In fact, most of the time that you managed to block out to spend time with him, you were either helping him study, grabbing a quick meal, or helping him tidy up the sanctum. But he actually managed to get around to your first lesson the day after he told you that you were healed enough to go back to your own place. 

It was a chilly Saturday afternoon. The weather was just starting to turn a little cold. Not cold enough to be anything you really needed to worry about, but it was cold enough that you decided to put on a sweatshirt before walking to the sanctum. By the time you got there, your knuckles had started to show a bit of red and your nose was a bit cold. But you managed to ignore it, choosing instead to focus on your excitement to start training with your friend. Your mind had been wandering to how this might go almost constantly for the whole morning. 

You had been thinking about what you would be learning. Stephen had told you that the first thing he was going to teach you was how to use a sling ring. That way perhaps you could just avoid conflict. 

You were definitely fantasizing a little. Imagining things that obviously weren’t going to happen. In your mind you pictured yourself getting it on the first try, revealing yourself as some sort of magical prodigy. You pictured Wong and Stephen praising you, talking to you like you were even a little bit as impressive as a majority of the people that they talked to on a daily basis. Stephen, smiling at you with a smile that you were pretty sure you’ve really only seen in the rare romance movie with good acting, telling you how amazing you were. 

You stopped yourself before you imagined something you couldn’t just write off as needing praise. And in order to prevent your mind from wandering back to where it had been going, you decided to rush just a bit to the sanctum, managing to make it there before you ran out of other thoughts to keep your mind occupied. You took a deep breath, hoping to reset your brain before you opened the doors into the foyer.

Stephen had been waiting the foyer for you. You weren’t sure how long he had been waiting there, but you couldn’t help but smile when you saw him. He gave you a soft smile too. He had been a lot more open with caring about people since he took over the New York Sanctum, though he was still pretty walled off. He had changed a lot, but he was still Stephen, and there were a few things that were never going to change. And something about that, and the fact that you knew him well enough to know that, warmed your heart just a little.

“Alright, there’s a little field in the middle of no where that I portal to when I want to try out new spells sometimes that I think we should probably go there. Just in case,” He explained as you walked up to him. He seemed to be standing taller and the look on his face was one that you recognized from when he was teaching classes. You had to fight a little bit to keep your mind from wandering off to somewhere you didn’t want it to go as his deep, commanding voice reached your ears. He was definitely in teacher mode, and you really couldn’t say you had any reason to complain. Except for the fact that it was a little harder than usual to hide the fact that your face was beginning to heat up.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” You replied, trying your best to hide any sort of unevenness in your voice with your regular cheerfulness. 

- - - - -

It didn’t take more than half an hour of training without results for all of your excitement to fade away. Stephen had tasked you with trying to create a portal back to the foyer. He had gone over how to do it, too. The visualization, the hand motion, everything. And still, you couldn’t manage to summon a portal. 

“God fucking dammit,” You shouted, throwing your hands up into the air. You felt like an idiot. You had just been standing in a field for half an hour, spinning your hand in an attempt to create a doorway of sparks out of thin air. You knew it was possible, too, which was driving you even more insane. What was wrong with you that you couldn’t get this?

“Hey, whoa,” Stephen walked over just as you were about to through the ring in anger, stopping you just in time, “You’re really not doing all that bad. It takes time to get it down. You’ll figure it out.”

He placed one of his hands on your shoulder, the trembling stopping as it pressed against your arm. You could eel your skin heating up under his hand, and you really hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“Yeah, right,” You said, sitting down cross-legged in the plash grass that was surrounded you, “How long did this take you? Five minutes?”

He chuckled, taking a seat next to you. The deep rumble in the back of his throat when he laughed was one of your favorite sounds. It was like a thunderstorm, but specifically a thunderstorm when you were wrapped in a blanket, reading a book that you loved, “Actually, I didn’t figure out how to do this until my mentor abandoned me on Mt. Everest.”

“Wait, really?” The surprise was less about him being abandoned on Everest and more about him not figuring this out right away. He was so talented and learned everything so fast. He was the smartest person you had ever met, and you admired him more than you had ever admired anyone in your life. 

“I know that I get talked up a lot, but I’m really only good at this because of all the reading I do,” He laid back, his cloak wrapping itself around him a bit as he lounged on the ground. You had never seen him like this. Stephen Strange was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulder, gray hairs on the sides of his head well-earned. But as he laid down next to you, sprawled out on the ground among the grass and a few tiny flowers, you felt as though there could never be anything wrong in the world as long as Stephen was beside you. 

“Oh, please,” You flopped back, surprised by how soft the pillow of grass was, “You’re so talented at everything you try. Honestly, Stephen, I can’t think of a single thing you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it.”

“Is that really what you think about me?” a hint of insecurity seeped into his voice, a tone you had never heard from him before. He had always been so unwaveringly confident before.

“Of course it is, Stephen,” You turned a bit to face him. His brows were furrowed as he stared at the sky, clouds reflected in his eyes, “You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. Honestly, sometimes I feel like you’re so amazing that I’m barely worth your time.”

That last sentence came out pretty sheepishly, quietly enough that for a moment you had the slightest bit of hope that maybe he didn’t hear you. That hope was quickly extinguished, though, as he turned to you, his eyebrows raised as though you had said something entirely unbelievable. 

“Barely worth my time?” He exclaimed, as though I had just insulted him, “If anyone here isn’t worth this time, it’s me. (Y/n), I’ve been such a jerk. I was cruel to you for a good majority of our friendship. I honestly don’t know how you stand me.”

You knew he had been having some self-worth issues since his accident. He had lost everything, or what he thought was everything. But you had never seen the pain so clearly in his eyes before. 

“Stephen, I know you’re not the person you were right after your accident. You’re not even the person you were before it. You’re Dr. Stephen Strange, master of the mystic arts. The savior of the earth more times than I even know about. The only person that ever offered to teach me how to defend myself. The person the patched me up after I got mugged. The person that carries me to my guest bed when I fall asleep in the library,” By the end of the rant, you had realized what you truly meant. 

You had fallen in love with Stephen since he had come back. He had grown so much as a person, changing for the better. And as you got to know this new Stephen, a person that despite still seeming cold and arrogant had learned how much good he was capable of. A person that, for the first time in a long time, remembered what it felt like to do things for others without needing any sort of reward. 

And as you look back to his eyes, which were staring at you, wide with shock, you realized that you couldn’t keep it to yourself much longer, “I love you, Stephen. I love the person you’ve grown to be.”

You really hadn’t realized, but his face was much closer to yours than you expected it to be. You could smell his cologne, a warm scent, like a chai latte from a nice cafe mixed with the smoke that always seemed to cling to his clothes. You could feel his eyes, flickering down to your lips. The world around you felt like it was both slowing down and speeding around you. Like time was irrelevant as you laid there, staring into his crystal clear eyes. 

Finally, the moment broke as he closed the gap between you, his lips softly touching your own. They were softer than you expected them to be, though his beard was a bit rough against your face. It was gentle, caring, and timid. Things that never would have been associated with the old Dr. Strange. 

He went to pull back after a few seconds, though your arms seemed to move without you telling them to. You had been waiting fo this so much longer than you even really knew, you had bottled up these feelings for so long. You pulled him back by the collar of his shirt, pulling his body to hover over your own a bit. It was nearly instinctive, the feeling of needing to be as close to him as you could be. You had been forcing yourself to stay at a distance, and it felt as though that first kiss broke the dam. 

It was a few more moments before you allowed him to pull away again, finally loosening your grip on his clothing. The way he looked at you was something that you were pretty sure you never could’ve imagined, like you were the center of the universe. Like out of all the beautiful things in the world that he had seen, you were the only one he ever wanted to see. 

You were both silent for a few moments, just taking in what had just happened. It took you a few moments to fully take in that it was real. And then a few more moments to convince yourself that this wouldn’t stop being real the second the two of you got up.

“We really should get back to training,” he finally broke the silence, a smirk plastering itself onto his face, “You only got half an hour into a four-hour lesson.”

[writings-of-dumpy]

Night Crawling: Punk!George Weasley x Reader Smut

Summary: Based on the song Night Crawling by Miley Cyrus and BILLY FUCKING IDOL.

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit.

The lights in the club were daunting to anyone who hadn’t seen them before and a disco ball hung above the lasers and fog. The dance floor was heating up as the night wore on. Fred and George frequented this club and enjoyed their wiles with the mix of witches and wizards. The twins prowled the dance floor and enjoyed the attention from the girls that they got, but they’d never take their flirting too far. They mostly did this to relive the stress of their days and to get out the extra creative energy out of themselves. Not that their clients were particularly testy, but they had become a rather popular tattoo shop in Diagon Alley so busy schedules and time crunches sometimes made their jobs as artists not as fun. George loved being a tattoo artist, though, and wouldn’t change it for anything. Fred felt the same.

The thumping of the club’s music egged George on as he danced like an animal with strangers. He loved the attention his body got from various girls, which he figured was partly why he loved his tattoos and piercings so much. Not very many wizards had recreational body art, but it was becoming more acceptable in their world. Fred and George had started their business idea after venturing through London in their first year and seeing all of the colorful and unique patterns on Muggles' arms. The pair were fascinated and as soon as they were old enough, they both started getting tattoos. George had found that pierced ears were fashionable, too, so he now often sported various jewels and hoops in his earlobes.

His movements were interrupted by the need to use the bathroom. The club had a small and dingy bathroom that was relatively soundproof. Although he had no proof of that, he was sure that nobody would be able to hear anything in the bathroom anyway. He relieved himself and as he turned around to wash up, he accidentally scraped his arm against the bathroom wall.

“Fuck,” he hissed and looked at his arm that was now bleeding. He washed his hands and looked for something to sop the blood up with, but suddenly the door clicked open.

“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t—are you okay?” a girl in a crop top and mini skirt said to George gesturing to his bloodied forearm.

“Cut meself on the wall there, careful, love,” George said in a charming voice. He looked her up and down and felt his eyes grow hungry. Normally he wouldn't do more than flirt with the pretty girls in the club, but he had never seen her before and the beating in his chest told him he might break that rule.

“Oh no, let me help,” she said and entered the bathroom letting the door close behind her.

George let her sop up the blood with a few paper towels from the dispenser and he let his eyes wander over her body. He felt himself licking his lips as he watched her.

“What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked. The more time he spent with her, the more he seemed to realize that she wasn't the usual girl to walk into a club like this one.

“My friend is getting married next week, we're having a celebration,” she said with a smile. George felt a smile creep onto his face.

“Oh yeah? Congratulations to your friend then! Good of you to celebrate with them,” George said.

The girl smiled and shrugged. “This usually isn't my scene, but I'm glad you think I'm being nice.”

George admired her work and the two cracked a jokes about the dingy bathroom. Once she was done placing a bandage on him that she had pulled from her bag, he caught her chin with his thumb and fingers.

“Thank you...” he said. They made eye contact and George could see that she was blushing.

“It's no trouble at all,” she said to him and made no effort to move away.

“I have the urge to kiss you,” George thought aloud.

“By all means,” she said. He smirked and crashed his lips to hers. Their kiss was sloppy and full of tongue, George was impressed. He'd snogged plenty of girls before, but this kiss gave him meaning. He flicked his wand to lock the door and hoisted her up on the small counter that was attached to the sink. A small moan escaped her lips as George's tongue found its way to her neck.

“I cannot believe I'm making out with a stranger in a club,” she said just above a whisper. George smirked devilishly and kissed her neck more gently.

“What's your name, love?” he asked between kisses along her jaw.

“Y/N... Yours?” she said and gripped his black and loose-fitting shirt.

“George, darling,” he said.“Got a boyfriend?”

“Psh, no,” the girl scoffed.

“Good,” George said and made a dark mark on her neck. He felt connected to this girl. Underneath his exterior, he had always been a hopeless romantic, and this kind of interaction gave his club trips meaning, this was just what he needed.

Their lips found each other again and George pulled her impossibly close to him as they kissed fiercely. He didn't want to push her too hard or make her uncomfortable, so for the most part he let her take the lead. Moans escaped their lips and their kisses became more and more like a fight for dominance that George absolutely won. They found themselves out of breath with Y/N pinned against the wall and George's hands holding her wrists above her head. When their kiss slowed, George let go of her with a smirk and saw the bruises  starting to form on her neck.

“That was nice,” she said with a small laugh.

“Next time I'll take it farther,” George said with a wink and slipped hr a piece of parchment with his number on it. He glanced at himself and saw several bite marks and purple bruises starting to form on his neck and he smirked, then walked back onto the dance floor. He was  hot and bothered, but he didn't want to make a one-night stand of that girl. He wanted to see her again, but was worried he might not be able to control himself.

“What the bloody hell happened to you tonight, mate? You were gone for almost an hour!” Fred asked as they exited the club. “Oh my god, you shagged someone, didn't you! Look at your neck!”

George rolled his eyes. “Not quite, but damn was she hot.”

~*~

The next day, George distracted himself with his work and made sure each client went home happy with their new artwork. He wore the hickies from last night like a badge of honor and reveled in glances toward them. He looked at his schedule and his heart jumped when he saw that his last appointment was under the name Y/N.

As if on cue, Y/N walked through the door and they made eye contact. He smirked widely and strode over to her.

“Well, hello there, Y/N. What can I do for you?” he said with a smooth voice.

Y/N looked shocked, but pleased. “Well, I'd like a tattoo.”

“Perfect, you've come to the right place,” George said with a wink. He brought her over to his station and thanked the heavens that Fred decided to go into the office.

Y/N showed him a picture of some lettering and a heart, and he smiled at her.

“And where would you like it, love?” he asked her. His heart jumped when she pointed to her hip.

“I was thinking here? Do you think that would look good? I don't want it any place too obvious... not that daring yet,” Y/N said with a small laugh.

“That wasn't my impression of you,” George joked. She blushed a deep red and George called her over to his station in the back corner of the shop.

She sat in the chair and George smiled at her as he sat down and drew up the stencil.

“So... can I ask why you haven't given me a ring?” George said. “I won't be offended, I promise.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but I don't often get serious offers. I assumed you were drunk last night,” Y/N said with a hint of sarcasm.

George's face fell and he began to worry. “I wasn't drunk. Were you?”

“Not at all,” Y/N said.

George relaxed and smiled at her, then instructed her to pull her shorts down enough for him to place the stencil. She ended up unbuttoning the pair and pulling half of them down, which gave George a peek at her purple panties. His eyes, he was sure, went darker with lust and his pants tightened as he gently placed the stencil on her skin. He pressed it down gently and he saw goosebumps form around where his hands were.

“Go ahead and look in the mirror and see what you think,” he said and gestured to the mirror behind him on the wall. Y/N smiled and nodded, then walked past him and looked in the mirror. He couldn't help but let his eyes wander across her, and he snapped his head away as she looked up. He remembered the way she felt against him and smiled to himself as he got set up for her tattoo.

“Looks great!” Y/N said and turned to him with her thumb holding her panties and shorts down. George smiled and patted the bench for her to lie on once again and he put his gloves on.

“You ready, doll face?” he asked her. She nodded and he got to work.

“Oh. This isn't bad at all,” she remarked once he had made a few strokes. He laughed.

“Some people are more dramatic than others...” he said. He smiled at her and finished the tattoo in pretty short order what with it not being very big. She smiled widely at the finished product and thanked him.

“Alright, I'll wrap it,” he said and pulled out the cling wrap from his drawer. He ripped off a long piece and started smoothing it over her middle. He noticed her lick her lips and her chest started to move quicker. He smiled devilishly and dangerously slowly smoothed the wrap over her middle.

“George...” she whispered breathlessly. George smiled and ran his hand over her back and kissed her neck.

“Gotta listen when the Devil's calling, love,” he whispered in her ear.

“Oh, yeah? And what's being said?” she said with her head tilted toward him.

“Fuck this girl,” he said in her ear and bit her lobe lightly. He gripped her hips, careful of her new ink, and pressed himself against her. He flicked the sign to closed and locked the door with his wand and turned her to him.

“Well I suppose we should do that, then,” Y/N said and no sooner did she finish speaking did George have her pinned to the opposite wall and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. She moaned and he ground his hips against her. His hands smoothed over her chest and then slipped under her shirt. He grabbed a fistfull of her breast and squeezed, eliciting a moan from her.

“Sometimes my thoughts are violent, dear,” he whispered into her ear.

“Sometimes I stab people in the back,” she responded with a suggestive look.

George made quick work of getting her naked and on the couch that sat in their waiting area. He attached his lips to her breasts and sucked and bit much like he did to her neck the night prior. His hands freed his throbbing dick from the confines of his pants and he hovered over her.

George grinned and slipped his hand over her chest and wrapped it around her throat. Her eyes went wide in delight and he smiled after confirming that this was a welcome move. In one quick motion he applied pressure to her neck and thrust into her. He was egged on further by the guttural noises that she emitted. The wet and warmth that surrounded him sent his body into a frenzy. He bucked into her and howled like a maniac in response to her moans.

“Fuck, baby doll, never knew I'd get such a good shag,” he moaned in her ear.

“George, don't stop,” she gasped out.

“Oh darling, I'm not stopping until we're done,” he assured her. His hand moved from her throat to her nipple. He pinched it hard and sent her to arch her back and nearly scream in pleasure.

“George!” she howled. George momentarily looked up to make sure he was out of view of the office and saw Fred with headphones on facing the other way.

“That's it, baby girl,” he moaned. He hoisted her up and pressed her against the wall and fucked into her with purpose. She WOULD come for him.

He could tell he was getting close but he refused to hold out on her. He pulled out of her and directed her to crawl on all fours and he pressed into her from behind. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her up so her back was against his chest. Her hands wandered over her body until she started circling her clit.

“Oh-ho-ho, baby that's it... come on dirty little girl,” George encouraged. He could feel his own climax approaching and suddenly, Y/N went rigid and cried out for him with breathless gasps. He laid her down on the couch once more and finished into the bin next to the couch with a deep moan and cry of her name.

“That was intense,” Y/N commented and reached for her clothes. George laughed and dressed himself next to her.

“I've never done that before,” he admitted.

“Me either... Now, how much for the tattoo?” she asked and pulled out her wallet.

“A date,” George said. “A real one.”

Y/N blushed. “Alright...”

[dhaaruni]

Your belief in personal responsibility would be Republican if Republicans weren't the party of "let's cover up a coup" and "Why should I wear a face covering to prevent others from getting sick?" You do have a sense of calling yourself out for your past misdeeds, which I don't think Republicans do.

I don't know if it's Republican or not, but I do think that Democrats and liberals/leftists really do shy away from personality responsibility and it drives me insane. I'm not saying that people shouldn't have room to make mistakes but actually, there are consequences to the decisions we make and the actions we take, and we have to be cognizant of that.

Like, not everybody is equally good at everything and that's fine, not everybody has to be equally good at everything! However, people being better at certain things that are valued more in our society doesn't mean those things are worthless and morally inferior or whatever. I've seen this so much with humanities people online yelling that like everybody who's good at STEM is a war criminal that supports Raytheon or whatever and it's morally superior to be working at a literary agency making $37k a year, but actually, the reality is that a lot of STEM jobs are well-compensated because everybody who complains on social media about how much engineers are paid uses Twitter and Tumblr to complain!!! These jobs are paid well because their services are in high demand! And, I'm saying this as someone who is not great at coding but has worked very, very hard to be slightly better than mediocre at coding so I'm able to compete for jobs that pay more than $37k a year.

Also, even if people aren't naturally good at things, they can improve their skills through hard work and putting in the due diligence like your capabilities in academia or in sports or in art aren't immutable. For instance, I took a physics class in college and I struggle with physics a lot, so my boyfriend at the time would work with me on every single problem set and help me study for the prelims and final. But, despite all my effort, I still barely scraped a B- in the class after begging the professor to round my grade up while that boyfriend got an A+ in the class with very little effort because he's simply much, much better at physics than I'll ever be.

And, if I hadn't worked as hard as I did in that physics class, I flat out wouldn't have passed. I did every single homework assignment and was always at office hours, but I got a C on the first prelim, I got a D on the next prelim, and it's only because I busted my ass to get an A- on the final after doing practice problems for a week straight that I managed to get a B- in the class. It's not fair that I had to work so hard to get a B- while other people coasted and got A+s but that's just how the world works, and my choices were either to fail the class or do the work so I did the work. And besides, I managed to ace some other classes that people who are amazing at physics and computer science comparatively struggled with, so it kind of evened out.

And I honestly wish other people would have that same mentality instead of like, being salty that Tumblr user Dhaaruni doesn't think that effectively banning calculus in public schools is a good policy because it screws over kids that are good at math.

[fanmoose12]

When they meet for the first time, they don’t really recognize each other. There is a sense of familiarity, though, a fleeting feeling that disappears the moment their paths diverge again.

Levi enters the temple, scowling as a smell of a dozen candles enters his nostrils. If he were at any other place, he’d start complaining right away. But this is a place for worship, and even though, he doesn’t truly believe in the power of gods, he’s not brave enough to defy them either.

Despite his best efforts to mask his discomfort, she sees right through him. She giggles, utterly delighted. Levi looks up, his eyes wide. She’s nothing like any other priestess he had met before.

He kneels before her, kissing her hand.

“I came here at my master’s request,” he begins with his head still bowed. It’s a sign of reverence, but also a way to hide his uneasiness. Those brown eyes of hers are too vivid, too bright. Looking at them feels like he’s staring at the sun. He feels that if he gazes for a moment longer, he will never be able to tear his eyes away.

Maybe, that’s the sign on her Oracle's powers. Or, maybe, divine intervention.

“I know why you are here,” she replies, her voice deep and melodic. She comes closer and grabs his arm, making him stand up. “Your master wants to receive a prophecy. He won’t like it.”

“So the war…”                                                                                                         

“Will not end in your favor,” she finishes for him. “I’m sorry,” and Levi knows she truly is, can see it in the curve of her lips and the remorse inside her eyes.

“Thank you,” he bows again. He reaches out to touch her hand, simply because he wants to feel the warmth of her palm. She intertwines their fingers and squeezes his hand.

She smiles, and Levi has a fleeting thought that in another life, he would have died for that smile.

“Your master won’t listen, right?” she whispers, and her smile turns sad.

“He won’t,” he shakes his head. “So that is our first and last meeting, Oracle.”

“May we meet again, Levi,” she says, and Levi doesn’t quite remember introducing himself to her.

“Watch over us, Hange,” her name slips easily from his lips.

She hasn’t introduced herself either.

 ***

When they meet for the second time, Levi is but a simple servant. He’s working at house of a Florentine banker. His master is an important, wealthy man, who has more money than he knows what to do with. As his servant, Levi spends his days, scraping the marble floors and wiping the golden ceilings until they glisten like a sun in the sky.

He hears about her before he sees her. She is an artist, a rising star and the talk of the whole city. Some say that she’s a genius, whose hands are blessed by the God. And some say she’s a psycho, whose dangerous, heretical ideas would certainly lead her to the deepest pits of hell. Levi doesn’t really care either way, he was never the one for gossip.

What he cares about, though, is the invitation she receives from his master. She is to paint the master’s daughter, so she will be living in their manor, until she finishes the portrait. And so Levi has to work twice the usual, making sure that everything looks perfect for the important guest.

When he sees her for the first time, she passes him by in a hallway. She is walking by his master’s side, gesticulating wildly as she tells him about her next project. The afternoon sunlight dances on her skin and hair, enveloping her in a warm shine. Levi is utterly mesmerized, and so he allows himself to stop for a second and admire the sight in front of him.

He reprimands himself for it later, when he lies in his bed and all he can see are the cheerful grin and brown, excited eyes.

***

When Hange sees him for the first time, she grabs his face in her hands.

“Oh,” she breathes out, an impossibly wide smile on her face. “You’re magnificent.”

She looks as though she lost her mind, but Levi doesn’t even think about taking a step back. He stares back at her, feeling something tighten in his chest.

“Let me draw you,” she whispers. “Just one drawing, please.”

Levi should say no. He’s busy all day, he doesn’t have the time to cater to the whims of some crazy, bespectacled artists. He means to say no, almost says it.

In the end, he doesn’t have the heart to outright reject her.

“I work during days.”                  

“I can— I can come to you at night, you don’t have to be awake, I just—” she ruffles her hair, frustrated. “I just really need to draw you.”

She’s clearly asking for too much, and her offer sounds more than a little bit creepy. Still, Levi is reluctant to refuse.

“It’s best if I come into your room at night, mine doesn’t have enough lighting.”

“Of course!” she beams. “I’ll be waiting, thank you so much!”

She looks so earnestly happy, so excited and giddy, Levi’s own lips almost curl in a smile. He lowers his head, hiding his amusement before she can see it.

“My name is Hange,” she offers, still smiling.

He knows it, of course. It’s hard not to, when she’s practically a living legend.

“I’m Levi,” he answers.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she chuckles. She presses a hand to his shoulder, squeezing it firmly, and then she is gone.

Levi stares after her for a solid minute, standing in an empty hallway like an idiot. It was just a simple touch, a common gesture, but it leaves him shaken to his core. It feels familiar, Hange feels familiar in a way he can’t yet comprehend. He feels like they’ve met before, feels like he knows Hange, even though he doesn’t. He just met her, but it doesn’t seem this way.

He closes his eyes and sees Hange, but that’s not— not the Hange he has seen moments ago. She’s not wearing a white puffy shirt and dark leather pants, the Hange in his mind is dressed in brown jacket and bright yellow shirt. She holds two blades in her hands, but they look nothing like the swords Levi is used to seeing. Hange doesn’t just stand either, she’s flying through the air.

And the weirdest thing – Levi’s flying next to her.

  ***

When he comes to her room late at night, Hange lounges on a couch. There is a glass of wine in her hand and a lazy, dreamy smile on her lips.

As soon as Levi enters her room, she jumps to her feet. The movement is sudden and erratic, and it causes the wine in her hands to spill onto her shirt and the floor beneath her feet.

Levi glowers – he had scraped this carpet clean just days ago - and crosses the room in two short strides.

“Fucking hell, four-eyes,” Hange’s eyes widen as soon as the words leave his mouth. Levi freezes too, his mind scrambling for an explanation for the weird nickname.

Hange is the first to recover. With a soft chuckle she takes a step back. Her fingers are in her hair and she awkwardly scratches the back of her hand.

“I should change,” she says, more to herself.

Levi wants to protest, wants to offer his help, wants to do at least something. His heart constricts painfully at the thought of Hange leaving him, even though the rational part of him knows that she’ll be gone just for a few minutes. With a considerable effort, he persuades himself to relax and nods.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Hange asks, before she turns around. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible!”

Levi sighs, fighting back a smile. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks!” she chirps and then dashes out of the room.

When she comes back several minutes later, she sits Levi down on her coach.

“Make yourself at home,” she winks, gesturing to a table full of various fruits and sweets.

“I don’t think I sh—”

“Don’t be silly,” Hange chides. “What’s yours is mine.”

"Alright," Levi agrees, popping a grape into his mouth. It's too sweet for his taste, but it's not often that he gets to eat anything better than the scraps of his master's dinner. He decides to savor this moment and eats another grape.

Without wasting any second, Hange takes out the easel and sets out to work. At first, Levi feels awkward. Hange looks straight at him, seemingly unblinking. Her attention is focused solely on him, and Levi desperately tries to stop himself from fidgeting. 

"Should I do something?" he blurts out, when Hange starts eyeing him critically. 

"Not at all," she answers with a cheeky grin. "Relax and be yourself. Just try not to move too much, alright?"

"Of course," he murmurs and settles back onto soft pillows.

He lets his guard down completely and closes his eyes. Hange is practically a stranger, a person he met just a few days ago, but he feels safe with her. He trusts her, despite his life teaching him that he should never trust anyone, but himself. However, Hange seems different from all the people he has met before. She is different, there is something familiar about her, as though they've known each other for years. 

Levi doesn't quite know what to make of it. 

Despite his troubling thoughts, he relaxes. The sound of charcoal scrapping against the paper and the softness of the coach underneath him slowly lulls him to sleep. 

He wakes up hours later, when Hange gently shakes his shoulder. 

"Hey, sleepy head," she says with a smile so pretty, Levi feels an acute desire to taste it on his lips. He almost leans in, but, thankfully stops himself at the last moment. He tries to put the blame for the weird impulse on his still sleepy state, but the excuse sounds hollow even to his own ears. 

"I'm sorry for falling asleep. Did I ruin your drawing?" he moves to get up, but Hange's hand on his shoulder presses him back down. 

"No, no," she shakes her head ever so slightly, and the strands of her brown locks hit Levi's face. That's what makes him realize their close proximity. Hange's kneeling by the coach, and her nose almost touches his chin. Levi looks down at her, and the feeling is alienating, so weird and wrong, it makes him uncomfortable. Shouldn't it be the other way?

"I've finished it already. It's only a rough draft," she comments self-deprecatingly. "But I wanted you to see it," she hands him the easel. "What do you think?"

Levi looks at the drawing for a long, long moment. Every single person who had ever praised Hange were right, her art skills are phenomenal. Staring at the easel feels like he is staring in the mirror. Hange got every detail right, down to the crease between his eyebrows and the small scar on his left cheek. In the picture, he is holding two blades in each hand, and with a start Levi realizes that that these are the same blades he imagined earlier that day. 

"What the hell, four-eyes?" he scowls at her. "Don't you know how a real sword looks like?"

Hange rolls her eyes, her smile never faltering. "I just decided to draw them this way. Don't really know why, though."

Levi doesn't know it too, but he knows there is a connection between his vision and Hange's drawing. He also knows that there is a connection between them. He knows with absolute certainty that it's not the first time he had met Hange.

And something tells him that it won't be the last time either. 

Before he can contemplate it any further, though, Hange presses her lips to his. Levi hesitates for just a second, just long enough to settle the easel carefully on the floor. Then he fists his hands in Hange's hair and returns the kiss just as passionately. 

*** Later that night, after they did what a servant boy should never do with a high-born artist, they lay together in bed, basking in each other's presence. Hange’s her arms are around Levi, and his cheek is pressed to her chest. The sound of her steady, rhythmic heartbeat is oddly calming.

"There are so many things we don't know yet, Levi. I have so many ideas, so many inventions I want to create..."

Levi listens to her ramblings with a slight curve of his lips. Hange's bright, excited eyes and hopeful words evoke something in him, something akin to nostalgia. He closes his eyes and sees the endless sky and the green hills beneath him. He sits atop a giant wall, and Hange's by his side, her shoulder pressed against his, and she talks and talks and talks, speaking of a better future and new discoveries. He shakes his head and the image disappears. Levi slowly opens his eyes to see Hange stare at him. 

"After this commission is over, I want— I want to go to Rome, and then I want to visit Constantinople," there is a wide happy smile on her lips, and Levi reaches out to kiss the corner of her mouth. Hange's smile grows bigger and her gaze becomes softer. "Would you like to go with me, Levi?"

Yes, Levi almost says. But deep down he knows that's impossible. Hange's a genius, a prodigy, and he's just a servant. There are miles, worlds separating them. They've found each other, but they're not meant to be. Not yet. 

"No," Levi answers with a rare softness in his voice. "My place is here."

Hange's smile becomes sad, but she nods and presses their foreheads together. 

"Then I'll see you in another life?"

"Later, Hange," Levi agrees and allows himself to smile.

***

They're only kids when they meet again in another life. Hange, as always, is bold and energetic and she befriends the gloomy and awkward Levi almost by force. They become practically inseparable ever since. They stay by each other's side throughout childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. The whole town expects them to marry the moment both of them are of age. Levi’s own mother often nudges him to propose to Hange and start a family. And he wants to, he really does, but not now. What they already have is nice enough.

"There is no need to hurry," Hange says, when they sit together under a shadow of an oak tree.  The soft morning light makes her look absolutely radiant, and Levi loses himself in watching her smile. He leans in and presses a kiss to it, thinking that Hange is right. There is no need to hurry. They have all the time in the world. 

They spend another few years in bliss, carefully toeing the line between friends and lovers, and when the time comes for Hange's twenty-fifth birthday, Levi goes to her house, intent on finally confessing his feelings. He prepares the speech and even robs his mother's garden of a few sunflowers. He feels more than a little bit awkward, he isn't the most eloquent or romantic person, but Hange knows him like no one else does and Levi finds immense comfort in the thought that whenever stupid shit will come out of his mouth, she will be able to understand him all the same. 

Whatever words he had prepared and rehearsed, though, die in this throat the moment Hange opens the door. There is a glint in her eyes and a blush on her cheeks that makes her look almost feverish. Levi has a sinking feeling that he knows the reason for it. The crudely drawn pamphlet in Hange's right hand only heightens his suspicion.

"Levi!" she proudly shows him the pamphlet. "They— they are recruiting! The army is going to pass our town on their way to Saratoga and I'm going to join them. I— I will finally have the chance to do something! To fight back the oppressors! To bring freedom to our people!”

Hange’s speech is strangely familiar, in more ways than just one. Obviously, it’s not the first time Levi has heard about her dreams of building a better future for their nation, but as he stares at the righteous fire inside Hange’s eyes, as he tries to picture her in battle, he sees her fighting giant, ugly creatures and not the soldiers in red coats.

Levi blinks a few times, forcing the bizarre vision away. Evidently, Hange’s departure, although not unexpected, leaves him shaken to the core.

"Oh, you brought flowers!" Hange claps her hands in delight. "What's the occasion?" 

Levi gives her a flat look. "It's your birthday, shithead."

"Oh, right!" she slaps her forehead. "I totally forgot about that."

"Idiot," Levi flicks her nose, making Hange yelp in pain and cover her face. She glares and he smirks, daring her to retaliate. 

She sticks her tongue out and Levi rolls his eyes. He turns around, heading to the kitchen to find the only vase Hange owns. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," she announces, while Levi rummages through the kitchen cabinet. His hand hovers in the air, as he tries to find his breathing. 

"I can't go with you," it comes out in a shaking whisper. He lowers his hand and grips the table so tightly, his knuckles become white. 

"I know," Hange answers just as quietly. "You have to care for your mother, Levi. I understand." She comes to stand around him, wrapping her arms around his body and pressing her chin into his shoulder. "I'll come back before you know it. Just— wait for me, alright?"

"Wait for you?" Levi echoes, confused. 

"Well," Hange chuckles warmly. "Don't go marrying someone else before I get back."

"Idiot," Levi raises his hand and entangles it in her hair. "Everyone knows I'm crazy for you."

"You're crazy for me, huh?" she shifts her face to kiss his cheek. "Is that really so?"

"Unfortunately," Levi replies, turning around and pressing his lips to her. 

The sinking feeling inside his chest doesn't disappear, but with Hange in his arms, he almost forgets about it. 

*** 

Hange leaves the next morning, and the hollowness takes over Levi's heart. He worries about her, constantly. Day and night, he wonders how is she doing and what is she doing. Hange writes him, of course. She sends letters, where she talks about her brothers in arms, her superiors and trainings. She tells that the food there is horrible and that she hates waking up before sunrise for the morning drills.

Other than that, though, she seems happy, excited at the prospect of fighting for her motherland. She writes about her new friend - Colonel Erwin Smith. She gushes about his intelligence and courage, and as Levi reads it, he imagines Colonel as blonde, blue-eyed man. He sees him so clearly in his mind, as though they've met before. 

In the next letter, Hange confesses that sometimes she feels like she has known Erwin for a very long time. She writes that it seems like they’ve already met before.

"You will like him too," she adds, before she goes on to complain about cold nights and drinking soldiers. 

Several months later, Kenny shows up at their doorstep, claiming that he came to see his dear sister. Reluctantly - Kenny's arrival always means trouble - Levi lets him in. 

In the evening, his uncle gets drunk and starts talking about a new gig of his. 

“I’ve acquired a tavern in the New York,” he smirks proudly. “All the red coats love it. They drink like pigs,” Kenny adds dreamily.

And Levi gets an idea. 

As soon as Kenny passes out, he grabs pen and a paper, and starts writing to Hange. 

She likes his plan and promises to talk it through with Erwin. He agrees to it without hesitation. 

Now, every once in a while - whenever Hange asks him - he goes to help with Kenny's tavern. He pours the drinks and cleans the tables. He listens intently to the talks around him. Sometimes, he drinks with soldiers too - when asking directly, it is much easier to get the information out of them. He is careful not to be too obvious, though. Most of them are drunkards, but not idiots. 

It is dangerous to pass the numbers of their ranks, the location of their troops and the plans for their future attacks in the letter, so Hange comes to get them personally. They meet in the forest that surrounds their small town, careful to be as discreet as possible. Hange never stays for long, always in a hurry. But Levi adds some home-cooked meal to each of his messages, and Hange always stays just long enough so they could eat it together. 

Only during those short meetings, those fleeting moments Levi feels truly alive. 

***

The war lasts longer than any of them had anticipated but Levi is patient. Hange promised she'd come back, and he trusts her. In all the years they've known each other, she had never broken her word. 

In the last letter he receives from her, she is optimistic as ever. The war is almost over, she assures him. Soon we'll be together again, she adds. As always, Levi believes her. 

In the following week, the news finally reach their town. In the battle of Yorktown, the British surrendered.

Levi smiles for the first time since Hange left. 

She is finally coming home. 

*** 

Another week passes, and Levi is in the middle of dough kneading. He hears the knock on the door, and his heart swells. He shouts to his mother that he'll get it and rushes to the door, not even stopping to wipe off his hands. She was never against a little mess, after all. 

When he opens the door, however, it's not Hange who stands at the other side of it. 

The blonde man with bright blue eyes - Colonel Erwin Smith, Levi realizes immediately - wears a grim, solemn expression.

"I'm sorry," he says. "She was a hero," he adds. 

Levi nods, feeling numb, and lets the man in. 

He makes them tea and sits Erwin in his kitchen. It's quiet at first. Levi stares down at the table, his hands trembling and his head spinning. 

He doesn't understand. It's Hange, Hange, his weird and wonderful Hange. She can't be dead. She can't— she can't just leave him. She promised to return, promised to come back to him.

He slams his cup against the wall. It shutters into dozen pieces. Levi stares at it, unblinking. 

Alarmed by the loud sound, his mother runs out of her room. Erwin hurries to calm her down and then he comes back to the kitchen. He cleans the mess Levi made and then firmly squeezes his shoulder. 

"Do you have something stronger than this?" he asks, gesturing to the tea. 

Levi nods, absentmindedly, and gestures to the cabinet above the sink. 

Erwin pours them two glasses of bourbon. Levi downs it instantly. Erwin follows his suit and then he starts talking. He tells him about Hange's days in the army, how brilliant and talented she was, how much dedication she had for their cause. 

"Before her death," Erwin begins slowly. "She— she asked me to tell you - she'll find you again. In another life."

"In another life," Levi repeats, his voice hollow and bleak.

*** The next time they meet, Levi is already dying. He doesn't need the doctors in white coats and with stethoscopes in their hands to tell him it's consumption. He knows very well about the disease, has seen many associates and friends, his own mother die from it. He knows what to expect. What he doesn't expect is a smiling, friendly face.

Doctor Hange Zoe is a genius, or so the nurses say. They say she was asked to work in the best clinics of Britain, but she chose St Thomas Hospital, simply because she wished to help the needy. She's weird and eccentric, too intense sometimes, but also gentle and caring. Most of the patients adore her.

"You look awful," she announces chirpily, when she visits Levi's ward for the first time.

“I’m dying,” he answers bluntly.

“Ah, yes,” Hange bites her lip, shoving hands into the pockets of her coat. “Let’s try to do something about it, yeah?”

***

She tries to save him, she really does. Hange spends days and nights by his side, trying remedy after remedy. In the end, nothing is stronger than the disease.

When his time comes, when Levi lies in a creaking hospital bed, he’s a sweaty, trembling mess. Hange doesn’t leave him even then. She frets over him, adjusting his pillow and fixing his blanket.

“I should— maybe, you want a glass of water?” she paces around the ward, nervously ruffling her hair. “Or maybe, I should bring you another blanket? A warmer one? I can ask one of the nurses—”

“Hange,” Levi croaks, lifting his hand to weakly grasp her wrist. “It’s over. You know it, I know it. Just calm the fuck down.”

“But you— you’re dying. How can I be calm about it?”

“Come here,” with the last strength he still possesses, Levi scoots over to make a place for Hange on the bed. She sits by his side and takes his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. Her other hand is in his hair, and her fingers gently push the sweaty strands away.

“It’s okay, Hange,” he looks up at her, his eyes shining with fever and something much, much softer, something that Levi doesn’t want to name. Not now, when he’s on his death bed. “I’ve lived more than I expected to anyway. And I’m glad— glad that I got to meet you. I wish—” he pauses, clearing his throat. When he speaks again, there is a feeble smile on his lips. “I wish we could have stayed in that forest, though.”

“What?” Hange freezes, frowning in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “Just felt like saying this to you.”

It’s probably the fever messing with his head, but this feels familiar. Hange looking down at his weak, incapacitated form, her expression solemn, worried and exhausted. It happened before, Levi is sure of it. And looking into Hange’s wide eyes, he knows – she’s sure of it too.

It isn’t long before he draws his last breath. The last thing he feels is the gentle kiss Hange presses to his forehead. Levi dies with a smile on his lips.

  ***

When they meet for the next time, they both are finally in their element. They're at war, and amidst all the horror, pain, death and tears, the only thing that keeps Levi together is the knowledge that Hange's here with him and she always has his back.

It's almost unnatural how well they work together. They're two parts of the same mechanism, perfectly synchronized. Hange's the brain and he's the brawl. There is no one else he would rather do it with.

It happens when no one expects it to. It's one of those uneventful days, when the sun shines brightly and the sky is clear.

Levi smokes a cigarette and watches the cadets run drills. Usually Hange stands next to him, teasing the young soldiers. But this morning they've managed to intercept a coded transmission, and she had been mulling over it with Armin for almost three hours now.

Levi is about to take the last drag of his cigarette, when Armin runs out to the training field, his eyes wild.

“T-the enemy!” he shouts and then doubles over, putting hands on his knees and taking a deep breath. “The enemy!” he repeats again. “They’ve discovered the location of our base. They’re coming for us!”

Hange comes to stand behind him, her face grim. “We need to evacuate and quickly. Take only the most valuable.”

“Will we be able to escape?” Jean wonders. “Armin said they’re already coming. How long do we have?”

“Not long,” Hange answers truthfully. “But if you hurry up, you’ll be able to escape.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Connie frowns.

“Someone has to buy some time. I’ll hope up in an aircraft and try to slow them down. Now, shoo, you all. I’ll see you later.”

Levi watches Hange smile and his heart falls. He knows where this is going, knows how this is going to end. He doesn’t wish to repeat it.

“Four-eyes,” he growers. “What the hell—”

“My time has come, Levi,” her lower lip starts shaking and she bites it, refusing to meet his eyes. “I want to look as cool as possible, so just let me go, alright?”

“We can— can do it together, then maybe—”

“No,” Hange resolutely shakes her head. “Levi, they need you. The kids, they’ll need some guidance after I’m gone. Armin is great, but he’s young. Take care of them.”

“Hange,” he knows he won’t be able to stop her. So he accepts it, same as he accepts every part of her, good or bad. They share the same flaw, after all. Their duty always comes first. Their love for freedom and humanity is more important than their love to each other. It’s always been the same, they’ve always been the same.

So Levi presses his fist upon her heart, staring right in her eyes.

“Dedicate your heart,” he whispers. He leaves before he can change his mind. He runs away before Hange can come up with a witty comeback. He gets to work and helps the kids with loading the weaponry before his resolve crumbles.

When he is driving a car, taking all of them away from the fight, he tries to pretend that the sound of crushing aircraft is only in his head. He tells himself that the tears in his eyes are caused by the bright sun ahead of him. He pointedly ignores his broken heart.

  ***

Their next meeting is the most mundane of them all. In truth, it’s so ordinary that Levi doesn’t quite believe it. It’s hard to call any of them ordinary after all.

There are no deaths this time, no war or diseases, or pain. They are common people with ordinary jobs and plain, devoid of any danger lives.

Levi is a simple office worker, who gets a job at Erwin’s firm after he helps him with solidifying a very important deal.

At his first day at job, Erwin gathers a committee meeting, so he can introduce Levi to his new coworkers.

It’s awkward as hell, and Levi feels like he’s a new boy at school. Considering that he’s almost pushing thirties, it’s a feeling he never thought he’d get to experience ever again.

He only half-listens to Erwin praise him and his past accomplishments , as his attention is more focused on his colleagues. They seem fine, but there is one person in particular who gets most his attention.

She wears a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and her hair is put up in some semblance of a pony-tail. She looks at him, not averting her eyes, even when he looks back. Levi glares at her, prompting her to turn away. It has a diametrically opposite effect, though. The bespectacled weirdo smiles and winks at him.

Levi rolls his eyes and scowls. What is she, a child?

  ***

She catches him just after the meeting is adjourned.

“Hello,” she draws, curving her lips into a wide grin. “Erwin has told me all about you. He’s very impressed,” she leans closer to him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Tell me your secret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Levi tries to push past her, but the four-eyed weirdo follows after him.

“He says you have incredible diplomatic skills.”

Levi barely resists the urge to scoff. Diplomatic skills his ass. The only reason why Erwin managed to sign off the deal he needed was because he took Levi with him and instructed him to make “the scariest face possible”.  

“Fuck off, four-eyes,” Levi flips her off, but she is unrelenting.

“C’mon! Don’t be like that!” Hange pouts. “I just want to know what you did to impress Erwin like that! I’ve been his councilor for almost three years, and he had never praised my diplomacy. Oh, how about that!” Hange grabs his arm and links their hands together. “I’ll treat you to dinner this evening, and you tell me about your secret deal with Erwin?”

“No,” Levi replies, shaking her off. Then he glances at her and raises an eyebrow. “A dinner? Are you trying to hit on me, four-eyes?”

“Why,” she asks, her voice and deep and husky. Levi feels his cheeks turn to red. “Is it working?”

“No,” he answers, even though he actively tries to fight off a smile.

“Please,” Hange whines. “Just one dinner!” she pauses, lifting her face and putting on a thoughtful expression. “And maybe drinks afterwards?”

“Aren’t you asking for too much, four-eyes?”

“Nah,” she says with an infuriating grin. “I know you will agree,”

Levi almost growls in frustration. He just met this weirdo, but she already reads him like a goddamned book. He wants to refuse, just to spite her. Something tells me she won’t back off that easily, though.

He sighs, admitting his defeat. “You’re paying for the dinner and drinks. And,” he raises a finger. “You’re going home to change your clothes. This thing,” he points at her shirt, “reeks.”

“Deal!” she beams. “I’m Hange, by the way,” she extends a hand to him.

“Levi,” he takes her hand in his. Her palm is calloused, but warm. Levi doesn’t want to let go. He does let go, though. There is already an abnormal standing next to him. He doesn’t want to join her ranks.

“Ah, Levi!” Hange puts an arm around his shoulder. “I get a feeling we’re off to a great start here!”

He doesn’t answer, but doesn’t push her away either. Maybe, that’s already an answer.

And as Hange starts leading him through the office, he can’t help but agree with her last words.

Maybe, this time it will finally work out, he thinks. Maybe, in this life they’ll be allowed to live happily.

[buglife]

Perhaps a meeting between Dadmaster and the White Lady?

“Do you think that they might be okay with taking students again?”

Mato thought for a moment, walking beside his child in the restored Royal Gardens. They were just enjoying the quiet sights for a while, when Ghost brought up the possibility of teaching nail arts to the guards and knights of the realm. The question was a surprising one, which for a moment worried the beetle that something may be going on that he wasn't being told about.

“They might be, why do you ask?” He leaned down to look Ghost in the eyes. “Are you worried about something?”

“I just...I can’t be everywhere at once, even as a god.” They admitted, averting their gaze as though ashamed of the fact. “I want my people to be protected, even If I can’t be there. I don’t need protecting, but they do.”

“Well, that’s a fine reason as any.” Mato answered with a reassuring tone to his voice, glad to hear that nothing nefarious was going on. It was just Ghost being Ghost, worried over everyone's safety again. “You indeed can’t be everywhere, and perhaps more people knowing the nail arts would be a boon to the kingdom.”

“I thought so too, but there’s only you, me, Uncle Oro and Sheo, and Grandpa Sly who know how to even teach it. I can’t teach everyone by myself.” They gestured to themselves and their current 'mortal' form. They were certainly not as large as their twin, Hollow, nore were they even tall enough to reach Mato's shoulder. Even being a god, they wouldn't be able to instantly teach a rather intensive and practice heavy technique like the nail arts. It would have to be done the old fashioned way with actual teaching. They were right, they couldn't do it all by themselves. They would need some help.

“Did you ask Sly about this?” Mato thoughtfully replied. “He was the one to teach us, after all. He’d be able to help you for sure.”

Ghost nodded their head. “I asked Grandpa Sly and he said, and I quote, “I trained enough kids, now I want to enjoy my goddamn retirement.”

“Then what did he say when you offered to pay him?” Mato crossed his arms and raised a brow, anticipating the answer.

“Where do I sign?” The void being snorted in amusement, shoulders shaking with the effort to not burst into outright laughter. Mato was not so reserved.

“HAHA! Of course that old miser would!” Mato bellowed a deep belly laugh and slapped Ghost so hard on the back it sent them stumbling a little. In the corner of his eye, he could see the posted guardsmen stiffen at the interaction. “To be honest, I think he also wants to be able to brag about being able to beat up knights and guardsmen all day without getting a treason charge.”

“That and I think Uncle Oro would be down with It too. He’s that kinda guy.” Ghost chirped, eyes now full of mirth. They didn’t seem to mind being bodily hauled around by their father, despite their status as a King. “He likes putting bugs who are a little too full of themselves back in their place, and I saw some of the new applicants. I think he’d do a lot of good here.”

Mato hummed in thought. Oro was very different from the rest of the brothers, and even Sly. He'd need special motivation and he wasn't always swayed by Geo. “What do you have in mind to get him out of his hovel and here in the city?”

“I think he wouldn’t mind if I offered to give him a private candy chef on call that I will employ.” They drummed their claws together, amused by their own cleverness. “I remember that he used to train me in exchange for honey I’d sneak out of the Hive. Imagine what he’d do for whatever sweets his heart desires that could be made on demand?”

“There’s my little tactician! That will get him for sure.” Mato beamed with pride, not like Ghost had to do much to get him to be proud of them to begin with. “Sheo I think might just be too busy with his husband right now for teaching beyond his art school.”

They nodded in response and smiled up at their father, who quickly reached down to give them a gentle noogie. They didn’t bother trying to escape and accepted their affection without so much of a flinch. Good. Mato released them after a chitin crushing hug and set them back on their feet.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” He asked softly, deciding to voice the thoughts he was having. It was one thing to feel pride for someone, it was another to let them know that you thought as such.

Ghost nodded, a bit of gray coloring the shell that made up their face, nudging a few pebbles with a foot. “I know, thanks Dad.”

He was about to comment further when a little dragonfly suddenly dropped out of the air and pancaked into the cobble stones below them. Both Nailmaster and King leapt backwards from the sudden noise and movement, drawing their nails together in a smooth motion through instinct alone. Then, when nothing outright attacked them, they took a second look.

It was a messenger to be sure. The dragonfly was wearing a bag and a hat that denoted them as a member of the messenger corps. At first Mato thought that the bug was injured from the crash, but the amount of scrapes and cuts alone couldn’t have been caused by just hitting stone. They wearily reached up to hold out a hemo-stained letter, somewhat reeling from the hit they took, antenna bent and crooked.

“Messenger Stikks, reporting with an urgent message from Kingdom’s edge!” The dragonfly slurred, struggling to focus enough to hold the letter out straight. They closed one eye and narrowed the other, adjusting their grip so that the letter was actually in front of Ghost and not a few feet to the left. “Antlion larvae have dug in from the wastes and they are everywhere!”

Ghost took the letter and read it quickly. Then read it again. They finally put the paper down and sighed, all the humor they had merely seconds ago sucked out by the reality of their station.

“Something the matter, my child? Do you need help?” Mato had yet to release his grip on his great nail, moving the other hand to rest it on their shoulder in an act of comfot.

Ghost shook their head with a huff of annoyance. “This wouldn’t be a problem if the coliseum would have just left the larvae alone. The letter is from the head Fool, apparently they caught a few, which then escaped, and now is tunneling under the arena and is causing sections to collapse on itself. They are requesting aid from me as per our treaty.”

“Well, they are called Fools for a reason.” Mato could only shrug at that. “Even I wouldn’t mess with a doodlebug.”

“...A what?”

“Just a nickname for them.” Mato bent over and picked up the dragonfly. “You alright son?” He looked the bug over. They were kind of smooshed and bent up, but it seemed like they’d be okay after getting some medical attention.

“Aye aye, sir!” The dragonfly saluted and missed, causing them to punch themselves in the head with a CRACK.

Mato was then holding a completely unconscious bug. He winced and waved over a guard, handing the poor bug over to be taken to the nearest doctor. Ghost was trying to not laugh, obviously feeling bad for the poor bug, but Mato had to admit it was kind of funny.

“You sure you don’t need help, Ghost?” Mato asked again, once the guard and dragonfly were gone. He focused hard with his dad powers to determine if Ghost was going to tell the truth. God King or not, they were still his kid and he’d be damned if he let them run off and get themselves hurt.

They shook their head. “No Dad, I will be fine. I’ll just have to pull out the larvae and then set them loose out in the wastes. Nobody else has to get hurt today.”

He nodded. “As long as you’ll be okay. I trust you to know your own limits.”

“I will.” They tilted their head up in a smile. “Feel free to wander around for a bit, I’ll be back soon and we can meet up with Quirrel and Hollow later for dinner.”

“Sounds good to me, come back safe.” He gave them a short hug and a pat to the back.

They nodded and stepped back, suddenly dissolving into liquified void, seeping into the stonework and vanishing from view. It was a very blink and you miss it type action for sure. Teleporting was different from bug to bug, but Ghost sure did know how to make and exit when they needed to make one quick. Soon the last bits of excess void evaporated and not a single trace was left behind that the King was even standing there. Well, with nothing else to do but wait, he decided to take their advice and take a look around. After the palace was built over top of the old one, the gardens were also revitalized. A lot of work had been put into the place and once things were green and blooming again, it was opened up for the public. It was fairly peaceful and offered a lot of nice spots to simply sit and reflect should one want to.

He decided that perhaps the best thing to do was to find such a spot and meditate for a while. Ghost had given him quite a bit of information to consider. The idea of teaching the nail arts to the next generation of warriors was a interesting one and he wasn’t quite sure how to implement such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a school would have to be made. He’d have to talk to his own father and brothers as well about it. Perhaps a solution would come to him once he emptied his mind for a while.

He walked around gardens, looking for a quiet spot for Ghost to find him later, when he was stopped by a sight that made him question his vision. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes, but he still saw the same figure that used to be everywhere before the infection began.

The White Lady sat on a stone bench, idlily watering a patch of flowers using a simple watering can. Mato could see no finery on her or any mark of a station beyond a civilian on her person. She was dressed simply in white robes, the roots on her head curled up and branching outwards in a mess of tiny white leaves and petals. She didn’t seem to notice him, giving the flowers on the ground a drink as she hummed to herself, her eyes closed in either thought or contentment.

To be honest, it Mato didn’t quite know what to think at first. Most of the citizens of Hallownest gave little thought to their previous Queen. Before Hollow was even locked into the temple, she had fled her people and her home to wall herself within her personal gardens, taking one of the great knights with her. When it was clear that Hollow wasn’t going to be able to hold back the wrath of the Radiance, the King also fled, abandoning the kingdom to their fate. Most remembered this, and cared little about the fates of the rulers who vanished during the kingdom’s darkest hour, leaving the common bug to fend for themselves with no leadership and no help.

They weren’t remembered fondly, regulated to history books and a cautionary tales of pride and cowardice.

It was only years of training that kept him from fully succumbing to rage. How dare she! How dare she sit here all pretty in the palace gardens, like she never allowed the king to murder their own children and abandoned every bug that looked up to her when things didn’t work out perfectly? The same lady who annexed an entire section of another people’s land for her own personal gardens? The same Lady that sat a scant few meters away from the home of those she most hurt?

And why was she here? From what he understood, Ghost did not like her one bit. Even gentle and sweet Hollow only recalled moments with her to be painful and refused to further elaborate on the matter. He got most of the story from Ghost, and what he heard made him livid. He often wondered what he would say to the former king and queen should he meet them again, and now he was being presented with such an opportunity.

He took a few deep breaths. As far as he knew, she was no longer his Queen nor any sort of authority over him anymore. He would get a few answers, no, he demanded them.

He approached her, no longer masking the noise of his movements as his boots crunched a few discarded dead leaves. She paused in her humming and turned her face to fix her startling blue eyes on him. Mato stared back, unafraid and resolute. She balked slightly from the force of his stare, but composed herself by sitting up and gently smiling down on him.

“Hello.” She said, her voice soft and whispery, like a breeze through the leaves of a willow tree. “How can I help you?”

“What are you doing here.” Mato demanded. The question was short and very much to the point.

“Me? Well, my child-”

“They are not your child.” Mato hissed, cutting off her words with an enraged snarl. “You don’t get to call them that, not after what you and the pale bastard  did to them!”

She seemed taken aback for a moment, narrowing her eyes as her roots shuddered, before she seemed to slump into herself. She turned her head away for a moment, taking in an audible breath as she turned it back to glance back at the Nailmaster. “You act as if I don’t regret what we were forced to do.”

“You always had a choice.” Mato countered. “You could have done anything other than let thousands of your children lay dead at the bottom of the abyss. Have you even gone down there to see them? Offer some sort of rites like any parent would do for their deceased children?”

“It does not matter, Ghost has-”

“King  Ghost.” He once again corrected her. Only family got to refer to them by their name alone and fiercely guarded such a privilege. Especially since they had to pick their own name. The Lady and the King didn't even feel it fitting to give them something as simple as a name.

“Yes." She sighed, "King Ghost has informed me that their siblings besides Hollow now reside within the void... at rest, which is now a part of them. Empty rites and platitudes will not bring them back, nor erase what I have...what we have done.”

Mato stared at her for a moment, scanning her face and body for any hint of lies or manipulation. To his surprise, he found none, just an old woman who was full of regrets.

“Then why are you here?” He finally spoke and crossed his arms in front of him. “My child obviously knows that you are here, why let you in? You told them to kill their own sibling and take their place in a plan that already failed, just to hold the mad goddess at bay for a scant few more years while you could still hide in the Gardens and play pretend. Why?” He could barely keep the fury from his voice as he spoke. He could see her flinch with each accusation, her eyes blurring with what might be tears, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that was he was saying was impacting her in some way, and he was happy for that at least.

She was silent for a moment, the roots and branches that made up her head curling in on themselves and shuddering slightly. A few leaves and petals dropped to the stones below and rapidly lost their otherworldly shimmer. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

Mato narrowed his eyes behind the hard shell of his mask. “You gottah be shitting me.”

“I speak the truth.” She shifted in her seat so she could face him fully. “All I know, is that one day, King Ghost arrived where I have made my exile. They commanded me to unroot myself. I could sense the brand on them, the pieces of my husband and I that made them, and the spark of a higher power, so I obeyed. It took time to unroot myself, but once I did they commanded me to unbind myself and to come with them.” She paused a moment to look up, as thought remembering a feeling or a snippet of a memory. “I had diminished myself, made myself weak. I could no longer see, so they commanded that I reside here to recover. I did so, and when I saw them for the first time I was astonished and humbled. I had believed that perhaps that they would take revenge and have me executed or banish me to the wastes, but... they did not. Instead, they told me that I will do what I was meant to do and I was not permitted to run away again.”

Mato was silent, listening as the White Lady spoke, watching her face as it went through a range of emotions. Regret, bitterness, elation, joy, shame...all flickered through her pale face and shimmering eyes.

“My sentence was to bring life back to the kingdom, as it was my duty long before the Pale Wyrm even chose Hallownest to rebirth himself in. I would, as they put it, ‘have to clean up my mess’ and I have been doing as such.”

“I did notice everything get greener.” Mato muttered. He had noticed the yields from the farms were also quite abundant and rich. The kingdom should have gone through a period of famine as they rebuilt, but there was food. Nothing refined at the beginning, but nobody went hungry. “Was that you?”

She nodded, serene as she put her watering can to the side. She lifted one of her roots from the ground, leaving a neat little hole that she dropped a single seed into. “Yes, I am a goddess of life and fertility, it brings me joy to know that life has begun anew.”

“Are you a prisoner here, then?” He looked, but saw no chains, no shackles, and not even the delicate weave of spells or magic. Nothing that could force her to stay here.

“Goodness no.” She shook her head, eyes curled up in slight amusement. “There is not a place I could run that my ch….my king could not find me. Nore do I expect that they are such a god to begin with. I am here as they said, to clean up my own mess. Nothing more, and nothing less. I have been given my own home here.” She gestured to a cottage nestled in among the trees, just barely out of sight, most likely for her own privacy. “I have no need to leave, nore am I under duress. I simply am.”

Mato’s rage was beginning to cool somewhat. From what he understood, his child had decided to grow beyond the pettiness and childish ways of the former higher powers, and instead, enact rather wise and mature decisions. With a start, he realized that he may have had a hand in that decision. He thought back to a moment, a scant couple years ago when rebuilding hasn’t even started yet.

“Dad?” Ghost asked. They had just had their first molt, resting their now slightly bigger body against their twin sibling. Hollow was in bed, their head and body haven just gotten new fresh bandages. It had been only a bare few months after the death of the Radiance, and Ghost had had some time to sit and think about their situation.

Of course both of the void siblings were a mess after the final battle, and Mato had commandeered an empty home in Dirtmouth to care for them both. Herrah had awoken from her slumber and was there to care for Hornet, but she had Deepnest to restore. Hornet jumped back and forth between both homes, bringing honey from the Hive and silken bandages in the effort to bring Hollow back to some semblance of wellness.

“Yes, my child?” Mato had adopted Hollow instantly, the poor injured bug still was very much a child despite being the tallest bug they’ve ever seen. He coaxed Hollow into opening their mouth and letting him stick another spoonful of light broth inside. He patted them gently when they did, helping them get ready for the next spoonful.

“How did you learn to forgive Uncle Oro?” Ghost was staring at their new set of arms, clenching and unclenching their hands. They tripped over their new telepathy a few times, but they were able to be understood. Mato stayed steady enough to get another spoon of sustenance in his largest child, but was quite surprised by the question.

“That’s quite a question, Ghost. What suddenly brought this on?”

Ghost was silent for a few moments and Mato gave them time to get their thoughts together. Hollow tried a chirp of encouragement, but Mato tapped them on the snoot. No chirping, only soup for the moment. They harrumphed and took another spoonful, which earned them a nice rub to sooth the healing cracks in their face.

“Uncle Oro hurt you and Uncle Sheo, really bad.” Ghost started. “But now, you are all okay again. How did that happen? What do you do when someone hurts you, but you don’t want to be hurt by them anymore?”

Ah, there it was. No doubt this had something to do with the sibling’s awful, awful parents. He didn’t want to accidentally poison his child with his own bad memories, nor the awfulness of why the situation actually happened in the first place. Instead, he decided to be completely honest.

“Well, Sheo and I were hurt, yes. We took space for ourselves to sort out our feelings. By then, the infection was in full swing and we didn’t know how the other was doing. When you let us know that all three of us were still alive, that’s when we knew there was a chance.”

Ghost looked up, tilting their head backwards so they didn’t have to get up from where they where lounging. “A chance?”

“Yes, the only time a chance to fix something between someone is gone, is when they are gone themselves. When we realized that we were all still alive, I knew that a chance still existed to get my brothers back.”

Ghost nodded, listening closely. Hollow subtly curved their head to listen as well, and Mato suddenly found himself with the full undivided attention of two children. He would have to choose his words carefully

“So, a few weeks ago, we both went to see Oro, and we talked. We talked about how we hurt each other. We talked about how we were sorry. We talked about how we can improve ourselves and move on. In the end, we decided to give each other a chance again, at least for one last time. Obviously, Oro wanted to be back with us again, because we worked it all out. We missed each other a lot, so I found that we could forgive each other and start again.”

“Uncle Oro is still really grumpy though…” Ghost added as an after thought.

“Oro was always a grumpy little bastard, that hasn’t changed.” Mato laughed. “ What changed however, is that we realized what we all did to cause the problem in the first place, and apologized. Now it’s just letting time go by to heal the wounds and give everyone a fresh chance again.”

“That’s it? Just time and a chance?” Ghost tilted their head to the side, eye’s narrow as they did their best to grasp the concept. Hollow moved their head just enough to give their smaller sibling a nuzzle. Ghost sighed and shifted so that they could hug Hollow back with nuzzle of their own, melting into the cuddle pile.

“If you think they are worthy of a second chance, than yeah. If not, than don’t give them a third.” Mato stopped assaulting Hollow with soup for the moment, letting them have a bit of a break for a cuddle. He took the time to look over the bandaged socket where their left arm used to be. He’ll have to ask Sheo and Smith if they could do something about that. "It's up to you to even consider giving that chance. If you don't want to, nobody is going to blame you for that. It's your decision alone and nobody can force you to do otherwise." He waggled the spoon at Ghost to further get his point across, as well as a subtle unspoken 'I will beat anyone who tells you otherwise with this spoon'.

“Thanks, Father.” Ghost looked up, eyes shining with resolve. “I think I know what to do now.

“They are giving you a second chance.” Mato spoke aloud once he finished with his memory, startling the White Lady with the suddenness of his voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t..” She looked confused by it all, looking Mato up and down as though he suddenly went crazy.

“They are giving you a second chance to be in their life. Both theirs and Hollows.” Mato’s voice took on a hard edge again as he pointed to her. “They are deciding if you are going to hurt them again, as they are not going to give you a third chance.”

“You mean...they’d want me to be…” her eyes widened and glistened with moisture, speaking some delicate hope that still resided within her. Mato knew he could never understand her particular pain, nore did he feel like she even deserved to have that hope after all this time, but that was not his decision to make.

“I don’t think they want you as their mother.” Mato took no joy over crushing that bit of hope, but she needed to know the truth. “After all this time, I don’t think they can let you be that intimate with them, at least for a very long time. Of course I’m speaking of Ghost, not Hollow. But for Ghost, I would shoot for just being a friend, someone they can trust again. Maybe it can evolve into something else besides that, but who knows what the future can hold."

"It is clear that you do not like me, or approve of my presence here at all. So why tell me this?" She bent her head down to regard Mato as though searching for the punchline to a cruel joke.

"Because it's the truth, and yes, I don't like you one bit, but the ones Ghost choose to be in their life is not up to me. If they want to give you a chance along with Hollow, than so be it. It's their life, not mine. BUT..." He stopped slouching and pulled himself up to his full height. "If you hurt them again, either of them, I will make you regret that. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "I do."

"Good, then we have nothing more to discuss." He turned on his heel and left, not even giving her a wayward glance as he left her behind. He could have dragged more answers from her for sure. Even if they only needed one vessel for the plan, they could have taking in the 'rejected' ones and cared for them. Was she even there when the selection was taken place? Did she also leave Ghost to fell back into the abyss, never to see light again for years, maybe decades? Too many questions, and he doubted he'd get satisfying answers to any of them. Perhaps for now, it was best to let it go. Ghost or Hollow will bring it up on their own time and he would do what he always did, be there when they needed it. He loved them, even if it was later in their lives than he wanted it to be.

He wished he could have been there from the beginning. How different would they have turned out if he could have scooped them up at their hatching and carried them away to raise and love? All of them, not just those two, every single cracked shell in the abyss belonged to an individual child. He didn't know how, but he figured he'd have enough love for them all if needed. Perhaps he was feeling jealous that she could have had that, but chose to throw it and her own children away instead.

Too many feeling and not enough answers. He needed to get some meditation done and sort himself out before Ghost came to find him again. It wouldn't do for them to see him angry and conflicted like he was. He marched along until he found a nice, quiet section of the gardens and sat. He folded his legs under himself and let his cloak fall around him, emptying his mind and falling deep into the calming waves of meditation. He let the feelings come and wash over him, letting himself experience them without becoming consumed. The memories and the experiences were neatly sorted as he pulled himself together where he'd be able to experience them again should he wish to. Soon, there was nothing but calm. Everything was in it's right place and Mato let himself drift away into the nothingness and soothe his heart.

He started back into reality when he felt a tug on his cloak. He instinctively looked down where he expected a tiny void creature to be tugging on his cloak, looking for hugs. When he didn't see them down there, he looked up to see his grown child tugging on his cloak, eyes curled up in amusement.

"Hey Dad," they said with a giggle. "Sorry to wake you, but I'm back."

"That you are." Mato replied with a 'smile' of his own, standing up to stretch. He must have been sitting for a while, as his legs began to buzz with pins and needles as he worked the numbness out. "How did it go?"

"Well. The larvae were moved with no more injuries. The Fools will have to fix their own coliseum, since it was their fault it got damaged in the first place." Ghost giggled again, something amusing must have happened, and no doubt they were saving it for dinner later.

"Let me guess, there's more too that?"

They nodded, vibrating slightly. "Yes, but I want Quirrel and Hollow to hear it too. They'll get a kick out of it and you'd spoil it if I told you now."

"Then let's not keep them waiting." Mato mock bowed. "After you, your majesty."

"Dadddd noooo." They waved their hands around, trying to get him to stand again. "That's embarrassing! Monomon doesn't do that!"

"She isn't allowed to bow because it gives her cover to get smoke bombs out of her veil without getting caught." He countered with a laugh.

Ghost just sighed dramatically and grabbed his hand, dragging him off towards the palace where dinner and company awaited. Mato found that he couldn't stop laughing, letting his child drag him around just for the fact that he could.

It was then he realized that he pitied the White Lady. All these little moments she willfully gave up, never to experience it for the foreseeable future. It struck him as very sad that she would give up such a thing, but he decided there was no use in trying to understand why.

After all, he would be too busy coming up with ways to spoil his own children, and that thought would consume most of his days, as It should be.

---

Heyo another request down!!! Next up will be SIBLING DAY!!!

Also antlion larvae are terrifying, but the fact that they have 'doodlebugs' as their nickname is strangely endearing.

I feel neutral about the white lady. Yes she willfully participated in the plan and no in no way innocent, but boy did she make herself suffer for it. Hence here, Ghost gave her a chance to just be who she was before, just god doing god things, without having to balance a kingdom. She just has to help clean up the mess she left her kids to deal with and can't run away when the going gets tough again. To be honest, I feel like she's a lot happier now to just have her nice little private cabin in the gardens with no royal responsibilities and the hope that one day she may have more than a professional relationship with Ghost and Hollow.

Hollow knows she is there, but is working through their own feelings before they decide on what to do about it. They love her so much but remembers the pain in being constantly rejected and treated as though they were already dead by her. It's complicated, but there are therapists in the kingdom now and that will help over time.

[namgee]

implications | knj

❥pairing: Namjoon x Reader (f)   ❥genre: fluff, slice of life (pg) ❥word count: 2.3k ❥summary: The adventurer life isn’t for you. You like your routines and you stick to them, but a small mess-up finally forces you beyond your desired level of social interaction as you rely on a stranger. A stranger whose actions and words imply things you wish to explore. ❥warnings: none  ❥a/n: this was just a quick little thing I wrote a few days ago before I got started on another smut fic which should come out in about a week 😋 ^^ I did a quick proofread so sorry for any mistakes 😣

A silence that sounds with turning pages, graphite scraping against thick paper and the ever present hums that arise from thought. Your ears anticipate it even before you're there. It’s, for the most part, the same soundscape you’ve grown accustomed to since you started visiting the art atelier. Well, the building technically has multiple ateliers, whatever your artistic interest, for a reasonable fee each month, you can visit the space and use their resources. Each floor focuses on certain subject areas, people are allowed to move around and work wherever they want. Like a Google workspace except for the arts.

You usually stick to the 4th floor, where most of the graphics tools are. The elevator dings, you step away from the metallic box and towards the senior part-time receptionist, Diane, who gives unsolicited artistic advice under the guise that old age equates to prowess in art criticism. The advice isn’t half as bad as you expected still, you rarely take it. You place your folder on the desk giving her a smile, teeth barely visible, it’s the best iteration of ‘a lady should always smile when talking to others’ smile you can muster with your lips chapped from the borderline glacial air you had to walk through this afternoon.

“Well, hello young lady! You haven’t visited the establishment in a while. Mateo has been asking about you actually.”

Mateo is the head of the graphic art department who you might or might not like, there’s still a few weeks left for you to decide. Your roommate, Jovian, had given you the ultimatum, “You have until you finish whatever creature you’re trying to collage together this time around,” she had said waving her half painted stiletto nail around before diverting her attention to another girl who also seemed to be having a hard time choosing as her family and in laws attempted to decide for her. On one thing you were sure, you would have said no to the dress she had on.

“There we have it! That’s a much better smile that one you gave before. It’s always best to show some teeth,” Diane says, her two row of teeth (some of which look awfully fake) in full display.

“I’ll sure think about it next time Diane. I’m just here to check in right now,” you sigh, removing your decaying gloves which have lost their purpose, your fingers are about as stale as Diane’s as you fish around for your membership card in your wallet.

“The time please darling.”

“3pm to 8pm,” you say blowing warm air into your palms.

It takes a few minutes for her to find your name in the system. “Oh sweetheart, it seems someone else already took your spot.”

“Exactly how did they take my spot?”

“Hmmm,” Diane’s eyes lift upwards as she tries to find an answer in the air, “to be quite frank with you I do not know.” She sounds shocked that she doesn’t know something.

“Uh, excuse me?” Someone questions from behind you. You both turn towards the voice coming from a golden haired man sporting what is most likely the best variant of the fully toothed lady smile Diane advocates for. To make matters even better it’s shaped like a heart. “I believe that I was the one who took the spot.” he giggles nervously as if caught red-handed before sliding his own card onto the desk.

You assume he’s here to work with graphics for some sort of fashion related purpose, in fact he sort of looks like the graphics plastered around the building: colourful, bold, warm but still a bit overwhelming.

“You’re indeed the one who booked the slot first, young man.”

“I believe that this is what the trainer for my position was referring to as a glitch in the system.” Diane says with an air of pride.

“Hm, sorry about that,” The human embodiment of a colour wheel says with an apologetic pout.

“Oh, don’t worry I’m sure I can find another place, it isn’t your fault,” you wave your hand around giving him your second or third genuine smile of the day. He mumbles a shy ‘okay’ before heading right, away from you.

“Can you see if there’s any place on the other floors?” You reluctantly ask, after all you had never gone to other floors unless it was to buy snacks because the queues on the 4th floor were too long or to find unoccupied bathrooms.

Diane finds you an opening for the floor above. You thank her and move back to catch the elevator doors right before they close, swiftly slipping in towards a surprised figure, a big figure. You mumble a quick apology after bumping into him. When you turn your head to look at him he gives you what you assume to be his own equivalent of the barely noticeable smile you gave Diane a few minutes ago.

The ride takes a few seconds. You rush out the second the opening of the doors is big enough for you slip past if you just take a deep breath in. Another second goes by where you feel disoriented. The floor layout is not that different from the one beneath but the place looks far more cramped than what you expected. Don’t writers like to be alone? In their own space?

You watch as Mr. Big gives yet another one of his glances, you haven’t figured out how to describe them yet, you don’t know if you’re being judged or just being perceived or whatever it is that writers do.

He goes to the right, so you take the other way. You peruse the space for a place you could sit down to work on your project. Somehow, the writers with their notebooks and laptops seem stingy about letting you settle down despite how packed the floor already is.

For every glance you take at a potential working spot you receive three glances and these ones you know to be of the judgy kind. You walk and walk only to end up on square one. Just to make sure, you do another round and another one as if you were in a full parking lot waiting for one of the cars to magically pull out for you to get a place. By your third tentative walk, the one where you put the most effort to seem approachable and nice, someone takes pity on you.

It seems it’s not only his stature that is big but so is his heart.

“Oh god, thank you!” You sigh, sliding into Mr. Big’s little corner which faces backwards from the café.

“It was starting to look... sad.” He gives you a brief look before focusing back on his laptop screen.

“It wouldn’t have been, if you writers were more welcoming,” you scoff, shrugging off your jacket, the rustling brings your actions to his focus.

A delicate slender hand pushes against his glasses as he leans back, “You’re quite the daredevil, huh?”

“What? Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know, slipping past closing elevator doors and sitting down to probably do something noisy with a lot of... “ He takes a look at your stash of materials, “things while surrounded by silence seeking writers. Those things make me say that.”

“That’s a very boring view on action. Also the concept of this building is literally to allow anyone to work anywhere.”

“Sure, you’re right but just because that’s their goal doesn’t mean it turns out that way. This place is no different from high school, certain spaces have been sort of ‘claimed’.”

“And you expect me to act like a good teenage girl and not start trouble?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Aren’t you a writer? You should know certain words can imply certain things,” you say matter of factly and receive a disjointed but delightful laugh as his hand fists to cover his wide smile.

“Anything else you know about writers that you would like to share?”

“You might end up making a character out of me, or a scene out of my situation.” You’re playing on stereotypes but for all you know they could be true. You lay out your material on the table forcing him to scoot a bit. He doesn’t protest and you appreciate that, so you give me a genuine tight lipped ‘thank you’ smile.

“So what are you doing?” He asks, lowering his computer screen a bit.

“A collage.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t really know yet. I’m just figuring it out as I go.” You stare at the big pile of magazines, newspapers and flyers you managed to collect over the past month. Something has to come out of it. “What about you?”

“Pretty similar actually, I just came here to write, figuring it out as I go you know.” He picks up a piece of paper nearest to him, a green flyer. “Do you even know what it says?” He holds it up to you. The text is in Arabic.

“No, I don’t.”

“Wouldn’t you want to know? I mean the work will be tied to you.” He questions.

“It doesn't matter, it’s not like anyone will see this,” you mumble, snatching the flyer from him.

“Someone should, I don’t know much about collages, actually I know nothing, but I like what I see so far.”

“What exactly do you see?” You probe.

“Ummm… uhhhh… it’s– there’s branches and,” he leans over to get a better look and hesitates “tentacles? Okay, so maybe I don’t know what it is, but I still stand by it. It’s nice to look at.”

“Would you give it as a gift to someone?” You probe even further.

“You know what, I’m just trying to tell you I like it. Like I would totally buy it! So yes, I would give it to someone, myself!” He has an overly cheery voice that encourages more glances your way. The more you look, the more you start thinking they’re watching you and not judging.

“How much?”

He gives you an incredulous expression, he seems both intrigued and confused with behaviour.

You snort a short laugh, “I’m just messing with you. But don’t get me wrong if you do want to buy it then I’m definitely taking offers.”

At that he retreats back into himself and his silence to focus on the blank document page. You shrug it away, you knew his words were too good to be true.

The two of you work in relative silence, your ripping and cutting does add a bit of a soundtrack for the period of time. After an hour or so of working, you move to buy a cinnamon bun, and while you’re at it you buy a second one. You did feel a bit apologetic for disturbing his workspace, you of all people should know.

You place his plate beside him but he’s too engrossed into his writing to provide any response. He does finally whisper a shy ‘thanks’ once he lifts his gaze from the screen. You answer with a nonchalant but truthful ‘no biggie’.

The hours bleed into themselves and soon enough your allocated time is about to run out. You’re quite used to that routine,packing up your material well in time to leave. However, the man in front of you doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of time. Last minute, he hurries to assemble his belongings, swiftly turning around to check that he hasn’t left anything behind, almost knocking down the plate that you manage to catch.

Your elevator ride to the bottom floor is as silent as the one you had earlier. You walk with synchronised strides somehow following the same way after you leave the building. You’re sure one of you is following the other, but as long as you’re concerned you’re taking the way back home. You walk in silence for a few more minutes before you think of asking him where he lives, just to make sure but he beats you to speaking.

“So uhhh, would–” he starts off in a high pitched voice which he masks with a cough, “I meant, would you like to grab a coffee?”

“At 8pm?” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Or a drink?” He suggests.

“What does coffee or a drink mean?”

“I thought you were good at getting the implications of certain words.” He smirks, which seems out of character, but then again you don’t know him. You’re just curious about something first.

“What did you end up writing?”

“A short story about an avid museum visitor that discovers a collage at an exhibition that has him intrigued.” He chuckles knowing very well it just proves your point. And you smile satisfied to have finally figured out what that particular glance of his meant. He was just taking you in.

“It’s Y/N by the way,” you would have reached out your hand towards him but they’re cold so you compensate with a warm smile Diane would approve of. “And I wouldn’t mind a drink right now.”

“I’m Namjoon and I’m very happy you said that” He punctuates his excitement with a dimple. The same one you would come to grow enamoured with, so much you would make a collage piece out of all the pictures you’ve taken where it is present. In return, he would, just as he did today, unconsciously and deliberately write your works into his stories, and welcome you into his space.

“By the way, when you let me sit with you in your space, were you claiming me then?” You ask out of curiosity and urge to mess with him.

“I– I don’t know what you’re implying. But if you mean me taking pity on you then yes.” You scoff a bit too loud at his response. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to whatever it is you have in mind,” He says, looking down at your quizzical expression with warm eyes and a restrained laugh as he walks closer to you. It seems you’re not the only one who’s good with implications.

thank you for reading my fic, i hope you enjoyed it 🥺 any feedback or comment is welcomed !!

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