#my mind is beyond repair they are literally the reason why i draw AT ALL

[kaiserouo]

wip

i like that side look eye too much i need to spread this to the world

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Into The Thick of It (2)

Loki x Female Reader

Chapter 2: The God

Series Summary: Her work as an agriculturist nearly takes the readers life is not for a stranger (and his weird looking dog) who later turns out to be the God of Mischief. Thrown into a completely different realm, you want to figure out a way home while trying to stay out of the way of this literal God. But fate has its own plans for the two of you.

Written for @tarithenurse and her #Taris1Kchallenge

Warnings: sexist remarks

Word Count: My jaw is selectively pounding now that my wisdom tooth is out and the stitches are in place. It feels so weird because its not like you can simply scratch an itch or around the itch in some way.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"How does this look?" Zaira is holding up a green dress that goes down to your toes in length. You give the deep shade a once over and turn back to your laptop. "Meh." Zaira tsks. "I mean-" you breathe and give your attention to your friend- "it's okay. For you. For me?" You shake your head and shrug before trying to discreetly get back to the screen. "Bullshit. You look amazing in green." You try to find the mouse on the screen. "Are you sure?" The question is bland. "Of course! No one can carry this like you! And for the sake of all things holy, stop looking at your death again and again!" Your brows furrow at the statement, turning back to Zaira, who still stands there with the green dress, except for one thing- the usual workspace of white and grey is now replaced with an eerily familiar dark forest with trees trying to touch the sky. "What?" It is nothing more than a whisper, this word erupting from your lips at the change in scenery. Your mind is at the edge of a realisation waiting to erupt when your hand feels an unwelcoming heat. The immediate reaction is to get your arm away from the laptop, or at least that is what you think you are doing considering the last saved spot of this occurrence in your memory. But there is no laptop. No chairs or tables.  Just a bonfire in front of you and your hands covered in blood and tied in ropes tearing through your flesh. And beyond that fire are figures in the dark chanting verses that are alien to your ears. But just as the chanting grows louder, you can feel a cloud of dread begin to loom of your heart; growing bigger by the second. Zaira! You are screaming her name but your voice isn't audible and you cannot see her anywhere either. Zaira!! You call out for her again when the figures seem to be getting closer to you, the anxiety in your chest beginning to hurt even more.  ZAIRA!!!

The loudness of her name in your conscience jerks you awake with the dread transported straight out of your hallucination. Still breathless and sweating from the nightmare, your head pounds at the sudden jump to the reality of finding yourself lying under a fur skin as heavy as you inside what seemed like a tent. From where you lay, the roof is a muddy beige colour dense enough to block sun or rain. Turning your head to your right, you can see a side table housing a copper goblet along with a copper jug. I hope to the Gods that water. I don't care if it's laced with poison at this moment. Turning to your left you are taken a little back to see familiar golden eyes staring from the copper jug back at you, so close that that saliva ridden tongue could lick you if it wanted. "Hi," you greet the familiar creature from the night of your nightmare, your heart still trying to dilute, resting by your side. The creature tilts its neck a little before you can see its tail rise up and swing from side to side. Such a doggo. You try to get up- with much effort, thanks to this animal duvet weighing just as much or maybe more than you- and breathe the cold air around you. Even though the anxiety of this recent incident is still looming around you in the corners you don't want to look at, it is a relief to feel the quiet around you. And the weird doggo looking at you seems to make those corners lighter, convincing your heart that it all ended not so bad at some point. Moving the fur duvet off you to get to the water on your side, you suddenly find yourself quickly putting the fur back on at the momentary realisation of something major amiss, bringing back all that anxiety that was watching you from the corners. "Where the fuck are my clothes?" you whisper right at the doggo despite knowing that poor thing can only swing its tail whenever you look at it. "They were tattered beyond repair." The voice immediately brings your duvet up to your chin before your eyes dart towards the entrance in front of you. No fucki-oh. A woman with skin paler than the pale described for Bella from Twilight stands at the entrance of the tent with a bunch of warm clothing. Her eyes carry a hint of grey and muddy green in them. She takes it upon herself to have already gotten permission to walk towards your side and place the clothes she has got in front of you before going back to secure the entrance. "You were fortunate to be alive in those deadly woods of the dark," she mentions while taking a thermos out of her dress and pouring the contents in the bowl kept on the makeshift table; all the while with her back towards you. You, still cautious of the eyes around you, slowly snuck the clothes inside the duvet to put them on. Only when putting them on, you realise the lack of a bra or panties; just a loose cotton camisole in their stead. ...okay. Maybe they didn't know my size. You look back at the woman busying herself around the tent. All you can see is the huge- and seemingly heavy- overcoat made out of an animal. Or maybe they...don't have the resources? Great, Y/N. Go be a judgmental b for the people who saved your life. The gown is a deep blue shade that neatly wraps around your shape and is put in place with the hooks, the last step being securing it all with the one string tied in what only you would call a bow. "So, it was you who saved me last night?" The woman brought you a bowl with steaming hot stew, bursting out in laughter on hearing your question. You stand there watching her immediately suppress the laughter as if she had been caught red-handed for a grave crime. "My apologies for what you just saw. It was not me who saved you." And before you can ask who it was, the woman gathers a wide bowl filled with water, a couple of hand towels and two bowls of what looked like homemade ointments, and walks out of the tent. You are about to go thinking about the materials that woman just took away when the only being you are familiar with, gets up from the bed, jumps down and struts out of the tent. "Wait...don't leave me," you whimper in a low tone, gathering a bit of strength to walk out right behind him. . The clearing in the forest has been turned into a camp with soldiers bustling in any direction you look. Swords, bows and arrows are being used for practice in one corner and the same are being mended in the other. Helmets akin to the ones Vikings wore can be seen on top of many heads. So can the undercut and braids. "Is this a cosplay fair?" you ask the one guy who passes by close to you. He is nearly the same height as you, but with a lush red beard and hazel eyes.  He- and his two friends- observes you from head to toe, almost making you realise how out of place you already look. "This is a war camp, missy. One where you have no reason staying." You mock a laugh at the audacity of this person. "I will decide the reason for my stay myself...boy." You start to walk away, trying to find any familiar figure in this quite realistic cosplay village. But last you remembered, there has been no such fair going on in the vicinity of that cursed town. A heated hand captures your arm and forces you to turn around. A wince comes out of you and flashes of that gory incident move before your eyes. Especially the face of that man. The Viking guy takes a step towards you, not letting go of your hand in the first wank. "Sigmund! Who is this wench with a quick mouth?" Sigmund, the taller of the three men, with bulky features and a sharp nose huffed. "Someone who needs to learn her place, Kare." "Aye," the last of the three speaks, "she does not look like help. Not in that silk she wears." Kare smirks through that unruly beard of his. "Why, are you that prince's mistress then, lassy? Is that why you came out from those royal tents, eh?" Kare turns towards his lads to laugh, who had slowly gathered now to watch the show, giving you something new to be anxious about. Agni, on the other hand, makes his way through this crowd to come and stand next to you, observing the situation. "Fucking dogs," you whisper under your breath- which you are trying your best to stop from trembling- and begin to walk away again but Kare is already hopping in your path. "Why in such a hurry, my lady?" He bows and turns towards his lads to let his words be heard by everyone "Give us unworthy lads a chance to find out how well you warm the royal beds, eh?" But the 'lads' seem to be having a sudden seizure. Either that or the joke did not seem to register. A sudden movement behind you and all the eyes staring past you assure you in your heart that it is the former one. "Your lads do not seem to find that funny, Kare." A voice not too deep but certainly somewhere right under the surface with a weight that can be felt in your bones, speaks from right behind you, freezing you where you stand. It takes some time for you to turn around and look at the source of the voice. And once you do, you realise how tall this man stands. His pale skin is radiant and his features sharp. You could draw straight lines just by referencing his cheekbones. His black hair- perhaps the only one with black hair in this cosplay fair- is neatly braided in braids at each side and the rest of the hair left open. What shampoo does he use? "I pity your mother and sister," this man continues, "for meeting your lads in an alley someday and being asked the same question." He does not stir his gaze from Kare, constantly piercing through that man's existence without so much as a smile.  "Apologies, your grace." Your grace?  You turn to watch Kare and his buddies drop their heads down and then it hits you. Your grace?!!! Your head whips around with the air of surprise as you watch this man in a new light. I mean, yeah, he kinda looks like a...'your grace'. "It is not me you should be apologising to." He doesn't even blink. He is as stoic as a boulder and everyone here revolves around him. "Apologies...my lady." The words bring you out of the trance that this man's face has created for you and you turn to watch Kare bow to you along with his 'lads'. "Ansa!" the man calls out for someone, finally turning to look at you. You have to catch your breath when those green eyes bore into you, the stare not too piercing and neither too soft. Just balanced. But damn the skies for it is making you lose your balance somewhere inside you. "Yes, my lord," the familiar lady comes out of the crowd to stand before him with her head low. "How is the weather today?" He simply puts the question. Within seconds you realise what the question really is about. You try your best to stand still in this chilly weather despite the sun high in the sky but it is as if he can smell the chill off you. "It's cold my l-" she realises it too, running to the nearest tent to grab a fur coat just like her Lord's and put it gently on your shoulders. "My apologies, my lady. Apologies, my lord." "Are the armies ready for the west front, Aren?" "Yes, your grace. Two battalions are ready to march to the mountains. They wait for my signal." Aren, a tall ginger with soft features gives a warm smile when you look in his direction. "Very well. Go for it then." And with that command, Aren walks to the space vacating in front of you, spreads his arms and transforms into an eagle to fly up and away beyond the nearest mountain. You are left with your jaw unhinged as you try to make sense of what just happened, turning towards the man in charge here; all the while pointing at the sky. "H-how?" "Walk with me..." that commanding voice a couple of minutes ago has transformed into a soft tone that captures a completely different personality of this man. "Y/N." "Y/N," he repeats the name as if to memorise it, and lets his arm gesture you towards the direction you are asked to walk. "I am Loki, of Asgard. Pleased to make your acquaintance." "Asgard?" you wonder the name out loud, confusion visibly dripping from your face. "There is no place by the name Asgard on the maps? Is this further north in the Alps? Wait...are we still in Norway or did we change countries?" The guards by the biggest tent make way for Loki and you to enter. Unlike the place you woke up in, this one houses everything fit for a king. From the bed to the cutlery. And everything has a colour theme going on for some reason. A real deep shade of green. Even Loki's fur coat carries blues and greens as if they had been specially plunged from the deepest corners of the oceans on earth. "Y/N-" he gestures you to sit down on the settee by the foot of the bed while he pours you wine in a goblet- "I have to tell you something. Be kind enough to hear me out before jumping to conclusions." You take the glass from his hand and sit down on the settee. Oh! cold hands! Is he okay? It's really chilly out there. "What?" You wait for him to start. Loki stands by the conference table and faces you, his hands working with each other as he looks at them before finally letting his gaze meet yours. "You are no longer on earth. You were transported to Asgard last night during the Pagan ritual, where you were conveniently made a sacrifice, and would have died if not for Agni hearing your prayers and tearing that scum apart." Silence. Loki’s features show no emotions when he narrates the reality to you. In fact, he waits for a reaction from your end, carefully studying those y/e/c eyes as they blink at him in unadulterated innocence, turn away to look at Agni and then come back to him. Ultimately, you take a sip from the goblet, letting the wine go down your throat, the involuntary reflex of tasting something not to your liking naturally coming over your face. Waiting for a few seconds, you bring the goblet back to your lips, this time gulping down the contents within a breath. "Okay." Loki looks at you with a focused glare before tilting his head a little. "Okay?" You nod. "Are you-" Loki pauses to come and sit down in the chair right in front of you but at a respectable distance- "okay with everything that I just told you? All the parts of it that do not make sense to a human?" You breathe in a lungful. "Oh, Gods! No. I am overwhelmed at this point. To even consider the fact that I am not currently on earth and that I was about to be raped by an eighteen-year-old cultist if not for your wonderful doggo and you, I am considering. Because now that I look at you I completely put you in the silhouette I saw last night. And I thought this was some adult dress-up show going on until a legit person just turned into an eagle and fucking flew away right in front of my eyes. I mean...it would take a good amount of CGI to actually make that happen just in the movies, forget real life. And if I am not on earth, the thought of getting out of doing mindless labour because your boss is an asshole is very appealing, mind you. Even though that means I have been thrown straight into a pit of testosterone-filled sexist Vikings who look like they will pounce on me the first chance they get. So...yeah. I am...I...uhh...have decided to shut my brain down till-" you simply shrug before breaking into nervous laughter and bringing the empty goblet back to your lips, raising it as far as it could go before it decided to release a drop into your desperate mouth. Loki blinks at you before breaking into a smirk that he hides from your eyes. It feels like he has watched you slowly crumble a little within the last few moments when all you did was talk. He has noticed those shaking hand movements and those trembling lips that force a smile to show they are doing absolutely fine. He has observed that shift of your fingers to scratch an itch on your exposed neck and that movement of turning that sole ring made out of iron in your index finger; hiding your anxieties in the rotations of that little circle. And now he watches you trying to dissolve the incoming anxious winds in alcohol. He knows this look too well. The look of fear; fear of the unknown. Loki raises his hand to you. "Allow me to refill that. With something better." You watch his hands and make a mental note of those long pale fingers and how good they would seem wrapped around anything. "Something better? I don't think Asgard could provide me with a Long Island Iced Tea or a Jeager Bomb. Or a Zombie." Loki simply chuckles and you find yourself stuck on that toothed smile of his. Is he the same guy who was dragging his soldiers in the mud like anything? Taking the goblet from you, he gets up and walks towards a little cabinet that opens up like a medieval bar.  "I sympathise with you being so far away from home. But I can assure you these...Vikings will not touch you or even think about pouncing on you ever." You furrow your brows and let your arms rest on each side while you tilt your head a little in question. "They know it better than to even think about what I claim as mine." You feel little chills go up your spine at his words, your legs going one over the other as you wiggle away certain scenarios from your mind. Damn! He should write dialogues for the entertainment industry. "Excuse me, sir," you press while raising your brow, "I may have fallen on your royal highness' land but that ain't making me anyone's property...considering this is your property." You cannot see it from where you sit, but the God chuckles at your audacity of raising your voice at him. He comes back to you with your drink. You notice that this time it is not the familiar red wine waiting for you in the goblet but something relatively darker and comparatively with a more medicinal odour. "No one will harm you. Agni will make sure of it. Isn't that right, beast?" You turn to watch Agni sitting right next to your feet, immediately wagging his tail at the mention of his name, contently growling as assurance. You notice how familiar this creature look to the Pitbulls back on earth. Give them pits some pointed skeleton for their backbone, a pair of horns and huge canines and these two breeds will be a copy of each other. "And we will find you a safe passage home once we reach back to the city." Home. unfortunately for you, the first thing at the mention of 'home' is the rush of crude flashbacks from last night of that horrid nameless town. No matter how hard you try to breathe in, the scenes keep on coming. Both Loki and Agni seem to sense the uneasiness creeping onto you. Your racing heartbeat and uneasiness of breath can be heard by them as clear as you can. "I hope you were not too attached to your clothes. I had to tear them apart to treat your wounds," Loki announces, gulps his herbal drink and walks towards the entrance of the tent. "Yeah, no problem. They were just clo-wait what? WHAT? You-" you get up and lower your voice for the fear of any third person hearing it- "you tore my clothes?" He nods with the most neutral expression you wanted to punch. "Yes. As you mentioned, they were just clothes. And nothing I haven't seen before. Now come on." You wonder whether to be relieved or angry with this one. Putting that thought on the back burner to simmer for a while, you gulp down the goblet without breaking any eye contact with him.  "Where are we going?" "To get you out of your clothes again," he states without skipping a beat and you have to question all the good you have thought about him till now. Son of a bitch! What an ass- "You stink. About time you took a bath."

[amethystpath-writes]

The Society

(NOT A PROMPT)

The grandiose room would have been extravagant had Nahzi been seeing it from anywhere other than the stage. She was a prop- no. A prop was hardly noticed. Nahzi was the whole exhibit, ready for viewing, prodding, and throwing insults at.

“She looks uncomfortable.” I’m stuffed in a too-hot dress.

“Her hands shouldn’t be covered in those gloves. They are for the elite class- for the Society.” My hands are scarred and Garnor thought they would be too ugly to look at- said it would distract from my ‘pretty, scratched face.’

And what did it matter anyways? Nahzi was a Society member’s property, so the gloves should have made the elite class feel well. This lady had no right. Then again, Nahzi didn’t want the Society gloves. She didn’t want them. She wanted them off. Now. Goodness, she never even thought about the meaning behind it. Nahzi was adorning their clothing, becoming more and more like them. Her stomach twisted.

“Is she capable of lifting her lips at all?” Into a snarl, perhaps, but that would only get me into trouble. “Garnor must have found the perfect routine. I should ask him about it after the Gathering. Misfortune befall you, Creature.” You used to be a Creature, too.

Did he say ‘routine?’ If unpredictability was routine, then yes. If Garnor was so great at what he did, why wasn’t Nahzi his wife yet? And why wasn’t he the one with special abilities?

The gloves were itchy now. So was the dress. The pins in Nahzi’s hair. They didn’t belong on a Creature.

Most of the critics were women, ones all dressed up in uncomfortable gowns and with faces powdered themselves. Looks like they fell right into their new roles. Women with pale, olive, chocolate, and all skins had fallen victim- had all been manipulated so easily by those around them. There were a few men who had fallen prone to a woman’s influence, too, but they were much fewer than the alternative. There was no particular reason- only an easy pattern Nahzi noticed too soon as she stood broadcasted on the stage.

A hand landed on Nahzi’s waist. Her first reaction being to pull away was a mistake as it rattled the chains hanging from her wrists, drawing the attention of all the hungry sharks. Nahzi dropped her gaze, but kept her chin angled high. She had nothing to be ashamed of as long as she defied Garnor. He would want her to speak; she wouldn’t.

“You have received many compliments, I heard.”

Nahzi nearly hummed mockingly, but that was just as close to speaking as deliberately saying, ‘Go screw yourself.’ She swallowed, taking a small breath. Still, Nahzi said nothing, but she did turn her chin to make eye contact with Garnor. He hated it when she did so. Hated it because it meant she didn’t acknowledge him as a threat. Garnor forgot Nahzi wasn’t a puppy dog like the rest of the bitches here- literally and metaphorically speaking.

“You know what happens when you ignore me.”

Ignore you? Is that what you call this? Nahzi made a tss sound, one that gathered more attention than she meant. Everything she did was an attraction. Everything. It was why she remained so silent, and otherwise so obedient- despite her grandest wishes. It broke her- literally- to be so docile. However, fighting the guests would have caused a ruckus that Nahzi would not be able to survive later. The silence, on the other hand, that she could deal with the consequences of- because Garnor didn’t understand the importance of it.

The chain was grasped at Nahzi’s left wrist, and she was pulled into Garnor’s chest. Hating the gasp she gave, Nahzi turned her head away, her arms becoming riddled with chilled bumps. Contact be damned. Looking him in the eye usually caused him discomfort. That was…until the reason it happened was because she’d been frightened by him enough that she glanced.

“Look at me.”

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Tongue on roof of mouth. Nahzi plastered a look of contempt on her face- the same expression she always bared until slip-ups like the one just now. She faced him again, blinked, and nearly smiled when Garnor frowned at her self-control.

“You will regret making a fool of me.”

Nahzi shrugged. Maybe I will, maybe I will not. See, as horrible as the punishments sometimes were for not being Garnor’s little trophy-power wife, it was always somewhat satisfactory to watch him stomp around like a toddler throwing a tantrum. That satisfaction was all she needed to protect herself.

“You are going to perform.”

For the first time this night, Nahzi’s lips parted. What? she almost said but caught herself and snapped her jaw shut, lips forming into a defiant frown. No. You can’t make me. But Garnor could, and Nahzi knew that; she just liked to tell herself better.

“Your hand.”

She shook her head, stepping back. The stage was large, but not large enough that Nahzi could outrun Garnor. Of course, she had chains on, anyway. Nahzi thought even without them she had little chance- especially when surrounded by so many people who saw her as nothing other than an animal which needed taming.

Not here, Nahzi thought. Do not turn me into a performer in front of them. Them- all the people a part of the Society. A bunch of rich brutes and their dainty and lesser partners, taking in people like Nahzi to starve to death if only for entertainment. It was a vicious cycle that Nahzi wished to someday put an end to.

“One of them will take me,” Nahzi said, and her voice was rasp and unpractised from her long hours of rebellious silence. “You know they will.”

“Good, then you will smile when you receive your next compliment.”

As horrible as Garnor was, she didn’t trust that others in the Society weren’t worse. Nahzi heard stories of Miss Meighleen’s Creatures being damaged so far beyond repair that the husband smashed it with one of those meat mallets used in the kitchens- killing it once and for all.

At least its life was ended before it could become such a horrible and mindless contribution to the Society. Still, Nahzi had no wish to die. She preferred this constant fight and struggle over an endless motionlessness.

It. Nahzi used to be called that…before Garnor assigned her a name and gender. How unfair? Nahzi never paid attention to that change before but now…now as the gloves itched, and the dress scratched her skin…as she spoke to Garnor as a plea to remain as she was…it was all this which made Nahzi realize with raised brows…she was becoming one of them. It was this change, she realized, which was the cause of her misfortunate state now- the reason she had ever been able to be put in these horrendous chains, ones that pushed her fingers into unusable fists.

“I could not perform even if I wanted,” she whispered. Nahzi touched a closed, useless, and restrained fist to her lips, then to her eye as a tear slipped and she tried to hide it. The sniffle was unconcealable, though.

Was this it? Was Nahzi finally broken in after months- or was it years- of a hard, dreadful silence? After rebellious glares and jerks away from touches? But she still felt Creature-esque. Still felt angry at this change, at this sudden transition of sacrifice.

All this time, Nahzi thought, and whimpered in the back of her throat, I thought I was making such strategic sacrifices. Not fighting the visitors because it might have meant more torture behind-the-scenes, which would have meant submission. When all along…those sacrifices were acts of submission, and they were adding up- so quickly that Nahzi didn’t even see it coming until this very moment.

“Your hand,” Garnor said again, and this time Nahzi didn’t even have the capacity in her mind to reject him, to- to defy him, even in an aggravating glare. She stood still, sniffing with eyes wide open as she recounted each of her small sacrifices, only realizing that she doomed herself, and that Garnor hardly had to step in to do it.

As her hand was involuntarily lifted, Nahzi began to wonder, Is this my species’ fate- to become slaves to the Society? Have we no way to eliminate the threatful parts of ourselves?

The restraint around Nahzi’s fists fell away, clattering to the ground in a way that the sound ricocheted across the room, ringing in all Societal ears, ringing their attentions to the stage where an unrestrained Creature now stood sobbing to herself.

Nahzi clenched her fist at her own free will, but as she released her fingers to reveal her palms, a string of glowing white light slithered out, skittering across the air in bounded hops…right towards Garnor.

The Society, which had congealed into a massive, crowded audience erupted into cheer, laughter, and applause as the white caressed Garnor's hand, gliding across his knuckles and around his shoulders before steadily sinking into his skin.

Meanwhile Nahzi fell to her knees, head in her hands as she sobbed at her loss of powers, at her sense of being having been so cruelly ripped from her with hardly a moment’s notice.

Now, if Nahzi ever wanted her abilities back, she would have to do to a Creature what Garnor did to her. Or rather, what she did to herself. Could she do it? Could Nahzi continue the cycle of thievery and grievances just to reclaim what was stolen from her, even if it meant stealing from another?

Would she become a part of the Society, or would she find a way to tear it at its seams from within its gates?

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender - Part 2

“He’s so in love with ya,” Angel smirks, lying on your bed in your hotel room, surrounded by your folded laundry and knocking over said piles of laundry. You roll your eyes and continue hanging up your newly cleaned dresses and blouses.

“What are you going on about?”

“The fact that Strawberry Pimp has been following ya around like a love-sick puppy for the last year.” 

You throw a sock at Angel and shoot him a glare. Although, your mind can’t help but wander to the last year following Alastor’s insertion into your lives. He has been spending quite a bit of time with you... which is completely understandable! You both enjoy the same type of music, although he was quite affronted when he learned that you don’t really dance and insisted that he teach you. Now he pulls you into a dance whenever there is a good song playing. 

And he loves to cook just like you, even though you are partial to baking. He often joins you in the kitchen around meal times to assist in prep or even to make a dish when you’re overwhelmed. On slow days, you find yourself thinking about the time Charlie had you all celebrate Thanksgiving. Charlie had insisted you all celebrate the holiday in even though nobody, save you and Alastor, could cook to save their lives. You were honestly dreading all the sides and desserts and proteins you would have to prepare for everyone, and Charlie had only added to the stress when she came prancing into the kitchen and revealed that her mother had agreed to eat with you all. Somehow sensing your stress, Alastor was there in an instant and allowed you to put him to work. He was a dream in the kitchen, so helpful and chivalrous, and he even made a curated playlist of all your favorite songs to put you in better spirits. It was one of your fonder moments in the normally stressful work environment, particularly when you had cut yourself chopping sweet potatoes and Alastor had rushed to tend to you. Really, it was just a little nick. It didn’t even draw blood but it did sting a bit causing you to hiss quietly. Alastor heard that sound as if it were as loud as a siren and was by your side, bending down to analyze your hand, behaving as though you had just chopped off your entire hand.

“You really must be more careful, dearest,” he murmured and frowned at the cut, willing it to disappear. 

You think about Thanksgiving and the way he held your injured finger more than you’re proud to admit. 

---

You shake yourself out of your reverie. No. No, no, no. Nope! You were not about to indulge in some small school-girl crush. That would only cause it to fester into something bigger in your heart, something dangerous. And you were certainly not about to buy into your brother’s teasing and tendency to romanticize things. Angel was smart, observant, but was also incredibly naive when it came to affection, or rather, sinisterness disguised by affection. And you were no stranger when it came to love and its effects on perception. You made that mistake once and it got you down here, you were not about to let that happen again...

Even if it was at the hands of that darling deer.

“Come on.” You hang up your last blouse and motion for Angel to follow you to the lobby. You both were late for your weekly family dinner and your father would not be pleased. 

“I’m just saying, when was the last time ya got laid?” Angel asks as you make your way down the hall towards the lobby.

“Angel!”

“What? Please tell me you’ve at least gotten some since--” 

You’re too short to smack his head, so you resort to kicking him in the shin.

“If you say his name in front of me I will maim you,” you scold. 

“Got it, got it. Okay but in all seriousness, are ya ever gonna move on?”

“Nope, and even if I did, he’d have to be very special and very serious. I’m not going to waste my time pining.” You cross your arms, quieting your voice as you draw nearer to the warm glow of the lobby. 

“But Alastor seems more than eager.”

“Of course he does,” you say sarcastically.

“Sis, I’m serious! He follows ya--”

“--Around like a lovesick puppy, yes so you keep saying.” You stop suddenly and shift your arms so that they’re wrapped around your torso. You avoid Angel’s confused and worried eyes, finding the carpet far easier to face than your brother’s concern. You are supposed to take care of him, you don’t need his pity. You don’t need anyone.

“Angel,” you sigh. “He’s like that with everyone. I’m not special to him, he just likes me because we enjoy some of the same things and I fit his idea of ‘polite company.’ But I’m not special. And... And even if I did feel that way about him it wouldn’t matter because I’m not anything to him. He’s made it perfectly clear that he has no use for close friends. So why would I be an exception?” 

You turn and start taking brisk steps towards the door before you allow Angel to hear your sniffs and see your red-rimmed eyes. You bid a quick goodbye to Husk even though he’s passed out at his desk and make your way to your car. You don’t see Alastor, who was leaning against the wall near the mouth of the hallway where you had just pored your heart out to your brother. You don’t see the way his smile falters just a little or the way his eyes widen in alarm. You don’t see the plate of cookies in his hands, ones he had made just for you as a surprise.

But Angel does.

“Ya okay there, smiles?” Angel reaches for one of the double chocolate chip cookies but his hand is smacked away by Alastor.

“These are not for you,” he snaps but his voice lacks conviction and his eyes continue to stare off longingly at the door you’ve just walked through. Angel takes in the Radio Demon’s furrowed brows and follows his gaze.

“They’re for (Y/N),” Angel smirks and elbows Alastor’s arm teasingly. 

“I knew ya had the hots for her! Jeez, could ya have been any more obvious?” Angel cackles.

“Apparently not obvious enough,” Alastor mutters.

“You heard some of that, huh?”

“All of it, actually.” Alastor looks down dejectedly at the plate of cookies. “I... I thought I was--”

“Oh, believe me, if you were being any more obvious with anyone else, you would’ve had your answer months ago. But (Y/N) she’s... she’s not everyone else. She’s very closed off, honestly you’re lucky she even sees you as a friend.”

Alastor barely nods his head in acknowledgement because all his mental energies are directed towards you. You and your bouncy, beautiful hair. You and your enchanting curves and the smooth sound of your voice when you think he isn’t around to hear you. You and your tenderness towards the very few who have earned it, and your willingness to utterly destroy anyone who tries to hurt those few. You and the time he came home with a few scratches after an altercation with Vox and you fussed over him in the genuine way his mother once did. You and your gentle hands that kneed pie crusts and crack eggs, hands that he delights in holding and finds any reason to do so. 

He really never believed he could feel this way about anyone. This captivated, this dedicated, this entranced and enchanted. But here you are, captivating and enchanting him beyond all reason. At first it was infuriating, the nights he would lie awake thinking of whatever adorable thing you had done that day. Or the way his body wanted, needed to be near you even when his mind screamed at him that you were a weakness. Someone he couldn’t afford to love lest it make him vulnerable, puny, at risk of losing everything that he had built in Hell. 

Until about four months into knowing each other. Some brute had come to stay in the hotel. He didn’t really bother to remember the creature’s name, just that he was rude and inconsiderate and didn’t know how to respect a lady. Alastor had wandered into the kitchen to help you with lunch, per the subconscious ritual he had fallen into, when he heard a loud smack. He opened the door to see said brute trying to force himself upon you and... the next thing he knew the entire kitchen, himself, and you were drenched in the blood of this horrid man. The kind of carnage Alastor only found himself achieving when in an intense fit of rage. You had stood there, frozen, and Alastor was briefly afraid that he had terrified you beyond the point of repair. But after you had gotten over the shock of the man’s attempted assault, you had sprinted to him and buried yourself into his chest before you could remind yourself about his aversion to touch. But he had always seemed to make an exception for you. And he always would.

After that day Alastor realized two things: that you were not a weakness, rather a new source of strength for him, and that he would literally do anything to get you to run into his arms like that again. Alastor didn’t need anymore convincing of the love he had for you. But apparently, you were in an entirely different boat.

“So what do I do?”

“What?” Angel asks, pulling away a hand that was trying again to steal another cookie.

“You’re incredibly close. She tells you everything. What more can I do to show her I’m serious?” Alastor hates how desperate he sounds but that’s what he is. Desperate for you.

“Well that depends, how serious are ya?”

“Deathly.”

Angel’s eyes glance down and back up at the cookies. Alastor relents and tosses him a cookie so he can continue.

“She’s... she’s so incredibly dear to me. She drives me mad and yet I can’t bring myself to stay away. I need her, I feel like there’s a deep, gaping chasm when I’m without her. I--”

“God, okay, you’ve convinced me. I give ya my blessing, sheesh.” Angel finishes the cookie.

“Angel,” you call, marching back into the lobby. Alastor almost drops the plate at your sudden appearance. 

“Angel we’re going to be late!”

“Good evening, dearest,” Alastor lurches from the wall, smile wide and beaming, trying to convey all the love he holds for you. He tries to lower his tone on the word ‘dearest,’ tries to make it apparent that you are his dearest everything.

“Good evening, Alastor.” You grace him with a sweet smile but your eyes are sad, probably from what he overheard earlier. “Who are those for, Al?”

“Oh, for you, dearie!” He thrusts the plate in front of you, shoulders hunched in an effort to seem more humble, less intimidating for you. You really are quite small and so precious.

“F-For me?” Your face flushes the prettiest shade of red.

“You mentioned double-chocolate chip is your favorite, yes?”

“It is. T-Thank you, Al, that really is so sweet.” You take one cookie off the plate and indulge yourself in the dark chocolate. Oh, he really outdid himself.

Alastor revels in the joy in your eyes and the fact that he put it there. 

“It was my absolute pleasure, darling. I was more than happy to do it. You’ve just been working so hard lately, I thought you deserved something sweet.”

Your smile widens, bathing him in warmth until it falters at the sight of Angel.

“Angel, we have to go or dad and Niss are going to have a fit.”

“Oh,” Alastor interjects. “Where are you both off to?”

You smooth down your fancier-than-normal (f/c) skirt.

“Just family dinner, but it’s important apparently. Dad has an announcement. We would have had more time to chat if Angel didn’t distract me this evening,” you say pointedly at your brother. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll be out in a minute. I just have to go bother Husky for a moment.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine. Alastor,” you turn back to him. Alastor perks up immediately at your attention. “Thank you so much for this. You really didn’t--”

“I won’t hear it, love. Now go enjoy your dinner, I’ll make sure these are waiting when you get back.” He gives you a genuine grin, something reserved only for you. “And might I add that you look ravishing in that skirt, dear. Is it new?”

“Oh,” your blush increases and glows. “Thank you, Alastor. Um... have a pleasant evening.”

Once you’re out of the lobby, Angel turns to Alastor, noticing the way he deflates in your absence. 

“Look, I gotta go. Now I can talk more when we get back but this,” he points at the plate of cookies. “Is a great start! Personal, sweet, something you wouldn’t do for anyone else. She needs to know that you think she’s special, that you make exceptions for her, that you want to spend time with her outside of “coincidentally” being in the kitchen with her. And for Pete’s sake, ya gotta ask her out soon cause God knows she ain’t gonna take the chance and ask you.”

Angel strolls out of the lobby, leaving Alastor to brainstorm the many ways he’ll make just that happen. 

[stonedgilbert]

do you have a meta post about why jeremy has no relationship with elena and what lead to having no contact? if not, would you like to share now? i'm very interested in what you have to say! (especially considering i wholeheartedly believe jeremy has every right to hate her)

why THANK YOU FOR ASKING NONNIE! i don’t know if i’ve ever formally written out something fully, but i’ve definitely done mini-metas here and there that sort of point out SOME of the reasons he has no relationship with her - but, in reality, it’s a combination of a lot of reasons, both canon from the show and things i’ve come up with on my own. so... here we go.

ONE : the lack of pictures of jeremy in the gilbert household. this is something i’ve expanded on in a few ways, but really - it’s canon. if you actually pay attention, in the show, you see pictures of miranda and grayson, of elena, but... the ONLY picture you ever see of jeremy is a picture that elena has on her bedroom mirror. point blank, you never see anything else of him/his childhood in the household. now, i’ve sort of created this headcanon that, as miranda would have fallen pregnant with jeremy when elena was only a few months old (as i believe? that she is supposed to be sixteen at the beginning of season one, and jeremy is 14 in the first few episodes, and has turned 15 by the time 1x05 comes around - the closest i can get to an estimate, considering his birthday is october 13th, and 1x05 is the halloween episode, which mind you, i will never NOT be mad about the fact that even though he Has a canon birthday, his birthday is never actually celebrated on the show), they had sort of taken this effort, given their children were so close in age, and elena was adopted, that they made this... effort to make sure that elena would never feel second best, like less than because she was adopted, but within that effort (and because miranda most definitely had a closer relationship with elena, with that mother/daughter relationship), jeremy sort of... fell through the cracks. combined with my own headcanon that jeremy has a few learning disabilities that makes/made school incredibly hard for him, and the MAJORITY of his “quality time” with his parents was them helping him with him homework (which he hated, because he hated school), inevitably getting frustrated in that very “smart white wealthy suburban family doesn’t understand learning disabilities when it’s in their own child, even if they’re supportive of it in other kids” way, and then simply giving him the answers because it’s late and they’re tired and there’s just not enough time in the day to hold his hand through all of that work, thank you very much. (i also headcanon that miranda had been looking into getting him formally diagnosed before the gilbert parents died, but unfortunately it never happened, and he doesn’t actually discover he has a legitimate disability until denver) and then, he is never actually shown as having ANY friends before the accident. we are thrust into him being in with the stoner crowd, but that he only became involved with them because of his parents’ death, so... where are the friends? it’s my own particular headcanon that he was simply so bad at school, that doing his homework took so much time out of his day, that there just WASN’T enough time in the day to form legitimate friendships with anyone, so when they died, he sort of just... stopped doing homework. withdrew, and then had nobody, which is how he ended up with the stoners. but, all of those things combined, jeremy felt incredibly INFERIOR when it came to elena. the rest of the town heard “gilbert child” and IMMEDIATELY thought of elena. jeremy wasn’t much else other than the “other gilbert”. second fiddle. an afterthought. so in a lot of ways, he resents her because of that. it’s not HATRED... it doesn’t turn into hatred until you combine it with everything else, which brings me to...

TWO : jeremy was fourteen when the gilbert parents died. it is, arguably, old enough to be left home alone for an hour or so while they go pick up elena from a party she’s not supposed to be at. but that doesn’t change the fact that the both of them didn’t NEED to go. but they chose to, because (in jeremy’s mind) their first thought was always elena, and he was an afterthought. because they are not alive to say otherwise, there is a part of his mind that firmly believes that when they got the call from her, they didn’t even stop to think that he was (probably) in bed/asleep, and they would be leaving him alone. so he wholeheartedly blames her for their parents dying - both for going to the party in the first place, and for being so much of the ‘golden child’ that both miranda and grayson left without a second thought, when really, only one of them needed to go. to this day, jeremy has a certain degree of PTSD from that night, where if someone knocks on the door without him knowing that they’re going to be knocking (so, he needs someone to text him like ‘almost there’ so he can prepare), he is IMMEDIATELY thrown into a flashback of that night, of being woken up by the police knocking on the door and telling him that there’d been an accident, that he needed to go to the hospital, where he had to sit and wait for jenna to show up, which, since she was away at college, i also envision took at least a couple of hours. a couple of hours of him being completely alone, all because of elena (at least, that’s what he sees).

THREE : the memory tampering. after he discovers what she had damon do, he gets incredibly angry, and resents her for it. because the pain of vicki never went away (which, i headcanon for different reasons than the show gave, but still valid nonetheless), he really just saw it as a control tactic. she wasn’t helping him, because he still hurt, he still felt empty. and all of these things coming together, given that jeremy is still very young (this all happens in season 1, mind you), and not fully emotionally developed, so all of this pent up rage just builds inside of him, and it gets focused on the only thing he can find to focus it on - her. he doesn’t have a healthy outlet for it, so he attacks her, because it’s the only way he can find relief for what he’s going through. hating elena is easier than anything else, really.

FOUR : also, please note that if you pay attention in the show, there are MULTIPLE TIMES where they end the episode with jeremy angry at elena, and rightfully so, but because the the writers didn’t care about him, in the next episode, they’re back to normal (or whatever is normal for them at the time, at least), without elena ever saying she’s sorry or apologizing in a meaningful way, because 99% of her on-screen apologies to him are “i’m sorry you think that” and not actually owning up to what it is that she does. so, basically, when it comes to my jeremy - HE DOESN’T IGNORE WHAT SHE DOES. it’s why i’m a strong proponent of ‘if i write with an elena and she actually apologizes, jeremy is willing to have a marginally better relationship with her’, because... she just. never actually apologizes.

FIVE : then she drags him into the mess. and he hates her, for all the reasons i listed before this. and he’s just so angry that he firmly just “i do not believe your life is worth the trouble we are all going through for this”. ESPECIALLY when more people die on her account. his mindset at that point is just “just kill her and get it over with” because he is quite literally watching people around them die, time and time again, for her. he dies HIMSELF a few times, despite the fact that he certainly never wanted to, not for elena.

SIX : and then she sends him away. and he doesn’t hate her for that. his life is actually pretty good in denver - but he DOES hate her for bringing him back after sending him away, because they’re inconvenienced and need his ability to see ghosts, and he hates her because she literally takes away possibly the only chance he has at a normal life, a chance for him to actually get real help with his learning disabilities so he can get an education, and he just... doesn’t have a choice in the matter. she and damon show up like “okay time to come back” and he gets no. say. and when he’s back in mystic falls, that support for learning is no longer an option because everything is so hectic there, around them, so he... loses that. he loses his chance at a future, away from mystic falls, to be a normal man.

SEVEN : then they quite literally force him to become a hunter. he starts seeing the tattoo, literally out of nowhere, he can’t explain it, and they go “great so you need to kill more vampires so we can get the cure for your sister”. he never WANTED to be a hunter. there is literally a scene where they essentially force-trigger the hunter in him so he will kill a vampire to further progress his own tattoo, so they can use him as a map. and then there’s the fact that them FORCING him to do this leads to his death. and not even his first death, just one of the literally many deaths he’s gone through. something he NEVER WANTED TO DO, gets him killed. it just further fractures their relationship, and at that point, it’s basically beyond repair for me. BUT I STILL HAVE MORE DON’T WORRY.

EIGHT : then i do write him as having a bit of an affinity for kai, regardless of relationship status. in the end, it doesn’t actually matter if he’s dating kai or not, he just... develops this entrancement, attraction to him that draws him in and makes him pick kai over mystic falls and everyone in it - mostly because of how broken his relationship with elena already is, but i have also written a full meta on why jeremy is so protective of kai, and can see things in him that a lot of people ignore, mostly stemming from the idea of that just what jeremy went through growing up made him hate his sister, but after finding out how kai’s father treated him? there is a large part of jeremy that believes if he’d been put in the same situation, he would have turned out exactly like kai. and then ... kai dies. because of elena, really, but at that point, it really has nothing to do with elena. all jeremy knows is that the one person he truly cared about, the one person he felt that he had (regardless of how kai felt about him in return, and whether or not he was just manipulating him, or whatever) is gone. and he... breaks. he’s an adult at that point, and he crumbles, he’s angry, and i headcanon that the mystic falls gang had to hide elena’s magic-coma body not only from vampires who might want the cure that she has in her veins, but because of the fact that jeremy is actively hunting her, trying to find her so he can kill her, both as revenge on damon for taking away the one person he cared about (very ‘an eye for an eye’), and because he feels he has nothing left to live for, so if he dies in the pursuit, he’s okay with that. there’s even a part of him that believes he might get to see kai again if he dies, even.

NINE : this is the final Big Reason, and it’s sort of subjective. what makes jeremy FINALLY cut off all contact with elena, to the point of not even really telling his daughter that she has an aunt (cali literally thinks that she and jeremy are the only gilberts left in the world), is elena marrying damon. granted, some elena’s don’t take it into account, and it doesn’t even really make a difference overall in the relationship if they don’t get married, because jeremy’s already too lost in his hatred to ever have a real relationship with her again. but the way he sees it, it’s... damon killed him. and yes, later on, they become sort of friends. but because jeremy already hates elena so much, when she gets engaged, he sort of just sees it as a slap in the face. a sort of... “yes, i forgave him, but it was ME who he killed, you have NO RIGHT to forgive him for it. i am the only one who can do that”. and he sees it very much on her part as this idea of “my brother’s life doesn’t matter as long as i get what i want.” whether that’s true or not, it doesn’t matter, because that’s what he truly believes. granted, it’s only been cemented in his mind considering he has died multiple times for “her cause”, even when he specifically did not want to. he genuinely believes that, at that point, elena sees him as a means to an end, and not as a brother. again - WHETHER IT’S ACTUALLY TRUE OR NOT DOES NOT MATTER. what matters is that that is how he perceives it.

so uh. yeah. that’s why jeremy hates her and has no relationship with her. MIND YOU, i probably forgot something bc i didn’t actually sleep last night and i’m tired and this is super long, but AT THE VERY LEAST, these are the important bits.

[ladylynse]

Forewarning: All Dipper knew was that there was something buried in some special thermos behind the shack; all Danny knew was that he had no idea how he’d gotten here. Inspired by this artwork by @hashtag-art​ and begun for @bibliophilea​

Happy New Year, everyone!

Chapter 2 [FF | AO3]

-|-

Danny knew magic when he felt it.

Well.

He could recognize it, anyway. Usually. Unless the magic came with a memory wipe. Between Desiree, Dora’s amulet, Circus Gothica, the Reality Gauntlet, and everything else, he was getting pretty good at picking out it or its effects.

That’s why he knew it was magic that held him in this stupid circle.

It was also why he wasn’t wholly sure he could just burn through a part of the chalk drawing with an ectoblast without bad consequences.

And just about when he was ready to risk those consequences (because he did not want to know what an attempted exorcism would do to him), he found himself with the unfortunately familiar weight of a clockwork medallion around his neck.

Clockwork floated on the edge of the circle, not far from the two kids who had released Danny and then trapped him here. Clearly, whatever bound Danny wasn’t strong enough to bind him. Not that Danny really expected it would be, with Clockwork being who he was and the kids possibly targeting Danny after seeing him earlier. But if Clockwork was here now—

“You are where you need to be,” Clockwork said as Danny opened his mouth.

Danny frowned. “Yeah? Why can’t I call Jazz’s cell? Where am I? When am I?”

Danny didn’t really expect Clockwork to give him a straight answer—it was Clockwork, after all—but the ghost shifted to that of a child and replied, “Welcome to 2012.”

Ice filled his chest. 2012? 2012? He’d been stuck in a thermos for five years? No wonder his call to Jazz hadn’t gone through! She’d be in college now, maybe through college by now, or trying to get a masters degree, or a PhD, or—

Or she might not be.

No. He wasn’t going to jump to that conclusion, wasn’t going to assume this was like last time, not when this was all he had to go on, not even when Clockwork was the reason he was here. Clockwork, who wasn’t supposed to interfere. Clockwork, who refused to interfere more often than not. Clockwork, who saw it all from above and had very clearly forgotten what it was like to be part of the parade, if he’d ever even known that.

“Are you serious?” Anger was safer than panic, and he had good reason to be angry. Clockwork had never talked to him about this, whatever this was. Not like the last time he’d sent Danny to the future. “My family probably thinks I’m dead!”

“Technically speaking, you are.”

Danny hissed through his teeth. “No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to rip me out of my life and shove me in a thermos and stick me somewhere on the other side of the country. You can’t just put me wherever you think I need to be! I just lost five years of my life thanks to you!”

“You’ve been held in stasis for over thirty,” Clockwork said mildly as his form changed again. “You’ll be returned to your own time before your friends and family realize you’ve taken a detour.”

A detour? That’s what he was calling this?

“This isn’t a detour! Just because you can put me back where I came from, doesn’t mean I haven’t still lost that time. And what do you mean, thirty years?”

Clockwork’s expression didn’t change even as his face shifted, growing younger again. He didn’t deign to argue with Danny, instead saying, “The tapestry of time is scarred here. Further interference is…discouraged.”

Danny crossed his arms. “What the heck do you call this, then?”

“A correction.”

“Why do I have to be the one to fix it? It’s not like the Observants don’t know to watch me. If they think I’m meddling in the timestream again—” Danny broke off. “Wait, what do you mean further interference? What did you do here before?”

That earned him the barest shadow of exasperation crossing Clockwork’s face. “The interference was not mine.”

“Until now.”

That might be a slight thinning of the lips. It was probably as much as he was going to get from Clockwork, anyway. “Seeking to repair what others have damaged before reality becomes unstable is hardly unwarranted interference.”

“So a stitch in time saves nine? Wow, I did not realize that expression could be applied literally with time travel. But that still doesn’t explain why me.” Clockwork said nothing, and a horrible thought occurred to Danny. “Except. Wait. You said thirty years. I…. You’re trying to interfere without the Observants knowing, aren’t you?” He pulled a face. “Why thirty years?”

“That was the point of least interference, when your placement would have the smallest effect.”

“So how come I don’t remember anything?” He tried not to let it show how much that bothered him, but it did. He wasn’t sure what he’d been doing before this. Hanging out with Sam and Tuck? Fighting? School? Homework? Nothing seemed clearer than the rest.

He couldn’t remember if he’d been in the Ghost Zone, but he definitely didn’t remember seeing Clockwork.

Still, he hadn’t come out of the thermos wearing one of Clockwork’s medallions, so it’s not like Clockwork just ambushed him, sucked him into a thermos, and dropped him here. And…it must still have been Clockwork, right? Because point of least interference was still interference, and thirty years was definitely time travel when it was thirty years in the past. Or twenty-five and— Whatever. This had to be Clockwork. That had to be why he was here now. Not whoever else was messing around with time.

“You’ve seen the dangers of an uncontained future,” Clockwork said, and it took Danny a second to realize he was ignoring Danny’s question instead of answering it. “Similar destruction is almost certain here. If they stay on this road, they will find themselves on a path from which they cannot turn away. You must warn them.”

“How is that my job?” Danny wanted to ask why Clockwork didn’t just warn them himself, but of course that would be interfering. As if this weren’t already blatant interference. “Why can’t someone else do it? Anyone else? I don’t even know these guys.”

“Perhaps not yet,” said Clockwork as his form shifted again, “but you know the dangers they face. They wish to pierce the fabric between dimensions, between realities, and will release more than they realize if they succeed.”

Danny scrunched up his face. Too bad he couldn’t just straight up tell these guys not to mess with interdimensional portals, but Clockwork wouldn’t be happy with him spelling out the future like that. Even if he did, Mabel and Dipper wouldn’t believe him when he had no other details than that. They’d just think he’d spied on them. Telling them would probably make them more likely to keep doing everything they were doing. “Let me guess: containment of whatever they let out isn’t gonna be simple?”

Clockwork didn’t answer, but Danny supposed he didn’t really need an answer. Clockwork wouldn’t have said anything about it if it was easy. And Danny wouldn’t have been dragged out here to interfere if these people weren’t playing with fire. Or rather, interdimensional portals.

“There’s, um, a path where they win, right, when they don’t listen to me and do this anyway? Because that’s going to happen. Nothing I say is going to make these two trust me.”

“You must warn them,” Clockwork repeated.

Danny didn’t know if that was a yes, but it hadn’t been a no, so he counted it as a win. This was Clockwork, after all. Danny knew there were lines, and he knew he’d crossed those lines, but he wasn’t entirely sure where those lines were—and which ones Clockwork was happy to ignore. More than the Observants were happy with, sure, but beyond that….

“Can I go home after this?”

No immediate answer. Bad sign. Very bad. There shouldn’t be any reason Clockwork wouldn’t just say yes if all he had to do was give these guys a warning they probably wouldn’t listen to. If nothing else, Clockwork would know it would be a way to make Danny immediately play nice and do what he was told. So for him to say nothing….

That meant Danny was supposed to do something else, something Clockwork figured he’d do if left to his own devices. Something Clockwork didn’t think was worth telling Danny, or maybe that he didn’t think Danny would actually do if he were told about it, or—

“I do get to go home after all this, right? There’s not some other detour you expect me to make first? I just need to warn them not to do whatever they’re thinking about doing, and then it’s over, and we’re done, and I can go back to Amity Park the same day I left it?” Because that was part of the problem. He couldn’t just go home from here because it wouldn’t be the home he knew. And even if next to nothing had changed (unlikely; his parents were inventors, after all), he couldn’t risk being caught (especially if his parents had five years worth of ghost tech he’d never seen before). That would require too much explaining.

Unless they already knew everything, in which case it would take less.

Or next to no time at all, if they didn’t take it well and he had to—

But he didn’t want to think about that possibility. He much preferred thinking that Jazz was right, that they would accept him, even if it took a little while for them to get used to the idea or even if they asked him a bunch of rather intrusive questions. And, right now, he much preferred not knowing, just in case the little voice in the back of his mind was right and ignorance was bliss. And—

“Why…why am I really here, Clockwork?” His voice came out as a whisper, drained of anger and instead tinged with desperation. What was he missing? Surely Clockwork wasn’t just being cagey because he didn’t know. Or maybe…maybe he didn’t want Danny to get involved in whatever the kids were doing? Or maybe he did, and just couldn’t risk saying it without the Observants noticing what he was doing?

“Warn them about this path,” Clockwork said gently, “and your own will become clearer.”

Danny hated that answer. It told him nothing. It guaranteed nothing. It was too vague when things mattered this much.

But he also had a better idea of when he could push Clockwork, when begging or wheedling for favours would work, and this wasn’t one of those times.

Danny sighed, settling down in the middle of the circle and holding his head in his hands.

Clockwork was probably being as helpful as he could, even if there was a chance a part of him was also being lowkey as spiteful as he could after Danny’s last time travelling fiasco. Danny kind of owed him for that. There had probably been some pushback from the Observants, and Clockwork must have borne the brunt of that because Danny had never faced any consequences once the timeline was back on track. And this…. It should be simple enough. There were worse ways to repay a favour.

But still.

A little warning would’ve been nice.

-|-

Dipper didn’t know what had happened. He wasn’t going to trust the phantom—if it even was a phantom, since for all he knew, it was just a different sort of ghost trying to trick them into thinking it was a phantom by calling itself one. At least, it wasn’t living up to the whole ‘phantoms cause pain to those who summon them’ bit in the journal. Not that he was complaining. It would just be nice to know what he was dealing with for once.

Maybe the pain part didn’t come until the phantom escaped the summoning circle?

“What….” Mabel hesitated and looked at him, but he didn’t know if asking questions would make things worse. She plowed on when he didn’t stop her, asking, “What are you talking about?”

“If you stay on this road,” Phantom repeated, “you’ll find yourself on a path you can’t turn away from. That’s it. That’s the message. I’m apparently a messenger now. Don’t shoot me.”

“Who are you supposed to be a messenger for?” Dipper asked. The strain of keeping Phantom contained was worth it to get some answers. The journal…. He couldn’t figure out why Phantom’s section in the journal had been coded differently, and he would rather find out as much as he could.

“That’s…not really important.”

Assuming Phantom would be helpful. Dipper should’ve known better than to hope he’d be forthcoming about everything. “How is that not important?” he demanded. The author of the journals—

“You won’t know who it is anyway. He’s, uh, not supposed to interfere as often as he does.”

Interfere? What was that supposed to mean? Interfere with what?

“Try us,” Mabel said, crossing her arms. “We’ve had an interesting summer so far.”

Understatement. And maybe a bit more information than Dipper would’ve liked to give away, even if it was completely vague.

“Fine.” Phantom looked defiant now. “His name is Clockwork. Happy now?”

No. He’d never heard of Clockwork. Dipper had no idea who he was supposed to be. Or, more accurately, what.

“Why’s he sending us messages? And through you?”

Phantom rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just really unlucky. And maybe because he thinks you’ll listen? Clockwork’s not the most helpful guy out there. I’m surprised he interfered at all. I’m surprised I got dragged into this.” He said this last part with a sneer, looking to Dipper and Mabel’s right.

Dipper didn’t need to look to confirm that there was nothing there—nothing visible, anyway—but he did anyway.

The apparent absence of something did nothing to reassure him.

Phantom sighed, his annoyance draining away. “Okay, look, I’ll be straight with you. I don’t know why I got drafted to play messenger boy, but it’s probably because I owe him a favour, and he’s not supposed to be doing this kind of thing. Interfere, I mean. Which means that if he is, it’s big and you should listen to me. So stop whatever you’re doing. Drop it. Walk away. Your future selves would thank you for it if they had the chance. It’s probably a lot of pain and suffering or it wouldn’t be on Clockwork’s radar.”

“Pain and suffering, huh?” Mabel echoed, glancing at Dipper. He knew how she felt; he hadn’t expected Phantom to warn them of the pain he was going to bring in an attempt to trick them into releasing him, but it just meant they needed to be on their guard. If they hadn’t had the journal, they might have fallen for it.

Phantom nodded, not noticing or not caring how uncomfortable they were. “Clockwork wouldn’t interfere for something small. He thinks other people are messing around, though—I don’t think just you guys? I mean, not you you, you’re too young, and if this started thirty years ago or something, it couldn’t be you…unless you’re time travellers?”

“Did you want us to be?” Mabel said slowly.

Phantom blinked. “What? No!”

“Then we aren’t,” she said, and Dipper glared at her and kicked at her leg. He couldn’t really put any strength behind it, and she’d probably been half expecting it, since she didn’t flinch. Phantom might not have noticed the movement, though. Or the glare. If he did, he didn’t react to it.

“Time travel is impossible,” Dipper said pointedly, switching his gaze back to Phantom.

Phantom just stared at him. “I’m a ghost, you’re keeping me trapped inside a magic circle, and you draw the line at time travel?”

Dipper nodded. “It’s not possible. You can’t go faster than the speed of light.” He wasn’t a great liar—Mabel was definitely better, and she wasn’t particularly good, either—but he wasn’t about to tell Phantom that they knew time travel was possible. Or that they had time travelled and run into another time traveller. Phantom might tell them more if he thought they were ignorant of that.

“You’re using magic. And talking to a ghost. What part of that do most people consider possible?”

“Actually—” Mabel started.

“Forget I asked,” Phantom interrupted. “My point is, if you don’t believe in time travel, you should, and if you don’t believe in interdimensional travel, you should, because something along those lines is in your future if you don’t stop all this. Which you should.”

“Because you said so?” Mabel asked, and Dipper kicked her again, this time less subtly. He didn’t care if Phantom noticed that one.

Phantom snorted. “Because whatever it is is bad enough that it merits forewarning. Courtesy of Clockwork. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Bit of a circular argument,” Dipper muttered, not quite quietly enough that they wouldn’t hear him.

Phantom groaned. “Fine, ignore me. Just let me go.”

“No. I’m not going to let you hurt anyone.”

“Who said I was going to hurt anyone?” Phantom spluttered. “I’m not! Seriously, I’m just the messenger here.”

“Yeah, that’s what you’d say if you were planning on hurting someone and wanted to trick us into letting you out.”

He caught Mabel’s eye again and saw the trace of worry on her features. She knew he was bluffing. She knew he couldn’t do this forever, that his strength would give out and the magic within the circle would fade. The symbols could only hold power for so long. With Phantom being as strong as he was—or Dipper being as weak as he was; whichever was the main reason behind why it had taken so long for the spell to work in the first place, though it might be both considering he was still fairly new to magic—Dipper wasn’t sure they had much longer.

Judging by the increasingly frustrated look on Phantom’s face, though, he didn’t know that. Which at least meant the magic wasn’t noticeably weakening yet. It would buy them a little time, but—

“If you insist you’re not going to hurt anyone,” Mabel said, “then you don’t need to keep secrets from us. Keep talking, and then we’ll let you go.”

That was one way of putting it. If the spell was going to collapse on him anyway, at least they might be able to get something out of Phantom. Not that they’d know if it was truth or lies, but at least it would be a starting point. And that would be better than nothing.

Phantom threw up his hands. “I gave you guys the message already!”

“No, she’s right,” Dipper said. Mabel smiled at his words as if she hadn’t expected him to approve. “You’ve hardly told us anything. What do you know about the author of the journals?”

Phantom looked confused. Dipper didn’t think it was feigned, either. “What journals?” He looked at the open book and added, “So that’s not a magic book? Or is it just a journal full of spells that you’re not calling a magic book?”

“It’s a resource, not a book on magic.” Not alone, anyway. But if Phantom didn’t recognize it or know anything about it, he wouldn’t be able to help Dipper figure this out. And it meant if this Clockwork person had written the journals, Phantom didn’t know about it. Dipper flipped the book cover up just enough to show the symbol on the front with the three emblazoned on it, but Phantom just shrugged. Either he was a really good actor or he genuinely didn’t know anything.

Which was funny, considering he was in it.

Mabel clearly had the same suspicions, since she said, “You have to know something. The author of the journals is the reason we found you.”

Phantom frowned and flicked his eyes to the still-empty spot beside them. Dipper couldn’t quite suppress a shiver. After a few long seconds, Phantom admitted, “I don’t remember how I got here. I’m not lying, okay? I really don’t know. And it’s bugging me. That’s why I wanted to know if you knew Vlad. This is the kind of thing he’d do to me. And then Clockwork….” He trailed off. “He won’t tell me my own future or anything else about yours. But if you’re trying to find out more about whoever wrote that journal, and if they wrote me into it, well, that’s probably what Clockwork’s warning was about.”

“The author hasn’t been wrong about anything that’s turned up before,” Dipper said.

Phantom crossed his arms. “Well, from the way you two are looking at me, he’s wrong about me. It’s not like I’m going to snap and kill everyone. Seriously, let me go, I’ll be gone, and everything will be back to normal.”

He’d been forced to summon the phantom, and now it was trying to trying to trick him into releasing it.

Of course, if they didn’t do something soon, it would get free anyway.

“How did you….” Mabel broke off, bit her lip, and looked at Dipper. Then, turning back to Phantom, “Danny. The boy who was in here earlier. What about him?”

Phantom swallowed. “His name is Danny Fenton.”

Dipper didn’t say anything, and Mabel knew to hold her tongue, too. Phantom squirmed, one hand reaching up the rub the back of his neck. They waited, but he didn’t volunteer any other information.

Dipper sucked in a breath, deep and long, and let it out slowly. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this. He clenched his hands into fists, afraid that if he didn’t, it would be too easy for Phantom to see him shaking. “And?” It came out as a growl, and Phantom flinched.

“And he’s a friend.”

That was a lie. It had to be. Dipper looked at Mabel and saw that she didn’t believe Phantom either. But Phantom had straightened up, and though Dipper couldn’t see it, he could feel Phantom reaching one hand behind him to prod the boundaries of the circle. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but trying to hold the spell together was becoming more and more like trying to hold water cupped in his fingers. It was draining fast now, and—

“Look, just stop this business with the journals and finding whoever wrote them,” Phantom said. “What’s coming if you keep going the way you’re going isn’t good. It’ll be like…like you’ve opened Pandora’s box. The one from the myth, not her actual box, although that, too, if it’s on the wrong setting….” He trailed off. “Please?”

“We can’t,” Dipper said, hoping it would get Phantom to argue with him. But his voice was shaky now, and he couldn’t—

The spell dissipated, and Phantom smiled before vanishing.

-|-

“Is he gone?” Mabel asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Dipper admitted. He leaned back against his bed and closed his eyes. “Probably not, if the journal is right about phantoms.”

“What if that’s not what he is?” Pain and suffering might be in their future, but it hadn’t started immediately. What would Phantom gain from waiting? He already knew they expected it, and he had to know Dipper was weaker now than he would be in the future. Sure, he didn’t know she wouldn’t be able to exorcise him, or at least that she’d never tried doing that to a ghost before, but it shouldn’t stop him from jumping on an opportunity to strike while they were down.

“I don’t know.”

Mabel tried to swallow down her fear at Dipper’s repetition. The cryptic message about Phantom had been coded differently than anything else in the journal, and it hadn’t even been near the pages on ghosts and exorcisms. Maybe he really wasn’t a phantom like he pretended. Maybe the author hadn’t even known what he was. Maybe that’s why the author had never specified what was in the thermos that Dipper had found.

There’s something stuck in some special thermos buried behind the shack….

She wished Dipper had had a chance to examine the thermos before Phantom had taken it.

“What about his warning?”

That prompted Dipper to open his eyes. “We can’t stop. He’s not really here just to warn us. We wouldn’t have found him where we did, the way we did, if he’s telling the truth about everything.”

Mabel said what Dipper didn’t: “And that doesn’t explain Danny.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Dipper must have no idea what did, no real idea that he didn’t think was too much of a stretch, or he’d have said it.

“So we don’t listen to him?”

“He hasn’t really given us any reason to trust him.”

“Yeah,” Mabel said quietly, “that’s what I thought.” But she couldn’t get Phantom’s abrupt change out of her head, the way he’d been pleading with them to let him out before breaking off mid word and moving faster than she’d been able to see. He’d…changed. In a split second. Still asking them to let him go but with less desperation than before.

He’d claimed that he didn’t know more than what he’d told them, but she didn’t believe that any more than she believed that Danny Fenton, whoever he was, was just some friend. As if they couldn’t see the similarities. As if they had never been tricked before by someone pretending to be someone—something—they’re not.

Even if Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom weren’t the same person—ghost, creature, whatever—they had to be connected. Why would Danny Fenton have come here? To scout out the territory? To try to find Phantom, if Phantom hadn’t sent him? But then there had been the phone call to his sister, before he ran out….

“He talked about other dimensions,” Mabel said slowly. “Do you think he’s from a different dimension?”

Dipper didn’t answer, instead pulling the journal towards him and flipping through it.

“Do you think it was the author of the journals who wrote that note about him? Or do you think it was someone else?”

More silence. Mabel didn’t like that. She much preferred Dipper to talk her ear off with explanations or theories, at least when she had none of her own. She’d rather ignore his ramblings than not have them when they needed them.

“Is this a trap?”

“I hope not,” Dipper finally said, settling on a page in the journal and showing it to her, “but we better be ready for when he comes back in case it is.”

(next)

[madfantasy]

1) Oh, dear Mani, it's so devastating to read what you're writing about yourself. You're a loveliest person and a beautiful artist, and you deserve all the very best in the world. Sorry if it's dumb (I'm from Russia and maybe it's like asking if there're bears everywhere in the streets here) - but is it common in your country or it's just your family? Is it legal to prevent you from socialising etc. or is i just a tradition ?

You are so precious, thank you for your kindness.. I'm so sorry to have to trouble you.. but I can't seem to filter anything lately.. and no, it's not a dumb question at all. One is not expected to know everything, that without mentioning other people's cultures, tbh I hardly know much of mine but what I have encountered..

The simple answer would be— it is common; but it varies.. my family is probably at 8 or 9 out of ten in the extreme levels, I guess this is me numbing it down again, but... anyway, It's not even a religious thing, it's more of old cultural habits and practices—before religious times. It's even -what my family's doing- against what is considered common habits, here. As people are normally extremely, suffocating-ly sociable and curious and inviting and probably won't leave you alone if you haven't made it clear.

I don't know if it is legal or not, I'm sure it is illegal based on human rights alone? I'm always told (as a way of threatening) how parents can call the authorities on their misbehaving children. And it is a thing here, usually if the kids be abusive to their parents (as in beating up their elder parents) or troubling, police escort them to where ever. And I don't want to think of the anti...

As I am assigned at birth this gender- female- automatically I'm shut down by my family of fear of shame and whatever but told it's out of "honourable" protectiveness of their reputation and mine.

Tho they know I am far from being associated with the traits of being that gender (or any) I disliked dress, spoke with no gender pronouns, hated hair styling, make up and all.. I was still been treated as if I am a shame that needs to be kept private in all possible legal ways. As no one of any kind should be..

(Without mentioning that having female child is considered a way to heaven— religiously speaking— and in ancient times, they used to burry their infants females out of shame. How did they still exists is beyond me)

Anyway, to me it meant no contact with the opposite gender at all cost, only sticking to matchings. That means no hospitals if the doctors weren't females, no school trips, no malls, no visiting my schoolmates (next door or not), no public places, no house yard if the fence built too low, no windows (blocking them with cardboards and textured stickers). Was gonna share a pic of baby Mani in a house that has that, but. Literally I remember imaging z hanged picture with cottage in flowery field as the view outside our window, and day dreamed happily about it. (I have no pictures of me in my teenage years, cuz it was shameful to have them, even with smartphones arrived, mine was constantly searched for them) while we received pictures of the extended families children in all of their age groups..

I had to constantly come with excuses to everybody why I can't come see them or why I can't go. I thought being poor was the main reason and it was shameful, and I was embarrassed by my charity cloths and unfurnished homes, I was always told to lie about it, because people would laugh at me if they found out. So I did. And everything made sense until I grew more brain cells and realising nothing have changed, either we be dirt poor or not. People actually offered to pay me food, trip costs, give me coats for the winter, rides to school, to beat off my misfortune when they are able just to include me, yet it was still being rejected.. and I couldn't understand why anymore.

I seen married couples, when ppl forced fam to take me somewhere to enjoy and have fun, the wife is the one running the house, goes out shopping, or just go out for rides, calls the workers for repairs, go places on her own, took taxis, and it was... Normal?!

A cousin of fam came to visit and asked why your children don't go out, why don't you give them money and let them shop their heart's content? They answered, they fear society.. a lie at that time

Maybe it's not something noticeable for outsiders, but cloaks speak of the area's culture and age too. When I came 'of age' I had to cover up in the extremist of ways, ways consider only elderly ppl did, and I always got funny looks when I wore my cloak.

I was never allowed to show my eyes, specially that I wear glasses and can't see with the cover. So I tripped alot and was humiliated for in the streets, trying to make me understand that anything I do is an ' invite' for their eyes..

I was beginning to see the flaws, the lies, the holes in reasons I was offered.. linked together the constant misery that I didn't understand it's reason, since as further as I remember.

Maybe it's not spoken in plain words (until yesterday that is) but all that is just because that I am born under that title..

Women now can drive.. can be their own legal guardian without the need of a male to confirm everything she does (which was what it used to be) she can travel abroad alone if she's over 21.

I'm fighting so hard to exist, and to have basic needs satisfied..

It almost took my soul out begging to have my ID card, until the gov announced fine to those who don't register their females.. I should had my ID 16 of age. Got it 27.. and their excuse is that I didn't have a reason to get it anyway.. as everything goes in my life I asked for... I don't need what I think I need. I don't need to drive.. I don't need to work.. I don't need clothes- I'm fashion thirsty- I don't need to have fun.. I only need to do exactly what they wish. Which drives me crazy as it contrasts with the sacrifices they made themselves for us and everything that we gone through together..

I have to fight and argue and plead to get anything.. I was able to draw while I was furiously I could not, I could speak English as I please while it offended them, still-- they can't speak it--.. and it obviously the only way to express my shut off mind without their interference..

it feels I'm losing a chunk of myself each year nothing changes... And this year everything was tossed backwards so hard I'm constantly dipping into extreme depression.. not to mention how the whole world is suffering too...

Even if I found psychologist, it wouldn't do me any good, remaining under these conditions..

it pains me to share this but I can't see no more point to hide anything or act as if I'm okay..  specially if my art reflects it... It's what I'm able to offer for now.. and I'm so sorry... bless your days with fortune.. all of u..

[mobius-prime]

208. Sonic the Hedgehog #140

Return to Angel Island (Part 3): How Many Echidnas Does It Take to Protect a Master Emerald?

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: Jon Gray Colors: Jason Jensen

So! We didn't forget that Lara-Le was pregnant a year ago, did we? Knuckles is completely stunned at the sight of his baby brother, and carefully hands him back, asking what his name is.

Honestly, this series of panels alone is enough to sell me on Jon Gray as an artist - I don't think anyone else could have pulled off this joke as well as he did. Anyway, yeah, this is in fact the Mace we briefly saw in StH#132, so clearly once he grew up he also agreed that Kneecaps is a horrible name and started going by Mace instead. That night, the echidna refugees all set up tents for Knuckles and his friends, but Knuckles is reluctant to accept the hospitality, still disturbed by everyone's reverence for him. He leaves, and Sonic is confused about his attitude, which Mighty says is likely influenced by the way everyone treats him differently after coming back from the dead. This draws a parallel in Sonic's mind between Knuckles' situation and his own with Sally, which I'm honestly surprised hasn't really been explored as of yet, considering it's one of the main things they currently have in common. Knuckles heads to the Hidden Palace, but ignores both Finitevus and Lien-Da when they try to ask him what he's doing, instead going straight for the Master Emerald in the chamber beyond. There, he sits just far enough from it that the pain doesn't affect him, and reflects on his choices up till now.

Okay, first of all Knuckles, we already established that you hardly came back for egotistical reasons. You fully accepted the fact that returning from the afterlife would have consequences, and came back anyway to save literally everyone on the planet from being sucked into a black hole. I'd say that's a worthy goddamn reason to go against Aurora's warnings. And second of all, Archimedes?! Dear lord, it's been… what, sixty-six freaking issues since we last saw you! Why do you look so evil there? Like seriously, it's a weird design choice, because when I first read this I was worried that Archimedes was being mind controlled or had gone evil or something, but I'll spoil it right now for you that he's totally fine and his excitement over his predictions being true is completely benevolent. I'm honestly sad that we haven't seen him in so long, because I actually quite like Archimedes, and enjoyed the larger role he played in earlier issues, particularly throughout a lot of the KtE series. He's been relegated to barely more than a bit part at this point, even though he and Knuckles seemed to be building such a good rapport when they first met.

Anyway, General Kage contacts Eggman to inform him of the invasion of one of the prison camps by Knuckles and his entourage, and Eggman becomes angry, telling Kage to work harder to root the disturbance out and get things working more smoothly on the island. M, repaired by now and with a fresh coat of "makeup," suggests that she go to Angel Island to oversee things, but Eggman vetoes that, right as they walk past a room ominously labeled "Snively Processing Lab," with a horrifyingly familiar silhouette inside being experimented on. It's clear that in the year that has passed, Eggman has reduced Snively to nothing better than fuel for his experiments - we've only seen him one other time since Sonic returned, and he seemed utterly terrified of his boss. Given his hatred of his uncle, and how this version of Robotnik is even more brutal than the original, I feel genuinely bad for him. Eggman reassures M that he knows just how to fix things on Angel Island, and goes to release someone from a prison pod in his base, equipping the mysterious prisoner with a control collar to ensure total obedience…

The next morning, Knuckles is awoken from where he passed out in front of the Master Emerald by Julie-Su - apparently, their double agent in the dingoes' ranks has contacted them with Locke's location, and so the full force of the Dark Legion, as well as Knuckles and all his friends, all make for the base in Dingo City where he's being held, with Espio surprisingly swearing up a storm as they take the Legion's hovercraft. As they race to the rescue, we finally get a clue as to where our favorite dingo has been all this time! How ya doing, Harry old boy?

Oh, gee, not so good, I see. The general is distracted from Harry dropping his breakfast in a fright by a call from Eggman, who tells him that if Locke isn't going to give up the information, it's time to cut their losses and "terminate" him. However, at that exact moment, the cavalry bursts in and begins beating the dingo sentries into the ground.

Knuckles immediately rushes to get his father down, and despite his rough treatment Locke is relatively okay, if weak. Kage tries to get back up, but Sonic and Knuckles merely grin at each other and punch him right back into unconsciousness. However, before they can congratulate themselves too much, Eggman projects his face as a hologram at them, as he is wont to do, and gloats that Locke was only one of his methods for finding the Master Emerald. While they've been busy in the city, Eggman has sent someone else to attack the echidna refugees' camp… and it's none other than Hunter from the ending of the KtE series, powered up and ready to wreak havoc once more!

Mobius 25 Years Later: A Difference of Opinion

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Steven Butler Colors: Jason Jensen

In stark contrast to the sense of fierce camaraderie born of fire that Sonic and Knuckles share in the previous story, here we get to finally see their older counterparts interact one on one and be all hostile for no reason. Well, actually, we do get a reason. Knuckles finds Sonic lounging outside on his nightly walk, and invites him along for a chat, with their wives secretly watching from the windows and hoping they'll be able to work things out. Sonic is apparently skeptical of Rotor's claims of approaching armageddon, while Knuckles is more inclined to believe him. Sonic is then forced into some contrived dialogue that conveniently leaves him free to explain in detail exactly what caused them to start hating each other so much. Instead of typing out a summary here, I'm gonna go ahead and let the comic explain the whole thing for me, so you can see for yourself how much this sucks.

This… this is literally the worst thing we've seen so far. Okay, okay, maybe not the worst - Sonic trying to drown his own son really takes the cake - but it's up there. This entire backstory is built entirely on the idea of Knuckles literally trying to rewrite reality in the middle of an out-of-nowhere god complex and then facing absolutely no repercussions for it afterward aside from the loss of an eye. This is the reason that Julie-Su is missing her cybernetics - because sometime in the past, Knuckles, without even asking her what she wanted, took them from her, simply because he apparently thought she'd be better off without them. And now, he still considers Sonic to be the bad guy of the story, because Sonic had the nerve to consider Knuckles trying to reshape their entire world the way he liked it to be a threat to their continued peaceful existence. And as far as Knuckles losing an eye as a result, all things considered, that is not bad at all. I mean sure, losing any body part sucks, but in this universe one can be outfitted with various cybernetics that are better that the original organic part they're replacing, and as Sonic points out, the technology exists to just give him back his organic eye with no lasting side effects. Furthermore, Knuckles also seems put out that Sonic prevented him from becoming a Chaos-Emerald-powered god, even though literally not that long ago we just saw how badly things turn out when that happens! You freaking died, Knuckles! I can't even begin to put my disdain for this backstory into proper words, it's so bad. Like, there's not even one single thing I can pin down to explain how bad it is - it's just a jumbled mess, and such a disappointment. I mean, all this time I've been pointing out how out of character it is for Sonic and Knuckles to hate each other, but since we didn't know why they hated each other there was always the chance that later on the story would finally reveal to us the real reason for their enmity, and that it would change everything, revealing some unknown details that explained everything we've seen and made it totally believable. This story not only failed to do that, it has actually done the opposite, making their rivalry less believable and making Knuckles feel just as out of character as everyone else so far. Like, I'm seriously surprised that Kenders would do this to his favorite character in the series, because it just makes Knuckles seem so unsympathetic and unlikable that it basically renders a lot of his character development up till now seem totally pointless. Like, just… why?

[hermannsthumb]

maria I am literally begging you to write newt and hermann being sent off to meet hannibal

(this prompt is re: my answer to this ask)

god i think this kind of au is so fucking fun....also i always wanted to do a post-newt’s-first-drift missing scene (eyes emoji)

-------------------

Newt’s not sure what to say to Hermann after the Marshal leaves the lab. I told you so seems a little harsh, considering the circumstances--the fact that Hermann’s still deathly pale, that his legs are still trembling, that he collapsed into a chair the moment the door clicked shut and hasn’t been able to look at Newt since. He might start throwing things at Newt. Or crying. Newt’s not sure which is worse. Sorry you had to find me spasming to death on the floor. It’d be a lie; Newt’s sorry Hermann had to see him at an, uh, low point like that, but he’s not sorry he did it. Not after what it gave him. Thanks for saving me from spasming to death on the floor. Better.

“Hey,” Newt says. “Thanks, you know, for--”

“No,” Hermann says.

“...for saving my life,” Newt says. He forces a grin. “If I’d fried my brain out it would’ve been a total waste of time.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

Newt scuffs his boot against the ground. Too soon. He hadn’t expected Hermann to be this--well, affected about it all. He thought the guy hated him. He thought the guy would’ve been glad to get rid of him. (Morbid, but whatever.) “Uh. Anyway. I gotta--get that brain. The kaiju brain.”

Hermann turns, sharply, blinking fast. “The kaiju brain,” he says.

“Yeah,” Newt says. Hermann’s being uncharacteristically slow on the uptake. Shock, maybe. Newt swipes the back of his sleeve across his still-bleeding nose--his button-up’s already stained beyond repair, not much more damage he can do to it--and snags his leather jacket from the back of his desk chair. “What Pentecost said? He needs me to do it again. I have to--”

“Yes,” Hermann says. He reaches one trembling hand for his cane and pushes himself to his feet. “The brain. I’ll be coming with you, of course.”

Newt’s jacket nearly slips from his grasp. He gapes at Hermann. “You’ll what?’

“I’ll be coming with you,” Hermann repeats. “You can’t really expect me to let you go alone.”

Newt does drop his jacket, this time, and immediately scrambles to pick it up, his face growing warm. “Hermann, that’s--” he stammers, “that’s really--” Here it is, what he’s been waiting for--some big, romantic confession, Hermann sweeping him into his arms, declaring it’s them against the rest of the world, that it was almost the end of his world when he found Newt bleeding and seizing, that he’d follow Newt to the ends of the Earth and beyond.

What Hermann actually says is “You wouldn’t last an hour without me.”

“Oh.” Newt deflates.

Hermann is already clacking out the door, his parka already--somehow--zipped up to his throat. It’s not even cold out. Totally unnecessary. “Do hurry up.”

Newt pulls on his jacket and scurries after him.

--

“If you’d walked faster,” Hermann says, glaring miserably at the night sky and the rain that pelts down from it, “we wouldn’t have missed the bus.”

“I’m pretty sure the buses aren’t fucking running, Hermann,” Newt says. “They haven’t been running in months. If you left your cave and socialized every once in a while, you might know that.”

“And if you hadn’t forgotten the umbrella--”

“I didn’t even ask you to come, you big baby!” Newt says. “You forced yourself on me!” Hermann scowls; Newt sighs, feeling a little guilty, and kicks at a bit of trash. He’s being an asshole and he knows it. Hermann might have perfectly legitimate reasons for not wanting to walk--his knee might be acting up, for one, like it sometimes does in the rain--and not to mention that Hermann did just save his life. “It’s, like, a mile. Do you want me to hail a cab? You’ll have to pay, since I’m kinda balling on a budget, man, but...” He’s not sure how much the brain is going to cost either. Or if it’ll cost anything at all. Maybe it’ll be like something from a spy movie--Newt flashes his PPDC badge, drops Pentecost’s name, and the Chau guy immediately wheels a brain out for him, no questions asked. What sort of favors does he owe Pentecost, anyway?

“No cab,” Hermann says. He flips up his hood with a great deal more sass than necessary. Newt has to admit the rain is kind of annoying; his hair is dripping, his glasses are impossible to see through, his jacket--and the clothing it’s supposed to be protecting--completely soaked. “I suppose I’ll have to make do.”

“Oh, how noble,” Newt says. He shines his black light on a nearby street sign, and the symbol from the card Pentecost gave him flashes into view, along with a little arrow. Very spy movie. Newt’s loving it. “Okay, it’s a right up ahead.”

The crowd doesn’t necessarily dissipate when they turn down the next street, but it does thin out, and Newt and Hermann are able to slip through a lot more easily. They’re also able to hear each other without shouting. “A mile?” Hermann says, squinting out at Newt from under his fuzzy hood.

“More or less,” Newt says. “Probably less. Be on the lookout for spooky guys in sunglasses.” He’s not sure if that’s what the dealers actually look like, but sunglasses seem appropriate. Fedoras, maybe. Black trenchcoats. Newt’s nose suddenly stings. “Ah. Shit!”

It’s started bleeding again; in a flash, Hermann is holding his handkerchief to it. “Pinch it,” he says, strangely gentle, “there we are, Newton.”

“Ugh. Thanks.” Newt screws his eyes up and tilts his head back, pinching as Hermann instructed. “I don’t know what I did.”

“Does it hurt?” Hermann says. One nervous, fluttering hand presses itself to Newt’s shoulder, to the side of his face, atop the handkerchief, then drops away, and Newt is reminded of how tightly Hermann’d gripped him when he dragged Newt out of his drift. “Or your head? Are you--?”

“Nah,” Newt says. “Just a fucking nuisance.” He draws the handkerchief--wet with rain, too, and stained a deep crimson--back, and sniffs and wrinkles his nose a few times. “Stopped again. For now. Do you mind if I hold onto this?” He waves the handkerchief around.

The corner of Hermann’s mouth twitches up. “Keep it. I don’t particularly want it back.”

Newt crams it into his pocket. He crams his hands into his pockets, too, fixes his eyes on the wet pavement, mostly to keep himself from doing something dumb like taking Hermann’s arm to feel one of those strong hands on him again. (Hermann never touches him; today, he has twice.) “Thanks, by the way,” Newt says. “I know I already said it, but--I owe you a lot.”

“Don’t be silly, Newton,” Hermann says. “It’s only a handkerchief.”

Newt glances up; Hermann’s faint smile has turn strained. “That’s not what I meant,” Newt says, but he has a feeling Hermann knows. He’s not surprised when Hermann says nothing. 

They hurry on. The rain picks up.

“How much longer now?” Hermann says.

Newt shines the black light at a cluster of nearby street signs. He shines the light at some a few feet ahead. He pushes across the street (no cars, down this way) and shines at some more there. Hermann is waiting for him when he pushes back, hood down, full brunt of his glare focused on Newt. “Uh,” Newt says. “We may have taken a wrong turn.”

Hermann bitches at him for the entirety of the time it takes to turn back, shine the light around some more, and find the right street to go down, which is a whole of ten minutes, hardly anything, but Hermann’s acting like Newt set them back, like, a whole fucking hour. “You didn’t have to come,” Newt reminds him, after Hermann finishes a tirade about Newt’s irresponsibility. “You really, really, really didn’t--”

“Of course I did!”

“I never asked you,” Newt says. “Pentecost never asked you. I wanted--”

“I wanted to keep an eye on you and make sure you didn’t get yourself killed!” Hermann says. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t do something even stupider than drift with a kaiju brain, since you obviously can’t wait to sacrifice yourself for some--”

Newt snorts. “Why do you give a shit if I get myself killed?”

Hermann comes to a staggering halt; he clutches, desperately, at Newt’s arm. “Because I care about you, you moron!” he shouts.

A few passersbys give Hermann a Look--the weird Brit yelling at the American in the middle of a crowded sidewalk--and, coloring fast, reeling away from Newt, he shrinks in on himself in embarrassment. Newt does, too, but for a different reason entirely. “You care about me?” Newt squeaks. (Here it comes, Newt’s sure of it: the confession, the sweeping Newt into his arms, the kissing him, even.)

“Of course I do,” Hermann says. He’s deceptively calm, in a way that means he might start shouting again very soon if Newt doesn’t play it cool. Kissing’s probably out of the question. “I care very much about you, Newton.” He works his jaw. “Finding you was--upsetting.”

“Oh,” Newt says.

“The thought of having not found you, of not reaching you in time, was even more upsetting,” Hermann says. “I was not eager to relive it.”

“Oh,” Newt repeats.

"You mean--to me--Newton, you and I--” Hermann swallows heavily a few times, sighs, rubs his hand across his face. His blush hasn’t faded. “It’s of no import at the moment. A conversation for another time, perhaps. We need--we need to, ah, get you your kaiju brain.”

“Right,” Newt says, though every bone in his body screams for him to beg Hermann to finish his fucking sentence. (What does Newt mean to him, exactly?) “I think it’s a left down here.”

--

Chau pulls a knife on Newt; Hermann smacks it out of his hand with his cane.

Newt almost swoons.

--

"Hey,” Newt says, as the kaiju shelter trembles overhead, as he trembles in Hermann’s arms, “there’s, like, a ninety percent chance we’re about to die, and I just want to say it was really hot when you--”

“Shut up,” Hermann says, and kisses Newt.

--

They don’t die. Newt gets his kaiju brain. Win-win.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 12

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary:  As Ienzo sleeps, Even ponders over his next steps, and forms an unexpected friendship with Demyx.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Even returns to his quarters. He knows he needs sleep, but he feels too wired, and he doesn’t want to take something lest they need him in the middle of the night. He’s soaking his lab coat in bleach, but he’s not optimistic. Instead, he sits darning a hole in an old one he found.

He seems Demyx poke his face in the cracked door. “Something the matter?”

“That depends.” Demyx sighs. “Do you think it’s possible for me to regain my sitar? Or do you think it would hurt me like it did Ienzo?”

Already so much more resolved. Curious. “Truthfully? I think that you will likely be fine. Lea can wield two weapons simultaneously--though why that miscreant needs to be doubly dangerous I have no idea.”

“How do I do it?”

He blinks. It still feels so odd to see the different color. “I’m afraid in that case I’m out of my depths. You might try giving one of them a call. I’m sure Ienzo would not mind if you used his gummiphone in his absence.”

“Sure. Thanks.” He turns to leave.

He bites the bullet. “Demyx? Could I perchance… take a look at it?”

“At what?”

What else? “The Keyblade,” he says slowly. He never really got to study Roxas’s--or Xion’s, for that matter, despite creating it in a roundabout way. Funny. Demyx was once a thorn in his side; now he’s a living relic.

He raises an eyebrow. “I mean I haven’t consciously summoned it in literally hundreds of years.”

“I have a feeling you’ll be able to.” Now that the boy is human… and feeling remorse… he may very well be worthy again.

The boy holds out his hands. With a flash… there it is.

It’s a slight, delicate blade; the hilt an inverse sort of heart. Even notices the coloring, light and dark blue. “...Fascinating,” Even mumbles. “Lea’s chakrams were incorporated into his blade as well.” He leans forward a little to get a better look.

Demyx draws it away. “Don’t! I’m not going to risk passing this on.”

...And how would that be done? “It’s not a virus.”

“It sorta is,” he says, frustratingly vaguely.

“As if I would ever be worthy . Very well. If it soothes your neuroses.”

The boy holds it protectively, and, Even notes, with something like disgust; he looks like he’s smelled something bad.

“Have you had it long?”

“Literally?”

Even crosses his arms. “You do realize that you simply  traveled through time, yes? You’re still only twenty-two. A babe.”

He shrugs. “Since I was five. More or less. That’s just how it was then.”

Paydirt. “How what was?”

He sighs. The weapon vanishes. “I hope you got time.”

“For this, I will make the time.”

He sits the boy down, starts a recording. Demyx bristles a little when Even does this, but says nothing. “I hope you do not mind that I am recording this. I assure you any we can redact any exceedingly personal information. This is for my edification only. I would never dream of letting it fall into unsavory hands.”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“Can you state your name and age in its entirety?”

He nods, and then as though embarrassed, gives Even his old name.

“That’s your name? That’s not what I thought.”

“Yeah, well. It seems like I’m full of surprises. I don’t care who knows it, but it doesn’t seem to fit right anymore. You know?”

“I suppose. So. Can you tell me what you remember, as far back as you can, as comfortably as you can?”

“I’ll try.”

When Even looks back at the recording later, it’s only about half an hour; but it seems like he and Demyx were in that room for much longer. Demyx tells him the story slowly, about his own impoverished beginnings, about a time when Keyblade wielding was almost guaranteed, about complex family dynamics and Foretellers, about child warriors being exploited. They were throwing these kids in and out of time ( how ?) on missions to destroy Heartless, collect light. Not too much unlike the Organization, Even notes. Xehanort must have known all this. But if they were letting these kids time travel somehow, far enough into the future where they would naturally be dead… it defies logic. But it allows Demyx to be sitting here, now.

Doesn’t everything?

But rather than how darkness corrupted the apprentices, light seemed to corrupt these children; they fought over it, began killing each other, as well as one another’s pets (Chirithys?). Even remembers the old fairy tales--people used to fight over the light, and it’s this fight that begat darkness, which begat the World’s fracture.

Demyx has lived through all that.

He seems unaware of all this, of the implications of it. He tells Even instead about unions, Keyblade groups, a specialized sect called Dandelions. He tells him about a war.

It’s around then the gravity of everything seems to be setting in. Demyx’s voice becomes more and more halting as he describes the war, people (children) dying. Finally he breaks down. Even can’t offer him much comfort other than a glass of water, something to dry his eyes, a hand to hold.

Their history was so much more human than he could’ve thought, more than the sing-songy fairy tales they’d all been taught. They had repercussions.

But if it were the second set of Foretellers, and not Xehanort, who wiped the boy’s memory, how on earth did it return? Was just the trigger enough? Is it all sheer coincidence?

Xemnas found Demyx, wounded, reeling, and dying in this graveyard. Of course the boy begat a Nobody--but the Nobody, without memories or a Keyblade, was essentially useless, trauma warping his personality radically.

“Goodness gracious,” he mutters, wanting a stronger word. “This is a window to our history.”

Cried out, he’s exhausted. “Yours, maybe.”

“You simply must tell me more about these Foretellers. How is this organization structured? What was their training regimen like? Who was their leader--did they have a leader?”

“It's a lot to talk about." Flat. Lifeless. Even remembers the boy is human, not some kind of walking encyclopedia.

He pauses the recording. “I suppose you’re right. Of course you must be very tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would say so.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Even says. “I realize… it is not easy. Especially given our past relationship.”

“Like you said. Forgiveness.”

He nods. But how has Even earned Demyx's forgiveness? “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“I think I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

He’s not sure what else to say, so he tries for humor. “Well. Don’t get too used to it.”

Demyx purses his lips. “Wake me up if anything changes with Ienzo,” he says. “Please.”

“You can be sure of it.”

He watches the boy go. He’s trembling all over himself, weak. He thought hearing about the past would be illuminating; instead he feels something of a voyeur. This oral history is probably one of the only truths they have. But knowing he’s the one who’s taken it does not give him a sense of pride. Rather, he feels keenly the weight of responsibility. Demyx likely does not want to live being gawked at, questioned. But he’s never had such insight before to the past.

For some reason Even thought that, prior to the Fracture, the World was something utopian. But people starving in the streets? Greed and exploitation running rampant? Maybe they did not yet have literal darkness, but it still lived in the hearts of men. Waiting.

Forever polluting.

He falls asleep for a few hours, restlessly. He bathes, forces himself to eat. He checks in on Ienzo, finds everything still steady and vital. He knows one thing he may be able to do.

Even finds the EEG machine broken and bashed in inside of a closet. He carries it back upstairs, seeking Dilan--the man was always better with his hands. He runs instead into Ansem. He’s in no mood. “Have you seen Dilan?” he asks instead.

“He’s keeping Demyx preoccupied. For the best, I suppose. What are you doing with that?”

“Well--it would be prudent to try to monitor Ienzo’s neural activity,” he says. “But like everything else in this godforsaken castle, it too needs repairs.”

Ansem appraises the machine in Even’s arms. “I may be able to help you,” he says. “Come with me.”

The lab is colder than everywhere else, despite the computer. Even shudders.

“I admit I did not miss these winters,” Ansem says. He takes the screen and coil of wires and sets it down, then plugs it into the console. “I’ll do a diagnostic. It’ll only take a moment.”

They both wait, saying nothing, refusing to make eye contact.

“This… does not surprise me a whit,” Ansem admits.

“What? That everything’s broken?”

“That the boy would do this,” he says. “I’m afraid he gets that from you.”

Even scoffs.

“It’s true. You were always… in your own way… putting everything else above yourself--especially those you cared for. Once Ienzo arrived--I cannot recall one single touchpoint where the boy was not a priority.”

“Children have no power here,” he says softly. “I… now this must be kept in confidence.”

“Always,” Ansem says.

“Demyx told me the story of his past. I said I would not share the details--and I won’t, without his permission. But… I’m afraid to say the past was no different. The people in charge, such as they were, were merely using them to gather light.”

“Sounds familiar,” Ansem says, with a shake of his head.

“...Quite. Naively, I hoped… that the darkness of man was artificial. But it seems that it was not, that we as humans… were always dreadful to one another. It’s so dismal. I thought I would feel good, making these discoveries, but I…” He trails off and crosses his arms.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Regardless of darkness.”

“So it seems.”

“And there’s always light in the darkness, Even.”

He scowls. “Can’t you say something more than a mere platitude?”

“It’s truth.” He tilts his head. “If anything… this convoluted suffering of these two boys… has brought back out this tender part of you I feared gone.”

“...I struggle, to be Even,” he admits. “I feel a helpless wretch. Seeing Ienzo in such danger, I could not lift a finger. I could not do anything aside from watch.”

“But you were there. Which is more than I can say.” He taps a few things on the screen. “This actually appears to be in good shape. Needs a new motherboard. That’s all. Those are easy to come by, in the market. We can go together.”

“...But shouldn’t someone be here in case--?”

“Everyone here has a gummiphone, and they also know how to use it. It’d do you some good to get outside. I don’t think any of us will leave Ienzo without company.”

They walk, slowly. Even realizes, almost for the first time, that he’s taller than Ansem; the man always seemed larger than him. How odd. “Do you… know what happened?”

“I’ve been briefed by nearly everyone, yes.”

Their walk to town is nearly completely silent. They wade through the snow. “I thought I would know what to do, once I began my pitiful attempt at atonement,” Even admits. “But all I’ve done to help so far--results in nothing.”

“I’m not much better. I tried to assist Ienzo, but all I did was allow the boy to destroy himself. I wasn’t… a good father. I never allowed him to even call me “dad.”” He shakes his head. “I never prioritized him. He was… something of a pet, looking back on it.”

“Yet when I suggested that you became extremely defensive.”

“Because I’m a stubborn idiot, Even.”

The frankness with which he says this makes Even look up.

“Does it make you feel good to hear you were right?” he asks. There’s no sharpness to it; he really wants the answer.

“No,” he says. “Not at all.”

For a while all that is audible is the sound of their boots crunching the snow. “I should’ve listened,” Ansem continues. “We could’ve placed the boy in a good home. He could’ve grown up safe, loved--more than the desiccated love of researchers. Xehanort might not have used him, might not have held him as a chip over you. Because I’m sure he did.”

“And none of this would have happened?” Even asks dryly.

“I’m not sure about that. But we could’ve spared one life.” He sighs. “I admit I’m… glad for Demyx, in some ways. He’s giving him a support we couldn’t--and still can’t.”

“I feel the same,” Even says dully. “All along I thought he was--that he would--”

“Physically use the boy and cast him aside?”

Even shrugs. “But has anyone in Ienzo’s life done anything more?” His eyes ache, from exhaustion and the whiteness of snow. “Demyx was there when it happened… his devastation told me his feelings are genuine.”

"...Perhaps we should get used to him, then."

"It could be worse." He frowns. "I'm… trying not to consider what might happen if--"

"Ienzo will not give up if he has a say in the matter. Have faith in the boy."

"I do," Even says haltingly. "But I wish… we had been on better terms prior to… I have so much to make up to that boy. The least I can do is ensure he has a long and happy life."

"Is that not atonement enough?" Ansem asks softly.

"It never will be. Never. It’s all become so dreadfully human to me, what we did. I wrote an impact statement for the committee. These people were more than just hearts, they were…”

“Dreams? Memories?”

Even nods.

“I understand,” Ansem says. “I turn back towards what I’ve done, my abuse of those Nobodies. They may not be human, but they are still living, they still have their own wants and needs. And now… because of you they have a second chance to really live as they were meant to.”

He shakes his head a little.

“I’ve been much too harsh with you,” Ansem says.

Even stops in his tracks. “What?”

“Being cruel to you will not fix things. It will not change what’s been done.”

Is that all? “Oh.”

“But I find your humility promising.”

He can’t stop it. “I’m not an irredeemable wretch after all?”

“You were never. I’m afraid I… stumble more with my words than I used to.”

Even drops his eyes. They’re almost back at the castle. “I did try,” he admits. “Just not hard enough.”

“Try what?”

“To get him out.”

Ansem stares at him. “When was this?”

“The night they threw you into darkness.” Even’s heart seems to itch. “I was going to run. But they… guessed.” He swallows. “Xehanort threatened to--”

Ansem touches his shoulder. “Peace.”

“I could’ve tried harder. I could’ve. Yet more painful that the boy forgives me for all of it.”

“You can do better now. You already are.”

“...You needn’t tell me sweet lies.”

“It’s not a lie. You’re changing. I wish I could follow.”

Even blinks. “Can’t you?”

Ansem chuckles. “This city is in shambles,” he says. “The ones picking up the pieces are children, inexperienced but hopeful. Rather than return here, to assist this resistance, I… tried to do everything myself. I let the people suffer. I let someone clean up my mess. Sound familiar?”

“Do you believe it’s too late to change?”

Ansem doesn’t answer. “Come,” he says instead. “We should check on the boy.”

---

The days pass. Even finds himself again becoming numb, but he tries to take care of himself. He needs to keep it together for Ienzo.

The boy sleeps and sleeps.

For the first few weeks, Ienzo has next to no neural activity, essentially reading as braindead; which would track if his will is not rebounding. He fears for the worst. How long should they wait before…

No. He will not go there.

He tries to research the subject further, but all there is are fragments, scraps of similar things in ancient, moldering texts. There truly is no precedence for any of this. There’s nothing any of them can do aside from take care of him and wait.

If Even or Ansem isn’t with him, Demyx is. Somehow in all this he’s regained the ability to summon his sitar, but Even finds he doesn’t mind the noise. It fills the utter silence.  It keeps the boy company.

Perhaps for this reason, Ienzo begins to manifest some activity. It’s incredibly limited--barely noticeable--but to Even’s sharp eyes, it’s there.

“You surely are taking your time,” Even mutters.

Seeing it is a relief. It means this all isn’t for nothing.

One of these days, he’s in checking Ienzo’s vitals when he sees Demyx sitting by the window, reading, oddly enough. He consults the monitor. “EEG activity is still fairly limited. But improving. He must be dreaming.”

Demyx looks up. “About what?”

“I’ve no idea. ...What is that ?” He thought that the book in front of the boy was one is Ienzo’s fantasy stories, but taking a closer look at it… Why on earth is Demyx reading something like that ? “Are you quite alright?” He checks the boy’s temperature. It’s the only explanation.

Demyx scowls and shuts the book. “I’m studying. Sue me.”

“But why?” He already has the boy, no need to impress him further.

A sheepishness replaces the anger. “You’re just going to make fun of me,” he says.

“I will not .”

He gives Even a doubtful look.

“I must admit I am still getting used to the new you. Tell me. I will withhold judgement.”

But the last thing he expects out of the boy’s mouth is, “I’m thinking of learning to heal. Like. The magic.”

The last thing Even expected to hear.“Really? Why is that?”

“I want to help people. And this seems like something I can actually do.” He sighs. “I hate feeling helpless. If I can help someone not feel that way, it’d be nice. You know.”

He does know. All too well. It’s still jarring to hear Demyx talk about this, when he once couldn’t be trusted to do what he was told, or really follow anything other than his own whims. But knowing all he’s gone through… he can understand that itch, that need to ease suffering.

(And, somewhat gallingly, Demyx’s bedside manner is better than his own, degree or no.)

“I admit I never put much stock in such magic initially. But seeing how that woman has cared for the two of you, I’m starting to change my mind.”

There’s an earnestness in his newly-green eyes when he asks, “Do you think I can do it?”

Demyx might not be booksmart, but if Even remembers anything of the Organization days, he knows Demyx’s magic was powerful. “You had a fairly potent magical ability in the Organization. I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t think I’m too stupid?”

He’s getting aggravated, but for a completely new reason. Since when does anything Even says mean anything to him? ( You’re his in law.)

(Do not think about that. )

“I find it stupid that you hold my opinion in such high esteem. As you said. You’re not a scientist. But that really has little to do with practical intelligence.” He reaches for the tome. “I’d be glad to help you, should you so want it. These aren’t exactly light reading. It’d be convenient to have another pair of hands.” He picks up another bag of saline. “Well. If you’re so interested, I might as well teach you how to do this much.” He shows Demyx how to change the IV and how to take base vitals; he watches with interest. “I’m hoping we won’t need to do this for too much longer. But that’s all up to him.” He pats Ienzo’s head.

Demyx is tearing up. “I miss him.”

His emotions are always so clear, so close to the surface. Even is vaguely jealous. “As do I. Come. Are you hungry?”

---

They actually end up spending quite a lot of time together, in the upcoming weeks; Even has a feeling Demyx is lonely, and if he’s being honest with himself, so is he. Sometimes the boy will sit near him, as he writes or works in the lab, nose buried in a book (the sight is so bizarre; Even feels half delirious), only looking up to ask questions about anatomy or for a definition of a word. It reminds him of his days teaching. He used to find that work paltry, annoying, something to get through so he could go back to the worthwhile. But he finds he doesn’t mind it. Demyx is sharp, perceptive; he must’ve been, to have gathered such good intelligence in the Organization, but only now is Even seeing it. And finds himself wondering how much of his ill will towards the boy was baseless.

“...Sorry,” Demyx says one day. “But do you mind if I play something? I… I can’t focus otherwise.” With a soft laugh.

He sighs. But to answer in the negative would just discourage the boy. “If you must.”

The boy hefts the instrument into his arms, tunes the strings, begins absently playing a quiet melody to himself. Even glances up, observing him calmly; he pauses every now and again to flip a page, but his gaze is focused.

“Are you glad, to be back here?” Demyx asks suddenly.

He blinks. “In this lab? I should think not--it’s a disaster.”

“No.” He chuckles. “Here, here. In Radiant Garden. As Even.”

He swivels his stool to face the boy. “If I’m to be honest--it hasn’t been easy.”

“...No,” Demyx admits.

“But I…” He doesn’t know what to say.

“Where else do you go?” he asks wryly.

“Yes… and… I may still be able to… be of use, here.” He curses his inelegance.

“But what do you want?”

The earnestness of it makes him laugh. “When you get older you’ll realize you can’t just live for yourself.”

“I mean I know that already.” He shakes his head. “Even. What would make you happy?”

He blinks. “Do we deserve happiness, after what we did?”

“Is suffering any better?”

Even feels vaguely shaken.

Demyx lets the sitar disappear and comes over to him. He leans on his elbow. “No reason for you to be one of your own victims,” he says. “So you might as well lighten up a little. I’m going to go do laundry. ...I’m on my last pair of underwear.” He wrinkles his nose and disappears.

“I did not wish to have that information,” Even says to his retreating form.

But once he’s gone… Even ponders what he said. Turning it over.

Wondering if the boy might actually be right for once.

[outroshooky]

knee socks | jjk

⇢ genre: drabble (set in the sdapu!universe)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x unnamed oc

⇢ word count: nearly 2.0k

⇢ warnings: fluff, mild angst, implied drinking, swearing, unknowingly requited love, this is just a painful slow burn that i wrote while listening to jungkook’s spotify playlist and watching a clip of him dancing in the rain. this is set nine months prior to the events of simmer down and pucker up, which can be read here. also loosely inspired by knee socks by the arctic monkeys.

Nine months prior

The rain fell against the windows of her bedroom with a melody known only by nature and those sleepless minds awake at early hours of the morning. As stormy as it was, though, a single block of moonlight fell across the messy sheets of her bed, tousled hair and open hearts framed in the gentle glow. Two figures, legs and arms intertwined, finding solace in the dreamy companionship that’s a little fuzzy at the edges, just out of touch with actuality but real, all at the same time.

His fingertips stroke her jaw, the contrast of his large hands and her small face never failing to amaze him. He cradles her face in his hands as she takes a shuddering breath and he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb, whispering words of reassurance that dissipate in the dim room.

When she whispers, she sounds so fragile. His heart twists. “Jeongguk?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

The only three words she’s managed to force out since he awoke perhaps thirty, forty minutes ago to the sound of her screaming. In all other circumstances, her howling wouldn’t phase him- normally, his fingers and his cock would be the cause of it- but something about this time- bone chilling, blood running cold- made his heart stop in his chest.

He knew about her nightmares. She’d told him about them in the past, warned him in a semi-lighthearted manner that she occasionally woke up crying bloody murder, but it was normal, and he shouldn’t be concerned.

Well, now he was concerned.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Jeongguk murmured, slipping one arm over her shoulder and drawing her into his chest. “He can’t get you. You’re safe.”

“It felt so real-” she wheezed, clutching onto his forearms, burying her face in his chest. “Felt so fucking real, thought I was gonna die-”

“You’re not going to die,” He reassured her. “I’ve got you. He’s not here. He’s nowhere near here, and even if he was, I wouldn’t let him get anywhere close to you. He’d have to get through me first, and I put up a hell of a fight.”

“Jeongguk I can’t-”

“Shhh,” Jeongguk hushed her softly, fingers carding through her hair the way he knew she liked. “You don't have to. Just listen to the sound of my voice, okay?”

Her sniffle served as an adequate reply, and her hands found their way to his chest. His heart twisted like the fabric of his shirt, taunt in her grip, and he wished he could do more to soothe the deep-seated pain in her psyche. A hurt she never deserved, and the perpetrators turning a blind eye to the damage they inflicted. He swore to himself he wasn’t like that, would never be like that. He couldn’t dole out any more pain on her already laden shoulders.

Her cheek glimmered silver in the light that caressed her face, the other half of her visage buried in her pillow. The rain’s monotony was broken by a sharp spear of light piercing the darkness, illuminating the room for a split second before the sky cracked with a resonating boom! and she jerked in surprise.

“Baby,” Jeongguk whispered, drawing her even closer into his chest, feeling the soft strands of her hair against his palm. “Listen to the sound of my voice, okay?”

She nodded, just barely, and he rested his chin on top of her head, completely enveloping her in his warmth. “Okay, baby. Remember back in high school, that summer night when it rained even harder than it’s raining now?”

He took her silence for acceptance, and continued. “I was sleeping over your house. It was the last week of summer before we started senior year, and I somehow managed to convince you to stay up all night even though you had a ten hour shift the next day. You probably regretted it- actually yeah, you did, you gave me an earful for like a week after-”

“Jeongguk, I don’t think I’ve ever had a headache as bad as this one is. Why the actual fuck did we do that?” She complained, rubbing her temple with her fingers.

“Are you telling me it wasn’t worth it?” Jeongguk fired back, arms crossed over his chest, reclining leisurely on her perfectly-made bed. “If I recall, you said that night was one of the best of your life.”

“It’s going to take a literal year for my clothes to dry out. I’ve never been wetter in my life-” She realized what she said, mouth sealing in a firm line.

Too late. Jeongguk was already smirking, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Sorry, was I the reason you were wet?”

“Fuck off!”

“-but either way, it was worth it. We were on your roof, remember? The tiles were really warm because it had been sunny all day, and we were up there for about an hour before it started raining. It wasn’t like one of those normal rains though- it was a summer storm, which meant it was a lot of rain and a lot of lightning really high up, so we weren’t in any danger. It poured and poured, and it was still pretty warm outside, but it wasn’t so warm that it was gross.”

Bare legs on heated roof tiles, empty aluminum cans and a feeling of invulnerability. The world would wait for them even if they didn’t wait for it. A couple of kids from a small town who could, if even for one night, push off the ever-pressing threat that was growing up and adult responsibilities and finding their way out there. Jeongguk, his arms behind his head, raising an eyebrow. “I think I just felt a raindrop.”

“It rained just yesterday, it’s not in the forecast for another few days.”

“Nope, there’s another one.” He finished the contents of his can, crushed it in his hand like it was nothing. “It’s definitely raining.”

“Wanna go inside?” She suggested, sitting upright, elbows on her bent knees.

He rolled his eyes, glancing up at the sky with an unreadable expression on his face. “That’s no fun.”

“Staying dry is fun. As is not getting electrocuted, look- heat lightning.”

“It can’t hurt us.”

“And it came out of nowhere, raining like crazy, all at once. It was pouring and you were soaked, we both were.”

“Jeongguk, we gotta go inside, my mom will kill us!” She wiped water off of her brow, clothes spotting dark as the drops began to fall faster. “She doesn’t even like it if I don’t bring a coat with me when there’s a hint of rain in the forecast-”

“Fuck your mom. Well, actually don’t do that.”

“Fuck you. I’m going inside and getting changed.”

“And I remember looking at you and thinking, last week before senior year, last summer together for sure. We gotta make the most of it.”

Jeongguk shrugged. “Your loss then.”

“What? Jeongguk-”

And just like that he was off, scuttling across the roof to where it met the corner of the house maybe six feet below, dropping carefully before sliding down the tiles now steaming in the rain, coming down faster and faster.

“Jeongguk, get back here!”

He made it to the ground by that time, springing just out of range of landing in the azaleas. “You can either join me or sit on your ass inside while I have fun by myself!”

“You’re such a dick!” Yet she followed suit, edging a similar (albeit less graceful) path down the roof, onto the first level, easing slowly, then all at once to the ground.

“So I took off, and then you complained a little, but you followed me eventually, and we ran into the street. It was deserted, cause it was like two in the morning, and the rain was falling, and the sky was flashing, and it was like our own little world, y’know?”

Laughing. Spinning, arms wide. Jeongguk in a rare moment of uncontrolled happiness, a man, no longer a boy. She paused on the sidewalk, hesitating to break the atmosphere that settled as unexpectedly as the storm did. He was dancing in the rain, the first time he ever danced in front of her, even though she knew he’d been taking lessons for years. Jumping for joy, splashing in the puddles that formed in between cracks in the asphalt. His feet were bare, and the falling rain plus the water he kicked up meant the bottoms of his basketball shorts were drenched beyond repair.

He turned around, hair plastered to his forehead, and the sky crashed above their heads, lightning dancing in and among the gray, roiling cloud bottoms. A bunny smile, so genuine and pure and radiant as the moonlight, beamed bright and wide. In a mere matter of a few strides he crossed the distance to her, reaching out before she could even realize what was happening.

His hands grabbed hers as he dragged her after him, the pebbles and loose gravel in the street digging into the bottoms of her feet. That smile, flashing white like the lightning as he spun her, laughing for the sake of laughing, and she swore she’d never seen him more free than he was at that moment, under the rain and the clouds and the heat of the storm. He shook his head and she spluttered as droplets got into her mouth, sprayed her face. He shouted something that she couldn’t hear, his shout timing perfectly with the thunder crashing overhead, and he turned away from her to look up at the sky.

Something stirred in her chest.

A feeling, swirling peacefully like the tide, growing, broiling, bubbling into a floodwater, a tidal wave that threatened to overtake her in one fell swoop.

She’d tried to ignore it for so long. If she shrugged it off, she could pretend it didn’t exist, run away from it like she ran away from the demons of her past, locking her past in a corner of her mind with heavy chains and iron padlocks. She deemed it forbidden, evil, a waste of time and effort and yet here she was, in the pouring rain facing herself at the least expected moment.

Because he blinks away moisture and looks up at the heavenly turmoil with eyes as big and beautiful as the glassy sea. Because he turns to her and smiles with a grin as whole as the moonbeams that kiss her bedroom floor when it’s late and his face is the only thing that fills her mind. Because for a rare moment in a monotonous day, his true persona breaks forth, a boy so tenderhearted and extra and truly good that she is consumed with the feeling, and she is forced to admit for the first time, even to nobody but herself, that she is deeply, wholeheartedly in love with him.

His fingers slip into hers, and when she looks up, her eyes meeting his own, the tidal wave collides with the shore.

“And then you looked at me this way, and I’ll never forget that as long as I live,” Jeongguk ponders. “I’ve never seen anyone look at me like that.”

The bedroom was still.

“Baby?”

The only response was a quiet breath, a rush of air against his collarbone as she inhaled, exhaled, sleep having overtaken her tired mind, reclaimed its dreamy hold on her consciousness. His hand caressed her shoulder, her back, feeling it rise and fall under the light press of his fingertips.

The barest hint of a smile crosses his face before it slips away, like the two teenagers dancing in the street, the rain pouring fast and hard around their beating hearts and trembling hands. “Just rest, okay?”

His lips find her forehead and just barely, they brush her skin as he whispers.

“I love you.”

And the rain falls against the windows of her bedroom until he, too, is lulled to sleep by the tune.

[fire-fira]

Do you remember Tserii? Could you remind my what their backstory is? And what kind of personality they have?

Do I remember Tserii? Let me put it this way, the day I forget this sassy bug child of mine--

--is a sad day indeed. (All credit to @dizsasqua​ for having drawn my buggy child.)

As for the rest-- buckle up, because this is probably going to get a little long.

SO--

Tserii’s backstory (and forewarning for all of my headcanons about Reach coming into play):

Hive-Reach are horrendous when it comes to those who are ‘flawed’. With the Hive everyone has to be ‘of use’, and if they’re judged to not be then they’re eliminated. This translates to the fact that any Hive-Reach who are physically or mentally “compromised” to the point of it being a detriment to the hive not living very long. (Yes, we’re talking ableist AF society here. It’s not pretty.)

One of the biggest (and viewed as most dangerous) ‘flaws’ any reachling can have in this society is to have an absent or ‘deficient’ hive-connection. (I headcanon that most of the Reach have a semi-telepathic bond that keeps them connected to the hive, so there’s an almost constant press of minds that encourages Hive-Reach to work “for the good of the hive”, to the level that they usually put it above their own individual well-being.) Now the reason why having a lacking or ‘deficient’ hive-connection is dangerous to the hive is that it allows the individual reachling to work against the hive-- which could have disastrous consequences so far as the Reach as a whole are concerned.

There are several ways Reach can end up completely or partially ‘hiveless’: the most common is through injury or illness, but there are a few that are born genetically hiveless. Going a little further here, those that have ‘flaws’ (whether those ‘flaws’ get in the way of a reachling working for the hive or no) are known as tsriik’k; those that end up hiveless are known as miihksh (and tend to be killed off quickly as soon as their hivelessness is found out); and those that are born genetically hiveless are known as tsriik’k-miihksh. And the fun thing with any of the tsriik’k-miihksh is that their genetic ‘abnormality’ always involves unusual ‘birthmarks’-- but the reason why it’s impossible to tell at a glance whether one is a tsriik’k-miihksh or not is because there are LOADS of other conditions and genetic flukes that can result in similar ‘birthmarks’.

Take a wild guess why this sassy bug child chose the name they did.

(And how much of the equivalent of a blatant middle finger it was to the Hive. It’s not their only ‘flaw’-- birthmarks after all, plus being sterile and being undifferentiated because of being sterile, which is its own long-ish explanation-- but the genetic hivelessness is pretty much the cornerstone for their life and experiences.)

In Tserii’s case, while born genetically hiveless, their hive-connection existed well enough for them to fake it convincingly and go beneath the radar for decades. Fortunately Tserii was smart from the get-go and realized really quick that being ‘flawed’ in the hive was a BAD THING and knew better than to give away anything that would imply they were ‘flawed’ in an ‘unacceptable’ way, was observant and naturally curious, and had enough sense to make themself invaluable. To the level that they ended up working on-- and creating-- scarabs. We’re talking high level, close to the top, damn near irreplaceable, and an absolute DISASTER for the Hive-Reach to lose. And because Tserii was that invaluable, they made themself almost unquestionable to the rest of the hive-- which kept them in a very precarious bubble of safety that they were always hyper-aware could disappear in an instant.

Tserii was generally able to figure out who was or wasn’t hiveless like them, but due to various incidents knew better than to out themself to those others (because others who were hiveless wouldn’t necessarily be above turning in another to protect themselves). You might think ‘Okay, Tserii keeping their head down under those conditions makes sense, so logically that should be that’, buuuuut thing is that Tserii has a HUGE sense of right and wrong. Where this was a problem for them is that it kept screaming at them to help the other ‘flawed’ and defend them but 1) that would out them as hiveless, 2) any of the ‘flawed’ who weren’t hiveless would immediately turn on them and turn them into the Hive for extermination, 3) any other hiveless would likely turn them in to keep suspicion off themselves, and 4) because of those factors any attempt to help others would likely result in Tserii losing their life. And when they couldn’t help those others, no matter how badly they wanted to, they felt LOADS of guilt over it and regularly mentally beat themself up (and yes, this contributes to a lot of their snark, sarcasm, and salt thanks to how bitter they are over it). Yeah, they tried to avoid drawing attention to themself, but because of all the nasty things Tserii saw (done to both to other species and their own) eventually it got to a point where Tserii couldn’t take it anymore.

So on the way out Tserii sabotaged a LOT of shit, stole a shuttle, went to the most species-mixed space port they could find, sold the shuttle, and deliberately ‘got lost’ so the Hive wouldn’t be able to easily find them. Tserii literally went and did EXACTLY the thing the Hive-Reach are terrified of when it comes to the hiveless, but because of the position they were in Tserii did it at a level that the hive probably hadn’t conceived of up to that point. To say the least, Tserii knew the Hive would be hunting for them and decided that, rather than just give themself time to disappear, they were going to cause as much damage and slow the Hive-Reach down as much as possible on their way out. Which also coincides with when they settled on their name. (Again, HUUUUUGE middle-finger to the Hive.)

After that, Tserii took to laying low and trying to attract at little attention to themself as possible, but because they can’t leave well enough alone they have a habit of quietly helping others and making connections while keeping what they are hidden (because they’re also highly aware that as a reachling most other people would take one look at them and shoot them in the face out of an assumption for the need for self-preservation). Tserii also runs/ran a small mechanic and ship/weapons repair and upgrade shop in a space port, which is how they support themself, and which helps with the connections they’ve built.

With the random snippets of scenes I’ve written, that’s where Jaime and Khaji Da find them. I do have the thought that after helping Jaime and Khaji Da get in touch with the Green Lantern Corp so he can get a ride back to Earth that Tserii would go with them (mainly because in an odd way they’re ‘family’ since they’re of the hive but not with the hive, and thanks to Tserii’s caution they don’t have a lot of people to keep them in that space port) but I haven’t yet written out the fic for it that’s been kicking around in my head since I came up with this buggy child. (And it occurs to me that I should probably put all of the Tserii-specific stuff that I haven’t added yet from my main blog onto [this blog] so it might be a little easier to find. Though my tags for [them and a couple others] are pretty straightforward; original-reach-character or Tsriik’k-miihksh, though the first one has more to it thanks to Riihsth’t and Jiurdakh.)

Tserii’s personality:

As should be obvious with all that^^^, Tserii is a good and kindhearted person who hates seeing others being hurt or suffering. They’re the sort of person where if they see something wrong they want to do something about it, but they’re not much of a physical fighter-- their strength lies in the fact that Tserii is a bio-technological nightmare (due to how scarabs are designed, Tserii’s knowledge of multi-species biology and how it can function is WAY beyond what most would expect from a ‘tech’) --and yet because they’re highly aware of their lack of fighting skill, they often feel like they can’t do as much as they want to help others. They also are extremely cautious about trusting others because they’ve lived so long knowing that if they’re not, then the very people they’re trying to help could end up causing their death.

They cover their guilt and shame over feeling like they can never do enough (and some amount of self-contempt by feeling they’re using the concern with their own survival as an excuse) with a wall of sarcasm, snark, and sass that tends to keep a lot of people at a distance. When someone does get close to Tserii though, they’re all in and will fight with everything they have to help those they care for stay safe. Tserii cares deeply, loves deeply, and will cause complete and utter technological chaos at the drop of a hat when they feel it’s warranted-- usually to help and protect others. Usually. If someone angers them, Tserii’s revenge is swift and can range from the relatively minor (such as having an obnoxious song start up, repeat, and follow Guy Gardner on the Watchtower any time any door opens near him for weeks on end) to severe (locking someone out of their phone, emptying their bank accounts, dumping someone’s things out an airlock if they’re in space, wiping out any legal record a person exists, etc.), and Tserii will not feel guilty over it in the slightest.

Ultimately, while they do care about doing the right thing, Tserii very much operates via their own sense of right and wrong regardless of what others think. Most of the time that would land them solidly on the good side of groups like the Justice League on Earth, but other times their ‘petty revenge’ can be seen as on the extreme side.

Also, while their name could be assumed to be an insult due to the connotations it has for their people, they take a great deal of pride in it because it is who they are. That’s why, even though their name translates as ‘Flawed with Genetic Hivelessness’, they’ve deliberately based all variations of their name-- Tsriik’k, Tsrii, Tserii, Tseri-- (to make it easier for others to pronounce) on the first part, thereby effectively shortening their name in meaning to “Flawed”.

---

Thanks for giving me the chance to gush about my sassy reachling child. If you’ve got any further questions, feel free to hit me up. n.n

[1dreality]

Why The Normalization of Stan Culture is Unhealthy

How a tweet about Ariana Grande made me realize the extent of harm this subculture has done.

Haaniyah Angus

FollowJan 27

The way in which pop culture is consumed in the 2010s is unlike anything else we have witnessed since the dawn of pop culture itself. Social media has created a hyperreality wherein the distance between regular individuals and their idols is slowly shortening, or at least appearing to. This is most obviously seen within ‘stan Twitter’, a section of Twitter dedicated to celebrities even to the most harmful lengths.

I want to make myself clear here: I don’t hate stans or stan Twitter. Throughout my teenage years, I was part of this subculture in various ways, whether it be K-Pop, One Direction, Justin Bieber, 5SOS and — ironically enough — Ariana Grande. Through ‘standoms’ I was able to meet people and make friends in a way I couldn’t in real life. I felt as if I were part of a community, that I finally belonged. But, as I got older, I realized the obsession I had wasn’t healthy, and that’s why I worry about the direction that many young people seem to be heading in. Their dedication to strangers in order to boost their own self-esteem feels almost like a car crash ready to happen and, for some, it already has.

But, though this is undoubtedly a phenomenon of the social media era, in order to understand what stan Twitter is and its origin, we need to travel back to a time before Twitter even existed.

Currently, on Urban Dictionary, a stan is defined as an overzealous maniacal fan for any celebrity or athlete, stemming from Eminem’s 2002 hit, Stan. In the video, Stan wants Eminem to make contact with him but Eminem doesn’t reply to his letters and, due to this, Stan thinks he has been ignored. As revenge, Stan ties up his own girlfriend, stows her in his trunk, drives along a rain-soaked highway and drives off a bridge. Eminem gets around to responding and says how thankful he is for the support, only to understand that Stan is obsessed with him and then, finally, to connect the dots and realize that he’s the man who killed his girlfriend.

What many psychological professionals would describe this as is a parasocial relationship. This is not a made up disorder nor an armchair diagnosis, but simply the definition to a relationship many people have with famous figures. Parasocial relationships are one-sided dynamics in which energy, interest and time are extended towards the object of obsession whilst they (commonly a celebrity) remain ignorant of the existence of the other.

But, though critics and think piece writers often frame them as a symptom of young people’s generational rot, behaviours such as this are not new in the slightest. Before the boom of social media, obsessive fans had existed for a long, long time — such as during the Roman reign, where people collected gladiators’ sweat out of admiration; or the Victorian era, when hordes of fans forced author Arthur Conan Doyle to revive his star character, Sherlock Holmes. The Beatles had a superfan plotting to murder John Lennon, Michael Jackson had to prove that he didn’t impregnate a stalker, and Uma Thurman received a card from a fan that had a drawing of an open grave, a headstone and a man standing on the edge of a razor blade.

This is not an exclusively Western phenomenon either. In Korea, this type of idolatry exists heavily within the K-Pop industry. Sasaeng fans are over-obsessive fans of musical idols, to the point that they engage in stalking. According to Yahoo Lifestyle, Korean idols have been filmed, had their phones wiretapped, and even had fans breaking into their homes.

What makes this new era of ‘stalker fans’ different, in my opinion, is the admiration that seems to be growing towards such behaviours. Today, even as a joke, the terminology of ‘stalker fan’ or ‘stan’ has been the latest object of amelioration — where a word’s negative meaning is elevated to a positive one.

Last year when culture writer Wanna Thompson received a hateful DM from rapper Nicki Minaj and decided to share it, the following backlash shone a light for many in regards to this behaviour. Minaj clapped back at a comment Thompson had made on her Twitter account and Thompson brought it to her timeline, shocked that a celebrity of that magnitude could do such a thing. According to an interview with the New York Times, Wanna received hateful messages via Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and even email; including insults to her infant daughter and suicide bait. The majority of these hateful words came from stans, who seemed to have a soldier-like sense of duty to protect Minaj. It was as if they would do anything for their idol.

Though Wanna and Nicki’s beef was recent and particularly notorious, one could pick any of all the major stan groups and they’d find that they all exhibit this need to protect their idols from critique, even when it is valid. Which brings me to the point of this article.

We need to talk about Ariana Grande.

It was last week when Grande released her song ‘7 Rings’ and, as a longtime fan of the 25-year-old star, I was ecstatic. I loved the song and felt like she was finally blossoming into the artist she could always be. That was until it was rightfully pointed out to me that Ariana was walking along a tightrope that many young white pop stars toe — and often fall off of. Like many ex-child stars before her, Ariana was rebelling against her ‘good girl’ image by appropriating Black culture.

As stated by writer Erin Dyana:

Viewing her 7 Rings video after seeing her come up in real time throughout the years has left a bizarre taste in my mouth and I’m not sure if there’s anything that can cleanse my palate of it. The video has quite literally glamorized a trap house (something she wouldn’t know anything about) while she raps in an airy voice about buying weave, being rich, and having a “stacked” ass (a lie). These lyrics and visuals aren’t fitting and belong to a Black woman, period. It’s inauthentic and corny to me that she felt the need to cherry pick from Black culture to make something that’ll sell and get clicks.

As much as I love Grande, I couldn’t ignore this issue, which has plagued Black culture for years. The more I listened to 7 Rings, the more I understood why it made people, specifically Black women uncomfortable. While I wasn’t the most damning critic of Grande’s song, I immediately got pushback for suggesting that those who dislike it weren’t in the wrong. Historically white pop stars have been able to cross genres (pop to trap, in Grande’s case) while Black singers haven’t.

I was noticing that anytime someone dared speak about Grande, they were silenced by her fans and stans alike, even though some of the people criticizing Ariana might have disliked her already, or been indifferent to her, many of us truly loved her music. Though stan Twitter might have you thinking otherwise, critical consumption doesn’t negate enjoyment. I and many others are perfectly able to spot the problematic aspects of music, writing and film whilst still having fun with it. Critical thinking only makes our experience richer, and definitely doesn’t mean that we hate an artist for making mistakes.

The drama culminated when people noticed that Ariana herself was liking tweets defending 7 Rings, its music video and the genre choice. I find that, when celebrities try to defend themselves against valid critiques such as cultural appropriation, it does more harm than good. This self-victimization causes the stans to be even more defensive and thus lash out against anyone critiquing their idol. Grande seemingly felt attacked or felt that these critics — mainly Black women — were harassing her. Her fans didn’t just internalize those feelings as their own but, of course, felt the need to defend Ariana by attacking anyone who dared criticize her.

I probably wouldn’t be paying as much attention to this if I hadn’t been also a victim of the harassment her stans were dishing out online. What sparked it, you may ask! I had simply tweeted a ‘judgemental’ reaction image in response to Ariana’s Instagram story. In it, it seemed that someone had jokingly written in their Insta-story: You like my hair? Gee, thanks just bought it” *kissing emoji*!!!! white women talking about their weaves is how we’re going to solve racism. Grande then proceeded to repost that story, thanking the OP for praise, even though it was clearly a mockery of that line.

As I mentioned earlier, I’d already gotten pushback from Ariana’s stans, and I didn’t care if people got mad at me. I would have continued on not caring but, after that tweet started circulating, it got to a point where my direct messages started blowing up with fans threatening me and telling me to delete it or else. I didn’t pay them any mind since I felt that there was no reason to take their threats seriously. However, come the next morning I woke and saw that my Twitter account had been suspended. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had been falsely reported by stans in order to get the tweet taken down.

You see, Twitter’s reporting system is beyond repair. Reports are evaluated by algorithms, making it ridiculously easy for abusive accounts to skirt suspension by misspelling slurs, and even easier for ill-intentioned people to ‘game’ the system by mass-reporting innocent users. I only got a tenth of the backlash that Thompson received from Minaj fans and yet my Twitter account, a platform on which I had built a following of 12,000 and which held contacts throughout various industries was gone. Not only that but, once I tweeted on my new account that I had been suspended unfairly, stans started to mock me and say that I deserved it for posting that tweet. A tweet that simply reacted to a foolish post of Grande’s — which, mind you, she acknowledged as such and took down.

But why do these things happen? Why do hordes of fans maliciously attack critics? Why do ‘stans’ behave in such an obsessive manner? Some say that social media is to blame and that isn’t a completely ludicrous view. As stated earlier, stans existed long before the age of the Internet, but the anonymity and the mass reach of social media allow their harassment and stalking to be extremely harmful while sheltering them from consequences. You can’t get a restraining order against an anonymous person who could use various accounts to stalk you. If stans are harassing those critiquing their favourite celebrity, blocks may prove futile, as they could make uncountable new accounts, and online harassment may continue until the aggressors get bored or the target finally gives in and deletes their account, whatever happens first.

I want to be positive when it comes to stans, I want to say hey! let these kids do what they want and oh, they’ll grow out of it, but I’m worried it may be too late. These stans have projected their own self-esteem issues and insecurities upon celebrities that make them feel whole. I know this because I did this, and many of my friends did this. Maybe obsessive fanaticism is an inescapable part of growing up, and maybe stans will come across this article and drag me for it. They will say that I’m being extra and that I just want clicks but — while I do want clicks, that’s why we’re all here, right? — I am genuinely worried. What was seen as fringe behaviour before — the invasion of privacy, obsessive fantasies, aggression and possessiveness, absolute disregard for others’ wellbeing — seems to be expected now in order to be “a true fan”. I’m worried that this has become the new norm for celebrity culture, and that the popularization of ‘standom’ has cemented this behaviour for years to come.

Edited By: Andrea Merodeadora

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender - Part 2

“He’s so in love with ya,” Angel smirks, lying on your bed in your hotel room, surrounded by your folded laundry and knocking over said piles of laundry. You roll your eyes and continue hanging up your newly cleaned dresses and blouses.

“What are you going on about?”

“The fact that Strawberry Pimp has been following ya around like a love-sick puppy for the last year.”

You throw a sock at Angel and shoot him a glare. Although, your mind can’t help but wander to the last year following Alastor’s insertion into your lives. He has been spending quite a bit of time with you... which is completely understandable! You both enjoy the same type of music, although he was quite affronted when he learned that you don’t really dance and insisted that he teach you. Now he pulls you into a dance whenever there is a good song playing.

And he loves to cook just like you, even though you are partial to baking. He often joins you in the kitchen around meal times to assist in prep or even to make a dish when you’re overwhelmed. On slow days, you find yourself thinking about the time Charlie had you all celebrate Thanksgiving. Charlie had insisted you all celebrate the holiday in even though nobody, save you and Alastor, could cook to save their lives. You were honestly dreading all the sides and desserts and proteins you would have to prepare for everyone, and Charlie had only added to the stress when she came prancing into the kitchen and revealed that her mother had agreed to eat with you all. Somehow sensing your stress, Alastor was there in an instant and allowed you to put him to work. He was a dream in the kitchen, so helpful and chivalrous, and he even made a curated playlist of all your favorite songs to put you in better spirits. It was one of your fonder moments in the normally stressful work environment, particularly when you had cut yourself chopping sweet potatoes and Alastor had rushed to tend to you. Really, it was just a little nick. It didn’t even draw blood but it did sting a bit causing you to hiss quietly. Alastor heard that sound as if it were as loud as a siren and was by your side, bending down to analyze your hand, behaving as though you had just chopped off your entire hand.

“You really must be more careful, dearest,” he murmured and frowned at the cut, willing it to disappear.

You think about Thanksgiving and the way he held your injured finger more than you’re proud to admit.

---

You shake yourself out of your reverie. No. No, no, no. Nope! You were not about to indulge in some small school-girl crush. That would only cause it to fester into something bigger in your heart, something dangerous. And you were certainly not about to buy into your brother’s teasing and tendency to romanticize things. Angel was smart, observant, but was also incredibly naive when it came to affection, or rather, sinisterness disguised by affection. And you were no stranger when it came to love and its effects on perception. You made that mistake once and it got you down here, you were not about to let that happen again...

Even if it was at the hands of that darling deer.

“Come on.” You hang up your last blouse and motion for Angel to follow you to the lobby. You both were late for your weekly family dinner and your father would not be pleased.

“I’m just saying, when was the last time ya got laid?” Angel asks as you make your way down the hall towards the lobby.

“Angel!”

“What? Please tell me you’ve at least gotten some since--”

You’re too short to smack his head, so you resort to kicking him in the shin.

“If you say his name in front of me I will maim you,” you scold.

“Got it, got it. Okay but in all seriousness, are ya ever gonna move on?”

“Nope, and even if I did, he’d have to be very special and very serious. I’m not going to waste my time pining.” You cross your arms, quieting your voice as you draw nearer to the warm glow of the lobby.

“But Alastor seems more than eager.”

“Of course he does,” you say sarcastically.

“Sis, I’m serious! He follows ya--”

“--Around like a lovesick puppy, yes so you keep saying.” You stop suddenly and shift your arms so that they’re wrapped around your torso. You avoid Angel’s confused and worried eyes, finding the carpet far easier to face than your brother’s concern. You are supposed to take care of him, you don’t need his pity. You don’t need anyone.

“Angel,” you sigh. “He’s like that with everyone. I’m not special to him, he just likes me because we enjoy some of the same things and I fit his idea of ‘polite company.’ But I’m not special. And... And even if I did feel that way about him it wouldn’t matter because I’m not anything to him. He’s made it perfectly clear that he has no use for close friends. So why would I be an exception?”

You turn and start taking brisk steps towards the door before you allow Angel to hear your sniffs and see your red-rimmed eyes. You bid a quick goodbye to Husk even though he’s passed out at his desk and make your way to your car. You don’t see Alastor, who was leaning against the wall near the mouth of the hallway where you had just pored your heart out to your brother. You don’t see the way his smile falters just a little or the way his eyes widen in alarm. You don’t see the plate of cookies in his hands, ones he had made just for you as a surprise.

But Angel does.

“Ya okay there, smiles?” Angel reaches for one of the double chocolate chip cookies but his hand is smacked away by Alastor.

“These are not for you,” he snaps but his voice lacks conviction and his eyes continue to stare off longingly at the door you’ve just walked through. Angel takes in the Radio Demon’s furrowed brows and follows his gaze.

“They’re for (Y/N),” Angel smirks and elbows Alastor’s arm teasingly.

“I knew ya had the hots for her! Jeez, could ya have been any more obvious?” Angel cackles.

“Apparently not obvious enough,” Alastor mutters.

“You heard some of that, huh?”

“All of it, actually.” Alastor looks down dejectedly at the plate of cookies. “I... I thought I was--”

“Oh, believe me, if you were being any more obvious with anyone else, you would’ve had your answer months ago. But (Y/N) she’s... she’s not everyone else. She’s very closed off, honestly you’re lucky she even sees you as a friend.”

Alastor barely nods his head in acknowledgement because all his mental energies are directed towards you. You and your bouncy, beautiful hair. You and your enchanting curves and the smooth sound of your voice when you think he isn’t around to hear you. You and your tenderness towards the very few who have earned it, and your willingness to utterly destroy anyone who tries to hurt those few. You and the time he came home with a few scratches after an altercation with Vox and you fussed over him in the genuine way his mother once did. You and your gentle hands that kneed pie crusts and crack eggs, hands that he delights in holding and finds any reason to do so.

He really never believed he could feel this way about anyone. This captivated, this dedicated, this entranced and enchanted. But here you are, captivating and enchanting him beyond all reason. At first it was infuriating, the nights he would lie awake thinking of whatever adorable thing you had done that day. Or the way his body wanted, needed to be near you even when his mind screamed at him that you were a weakness. Someone he couldn’t afford to love lest it make him vulnerable, puny, at risk of losing everything that he had built in Hell.

Until about four months into knowing each other. Some brute had come to stay in the hotel. He didn’t really bother to remember the creature’s name, just that he was rude and inconsiderate and didn’t know how to respect a lady. Alastor had wandered into the kitchen to help you with lunch, per the subconscious ritual he had fallen into, when he heard a loud smack. He opened the door to see said brute trying to force himself upon you and... the next thing he knew the entire kitchen, himself, and you were drenched in the blood of this horrid man. The kind of carnage Alastor only found himself achieving when in an intense fit of rage. You had stood there, frozen, and Alastor was briefly afraid that he had terrified you beyond the point of repair. But after you had gotten over the shock of the man’s attempted assault, you had sprinted to him and buried yourself into his chest before you could remind yourself about his aversion to touch. But he had always seemed to make an exception for you. And he always would.

After that day Alastor realized two things: that you were not a weakness, rather a new source of strength for him, and that he would literally do anything to get you to run into his arms like that again. Alastor didn’t need anymore convincing of the love he had for you. But apparently, you were in an entirely different boat.

“So what do I do?”

“What?” Angel asks, pulling away a hand that was trying again to steal another cookie.

“You’re incredibly close. She tells you everything. What more can I do to show her I’m serious?” Alastor hates how desperate he sounds but that’s what he is. Desperate for you.

“Well that depends, how serious are ya?”

“Deathly.”

Angel’s eyes glance down and back up at the cookies. Alastor relents and tosses him a cookie so he can continue.

“She’s... she’s so incredibly dear to me. She drives me mad and yet I can’t bring myself to stay away. I need her, I feel like there’s a deep, gaping chasm when I’m without her. I--”

“God, okay, you’ve convinced me. I give ya my blessing, sheesh.” Angel finishes the cookie.

“Angel,” you call, marching back into the lobby. Alastor almost drops the plate at your sudden appearance.

“Angel we’re going to be late!”

“Good evening, dearest,” Alastor lurches from the wall, smile wide and beaming, trying to convey all the love he holds for you. He tries to lower his tone on the word ‘dearest,’ tries to make it apparent that you are his dearest everything.

“Good evening, Alastor.” You grace him with a sweet smile but your eyes are sad, probably from what he overheard earlier. “Who are those for, Al?”

“Oh, for you, dearie!” He thrusts the plate in front of you, shoulders hunched in an effort to seem more humble, less intimidating for you. You really are quite small and so precious.

“F-For me?” Your face flushes the prettiest shade of red.

“You mentioned double-chocolate chip is your favorite, yes?”

“It is. T-Thank you, Al, that really is so sweet.” You take one cookie off the plate and indulge yourself in the dark chocolate. Oh, he really outdid himself.

Alastor revels in the joy in your eyes and the fact that he put it there.

“It was my absolute pleasure, darling. I was more than happy to do it. You’ve just been working so hard lately, I thought you deserved something sweet.”

Your smile widens, bathing him in warmth until it falters at the sight of Angel.

“Angel, we have to go or dad and Niss are going to have a fit.”

“Oh,” Alastor interjects. “Where are you both off to?”

You smooth down your fancier-than-normal (f/c) skirt.

“Just family dinner, but it’s important apparently. Dad has an announcement. We would have had more time to chat if Angel didn’t distract me this evening,” you say pointedly at your brother.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be out in a minute. I just have to go bother Husky for a moment.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine. Alastor,” you turn back to him. Alastor perks up immediately at your attention. “Thank you so much for this. You really didn’t--”

“I won’t hear it, love. Now go enjoy your dinner, I’ll make sure these are waiting when you get back.” He gives you a genuine grin, something reserved only for you. “And might I add that you look ravishing in that skirt, dear. Is it new?”

“Oh,” your blush increases and glows. “Thank you, Alastor. Um... have a pleasant evening.”

Once you’re out of the lobby, Angel turns to Alastor, noticing the way he deflates in your absence.

“Look, I gotta go. Now I can talk more when we get back but this,” he points at the plate of cookies. “Is a great start! Personal, sweet, something you wouldn’t do for anyone else. She needs to know that you think she’s special, that you make exceptions for her, that you want to spend time with her outside of “coincidentally” being in the kitchen with her. And for Pete’s sake, ya gotta ask her out soon cause God knows she ain’t gonna take the chance and ask you.”

Angel strolls out of the lobby, leaving Alastor to brainstorm the many ways he’ll make just that happen.

[moondriftingold]

hi! this is a post that’s gonna be about the decisions i’m making to step away from parts of the direction that nomura took saïx in kh3. basically it’s me just. Fuck You, Pay Me, I’m Keeping My Son. thanks. so lets go

one. saïx voluntarily rejoining the organization is not my canon. emphasis on VOLUNTARILY. when this was canon confirmed, it really confused and upset me, because we were literally shown that after being recompleted the first time, he was chosen by ymx to rejoin their ranks. his unconscious figure being perfectly framed above xigbar’s outstretched arms, and ymx’s cut-off response starting with an S is NOT a coincidence. vexen also referred to him to demyx as “one of the chosen” in their conversation in radiant garden, and said that his hands were tied because of it. chosen. saïx did not rejoin the organization voluntarily and we were literally shown this but ok nomura. so anyway, on this blog, isa had his heart extracted a second time and woke up yet again as saïx, still trapped in the nort nightmare and still involved in the organization as a vessel and important party number.

two. i am keeping the bit about saïx being the one who started the replica plan, but he didn’t do it for the same reason. he didn’t do it with the main intention of redeeming himself for his treatment of roxas and axel because that is, honestly, out of character for him. straight up. the last two times we saw saïx, he was fighting sora in kh2 with the intention to kill because he was looking at him as roxas, and to him, that fight was his revenge for roxas besting him in days. and the most recent time in ddd, he was attacking lea in the round room, with their last interaction before that being saïx literally stabbing axel through the back and inflicting a fatal wound. so, like. doesn’t really match his character to make him suddenly feel sorry for doing that? with no proof as to why, and without showing us how he came to this decision? so. how i am interpreting saïx’s betrayal against the organization is that he did it to finally get back at them for all that they’ve done to him over the years. it was a huge mission of saïx’s to overthrow xemnas, and that was a plan he and axel had shared for most of their time there, so to finally have the means to actually follow-through with sticking it to him was an incredibly motivating factor in coming up with his very risky, and very surprising backstab. the entire conversation he had with vexen on the rock pillars was completely staged, since he knew xemnas would be listening in. roxas, xion, and lea benefitting from this plan is an added bonus, and something that he understood he would be doing --- it was hard, knowing that he would be bringing back people that brought him so much frustration and pain, but it was necessary. the small part of isa that remained in him was also a deciding factor in this, and knew that if he was ever going to have a life outside of the organization, that he would have to make the first step towards repairing the damages, no matter how painful it would be.

three. the whole subject x thing? not wholly my canon. i will be keeping the bbs portion of this, because the idea that isa and lea came across something so disturbing and horrid (in this case, a live, human prisoner) in radiant garden that it would motivate them to continue their search into the castle beyond just curiosity is something i’ve had in mind for a very long time and has been part of my portrayal for years, and this can accommodate that. though i still don’t rly like it, i can buy that they would become guards to increase their chances of freeing her, but know that isa hated every second he stood outside those doors, knowing that he was working for an institution so corrupt and horrible that they were experimenting on people inside their walls. isa did care deeply for this girl --- he wanted to save her just as much as he described in kh3, because it was the right thing to do and through he and lea’s frequent break-ins, they became friends, but i draw the line there. the idea that saïx became who he was because of this newly introduced character is... degrading to his own character? and degrading to the importance of he and lea’s friendship and bond? it’s unnecessary. the kh team built him up so well before kh3 with his reasons for his downfall clearly being loneliness and anger and fear and intense pain at feeling betrayed and slowly abandoned by his best and only friend, and to replace all of that with just. “he really looked hard for this girl he knew for a few weeks!” really sucks, and disappointed me more than i can express. to also insert this jarringly sudden new plot point into saïx’s dying speech was so... i can’t even rly say. i wasn’t as emotional as i wanted to be during that scene the first time i saw it because i was just too angry at his character’s treatment to really absorb the moment. this post covers how i feel about the whole subject x thing so well, so please give that a read.

four. this isn’t rly a kh3 thing that i’m combatting (ig it kind of is? idk) but: saïx was, and has been, under the influence of possession for a very long time. we don’t know when his eyes turned gold and we don’t know when he got his recusant’s sigil, and we probably won’t for a long time because nomura apparently loves to make me hate him, but it’s been made clear thru the days game and manga that saïx has drastically changed from how he used to be as isa. we can obviously see that in bbs, where he was just another kid, joking around with his friends and being incredibly sassy, but still sweet and thoughtful. his berserker lore deserves an entire post of its own so i’ll cover this more in-depth another time, but with the knowledge that his own class of nobodies are canonically possessed by their weapons, it’s definitely not a stretch to assume the same with saïx. i’ve long portrayed saïx being barely-there and half in his own head due to being under xemnas’ influence and being slated as a vessel, and that will not be changed. the entire final battle with him in kh3 is the biggest testament to this that i can think of, and it just made me so incredibly sad to see him the way that he was --- completely enveloped by rage and utterly useless to do anything but fight for the sake of someone else. the second xemnas showed up in the ring, he became still and stalwart and stood quietly behind him like a soldier at attention, not moving once during the entire interaction until xemnas left, still actively in his berserk state. when knocked out of berserk mode in battle, he becomes disoriented and confused and reaches for his head, swaying on his feet and murmuring gibberish (a rare dialogue line has him disorientedly call out for axel and it makes me :-) die :-)), as if the fog is clearing for a moment before it all comes rushing back to him. tldr; saïx has been slated as a vessel for so long and was partially possessed by xehanort for a prolonged period of time and is traumatized by the fact that he lost so much of his life and nomura can eat my ass

[tren-fraszka]

Hate Exchange Letter

Dear creator,

Thank you for taking your time to check my requests. I know my requests can sound a bit tricky, but please don’t be discouraged. I wish you will have good time writing first and foremost!

My AO3 is Tren, if you wish to check it out.

Likes: comedy, casefics, canon compliants, AUs, time loops, bodyswaps, roleswaps, “being hoisted by your own petard” plotlines, snark, pettiness, rivals, enemies to friends to lovers, violence, friendships and character bonding,

DNW: explicit sex, A/B/O, mpreg, rape depicted as positive (so no “it’s okay, because the other person enjoyed it/it was what they truly wanted”), trans headcanons, soulmates, stories ending with surrender to fate/destiny, fourth wall breaking in canons where that doesn’t occur.

Also, I included what ships I’m okay with in each fandom. Please do not include any ships that aren’t canon and I have not allowed in those sections (if you feel really strongly about a ship, you can ask through mods just in case, if I didn’t include my opinion on it).

Additionally, while I almost never request fanart as possible medium, because I prefer my main gift to be fic, I would be very okay with receiving fanart treats.

                                                REQUESTS

PERSONA 5

Hate that ends

Hate that exists and continues

Hate that starts

Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira

I’m a big sucker for party traitors, so it isn’t really a surprise that I walked out of my Persona 5 playthrough with a new shiny ship. I love how messed up it is with both of them planning to outplay each other in a deadly game and yet still forming an emotional attachment. I also really love how they are mirror images of each other. They are extremely similar, and yet they are also each others opposites. There’s just something fascinating in watching them interact.

I’m okay with all takes on hate for this ship. Akechi has canonically very love-hate relationship with the protagonist, so you can spin this however you want. You are also free to make Akira as bitter about the whole thing as you want. I’m always a game for Akira having all the regrets about Akechi’s death and hating Akechi for leaving him with all the emotional turmoil.

For the story, I’m very okay with some in-between the canon flirting with the obligatory dash of scheming and mind games. I’m also all about different ways their confrontation could go down. Maybe it’s Akira who dies and Akechi lives through with his hateful feelings not coming any closer to being resolved? Or Akechi can’t keep his feelings in and slips at some point?

AUs 

I don’t mind AUs, just be aware that the messed up relationship between the two of them is a huge draw for me, so I would definitely opt to preserve that part in some form. You don’t have to do the exact same scenario, but at least make them childhood friends, who ended up on the opposite sides of some conflict. Or undercover spies who got in relationship without knowing each other true identities and they really should kill each other since they work for different clients. The exact setting is of secondary importance to me, so choose whatever you feel would work best. AU Divergences are also welcome. I’m always a game for Akechi surviving. Especially, if he gets to shoot the final boss in the face.

Akechi Goro & Self

He has so many issues you are practically spoiled for choice. Bastard by birth, believes himself to be a reason why his mother died, spent years in foster home system which just enforced his belief that he isn’t worth of love, became a supernatural assassin despite having strong sence of justice. And did I mention having to kill the only person he had formed a legitimate connection with? Yeah, just one of those things would be a great self-hatred fodder, but all those things together mix to create a true picture of self-hatred. You can’t go wrong with it. 

There are so many prompts you could potentially use for this in Akechi/Kurusu segment above (just take out the potential shippiness if the pairing is not your thing), I don’t think there’s much point in repeating myself. You are free to AU as much as you want and have fun.

Hate that ends

Sakura Futaba & Self

I loved the chilling exploration of Futaba’s problems in her palace and further revelations we get through Sojiro’s social link. I would love insight into her deteriorating self-worth post her mother’s death and then followed by slow improvements once Sojiro takes her in.

I would love insight into Futaba trying to figure out the truth about her mother’s death, her initial refusal to believe that it is her fault, followed by slow acceptance over the time, as she fails to find any evidence to the contrary.

I asked for Hate that ends, because I would prefer a take that is compliant with the canon story. I know this is pretty constraining, but at the same time it means that you don’t need to concentrate on the improvement factor. As long as the story ends heavily implaying that Phantom Thieves are about to help her with her issues I will be satisfied.

However, if you do dig the hope aspect I will love some quality Sojiro & Futaba family interactions and her slowly acknowledging that maybe she deserves more than a slow death in seclusion and decides to seek help form Phantom Thieves.

Ships

I ship Akira and Goro, and don’t want them shipped with anyone else. I’m okay with including pretty much any other ships, except for the ones between the characters who are still students and adults.

GOLDEN KAMUY

I’m reading manga chapters as they come out, so you are free to incorporate any new developments into the story. I will definitely be caught up.

Hate that exists and continues

Ogata Hyakunosuke/Sugimoto Saichi

If you know this canon I probably don’t even need to explain to you what I want. They hated each other from the very beginning of the story and the world may end, but their hatred would still live on. You don’t have to be too shippy with this, if you don’t want to, I mostly want to just get more off their passionate hatred we get in the canon.

For the prompts, I would love if they had to work together (just the two of them, or maybe with Shiraishi as a suffering third wheel), because someone kidnapped Asiripa and they had to get her back. Or chasing someone who stole the skins from them.

Alternatively, I would love petty matches over Asiripa’s attention when they act perfectly nice to each other, because she is there, but keep competing for her attention to annoy each other.

Also, this canon is ripe for tropes like huddling for warmth, or sharing one blanket, and would definitely encourage the hate-filled take on those. Also time loops with those two nd how much of a disaster it would be.

AUs and ships

I’m all for canon divergences or changed settings. You want Sugimoto and Ogata as coworkers in modern setting? Go for it. I would love any messing up with the story, because there are so many things that could have gone differently here. 

I have no strong ship preferences here as long as Asiripa is not shipped with anybody. Also I prefer Sugimoto to have no romantic experience, aside from his canonical one-sided crush, before he started to have feelings about Ogata.

THE RISING OF SHIELD HERO (ANIME & MANGA)

I watched anime and read manga, but have not checked light novels. So please, no spoilers for anything beyond manga.

Hate that starts

L’Arc Berg/Iwatani Naofumi

Naofumi spends a lion share of the plot having terrible trust issues after Myne’s betrayal and you can’t convince me that he isn’t extra salty about L’Arc.

L’Arc is literally the first person Naofumi willinglu opens up to after spending majority of the plot avoiding trusting anyone, so the fact that this person turns out to be his enemy must sting. While L’Arc isn’t a type to keep grudge, Naofumi certainly is. Which is why I just want Naofumi being all bitter about his feelings for L’Arc after the betrayal.

I would love some more adventures of those two before the Wave happens and everything goes to shit. Or maybe they meet after the Wave with Naofumi having been separated from the party and struggling with something, and L’Arc runs into him and helps him out (because he’s not the type of guy to stab someone in the back). Which just prompts Naofumi to be even more bitter, because he wants to really hate L’Arc, but unlike Myne he can’t just label him as completely evil.

Or Naofumi going through all the memories he has of L’arc wanting to find good reasons to hate him more, but just coming with more reasons why he loved him in the first place.

AUs and ships

Setting changes and canon divergences are all fine, as long as you keep the element of betrayal.

I’m okay with Naofumi also having some feelings for Raphtalia for an awkward romantic triangle, as long as his complicated feelings for L’Arc are the focus of the story. Other than that I don’t want either of them shipped with anyone else.

GINTAMA

I have watched anime up to Gintama': Enchousen, so please no spoilers beyond that season.

Hate that starts

Hate that exists and continues

Hijikata Toshirou/Okita Sougo

I loved their vitrolic relationship from the very start and the more we got of their backstory, the more I loved it. I would be okay with the story not being very shippy, as long as I get plenty of their amusing interactions.

I love how well they understand each other, including the reasons why they don’t get along, but somehow it is easier for them to maintain that animosity than to try and repair their twisted relationship. 

I always enjoy small tidbits of how terrible they are at working together when it comes to solving anything that isn’t Shinsengumi-threatening emergency. I loved that episode which was just showing Hijikata and Okita attempting to do normal police stuff and utterly failing to have any sort of law-abiding integrity while they were at it.

If you want to go to the backstory and how they already didn’t get along in the dojo I’m also all for it. Any involvement of Mitsuba to add oil to the already bright flames of mutual dislike is welcome. I love how her presence mellows both of them when she’s there, but in the long run it just made their relationship even more of a mess, because they both wanted the best for her in their own way.

For shippier request I would love a date attempt by those two homicidal idiots. There are just so many ways this could go wrong. Or Gintama staple of handcuffed together with Hijikata constantly having to stop the dismemberment attempts.

AUs and ships

I’m open to any sort of setting or canon divergence. Then again, I dare you find a cooler setting than samurai police in alien infested Edo.

I don’t want the two of them shipped for anyone else, except for maybe acknowledging  Hijikata’s canonical feelings for Mitsuba (because that just makes Hijikata and Okita’s relationship even more of a trainwreck). For other ships I enjoy Gintoki shipped with either Otae or Tsukuyo, and Kagura and Shinpachi as two characters who are not yet ready for relationship, but would make a nice match once they grow up more.

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA

I read the manga chapters as they come out, you can assume I’m caught up on all new developments.

Hate that ends

Bakugou Katsuki/Uraraka Ochako

I love how different the two of them are, but at the same time how well they compliment and understand each other. Also, while I love them as a pairing I won’t mind if you write them as friends, as long as you don’t pair them with other characters.

For this exchange I would love a more conflict driven beginning of their friendship. Bakugo says a few words too much about Midoriya? Uraraka tries to talk to Bakugo about how he treats Deku or just about how he acts in general and accidentally pokes his terrible inferiority complex? Or they run into each other before the UA entrance exam and somehow end up having a more bitter relation? All of that is good.

I would love if then they were forced to then acknowledge each others strengths as heroes, but possibly still feeling somehow bitter. Maybe they end up working together when UA is attacked? Or incorporating their duel during the sports festival (which I love, it’s what started this ship for me). Or maybe Uraraka gets kidnapped together with Bakugo during the camp and she ends up revising her opinion of him while they are in captivity together. 

For more prompts I would love having them complete some sort of exercise or exam together. I would love to see them pretend to be villains for the sake of exercise and butting heads, because they dislike each other. Or they work together on something for school festival. Like making a perferomance together. Alternatively you can go for a future fic where the two of them take part in an action to stop villains as full-fledged heroes, but they can’t let go of all the hang-ups they have about each other from when they went to school together.

AUs and ships

I would very much encourage any future fics for this pairing. I love seeing characters as fully-fledged heroes. I’m okay with other setting changes, though I would prefer for the competence aspect to still come in play somehow in them (with Bakugo being stupidly talented and hard working, while acknowledging Ochako’s potential). I’m also very okay with canon divergences.

I don’t mind past Midoriya/Ochako if you want to incorporate it into the story, but I’d rather not get any love triangles for this pairing. Either have Ochako’s feelings sizzle out or have them date and break up at some point in the past. When it comes to other pairings I like Midoriya/Todoroki and Eraserhead/Mic, but have no strong feelings on other characters pairings, so you are free to do whatever I guess.

FATE/ZERO

I’m well versed in Fate franchise so if you wish to expand beyond Fate/Zero to include either some parts of Fate/Stay Night or El-Melloi II Case Files I will be very fine with that.

Hate that exists and continues

Kotomine Kirei & Self

Kotomine Kirei and his self-loathing is unironically one of my favourite ships in Fate. I loved Kirei’s internal monologues in the novel, as he slowly inched toward the self-discovery that he is in fact the very thing that he was taught to hate the most.

Give me all the religious guilt. All the nagging thoughts that follow Kirei’s enjoyment of ruining other people’s lives. Kirei already thought of himself as lacking before the events of Fate/Zero and watching his doomed pursuit of finding something meaningful in his life was great.

Kirei was basically doomed to suffering, either by continuing his empty life or by embracing his true self and plunging himself into depth of self-hatred. And I’m all about that freefall, sponsored by the ancient king Babylon. So give me Kirei struggling within the confines of Holy Grail War, trying to find himself, yet suspecting that nothing good will ever come out of it.

AUs and ships

I’m okay with canon divergences, less about setting changes due to how deeply Kirei’s issues steam from his specific situation, but if you can make it work I will be for it. I would be very excited for canon divergences. Maybe Kirei making slightly different choices during the Holy Grail War? Maybe alternate timeline when he decides not to betray Tokiomi, but somehow still ends up on path of evil despite his efforts. Maybe he summoned a different servant, who influences Kirei differently? I’m always surprised by how interesting alternate scenarios people come with for Holy Grail Wars, just give me your take.

For alternate timeline takes, you can make my day by including wreacking Matou’s mansion and/or killing Zouken. Even if it’s just a footnote.

I very much ship Kirei both with his dead wife and Gilgamesh. You are free to incorporate both of those ships. 

Hate that exists and continues

Waver Velvet & Self

Another contender for the biggest self-loathing in the franchise. El-Melloi II anime reminded me just how much I enjoyed that aspect of Waver.

I would love an alternate take when Waver and Keyneth actually had a more proper face-off other than their first meeting on the battlefield. I would love if Waver saw Kayneth wheelchair-bound and blamed himself for that.

Or something more canon-compliant exploring Waver’s feeling of uselessness and guilt he has. Either is good. For extra self-loathing you could get the family Waver is staying at caught in the crossfire of one of the fights. Or Waver gets used by some other master to attack another and only belatedly realizes that he was nothing more than a tool used for murder. 

Just give me some quality Waver suffering and self-blame whether dislpaced or not.

AUs and ships

Similarly as above, I’m stocked for any canon divergences. Maybe Waver summoning a different servant? Waver making different choices as to how proceed with the war. Maybe making an allience that doesn’t work out for him in a longer run? 

For alternate timeline takes, you can make my day by including wreacking Matou’s mansion and/or killing Zouken. Even if it’s just a footnote.

I don’t ship Waver with anyone, so I would prefer no romantic plotlines for him. I find his relationship with Rider interesting and definitely important, but can’t see it as romantic.