#neither of which have yet proved effective in convincing echo to come work for them

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don’t you hate it when your civilization flees deep underground to escape the wither only to find yourselves trapped down there with something even worse. anyway surprise! i can still draw

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Communication Issues (Alternative Title: Three Touch-Starved, Insecure, Metaphysical Beings Constantly Misinterpreting Each Other and Yet Somehow Falling in Love)- Chapter One

Ao3,  MasterPost,  Chap.2,  Chap.3

Relationships: Eventual Analogince, implied Moceit

I usually have new stuff up on Wednesdays, Sorry this is late. I hope the length and angst will make up for this slight :) Also, because of how long this fucker is, I did not go in and manually add italics, so you can just. Imagine them there when you need them. 

Warnings: Panic attack (?), overworking oneself, self-hatred and insecurity, Excessive Amounts of Hurt/comfort, eventual friends-to-lovers, slow burn, arguing, crying, angst w/ a happy ending, swearing, creative blocks, mentions of isolating oneself, excessive hugging. 

Word Count: 6,396

What do you do when you find someone crying, and it’s all your fault? What do you say when you hear the muffled sobs and frantic words behind the blood-red door? When you know that, no matter how much you never wanted to hurt him- never wanted to hurt anyone- you still did. Is there anything you can do to fix it, when you’ve spent so long pretending that nothing was broken? When you’ve spent so long pretending that you didn’t care if things were broken or not? 

Well, if you're Logan Sanders, a metaphysical representation of the logical thinking of one Thomas Sanders (and you are, for the purposes of this story), then you book it down the hall in a desperate effort to find someone more emotionally competent to solve the problem. 

The search is short, lasting just to the bottom of the stairs. As soon as your feet touch down on the living room carpet, your haste brings you slamming into just the side you were looking for. Hands wrap around your middle, narrowly stopping you from stumbling over. 

“Geez, L, what’s the-” Virgil doesn’t finish his sentence, his expression wrinkling in concern when he sees your face. He leans down to your level, his gaze flickering over you to search for injuries. 

You take a step back and shake your head, struggling to explain. 

“Roman- I- He-” you’re supposed to be articulate, intelligent, eloquent- but when it comes to feelings, you never are. You never have been. You try so hard nowadays, but God, do you still need help sometimes. Like these times. These confusing, awful times when you hear dear sweet Creativity sobbing self-deprications loud enough to be heard from well outside of his room, many of which are dramatized repetitions of things that you have said to him.

“Is he okay?!” Virgil, bless him, snaps you out of the oncoming mental panic before it renders you any more useless. 

“Physically, yes- as far as I know- but emotionally, well-” you cut off, terrified of choking up. He seems to catch your meaning, though. 

Virgil doesn’t ask any follow up questions. He grabs your arm and the room blurs. Static hisses against your ears and pricks at your skin, this form of transportation being mostly foreign to you. You don’t even rise up, merely popping into existence right in front of Roman’s door. Virgil throws it open before you have the chance to react. 

Roman doesn’t notice the increased population of his room, which is concerning. His back is to the door as he works fervently at his desk, but evidently not making progress, shaking as he is. He’s muttering under his breath, much quieter than what you’d overheard before, but you can hear distinct utterances like ‘unrealistic… overused… disappointment…’ et cetera, et fucking cetera. 

“Roman, what happened?” Virgil’s voice is distorted, loud and quiet all at once. You barely keep yourself from covering your ears. 

Roman clamps his mouth shut mid-wail, his hands spasming in surprise against his desk. His quill drops to the paper with a soft clatter, a sound that echoes about the walls. Then, the only noise left is his staggering breathing.

Slowly, Roman peers over his shoulder at you, eyes puffy and red with mascara practically dripping down his chin. 

A gasp draws from you, against your will, at the sight. 

Roman makes some strangled throat-clearing sounds before trying to speak. 

“Oh, hey-” 

“Nope, none of that,” Virgil is across the room in two strides, effortlessly taking the lead in this situation. You can’t push yourself any further into the room, but you do shut the door behind you. Probably best not to involve any of the more unpredictable sides in what was sure to be an… emotionally charged discussion. 

Roman looks absolutely mortified, jolting up from his chair and backing into the wall like a cornered animal. With distance between himself and Virgil reestablished, he then buries his face in his hands. He trembles like a leaf caught in the wind of fall, and he’d probably crumble just as easily. 

Many times in your life, you’ve wished that you couldn’t feel. You even had yourself convinced that you couldn’t, for a while there. Now, all you wish is to know how to feel correctly. You’re meant to know things, Logan, aren’t you?

“Alright, so I’ve been having a bit of a rough time,” Roman’s voice cracks and wavers when he speaks, “It’s just writer’s block. Sure, I got a tad bit frustrated- but I’ll be back on track in no time, I promise! You needn’t concern yourself with my momentary lapse, I’ll have a new story for you by Saturday at the latest!” 

He’s looking at you. Virgil is standing right next to him, but he’s looking at you, all the way across the room. He’s trying to… appease you? Reason with you? Give you what he thinks you want?

Say something, Logan.

“You need to take a break, Ro,” Virgil’s voice slips back to normal, “C’mon, you’re overworking yourself,” he tries to be nonchalant, but it’s obvious just how concerned he is. You can hardly blame him. When he reaches his hand out, Roman recoils, showing his face enough to see the guilt written across it. 

You need to say something, goddammit. 

“I can’t just ‘take a break’,” he spits, “I can’t stop now. I need to get this done first- I’ll stop when I finally do this properly. So, maybe never, right?” He laughs, horrible and twisted, and he looks at you because he’s really, truly asking you. Is he really expecting you to agree? Is that the impression you’ve left him with? 

You say something.

“This is all my fault.”

Clearly, neither of them expected that. You press on.

“Your worth as a side-” no, not quite right, “-Your worth as a person is not measured solely by your productivity. I know we’ve talked before about the damages of excessive perfectionism, but I know I may not have been effective in ‘showing not telling’ that your ideas don’t need to be flawless. My harshness. My Coldness. I thought I was doing better, but obviously... I was wrong.” Again. 

Virgil looks half-way to anger, but it’s unclear what he’s directing it towards. You aren’t sure of anything right now, really, except for the general upset tugging at your stomach.

“L, no, if this is anybody’s fault- it’s mine,” he turns to Roman, and what. “I didn’t know how hard you were taking all this. Dude, I had no idea. But I owe you an apology, I have for a while, for making fun of you about your insecurity. Like, kind of a lot. Long after you stopped doing it to me. Honestly, I can’t believe that I didn’t realize how much it was actually getting to you.”

“What? Virgil, I truly appreciate what you are trying to do, but I was clearly the one who pushed Roman too far,” you find the courage to step a little closer as you argue Virgil’s point, spurred on by how ridiculous you find this exchange.

“Well, I mocked his sensitivities. This is my responsibility!”

“But you didn’t know you were doing that- I acted like I didn’t care for him, and now he thinks I don’t! I am doubtlessly the one to blame.”

Virgil looks ready to snap back, and you’d be just as ready to retort, but a quiet sniffle alerts both of your attention to the matter still at hand. Roman, standing back against the wall, growing increasingly bewildered. He’s still crying, a surprisingly open display for a prideful trait such as himself, but you get the impression that he simply can’t hold it back anymore. You can see him squirm under Virgil’s and your gazes.

“It- It’s nice, that you both are attempting to take the blame for my failings, but you don’t have to. I can figure this out for myself. Then, I’ll finally prove myself to you, and no one will need to worry about anything. Which is why I need to keep working.” 

“You have proven yourself to me,” Virgil darts from the desk to Roman. He grabs the trait’s ink-stained arm, gaze fierce and unyielding. 

“Why, then,” Roman mutters, eyes downcast, “doesn’t it feel like I have?”

“I never tried to do right by you. Like you did for me.” 

You watch them sway, awkward, and finally, finally push movement into your legs. You step to Roman’s other side, much slower. It probably appears to be deliberate, but in truth you just feel unsure. You place your hand on his shoulder in a way that is hopefully comforting.

“The same, in a different sense, is true for myself. But if you would allow us to make it up to you…?” you aren’t sure where to go from there. Virgil nods, though, granting you a hint of pride. You don’t quite buy it when he says he’s part of the problem, but you’d rather not start any arguments at this particular moment. 

Roman won’t look at either of you for longer than a second, like he’s not sure if you’re serious. Just so he knows that you are, you gesture to your necktie, giving him the tiniest smile. 

He buckles to the ground immediately, a mess of sobs, the both of you letting yourself be dragged along. He clings to Virgil, and you try to keep an arm around him as well. He needs all the support he can get, really. 

“I-I’m so so-rry, I don’t- I-” 

Virgil shushes him and shoots you a deeply concerned look: This is really bad. I’m not letting him go. You rub Roman’s back as he shakes and return your friend’s gaze with a nod: I’m not either. We’re going to help him. Don’t worry. 

The three of you sit there for what feels like hours as he cries, and cries, and cries. None of you say a word, letting him get it all out. You let him hold onto you- you hold him as well, because you’re nearly as dismayed and unsure as he is. 

But eventually, you need to talk. Once he finally settles, his head resting against your collar and his legs splayed across Virgil’s lap, it’s you who gets the proverbial ball rolling.

“You already know that overworking yourself leads to exhaustion, which in turn leads to an overall drop in productivity and quality of work,” Roman’s eyes fill with guilt, but you’re quick to elaborate, “but that isn’t at all my primary concern. I won’t carry on acting like it is for a moment longer, now that I see how it’s hurting you. Hurting you is something I would never intend. You mean so much to me. There are so many arguments I could use to convince you why you need to give yourself a break, but I’ll settle with this: a hypothetical ‘perfect story’ is not worth your suffering, and it never will be.” 

Roman looks up at you, once more crying, so that was probably a very unhelpful thing to say. But he leans into you and hugs you close, recontextualizing his emotional display. Relief washes over you. 

“Thank you, Logan.”

Virgil clears his throat.

“I know I’m not as, um, articulate as Lo is, but- for what it’s worth- I care about you, too, and all.”

You stretch out the arm that you had around Roman’s back, pulling Virgil into the hug. Roman lets out a shuddering breath from where he’s cradled between the both of you. It’s the deep, relieved breath that means the sobbing is through with, leaving only tired eyes and silence. 

It is at this point of alleviated tension that the uncomfortable nature of the floor begins irking you. Like hell you and Virgil would live Creativity alone like this, so after brief deliberation you stand to move as a unit. An amoeba of facets making their way down the hall, in a manner likely comical (though thankfully no one is around to see). Your room is the optimal place to rest, as it eases emotions and calms overthinking minds, even if it is a little chilly. 

You let your fellow traits drop down onto the couch, passing Roman the TV remote. Yes, whatever you like to watch, you inform him. Yes, really, anything, you confirm, waving your hand to conjure some blankets for them. The smile he gives you, though small, is enough to boost your hopes considerably. 

You really can’t fix everything- at least not immediately. But perhaps, with Virgil to fill in your gaps, you’ll be able to make things right for the Prince. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

So looking after this insecure dumbass is totally your job now. Said dumbass, of course, disagrees strongly; he tells you he’s doing better, and thanks so much for the one afternoon of help, Virgil, but he can totally take it from here. You do not give a single shit about what Roman claims, because he is very obviously lying, because he doesn’t want to be a burden. Yeah, as if. 

You’re taking care of that idiot if it kills you.

Thankfully, Logan is on the same page as you (proverbial page, as he would specify). It almost surprised you that he didn’t make himself scarce as soon as he told you about the situation, but it’s certainly a pleasant surprise to have him by your side in this. Roman needs all the help he can get, and you can’t think of anyone better.

The pair of you only begrudgingly leave him alone after a sufficient several hours of Comfort Time, retreating to the hall so he can rest. He looked so fuckin’ tired, face a dull red and eyes puffy, but he was smiling. You count it as a temporary win. 

The first thing that you do, naturally, is slam your back against the wall and let yourself slide down to the floor out of sheer emotional exhaustion. 

Logan sits next to you, much less aggressively. It’s a nice gesture, considering how he absolutely despises sitting on the ground and this is the second time he’s had to do it in one day. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He keeps trying to say something, before clamping back down on it. You bump your shoulder against his, telling him that whatever it is, you’re listening. 

“I feel-” which is already a testament to how serious he’s taking the situation- “horrible.”

“Yeah, same- I mean, big mood- no, that’s worse, fuck-” you take a deep breath, hitting your head back against the wall, “I mean, me too. So, at least there’s that, right?” 

Logan shoots you one of his patented Microscopic Smiles.

“I suppose that counts for something, yes.” 

You manage a laugh, leaning even more against your friend. You’ve got a whole contradictory bundle of feelings coiled up in your chest, and it sucks, but also it’s a relief, but also it’s the worst thing ever. You exhale slowly, your eyes falling shut. 

“I don’t wanna leave him alone, ya know?”

“I know. We’ve done all we can do for now, though.”

“I guess.”

“I’m just glad he let us help at all.”

  “Well, assuming we did help. Who knows, we could’ve made him feel a million times worse by confronting him, and now-”

He cuts off your spiraling immediately. 

“But we didn’t. He clearly needed intervention by that point. Besides, If we’d been making it worse, it’s unlikely he would’ve let us stay for so long. Nor would he have accepted your plan of ‘helping him deal with all this shit from now on, no matter what he says.’”

“Right,” you take another deep breath, “You’re right.”

“I usually am.” 

You elbow Logan in the side, playfully. He smiles again, wider and brighter in a way that most others probably wouldn’t notice. It could, from some angles, in the right lighting, possibly maybe be considered a little bit pretty. Not that you think about things like that, of course, that would just be weird. 

You stop leaning so heavily against Logan, only to find how much your back hurts from sitting in the hall. Come to think of it, the hall might not be the best place to calm down from emotionally charged interactions. The only issue is that your room is literally the exact opposite of a good place to chill out right now, and you’re reluctant to move.

“Hey, uh, would it be okay if I- like, my room isn’t the best for times like this, and I-”

Logan’s  already standing, taking your arm to help you up. 

“Come on. I’ll set up the Planetarium for us.” 

“Thanks,” God, you’re thankful for somebody like him. Such a simple word, when you aren’t crazy about spelling out all of the gratitude and nervous tension that lays behind it, and he picks up on the layers perfectly. He gets it- he gets you. 

Things will be okay. 

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

Once upon a time (ha), you felt appreciated. Of course you did, else how would you remember it so vividly? How would you long for it so desperately? Yes, you can safely say that you, Roman Sanders, had once been cared for. But that was countless screw-ups ago, before hundreds of your careless insults, your many vicious words followed by weak apologies and unchanging ways. The distant past of a disgraced royal- one far too imperfect, far too cruel to be forgiven without first proving himself time and time again. 

That’s what you’d thought, anyway. When you expressed such beliefs to other sides for the first time, just a few mornings after said sides comforted you in the midst of a breakdown, they told you it was the stupidest thing they’d ever heard. Direct quote from Virgil. 

It was stupid, apparently, because you were forgiven so very long ago, and you are actually considered to be better now than you were then. It shakes you up inside to think about. In a good way, for once. 

They hover around you almost always, offering you plenty more of those somewhat aggressive reassurances whenever you give the vaguest hint of self-deprecation. You were sure they’d brush it under the rug after those first few days, perhaps even tease you about it, but it seemed that was completely false. It’s been a good week. 

They’re with you this very morning, chatting idly while you wait for the kettle to shriek. You let the drone of Logan’s voice wash over you as you finish fixing your tea. You don’t believe all of their reassurances just yet, but God are you trying. You want it to be true- more than you’ve ever wanted anything- when Logan says their care is unconditional, or Virgil says that he likes spending so much time with you. 

You turn around, the mug in your hands warm against your chest, and stare at the sides on the couch. The three of you are in your corner of the Mindscape; they had already invited themselves in when you awoke. You quite like that they do that- you still aren’t sure how to express that you want to be with them, without prompting. You would feel clingy. Greedy.

“Thank you,” you settle down Virgil, smiling groggily. He waves his hand dismissively. 

“Don’t worry about it, man. What’s on the agenda for today?” 

That’s another thing. It’s not all crying and hugging, Lord knows how old that would get- but they just end up hanging out with you. Sometimes it’s just Logan, if Virgil’s having an off day, or sometimes it’s the opposite, when Logan’s particularly busy, but you really like it best when it’s the three of you. 

That didn’t used to be unusual; you used to spend all of your time surrounded by all of your family (or most, in light of recent acceptances), laughing and joking and working all together. Then, slowly, you stopped, just as things became more complicated for everyone. Camaraderie was a waste of valuable time, time that could be used coming up with ideas that would finally be good enough. They got the hint easily enough, allowing you to isolate yourself until you were perfect for them. 

No, you aren’t thinking about that right now! It isn’t the time to worry about how this will all have to end eventually. You’ll have to think about it soon, but not now, dammit!

You swing back a sip of scalding cinnamon tea, letting it clear both your throat and your mind. 

“I have a wonderful idea for today!” You puff your chest out and straighten your back. In actuality, you haven’t had a ‘wonderful’ idea in ages, but you hope the confident stance will give you one. 

It doesn’t. Logan notices this. 

“I sincerely hope that this is not yet another attempt to ‘cure’ your writer’s block and attempt to get ‘back on task’?” he chides you. You falter, letting the regal pose fall away. Logan tells you that what you need is rest. You do not want to rest. But you don’t want to get lectured, either.

“I do not have any ideas for today. Or in general,” you grind out, the second part tacked on bitterly. You don’t look at them, even as Virgil knocks your elbow with his. 

“Good, that means you can come play Scrabble with us.”

The hesitance must show on your face, because Logan sighs and adds:

“I will allow you to use your original- completely nonsense, meaningless, irrational- words, if butchering the English language makes the game more fun for you.” 

Now that. That is a tempting offer. You really would be a fool to pass it up. 

You might as well indulge yourself this much, for however longer they’re willing to let you. It’ll be a nice memory to draw from when you do get back to work.

 Good God, your ribs hurt. You can’t breathe.

“I’m just saying, you can’t prove that the earth is round,” Virgil claims, staring mischievously across the table at Logan. Logan fumes. It is fucking hysterical.

“That’s ridiculous! Putting aside the overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary for a moment, you can literally see the curve of the earth on the horizon!” 

“Uhh, it looks pretty flat to me. I’m not buying your government propaganda, Lo,” Virgil’s very clearly trying not to chuckle, and his resolve is impressive. You’ve already been reduced to unintelligible cackling at their interaction. This exchange has brought the progress on the jigsaw puzzle you’d been solving together to a screeching halt, but you couldn’t care less. 

“What do you mean ‘propaganda’?! This is common knowledge!”

Virgil cracks, bursting into raucous laughter. He grabs onto your arm as gravelly chuckles escape him, the both of you scrambling to keep upright. Logan narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Unbelievable. Infuriating. Intolerable, the both of you.”

You compose yourself just enough to stick your tongue out at him teasingly, before hunching right back over into your giggle fit.

Then, you notice it as it happens. The aggravated expression etched across Logan’s face shifts, but he keeps staring at you. It’s inscrutable, and also weird. 

“What’re you looking at?” you challenge, voice broken up by subsiding laughter. You turn your head to Virgil, as if to say wow, what a nerd, huh?, only to find him staring at you with much the same expression. 

“Guys? Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” Anxiety amends.

“I’m sure we were both just caught off guard, is all,” Logic adds, his attention redirected from you to the carpet hastily.

“In a good way, though. It’s nice to see you smile- ugh, that sounds so weird, I just meant- it’s been a long time since you’ve. Done that.”

You blink, taken aback, only to feel the dull ache in your face. You reach a hand up, pressing a finger to the corner of your upturned lips. It really has been a while since you’ve laughed like this, hasn’t it? 

A selfish, malicious creature that stalks around in your chest tells you to stop smiling. If you’re happy it means that their job is done, then you’ll be all alone again. Is that what you want, Roman? 

You almost listen to it. Before-

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten what you said just because Roman laughed, V.”

“Nah, you never forget anything, O keeper of memories,” Virgil flicks a puzzle piece at Logan, smirking just enough to show off his sharp teeth. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he flicks another puzzle piece. Logan’s face twitches in what is either a barely suppressed smile or a grimace, but likely a combination of the two. When Virgil finally aims a piece to hit his face, he snaps, throwing little bits of the jigsaw back at the anxious trait.

“Wow, L, you’re really just throwing away all our progress like that? Tsk, tsk.”

“I will end you,” he lands one smack on Virgil’s nose, earning a hiss. The puzzle continues to be destroyed by their squabble. 

You don’t think you could stop yourself from beaming at them, even if you wanted to. Toothy, confident, amused- oh, how you’ve missed this.

How you’ve all missed this.

 It hits you with the swiftness of a bullet, right when you least expect it. You’re just sitting in the living room, idly sketching as you half-watch TV with Patton beside you on the couch. You offer a laugh when he pipes up with a pun based on whatever’s on screen, but your mind is far elsewhere.

You’ve got an idea. A really good one. 

You’ve filled up a page with mindless doodling while the thought was still forming, for fear of jumping on it too suddenly and losing the inspiration, but you find it solid as you continue to mentally examine it. Perhaps a bit overeager, you flip the page, scrawling excited concept sketches across the thick, rough paper. The details flow and evolve in your mind’s eye, and it becomes something of a struggle to hold back your creative aura from infecting the common area. 

That confident smile, one you’ve been wearing more and more often these past few weeks, graces your face once more. The semi-subconscious expression brings a memory from just nights ago: Logan told you that your face was built to wear such a grin (‘Speaking architecturally, of course,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly, ‘The form that you’ve chosen for yourself is suited to it. Objectively.’). 

You find your smiling widening, just as it had when he first told you. 

So caught up in your art, half-listening to Patton, and also vaguely following along with the show he’s watching- you don’t even glance up when Virgil rises up and seats himself at the arm of the couch. It’s the way he huffs a laugh at something Morality says that first catches your attention, and suddenly he’s got all of it. 

“Virgil!” 

He grimaces at the volume, tilting his head to look at you. 

“Something got you excited, Ro?” 

“I’ve got a story! That is to say, I’ve got a premise, but also characters! Look- it’s- come here, let me show you what I’m drawing, it’s easier than explaining,” you chatter happily, shuffling your way to Virgil’s perch. You hold your sketchbook out to him and jump into explanations.

The drawing is messy, and not nearly finished, but it’s you and it’s good and it’s new. It’s a scene- heavily annotated to explain some of the more abstract concepts in the image- depicting an ent-like creature towering over a young woman, who holds a flower crown up to him. You tell Virgil about the story based around the two, some of the major plot points already planting themselves in your brain. You inform him that it just came to you, and you’ve got so many different ideas for what these two will do, what will happen to them, and how they’ll get out of it all. When you look up from your rambling, all the excitement slips off your face. It’s replaced by awe. 

Virgil is grinning, showing a good deal more of his fangs than he usually likes to, enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. You’ve never seen him emote that much ever, not for any purpose. You would be lying if you said that those huge chompers weren’t at least a little hot. 

“Okay, I totally wanna hear more, but pause for a sec. I gotta get Lo, ’kay?” And with that, he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, pausing only to toss the sketchbook back to you. You twist around, eyes wide with shock, to find Patton smiling softly at you. 

“You saw that, too, right? Or have I gone mad?” you ask him, earning a chuckle.

“I think Virge is proud of you,” he shuts the TV off as he talks, moving to stand, “I am, too! It sounds really cute!”

“Thank you,” Patton arches up to stretch, tossing the remote down on the couch. “-Er, where are you off to?”

“I think I’ll let you three have the living room, to talk all about your story.” 

“I’d hardly mind if you wanted to hear about it!”

His eyes dart to the side, an awkward smile stretching across his face. His noticeably pink face.

“Oh, I- I was planning on spending some time with Jan today. I was about to take off, anyhow.”

“Aah,” you start sketching again, if only to spare Patton your wolfish grin, “Well, if you’ve already got plans.”

He gives you a tiny wave, sinking out immediately. Thus leaving you alone with your thoughts. Fuck. 

It crosses your mind that- now you have an idea to work on, an idea you’re proud of- your slump is over. The creative block has been cured. Logan and Virgil won’t need to coddle you anymore. 

Your hand ghosts over the paper, and for a second you consider tearing it up. Pretending you lost the spark, pretending you need more time and help and companionship. Guilt rises in you at even the thought of being so selfish, the doubts and worries overpowering your former giddiness completely. 

You can’t imagine anything worse than that brilliant smile Virgil gave you turning to disappointment, if you pretended to lose your inspiration. Or the disdain that would surely flash in Logan’s eyes at having his work interrupted for absolutely nothing. Plus, if you did so, what’s to stop them deeming you a lost cause and abandoning you anyway? 

If you’re being honest, you need approval more than anything. And dear God, it is so close. You have to tell them, and hold on to whatever scraps of praise it earns you before the three of you revert back to normal. You’ll fall back into seclusion, as that seems to be one of the few things you’re good at, and they can actually get back to their own existences. 

There’s a whoosh behind you. You spin around, forcing the tension out of your shoulders. 

“Well hello there!”

“I want to hear about your story,” Logan cuts straight to the point. You couldn’t care less about his bland bluntness because he is watching at you in a way so unbearably fond. They both are. You push your reservations down and present him with your sketches, diving into what you’ve come up with so far (plus a few extra points off the top of your head, which isn’t an uncommon method for how you develop plotlines). 

When you’ve finished, not quite as exuberantly as earlier, Logan continues with the theme of surprising the fuck out of you that this day has established. 

He settles a hand on your upper arm, but really he might as well have swept you up in a hug. You blanch, the touch fuzzing up your brain, just like it has been doing so often now and God you don’t want to lose this. 

“I told you so,” he sounds playful.

“What?” you question, vaguely dazed.

“I think that L’s saying we were right about you just needing a break. Seems like the rest cleared up your burnout pretty well,” Virgil loops around to your other side, patting your shoulder awkwardly. 

The euphoria from being touched is broken once you actually manage to process the words.

“Oh! Right, yeah, I'm- I'm so excited to get back to work!”

Logan removes his hand and you burn cold. 

“No, you aren't,” you hear his confusion, like he's trying to unravel why that could possibly be and wow you are not as good an actor as you’d hoped. “What's upsetting you?”

You try to say that it's nothing, but your voice pitches up embarrassingly. You clear your throat, but you can't make yourself maintain eye-contact anymore.

“Dude, you can tell us what's up. Are you just overwhelmed?” Anxiety is worried and caring in a way you didn't know he was capable of and it hurts worse because you don't know how to tell him that you're just selfish. But you knew this was coming- and you aren't going to make these two waste their concerns on you any longer. The problem has been solved, Roman, get that through your skull! 

“I- I suppose I'm just- I’m lamenting the end of this. It’s unimportant.”

“You are upset about the end of your writer's block?” Logan tips his head to the side and gives you a bemused look. Frustration stabs at your skin.

“No! That's a good thing, obviously it's a good thing- I'm saying that I'm going to miss… I mean, I'd gotten used to spending time with you. The both of you,” Virgil's eyebrows shoot up, Logan squints at you, so you backpedal like there's no damn tomorrow.

“See? It was stupid, I know I can't always have all the attention, any-”

“You're right, that is stupid,” Virgil cuts you off with a grumble. You must deflate visibly, though, because his voice softens, “That you think we aren't gonna hang out with you, I mean.”

You feel something. You think it’s hope. It almost feels foreign- unbelievable, even. 

“What?” a murmur, too small and doubting for you to associate with it, though it must be yours. Pathetic.

Logan leans forward, as though he's studying you. Good God, who let him be so tall?

“Were you under the impression that we were going to cease contact with you once you resumed productivity?”

“Wha- I mean- when you say it like that it sounds… bad.”

“It would be bad. It would also be incredibly manipulative; being kind to you only so as to get you back in working order, rather than being kind to you to provide genuine help.”

Virgil nods his agreement.

“Yeah, you aren't getting rid of us that easy, Romano.”

You recall the first Big Conversation you had with the two left-brained sides. They'd insisted to help you, despite your lack of understanding in the beginning why they'd do so. Similarly to that talk, this is filling you with an almost painful fondness, almost too much to bear.

“But, you already helped me, just like you said you would!”

“Why did we help you, Roman?” Logan inquires, in a way that makes you feel like you should know the answer. You do not. 

“Because you were worried about me?”

“Why would we be worried?”

“Because you… felt bad for me?”

He groans, tapping Virgil on the shoulder. The anxious facet rolls his eyes.

“You're our friend and we care about you, stupid.”

You clear your throat, attempting to say that you knew that (even if that isn’t entirely true), but Logan interrupts you. 

“In case it wasn’t clear why, allow us to explain: one, as I’ve stated before and will likely state again, we don’t value you for your ability to create alone.”

“Two,” Virgil cuts in, “You’re, like, fun to be around. Way less stiff than us, and honestly we probably need that.”

“Three, we were never opposed to being around you even before the- this. You claimed to like being alone. And I’ll admit I’m not the best with subtext.” 

Virgil looks ready to add a fourth. You don’t let him, waving your hands wildly. If you verbalized what you meant to convey, you’d definitely start sobbing, and that’s just embarrassing. Thankfully, Anxiety seems to pick up what you’re laying down, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You take a few breaths and try to pretend that you aren’t being watched like a hawk.

Aaaand you’re already crying. That’s probably the point of no return, isn’t it? 

“Ha, and I thought that you two weren’t the sentimental ones,” the effect of your teasing is ruined by how much your voice wavers, “You’re just big softies, aren’t you?”

Logan’s expression is caught somewhere between concern and confusion.

“You are quite literally sobbing? How are we-”

“Shut up,” you retort. The effect is once again ruined when he comfortingly pats your back and you absolutely fall against him. 

“Wow, again? You’re really set on making a habit out of this,” Virgil hovers uncomfortably apart from the set of you, eventually landing on wrapping an arm around you. And it’s so him, that you can’t help the little chuckle that breaks through your crying. You really have been doing this a lot more than you’d like lately. 

“I- I’m okay,” you stammer, “I’m good- this is- just- I’m relieved. Why am I crying? I’m happy!” 

“It’s alright, man.”

“Yes, take as long as you need.”

You tear yourself away from them, scrubbing at your eyes, but grinning all the same. Your skin burns, you’re shivering, but you’re sick of clinging to them and crying and the desperation that tugs at you. You feel so many things, but there’s one that’s overpowering, one thing that’s so familiar and has been so distant. It’s a blur, a mash, but it goes something like this:

The people you care about, that you work so hard for- they aren’t going anywhere. No conditions. Logan repeats it plenty, Virgil shows it to you quietly, but only now-

Now you believe them. You feel looked after. Cared for. If you’re being bold, you could even say loved. 

You feel secure. 

“Thank you,” for being there, staying there, helping you, everything. You can’t thank them enough for everything.

Virgil shrugs. 

“You’re worth it.”

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​​ || Day Five: Something You Heard a Friend Say ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

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Rumors were quick to spread through the Academy like wildfire. Though scarcely through their first week of classes, the newest group of shinobi-to-be were already settling into new friendships, new rivalries, and new crushes...which meant speculation and assumptions abounded.

Admittedly, Hinata had yet to do...any of those things. Withdrawn and quiet, none of the other girls had bothered with her yet. Nor was she exactly decent material for a rival, given her lack of confidence or real skil. And as for crushes...well, one boy had caught her eye, but apparently she was in the minority.

While he hadn’t been as completely isolated as she was growing up, Uchiha Sasuke was still a relative unknown to most of the other children. Being part of a clan - especially one considered to be one of the four “royal” clans - typically meant socializing far more with your kin than outsiders. It was simply how most operated, though to differing levels of severity. Hinata, for example, had only met a few other up-and-coming heirs of other clans, and briefly.

Sasuke was one of them.

According to her father, they had distant shared roots, the Uchiha and the Hyūga. So out of the other children she’d seen - those like Yamanaka Ino, Aburame Shino, among others - he’d been the most frequent. But even then, meetings between them were rare. Hyūga were simply withdrawn as a clan.

Hinata would later learn this was both out of secrecy, and a thinly-veiled feeling of superiority compared to other clans.

Hence her lack of surprise at seeing him again in their Academy class. She was already a bit...desensitized to him.

But for most of the other girls, especially those without clans, it was their first glimpse of the younger Uchiha heir.

And that meant quite a few of them immediately falling for his well-bred appearance.

While Hinata was in no way opposed to Sasuke in their youth, she just didn’t latch onto him like so many others seemed to. Whether it was that familiarity taking away whatever edge entranced the rest, or some other reason, she wasn’t sure.

But when the rumor began that he had a penchant for girls with longer hair, it just...didn’t phase her the way it did others. Most girls her age had short hair to begin with anyway. Hinata had her hime cut that she liked just fine. It was technically her father’s doing - something about a traditional style for young Hyūga girls. In truth she didn’t much mind what she looked like. But as time passed in the Academy, more and more girls let their hair grow longer, while Hinata - partially out of deference to her father, and partially out of a lack of caring much in the first place - kept her same old style, which led to the assumption she wanted nothing to do with him.

But then that fateful day arrived when the genin teams for their year were announced...and Hinata found herself assigned Uzumaki Naruto and Uchiha Sasuke as teammates.

Needless to say, she was taken aback. Partially due to her long-standing crush on the former, and her complete lack of exactly that with the latter.

And sadly...it resulted in more than one angry girl from their year. While she wasn’t exactly what she would call friends with any of them...the sudden shift in attitude from apathetic to antagonistic took her completely by surprise.

“I still can’t believe she’s on a team with Sasuke-kun…”

“Ugh, I know! It’s so unfair! I mean look at her - she clearly doesn’t care about him like I do!”

“Or me!”

“Her hair’s even still short. How long have I grown mine out to get his attention, and now this! It’s almost insulting!”

Hinata did her best to ignore them, pretending she didn’t hear the biting words and accusations. She didn’t even want Sasuke’s attention…! And now suddenly every mouth in their year was saying the same thing:

What a waste.

It echoed sentiments she heard so often at home - while differently rooted, still bearing the same message. And that proved to be harder to bear than she’d initially thought.

She’d even gone to Iruka to ask for a new assignment. Even if that meant giving up her being Naruto’s teammate.

But the decision was final. Barring something catastrophic, nothing could change the team assignments.

She was stuck with them.

So...Hinata was left with no other option. Grit her teeth, and bear it.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

A final straw was reached a day after training. Sakura and Ino had caught sight of her on her way home, and in what was clearly meant to be heard words, hashed over the same tired accusations.

And Hinata found she just didn’t have the energy to keep up her walls. Not after an entire session of hard work and the exhaustion it brought. Instead, everything they said slipped right past her armor, and nailed her in the heart.

Tears springing to her eyes, she’d sprinted past them, not caring where she was going so long as it was away from them.

And eventually she found herself slowing to a stop in one of the village’s park-like gardens. Still visibly upset and wanting to disappear, she curled up at the base of a tree and buried her face in her arms, as if she could truly vanish if she just made herself small enough.

But for better or worse, her plan failed...and she found herself discovered.

“Hyūga.”

For a moment she didn’t move, but then pale eyes peered up at her companion: none other than Sasuke himself.

“What are you doing out here?”

She almost considered ignoring him, but...well, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Taking out her temper on him - even in such a quiet way - wasn’t fair. “...I just...w-wanted to be alone,” was her lackluster explanation.

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

To that, she had no retort.

“Did someone hurt you?”

The question took her by surprise. What did he care? “...no…”

“Then why are you crying?”

The blunt inquiries saw a tiny spike in her temper. “It...it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. It made you cry. That means it matters enough to do that much.”

...he was making too much sense. Wiping at her cheeks with a sleeve, she considered how much to say, and how much to leave out. “...people have...been saying untrue things about...a-about me.”

“Like what?”

She sighed. “...Sasuke-kun, why...why do you care?”

“Because you’re my teammate,” was his simple response. “If something’s bothering you, it’s going to affect our team.”

Her gaze flickered over his face, feeling like that wasn’t the complete truth, but having no evidence to the contrary. “...some of the other girls were...a-angry I was picked to be your teammate.”

“Tch. Jealousy.”

The term made her stomach squirm. “...it’s like they...they think that I s-stole you from them. But I didn’t pick you as a teammate. N-none of us got to choose. So why take it out on me…?” Her tone began to break, eyes stinging once more as she fought the feeling.

“Because that’s the easiest way to take out their frustration. Which is cowardly. You had nothing to do with the team arrangements. Neither did I, or any of them. But they let their jealousy turn them into nasty brats. Don’t worry about it, Hinata.”

“I...I don’t, but…”

“But what?”

...okay, this was getting awfully close to something she did not want to talk about. “...it’s just been a constant...this whole time. I’ve been t-trying to ignore it. And it worked for a while. I just…” A shaking breath escaped her. “...I’m tired today. I-I let it slip.”

His eyes flickered over her, clearly as unconvinced she’s being truthful as she’d been over his earlier claim, but just as unwilling to call it out. “...I’ll talk to them about it.”

“B-but -?!”

“If they won’t listen to you, then I’ll just have to take care of it myself. I can’t have a teammate being harassed and losing their grip.” Looking out to one side, it was clear he was trying to appear nonchalant. “Surely that’ll put a stop to it.”

Looking to him in obvious surprise - she never expected him to go that far for her sake - Hinata just...nodded slowly. What else was there to say?

“I’ve faced my share of rumors, good and bad,” he then murmured, surprising her further. “I know how bad it can get. Best we stomp this one out before it gets any bigger. If anyone else gives you crap...let me know.”

Brow wilting in lingering confusion, she simply replied, “O...okay.”

“So, who was it this time?”

“Er, um…”

“Out with it, Hyūga,” he demanded, but not unkindly.

“...Sakura-chan and...I-Ino-chan.”

“Tch, should have known. At least they’re big enough gossipers it shouldn’t take long for word to get around. If not...we’ll have to have another talk.”

With that, he simply turned and made to leave, and Hinata watched him go. By then she knew there was no convincing him otherwise, and...while she didn’t want to turn the situation into some dramatic affair or get the girls in trouble, she couldn’t help but hope it would stop - or at least lighten - the verbal abuse she’d been getting.

Left alone with her thoughts, Hinata stewed in them for a time before hauling herself to her feet. By then, the sting of their taunting had faded. And it was getting late. Break her curfew, and Hiashi would be even harder to deal with.

Otherwise...she’d just have to wait to see if Sasuke’s stern words would have any effect. The offer still left her feeling...uncertain. While he hadn’t been at all aggressive or dismissive of her, they were far from being friends. Him going so far out of his way seemed odd.

And yet something told her his unfeeling reason for doing so wasn’t the entire story.

But, she couldn’t really give any other evidence to the contrary, so...time would have to tell. Perhaps the Uchiha boy wasn’t as withdrawn as he made himself out to be. Mulling that over, Hinata gave a little shrug and began the walk home.

She could puzzle it out more in the morning.

     Okay so this is technically related to an idea I started during my year-long challenge, but...given it’s mostly just a concept and not really an established story, I figure that’s passable xD Aka, my team seven!Hinata verse, which I’m sure has been done before.      So this isn’t...quite accurate to the prompt since the rumors aren’t really from either of their “friends”, but...it’s late and I’m out of time and ideas so pretend it’s a sarcastic friends instead lol      I think what I love most about this concept is that it flips a bit dynamic of OG team seven on its head: rather than the girl wanting Sasuke, she wants Naruto...which I think opens up a lot of interesting possibilities that I...do not have time for in this drabble xD And I’m not sure I’ll ever fully flesh out this idea since...it would likely involve a LOT of canon bending and that sounds exhausting bahaha~      ANYWHO I need to get to bed, I had a long day full of toothaches, so...I’m gonna go crash. Thanks as always for reading! <3

[theorynexus]

Retrospective Analysis of Dirk:

After the initial thoughts I had this morning, following some light (re-)reading, I have come to various conclusions: The role that Dave Strider played in the Meat Epilogue was nearly identical to that that Dirk’s Bro (Alpha Dave Strider) played in the story---   DOOMed rebel fighting against the rise of another dictatorial Crocker.   I am sure that Dirk realized this, both considering the fact that this was an echo of Dave’s soul across the multiple instances of himself, and because he partially engineered this eventuality. Intriguingly enough, this might imply that Rose likely would have sided against Crocker (Jane) if her ascension had not incapacitated her and Dirk hadn’t been puppeteer-distracting her at the time (for reasons beyond her connection to Kanaya). More importantly, it helps establish an important further parallel:  Dirk acted as the puppetmaster in the shadows, essentially controlling the election and determining its outcome from the beginning.   Lord English remained the most important force in the Alpha Kids’ world and session in much the same manner, despite )(er Imperious Condescension’s attempted Rebellion. Both individuals were playing broader and longer games than the women they were manipulating to suit their purposes.  Though Dirk’s purposes have not yet been revealed to the fullest extent, Jane Crocker had a narrower perspective that failed to grasp the true nature of the battles going on and underestimated her “supporter” ‘s power and intentions. This relates to another way in which Dirk Strider and Caliborn/Lord English:  Both of them represent iterations/avatars/fulfillments of the idea of Calmasis---   both tricked a Calliope into losing a major confrontation by making her confuse an attack on one piece with that of another (a major short term/immediate objective--- an attack on a queen [in Dirk’s case, Jake English/the election] ---with an attack on the king [Alt!Calliope, who acted as essentially the commander of the forces opposed to him]); furthermore, and more importantly, both act as protagonists and antagonists to the story at the same time (villain and anti-hero).   Dirk presumably sees himself as working towards the perpetuation of reality by forcing more conflict into an otherwise ended story; or alternatively, sees himself striving for freedom in opposition to causality and enslavement to cosmic will (which would jive well with his Kamina-esque aesthetic).  Meanwhile, Caliborn/Lord English obviously served as the main villain of Homestuck, but were also the protagonists of their little side adventure and was trying to develop himself and expand his horizons despite his severe disadvantages, much the way the Kids and Trolls did. Dirk’s fulfillment of that role may have actually been why he downplayed the importance of Complacency of the Learned in his conversation with Rose just before he began to subsume her will in earnest. Of course, that is somewhat speculative, and hard to prove, one way or the other. ... Regardless, upon making these sorts of connections, I began to think about whether Dirk was intended to become a villain from the moment he was introduced, and/or relatively early on.  Andrew Hussie seems to have a habit of working out many plot details a great deal in advance (see the Alpha Kids being hinted at as early as Act 4 with Jake’s letter to John, Doc Scratch probably being intended to have been/contained at least an iteration of Dirk from the beginning [as shown via his comment to Rose that she ought to think of him as a kindly human uncle figure-- shoved in our face via a certain Truthsplosion]), so the idea didn’t seem all that farfetched. After all, as referenced in the above parenthetical reference, Doc Scratch shows that Dirk always had at least the potential for villainy in him, under the right circumstances. The first thing that jumped into my mind (other than the fact that Bro is a bit of a dick, I guess, and the early narrative of Act 6 emphasizes the fact that this is in fact the kid version of Bro quite a bit) was the fact that Dirk’s introductory period created clear parallels with two trolls of a highly corrupt moral character---  Vriska and Equius:   Beyond the obvious tendencies to manipul8 others and his willingness to “cheat” in certain ways (defeating Squarewave in a rap battle bit exploiting his weakness to liquid shorting him out, teleporting his head to Jake for the revive+kiss with the intent of forcing a start to their relationship that way, et cetera) Dirk is also pining for a Page who he attempts to force a redrom with (more effectively, in his case, at least in the short term), and whom he attempts to “groom” by pushing challenges that the Page is clearly not prepared to face his way (Brobot’s awkward difficulty settings parallel the FLARP encounters  Vriska gave Tavros).    That Vriska and Dirk’s first on-screen kills were both decapitations is probably a coincidence. As for Equius:  There is the wife beater that Dirk sometimes wears, the similarities between horses and musclebeasts, the fact that both build robots whom they then face off against in lethal combat, the fact that both wear shades and are initially blacked out upon introduction (though this latter matter is of less significance) the fact that both have dominating personalities and a secret kinky submissive side (albeit these play out in different ways for the two), the fact that Brobot and Aradiabot both take out their “hearts” and POUND POUND POUND them up dramatically (note: though this is a bit of a stretch, the parallel makes the affinity’s intention obvious), their willingness to lie and take extreme measures (Equius considers lying and double-crossing to be in a blue blood’s nature and/or their “superior” culture; Dirk outright tells Jane that one of three statements he is making is a lie, and the only one it could possibly be is that he believes that Roxy’s decision to blow up Jane’s computer as a way to scare Jane away from playing was too extreme [meaning that, since this was a lie, he is absolutely willing to go to such extremes to get the job done--- as shown later with his willingness to decapitate himself, publicly display the fact that he’d killed Hegemonic Brute, et cetera])... and most obviously+ominously, his declaration to Jane that while she was going to remain the group’s leader as far as everyone else was concerned, he was going to be the person controlling things from the shadows (which is a reversal of Equius’ demand that Aradia be the shadow leader for the Blue Team, but obviously calls him to mind via allusion/reference). Now, while a case can be made for either of these characters not being that bad, and I am personally someone who likes and feels for Vriska quite a lot, I will be the first to admit that she is the closest thing the trolls have to Caliborn or Dirk (Gamzee doesn’t count: he’s has a mental breakdown and is basically brainwashed by LE via Lil Cal; he’s not a planner or someone who went out of his way to embrace his “turn to the dark side” of his own volition--- if you can call it that, for Caliborn; you know what I mean).   As for Equius: he was highly violent and could have been quite the menace, if it weren’t for his moirail. He had a generally demented mentality.           Neither of these are the sorts of comparisons you want to be made with a character being painted as particularly heroic and good.  Next comes the fact that, as I have discussed previously, Dirk Strider and Caliborn/Lord English have been deeply entangled with one another’s fates.   Caliborn liked Dirk the best out of all of the Alpha Kids, it was ironically Dirk who ended up defeating him in the end (in both the form of soul trapping and via ARquius). However, it was also Dirk who provided Caliborn with the mechanical leg that allowed him to escape (and presumably have confidence in the idea of escape) from his SAW Room Death Trap binding with Calliope.  Presumably, either Dirk or AR must have figured that that was the intention behind the request/present, at some point. (I rather doubt it was something that Dirk knew the implications of at the time, but I wouldn’t necessarily rule out that possibility. He might not have cared, especially since that was years before the Alpha Kids began their session, and he/they might not have had much of a bond with Calliope, at that point. Not that he ever got all that close to her, generally.)  Note:  Caliborn’s favor toward Dirk does not necessarily suggest anything inherently wrong with Dirk, but it helps set him apart from the others. This is just another warning sign suggesting something “off” about him.      Dirk’s “I have failed,” before he went wandering off into the glitches and self-destructed in the [S] Game Over. version of the Alpha similarly can be interpreted as hinting at his God Complex/Megalomaniac tendencies.      It seems a logical extension of his general personality that he wouldn’t be able to settle down and enjoy a peaceful life in a “perfect” paradise planet (which is probably one of the reasons he decided to leave it). I suppose this is just another thing that wasn’t generally thought about as the community was so focused on the actual process of getting to the victory point, and what that would mean?   At the very least, I don’t remember any such considerations.  There were certainly warning signs. The biggest factor that convinces me that Dirk’s villainy was planned quite early on (and which thus supports to some extent the idea that Jake is meant to be his eventual foil) is that Dave, after seeing his Bro’s corpse, said, “I’m not a hero, my bro was.”   This was almost certainly made at a point where Dirk Strider was conceptually developed/invented already, definitely was at a point where Dave’s baggage surrounding heroism and its connection with how he felt toward his brother was in play, and most certainly was well after the audience could have seen that Bro was abusive and sortof a dirtbag. Thus, there was already some irony, there.  However, he also called John a hero in that same statement, so it clearly was not totally derogatory, and so the irony could be increased. It was, as shown by the fact that the Alpha Kids were not “Heroes” of their session, but Nobles. This was not enough.  Dirk has eventually turned into the anti-hero and villain of his own story.   Perhaps this might be enough; however, it wouldn’t quite feel fully “right” if he hadn’t been intended to have been so from the beginning-- and perhaps that’s actually why their group were called Nobles in the first place, not only because of the fact that they couldn’t complete their session without the others, but because not all of them were heroic at heart.  [Non-sequitur: I wonder if LE would have been anywhere near as dangerous, if not for Lil Hal’s capacity to make incredibly complicated calculations {needed for Furthest Ring travel, among other things, presumably}, and his capacity as Doc Scratch to pave the way for LE’s arrival. This would seem a very similar relationship to how Dirk facilitated Caliborn’s entry via the leg, in retrospect.] ... While the section immediately above isn’t as well-developed as I’d like-- mostly because I’m tired, distracted, and it’s been at least 3 hours since I started this post in the first place, and I want to at least get the last part that I thought of in before it leaves my memory.    I may add to/edit in more for this post, or post follow-up material later, when I remember more that might have slipped my mind on this subject/I think of more. Anyway!---    as I was considering all of this, a very intriguing thought popped into my head:    While I had initially assumed that it was simply to not rehash old material and/or that it was to keep us with John for the sake of narrative consistency, since I now know that it was Dirk who was narrating this segment of the story, and thus it was a narrator with bias and interest in the facts being related, it has occurred to me that it is actually quite odd for Dirk to omit some relation of the actual facts of the Caliborn’s Masterpiece encounter.   We are placed by his hand at a place even further removed from the reality of the battle than the clearly biased and somewhat embellished account that the Cherub gave of his own rise to power.        This strikes me as odd particularly given the fact that it is Dirk’s great moment of heroism, which might serve as a sort of counter-balance to much of his otherwise morally questionable deeds.         Given his egotism (and the fact that there would seem to be no OOC reason strong enough to justify such an omission on the author’s part, since this means that there is no faithful depiction of the battle shown to us in the story), this makes it seem as if Dirk chooses to not show the conclusion of this battle for some specific and tangible reason.  I would not suspect it to be out of embarrassment, a desire to conceal his identity longer, or plain trollishness (though the last of these strikes me as almost being fitting).  Rather, I wonder if there is something worth concealing in the end of this encounter.  Maybe the Alpha Kids actually lost, and Dirk’s placement of Cal into Lil Cal was an act of capitulation. Maybe Dirk otherwise willingly and knowingly created Lord English via the soul trap at the behest of ARquiusprite, or said sprite tricked him into doing so, claiming it was the only way to defeat their opponent (which it was) and omitting the consequences.     I do not know which of these, if any, is the correct answer, but Dirk being the one to choose to omit the details does, I shall repeat, seem extremely fishy to me, all things considered. ~~~ While I will not put a summary here, I would just like to say:   In retrospect, the Meat Epilogue has done more than the requisite “adding on to the story in appreciable ways and tying up loose ends,” but has served to add depth to an already incredibly deep story and caused me to reconsider and better understand characters and themes which I had not previously delved into so deeply before.    I wonder, now, if Dirk Strider and Lord English shall prove to have been even more deeply connected than it has seemed up to this point, once I have reached the end of the Candy Epilogue and thus will be allowed to properly investigate what’s going on at the beginning of Homestuck^2. Final thought:  Hmm. So much of his imagery speaks to him being a sort of twisted version of Kamina (embodiment of masculinity, warrior spirit, noble sacrifice, heroism [not being able to live up to those last two, and lampshading to some extent his frustration at that, in Epilogue Part 7]), but it also vaguely seems to me that he at least sees himself as being like Simon--- this is to say, leading the charge for freedom against the forces of determinism and the chains of repression that would hold back humanity (and/or himself). It’s a very striking thing, especially considering the fact that it is only Simon who takes the fight to space in a fancy ship, once what seems to have been the final villain was defeated and the real threat began to loom on the horizon.  I wonder how this contrast will develop in the future, and how noble his true ideals may in fact be. ~~~ Major Edit:  

What. The heck. How did I not remember this blatant nonsense?    Fricking... darn it.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Dancing in the dark (Peter P.)

Summary: Weddings are always fun.

Warnings: fluff, possible ENDGAME SPOILER (although not really, but just in case)

Word count: ~ 1800

Prompt 10. You're quite possibly my favorite person, for @starksparker writing challenge.

She was nervous like never before, that much was true. However, there was a deeper meaning to her quick pacing up and down the small room.

Clicking sound of her heels on marble floor echoed against the walls and caused an annoying ringing sensation in her ears. Peter was only down the hall, so close but too far for comfort. She knew it was unreasonable, but they were never able to properly handle being away from one another for too long.

Especially after Thanos snapped his fingers and the two disappeared into the Soul stone - so close, but still so far. 

Ever since then, it’s more like she couldn’t handle it. 

After years of being together, constant worrying became a normal thing for Y/N. There was never a simple day for her since Peter told her he was Spiderman. Whenever he’d go out, Y/N would clean, cook, work, do whatever possible not to focus on what he might be facing. If Peter didn’t make it home by bed time, she turned and tossed, sleep evading her in every possible way until his body laid next to hers and his arms wrapped around her protectively. 

Fear of losing him, not being there for him was sometimes overwhelming and today was one of those days. Against better judgement, her mind convinced her something would go wrong. It’s them - the couple with worst luck in the world and she just had to see him. 

Every ounce of her being craved his proximity, touch of his skin on hers, their lips connected once more. There was nothing and no one capable of calming her nerves and making the crazy thoughts go away but Peter, so she realized he was what she needed.

Picking up the hem of her dress, she headed for the door, watching her best friend step in front of her.

“Move or I’ll move you.“ Y/N threatened, her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips set in a firm line. 

If there was anything everyone could agree upon when she was in question, it’s that she’s scary when she wants to be and her best friend immediately stepped away spotting a mad look in her eyes. 

Without waiting, she ran out the door and her clicking heels soon stopped in front of yet another obstacle. 

Gently, she pulled the door-handle, watching the door budge with a content smile and walked in, her eyes scanning the room for Peter.

“There you are!“ She exclaimed. 

Peter squealed, jumping in place like a frightened mouse and looked around in panic. Noticing there was nothing but drapes near him, Peter decided to take cover behind them, his feet sticking out from the bottom as the heavy, lacy, white drapes were a bit shorter than he expected.

“What are you doing?“ Peter shouted, his voice going a few notches higher and she arched an eyebrow in response.

“I needed to see you. What are you doing?“ She retorted, chuckling at the sight of a human shaped hideout behind the curtains.

“It’s bad luck for the bride to see the groom on their wedding day!“ Peter pointed out in his defense and she couldn’t hold back a loud snort at his statement. 

A wide smile spread across her face at his goofy behavior, her hand set over her heart to slow down its irregular rhythm. Peter always had that effect on her. Whenever he was around, even if he was just mentioned in her presence, her heart jumped and changed its course, beating wildly inside her chest for minutes on end.

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress on their wedding day, silly!" She corrected him, tilting her head to the side to try and take a peak at him.

“Come out! I really need you.“ She whined, placing a hand over her lips to hold in a laugh when Peter peaked his head out in concern, his eyes slightly narrowed and eyebrows raised.

“Are you having second thoughts?“ Panic made his voice pitchy once more and even though she teased him about it mercilessly, she couldn’t deny how cute it was. It’s one of the best things about him; he’s not capable of being duplicitous, even if he tried.

“What? No! No! Peter, I love you and I wanna marry you, but I just…I just wanted to see you.“ Y/N averts her gaze to the marble floor, gnawing on the inside of her cheek as her nerves took over. 

It wasn’t just her nerves, rather anxiety pulling at her mind, inserting negative thoughts as each moment passed. Every muscle felt tight, sprung for action and she couldn’t even walk. Even her face felt tight, like smiling just wasn’t an option anymore and her usual calm had been replaced by a carousel of ideas, each one more worrying than the last. Supervillains, natural disasters, her crazy family - all of the possible ways of the wedding going nuclear visited her all at once.

She didn’t consider running from the wedding, far from it, but she feared messing the whole thing up. 

Peter could sense her spiraling, exchanging his hideout for her comfort in a heartbeat. When it came to Y/N, there was nothing he wouldn’t do, no rule he wouldn’t break. 

Peter crosses the distance between them swiftly, taking her in his arms before his eyes got a chance to properly see the dress she was in. She buries her head in his chest and he wraps his arms around her tightly.

 He is sweaty, but his scent lingers and informs her it’s safe to put her guard down and relax in his warm embrace. Peter was there, he was safe and she was safe with him. She repeated that statement over and over in her head, feeling herself growing stronger with every moment that passed by. 

In one swift move, he cast a web at the lights, dimming them for effect. 

She raised her eyebrows in question, getting a nervous chuckle.

“So I don’t see the dress.” He explained, leaning his forehead against hers.

Peter began swaying them gently and her feet moved with his, no longer heavy and stuck to the ground beneath. She felt light as a feather as he moved them in circles, guiding her body in the right direction as she was never the best dancer, but he was.

Looking up, her eyes met his entrancing orbs, stained with the colour of hot chocolate on a cold, winter night that wraps around you like a blanket and engulfs you in its warmth, making you feel at home. They consisted of raw emotion and if you observe closely, they will reveal to you the exact thought that crosses the marvels of his pure mind. 

Peter was easy to read and although it would make anyone sane be bored with him, to her, it made him even more interesting. Every thought he had caused her to smile. His mind was an intricate place, filled with a thousand untold stories, neither being told twice. Peter grew to be a man with emotional warmth, a real hero among regular men. 

He’s the one with skin so thin that his heart shines though and showing her the best a man can be every day she spends with him. He is a man who loves and holds compassion and kindness as his highest treasures, and all the while unaware that to her, he is the greatest treasure of the Earth.

“You’re quite possibly my favorite person in the world.” She whispered to him, eliciting an honest, tender smile on his behalf.

Their last dance as an unwed couple was cut short by sundown, darkness taking over slowly and the ceremony approaching. The dimmed lights weren’t enough for her too see him quite well as she did before.

“Do you want to do this?“ Peter brushes his nose against hers affectionately, lips inches away from hers.

“Never been more sure of anything.“ She admits, smiling unapologetically at her prince charming.

“Are you sure? I can cancel if you want? It would be nice to officially claim you as my own so the rest of them stop flirting with you, but I don’t need a paper trail to prove my love for you. I’ll always love you regardless of what you say. Okay? Don’t agree just because you’re afraid of hurting me. You’re more important!“ Peter rambles and she giggles, nodding slightly.

“I WANT to marry you. I love you, Peter.“ Y/N speaks confidently, watching Peter’s lips stretch into a wide, boyish grin. Brushing away a loose curl from his forehead, Y/N leans in, kissing his soft lips and releases the last bit of stress she felt.

“I love you too.“ Peter whispers against her lips, smiling into the kiss which was her favourite thing in the world. It meant he was so happy and in love that he couldn’t pick just one action to focus on and knowing she did THAT made her blissful. 

“However, can we not mention this to Thor?“ He adds and she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, licking her lips before speaking.

“Why not?“ Her question is soon answered as Peter explains.

“Well, you see, Thor promised me a blessing from all the Norse gods, but I wasn’t meant to see your radiant good looks before the ceremony and if he finds out we will miss out on so many blessings and I don’t want to risk angering the gods!“ Peter spoke so fast she didn’t even have a chance to interject. 

Whenever he rambled nervously in the beginning of their relationship, Y/N had difficulty catching up or understanding a single word leaving his mouth, but by now she became an expert and understood him perfectly no matter how quick the words left his small lips.

“Peter, breathe!“ She chuckled, caressing his rosy cheeks lovingly. Peter inhaled sharply, slowly exhaled and smiled at the end. 

“My lips are sealed.“ She whispers to assure him, kissing him once more before turning to leave. 

“Don’t be late!” She points her right index finger at him, stopping once more at the door, flicking the light back on.

“And ignore your spider senses! Otherwise, I’ll become a bridezilla and you’ll have to stop me.“ She gave him a warning look, seeing his eyes widen just as they did when she walked in.

“I’ll be there. Love you!“ Peter chuckled nervously, trying hard to keep his eyes on her face and not on her whole appearance. 

Even with all his effort, her glow was evident and he couldn’t stop his erratic heartbeat and excessive sweating. 

She was gorgeous and Peter couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

“I’ll be the one in white.“ Blowing him an air kiss, Y/N returned to her room, prepared to walk down the aisle and take Peter as her husband, for better or worse, until her heart stopped beating. 

Perhaps even after that. If the misfortune of being snapped into the Soul stone by an evil alien taught them anything, it’s that their love always prevails.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *          *

Tags: @xalayx @heyits-claire @fallinginlove-16 @accalialionheart

[snailcomicz]

Protag’s Path

     A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Star Wars.TM

The Hundred Years War

Protag’s Path

A little over ninety years ago, the Jedi High Council cast out one Jedi for claiming using the Dark Side of the Force was justified. Outraged, the fallen Jedi retaliated and fought with all of the dark powers and tools they had been acquiring, teaching those they subjugated and those they chose the powers of the Dark Side.

A generation has passed since that first fallen Jedi, but many of those the fallen taught remained firmly convinced in the powers of the Dark Side. They curse the Jedi Order and the Republic alike for denying them that which they feel they are owed.

Recently the Dark Side forces have been slowly losing ground, but the Republic has been confounded at how, around twenty years ago, their opponents sieges suddenly became more effective than ever. They remain entirely unaware of how a single dark Jedi has been unraveling their every attempt to break through contested points along hyperspace routes...

We scroll down to a massive star ship fight above a planet. None of the ships on either side share the distinctive looks of the ships we’ve come to know, although the designs make them look like older prototypes rather than entirely new ships. A small squadron of undamaged ships pops out of hyperspace behind what appears to be a massive blockade, but behind them a small satellite blinks red twice. We follow the route of the signal it sent, leading us past the largest ship in the blockade and several smaller skirmishes to a moderately sized gunner ship. In a room full of monitors, we see the back of a robe position themself in front of the new alert, cast entirely in silhouette by the sharp light. Another alert interrupts the signal from before, announcing “Critical files have been lost due to enemy bombardment. Please reconnect with the core database, or manually input your specifications for a temporary ID.”

You are the Protag, and this is your path.

Born out of a love for the old KotOR style games, an almost insatiable need to worldbuild, and one night I thank the stars my sleeplessly addled brain wrote down what it was thinking about, this writing exercise follows the story of Protag, the person who’s become a -pro- at -tagging- hyperspace routes and has been working for the dark side of the Force for over thirty years. During this first encounter you command a battalion of ships within a greater fleet engaging in a planet wide siege, and get to decide what kind of dark side user you are. You meet your apprentice and your pilot, learn how the game mechanics work, and maybe play around with what talking style you use. At no point during this mission do you get the chance to do something nice or lessen the damage of the battle-

Yet.

You can play through the game without changing anything about this destructive attitude, continuing your dark reign of terror to the Republic and rising to greater and more terrible power. After the first mission, however, you are separated from the rest of your fleet and forced down to a distant planet for repairs. From then on, you can unlock kinder dialogue options, less damaging solutions to problems, and even work to turn away from the dark side entirely.

     Timeline

As mentioned in the title crawl, this game is set at the tail end of the Hundred-Year Darkness, a time relatively unexplored by the SW universe. Thus, every time I’ve said ‘Sith’ in previous posts have been jossed because the Sith didn’t exist yet and I’m going to have to do so much more freaking research about SW for this, because God has cursed me for my hubris and my work is never finished.

I kid, I kid. In setting Portag’s storyline so far back, I don’t have to worry about bumping into either the KotOR or the prequels era of history, and I said I wanted to worldbuild right?

(And if you’re wondering why future characters know nothing about Protag’s story, I’ve got a simple answer for you. Not only was it not a widely talked about point of history by the Mandelorian Wars, but the official record was part of the history lost when Malak destroyed the Dantooine Academy. By the time the prequels rolls around, the story’s lost for good, even if the effects your Protag made are not.)

     Plot routes

DS routes:

Darkest Jedi (embraces DS structure)

Your Protag’s reign of terror holds the galaxy by the throat. You have it all by force, Force or manipulation, only to be cut down by the one that will rule after you. In remaining evil and taking control from others, you forfeited your choice of control over yourself and echo the future Sith-Apprentice tradition. Your Protag may be overly confident or paranoid as hell, but no matter what way you play, you cannot prevent your death by apprentice.

Trapped by the System (makes LS outcomes, but stays in the DS structure)

Your Protag remains within the dark side warmongering culture, but their actions show a reluctance to use the full range of their powers. This is a weakness in your brethren’s eyes, but a saving grace in the eyes of those you help. Your dark side allies turn on you, and you are cut down by their blades, but the end credits show you the positive effects your kinder decisions made on the planets/npcs/situations/companions you nurtured where you could within the structure of evil.

LS routes:

The One who Defected (leaves the DS structure, but still makes DS outcomes)

Your Protag becomes ruthless force user who prescribes to neither the light nor the dark side point of view, and is really only contacted by those who either have the amount of money or the genuine need [depending on how you play] to gain your services. Your companions learn self reliance from you, not trust, and most leave eventually. A few may choose to stay at your protag’s side, if you focused on their needs in game.

Changed for the Better (leaves DS structure and works to make LS outcomes)

Your Protag’s influence has helped re-stabilize several critical situations happening around the galaxy. Organizations as a whole don’t outright trust you, but individuals keep seeking you out, wanting to know how you were strong enough to change. Eventually you realize the ones who seek you out have, by circumstance or decision, been led down dark paths themselves but no one had ever so visibly proven that they could change before. Your companions learn healthy boundaries and trust from you, and even when some of them split off they stay in close contact because they’ve grown fond of you. The war has ended, and it’s time to rebuild.

     Game mechanics

Route exclusive Force rules

The Darkest doesn’t have to worry about the petty concerns of the other routes and are always able to use their Force powers, cunning or strength to the limit. You get to continue growing and evolving their powers without any restrictions and way waste to your enemies, and combat is always fun but a relative breeze. Of course, nobody on the light or dark side trusts you, but that’s not new.

If you are playing the Trapped, as you continue accumulating LS points not only do your dark side allies become more suspicious of you, but your Force powers become less powerful. You’re going to have to find other strategies than just blasting people with your powers, or start acting more evil. If you stay in the land of posturing and evil, it’s not just easier to be a jerk, you lose power you used to have if you don’t.

For the Defector, retaining the dark side points keeps your Force power fully charged, but LS organizations don’t trust you as far as they can throw you. You’ll have to be very convincing everytime you need to face something you can’t handle on your own.

In the Changed route, as you progress in the storyline, you start actively giving up Dark Side Force powers to prove how much you are dedicated to changing. In exchange, you gain other avenues of leveling up and the world around you starts to believe you when you tell them you’ve changed. You also start looking healthier the more you do so, although you never lose the dark side eye scarring.

Midbosses and midcompanions

The basic idea here is to do something interesting and actually logical with the ‘you can only get this character if you do X’ rather than basing it on your gender or such nonsense. When you upgrade your ship’s traveling range you encounter a miniboss that lasts more than one encounter, and a new companion. These are the same two characters in different positions depending on your big choice to stay with the Dark Side or leave and Change, and you will have heard of/interacted with them before you encounter them. With both minibosses, at some point in the fight they get some distance on you and you have to decide if you’re going to pursue them now or wait for a different opportunity. Both choices will have positive and negative consequences further down the line.

Force and forcing

In every route you are able to use the Force and have easy access to a companion who is already trained in the Force [through either Nix or Generek,] but almost everyone else doesn’t use the Force when you meet them. Some of them you can’t train in the Force at all, but following and furthering some of the Force dynamics found in KotOR 2, some of you companions can be manipulated to developing Force abilities but shouldn’t for their own health and wellbeing. They give you plenty of signs that this forcing them to use the Force is not a good idea and you can back off before any damage is done, but continuing to push gives you more fighting power at your companion’s expense.

     Protag

Fourties or older, to reinforce that they’re supposed to be set in their ways. They’ve figured out how to survive and live their life, and they can either go along with what they’ve always done which is easy [dark side routes] or they literally have to reframe every way they act which is hard [light side routes]. They are human to convey age and make them instantly relatable. Diverse character possibilities not tied to the pronouns you choose, although if you chose female pronouns the female coded designs queue up in front of the male coded designs and vice versa. Inventor of the hyperspace tagging system, but you get to decide what that means (you stole idea from another, others had different parts but you put all the parts together, you literally invented the satellites used, etc.)

     Companions

Mariah, Twi’lek Pilot. (She/Her, lesbian romance): Purple skin with darker stripes, wears a variation of a male smuggler’s outfit that exposes as little skin as possible. Outright willingly works for you as a dark side commander from the start, thanks to the money you generate for her and your willingness to let her get away with stealing historical artifacts from any places you raid.

If you ignore her needs, she slowly sinks further into the dark side mindset, losing any care for anyone’s wishes aside from her own and yours. If you tend to her needs, she slowly becomes more open with you and defends your actions.

D0-C9, Utility Droid. (He/him): Looks like someone took a small moving box size metal container, put way too many interfaces and wires on it, gave it wheels and called it a day. Mariah’s copilot, unusually advanced utility droid, and ship cook. His comments show some scraps of concern for Mariah’s emotional condition during the adventure, but outwardly he never seems to show much concern for you or others in your party.

The Droid cannot go against Protag’s orders and he sees no reason to, so his influence is based entirely on how well you treat him and Mariah in particular, and all companions in general.

Runscor, Klatooinian Mechanic.(He/Him, gay romance): Light reddish/brown skin, imposingly large and muscled but tries to slump in compensation for it. Quiet, passive, and often overlooked for how quality a mechanic he is. 

If you tear down his opinion when he tries to suggest kinder actions, he folds at the drop of a hat and digs further into his passive nature. If you encourage his kinder suggestions, he can become your greatest reality-tester.

FK-42, Protocol Droid? (They/Them): Humanoid, sets of eyes on both sides of their head, seems to have anti-sand protection all over. They only say “Valanka”, relying on context cues for all other communication. They are extremely manipulative and unpredictable but if you’re smart, you can harness whatever they’re Cain they’re raising to your advantage.

Their ulterior motives are utterly indecipherable, but they seem to want something? Or someone??? They’re influenced when you try to help them locate whatever it/they are, and you lose influence anytime you try to outright stop what they’re doing.

     Mid boss/companion

Nix, Trandoshan Sith. (She/her): Grey scales with fading brown patterns, no scars aside from the Sith eye scarring (unusual for Sith), tall and stocky. She is always docile and agreeable in her interactions with you, which contradicts her background actions of testing your limits and jockeying for a higher position behind your back.

Dark routes companion: You interacted with her on planet 0 as she’s your apprentice, but lost contact during what happened afterwards until you upgraded your ship. As soon as you land on a farther planet she regains contact with you, and after a mission or so she rejoins your party to resume her apprenticeship under you.

Her constant background pushing back against your decisions do come from some underlying needs, if you ignore these needs she becomes even more subtle in her actions and clearly begins plotting your demise. If you address her underlying concerns she backs off, but it only makes what happens in the end harder.

Light routes midboss: On planet 0 you interact with her as your apprentice, and she does not take lightly to you shifting sides. Your turning has made other Sith question her allegiance, and if she can take you out she can salvage some of her reputation. She uses the Force to the limit, and during the fight she makes a massive cave-in which endangers your allies. You can pursue her immediately and leave them to their fate, or wait for a different opportunity to take a shot at her and let her wreak havoc until you find that chance.

Jonni, Human Bounty Hunter. (She/Her): Dark brown skin, visibly prosthetic eye right arm and both legs, clothes leaning on cowboy-esque while still fitting the time period. One of the better known individuals fighting against the dark side forces, she is oddly accepting of slave and working class defectors. She is known for focusing a good portion of her time in a fight minimizing innocent casualties, and slaughtering those who shows no mercy.

Dark routes midboss: Mariah shows you some recorded transmissions involving her to update you on the opposition before you encounter her firsthand. In the first encounter Jonni tries to lead you away from bystanders, and whether you let her lead you away or you manipulate/wound/kill bystanders determines how hard her following fights will be. She’s a highly mobile opponent, leading it to be believable when you’ve both exchanged some hits for her to get away. You can pursue her immediately during a critical moment in whatever mission you came to this planet for, or wait for a different opportunity to take her out which will let her rally her forces with new intel specifically on you.

Light routes companion: She is first among the big Republic figures to acknowledge your efforts to change, even though she doesn’t excuse your past atrocities. Initially she’s of the talking heads on the Comm Link who updates on ‘official’ missions, but she joins your party when your ship capacity expands to check in on more distant planets. (But you also suspect to keep an eye on you after the first Nix encounter).

If you don’t mind civilian casualties she becomes more commanding and distant, and will not be available as a companion on some missions as she tries to minimize the damage both the enemy and you might cause. If you do account for protecting innocents, she becomes vocally supportive of you and easily handles whatever attitude you choose to have.

Zeth, Human Mercenary. (He/Him, pan romance): Asian heritage, with several battle scars and one massive claw mark tearing through part of his left ear. He looks like a mixed martial artist, with bulk and muscles made for strength not looks, and wears battle armor at all times. He is initially aggressive towards you, but surprisingly kind and non combative towards your allies. In the DS routes you hire him directly for his mercenary services, and he will show up with more chances for recruitment for a couple planets if you don’t recruit him immediately. In LS routes he seeks you out, angry and desperate to know why you changed. It becomes clear he wants to change too, but isn’t sure it’s possible so he’s seeing if you’ll break when pushed. If you don’t find a way to recruit him during this encounter, he goes on his merry way and you never hear from him again. 

If you teach him that kindness and mercy are weaknesses to be crushed, he slowly loses his kindness for your companions, focusing solely on keeping you happy, himself alive, and otherwise it’s every being for themself. If you teach him how to handle what he’s done in the past while continuing to value kindness and mercy, he slowly mellows out towards you and through struggling through some of his issues becomes even better friends with your companions.

Gerevek, Dresellian Jedi. (They/them): Mid range yellow skin, red eyes with pupils, very short. Well kept clothes that can change from highly informal to passing for a formal meeting, and hide how much armor they are wearing. They primarily “fight” by making temporary political allegiances among planets during battles, but your tactics have been outmaneuvering them and they are nowhere near as good in a one on one fight. In DS routes, you can break their spirit by making the allies they counted on turn away in fear of you. They will only give you one chance to recruit them when this happens, as they have no belief left in their old outlook but don’t know how to submit to the Dark Side ideology. In LS routes, they insist on joining Jonni in checking on other planets, but it’s pretty blatantly obvious they’re actually keeping an eye on you. They will literally follow you for a few planets if you try to refuse, pulling in minor favors and trying to get your companions to put in a good word for them with varying success depending on the person.

They are an interesting case for gaining influence, as you have to be willing to take the opposite tac of communication than you usually do to show you’re willing to bend to what other people need. If you’re blunt and to the point you have to be more indirect, if you’re sarcastic and deflect emotions you have to show some sincerity, if you’re manipulative and obscure your motives you have to be blunt and to the point, etc. 

Saiga, Bothan Shopkeeper. (She/Her, bi romance): Black fur with brown streaks, grey eyes and tall. Well worn pastel clothes, carries massive rucksack with them everywhere, yes even in combat. Endlessly, stubbornly cheerful and has no problem with your sordid past. Sees you as a fulcrum to get her more power, but also does look after your interests. Perk of using this final companion is, as a shopkeeper herself, she can haggle down prices of any shop you come by.

If you view your mutual relationship as an even transaction she’ll easily oblige, returning every favor you do for her and staying relatively static throughout the game no matter what good or bad things you do. If you invest more in the relationship than can be divided by favors she slowly starts giving more as well, for good or ill.

This post is the foundation I will be using as I continue working on this project, and I’m super excited to keep building up this idea!

[hollenka99]

They Shall Not Grow Old

Summary: In the trenches, Captain Castiel Novak and Private Dean Winchester form a friendship as they fight alongside each other.

Warnings: War, WW1, Homophobia

What are you doing here?” The man who had seen too much horror asked one the latest members to join his unit. This kid was definitely underage. He couldn’t believe the army was this desperate for soldiers already.

“I intend to fight the enemy, sir.” “I suppose I should keep an eye on you. Captain Castiel Novak. What about you?” “Private Dean Winchester. And I don’t need protecting.” “Yes you do. How old are you, anyway?” “18.” “I doubt that. What’s your real age?” “16.” “Does your mother know you were stupid enough to enlist?” “She’s dead.” “What about your father? You must have some family back in America.” “Just me and my brother. Dad has been here in France for some time.” This caught Cas’ attention. “Wait, you’re not Winchester as in General Winchester, are you?” “Sure am.” God, this idiot was proud to be caught up in this hell. The poor son of a bitch was going to either die or lose his sanity within weeks.

Despite first impressions, Dean proved himself useful. He was an expert at handling a gun. Castiel learnt more about Sam and the life Dean had with the Singers while they fought.

In turn, Dean learnt various things about Cas’ life back home. Before Sarajevo, Castiel had been working towards becoming a teacher. Once war came, Cas enlisted to serve his country. Cas had, like Dean, family members in the military which had influenced the decision.

There was one occasion where General John Winchester visited the trench. Cas noticed the fearful yet unquestioning respect in Dean’s eyes when in the presence of his father. He had been a soldier long enough for him to understand attachments here were a dangerous thing. But never had he witnessed such a cold encounter between two family members. General Winchester didn’t even acknowledge his 16 year old son, underage by two years, should be safely home in South Dakota with the Singers.

On the last evening of June, Cas plodded into the trench with a sullen expression. He reached Dean with little hesitation.

“I suggest you write to Sam tonight. It may be your last chance to.” “Hey, Novak, what you muttering to him?” One said. “He’s a puff.” Another laughed. “God’s gonna chuck you both into Hell when this war’s over.” A deeply religious third warned.

“We’re going over the top tomorrow morning.” His words silenced them all with terror. “I was just giving Winchester the heads up first because he’s a damn kid.” “Might as well paint a target on my face.” “Write to your families tonight. There’s not much any of us can do.” “So, wait, they think it’s okay for us to run straight at the Germans? We’ll all be vulnerable.” Dean couldn’t understand it. “Hey kid, you realise you’re a soldier, right? They sit back, miles away from the action, while we try to survive.” “But-” “Winchester, face it: everyone like your daddy doesn’t care about us.” “Knock it off, Williams.” Castiel scolded. “We’re all going to die in the morning. The boy might as well die knowing the truth.” “I said, knock it off.” He repeated with equal firmness.

The remaining hours trickled by. The majority of the company had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Only two still sat awake.

“Dean, please go to sleep.” “I can’t, Cas.” “Staying awake will only make it worse.” “What do you think will happen to Sammy? God, Cas, he’s only 12. What if the war goes on forever? I don’t want him anywhere near here.” “I’m praying it ends before Christmas. It’s unlikely but nothing’s impossible. Who knows, perhaps homosexuality will be legal one day.” “As if.” Dean scoffed. “Next you’ll be telling me women and blacks will be able to do whatever they want. Come on, Cas, be reasonable.” “Would be nice to be accepted as a puff, though.” “Yeah.” Dean nodded thoughtfully.

“If you never volunteered, what would you have done with your life?” “Taught, English preferably.” Cas answered. He finished writing the letter he intended his family to receive. “What about you?” “Watch out for Sammy, mostly.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Marrying some girl so we could have 2 or 3 kids and live somewhere with a white picket fence isn’t my type of thing.” “I have a childhood friend back at home. She is attracted to other females. We planned to convince our friends and family we were heterosexual like them by marrying. I doubt the lie would have lasted indefinitely.”

Castiel takes a good look at the youngest man in the room. So damn young. Too young, in fact. Cas had repeated it too many times in his head since meeting Dean in February. Dean should be in America, doing whatever young men his age did in his hometown. Dean should be somewhere, anywhere but here.

Cas reflected on how Dean had changed in the past months. He had been such a hopeful and patriotic boy. Dean had wanted to be of use to his country, to feel like he could live up to his father’s reputation.

Then he experienced what no-one should. The death, the echoing sound of weapons blasting, the loss of his innocence. Cas would give anything to reverse the effects of the fighting, just on Dean. Instead, he reassured him nightmares were common occurrences here. It was all he could do.

Profoundly upset by the memories, Cas made a rash decision. “If I’m going to Hell, I may as well go for the right reasons.” His lips connected to Dean’s. “But, honestly Dean, sleep.”

Tensions rose that following dawn. Every soldier stood in the pathways of the trench. The imminent fates of all involved could not be ignored.

“Cas, I’m scared.” Dean whispered silently. “Keep running. Do that and you can go home.” “I don’t want to go home, not like this.” “Neither do I. Whatever happens, I promise it will be alright in the end.” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

The whistles blew. Above they clambered. A wave of men faced a tsunami of bullets.

100 years later, an ancient man watched as the local children lay wreaths of fake poppies in remembrance. He was proud of his big brother. He only wished he could have told him that face to face.

[bardiicinspiration]

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           The sun was just beginning its descent behind the treetops when Asra returned home, painting the horizon with a picturesque blend of colors. The air was cool with a hint of the nighttime chill that was to come, and he was grateful to have only a short way to go until he reached the shop. Up above, the first few evening stars flickered subtly against the darkening sky. He wondered briefly if Izidor would still be interested in stargazing when a cold night felt imminent, then promptly recognized that his pondering was rather redundant; it would take more than a bit of weather to keep Izidor from his usual pastimes. While sweet, the magician had tendencies to be rather stubborn when it came to his passions, though Asra supposed it was one of the many things he adored about him.

           The thought of Izidor awaiting him put something of a spring in Asra’s step, his pace quickening along with the beat of his fluttering heart. He looked up to Izidor, as any student would to such a talented and knowledgeable teacher, but the warmth radiating through his chest was the product of a connection far beyond that of master and pupil. Falling for him was practically inevitable; Asra’s fate had been sealed the moment Izidor took him in. At first, he considered that his feelings could have simply been the result of being shown compassion for the first time in quite a while, an underlying hero worship for the man who offered him help in his darkest hour. Feelings like those normally faded with time, but as the days passed, Asra only found himself more and more taken with Izidor.

           Perhaps it was foolish of him to harbor such affections for his tutor, but dismissing them was not an option. He was far too enraptured by him, enchanted by the golden curls and umber eyes that would greet him upon his return. A smile came to his face at the thought of it—of him—and dimpled cheeks flushed a light shade of red. The handful of passers-by that glimpsed him did so with scrutiny and cynicism; seeing anyone wandering through town with a giddy expression had become a rarity since the plague epidemic took hold, and Asra’s contentment separated him from the crowd. The outbreak claimed innumerable Vesuvian lives, and if one did not contract the disease themselves, the chances were likely that they knew someone who did. Asra considered himself lucky; neither he nor the one person he held dear had fallen victim to the rapidly spreading illness. He intended to keep it that way.

           When he noticed the worsening state of the city, Asra made a habit of setting out on his travels, visiting new lands for what he claimed to be recreation or research. In truth, he was in search of potential places of residence. He knew convincing Izidor to abandon the shop would be difficult, if not a tad selfish, but he could find no reason to remain in a civilization on its way to ruin, especially when it put Izidor at risk of something life-threatening. Of course, there was the issue of leaving behind their livelihood and the stability and shelter the shop provided them, but the decision seemed rather cut-and-dry for Asra. Little could outweigh the value of Izidor’s life, but he knew the choice was not his to make alone.

           The conversation was bound to be an interesting one, hence the reason he spent his journey preparing an arsenal of reasonings and counterarguments. Persuading Izidor to see things from his perspective would most likely prove to be a challenge, seeing as Izidor was not easily swayed when his mind was set to something. Not to mention, to request that he desert the place they called home would be asking a lot—perhaps too much. Still, he had to at least try for both their sakes.

           When Asra finally arrived home, he was immediately unsettled by the aura of danger that radiated from the building, a prickling energy that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as it leaked through the crack beneath the door and pulsed behind it. He froze, his entire body going tense as one of his hands hung suspended in the air, pausing mid-reach for the doorknob. The force was staggering, a wave of power that harkened despair within the shop walls. Asra’s knees went weak the moment he came to the realization of what—or who—was the most plausible cause for something of this magnitude.

           With trembling fingers, he cautiously opened the door, his eyes immediately scanning the dimly-lit interior for any indications of disaster. The feeling intensified once he entered the room; it was heavy, making him feel as if his movements were sluggish as he pushed against the tangible weight saturating the air. Izidor was nowhere to be found within the empty living room, which in turn increased Asra’s worry. His hands had gone clammy with anxious perspiration, and the sound of his heart became a thunderous roar in his ears that amplified with every second that passed without Izidor. While he longed to find him, a part of him dreaded what he would discover.

           He found his greatest fear awaiting him when he turned the corner into he and Izidor’s shared bedroom after following the magnetic pull that led him closer to the source of his uneasiness. There, in the middle of the floor, was Izidor, collapsed like that of a puppet whose strings had been cut. It took all of three seconds for Asra to shake himself from his shocked stupor and fall to his knees beside Izidor’s crumpled frame, grasping at him with a desperation he had never known.

           “Izidor!” he cried, rolling him onto his back.

           There was no doubt the magician was alive; the inside of the shop was imbued with a stifling magic that was unquestionably Izidor’s—perhaps a final effort to convey his dire need of assistance. Nonetheless, Asra pressed a hand to his neck and was only partially relieved when he felt a rabbiting pulse thrumming wildly beneath his fingertips. Izidor was hot to the touch, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat covering skin that had gone a horrifying shade of ghostly white.

           “Izidor, please,” he murmured, his voice trembling with every word, “Open your eyes. Please.”

           The lack of response left Asra rattled. His mind had become an echoing cacophony of frantic, incoherent thoughts as he tried to concoct a solution to the dilemma at hand, but every time he gazed upon Izidor’s pallid countenance, he felt himself inch dangerously closer to falling apart completely. He could not afford to do so; Izidor needed him, just as he once needed Izidor. Despite his composure teetering on the brink of destruction, he would have to find a way.

            Carefully, Asra situated himself with one arm beneath Izidor’s knees and the other around his back, one of his arms slung limply around Asra’s shoulders. With a grunt, Asra called upon every last shred of his physical strength to stand with Izidor as a dead weight in his hold. Carrying the significantly taller of the two of them to bed was no simple task, but Asra would have walked a thousand miles cradling Izidor if he had to. Fortunately, it was only a short series of steps to the bedside, where Asra gingerly laid him down on the mattress.

           The following seconds passed in contemplative silence. Asra’s stare remained fixed on Izidor’s face; his sunken cheeks and colorless lips were reminiscent of death and made Asra shudder. In truth, he knew exactly what had happened to Izidor. He had seen it all before, as so many in Vesuvia had, but was reluctant to admit it. He could not—would not—dare to consider the possibility. Not yet. Clinging to the few meager shreds of hope that it was something else was all he could do to keep himself from shattering.

            “Izidor, wake up,” he tried gently, but received no response.

           He took comfort in the rise and fall of Izidor’s chest. So long as he was breathing, not all was lost. Asra’s brow furrowed and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip while he racked his brain for anything that would be effective in, at the very least, waking Izidor. He recalled a healing spell, and though doubtful it would cure Izidor in full, he had faith that it could repair him enough to assist him in regaining consciousness.

           Asra made haste in gathering the necessary components to complete the spell. Herbs were thrown into a bowl of water in an act of what could only be described as muscle memory; water magic was one of Asra’s favorite areas of study and one he excelled in. The particular spell he was brewing was one of the first he had ever learned, and never had he been more grateful for that fact.

           When all preparations were carried out, he immediately set to work. Violet eyes fluttered closed, and he took the few moments necessary to clear the image of Izidor’s face from where it incessantly burned into his eyelids. Spells required focus and clarity of mind. For Izidor’s well-being, he could not falter here.

           The incantation was one he had memorized some time ago, and he recited it flawlessly. A familiar, flowing sensation coursed through his veins as cool and fluid as the water he was manipulating. Ever so slowly, he allowed himself to open his eyes so he could watch as the water traveled, suspended in midair, from the bowl and washed over Izidor’s unmoving body, lightly caressing and soothing. Asra could feel the magic taking effect, but in addition, he knew that whatever he was attempting to battle would not be easily defeated by a spell as simple as this.

           Still, he was satisfied to know that his work had not all been in vain. When it was finished, the shimmering tendrils of water retreated to whence they came, leaving Izidor dry, but with a subtle glow. He was far from cured, but he had certainly improved. Asra’s chest tightened at the sound of Izidor drawing a deep breath, and he watched in anticipation as Izidor’s face began to twitch.

           It was not until Izidor opened his eyes that Asra felt himself finally crumble. The whites of his eyes had been consumed by the violent, lurid red Asra had been terrified of finding there. In no more than a second, the world came crashing down on him, the fate of the one he loved written in the vibrant scarlet of his sclerae.

           “No,” Asra rasped through the tightness in his throat, “No. You aren’t—you’re not—no!”

           He stiffened when Izidor’s hand reached for his, holding it loosely in a weak grip. “Asra, it’s alright.”

           The strained sound of Izidor’s voice made Asra’s heart ache, and seeing him so calm in the wake of something that could only be described as tragic brought forth the tears he had been trying so hard to hold back. They rolled down Asra’s cheeks freely as sobs shook his shoulders.

           “How can you say that?” he hiccuped, dropping his chin to his chest. “It isn’t. You and I know it isn’t.”

           “Asra, look at me.”

           He did as he was told, gathering what courage he had left to meet Izidor’s gaze without succumbing to another fit of devastation.

           “Don’t give up yet,” Izidor pleaded with him, his eyes, though sunken and weary, alight with his usual persistence. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

           Asra wanted to believe him; it was what he wanted more than anything in the world, to sincerely trust in his master’s words that everything would resolve itself in the form of a happy ending, but he knew the reality that loomed beyond the shop walls, and it was not a kind one. The world outside did not show patience nor compassion to the infected. It abhorred them out of the fear that they would become one of those damned to die miserably by disease or by fire. Asra recalled all the times he looked out onto the horizon to see the billowing clouds of black smoke from the small island a short distance from Vesuvia’s coast. The thought that Izidor may very well end up there was a twisting knife in his gut.

           In response to Izidor, Asra nodded. He figured for the time being, the very least he could do was humor his optimism. He gave Izidor’s fingers a tight squeeze. “I won’t let them take you.”

           The determination in his own voice took him by surprise, but he would be damned if he allowed Izidor to slip through his fingers. Part of him could not help but think it was his fault that Izidor contracted the disease taking the city by storm. If only he had convinced him to leave. If only he had not gone away without him. If only he had not been too much of a coward to plead with him to flee Vesuvia. Now, he was trapped within the plague-ridden confines of a community gone to hell with a dying companion.

           Asra often wondered if Izidor had any inkling of the true nature of his feelings. He was not necessarily subtle by any means, but it always seemed to him that Izidor only thought of him as a beloved student above all else. With their days together numbered, the idea of confessing lingered in one of the corners of his mind, an issue that was not essential but begged to be addressed. Morbid as it may have been, it boiled down to whether or not Asra wanted Izidor to die knowing he was loved as more than a mentor. In a way, a proclamation of his affections would be akin to an acceptance of Izidor’s imminent death, which was something Asra would resist until the final grains of sand fell to the bottom of the hourglass.

           Izidor did not need a lover. He did not need someone to fret over, nor did he need the guilt that may come with the knowledge that he would be leaving Asra behind. It would be in his best interest not to add to the weight on his shoulders already, and all of that came from the assumption that Asra’s feelings were even reciprocated in the first place. In its entirety, this was something better left untouched.

           “You and I are going to get through this,” Izidor insisted. “I promise.”

           “I should be the one comforting you.” Asra huffed, amazed by how even when Izidor resembled death incarnate, he could still find the sun in his smile.

           Izidor shook his head dismissively, then cast his gaze to the window. “Do you mind drawing the curtains for me?”

           Asra hummed in agreement, pulling back the tattered fabric and opening the shutters to expose the night sky.

           Izidor watched him lean against the windowsill with a contented sigh. “So long as there are stars in the heavens, you will never be without me.”