#neither’s pawn is right for them but they feel an odd feeling of familiarity

[soloavengers]

Limbo (aka NG+) Syl needs a different backstory, mixed with the other Arisen.

Sparrow-Syl grew up trained by their neighbor, a witch sorcerer as much as he did from his father, so he still grew up in the forest, but might have spent more time with his mentor. He would go to join the Mage guild (wherever that is), unfortunately he fails the admission test. He went back to find his father has passed, which led to his feelings about magic becoming a bit complicated. This Syl is an overachiever filled with guilt, who uses magic a lot more often than OG Syl.

Aser-Syl’s father died with his mother, his father’s best friend took him in as his own son. The knight’s noble family wholeheartedly believed he had a bastard, and Syl was treated as such. This father figure would be alive and well, working hard on keeping his family away from the Arisen because now they’d LOVE to accept him into the family. This Syl loves running away from his problems (those which shouldn’t even Be his problems), and hates the court. He’s the most reluctant in accepting the Sovran future.

This led me to thinking: well if he lived a different life his face might not have been scratched by a wolf. so, Sparrow-Syl gets the mark of his failure as scratches on his face. Aser-Syl got pulled into a nasty house war scarring him and costing him an eye (much like Aser, but he had a glass eye. Syllie is getting the eyepatch.)

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Is this who I am?" - Matt Murdock x Reader

REQUEST: Hi! I really enjoy your writings! I’m not familiar to requesting but I’ve had this idea for quite a long time and I was wondering if you mind helping me with this. May I request a Matt Murdock x reader who has Medusa power and the Hand uses reader to do the Hand’s stuff. Reader doesn’t like doing bad things she feels lonely and used but the Hand is the closest thing she has to a family so she has to stay with them. Then one day she was set to protect the Hand from DD but she takes a liking to him since her power doesn’t work on him. So either she follows him or he saves her. Thank you for your time and I’m sorry if it’s too long!!

"Sir, he's here," one of the men announced. It was expected that loading trains with illegal weapons would attract someone, especially him.

"You." Yusei pointed at you. "Right with me."

You only nodded and followed him inside the abandoned car barn, watching his steps from behind a thick piece of cloth you had wrapped around your eyes. It was something you were used to: you had neither a name nor a voice nor a face. You were but a muscle of the Hand - meant only to be used, worthless and purposeless without it.

It is all you have ever known.

Following Yusei, Nobu's successor, you were cracking your knuckles and warming up your wrists. In a fight against the Daredevil himself, you needed to be as ready as ever.

"I hope you do know that Murakami will have your head if anything happens to me."

Yusei wasn't expecting an answer. Threats usually don't. He only wanted to make sure you were obedient to a fault - exactly the way the Hand made you.

Was there anything before them? Sometimes, when you really focused on your memories, you could recall but a flash of something you didn't quite know what to call - a sensation, a memory of a memory as if some integral part of you knew it hasn't always been like this but couldn't provide any evidence.

Somehow, you wished there wasn't anything before, that you have been but a pawn since you were born. Living in captivity seemed a little easier if you were born into it. The loneliness was a little lighter if you told yourself you can't miss something you don't know, you can't long for a real family if you've never had one.

There were nights when you daydreamed about running away in the most romantic of ways, that you would suddenly disappear and start anew on the other side of the globe.

But you knew the Hand, in some odd way, you were the Hand, at least some essential part of it - maybe not a finger but a muscle, a tendon, that allowed it to move efficiently. Yes, a muscle would be a great analogy...Do muscles know they are being used? That their only purpose is to allow the body to execute its wishes? Should a muscle escape, somehow find its way out of the abusive machinery, what would it do? What can a muscle do without bones to wrap around and a mind to guide it? Could Frankenstein's monster leave its creator? You knew the Hand and you knew very well that the moment you try to make a run for it is the moment you should start wishing for your own death. They didn't know mercy and for sure would not show it to you. The Hand knew you too damn well - they made you themselves, in a way. They were always going to find you and you could only pray that Murakami would have a good mood on that day.

You were but a muscle for the Hand - without a will inside it and without a purpose outside of it. A mean to a goal. It was a Hell's pit you don't crawl out of.

As years passed, it was harder to lie to yourself that you agreed with the Hand, with what they do, how and why. Yet your acting prevailed as the thought of the consequences, should they discover your disloyalty, terrified you to your wit's end. There were times when you were the consequence of disloyalty. Sometimes, in the intervals between breathes, blinks and seconds, you were sure Yusei knew. Maybe he even told Murakami? How many eyes were observing you, making sure you were obedient to a fault? How long until you end up like all those people whose blood you had on your hands?

The sole thought of what you had done made you feel sick, a cold shiver running down your spine. Everything you were was drenched in blood. Quite early on you have realized you're nothing beyond a freak of nature, a monster with a purpose. Even members of the Hand were wary of you: always walking out of your way, looking at their feet rather than at you, even if polarized sunglasses were basically glued to your face. No matter what they said, they were afraid of you. In some way, you were afraid of yourself - afraid of what you've become and even more terrified of the thought of what you could have been, had your life been slightly different. The blood on your hands was old enough to turn into black spots that have eaten their way into your skin - they won't ever disappear. You knew what you were doing was wrong, taking lives in such an inhumane manner was nothing short of nefarious. But you couldn't stop. You couldn't just stand up and say "no more". Was it fear? Or perhaps you thought that whatever it was that you were deserved nothing better?

And it was that blood that made you realize you were meant to befriend loneliness. No one deserved to die the way you killed and yet that was a real danger anytime you left your small bedroom. As long as you had your eyes, you couldn't live among people - they deserved a lot better. Even among the Hand, no one ever looked at you. Yusei spoke to you while looking at whatever seemed more interested. The only time you didn't cover your eyes was when you were sleeping. From the moment the Hand made you into whatever you were, you were the "Frankenstein's experiment" and the title never went away and the Hand made sure you remembered it.

Daredevil's entrance was accompanied by the dull sound of somebody having fear of God beaten back into them. Then you heard rounds from rifles that abruptly stopped. You knew their halt wasn't a sign of a triumph. His rhythmic, approaching steps acted as a background for your racing thoughts and the sound of you unsheathing your sai.

You have taken many lives, each time harder than the previous but there was something inherently terrifying about killing the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and it wasn't only about taking another life against your own will. Shadowing Yusei for so long, you have heard enough to know that the menace of this man was the only thing stopping the Hand's operations in New York. If he won't stop them, they will grow too powerful for anyone to stop.

And it will be your fault. Directly.

There he stood, staring as if, studying his opponent. Was he waiting for your move? Or simply stalling? Slowly, you walked towards him, eyes glued to his form, watching.

He parried your attack without a problem, grabbing your arm and putting you in a joint lock.

"You don't have to do this," he spoke.

Of course you did.

Nearly giving yourself whiplash, you hit his face with the back of your head. After having escaped his iron hold, you tried to stab the sai into him again.

And again and again and again.

With each unsuccessful attempt, your desperation and frustration were only growing, especially upon the realization that he refused to attack and only deflected your swings. You just had to get the upper hand and take the cloth off your eyes. So many times that you had done it and never did it feel as wrong as it did that night. The choice was between your already miserable life and the unsure future of New York if not the whole world.

You could feel your eyes tear up when you succeeded and drove the sai into his thigh deep enough that its hilt must have put great pressure on the wound, making it even more painful. Momentarily, Daredevil fell on his knee, letting out something short of a muffled yell. A tear fell down your face when you were circling your fingers around his neck.

"I'm sorry, I really am," you said quietly.

Swiftly, as you had done it a disgustingly high amount of times, you took off the black material wrapped around your head. Your murderous sight fell on his face but you could still feel his pulse under your fingers.

"Wha-" you began but he didn't let you finish.

"Doesn't work on me."

"Then kill me," you asked in a shaky voice. "If I let you go, something a lot worse will happen to me."

"Come with me. Help me fight them."

"I took enough lives for more than one lifetime already."

"I want to help you."

You had virtually no proof that he will treat you any better than the Hand. For all you knew, he could see you just as much of an asset as your current 'employer'. It would make perfect sense that he would try to get you on his side - nukes are bad only when the enemy has them.

"There's no going back," you answered and before he could ask about the meaning of your cryptic words, you pulled the sai out of his leg and threw it straight across the carn barn, lodging it inside Yusei's chest.

His apartment looked surprisingly nice for the living space of someone who wastes their entire nights away fighting the demimonde of Hell's Kitchen. The Sun was starting to rise, fuchsia-colored sunrays fell into the living room through old, stained windows.

It felt strange, but not in a bad way, to stare into his eyes without covering your own. You weren't used to such mundane, human interaction. On top of that, there wasn't a drop of fear in him - he just sat there, relaxed and round-shouldered.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Medusa." It was the only way anyone ever addressed you.

"Your real name, Medusa."

You furrowed your eyebrows in surprise at his question. Why would he want to know that?

"No one's ever asked me that."

"There's a first time for everything." He had a smile on his face.

"It's (Y/N)." It felt odd to say your own name. How many years had passed since the last time it left your lips. It felt like saying something one time too much and feeling odd strangeness in its overwhelming familiarity.

"I'm Matthew. A pleasure to meet you, (Y/N)," he put strange pressure on your name as if stressing the fact that your fear-inducing title was out of use by now.

"Be honest, Matthew, you came looking for me. You refused to fight back and were very set on convincing me to join you."

"Someone told me about you," he confessed. "What can I say, I love hopeless cases. And I often can't tell the difference between brave and stupid."

"I just run away from the Hand that, quite literally, made me. You can't talk to me about stupid."

The two of you laughed heartily, both in relief and nervousness at the thoughts of the upcoming future. Then a silence fell between you, one that is filled with fear of what should be said; one which is feared to be broken, although everyone knows it has to be.

"I don't want to fight anymore, Matt," you said quietly. "I'm grateful that you helped me but...I have done awful things, you know?"

"I know," he answered. "But you can be good, (Y/N). I know you do."

"I can try." Your voice was shaky, tears lingering in the corners of your eyes. "But it won't change what I've done. For once I want to be a coward and run away, bury my head in the sand. I know it's wrong and I know I should at least try to gain redemption." Tears were falling down your face by now. "I just don't know how to live with myself."

In an uncharacteristically awkward manner, Matt's hand wiped away the lone tear that was rolling down your cheek.

"I have you, (Y/N). You're going to be okay."

[ficforthought]

On being SO DONE with M*sha, a rant a decade in the making!

After giving this some thought I'm going to go ahead and give my opinion on Misha and yesterday’s situation in public for the first time ever. I was going to just post on Twitter but since this has been 12 years in the making I have exceeded the number of tweets I can put in one thread! There’s A LOT in here, so my summary is also long. I'm aware that I will lose followers over this, I'm not looking to offend anyone but it will inevitably happen. I wish anyone leaving all the best as fellow human beings.

TL;DR - having kept quiet for so long I’ve finally reached my limit and it’s all come bubbling out. I’ve never been a fan of Misha, I’ve been ambivalent for the most part, but have never criticised him in any hateful way, that's not who I am, but after all these years of putting up with his bullshit, attention seeking and troublemaking I am DONE. Deleting his tweet containing the word Wincest and replacing it with an APOLOGY just to pander to his Minions and save face is the straw that broke the camel's back. He has consistently pushed his ship on not only fans but on other actors (despite Jensen's discomfort, and him having repeatedly made his feelings known on it), he has stood by while his Minions/Hellers have harassed, victimised, doxxed and sent death threats to people based on their FICTIONAL ships. He has pandered to their gatekeeping, constantly demanded attention in obvious and not so obvious ways, and to the best of my knowledge never criticised their actions even though he's aware of it in a very real way. Some of his Minions have now taken their shit into The Boys fandom and created negativity for Jensen before the guy has even got a foot through the set door, and how is that supporting one half of your ship?

Misha has claimed to be a victim of targeted harassment from Wincest/brother fans (not only shippers) yet his fans have said and done the most despicable things on his watch, all in the name of what he must think is entertainment, or even his idea of a ‘joke’.

Any respect I had for the man based on his humanitarian work has gone because I can only take so much hypocrisy. He and his pandering because of a desperate attempt to be woke and wholly inclusive (which is actually impossible, no matter how good intentions are) are beyond pathetic. Whilst I have never seen why people think he’s so great I have friends IRL and online who genuinely adore the man, yet they have been shocked and upset by his contempt for half of the fandom that made him somewhat famous. It's disgusting and I'm not scrolling by any more. Misha, I hope to never see you on anything J2 related in future because none of us need that kind of negativity, *especially* not J2. Be gone, foul fiend!

OK, so to the too long part. Please be aware that these are my opinions as a fan of the show, of Sam and Dean, and J2, not only as a shipper. I can separate canon and fanon, and can view canon from a gen or shippy PoV. Whether you agree or disagree with my opinion let me be clear that I do not condone constant bashing and hate of a person or character so this isn’t the start of a regular thing for me. It's possible to have an opinion and not show the same vitriol that has been following this man around for years, and that’s what I’m doing. I've not posted this to prompt more negativity, it's simply to get it off my chest and make it clear how I feel. I stand by my philosophy of ship who you want to ship, enjoy it, but don't force it on other people and don't be a dick about it…hmm, that kinda sounds like familiar behaviour, though, does it not?!

I have ABSOLUTELY NO ISSUE with other people liking Misha, Cas or Destiel when it’s for the love of the characters and the ship. What I *do* have an issue with is people who are the true definition of a Heller. I don’t see that as a generic term, don't be ignorant and think I do because I know the difference between actual ship fans and the crazies, both ships have ‘em and I want no part of either of their venom. If you are reading this and class yourself as a Heller then you are part of the problem so run along and as you are all so fond of saying, 'get help' and take your bestie king with you.

I’m stating my opinion in what I feel is the most mature way I can, because unlike many people on SM, I am an adult and can act accordingly, with forethought and without resorting to temper tantrums and bullying of other people to get my point across. I am able to tell the difference between reality and fiction, I don't tar everyone with the same shipper brush and I don't expect everyone to agree with my opinion, but as we know opinions are like arseholes, we all have them and sometimes they stink. Unlike some, for the most part in life (online and offline) I *do* stand by what I say and don’t backtrack or delete things to appease the masses. I have spent a lot of time writing this out to be as clear as possible without being intentionally hateful. Bear with me jumping between actor and character where relevant, at this point they're conjoined. I will say this before I go any further, it doesn’t end well for Misha, I don’t mince my words and if you don’t like seeing facts and opinions laid out, this isn't the post for you.

I’ll say right off the bat what most of you have surmised - I’ve never held Misha (or Cas) in high esteem but I have never *hated* on him. I have shared mild criticism of his actions and opinions on Cas over the years but never, I feel, in any way that has made me feel I have something to apologise for. I have said several times I've been unhappy about Misha crashing con panels, taking attention away from J2 when at those cons *most* people paid their hard earned money to see the STARS of the show they love, first and foremost, and anyone else is a very nice bonus. The odd appearance here and there crashing a panel is fine (and Misha isn’t the first or last person to do it), maybe take up a few minutes then leave, but when someone commandeers an entire panel, that's just not on. It's not only selfish, rude and attention seeking but also disrespectful to other actors, fans and to the organisers who work hard to make sure everything ties in to give us the best con experience we can have. Everyone gets their turn on stage, there's no need to try and hog any more of the limelight, Veruca Salt style. Oh, and if you’re reading this and not getting that reference, (a) you shouldn’t be on my blog because you’re far too young, (b) look it up, and if you still don’t get what I’m saying… well then please refer to point (a). Thank you, kindly!

There was a time in Kripke's era where Cas was - I feel - intentionally used as a pawn by the writers to divert *canon* from the ‘questionable’ relationship between Sam and Dean, i.e. Wincest focus. Prior to that people (other fans) lightened up and just accepted the fact that Wincest had been there since day one in terms of the writing of the show and the fandom. All the cast and crew knew - J2, Kripke and JDM in particular - and made light of it, never judging, never shaming and often encouraging it because they understand it’s a fun part of fandom. Wincest was present enough to be part of the not so subtle subtext, as I said people just accepted it. Kink tomato was alive and well, so was ‘don’t like, don’t read’ and we all just scrolled over things we didn’t like without turning everything into a personal vendetta and excuse for bullying others who didn’t share our views. When the angels came into the plot I think most of us Wincest fans gave the Dean/Cas innuendos the small laugh they deserved and then turned back to the focus of the show which was the brothers, as it had always been intended. Misha, however, milked those moments as much as possible which was amusing at the start but got old *very* quickly, not just for fans (shippers and non shippers alike), but for other actors, in particular Jensen who is on record MULTIPLE times showing his dislike for Destiel. He told people outright that's not how he was playing the relationship between the two characters and CATEGORICALLY said "Destiel doesn't exist" but did it end there? No, it did not because neither fans or Misha let it go, in fact Misha only pushed more, goaded fans into flogging the same dead horse as much as possible. He’s never stopped, not even when there was so much discord in the fandom, a huge wedge was driven into it because of ships, which IMO he heavily contributed to.

Fast forward to over a decade later (a decade, seriously man, let it fucking go!) he didn’t even stop when Destiel did partially go canon. I have never doubted that Cas loved Dean (Sam, too) because in SPN lore angels are made to love, even rebellious ones. I, along with many others, liked that about Cas because who doesn't love a rebel, especially one rebelling for very good reasons, and because of those two wonderful men? Sam and Dean allowed him to see beyond what he'd been brainwashed to believe his entire existence. The fact is that although the nature of that love changed for Cas, it never did for Dean and was CANONICALLY UNREQUITED because Dean was incapable of loving anyone else as much as he loved Sam. All that mattered to Dean, even when he saw other characters as "family" was still Sam…ALWAYS Sam, every step of the way. Again for those who have too much Misha shaped wax in their ears, that’s canon. Whether people choose to see that love platonically or romantically is up to them, soulmates don't always have to be romantic, either way, brotherly love won out above all else on the show. No amount of Misha screaming ‘hey look, Destiel!’ changed that, but it sure didn’t stop him trying, did it?

So now that the obvious has been stated, here's something else we all know - never once in all of the years on the show did Misha drop rallying of the troops to his precious, ego stroking ship. Never once (that I am aware of) has he called out his Minions and Hellers on their continued harassment of everyone involved in the show and other fans despite the fact that they have bullied, victimised and wished bodily harm, rape and death on people who don't see their ship and because didn't get the ending to the story that they wanted. Not once has Misha shown any remorse for the trauma his "fans" have caused, and I’m taking REAL trauma, here, not the kind Twitter stans see as ‘triggering’ - people have been driven to close SM accounts, attempted, and in some cases succeeded in taking their own lives. These Minions have openly mocked Jared’s struggles with depression and anxiety, and Misha - who claims to be friends with J2 and be supportive of them in every way  - has stood by and let it all play out, knowing full well some of the goings on, if not the full extent of how toxic these people are. We know he sees things being said online, and I have absolutely no doubt he spends time online searching his name for things that are relevant in some way to him in an effort to insert himself into a current conversation, or even start one so that attention is on him. Gotta stay relevant, somehow, right, Mish?

He has actively encouraged bullying by his actions of enabling the behaviours above, both by the flogging of the aforementioned dead horse, AND by not objecting to unacceptable behaviours. Remember when Minions and Hellers were slating J2, particularly Jared, for not posting on SM about BLM and other topics? Yeah, he didn’t ask them to stop doing that, either, even when he was tagged in things along the lines of ‘If Misha can post why can’t J2?’ etc. There have been some token protests, con vids I've seen have show his 'objections' which IMO have been done in a very tongue in cheek way, meaning that those people who needed to be pulled aside and told to change their ways just carried on, because their evil overlord didn’t explicitly explain it in terms a three year old could understand that bullying and forcing your opinion on others is WRONG. Not all of his cult are young and impressionable, not by a long shot, but many of the more vocal and vitriolic ones are.

As a father himself I wonder what Misha would do if he found out that his kids were behaving in ways his Minions are? I’m aware they’re young, but kids are cruel and bullying doesn’t just happen online. Even at whatever age they are, would he laugh it off the way he appears to have done with all of this fandom toxicity? Not bloody likely! I wonder if he’s as desperate to gain the approval of his family, friends and colleagues as he appears to be for that of his Minions/Hellers? I would certainly hope so, but that question can only be answered by Misha, himself, and I can and will not presume to speak on someone else's behalf on things in their personal life. For the record I would never presume I know what J2's answers would be on anything, however I do feel that after 15 years I have an accurate gauge on what kind of people they are so would be confident that any opinion I had on a matter aligns with their morals and ethics. As much as J2 have shared of themselves with us - willingly and under no pressure to do so, I might add - we don't *know* them, but we know enough to have an informed opinion. I can’t say the same for Misha because based on the behaviour he’s repeatedly displayed, things I've heard about from other fans as well as people I know IRL who have had direct dealings with him through cons or GISH (including some very actively in the early days when it was GISHWHES) he just hasn’t seemed like a person I wanted to follow on SM. I’ve never watched any of his solo panels, though I have watched ones with both or one of the J's, mostly being left irritated because of his behaviour. Watching the J’s put up with that shit is painful, and it’s a testament to how good they are as actors that they managed to hide at least some of their disdain for as long as they did. Microexpressions give them away, particularly Jensen, and they certainly have faces I have spent many years watching closely. Beautiful faces to go with beautiful souls, both of them! <3

I have precisely ZERO interest in Destiel as a ship, very little interest in Cas as a character anymore (though I did like him in the early days,and his relationship with Jack in late seasons) so I have absolutely no reason or desire to follow anything Misha does. That said, I've obviously been peripherally aware of some things he's been involved in because of friends, from things I’ve seen on SM and general fandom stuff. Despite the things I've already mentioned about his behaviour, up until now I have been able to maintain a level of respect for him as a person because of the humanitarian and charity work he's done. He seems like someone who really does want to change the world for the better and I am in full support of that fact, so much so that I have supported TWO campaigns relating to him. I bought one of the Super Good t-shirts for the campaign he did with Michael Sheen (a true angel!), the SPN/Good Omens x-over to help homeless charities, and I chose the design with text only and not artwork of Michael and Misha on, basically because I didn’t want to be wearing something with Misha’s face on it and I make absolutely no apology for that, whatsoever. I also bought Alex's #TheEndHasNoEnd shirt, which some of the profits went to Random Acts who do great work, so again, despite not liking Misha I still willingly contributed for a cause bigger than me, and to support Alex, who I absolutely ADORE. I'm aware that Stands aren't popular with some of the fandom, however since most of the cast of SPN are happily affiliated with them then I don't feel it's my place to either judge, or to discuss topics I know next to nothing about. But I digress, as a decent human being I have shown support tangentially to a man who I don't care for out of respect for the work he does outside the fandom. Telling you this isn’t to paint myself in a good light - I don’t need your approval, I’m a big girl, unlike some I don’t need constant validation! - only to provide background on how I’ve actively *not* hated on Misha.

Now though, any respect I had for him has come to an abrupt end, the events of the past 24 hours has seen to that. Whilst I have been annoyed at his behaviour in regards to shipping, I don't feel it's ever gone this far, or at least not that I've seen first hand. This man has, IMO, contributed to so much toxicity in the fandom by way of things I've mentioned before, he's claimed - without actually saying the words - that Wincest fans weren't interested in him as a character when he came onto the show, and hasn’t felt included because of the fans’ love of the brothers. Um, hate to break it to you, love, but when you come onto an established show that is about two people, and you’re a *guest star* you can’t expect everyone to love you. Some characters we as individuals do fall in love with straight away (Bobby, Charlie, Crowley and Rowena are good examples for me), it takes time to establish a dynamic, so if that’s how he felt then it was incredibly naive of him as an actor to expect instant acceptance from anyone. Also, why wait until after the show finished to bring it up AGAIN … oh wait, yeah, that would be to step back into the limelight in a way intended to garner sympathy from Minions and INTENTIONALLY piss off bro fans and Wincest shippers alike? How fucking self centred, desperate and disrespectful do you have to be to shit all over the finale of a show that for the most part accepted you and kept you in paid work for 12 years? Well, Misha Collins levels of all of those things, obviously.  

So, on the topics of self centred, desperate to stay relevant, attention seeking and being oh so needy, the tweet yesterday from Amazon mentioned Castiel. He wasn’t tagged in it, so I refer to my earlier comment about searching online, because how else would he have possibly seen that? It’s possible someone sent it to him, I appreciate that, but if we go off past behaviour it’s not any stretch at all to believe that didn’t happen. So, once again, having seen the tweet he took it upon himself to - oh so predictably - turn it into something relating to Destiel. When I saw it I immediately rolled my eyes and thought ‘here we go again’, but then also had a little smile because I really liked the fact that he explicitly mentioned Wincest, therefore seeming to accept that his poor old dead horse wasn’t the only one in the race. I actually mentally tipped my hat to him then because it appeared that he’s matured enough to acknowledge by name the ship that predates his inclusion on the show. Great, I thought, this is a positive thing in a sea of negativity surrounding the man and his sunken ship, because what followed was Wincest trending in the US (it may also have been other countries as well but I had to sleep!) … largely due to the fact that Hellers were responding to it, calling him out on mentioning the dreaded ‘W’ word. I’ll repeat that because it’s been a rare occurrence up to that point… the Minions were actually disappointed with their overlord for mentioning another ship. We all know what they think of it and I for one, don’t give a flying fuck about their opionion. Ship and let ship, it’s all fun (or meant to be) so we have different tastes, that’s life kiddiwinks, deal with it. I mean, you really don’t have much of an example set for you when your king has proven several times over to be one of the biggest obnoxious brats out there, but just give it a try for your own sakes, yeah? Awesome, good on you, besties!

An unexpected development - to my joy and that of other Wincest shippers - them doing that got the topic trending, only *kept* trending by the fact that were all coming online asking why it was trending. Wincest shippers barely lifted a finger, we just flooded each other’s timelines with lovely content and basked in the Hellers - and Misha - shooting themselves in the foot, which was awesome. But did the vitriol stop? No. Did he get the attention he so clearly craves? Yes. Was it in the way he wanted? Fuck no, so poor, emotionally wounded baby backtracked after seeing that his name was trending alongside Wincest because that’s *so* not what someone narcissistic to do it in the first place, wanted.

Now here’s where I could easily have just moved on with an unusually fond chuckle, giving him an ironic pat on the back and a ‘thanks, Misha’ for being the one to instigate hours of fun, but once again his despicable behaviour made that impossible. It’s been more than obvious for many years that he cares more about what his fans think than anything else to do with the show and the fandom in a larger sense, but to delete the tweet and APOLOGISE for daring to be so insensitive to the snowflakes’ delicate sensibilities for mentioning Wincest in the first place was absolutely disgusting. Stating , “I used a term that I had never really given any thought to other than, "that's a thing?! Yuck." is not only complete and utter bullshit, it’s pandering of the highest order.  

We all know he has referred to Wincest on multiple occasions, so to say he hadn’t thought about is a flat out lie, which IMO is an insult to everyone, not just Wincest shippers. Does the man have no self respect at all, why would you contradict yourself in the face of such overwhelming evidence? Instead of either ignoring all the people calling him out, or addressing it with another tweet saying ‘yeah, that happened’ or something similar he chose, I repeat, CHOSE the route of claiming he didn’t realise he was being offensive to people who felt ‘triggered’ by him using the word Wincest. He basically shat all over an entire ship and large sector of the fandom in an attempt to appease his own fan base which consists of a lot of children (or those that act like children) who have no idea what RL is like.

Once again, he’s reinforced the idea that if you shout loud enough at someone just because you don’t like something they said, they will back down and apologise for something even when there’s nothing to apologise for. If he wants to be such a role model then he could easily have pointed out that a fictional ship doesn’t condone RL incest, any ACTUAL trauma people have suffered because of RL situations, and made an effort to make sure people understand that. He COULD have used it as an opportunity to do some good in the fandom by encouraging people to build bridges, to accept that people are entitled to their beliefs and that sometimes we see things differently but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat others with BASIC HUMAN DECENCY because of it. Instead he YET AGAIN chose to show that he cares more about what Minions think of him, keeping them onside to constantly stroke his unbelievably fragile ego in everything he does.

It is my understanding that Misha is big on (or claims to be big on) putting positive energy out into the world, treating people with respect, helping others and accepting people for who they are, not who you want them to be… all this after YEARS of consistently practising what he preaches only when it suits him. He sends out a message that it’s perfectly OK to bully, to spread hate, to draw attention to yourself at the cost of others, to throw colleagues and friends under the bus and at the same time use them to further your own agenda and get hits for your YouTube channel. Is this really the legacy he wants to leave? Is this an environment he wants his own kids to grow up in as well as future generations? Is this what he thinks is a valuable contribution as a human being? JFC, the arrogance, hypocrisy and the need for constant validation this man exhibits is nothing short of cringeworthy… actually it’s beyond that. It’s deplorable behaviour, it’s not new, and he will continue to act like this for as long as he’s being enabled and this harmful cycle needs to end.

I have friends IRL and online who are (now, possibly, were) big Misha fans, who have supported him from either the beginning of his run on the show, or since they started watching, and this is how he repays this behaviour? He’s willfully alienating decent people (including multishippers) all to make himself look good by being seen to do everything he can not to offend people. Spoiler alert, you DID offend people, you continue to do so time and again and we’ve had enough. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be to be such a perpetual people pleaser, but let me say it’s not doing you any favours in any way, shape or form.

Misha, you are *not* a role model, you’re *not* someone to look up to when you can't live up to the ideals you preach. You’re spitting in the face of people who have supported you even after some questionable things in the past, who gave you the benefit of the doubt because we’re all human and we all make mistakes. The key to growing as a person is not to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over, understanding *why* what you said and/or did was a mistake and making a concerted effort to make changes. I don’t ever see you doing that, you will continue down this path of only caring about Minions under the guise of caring for people in general. You are transparent, you are sad and despite the fact I’ve never particularly liked you, I didn’t speak up because I didn’t want to get involved in the drama. Well now I have spoken up and I’m saying you’re a disgrace, you have no respect for other people and nobody is fooled anymore. If it hadn’t been this tweet it would have been something else, but I for one am glad it happened so soon after the show ended so we can finally be rid of the limpet-like behaviour. It’s over, let it go for the sake of what dignity you might have left, for the sake of your family and friends and for the sake of anyone who isn’t capable of seeing through your ‘it’s a joke’ mentality.

You have been weighed, you have been measured and you have been found wanting. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Misha.

For anyone who made it to the end of my ramble, thank you. This has been a cathartic exercise and I’m drawing a line under it now, I don’t think I could possibly make my thoughts any clearer. I urge you not to get caught up in any petty squabbles with his Minions, let’s celebrate J2 and other cast and crew members who have shown us all respect and who I am proud to call part of the SPN family. There’s always one member of the family who needs to be frozen out for the good of everyone else.

[brandyovereager]

The Phoenix Effect - pt. 4

I had a lot of fun writing Rowan’s POV for this and I may have gotten a bit carried away...but I love Rowaelin! <3 :)

On ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195906/chapters/58766644#workskin

Summary: Rowan is in Rifthold with Dorian when a strange phenomenon sweeps the land. Those once dead are popping up alive. Everyday, more and more are Reborn. One day Rowan encounters a Reborn young man who refuses to give his name, only asking to know the whereabouts of Celaena Sardothein.

-

As helpful as the Fae king had been so far, and as much as he could be trusted with his discretion, visiting the Keep was something Sam had to do alone. This was his revenge, and he needed to be the one to carry it out.

“I’ll do what I need to and meet you at the castle gates by dusk if I haven’t gotten the information I need.” Hopefully the scum left at the Keep could tell him the full story of Celaena’s fate, but if not he would still need the Rowan’s help.

“Absolutely not.” Sam was taken aback.

“Excuse me?” This was the first time the Fae had outright denied him the discretion he asked for.

“No way are you going to do whatever it is you think you need to do alone. I’m coming with you.” Sam hadn’t expected that.

“I can handle myself.” He’d spent years at the Keep, he knew the terrain and the people like second nature.

“I don’t know what sort of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into but I can tell it’s with some very bad people. You need to be smart about this. I might not be necessary, but I certainly wouldn’t be detrimental. You could use someone to watch your back, after all, I’m assuming these people are the reason you died in the first place.”

Sam had to admit he was right about that.

“You can come with me, but you stay outside. I will go in and take care of my business alone. You’ll stand guard and wait for my signal if something goes wrong.”

Rowan’s response was a simple nod. Good. The Fae would be nearby if things to a turn for the worst, but this was a conversation Rowan had no part of. As curious as the King of Terrasen’s past seemed, Sam didn’t want to bring him into this. A royal had no place in the murdering of three well-known assassins to avenge the death of another well-known assassin.

————

The further they walked, the more certain Rowan became that this kid was in some deep shit.

They were trekking through the city, side-by-side, and in silence. Rowan observed the young man carefully as they maneuvered through the crowds, in part to make sure they didn’t get separated, but also out of curiosity.

The young man was slender, but not in a way that put him at a disadvantage. On the contrary, he was lithe and nimble. He could slip easily through the crowd practically undetected, quite the opposite of Rowan’s method—simply be hulking and angry-looking and people move out of your way. The young man was not scrawny or weak. He was probably made of lean and compact muscle underneath his clothing.

He reminded Rowan of Aelin, and wasn’t that just a heart-wrenching thought—soon, they’d be back together soon. His delicate movements were similar to that of the former assassin’s—perhaps that was how this young man got himself mixed up in underhanded dealings. Rowan could easily picture the boy as a thief or an assassin, silent but dangerous.

“So Aelin Galathynius is alive?” The young man’s question made Rowan crook the edge of his mouth up in a secret smile.

“Yes, Terrasen’s true queen is alive and well, just as she will be for many years to come.” Rowan was sure of that. If her sheer power and immortal grace alone wasn’t enough, Rowan would lay down his own life to keep her breathing.

“What’s she like?” Whether these questions were simply small talk or the young man was trying to figure Rowan out, the Fae did not care. He would gladly praise his love to anyone who would listen.

“Fierce, determined, relentless,” Rowan smirked slightly as he continued, “stubborn, arrogant, hotheaded,” his face softened, “immensely beautiful, loyal to kingdom and kin, passionate as her fire,” he would forever be in awe of her, “and powerful beyond legend.” The young man was now analyzing his face closely.

“You two married for love, yes? It was not arranged?” Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle at the question.

“I bring her absolutely no political advantage as a husband. My status as a Prince was nothing but an empty title. I had no money or land, and she had far better options in that aspect, but that didn’t matter to Aelin. We are mates, simple as that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Fae, but your kind mate for life, yes?”

“In a sense, yes. When a Fae meets their true mate, there is an undeniable connection. Mates are tied to one another in a bond far greater than the mortal concept of marriage. The mortal world would see our marriage as a poor move for Terrasen, but such things are insignificant in the face of a mating bond.”

“I thought you were kind of odd for a king.” Rowan laughed at the kid’s observation.

He was more husband than king. Aelin was a wonderful queen, and did not need a consort to make decisions for her. What she needed was his love and fealty. He supported his mate emotionally as she bore the mantle of queen. He was blood-sworn to her, and he would do whatever she asked of him—hence his presence in Rifthold.

The two walked on, further and further, and with every turn Rowan felt the pit of his stomach sink deeper. He didn’t know how close they were to their destination, but the area was sickeningly familiar. Rowan hadn’t spent too much time in Rifthold before, especially not in any one area, but he knew this place. They were near the Assassin’s Keep.

His observation was proven true as the young man turned down a street and then stopped in front of a familiar building.

It might just be that his earlier deduction was correct. However, this young man and Aelin moved so similarly not just because they were both trained assassins, but because they were trained by the same man.

Rowan had a horrible feeling about this.

————

Sam hadn’t seen the doors to the Keep since he left with Celaena. Arobynn and his lackeys had likely taken him here to be tortured and killed, but he’d had a blindfold on the whole time.

The place was just as dark and terrible as always. Why make a building full of professional murderers look inviting? From the information Sam had found in the Hall of Records, Arobynn was no longer there, but he still felt no great desire to enter.

He glanced over to his Fae companion, who was staring at the building with an odd look on his face.

“Stay out here. I could be a while, but don’t come in unless I call for you.” For a monarch, Rowan accepted the outright order quite well, and Sam once again wondered about the story behind the King of Terrasen.

The Keep was cold inside, just as it had always been. Celaena had always used it as an excuse to buy the most expensive blankets and other finery to keep warm, but Sam had always had a deep chill through him whenever he was here.

He found Tern first. The man was sloppy, always had been, and it was easy to catch him off guard. With hardly any effort he had the other assassin subdued and tied to his own chair, Sam moved to stand in front of him. The moment Tern finally saw his face a look of shock appeared before quickly being replaced with anger.

“I heard a bunch of dead ones were popping up, some god’s gotta be off it if they picked you.”

“I’m aware you prefer me dead, you did help kill me after all.” Sam was, in fact, still a little bitter about that.

“Is that what you’re here for, revenge? You’ve come to kill me for killing you?” Tern’s teeth were bared in a sneer.

“I am enjoying the feeling of you tied up and at my mercy—and it may come to that later—but no, I’m here for information.”

“You want to know who ordered the hit on you? I thought it was pretty obvious it was Arobynn, but maybe you’d like my confirmation?” This buffoon was quickly exhausting his patience.

“No, that was obvious. I knew even then that it was him. I need you to tell me what happened to Celaena. Why was she sent to Endovier, and where is Arobynn?” Tern’s mouth curled into a sinister smile.

“You do not know?” Sam was growing tired of tedious conversation. Tern was acting quite proud for knowing something Sam did not.

“Obviously not, so tell me. What happened between the both of them after I was killed?” What did he do to Celaena?

“I take it these questions mean you have not heard whispers around Rifthold about the assassin or her master? I’m sure you have deduced what that means.” Sam briefly sacrificed his sharp focus to roll his eyes in annoyance.

“Neither is in the city, yes, but why?” Tern’s answers were sounding a lot more like questions.

“Arobynn Hammel is dead. He was murdered in his sleep two years ago, most likely by that brunette whore he kept company with.” So Arobynn was dead, but Celaena had not killed him. Celaena had never gotten to enact her vengeance on the cruel man.

“If he only died two years ago, then he would have been alive to see Celaena’s capture. Why didn’t he save her? Was it his fault?” Why would Arobynn give up his star assassin to the King?

“Yes, he set her up to be arrested. He baited her with your murder, knew she would come for revenge, and arranged for Adarlan’s Guard to be waiting for her. He was angry about her trying to run off with you, thought he’d teach her a lesson, starting with your death.” Sam’s blood was boiling with his strong emotions, one of which being immense rage.

“So I was a pawn, killed so Arobynn could reprimand his precious protege? It was better for her to meet a slow, torturous death than for the two of us to leave the Guild?” It was horrible, pure hatred and cruelty. Why could they not be happy?

“It’s your own fault for thinking you could. Nobody gets out of here. The life of an assassin follows you wherever you go, and you two had to learn that the hard way.” Not for the first time, Sam imagined how their story could have ended had they not both belonged Arobynn Hammel. If they had been born average children in Rifthold, would anyone have gone to such lengths to prevent their happiness?

“Arobynn is lucky he’s already dead, the bastard deserved far worse than a slit throat for his sins, but perhaps I can make do with you and your cronies.” Sam felt a sadistic smirk appear on his lips and slowly stalked closer to his prey. “How much did you know beforehand of his plan for her? Did you help him set the trap?” Tern began to shake slightly and struggle harder against his restraints.

“Hey now, I was just a henchman—an ignorant henchman at that. Arobynn didn’t tell us anything but what we specifically needed to do, and only right before we needed to do it. He didn’t trust us with anything that sensitive.” It was an empty excuse, really, not enough for Sam to spare him.

“You still did it, though, and I bet you were happy to. The three of you held no great love for Celaena Sardothein. I’m sure business only got better.”

“That may be true, but you still don’t want to kill me.” It was laughable, and Sam let out a short guffaw at Tern’s statement.

“Why not? What more could I need from you? You’ve answered my questions, and given me greatly displeasing answers. I should take your life as vengeance for Celaena’s.” It’s what he’d come here intending to do, anyway.

“What if I told you that Celaena didn’t die in Endovier?” Sam froze. “I can tell you how she got out and where she went, just leave me here alive.” Tern knew he had him with that, and began to look smug again. Ordinarily, Sam would have swiftly wiped the look from Tern’s face, but he was entirely fixated on what the assassin just revealed.

“You have my attention.”

@rowaelinforeverworld @flowersinvegas @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @camixd93

Message me or reply to be tagged (or just to let me know what you think)!

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Hi! Hope you're doing well~! I was happy to see that you like Shingen and The Mitsus- I kinda called it, haha! However I'm wondering if you guys are also familiar with/had an opinion on Edgar Bright from IkeRev because I feel like he fits your character type too? I literally downloaded the game for him because I never pass on #PrettyBoyAngst~

Hiya friend!! Tysm I’m good, I hope you’re doing well, too! :D Haha, they are indeed my favorites! You guessed right! Long live Shingen (too soon? too soon...) and the Mitsus!! 

Quick warning, I know the game has been out for a while but spoilers for Edgar rt below!!!!

I have indeed played IkeRev, and you are spot on!! My top three bias list from that game is Lance, Edgar, and Fenrir! (surprising no one lmao) I can’t make a cup of hot cocoa anymore without hearing in my head “AND YOU JUST HAVE TO TELL THEM EVERYTHING’S FINE BUT IT’S NOT FINE AND NO ONE WILL EVER UNDERSTA--” Edgar’s route just sincerely hits different. Like holy actual shit yo, boy smuggles us candy all I want to do is give him some sugar, c’mon IkeRev ;-; (CLAUDIUS IF I SEE YOUR MUSTY ASS IT’S ON SIGHT, ON SIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DON’T FUCKING TEST ME YOU MONOPOLY GUY BITCH ASS--)

Honestly, Edgar is what we all wish ATLA Azula could have had. Yeah he was raised in a rotten environment and did what he had to do to survive, but the guy sincerely didn’t enjoy what he was coerced into doing ;-; and there was never anybody there to protect him. I cry whenever I start thinking about how he saw Zero in sincere need of guidance and affection, and went over to him without a second thought. (Granted, one could argue that Edgar benefited from Zero’s clear inability to fit in, but I really don’t see it that way. Edgar had no obligation to help him out, and very little incentive beyond a desire for mutual friendship. Despite their differences in status and/or capacity, Edgar treats Zero with no shortage of respect and consideration--he just teases him a lot LMFAO) Even when they bicker (IT’S ALMOST LIKE COMTE AND JEANNE AHAAHAHAHH I’M WHEEZING) it’s abundantly clear that neither of them have an ounce of real ill will directed at each other. 

I guess that’s also a sizable point of what I love about him. Against all odds, against everything he was taught and raised to do, he still chooses love. He doesn’t like hurting people, he doesn’t find any pleasure in the power plays/impositions that his uncle lives for. He just likes making people smile and laugh, he just wants to live normally like anybody else--his smarts and his skills be damned. At his core, he was a kid that was raised to be a monster, but even Claudius couldn’t beat the humanity out of him. There is...an utterly heartbreaking, but also profoundly moving aspect to that kind of tension. 

(Now that I write it, it reminds me a lot of Comte and Leonardo. They were both expected to take their place in the hierarchy of vampire/human society, but they both reject it so vehemently. They don’t see human beings as pawns, they don’t see them as playthings or even sources of nourishment. They acknowledge what they are, but they want to treat people with as much dignity and compassion as they can regardless. In the ageless words of Iroh, “Perfection and power are overrated. I think you were very wise to choose happiness and love.” While they may have been able to understand all of this on an instinctive level, they actively chose it over every motivation/coercion they were offered to be cruel and unfeeling. They bear their scars for choosing what’s important to them, just as Edgar does. It is a unique but debilitating pain that comes with being unanimously rejected by your community because you choose to deny the expectations of your upbringing and social status, especially when the standards that were imposed on you were glaringly immoral to begin with.)

And the thing that kills me the most is that Edgar just. Has always done this, has always chosen what’s right as much as he was able no matter how painfully thankless--if not actively harmful to his well-being--these choices were. So when MC takes notice, when she makes a conscious effort to return that mindfulness, he’s floored. It literally changes the landscape of his mind, he goes into a god damn crisis to be able to process what just happened. Imagine being so desensitized to positive attention that you have a trauma response in trying to deal with direct, unfettered goodwill. And don’t even get me started on that desperate moment where he just loses every ounce of calm when MC briefly loses faith in him/wavers. I don’t even remember the exact words exchanged I just remember the sheer devastation in the wake of that scene, the way I cried. There are no words for how much I love him and how little that man has been allowed to live. (AND LANCE SUPPORTING MY BOY!!!!!!!!! SCREAMING AND CRYING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

Also. Idk if you've seen the “my desires are unconventional” Edgar memes but the ducky and roller coaster ones just SEND me, it was literally the reason I decided to do his route and I regret NOTHING 😂😂😂 

And the Creeks!!!! The Creek family!!!! I sob!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So pure!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Though now that you mention it there are a lot of elements in Edgar’s rt that align with Leonardo/Comte rt, feeling exposed 😂😂😂. I guess between them and Shingen/the Mitsus, one thing that I find really, really attractive is this notion of being kind to people with a deeply compassionate motivation. It’s not enough to say nice things, it’s the fact that they do care about the people they’re paying attention to, and seek to de-escalate conflict (whether internalized or externalized) as much as they can before it reaches an explosive point. They’re good to people with very little--if anything--to be gained in return, and they know what’s worth being grateful for in life. There is a breadth of altruism that is simply unmatched by some of the other suitors, a maturity that just draws me in like the proverbial moth to the flame; I fall head over heels in milliseconds. 

I do this a lot in real life but they are what I like to call “ninja nice”. They are schemin’ bois but the scheme is wanting to make you smile!!!! And it’s so god damn wholesome ;-; it never fails to make me laugh

I’m also deeply interested in this idea of “love at play.” It’s apparently a pretty common literary device/premise, but I wasn’t made fully aware of it until recently. The implication is that relationships are not only built on mutual feelings of affection, but also on a kind of language that people develop together; they find ways by which they comfortably tease, or poke fun, or just enjoy the same things and joke around while doing it. It may seem pretty intuitive to some, but for me this was a very new concept--I’ve never really seen it done before. And yet, I can see for myself that I tend to seek it out a lot without even knowing, and I think it’s a beautiful and crucial thing for people to share. It really makes me so happy to see :D <33333

So yeah, this is a house where we love and cherish Edgar Bright!!! I got a little side-tracked, but I hope I’ve answered your questions! Oh yeah, and as a note my wife also does love Edgar as well, we tend to share biases LMAO (Never on purpose, we always just watch/play the same stuff and come back like “THIS ONE!!!!!!!! YOU TOO!?!!?!? FLKHJAHGKHDLKJ”)

[queertazsecretsanta]

A gift for @all-made-of-stardust, created by @gravitaz!

~~

tiles are cold (so am i)

warnings: bad words, allusions to ptsd and other mental illnesses. we’re doing some good old fashioned hurt/comfort, lads

summary: taako looks terrible. he has dark circles so deep that kravitz wonders if he can feel where they indent his skin, and even in the dim light from the few candles in the corner of the room, kravitz can see that his olive skin is at least a shade or two paler than normal. he looks ill, and that sends a spark of anxiety shooting down kravitz’s spine.

There’s familiarity in hiding from love and from warmth and from light. And familiarity, Taako used to find, is comforting.

When everything else failed him and when the world treated him with almost calculated cruelty, he found it simple to take the hand of habit and treat it in the same way. The world was a game of chess, a game of strategy, and he never lost. He was never able to afford to lose. He was all alone, in this world that was dark and dangerous and cruel. He had no one to pick up the knocked over pawns. That was a lesson he learned years ago in Glamour Springs; a lesson he was reminded of in Refuge.

So when Istus changes her tune, naturally, he grows suspicious.

Merle says never to blame the Gods for suffering. But when they are so unknowable, Taako finds it difficult not to. Especially Istus; it’s all well and good being one of her emissaries, after all, but he finds it hard to believe that she can be the Goddess of Fate and yet have no control over the tapestry she weaves.

Of course, the parting of the clouds brings with it a little metaphorical sunburn. Yes, he gains back Lup, and sure, he’s reassured of Kravitz’s love. His family surrounds him, five other little birds, but it all hurts with the sixth there in the centre of it all, his little sister, a woman who stole everything from him for ten years, only to give it back when she got caught. Maybe Istus isn’t feeling so kind yet.

Neither is he, to be quite fucking frank. That kind of thing requires time that he has not yet had, and a fortitude he has had no reason to develop. The wound runs too deep.

Standing in his kitchen at only the Gods know what time shows him exactly how fresh it is, and not just the one she left him with. The light of the moon leaks in through the window, and three candles in the corner cast a strange, flickering light across the room, and Taako’s leaning over a counter trying desperately to catch his breath like he never learned how to breathe. The air in the room is thick and heavy as he tries desperately to push it into his lungs.

This is why he doesn’t fucking sleep any more. He doesn’t even need to do it, so why the hell he subjects himself to it is beyond him.

That’s the funny thing about grieving, and the odd thing about guilt. No matter whether or not a person thinks they might be over it, it never really goes away. Taako knows he isn’t responsible for what happened to those poor forty, and he knows his family is safe and alive and well. But whenever he closes his eyes, that mass grave still haunts his thoughts and all he forgot from those hundred years comes back to pester him in his dreams. He can’t seem to catch a break from it.

“Taako?”

He whips around so fast that he’s surprised the sound barrier doesn’t shatter around him, glamour up like a shield. Kravitz’s tired eyes greet him from the doorway. It makes something ache in Taako’s chest, seeing him this way. He grows more human by the day; skin warmer, breath deeper. He forgets that, while Kravitz is death’s emissary, he is a person and he is softer, gentler, now.

“Oh, Kravitz,” Taako says, as casually as if Kravitz had just come back from a trip to the Fantasy Costco. It’s a pretense he hides behind well; after all, he has had several years to practice, and several years to learn how to work through the guilt that bites at him for his dishonesty. He drops his glamour, but still throws out his best grin. “Bit early to be going to work, isn’t it, babe?”

Kravitz scowls.

Taako looks terrible. He has dark circles so deep that Kravitz wonders if he can feel where they indent his skin, and even in the dim light from the few candles in the corner of the room, Kravitz can see that his olive skin is at least a shade or two paler than normal. He looks ill, and that sends a spark of anxiety shooting down Kravitz’s spine.

“What’s the pout for, handsome?” His boyfriend’s voice catches him off guard. “M’ not allowed to grab myself some eats at three AM, is that it?”

Kravitz, of course, knows better than to go for the bait. “Not even close,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the island in the middle of the kitchen. The granite is hard and glacial underneath him, but it takes away some of the stone-cold formality of what he wants to say, what he wants to talk about. “It’s your house too, love. You know I don’t mind. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Taako’s jaw sets hard for just a second, almost imperceptibly. When his speaks, his voice is noticeably softer. “About what?”

“Well, you. This is, uh, extra, even as far as you go.”

“And what about it is extra, exactly?” Taako breezes past him, and in the dim light of the room, Kravitz thinks he spies that Taako’s face is just a little redder, a little puffier than usual. It’s also noticeable in the way that Taako begins to clatter around the place for something, anything to do to stop Kravitz from worrying that something is wrong. It hurts to watch. “Maybe ch’boy just wants some fucking pancakes, alright? That’s nothing to worry about, is it?”

“We’ve been over that already,” Kravitz says. “And the answer was no. But it isn’t that I’m worrying about.” He slides himself down from the countertop, deciding that this is no longer the type of conversation that he can force to be casual. Taako pauses at this motion, seeming to get what it means. The metaphorical gloves have come off. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, then that’s fine. But-”

“Fuckin’- don’t do this to me, bones,” Taako replies, voice a little thick. “Things’re fine, just- you know me. Takes more than a nightmare to take ol’ Taako down.”

Kravitz sighs. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Fucking- that.”

“I’m not catchin’ your vibe, Krav.”

“Stop pretending you’re okay, Taako.”

Kravitz swears that all the air in the room turns to sponge when Taako puts the spatula in his hand down forcefully. He could probably hear the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, the silence left in his wake is so deafening. “I know you do it because you’re worried about me, too,” he continues, “even though you won’t admit as much. And you know that I’ll never force you to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. But please, for the love of the gods, stop pretending that everything’s fine. That just worries me worse.”

The silence doesn’t let up, and every moment that passes is another anxious knot that forms in Kravitz’s stomach. He is sure that this will go one of two ways, and neither one is pleasant. Either Taako will put up another wall, another fifty feet for Kravitz to scale, or all of the ones he currently has built up will crumble unceremoniously at his feet. Even though both outcomes make him feel a little sick with worry, he decides in an instant that he will deal with it, if it is what it takes.

However, Taako does something that Kravitz does not account for. He sighs, and his shoulders relax.

“Why didn’t you just fuckin’- just tell me that-” He seems unsure as to how to even start his sentence. And Taako is shorter than Kravitz to begin with, but in the low Candlelight, Kravitz swears that he has never seen Taako look smaller. “You know, I hate it when you’re right. But I don’t- I don’t think I do wanna talk.”

Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t doubt that it’ll all come out on another morning just like this one. Uglier, more raw, less restrained. He’s already had some times like that, but Kravitz has not yet been privy to them all. He thinks that this will come with time. And a warm relief settles in his chest when his boyfriend nods and his hunches are confirmed.

“You got it.” Kravitz dithers for a second. And then, wordlessly, he opens his arms in Taako’s direction.

One thing that Kravitz understands about Taako, even for their comparatively short time together, is that Taako is not massive on physical affection in these situations. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule; the plate of sapphire on Phandalin, Carey and Killian’s wedding, their evening at the Chug N’ Squeeze. But under this circumstance, raw emotional vulnerability is not something Taako handles well. It’s a little bit of a surprise when Taako regards this posture, meets Kravitz’s gaze, and slots himself into the open space in Kravitz’s arms.

They stand like this for what is probably only a few minutes. Kravitz feels as though he could hold Taako forever, though. He doesn’t say this.

“Taako,” he says instead. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Taako whispers, without hesitation, because it’s the truth. He laughs, and the sound is just a little bitter. “Should fuckin’ act like it, shouldn’t I?”

Kravitz, though, does not laugh. He simply shakes his head. “Sometimes, that just isn’t how things are wired,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Taako’s head. “And that’s alright. We can rewire it, no sweat. It’s not as if we’re on a time limit here, my love.”

“Does five or six hundred years count as a time limit?”

This time, Kravitz does laugh, and it warms Taako’s veins. “Well, yeah,” Kravitz says, “but I’m literally an emissary of death herself. I think I can pull a few strings to get us a bit longer.”

Taako grins. “Tight.” And then, after a moment’s pause, “Does that mean we have time for me to make these fucking pancakes? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m not really in the mood to go back to sleep.”

Kravitz tucks Taako’s hair behind his ear, presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, and says, “More than enough.”

[locria-writes]

i have no idea how to fit in rosamunde’s backstory into aab, so i just wrote it out lol

The most valuable lesson that her late father ever taught her was to survive.

Survival, he told her, meant being able to blend in wherever and with whomever. Survival meant discarding dignity and honour, and other such lofty notions that had long been ingrained in her. To survive was to simply be alive, to thrive was to be living. Living could come later, but only if one was alive.

Rosamunde had been but seven years old when he told her this, and she couldn’t help but blurt out, “Why aren’t you telling this to Gisbert and Ernst?”

Her father smiled gently, if not a bit forlornly, smoothing her hair without a word. Then he replied, “Because my dear Roeschen is a girl.”

She frowned. “So?”

“People can be cruel and unfair. You won’t have the same opportunities as your brothers should anything happen. They can take up a sword and fight to survive, but you won’t be able to do the same.”

“But why not?”

“That’s a lesson for another day, but you already see it, don’t you? When you study with the Royal Tutor, are there any other girls around? Don’t people give you strange looks when you accompany the princes?”

It was true… People raised a brow at her whenever she studied at the castle. Sometimes there would be unkind snickers, pointed fingers, but she always ignored them. Her grandfather once said that only fools mock an educated woman.

Her father pulled out a silver bangle from his jacket and slipped it onto her wrist. It was old and deceptively simple. The engravings felt like letters, but she couldn’t quite decipher what they meant.

“What is this?”

He kissed her temple. “It’s a lucky charm.”

When she was ten, her family was exiled, stripped of all their glory and wealth, and sent to the bitter northern border. It was a bit hard to leave behind her friends, Prince Volker had hugged her desperately, begging her to stay because he would marry her, but she didn’t let it show. Weakness was a necessity for it kept one from becoming too arrogant, but it was also necessary to keep it hidden from all but one’s most trusted. That was what her father taught his soldiers, and ultimately, he passed it on to his children.

Life was difficult at first – she had grown up surrounded by servants, but neither her mother nor father complained about it, so she decided there was no point in it either. They were alive, they were surviving, and for Rosamunde, that was enough.

Her father was restricted in what he was allowed to do, where he was allowed to go, so he made and sold wood carvings. Her mother was a homemaker and sold her embroidery. Her older brothers did odd jobs around the small village, and Rosamunde helped her mother at home. She didn’t know how, but they scraped by. Their home wasn’t large, but it was clean and functional. They didn’t have a proper farm to earn money with, but they had some animals, and a somewhat fertile garden to work with. It wasn’t the life of glittering wealth they had before, but it was a life she could live with for the rest of her life.

She was twelve when her father taught her his last lesson.

“Roeschen, do you think revenge is a good or bad thing?”

She stopped sewing and tried to gauge her father’s expression. It was dark, save for the flickering light of the hearth. “It’s…revenge comes from hatred, so isn’t it inherently a bad thing?”

“It is indeed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Is justice a good or bad thing?��

“It’s a good thing.”

“Then if a man seeks retribution for his brother’s murder, is it justice or revenge?”

“It’s justice.”

“Is it justice if he takes matters into his own hands and kills the murderer himself? Is it justice if he makes it his mission to make the murderer’s life as miserable as possible without killing him?”

She didn’t know how to answer. Her father laughed quietly as he reached over and patted her head. “It’s all right if you don’t have an answer, Roeschen. You’ll find your own as you grow older.”

The next day, soldiers came with a warrant for her father. Her father didn’t seem surprised, and even laughed jovially at the sight of them. Her mother remained stoic, but Rosamunde could see her trembling as they took Gisbert and Ernst.

A few days passed, and no word came from the capital. Realistically, Rosamunde knew that it would be a while, but she couldn’t bear not knowing. They were a bit big, but she threw on some of her brothers’ old clothing, and rode off to find out what happened.

She was afraid every step of the journey, but she was never taught to fear being afraid. Wise men feared, foolish men feared not.

The capital was abuzz when she arrived, and to her dismay, it was for her father’s execution.

Everything felt numb as she watched her father’s head roll away. He dedicated his life to the Crown, he wanted nothing more than his country – his home – to be the best it could be, yet he was merely labelled a treasonous man and met a bloody and inglorious fate instead.

It was unfair, but life was rarely fair.

She should have cried, should have screamed, should have done something, but all her body could do was stare blankly. Even as the crowd dispersed, she remained rooted to her spot, unmoving and unfeeling. The only solace she found was that at least Gisbert and Ernst weren’t there, but what if they had already died? Or worse? Her poor mother…her poor younger siblings…

“Rosamunde…?”

There was a woefully familiar pair of pale eyes before her, and no she could not feel anything anymore and least of all to a murderer’s son. He tentatively reached toward her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, and please dear Providence don’t touch her because that was all it would take to shatter her.

She said nothing, but she remembered kicking and punching, lashing out however she could at him and it wasn’t his fault his only fault was to be the Crown’s son, and she fled like a coward.

When she arrived back home and told her mother, the older woman didn’t shed a tear either, couldn’t shed a tear. She fell ill, and never recovered, but was never allowed the mercy of death. Ernst came back after her, both legs broken and barely on the mend, and suddenly she was the only one who could provide for her broken family.

Rosamunde never accepted charity, never liked being looked down upon with pity. Her father taught her to survive, taught her that revenge and justice were in the eye of the judge, and by Providence, she would make her own revenge. His enemies wanted him to fall, wanted his family (she briefly wondered if it was one of her maternal grandfather’s enemies, but the man was a snake through and through, so she doubted there were even any left alive) to suffer, so she would deny them that pleasure. She would survive, survive until she thrived.

It mattered not what job she could do, so long as she could do it. If it were a woman’s work, a man’s work, she would do it. So what if her own life was robbed of her own wishes? If her younger brother and sister could thrive, she would be happy. She sold the silver bangle, albeit incredibly reluctantly, but she wasn’t selfish enough to keep it. One day, she told herself, she’d find a way to get it back.

Dignity, honour, morality, who cared? Did dignity put food on the table? Did honour keep the hearth going? Did morality entail survival? Her father was the most dignified, most honourable, most moral man in the world, yet he was undone by the scheming of others.

It took a long time, but at last, she found some sort of peace with herself, and life was difficult, but not unbearable. At least until they showed up again.

They cajoled her into agreeing to heal Prince Volker’s leg, pestered her until they finally found a crack in the walls she carefully built. She always hated Augustin and expected such impudence from him, but from Prince Volker? He had always been good at whittling her down until she was at her most vulnerable.

“Don’t you want to come back with us?” To his credit, he barely flinched when she haphazardly cleaned the wound.

“I’ve left that life.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to.”

He was quiet for a bit. “I meant it back then when I said I wanted to marry you.”

She scoffed. “We were children. It meant nothing.”

“It meant everything.” He grabbed her hand. “I won’t marry the Rosenthal girl…I won’t marry anyone other than you.”

She felt pathetic in that moment, letting his mere touch elicit warmth in her chest. She always liked him when she was a child, he made beautiful and wonderful promises to her, but that wasn’t how the world worked. She still liked him, but it felt like a familiar and nostalgic ache somewhere in the back of her heart now.

“If you think wooing me will convince me otherwise, I suggest you stop now.”

“I’m being serious, Roeschen.” His thumb traced her palm. “You’ve suffered out here…Aunt Elfriede…Ernst…all of you have suffered a grave injustice. Don’t you want to clear Uncle Rudolf’s name? Don’t you want to return to your old life?”

In truth, of course she did. What fool would choose a life of hardship over one of ease and comfort? But she was always taught to never want for things that could not be. She wouldn’t want to return to her old life because it was impossible. She wouldn’t want to marry and be in love with Prince Volker because it was impossible. “If you’re going to continue spouting hogwash, I think you should leave now before I’m tempted to chop off your leg.”

That failed to deter him. Instead, he pulled out a familiar silver bangle and held it before her. “This is yours, isn’t it? Uncle Rudolf gave it to you.”

“W-where…?”

“You pawned it, and I was looking for your family’s heirlooms. Come back to the capital with us, Roeschen. Even if…even if you don’t wish to publicly clear Uncle Rudolf’s name, don’t you want to at least help us figure out what happened? Don’t you want to avenge his indignant death?” He leaned a bit closer and said in a quieter voice, “Don’t you want to see Gisbert again?”

Her father wouldn’t want this; her father would call it a fool’s delusion. He would want her to survive, not to fight over sentimentality, but Rosamunde wasn’t her father. She wasn’t that strong.

She closed her eyes, murmuring a quiet apology. “I’ll go then.”

[thelastspeecher]

The Invisible Stan

AO3

All right, so myself and my wonderful roommate have been watching the Moomins TV show from the 90s.  And in the Moomins series, there is a concept where abused or abandoned children turn invisible until given love and attention again.  And of course, I thought to myself “well, let’s just apply that to some good ole Gravity Falls!”

---

Summary: After getting kicked out of the house as a teenager, a childhood malady comes back, making Stan...difficult to find.

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              Stan wasn’t completely taken by surprise when he woke up one day able to see through his hands.  It was something he’d come accustomed to, as had Ford.  Ford, being the nerd he was, tried to come up with theories as to why this happened.  Why the shouting of their parents from the living room resulted in their shadows being only evidence of their existence.  Why their father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs made them impossible to see or hear.  Why the punishment of going to bed hungry night after night caused their fingers and toes to become ghostlike.

              Stan never bothered with the why’s.  He only focused on the benefits.  It was a lot easier to sneak out when you were invisible, for one. And easier to steal food from the kitchen when your footsteps didn’t make a sound and neither did your stomach, even if it was trying to eat itself from hunger.  And they didn’t have to panic and hide when their father made his way to their bedroom door in his loud shoes.  They sat in full view of the door, and stifled giggles at the confused expression on Filbrick’s face when he saw nothing but an empty room.

              This won’t help when someone comes to find me, Stan thought to himself, idly wiggling his translucent fingers.  Because he was certain that someone would find him.  They had to, right?  Pops would cool off, Mom would tell Ford to go find Stan, and Stan would gladly follow his twin back to their room above the pawn shop.  Sure, he wouldn’t exactly be welcomed back with open arms, but he wouldn’t expect that from his Pops, anyways.  What mattered was that he would be home soon.  

              The atmosphere would be tense and awkward, yeah.  He’d have to be “respectful” to Pops for a while, and let Ford punch his arm until it was black and blue as payback, but he wouldn’t be on the streets forever.  

              I just need to give ‘em time.  Stan checked his reflection in the mirror.  His face was still around, at least.  He stuffed his ghostlike hands into his pockets.  Even Pops wouldn’t permanently kick me out.

----- 

              After a month or so, Stan had to start wearing long sleeves and gloves constantly.  He was the only person on the beach whose torso was completely covered.  A few strange looks went his way, but he did his best to ignore them.  Even when it was a cute chick who eyed his sopping clothes disdainfully.  It was difficult, though.  His sweat would pool underneath his clothes in the hot summer sun, causing large, unsightly damp patches.  Which kind of confused him.

            �� Even when I’m sweating so much I feel it drip off me, I don’t see it. How come I only see it when it makes me all wet?  Stan cautiously sniffed his armpit, then recoiled at the stench.  Eugh.  That’s ripe, even for me.  He turned back to the task at hand, investigating the latest spot to set off the metal detector he had swiped last week.  But long sleeves are worth it, even if I gotta sweat like a pig.  Can’t really go out in public with invisible arms.  

              Stan tossed another clump of sand over his shoulder, then leaned against his shovel tiredly.  Digging was more difficult in this attire.  At least he could still get by wearing shorts instead of pants.  At the moment, his legs were the only part of him not actively drenched in sweat, instead feeling the crisp breeze off the ocean.

              I didn’t think I’d get this bad.  I mean, it’s not like anyone’s hurt me.  They’ve just ignored me.  That means I’m fine.  Right?

              “Right,” he muttered to himself, trying to lie about the sinking feeling in his chest.  He was a good liar, after all.  Maybe he could fool himself.  After a brief moment watching the gulls careening across the bright blue waves, he let out a sigh and picked his shovel up again.  Under the sand piled on top of his feet, he couldn’t see his beat-up sneakers beginning to fade.

----- 

              Stan didn’t know how Ford managed to find him.  He hadn’t found himself in years.  Not since his stint in the Columbian prison.  In hindsight, that was a bad idea.  Sure, being a trafficker had finally given him a purpose that made his fingers and toes visible for the first time since he was seventeen.  But the temporary reprieve hadn’t been worth it. The guards stomping through the South American jungle had brought to mind his father’s own footsteps resounding on the creaky, wooden stairs, and before he knew it, he was gone.  Completely.  All attempts to become visible since had been useless.

              None of the guards had seen him.  None of the loan sharks looking for him could locate him.  No one knew what Stan looked like anymore.  Not even Stan himself.

              So the letter that slid underneath the door of Stan’s dingy motel room was a hell of a surprise.  Stan cautiously made his way over to the door and picked up the letter.  He recognized Ford’s handwriting right away.

              He…he wants me?  Hope began to bubble through Stan’s veins, an emotion so foreign it took him a moment to recognize.  He wants to see me?  He needs my help?  A small unseen smile forced its way onto Stan’s see-through face.  Someone wants me around.  His eyes widened at the sight of his fingers, clenching the letter tightly in joy, slowly fading into view.  An invisible tear dropped onto the letter.  Duh.  If anyone could bring me back, it’s Ford.

----- 

              He’d become completely visible for a few sweet moments, right before he knocked on Ford’s door.  Now, he was back to square one.  Stan sat on the floor, his back against the broken damn machine his brother had just vanished into.  And not vanished in the way Stan was familiar with.  No, he was gone.  Really gone.

              “I just got him back,” Stan choked through his sobs.  “I can’t lose him again.”

              “What about you?” some part of him screamed.  “You just got yourself back, too!”  Stan tried to shove those feelings down.  Down to the soles of his rapidly disappearing boots. It didn’t matter what happened to him. Not now that the only person who could make him turn visible again was gone.  Stan leaned his head back.  His tears trickled down his face, into the jacket he now knew was red.  His hair, which he had realized only moments before had gotten really long, was starting to get damp, too.  Anger suddenly surged through him.  

              No!  Fuck my feelings!  Stan brusquely wiped his tears away.  I can’t be a lazy, selfish asshole anymore.  Ford’s gone.  I’ve gotta bring him back.  He got to his feet.  It might take years, but I’ll do the last thing he told me to.  I’ll help him.  God knows he needs it.  Filled with purpose, Stan stomped away.  As he passed the glass window separating the machine from the console covered with blinking lights and switches, he stopped.  His heart leapt into his throat.

              “I’m still here,” he whispered.  His voice creaked from lack of use.  After all, why bother speaking if no one could hear you?  Stan swallowed, staring at his reflection.  “I’m still here.”

----- 

              Stan might have been mostly back after that night, a new sense of purpose making him visible in a way he hadn’t been for far too long.  But he was still partly gone.  Luckily, Ford seemed to favor long-sleeved clothes, pants, and close-toed shoes.  Unluckily, Stan despised almost every single item of clothing he could find.  Until he spotted the suit at the back of Ford’s closet. It was piled up in the corner, like Ford only had it out of obligation and had thrown it in there to pretend like it didn’t exist.

              Okay, I get why he didn’t wanna wear it, Stan thought upon inspecting the suit.  It was clearly Pops’.  At the mere thought of his father, his upper arms began to fade.  Stan swallowed.  But it’s either this, or those turtlenecks that smell like they haven’t been washed in months.  He sighed and set the suit to the side.  Now, does Ford have any five-fingered gloves?

-----

              No one in town questioned why Stan wore a suit throughout the year.  No one even cared.  It was one of the few bright sides to the oddity of Gravity Falls, in Stan’s opinion.  They coughed up money for his fake attractions whether or not Stan was drenched in sweat.  He did get a few odd looks about the gloves.  But that might have been due to Stan’s clumsy attempts to adjust a pair of Ford’s six-fingered gloves to fit him better.  A woman with an exorbitant amount of blue eyeshadow pulled him aside after one of his tours to give him the address for a seamstress she knew.

              Stan didn’t intend on following up with some random lady’s opinion on his clothes.  He didn’t need to wear gloves all the time, anyways.  Some days were better than others, in which case he went gloveless. But as the years passed and Stan ran up against wall after wall trying to fix Ford’s machine, the days he couldn’t see his hands became more and more frequent.

              Fine.  Fine. I’ll go see this “seamstress”.  If only because I think my shitty sewing is resulting in fewer tips.  Who knew there were people around who actually cared how things look?  Stan rang the doorbell.  Immediately, he got the urge to flee.  She’s probably not even here anymore!  It’s been way too long!  Make a break for it, Stan! Before he could run away, the door opened.  A woman with graying hair peered up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

              “Yes?” she asked in an accented voice.  Stan cleared his throat.

              Time to slip into Mr. Mystery.  He grinned at her charmingly.

              “I’ve heard you’re a fine seamstress.”  The woman nodded.  “Well, how’d ya feel about fixing up some gloves for me?”

              “I won’t do it for free.”

              “Of course not!”

              “And I want to be paid up front,” the woman added.  Stan stifled a groan.

              Great.  There goes my plan.

              “Well, yeah,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.  He’d planned on telling her he’d pay her after the job was done, and then never cough up the money.  But then again, in a town as small as Gravity Falls, where word of mouth traveled fast, maybe it was for the best he couldn’t do that.  “Us small business owners have to support each other, y’know?”  The woman looked at him for another moment before standing to the side.

              “Come in,” she instructed.  Stan obediently walked inside.  “Show me what you want me to fix.”  Stan handed her a pair of gloves, the first ones he’d messed with, and thus the pair he’d done the worst job on.  The woman looked the gloves over, tutting softly.  “This is not good.  I can fix it, but gloves are delicate.  It will take extra effort to repair without completely destroying them.  And with extra effort, extra cost.”

              Figures.

              “So, do you have a friends and family discount?” Stan asked.  The woman narrowed her eyes at him.

              “We are not friends or family, Mr. Pines.”

              “Yeah, but-” Stan started.  A kid ran into the room, brandishing a red screwdriver.

              “Mijo, go back to your room,” the woman instructed.  The kid stopped in front of Stan, staring up at him with wide eyes.  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.

              “Listen to your…grandma?” he said cautiously.  The boy and woman both nodded.  “Yeah, listen to your grandma, kid.  We’re doing business.”

              “But you’re Mr. Mystery!” the boy chirped.

              “Yeah.”

              “I have something for you!”

              “…Okay?” Stan said.  The boy held out the screwdriver.  Stan took it from him with a frown.  It wasn’t one he recognized, but it had a label printed on it reading “The Mystery Shack”.

              That useless handyman probably lost it so long ago I forgot it existed.

              “Thanks, kid.”  The boy beamed.  “What, uh, what’s your name?”

              “Soos!”

              “Soos,” Stan repeated.  He glanced at Soos’s grandmother, then back at Soos.  “Y’know, Soos, I need a new handyman around the shack.  Think you can figure out how to use this?” he asked, handing the screwdriver back.  Soos’s eyes widened further, something Stand hadn’t thought was possible.

              “I mean, maybe- I don’t-”

              “Maybe is good enough for me.  Wanna be the new Shack handyman?” Stan asked.  The boy nodded eagerly.  “Great. Now, uh, go back to your room. I’ll figure out your work schedule later.”

              “Do as he says, mijo,” Soos’s grandmother said gently.  Soos ran away.  Stan grinned at her.

              “So, about that friends and family discount…”

----- 

              Even though Stan had paid to get the gloves fixed, he found himself not needing them as much after he hired Soos.  Something about that kid brought back the warm feelings Stan had gone so long without.  It was a bit annoying at times, and especially so when Soos tried to follow him around the Shack instead of doing his job.  But overall, Stan liked the kid.  Not that he would ever admit it.

              And he liked Wendy, too.  Once things picked up so much that Soos couldn’t be both a handyman and run register, Stan had begrudgingly put up signs over town.  The teenager had been the first person to walk through the door. She didn’t give a single damn about the job, which Stan respected.  But even though she didn’t care, she still got most of her work done, which Stan respected even more.  

              So it wasn’t that big of a problem to give her extra hours and a pay raise when her mom passed away unexpectedly.  It wasn’t even that big of a problem to give her a couple weeks off. He’d done the same for Soos when his grandma got sick and wound up in the hospital for a while.  After all, he could run the Shack by himself.  Even if he had to wear gloves on those days.

              Stan didn’t like agreeing to watch Shermie’s grandkids over the summer.  It had been thirty years since Ford vanished. Things were getting bleaker.  He had to start wearing gloves again and couldn’t wander around the Shack barefoot like he preferred.  If his invisibility started progressing further and further, he didn’t want to deal with trying to hide it from some snot-nosed kids.

              But like it had when he’d hired Soos and then Wendy, those days where his hands couldn’t be seen became fewer and fewer.  It was enough to make Stan wonder what the connection between spending time with these kids and staying visible could be.

              As he stared silently up at his twin brother, those thoughts ran through his head.  Every time he’d started to fade, only to be brought back by the kids.  The kids that had gone fishing with him on that day he’d stared at his reflection in the lake, waiting for it to disappear.  The kids that he’d punched dinosaurs and zombies for. The kids that had fought tooth and nail to rescue the Shack from that punk, Gideon Gleeful.  The kids that, despite his best attempts to be distant with them, had weaseled their way into his life.

              The kids that he hadn’t expected to shoehorn in on his reunion with Ford. Stan wasn’t happy about that.  He was even more upset that they had witnessed Ford’s solid punch knocking Stan to the ground.

              In my defense, I didn’t expect him to hit me.  A snarl twisting his face, Ford glared down at Stan.

��             “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Ford demanded.  Stan opened his mouth.

              I brought you back.  I did what you asked.  Is that not enough?  He spoke, but the words vanished in the air.  Ford’s scowl deepened.

              Stan’s feet, shoes and all, began to disappear.

[rosereapr]

ok bitch, give us a break down of marluxia and his relationships/dynamics with the rest of the organization.

DISCLAIMER: this list is sorted from highest opinion (top) to lowest (bottom). it is by no means set in stone, especially concerning members that Marluxia has little to no interaction with or strong opinion on, and is very susceptible to change. even dynamics that are already canon for him can and do vary per individual portrayals.

LARXENE.  who else would Marluxia put at the top, if not his partner in crime?  they are the closest thing to a ‘friend’ either of them has, and possibly more than that.  both are of the opinion that hearts aren’t worth the pain they bring and would rather remain Nobodies than regain their hearts  ( which is a big factor in why they plotted a coup. )  their personalities also mesh well, both being narcissistic, power-hungry, gossipy assholes with a flair for the dramatic and share makeup tips.  while neither of them have the memories of their Somebodies who were friends, they both feel a certain ‘kinship’ and familiarity with each other.

ROXAS.  perhaps it’s because they’re both ‘rookies’ in the Organization, or that most of the other members aren’t very fond of either of them.  maybe it’s due to the reaper’s lust for the Keyblade, or even that, like Larxene, their Somebodies were once friends…  whatever it is, Marluxia holds Roxas in surprisingly high esteem, especially considering they didn’t have much time together.  if they had met sooner, Marluxia likely would have invited Roxas to join him and Larxene in their plan to take over the Organization before being sent to Castle Oblivion.

LUXORD.  like Luxord, Marluxia also enjoys games and gambling, though he likes the thrill of winning more than the game itself.  he respects Luxord’s broad vocabulary and intelligent, charming demeanor, and finds him to be one of the more tolerable Organization members.  however, the gambler’s resignation to being a pawn puts Marluxia off, and his driving motivations being fun and amusement come off as rather juvenile at times.

XALDIN.  sharing an interest in manipulation, sadism and exploiting psychological weaknesses, along with a love of conflict, Marluxia respects the dragoon’s abilities both in and out of combat, as well as his independence and desire to work alone.  they also share a similar contempt for beings with emotion and sentimentality.  were he not so gruff and pessimistic, Marluxia would enjoy his company more.

AXEL.  the relationship between Axel and Marluxia fluctuates wildly depending on the scenario.  sharing the title of assassin, a flair for the dramatic and a less-than-favorable reaction to authority, they do have common ground to stand on.  the two of them enjoy verbal bouts that range from playful to outright malicious whenever they’re not otherwise trying to harass and annoy one another.  beneath the surface of witty jibes however, their interactions are often mental games of chess, trying to anticipate each other’s thoughts and motives, and counter with their own.

ZEXION.  Marluxia doesn’t mind Zexion mostly due to the latter’s intelligence and their similar interests in literature, the arts and humanities.  he also finds the other’s mysterious, enigmatic nature interesting.  however, Zexion’s unfaltering loyalty to Xemnas makes them naturally at odds. 

XIGBAR.  if Xigbar wasn’t Xemnas’ spymaster and such a threat to Marluxia’s plans, he may actually tolerate – at times even enjoy – the sniper’s sarcastic wit and laid back nature. unfortunately, as amusing as Xigbar’s antics can be, they are hard to enjoy when Marluxia is always on guard around him.

XION.  unlike his interest in Roxas, Marluxia doesn’t have much of an opinion on Xion.  his initial opinion and willingness to associate with her are soured by her existence coming as a result of Vexen’s work, whom Marluxia is not fond of.  Xion’s loyalty to Xemnas, even if due to programming and not choice, is the main reason why he avoids her.  were he able to feel such, Mar might even pity Xion.

SAIX.  in Marluxia’s mind, Saix is little more than Xemnas’ grumpy lapdog who has little else to him besides violent mood swings, being broody, and an obsession with the moon.  essentially being Xemnas’ ‘enforcer’ and right-hand man, the reaper has a natural repulsion from Saix, and makes things difficult for him out of spite when he can.

XEMNAS.  the main reason Xemnas isn’t lower on the list is because… there honestly isn’t much for Marluxia to hate about him, because there isn’t much to Xemnas at all as far as he can see.  his negative opinions of the Organization leader stem more from what he represents rather than who he is.  Xemnas is just the main obstacle in the way of Marluxia’s desires, and their goals are in opposition to one another.  Marluxia recognizes Xemnas’ power, but doesn’t respect it near as much as he envies it.  but hey, at least he’s pretty.

LEXAEUS.  ‘boring’ is the first thing that comes to mind if he were to spare a second of his precious time thinking about Lexaeus.  the living equivalent of an empty suit of armor in Marluxia’s eyes.  in the same way that Saix is Xemnas’ lapdog, Lexaeus is Zexion’s, and not half as interesting to the reaper.  he’s not despised, just not deemed worth Marluxia’s time, which is arguably a worse crime.

VEXEN.  like Lexaeus, Marluxia finds Vexen boring.  but if only that were all.  due to Vexen’s annoying habit of constantly reminding others about their rank in the Organization, he’s earned Marluxia’s ire.  he also sees Vexen as a coward who would hide in his research and experiments and have them do things for him, rather than doing it for himself.  Vexen’s choice to have one of the lowest thrones is interpreted by Marluxia to be a sign of fear as well as kissing Xemnas’ ass, which is another black mark against Vexen’s name.

DEMYX.  Marluxia has a nigh-universally shared opinion of the Organization that sees Demyx as one of their lowliest members (and as far as he’s concerned, the lowliest).  Demyx is seen as a lazy, immature child who has nothing better to do than annoy others and complain.  his cowardice and lack of battle prowess are reprehensible to Marluxia, and that Demyx often calls him ‘Marly’ doesn’t help matters.

[saturatedworld]

He Who Was King

“Ah, Aleksei. Good to see you today.”

“Good evening, sir. I bought snack.”

“How considerate of you! Please come in.”

Another visitation day, another stack of documents to sift through. Neither of them wanted it, yet there he is, welcoming and gentle as always. The smell of freshly brewed tea wafts from inside and clings to his haori. The bandage covering where his left eye was looks clean and soft too. Chizuru Nishiooji is doing well, or at least putting on the appearance which gives the impression.

“I see, so these are the candidates they chose.” Chizuru nods to himself as he reads the documents.

“Sorry it came to this. I know you didn’t want to….”

“This is the agreement we reached. There is nothing to regret about it.” Chizuru says while writing notes on the documents.

Aleksei stirs his tea. Nothing to regret, he said? Aleksei holds no regret; this is his job. But for the person in front of him?

"You are taking this well. As expected of the Viscount of Nishiooji."

Chizuru’s pen twitches. “Am I? I’m surprised they still want to hear my opinion.” He casts his sight down. “They will educate the new heir without me; my words won’t matter."

That would be the most sensible thing to do, more efficient on their resource.

“In hindsight, wasn’t this my own fault?” Chizuru continues, “It wasn’t that I didn’t want a successor; I didn’t want one for politics. If I wasn’t so stubborn, I would have been able to raise someone with my own philosophy.”

“So you do regret something,” comments Aleksei,“I’m guessing this is why they call you the Rueful Ex-Diplomat.”

Chizuru lets out a soft chuckle. “I have many regrets, that much is true. It’s an unusual custom, isn’t it? That pseudonym thing.”

“Yes, it was unheard of before the Fall. It surely adds character, in my opinion.”

And that was the last of the document. Chizuru takes a bite of his Sachertorte slice, the gift from his guest.

“Delicious….” He says, savoring the sweet chocolate taste. “So, are you living in Vienna now? I enjoyed my stay there. The coffeehouses have lovely menu.” His voice now has a relaxed, melodic tone to it.

Hearing such relaxed tone, a sense of relief lulls Aleksei as well. “That is so.”

“I see. Maybe I should get a messenger bat then, or a raven. I would like to keep in contact with you.”

“Bats are pretty common in Vienna. I have heard they are sturdier than they look.”

“They really are, it surprised me! Nothing like the bats in the Empire.” Chizuru laughs.

Ah. He can laugh so freely right after going through something he dislikes. The hollowed eye socket must be still hurting too. Despite this, he still looks and sounds so charming.

The conversation continues carelessly as they talk about trite topics; the food, the weather, the people. Cities above and cities below.

Aleksei has observed the Nishioojis for several years, yet something about the young family head has always fascinated him. The way he wears his masks is alike yet different from the rest of his family or how spies like Aleksei use them. Before he realized, they have become close.

“You should come visit again when they have festivities going on. London’s festivals are nothing like anything on the Surface!” Chizuru says. His slice of Sachertorte is now halfway eaten.

“Yes, sir! I can’t wait for them too.”

“The Feast of the Exceptional Rose just passed recently. Honestly, it was lonely enjoying it all on my own.” He chuckles. His gaze softens, reflected on the surface of his tea.

Yes, they were close once, until the death of Nagato Konoe brought everything to an abrupt halt. Chizuru's eyes have always looked sad, but since that day, there is an emptiness in his remaining eye.

“I have heard of the Feast before. Strange, grotesque gifts with many messages. I think Konoe would have loved it,” says Aleksei. It was obvious to him what the Ex-Diplomat’s gaze meant.

“Right? He loved those things.” See? Bingo.

“Yes, so I think he would be happy to know you enjoying it as well.”

Huh? What was that familiar feeling? As if he was pricked by a pin out of nowhere.

A big spider scutters across the wall, its tiny steps audible in the silence. The smile on Chizuru’s face fades for a moment before returning in full. “Are you trying to cheer me up? How very nice of you.”

“I can’t afford to have you die of sadness on me now, after getting me relocated all the way to Vienna and this city.” Aleksei sips his tea, watching the man before him. Calm down, don’t lose sight of your purpose now.

Chizuru, meanwhile, only laughed. “Aw, I thought you liked this place. You were so enthusiastic when I met you.”

“Not enough to move in to it. The food is terrible.” And that was a mask, obviously; is Chizuru messing with him?

“Ah, well. No helping that.”

Aleksei continues observing Chizuru from behind his cup of tea. Perhaps now is the time to ask him about business again. Chizuru tilts his head, as if expecting it too. He places the cup of tea and its plate back on the table between them, then asks, “We agreed that we won’t force you back to the Surface before you finish your business, but what about after?”

“I don’t know.” Chizuru shrugs lightly. “Will you? I don’t even know if I will still be alive and strong when I find the chance to enact my plan.”

Aleksei shakes his head. “Unless there is further order from above, I will support you and your decision, whatever it will be. We are friends, aren’t we? And Konoe was my friend, too. Please do what you feel is right to honor his memory, as the person closest to him.”

Hearing that, Chizuru gives him one of his gentle, resigned smiles. “Thank you, Aleksei.”

Aleksei doesn’t like to admit it, but he and Konoe shared something in common: that they were worried about Chizuru, for spreading himself too thin. It feels heavy to admit it. Perhaps his death hit Aleksei harder than he thought.

Chizuru’s act of rebellion was selfishness, but truth be told, Aleksei was glad for it. Chizuru now is prioritising his own wishes instead of merely trying to please the whims of his family. Yes, it may feel odd to see the emptiness in Chizuru’s eye, but Aleksei can’t help but feel fascinated by the current Chizuru too. Will that emptiness be filled? What kind of person will he be then? Aleksei wants to see that, not as a pawn, but as a person who treasures someone dear.

He hopes he will be able to see that.

“I did hear that if we live long enough here then sunlight will become lethal… will you support me too then?”

“Please don’t joke about that. It was bad enough that you took out your own eye.”

[missmorior]

Pawn

so have i mentioned I love dumb tropes and nonsense that could probably never be canon in the au? because i do.

Before they were Pawn, they were no one. A vessel like their many other siblings. Unremarkable among the great mass; their elder brother had a crown of horns and wings that looked like fathers, far more than their own. They had no white markings on their carapace like their siblings and clutch mates. They had no skill with a nail, but they did have a great deal of Soul to use for magic.. What little they knew of course. This was all for the best though; they were to be hollow, to best serve their father’s purpose. A hollow creature neither needs nor desires a name, and it most certainly would not stand out among a great many others of its kind. Their siblings had already begun to look for names- to ask for them or to choose those for themselves, but not-yet-Pawn didn’t. They wouldn’t. They…

They were certainly not jealous when their sister named herself a queen. Nor were they bitter over their nearly voidless sibling now burning with the flames of something dark and terrifying, being called the King’s vessel- being called Rex. They didn’t long for identity, like Rook sought, nor a purpose like Knight. They had no desire to seek out something all their own like Bishop’s lights. They were… They were..

They were alone, wandering away from all the other vessels and the handmaidens watching them.

They fought down the choked feeling in their throat and tried to reclaim the same void they’d managed to achieve down in the Abyss before their mother came. No feeling. No thoughts. Just silence. No more doubts, no more jealousy. Just pure, empty, hollow void. They needed to be that. They would achieve it. For their father. For their kingdom. But why did the choked feeling not go away? What even was this? They didn’t like it. They wanted it to stop, and walking away from everyone made it hurt but the idea of turning around and going back made them only feel worse. So they kept walking. Scrambled their way under thorns that caught and tore at their fragile wings to a clearing that looked like it hadn’t been visited in longer than the vessel had been alive. Within the simple chamber was a table, carved from stone, and two chairs. Atop the table lay some strange board, with little figures on it. Two sides mirrored, one in white and the other in black.

To go up and investigate would show they had curiosity all their own. But if no one was looking… No one would know, right? And one of the pieces was out of place, so surely it wouldn’t be a bad thing to go put it back?

Tip-toing as softly as they could manage, the vessel made their way over to the table and clambered up onto the tall chair on the side of the board with the black pieces. It hummed with a strange sort of magic, almost like Soul but more contained. It.. Was fascinating. Nobody was around to see them, they could allow this little bit. All the pieces lined up and the different shapes- there was one that had a helmet like some of the guard, and like their rambunctious sibling’s shell. Another that looked like a castle, the edges mirroring their large sibling’s horns. Yet another that had a glittering crystal atop it, even the black pieces had a jewel- the youngest of their clutch would love it. But the piece that had been moved was unremarkable. Simple. One of many others like it on the board. What purpose did it serve out of place? Was this.. a game? They’d heard mention of games played on a board but never allowed themself to react or look before. What kind of game needed all these different pieces? The two tall pieces were so fancy too and-

There among the white pieces were carved a familiar crown, and branches. The King and Queen. Father and Mother. The black had no such detail, but the vessel couldn’t tear their gaze away. They reached out, gently touching the pointed horns of the king piece before looking back to the lone white piece moved to the center of the board. This could be bad. This was someone’s game, and a hollow vessel had no desire to play. But what could all this be? What purpose did the pieces serve? It called to them- and the king…

Before they could stop themself, they answered with the exact same move with a black piece from their side, and then quickly scrambled back away from the table like it would catch on fire and scorch them for daring to touch it. No reaction from the board. How.. Silly of them. Of course nothing would happen. It was just an empty room with a forgotten game.

Until without warning, another white piece moved all by itself across a space.

The vessel was fluttering back up into the seat without a second thought.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It had been purely on a whim that the Pale King had bothered with the dusty chessboard that day. His and his wife’s game had long sat abandoned, ever since the infection had begun spreading within Hallownest as She clawed her way back to relevance after he’d sought to erase every trace of Her. The godforsaken moth was a persistent nuisance, but his plan to contain Her would hold the key to the kingdom’s survival- but not the survival of the happiness within the palace. Too long Root had holed herself away in her gardens, refusing to return to the palace after they’d worked together to bring forth the vessels. Not that he could blame her, her soft heart would have gotten attached to the vessels as though they were children and suddenly the cost of what must be done would be…

His claws kept tapping away at the cold stone before him, but his mind had drifted elsewhere, to the only two vessels to be found. Perfect creations. No mind, voice, nor will of their own. Exactly as he had designed them and yet… And yet he found himself able to understand how his wife could have seen nothing but children. Were the circumstances different then perhaps… And only one pure vessel was necessary to contain Her, would it truly be so terrible to indulge Root's desire for a child of their own? They could certainly have actual children, not tainted by the unpredictable void. It was advantageous if he simply had to find a logical reason to, the throne would not be truly secure without heirs.

His musings very nearly distracted him so much so that he missed an answering move on the board; and for several moments did nothing but stare, the sight and his mind not connecting until he blinked. Had.. Had she decided to play once more? Out of sentimentality? Or perhaps this was a small forgiveness, a way of letting him know despite her need for space that she still stood with him. The black pawn met his own head on, a perfect mirror. How very like her. The king hummed to himself, and continued on with the game as usual- though it quickly became apparent that either his wife had forgotten the rules entirely, or she had allowed one of her servants access to the chess board.

Ah… Yes, that was more likely. Well, then he would be done with the game swiftly and send them back to their chores with a brutal defeat.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

They were at a loss for how the game worked but the more they watched the white pieces move, the more they figured it out. There wasn’t a chance of their victory but it didn’t sting like other failures when their own king piece was knocked over by the castle wall piece. They’d learned and as the board reset itself, they were strategizing a new approach. If the pieces all had certain roles… It was like an army. Strategy. You had to take down the king to secure victory, but not lose your own. The queen was the most valuable next to the king, able to move every which way as far as she pleased. Strong and brave. (Like Reine claimed she would be. As though she was truly royalty and not just a vessel like the rest) The castle wall moved in a straight line, charging ahead to strike threats before they could reach the small pieces. (Like their big sibling, always defending the smaller and weaker ones) The helmet piece moved in odd ways; clever, tricky, never quite doing what you would expect and striking when you weren’t looking. (Their malformed sibling, with the backwards legs and thick shell, always quicker than they appeared) The bejeweled piece, moving in an odd line apart from the others, able to be overlooked. (The youngest’s mischief, ever unexpected)

The smallest piece. Only moving forward one block at a time aside from the very first move. One of several others. Unremarkable. Unnoticed. Cast aside as the more skilled pieces were moved about the board.

An unnamed vessel. Traits like so many others. Without voice, but able to be what was needed.

They picked up the small piece and held it a moment, claws running over the smooth black surface. They looked to the gleaming white crown of the king piece.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

After such a sound defeat he didn’t expect for the servant on the other side to start a rematch so soon. Did they believe their loss was just a fluke? Against their king? Perhaps Root didn’t tell them of who had control of the other side of the chess board, and they thought they were playing the board itself? Regardless, he appreciated the tenacity if not the odd strategy. A singular pawn seemed to be their focus, trying to get it across the board but falling to pieces in the game once he captured it. Very well, it was another swift victory. The Pale King stood and smoothed out his robes, ready to turn and leave his study to oversee how the Great Knights were progressing in their assignments to purge the nests of infection-

The black pawn moved again.

Wyrm held a moment, narrowing his eyes at the chess board. Again? After two such losses? Did they truly believe they could still win against him? Was he wrong yet again, and it was not tenacity but stupidity that led the impudent servant on the other side to continue trying to best their king? The lone piece seemed to challenge him, standing apart from the ranks and waiting. Again, he swiftly defeated his unknown opponent. Again, they started with the same move. He immediately defeated their pawn and their strategy crumpled within several turns. Again. And again. And yet again.

Each time the pawn drew closer and closer to his side of the board, and each time their strategy grew better as they lasted longer against his onslaught. He would place a knight to take that damned pawn and a knight of their own he hadn’t thought in range would take his. A rook would block the path to the pawn just as he was about to set his queen on it. The bishop and queen would dance across the board and prove a nuisance to be dealt with and before he knew it that pawn was but two rows away from his king. Every. Single. Time. What did they have to prove by losing? What was there to this pawn that they were so determined to base an entire strategy around getting it across the board? It would be queen’ed if it successfully reached the other side, yes, but to base an entire game upon the slim chance a single pawn would make it? They had no clue how the game worked so surely they didn’t know that. So what…

He paused, claws tapping at the rook held in his hand as he stared down that lone pawn. He could take it now, and once again win within the next turn. But he wanted to see just what would become of this. Just what was their goal.. If not victory, for surely a bug after that would have given up long before now, then what?

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Their hands shook as they watched the board, their piece the closest they’d managed to make it to the king. They’d gotten so, so close but they were running out of time. Their own king was in danger, all their other important pieces backed into a corner, and there was a white castle piece directly line with their piece. They wouldn’t make it to the king. Not unless there was a mistake. They’d have to try all over again and they- they weren’t sure they could. It’d taken so long already and they were making so many mistakes but they had to just- they had to! It was just a game, they told themself, this was stupid they should leave. It was Never just about the game, a traitorous voice within them replied.

The castle didn’t move.

The king moved forward to close the distance.

And for the briefest of moments the vessel couldn’t breathe, staring down at the board before them. Ignoring every other piece but the two now face to face. The tiny, replaceable vessel- nothing special, nothing grand. The white king- their father, their hope, their goal.

What do you want, it seemed to ask.

Notice me. Notice me, notice me, notice me I’m right I’m what I’m supposed to be I’m void and nothing and p l e a s e- Let me prove myself.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The Pale King sat back and crossed his arms, an amused smile crossing his face. What a bold little pawn. Moving in a way completely illegal in the rules to stand beside his king. Attention? Is that what they sought? What a childish request- he was almost tempted to grant it.

And it had been some time since he’s spoken with his wife… A visit would be in order. They could come to an understanding on the matter of the vessels and stopping the plague, and on keeping her servants from playing around with enchanted chess boards.

How odd though, that when he picked up that notorious black pawn it felt cold to the touch. Almost as if a measure of his own magic ran through it.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

They sat for a time, wiping at their shell and the inky void that bubbled over their eye sockets. They must’ve hurt themself playing. Or stressed themself out too much. Hopefully this wouldn’t be too bad, and they could just stop by a fountain and wet their cloak to wipe away the dark stains.

The vessel patted their piece proudly, feeling something swell in their chest that they couldn’t name- but it felt good. Right where they should be, next to their father. Soon… Soon it’d be the same for them for real too. Maybe… If they wished really hard, and put all their magic towards it…

Maybe they could cast a spell to make sure he would find them. The piece.. The- pawn. Pawn. Yes. That’s what they would be. Just like here, and they’d stand at their father’s side as the hollow knight when they reached him.

They just had to keep trying.

[memoriashell]

home

Characters: Xion-centric; ft. a good chunk of the real org. xiii and sea salt trio feelings.

crossposted on ao3 with the full extent of my notes

Notes: This started out as a canon divergent, ‘what if the vessels had a larger role in the plot’ and ended up as self indulgent Xion getting to be more active in kh3′s plot. Also warning for the usage of a lot of repetition / repeating text. Alternatively titled ‘it’s a good thing Roxas and Axel spend 90% of kh3 not being around but I was really tempted to be canon divergent there too’, the novel.

Summary: A puppet has a part to play, in the end, and finds her way home.

( home is where your heart lies, or something like that )

When Xion awakens, there is pain, and a murmur from somewhere— someone else— vaguely familiar enough that puts her on edge. She might have had some sense of awareness, while she slumbered in... there, so this, this feels... wrong. Bad.

They tell her to ignore it. Forget it.

So she does exactly that ( not by choice though, not by choice ). She does not want to forget about seashells and sunsets and ice cream and—

They make her forget, and she ignores the tugging feeling that she needs to go home.

You have a job, it would do you good not to fail this time. They whisper in her ears, you were chosen for a reason ( what reason, she wants to question, but she bites her tongue because something about staying silent seems more fitting ).

Xion stares at her reflection, golden eyes staring back at her blankly.

Vexen won’t stop watching her.

He’s not the only one, really. Xigbar watches her curiously, like there’s something else there to her. Saïx watches her like he expects her to break.  

But Vexen watches her like he’s observing. Waiting. It’s discomforting, but less so than that feeling of—

— go home, go home, home; but where is that, she whispers. Isn’t home where she already is?

( She misses the gleam of regret in his eyes ).

“Focus, Number Thirteen.” He tells her, and she tries not to flinch at the coldness in his eyes and the feeling of that’s wrong, that’s wrong, that’s wrong. She’s not Thirteen—

She’s just another pawn, a vessel— a puppet, one might say. She is not deserving of that number. ( Is it even her number? Logically, Xion has no reason to question it, yet she can’t help the feeling that there’s something wrong about being called that ).

“Focus.” Saïx snaps at her again. “I don’t have time to babysit you. Get in position to defend yourself.”

She doesn’t understand this. Isn’t allowed to try and understand. Puppet girl has a part, vessel does not get to stray from that role, girl will dutifully obey the command she is given and will not question otherwise.

( You cannot question that which you do not know ).

In the end, she is just another vessel after all.

She is not the only Replica among the Organization.

Though this should be a fact that is, on some level, comforting; it does not do anything of the sort for her.

Even though Xion does not know why, that face— that face haunts her, makes her guts twist and her heart...? ( What of her heart? It does not exist to begin with ).

He is callous and rough one moment, something she cannot quite name in the next—

I’m the real one, Riku whispers when he thinks no one else is around. I’m real.

Somehow, she feels like they are more alike than she realizes.

She does not know Larxene very well.

( Xion falters a little when she has that thought because, she did not know anyone here— why would she have thought she knew anyone? Save Demyx, who acts like everyone is an old friend, she has no reason to have come to think that ).

It is with great reluctance that she is taken out to do recon, a different kind of ‘training’; out to Arendelle, which is more sun and water than she is used to seeing

— and the feeling someone else should be here with her.

Vessel keeps her hood up, follows silently in the shadows of her senior, flinches at the jabs the elder makes at her expense and does not try to speak back.

There are moments too, that, even with disdain, she will correct her posture, her stance, her fighting style; indirectly answers the soft questions about their hearts or therefore lack of, when the people around them talk of emotions that they don’t exactly have.

( It feels wrong feels wrong feels wrong — )

It is ‘cold’ the next time they visit, with snow and ice that is also much different than she is used to seeing; but they don’t have time for such luxuries when they have a task to see to, even if that is simply to watch and wait.

Xion has never seen boy with the keyblade, who with a single simple gesture of his body screams home at her more than anything else she has ever known and causes a tingling feeling in the back of her mind,

and home home home home—

This isn’t right her head screams — her heart, her heart... does not exist ( neither does she, some part of her whispers, just a vessel without meaning ).

Even hours later, when they are back home and she is stuck staring blankly at a wall while she awaits for someone to give Xion her next task, she cannot stop thinking about him.

( She has no explanation for why her throat had felt so tight when she saw him ).

She tries not to flinch at the odd utensil Vexen prods her with ( apparently, she is not immune to cold, she had just gone numb to it after a while because their cloaks had not been sufficient to protect against prolonged exposure to that, or so that’s what he says ).

“Stay still.” He’s stern; harsh, but not as harsh as... as what? She’s not sure where that train of thought was going, but she doesn’t have time to linger on it as he demands her attention once again. “Lord Xemnas expects that you stay in good condition, vessel. It would be good of you to learn your limits; be more observant of your surroundings in the future.” A frown on her part, as if she would really know what that entails, but he’s too busy jotting down notes for her to try and interrupt.

“How interesting...” He murmurs, but doesn’t speak further on it than that ( she would ask him to elaborate, but Xion gets the feeling that it would not be said in away understandable for her, so she bites her tongue ).

She sits in silence while he makes his diagnosis and wonders what being a vessel actually means.

Research Entry 572: Regards to the Replica No. i and Other Notes of Importance

Thus far, the work to create an improved version of the Replica Program seems to be successful. While it is a shame that I could not have been present to observe No. i’s original existence— for I lack good notes to make comparisons to— I have great confidence that these are improvements of the previous vessels based on what information can be salvaged from my former reports. I will have to continue depend on other’s reports of the Replicas in order to conclude the success of the former project and determine what else needs to be improved, what further refinements can be made, in order to grant them ‘humanity’.

Truly, what emotion she seems capable of conveying is something— the miracle of a heart, perhaps, or that boy’s influence. I will have to make further observations and testing before I can establish what is the true cause at hand, or if it is perhaps a mixture of the two. The other replica we are currently using, a version of the Riku Replica, is quite an interesting subject in itself, but I will save those observations for a different entry, for it is far different than she is.

At least it seems as though No. i has been a successful experiment, both then and now. Though lacking qualities that would make her a nobody, she is still not quite close enough to a human, so perhaps it can be concluded that a vessels are different from both nobodies and humans. Perhaps further testing of that theory and a refined hypothesis would lead to an answer. Perhaps it is for the best that project is left in the past with the rest.

Back to the subject of No. i, she seems to have finally stabilized, to no fault of her own. The necessity to keep her memories and ‘heart’ initially set her back, and is still causing some difficulties, but it seems that her identity has been shaped, nonetheless. The frequency with which her appearance falters is less often, but it is possible that it is not permanent, should her memories return to her again. That is not an immediate concern, and shall be dealt with should the problem arise. I admit, I was surprised to see that she has gained a stable identity, but this is further proof that she is not simply a vessel, but human, I believe. The fact she has adopted the name given to her and taken on an appearance based on her heart, that is the true miracle here.

I suppose I will record what Demyx has reported here, for it holds some relevance to No. i. As expected, the vessel has taken on No. 13’s likeness, but remains in slumber as the heart remains separate and thus unable to awaken. A partial success, then, we will have to see if it awakens in time. It is rather unfortunate I cannot see this process for myself, as No. 13 and No. i are quite unusual subjects, having ties to that keyblade wielder. 

I have also been informed that child does not require my assistance, for he has deemed himself familiar enough with the vessels. Was it not your arrogance that got you killed, Zexion? Regardless, I will leave No. 13 in his capable hands, and see to it that my research continues on this side of things. There will be time to speak with the rest of them, when this is all over. For now, I must continue to do my part so I may atone for my role in all this.

I only pray that No. 13 can awaken in time, because... should she follow the same fate that was intended for her original vessel, he may be the only one who can stop her.

— Vexen

“...break...you kn...help...str...”

She strains to try and pick up on what is being said— she’s not the kind to eavesdrop, even as uncertain and curious as she is, she does not have that will to do so most of the time.

And had she not heard her name, she probably would have withheld the urge to do so.

Xion presses her ear to the door, tries to focus on figuring who’s saying what—

“What are they talking about?”

She inhales sharply and jumps— its probably a good thing that she is so quiet most of the time, even when startled she hardly even utters a squeak. Her hood hides the weak glare she shoots at the source of the voice ( and almost startles a second time— since when has Demyx been that quiet? ), and opts not to answer the other as she walks away. She’s not going to hear anything else, she knows, and the last thing she wants is to be caught because he can’t be quiet.

( Of course, he doesn’t give up so easily; she hears footsteps following her like a puppy, and something like fondness stirs in her for a moment )

“Have you been out?” Upon sensing the silent query from her, he elaborates. “Besides for recon.” A wordless shake of her head ( the idea of being out for recon seems unusual—or not, she’s not quite sure, actually ).

“No? That’s kind of weird since you’re not benched.” Xion shrugs, she is not so dumb as to believe Demyx doesn’t know better—something that she doesn’t know ( but she doesn’t know what that is exactly, so she can’t do much more than watch him skeptically ). A hand settles down on her shoulder, snapping her away from her thoughts; peers up curiously at him as she waits for him to speak. “Say, why don't you tag along with me? They aren't having you do anything better, so it's not like you'll be missed.”

Something tells her she doesn't get a say, another part of her questions what he's trying to do( trying to make friends with a nobody like her ).

“Where are we going?” She asks with reluctance, a hint of childlike curiosity. When she gets no response more than the opening of a corridor, she follows up with another question. “Is this where you usually disappear to?” He doesn’t answer, just gestures for her to follow him as he heads through the portal.

It’s bright when Xion steps through to the other side, wincing as she takes a moment to adjust, before opening her eyes to the sight before her—

“Ta-da!” He exclaims, a gesture of his hands ( that goes ignored by her, who has been frozen by the feeling of the wind in her hair, the smell of salt, and the sound of waves crashing ). Her non-existent heart clenches—

her gaze freezes on the sight of the setting sun and

all wrong, all wrong, all wrong, her head screams, there should be three people here, where the sun meets the sea.

( She doesn’t know when— why she starts crying )

“Again.” Saïx orders, and she complies— replica girl takes position, swings a weapon alike his as she harnesses the energy of his magic, uses her own magic to mimic the shockwaves he makes. Her keyblade slams into the claymore and the illusion is temporarily shattered, until her magic is restored enough for her to reform it.

She is tired, but she continues regardless— there is part of her that can fight, instinctively, but instincts will not be enough to gt her though a serious fight, so she is stuck training, again.

( Make yourself useful, play your part right, puppet. Vessel may have some will of her own, but when she knows what her purpose is, she does not have a reason to go against it ).

She jumps back when a flurry of red flames are sent in her direction— red? That doesn’t seem quite right, despite the fact that it is far from the first time she has seen that attack ( rubs her eyes and they are back to a sea of blue ). She takes a moment to hang back and recollect herself; no time to question what she’s seeing, waits for his form to revert before she tries charging in. Keyblade collides with blade, holds there for a moment as she is stared down by green eyes before she is sent flying back and—

distinctly, she has the feeling he is holding back; a feeling that is similar to something she doesn’t quite know.

( Someone pleads with her to stop, and Xion only wishes that she could comply with it.

Somewhere deep in her soul, she too wishes she could stop ).

Girl plays her part very well. She is quiet, hidden beneath her cloak, does not spare a glance to their opponents

( They are your enemies. Do not spare them a second thought, she is told firmly, and like always does not question the orders she is given— the look in Saïx’s eyes when he gave her this order, however, does linger in her  mind.

It haunts her, so she does as she is instructed and ignores to the best of her ability ).

It is hard to ignore bright red that keeps catching her eyes, the brunet that she had seen on that day—

a face that shatters her world and—

home home home home.

She ignores the feeling of her reality being threatened and clings onto the fact that they are supposed to be the victors here

( Does she even want them to win...? )

It is some irony who they are fighting, but it is easier to just throw herself into fighting without question, express her frustrations through her weapon instead ( it is easier to swing a weapon instead of thinking about why they share a face, easier to strike again instead of questioning the tug of her heart ).

She summons her keyblade and uses their magic and fights because Xion no longer knows what else to do; fights because she feels numb ( and play your part, puppet, whispers the back of her mind ). She has trained for this day, knows which order of actions she needs to take, which attacks to do when.

She attacks the girl alike her because it is less painful than facing the others; some part of her does not want to hurt her either— does not want to hurt any of the three, but that is too complex a thought for a time like this.

They succeed, of course, but she feels no joy; feels nothing with her heart ( except stop stop stop stop ). She hangs back and watches, ignores the prickling pain in the back of her mind—

Vessel does not know when she moved, only that her hand is in pain and stop stop stop stop please don’t take—

The words her superior speaks do not make sense to her ( who would be friends with a pawn like her? ), despite the fact that it resonates with some part of her; ignores that and stands up, she has her orders and puppet will do as she is told.

Her hands tremble and her throat feels tight and all puppet girl wants to do is ask why—?

Her world shatters and crumbles around her when he hears him speak through a face that does not match the voice; wails with pain when static fills her ears and you’re home, this is home, home home home home home—

( And suddenly, everything falls into place )

Despite the knowledge that her newfound memories have given her, a part of her can’t help but feel she’s betraying them by fighting like this; using what she has been taught to give her an advantage, so Xion hangs back a little at first

( She has an easier time fighting when she thinks about how he strung her along like the puppet she is—

That doesn’t make it any easier when she sees the glimmer of contentedness in his gaze when she delivers the finishing blow )

Like this, he teaches her, guides her unsteady hands, shows her how to defend herself. A potion is slipped into her hand when Xion makes the mistake of trying to counter his attack while in berserk mode.

“Keep your distance and use your magic.” Saïx warns, expression as solemn as ever. “You’ll be of more use to just force them to run into my attacks by using your own.”

And then, her posture is changed one last time, begrudgingly.

“If you’re going to strike me down, do it like this.”

( Had it been said to anyone else, such course of action would have seemed suicidal )

Perhaps it is unsurprising, when their fight has finished, that Xion breaks down in tears and cries— feels with a heart she has always had from the start ( in retrospect, everything makes sense, at last ).

She pushes herself close to her two friends and clings to them; no more being separated, she refuses to lose them again.

( Home, her heart sings, she’s finally at home ).

All of it feels sort of surreal; not forgotten, existing on her own terms—

( Finally being the three of them, at the beach, like they had promised so long ago ).

She had seen the beaches a few times in all of her existence, but none of it equates to this; being able to smile and laugh with her two best friends—

Her and Roxas screeching when Axel dunks them in the cold, salty sea water—

The three of them sitting in the sand, eating ice cream like old times.

( The sun sets on this chapter of their old lives, and she cannot be any more content than that )

[liaragaming]

By The Fire

A random scene in my head I felt the need to write out. Solas joins up with Lavellan and party for some unknown reason in some unknown location in D4. Things are awkward. Angry kissing. Sex and angst (so much angst!). Dorian is pissed.

Also features Vaea from the comics (yay!)

NSFW – 2697 words

She can almost convince herself it’s like old times: sitting at camp with the Inquisition, battling Venatori and red templars in a dense forest.

But she’s in Tevinter, not Ferelden or Olais. Dorian’s pretense is familiar, but Vaea’s is relatively new. She’s missing half her left arm, and the meager stew they eat lacks it’s usual flair.

She was always the one who could turn boring porridge into something spectacular. But her usual foraging skills failed her this night. Her mind was elsewhere, and she hadn’t been able to stop her fingers from shaking. She gathered plants blindly and returned to camp after too short a hunt, fully expecting to come back and find him gone once again.

But he had not gone.

Solas sits beside her, sipping from his bowl. He wears a simple tunic and trousers, not like what he’d worn when with the Inquisition. These garments are thinner, the barest underclothes of his sentinel armor – except for the leg wraps, which are exactly as she remembers.

No one speaks. Dorian, who sits on a perpendicular log with Vaea shoots a few scrutinizing glances at Solas. But the meal passes in silence. And though there are things she’d like to say, they jumble together in her throat. She can barely look at the elf beside her.

“You need more firewood,” Solas says when their bowls are finished and no one has moved.

She glances at the single dying log in the fire and realizes he’s right. “Dorian, will you and Vaea collect some, please?”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot upward, his eyes wide with alarm and concern. But she nods to him, and he pulls a confused Vaea into the trees.

Even with the two of them gone, she continues to stare down at her bowl.

“Whatever you need to say,” he tells her. “You can say it.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” she admits, bitterness filling her voice.

“Start with what you’re thinking.”

She lets out a long exhale and stands, dropping her bowl by the log. She walks to the opposite edge of the fire and turns around. For the first time since they set camp, she takes in the whole of him.

There is much of the Solas she knew, his rigid body posture, the gentle look in his eyes… but he is also more. Underneath everything she finds so familiar and comfortable, there is something else she has only begun to understand; something that adds weight to the proud way he sits, to the question he holds in his eyes, to the feelings of rage and sorrow that climb up her throat.

“Did it mean anything?” she asks him, her voice shaking. “Any of it?”

The space between his eyebrows crinkle.

“Me,” she clarifies. “And Dorian.” She points toward the trees. “And all the other members of the Inquisition. Did we mean anything to you? Or were we all just pawns to use against Corypheus?”

He shakes his head. “You know the answer to that.”

“Do I?!” she steps toward him and he leans back. He, the Dread Wolf, flinches in the face of her demands.

It should tell her something, give her the answers to the burning questions in her heart. And perhaps it does because she turns away, angry tears coming to her.

“Why?” she asks, wiping at her eyes “Why did you..?”

She can’t finish, but Solas answers anyway. “I loved you.”

She spins around and strides toward him. “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare!”

He stands. “What do you want me to say? That I used you for my own sadistic pleasure? Would that help you?”

“Yes!”

He stares at her, his face twisted in his own anger and frustration. And for a moment, she thinks he’ll say it, he’ll give her what she needs to hate him. But his features soften, and she reminds herself that nothing with him is ever that easy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the heartache in the lines of his face makes her anger rise again.

He turns from her, but she gabs him and pulls him back, spinning him around. It’s the look of acceptance in his eyes, of defeat, that makes her bite back her anger, gritting her teeth. She could yell and scream at him, and he would take it. She could spit in his face, and he would do nothing.

It infuriates her that he won’t fight back, that he won’t give her something to push against.

So she kisses him instead, crushing her mouth to his with such force the inside of her lip splits against her teeth. His mouth opens in a gasp, and she forces her tongue inside, pressing into him, searching for the furthest depths she can penetrate. Her fingers dig into his arm, pulling him closer.

His hands press into her hips, and he kisses her so hard their teeth knock together. She pulls back to drag her incisors along his bottom lip. He returns the gesture, biting at her upper lip. His arms wrap around her waist, and she drags her nails down his shoulder. He scrapes his teeth along her tongue.

This is what she wanted, something to fight with, something to hit back as hard as she hit on. And when her anger and frustration are spent, she pulls away to look at him. His lips are swollen, his face flushed, and his eyes alight. She loves him like this, his wall of cool control finally broken down.

His bottom lip is busted, and she presses her tongue to the wound before kissing it. She is gentle, tender. And when he kisses her back with equal softness, she finds herself wanting things to be like they were, back when she loved him with all her heart, back when things were far less complicated. And when she pulls him closer, there is no anger, only warmth and affection.

The longer they kiss, the more she desires other things. But when she curls her fingers into the waist of his trousers and pulls their hips together, he pushes back.

“No, vhenan. I’ve hurt you enough.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t care.”

She closes the distance between them and slides her hands between his thighs.

He sighs, leaning his forehead on hers. “Vhenan.”

She strokes him till he’s hard and he leaves her forehead to trail kisses down her neck. She fumbles with the tie in his trousers while he works on the field gear around her waist she never bothered to remove since setting camp.

She makes an impatient whimper in the back of her throat.

“So you’re saying,” says Vaea behind him. “That the Inquisitor and Fen’Harel – the ancient elven god hellbent on destroying the world – were once… together? How?”

Dorian bends to pick up a fallen branch. “It’s complicated.”

“Are you sure we should have left her alone with him?”

He examines the thin branch, breaks it in half by standing on it, and adds both pieces to the pile of wood in his arms. “Trust me. It’s far more concerning what would have happened if we hadn’t left them alone.”

Vaea chuckles. “She’s not that scary.”

Dorian shakes his head. “You don’t know her well enough yet.” He jumps. “What was that?”

A sound came on the air. He thought-

“There! Did you hear that?”

“Erm... Dorian-”

“It’s coming from camp.”

“Dorian - wait!”

He drops the wood from his arms and runs, his hand reaching for the staff slung across his back. As he nears the camp site, he hears the sound again: a low moan.

He breaks through the trees and comes to a sudden stop at the sight before him.

At first, he thinks something terrible has happened, that Lavellan has been injured or worse as Solas lays over her, shielding her or attacking her.

But then he hears the moan again, and Lavellan raises her head to press her mouth against Solas’. The scene before him sifts with new meaning.

He takes a reflexive step back as he realizes his mistake, complicated by the fact neither of them bothered to remove most of their clothing.

Lavellan leans her head back, giving an audible sigh, and Dorian spins around, his brain remembering how to move his feet. He presses his hands to his ears as he hurries back into the trees.

Vaea approaches him, her hesitant stance and questioning gaze telling him she knew what was happening far earlier than he did.

“Right.” He’s unable to meet her eyes or shake the image of what he’d just seen from his mind. “What were we doing?”

“Gathering twigs?”

“Yes, that.” He shakes his head. “Let’s get back to it.”

Vaea scoffs. “Are you serious?”

Dorian gestures toward camp. “Do you want to interrupt them?!”

When she doesn’t move, he strides passed her, running a hand over his face as he peers into into the underbrush. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me.”

She shifts the bundle in her arms. “Help you with what?”

“I left a perfectly good pile of…” He clears his throat. “Wood around here somewhere.”

Being with her again is every bit as incredible as he remembers, more so in that he’d never thought it would happen again. And when they’re spent in each other’s arms, he finds her lips and kisses her. He wants nothing to take away this moment, nothing to rob him of this feeling that there is no force that could tear them apart.

But as he smiles down at her, his thumb stroking her cheek, reality begins to sink in. He notes it as the wonder dies from her eyes. They are still at odds with one another, and one passionate tussle – in the dirt no less – doesn’t change that.

He stands, mentally chastising himself. This was a mistake. He’d known better than to give in to his desire for her, yet he’d done it anyway. True, she’d coaxed him, but he should have been strong enough…

And now he’d hurt her, just as he’d known he would.

She won’t look at him as they readjust their clothing. She sits by the fire and runs her hand over her face. He doesn’t sit next to her. Instead, he stands behind her, wishing there was something he could say, something he could do to make this easier.

Dorian and Vaea return, their arms laden with fuel for the fire. Dorian glares at him with a piercing intensity, and Solas realizes he knows what happened. And there is nothing he can say or do in his defense.

“I’m going to bed,” Lavellan announces.

She rises and strides to her tent, not stopping to glance at Solas though he reaches out a hand to – to what? Stop her? Tell her he’s sorry? As if words could fix everything he’s put her through…

“I think I’ll retire too,” says Vaea quickly, dropping her wood by the fire and striding swiftly to her own tent.

He’s left with Dorian, who deposits his pile on top of Vaea’s and crosses his arms, glaring daggers.

Solas sighs, “Just say it.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Venom drips from his voice.

Solas shakes his head in perfect agreement that he’s done far too much. “What do you want me to do, Dorian?”

Dorian uncrosses his arms and strides toward him. “I want you to pack up your tent and your fancy armor and go. I want you to never contact her again, never touch her, never look at her, never breathe her name, never let another thought of her cross your mind. And when she’s forgotten you and lived a full and joyous life in spite of the hell you’ve put her through, then maybe I’ll be satisfied.”

Solas averts his gaze from Dorian’s fury. He swallows and nods. “You’re right. That’s exactly what I should do.”

“Then by the Void, why don’t you?”

Solas gives a bitter laugh and shakes his head again. “Because I am a moth, and she is a flame.” He looks back at her tent with longing, knowing full well he shouldn’t. “You’d all be better off if I just burned up and let that be the end of it.”

If Dorian reacts to his statement, he doesn’t notice. He sighs as he strides to his tent. He’d pitched it right next to hers like the fool he is. He enters, kicks his armor aside, and curls up in his bedroll.

He never should have involved her in this, never should have involved any of them. But he’d thought… well, it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. He made a thorough mess of things, and that’s all that matters.

A high pitched, muffled sound reaches his ears, and he raises his head from his pillow. It sounds again and again, and…

Fenedhis! is she crying?

He can hear it clearly now. Muffled, as though she were pressing her face to something to mute the sound, but there could be no mistaking it.

He curses himself as he lays back down. He did this to her, and now… He wants to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and cradle her. He wants to soothe her tears with kisses and gentle words and caresses.

But he gave up his right to comfort her a long time ago. And he’s probably the last person she wants right now.

He pulls his blanket over his head, trying to drown out the sound, but there is no relief for him. He sighs, accepting his punishment. He pulls his blanket back down and lays there, listening to her cries. Tears fall from his own eyes.

Dorian’s right. He should go. He should leave her. For once since he’d met her, he should do the right thing.

He rises, gathers up his armor, and steps outside his tent to put it on. It’s the clinking of the metal that draws her out to meet him.

“Are you leaving?”

He can’t tell if the hurt in her voice is from the pain he recently left her or if it’s new, if seeing him pack up his gear makes her hurt all over again.

“Vhenan…” He looks into her shinning eyes and realizes he does not have the will.

He sets his armor aside and steps to her, taking her tear-streaked face into his hands. “I have never had the resolve to be as strong as you needed me to be,” he explains. “That day when you first kissed me, I should have let you walk away. I should have never gotten you involved in this.” He takes a breath and continues. “I should go, but I need you to tell me to because I can’t…” He swallows back the emotion rising in his throat. “Tell me to go. Tell me you never want to see me again. Tell me your life would be better off without me. Please.”

She looks into his face, her eyes wide and swimming, and he has no idea what’s going through her mind. All he knows, is she has this one chance to free herself.

“Please, vhenan,” he says.

She lays her hand against his face and kisses him, the salt from her tears on her lips. And he accepts this. This is what goodbye should taste like, sweet and bitter all at once. This is what he will remember.

Then she pulls away from him, her hand dropping to his neck, and he waits for the words.

“Don’t go.”

His heart drops into his stomach like a rock, and he leans against her as his world spins.

She squeezes his shoulder and whispers again, “Don’t go.”

He shakes his head is disbelief.

She takes his hand, and he obeys as she leads him into her tent.

They lay together, their arms wrapped firmly around each other, and he can’t stop the tears falling from his eyes.

“I love you,” she whispers against his chest where her own tears are soaking the fabric of his tunic.

It’s the greatest curse he ever could have given her, and he has no idea how she can choose to carry it.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

[askscottatavie-blog]

Queen Takes King || Solo Para

Word Count: 2542 Note: So, this came out waaaaaay longer than I originally intended, and took much longer to write, but I’m super proud of it and I hope you enjoy!

Scotta had never really experienced a lucid dream before. In fact, she hardly ever remembered her dreams. But this, this felt different. Like she was dreaming, yet she was awake.

The sight of her old room startled her slightly. The decorations looked dated, with furniture yet to be broken by fits of teen rage. But something felt wrong. Off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it...

“You know, you always were my favourite.” A sharp turn towards the accented voice revealed a familiar blond, the sight of which caused Scotta’s skin to prickle.

“I should have known something was off about you.” She began, standing her ground as the much taller man approached her. “Twin intuition is one thing, but having the exact same imaginary friend? That’s unheard of.”

“See? This is exactly what I mean! You’re clever - you read into things."

“That’s called being cynical, not clever.” Scotta pointed out.

“Tomato, tomato. Say what you will, but it’s the cynical ones that tend to last.” He replied, making a wide gesture with his arms.

“Like you?” Her incredulity was only emphasized by the lift of her eyebrow.

“Like you.”

There was a brief silence between the two, where they did little but stare at one another. Keen eyes attempting to calculate each others’ next moves.

“So, what do you want?” Scotta took the leap, getting straight to the point. A grin spread across the mans face.

“What? I can’t visit an old friend?” He asked, holding his chest as if he were hurt. His voice mimicked this, but his eyes told a different story.

“You’re not that kind of person.” Scotta began, taking slow steps as she began to circle around him. “In fact, everything about this setting is off. You’ve bought me back to my childhood bedroom, presumably to make me feel more comfortable. Yet you’ve also come to me in a dream, maybe so you’d know that you’d have more control over the situation. But I think it’s more likely that you can’t come to me any other way. Because you still haven’t escaped, have you?” Silence answered her, causing a smirk to stretch her cheeks. “And to top it all off, if you are who I think you are, then the information recently brought to light gives you a motive. So correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you want something from me.”

A beat of silence.

“...Very perceptive.” His smirk now matched hers, although his held a hint of malice. He even mirrored her previous movements as he began to stalk around her. “However, there is one flaw in your little brainstorm.”

She raised her eyebrows in reply, ceasing in her movement and crossing her arms. His intimidation tactics were dated and obvious, as he got right up in her personal space, his chest against her back as he leaned down to whisper into her ear.

“You don’t know what it is that I want.”

“I know enough to make a logical guess.” Scotta shrugged. Imitating her own movements, the man only raised his eyebrow in return, causing the girl to roll her eyes. “Ragnarok. Something to do with Ragnarok. You want to end life on earth as we know it, and for some reason want my help to do it.”

“I knew that you’d done your studying.”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t.” She shrugged.

“So, what do you say, huh? End of the world? How about it?”

“Sorry to be a party pooper, but I’m not about to help you end the world. Unlike you, I happen to live in it.”

“What?” The man scoffed. “Your mortal life, here on Earth? You could be so much more than this - just as you were destined to be!”

“I was destined to be the orphaned bastard of your king. The only legacy he’s left me is to be a stain on his throne.”

“And I’m offering you vengeance-”

“On who?!” She exclaimed, her arms flailing violently as her calm composure fell for a moment. “A man I’ve never met, with motives I couldn’t even begin to understand? And what can you give me? The prize of a broken throne at the cost of your own petty revenge? No. I am sick of letting everyone else decide what’s best for me. From now on, I decide my own destiny. And I can guarantee that it doesn’t involve me helping you.”

“Is that so?” He asked, exiting her personal space so he could continue to circle her. “So you’re not even the slightest bit tempted? All it would take is one bite of a golden apple, and you’ll be a goddess. Bastard or not, with no pesky siblings in the way, you’ll be the rightful heir to the throne of the gods.”

“Queen of the damned? Sounds charming, but I’ll have to decline.”

“Really? Well then, I’m sure your brother wouldn’t be so quick-” Scotta cut him off, her tone sharp enough to cut stone.

“You leave Hew out of this.”

The man chuckled.

“Don’t you see? He’s always been a part of this. It’s either you or him, honey. Make your choice.”

Then there was silence.

“...No.” Scotta finally replied, causing him to frown.

“No?”

“This is my dream, right?” She began. “My subconscious. Which means that I make the rules.” With a flick of her hand, the scenery changed, and the blond gave her an incredulous look.

“...Chess?” He questioned, to which she nodded as she placed herself in the chair her mind had conjured.

“Chess. A game of wit and intelligence.” Scotta replied. “Two things you seem to value incredibly highly, I might add.” And within which I’m sure you’ll be eager to prove your superiority. “So, I’m going to raise the stakes. I win, and you leave me and Hew alone. You win, and I go through with this little plan of yours.” Her tone was reluctant, but decisive. Seating himself in the chair across from her, the man crossed his arms, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He leaned back, as if getting comfortable, but his gaze never left his opponent.

“I have to say, I like these odds.” He eventually replied.

“So, what do you say? Deal?”

“...Deal.”

The two shook hands, Scotta grinned. “Great. King's pawn to E4.” The man seemed shocked as the chess piece moved without being touched.

“We’re doing this verbally?” He asked, incredulously.

“What? Too complicated for you?” Scotta replied, mockingly. The man scowled.

“Never.” He grumbled, before studying the board for a moment, as if reminding himself of the game. “Pawn to E5.”

“Pawn to F4. King’s Gambit.”

“Pawn takes pawn.”

“Bishop to C4.”

“Queen to H4. Check”

“King to F1.”

“Pawn to B5.” The man gave Scotta a strange look, to which she merely shrugged in reply.

“Okay then. Bishop takes Pawn.”

“Knight to F6.”

“Knight to F3.”

“Queen to H6.”

“Pawn to D3.”

The blond grinned before he made his next move. “Knight to H5.”

"Scotta?” The knock at her door had already alerted her to her grandmothers presence, but she had always felt the need to announce herself in some way before she entered. A respect of the teenagers privacy, Scotta supposed. Perhaps she had learned from her mistakes while raising Merida.

“I’m coming. Just, give me a second.” She replied, trying her best to stay composed, although she was sure that her shuddering breath gave her away.

“You know, it’s okay to be nervous-” Eleanor began, before Scotta cut her off.

“But if I’m going to be queen-”

“You listen to me, young lady.” Eleanor cut her off, sitting next to her granddaughter and taking her hands between her own. “Right now, you’re not the heir to the throne. You’re a young girl who, for the first time in her life, is about to meet her biological mother. You’re allowed to be nervous - I would be worried if you weren’t. Being afraid isn’t always a weakness. Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise.”

“Why’s that?” Scotta sniffed. Eleanor merely smiled.

“Because it reminds us that we’re still human.”

Scotta simply raised an eyebrow. “Knight to H4.”

“Queen to G5.” He began, a toothy grin pulling maliciously at his cheeks. “So, are you giving up your Bishop at B5 or your Knight at H4?” There was a pause before Scotta replied.

“Neither. Knight to F5.” Her grin now mirrored his, which had fallen.

“Pawn to C6.”

“Pawn to G4.”

“Knight to F6.” Another pause as Scotta carefully studied the board.

“...Rook to G1.”

“Pawn takes your Bishop.” There was laughter in his eyes.

Scotta wasn’t sure what she had expected. A connection, maybe. Some kind of instant sign of ‘yes, this woman is my mother.’ Instead it was just, awkward. Like meeting a stranger for the first time at a party and being forced to interact. All at once, every expectation she had had about this day had both been shattered and met. “So, I assume you want to know why, I let you go.” She finally got out, a sharp breath interrupting the silence that had fallen over the three ever since they had been left to awkward small talk by their respective families. “That would be nice, yeah.” Hew replied, his tone far more snappy than it usually got. It quickly alerted Scotta to his own unease in the situation, but she didn’t know what she could do to make him feel anymore comfortable. While leaving was an option she imagined was at the forefront both of their minds, she doubted either of them genuinely wanted to. “Right...” She trailed off, clearing her throat and starting down at her wringing hands. “My, family is - was - very wealthy. We had a reputation - a certain image - to uphold. An image, I may have ruined.” The simultaneously raised eyebrow from both twins seemed to make her chuckle, as if it were somehow familiar. “I was engaged to an, an amazing man. But then, I met another man, and it was like a tornado, a storm. Everything just happened so quickly. Before I even knew what was happening, we were in bed together.” She paused, her own voice trembling. “I, I got pregnant, and when we found out how far along... Well, it was obvious that it wasn’t his. The engagement was called off, and I was thrown out. Eventually I found a place to stay, and a part time job, but I just wasn’t in the right place to raise children. I had no room for three of us to live, and I definitely didn’t have the money to raise you.” Scotta raised her head slowly to look the woman in the eye, and opened her mouth to speak, but she was cut off before a sound could emit from her lips. “I promise, it was never you.” She took her children's hands into her own. “I regret what I did every single day. But I want you to know that I never regretted you. Neither of you. Not for a second.”

“Pawn to H4.” Scotta announced, watching the pawn move with a careful gaze.

“Queen to G6.”

“Pawn to H5. Might want to watch your next few steps.” Her light teasing tone seemed to put him off slightly, his upper lip curling in annoyance.

“Says the girl who lost her bishop.” Despite his quip, it was clear that her own confidence was wearing him down slightly. “Queen to G5.”

“Queen to F3.” She knew that she had almost trapped his queen. The slight sweat on his brow indicated that he did too.

“Knight to G8.”

“Bishop takes Pawn, threatens Queen.”

With a grunt, he relented. “Queen to F6.”

“Knight to C3. Want to develop something other than your Queen?” She mocked.

“I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you - you’re still one Bishop down. Speaking of which. Bishop to C5.”

Scotta was already deep into the ancient tomes at the back of the castle’s library when Hew approached her.

“What’re you doing?” He asked, although Scotta didn’t turn to answer.

“Reading up on my Norse Mythology. I’m a bit rusty.” She teased. Mythology had never really been her thing, after all.

Hew, however, didn’t seem to be in the mood for games. “No, I was talking about your room. What’s going on?”

“Oh, that?” Scotta replied, surprise evident in her voice as she turned to face her brother. “I’m just moving to a different room. No biggie.” She shrugged.

Her brother still appeared confused. “...Why?”

Scotta sighed. “Want to start over, turn a new leaf, you know?”

“...Yeah, I know.” Hew nodded, before placing a firm hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly as he smiled. “Good for you, Tavie.”

Scotta mirrored his smile as their eyes met. “Thanks, Tahmas.”

“Knight to D5.” Scotta continued.

“Queen takes Pawn at B2.”

“Bishop to D6.”

“Queen takes Rook. Check.” He retaliated, although his furrowed brow made him appear more confused than smug.

“King to E2.” Scotta was calm, but his surprise remained.

“Bishop takes Rook. Your final Rook, by the way.”

“Intimidation doesn’t work if you don’t understand what’s happening.” Scotta pointed out, although her face remained passive, neutral. “Pawn to E5.”

“I’ve got my entire army bearing down on your King, and you’re moving a Pawn?” He questioned, his exasperation and confusion having clearly gotten the better of him.

“Think about it, old friend.” His pause was the only answer she needed.

“Whatever.” He grumbled. “Let’s just finish this. Knight to A6.”

“Knight takes Pawn at G7. Check.”

“King to D8. Try again.”

“Queen to F6. Check.”

“And my Knight takes your Queen.” His grin was victorious, a flame lit behind his eyes. “You’re down to a Pawn and a Bishop. Too bad you wasted your time moving the-” He stopped himself, the grin dissolving and the fire fading.

Scotta’s poker face finally broke into a smirk once more. “Bishop to E7. Checkmate.”

Her ‘old friend’ took the loss far better than she had expected him to, which only raised her suspicions. Leaning back in his chair, he raised his hands in defeat. “Well, looks like you got me, kid.”

“So, you’re going to keep your side of the deal, right?” Scotta raised an eyebrow, copying his movements as she leaned back in her own chair, crossing her arms. “You get out of my head and stay away from my brother.”

“Hey, a deals a deal.” The man agreed, placing his hands on the chairs arms in order to push himself up. “I’ll get out of your hair. Promise.”

“Good.” Scotta replied, getting up from her own chair, as if to politely show him out of the door. However, as he began to disappear - taking the dreamscape with him -  she spoke again.

"Oh, and Loki?” She began, causing him to freeze in his tracks as he turned his head to face her. “If I hear that you went back on our deal, then Narfi won't be the last of your children to die at the hands of an Asguardian."

He turned away again, and she missed the smirk that twisted his features.

“I’d like to see you try, princess.”

[ofmsfortune]

THE AMOUNT OF  people who were starring at her tattoo and thought that she was not noticing the way their eyes pierced her skin like a million little needles was truly shocking, freya mused as she took another sip of her drink. of course, she admitted to herself, she had picked a dress that did show off a little more ivory skin than usually,  a dress dyed in a shade uncomfortably close to blood for quite a few people. not that the vampire cared. making other people feel safe was not part of her strategy,  ever.

( some adrenaline made the blood taste sweeter, in her experience. )

SHE SIGHED AS  she lazily pulled a loose thread off her shoulder, letting dark blue eyes roam over the room again. she caught at least five different sets of eyes while doing so and a groan escaped her. she would truly prefer for him to arrive soon, preferably before she would have to get rid of obnoxious humans in one way or another. compelling them into leaving her the hell alone would be one option. tearing out their throats would be another, worse yet more satisfying solution.

»the tattoo is new.«

ON MOST DAYS,  she would have berated herself. she should have been able to take note of the sudden appearance of another vampire before said other vampire took the seat next to her, but --- dylan had always been an exception from that rule. he did not register in her mind as a threat  ( not anymore )  and so she had gotten awfully bad at sensing his approach. that she was so used to him that she typically felt his absence added to the problem, but she was not inclined to tell him that anytime soon.

SHE SMILED AS  she turned her head into his direction. it had been decades since they had last seen each other --- she had left for paris, he had stayed in the us --- but there was the same spark of old familiarity that had always made her feel calmer than most other things. his hair was messier than it had been in the 1940s, longer as well, but his dark suit was as immaculate as always and the expression in his eyes had not really changed either.

»it is,« she finally confirmed as she continued to search his face for an obvious blemish, for something that would indicate that his last years had been nowhere as peaceful as they should have been, but aside from the tiniest scar imaginable on his jaw, her search yielded no result. good, she preferred it like that.

HIS FINGERS WERE  blissfully cool against her skin as they traced the tattoo that covered not just her left shoulder blade but also the scar her mother had inflicted there, centuries ago. but the raven that held a rose in its claws was more than just something that hid the trace of a past defeat. it was also a declaration of war --- and he knew that, just as well as she did. »i can't say i saw it coming, though my sister's probably surprised me more,« he mused aloud as he reached for her drink, taking a sip and making a face at its sweetness. »some things, it seems, don't change.«

»how  is  auburn?« freya asked, leaning into the touch and running her thumb over the knuckles of his other hand. »still living in  platonic spookiness  with that dimitri fellow?«

HE HAD THE  audacity to chuckle at the term --- as if he had not been the one to tell the two people in question about it, a century or two ago --- before he shook his head. »not right now ... she's pretty nomadic these days and i got no clue where he's lurking,« he replied with a vague shrug, »though the last thing i heard was that they were on good terms so that, at least, hasn't changed at all.«

FREYA SIGHED DEEPLY  as she waved at the waiter, her eyes never leaving dylan as she reached for her drink again. »how utterly predictable these two are, sometimes,« she said, though it was not really a complaint. she held a certain amount of respect for people who could afford to form a routine and stick to it. because it meant that they did not have to fear enemies that might come for them and use their routine against them. because it meant that they could feel safe in their own skin. it was a luxury she had never been able to afford, despite her noble origins.

IN THE WAR  between her parents, she had picked a side early on --- even if she had not always advertised it as clearly as she did now. the tattoo that combined two symbols commonly associated with her father was only about three years old, after all. not that it made a difference. freya had always been jean luc's daughter, just like she had been when she had been still aalis and dying after her mother had struck her down one too many times.

»don't act like you don't like predictable in others, freya,« dylan remarked as he raised an eyebrow. »helps you figure out their weak spots.«

FOR A MOMENT, she pouted --- though she knew that he had a point, that it truly was the way she operated, the way she kept herself alive. not that she would ever make the mistake of going after his older sister. freya had made a lot of mistakes in her life, but she could say that for all the stupid things she had done, she had never challenged auburn. because that was typically the last thing a vampire did before never being seen or heard of ever again. because not only was the redhead old and thus experienced when it came to battles, she was also rumoured to be one of the physically strongest vampires. 

THEN, MERE MOMENTS  later, her shoulders fell and she brushed back a strand of her hair. »i missed you,« she said slowly, calmly. it was a fact she had not wanted to waste a lot of time on, but it was something that had been  a thing  while she had been back in europe and she figured that it was only good manners to let him know. and, of course, a small part of her wanted him to tell her that he had missed her as well.

»maybe you shouldn't have gone back to paris then,« he replied as the waiter set down his drink in front of him. usually, she would have asked when, exactly, he had placed his order but while he had not quite her  ( or her mother's )  level,  dylan  was  skilled in mind control and compelling a waiter to get him a drink was hardly the biggest challenge he could possibly encounter.

FREYA SIGHED AS  she twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. »you know why i had to go back, dylan,« she said quietly, offering neither explanation nor apology because both would be wasted on him. she had explained her reasoning to return to the city where she had first hidden after breaking free from her mother's control years ago --- and the facts had not changed since.

SHE HAD NOT  been happy when she had been back in france. she had been content, half the time, and concerned about his wellbeing the other half, but she had been too busy searching for her father  ( and helping him, once she had found him ),  to return to the us any sooner. she had been torn, truth be told, between wishing that dylan was happy and doing alright and jealously hoping that he was missing her as much as she had missed him. some of this twisted hope had faded over the years, but there had been moments when she had remembered that neither of them had been happy the day she had left and in her worst moments, she had clung to that memory.

FOR A MOMENT,  he did not say anything and merely looked at her from deceiving calm dark eyes, searching for something --- and ultimately finding it. »do you blame me for still thinking that you shouldn't have gone?« he asked calmly, his forefinger now tracing the thin line that marked her throat. »that one's new, too. your mother?«

AS IF THERE  was someone else who would dare to harm her. as if there was someone else who had chased her through the centuries, never resting, never slowing down. freya's mother was why she had returned to france, more than fifty years ago, and she was why she had returned to the states now. audierna de gourgue was what haunted freya's nightmares, what caused her to be always careful --- because after having been pawn in the woman's games once, freya had no interest in ever playing along again.

»we had an encounter --- and a disagreement in marseille,« the woman finally said with a light nod. it had been nothing too serious, had been nearly insignificant compared to previous unpleasant  family reunions,  but that had been largely because audierna had not seen this coming and had thus been alone. that alone had evened the odds considerably as usually, the older woman hid behind her creations, her pawns --- brainwashed and conditioned to obey her every order. freya loathed it when she had to fight one of them; because not only did they not have a say in anything but also because she had been in their shoes, once.

BECAUSE WHILE HER  mother had never had use for her as a daughter, she had reconsidered her initial assessment after freya had survived being turned into a vampire. because only then audierna had considered her own flesh & blood to be  useful.  because once this had happened, she had been able to turn her daughter into a mindless creator of  death and devastation,  a weapon to finally impress her husband, the then-girl's father. because that action had been the first and last time audierna de gourgue had gotten under jean luc's skin.

ON HER LEFT,  dylan groaned. »i cannot believe that it has been centuries and no one has gotten rid of her,« he mumbled, shaking his head. a part of him would love being the one to get rid of the once-duchess, freya knew, but as long as she had known him, he had always picked his battles after he had taken long-term consequences into account. and with someone as volatile as her mother, it was impossible to predict who would be hit by the fallout.

( still, something about the way he was apparently  considering  to rid the world of the woman was quite attractive in freya's book. )

FREYA DID NOT  answer right away. instead, she reached for his hands and squeezed them gently before she leaned in and pressed her lips against his cheek. »she will get what she deserves, sooner or later,« she said quietly. it was something she had had to tell herself many times in her life because she longed for the day when audierna de gourgue would no longer plague the world with her existence. »no one gets away from justice forever.«

»you are more of an optimist today than you were before you left.« dylan's voice was calm, neutrally observant, but there was the smallest trace of confusion in it. it was something most would have missed, but freya was not only the antithesis to most people, she had also spent centuries around the other vampire. she knew dylan better than she knew most people, and she could tell when there was a detail he was at odds with. and in this case, it had to be the mystery of what had caused her change of heart, the difference in her mindset.

AND SHE COULD  understand his quiet concern. after marseille, she had felt nothing but despair. at the time, optimism had seemed like a fairy tale parents told their children to chase their nightmares away, but she had recovered from the encounter, especially in the last few weeks, after she had gotten around to finally call him.

BOTH HER HANDS  reached out to cup his face and freya smiled, sincerely, as she rested her forehead against his. »i learned a lot about myself when i was on my own,« she said. »most importantly: i learned that i'm always happier when i'm around you. so...« she trailed off, trying to figure out a good metaphor to explain the way she felt right now, the way she felt something that was very similar to giddiness but much calmer, more steadier. »...seeing you again ... it makes me happy. it makes me --- hopeful, i guess.«

HE DID NOT  say anything, instead he closed the gap between their faces as he kissed her, and her eyes slid close and the sounds of the people around her were drowned out as she no longer focused on anything aside from him. it was easy to slip back into this, she concluded, as she angled her head just a little more to avoid an awkward collision of their respective fangs as the kiss deepened. it was easy because it felt right. her hands in his hair, his on her waist --- pulling her in, pulling her closer. it was no tender kiss, it was hungry and charged with decades of separation. she had missed him, desperately, but she had been too busy waging a war to return any sooner.

»missed you,« she breathed as she rested her forehead against his shoulder, seemingly to catch her breath. and in a way, although she had not truly needed oxygen in centuries, it was true.

»welcome back,« he said plainly.

FREYA SMILED AS  she bowed her head. »it's good to be home again,« she replied.

[augustdecaymuse]

Aidan App V2

<span><b>name:</b>Aidan Hunter Thiessen</span>

<span><b>birthday:</b> 10/14/1990</span>

<span><b>occupation:</b> Thief/Entertainer</span>

<span><b>species:</b> Kokopelli</span>

<span><b>gender:</b> Cismale</span>

<span><b>orientation:</b> Androsexual</span>

<span><b>birth place:</b> Weston, Massachusetts</span>

<span><b>father:</b> Sigmund Thiessen</span>

<span><b>mother:</b> Cathrine Thiessen</span>

<span><b>sibllings:</b> Many</span>

<span><b>significant other:</b> None</span>

<span><b>children:</b> None that he knows of</span>

<span><b>personality traits</b> Sarcastic, Witty, Flirtatious, Self-Motivated, Generous, Wary, Vain, Pessimistic, Loyal, Adaptable.</span>

<span><b>likes:</b>Motorcycles, Cars, Energy Drinks, Birds, Shots, Naps, Money, Classic Rock, Leather.</span>

<span><b>dislikes:</b> Tea, Feet, Big Dogs, Police, Tight Spaces, Cold Temperatures, Ask Him He Can Rant Forever.</span>

</div></div></div>

<div class='bam-panel'><input type='radio' id='bam-panel-3' name='bam-panel-group-1'>

<label for='bam-panel-3'>three</label>

<div class='amp-content' id='three'><div class='box'>

tw: neglect, crime

<p>

WHAT IS YOUR PERFECT IDEA OF HAPPINESS? <p>

“White picket fence covered in barbs and electricity, a pool, and a hot hunk in speedo with my name tattooed across his ass serving my cocktails.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR? <p>

“Fear itself? Fuck, I don’t know. Isn’t there an expression that only idiots don’t get scared. I don’t like to think about that stuff. I like to pretend that I’m not going over the hump of getting older, wiser, and ever the more useless. I don’t want to have to ever give up my lifestyle out of my own free will. Though sometimes I worry that I’ll never grow because of that and I’ll be a selfish brat until the day I die no matter how many have to go before me.” <p>

WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN YOURSELF? <p>

“Oh boy there’s a plethora to choose from. I’m selfish, immature, and cowardly. I also have some pretty nasty morning breath I’ve been told too so there’s that. Yuck.” <p>

WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN OTHERS? <p>

“Entitlement for sure. Nothing worse than trying to split up loot with someone who thinks they deserve more than the rest.” <p>

WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST ADMIRE? <p>

“Any person who has clawed their way so far in this world ain’t good, so no one.”

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST EXTRAVAGANCE? <p>

“My half a life.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND? <p>

“Hangry af.” <p>

WHAT DO YOU CONSIDEER THE MOST OVERRATED VIRTUE? <p>

“Chastity. It’s going to go eventually, might as well trade it away for some Doritos.” <p>

ON WHAT OCCASION DO YOU LIE? <p>

“Whenever it makes things easier. Lies are about convenience. Telling the truth isn’t always the solution, but neither is getting caught up in a ball of lies. It’s all about being smart. People think criminals are stupid but most of us aren’t dumb as they might think.” <p>

WHAT DO YOU MOST DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE? <p>

“Without the beard strange people offer me candy and try to get me to hop into their vans to play.” <p>

WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST DESPISE? <p>

“Wardens, judges, police officers, politicians, pretty much everyone. I never got hugged growing up, what can I say? Blame my parents. I hate them too.” <p>

WHAT QUALITY DO YOU MOST LIKE IN A MAN? <p>

“How big their ‘personality’ is of course.” <p>

WHAT QUALITY DO YOU MOST LIKE IN A WOMAN? <p>

“If she’s sweet enough to help me through tough times, slick enough to make a steal, and strong enough to slap me up when I need it.” <p>

WHICH WORDS OR PHRASES DO YOU MOST OVERUSE? <p>

“Pet names, baby, sweetheart, bitch, dead-to-me, I spare no one.” <p>

WHAT OR WHO IS THE GREATEST LOVE IN YOUR LIFE? <p>

“Chips. RIP my waistline. Thankfully running for my life and performing keeps a body good.” <p>

WHEN OR WHERE WERE YOU HAPPIEST? <p>

“On my bike, wind through my hair, engine roaring. Would kill to have those days back. I miss the open roads and taste of true freedom.” <p>

WHICH TALENT WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO HAVE? <p>

“Fart dollar bills?” <p>

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD IT BE? <p>

“I don’t like to think about this but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if I was my dad’s child. Would I have been treated like part of my family? I would have been spoiled like the rest of the brat pack. Never would have run away. Lived a normal life of a rich kid. I wouldn’t have become /me/, but would have I been happy? Who knows… It’s not worth the energy…”<p>

WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER YOUR GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT? <p>

“Getting the guts to actually leave home and become my own man.” <p>

IF YOU WERE TO DIE AND COME BACK AS A PERSON OR THING WHAT WOULD IT BE? <p>

“A bird would be cool, get lots of frequent flyer miles.” <p>

WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO LIVE? <p>

“Don’t know. Here’s pretty nice for now. I like the heat and the strange mix of anonymity and familiarity in the town.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR MOST TREASURED POSSESSION? <p>

“Leather jacket, provides some storage, keeps me warm and looking damn fine.” <p>

WHAT DO YOU REGARD AS THE LOWEST DEPTH OF MISERY? <p>

“Knowing that I’m not my father’s child but I’m not even human. They weren’t right to ostracize me for the reasons they did but they should have stayed away. I’m a monster.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION? <p>

“Before shit went down I was a thief if you call that a job. Ran around with the biker gang I went with and we’d break loose. I’d swipe stuff and pawn it to get by. Went to prison for it and that’s how I ended up like this so I wouldn’t say it’s exactly my favorite job, but at the time I liked the adrenaline. The dominance and most everything else about it.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR MOST MARKED CHARACTERISTIC? <p>

“I’m a brown eyed boy.” <p>

WHAT DO YOU MOST VALUE IN YOUR FRIENDS? <p>

“Loyalty. I want friends that won’t betray me even when I feel like I can’t trust myself.” <p>

WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE WRITERS? <p>

“The fucker who writes Toy Story 2 was ok in the bathroom stalls.” <p>

WHO IS YOUR HERO OF FICTION? <p>

“Ugly duckling. Guess who’s a swan now bitches?” <p>

WHICH HISTORICAL FIGURE DO YOU MOST IDENTIFY WITH? <p>

“Probably some guy back in the medieval ages who walked out his door and a chamber pot randomly got emptied on his head.” <p>

WHO ARE YOUR HEROES IN REAL LIFE? <p>

“Zippo.” <p>

WHAT ARE YOU FAVORITE NAMES? <p>

“Mike Hunt.” <p>

WHAT IS IT THAT YOU MOST DISLIKE” <p>

“Not being sure whether I want to change my ways or not. On one hand I could give up being a thief, keep entertaining as my income and settle down here. Or I could do what I always do, give up and run. I just don’t know anymore. It just seems like instinct now to do the latter. Fight or flight I always have given into fear.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST REGRET? <p>

“Getting caught and going to prison.” <p>

HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO DIE?” <p>

“I would have liked to die before I was even born to be honest. Would have saved me a lot of angst and money on Marylin Manson merch. Probably some other people their lives too.” <p>

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? <p>

“I don’t bite, unless you want to play rough.”

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<p></p><span>friends</span> Aidan has been in town for a few months and is likely to have some friends by now. He’s extremely social and likes to hang around bars, clubs, and other entertainment establishments to raise hell merriment. He mainly works as a singer in town so far but has been known to do odd jobs as well to get by. He’s also likely to have met people on the road in the past since he’s traveled a lot in his lifetime ever since he was sixteen. Since he’s also got a criminal history with thievery and a criminal record he might have some people who know him from prison. He doesn’t like to get close to many since there’s a lot of abandonment in his history. That and he fears of hurting people being a kokopelli, but to those he truly considers himself loyal to he’s generous and extremely protective of.

<p></p><span>enemies</span> Oh boy this one’s got a mouth on him. He’s extremely snarky and doesn’t have respect for authority. In fact quite the opposite, he goes out of his way to antagonize those he perceives with power (i.e. law, money, education, etc) with biting remarks and almost teenage antics. However he’s not particularly violent. Only in times of desperation has he used his powers for his gain. He doesn’t to want mortal enemies, but some might not take too kindly to his playful nature.

<p></p><span>lovers</span> He’s never been in love before and honestly never plans to be. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, it’s just he doesn’t think he’s lucky enough or deserving for it. He however is very sexual. He uses his body to get ahead at times. And has explored many facets of different kink communities. But he keeps emotions out of things and makes that very clear with those he ends up around, for better or for worse. However perhaps there’s someone out there who could change things for good.