#switch is dead so I should be dead whatever but I have other hobbies to fill my time

[southislandwren]

Breaking my complaining silence to say I’ve been making more insta posts lately but it’s mostly bc I have a feeling who will die this spring and I need as many pics of him up on the internet as possible before it happens

[house-bound]

Once I saw someone saying that bigender Sollux was too on the nose and like that stuck out to me because you could say literally everything about Sollux is on the nose.

Sollux’s entire thing is duality, his two colored shades, his interest in coding is because binary, when he becomes half dead half alive, his interest in Aradia and Feferi are both extremes in the hemospectrum and are themed around Death and Life, on one of the flashes he has a brief crush on Gamzee, the pacific guy who just snapped and now switches between lower and upper case, Gamzee who btw is a capricorn, between aquatic and terrestrial life.

He has two dreamselves for fucks sake, that is never explained, his actual sign is derse even though he is in both moons, that is an thing that only happens to him and the one other goldblood, because their entire thing is duality.

My point is why would you argue that headcanoning him as bigender is too on the nose as if that has been a objection for literally anything else for his character? How is him being bigender different from other traits for his character being decided to match his theme?

That is how the trolls work, a lot of things about them like their hobbies and jobs (Terezi collecting Scales and being dragon themed, Kanaya being themed around Mother Mary, named Maryam, being forced into a “mom friend” role) as well as their goals and traits (Again Kanaya’s desire to “mother” the entire troll species by securing the matriorb) follows whatever the trolls theme is.

Using Kanaya as an example again, her constellation is usually presented as a woman, just chilling on the sky, and Kanaya is a woman, so her gender matches her sign, would that be considered too on the nose and forced like how Bigender Sollux apparently is?

Eridan being a man might also be “on the nose” since the Aquarius constellation is a male water carrier, Pisces is Aphrodite turned into a fish, who is a woman, Capricorn is Diyonisus turned into a sea goat, therefore is Feferi being a woman, Eridan and Gamzee being men are all too on the nose aren’t they? Should we start disregarding any headcanon that makes Feferi a woman, Eridan a man and Gamzee a man? Maybe! Since apparently that is on the nose, which very little things in Homestuck are, so we should keep those as far from the nose as possible.

Let’s take all of our gender headcanons and keep them as far from this universal entity known as “THE NOSE” as possible! Since that is a parameter that is worth using at all for things in homestuck, but only things related to gender, let’s just make Gamzee a woman so it’s not a direct reference to the gender of her star sign, because if a character trait of a homestuck troll is related to their respective star sign than it is bad writing! If anything about homestuck is anywhere near the facility of a single organ used for breathing and perceiving smells than it is bad.

So yeah I just wanted to be annoying about this because since when is something being too close the respiratory receptor a reason for us to avoid it. Are things like Karkat having a crab dad also on the olfactory orifices? Should we rewrite the entirety of Homestuck as to avoid things being there? Should we just remake Karkat’s dad into a horse since that is distant enough from his theme that it is no longer predictable or corny or whatever? Or are things too on the nose only when they are trans headcanons? Is that where we cross the line? When trans and nonbinary people dare to exist?

[rambleswhatsthepoint]

09/24/2022

So i just watched Thor Love and Thunder.  I liked it.  It made me cry, lol.  I feel like so many things can make me cry these days.  It was funny, it had action, it had a lot of actors in it surprisingly, it pulled on my heartstrings, it made me sad, and it made me cry.  Overall, I liked it and would definitely watch it again.  

Earlier this morning I did another run + walk, just the second one since I sprained my ankle.  Got up to 5.1 on the later intervals, so I’m feeling pretty happy!  It doesn’t feel too badly right now either, so I am hopefully that means I’m really on my way to being all better. Hopefully getting the jogging motion up with help all the muscles and tendons or whatever loosen up even more so i can get that full range of motion and really be able to run again.  I’m two weeks late for the half marathon training I was supposed to start.

1 of the crystal red shrimp I found dead, the other I can’t find anywhere, so i’m guessing it’s also dead.  But the fish in the tank are just fine.  So i’m just going to go with the fact that they were very small and probably just to osensitive.  I dunno if i should just fill this tank with other small fish... or if i go back to my dream of having a shrimp tank.  I dunno, I guess I’ll wait a bit for the tank to settle more.  ugh i hate that it took so long for the tank to cycle and i lost all the little yellows i had in the smaller cube tank :(

I sat at my computer yesterday thinking about firing up a game.  I used to sit for HOURS and hours on my computer playing elder scrolls online.  Just fell off it I guess.  Can’t bring myself to fire up the ps4 to continue my replay of Odyssey or the Switch to continue on with Zelda.  I had described to someone how I “used to have hobbies”.  What the hell is that, can one really just feel no motivation to do things that I used to really, really enjoy?   Part of me is a little Ok with it i guess?  I had always wondered why i spent so much time and effort into shit that isn’t even “real”.  My crazy Brit friend had said, if you’re enjoying it, don’t judge it - if it makes you happy, then it is worth it.   I suppose that makes some sense?  If it brings you fulfillment, then it is good.  I guess the same things just aren’t bringing me fulfillment anymore.

speaking of, I still need to find a new job.  ugh the work itself is not bad.  I’m just tired of the hypocrisy and bullshit happening around me.  but they definitely did the right thing - it’s super hard for me to find a new job where i’ll get paid the same or more and be able to wfh.  my job is too specialized and they pay me too much.  and, i have to be so careful now since i’m single income only now.  Can’t afford to lose my job, get paid less or i’ll lose my house and so much more.

my throat felt scratchy this morning.  I think it’s cause of the weather changing only.  it really feels like fall now and i love it.  the 90+ degree bullshit can be gone forever.

not sure what else to do today.  my life is just so boring.  may venture outside and go to the mall or do some errands just to break up the day.

[kimyoonmiauthor]

How literary agents can help Neurodiverse/Neurodivergent People (and everyone) query

The idea for this came from: https://twitter.com/cheyannemonkman/status/1531243041373028354

The list is my own compiled from different writers and experience with querying and being rejected.

Agents are human too, and often they don’t know what a writer’s life is like, since not all of them are writers. Also, busy. Also underpaid.

So since I’m neurodivergent, but not on the autistic spectrum, I thought I would help bridge the gap and list a wishlist of things writers who are neurodivergent would like to see from agents to help us and other writers query you. And no, I’m not aiming to vilify agents, etc. Just hoping to bring together two groups to help everyone. Sometimes accommodating disability helps everyone.

Introduction: I date far enough back in time that the only way to submit was to get a big book from the Library or purchase one and then go line by line and find places to submit. Yeah.

So this kind of thing wasn’t industry standard for obvious reasons. How are you supposed to do it in 100-250 words? I understand you very much that’s impossible.

However, as we converted to digital and things settled down, I think we can upgrade a bit and help everyone out while being accommodating to those with disability/neurodivergent. And no, I’m not name calling for agents who don’t do this. I’m asking you consider it. The Author Wishlist for agents:

How up to date is your Publisher’s Marketplace, website and Mswl?

Put up a date when you update the genres, etc or aim to update all at once so they aren’t out of alignment.

How do you want to be addressed specifically?

Ms. Mr,. Miss., Mrs.

Honorific, no honorific?

Name:

Full name, surname, first name?

List pronouns?

In case we need to talk to another agent in the agency.

Form of address:

Hello, Hi, Dear? Don’t care.

Query Letter formatting

Some agents are dead set against putting the word count info first. Some say definitely put the book description first. Which are you? Should we put how we found you, if relevant first or last?

Our Credentials? First or last?

Author biography

Only include if it has writing/life accomplishments relevant to the manuscript?

Y/N

Hobbies?

Y/N

Sentence limit?

Y/N

Hard Word Limit?

Some agents say a fantasy over 110K--will not look at it. Others say send whatever--Sara Maas got in with a 250k manuscript. Which one are you? Where are your hard word limits on fully edited manuscripts for the genres you rep?

Trigger Warnings?

Should it be in the Query letter, with the full manuscript request, synopsis and/or cover letter.

Yes/No. If you want specific types especially... up to you.

If you don’t list it, it makes it really, really hard on writers to divine. And some agents, like Janet Reid say a hard no. Make it obvious.

How long do you want the synopsis?

1 page, 2 pages, 4-5?

As noted by Vanessa MacLaren-Wray (Added with permission) (Dec 27)

Is the synopsis length dependent on single or double spacing?

Most say double, some some say single. Which is it?

Will you accept manuscripts that are not conflict narrative 3/5 act?

yes/no If you have no clue what I’m talking about: https://www.kimyoonmiauthor.com/post/641948278831874048/worldwide-story-structures

If the author plays with the story structure to fit their marginalization, such as being Neurodivergent mental health, etc, other than the 3/5 act, will you auto-reject?

Yes/no

When will we get our query answers back?

When is it Dead on arrival? 3 months? 6 months? 10 months? If you plan not to answer at all, tell us a specific cut off date.

If you’re requesting a full, please list if you would like the epilogue and author notes and when we should expect to hear back before poking you.

No, really, the industry rules became fuzzy after switching to digital. Even pros aren’t sure anymore. It used to be a hard no. But now it’s a fuzzy yes, maybe no. Also doc, pdf, etc.

Are you a mood reader?

Might prevent retractions. Don’t blast it on Twitter--update your website. Your twitter post won’t last. You know what does? The mswl and your website.

How do you like to work with authors?

I really appreciate agents who are up front about this. Hold hands type, edit it? Just sell it? etc.

Also, I have to note, if you’re open to diversity, be explicit about it and include the books you would like in your mswl AND in your reading list.

Diversity statements that you really are prepared to work with. If you’ve read Fault in Your Stars, but haven’t really read Sitting Pretty, people will notice. If you’re calling for PoC books, but your top three books of all time are white cishet male, people are less likely to believe you. I get the pressure bias--when asked people tend to list white cishet abled male books. But if repeatedly challenged and you fail, it’s not likely writers will believe you. You’re asking for PoC books, you should list PoC books and show familiarity by being able to rattle off story structures and fundamentally be able to tell how they work (better than the list above.) Same with disability, queer, etc. Show your capability to sell those books, not by your client list only, but by what you read for pleasure. Because privilege qualifying exists and make your place a safe, warm and fuzzy place to be.

Manuscript Format

The old conventions are two hyphens for a dash, dumb quotes, and let the typographers deal with things like italics, so underline. Some agents like this style and like to say, “Standard manuscript style.”

But there is a new convention where the dash is represented by the dash, the quotes are smart, and you use italics for italics. This is called, “Standard manuscript style.”

Some agents scoff and blast on twitter, “Why are you giving me your address?”

While others are saying, “Absolutely give me your address on your doc manuscript.”

And this is called, “Standard manuscript style.”

And then you see the problem here. You agents don’t agree what “Standard Manuscript style” is. And it’s only changed in the last 7 years (2017-ish, old Manuscript style was more widely accepted). And you KNOW how long it takes to sometimes get especially diverse books to be noticed.

So kindly tell us which camp you belong to in the “Standard manuscript style.” Especially if you care about manuscript style on these features.

Small Note about Document Formats: Accept ODFs

Accepting odfs is free. Open Office is free to download and cross platform/OS compatible. Sometimes people can’t afford Word. And Word is not free on all platforms. Sometimes exporting to Word corrupts the file, such as the case with Google Docs-->docx files (it removes double spacing, etc)

It costs you nothing to accept odf files and helps those who might not be able to afford Word on their machine to have access to give you files.

https://www.openoffice.org/download/

Please consider nixing all REQUIRED comps

https://www.kimyoonmiauthor.com/post/702003546640547840/philosophically-and-academically-why-im-against

Longer post is there explaining why in academic, marketing and writing history terms. But the biggest take away, I would think is that it is discriminatory towards people who have diversity--If you are calling for diversity, while asking for comps, you are limiting your clients and advertising you aren’t good at marketing. Some of our books simply do not exist, but if they were out there, they would work and sell. If you want to test the writer’s marketing skill, then there are much better metrics than comps. Comps should stay on Twitter and in conventions, though Elevator Pitches are better. (Added later than the initial post)

Level of Personalization (added from Vanessa MacLaren-Wray @CometaryTales on Twitter)

Some agents hate it and find it “creepy” and rather that “you get to the point”.

But others like things like “Stickers” and “Oh we went to the same college.”

While others are in between that point and want something more business professional such as “We met at X event/convention/conversed online.”

Do you need the how and why we chose you? Or would you prefer more hands off?

(Added later than the initial post)

Conclusion

If you think this is too long to post, you can post an example of a fake one with formatting. If you don’t care, explicitly state that. Some agents out there are very strict on these things, but the thing is--writers can’t read your mind. The standards have shifted in the digital age and it’s not consistent as it used to be. And even if we could read your mind, in most science fiction we have to be in the proximity of you to do so. So if you really care that much, help us help you so we don’t get rejected for things we can’t divine, and you get to enjoy all of the query letters and such from people who love following directions exactly how you like them.

Also complaining on Twitter about writers when you *didn’t* put it into any available material like your website, mswl or Publisher’s marketplace, honestly isn’t that helpful for neurodivergentpeople or much of anyone. I *do* get that it’s deeply satisfying, but it doesn’t help us to do better by you. We can’t read every tweet, especially those of us with PTSD, ADD, ADHD or sensory issues. It’s too much input. Invisible rules help no one and those of us who are neurodivergent might look down on you for it. If it matters that much to you and your well-being please, please put it somewhere accessible. Blasting people for things they don’t know about you and striking them publicly doesn’t look very professional to me, but then I’m neurodivergent, so maybe my perspective is different from yours.

Either way accommodating neurodivergente people is helping everyone.

[wolf-and-bard]

The Geraskier Soccer Parents AU of my dreams (in an early morning strike of weird-brain):

-Geralt knows he isn't the best dad ever. He tries so goddamn hard, but his job is demanding and consumes so much time and even with Ciri being seven already, he still has essentially no clue what he's doing. He sometimes falls into bed, half-dead, and she is the one to give him a good-night kiss. He sometimes forgets she prefers cheese and puts ham on her sandwiches. He is sometimes too happy to have her sleep over at her friends rather than invite them to their house. He doesn't read her all the children's classics, doesn't go trick-or-treating with her, doesn't even pretend Santa Claus is a thing. He isn't the best dad ever. He tries.

-There is one thing he never, ever fails to do and that is take Ciri to soccer practice. Ciri picks up and drops hobbies, interests, even tastes by the week, still unsure what she wants to pursue, but soccer isn't only her favourite pastime, it's theirs. Practice is twice a week and they have a ritual for it. Geralt picks her up from school and drives her there, she tells him about what the dumb boys in her class said, how her art project is going etc. Geralt is there throughout practice, tucked in between Foltest - a guy who is constantly worried for his daughter Adda to get hurt and also very much anxious for her to do well - and Tissaia - a woman who has not one, but three girls in Ciri's age group and several more in others, and knits like a magician - and watches. He takes notes, silently cheers for Ciri.

-After their games and while Ciri changes, Geralt chats with her coach Vesemir - who used to be Geralt's coach, but now prefers to train the girls' teams - about the progress of the team, upcoming tournaments etc. Sometimes when Vesemir is indisposed, Geralt even leads the practice. When Ciri is all done, Tissaia usually has another hat or mitten finished and Geralt and her drive with their girls to whatever food place the girls are in the mood for. They have an early dinner in which Tissaia lectures the girls on their form and in which Ciri is sometimes allowed to sit on Geralt's lap - but only if Fringilla or Yen don't tease hear about it - but in which she definitely gets to steal his milkshake (Geralt hates milkshakes). Geralt only praises her when they're back in the car and Ciri tells him he's too much of a softie with her and should be more like Tissaia. Should maybe marry Tissaia. They both laugh because that is never going to happen.

-Life is good that way. It's not perfect, it's not without bumps, certainly not without tears and scrapes, but whatever the job, whatever injury Geralt carries with him, however long he has to drive, he never, never ever misses soccer practice.

-The season's just kicked off in the year of Ciri's eighth birthday when Geralt and her arrive early on the field to find the stands empty save for a girl in the most ridiculously colorful excercise clothes and blond hair that is braided intricately around her head. With her is a man, maybe five years Geralt's junior. Ciri bolts towards them with a bright grin and Geralt is hesitant to follow. He knows neither the girl nor the man, but from what he can gather she wants to join the team which is just what they need as they're one girl short this season. "Hi, I'm Ciri, I adore your braids." Geralt holds back on the eye-roll. It's nice Ciri can make friends this easily, but his house already is a shrine for role-playing and board games, dolls and random DVDs and another friend means more things Ciri will want to try out. "Thank you," the girl replies and tilts her head to better show them off. "My uncle Jaskier braided them for me, I'm sure he can do yours too." Both girls look up expectantly at the man and Geralt only really notices him then. He is averagely built with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. His floral print shirt has three open buttons and his pants barely reach his ankles. He has the look of a flippant music teacher or a hipster coffeeshop owner. His eyes meets Geralt's and, wait, did he just wink? "I'd love to, dear," he says in a smooth voice that absolutely does not go straight to Geralt's guts. Geralt turns on the spot and decides to pressure check the balls, but he can hear the others giggling as Jaskier braids Ciri's hair. "I'm Priscilla by the way. What's up with your dad?" - "Oh, don't mind him, he's bad with meeting new people." - "Very intense." That's Jaskier. Oh, Geralt will show him intense.

-Ciri invites them to their after-practice dinner. Geralt wants to begrudge her that, but she and Priscilla have latched onto each other in record speed and Jaskier actually fights Tissaia on some of her more strict stances and he braids Yen's and Sabrina's hair too, only Fringilla doesn't want him to touch hers which he respects. Geralt and Tissaia glance at each other. Come to a silent agreement. They may not befriend Jaskier, but he's sunny and so good with the girls and they can use someone like him among their ranks, someone who doesn't have Calanthe's tendency for swear words or Crach's tendency to break out beer in the middle of practice or even Nenneke's tendency to relate everything to the workings of god.

-Jaskier is as faithful as Geralt, perhaps the only one who shows up every time without fail. Shani's parents only drop her off and Crach switches between  Cerys' and Hjalmar's practices and Tissaia sometimes texts Geralt to pick up her girls. Jaskier is there, every time, earlier than any of the others. He chats with Vesemir about his day-to-day, brings home-baked cookies for everyone, he cheers and whoops and tries very hard to understand soccer even though it's evident he doesn't. Geralt never wonders why it's him and not Priscilla's parents that come, it's none of his business. He begins to tolerate Jaskier, but he knows that is where he has to draw the line. He has his hands full with Ciri and his job and his brothers too. He can't afford friendships that extend beyond the field.

-Jaskier doesn't let him off though. He always takes the spot next to Geralt (technically an improvement over Foltest's sweaty visage) and prattles on and on, at least until the game begins. When it does, Jaskier divides his attention between the girls and the stack of paper on his lap which he annotates during practice. It's often either sheet music or the illegible scrawl of pre-teens or wonkily drawn instruments. Jaskier already told him, but from that too it is obvious that Geralt's hunch was right, he is a music teacher. Geralt finds his eyes darting to Jaskier's long fingers, nimble and calloused from the various string instruments he plays. Finds himself glancing at where Jaskier's tongue peeks out in concentration. He listens to the man's ramblings and hums his replies and comes to dislike the days when Vesemir isn't there and he has to focus all his attention on giving the girls a good practice. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just that having Jaskier at his back unnerves him.

-(Jaskier for his part doesn’t care at all about soccer, but he cares about Priscilla so he convinced her parents to let him take her; after that, she said it would be fine if he dropped her off and picked her up again, but Jaskier pretends he is super invested in the sport and the team and he is, but mostly he’s invested in charming Geralt)

-After an entire season of mutual pining and obliviousness, Tissaia decides she's had enough and rallies the other parents. She has Foltest organize a big party at his country house, has Nenneke promise to look after the girls (the woman doesn't drink) and has Crach whip out the finest spirits he has in storage. Calanthe makes a phenomenal playlist and it's Tissaia's job to get Geralt to the party (Jaskier's not a problem) and dress up nicely. Only Aridea, Renfri's stepmother, refuses to pitch in, but she's been a bitch anyway.

-When Geralt picks up Jaskier at his downtown flat he has to grip the wheel of his rover hard in order not to short-circuit. Jaskier has done something to his hair that Geralt can't name but that makes him go woozy inside. He wears a plain shirt that compliments his eyes and hugs his body just right and he looks high on life with color in his cheeks and the most dazzling smile. He's gorgeous. "Darling, don't you look dashing," Jaskier says excitedly and props his feet up on the dashboard, only after kissing Geralt on the cheek. Which is not fair. "Likewise," Geralt mutters, then blushes furiously. He didn't want that to come out, oh no. Jaskier either didn't hear or acts like it and they drive in silence to Foltest's country house. Well, aside from the songs Jaskier hums under his breath, some new composition no doubt.

-At first, Geralt thinks it's a nice enough party for someone who doesn't like parties. Foltest's grilling burgers, they all have cocktails, the music is mellow. Not that that stops Jaskier from swirling an already quite drunk Calanthe over the terrace in dazzling moves. Geralt wants to be swirled like that. "You really have it bad, don't you?" Crach comments when he notices Geralt staring. Geralt downs his beer (he's no cocktail drinker) and tries pointedly not to stare at how Jaskier's swinging his ass around.

-The buzz makes it easier and he relieves Foltest at the barbecue for a bit. But then Jaskier walks up to him, a little short on breath and grinning his most flirtatious little grin. It gives him fucking dimples. Sigh. "Hey you big strong man," Jaskier says. He smells like pineapple and coconut, but isn't even a little drunk. "Jask," he says, pointedly flipping a burger. "Foltest says he has an old karaoke machine in the shed, but it's too heavy for me. Help me?" - "...fine." Geralt gestures for Foltest to keep up with the meat and he and Jaskier make their way along a garden path that winds through thickets and by a small pond. The shed is painted blue and white and Geralt and Jaskier find it very much cluttered, but not dirty which is nice. Geralt only understands it's a trap when it's already sprung on them. The tiny click of the look is almost inaudible over Jaskier's anxious commentary of their search for the machine. There is only one small window and no light Geralt can see. Fuck.

-"Ehm, Jaskier?" he reaches out and gently touches Jaskier's shoulder which has the other man yelp and jump. Which doesn't bode well for what Geralt has to tell him. "I think we're trapped." The effect is immediate. Jaskier goes rigid, his breath catches. Is he afraid? Claustrophobic perhaps? Shit, so he can't be in on the joke. "Jask?" - "Geralt. I know we aren't the closest, but I need you to hold me right now." And he launches himself at Geralt. Maybe he is in on the joke? No, he's trembling too hard for that. Geralt catches him and does as asked. "I am absolutely going to die," Jaskier whines into Geralt's neck and Geralt can't help a small chuckle as he rubs Jaskier's back soothingly. This is... surprisingly nice for a trap. Also likely Tissaia's doing. Geralt has a rare idea. "What if I distract you until someone finds us?" he murmurs against Jaskier's hair and Jaskier draws back a little. In the half-dark his eyes glisten, widen when they meet Geralt's. "You would?" - "Close your eyes, Jaskier." Geralt feels a surge of daring, perhaps granted by the intimacy and seclusion of the situation. He catches Jaskier's lips with his own. When they part, Jaskier grins, shaking from something other than fear. "I thought you didn’t much like me," he whispers. "I thought I got on your nerves." - "Idiot." They kiss again and, faintly, Geralt can hear someone cheer from outside.

[frostahesmegabite]

The Judgement of Carrion

@daily-writing-challenge - Day 4 - Accomplish/Macabre [ Content warning: Blood, Guts, Gore, Bits of Torture, That sort of stuff. While there aren't pages and pages of it, it is present in this short story. I tried to find a balance of detail and keeping things light without going into ‘Hostel’ territory. ]

Human forts were a dime a dozen, easily found and half of them forgotten or falling to ruin due to the numerous war fronts that were constantly moving across the face of Azeroth to fight one force or another. Some lost to time, others to ruin, some to marauding forces and others simply abandoned because they were no longer needed. It was one of these Forts that Megahes had put to use for himself and probably his most comprehensive and long lasting pastime.

Clever little devices put into play to keep things looking abandoned and misused, neglected and falling to ruin. The place had not only been repaired but also reinforced with Magical and Mechanical Goblin ingenuity that was built upon with knowledge gained over the past several decades.

Inside of this fort, despite the fact it was never intended to receive an actual willful audience, was decorative furniture made of fine dark woods embroidered with rich velvets, soft silks and the finest wools and cottons coin could acquire. Tables stretching about with plates and goldware that no man or woman other than Megahes would ever see sat to present an atmosphere of riches on display. Trophy cases and stands line the walls with numerous weapons of both magical and mundane descent that perch over Armor Stands holding protective metal layers meant not just for Goblins, but all races.

If any ever came to somehow find the place and took the time to inspect any of it, they’d find that all of these items weren’t as ‘pristine’ as they may appear at a distance. Damage came to them all at some point or another. Blunted blades, shattered axe heads assembled to look presentable. Armor with gashes, pierced helmets or chest pieces, greaves with shorn metal by the thighs that most likely led to bleed outs.

The more one could look, the more they’d note that all of the gear was like walking through a museum of deathly wounds. All that stood or hung from the walls had a story of defeat and loss and probably before then, great triumphs, valor and victory… just to have their stories end here.

Megahes pays no mind to these things now though as he walks with his back rigid and straight, his arms back behind him with hands clasping the other arms elbow in some overly formal glide across the stone floor. His bright white and gold attire is a stark beacon amongst the dark colors and atmosphere of the room that one should have found comforting, but for some reason, only brought worry and dread with it as he moves about his untold business.

[ Artwork by the Magnificent Fishadee. No Fire or Light Shards floating about in this scene, purely put for clothing example. https://twitter.com/fishadee ] He stops, not worrying to look around for any watchers, for he knows there are none as he stops at a small wall just behind a staircase. “Rehorur decno Kudex.” A series of flashes occur around our Goblin and once completed a small stone panel slides off to the side and Megahes puts his hand into the slot. A sudden sharp ‘shing!’ sound is head and Mega’s neck tenses but for a moment before his hand is withdrawn. A mechanical but feminine voice perks up from the slot. “Welcome back.” “Hmm.” The only sound Megahes makes before he takes a step back and then to the left. The stone wall jars forward at an alarming speed, spikes erupting from her stone crevices meant to impale and kill any would-be intruders while giving Megahes the solitary moment that was needed to pass behind the crude defense into the wall beyond. Whether by measured practice or perhaps sensors, the trap quickly retreats and returns to normal, giving off no telltale signs of a hidden door or of Mega’s earlier passing.

The reason for all this secrecy? Hidden at the end of the staircase Mega was already descending. Humans had their specialties sure, jacks of all trades those people. But the one thing they never fail to make well?

Jail Cells and Prisons.

It was this singular reason that Megahes took over this once ramshackle Fort for himself. Though there weren’t many cells, there was no need. Three of them sat in a row at the bottom of the stairs, each outfitted with custom Arcano-tech that allowed for the arrival of a singular occupant that was soon set to magical and electrical suppression to keep them docile and incapable of action while time slowly allowed them to become dehydrated and starved to where strength or speed was no longer an issue either.

The work put into this place was one of Mega’s hidden creations of pride and in the past, its use went towards a sorted pastime of torturing whoever was unfortunate enough to get caught by one of his traps. Times change however and with Mega’s newfound religion, came the need to change how and why he did things while applying them to old hobbies. Today’s hobby however, only involved one other person beyond himself and Mega comes to stand right before him as electricity pulses through his frail, nearly starved frame.

“Brother Abacus.” A stupid name, false to be sure, but one that Megahes didn’t really care about either way. “I realize you don’t know who I am and that’s quite alright.” He leans in, voice dialing down as he speaks through the bars just as another tide of electricity bombards the ‘Brother’, causing him to whimper and whine in pain. “You have been found guilty of being a member of a Twilight Cult, one in fact, that was run by Dinthoqaf the Defiler.”

The cultist looks up, arms shaking in heavy tremors as he tries to look his would-be captor in the eye. They give out however, causing him to hit the ground with an exhale. His cracked and bleeding lips wobble, trying to say something, but the lack of strength made their efforts near useless. It was sad really, or at least it would be if Megahes cared about the man's condition in the slightest.

Megah glides over to a control panel on the wall and proceeds to flip a series of switches and dials which cause several mechanical tendrils to tear from the wall in Abacus’ cell that soon lash him to the same wall they originated from. His body was quickly drawn into an ‘X’ shape with limbs pulled tight and to their limits.

“You see. Your former… Employer? Boss? Leader.” Megahes hands lift and tumble in slow methodical circles as he tries to find the right word, but leaves it be. “Him and I don’t get along very well and thanks to his efforts, I find myself needing to improvise my tactics a bit. While I know he’s dead, face turned to slag and glass, I wanna make sure I get the job done correctly, meaning none of his followers try to take up his mantle. I’m sure you understand.”

He turns around and heads into the cell, worry of electrocution now gone thanks to the current state of affairs. “You see. I have this…” He pauses. “...Macabre little ritual I have to do every so often and believe me.” The Goblin laughs while looking up at the man while proceeding to straighten up his clothes, as if it mattered. “As much as people might want me to say I hate doing this… I don’t. I’ve been doing this to people way before you all found me and now. Now I get to put my hobbies to better use.”

Megahes’ hand comes up, his index finger pressing to his lips to tell Brother Abacus to be silent. His smile fades with the gesture and he reaches up, pressing his black and gold painted claw against the clothing of this man's thigh. Downward, slowly, it runs. Fabric quickly turns from a peasant-y brown to a heavy red and brown as flesh below seems to split before the clothing itself can.

Magic? Possibly. Insanely sharp claws? Not likely. But whatever it was, the man's thigh split open as if by scalpel and despite his starvation, he thrashes weakly in an effort to pull away. The machines holding his wrists tighten and continue to do so until the sound of bone is heard crunching.

This process continues on not just for mere moments but stretches of hours, lines drawn across flesh like sand. Megahes had nothing else to say and so, despite the protests and pleading, begging to let him go and he’d tell no one, Mega continued.

Soon, details were carved away, facial features, scalp and its rooted hair, ears. Nearly anything that could be taken and removed without outright killing this poor cultist was taken in some macabre movie of silence and torture and finally, when the man was nearest his end, Megahes opens his own shirt.

The metal embedded into his Chest that shines with the Light like a beacon in this squalor, practically vibrates as Mega runs his blood coated hands across its surface. Red blood made semi-translucent by the sheer shine, soon was baked and cooked black, all Vitae devoured, leaving Megahes to sigh in relief.

“I would ask you to tell the Defiler thank you for giving me this. But… we both know you’re never going to have that opportunity.”

Megahes runs his hand up from Brother Abacus' groin clear up to his collarbone, shearing clean through flesh and muscle alike. What came next was a grotesque shower of innards that began to fall and slop to the floor, leaving our would-be cultist inanimate and lifeless.

“Now to clean up and go home. Tonight’s my date night and I have so many things to accomplish before She gets home…” Soon, the jail cells were left dark and eventually the slow trickling of blood and various other liquids came to silence in the dark, waiting to be cleaned up and for a new subject to be taken.

[blind-alchemists]

Meta-Analysis of the Rift Mage Specialization

I said in February I was going to do it, and it only took me seven months to follow through!

Anyway. Analyzing game-play elements for narratives purposes has become somewhat of a hobby of mine ever since I really got into GameLit. Then, I started "fangs" and felt that my fight scenes were boring, so I build ability trees reminiscent of DA:I's for my OCs. You know, as you do. During that process, though, the lack of banter acknowledging several choices struck me as odd. Especially regarding specializations. Especially when it comes to Solas'.

We’ll be taking a look at (in order)

1. Description

2. Codex Entry

3. Skills

a. in comparison to DA: II’s Primal & Force Mage

4. Specialization Dialogue with Solas

5. Conclusion

Disclaimer: I talk a lot (this post might have about 2.5k). And, I promise you, you'll be tired of seeing 'the Fade this' and 'the Veil that' at the end of it.

Description

“These mages draw upon the force of the Fade, either pulling matter from the Fade to attack or twisting the Veil itself into a weapon to stagger or crush their enemies.”

[source – DA wiki; bolding mine]

So, lore-wise, mages do ‘draw upon the Fade’. Sure. But do they ‘pull matter from the Fade’? Absolutely not.

Physical things and the Fade rarely mix well. Plus – this is mainly my theory – the way magic is utilized (the 'drawing upon the Fade part') requires it to pass through the Veil. Magic being a form of energy, and thus not physical, does not constitute to ‘pulling matter from the Fade’.

That's the first thing other mages (read: Dorian, Vivienne, possible the Inquisitor) should (or could) have referenced in banter/dialogue.

The rest of the sentence ('twisting the Veil into a weapon') is also highly interesting, since there is little known about the Veil. Nobody knows how it works. And, thus, nobody should be capable enough to manipulate it consistently enough to use it as a weapon. But considering it's Solas who gets this specialization - well. He knows the Veil well enough, don't you think? (Which is why I think Rift Mage should have been Solas' personal, individual specialization like Fenris' Lyrium Ghost, but I just really like personalized skill trees in general.)

However, having answered that question, connecting magic so closely to the very thing can be described as a “magical vibration that repels the Fade”, I'm curious about how it would work. Since, you know, mages are inevitably tied to the Fade. Wouldn't the Veil repel a try to manipulate it by a mage? Is using mana the same thing as drawing energy from the Fade? If so, it would be straight-up impossible to actually use such a method for any ordinary mage (read: not Solas). If mana can be used without the Fade, it would be possible, but is such a thing feasible? Can you switch between spells and Veil quickly enough without horrific consequences such as possibly tearing yourself apart?

Very interesting topic. Would love to go into it more, but at that point, I'd become subjective, so let's end it here.

To summarize: Rift mages do things (physically pulling things from the Fade plus using the Veil) normal mages don't do. There is also a chance, logically speaking, that no one else but Solas (or mage!Inquisitor) can accomplish such a feat without dying a horrific death.

Codex Entry

From "Power Bleeds: Harness the Flow." Your Trainer's words make one passage stand out:

There are no tomes dedicated to this manipulation. There has been no time for academics, only the practical—and not in a manner that mitigates risk. Power in a raw form has found an outlet, both visible and in ways that only we of arcane proclivity can sense. The risk is great.

An account:

From this page forward, these are the notes of Thelric. They began as the work of my mentor Julion, and I will continue in the research she began, as she cannot, because she is dead. The rift we were examining did not react well to her last investigation. We believed ourselves prepared for demonic manifestation. We were not prepared for how the energies we expected would be encountered. Well-versed in the forces that magic can produce, my senior was surprised by an alteration, a deviance. That which previously had to be coaxed is now a flood that must be staunched. The same amount in different intensity, quick to expose fault in the way it is accessed. She drew too much, expecting resistance. There was none, and her form suffered the brunt. Tread carefully in studies of new matters, for I cannot unsee the end of her.

Scattered symbols and sketches follow.

[source – DA wiki; bolding mine]

Apparently DA:I has a thing for hiding the true horror in Codex Entries and off-hand comments.

Here, we learn one key fact: The school of Rift Magic is relatively new ('no tomes dedicated to this manipulation'). I think it's safe to assume the possibility - and thus research concerning it - emerged around the time the Breach appeared. So it's new, people have no idea what they're doing, but it somehow works. A little like the whole time magic thing, funnily. (That brings me back to a lot of questions I have about the Veil: Just how powerful is it? Just how deeply is it intervened with Thedas?)

Reading further, the entry seems to (only) stress how dangerous Rift Magic is. Who would have thought! No, really, it's a fair point to empaphize. I'm not certain the Trainer and his previous teacher (or anyone else but Solas) know what kind of role the Veil plays in this, and so of course experiments are going to get ugly. The Veil holds a much greater importance than the people of Thedas realize.

And, in a very similar vein: The people of Thedas don't know much about directly interacting with the Fade through, say, a rift, which poses another risk. The wiki entry establishes two things in particular that are relevant here: Using spells (in the Fade itself) has unpredictable results, and one can draw unprecedented power from it while sleeping.

The codex entry cited above proves that. A rift is a direct connection to the Fade, and thus unpredictable ('She drew too much, expecting resistance. There was none') and that power is too much to handle ('her form suffered the brunt').

My theory is that, while a certain flunction is natural to the Fade, the Veil also plays a role here. Which I'm not sure. But it has one.

Personally, I wouldn't be sure the risks of a horrific death outweigh the benefits of power, but let's look more in depth at that!

Skills

Which brings me to the abilities themselves.

The first two you can choose from are Veilstrike and Stonefist. (Which I think should have had their names changed but, oh, well.)

Veilstrike: “You recreate your own fist from the essence of the Fade and smash nearby foes to the ground.” (Upgrades being Punched Down and Wounded Veil, but they don’t have anything interesting for this analysis. Note the names, though.)

Curious here is the 'recreate [...] from the essence of the Fade' part here. On first glance, it sounds like a rather ordinary spell, right? But it's not. That's just the 'hiding in plain sight for the first playthrough' aspect of Solas' character.

Mages do shape their spells with energy from the Fade (as far as my assumptions go). Maybe they can also recreate something. I'll give them that much. But the essence of the Fade - the inherit, unchanging nature of it - can't be manipulated by them. I think that's specifically a trait only Dreamers can have. (More evidence for my 'Rift Mage should have been Solas' personalized, individual specialization' hc!)

There is an argument to be made if this already constitutes for 'pulling matter from the Fade', but this isn't even the funkiest part yet.

Stonefist: “You summon a boulder from the Fade and smash it into your target, sending them flying.” (Upgrades being Shatterstone and Unblockable Force.)

'Summon a boulder from the Fade', you know, as in, bring physical matter from the Fade to the other side of the Veil. A thing that is pretty much unheard of. Remembers what happens to spirits when they pass violently through the Veil? There is an entire game dealing with that. (I mean, stones won't hopefully turn into demons, but my point is that bringing things through, usually, is not a wise idea.

Another thing someone could have commented on.

Passives: Restorative Veil, Encircling Veil, Smothering Veil, Twisting Veil.

Unfortunately, neither of these descriptions give me much, but they all have the ‘Veil’ component in their name, so that’s interesting.

Upon closer inspection, the Veil can function in a variety of ways: speeding up mana recovery, further weakening enemies, boosting your own damage. (Veilstrike being an example of a means of attack.)

Now, my question here would be: Do over mages notice changes in the Veil? Do they feel it shift and bend? If not, well, that's one thing. if they do, even subconsciously, I'd want banter. (I want a lot of banter, though. Just generally speaking.)

Pull of the Abyss: “You create a tiny rift that pulls enemies toward a central point.” (Upgrades being Shaken Veil and Devouring Veil.)

I can live with never hearing anything about everything else. Sure. But this one? This damned skill? You're telling me I read that the first time I played the game, nodded, and that was it?

'You can create a tiny rift-' I'm sorry, do you what now? After a good a couple of hours of learning just how bad rifts are?

And the upgrade names. Shaken Veil, Devouring Veil - is there anything this thing can't do, except for becoming more and more horrifying and giving me bad vibes ofr whatever DA4 will do with it?

Firestorm: “You summon flaming meteors, raining fire down upon enemies all over the area for the next several seconds. This ability consumes and is powered by focus.”

This one is ... honestly, I don't like it being here. It's an AOE skill, which does fit in with the rest, but it's fire and it seems rather randomly assigned compared to other focus abilities with a more personal note (Haste, Rampagne, Cloak of Shadows, Mark of the Rift).

Doesn't give a lot here to analyze, except that raining down flaming meteors is the level of (global) destruction I can see happening in the future if Solas isn't stopped. So. That's fun.

(It's the ultimate skill in the Fire/Ice tree in DA:II, or at least the ability there has the same name.)

DA: II Comparison

Nearing the end, I'll take a brief look at the Force Mage specialization from DA:II and the Primal base skill tree for mages. Both have some interesting similarities.

First, Primal.

Stonefist: “The mage hurls a stone projectile that strikes with massive force.”

It's only the name and the effect, honestly, but it is curious to see it in a skill tree that focuses exclusively on the elements earth and lightning. (Because Pride demons also use electricity ... yeah, yeah. I'm reading too much into this.)

Petrify: “The mage entombs an enemy in stone, leaving the foe temporarily unable to move. However, the target becomes more resistant to damage for the duration of the spell.”

This has nothing to do with Rift Mage, but in light of Trespasser, I'll just leave it here for your consideration. Petrifying people is neither new nor exclusive to Evanruis.

Now, onto Force Mage.

Fist of the Maker: “The mage slams enemies into the ground with incredible power, against which armor is no protection.”

The effect sounds like Stonefist (Primal) and Veilstrike.

Pull of the Abyss: “The mage conjures a maelstrom of energy that draws enemies to its center while slowing them to a crawl.”

This one is similar to the Rift Mage skill with the same name, so it might have served as an inspiration (or base).

Overall, though: nothing much to say here. Maybe I could talk more about Rift Mage being focused on crowd control, but that is probably for game-play balance. I could connect that to Solas' character and analyze every little thing to death. I'm not doing it, though.

Specialization Dialogue

Solas: You have begun practicing new magical forms. Interesting. You seem to be drawing upon the raw substance of the Fade, likely using your mark as a catalyst. I use similar techniques, although it took me years to learn that. Why did you choose such an esoteric area of study?

Inquisitor: (if chosen) I hoped that studying such magic would me help better understand the Fade.

Solas: While our fight affords little time for formal study, the wise can better themselves even in the midst of battle. Perhaps especially then. I hope your new studies serve you well.

[source]

Let’s go through this slowly.

‘You seem to be drawing upon the raw substance of the Fade-’ Alright, we’ve talked about that. Makes sense he’d comment on it. ‘likely using your mark as a catalyst’ Sorry? The Inquisitor is doing what? I’m not saying it’s not possible, I’m just saying it might not be an overly smart idea to use the Anchor in that way. Because it’s attached to the Inquisitor’s arm. And because the Inquisitor knows what happens if it snaps out of control. So, purposefully doing something that might cause you agonizing pain? Mh. Yeah. No, thanks.

Also. The 'drawing upon the raw substance of the Fade' part makes me think that the Anchor does give the Inquisitor Dreamer-like abilities. Forcefully, and possibly difficult to control, and the Inquisitor might not be aware of it, but. That would be an interesting aspect to explore.

‘I use similar techniques, although it took me years to learn that’. Well. Yeah. Mostly a sound response, except I’m not really sure it's true. Why does he say years? Because he didn’t go right to sleep after creating the Veil, or because he studied such methods theoretically beforehand? I doubt he refers to the time Inquisition spans, because it’s not that long, cannocially, (isn't it like ... a year? I forget what the devs said), but … I don’t know. It doesn't sit right with me. Solas never truly outright lies, so there is probably some merit in it.

‘Why did you choose such an esoteric area of study?’ That’s … an interesting way to ask. Sure, there is a very small group who has this specialized knowledge, but it feels a little like deflection.

The rest of the conversation doesn’t give much for me to analyze.

Conclusion

TL;DR: There should have been banter. Or Rift Mage should have been a personalized, individual specialization.

Pull of the Abyss is the funkiest skill in the entire game, from a meta-perspective, because tearing a hole into the Veil is the opposite of what the Inquisitor is trying to do.

There are also many more questions than answer to take away from this regarding the Veil and the Fade and how Solas manages not to blow his cover, but I believe there are theories about at least the two former points out there.

I thank you very much for bearing with me for this long!

[talkfastromance4]

misguided miscommunication--Luke&Lily blurb

so yeah, this little moment sprouted from the wild chaos that ensued today. hope you enjoy :)

Luke&Lily Masterlist

***

You had recently taken up a new hobby of creating clay earrings. Ella had a small get together with you and the other girls where you created your own jewelry, making plenty for yourself, Lily, and Posy. They’re helping you now while Luke showers getting ready for his Spaces chat with the guys. They’ve been working and communicating nonstop on this next album; they’re itching to reconnect with the fans.

“We can’t disturb daddy when he’s in his studio today, okay?” you remind them firmly as they roll their little balls of clay.

“Daddy working?” Posy asks slapping the clay flat with her palm. It makes a satisfying smack! that makes her smile.

“Kind of, he’s talking with your uncles about work,” you roll the stamp designed as ferns over a hunter’s green slab of clay.

A chorus of excited ‘I wanna talk!’ ‘Unca Ash!’ ‘I want to tell Uncle Cal about the trick I taught Piggy!’ ‘Moose! Moose!’ squeals filled the air at the mention of their uncles.

“What’s all the commotion down here, huh?” Luke asks smoothing back his still damp hair. He peers over your shoulder examining the pair of earrings you’re working on. “Those are nice, lovie.”

“We want to talk to our uncles!” Lily explains poking her clay with a circular razor, she knows to be careful and helps Posy when she’s ready to cut.

“Maybe later my sweet, we got to talk about music for a bit,” he rubs the top of her hair.

“Please daddy!” Posy pouts and gives him her best puppy dog eyes. Ashton taught her that one, but it blew up in his face because he can never say no to her now when she does it to him.

“You can stay with me until I need to do some work, okay?”

“You’re such a pushover,” you giggle nudging him in the ribs.

“I like to make my girls happy,” he kisses your cheek. “Let’s go girls.”

Lily and Posy scramble off the kitchen chair then follow him upstairs into his studio. You continue your work then get a notification on your phone that 5SOS is live on Spaces. You click the link and laugh at each of the guys talking to themselves not realizing they’re all talking at once. When Luke hops on you can hear Lily and Posy in the background asking where their uncles are.

Calum is shit talking Luke and Ashton is strumming his guitar while talking about how he should have prepared a poetry reading while waiting. You can’t help but laugh at the chaos of it all, they never have luck with their collaborated meetings through technology.

Twenty minutes go by and then there’s a notification that Ashton is going live on Instagram. You switch platforms and wonder where the girls are, but you know Luke won’t mind if they’re in the room with him. You only mind if they aren’t quiet, you’ve made sure they know how important it is that he needs to be alone sometimes in his studio while he’s working.

You watch patiently as Ashton talks with Michael and Calum; you can’t help but laugh at how Calum looks like a turtle. Only the top portion of his head is showing. You hear your name being called from Luke just as he connects with Ashton on the live. You’re making your way upstairs when you pause at Posy’s little head popping up.

“Y/N!” Luke calls again trying to get Posy out of the picture.

“Unca Ash!” she waves then makes a confused face. “Who’s Y/N?”

“Hi little one!” Ashton smiles waving back at her.

“That’s mama, Po,” Lily explains offscreen in her soft voice.

“Nooo,” Posy mouth turns into the perfect little ‘o’ and Ashton laughs. “Mama name is ‘lovie.’”

You press your hand to your heart at her sweet response. Luke really doesn’t call you by name unless it’s something really important or he’s frustrated with something and needs your help. He always calls you lovie.

“That’s just what daddy calls her, bug,” Luke smiles down at her, “Like how I call you love bug, it’s a nickname.”

“Oh! Y/N!!!” she shouts very loudly, and Luke covers her mouth.

“Hey, inside voice missy,” Luke laughs, “and you call her mama, okay?”

“Where is your mama, Po?” Ashton asks trying to keep the live going but also wanting to speak with his niece. “Is Lily hiding?”

“I’m here!” Lily peeks in the frame hiding a little behind Luke. She’s shy whenever it comes to things like this.

“Making pretty earrings!” Posy says raising her arms in the air.

“Oh, that’s where Mama is? Why aren’t you helping her?”

“They wanted to talk to you guys,” Luke explains and kisses Posy’s head. He hands her something to play with, a stress ball he has on his desk. “They were laughing at you and Cal talking to each other without knowing it.”

“I bet we sounded like idiots,” Ashton giggles.

“Idiots!” Posy chirps. She’s become quite the parrot with words she shouldn’t say.

“No, Po, that’s not a nice word,” Luke reminds her then tosses Ashton a look.

“Oops, sorry. Don’t say that Po, me and Uncle Cal were sounding silly.”

“Silly uncles!”

“Okay, how about you two go back down by mama, hm? We can talk with all your uncles afterwards. Daddy has to work now,” Luke rubs at Posy’s back but she starts to whine.

“No! Wanna stay!”

“Y/N! Lovie!” Luke shouts for you again and you decide to rescue him.

Lily is already waiting for you outside the door, you kiss her head quickly before entering to get Posy. Luke’s offscreen with her in his arms but his voice echoes in the phone in your hand.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks handing Posy off to you.

“Yeah, but you were handling it well,” you smile. “You wanted to make your girls happy after all.”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, you got me. I won’t be long.”

“Take as long as you need, talk about whatever,” you smile and kiss him. “We’ll be waiting.”

You close the door then settle on the couch with Lily and Posy to watch the rest of the live. They shrieked when Michael came back on and were asking if you could visit them and see the dogs. Michael asked about you and how you’re doing, you know he wants to know how you and the baby are doing. You and Luke decided to wait on sharing that with the public. It’s only known in your close-knit group of friends and family.

Luke came down not too long after the live ended and asked if the girls would want to go see Ashton for a pizza night. They screamed in excitement; the whole group will be together again.

Taglist: @calpalirwin​​ @myloverboyash​​ @loveroflrh​​ @cxddlyash​​ @princesslrh​​ @spicylftv​​ @notinthesameguey​​ @itjustkindahappenedreally​​ @calumance​​ @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt​​ @sarcastically-defensive17​​ @another-lonely-heart​​ @devilatmydoor​​ @thatscooibaby​​ @suchalonelysunflower​​ @dead-and-golden​​ @mymindwide​​ @blackbutterfliescal​​ @redrattlers​​ @karajaynetoday​​ @quasighost​​ @i-like-5sos​​ @creampiecashton​​ @calpops​​ @littledrummeraussie​​ @sexgodashton​​ @f-mu​​ @mystic-232

[renaerys]

PPG One-Shot: A Balmy Tuesday in Hell

Taking a break from the prompt requests to wish a very happy birthday to @snailbutters! Tbh I like this idea a lot and I’m tempted to expand on it more. Cross posted on AO3. 

xxx

When Mike went looking for a part-time job to earn some spending money, he had a hard time finding one that worked around his college class schedule. All the good on-campus jobs were taken, and most of the ones he found offsite required him to be up way too early or way too late with very little flexibility. 

The front desk position at the Beelzebob, a local hair salon advertising an array of “wicked styles” for any occasion, was not the most glamorous position, but it welcomed part timers and offered flexible schedules to be discussed on a case by case basis. It was at the tail end of a long week of job hunting with little to show for it, and Mike was tired. Still, he dragged himself all the way there after his three-hour Friday seminar and put on his best retail charm for the interview. 

One of the stylists told him to wait in the lobby while she grabbed the manager for his interview, and so Mike sat in a plush, purple chair and eyed the stack of magazines on the coffee table—HJi, Professional Beauty, NHF, and others he recognized from Googling “how to work at a hair salon” last night. A playlist that seemed to consist entirely of K-pop pumped ripples of bubblegum bass through the speakers and had Mike tapping his fingers on his hip. There was no one behind the sleek, glass reception desk, so Mike got up and wandered over to it. He tried to imagine himself with the headset on, fielding phone calls and helping customers pick out one of the many luxury hair products on the walls behind the desk. He touched his own brown hair—plain and getting a bit long, but styled with a little wax for the day—and worried about whether he should have tried a bit harder for this interview. Would he be judged on his own hair? That seemed reasonable enough—

“This simply won’t do.”

Mike startled at the lyrical voice and turned around to find a seven-foot, red-skinned demon in Lululemons appraising him over an enterprising nose. Which would have been a cause for mild to moderate alarm even in Metroville—a hub for lowlifes, Supervillains, and the occasional monster on a mission out of Townsville farther north—except that Mike recognized this particular demon. At which point he got the pun in the name of this place and smiled. 

“Him,” he squeaked. And then, remembering his high school retail training: “I mean, Mr. Him.”

Him—Prince of Pestilence, Duke of Depravity, Earl of Evil, et cetera—blushed the color of an open wound. “You’re house trained, I see. All right, this way.”

Him turned on his Louboutin heel and headed into the salon. Mike hurried after Him, unsure whether this was good or bad. Him led him to a styling chair and sat him down. A purple salon cape made its way around Mike’s neck with a flamenco flourish, and Him leaned over his head in the reflection. 

“What are we thinking?”

Mike eyed his potential future employer from perfectly curled goatee to artificial mink lashes and hesitated. 

This is a test. 

It had to be. Surely, anyone manning the phones had to know something about haircare in general. If he was to be the vanguard, the watcher on the Wall, he would have to be able to alert his colleagues of the incoming threats and answer questions about how to fend off anything from tangles to split ends. Mike tried to remember the last time he got a haircut; Boomer had been with him, his eye far more discerning than Mike’s. 

“Comb over,” Mike said. 

“Quiff?”

“More faux hawk.” He tried not to think of the heat on the back of his neck, and instead of the sly grin on Boomer’s face the last time he’d been under the scissors. “With a low fade. Um, please.”

Him’s fangs gleamed when he grinned. “Good choice.”

For a demon with claws the size of dinner plates, Him was surprisingly adroit and precise to a literal razor’s edge. In fact, Mike was certain Him must sharpen his claws to get them sharp enough to shave the hair from the nape of his neck, which seemed like a sensible time-saver. Blackpink’s Pretty Savage blared over the speaker as Him coifed and styled the thicker locks that remained on top of Mike’s head, combed to the left in enviable, anti-gravity perfection. 

“Wow.” He touched the side of his head, marveling at the close but generous cut and the perfect blend. “This has to be the best haircut I’ve ever gotten.”

He got up and removed the cape, only to find Him with a broom in his claw. “I run a clean salon, Michael.”

Mike accepted the broom without question. “Yes, sir.”

Him preened. “Good lad.”

“Does… Does this mean I got the job?”

Him flipped his claw. “There will be a trial period. You young people are so used to texting that I’ll have to determine if you’re fit to answer a phone. But, considering your manners, I have a good feeling about you.”

Amazing! “Thank you so much! When do I start?”

“Honey, you’re already late. I have customers waiting.” Him snapped his claw. “Chop chop.”

Mike swept up his shorn hair and the hair around the chair next to his, dumped it all in a bin labeled “Hair,” and ran to the front desk to answer the phone ringing off the hook. The stylist who’d greeted him, Marisol, helped him with the computer login so he could manage appointments and checkout. It was easy enough, a Square card reader and a cash register and a huge logbook of every sale. 

“Middle finger up, F-U, pay me,” Mike whisper-rapped along with Lisa. 

A couple hours later, Him handed him a check for the time worked and told him to be back here tomorrow at 3 p.m. Mike accepted the check, but he didn’t pocket it. 

“Sir, I should tell you for the sake of full disclosure.”

Him peered down at him with his claws on his hips. “Oh?”

This should not be so hard.

“I’m, well, I’m involved. With your son. Boomer.”

Him clicked his claw, and Mike held his breath. 

Boomer had spoken about Him—Baron of Brutality, King of Chaos, Emperor of Enmity et cetera—on just a few occasions throughout their acquaintance. Raising souls from the dead was a hobby of Him’s, apparently, but often his necromantic offspring ended up rotting and were no fit candidates to promenade in civilized society that wasn’t eternally damned and burning. Chemical X cut out that inconvenience, and thus the perfect little boys were reborn, or something. According to Boomer, Him was evil on Sundays, a prolific genius on Tuesdays, and crocheting with his kobolds on Fridays. The rest of the time he was just a normal demon trying to survive in this capitalist post-modern society like everybody else. Anyway, Sunday wasn’t in Mike’s work schedule, so that seemed safe enough.

“I know,” Him said. “You don’t expect me to believe you’d Googled the most flattering hairstyle for your bone structure without help, do you?”

Mike was pretty sure there was a compliment in there, even if it wasn’t for him. “I guess not.”

Him beamed. “Don’t worry. I would never let my favorite son’s romantic life influence the culture at Beelzebob. You’ll be judged before an impartial tribunal of incubi, like everybody else. Now, before you go, I’d like you to dispose of the waste, please.”

Mike learned the value of separating trash that day. Discarded receipts and candy wrappers dumped in the waste bin went into the trash, lunch leftovers went to compost, and cut hair went to sacrificial offerings. 

“Sacrifices reduce our carbon footprint and offer protection against flat Earthers. It’s a proven science, you know.”

Mike supposed it would be poor manners to argue with an ancient evil on his crochet day.

xxx

Boomer was all sly smiles and discreet hand touches when Mike treated him to dinner at their favorite Thai place later that week. 

“So, your job seems to be paying well,” he said. 

“Well enough to take my boyfriend out to a nice dinner now and then.”

“Careful. Spend too much time with Him and your tastes will get really expensive.”

Mike laughed. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll switch majors to cosmetology and join the family business.”

“You know what? He’d probably love that. He tried so hard to get Brick to follow in his footsteps, but Mojo let him mess around on his E-Shares account once when we were eleven and Brick was lost to the finance track forever. I’m pretty sure Mojo did it on purpose.” Boomer leaned in and clinked his wine glass to Mike’s. “Anyway, buy me this dinner before you jump to joining the family business.”

Mike flushed. “I’m—I didn’t—”

Boomer laughed. “Chill! I’m just messing with you.”

The playlist at the restaurant began playing Blackpink’s Kill This Love, and Mike burst out laughing. 

“What?” Boomer asked. “You like this song? You know, Him is really big into K-pop lately. Butch thinks someone must have sold a bunch of souls and made a killing.”

“I know.” Mike kissed Boomer’s hand. “It’s just funny how things work out.”

Boomer smiled. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Their food arrived, and Mike happily ate his meal across from Boomer. And in the back of his mind, he said a little thank-you to Him and whatever chaotic forces he controlled for reviving Boomer all those years ago. 

It must have been a balmy Tuesday in Hell.

xxx

If you enjoy my writing, check out more of my fics on AO3, link in my profile. I’m currently updating Trinity House and The Alchemy of Us. Thanks for reading!

[five-rivers]

Long Night in the Valley Chapter 13

The car didn’t seem more crowded, but it was. Spinner had the dubious honor and privilege of being in one of Mr. Compress’s marbles, along with the doctor. Midoriya Inko sat in his recently vacated seat.

She was, without a single doubt, the most dangerous person in the vehicle. Mostly because she was completely insane. She had spent the first few minutes of driving detailing how she could blow up the car with her quirk and making sure that they knew she’d do it if she thought she had to.

What would make her think she ‘had to’ was a mystery Tomura didn’t particularly want solved.

He could totally see what Sensei saw in her, and he didn’t like it. He wished he could go back to ignorance. This questline was insane. The whole game was going to wind up broken. Had he killed an essential NPC at some point?

Eyeballs were small objects. So were most organs.

Midoriya Inko was someone Tomura could respect.

Would Midoriya Izuku be like this, if Tomura had an actual conversation with him? Their conversation at the mall hadn’t exactly been… normal. Tomura could admit he’d been using his intimidation skill to move the conversation along. Of course, Midoriya had struck him as a two-dimensional All Might fanboy at that point. Limited dialogue options. Killed in the next encounter. A hidden miniboss, yes, but just a miniboss. Not terribly important to the main campaign. Forgotten by disc two.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

Which he shouldn’t have had mixed feelings about, but definitely did.

“Dear,” said Midoriya Inko, making everyone in the car stiffen, “do you have eczema?”

“The what?” asked Tomura, his tone too subdued to be considered snapping, because he wasn’t about to snap at someone who had convincingly demonstrated her ability to crush his organs against the inside of his abdominal cavity.

“Oh!” said Toga. “I know this one, Mom! It’s a skin condition.”

Tomura pulled his hand away from where it had been scratching at his neck. “I don’t have a skin condition. It just itches sometimes.”

Midoriya Inko nodded. “Yes, that sounds like eczema, I—” She stopped, blinking. “Did you just call me ‘Mom?’”

“Yeah, is that okay? Izu-kun and I are dating, after all!”

“No, she isn’t!” shouted Twice, the car swerving a little. “She is not! Only in her dreams!”

“Ah,” said Midoriya Inko. “I see. Well, I don’t mind you calling me that, but I think you really need to ask Izuku before you say that you’re dating. Make sure you’re on the same page, dear.”

Toga pouted.

“Now, where was I? Eczema. Izuku used to have eczema, but he grew out of it, mostly. I still carry some cream with me. Do you want some?”

Would refusing be dangerous?

Was the cream secretly poison?

Was this a complex scheme to get under his skin?

“Oh, Izuku mutters like that, too,” said Midoriya Inko, happily. “You remind me quite a bit of when he was going through his antisocial phase, actually. It would be funny if it turned out that you were related, wouldn’t it? Quite a coincidence, hm? One I’ll have to talk to my husband about.” The last sentence was as hard as diamonds and as poisonous as cyanide.

Tomura once again decided that he regretted everything.

.

“This is terrible,” whispered Tsuyu for the fifth or sixth time.

“Tres mal,” agreed Aoyama.

“Is it bad that I can completely believe All Might wrote this?” asked Satou.

“Why would it be bad?” asked Shouji.

“Because it’s so… bad.”

“And yet,” said Yaoyorozu, “oddly compelling.”

“Why does he use so much English?” grumbled Mineta.

“What a mad banquet of darkness,” said Fumikage, who was, nevertheless, also reading the fanfic on his phone.

“But, like, it makes it pretty obvious that All Might thinks the world of Midoriya,” said Kaminari. “Do you think he knew that other people could read this?”

“I mean,” said Jiro. “He had to, right? It wasn’t like he was born in the nineteen hundreds.”

“I don’t know, sometimes you’ve got to wonder. Like… sometimes it’s as if he was grown in a lab to be the perfect hero, you know?”

“Kaminari, stop trying to be Todoroki, please,” said Fumikage. “You do not need to dip yourself into the darkness.”

“I’m just saying,” said Kaminari. “And it isn’t as if we don’t know that there are a bunch of mad scientist types that would do just that, plus the Hero Commission is psychotic—”

“That’s unkind to psychotic people,” said Fumikage, glowering. “You know, most psychotic people never hurt anyone. The incidence of villainy among people who experience psychosis isn’t significantly higher than among the general population.”

“Sorry, man, just a figure of speech.”

The bus slowly came to a stop outside UA’s gates.

“My switch isn’t working,” said Green Light as he repeatedly pressed a button on his dash. “I guess they’re still on lockdown. We’ll have to wait for Nezu to come let us in.”

“Still?” asked Midnight. “Midoriya isn’t even in the city anymore, as far as we know.”

“Not that he was ever a threat to the school,” mumbled Present Mic, his quirk making him loud enough to be heard regardless.

Fumikage, having finished the fanfic some time ago, looked out the window and spotted two people in suits loitering near the gate. “Yamada-sensei, Kayama-sensei, who are those people?”

Everyone rushed over to Fumikage’s side of the bus to look out the window, rocking the vehicle.

“Ohh,” said Present Mic. “Yeah. That makes sense. Those guys are with the commission. Yep. Good ol’ Nezu, keeping them out.”

“Wait,” said Jiro, “does this mean we’re stuck out here, too?”

“No, no,” said Present Mic. “He’ll have to let us in… But then they’ll come in, too.”

“Midoriya’s room,” said Fumikage. “They’ll want to search it.”

“Can we do something?” asked Kouda, timidly.

“Should we do anything?” asked Tsuyu, bluntly. “We don’t want to incriminate Midoriya even more by making it look like he’s hiding things.”

Fumikage turned to Kaminari. “Anything new from Principal Nezu?”

“Why are you looking at me?”

“You’re the one he emailed last time.”

“Hey, Fumikage,” said Jiro, “do you think you can fly over the wall? Maybe you can get a head start on… well, whatever, I guess.”

“I don’t think we should do anything suspicious while they’re watching,” reiterated Tsuyu.

“Yeah, plus we really revamped campus security. And this is Nezu we’re talking about.”

“The Rat God,” someone whispered, reverently.

(Was that Shouji?)

“Exactly, exactly,” said Present Mic. “So, everyone, just, please, calm down. Just sit back down, and we’ll ride the bus to the dorms. Like normal.”

“Yamada-sensei, nothing about this is normal,” said Tsuyu, flatly.

“Well,” said Present Mic, “yeaaaah, okay, you got me there, listeners.”

“Nezu’s coming up,” said Green Light. “Aw, he has Eri with him. They’re so short together.”

“Green Light,” crackled the radio in Nezu’s voice. “Did you forget that I have cameras and microphones installed on all our buses?”

“That’s how he knew I was the one putting together the compilation!” said Kaminari.

Fumikage peered out the window and furtively opened it, so they could hear what was going on. Eri was definitely there. She was also sporting the deepest, most dismal, aura of darkness Fumikage had ever laid eyes on. Luckily, it seemed to be aimed at the commission lackeys in the form of a smile and dead, dead eyes.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” said Nezu, cheerily. “I apologize for the long wait! As Lunch Rush indubitably told you, we had a small emergency.”

“We’ve been out here for hours. What kind of emergency could have kept you for hours under these circumstances?”

Eri’s smile grew both broader and deader. “Me,” she said. “I’m the emergenny.”

“Emergency,” corrected Nezu, gently.

“Emergency,” repeated Eri.

“I’m sorry?” said the shorter of the two investigators.

“I’m the emergency. I hada—” she paused, and her face pinched slightly in concentration. “I had an emergency, because, because, you’re being mean to Deku.”

“We—”

“You’re mean,” insisted Eri. “You’re bad guys. Deku is the good guy, because he saved me. Only bad guys are mean to good guys.”

“Excuse me, is this Chisaki Eri?”

Eri hissed.

“Perhaps I could ask you to refrain from using that family name. We’ve been trying to get past what her form did to her, you understand. Teach her morality.”

“I’ll bite you,” said Eri, malevolently.

“Self-defense, as well,” continued Nezu. “It’s very important for children to be able to feel safe and confident in themselves, don’t you think? And the recent news dealt a serious blow to that. You understand, then why I felt that it was more important to take care of my ward and other students than to greet you here. Especially given that you wished to interview Eri-chan as well.”

“I’ll bite you,” repeated Eri. “A lot.”

“We’ll… need a look at Midoriya’s room, first.”

“Way to go, Eri,” whispered Shinsou.

“Very well! You’ll have to come around to the front office to fill out some paperwork. We’ll need a physical copy of your badges, as well as a copy of your warrant, for our records…”

The gate opened, distracting Fumikage from whatever else Nezu had said. Green Light quickly drove through, making straight to the dorms. Fumikage snapped the window shut.

“So, uh,” said Kaminari. “What’re we going to do about Midoriya’s All Might shrine of a room?”

“Should we even do anything?” asked Jiro. “If stuff is disturbed, that’s going to be suspicious. I don’t want to get him into more trouble.”

“It’s a teenage boy’s bedroom,” said Mineta. “The stuff in there is already disturbed.”

“Mineta, I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Kaminari, “but your experiences are not universal.”

“None of you are disturbing Midoriya’s room at all,” said Midnight, standing. “You didn’t forget that we were here, did you? If you say yes, we’ll have to take some time to work on your situational awareness~”

.

Nemuri hadn’t quite known what to expect from the words ‘All Might shrine.’ In her experiences, the word ‘shrine’ could, especially when applied to a person’s hobby or area of interest, could cover a vast array of displays of varying intensity.

But Midoriya really went Plus Ultra on everything, didn’t he?

“Okay, kiddos,” said Midnight, “what would you say was the most incriminating thing in this room?”

She and Present Mic were the only ones actually in the room, but the students were gathered right outside the door.

“Notebooks.”

Midnight nodded. They’d get those first, then search for other places Midoriya may have put evidence of less-than-entirely-morally-upright behavior. Not that Midnight really expected to find any.

“Where does he keep them?” she asked.

“He has a shelf above his desk he usually keeps them on, kero.”

Midnight looked at the shelf above Midoriya’s desk.

It looked back at her.

This was because it was a void. As in, void of any notebooks. An abyss of sorts. Empty.

There were no notebooks in evidence.

“This will be a problem.”

.

“G-Gigantomachia?” asked Izuku, turning up the sweetness in his tone despite his nerves. And pain. Yep, there was a whole lot of pain, everywhere. Now that he was no longer actively running for his life, it felt like he’d pulled every muscle in his body.

“Yes, Little Lord?” asked Gigantomachia, happily.

He was like a giant dog. Izuku almost felt bad tricking him like this, but he reminded himself that Gigantomachia was a giant, evil dog. So.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Of course, Little Lord!”

“Well,” said Izuku, “you remember how I said that Shigaraki Tomura and I don’t get along?”

“Yes, Little Lord! My memory is very good!”

Izuku blinked. “Is that a—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. Not the time. “Well, I think that it might be a good idea if, ah, we established that he can’t attack me anymore.”

Gigantomachia stood up, shaking the earth and almost sending Izuku tumbling down. “HE ATTACKED YOU?”

Maybe this would be easier than he thought. “Yeah. A couple times. I’m okay, though!” He waved his hands. “I just think that it might be a good idea if we established a, uh, a pecking order. Sort of.”

“I’M GOING TO PECK HIM TO DEATH.”

“Please do not actually kill him.”

“I’M GOING TO PECK HIM MOSTLY TO DEATH.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Izuku.

“I’LL SHOW HIM YOU’RE IN CHARGE. YOU’RE MUCH BETTER THAN HE IS. MUCH MORE LIKE LORD.”

Wow. That was… certainly a statement. That Izuku was going to try his best to forget forever.

“Right. So. If you see him, do that,” said Izuku, nodding.

“OF COURSE, LITTLE LORD.”

“And, this is just a reminder, but don’t go into towns.”

“I WILL REMEMBER!”

“Great,” said Izuku. “I’m going to go back in and, uh…” He couldn’t say ‘plot my escape with Toshinori.’ “Rest,” he settled on.

“Oh!” Gigantomachia crouched down, his voice suddenly whisper-soft. Assuming rocks could be described as whispering. “Sleep well, Little Lord!”

“Thanks,” said Izuku, beating a hasty retreat.

.

“Stop the car!”

“But you said-!”

“Just stop the car, Twice.”

There was a not-at-all hidden ‘or else’ in those words. Twice, once again, stopped the car.

“Oh, my,” said Midoriya Inko, leaning forward. “That man up there looks remarkably like the sitter Hisashi hired for Izuku.”

“Oh, god,” said Tomura, dragging his hands down the sides of his face in lieu of looking out the window. “We aren’t prepared for this level.”

Midoriya Inko suddenly disappeared. Tomura made a noise in the back of his throat that wasn’t at all a scream.

Mr. Compress raised his hands defensively. “I thought it best to marble her while she was distracted. We wouldn’t want her to get injured in ”

“Wow! Way to go, Mr. Compress!” said Toga, giving the other villain a hug. “Good thinking!”

“Yeah!” agreed Twice. “Now she can’t hurt us—But she sure can when you let her out!”

“Which is why I propose we bring her to Giran at the first feasible opportunity. Between him and the doctor, I’m sure they can make arrangements for her that we need not be involved in. And I will make sure we are all far, far away when I let her out.”

There was a series of sighs of relief.

“Good idea,” croaked Tomura. “But what are we going to do about—” He swore vehemently. “He’s seen us, he’s seen us we’ve got aggro! Reverse!”

.

“Is that Vlad-sensei’s car?”

“Unfortunately,” said Toshinori, “I think it is. Oh, dear, the man’s one to hold a grudge. I think I’ll have a new nemesis by the end of this.”

.

Today had been a very annoying day in general for Vlad King, but for some reason, his sense of annoyance suddenly doubled. This made his hands clench and thereby tear the piece of paper he was holding.

Scratch that. His sense of annoyance had tripled.

“Yagi,” he muttered, “I am going to sue you so much.”

“What was that?” asked Hound Dog, looking away from the video feed displaying Eri-chan scarring Hero Commission agents for life in her undeniably cute way.

“Nothing,” muttered Vlad.

.

All for One paused in his assault of the vault door. He couldn’t help but feel like someone somewhere had said something unusually aggravating.

Ah, well. He had other things to worry about.

.

“Ah,” said Toshinori as one of Gigantomachia’s fists tore off the bumper of the rapidly reversing car. “Hm,” he continued as Shigaraki climbed out on the hood, grinning. “I think we should go, now.”

Izuku nodded. They could only hope to get far away enough away for Gigantomachia to be unable to hunt them down.

If they ran into any other problems…

.

Dabi paused as he heard quite a lot of noise from up ahead and rolled his eyes, ignoring how the movement pulled at his staples. The idiots had already started fighting Gigantomachia. Well. He didn’t want any part of that.

He changed directions. Hanging out in the woods it was, then.

Eh. It was good for him. Fresh (cold) air. Sunshine (sort of). Readily available reminders of why he hated his father.

Nature was great. If only he could burn it all down without blowing cover.

.

“Oh, no,” said a hapless technician.

“What?” asked the commission supervisor who’d brough the sample to the lab. “What is it? Is he related to the Scourge of Kamino?”

“Well,” squeaked the woman, her mousy ears twitching. “Yes. But I ran him through a few other databases as well, and…” she trailed off. “Well… The number of cross references in the hero database is staggering, but, of course, if he’s related to them, and to the other, well…”

The commission supervisor grabbed the edge of her monitor and twisted it around to face him. She watched the blood drain from his face and refrained from calling him out on his rudeness.

“Why,” he asked, “didn’t they run the Scourge of Kamino’s DNA through these databases?”

“I guess they didn’t think it was necessary?”

“Excuse me,” he said, “I have to make a few calls.”

.

“You want us to attack the League of Villains now?” asked Hawks, frowning. “You’ve had me following them around for weeks, and you want us to go in now, with next to no preparation? We don’t even know if the rest of the League is with Dabi.”

What had they found out from Midoriya’s blood sample? Had it turned out the way Dabi had expected.

Was Midoriya Izuku the son of All for One?

“Alright, alright,” he said in response to his handler. He sighed deeply, leaning back to better look at the sky. “But even I’m going to need a couple hours to get everything together and start coordinating with other heroes. I’m—Sir, I really don’t think I’m going to be able to take them all on just with myself and my sidekicks. Midoriya probably isn’t with them to begin with—I’m not questioning you, sir. I just don’t understand our objective in attacking them now. Why are we rushing? It seems counterpro—Yes, sir.” The line beeped loudly as it disconnected.

Well. All this had been a monumental waste of time.

It also boded ill for Midoriya. It sounded as if he’d become an even greater target than before, and considering that the commission had been labeling him a villain even before testing his DNA… Something bigger than being related to All for One must have come out. Something that had scared the commission. Something they would scrap their stealth- and intelligence-based plan for dealing with the League for. Something they wanted gone. Locked away with Midoriya.

Hawks couldn’t imagine what that could be. Maybe he was related to All Might? Or Endeavor? All Might wouldn’t be bad, he was never publicly in a relationship, but then he’d always been private about his personal life. But Endeavor… that’d be a scandal and a half.

But, if either of those were the case, why were they so sure he’d be with the League of Villains? It didn’t make sense. Unless… Unless Midoriya wasn’t the only one related to All for One.

At least they weren’t asking him to kill the kid. The mission was capture.

Which meant that Hawks had to come up with some way of letting an injured and probably exhausted teenager and a severely disabled old man escape without looking like he was letting them escape. Or looking like an incompetent idiot. Again. Because he wasn’t about to bring Midoriya in under circumstances this shady. Maybe before, when he thought it was just trumped-up kidnapping charges, but with this uncertainty…

Commission lackey or not, Hawks was still a hero. Sometimes that meant he put aside personal feelings for the good of society, and sometimes it meant that he ignored orders so a minor wouldn’t be indefinitely imprisoned at a commission black site.

Fun times.

He sighed and gathered in his feathers, angling down into a dive. Time to get to work.

.

Ochako kept seeing things out of the corners of her eye. Shadow in the shape of people, in the shape of children. Stains on the walls.

The hallways were scrupulously clean. Spotless. Empty. Brightly lit.

Todoroki had mentioned smelling smoke a few times and had started gagging for no reason once or twice. Iida kept twitching as if he had heard something. Aizawa appeared unaffected, but Ochako could see the way he gripped his capture weapon and the rigidness of his spine.

Izuku looked resigned.

“Did they really—” started Iida.

“Yes,” said Izuku. “Almost certainly.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Todoroki.

“You’re only getting fragments of Three’s memories, since she’s suppressing this,” said Izuku. “But…” He twitched, slightly. “It’s going to get worse the farther we go. The places she was in…” His voice was soft, sing-song, not quite entirely there.

“Izuku?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m focusing on something else outside.”

“Please tell me you aren’t fighting pro heroes again,” said Aizawa.

“No, I’m escaping from the League of Villains right now.”

“How?”

“Mm. Great question. I’ll tell you how it goes later, if it works.”

“That’s not what I—”

An ear-splitting, bone-chilling scream filled the air, making everyone flinch and clench. Something crackled overhead.

“Incident response team to hallway C. Code Blue.”

More screaming. This time, Ochako had a better idea of where it was coming from, and it seemed like everyone else, did, too.

They ran past classrooms that were alternately empty and full of shadow people, past soulless dormitory rooms stuffed with bunk beds, past cells and rooms Ochako didn’t even want to think about.

A pair of dark-skinned girls stood in the hallway, one holding a bloody hand to her throat, the other baring her teeth. The lights flickered. Dimmed.

The girls were gone by the time the lights came back on.

The hallway they were in was full of operating theaters, complete with lights over the door. Ochako felt sick.

But she was used to dealing with nausea. She took a deep breath and swallowed.

“What now?” she asked. The quaver in her voice was barely audible.

“Now…” Aizawa turned slowly in place. “We’re trying to find where they met Ryuji.”

“Two,” said Izuku, nodding.

“So, the most likely place for that…” He trailed off. “The most likely place for that is in the… residential areas.” He sounded disgusted with himself for referring to a prison with such bland terms.

“We passed something like that,” said Todoroki, quietly.

“Right,” said Aizawa. “Let’s go.”

.

The way back was much more… crowded. The memories were more tangible. Ochako quickly taught herself not to look in any of the rooms. Not that it helped much with what they saw in the halls themselves.

Izuku’s distraction only grew worse as they went further. He kept trying to follow, or sometimes fight, the memory ghosts.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Focusing on something else.”

“Just don’t die on us, problem child.”

“We’re doing okay,” said Izuku.

This was, of course, when the facility’s alarm went off.

“Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Intruder alert.”

.

Izuku couldn’t hear the sound of the fight between the League and Machia anymore. This meant that either the fighting had stopped, or they had moved out of earshot.

Despite the League having a car (Vlad-sensei’s car) Izuku doubted that the fight had gotten all that far away.

Next to him, Toshinori winced. Izuku looked at him with concern, but Toshinori waved it off.

Izuku took a shaky breath.

They just had to keep going.

.

Twice had, perhaps predictably, backed the car up into a ditch, where, despite the amount of pressure he put on the accelerator, it stayed. Stuck. Perhaps forever.

All members of the League of Villains that were not crazy enough to crawl onto the outside of a moving car to fight a homicidal giant climbed out. All members, meaning a single member. A single member, ironically, being Twice.

At least he hadn’t been going very fast when he ran into the ditch.

“Everyone okay? –Of course, they’re not! You were in a car crash, idiots!”

“Come help us fight!” ordered Shigaraki. “We were in the middle of something, you know, stupid level boss! Keep having to save scum I hate you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Well, that wasn’t a good sign.

“Where’s Himiko?” he shouted.

“Over here, silly!” said the second Shigaraki, because, yeah. Twice had forgotten he hadn’t duplicated Shigaraki.

Man, he was dumb sometimes. It was great he had friends to help him with that!

He dove into the fight which, ever so slightly, ever so slowly, began to move away from the car.

.

Izuku’s head throbbed sharply, and he stumbled, Toshinori just managing to catch him before he faceplanted. Four and the other past users hissed at him from the back of his mind.

Someone’s coming. Hide.

They were in no condition for another fight.

Toshinori nodded sharply, and pulled Izuku aside, into some bushes. Izuku tried to breathe quietly but was painfully aware that both he and Toshinori were out of breath and raspy. Ragged. They’d been aiming for speed, not stealth, counting on the sounds of combat to cover them.

But if someone was out here—

Izuku smelled smoke. A branch snapped. He held his breath, despite the way his lungs longed for more oxygen. Had Dabi been in the car? Izuku hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t seen any blue fire. It wasn’t like Dabi to hold back.

A pair of black booted feet came into view.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

.

They found Two standing in a hallway, surrounded by the bodies of soldiers. A small horde of shadow children clung to his legs.

When he laid eyes on Izuku, he sighed.

“Does the world ever give you a break?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” said Izuku.

[lookingforsarahjay]

The snape wives?? Pls explain I’m so curious

The Snapeism religion lead by the Snape Wives was a thing I heard about after it all happened because I was like 11 when it all went down but something about fandom drama that is dead and gone fascinates me. I don't want to get in currently active drama but any thing pre-2018 or so is fair game as long as you leave like, real world names out of it, nobody wants to be doxxed because you were in a religion about have spiritual sex with Severus Snape,

I'll explain. I'm assuming if you are rebloging the posts about the cults that started in the Harry Potter fandom (HPF) that you know who Snape is. It's died down somewhat but he used to be an absolutely huge draw for the slightly older women in the HPF, think Kylo Ren as a more recent example of a dark, mysterious, character with a troubled past who falls into a fascist coded group but changes sides in the end. That level of popularity. Say at any given point in time 0.1% of a fandom takes things a bit beyond just enjoying something, with the HPF numbering in the millions 0.1% is still a fairly sizeable chunk of people. So the church of Snapeism becomes a thing. They referred to themselves as Snapeists, and if you got far enough into it they had everything a major religion could need prayers, theology, vows, sacraments, Holy Texts (obviously) and of course the Snape Wives themselves as worshipers.

Snape was not just a character thought up by JKR oh no, Snape was an omniscient and immortal god who was channeled by JKR to write the harry potter books

The reason most people referred to them as Snape wives instead of Snapeist is because to be a member of the church of Snapeism you had to be married to Severus Snape. These women were serious, There were a few leaders of the Snape Wives, one of them, Lady Darkness, wrote the most recognizable marriage vows of Snapeism

"I promise to be always faithful in body and mind, and never love another man. I promise to love and cherish you all of my life. I promise to respect and honour you all of my life. I promise to dedicate all of my life to you. I promise to stand by you in good times and bad times. I promise to protect and guard you, and to prevent you from any harm. I promise to provide anything you need for you. I promise to take the best care of you. I promise to use your name with the respect it deserves. I promise to always wear the ring with your name in it, as a symbol of my love. I promise to obey you, no matter what. I promise to respect your wishes and not to be selfish. I promise to look after you in sickness and in health.  I solemnly promise all of this to you, Severus Snape, my only love. May these words create a strong loving bond, which can only be broken by death. If I break the promises made, or treat you not in the manner I should be, I'll make sure I'll die. May all the good forces and spirits bless our love eternally…. So it will be done..."

They had their relationship with Snape by channeling his spirit from the astral plane. This manifested in a few different ways, he visited their dreams, took control of the bodies of their boyfriends and husbands to have sex with them (keep in mind that most of these women were around middle age and some of them had been married for years before they married Snape [yes this caused theological arguments between the wives because should you have any IRL husband if you are also married to Snape?]) and most importantly they channeled his spirit to write. As you now know JKR had been channeling Snape to write HP, something obviously went wrong and that was why the books weren't perfect, because JKR is only human and couldn't channel his spirit properly. Snape died in the end? Nope he was immortal. Another quote from a Snape wife "I love you Severus, i know you can stop death, you'll be in my heart forever, i am yours, you deserve all the best, JK doesn't understand you, but there are many people who loves you and support you. Honor to our potion master, a great teacher and an admirable person, loyal and brave, i believe he is still alive." Basically every one of them wrote fanfiction of Snape and themselves (mostly erotic but some claimed Snape was shy and didn't want that on the internet)

It never got really big, even the wildest people in the HPF could point at the Snape wives as being much weirder than them and eventually it sputtered out, other characters came along to takes Snapes place in the hearts of some of them ( Jethro Gibbs was one of them, and I think some of the vampires from Twilight) Drama in the community drove people away, the vast majority of the HPF made fun of them so they got embarrassed or switched from livejournal to more private places. Whatever it was, Snapeism is gone off the internet only to be found with the wayback machine and photoshopped pictures of Snape and this wives still floating around somewhere.

Hoped that covered everything you were looking for. If not the Hobby Drama subreddit has a great explanation       

[poison--ivory]

Haikyuu! Virus AU (Random/Reader) Part 1

“I don’t fear the dark itself, but what may lurk within it.”

Warning: Blood, Gore, Character deaths and trauma

Part 2: link

Yamaguchi loathed the inky room of which he sat in. The only source of light that gave him some comfort was the natural light of the moon. Since the power in the city was out you could hear the wind blowing or the soft barking of dogs. He could barely make out the outline of team Nekoma’s manager, Y/n Shibayama. She was already knocked out as soon as her head hit the makeshift pillow. While he was wide awake, and sort of jealous that she could just sleep like everything was fine. He can’t stay mad at her for too long since her school lost their middle blocker, So Inuoka. Their team captain hasn’t been the same since. Not even a couple hours ago they too had lost another member of their group. 

Ennoshita screams still wrecked his mind and the smell of rotting flesh was forever inscribed in his nose. It really should have been him who went in that trench by himself. He was the one to point out the food truck and even made a small plan to gather the canned goods. Ennoshita and him had a little dispute on who would go and by the time he turned his head to give his side to Daichi, Ennoshita was already marching down the steep hill. A couple of seconds of arguing, before he heard the sharp screech, loud enough to pierce his ear drums. The next thing he knew, Suga and Yaku were rushing down the hill to try and save him. They stopped half way before running back, a herd surrounded Ennoshita in under a minute leaving little to no gaps for escape or retrieval. 

He knew deep down that it was his fault even if the others told him that there was nothing that could have been done. Yamaguchi knew that if he kept his mouth shut Ennoshita would still be alive, yelling at his second year teammates and patting us first years on the head. He tried everything to get his mind off the details, the screams and the stench. Yamaguchi’s mind even makes up certain info to scar his psyche.

Ennoshita wasn’t the only causality. At the very beginning of the outbreak, which to him felt like years, but in reality it was really a few weeks. Karasuno, Nekoma, Fukurodani, Ubugawa and Shinzen planned a last get together for the graduating third years. They all met at the training camp to play volleyball, visit Tokyo and to gain a few memories before they graduate. Really sunny that, but it wasn’t as hot, mostly a comfortable warmth that hugged his whole stature. 

When it started the Yamaguchi and some of the other first years were gallery gazing at the various window shops. Yuki Shibayama was buying a couple sticks of dango for his sister, Tsukishima made a small remark of him being a real sister boy. Haiba at the time seemed to be annoying a very displeased Teshiro. A small and weak yell was heard, however it was quickly brushed off due to the large crowd. Yamaguchi stopped at a food stall that sold fries, even though they weren’t soft as he wanted them, they still tasted pretty good. Hinata and Kageyama were arguing about something. Yachi stood in the middle to make them stop their yelling since they started to draw a small crowd. Another scream echoed this time a bit more heavier. The noise left his heart beating a bit faster; it sounded kind of. . . primal. Before he could react another yell followed by a wave of screeching rang throughout the air. The howling caused even the duo to shut up for once. 

He froze in place as a girl who looked no older than thirteen, a middle schooler was pinned down a lady. Her shrieks sent shivers down his spine, her dog bit the neck of the lady who fell off to the side trampled by oncoming people. The dog licking the girl’s cheek in a loving manner didn’t sense the sudden change in his owner. Her small frame was on him in a second tearing fur and flesh off his yelps and whine would fall on death ears. He managed to escape, but the large chunk left a noticeable hole in his side. Yamaguchi felt useless in that moment, his feet glued to the very dry cement he stood on. He turned to stare at Tsuki who was too engaged in his phone to notice what was transpiring around him. Yamaguchi's hand reached out for his friend, however in a split second Tsukishima was yanked from behind by a man, who looked extremely ill. Everything played in slow motion as the man bit Tsukishima on the neck and in complete shock elbowed the man square in the face. Clenching at the wound to dull the jarring pain.

Blood flowed down his neck and coated his white shirt, his headphones ripped off his ears hitting the pavement with a harsh smack. Yamaguchi remembered running to aid his best friend, dropping the fries in the process, his mind running faster than his legs and before he could even inch forward the same man and a woman gripped Tsukishima and tore his skin from his flesh. His gut wrenching screams through terror into his heart. Witnessing his childhood friend being eaten alive was a pill he tried swallowing, but soon regurgitated it back up. Throw up ran down his chin as Kageyama shoved him forward making him trip on ground beneath him. Yamaguchi noticed Hinata yelling at a very dumbfound Yachi, she stood there frozen, shaking and stunned by the madness happening around her. Everyone knew she was a very anxious and scared teenage girl, even suppressing a scream when she met the captain from Ubugawa again. 

Hinata’s pleading fell on deaf ears as Yachi stared off into the chaos, her mouth slightly shifting like she was mumbling under her breath. He shouted at her as well, but Kageyama pulled him again, cutting him off half way. Yachi was lifted from her stupor the moment someone else bumped into her. She ran off so fast in the crowd shrieking before even Hinata couldn’t grab her and before he could run off to catch up with her Kageyama snatched him up from the back of his shirt. They sprinted through the thick crowd and with luck on their side made it back to the camp and collapsed on the grass from exhaustion. He took notice of the other first years slowly arriving, a dazed Inuoka clutched at his side. Haiba guided him down to the ground and ran inside. Tears fell on the back of his hands and they streamed down his face like a water spout. He lost two of his friends in less than thirty minutes that day and it wrecked him.

It sounds so much like the beginning of a movie more than anything. Even the part of when we thought everything was okay Inuoka transformed into one of those sick creatures. He tore out the throat of Nekoma’s team coach. Coach Ukai with the help of Daichi and Kuroo shoved the reanimated Inuoka out. No one talked as we listened to the moans and screeches constantly banging at the locked doors. 

Yamaguchi snapped himself out of his depressing thoughts as a soft rustle startled him from the dark corner of the room. 

“Go to sleep. I can feel your depressing aura from here.” Konoha grumbled.

“S-sorry.” His face grew warm from embarrassment.

Konoha groaned as he sat gazing over at one of his teammates. Washio was still sound asleep as Konoha shifted out of his own makeshift bed. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah, my mind’s running faster than a rabbit right now.” Konoha nodded strutting across the room to my futon, sitting down on his rump and leaning on his head on his knee. “Sorry, that I woke you up.”

“Ya know it’s nearly morning, so don’t worry about it.” Yamaguchi just nodded. “Let’s just keep it down. I really don’t wanna hear Washio complain about us keeping him up.”

“Y-you don’t have to stay up with me. You don’t know when you can sleep peacefully again, ya know.”

“Nah, it’s fine already awake now and I don’t think I can force myself too either.” He gingerly smiled back at his senior. The two young men stayed up for the rest of the night mostly talking about anything that would keep their minds off their dead friends. They yammered on about family members and past friends that still lingered from childhood. Konoha mentioned his older brother and younger sister, but soon switched the topic. Yamaguchi talked about his mother, father and his grandmother who makes his fries extra floppy for him. The memories of sitting in his living room under the kotatsu with Tsuki. The air surrounding them would usually be scented with whatever his grandmother was cooking at the time. It really made him think about some of the embarrassing situations he was in with some family members. Now he kind of wants to wake up to that familiar smell of home cooked meals and laughter.

The conversations waived from school life, hobbies to old crushes. Yamaguchi had opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, he knew it was only a crush. But, knowing that the girl he liked was presumably dead made him suffer a wave of guilt. Konoha on the other hand was shyly gazing behind himself. 

“You know, I kind of have or may have developed a small crush on their manager. During my first year, we met Nekoma for the first time. Her cheeks were so plump that they bounce when you pinch them.” His facial expression stayed the same, however his cheeks were heavily flushed. “She probably doesn’t like me in that way, and that’s fine. I just don’t want it to be weird.”

“I heard that confessing can make you feel better. Maybe, I don’t really have that much experience in this or any experience for the matter.” Yamaguchi shrugged.

Konoha tore his gaze from the small frame hidden under the thin covers. “Maybe, but when shit settles down I’ll do it. Right now, seems like a very bad time.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s the better option.”

Konoha glanced around the room, seeing that the room was being illuminated by the morning sun. “Guess we’ve been talking for a while now.” Stretching, the sound of joints cracking invaded their ears, “So, wanna come with me on morning prep?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

 So, the day starts over. The endless cycle that now fills Yamaguchi’s life starts anew.

[cosmicmoved]

FORMAL INTRODUCTION FOR KITAHARA KOJIRO

hi, for some bizarre reason unbeknownst to even me, this muse has been like half a year in the making (actually, it’s been 5 months but that’s close enough for to still feel shame), but he’s finally here. the ““ evil ”” witch oc! witch man who does murders! whatever you want to know him as! anyway, from now on you just know him as kojiro or koj bc that’s his name <3 please look under the read more link for more info! (WARNING: the following will touch on darker themes like death, murder and, to a lesser extent, abuse. this is a heavy character so please keep that in mind if you ever wish to interact!)

BASIC FACTS

firstly, this oc is mostly connected to tsukidate sho, my witch detective oc. the connection mostly lies in the fact they’re both witches who interact with crime/murder in some capacity but their families are also close.

his name is kitahara kojiro ( 北原浩二郎 ), known as either kojiro or koji by those around him. i haven’t decided his exact birthday yet but he was born in 1990 and is approx. 31 years old. (i understand this is ‘older’ by tumblr rp standards but, by normal people standards, early 30s is still relatively young so basically, if u make old ppl jokes, i will bite u)

technically speaking, kitahara is his father’s surname but he never really knew his father and was raised by a single mother. however, his mother made the choice of raising him with his father’s name in an attempt to distance the pair from her own family. i’ll explain why that is the case in the backstory section of this post.

kojiro is a witch. he’s not involved in any broader witching community nor does his being a witch have much bearing on his professional life but he is a talented witch, despite being trained only by his mother. what he DOES use his magic for, however, is to cause a lot of problems.

oh yeah, he’s also cursed. and he kills people. because he’s cursed. again, i’ll explain this in more detail further in the post but it’s kind of an important fact. he was cursed to die at twenty years old and he’s still alive eleven years later because the only way to hold off death is to kill other people <3 omg that’s awkward

in his normal everyday life, kojiro works as a cake decorator and does photography on the side too. he’s a creative person and tbh he developed a lot of stupid hobbies in his teens, thanks to the belief he was gonna die by the end of them, so he ended up making a living out of what he liked. he also didn’t go to uni because he didn’t see the point because, again, he thought he’d be dead by 20 and then, when he wasn’t, he stopped caring.

it’s also important to note that he, uh, doesn’t give off murderer vibes at all. he’s friendly and sociable (and not in the ‘this guy’s definitely a weirdo’ way). 

i kept calling him ‘evil witch oc’ while i was working on him but, as i’ve said before, i think that’s actually a little too simple and i wouldn’t actually call him evil. he’s NOT a good person but i don’t think evil is the right word for him either. he doesn’t believe he’s a good person either but he’s learned to justify his own actions as a means of survival. kojiro doesn’t enjoy killing people, he doesn’t take any pleasure from the act of murder, but he’s also relatively calm about it too. since he doesn’t have to do it on a super regular basis, he prefers to target shitty people and esp corrupt witches in positions of authority (not really in a self-righteous way, more just because they piss him off). he has specific personal reasons for this.

he has a pretty intense fear of death. you think he’d be over it, having spent his whole life knowing he was meant to die early, but the ability to push his death back sort of flipped some switch in his head and, over the years, he went from quiet apprehension to paranoid obsession.

why is this muse 30 years old? firstly, because i want him to be. that would probably be enough but also his age actually IS important. the vibe i’m going for with this muse is, as i’ve said like once before, is what happens to the hero of the story after they complete their quest? what if that quest doesn’t go as planned? kojiro’s quest was to hunt down the demon associated with his curse. that’s his original ‘story’. what i want to explore here is the aftermath of that, what happens after the weight of the quest comes crashing down on the hero and they return to normal, everyday life where they’re forced to shoulder it as though it’s nothing. a decade after his initial story, he’s worn out. he’s not the same person he was at the start.

BACKSTORY

this isn’t going to be written in a super formal or tidy way because i honestly just can’t be bothered turning this into a proper piece of decent writing. this is only going to be in paragraph form because i don’t like putting backstories into bullet points unless it’s super brief.

kojiro was born in 1990 as the first (and only) child of his unmarried mother (as yet unnamed) when she was just nineteen years old. she was raised in a strict and traditional witching family so the fact that she’d had this child out of wedlock AND that the father wasn’t a witch didn’t exactly land well. regardless, they let her stay in the family home but it would soon turn out that the child was cursed. according to a member of tsukidate family (i.e; sho’s family who, as i said before, are on good terms with kojiro’s family and who are also knowledgeable in the realm of curses), the curse determined that the child would die on the day of his twentieth birthday unless he was able to kill the demon associated with the curse.

as if the judgement from her own family wasn’t enough, the curse brought with it a lot of stigma from the witching community and so his mother made the decision to leave home by herself when kojiro was a year old. all she could afford was a small, one bedroom apartment but, so long as she and her son had a roof over their heads, anything was good enough. kojiro would live a relatively normal life, going to school with other children his age and away from other witches, but his mother would teach him what she knew. although she wanted to him to live as easily as possible, she felt she had to prepare him for his inevitable encounter with the demon. kojiro grew up knowing about the curse too. there was no way to keep it a secret --- even if weren’t cruel to hide it from him, the curse had left a visible mark on him (still working out the details of what this looks like and where on his body it is but it basically looks like a tattoo to most people).

when kojiro turns eighteen, he decides he’s old enough to face this demon and claim control of his own life (maybe i’ll write this as an actual drabble / piece of writing one day bc i’m reeeally brushing over it here). it had been trapped by his family and forced to lie dormant until kojiro would arrive to take it down. what the demon reveals to him, however, changes everything. there is no cure to this curse, the demon tells him, everything he was told is a lie. the curse, it turns out, has tied the demon to him and the only way to kill the demon is for kojiro to die along with it. the reveal is this: when kojiro born, they took him from his mother for a short time. i want to emphasise that her family are pretty shitty people because they decided this would be the perfect opportunity both to punish her and to solve a very specific problem -- getting rid of this demon. the same member of the tsukidate who ‘diagnosed’ the curse was the one who put it on kojiro. i’ll explain the actual curse and story behind it (and the demon) in more detail at a later date but the basic gist of it is that kojiro’s family lied to him and used him as a disposable means to an end. his mother, for the record, was entirely unaware of this. but what else does the demon tell him? although the curse cannot be lifted, it can be held off. this demon thrives off death and, through death, it can stay strong and continue to keep kojiro alive. if it grows weak and it is not sustained, kojiro will grow weak along with it and inevitably die. kojiro informs the demon that he will not kill anybody. that is out of the question.

a month before his twentieth birthday, kojiro kills a man. he had tried to forget about everything the demon had said, tried to forget that his own family had set him up for guaranteed destruction, but it hadn’t been easy. it had set him on edge and he’d become unstable. he’d fallen into a slump and his friends grew worried for him. yet, after a while, he came to accept it and tried to make peace with his life as it was. he put it to the back of his mind as best he could. but he’d discovered that the man his mother had been seeing over the past few years since he’d moved out to live on his own was abusive. so he killed him. everything the demon had told him risen to the surface and he’d asked himself does it matter if this guy dies instead of me? after all, kojiro was curious. he didn’t really want to die and he had wondered if the demon was telling the truth. to this day, kojiro doesn’t know what to believe but it’s much too late for all that now. he followed his mother’s boyfriend home and broke his neck in a dark alleyway. thanks to the magic he’d been taught growing up, he was able to ensure that nobody every traced him to the accident and, when the clock struck midnight on his twentieth birthday, kojiro broke down crying with relief.

he wasn’t dead. he still isn’t dead. he’d never wanted to die. over the years, the killing has gotten a lot easier. over the years, the answer to that question comes much quicker; if somebody has to die, why should it be me?

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #22- If You Don’t Love Thunderclash, Get Better Soon I Guess

One last issue before we reach Comic Event Hell.

Time to use a dead man to set up the rest of the nonsense that’s got to happen, because apparently 14 issues of setup, including six issues of literal prelude, wasn’t enough.

The first bit of information we’re presented with is the fact that Chromedome and Swerve are on the opposite sides of the camera-shy scale. I guess that’s bound to happen when your spouse has had his video-cam literally connected to his brain for at least several thousand years.

The art may look really gritty and hardcore here, but this is actually due to a filter Rewind has over all his footage that he’s neglected to take off, because it made all the wartime propaganda he would stuff into people’s heads all the more brutal-looking.

No, this is the style of our artist for this issue, James Raiz, who we’ll be seeing a fair bit of over the next several issues. Raiz has worked on the Transformers franchise over the course of multiple license-holders, as well as contributed to both Marvel and DC comics. He also works in special effects, including matte painting and VFX. That’s just neat.

Anyway, the reason Swerve’s completely frozen in place isn’t because Rewind  switched out his head-mounted camera for a gun that goes off if it hears you make a self-deprecating joke, but rather because he’s conducting interviews with everyone in the main cast. We get all their introductions, Cyclonus makes a statement about his political stances, Drift sounds like he’s high as a kite, First Aid strikes a sassy pose while not being bitter in the slightest, and Ultra Magnus makes a move that would get him murdered on any given film set in the universe.

You do NOT use your bare fucking hand to clean a camera lens, mister. Go get a microfiber cloth and try the fuck again, you complete and utter duffel bag of a creature.

We get a quick cut of the speech Rodimus made back in issue #1, with an angle that implies that Rewind was in the front row of the front row, then cut over to Rodimus asking Rewind to document their Capital-Q Quest. This is where we establish that this film doesn’t only contain footage from Rewind’s personal camera, but also that of the Lost Light’s security system.

Which feels like the sort of access you maybe wouldn’t want to give some nosy little film buff, especially when you have a secret giant serial killing sadist living in your basement like a disappointing adult child.

See? He was given the job to record the adventures of the Lost Light not five minutes ago, and he’s already using his powers for evil. Eavesdropping evil. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Rodimus, and you just handed it to the guy with a massive Dominus Ambus-shaped chip on his shoulder.

So Rewind’s got permission to film just about whatever he wants, and Rodimus figures it’ll be nonstop action from here to the finish line! Fights! Intrigue! Mild hijinks and peril! Explosions aplomb! Oh man, I can’t wait to see what kinds of crazy shit will happen on this absolute roller coaster of a Quest!

Smashcut to Swerve literally falling asleep in the middle of a conversation. Yeah, as it turns out, no quest, capital Q or not, is nonstop action. Which is good, honestly, because that kind of seems like it would be exhausting after the first week or so.

Swerve, Tailgate, and Rewind are discussing cool alt-modes, which seems like an odd topic, seeing as Tailgate and Swerve have basically the same situation going on there, leaving Rewind alone in the camp of “does not have wheels”.

I worry about you sometimes, Rewind. Internalized Functionism is a very real problem. Uh, well, in your universe anyway. Us humans have to deal with regular ol’ classism and racism.

Rung gets brought up, and it’s revealed that the wheel on his back is almost purely cosmetic; it doesn’t even actually attach to his body. The lads decide that they’ve got nothing better to do, and set up a gentlemen’s wager- first one to figure out Rung’s whole deal gets 100 space-dollars.

Throwing shit at people’s heads will be a major plot point in the climax of this comic series.

Swerve’s go at trying to win the bet involved tossing a grenade at Rung to hit him in the neural cluster, which is rumored to be able to force an involuntary mode change if done correctly. Obviously, it didn’t work this go around. Then our narrative focus switches over to the crew’s hobbies.

You were listening to Prince, weren’t you, Magnus? Not even deep space is safe from the Cease and Desist.

Skids’ hobby is meeting new people, because he suffers from the terrible curse of being so fucking good at everything he tries, he always ends up dropping whatever he picked up, because what’s the point? This acts as a segue into another flashback, to even MORE bullshit that the fellas got roped into on Hedonia.

These are the Stentarians. They’re like the Cybertronians, if they were better in every way.

And by “better”, I, of course, mean “more bloodthirsty, warmongering, and driven enough to make their civil war last about as long as the Jurassic Period”. Also, they’re all combiners by default, and Whirl seems a little TOO into their whole situation. So much so, in fact, that when the Imperial Guard of their race show up to kill them, he decides to do them a solid by single-handedly ending their entire war.

You know, in most cases you’re supposed to show and not tell for visual media. This is way funnier, though, so it can be excused.

We jump back into the interviews, and Rewind’s just asked everyone if they’re happy. This might seem like an odd question, until you remember that everyone on-board this ship has crippling depression and PTSD, and Rewind’s married to one of the saddest motherfuckers to ever exist, so he probably has this question loaded into the proverbial chamber at any given moment. We won’t cover all of the answers here, because they’ll be more poignant to reflect back on later in the comic run, but let’s take a gander at the characters who’ve completed the first leg of their character arcs this season.

Drift, is that perhaps… an honest expression of your inner thought processes happening right there? Has Rewind broken through your carefully crafted persona, if even for just a moment, with his question? Perish the thought!

Because Tailgate outed himself as being baby in issue #21, I have zero doubt he’s not exaggerating here. He was a janitor, then he fell in a hole and became Dirt-Nap Supreme for six million years; even the most boring day on the Lost Light’s got to be better than that.

And it’s nice to see Chromedome on a good day for once. Hopefully he reveled in it while he had the chance, because this interview takes place maybe a couple weeks before he fucks everything up big time and has to blow up his husband with a missile strike.

Getting back to the Mystery of the Rungian Alt-Mode plotline, we see Rung using his backpack as a wheelbarrow- no idea what he’s actually pushing in the damned thing- and wearing the most disgruntled face I’ve seen him pull in a hot minute. Someone yells for him to come down the eerily unlit and sinister-looking hallway, which he does. Rung would not do well in a horror film.

He winds up at Swerve’s, where Tailgate, Swerve, Brainstorm, and someone who is most likely Trailcutter, given the colors, are hanging out in their alt-modes. Tailgate’s ploy to find out Rung’s deal is to do what he does best- lie! They’re having an alt-mode party, and wouldn’t Rung like to join in? There are, of course, logistical issues with being a car in a bar, especially when your drink is on the table and your head is tucked up somewhere in your torso, but never mind all that! Let’s get crazy!

This doesn’t work either. Maybe we should cut out the middle man here and just get Rung drunk enough to agree to a wet alt-mode contest.

No, I don’t have any idea how that would work.

In our next vignette, Rodimus comes into the comms room, Rewind trailing behind him like a grim shadow of death, to see what the hell Blaster wants, other than just the hugest glass of water.

Raiz’s work is very detailed, and you really feel the weight of these giant metal space robots, but everyone looks like they’ve been put through a food dehydrator.

We get a lot of build up to the character who’s about to be introduced, with a common opinion being shared amongst everyone- even Tailgate, who hates successful people like his life depends on it.

Lovely readers, put your hands together for the ideal male partner for Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals alike:

A man with so much charisma and charm that only Rodimus could hate him, Thuderclash brings to IDW what everyone wishes Optimus Prime would, making our disappointing space dad even more mediocre by comparison. He fights for justice, and freedom, and the good of the universe- and he does it all while having a chronic medical condition that forces him to stay within a certain distance of his ship that is also a life-support machine, otherwise he will die. Despite his handicaps, Thunderclash seemingly brings to others what they need most, even if they don’t even realize that they needed it in the first place.

He also, in this one scene, appeals to Drift’s religious sensibilities, does a secret best-friend dance with Ratchet (who he helped to pass his medical exams- yes, Ratchet), and congratulates Rodimus on his questing so far.

Thunderclash is one of those characters that everyone in-universe is supposed to love, and I completely buy it- because he’s completely genuine and humble about all of this the entire time.

Compare this to the last time Roberts wrote Thunderclash, in Eugenesis.

Where he was an ex-Decepticon.

And kind of an abrasive asshole.

And then he died.

Y’know, now that I think of it, Eugenesis Thunderclash and MTMTE Ambulon being basically the same character makes a whole lot of sense, even without the horrors of Roberts’ Twitter getting involved.

Thunderclash reveals that he, too, is on a quest to find the Knights of Cybertron, much to Rodimus’ chagrin. But first he needs the Lost Light to break out the jumper cables, and then for his second in command to stop threatening his life.

Turns out, not everyone is as obvious as the Cybertronians with their naming conventions. Whirl assassinated the wrong folks; I’m sure the Galactic Council is utterly thrilled. Paddox wants to steal the quantum engine technology for the good of his people, so they can kick the ass of the up-and-coming Terradore leader.

Completely unaware of the situation unfolding here in the lab, Swerve is directing Rung towards the warm, loving aura of Thunderclash for another go at winning the gentlemen’s wager- through the power of lying about having friends, Swerve’s “agreed” to get Rung Thunderclash’s autograph, in exchange for getting to check that Rung’s transformation cog is still working. Then they bump into the nightmare currently unfolding. My, whoever will save us from this dreaded menace, who holds a gun to the head of the Autobots’ greatest warrior, confidant, friend, and perhaps even lover?

How about a bartender and a giant vape pen?

Okay, so Rung doesn’t actually turn into a vape. It turns out that the Mystery of the Rungian Alt-Mode is also a mystery to the man himself. Because Rung is old as shit, the Functionists got to see this bullshit for themselves, and ended up testing him over and over and over trying to figure it out, lest he prove to be a flaw in their fascist ideologies. Fun fact: fascists HATE it when people they’re trying to oppress don’t play to their expectations.

The Functionists were the ones who gave Rung his little wheelie backpack, to make him at least appear useful. This sort of treatment tends to warp one’s head a bit, which would explain why he’s bothered to keep it for so long- internalized functionism’s a real bitch.

At least he’s not giving teenagers nicotine addictions under the guise of being somewhat better than cigarettes.

Back with Rodimus and Cybertron’s Autobot of the Year for 40,000 consecutive years, we get the unfortunate news that jump-starting Thunderclash’s ship is going to make the Quest go a bit slower for the Lost Light, much to Rodimus’ horror, though he does his best to put on a brave face; after all, that’s what heroes do, isn’t it?

It’s at this point that it’s revealed that “Little Victories” was being screened to all the Circle of Light members who didn’t get murdered or turned into Legislators on Luna 1, and man are these guys pissy. What was meant to be a recruitment video turned out to do just the opposite, because none of these guys want anything to do with what the Lost Light’s got going on.

Too bad Rewind didn’t have time for a cleaner cut for showing. Maybe they could have at least snagged a couple of these guys to tag along.

As all of the Circle of Light leave the theatre to go call everyone’s favorite Autobot to see if he needs a more crew members, the film plays on behind Skids, back to the interviews, as everyone promises more adventures just waiting on the horizon.

You’re not even on this trip anymore, you dork.

Chromedome gives us the title drop for the movie and issue, and we cut to Rewind organizing a group photo of all the interviewees.

And then Rewind died horribly like a week later. Thus ends season one of More Than Meets the Eye!

While I’m here, I’d like to take the time to cover a little bit of cut content from this issue, a scene between Drift and Ratchet.

Drift, during his interview, recalls the time that Ratchet called him into his office for a very serious discussion about his/Pharma’s hands.

Yeah, turns out they’re haunted.

Well, no, not really, because this is a prank. But Drift doesn’t know that yet.

Ratchet demonstrates this hand-haunting by punching Drift in the face, as he screams damnation at Pharma’s ghost. Drift, because he is a spiritual man, knows exactly what to do to deal with this possession; he draws his sword and chops Ratchet’s hands off, then throws them out the airlock.

This, too, is a prank, not that Ratchet knows it right away, yelling at Drift that he’s crippled him.

Clearly, these two belong together.

This bit of cut script was lucky enough to have gotten drawn by the colorist for MTMTE Season 1, Josh Burcham. Burcham’s line art is iconic- you won’t mistake him for anyone else. It’s rough and angular, and honestly just very charming. I’m a sucker for this sort of style. If you want to see his adaptation of this chunk of script- and trust me, you do- the link’s right here:

https://dcjosh.tumblr.com/post/107665292031/its-done-the-mtmte-22-deleted-scene-in-all-its

[sahbibabe]

The Fiction of Love

The Fiction of Love

Soulmate AU: Where whatever your soulmate writes on their skin appears on yours.

Genesis Rhapsodos/Fem! Reader

In which you finally meet the source of the daily recitations of Loveless on your arm: Genesis Rhapsodos.

IT STARTED LIKE everyone else's soulmate experience─the writing appeared one day, out of the blue, on the skin of your forearm like a tattoo. They were always quick to fade, the magical ink devoured by your body's immune system, but they lingered long enough for you to notice them.

And, weirdly enough, the first words your soulmate wrote to you were the words of a poem. Whoever they were, they wrote in an amazingly talented hand, the calligraphy putting your awful, cramped words to absolute shame.

'Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess,' they wrote on your arm that morning,'we seek it thus, and take to the skies.'

From then on, every day since then, you would be sure to find phrases of that poem written somewhere on your body. On your arms, forearms, hands, knees, legs, but the most common was always the inside of your wrist, written there as if it was some secret, some thrilling note that you could look at when no one was around.

You hated it.

Unlike the rest of the women in your office building, you despised that poem─and the play─with every fiber of your being. It was one thing to hear it every day at work, brought on by the cooing assistants who fawned over the main male leads of the play and lusted for their numbers. But to be hounded by it even as you relaxed at home, unable to forget those damned words because they appeared on your skin almost every hour on the dot?

It was ridiculous.

Your spite had extended to your replies to your soulmate, so much so that you never replied at all once your hatred took hold of you. It had been nearly two months since you had stopped, six months since they had started to begin with, and yet your soulmate soldiered on, leaving the little phrases for you to find─in obvious spots, none of them ever inappropriate─and going on with whatever they did for a living.

It had to have been something time and attention consuming, because the one time you wrote back, drunk during mid-day, you didn't get a reply until well after twelve in the morning. You had just wrote, pretty awfully,'Why Loveless?' and passed out on the couch, dead to the world.

You woke up right in the middle of the reply appearing on your skin as they wrote it, the curls of their handwriting fascinating as every whorl and slash bloomed upon your arm like wicked black flowers.

'Why not Loveless?' They had replied.

Needless to say, the irritation had rose up as you had expected it to, and you pulled a hoodie on for the rest of the night to hide your arms from your line of sight. If you would have pulled up your sleeve just a bit then, you would have caught the extended reply that they added on to it.

'I'm just joking. Why Loveless? Because it is a truth; it is deliverance. It is a meaning.'

Unfortunately for you, the ink had been devoured long ago and replaced with another Loveless stanza, this one a little bit longer than the others they had written for you… and not at all part of the official poem.

'Even if the morrow is barren of promises

Nothing shall forestall my return

To become the dew that quenches the land

To spare the sands, the seas, the skies

I offer thee this silent sacrifice.'

It was then, staring at your arm as you stood in front of your office copier, the glow of the mako reactor shining upon your skin, that you realized this poem was much more than a means to annoy you. This was their passion, their joy, their hobby, all wrapped into one poem.

You made a decision then.

You booked the tickets, the priciest seats you could afford, rented out a modest but elegant dress for the evening, and made a reservation at a nice restaurant just across the street from the theater, even more pricey than the tickets.

'Theater #2, front steps, 8:30 P.M. Dress nice. Don't be late.'

That reply had been instantaneous.

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

The date set and your dress hanging comfortably in your closet, you began wondering what your soulmate looked like. Could you pick them out of a crowd? Or were they plain and unassuming, able to blend in easily, like camouflage?

You asked them, just to be sure.

'What do you look like?'

'Let's leave that as a mystery. I'm sure I'll be able to find you.'

Stumped, you stared at your arm with wide eyes, before scratching through your question and doodling a smiley face with the tongue sticking out of the side.

'Not if I find you first.'

'I look forward to the challenge.'

By the time the date rolled around and you were dressed and waiting by the steps of the theater, you were so nervous you could throw up. You were a little early and tried to settle your nerves with a small can of soda, but all that succeeded in doing was making the butterflies worse. You were lucky they had even agreed to the meeting in the first place; some people just never got that chance. And that didn't guarantee you would even get along, did it?

After a few minutes of failing to calm yourself down, you got on your phone and scrolled through the new ShinRa announcements, eager to take your mind off of the wrecking ball going off in your stomach. It only helped a little bit.

And then, something odd happened; like the proverbial red sea, people parted for someone walking through the crowd at a leisurely pace, except the 'red' was a man, and not a sea at all. Just from your distance, he was gorgeous, with russet red hair and mako green eyes that sparkled under the fluorescent lights.

Whoever got him as a soulmate had earned the jackpot, you thought wordlessly to yourself, watching as the crowd continued to part for him. Really, really lucky.

Then you realized, belatedly, like a sucker punch to the gut, that he was headed your way, those insanely green eyes trained on you with the focus of a predator. It was suddenly very hard to breathe, your lungs constricting at the disbelief in your mind, your phone very heavy in your hand.

There was no absolute way in hell--

"I told you I'd find you," he said with a smooth grin. His voice was like honey, rich and smooth with all of the right cadence, and sat right in your stomach like molten gold. You swore if you weren't so awe struck that you would have teetered back and fainted right then and there. "I win."

"I guess so," you replied faintly, barely a whisper. He seemed to acknowledge the effect he had on you because his eyes crinkled up just the slightest with a smirk that made you want to, quite literally, rip off that red leather jacket he wore and show him who was boss. "I'm [Name]."

"Genesis." You watched the emerald earring he had in his ear dangle and catch the lights, adding to his features spectacularly. "Are you ready to go inside?"

You had to stop yourself from sounding too eager. Your plans had went from having a nice time at a play, to dinner, and parting your separate ways and straight to watching a play, having dinner, and hopefully taking him back home with you if he was willing. "Yes, please."

Genesis smiled and tucked your hand into his elbow, like a gentleman--you could feel your face growing as hot as coals--and escorted you up the stairs, careful not to let you trip and fall. As you walked with him to the stands to give the doorman your tickets, you noticed that he didn't exactly walk with the awkwardness of a normal person. His gait was smooth, fluid, elegant and refined, as if someone had drilled him to always be light on his feet. Add that to the sword you could feel at his side and the beautiful green eyes, and you knew you had a SOLDIER for a soulmate.

"You're a SOLDIER?" You asked quietly as you entered the quiet zone of the play stage.

He chuckled lightly. "What gave it away?"

"Let's see… Other than the sword and the way you carry yourself?" You teased, stomach jolting when he moved his hand to the small of your back to urge you towards your seat. "Your eyes. I've never seen such a concentrated color before."

"Yes, the tell tale sign of mako energy," he lamented, if only to earn a laugh out of you. "But yes, I am a First Class SOLDIER."

Your head turned so quickly that you were sure your neck would have snapped. "First Class? And you're here with me, not on some elite mission?"

"Of course." He blinked, tilted his head, and furrowed his eyebrows as if he was the one who should be confused. "Why would I turn down the chance to see Loveless with a goddess such as yourself?"

Oh, you felt the heat now, curling down your spine like a snake and he the charmer. It should have been cheesy, given the situation and his love for a poem mentioning such a goddess, but for some reason, it wasn't, and it made goofy feelings rise in your chest, along with understanding.

It was more than just a poem.

He grinned when you brought your pamphlet up to fan yourself, leaning back in your chair and mumbling,"Let's just watch the play, okay?"

Genesis was, thankfully, tame during the entire thing. He was just as absorbed into it as you were, those pretty green eyes taking in the play actors with relish, and absentmindedly stroking his leather clad thumb over your knuckles as if it was natural to him.

When the play was over, the actors gave out cute silk flowers as a souvenir, thanking everyone for their attendance and citing their next performance as sometime next week.

Dinner, you came to find out, was fair game for Genesis.

Not only did he pull some strings behind your back to pay for it himself, he also switched your reserved table to the most secluded one in the entire building: the Elite floor where only people like Rufus Shinra dined and held their meetings and drank fine wine.

There were only three other tables on the floor, each one hosting a couple, and the room was dark, barely lit by glowing red lanterns as a centerpiece. Clearly it was a popular spot to be wooed.

You caught envious stares from the waitresses, a few offering you winks and a thumb's up, as you made your way up the stairs, Genesis behind you and making sure you didn't fall. You half guessed he was also in it for the view as well.

When you were seated and left to order your food, Genesis spoke up.

"So, you know what I do for a living, but you have yet to tell me anything about yourself." He propped open his menu and looked over it to you.

"Well… There isn't much to say." You shrugged and focused on trying to undo the straps of your heels with your feet, feeling your toes ache with the added height. "I'm a bit boring compared to you."

"I digress," he hummed,"but go on."

"I work in an office building for twelve hours a day," you deadpanned, much to his amusement. "It's boring."

"Allow me."

Confused, you opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but all of the breath left your lungs once again when his fingers wrapped around your ankle and unbuckled the straps to your heels with nimble fingers. He took his time, sliding his palm up your leg to take a hold of your calf as he removed the shoe from your foot.

Relieved from the pressure of your shoes, you let out a pleased sigh, but when you looked back across the table at him, those green eyes were glittering dangerously, trained on your face for a solitary second before getting to work on the other shoe.

You couldn't help the sudden heat rising in your belly. That look alone had made you tingle.

Before he could open his mouth and say something that would probably make you forego dinner plans entirely and drag him back to your house, the waitress came back, sheepish, and took your orders.

When you finished ordering--a salmon filet drizzled with soy sauce and wine--Genesis was busy studying you, watching you toy with the strap of your dress nervously.

Unfortunately, he never did make any more moves on you for the rest of dinner, but your stomach was glad for that because every time he looked at you even slightly, you would feel food get lodged in your throat.

You spoke well into the morning hours, getting tipsy enough that Genesis had to carry you all the way back to your apartment because the cabs weren't running that late. He was amused, if anything, and laughed whenever tried to come on to him, slurring sweet promises in his ear.

Every time, he would say,"Perhaps later when you're not so drunk."

"If not now, when?" You whined pathetically, leaning against your door as he picked the lock, unwilling to take the plunge down your bra to retrieve the keys.

"Soon," he said, his voice full of dark promise, enough that your alcohol addled mind could make out the desire in his voice like an arrow to the heart. "Soon."

He left you with just that promise, vanishing down the hall and into the night.

You remembered the look on his face, the tone of his voice, even when you woke up, and took maybe five seconds before you were yanking a pen out of your nightstand and writing on your arm.

'Now?"

A few seconds passed, then three minutes. And there it was, written in his elegant penmanship: your answer.

'3:40 P.M. Don't be late.'

[punkpoemprose]

December 2nd- Jumping for “Joy”sticks

Universe: 1980′s Arcade AU Rating: G (General, Fluff, Meetcute) Length: 4752 Words

A/N: I was not alive in the 80′s, I barely remember any of the 90′s, y’all can start picking on my era generalizations when I hit the 00′s. I had a lot of fun with this, I’m sorry for the pun title, it was all I had. Thanks for all the comments and tags on yesterday’s fic. Everyone’s engagement is what keeps me going!

Working as an arcade attendant wasn’t exactly Kristoff’s dream job, but college was pricey, he hated the idea of making his parents help him out, and the work wasn’t exactly difficult for the pay. It was relatively simple as his main duties were emptying coins out of the game machines, dumping them into the change machine, and keeping kids from climbing to jumping on the game cabinets or anything else. Once he got past the sound of kids screams and shouts mingling with Duran Duran and Wham!, the blinking lights, the smell of teens who needed a lecture about deodorant and hygiene, and the uncomfortable sensation of wiping down whatever sticky substance coated half the games it was actually a pretty cushy job.

Most days he spent more time sitting behind the front counter working on classwork and reading his textbooks than doing anything in his job description because it just wasn’t necessary. He had the good fortune to work mostly morning or afternoon into evening shifts on weekdays, so other than the occasional interruption of a truancy officer looking for a kid playing hooky from school there wasn’t much for him to bother with. When he didn’t have homework or classwork to keep himself preoccupied, he found himself, a tried and true introvert, bored enough to people watch. Mostly it was teens and tweens trying to beat each other’s scores on Pac-Man or Donkey Kong Jr., but every now and then there’s be someone a bit more interesting to watch. A father who would sometimes come in with his young son to play Burgertime, an older woman in her 50’s who liked to kick kids off the Tetris machine, and a small company of mall goths all made the grade for entertainment where his entertainment was concerned. There was one standout though, a young woman who would come alone on Wednesday nights.

Wednesday was the only day he worked where he was consistently scheduled to close. It was one of his few days without evening classes or labs and it was usually the quietest night of the week with kids on tight curfews for school and most everyone else just wanting to get home after a long day. The girl though, for some reason he still couldn’t glean, would come in exactly an hour before closing to play Ms. Pac-Man.

She always seemed a bit out of place despite appearing to be just a bit older than the high school kids who usually haunted the place, and being consequently, just a bit younger than he was. He thought that maybe she always stood out to him because of how she was dressed. Not many women spent much time in the arcade, much less alone, but of the small handful she was the only one who came in wearing L.L. Bean sweaters over a perfectly pressed white blouse with a similarly blindingly white skirt and tennis shoes. Her fire red hair was always held in place by a headband that matched her sweater, though he often noted that despite the clear effort put into her image, on a second glance her hair was a bit wild like she didn’t bother much with it.

              The overall impression he had of her was that she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a nearby country club’s squash court. He really wasn’t even sure what squash was, but he thought that it was something like tennis and was generally the kind of sport rich girls would play. Pretty young women dressed as nicely as she did had to have hobbies he couldn’t understand. He supposed that it might be one of those biases he’d built since starting college that his Ma would chew him out over, and as it ended up whoever the redhead was, she was much more interested in getting a little yellow circle to eat round things than she was in hitting them with a racquet.

Every Wednesday evening like clockwork she’d come in at nine, give him a shy smile like she knew she didn’t belong there, and then would proceed to spend an hour and a pocketful of quarters on Ms. Pac-Man. She was quiet as she played, like she was afraid to make a sound, but sometimes when he’d switch off the music early and start turning machines off, he’d hear the “wokka-wokka” of her machine and the occasional almost inaudible huff when she lost followed shortly by the clink of another coin hitting the slot and dropping down into the coin box.

Their only real interaction beyond the shy smile she’d always give him on her way in and out was the brief exchange of him letting her know that he was getting ready to close up for the night. She’d always thank him quietly for letting her know, and he noticed how red she would get on the nights she apologized for staying so long. He’d been annoyed by that at first, the fact that she would come in not long before close and play right up until he was ready to lock up for the evening. He supposed that it was easy to lose track of time in the arcade if you weren’t always waiting for your shift to be over given the distinct lack of clocks in the space, but it was always bothersome to have to be  held up by a customer.

He remembered wanting to tell her the first few times she’d overstayed that she should check her fancy watch if she was going to wear it. It probably cost more than he made in a year, and yet despite the fact he was certain it kept time well, she always seemed to be surprised by the hour passing. However, the annoyance quickly passed when she would apologize for getting caught up and leave promptly after he let her know they were closing.

It was impossible for him to stay annoyed at her, despite his best efforts to not pay attention to anyone at his job more than strictly necessary, the red head with her love for Ms. Pac-Man often were the subject of his idle thoughts. She was polite and she was pretty, and he was a grumpy “old bastard”, but he was a man and he could appreciate polite and pretty when he hadn’t dated anyone in a very very long time.

In fact, he started to look forward to Wednesdays. Even knowing that her arrival would keep him from a early night, he felt strangely like she needed to be there. He didn’t know her, but there was something in her manner that told him that maybe this was where she came to breathe. He would never call himself on expert in communication or understanding others, but there was something about the shyness of her entrance and exit and the way she just relaxed when she played that made him glad she came, that the space was safe for her. She always looked so sad when she left.

It was a particularly slow day when he was informed by a coworker who had been on the shift before his that several machines were out of commission due to what they assumed to be a power surge. On the line of downed machines were Galaga, Frogger, a few other semi-popular games, and most unfortunately, both Pac-Man and Ms. Pac-Man. He’d also been informed that the repair shop had been called, but there was no word on when, or if they would arrive before the end of the week let along the end of the day.

Kristoff knew that it shouldn’t bother him. They were just games after all, and he barely if ever played any of them himself. Kids would find something else to play and the cabinets would get fixed when they got fixed. He did care though, he spent his whole shift pacing behind the counter, watching the door, waiting for the phone to ring, and generally hoping that someone would come and fix something. He cared because it was Wednesday and she was going to be coming in to play Ms. Pac-Man and he, strange as it may be, liked her quiet company. He liked the idea that one of these days he might ask her for her name and maybe talk with her for a little while.

Hours passed, and he only gave up hope when he knew that it had to be past time for the repair shop to close. His anticipant pacing then turned to nervous heel rocking as the last few customers filtered out for the evening and the time of her arrival neared. He wondered what he should say to her when she walked in, or if he should say anything at all. She’d find out that the game was down either way, but he didn’t want her to go right after she found out either. Maybe, he thought, she might stay if he just said the right thing.

He held his breath when he heard the door open, and while he wasn’t exactly surprised when she walked through the door, he was thrown off to be greeted with, not her shy smile, but instead with her rushing past the counter, not looking his way at all. That, he decided, took the cake for the oddest part of an already strange day.

There was of course no obligation for her to interact with him, but there was something in the way that she rushed by that had him feeling uneasy. He really wasn’t a people person in any sense of the word. He preferred the company of family or his dog over any interaction with strangers, but he had an odd sense that even having not spoken to her much, she wasn’t a stranger.

“I’m sorry your game is down,” he said quickly before she got far enough away that he’d have to raise his voice to relay the information, “I’ve been waiting for the repair guy my whole shift but it looks like he couldn’t make it.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, and though she didn’t turn to him, he noticed her shoulders slump. He felt guilty despite it being out of his control. There was something about her that made him want to please her, and while he knew that his sisters would tease and tell him that it was just because she was pretty, he knew that there was more to it than that. She was nice, and despite his initial misgivings about her, she’d never given him any reason to believe that she was the kind of person who deserved karma had knocked out her favorite game and the best possible alternative at the same time.

“Oh,” she said, so softly he almost couldn’t hear it over the music.

It was a defeated sort of sound that made him wonder why she really came in to play the game every Wednesday. Maybe it was more than just a game or needing a break for her. She did always come in like clockwork after all.

“I…” he didn’t really know what to say. It wasn’t as if he were the one who broke the games or something, an apology didn’t really make sense, and he wasn’t sure why it meant so much to her in the first place.

“I just thought you should know, before you got over there and saw it.”

She sniffled and he froze on the spot. He wasn’t unused to seeing crying. Little kids threw temper tantrums when their parents made them leave, some kids cried in frustration when they couldn’t beat a level or a high score, but usually that was confined to people under the age of ten and there was someone else around to deal with it.

“Thanks for letting me know,” she choked out, and he could hear the tightness of her throat in the tone of her voice. She was crying. He couldn’t see it, but he wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t tell. He felt his face heat, not sure of what to do and feeling like every second that ticked past were an hour.

“Are you okay?”

It was all he could think to ask. It was obvious to him that she wasn’t, and in fact he figured that she probably wasn’t okay when she walked in and that it was the reason she hadn’t looked at him in the first place when it was so routine for her to do so.

“Not really, no.”

He walked around the counter slowly, his legs on autopilot. His mother would be proud, he thought absently as he walked over to her, she’d been training him to be a proper gentleman for years. It wasn’t her fault he was so inept with girls, she’d done her best, and his sisters had tried to help. He just considered himself mostly a lost cause.

“Do you, uh… want to talk about it?”

She turned to look at him and he could see for the first time how red her eyes were, how her usual put-togetherness was marred by her hair being even more wild than usual, by the wet splotch on her cuff where she’d been wiping her eyes.

He also noticed for the first time just how much smaller she was than him. He was a big guy, not excessively so, but still taller and bigger than most of the people he knew. He was miles taller than his parents and sisters, and while that had everything to do with adopted, it had taught him how to make himself small at times, when he was bandaging his littlest sister’s knee or when he needed to fit into the frame in family photos.

He put his hands into his pockets and slumped a bit, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible even though his head was spinning with half-thoughts on how exactly he could even attempt to be helpful. The last thing she needed was for him to panic on her. He was sure that she was panicked enough for them both.

“I couldn’t… you don’t even…”

She was crying harder now, the words hardly coming out right as she tried to hold a conversation with him. He felt awful. He thought that maybe he should have just let her see the game was out of order and leave instead of making her talk about it. He wasn’t sure what he would have wanted if the roles were reversed. He wasn’t exactly a “talk about it” guy, and when he needed to talk something out, it was always to his dog. He kind of wished that Sven was with him, girls liked dogs, or at least his sisters did.

“You can, if you want.”

She shook her head but seemed to calm down a little bit, taking breaths slowly. He wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to tell him what was going on until she opened her mouth and started in telling her story, still tearful and hiccupping, but at least with the ability to get all the words out.

“It’s just… the straw that broke the camels back? That’s been every straw today. I failed an exam, my ex-boyfriend showed up at my dorm even though he’s not supposed to know where I live, my sister is out of the country on business and I feel so alone.”

He nodded as she talked, “And you just needed a break?”

The shy smile he was so used to appeared again, her lips turning up slightly, making him feel like he could really breathe for the first time since she walked through the door. He hadn’t really noticed how close together they’d become since he walked around the counter, but now that they were just a bit more than a foot apart, he was noticing other things about her that weren’t immediately evident from the distance. She had freckles.

He didn’t even know he liked freckles, he’d never thought about it, but there was a dusting on her nose and across her flushed cheeks and he realized that yes, he really did like them.

“Yeah. I just… I really need a break.”

He’d like to offer to listen some more, to do something else for her, but he wasn’t really sure where the line was when a stranger unloads their emotions on you. He didn’t want to push, but he also wanted to help. It was making his head spin, and all he could focus on was her eyes, and her freckles, and her mussed hair.

“Well I mean, I don’t really know you very well, but uh, you’re welcome to play something else, I guess Tetris isn’t really as fun as Ms. Pac-Man, but it’s kind of soothing. I’ll close up while you’re playing, I promise no one else is going to bother you today. I’m not really good company or anything, but I’ll hang around if you don’t want to be alone.”

It felt like a lot. He put the ball in her court, she could decide whether she wanted him around, or whether she wanted him to go sit behind the counter until she was done, but even the offer felt like an overstep.

“That would be nice Kristoff,” she said, her hiccupping had stopped, but there was an edge of uncertainty to her tone. “Maybe show me how to play?”

“I uh… didn’t think you knew my name.”

She flushed again, her face going even redder than it had when she was crying.

“It’s… uh… on your nametag.”

It was his turn to blush then. He felt like a bumbling idiot.

“Oh, yeah. It is, isn’t it.”

He could practically hear his sisters laughing at him, like they could telepathically tell he was being a disaster from miles away. He was sure that he’d never hear the end of it if they ever found out just how “smooth” he had been trying to talk to a pretty girl. He only had to hope that she wouldn’t ever tell them. The odds, he thought, were slim to none on that, but nothing was ever impossible.

“I’m Anna, by the way. I thought you should know, you know, with me sobbing in front of you and everything.”

He was glad she told him, he wasn’t sure if he should ask, and he wanted to know. He’d been wanting to know, because now he could tie all the thoughts, he’d been having in his head about her to a name, something solid.

Anna.

***

The only sound in the arcade was the Tetris theme music, the clicking of the mechanical buttons on the cabinet and the chatting of two new friends. Kristoff had been surprised by how quickly he’d warmed up to Anna and in return how quickly she seemed to warm up to him. He really wasn’t used to people wanting to hang around him for awfully long. He blamed it a bit on his gruffness, he knew that  he needed to relax a little more around others, but he always found it hard.

Anna made it easy.

She’d told him a lot about her, how she’d split up with a guy a few months ago for lying and cheating on her and how he kept trying to weasel his way back in, how she was trying to get her degree in art history so that she could run her family’s gallery, how her sister ran their family’s importing business and how it kept her away often enough that Anna often didn’t see her for months at a time. She’d told him that she was lonely, and that she came to the arcade because she hadn’t been allowed to go as a child, and now that her parents were passed she didn’t mind being a little disobedient because she knew they would forgive her.

He hadn’t said much about himself, except for when she asked. He told her how he was studying environmental science at community college. They didn’t go to the same school, she was a freshman at the university he was planning on transferring into after he finished his associates in a few months, and she told him how much she loved it there, encouraging him to follow through with his plans to transfer in. He’d told her how his family had adopted him because she asked whether he had any siblings, and it wasn’t exactly a secret. She hadn’t reacted like it was some kind of tragedy like other people sometimes did, which was a comfort to him because he believed that his parents adopting him was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t even remember his birthparents anyway.

“Oh my gosh, I think I’m beating you! Am I beating you! Oh crap, I shouldn’t have looked, now I messed up my lines.”

Kristoff couldn’t help but laugh. Anna had been the one to suggest they play two player mode on the game, and while Kristoff hadn’t really played it before other than a couple occasions on his lunchbreak on truly boring Monday shifts, he was doing a decent job of beating her at the game.

“I thought all your Ms. Pac-Man skills would have you in the lead,” he teased.

“Completely different set of skills,” she replied, “besides, I just played that one because it looked the easiest. Also, I like that it’s a romance. It’s cute.”

“A romance?” he asked with a laugh, watching as her blocks stacked up on the opposite side of the screen, almost to the top. He wasn’t intentionally trying to distract her; he was honestly curious. But that it meant he was going to win was just a bonus.

“Yeah it’s all about how they… oh damn it.”

He watched as her screen filled completely with blocks and the game informed him that he had, for the third time, won.

“Sorry,” he offered, “You were really close that time.”

She shrugged, gave him a look that was more mock annoyance than irritation, and then laughed. He laughed with her. He hadn’t had so much fun in a very long time, and he was dreading the fact that he could feel that it would be over soon.

“I wasn’t, but thanks for pretending,” she said, leaning over to bump him with her hip playfully, “You really cheered me up tonight. I owe you a lot.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that she didn’t owe him anything, and that he was happy he could help, but she put a hand up to stop him.

“No, really, I mean it. You were so nice to me tonight, and all the other nights. That’s why I kept coming back, even when you were miffed about me overstaying you were always nice about it and I just needed someone nice. I’m sorry I probably made you run late so many nights, but I guess I just needed the company, even if we didn’t talk. I owe you.”

He shook his head, “It wasn’t a big deal Anna. You were really polite and… I guess I started looking forward to you coming in. This is usually a pretty boring job and you were something different for me to think about. Not that I was… not that I was thinking about you all the time or anything, I just was wondering why you’d come in but…”

He wondered if he should just bend down and eat his shoe, speed up the process a little bit.

“You should have asked,” she said with a brighter version of the shy smile he’d come to expect from her, “I kept waiting for you to talk to me. I didn’t want to bug you at work, but I’ve been dying to talk to you for weeks now. I didn’t just keep coming back for the games you know?”

“You didn’t?”

“No,” she said, leaning into him again but this time less to bump him, and more to support her frame against his much larger one.

Kristoff could feel his pulse quicken. He wasn’t sure why, but his hand itched to reach out to hers. He hadn’t wanted to hold hands with a girl since middle school. He felt like he was thirteen again, awkward and just trying to figure out how to get a girl’s attention.

He already had it though, Anna was only focused on him and he could feel the weight of her gaze even though he wasn’t meeting it.

“I thought you were cute. I kept coming in hoping that maybe you’d talk to me and then maybe you know… if you weren’t seeing someone…”

“Oh.”

He didn’t know why he said that of all things. It was all he could think to say.

“Oh… are you? Seeing someone that is?”

She sounded a bit defeated, and as he felt her leaning away from his side, trying to step to the side, he panicked. He let his hand grab hers loosely, not letting her get too far away from his side unless she really wanted to as he turned to face her. Her freckled nose was illuminated blue by the light from the cabinet and her eyes held an uncertainty that he wanted to chase away.

“No, no I’m not. I just… I’m not used to anyone wanting to… I mean, no one’s ever been…”

“Well, if you want to… I mean, if you’re interested, because I do owe you after all… maybe we could catch a movie sometime, or we could grab dinner? My treat.”

He felt tongue tied, but he managed to nod his head at least. He wondered if she could tell how nervous he was. He was sure that she could because her smile and her eyes held an amusement that had quickly replaced her trepidation. Surely, he thought, she must realize that he had no idea what he was doing. But strangely she wasn’t rescinding her offer or leaving, just smiling at him warmly so he thought that it must count for something.

“How about Friday? I only have classes until noon so depending on your schedule we could grab dinner or coffee or something if dinner is too much?”

“Dinner would be fine,” he managed, “Or coffee if you prefer, I get done at three so if you want I can come pick you up after that… somewhere? It can be someplace neutral if you don’t want me to come to your dorm.”

She grinned, “Dinner then. We can work out the details later… Do you have a pen?”

He nodded, reaching into the pocket of the work vest he’d discarded to the side, and realizing in the same moment that he hadn’t yet let go of her hand.

When he slipped his fingers from between hers, someplace he hadn’t even noticed they’d slotted themselves, he felt a vague sense of loss. He tried not to hold onto it, thrilled by the prospect that soon he’d see her again. To that end he handed her the pen, and was surprised to feel her fingers wrap around his wrist.

They were cool from playing the game, and in stark contrast to his sweating palms. He opened his hand in response to the touch, which was evidently exactly what she wanted as she took the pen to his skin and quickly wrote her number.

“You can call anytime after four,” she said quietly, as if it were a secret even though no one else was there, “Or whenever and leave a message. Whatever works for you just…”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice breathless even to his own ears.

“Don’t forget to call, okay?”

She handed him the pen, stood up on her tip toes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He didn’t have time to react before she was grabbing her purse from the foot of the cabinet and heading out the door. Left alone in the empty arcade, one game to switch off and a door to lock up, he let his fingers reach up to brush the place she’d just pecked. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew his imagination wasn’t nearly so creative, he could have believed he dreamed the whole thing.

He looked down at his palm and saw in black ink, perfectly printed, her number, her name, and a small heart.

Anna.

He had never been so grateful for a dead-end minimum wage job in his life.