#the same selective empathy and shit takes year after year

[tequilaasquared]

s6 Debbie and Ian Gallagher they could never make me hate you

[linkspooky]

Like some kind of “Man-Child”

Shigaraki is constantly compared to a child by the other characters around him. Whether it’s the staff at UA calling him a manchild, Ujiko saying he’s a twenty year old brat who has accomplished nothing with his life, or Spinner saying he chases his dreams like a child, Shigaraki’s immaturity and underdeveloped psyche is something constantly commented upon others. 

There are two questions to ask now. One, why did Shigaraki turn out this way, and two what does it mean for his character and future growth? 

1. An Immature Manchild, A Worthless Twenty-Something, The Trash of Society. 

Shigaraki is constantly described by others as acting like a child. In most cases it’s used to insult and demean him, and also to point out his lack of any real tangible goal. 

However, Shigaraki’s childish tendencies, his egocentrism, his lack of ability to see the consequences for his actions, and his emotional instability are not a reflection of whether he is a good or bad person, it’s a reflection of his upbringing. This is an important point I want to make before we continu, the hero system uses all of the signs that Shigaraki shows up legitimate mental illness to dehumanize him and make him out to be a “dangerous psycho” rather than to show him any real sympathy. 

All Might’s analyses him at length and comes to the conclusion not that this is an unstable person who shows clear signs of mental illness, but rather that the signs of mental illness he shows makes him a bad person. All of these traits that Shigaraki shows are used constantly by his enemies, heroes and villains alike to unperson him. 

Once again, Shigaraki acting like a child is not a reflection of whether or not he’s a good or bad person. It’s a product of trauma and his upbringing. Heroes seem to be under the impression that a good person would simply not suffer or react negatively to any trauma. Shigaraki doesn’t grow up not because he doesn’t want to grow up and wants to remain an immature manchild forever, it’s because he was raised deliberately. 

Developmental psychology is a scientific approach which aims to explain growth, change and consistency though the lifespan. ... Developmental psychologists study a wide range of theoretical areas, such as biological, social, emotion, and cognitive processes. 

Shigaraki was raised in an environment where he could not healthily develop into an adult. 

A child’s behaviour is an outward manifestation of inner stability and security. It is a lens through which the family physician can observe the development of the child throughout his or her life. All types of abuse are damaging to children—physically, emotionally, and psychologically—and can cause long-term difficulties with behaviour and mental health development.

Seeing the world from other people’s points of view. Thinking about the consequences of your actions. Processing your emotions and stress in healthy ways. These are all things children learn in the process of growing into adults. However, it’s a learned behavior not a natural one. The idea that people, children, are either born good or bad and will develop based on some internal qualities of goodness or badness is patently false. Children who receive no adult supervision growing up just turn feral and have no ego at all. The ego, or rather identity is something both heavily influenced by the interactions with the adults that raise them and interactions with members of the same peer group.

Shigaraki, raised in a basement with entirely selective and controlled interactions with others that were always underneath AFO’s direct supervision and his thumb, who probably did not even get that much freedom until the UA attack is just barely one step above a feral child who has no adult supervision at all. 

These three behaviors: 

Lack of Empathy.

Cannot View the Consequences of his Actions

Cannot handle emotions, setbacks and stress 

They’re all explainable by specific manipulations that AFO introduced to him as a child. “Shigaraki feels no guilt for what he does” said by almost every hero who interacts with him, but this is completely incorrect. The truth is Shigaraki is constantly made to feel guilty. 

He hates himself, and constantly holds back his quirk because he still feels guilt for what happened to his family due to the accidental activation of his quirk. 

He accepts the entirety of the blame for what happened for his family, and therefore views himself as a monster. This is what Shigaraki unconsciously believes and accepts, that he deserves to constantly be punished and tormented without relief for what he did for his family and that he can’t be saved. 

These are not the actions of a person who feels no guilt. However, at the same time Shigaraki is seeking some relief from his suffering, he wants to be saved even though he believes he doesn’t deserve it. Therefore, AFO manipulates him into believing he doesn’t have to feel guilty for destroying the people he wants to destroy. This is literally the exact tactic that Chisaki used on Eri. 

Tenko is constantly made to feel guilty for what he did to his family, and because of that he’s dependent on what AFO told him would make him feel better. Just like Chisaki convincing Eri that it was her fault that people who tried to save her died made her return to Chisaki.

Shigaraki doesn’t show any emotional maturity because he can’t. Being surrounded by your peers, being in a healthy environment, being taught lessons by the adults around you these are all things you learn growing up. We are shown constant signs that Shigaraki’s childhood was constantly barren. He was raised in a room that was entirely blank. 

AFO controlled everything about his life. He didn’t even give him toys or books until he started murdering people, and we see that same room several years later almost completely unchanged from the way it was when he was a kid. 

Shigaraki’s entire world was that one room. It’s even remarked that he wasn’t allowed to attend any kind of school. 

Shigaraki was raised to have his entire world revolve around AFO’s desires for him. Shigaraki even acknowledges that he doesn’t even really want to accomplish AFO’s dream and knows it won’t satisfy him. It’s something that’s forced down his throat, but also what Shigaraki views as his only path forward. Shigaraki as a person doesn’t exist outside of AFO’s goals for him because he wasn’t raised or nurtured to be a person just a thing that wants destruction. 

And, the reason Shigaraki continues to follow down the path set by him by All for One is a rather childish one too. This is once again where Shigaraki’s foiling with Chisaki is illustrative of his character. 

This is how Shigaraki reacts when forcibly separated from AFO. Crying and begging like a child ripped away from their parent, completely helpless without him. AFO doesn’t act like a parent at all, but for Shigaraki he’s the closest possible thing. Shigaraki still believes that he owes AFO for saving him all those years back. 

Shigaraki and Chisaki are the core of their beings are propelled by this idea that they need to repay their father figures for taking them in. They have this childish desire to make their father figures happy and please them, that’s just as true to their nature as their destructive impulses. So, they act like they were shaped to be. Chisaki acts like the perfect Yakuza member, and Shigaraki as the perfect symbol of destruction. They are both desperately trying to be what their parents want them to be. 

Shigaraki can’t handle any setbacks or stress, because he is constantly stressed. He was raised to feel nauseatingly sick of himself all of the time. 

Eri can’t act like a normal child because even after removed from Chisaki’s influence, the emotoinal wounds Chisaki left on her don’t magically go away. It’s not about being a good or bad child, it’s about being trapped in a certain unhealthy way of thinking. 

Shigaraki’s not entitled and emotionally immature. He’s emotionally stunted, and deliberately raised that way. If you could say he was raised at all. His captor had no interest in him as a person. He exists to be a pet revenge project against All Might, to turn Shimura Nana’s descendant into an unstable little bomb that explodes and takes out All Might with him. 

The person who raised him constantly threw him into danger with no regard for his well being. He expected Stain to try to kill Tomura when they met and stopped Kurogiri for interfereing for his safety. He expected All Might to beat the shit out of him and for the UA attack to fail. This goes back all the way to the beginning. 

He exposed Shigaraki to dangerous people who would beat him up, insult him, and belittle him. People that deliberately reminded Shigaraki of his abuser. 

So he would be constantly made to feel unsafe and unstable. Shigaraki has no emotional stability because he was constantly raised in an unstable environment, it’s not hard to remain sane in that environment, it’s downright impossible. 

2. Children can Grow Up

This is a theme we’ve seen repeat itself three times. A child is murdered and has their name taken away by their paternal abusers, and they make it into adulthood (despite symbolically dying as a child) with entirely different names and identities. Takami Keigo grows up into Hawks, Touya grows up into Dabi, Shimura becomes Shigaraki. However, all three of them as adults are malformed and still clinging onto the hurt feelings that they held as a child. Shigaraki and Dabi literally both look like corpses, and Hawks has literally no personality or name outside of being a hero. 

It’s not a reflection of who they are as people, it’s a reflection that they were not raised to be people. However, Shigaraki is constantly remarked on as a child capable of growing up. 

Spinner, Shigaraki’s friend sees the good side of his childishness. He is someone who late in life, is still learning and developing empathy. We see him change over the course of the story. Shigaraki who claims that he doesn’t care about anything besides destruction, also specifically states that he won’t destroy his companions hopes and dreams. 

Shigaraki who is presented as a person who is entirely devoid of empathy, is shown being able to deal with somebody like Twice perfectly. Not only does he listen to Twice’s demands that they rescue Giran. 

He also knows how to make Twice listen, and then carefully places his mask back on again to calm him down afterwards. He deals with him like a person and is accomodating of his quirks. 

Shigaraki makes it deliberately a point that he’s not okay with someone else playing around with Twice’s feelings. 

He also tells Twice to make saving Giran and protecting him a priority when he plans on finishing Rikiya himself. 

All of this consideration for the feelings of an individual. Shigaraki’s empathy has grown and developed to the point where he can imagine the feelings of other people outside himself. Now compare this to the way Hawks deals with Twice. Shigaraki finds trampling all over the feelings of Twice as unforgivable, whereas Hawks brags to Twice’s face how easy it was to deceive him. He belittles him and rubs salt in the wound. 

Hawks can only accept Twice as a good person. It’s Shigaraki who gives a home to those who have no other home, the outcasts, the bad people that heroes would never save. 

Shigaraki who understood how important Twice’s feelings for his friends are, built his entire plan against the MLA around saving Giran, and Twice’s own desires to want to help his friend Giran and pay him back for giving him a place to belong. Hawks literally goes out of his way to single out Twice as the only one he can save and not extend the same helping hand to his friends. Shigaraki recognizes Twice’s feelings for his friends, Hawks goes out of his way to trample on the friends that Twice finds so precious. 

Hawks wants to save Twice but doesn’t understand him as a person. Shigaraki has created a place where people like Spinner, Toga, Compress, Twice, Dabi are all accepted and valued as people. Shigaraki’s childishness is both a good and bad thing. It shows that even after all of this trauma, the core of who Shigaraki is has not changed. 

He is still the kid who deliberately plays with the kids on the playground who get left out. Who states that he specifically wants to be a hero because there were kids who were left out of being played. And who wanted to be a hero even when he knew his father would severely disapprove of it and kept that dream in his heart. 

Shigaraki is still Shimura Tenko. He’s not the child who wanted to be a hero, or the child who wanted to destroy to make the pain go away, he’s both at the same time and that’s where his complexity comes from. Shigaraki like anybody else is capable of good and bad, but what’s especially important about his arc is that we’ve been shown that when removed from underneath the thumb of his abusers, and surroudned by his found family in the league Shigaraki gets better and is able to begin seeing the emotions and feelings of other people outside of him, and becomes a more empathic person. He is a child yes, but also a child capable of growing up. 

It’s also important to remember his arc. When Shigaraki is fighting for the league he always succeeds (against the Yakuza, against MLA). He only ever fails, and relapses (such as his current failure in the hero war arc raid) when he believes that he has to follow the dream laid out for him by AFO. It’s almost as if Shigaraki was intended from the start to shake off AFO’s influence of him and eventually grow into his own person. Shigaraki is a child waiting to grow up, he’s still Shimura Tenko, and he should be allowed that chance to grow past his abuse. He might never become a hero but by the end of the story he deserves to be his own person, not AFO’s thing. 

[wherethingscomebackx]

Top 25 Larry fics of 2019

It’s that time again!

You may be familiar with these lists:

Top 25 Larry fics of 2016

Top 25 Larry fics of 2017

Top 25 Larry fics of 2018

As always, I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is Larry. I like making lists and I like Larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2019 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out! 

25.) Foolishy Laying Our Hearts on the Table by @runaway-train-works (11k)

“You think Harry wants that?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Wanna make him happy.” Harry takes advantage of the red light he’s pulled up to turn and look properly at Louis’ face. He’s not even looking in Harry’s direction though, focused instead on something out of his side window, head drooped, mindlessly playing with the string of his hoodie between his fingers, lost in his own world somewhere. For some reason, it makes Harry’s spine straighten.

“Because he’s your best mate?” Harry questions carefully.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

He couldn’t have heard him right. “What?”

Louis releases a deep breath, still not turning around. Harry wonders who he thinks he’s talking to right now. “He’s so pretty. Want to kiss him all day long. And buy him a big house and give him presents and marry him.”

Or

The one where Harry is in love with his best friend Louis but doesn't think he stands a chance until some wisdom teeth and a rather unusual confession might just change his mind.

24.) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices by @toomanydreamers (126k)

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they're forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

23.) all we can do is keep breathing by @avocadolouie (310k)

“Harry, I-I’m so sorry…” Louis stutters out, trying to keep his voice level and even, to portray a depiction of strength, but with the way Harry is looking at him, staring at him like he has a personal passage way straight to Louis’ soul, it’s so hard, nearly impossible.

That simple opening phrase, that short introductory acknowledgement that is often rushed out so easily, painlessly, at a safe distance. Giving a doctor the ability to portray empathy without true emotion, without feeling the full brunt and sheer force of the underlying pain itself.

But Louis feels it, he feels the crushing agony laced behind the phrase, he feels the weight of the painful words slipping from his lips, the cause and effect that the three-word expression holds. The distantly empty “I’m so sorry” that doctors throw out in self-preservation, isn’t at all empty for him. Louis recognizes it, he understands it, he feels it.

--

a fated story of two broken and battered boys who barely survived the unimaginable and how the love of one little brave girl defies all the odds and somehow puts them back together.

22.) Raise a Glass to the Four of Us by @2tiedships2 (25k)

Louis stared at his luggage.

Well. Apparently not his luggage, because the clothing he was looking at currently was a: worth more than everything he currently possessed, b: not his size at all, and c: more suited for a fancy ass lawyer than a holiday in NYC with his best mates.

“Ooh, nice loafers,” Niall said as he pulled one out of the suitcase. “I love the rainbows.”

“Okay,” Liam began. “What do you want to do first? Eat, shop for new clothes, or spend hours on the phone with the airline?”

Louis continued to stare at the luggage.

21.) You Have to Retreat to Advance by @2tiedships2 (18k)

“What am I going to do, Perrie? I can’t go on this retreat by myself. My boss literally said he wants to meet my omega.” Harry paused. “Okay, not literally but he definitely expects me to be bringing him.”

“Don’t people go on these things by themselves?” Perrie asked.

Harry shrugged. “Of course but that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“My boss is expecting to meet my omega! I don’t have an omega!”

“Is this a paying gig?” Perrie asked.

“You mean paying an omega to spend the weekend with me? I’m sure the resort has nice amenities. Does that count?”

“I take that as a no,” Perrie said with an eye roll. “It’s okay, Louis might be willing to do it for free.”

“Who’s Louis?”

Or the one where Harry is expected to bring his longterm omega to the company's mountain retreat. Since he hadn't told anyone that they'd broken up months ago, he now has to find someone willing to play the part.

20.) A Darker Shade of Love by LittleSpoonStyles94 (750k)

Louis is a 30 year old multi-billionaire with a very dark past. He is violent and is a sadist with a taste for pain. Harry Styles is a 19 year old student who sets out to London after being kicked out by his homophobic father to follow his dreams. He wants to go to the best University to study but he needs a lot of money so he starts to work as a part time stripper at a gay club to support his studies and his life. The club he works at, Garland's, is part owned by Louis Tomlinson. When they meet, its life changing for the both of them.

19.) You Still Make Sense to Me by @amories (37k)

Harry, Louis, and their family navigate life together through the years.

18.) Like Water Over Fire (Like Water On Fire) by @mcssymon (119k)

“I’m sorry your highness, I think I misheard you, did you really say that you are hoping to meet your husband?” Oh god, Louis panicked. Was Prince Harry gay? Was he even allowed to be gay? Surely he wouldn’t be allowed to have a selection from a group of men, right?

Prince Harry looked partly like he wanted to laugh, but also very, very nervous about what he had just admitted, “Yes, sir, you heard correctly”

Or Prince Harry has 46 men and 13 weeks to find the husband of his dreams, Louis has a limited amount to time to live out a royal fantasy. They might just be exactly what the other needs.

17.) waiting for the tides to meet by @nauticalleeds (59k)

Louis lets out a deep breath, thinking about Harry’s soulmate. Thinking about how Harry’s soulmate is probably as beautiful as Harry, some person that Louis cannot compare to, and how the universe has chosen them to be Harry’s. Fuck the universe. “Fuck you,” he calls out to the universe. He’s aware of how crazy he sounds.

Maybe he is crazy, with how he’s falling for Harry. And fuck that, too.

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

Featuring a lovely cup of OT5, a road trip down the coast, and a scene where Harry eats a whole head of lettuce. Don't ask why.

16.) Call Answered by @vondrostes (249k)

The day after his 27th birthday, Harry Styles attempts suicide. Louis is flown to his bedside to unravel the mystery of why he did it after a flash drive is found with a note attached, addressed to Louis. On it are a collection of 78 songs, all written for different dates from their past.

15.) Counterbalance by @louandhazaf (44k)

Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis ��Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.

14.) Everywhere and Nowhere by @2tiedships2 (16k)

Niall took a seat and said, "Apparently Louis' downstairs neighbor is a fan of giving Louis creepy gifts. Maybe I should go introduce myself and tell him that Louis actually prefers food."

"What has he given you?" Liam asked.

Louis shrugged as it were no big deal. "There was a rabbit's foot keychain on the door a little after he left from introducing himself and there was a small teddy bear sitting by my door tonight. Obviously I can't prove it's from him, but they seem to have his scent. I could be wrong though."

"Wow," Liam said, looking deep in thought. "That's old school."

"What's old school?" Niall asked. "Giving creepy gifts?"

"I've never known an alpha to do it, to be honest, but he's courting you."

Louis couldn't contain his look of disbelief directed at Liam. "He's courting me. Like some sort of romantic shit they'd do in the 1800s or something?"

13.) Swallow The Knife by whoknows (76k)

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

12.) and oh, all of your saturdays could end up in woe by ihavetoomuchfreetime (70k)

a fic in which louis' in a long-term relationship with an abusive asshole, niall, zayn and liam are so far but not really, and harry is that all too friendly guy who works in sainsbury's.

11.) thinking about the t-shirt you slept in by @absoloutenonsense (52k)

Harry's alpha fraternity donates to a local thrift shop (because of Liam's latent crush on a cute beta in his lecture). Louis' financial situation (and confusing omega instincts) lead him to make some interesting fashion purchases. Lots of pizza, feelings, and not-really-lying.

10.) Consequences by @allwaswell16 (78k)

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

An amnesia au

9.) Strawberries & Cigarettes by @dimpled-halo (76k)

Harry looks up and immediately freezes. Next to Ms. Archie stands the boy from just the other day. The boy with the leather jacket and chipped black nails, that might or might not be sketched in the very book Harry has just placed on the table in front of him. The leather jacket is missing today, probably because they aren’t allowed as part of their required uniform attire, but Harry can still see the fading black nail polish on his nails, and eyeliner around his eyes. Harry’s mouth goes a little dry. This boy is so intriguing to him.

“Ye-yes, Ms. Archie?” Harry tries to play it cool, but he’s almost positive that his cheeks are burning red, and he’s relieved neither of them can tell how fast his heart is beating in his chest.

The boy seems to also recognize Harry, because his lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“Harry is at the top of his class. He’s your best bet at getting familiar with things around here.” She explains.

Louis nods, his smirk still very prominent on his face. “Thank you Ms. Archie. I’ll be sure to take advantage of young Harold here.”

*

Summary: Two stories, eleven years, and the two boys that never stopped loving each other.

8.) Pain makes people change by Deidei (113k)

An organization called Canis Lupus existed solely for changing humans imprisoned in their wolf form back to their human form. Some people after experiencing some traumatic event can only ‘’protect’’ themselves from the pain by forgetting everything. To do that, to feel safe, they shift into their wolf form.

Which they'll be stuck in forever should no one intervene.

Louis Tomlison went through a traumatic experience at the age of twelve in which he lost his mother, to make the pain go away he shifted into a wolf and fled. He survived in the wild as a wolf for five years until Canis Lupis caught him... Though he wasn't alone, he had a pup at his side.

7.) Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by @angelichl (113k)

Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

6.) Enemies with benefits by ssii8 (267k)

Where Harry is captain of basketball team and Louis is captain of football team and they hate each other. But somehow this doesn't stop them from having sex.

And everything is perfect until they start to feel something more.

5.) Ready To Fall by whoknows (21k)

“Ninety and rising,” Nick says triumphantly, as though making Harry’s heartbeat pick up by thrusting an obscenely attractive person in front of his face is any kind of success. “Louis Tomlinson has just walked into our control room and suddenly our dear Harry Styles has lost all ability to speak. Could this be some kind of strange coincidence?”

“I hate you,” Harry hisses, forcing his eyes back into Nick’s direction, uncaring that the mic must have picked it up. “I thought we agreed that you were going to play fair.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nick denies, except he’s holding up a picture of Louis’ face now, sharp cheekbones prominent, soft lashes nearly sweeping against his cheeks as he looks down, and his fucking mouth –

“A hundred and two!” Nick crows, all but clapping his hands together in glee. “The highest it’s ever been!”

“To be fair, I did bend over the desk on purpose,” Louis’ voice comes crackling in the headphones. Harry practically breaks his neck whipping his head around at the sound of it, gaping at him through the glass panel. “You can’t really blame him for getting a little excited about that, can you?”

4.) Close to Nowhere by @angelichl (34k)

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Louis threatened as he quickly stepped out of his jeans.

“I don’t think that would work very well baby, seeing as you talk to dead people all the time.”

“I’ll kill you in your sleep and ignore your ghost. And don’t call me that.”

Louis and Harry are psychics who kind of hate each other. They go to Tennessee to investigate a haunting.

3.) Play Pretend, Find a Friend? by @angelichl (40k)

They had to pull back for air. Louis surveyed the guy’s face, in awe of his blown pupils and sharp jawline, the way their shared spit glistened on his lips.

“Hi,” he breathed. He blinked, and came back to himself a little bit, blushing at his own boldness. “Sorry. Is this okay?”

The stranger removed his right hand from the curve of Louis’ waist in order to cup his jaw, tilting it up to the angle he desired. He pressed their lips together, murmuring, “Definitely.” And then he kissed harder.

When Louis sees his ex-boyfriend kissing a random girl at a party, he acts out of blind jealousy. He kisses the first guy he can find. It turns into a thing.

INSPIRED BY CLOUDS.

2.) Let Me Feel Your Heartbeat by @angelichl (34k)

Harry is 98% sure Louis hates him. So he feels like his bewilderment is justified when the omega offers to help him through his rut.

1.) All My Colours by IceQueenRia (267k)

Green… yellow… red. Red! RED!!!

Some people were born Dominant and others submissive. Sixteen year old Louis Tomlinson was a submissive and was proud to be so… until he was forced to his knees for the first time. The man before him was every subs nightmare, an abusive Dom, the kind who didn’t believe in the colour ‘red’ unless it was in the form of blood.

There were others, but Louis was the ‘favourite’ and he was the one the Dom liked to ‘play with’ the most. In fact, when the rescue team arrived, Louis was the one currently providing ‘service’ to the Dom.

Or

Louis, Zayn and Niall are abused subs. Liam Payne is their devoted new Guidance Counsellor who just wants to make Niall smile and hear Zayn speak. As for Louis, he knows his guidance won’t be enough to help the boy heal. No, Louis Tomlinson needs something very special and very specific. He needs Harry Styles.

[jemej3m]

trial (objection p.2)

i love htgawm connor is such a problem child

*

“So your father was already incapacitated when you murdered him,” Andrew deduced, leaning back in his chair. He spun the land-line’s coiled cord around his finger, looking over the ceiling sconces of his office. The place was definitely built at least half a century ago, and the remnants of its previous occupations were everywhere, from the covered-up fireman pole holes to the sound-proofed insulation.

“When I killed him out of self-defence, yes,” Neil returned. His portion of the conversation would always be under surveillance. 

“Way to make my job harder, Wesninski.” 

“What good would I be, otherwise?” he retorted. “Also, please don’t call me that. I’m figuring out a new last name. How does Neil Smith sound?” 

“Dreadfully boring,” Andrew said. “Don’t say that word. I don’t like it.” 

“Which one, exactly?” 

Andrew grit his teeth. “Please.” It still sent shudders down his spine. “There’s no time for pleasantries.” 

“Fine,” the man said. “Is that all you wanted to waste my time on? The position my father was found in, when I - when he died?” 

“Considering that there are extremely graphic photos of his predicament for the jury to gawk at, yes. How is it self-defence if there’s no threat?” 

“He wasn’t cuffed there: I was. The DNA evidence was tampered with to remove traces of the skin tissue that the cuffs had scraped away. Have you even looked at those photos? His wrists are clearly free. I thought you were talking about the eyes.” 

“What about them?” Andrew hedged. 

“They’re gouged out,” Neil muttered. “I hate that our eyes are - were - the same.” 

“You did that whilst the two of you were fighting,” Andrew suggested. “Unless its clear you did it with a knife?” 

“All I had was his cleaver,” Neil said. “I used the handle. That’d look like fingers, right?”

“Right,” Andrew agreed, just as Wymack appeared at his doorway. 

“Could you keep the gruesome mutilation discussions off the worklines?” the old man demanded. “Matt just threw up into Dan’s paper-shredder.” 

“I’ll have to call you back,” Andrew said, vastly unimpressed. 

“I was going to say,” Neil said, sounding vaguely amused. “You have quite a stomach. Till next time, Andrew.”

“Bye, Neil.” 

Wymack had his arms crossed when Andrew threw the phone back onto the receiver, his glower shrouded and unknowable. 

Andrew gave it right back to him, refusing to stand as he mirrored Wymack’s stance. “What?” 

“First you viciously reject the case,” he said. “Then you drive to see him. Now you’re calling him every day?” 

“He’s in prison,” Andrew said. “I can’t just invite him over to interview him and gather evidence.”

“There is no valid reason for you to buddy up to Wesninski like this,” Wymack objected. “You barely speak to your clients unless they’re escapin’ juvie.” 

“You’re asking no questions, so I’ll give no answers,” Andrew responded cheerfully. “Have a nice day, boss.”

Wymack pointed at him. “No murder talk on the worklines. Three strikes and you’re out, Andrew.”

Andrew swivelled back around in his chair, knowing true and well Wymack had warned him about upwards of 72 different infringements of people’s delicate psyche. He had a job to do: if someone got in his way, he wasn’t going to be nice about it. 

Not for the first time, he wondered if Neil had a contraband mobile phone. It’d make his life a hell of a lot easier. For about twenty minutes he scrolled aimlessly through emails from desperate idiots convicted of white-collar crime, simultaneously considering how he might get a mobile phone to Neil next time he visited. He could go on the weekend, after Nicky’s godforsaken family night. 

Oh, shit, Andrew thought, when he noticed he’d lost an hour of his day making plans to see Neil again. 

Maybe Wymack was on to something. 

*

“You do seem awfully invested,” Betsy suggested, leaning on the porch railing as Andrew smoked through a second cigarette. She’d come along to Nicky’s Friday night fiasco at his request, seeing as Aaron had Katelyn and Nicky had Erik. It seemed a little ridiculous to being his old therapist, who was much more of a mother than a therapist, but Andrew’d wanted to talk to her anyway and their schedules clashed too much to meet up for lunch. 

“His case is simple,” Andrew objected, glaring at an owl that’d settled on the gangly tree in Nicky’s front yard. “He’s got physical evidence of his father’s cruelty, even though it’s been a decade. I’ve uncovered the DNA evidence tampering. Neil clearly acted out of self-defence. It’s open and shut, but no one’s going to want Wesninski’s child out on the streets.” 

“Jury?” Betsy inquired. 

“Jury,” Andrew confirmed sullenly. He fucking hated jury catering. When a case was on thin ice, it was up to selecting the perfectly biased (or prejudiced) people that’d think with their heart, not their head. Andrew was an excellent judge of character, but emotional evaluations were taxing and laborious. 

“You’ll do great,” Betsy promised, smiling her all-knowing smile. “You always do.” 

Andrew hummed gently, taking one final drag of his cigarette. Before he could chuck the butt into Nicky’s shrubbery, Betsy pinched it between her fingers and dropped it onto an ashtray atop a rickety windowsill. 

“It’s an interesting story,” Betsy continued. “There’s every reason to be intrigued by it.” 

Andrew just grunted. 

“Though,” she remarked. “I figured that case between the young girls was even more perplexing and intricate, but you seem rather enamoured.” 

“Shut up,” he mumbled. 

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about professionalism,” she said airily. 

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t.”

But - damn it all to hell - Neil was interesting. He was only a year younger than Andrew was, intelligent without seeming overbearing or arrogant, confident but reserved, a man of constraint taught by hardship but also a man of growth and reflection. Andrew was rambling and he knew it. Neil Wesninski was attractive, intriguing and completely out of Andrew’s reach. Even if he were just your average guy walking down the street, he wouldn’t look at Andrew twice. 

Andrew was fine with that. He didn’t need someone chasing after him, just like he didn’t need emotional intimacy or empathy or gentleness. It was like those nerve-endings had been scoured till they were numb and useless. The pathways were still there, but they echoed a nothingness that he’d never really figured out. 

Whatever. Whatever. Neil was just a challenging and well-paying case. That’s all he’d ever be. 

He was getting existential and over-contemplative. Betsy knew this and smiled, letting him take her by the elbow inside for a cup of cocoa. It was late when the other four finished their game of Monopoly and Nicky finally permitted everyone to leave. Betsy let Andrew walk her to her car again, warmth crinkling her eyes. 

“If you’re seeing your Neil tomorrow,” she said, with a wink. “Tell me all the juicy details.” 

“You’re a leech,” Andrew declared, pushing her car-door shut. She waved out the scrolled-down window as she careened off, leaving Andrew to his quiet but volatile thoughts. 

Your Neil, she’d said.

Now wasn’t that a confronting idea. 

*

“Suppose you are a danger to society,” Andrew drawled. They were sat opposite one another at another metal table, handcuffs dangling off one of Neil’s wrists, his blunt key being fiddled with in the other hand. “Suppose you are just as marvellously unhinged as dear old Dad. What then?” 

“Why bother entertaining the possibilities?” Neil cocked an eyebrow. “We both know I’m fine.” 

“You are the furthest thing from ‘fine’,” Andrew retorted. 

“You’re no paragon of mental health yourself,” Neil laughed, and Andrew wondered how the fuck he’d got himself here. 

Two months ago he’d met Neil for the first time. In two weeks his trial would begin, in his lovely hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. It’d be less of a drive for Andrew, so he didn’t mind. 

In two months, Andrew had found himself hanging onto every conversation. At first he clung on with apprehension. A wariness born out of unfamiliarity: he’d never been in the realm of wanting to associate with someone. Wanting someone’s company, their thoughts and opinions, their attention. It was ridiculous. Neil was a convicted murderer in a max-security prison. 

Then again, Andrew was the one who knew that Neil was undeserving of that title best. At most it was manslaughter. In reality it was a blessing. Ridding the world of the Butcher, a renowned and horrifically twisted serial killer, was a service to the public rather than a hindrance. 

And so Andrew had found himself in a strange position, between professionalism and exceptionalism. He almost couldn’t help it. He wanted to know what happened behind those ocean blues. 

“Someone’s been bored again,” Andrew accused, lighting a cigarette. That was illegal but he didn’t give a fuck. Neil gazed at where it rested between his lips, conflicted. 

He shrugged, caught out. “You’re an interesting person. Would it scare you to know we’re similar in more ways than one?” 

Andrew let a small smirk twitch around his smoke. “You should be more scared than I should be.” 

“Maybe I’ll go to law school when I’m out,” Neil leered, grinning. “Beat you at your own game.” 

“You can try,” Andrew said. “You’ll lose.” 

Neil hummed. His shackles jingled as he reached over the table for Andrew’s cigarette, his fingertips brushing over Andrew’s lips as he snatched it away. For a moment he watched the cherry’s glow, before letting it rest at the corner of his mouth. 

Unimpressed, and also oddly flushed, Andrew glared. 

“That sounds like a challenge,” Neil said, returning to the conversation like he hadn’t just stolen the cigarette out of Andrew’s mouth. Like Andrew hadn’t just let him. “If you get me out of this hell hole, I’ll prove you wrong.” 

“And if you don’t?”

Neil grinned. “Then you lose anyway. Don’t worry: I won’t cry.” 

“Good,” Andrew muttered, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. 

Neil filled the rest of their valuable time with inane chatter about the more twisted happenings within a male max prison: Andrew had heard of similar stories and worse, but seeing as Neil instigated most of the fights, he still found it rather entertaining to be told. 

Before he knew it, their time was up. He stood, plucking the butt out from between Neil’s lips. 

“Till next time,” Neil said, a forlorn look at the cigarette between Andrew’s fingers. 

“I’ll text you about trial prep,” Andrew said, pointing at him. “Read it.” 

Neil sighed. “Not like it’ll help me in any way. But fine. I’ll waste my limited credit and battery on the shitty flipper for court etiquet.”

“You’d better, you ungrateful shit. I got you that phone.” 

Neil just winked and blew him a kiss. At Andrew’s scowl, he laughed. 

The laugh haunted - no, teased - Andrew all the way out of the stupid prison complex, across the car park, even as he blasted music on the way home.  

*

Andrew took one look at the woman who squirmed in her chair, leaning anxiously away from the middle-aged man next to her. It was instinctive and ingrained in her behaviours. An abusive father, then. Or, perhaps an abusive husband, if the twisting of her wedding ring was anything to go by. 

“Accept,” Andrew declared. 

“Do you have any qualms about gang violence?” the prosecution asked a balding man, lounging in his chair. 

“It’s a toxic function of our society,” he answered. 

The lawyer looked to the judge and smiled. “Accept, your honour.”

Fucking hell, Andrew thought. He glanced back over to the table, where Neil was cuffed to the iron loop. He didn’t smile, but simply tipped up his chin. An acknowledgement. Confidence in, well. Andrew. 

Something in Andrew’s stomach settled. He turned back to the man that the prosecution had accepted. “So you have heard of the Wesninski case?”

“It was ten years ago,” he objected. 

“What did you think of it?” 

“It was well resolved,” he said. 

“So you still garner some form of opinion against Wesninski?” Andrew eyed the Christian Society badge pinned to the strap of his messenger bag. “Surely your god would have some qualms with your inability to forgive,” 

“Mr Minyard,” the judge insisted. “That’s enough.”

It didn’t matter. The man was already spitting mad, going bright-red in the face. He pointed at Neil and hissed “He’s a monster, just like his father. God should’ve had him killed!” 

“Denied,” Andrew drawled. The man shuffled out of the jury box, frothing mad. 

By the end of the selection process, Andrew was sure that at least half of those sitting in the box would think emotionally rather than pragmatically. He settled back at his desk, ignoring the prosecution lawyer’s filthy glares, and tapped his fingers on Neil’s file. 

“I didn’t miss this,” Neil muttered, picking at the skin of his cuticles. 

From Andrew’s pocket he drew out Neil’s favourite key, of which he’d swiped after they’d searched Neil from head to toe. The man looked at him with undeserved awe, taking the blunt key and spinning it between his fingers. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Shut up,” Andrew retorted. 

The court was called to stand: Neil’s hearing had begun. 

*

FUCKs sake i was gonna try do this in three parts but the trial will be a whole part and the post trial too..... dammit lol

next we find out: what does the prosecution have up their sleeve? how will neil’s testimony go? what chaos will andrew cause in the courtroom? whose key does neil continually trace?? will neil be inevitably driven to distraction by andrew’s dope-ass suit?

[thepandapopo]

A Step Through Time - Chapter 1: Visitor

Me: Don’t do it

Brain: 

Me: Don’t do it.

Brain:

Me: We haven’t even finished the other one yet-

Brain: HERE’S A SYLVIX IDEA THAT YOU NEED TO WRITE SINCE IT’S PREVENTED YOU FROM DOING ANY MEANINGFUL WORK ALL DAY.

Me: FUCK.

Pairings: Sylvain x Felix ; minor Claude x F!Byleth

Warnings: mentions of masturbation/sex; typical Felix swearing.

Synopsis:

When Felix agreed to go back into the past to make sure certain events during the war actually happen, he expected that he would be the only time traveler at the monastery for those three moons. What he did not expect was for his 6 year old daughter to send herself to the past 4 weeks after himself because she missed him.

or

The one where the post time-skip gang meets an older Felix Fraldarius from the future who tells them he’s there to help for a few battles for reasons he can’t explain and everyone’s dying to figure out who the hell he’s married to - wait, what the fuck he has a daughter?

Some notes:

Verdant Wind / Azure Moon route mash up. Basically the Golden Deer Route but then at the Battle of Gronder (Ch: Blood of the Eagle and Lion), Dimitri joins up with Claude.

Dedue is back. Dimitri isn’t crazy anymore. Rodrigue is unfortunately dead.

All characters are recruited (including Black Eagle students)

Next Chapter (coming soon!)

XxXxXxXxXxX

It takes roughly two weeks for the Resistance Army to fully wrap their heads around the fact that there are not one, but two Felix Hugo Fraldarius’s at the monastery.

It takes them another week on top of that to come to terms that the newest Felix to join their army is from the future. 12 years, to be exact.

The day that Future Felix - that’s what they’ve dubbed him and he thinks it’s ridiculous; who has time to say that mouthful? - arrives knocking on the monastery gates, the entire place goes into an uproar. Claude and Byleth aren’t entirely sure whether or not this is just some dark magicks that the Empire has cooked up in a sad attempt at espionage, or if something has gone so horribly wrong in the future that they send their prickliest general back in time to whip them into shape.

Claude insists on tying him up which Felix grudgingly accepts, because of course this all seems a little far fetched - no one has ever heard of time travel magic...at this point in time anyways. And like everything else Felix does, it just makes them even more suspicious of him because the Felix they know would be hissing and spitting at them with all the fury of an angry wyvern if they even tried to touch him, much less restrain him.

Funnily enough, it’s his past self that manages to convince them that he’s the real deal.

“This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” Younger Felix crosses his arms and glares at his future self, as if his stare alone could dispel any illusionary magic with its withering intensity.

It’s a bit weird to be on the listening end of his scathing remarks rather than saying them. But technically he is saying them... or at least the past him is, so really is it any different?

“Well, unless you have a better idea, I think this is the best we’ve got for now.” Claude shrugs and runs a hand through his tousled hair for the millionth time that day. “If he really is you, then he should know a secret you’ve never told anyone, and you can confirm it.”

Byleth nods from her place next to the Alliance leader, “We can’t wait until Lysithea and the others find an answer in the library. It could take weeks before they can confirm that any of this is possible through magic.”

More like years, Felix thinks to himself. In his timeline, time travel magic is still a completely new thing. In fact, the only people who know anything about it are a select few that Dimitri, Byleth, Claude and Linheartd trust with their lives. The only reason he’s here now is because the green haired mage had somehow stumbled upon a rift in the flow of time while conducting some experiments. Fearing that this small bump could have dire repercussions to the past, it was decided that they would send someone back to Harpstring moon of that year to help along the events that were yet to unfold.

Between the people who knew and who were available, it ended up coming down to Felix or Sylvain. 

Unanimously, they all voted for Felix. (”Hey! I’m totally trustworthy!” “We know that, Sylvain, but with your reputation for having a silver tongue, none of them will believe you.”)

And now here he was 12 years in the past, tied up to a chair in the Knights hall in front of the fireplace, patience running dangerously thin at the bickering that has been going on for hours.

“Fine,” his younger self grouses with a scowl fierce enough to make a grown man cower. “But he’s writing it down and none of you are allowed to stand close enough to read it.”

It’s a smart idea, really. And if Felix knows himself, then he knows that the quickest way to get to the end of this whole fiasco is to write down a secret his younger counterpart is too embarrassed to admit out loud.

Thankfully, Felix has plenty of those from that time.

From before things become official with Sylvain.

From before he becomes Felix Hugo Fraldarius-Gautier.

A mercifully short moment later, his hands are free and he’s rubbing at the tender muscles where the rope bit into his skin.

A small inkwell, quill, and piece of parchment are placed in front of him by a silent but wary Dedue and Felix nods in thanks before his younger self more or less shoves everyone back a good distance so they cannot read his secrets.

It is silent other than the occasional pop and crackle from the low fire. Hard, piercing Amber meets warm liquid Amber, neither willing to look away, one gaze filled with distrust and jaded bitterness, while the other watches with silent empathy and understanding.

Blame it on his husband’s bad influence, but Felix can’t help the growing desire to tease his younger self. (Which he knows is absolutely hypocritical because he hates being teased but Sylvain was right when he said it is just so easy.)

“How much do you want me to reveal?” Felix dips the tip of the quill in ink and pauses, the tip hovering over the parchment ready to spill secrets only the two of them know.

“...I’ll tell you when to stop.”

It’s a free pass to go wild, is what Felix hears.

There are so many things that he could write. Ranging from the priceless family heirloom he accidentally broke and hid when he was child all the way to some of his more embarrassing training mishaps - one of which involved him falling and stabbing himself on his own goddamn sword -  but despite all of the memories that flash through his head, one in particular stands out the most.

For the second time that day, Felix curses his husband and his perverse influence before scrawling out:

Bedside table. Second drawer. Third notch - press hard to release the fake bottom.

Images of a very familiar flask of oil that has seen many restless nights flash across Felix’s mind. And if the red flush on his younger self’s face is anything to go by, he would bet everything he owned that he was also thinking the same thing.

A beat of silence. “Not enough?”

Felix is honestly a little impressed. He was sure that his secret sex drawer would be enough to mortify his younger self into believing him.

Fine then. He could bring out the heavy artillery.

The first time we realize we are in love with Sylvain is when we are 15 and figure out that the burning rage we feel every time he talks about his latest girlfriend is actually jealousy.

He pauses for a moment to look up at younger Felix. Receiving no response, he continues writing.

The first time we realize how absolutely fucked we are is the morning after the training session where Sylvain takes off his shirt and we dream about -

Ink splatters on the table and over his gloves as the parchment is unceremoniously wrenched away from him and immediately tossed into the fire.

“He’s real” are the only words the new Duke of Fraldarius manages to sputter out between the fingers hiding his burning face. The poor boy looks like he wants to spontaneously combust and also let the floor swallow him whole.

Felix almost feels bad. Almost.

----

The days following can only be described as incredibly odd as Felix wanders the familiar - yet different - grounds of Garreg Mach. He helps where he can with the chores and spends the remaining time either at the Training Grounds like usual, or just simply chatting with his friends of old.

A few times a week he will accompany the troops and assist them in their various missions eliminating bandits or Demonic beasts that have wandered too close to their base. Though he is older now, Felix has never slacked off in his training regimen, not even after the war ends, and his current skill and mastery of swords and Reason are more than enough to deal with these minor nuisances.

All in all, Felix is enjoying himself.

...Except for how much everyone keeps pestering him to reveal things about the future.

“Ooooh, do Claude and the professor finally hook up?” Hilda is leaning across the dining hall table with the biggest shit eating grin on her face, the sausage breakfast in front of her completely forgotten in favor of even juicier gossip.

Felix sighs for the umpteenth time that morning and cuts into his own plate with a bit more force than intended. “Hilda. For the last time, I can’t tell you anything specific in case it fucks up the future.”

“But you’ve already told Annette that she goes on to teach at the School of Sorcery and Mercedes opens up an orphanage!”

“Yes, and that’s because I want to make sure those things actually happen.”

“So what, you don’t want Mr. Leader Man and the Professor to finally knock boots?!”

To his right, Dimitri chokes on his toast at the mental image Hilda conjures.

Much to his relief (or dismay), Dorothea chooses this time to slide into the seat to his left along with Petra.

“Are we interrogating Future Felix again?” The Songstress doesn’t even bother hiding her mischievous glee as she eyes Felix the same way a predator would prey.

“No, we are not.” He glares at the former opera star, cursing the fact that his friends have already figured out that the years have more or less mellowed out his bark and that he has a LOT more patience before he actually bites.

“Aww, come on. It’s basically a breakfast tradition now! Nothing like a side of future gossip with my tea to get me going in the mornings.” Dorothea winks at him before a flash of flaming red near the food line catches both her and Felix’s attention.

“Hey Sylvain! Felix! Come sit with us.” She waves them over and nudges Petra to scoot over to make room.

“Is there anything you guys want to know about the future?” the pink haired Great Knight asks as soon as the pair are seated.

“Oh tons,” Sylvain winks as he picks up his fork and twirls it loosely in his hands. “But the real question is if Future Fe over there will actually answer them.”

Felix lets out a humorless snort. As if he would.

He makes a point to actively avoid his younger self as much as possible because he isn’t sure if it will affect his timeline in any way. Unfortunately, that also means that he has to avoid Sylvain.

Seriously, how did he never realize that they were basically joined at the hip? Where one went, the other was never very far.

It was a fucking miracle that no one had figured out his lifelong crush on Sylvain considering how much time they spent in each other’s company.

But then again, considering everyone’s surprise at how many of them ended up paired off after the war... maybe they were all just that blind. Or stupid.

Thank the Goddess they were all blind and stupid.

Felix manages to fend off most of their prying inquiries, snapping only a few times at Hilda and Dorothea who don’t know when to stop, but everything truly goes to hell in a handbasket when Mercedes comes by asking the group if there is any equipment or armor that needs cleaning since she’s on duty this week.

“Oh, yes actually.” Felix seizes this opportunity and begins pulling off his gloves to hand to the Bishop. “I need the ink stains removed from my gloves. I never managed to find time to properly clean them since the first night I arrived.” 

He isn’t aware that he has done anything wrong until the table goes silent and everyone is staring at him, or rather his hand, with a mixture of disbelief, shock, pleasant smugness, and overall general bewilderment.

“What are you all...” His question trails off when he realizes that his wedding ring - the one that he always wears under his gloves - is now out in the open, the plain obsidian band glittering innocently in the morning sunlight filtering through the windows.

“You’re... married?!”

Oh fuck.

----

“So who’s the lucky girl?”

You like Annie. Don’t murder Annie.

Felix swings his training sword against the practice dummy and lands a clean diagonal hit.

“Ohhh, I bet it’s some noble girl from the Kingdom.”

You like Thea’s opera shows. If you kill her now, you won’t be able to see them after the war.

Stab. Feint. Slash.

“No, Felix doesn’t care for dainty noble girls who don’t know how to fight...”

Thank the Goddess Ingrid is still reliable as ever.

“Maybe it’s a guy?”

Nevermind. Ingrid is the devil.

Duck. Side step into a zig zag pattern approach. Upwards slash.

“It’s... forgive me if I am overstepping, but I am happy that you have found happiness in the future, Felix.”

Don’t kill your king. Regicide is a crime.

Retreat backwards. Dash in for the final blow.

“Yeah! Congrats Felix on finally getting laid!”

It’s only when Felix snaps his training sword in half at the blue haired warrior’s comment that his sword training session turns into a brawl training session.

----

The Fraldarius Duke has never been more relieved to receive a call to action than when Byleth rushes in not long after Future Felix gives Caspar a shiny new black eye.

“Bandits. In the sealed forest. Civilian involved. Gates, now.” is all the warning they get before she is sweeping out the training room doors, no doubt going to retrieve her own equipment.

After 5 years of being at war, they are all seasoned soldiers and as such, it doesn’t take them very long before they are rushing towards the site of the battle.

They have foregone the usual battalions in favor of only deploying their former classmates, allowing them to move much quicker through the dense vegetation.

Up ahead, they can hear low voices talking and what sounds like muffled sobbing. Byleth signals them to slow down and get into position - it’s one of their usual strategies: approach undetected, surround the enemy, and then close in to eliminate.

It isn't until they get close enough to hear the sobbing more clearly that Felix feels his heart leap up his throat.

He knows that sound. He’s heard it a million times over the past 6 years at all times of the day.

Please Goddess, he prays as he creeps closer with more urgency, ignoring Claude’s alarmed look, let me be wrong.

Of course he isn’t.

Raw panic seizes his chest as he recognizes the little girl with an ornate sword strapped to her back cornered under the jagged overhang of a large rock, her long wavy hair a crimson beacon amongst a sea of green and brown, and Felix is running before he can even formulate a plan.

“Come on, little girl... just give us the sword and we’ll let you go,”

“N-no! Papa gave m-me this sword!”

“Well then I hope you’re ready to die-”

Electricity crackles through the air and his body falls to the ground before he can finish his threat.

“Sophie!”

Large, watery honey gold eyes lock onto his and suddenly the battlefield narrows. For one agonizingly long heartbeat, Felix watches the little delicate, red nose he loves so much scrunch up, and he can already hear the tearful wail that comes next.

“PAPA!”

Then, all hell breaks loose.

---

There were very few of them that could say they had the privilege of watching the Felix from the future fight prior to the current battle. Felix - the younger Felix of this timeline - is not one of them.

However, as he watches his older self weave through the bandits like liquid steel, mercilessly cutting them down with cold rage, he cannot help but compare it to his current skill level.

He wonders how many more battles he will have to go through before he reaches that level of deadly grace.

“Watch your left!” Sylvain shouts at him from somewhere to his right and Felix grunts as he parries a hard downward strike of an axe.

His feet flow through footwork long ingrained in his mind and in the next moment, he has slipped past the bandit’s strike range and shoves his sword through his chest.

A clean, quick kill.

Felix is actually rather grateful for the distraction of a battle. But despite the battle cries and sounds of metal on metal clashing around him, he still cannot silence the one thought he’s sure is going through everyone’s mind.

He has a daughter.

He has a daughter in the future. A freaking daughter.

A little girl whose hair is unmistakably the same obnoxiously beautiful colour as those of the Gautier lineage.

Who in the actual fuck does he marry?!

The question rings in his head over and over again as he fells enemy after enemy, and by the end of the battle, he still has not found reprieve from the shock that he is grappling with in his mind.

Felix is not aware that he is unconsciously searching for familiar golden brown eyes before the knot in his chest dissolves when he spots Sylvain cleaning his lance off to the side.

But just as quickly as that knot disappears, another one takes its place.

Because as much as he loves Sylvain with all his heart, there’s no way that even if by some miracle they get married in the future that they can have a child together.

Which means that either Felix has married a distant cousin of Sylvain’s or Sylvain has a daughter that Felix somehow ends up taking care of.

And since Felix knows that he would never be able to love or marry anyone other than his childhood best friend...

...that leaves him with a very bitter pill to swallow.

----

“Papa!”

Sophie is wearing her favourite teal dress with the little swords embroidered on the hem, and even though it is now caked entirely in mud, Felix cannot bring himself to care as he falls to his knees and cradles his daughter tightly to his chest.

“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” Calloused fingers fruitlessly brush away the steady stream of tears on Sophie’s blotchy cheeks, the salt water clearing some of the mud away as Felix scans for any injuries.

She shakes her head twice and continues to sob into his chest and he continues to hold her while stroking her hair gently in gentle, calming caresses. Even after this whole fiasco, Sophie’s long waves somehow look as beautiful as ever and a distant part of Felix’s brain wonders if it’s just some inherited Gautier genetic to always looks good no matter what.

“Felix! Goddess, who is that? Is she okay?” Ashe runs up to him, Mercedes and Ingrid not far behind him with equal looks of concern in their expressions.

Felix shakes his head, “I’ll answer questions later. Mercie, can you take a look over her right now and make sure she has no injuries? she says she’s okay but she’s probably still high on adrenaline.”

It is the first time in Mercedes’ life that she has seen Felix look this concerned for another person’s well being and she’s already reaching out with warm white magic even as she nods, but as soon as her hand makes contact, Sophie flinches further into Felix as if burned.

“Sophie. Sophie, it’s alright. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

It takes a little bit more coaxing before she pulls away far enough to look at him.

“Hey,” Felix nudges her temple gently with his nose. “It’s alright. You remember Auntie Mercie, don’t you? Auntie Mercie would never hurt you. She just wants to make sure you’re not hurt, okay?”

If Mercedes has any reaction to being called Auntie, Felix is thankful that she does not outwardly show it.

“It’s okay, Sophie.” The healer flashes her a soft smile. “I promise this won’t hurt a bit!”

It’s only when Mercedes manages to start her healing spell that Felix lets the tension and fear seep out of his body.

There are so many questions clamoring around in his head, like how in the world is she here in the past and where the hell is his husband who is supposed to be watching her in his absence, but all of that will have to wait until they return to the monastery.

And, if the matching strangled, heart-broken looks on his younger self and Sylvain are anything to go off of, he’s also going to have to reveal a little more than planned if he wants to make sure that he still gets to marry the love of his life.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Sorry that the ending seems a bit rushed. I’ve been working on this for 5 hours now and I just want to post it and go to bed (it’s 3AM). I promise I’ll come back to make some edits later!

Next Chapter

Masterlist

[manikrege]

I reached out to the kid I bullied in school. It hurt like a bitch.

Moving places makes you realize how badly humans need closure. How hard we strive for the chapters of our lives to open & end neatly, one by one. And how much we hate cliffhangers, incomplete pages, or vague endings off the screen.

I tried to seek my closure yesterday. Because I'm moving away from the neighborhood I grew up in. Don't worry, it's nothing I'm going to miss. School sucked for me, as it did for most 'studious' kids.

Fat, nerdy, weird, and a bit on the 'girlish' side, it was like this boy entered the class wearing a cap that said, "Your new favorite target." Of course, the cool kids ganged up & left me broken. I felt all alone like a wet puppy abandoned in the rain.

So like a dog, I learned survival, the ugly way. I bit back, chewed on smaller prey. And before I knew it, became the very thing I hated the most. A bully.

Roy, let's call him that, had the same awkwardness that had made me a target. His only disadvantage was that he didn't want to fight back. This allowed me to slowly strangle him, one taunt at a time.

It started out as lame jokes that you'd expect from any teenager. Calling him "gay," laughing at his curves, making him feel unwanted. This graduated into mild jabs & punches. And then finally, one day, the five of us spent 2 straight hours 'roasting' him, stepping on every last piece of his self-confidence that we could find on the floor.

Turns out, he'd had enough & his father was at my door with an audio recording of what we thought was sublime standup comedy. I felt ashamed but cried victim, pushing the blame back onto him. Tit for tat.

We stopped playing with him after that day. He had become a traitor. I don't know if he found that liberating. And if he did, I can't imagine how fucked up that would be ... feeling happy to finally have no one you can make memories with.

I went abroad and forgot about Roy. Until yesterday when we were packing up and I saw him pass by. Something snapped. Like an ice cube being run down my neck.

As someone who has been through so many changes in the last few years, I felt an urgent need to prove to myself that I'm no longer the person I was years in 2014. I wanted to leave this shithole behind for good.

So I messaged him on Facebook.

Dear Roy,

I won't ask if you remember me because I know you do. I just wanted to say I'm really sorry for how I treated you.

There's no explanation. No my side of the story. No excuse. And they weren't just harmless jokes.

I bullied you badly and caused you a lot of pain. Practically ruined your childhood. And I don't know if you're doing better. I hope you are.

You didn't deserve any of the shit I gave you. I did it because I felt powerless myself and needed something to fill that hollow space in my days.

We moved out yesterday & I wanted you to know that I'm aware of my mistakes and although I can't change the past, I am working to heal, both myself and others. I'm part of some NGOs that help poor kids in Majiwada. I do regular activities to put a smile on their faces.

Again, I know this isn't enough or even related but I hope someday you can forgive me. Even if you can't, I understand. And I really wish that you find love, happiness, and peace wherever you go - yes you do deserve those things. I was wrong.

Please let me know if I can do anything for you.

Thanks.

He responded with that "blue thumbs up" icon. That's all. I didn't push it, either. We didn't have a heart-to-heart conversation to go over everything. I'll probably never see him again or know how he turned out to be. It just is.

So did I get my closure? As I unpack in my new room, I'm not sure if it matters anymore. Because I think human relationships are much messier than we let on. You cannot just file them into chapters.

Sometimes they'll end abruptly.

Sometimes they'll reappear again and again, unexpectedly.

And sometimes you'll find new meanings every time you go back to old pages.

More importantly, you cannot just erase the damage you do to people. You cannot say sorry hoping everything will be forgotten and forgiven. The harsh truth about scars is that they never really heal.

But someday someone will look at those scars you caused on people, and madly fall in love with them. Someone will find that pain beautiful. Someone will turn it into a source of strength and love. And you can take the first step towards making that happen - by just saying one word.

GET TO THE POINT- If you think you hurt someone, you're right 9/10 times because we're hardwired for empathy & kindness so the moment we give in to hate, our mind sends us a small hunch. So just say you're sorry. Not "sorry if I hurt you." Not "sorry but it wasn't my intention." Just. Fucking. Sorry. Own what you did. It means everything.

DON'T FORGET IT- Yes, it's best if you repent asap but even if it's 10 years later, admitting to your fuckups is the right thing to do.

DON'T EXPECT AN OK- Your sorry is about you choosing to become better. For the person in front of you, it represents lots of trauma, heavy baggage, and painful memories that they've probably suppressed or internalized. So they may not forgive you or even respond. Please respect their privacy & feelings this time. And move on.

Trust me, this was one of the hardest things I've done as an adult. That said, I think we all did stupid things when we were kids. I think we were all MADE TO DO stupid things by a select few who understood intuitively how war works. I think most of us were a form of entertainment. Puppets. Dogs in a fighting ring. Dogs trying to fit in, or be liked, or just be left alone.

Just realizing how insanely toxic this entire game was ... is probably the most obvious sign that you're growing up. I know I am. I'm actively working to be truer to the kid I was before they took him away from me. And I know it's not going to be some beautiful transformative journey away from my past like they show in the movies.

It'll be ugly, too painful to bear sometimes. Because I'll meet parts of me that I hate. Parts you'd hate if you knew them. Parts that I'd rather not be remembered for. But you know what?

Sometimes, the first step in conquering your demons is accepting that they exist.

That they make you but don't define you. That you have a choice to be kinder, sweeter, warmer. And the only thing that matters is whether you have the courage to make that choice even when the whole world is giving you a billion reasons not to.

Be that one reason everyone needs to heal.

[kshitij1997]

Welcome back!

Well, the die has been cast, and Europe shall endure the consequences. Or will it?

Onward with the story :)

All Frozen and Tangled characters belong to Disney. All I own is this retelling and some original characters.

Chapter 10: Felino the crooked nose

 

February the 5th, 1828,

‘You’re a frigid, wormy piece of shit, you know that?’, growled the recently anointed Tsar at the Arendellian Monarch. Not a good sign for the conference the concert of Europe had arranged; the Monarch of Arendelle was hellbent on closing his country yet again, and no one was willing to budge on their stance.

‘I care not for the impression you choose to have about me, your majesty. I have my reasons and my fears to support my decision. I have to do what I feel is best for my kingdom, as would you if you faced a decision of a similar magnitude.’ Agnarr stated his position calmly, even as he felt no genuine respect for the Russian Monarch. Unlike his late brother, Tsar Nicholas the first had no great capacity for empathy and understanding. He had chosen to keep himself and his people ignorant. After all, what could one say of the sovereign who treated his highest officials and closest advisors like the serfs he saw them to be, and the holy synod under him bragged openly about how it was their god given duty to keep the downtrodden as they were. Oh, how their man, Sergei Uvarov, the Tsar’s minister of education, openly declared: “If I can extend Russia’s childhood another fifty years I will consider my mission accomplished.”

Oh, the Tsar saw himself as a god, and a jealous one at that. Agnarr understood that and knew that as a fellow sovereign, the Tsar could do little but rant in his face for the insult. Even if he would want to wage war upon Arendelle, he wouldn’t wish to give up access to the only warm water seaport he had. Still, Agnarr’s worries were far greater than some disgruntled people in power.

Elsa had lost control of her powers and was crippled in her fear, Anna had been forced to selective amnesia from Grand Pabbie, leaving no trace of Elsa’s powers and Olva...well she hadn’t been so fortunate. Against the advice of Grand Pabbie, he and Iduna had insisted on the procedure of wiping her memory clean of Elsa’s powers and the accident. The hermit warned of the consequences he was facing now with Olva, but how was he to know in his panic and desperation? Now the poor girl had begun experiencing fits and severe headaches, along with bouts of fainting for several minutes. He hadn’t slept this past month properly in the worry of what could happen to his family. Now he had a solution, and he would not back off from it. He must protect his family in any way possible. He must.

‘Your majesties, please don’t antagonise each other. This concerns all of us. You’re not the only ones troubled here. King Agnarr, you’d best explain yourself.’, queen Sophia spoke firmly as she presided over the conference. Agnarr’s declaration had shocked everyone, and he was yet to provide an explanation.

‘Thank you, queen Sophia. I have no intent on stepping on anyone’s face or insulting anyone. This sudden policy of isolation is a measure of precaution. I have it on reliable sources and personal knowledge that there are elements of revolution and insurgency brewing up in my kingdom. I can’t ignore it like the previous bourbon king of France in his time, god rest his soul. I must deal with these rebels quickly and with extreme prejudice. Because if I don’t then Arendelle falls forever, and if Arendelle falls, all northern Europe shall sink along with it.

And before you decide on persecuting war against me, ask yourselves this. Haven’t we had enough of war? We saw 2 decades of war followed by a decade of relative peace. If you ask me, I’d rather prefer the latter. I make this tough choice for the safety of all Europe, please understand.’

He paused to size up the room, who could be his allies and enemies hereafter. Corona and Austria-Hungary were definitely his allies; he knew Reginald would support him in the end. Weselton and the English would be against it; his partnership with them and America would be at risk, he’ll have to accommodate them somehow. Same was the situation with Russia. Maybe the Ottomans had to be brought in to keep Russia in check? Spain and the Southern Isles could be neutral; the Spanish could not care less, their main rivals were the English and the French, they would only vote as a formality. As for the Southern Isles were represented by queen Paulina, for the king had taken ill. On the surface, Paulina looked pleasant and charismatic, yet Agnarr knew that she would be a formidable and dangerous foe if he didn’t play this right. He began to speak again but was rudely interrupted.   

‘And what would be these insurgent elements? The Northuldra?’, asked the duke of Weselton. The room tensed at the duke’s blatant attempt towards badgering the king of Arendelle. Agnarr had to fight a very strong impulse towards bashing the duke’s head on the wall. After composing himself mentally, he replied with barely concealed intentions ‘Why, yes. They have been neglected for far too long. I must attempt to bring them up with the kingdom. They are too obscure and are getting discontent.’

‘Just the language your father used, didn’t he? And where is he now? Lost like the rest of them. I’m telling you; this country is a lost cause. The Northuldra are ‘discontent’? Don’t make me laugh. They’re out for your and your family’s blood. They have been for years.’, the duke was clearly enjoying himself at Agnarr’s expense.

‘And if I hope to pursue a peaceful solution and keep Europe out of the mess, what is so wrong with that, duke?’, Agnarr nearly spat out the last part.

‘It’s always something personal. What, a problem with your kids now?’

‘Why, your uncouth son of a-‘

‘ENOUGH!’, the presiding queen roared. ‘That’s the second time you have tried to lay discord in the concert on purpose, duke. Once it was over my kidnapped child and now this. I swear, if it happens again, you’re going to meet your maker without warning, in front of everyone!’

‘I can’t believe you’re still going on about your bloody kid. She’s fucking dead! I always get enraged how the kings of Europe are disturbed about such trivial matters, and I’m to be punished because I call out the bullshit for what it is?! Fine. Hang, draw, and quarter me all you want, that does not change the fact that once again, some people are sullying the good name of the concert for their own interests.’, the duke spat venom without a care.

‘I’ve heard enough. Marshals, break the duke’s kneecaps.’, an enraged Sophia gave the cold order to her personal guard. The duke’s bravado melted away instantly, and he shrunk in his stature as the marshals came to deal with him.

‘Sophie, stop!’ King Reginald shouted.

‘Pray tell, what now, Reginald?’ his spouse was beyond annoyed by now.

The king of Corona whispered in his spouse’s ear ‘We’ll get the coward some other time. I need to talk sense into Agnarr somehow. I advise you to break for recess.’ A rare sight for the usually tempestuous king to calm down his calmer, more pragmatic wife.

Queen Sophia sighed heavily and announced a recess.

Once they were alone, Reginald confronted Agnarr ‘What’s gotten into you, Agnarr? You’re supposed to be the sensible one amongst us two.’       

‘I’ll tell you what’s sensible. I should invade the fucking duchy of Weselton, lay it to fucking waste, burn it to the fucking ground, and salt the fucking remains barren forever!’ Agnarr snarled with uncharacteristic murder in his eyes.

‘Oh, calm down, crusader. I hate the duke much more than you do, believe me. Nevertheless, even I must agree with that poltroon over your course of action. It’s drastic and uncalled for. Tell me honestly what’s bothering you. We’ll make it right. Tell me.’

‘You don’t believe me? I told you every reason I have for doing this. My kingdom has only just recovered from the previous war. I can’t risk another. I certainly can’t afford it to become a pan-European conflict. At the end of the day, I just want my heir to inherit a stable state. An agitated group of people is not the hallmark of a stable state. Even if it takes me years, I must resolve this once and for all.’

Reginald spoke empathetically ‘Alright, but it still is a visceral reaction to the situation. I think foreign aid would only help more. Are you sure about it?’

Agnarr thought about telling the truth to his best friend, but ultimately decided otherwise; he couldn’t let the secret get out in any circumstance.

‘Yes I am. I also believe that those so-called insurgents are supplied by foreign powers themselves; they would like nothing more than to make my kingdom their colony. And that fucking Weselton shill... I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s behind the whole damn thing.’

‘That may be true, but without solid evidence, we can’t deal with him effectively. We must be sure.’ Reginald advised him.

‘Alright, but I can’t back down from my position. Yes, my kingdom will suffer in the short run, but I know we’ll be secure and united eventually.’

Ultimately, the concert decided that Arendelle would only keep one point of access open to the outside world; the main port. Only diplomats and special traders would be allowed. Every other traveller, from tourist to student would have to be barred from entering the country. It may cause uprising among the international students in his kingdom, but he’ll have to deal with them on his down. To preserve the security, the red tape for the traders and businessmen became very harsh. All, in service towards protecting my family; Agnarr thought.

A week later

A craven figure along with half a dozen guards floated in a rowboat towards one of the northern shores of Arendelle, beyond the mist. A hooded figure in silhouette waited for them on shore, heavily dressed to protect them self against the bitter February cold. Upon reaching the shore, the hooded bowed in respect and said ‘Welcome, honourable duke of Weselton. I hope your journey was pleasant enough.’

‘As pleasant a trip I could hope in stormy, waning winter, thank you for asking.’, the duke removed his cloak and coat to make his face more visible, and gestured his guards to disembark and stand around. The scrawny man took a moment to stretch himself, and at length, spoke ‘How many instances of forbidden people wandering into your grounds?’

‘Not as many as before, however a group of the Iceni tribe were intercepted in the valley of death during patrol two months ago and dealt with without exception. No survivors that we know of.’

‘Good, the illegals are dwindling, soon they would be no problem. However, as long as Arendelle stands, you’ll never be safe. We’ll have to confront them once and for all.’

‘Let’s continue our discussion on the way to camp, honourable duke.’

The Northuldrian camp was twenty-five kilometres inland from the seashore, but the spirits had grown very erratic in recent years, so the Northuldra had to find new routes to their homes every few weeks. The latest incident was particularly severe; a landslide had destroyed the usual detour they took, so they had to take the tributaries by another boat, a slower but safer way of travel.

‘Forgive me, honourable duke. I know travel by water does not agree with you.’

‘I’ll live. Tell me, how is everything holding up north of the mist?’

‘We’re eking out a living somehow. As you know, the rivers have been gradually changing course towards the south, our arable lands are going barren as a result. Adding to the problem, the rains are becoming scarcer with every passing year bit by bit. I regret to inform you that the poppy plantation is facing a loss, the raw material for the heroin would be short this time.’

‘It seems you’ve lost the plot, haven’t you? How will I get you your weapons if your end of the bargain is low? Weapons, armament, lumber and steam technology for ships don’t come cheap, you know?’ the duke said with the faux humility that masked grave threats underneath, and the hooded figure knew well what those threats were. Nevertheless, a low yield was not the biggest problem.

‘There’s more, honourable duke. Arendelle has tried to sue for peace and is willing to cooperate.’

‘Yes, I heard. We both know it’s nonsense.’

‘I’m not so sure. The terms they have offered seem rather reasonable.’

‘I’m sure they are. They may be too reasonable, I’m afraid. Implying something between the lines. The implication being disastrous for the Northuldra. If you ask me, I would never take any terms Europe offers at face value.’

‘I’m a fair sceptic of the south, just as you are. But since the rise of the mist, they have not engaged in any big skirmishes.’

The duke sighed and said ‘It pains me to say it, but you lack an ocean of imagination. There are uncountable ways to fight a war of attrition, and Arendelle has chosen the most insidious way.’

‘What do you mean, duke?’

‘I’d rather tell this to everyone at once, instead of making it a poor game of translation errors.’, with that, the duke fell silent, knowing full well that the hooded figure’s doubts had been flared up.

After a voyage of two hours, the party reached the camp. A huge crowd had gathered upon the riverbank where the canoe stopped. The hooded figure removed his hood and stood beside the Northuldra leader as her most trusted vassal. The Northuldra leader went by the name of Yelena, a woman moving towards middle age, standing barely above the duke in stature, but those aged eyes had seen many ups and downs. The leader slightly prostrated herself before the duke; the Northuldra way of showing respect towards authority.

‘Welcome, o duke! I hope your voyage was pleasant.’

‘As much as I could hope it to be. I must say, the Northuldra’s native lands grow more beautiful every time I venture up’ the duke said.

‘Your grace flatters us. I believe my trusted vassal has given you the lowdown for everything that has happened in the past three months. We’ll be happy to discuss a compromise for the goods you need.’

‘Thank you, your excellency. However, my worries include the survival of the Northuldra as well.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘You may have received terms from the king of Arendelle for a peaceful cessation in the past few days, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, they are more reasonable than I expected.’

‘I feared so, for if you paid attention, you’d realise that the terms are too positive. They’re willing to overlook the massacre of the group of Iceni that happened two months ago. Not to mention the fact that they may have stumbled about the truth about our trade operation as well.’

‘Speaking of the trade operation, what we may be short of in terms of goods, we’ll make up in plunder in the North Atlantic. I have sanctioned three fleets for the same purpose later this week.’

‘That is encouraging, but I must warn you, the plundering operation would become very difficult very soon. What with the king of Arendelle sealing the kingdom’s maritime and overland borders.’

‘Excuse me, come again?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew.’

‘No, I didn’t. Please enlighten us, your grace.’

‘Well, your excellency, the king of Arendelle has decided to isolate the country, and I quote his speech: “This sudden policy of isolation is a measure of precaution. I have it on reliable sources and personal knowledge that there are elements of revolution and insurgency brewing up in my kingdom. I can’t ignore it like the previous bourbon king of France in his time, god rest his soul. I must deal with these rebels quickly and with extreme prejudice. Because if I don’t, then Arendelle falls forever, and if Arendelle falls, all northern Europe shall sink along with it.” Now you tell me, is this the language a man would use while suing for peace?’

Yelena became quiet for a moment, taking in al the information. At length, she asked ‘What are the possible ramifications of this declaration?’

‘They could be numerous, but I’ll tell you the most obvious one. Within a month at the latest, the coasts would be dotted by the Arendellian navy, putting a blockade through which nothing except their own ships could get in or out. You can imagine they would be only too happy to hunt down your pirate ships before you’re able to secure any loot at all. You can’t raid through the land, as the mist is your most powerful jailer. It will surely be a stifling experience; I won’t deny it.’

‘What if we do sue for peace? If we sincerely send an envoy to the south?’

‘Aye, you could try that. In fact, I suggest you try that without fail.’ Interrupted a tall, dark man as he made his way inside Yelena’s tent.’

‘Mathias, just because the mist forces me to tolerate and learn to like your presence doesn’t mean you interrupt me in meetings about the matters of state.’ Yelena bristled with annoyance.

‘Believe me, once the mist lifts up, I’ll ride south, first thing on my to-do list.’

‘Mathias, you look familiar. Tall, dark, muscular, good posture. Does your Ethiopian father still till the grain and tan the leather shoes?’, making harsh, cutting remarks was a talent the duke used well.

‘No. Does the honourable duke take me for his wretched bastard slaves in the Congo?’ Mathias growled.

‘Gentlemen, please. Your grace, please don’t mind Mathias. Yes, he’s a southerner. He was in king Runeard’s personal guard from what I gather. He may look brutish and imposing, but he’s harmless and dare I say, a halfway decent man. He doesn’t usually interrupt one of my meetings, so this instance must be special. Tell us big boy, what should bother us?’ Yelena finished as she turned to Mathias.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not willing to entertain the stories of a deserter.’, the duke said nonchalantly.

‘As if your pip squeakiness has ever been in a battle to judge a trapped prisoner of war?’ Mathias seethed.

‘See, even he agrees, we’re at war.’ Oh, they were all playing right into my hands, the duke thought with glee.

‘Yes, and now peace must be made. Yelena, this is not the time to go on the offensive. Trust me.’ Mathias faced Yelena as he settled down beside her.

‘Maybe, but it is a peace we would be forced into. We want it on our own terms, Mathias. I understand you’re homesick, but we haven’t had a home to go back to for decades. We will assert our terms onto the king, and he will have to accept it. If he doesn’t, it’s war.’

‘Lofty words, your excellency. Alas, there’s no substance or weight to back your words. You’ll be blockaded soon, and travel by land is impossible anyhow. I suggest you make a permanent settlement here and be done with it.’, the duke laid the bait.

‘And perpetually disturb the peace of the spirits by claiming their sacred forest? Never.’, and Yelena took it.

‘Well, I can’t negotiate such a big difference in your quantity of goods. You’ll have to offer me something if I must continue supporting your struggle. What about lumber from the forest?’

‘You must be reading a fucking comedy. When we refuse to make a permanent settlement in the forest, YOU PROCEED TO SUGGEST SOMETHING FAR WORSE?!’, Mathias had half a mind to strangle the duke right there, when he was stopped by Yelena.

‘Sit down, Mathias! We’re in desperate times. We’ll have to do what we must in order to survive.’

‘Making a bad situation worse is survival?! Can you imagine or fathom withstanding the rage of the spirits if we cut down the forest?! How can you even consider this, Yelena?’

‘If I may ease your concerns, I’ll vouch for the fact that a sacred relic commands a lot of value in the market. Especially amongst those who are powerful, proud, wealthy and don’t ask too many questions. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll introduce a tiny amount in the market. People would recognize it as sacred or magical with plenty of history behind it. Once I do that, I can manipulate the price for it and bring you all the money, all the weapons, all the ships you need.’, the duke reassured the Northuldra leader.

Yelena spoke at length ‘Alright, I agree to the venture. Let’s begin with ten logs.’

Mathias hung his head in defeat and nursed his forehead, which had begun to throb. This is not going to end well.

Yelena tried to comfort him after the duke left ‘Listen, for every tree we cut down, we’ll plant ten, I promise.’

‘Even if you do that, it won’t be the sacred forest of the fifth spirit anymore.’ Mathias said ruefully.

As the duke made his way to the ship waiting off the coast on his rowboat, one of his taciturn guards asked him ‘Your grace, why do we need these bunch of sheep worshippers?’

The duke grinned darkly ‘When a rival nation is at war with itself, best let it consume itself.’

Around the same time, somewhere in northern Greece

‘Rider, move your ass and get over here!’ A portly man called out as he wiped a greasy hand on his apron.

‘Coming, Elios!’ Flynn came running in. He was now a man of seventeen; having seen a fair bit of the world by now and had been working with Elios for a few months. Elios had hidden Flynn to save him from ‘The Hawk’, a notorious smuggler who had trapped him in his ring. In return, Flynn agreed to work for him in his front business.

‘Why must I go through this fucking chore every time? To have to call you up like a fucking parade float to just do your blessed job?’

‘I’m sorry for being two minutes late. I already did the prep for tonight; the bar has been cleaned and stocked. I just took a nap, calm your tits.’

‘I’ve heard that many times, give me something new Flynn’ Elios rolled his eyes.

‘What do you think I’ve been doing? Making merry around the city square? Come on, I know better than that.’

‘Don’t bother lying to me. I swear, one of those women is gonna make you the sacrificial goat someday.’

‘Alright, I heard your speech. Got it, can we move on?’

Elios wiped some sweat off his forehead and asked, ‘You know who’s coming tonight?’

‘Yeah I do, friends loyal to the Greek cause.’ Flynn answered without faltering

‘Not just any friend, mind you. The Gent is coming along with the Sicilians.’

Flynn’s ears perked up at that piece of news. The Gent was a legend in Northern Greece, almost singlehandedly forming the on-land resistance against the Ottomans in the Greek war of independence. He had been involved in the resistance for nearly seven years now and was lobbying for foreign support.

‘Wow, that’s a hero if I ever saw one.’

‘I told you I’ll introduce you to him soon. Today’s the day.’

‘Now, why would he visit an affluent restaurant filled with Turks day in and out, I’m sure I don’t know.’ Flynn stated incuriously.

‘Hey Flynn, let his people worry about it. I’m sure his people would be clever enough to figure it out.’ Elios was a practical man who knew the streets well, however, forethought was not his strongest suit.

‘No, Elios. Hear me out. If the Gent is ambushed here, we’re done for. Everything will be up for grabs and I know neither of us would like the prick of the cold sabre chopping our necks. And if we know The Gent is coming, the officials certainly know. And if the Sicilians find out, you’ll end up wearing concrete shoes, old boy. You may know the gutters and the roads, but I know loyalty.’

‘What do you suppose we do now? We can’t really serve them in public view.’

‘That is true. Tell you what, let’s clear the cellar for their dinner. I’m sure they don’t want any outsider to hear what they are discussing amongst themselves. Also, I think you should serve them personally, Elios.’

‘No can do. I’m the front. If I don’t stay there, they’ll investigate. You’ll have to serve them yourself. I’m sorry Flynn. The Gent trusts me, if he sees that I consider you worthy, he’ll be comfortable.’

But I don’t know the first thing about him and the others. What if I offend them without meaning to?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Flynn. We both know you know better than that. If the service is good, they’ll fill your pockets with enough dosh to set you up for years. If I truly know you, you wouldn’t miss this opportunity for the world.’

‘Alright, I’ll do it. Say Elios, what if I warm them personally first about the last-minute change of scenery?’

‘No. I’ll have to warn them myself. Set the cellar up. I did contact them two days ago; I’ll do it again.’

‘Just make sure you’re not followed.’

‘Hey Rider, who knows the street better?’

‘You do, clearly.’

‘Yup. I’ll be back soon.’

A few hours later, a party of people showed up. There was the Gent, a tall slender man, worn down by the hiding and fighting. His face was warm enough, save for the green eyes that could bore holes through the Earth, and a crooked mouth that had a scare across the top lip. Still, he felt like a man who could fight forever. As for the Sicilians, they were something else entirely.

It was a band of seven people. The man most fancily dressed, along with the ruby ring on his little finger and the gold watch and chain, was obviously the leader. The six were presumably his bodyguards, each one burlier and more imposing that the last, looking like killers happy to kill a priest in the middle of a sermon. Ruthless and royal. Dressed to the nines up to their plug caps.

Flynn suddenly felt dwarfed and puny.

‘Gentlemen, this is Flynn, he’s been working with me for a few months, he’ll be serving you tonight.’ Elios gave a short introduction and left. Flynn gave a short bow, not sure how to address these powerful men.

‘What’s your name, green boy?’ The Gent asked.

‘Flynn.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Going to be seventeen next month.’

You’re not from around these parts, are you? Your accent tells me....Austria Hungary?’

‘No sir, Corona. The Rhinelands, to be exact.’ 

‘Uh huh. How’d you end up in Greece?’

‘War orphan from the Napoleonic wars, pushed around all of Europe, ended up here.’ By now, Flynn knew the story by heart.   

‘My condolences. Ok Flynn, you’re going to undergo something unpleasant. Forgive me, just the nature of these times. I need to be sure of your loyalty.’

Before Flynn could reply, one of the goons was upon him, almost choking him with his weight, pressing down on his spine. Even if Flynn had any wind left him, he couldn’t yell.

‘Answer me, why was the room changed at such short notice?’

‘When the Gent asks, you better fucking answer, figlio di sfagato!’

‘Get off him, let him speak.’ The goon got off at once.

Flynn coughed and gasped for air. When he could breathe normally, he said weakly , ‘Mr. Gent, it was Mr. Elios who suggested it.’ Flynn barely finished his sentence before receiving a punch in the gut, knocking the air out of him.

‘That’s a lie. Elios is not that big a thinker. You seem to be smarter than you let on. Why’d you try to protect us from the Turks?’

‘I didn’t want them to kill you here. That would be underhanded and filthy. I’ve heard....heard that you believe in engaging them head on, I didn’t want them to ambush you. You’re a hero around here, would be a shame if I couldn’t do my bit for your cause.’ Flynn was hit yet again by the goon, this time in his nose. Blood had begin ebbing from his mouth and nose.

‘You’ve said enough. I can guess the rest of the story. Either betray the Turks and face the sabre or betray us and face getting shot in the face. Why choose us over them?’

‘I gambled here.....I’d rather be loyal to someone fighting the slavers for freedom than the slaver themselves.’ Flynn braced himself for another hit, but the hit never came.

Instead he could hear a chuckle from the Sicilian leader, who had gestured his goon to stand down. He approached Flynn and held him by the cheek, saying in thick accent, ’Felino. That’s your name from now on. Felino the crooked nose. Drinks on the house, all night. Keep the drinks up, you’ll be richer than the sultan come morning. Good boy.’

The leader, or don as they were calling him now, lightly tapped his cheek and went back to his place, settling down with the Gent and the other goons. Flynn left the room and almost crumpled on the floor. I could’ve died there, he thought for a second. Nevertheless, he composed himself and put on his charm; Felino the crooked nose had a job to do.

Ha, the duke of Weselton’s such a bastard, always stirring up shit wherever he goes lol. I love the potential his character has.

Our Man Flynn is serving the big boys now! What could happen?

Thanks again to those who continue reading this silly story :P

As always, constructive feedback is always welcome!

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 20: The Guests of Honor

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Locals, tourists, and travelers around the world over take to the streets of New Orleans for the biggest celebration of the year. The Council comes together at the Beau-Keyes House for their annual Mardi Gras party.

[READ IT ON AO3]

March 5th. Mardi Gras.

Behind him Nik announces himself with a loud and pointed cough. Taylor doesn’t acknowledge it but he enters anyway, keeps his distance.

Kristin’s vitals beep softly on the monitors beside the bed. Both fill the space between them and somehow make it that much wider.

“Don’t go sayin’ goodbyes.” Advice from a man who sounds like he’s said far too many — or maybe too few.

But he appreciates the gesture anyway. “I’m not. Actually I was just promising to make it up to her; missing Mardi Gras I mean.”

“I swear some people treat this party like a whole damn religion.”

Taylor throws a little grin back Nik’s way.

“We’ve been planning this for years. When she wakes up she’s gonna be so mad she missed it.”

When there’s no answer he fully turns and catches the look on Nik’s face; the sharp cuts of him softer, the crinkles in his eyes smoothed away.

There are people wait their whole lives for someone to look at them like that. Walls down and gates open and any other locked barrier metaphor he can think of. Honest and unguarded and…

And the sheer fact that it doesn’t vanish the moment Nik realizes he’s been caught means a lot of things that neither of them can talk about right now because it’ll feel too much like the goodbyes they just agreed not to say.

“What?” he asks; doesn’t miss the tiniest spark in the man’s eyes at how breathless he sounds. “What?”

“You realize you said ‘when?’”

Yeah, he did.

“Sorry, I —” shaking his head, Taylor stands, “— are they all finished up downstairs?”

“They’re finishin’ the papers now, but yeah they wanted me to get ya.”

“Probably shouldn’t keep them waiting then.”

“Yeah, prob’ly.”

He said he wasn’t going to say goodbye so he doesn’t — not out loud. Hopefully that thing about coma patients hearing the world around them applies for sensations, too, because squeezing her hand before they take off is the next best thing.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Vera and Tonya are already in an argument when they arrive.

Even without the powers her Curse granted her, Lady Smoke smooths out a fresh pair of gloves along her upper arm. Must be wearing a spare of Vera’s since they probably didn’t plan on matching.

“I will not be looked down upon, Vera.”

“You’re takin’ it too seriously. Dr. Ramsey barely let you sign yourself out and that’s sayin’ something. Just stay in the damn chair Momma!”

Maybe at her full strength Tonya could have fought off the one-handed grip her daughter uses to keep her seated in the hospital wheelchair, but she certainly can’t looking like she’s a hop and a skip from unconsciousness.

But she’s a fighter. She tries.

Vera throws them a pleading look on approach. Probably why Ryder doesn’t shy away from hard heavy pats to the shoulder of the most powerful mobster in the city.

Former most powerful? He doesn’t know anymore — is sure that same uncertainty is the reason Momma Reimonenq is so adamant to leave on her own two feet.

But Ryder wants to savor it for just a little longer. “We all signed and ready to get movin’? Heard from Kathy on the way down — they’re almost there.”

Vera nods. Literally goes over Tonya’s head with the conclusion that ignoring her is better for everyone.

“The car is pullin’ around,” and with a twinge of worry in her brow, “anybody heard from Cal?”

No answer is an answer. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“We should’a went with him, swung by the hospital after.”

If Tonya takes offense to sounding less important than the werewolf she doesn’t say it. She does fall quiet, though.

“He’s a big wolf, he’ll be fine.”

Getting a firm grasp on the handles of the chair Ryder swings Tonya around — with no lack of glee at her shouted protest — and starts pushing her out to the hospital curb.

But Taylor shares the same concern. Doesn’t write Vera off as she tucks herself against his side while they follow behind.

“He’s not wrong, but Cal isn’t alone, remember?”

She snorts. “Nothin’ against him personally but I don’t think sendin’ Cadence counts. I dunno if you noticed, Tay, but the wolves and vampires don’t exactly get along.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Don’t you gimme that lip. What if we just made it worse on him?”

And he feels for her, he does. Knows her concern is coming from a place of care and, if Taylor’s reading the vibes she’s putting out right, empathy for an ‘odd one out’ like herself.

So he reminds her, “You came here for your mom and lived to tell the tale. Don’t sell Cal so short.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“We need Kristof for this to work.”

“An’ I know that! Just wonderin’ if it wouldn’t’ve been easier to tackle demons who weren’t our own.”

“Hey,” he wipes away a nonexistent tear in mock-offense, “speak for yourself. I gave mine the cliffnotes of Shakespeare.”

They’re both pretty sure the hospital wheelchairs aren’t things to be rented out, but neither of them have the guts to argue with Nik as he gives a shout of frustrated victory at maneuvering the folded frame into the trunk of their ride.

He slams the lid closed with more force than necessary; muttering to himself as they pile into the sleek black SUV.

“Here’s the address.” Ryder grunts, offers the driver a scrap of paper once part of Cade’s notes. The man doesn’t take it without shooting Lady Smoke query for approval first.

Her focus is ardent on something—maybe nothing, maybe anything but the indignity she feels—out the window but with the barest nod the engine rumbles to life, begins the agonizing process of navigating through the police-issued barricades for the forthcoming parade.

If this works, holy shit.

If it doesn’t…

He takes Nik’s hand in his and squeezes tight.

You’d think after living there for a few centuries the supernatural community — the immortal lives of the fair folk specifically — would have had some kind of effect on the culture of New Orleans.

On the contrary; the vibrant blend of ancestry that made the Big Easy so prominent had come out stronger, taken what was apparently a rather somber tradition-bred people and made them savor the beauty of a life that was not guaranteed to be forever.

Which helps give a little bit of contextual understanding to just how amazing the Beauregard-Keyes House looks?

In the entryway he catches glimpse of more than a few fae, the same citizens of Lamrian he saw carrying candle-lanterns and humming a solemn hymn of mourning mere days ago, flitting this way and that for final touches.

Lights without flame or fuel dance in soft orbs across the ceilings; colliding into one another with bright flashes of the traditional Mardi Gras purple, gold, and green. Beads hang on decorated furniture and lay spread out on tables for the taking.

There’s an entire wall of face masks ahead; ranging from just the eyes to full-on faces painted by delicate and skilled hands. No two masks are exactly the same, so bursting with personality they’re practically alive.

They pass a doorway where a young fae waves their hands exuberantly only for bright violet ivy to grow and flourish around the molding; still sparkling of morning dew that shouldn’t be there for hours let alone indoors.

If they weren’t setting an elaborate trap for a skeletal hellspawn by literally handing it everyone it wants to kill on a decorative golden platter it would be the kind of party to bring up every time someone mentions a good time.

Taylor catches a familiar laugh off to the right of the front parlor and, after a tug to Ryder’s arm and a jerk of the head, leaves him and Vera to finish explaining the machinations of said elaborate plan to Lady Smoke. Delves further and through a doorway that dusts golden glitter like falling snow. Before he can brush it off his shoulders it fades into nothing, because apparently even elves know glitter is an infectious disease.

Garrus is accustomed to working his magic at a larger bar top and it shows — doesn’t mean the magical mixologist isn’t working some serious moves on the antique bar hosting a freshly-stocked wall of selections behind him.

Ivy continues to laugh unabashedly at Krom and now Taylor can see why. His stony face lips and eyes squeezed shut and puckered up in some form of resistance.

And if that wasn’t a silly enough sight on its own the flurry of tiny fizzing dragonflies that erupt from his tusked maw when he burps definitely is.

They lift up into the air as little bubbles, popping and crackling like the top of a freshly poured cola. Collide with one another in midair to make miniature fireworks that leaves Krom staring in in horror and Ivy clapping exuberantly with cheers of “Encore, encore~!” while Garrus bows.

“Thank you, thank you,” and more sincerely to Krom, “Your never-ending patience is something I will never be worthy of, darling.”

Krom who gulps down a nearby glass of water, voice wavering. “I’m happy to—to try things out. Just nothing that flies out of me next time, please?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

And they all know what that’s code for. Of course he promises. He cares too much about the softest Stone Troll to do anything else. But points for keeping up the bravado.

Taylor doesn’t get the chance to speak before he catches Katherine’s eye where she sits with a tumbler of something honey-colored and smelling strongly of the last vestiges of a bonfire at dawn. The huntress downs her liquor like a shot and slides off her stool.

“Ryder?”

He nods to the doorway through which he’d come and gets a passing pat on the back as his only thanks. Better than nothing.

By the time he takes up her place Garrus already has a replacement soda with a speared cherry resting on the rim sliding his way.

And Taylor’s happy to take the offer; only he stops just shy of bubbling carbonation touching his lips.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Excusez-moi?” Garrus clasps a pale hand to his chest. “Are you implying I’ve somehow tampered with your beverage, sir?”

“Obviously.”

The elven man wilts dramatically and with a number of expressive hand gestures. Braces himself first against the bar then the shelves behind him while lamenting over the pain of accusation like his neck is on the line.

He’s just the usual Garrus, silly with a touch of sass. And judging by some of the looks his kindred throw in their direction they ought to try and be a bit more serious given the circumstances but no—no they won’t.

Everyone could use a genuine laugh right now. Garrus is doing more for them all than he knows.

The soft “ah-hem” of a cleared throat drags Taylor’s focus off and aside — where a familiar wave of gossamer hair lingers inside a doorway.

He may not be in a wheelchair or sport stitches or wrappings but Elric is still recovering from the attack at the theatre. Each step a little less graceful and fluid, his eyes alight only because he’s looking at Taylor.

Krom stops Garrus mid-word with an outstretched hand.

The fae lord reaches out a touch that Taylor doesn’t shy away from. The hairs on his arms stand up but that’s only because Elric exudes an aura of power even when weakened.

“May I borrow my son, Garrus?”

And though there’s considerably less mirth in the bartender’s voice when he answers— “that’s something you should be asking him” —it isn’t the same cold dismissal as before.

Elric clearly means to, but Taylor nods before he can.

The only place they can find to be alone is a closed-off office space. Deemed not worth the decoration the doors are drawn closed but remain unlocked.

A wave of Elric’s hand brings a pale pink fire whispering to life in the hearth across the room. Fills the room with a warmth Taylor can’t quite put his finger on and casts both their faces in undulating shadows.

“Thanks for pulling this off so quickly,” Taylor goes first only because he’s had it on the brain ever since the end of their call. “Guess some stereotypes aren’t just myth huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Elves and parties.”

“I do not understand.”

A sigh. Of course he doesn’t. “Nevermind — just… thanks.”

He reaches out a hand for Elric to grasp, or shake, or whatever odd greeting the fae may have he’s yet to learn.

And Elric accepts — goes one step further. Before Taylor knows what’s happening he’s in a crushing embrace, can feel the man’s sharp features on the top of his head with arms pinned at his sides.

Hugging has never been his forte. Purely a body dysphoria thing — he can’t not be conscious of the way his body feels against another.

Then he feels the way Elric is shaking like a leaf. Just this once, then.

When they part pale hands cup his cheeks. A critical eye surveying him for the smallest cut or remnants of a bruise. The relief when he finds nothing flows from Elric in waves.

“Had I the strength left to conjure a glamour I would not have abandoned you.”

Oh, he hadn’t even thought about it. “You got flattened by a giant heap of metal for me. I’d hardly call that abandonment.”

“Even with the creature gone, I should have stayed.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” and when the man recoils, “it gave you a chance to recover. To get all this going.”

He gestures to the decorated house beyond.

Elric quickly accepts that his guilt doesn’t need an excuse; good, too, because they don’t have a lot of time to spend on heart-to-hearts.

“You have dedicated yourself to this plan, then.”

It catches Taylor by surprise. “If you mean this is what we’re going with? Then yes. We all agreed it’s worth the risk.”

Well, not all. Not Tonya — she had no choice. Not Isadora or Kristof or even Elric. But Isadora had come.

Elric was here, in front of him. And he’s giving his son a look of scrutiny that feels a little too judgmental for their current predicament.

“Something has changed about you.”

“I mean, I could use a shower.”

“Not about you,” like that’s not what he just said, “but about you. A change clings to your soul.

“It says…” his eyes widen with realization, “you truly believe this can work?”

He’s not questioning Taylor’s resolve. That he somehow knows unspoken. But it makes sense… up until now (and really still, only with a little more coffee and a lot more planning) he’s been Mister Negativity, Mister Ready-to-Die.

Why wouldn’t he be? No clue, no hope, no faith — no power. And not much is situationally different, yet still.

He chooses his words carefully. “I think we have a better chance this time around.”

“Time to plan, perhaps. Yet these same numbers you gather here could do nothing to it before. Unless you’ve found the creature’s weakness.”

“Jeez, Dad, can you just trust me on this?”

The words come out of him at an unnatural angle. The way they feel habitual but definitely aren’t — that first time you fuck up and call a teacher ‘Mom’ in kindergarten.

They’ve got the same dumb look on their face, haven’t they?

Catching scaffolding with his back isn’t enough to suddenly make Taylor want to look into every other weekend and major holidays with the man but it’s certainly not nothing.

Nor is his exclamation, not kind or pleading by any means but filled with frustration sometimes only a parent can bring bursting forth.

He steps out of arms’ reach just in case.

Because Elric looks like he’s about to start weeping.

“I do. And I am sorry for not… for conveying that improperly.”

“Apology accepted.”

But the deed is done; their dynamic forever changed. For some reason the first thing Taylor thinks of is Elric taking him to sit in the nosebleeds at a football game — in full Lamrian splendor but with a Saints hat covering his ears.

And the only protest his dumb brain can come up with? That he hates football. Like nothing else is wrong with that mental image.

Focus, Taylor, focus.

“We know things now that we didn’t before. We’ll be expecting an attack this time.”

“You are certain it will come?”

“I’d stake my life on it.” Poor choice of words.

“You will do no such thing.” His expression going dark, Elric’s jaw clenches firm. “I do not regret my attempts to stay out of this battle for my people, or those to try and keep you safe by whatever means kept you from the fight.

“But I watched my son turn his back on me — a braver soul than I and in so few years. For the past I will do whatever can be done in the present.”

“Yeah yeah, heard it all before.”

But it isn’t dismissal for dismissal’s sake — says that enough in the long look they exchange.

In Lamrian he remembers with clarity; had seen standing before him a coward.

And that may very well have been true. But Taylor isn’t the only one who has a change about him, clinging to him like a thin film.

He’s trying. And that’s all any of them can do.

You know who’s not so keen on trying?

Three guesses. Go on.

“Go over it just one more time for me.”

“There’s nothing more to add, Ryder.”

“I mean I ain’t questionin’ your memory but…”

“For once I’m inclined to agree. But that’s really all there was to it.”

Beside them Cal adjusts the thawing T-Bone higher on his face. “Speak for yourself.”

Taylor snatches a peek of the swollen, purpled eye beneath it and cringes. “Are you sure there’s nothing Ivy can do?”

“Nah,” the wolf’s sigh is a little too heavy, “was my damn fault for thinkin’ I could call an Alpha’s honor into question anyway. I jus’ got caught up thinkin’ about the stakes, and seein’ Donny, and all that energy he was puttin’ out…”

Vera shushes him, manages to get a more sanitary solution to the wounds with small dabs of antibacterial paste. “This — men don’t do this, Cal. Animals do this.” And even with only one good eye the look he gives her says it all. “You know what I mean.”

“There’re some things that just gotta be settled with the wolf.”

Cadence makes a conscious effort to keep his pat to Cal’s back on the gentler side but the man still winces, sore. “Well I had every confidence in you. It was rather fascinating to watch, actually.”

“Wait wait —” all eyes on the vampire who blinks owlish; innocent, and Taylor can’t believe what he’s hearing; “— you just stood and watched?”

And though the blond splutters a number of protests, the group’s collective sympathy is lacking.

“The same man who broke a Minotaur’s spine in six diff’rent places for that same pack of wolves.”

Only maybe because he’s a vampire his face can’t blush red — no, no he’s seen it. So why then does Cadence go pale all the way to the lips?

“That was a… unique situation.”

“Relax, guys, there was nothin’ he could’a done anyway.” There’s an unspoken irony in Cal being the one to call off the dogs, but it works.

But it’s not like their group vampire hasn’t been strange from the beginning. Taylor’s still not convinced it wasn’t someone else, like an evil double, who threatened his way into Persephone’s cage to fight on Donny’s behalf. He certainly can’t imagine the man in front of him doing it — plaid sweater aside.

When Taylor catches Cade catching him stare he fumbles, doesn’t really have an excuse but thankfully doesn’t need one. Not when the entire House can hear Kristof shouting somewhere unseen, something about “Who do I gotta see about gettin’ a six pack around here?!”

By process of eliminating who Kristof wouldn’t immediately attack it’s Vera who sighs and pushes onward. Taylor would go himself but he hangs back instead — gently grabs for Cal’s arm and attention.

So much of their plan rests on every single person the Coven Elders are targeting being in one place tonight. They can’t risk Kristof leaving in a wild stampede.

But he never meant for this — for every grunted effort as Cal’s body actually puts conscious effort into healing in time.

Because it isn’t a matter of if Reimonenq the Wraith will come — but when.

“I know that look Taylor, you’re overthinkin’,” the smile Cal gives him isn’t betrayed by his pain — or maybe just stronger than it, “I knew what I was doin’ and I’d do it again if need be.”

“You mean for that to be reassuring but it’s not reassuring Cal, it’s not.”

“We all played our part.”

“Yeah, but we all didn’t have a dick of a guy play Whack-a-Mole with our faces.”

Cal throws his head back and laughs until it physically hurts. He insists he’ll be fine after a few drinks and some rest. Taylor just hopes they can afford to give him that time.

When they finally move to join the others he offers his shoulder for the wolf to prop himself up on. The pride in his eyes says no but the arm that seeps lava-like warmth through Taylor’s clothes acts otherwise.

“I wasn’t so keen on the beating,” Cal mumbles just before they reach the garden doors, “but I’d take a lot worse to go back there for longer.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. They both know. “Donny holding up okay?”

“He’s a Lowell — he’ll be just fine.”

He will be, though, that’s the implication and it makes his heart sink.

Remember what The Fate said. He’s alive — that matters.

There’s only one ward this time — the point already proven that it’s more for decoration than any real use. But trying to keep something out is the exact opposite of the point.

The noise from the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter fills in in lieu of music. Gives a boisterous abandon to the air where otherwise it hangs like a noose around their precariously balancing necks.

It’s a party worthy of dozens; crowds of people from all walks of life — Pack or gang or family it didn’t matter with the celebration at hand. Or it would if there were more than the bare essentials; than Taylor and the rest, those left making up the Council that aren’t actively trying to kill them all or, in the Mayor’s case, woefully oblivious.

Then Ryder is at his side, flask in familiar hand. He tries—and fails—to cover up when he reaches for Taylor like holding on to any part of him will get them through this unscathed.

Mostly because in the process of faking a yawn he just swallows a mouthful of liquor.

“You look like you’re overthinkin’ this.”

Of course he is. Aren’t they all? “Actually, I was just admiring how much they were able to get done. This place looks like an actual celebration.”

Because it doesn’t matter how many attendees the party is worthy of. All that matters is the one they need to show up.

Nik’s eyes sweep the garden with a satisfied nod. “Definitely the most gussied-up trap I’ve ever taken part in. You’ve got a real eye for this, Rook.”

“Does that mean if I decide to go into the oddly specific party-slash-hellspawn-trap planning business you’ll join me?”

“There’s prob’ly better money in it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They laugh. They lock eyes.

They both know it would be the perfect moment if absolutely everything about it was different.

Taylor inhales to keep from smelling the whiskey on his breath as Nik leans forward — places a firm kiss right at his hairline.

Okay… maybe not everything needs to be different.

“Last chance to veto the plan.”

He murmurs it into the sweat and dirt on the man’s skin; knows that with all they’ve rushed to put together in the final hours of the final days he can’t possibly smell any better.

It takes Nik a pause to respond; to keep his tone steady and certain and rock-solid. One of them has to be.

“Do you want me to?”

“Only if you have a better one.”

And they both know this plan is it. The last chance, the only thing they have left up their collective sleeves. If it doesn’t work…

If it doesn’t work then at least Taylor knows he did his best, and that his last moments were ones like this.

“We could always make a run for it,” but before he can pull back, before he can tell Nik it isn’t a funny joke, he’s held closer; almost painfully so, “jus’ you an’ me on the open road. Doubt they’d come after us once we’re clear of here… An’ yeah, means we could never come back but I ain’t exactly Mister ‘Community Ties.’”

“You’d really leave our friends behind?”

“Fine, they can come too.”

“Are we all piled on top of your motorcycle in this scenario?”

“Nah… maybe a trailer or somethin’. I know a couple of lifers who live at RV outposts off the beaten path.”

It isn’t the idea of leaving New Orleans—the Council—the whole shadow community to their fates that’s the appeal. The appeal is a happier time; a better way. Even if it’s rough and a little uncomfortable and quickly pushing aside thoughts of Wolfman Cal and an RV that never doesn’t smell like wet dog… it would be their life. One they carved for themselves.

No intervention (or lack thereof) from higher powers to speak of.

“All right—you’ve convinced me. Let’s scram.” Taylor teases. Neither of them moves an inch.

Not even when they start to squeeze one another so hard it hurts.

“Should leave before anyone notices.”

“Probably.”

The two men part. Because he’s not meant to notice the single wet streak down Nik’s cheek, he doesn’t.

Calloused fingertips tickle the barely-there hair on his chin; coax Taylor to lift his head where he catches the last light in the Nighthunter’s eyes before a single bottle rocket goes off behind him and showers his dark head in a halo.

“This is a good plan, Rook. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“That’s because you’re not used to having a plan.”

“You… well you ain’t wrong.”

Eventually the fireworks begin to go off near the Mississippi — sparkling showers a brighter white than the moon itself, dazzling configurations in spirals and spheres and one memorable golden fleur de lis — and there’s a shift to the air within the garden walls.

It’s nearly midnight.

It’s time.

“Is everyone gathered?” asks Elric of his son, suddenly at his side — joining him in looking to the sky to admire human handiwork.

He knows the answer but quadruple-checks anyway. His heart picks up a few beats with every familiar face taken in.

Bring everyone together. Draw the Elders out of hiding.

Kristof. Elric. Isadora. The Coven’s final obstacles.

Do whatever it takes to force their hands; to bring the bloodwraith Derek Reimonenq down on them like a final reckoning.

Cadence. Tonya. The bloodwraith’s personal vendetta.

And hope this works.

Just there, behind Vera’s forced smile under the glowing apples of light on a garden tree — a face half-hidden in shadow. A young man, probably around Taylor’s age; burdened with the knowledge of how this will end and only able to stand witness.

He looks away from The Fate and finds a little bit of that hope he needs so desperately in the way Elric looks at him with pride.

“Take it down.”

This time Lord Elric takes the duty on his own shoulders rather than those of his subjects. Raises his hands high to the dark sky and begins to unravel the threads of his strongest wards.

Fresh night air prickles gooseflesh down his arms. They are coming.

Then the earth is warm beneath his shoes. The smell of fresh blossoms and fae-ripened fruits replaced with the embers of an all-consuming inferno.

They’re here.

Across the garden Taylor and Elder Daniels lock eyes and are held, bound, by something more than magic. Something that permeates the material world around them and isn’t easily defined.

But if he had to pick he would only need one word: conviction.

He thrusts his soda can out at her in toast. Gathers up all of his voice and shouts with a face-splitting grin.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

[xiaomomowrites]

Heyyy can I please get 19 y/o Eren x reader angst and a little smut or a lot ;) thank you

Introduction: alright haha I hope you like this. These are getting longer and longer lol. Also, so, I really couldn't help it yo, had to throw in some EM, which hey it works if you wanted angst! -s.a.

Because it was not specified by the person who requested this, we decided to make the reader female. So here we go, fem!reader x 19 y/o Eren. Have fun lol -u.n.

(y/n) hails from Marley, meets Eren a little before chapter 112, and is instantly smitten. 

Honestly, Eren was just looking for something to feel again. 

She tries to be his friend, but he’s just so distant especially with how he treats his friends, and it just makes him all the more alluring- like “I can change him, I can soften him up.”

So (y/n) spends time around him, supporting his dreams and goals because it seems like his friends won’t even be there for him. 

“Why won’t your friends help you?”

Eren doesn’t want to answer.

“Talk to me, please, it’s just me, I’m here for you.” 

He scoffs, “you don’t know anything, don’t assume.”

Obviously this just makes her want him more lol

He spends some time with her, honestly just craving human presence, it really doesn’t matter who it is. He still feels empty and kinda wonders why, but it’s pretty obvious. 

(y/n) tries to comfort him with her touch and for a second when he falters she believes it’s because he was affected by her, not because he’s got someone else on his mind.

Okay, fine, Eren steers into the skid, maybe it’ll relieve some stress

Next thing she knows his hands are in her hair and running up the back of her shirt and he’s so close. 

whoa ayeee things get heated

They’re sitting, so she crawls into his lap and he lets her

There’s no eye contact, even if she keeps trying to look at him. He does everything he can to look away

He breaks the kiss to tug at the neckline of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head and she starts kissing at his neck as soon as its exposed

Eren stops himself from rolling his eyes. So eager. he feels a little bit irked, but at this point he’s just going with it. She wasn’t even trying to hide that it was obvious she had been wanting this for a long time. One night can’t hurt, Eren decides. If anything, it could be fun. So he pushes her up and onto the bed, pulling her shirt off once she’s seated

He pushes her onto her back, she reaches for his pants

Grabby Hands™

She reaches down, undoing his pants, and her hand slips in

but when she feels him, he inhales sharply and all of a sudden his hand is around her wrist, putting an abrupt stop to everything

“What?”

She’s breathless. Lips a little swollen, cheeks are flushed a pretty red and Eren can’t help but think how good she looks like this. Any other normal person would have jumped on this and just kept going with it. The longer he takes just gawking at her and the situation, the more contorted her face gets in annoyance.

“I… I can’t.”

He feels a little guilty, leaving her hanging like this. He knows, above all the douchebaggery he’s ever committed, that she deserves better than someone like him. Eren can only think of the relationships he just burned, and doesn’t want one more person to go through the same thing with him. 

“Yes, you can. You don’t want to.” 

“You assume too much.”

“Okay, talk to me then!” 

“Why are you so insistent on trying to get closer to me? You don’t know anything, Mikasa!”

They both freeze, Eren recoils, hair a mess, clothes disheveled. He buttons his pants again and remains silent as (y/n) watches him, speechless.

He’s taken aback by his own words. He falters for a moment before regaining his composure. Default anger has been selected

picks up his shirt angrily, walking off and not even bothering to put it back on. He slams the door on the way out.

(y/n) is left on the bed, shirtless and flustered. she scoffs, tossing her shirt back on before stepping back outside

Pats her cheeks aggressively to get back on track lol and combs her hand through her hair, ignoring the white hot feeling in her abdomen, and in her chest

“Cold son of a bitch,” she thinks angrily. 

While walking around aimlessly, she passes the cell the foreigners are held in. she sees a girl with short, black hair, presumably the notorious Mikasa. She’s the only female in the room, so she must be.

She’s pretty, (y/n) thinks, but she looks utterly heartbroken, fiddling with the scarf in her hands, looking anywhere but up

(y/n) scoffs. She hates girls like that. Girls who will so willingly throw their lives and heart away for someone who doesn’t care; invest so much time and love in someone who won’t even spare them a minute.

it’s the most efficient way of killing yourself without dying

Though, maybe she was just projecting her issues onto Mikasa.

And yet, as she stares at her, she realizes she knows absolutely nothing about Eren, his past, or his past with Mikasa. (y/n) is an outsider, but that sure as hell won’t stop her from trying. 

She glances at Mikasa again, eyes softening with pity and empathy

Her heart was clearly not the first one that’s been broken

postscript:

She finds him a couple nights after they kissed in the room he had been staying in. She catches Eren changing, and although everyone around here has seen him with his shirt off, the sight still makes her mouth water. (y/n)  can’t really be blamed, though, he’s annoyingly chiseled. Eren’s abs look like they were sculpted by the gods themselves, and his face (despite how dead he looks these days) is undeniably attractive. His arms are roped with muscle obviously developed over years of strenuous work as a titan shifter. 

But regardless of how good he looks, (y/n) is rudely reminded of the way he pushed her off when he greets her. 

“What?” he deadpans at the woman standing at the door frame. Annoyance flares throughout her chest.

 “Hey smooth guy,” she says impassively. “How’s your girl?”

“She’s not my girl. I don’t know.” Eren answers curtly. 

“Well if you’re treating every girl like that, I wouldn’t expect you to.” (y/n) answers heatedly. She doesn’t even know why she’s getting upset again, there’s just something about Eren’s energy as of late that’s been pissing her off. 

“It literally doesn’t matter to you.”

She sucks in a breath. “You’re mean, as fuck.”

“Good one.”

“I hope you figure it out, Eren,” she says instead of snapping at him. Arguing wouldn’t help anyone.  “You’re not happy like this.”

“And what would you know about what makes me happy?” his eyes narrow as he shrugs his jacket on.

“It’s just a hunch, stop being a dick. I didn’t come here to fight you. Call me presumptuous, but it’s not that hard to see that there’s just no light in your eyes and the only time you speak is when you’re spoken to. Have you always been that way?”

He doesn’t answer her.

“I want to help you, Eren, I really do. But it seems like the only person who can save you from this shit hole you dug yourself is you.” She pauses, “Not even Mikasa can help you out on this one.”

Something about mentioning her name seems to elicit some (though barely) reaction from him, like a small electric surge of hope woke him up. (y/n) feels a pang of jealousy in her chest. She takes a deep breath to push down the pain; if that’s what it takes to get to him then so be it.

After a moment, Eren says in tiny font, “thank you.”

Because maybe it’s not what he wanted to hear, but it’s what he needed to hear. 

(y/n) smiles sadly. She walks up to him and places a chaste kiss on his cheek, leaning back as quick as she came. “I’m always going to be here for you, Eren. Hit me up when you’re done being lonely.”

Eren chuckles. The sound snaps grabs her attention. She stares at him in awe of the small noise of amusement he made. “Don’t hold me to that,” is all he says.

(y/n) smiles, biting her lip as she lingers by the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[trashangel-dee]

CharDee, I. (broken glass)? and Mac E. (signing a document)?

okay, you got 2 for the first one. I feel like they’re a little boring or uneventful, but it’s too late now lol. The first one talks about blood, so proceed with caution if you’re triggered. The second one was a little harder to write than I thought. It probably works better as hcs. or maybe even fanart. 

Mac’s document should, hopefully, be coming soon. Anyway, onward with the stories!

Broken Glass 1-

A loud crash followed by a yelp causes everyone to look up.  

“Nice going, Dee,” Mac remarks, observing broken glass on the floor.  

“With hands like that, how do you drop anything?” Dennis joins in. Mac laughs and they go back to their asinine conversation.  

When she doesn’t fight back, Charlie grows concerned, dropping whatever he’s tinkering with onto the counter and approaching her.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. Dee’s staring at her hand, as the pool of blood forming in her palm spreads, and begins running down her arm.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed and unsure how to react. “I need a towel,” she says, unmoving.  

Charlie looks around, and grabs one laying on the shelf beneath the bar.  

“No, gross,” Dee tells him. “That’s just gonna get it infected.”

“You just said-,” Charlie argues back. He looks around again, settling on a handful of napkins. “Happy?” He asks, pressing them to the wound, causing her to flinch. It only takes seconds before the white napkins turn red.  

“Shit, I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“Quit being so dramatic, Deandra,” Frank says over his newspaper, “When I was in ‘Nam, men lost a lot more blood than that and they didn’t bitch. Whole hands chopped clean off. Acted like nothin’ even happened.”  

“You mean at your sweatshop?” Dee barks back, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice her implication that it’s his fault. Or maybe he doesn’t care.  

“C’mon, we gotta have something in the back,” Charlie instructs, grabbing a bottle of vodka.  

Dee follows and they enter the back office. Charlie starts digging around, prompting Dee to instruct him to hurry.  

He pulls out a white metal box from under a large stack of papers and notebooks, causing them to fall all over the floor. He blows the dust off. He’s not sure what it says, but the red + sign probably means it’s medical. He opens it to discover a half roll of gauze, a pair of scissors and part of a candy bar. Bingo!

Charlie approaches where Dee is sitting on the desk. She knows she looks as nervous as she feels, causing a sense of weakness and embarrassment to add to it. It’s not safe to show vulnerability around the gang. Though with Charlie, it can be okay.

She pulls the napkins away and he whistles, sounding impressed. She uses the last of the clean napkins to wipe away as much blood as possible, wincing at the pressure.  Charlie squints and leans in closer. “You got some glass in here.”

“Great,” Dee mutters. This whole situation keeps getting worse.  

Charlie grips her forearm, holding it in place. “I’m sorry, Dee, but this is gonna suck.” He opens the bottle and slowly pours some liquid onto the wound.  

“Fuck,” she hisses. He gives her this look of what could almost be considered empathy, and it feels so kind and tender that she has to look away.  

“I’m gonna get this glass out now, okay?” He speaks carefully and precisely, and while she would usually find it patronizing, it’s actually keeping her calm.  

Holding her arm in place with one hand, he brings his free hand to her palm, pinching at a piece of glass. Dee looks away, nearly gagging at the sight. He drops the fairly large piece on the desk, and leans in for another close look. “I think that’s it,” he finally determines.  

He pulls the bottle out again, pouring the vodka one more time, as they watch the red and clear liquids run together.  

Dee watches as he begins wrapping the wound. She looks up, “Thanks, Charlie.”

He shrugs, “Eh, I guess I kinda owe you anyway. Y’know, for when the McPoyles stabbed me.” She remembers the chaos of it, the sound of pulling the fork out. Trying not to gag as she helped Charlie slip his jacket off, then applying pressure and taping gauze over the wound. What’s probably from the same roll he’s using on her.  

Dee smirks, “Or when Terrell’s sister punched you for being an asshole.”

“That was just ice, Dee,” he reminds her. He sits back a moment later. Done.  

Dee inspects his work. It’s not great, but seems to be working. She doesn’t see any blood leaking through and the stinging stopped.  

He sits next to her on the desk. Dee takes a deep drink from the bottle, the burning in her throat practically nothing compared to the stinging in her hand. Though a lot of that comes years of experience. Dee passes the vodka to Charlie, who takes a long drink.  

“I guess we kind of look out for each other.”

“Yeah. I guess we do.”

(idk, I kinda like the idea of Charlie being her caretaker for a bit)

xxxxxxxxxx

Broken Glass 2-

Dee stares up into the open vent, looking doubtful.  

“It’s therapeutic,” he encourages her.  

That’s no help. Dee’s done with therapy after her last session with that bitch. Therapy is bullshit.  

“I’m trying to help you,” Charlie says, “Sharing my secret room and shit.”

Dee sighs. “Fine. But you’re going first.”  

He climbs on the chair then into the vent. Dee follows behind, suspicious and a little grossed out. She follows through the vents of Paddy’s.  

They reach their destination as they enter a dirty room. “Where are we, Charlie?” Dee asks, not hiding her annoyance.  

“It’s my Bad Room,” he replies simply. When she doesn’t seem to understand the significance, he explains “I come up here to smash bottles sometimes.”  

“Is that what that noise is?”  

He selects an empty beer bottle from the corner and slams it into the floor. Dee flinches at the crash. “Jesus Christ, Charlie!” she shouts.  

He passes her an empty bottle. Dee looks unsure, but throws it against the room, where it smashes into the wall and explodes. It’s satisfying. She stretches, rolling her body. Okay, that felt good.  

She picks up another one. She imagines the face of everyone who called her The Aluminum Monster in high school and hurls another bottle across the room. 

Dee chances a glance over to Charlie. He’s watching her, with a mixture of amusement and joy. Charlie grins at her. “Is it working?” He smashes one, too, for the hell of it.  

Dee thinks of Barbara, all the insults and outward dislike. It still stings a little, deep down, but urges out anger too. She throws the bottle that she’s holding down. Watching the glass shatter as she has so many times, enjoying being the one doing the damage this time.  

Dee thinks of her brother. Their mother’s clear favorite. Her twin who treats her like shit, but shells out just enough scraps of approval to keep her around. “Fuck you, Dennis,” she declares slamming another empty glass bottle onto the floor.  

It’s nice- not being judged for throwing and yelling. Letting everything out, without being told she’s overreacting or emotional. Not having to worry about how she’s being seen.  

Dee’s brought out of her thoughts when she hears Charlie’s shrieky-yell, and sees a bottle crash into the floor.  

They continue for a while, smashing and yelling together until the bottles are nearly gone.  

She feels a little better. More relaxed, and maybe even a little grateful for Charlie.  

He pulls out a six-pack sitting by the entrance, and takes a seat against the wall. He opens one and takes a drink, then pulls out a second, offering it to her.  

She inspects the dirtu floor for a moment before accepting once again this is where her life’s at, this is who she is, and takes a seat next to him.  

[spamzineglasgow]

Bon Iver’s hauntological i,i (William Fleming)

Image Copyright: Bon Iver / Jagjaguwar 

In this essay, William Fleming takes a detailed look at bon iver’s new album, i,i: through acid communist hauntology to oedipal melancholia and the future’s cybernetic fracture. 

> This week I’ve been reading Mark Fisher and listening to Bon Iver’s new album on repeat so I combined the two.

-

> Mark Fisher, in his Ghosts of My Life (2014), laments the dearth of creativity in popular music after the turn of the century, the loss of experimentation and of hearing something New and Radical, and the persistent replication of past methods, sounds and images. Fisher was no Adorno though (I don’t think anyway?). His essays are emotive and developed from a deep desire for a compassionate politics; Ghosts evokes the pathos of his seminal Capitalist Realism (2009). One of the key themes associated with his work on pop culture, is the use of the Derridean term ‘Hauntology’: the haunted ontology of futures that never came to be, the spectral disturbance of time and place as the possibility of political becoming dissipates. As he details in Ghosts, Fisher initially used hauntology as a genre-defining term for music. He identified artists which were 'suffused with an overwhelming melancholy; and they were preoccupied with the way in which technology materialised memory', this results in us being made 'conscious of the playback systems’ and of ‘the difference between analogue and digital’, 'hovering' out of reach behind the media’. Fisher uses this conceptual framework to analyse a raft of musicians and their work but there is a consistent emphasis on the political narratives of class and race which shape these cultural offshoots.

> Despite being one of the biggest records of this summer – and thus perhaps a bit bait for me to discuss? – Bon Iver’s i,i bares all the hallmarks of the hauntological genre: melancholia, the clash of digital and analogue, anachronism, the suggestion of political solidarity, artistic experimentation.

-

> First a confession: I first listened to Bon Iver because, in 2011, there was a girl on twitter I fancied who posted a video to Birdy’s Skinny Love. Birdy’s rendition is a wisp of a song, sad and grasping and completely lost on a shallow sixteen-year old and probably rightfully so. Failing to select the next song, I’m guessing Bon Iver’s original version played. For the first time I felt I’d discovered adult Sad Music. None of the ghd straightened, dip-died, angst-ridden emo tunes I’d gotten into a few years prior to impress my first girlfriend; or the one ballad acting as the penultimate track on one of the indie-rock albums from my older brother’s excessive collection. (- Does anyone know how to recycle these properly?). I would wallow in performative sadness playing immediately gratuitous and instantly gratifying XBOX games, quickly repeating the heartbeating guitar of Lump Sum on For Emma, Forever Ago or the wails of Holocene from Bon Iver, Bon Iver as I pined for my yet-to-be second girlfriend.

> I went off Bon Iver for a few years: these days, the quiet acoustic melancholia of these first two albums doesn’t fit with any aspirational sense of masculinity of mine. Being a man and being non-toxically emotional isn’t about listening to acoustic guitars and barely audible snares whilst you lie sulking in your room or on the drizzled walk to the library or job you hate. Instead it’s about communication, solidarity and empathy – ‘I’d be happy as hell, if you stayed for tea’. And so, when 22, A Million came out I was into it. Everyone thought it was a bit shit the first time few times they listened to it but this gave me cover to pretentiously purvey that they just didn’t get it and listen to it over and over. It was still the same anguished voice of Justin Vernon – but it was finally coming to life. Revived through stretched synthesizers, neologisms which made you question the contributors on A-Z Lyrics, and deconstructed bass. The piano riff on 33 “God” interrupted by alien helium-infused voices and the stammering, looping saxophone of 45 are still highlights. Listening now, 22, A Million initiated the hauntology of Bon Iver.

-

> At times, i,i feels like Bon Iver’s latest album is a playback of their first album, but one done through a signal sent by an analogue walkie-talkie found on the abandoned spaceship from Alien: Isolation – itself maybe the most harrowing video-game I’ve ever played, one which is played in constant anticipation of being found. Listen to the intermittent signal of Holyfields,: the bleeps and radio fuzz a beacon we sent out into space, only for it to sporadically and hauntingly talk back at us – a cultural SOS signal.  

> i,i is the same guitar riffs from albums one and two but cybernetically fractured through time. The same syncopated kick drum but ripped out from the mid noughties and dumped in a Iain M. Banks novel or an episode in Love, Death + Robots. Fisher, quoting Derrida, quoting Hamlet: ‘the time is out of joint’. In these time fractures, it’s not just the music’s original location which is torn into the future, but also objective fragments of past culture: the sax (Sh’Diah) and violin strings (Faith) torn from eras when politics and music were still intertwined.

> The first track on the album, Yi, is garbage. But it is orbital astro-garbage – a notable anthropocenic feedback loop! – sitting uncomfortably at the stratosphere of an album which explicitly reflects on ecological destruction. Yi’s inaudible conversation and the ‘Are you recording, Trevor?’ set it up as a soundcheck for the album too. Including a soundcheck evokes Vernon’s emphasis on the album as a performance piece in the accompanying mini-documentary Autumn. In the doc, Vernon mentions the problem of ‘How is it going to be played live?’. Immediately, we are forced to imagine i,i as more than just another album on Spotify.

> Yi bleeds into iMi, a psychedelic echo of a track built from interspersing a melancholic vocals/arpeggio combo and an encroaching synth/dub beat combo. We is similarly eclectic, digitalised vocals juxtaposing with endearing, major-key sax. Following is Holyfields,, perhaps the most alien but most beautiful song on the album.

-

> Hey, Ma is the headline single from the album. An ode to Vernon’s mother and a sense of the sunrise walk home after the summer party (I’ll try and avoid further seasonal references: the four albums are set up to represent the four seasons, i,i being autumn, but IMO this is pretty naff).

> There is a sense of time passing in Hey, Ma, a nostalgia for the yet to be – ‘Well you wanted it your whole life’ – but with this passing is a sense of desire – ‘I wanted all that mind, sugar / I want it all mine’ – and of becoming or evolving – ‘You’re back and forth with light’. Becoming is the famous Deleuzean postmodern motif; i.e. being is constantly flowing and reforming. Bon Iver’s becoming, however, is not a flow, but a hauntological wrench into the future state. The entire album feels as though you’re experiencing the tech-enhanced evolution of Bon Iver’s music. That skipping between soft indie and futuristic synth reminiscent of the OG Pokemon games when your Pokemon was evolving and it would flicker between its past and future states. But becoming is never complete. As Fisher highlights, ‘futuristic’ no longer refers to a time/space but is now merely an adjective. We’ll never hear the Bon Iver made entirely on digital tech.

> For Fisher, melancholia is a productive force of political resistance. He distances his ‘hauntological melancholia’ from that of Wendy Brown’s ‘left melancholia’ which ‘seems to exemplify the transition from desire (which in Lacanian terms is the desire to desire) to drive (an enjoyment of failure)’. Fisher’s melancholia, ‘by contrast, consists not in giving up on desire but in refusing to yield'. Under scrutiny, Bon Iver’s first two albums fail this melan-test – they are a spectacular, self-pitying self-indulgence. Self-pity as a common form of masochism. For Deleuze, thinking through Jung, thinking through Bergson (yeap, I know), masochism is always regressive, flipping the Oedipal on its head as a form of un-becoming.

> Is Vernon’s song to his mother a masochistic form of melancholia; a self-pitying reversal of the Oedipal? ‘I wanted a bath / “Tell the story or he goes”’; ‘Tall time to call your Ma / Hey Ma, hey Ma’. The type captured by Maggie Nelson in The Argonauts (2015) when reflecting on Ginsberg’s poem Kaddish, which is dripping in, in Nelson’s words, ‘misogynistic repulsion’. Or is Bon Iver’s a hauntological melancholia? One of stubborn resistance. The type of mother-son relationship photographed by Donald Weber in his response to Alison Sperling and Anna Volkmar’s conversation on the post-atomic (Kuntslicht, 39: 3/4). Weber’s photographs were taken over two years in Chernobyl. The, now fetishised, explosion in Chernobyl perhaps the example of the nuclear, a hauntological theme post-WWII, made material. The bursting of a political, biological and biopolitical reality which was never meant to be. Weber’s photo of a middle-aged man and his elderly mother is captioned: ‘Mothers sought to be photographed sitting close to their sons, in domestic scenes of proud companionability. Their eyes signal an unalterable communion. And more – elevation. A man’s mother transcends the material order, and rises easily above even the most squalid circumstances. It is the frank declaration of her biological supremacy: This is my child’. If it is this relationship captured in Hey, Ma, it may promise a spectre which can be made material. An artefact which can continue its evolution, its becoming. ‘Let me talk to em / Let me talk to ‘em all’.

> Finally, that Hey, Ma’s nostalgia is a culturally productive one is suggested by one of its more memorable lines: ‘I waited outside / I was tokin’ on dope / I hoped it all won’t go in a minute’. In Fisher’s posthumously published Unfinished Introduction to Acid Communism, he, when imagining the process of resistance and a new politics whilst citing Jefferson Cowie, writes 'these new kinds of workers – who “smoked dope, socialised interracially, and dreamed of a world in which work had some meaning” – wanted democratic control of both their workplace and their trade unions’. The curious, outdated use of ‘dope' in Vernon’s lyrics then mirrors Cowie’s use of 'dope', echoing Cowie’s nostalgia for a lost working-class culture of 1970s America. Fisher uses Cowie’s argument to piece together an acid communism, which I will return to, but this, surely consequential, similarity further constructs i,i as a contemporary hauntological album.  

-

> Following Hey, Ma comes the Sunday-school piano of U (Man Like). Raising an image of a crisply ironed, white America, like that depicted in Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone (2000), which acts as a reminder that nostalgia isn’t always productive. However, the nostalgia is continued with Naeem ‘Oh, my mind, our kids got bigger/ … / You take me out to pasture now’. Fisher asks ‘is hauntology, as many of its critics have maintained, simply a name for nostalgia?’. However, he argues that it is not a ‘formal nostalgia’ but one of solidarity and of a longing for the process of social improvement. Naeem, despite its nostalgia, continues the flickering between hope and despair. The joyful ‘More love / More love / More love’ and ‘I can hear, I can hear’; the anguished ‘I can hear crying’ and ‘What’s there to pontificate on now? / There’s someone in my head’. The latent and angelic child-like choir on Naeem another hauntological theme. As Fisher declares, ‘no doubt there comes a point when every generation starts pining for the artefacts of its childhood’. However, Vernon’s evoking of childhood is one perhaps linked to the, at times damaging, trope of ‘future generations’ in environmentalism. It is still a political longing though – ‘I’d Occupy that’. Occupy: that great post-2008 political uprising which dissipated into a mere exemplar in an undergraduate geography textbook.

> Next, Faith brings back the aliens from 33 “God” but this time, for attention, they’ve brought their clean guitar and slowly morph into the catholic choir we began to hear on Naeem. God died and, despite the sexy, liquidity of our modernity, we miss him.

> Marion momentarily brings us back from the cybernetically fractured semi-future. Back to the £3-coffee coffee-shop where you’re telling your friend that you think you and that girl will probably get back together but you need the time to be right. The hope is sucked back out; we’re back in capitalist realism and Arctic Monkey’s fourth (fifth?) album. Luckily, Salem restarts the signal to bring us back from our self-pity, dragging us to the obfuscation we were enjoying. Salem’s witches are still here and they’re pretty good at Ableton.

> Next, Sh’Diah grows from an autotuned prayer – ‘Just calm down (calm down) / And she’ll find time for the Lord’ - into a yearning saxophone riff/rift. But, alas, RABi, the album’s final song, returns us to a blues guitar and Vernon’s vocals. If the oscillation between past and future throughout i,i was a dialectic, the depressing outcome is ‘consumer capitalism’s model of ordinariness' (Fisher) of the neoliberal present. As in Fisher’s hauntology, the technologically-infused creativity of i,i is a lost future. Watching Vernon being interviewed feels like this. He’s got the Pacific-North-West hipster look: vegan but drives a V6 truck. Goes to the craft brewer’s bar and talks about that latest public health campaign to encourage men to talk about mental health over a pint but refrains from actually talking about depression. (Maybe serving beer in 2/3rd schooners means you never end up getting to the important part of the conversation?)

-

> But why does it matter? Because it’s about political and cultural (and creative) imagination. Fisher’s last big, and tragically but appropriately unfinished, philosophy is that of Acid Communism. Maybe there is a future !

> Fisher mourned not only the flattening of pop music, but also the ‘culture constellated around music (fashion, discourse, cover art)’. In contrast to a digital album which you never perceive in any physical manner, Bon Iver have emphasised various forms of art in their work, ensuring a communal creativity. There are multiple iterations of the album cover art on public posters and on social media. More excitingly though, is the collaboration with WHITEvoid, a Berlin-based sculpture group/company, which is discussed on Autumn. Prepared for live performances, WHITEvoid have constructed an ensemble of floating mirrors and kinetic lighting made from ‘space-age metal’ and motion tracking sensors. An artistic contribution as ethereal and tech-enhanced as the accompanying music and one which aestheticises our material sciences. The lighting provided by WHITEvoid in collaboration with the experimentation in sound system, similarly shown on Autumn, constructs the performance of i,i as an ongoing innovation and experimentation. The effort put into the upcoming live performances of i,i ensure that it is a music to be experienced not merely consumed. In another discussion on Autumn, Michael Brown, Bon Iver’s Artistic Director, says ‘you have to be in the moment with other people, you have to be able to know that the person next to you is having the same communal experience’.

> In Krisis (2018:2), Matt Colquhoun sees acid communism as a “project beyond the pleasure principle” (2) and of an “experimental” politics. If the sounds of i,i are hauntological, then the spectre it suggests is one of acid communism. The acid is provided by its accompanying artistic experimentation and the communism is its emphasis on the political and the communal.

~

Text: William Fleming

Published 30/8/19

[shirtlesssammy]

14x11: Damaged Goods

Then:

So Death kind of throws a wrench in Dean’s whole need for free will thing.

Now:

Ooh, Nick has resurfaced and is torturing demons into finding Abraxas, the demon that killed his family. Or, well he’s looking for the hunter that captured Abraxas. She’s in Hibbing, Minnesota.

Dean, meanwhile, is packing up and heading out to spend some quality time with his car and his Mom.

(I mean, that’s what he thought here, right?)

Sam is busy doing research, but willingly agrees to come along before Dean stops him and says he’s going alone. Then Dean hugs Sam, and while it’s sweet and heartbreaking and everyone seems to really love this moment, I was cringing at how awkward the hug was. Sam is 100% suspicious of his brother, so I believe he also found it awkward. [Natasha: SO awkward]

Sam calls Mary to talk about Dean. She’s more of a “Go ahead, touch the cornballer” kind of mom and isn’t as concerned about Dean’s state of mind. She respects his privacy. Sam lets that slide because his investigation into what Dean took with him reveals some missing books, and despite the lack of call numbers, Sam Winchester has the entire Men of Letters collection cataloged and classified.

On his road trip, Dean stops to check in with Donna. They’re enjoying their mutual love of burgers. Boy, Dean and Donna sure do have a lot in common. They always seem to love the same type of food. Wow. Despite Dean’s many attempts at avoiding the elephant at the picnic table, Donna finally brings up Michael. She hopes that he’ll open up, but Dean only gives her the old Winchester “I’ll make it through” shutdown.

Dean makes it to Donna’s cabin, only to hear gunshots. He’s on instant alert. Lol, it’s just dear ol’ mom shooting pumpkins for target practice.

That’s one way to get rid of the fall bumper crop (in December…). When Mary suggests Sam join them, Dean snaps that he doesn’t want Sam there. Hmm. Dean’s hangry, guys! He’s also a lying liar who lies, telling Mary that he just had a long drive and no food. He asks her to make his favorite meal when he was a small child, “Winchester Surprise.” And we’re gifted with another piece to Dean’s life puzzle. Greasy food is comfort food not because it’s all he’s known, but because it’s something he remembers from his too short of a childhood. Mary agrees and heads out to get groceries --and pie.

Dean heads to Donna’s workshop to begin the project that really brought him to Hibbing. Before he can begin, he’s gotta take a looky-loo at all the pin-ups of half-naked dark haired men. In no way shape or form is the show that JUST showed us how similar Dean and Donna are about food implying that Dean and Donna are similar in other ways too. Also, in no way shape or form is the show highlighting Dean locking something away deep inside himself by having Michael rage inside his head directly after he stared at all the posters of half-naked dark haired men. Dean finds the 8-track player and selects some tunes. And as @prairiedust posts out in this great post, in no way is this show trying to tell us something through Dean’s musical choices.

We’re then gifted with a montage of Dean using power tools while sparks fly around one of the pictures of a dark haired shirtless man. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

For Subtextual Science:

This all truly distracted me from thinking about what Dean is actually building in the workshop.

Mary gets help from Joe, the grocery store attendant. He’s kind of surprised by her food purchases since she only ever buys pumpkins, whisky, and crossword puzzles. EEsh, is everything ok, Mary? [Natasha: Definitely not. My theory is that Bobby took off right away and Mary’s just been holed up alone with her thoughts and pumpkin guts.]

Later, Joe is putting carts away when Nick pulls up in a completely normal, non-scary, or suspicious van and asks where he can find Mary Winchester. Joe acts like he doesn’t know her (Joe, I’m sorry I doubted your trustworthiness two minutes ago.) And Nick, why the hell would a random citizen of Hibbing know who Mary is? Lucky for us, he does know her and alerts the police with a call.

Later that night, Nick is trolling the back roads of Hibbing when Donna passes him, and pulls him over. He’s driving around in a stolen creeper van.

She cuffs him and runs his fingerprints. AND THEN TURNS HER BACK ON HIM. DONNA NO. He manages to slip his cuffs and they tussle. Nick tasers Donna.

Mary returns after dark to find Dean just leaving the workshop. She asks what he’s been up to, but he’s elusive and changes the subject. Dean wants to help Mary make dinner. He then LIES again by saying he’s a terrible cook. Wut? I know, I get it. It’s how Dean tries to connect to people. Mary is not dumb though and is really suspicious about Dean. While Dean is finishing up cooking the meal, she talks with Sam. Despite Mary’s protests, Sam’s on his way to Hibbing.

Dean and Mary get to eating the dish of grease with extra cheese. Dean tells us what he thinks is a super funny story from his childhood, but it’s really just a very sad reminder for Mary that Dean had a shit childhood and John was a shit parent. And I’m over here weeping because Dean hangs onto these memories as a good thing because they’re all he has.

Later when Dean’s asleep, Mary heads into the barn and discovers books of lore and a folded sheet of paper (ostensibly ripped from Dean’s death book). “No no no no no,” Mary says. URG, that can’t be good. When she rushes back to the house, Nick intercepts Mary.

Dean wakes to his ringing phone. It’s Donna! She’s calling to warn him about Nick, who knocked her out, escaped, and is heading back to Mary’s place. Dean rushes outside, only to find Sam there instead. Hey, Sammy!

Nick holds Mary prisoner in his creeper van and Mary, bless her, looks utterly comfortable in that predicament. PLEASE, she’s dealt with much bigger fish. Nick delivers a rambling villain’s address, to which Mary just shakes her head. 

Nick asks her about a demon hunt a while back where she faced Abraxas (who murdered Nick’s family). Mary’s exasperated with Nick’s theatrics, because he could have just asked her about the demon like a normal person. Mary tells him that Abraxas is dead, but Nick calls her out on a lie. So Mary confesses - Abraxas was too strong so she locked him in an Enochian puzzle box. She directs Nick to a self-storage facility nearby. I LOVE that Mary has her own hunter’s lockup. (Perhaps several, even? Oooo. That seems like a Mary thing to do.)

She opens the door (Dean’s birthday is part of the combination - HELP ME I AM SUFFERING EMOTIONS. It ends with “67.”).

Once inside, Mary carefully steps over her shotgun booby trap line. Alas, Nick notices it as well and dismantles it. Nick! Come on, man. She could reuse that trap. 

Nick bashes the lock off a cage and starts opening lockers. He finds:

A head in a jar

A creepy doll/mannequin

A puzzle box

Nick demands that Mary open the box so he can interrogate Abraxas. Mary shows him her anti-possession tattoo. “You didn’t think this through, did you?” Mary asks, sounding every inch the irritated master hunter whose time is being wasted.

Meanwhile, Donna, Dean, and Sam race to find Mary.

Dean lays into Sam about Nick, but Sam defends his actions. Sam could have ended up being Lucifer’s vessel for years so he was treating Nick with due consideration and empathy. Dean tells Sam that he needs to learn when to cut loose the hopeless cases (a.k.a. Dean).

Back at Mary’s lockup, Nick’s kidnapped the security guard, intent on releasing Abraxas into the guard. Mary tries to get the drop on Nick, but she’s still trussed up and Nick kicks her into the fence. Nick tries to unlock the box but finds it impenetrable...to his intellect.

A power drill goes right through, though. Abraxas zooms out and possesses the guard. 

Nick demands to know why Abraxas killed his family. Abraxas promises to tell him, provided that Nick kills Mary. Nick decides to go for the deal when Sam wings Nick’s ear with a well-aimed gunshot. Dean, Sam, and Donna head into the lockup. It looks like their defeat of Nick is a lock until Nick scratches away part of the devil’s trap and frees Abraxas. Once free, Abraxas tells Nick that his family was killed so he could be a potential vessel for Lucifer - but that there isn’t anything inherently special about him. Suck on that, Nick.

Nick kills Abraxas after his villain monologue and starts to turn the blade on the others in the lockup.

Fortunately, Donna’s there to shoot Nick in the leg. Mary knocks him out. DREAM TEAM <3

Later, Donna prepares to take Nick away to jail.

Sam confronts him and apologizes for not being able to help Nick. “It’s not about you. You couldn’t fix me because I didn’t want to be fixed.” Sam’s regrets aren’t about Nick, though. They’re about all the people Nick hurt. Let’s all take a moment to reflect on Nick’s cold-ass murder of the innocent security guard, whom he kidnapped within the past hour.

“You can burn,” Sam tells Nick. HARD AGREE.

Meanwhile, Mary has her own confrontation with Dean about what he’s building in her shed. “We are gonna talk about that,” Mary tells him - and he had better bring Sam into the loop.

Cut to the next morning. Dean explains the box he’s been building to Sam.

This is the first time we get a good look at it, and DEAR LORD it’s a coffin. It’s a Ma’lak box, Dean explains. It’s a heavily warded container strong enough to hold even an archangel. Sam’s shocked to learn that Dean wants to be buried alive. So I am! BUT WAIT, KIDS, THERE’S MORE. Dean intends to pay “a little hush money” to a boat captain and get hauled out to the Pacific and dropped there to suffer forever under the waves. Dean tells Sam in no uncertain terms that he’s losing his hold on Michael. They’re working under a countdown clock. Dean acknowledges that Sam, Cas, and Jack have tried to save him - “And I love you for trying.” Dean tells Sam about his visit from Billie, during which she gave him the instructions for his once-impossible prison. In his determination, the box is the only option - it’s FATE. Ugh, a Winchester - DEAN Winchester - believing in fate. It hurts.

“So you came out here to see Donna - to see Mom on some sick, secret farewell tour? You were gonna leave and you weren’t even gonna tell me?” Sam’s pissed, and who can blame him? Ouch. OUCH.

Dean tells Sam that he couldn’t tell him about the box because Sam’s the only person who could talk him out of his plan. “Alright,” Sam says softly, finally.

And...scene.

Just Shove These Emotional Quotes into an Impenetrable Box:

We don’t hug--  We do but only when it’s literally the end of the world.

Just wondering if you’ve run out of ways to ask me how I’m doing so as to avoid me repayin’ the favor.

Delicious heart attack on a plate, and I would like mine with extra cheese.

You catch a lotta fish with that Arkansas toothpick you got there on the passenger seat?

First name eat, last name me.

Everyone keeps asking how I am… And how I am is I don’t wanna talk about it.

Since when do we cut people loose?

Since when do we believe in fate?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[uas-fics]

Title: A Good Person

Summary: Kenny says Leo is a 'good person,’ but Stan doesn't know how much he can believe that. After all, Leo is a super villain.

Rating: T

Ships: Stenny, Bunny, Stutters, Sunny (I think that's what that polyship ended up being named)

Content Warnings: Mentioned/discussed child abuse in later chapters

Other: You know that thing where you read two posts before you pass out and then wake up at 3 am with a combined idea of them? Yeeeeeeeaah. That's what happened here.

Super hero au

Check the first reblog for the link to the Archive of Our Own upload

~~~~

Kenny slipped silently through Stan’s front door.

He rubbed his lower back, the phantom memory of the stabbing knife, still played through his healed skin. The moment the mugger's blade struck him instead of her target, she looked up to see Mysterion’s dark, piercing eyes glaring over his shoulder at her. The color drained from her face in horrified realization.

She dropped the knife a moment later and tried to flee, but Mysterion's dark whip coiled around her ankle and tripped her face first into the cold, hard sidewalk.

Of course, that mugger had served no challenged to Kenny’s alter ego, Mysterion, the great and immortal hero. They never do.

Kenny stretched to the side, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He heard his spine pop — though that was more a result of sleeping on an old mattress than his hero activities.

At least tonight he got a reprieve from that inconvenience.

Stan looked up from his meal, a spoon of mash potatoes inches from his lips.

"You're late," He commented before shoving the potatoes in his mouth. Around them, he continued, "Everything alright?"

Kenny strolled over to the silverware drawer as he spoke.

"Everything is fine." He said. That was not quite a lie. Everything was alright—now at least.

He picked up a spoon before heading over to the table. Sitting on the table top, he scooped Stan's bowl right from in front of him and began to chow down on the instant spuds.

"Is this all you're having for dinner?" He asked.

"Not dinner.” Stan pointed to the oven clock. "Midnight snack."

Kenny choked.

He beat his chest a few times before swallowing hard. He shoved the bowl across the table as his cheeks began to burn. It hadn't taken that long to bring the mugger in, had it?

"Shit, Stan, I'm sorry. I got caught up at work and—"

"It's cool, dude," Stan took his bowl back. "I told you, you don't have to lie to me about spending time with your other boyfriend. If you want to spend time with him after work, do it. Just give me more of a heads up next time."

‘So I don't worry.’

Those words hung unspoken in the air between them. Guilt wrapped around Kenny's stomach and squeezed. For all of Stan's bravado about being the epitome of uncaring nihilism, Kenny knew full well he was one of the most caring souls around. A caring that came from a place of true empathy instead of a feeling of duty or justice.

A caring like that was rare.

Kenny reached over and set a hand on Stan's. He smiled softly.

"Sorry. I'll do better. Promise." Kenny decided it was better not to correct Stan that he really was late because of work. This time, at least, Leo didn't have anything to do with his tardiness.

He hopped off the table then offered out his hand. "Bed?"

Stan eyed the mostly finished bowl then shrugged. He would probably deal with it later. Stan took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled from his seat.

On the way to the bedroom, and the softest mattress Kenny had ever slept on, Stan asked, "So, speaking of your other boyfriend, will I ever get to meet him?"

Kenny was glad he took the lead so Stan couldn't see him wince. A heartbeat later, he coughed a laugh.

"I don't know. Maybe? Leo's very selective with the people he let's know about our relationship. You know how people are, Stan."

Again, not a full lie...

He continued, looking over his shoulder with a cheeky smile, "Are you sure you're not asking because you plan to steal him for yourself?"

Stan chuckled then used their combined hands to gently shove him forward. His side hit against the doorframe.

He bounced off the frame then shouldered open the loosely shut door. Taking three steps, he fell face first into the mattress, nearly pulling Stan down with him.

"God, I love your mattress." He mumbled through the layering of thick blankets.

"Sometimes I think that's the only reason you're with me." Stan laughed. He took hold of the top blanket and yanked it out from under Kenny. Kenny rolled to the middle before sprawling out his arms and legs.

"Yup, totally, the first chance, I'm going to elope with your mattress," He teased before climbing off the bed to strip out of his jeans and shirt. He folded them up before dumping them in the hamper near Stan’s guitar. He plucked a string a few times, earning a chuckle from Stan.

“My offer to teach you to play still stands,” Stan reminded as Kenny headed back towards the bed.

“Nah. I already have to beat admirers off me with a stick, knowing how to play the guitar would only bring more of them.” He winked, lifting the covers, before slipping in. Only from his nose up peeked out.

Stan rolled his eyes, dropped the blanket at the end of the bed, then hit the lights.

Kenny heard Stan's feet as he padded through the dark. The blankets lifted as Stan crawled in, pressing his back close against Kenny's side.

"Night, Stan," Kenny muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of Stan's head.

"Hmm, night," Stan muttered back.

The ambient noises of the suburb filled the night: The distant rumbling of freight trains and mumble of the wind as it played along snow-covered rooftops.

Just as Kenny began to doze off, Stan whispered, "You've never shown me a picture of him before. Leo, that is. You just tell me about him."

Kenny pulled his arm from behind the pillow under Stan's head then turned. He wrapped an arm around his waist, nuzzling into his hair. It was greasy, but Kenny had grown used to that.

He laughed quietly.

"That's because all the pictures I have of Leo are from the waist down."

Stan chuckled. "Wow, Kenny." The conversation seemed to end after that as Stan's breathing becoming deeper until he drifted off.

Kenny sighed.

How many half lies had that been in the span of ten minutes? Three or four?

Three, Kenny finally decided. Three half lies, not counting his lie of omission about his reason for being late.

One that everything was fine when Kenny had been stabbed less than an hour ago.

Two, that Leo was particular about whom he let in on their relationship. He didn't care if people know Leo and Kenny were together.

Three, that he didn't have any pictures of Leo's face.

Technically, Kenny didn't have any pictures of Leo's face, but he had plenty of Professor Chaos'.

~~~~~~

Toolshed looked over the city. Both bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The night would be upon them soon, and with night came the low lives that crawled from the dark corners.

Toolshed always felt a pang of pity for the criminals he apprehended. Something in their lives pushed them to break the law. Be it their parents, their spouses, or society itself, something had failed to give them the strength to carry on the law-abiding path.

Or that's what Toolshed liked to think.

Whenever the discussion of if people are born evil or become evil came up, ToolShed would always say that people were inherently good, at least at the start.

He hadn’t always thought like that. When he was younger, he was sure no one born was good; however, the years of hero work and being around truly good people had changed much of his views.

Using his tape measure grappling hook, Toolshed swung off the top of the building. He backflipped off the side of an old apartment complex and landed on the sidewalk.

A round of clapping came to his ears.

He turned to find his teammate, Mysterion,  melting out of the darkness of an alleyway.

"Seven out of ten, since your landing was a little wobbly,” He said in that overly gruff voice that ToolShed just knew was fake.

He smiled proudly.  "I'll take it," ToolShed said.

Mysterion chuckled, strolling over. "Got patrol tonight?"

"Yuuuup." ToolShed popped the ‘p’ at the end. "Tonight and tomorrow. What about you?"

Mysterion shrugged. "I'm done for the day. Finally get to head home." He paused then chuckled, "Or, to my boyfriend's home, anyway."

ToolShed nodded at that but didn't pry. Of all the heroes, Mysterion kept his civilian life the closest to his chest. He never talked about his home life or work.

Except for brief mentions of it to ToolShed.

ToolShed viewed it as an honor that Mysterion trusted him enough to divulge any information about his personal life to him, even something as small as that he had planned to spend the night with his boyfriend.

"I wish I could say the same," ToolShed admitted. "Mine has to stay home without me tonight."

"What an unlucky bastard," Mysterion shook his head. “If it were me, I'd go kick Tupperware's ass for scheduling you for the night shift.”

ToolShed stiffened for a second at the comment. He hoped Mysterion hadn't noticed.

Even before he obtained his control over all power tools, Toolshed had admired the hooded hero: Mysterion, the brave vigilante who, at the risk of his own life, tried to better the world by sweeping up crime off the city streets.

There was something just so amazing that a person his own age could change the city so much that stirred a fire in him to do better, try harder, and be a good person. Stories of Mysterion's valor and bravery were part of what kept him going through the worst of his depression as a teenager.

Then, when Coon and Friends recruited them both and he finally got to meet his personal hero, he found that Mysterion was an even braver person than the stories made him out to be. He was kind and caring, strong and stable, humble and yet rightfully proud of what he had done. A bit like Kenny, if he thought about it. Though, Mysterion was much more reserved and quiet than Kenny could ever be.

Well, Wendy used to tease him that he had a type.

He would never admit it to any of the other heroes, he had a little bit of a crush on Mysterion. If he knew Mysterion was single and willing, he would asked him on a date in a snap.

He wouldn't dare try anything, though. The way Mysterion spoke about his boyfriend, he clearly cherished him deeply. It wasn’t ToolShed's place to interfere.

Besides, he didn't even know if Mysterion was into the idea of an open relationship and the awkwardness of asking was too great of a deterrent to find out.

Maybe someday he'd find a way to bring up the topic in casual conversation.

ToolShed ran a hand through his hair, careful of his goggles. "Yeah, well, knowing him, he'll make up for it soon enough."

Mysterion smirked. "Sounds like my kind of man, 'Shed. You got yourself a good one there."

"I'd like to think so." ToolShed grinned. Before he could say anything else, his crime alert buzzed on his hip. He whipped it out.

"Robbery. I gotta go." He pointed over his shoulder.

"Need help?" Mysterion offered.

"No, it's fine." He shot his grappling tape out. "Go home, dude. Enjoy your evening."

"If you’re sure." He turned on his heels and began to walk back into the darkness.

With a nod he knew hadn't been seen, ToolShed took off into the night.

~~~~~~

The robbery wasn't nearly as bad as the crime alert had said. It turned out to be only one man holding up a liquor store with an empty pistol.

It took Toolshed all of two and a half minutes to sneak in, knock the pistol from his hand with a screwdriver, before tying him up with his indestructible chalk line.

As he waited for the police to arrive, he asked the man why he'd done it, only to receive a babbled, nearly incoherent, reply. When the police arrived moments later, ToolShed set a hand on his shoulder and wished him good luck.

He didn't know if the man understood him or not.

After all that, Toolshed crouched on the top of a Burger King, quietly shoving fries from a greasy cardboard holder into his mouth.

He didn't care much for Burger King's fries— Sonic's tater tots were better— but the workers here were used to heroes landing by the drive-through window thanks to how often Mosquito and the Coon get their mid-shift meals there.

He even got a free cookie.

As he polished off his fries, something swift and orange caught his eye on the street. He turned, dropping the fry container into the paper bag with his other trash, to check it out.

Kenny stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light, hopping from one foot to the other. He had something rectangular in his hands, but ToolShed couldn’t tell what it was.

He raised an eyebrow. Kenny told him he would be getting off early tonight and going to bed to catch up on the sleep he'd been missing working late. They were supposed to go out to eat a late breakfast tomorrow.

What was he doing out here?

Kenny dashed across the crosswalk. He shoved his hand in his pockets while he carefully held the rectangular object with the other. He was trying to look casual, but ToolShed knew it was an act.

Something wasn't right.

After making a note to himself to come back and properly toss his trash away, he quietly began to hop from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit. He contemplated a few times dropping down and questioning him as ToolShed, but decided against it each time.

Kenny was smart and knew him too well. He would be able to see through his hero persona with ease, and that was something he couldn't have happened. Kenny loved him for who he was as Stan, not as ToolShed. He didn't want Kenny idolizing him for his hero work or, worse, worrying about him all the time.

Kenny paused near an abandoned factory. He crept quietly to the gate and began to fiddle with the padlock that held the chain closed.

Was he breaking in? Why? What did a factory that hadn't been used in nearly a decade hold for Kenny?

The chain dropped with a heavy clatter to the ground before he pushed the gate open. A high pitch creak echoed around the desolate space. He didn't shut the gate behind him, instead hurrying up the stairs to one of the open cargo doors. He slipped inside and disappeared.

Toolshed waited a few minutes, just in case he came back out, before hopping off the rooftop and scampering over to the gate.

He stooped down to inspect the padlock, expecting to find it broken, but it was still complete. Either Kenny had the key or he picked the lock.

Keeping to the dark edges near the fence, he snuck closer to the door. As he neared, voices carried from within.

"..can't stay for long," Kenny was saying. "I told Stan I'd be home when he gets back. His boss gave him weird hours today and tomorrow."

"Ah, that's too bad," Another, far too familiar, voice replied.

ToolShed stiffened, eyes wide. Steeling himself, he crouched down and peeked into the factory. He could barely see it, but farther in, sitting on the edge of a platform, were two figures, illuminated by a single light on the wall.

The smaller figure was Kenny. He knew that messy outline of hair and laid back posture anywhere, but the other, the taller more resigned one, almost resembled the evil super villain Professor Chaos.

ToolShed shook his head. No, no, that couldn't be right. What would Kenny be doing with a super villain?

Spying a barely illuminated catwalk above them, Toolshed took a step back and looked up the side of the factory. There was a small window about as high up as the catwalk. Maybe they connected.

With his grappling tape, Toolshed hurried up the wall and to the window. By some stroke of luck, the window was unlocked. He carefully pushed it open then climbed through.

The old catwalk groaned under his weight. He froze.

"Did you hear that?" Kenny asked.

Just as Chaos began to push himself up, something brushed against ToolShed's ankle.

ToolShed swallowed hard as whatever it was pulled at his jeans. Something that felt like tiny hands pressed against his leg. The feeling reminded him of a small child trying to make their parent listen.

In the faint moonlight from the window, he caught sight of whatever was trying so desperately to get his attention.

Three small raccoons.

ToolShed had helped rehabilitate raccoons before, and these couldn't be more than a few months old. Their mother was probably around somewhere.

“I think it came from up there.” Chaos walked towards a ladder that would take him up to the catwalk.

ToolShed swore to himself then kicked his leg out gently, but the raccoons kept coming back trying to crawl up his pants. They reached up with their grabby, little paws, though they didn’t seem malicious.

These were wild animals. They shouldn't even want to come near him — unless a human had been feeding them.

Now ToolShed understood what they wanted.

He hated to do this, but he had no choice. This was the only way to get them to leave.

“Here, get lost,” He hissed. Reaching into his pocket, ToolShed took out his free cookie and tossed it. One of the raccoons snatched it from the air and darted down the catwalk with the others on its tail.

They bound to a tangle of pipes on the wall then hurried down.

Chaos jumped back, nearly falling over, as the raccoons raced by his feet.

"Oooooh, that's what it was!” Chaos chuckled. “Just the babies.”

A sigh escaped his lips before ToolShed scooted across the catwalk until he was right over the top of them. He crouched and looked down.

While Chaos sat back down, Kenny pulled the object he brought with him into his lap.

“They're not going to steal the food I brought again, are they?” Kenny asked, taking a sheet of shiny foil off the object. Now that ToolShed was closer, he could tell it was a baking pan.

“I wish you hadn't let Disarray feed them.” Kenny offered the pan and Chaos took it. The smell of chocolate floated up. Brownies.

“I didn't know he was!” Chaos defended.

“Hopefully, they out grow the habit before they get in trouble with animal control,” Kenny said.

Professor Chaos kicked his legs out like a child, with the pan of brownies in his lap. He dug one of the brownies out and began to eat it.

"Mmm! You make some good brownies!" Chaos complimented.

"Thank you. It's a recipe from my dear aunt, Betty Crocker." Kenny joked, taking a brownie for himself. "Though the pan is actually Stan's, so we can't eat them all. It wouldn't be fair if he didn't get any."

Chaos nodded, swallowing his brownie. "Speaking of, how is he doin'?"

Toolshed tensed.

"Good, he's doing good. Though, I don't know how much I'll be able to see him, with summer coming back up." Kenny wiped his hands on his jeans. "He volunteers at the animal shelter and stays for hours helping out. He's very passionate about rehabilitating dogs, especially, I've saw him help with kittens and even a calf last year"

"Well, then, why don't you volunteer, too?" Chaos asked. "You can rehabilitate dogs together."

Kenny hummed. "I don't know. Sometimes dogs can tell what I am and don't like to come near me. I think I'd just be in the way."

ToolShed had seen dogs act strangely around Kenny before. Their tails would go between their legs, and they would back into the corners of their pens, whimpering and whining like some beast at walked into the shelter.

When he said 'What I am'? What did that mean? Yeah, it was weird that some dogs were scared of him, but Kenny was just a normal person.

"Ah, so you still ain't told him?"

"Nope."

Told me what? ToolShed thought, narrowing his eyes.

Kenny paused then turned his head to the side. He tapped his chin.

"You got something riiiiight..." He leaned forward, kissing Chaos right on the mouth. Chaos didn't push him away, instead turning his body towards him, one leg pulled up on to the platform.

ToolShed barely stifled a gasp. A pang of betrayal hit his stomach. So, Kenny was cheating on him and Leo with an evil supervillain bent on the city's destruction.

He gritted his teeth until his jaw began to ache.

Kenny pulled away. "Got it."

Chaos chuckled. "Thanks." He leaned back on his arms. "So, if not about you, you've told him about me, right? You think I'll ever be able to meet him?"

Kenny took a breath and let it out noisily through his nose. "He knows about you, and maybe one day you can meet him, but it has to be as Leo, not as Chaos. I don’t think he can ever know about Chaos. He wouldn't be able to understand."

ToolShed's eyes snapped wide.

No, no, no way...This couldn't be possible. The 'Leo' Kenny had described as a friendly, kind-hearted person was Professor Chaos? That couldn't be right. He had to have misheard!

Chaos took another brownie. "He sounds like a really swell fella, and really handsome if those pictures you showed me ain't lying."

"Oh, they ain't—aren't." Kenny laughed. "He really is good looking. Maybe, if you two hit it off and like each other, we can all just be one big triad. I sure wouldn’t have anything against it." He pulled both his legs up until he was on his knees, before resting his forearms over Chaos' shoulders and going in for another kiss, deeper than the one before.

ToolShed suddenly became very aware of his own lips. He winced as he realized he'd shared second-hand kisses with Freedom Pals’ greatest enemy.

A rage boiled inside him, and it took everything he had not to jump off the catwalk and demand answers from them both.

He had seen enough

By some blessing, however, ToolShed was able to sneak back to the window undetected.

He shot out his grappling tape to hook on the lip of a window of a building. He balanced himself on the edge of the building then slammed shut the window and left.

He hoped they both heard it.

~~~~~

The bedroom light shone through the window when Kenny walked up towards Stan's apartment. He frowned. He didn't remember leaving it on, but he must have unless Stan came home early.

If Stan was home, hopefully, he was in his room so Kenny could leave the half-pan of brownies in the oven. He didn't have a good excuse to why he ran outside with them.

The door was unlocked when he got to the top of the stairs.

No doubt, Stan was home.

He shouldered open the door and peeked in.

Every light was off, save for the bedroom. Sneaking into the kitchen, he hid the brownies in the oven then headed towards the bedroom.

"Stan! You here?" He poked his head in through the bedroom door.

Stan sat on the bed, a pillow hugged to his chest between his knees. His face was buried into the blue-green pillowcase. The moment Kenny stepped in, Stan turned his head up just enough to see his eyes, and Kenny froze mid-step.

A redness ringed his eyes; eyes that were angrier than Kenny had ever seen them. Each shot daggers right at his face.

He slowly lowered his foot.

"Stan?" He said calmly and carefully, like he was talking to a cornered animal. "What's wrong?"

Stan's glare never wavered as he shoved the pillow to the side. "Fuck off."

Kenny flinched back. "W-what? What did I do? Are you mad I wasn’t home? I just went out to grab some smokes from the gas station."

"Ha! Fucking Liar! I know what you do when you're late now, you bastard!" Stan spat. For a second, Kenny was sure he planned to dive off the bed and strangle him.

Then the words clicked.

The color drained from Kenny's face. Stan couldn't know. There was no way he could know that Kenny was Mysterion. He just couldn't! Kenny was extra careful at all times to keep those two lives as far from each other as possible!

A cold sweat started across his body. Stan of all people wouldn't be mad that he was Mysterion, right? He spoke so highly of Kenny's alter ego, claiming him to be his favorite superhero. Was he mad that Kenny had been lying about it? He had to know the dangers that came with superhero life and that Kenny didn't want him dragged into that, didn't he?

No, Kenny had to calm down. He didn't even know if Stan knew yet. Play it cool. Play it cool.

"I don't understand. What do you mean?" Kenny shook his head.

Stan slammed his hands down against his legs. It must have stung, but he showed no sign of feeling the pain.  "Bullshit! Yes, you do! I saw you tonight! I followed you to that factory!"  He swung his legs off the bed and jumped to his feet.

Kenny's heart stopped dead in his chest.

Half the walk to the factory he'd felt like someone was following him, but shrugged it off as paranoia, especially after the incident with the raccoon.

He had been so, so wrong.

Stan knowing about Leo's secret  was even worse than Stan figuring out he was Mysterion, by a mile.

"Stan, please, let me explain." Kenny tried to keep the desperate pleading from his voice.

"Explain!? How can you explain that?! The 'Leo' you talk about as one of the 'kindest,' and 'sweetest' people you've ever met is fucking Professor Chaos!" Stan yelled, marching up into his personal space. "You're dating a supervillain and didn't even tell me!"

"It's complicated, Stan! I can't explain everything, but I promise you aren't in any danger," He promised.

Stan eyed him critically then worry mingled with the rage on his face.

"Are you only dating him because he's making you? Is he blackmailing you?"

Kenny choked on a laugh Then told another half lie, "What? No!" He ran his hands through his hair. "Look, dude, I'm just trying to help him. He needs someone to support him."

"He's a super villain! He nearly blew up the museum last month!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Kenny shouted. "I know he's done terrible things! I watch the news. I talk to people. I know!" His shoulders slumped. "I know, man, but...he's getting better. His evil deeds aren't as evil as they use to be, because I'm helping him."

"How?" Stan took a step back, and Kenny took a breath he didn't realize he needed.

"He needs someone there to support him. Someone to tell him it's alright and he doesn't need to act out to fix what upsets him," Kenny explained as best he could. Leo trusted him not to spill his secrets, and that was a hard-earned trust Kenny planned on keeping.

"'Acting out' is buying a sports car or getting a tattoo on your ass, not covering the mayor's office in honey and unleashing bees." Stan countered.

Kenny winced at that memory. It was the second time he'd been killed by bee stings and was no more fun than the first. On the plus side though, it did increase the bee population around the city.

He decided this was not the time to point that out.

Kenny started to rub the knuckles of his left hand with the fingers of his right, a habit he'd picked up from Leo.  "Stan, this is way more complicated than you can understand right now. Trust me, under the monologues and hokey evil laughter, Leo is a good person."

Stan gritted his teeth so hard the vein in his neck started to bulge. He squeezed his hands into fists at his side.

"I'm not letting you stay in danger." He spat.

"I'm not in danger!" Kenny threw back. "He can't hurt me! He wouldn't!"

"Yes, he would!"

"No, he fucking wouldn't!"

Kenny felt his Netherborn side, the beast inside him that was Mysterion's power, start to churn and to feed on his anger. It loved this stress and rage and chaos of emotions. He needed to de-escalate the situation soon. That primal power might be useful in the middle of a life or death battle, but not an argument with his boyfriend.

He held up his hands placatingly. "Please, just, I don't know...do you want to meet him? I can set something up. You can see he's not a bad person."

"He is a supervillain, Kenny. I'm not going to ever meet him. I'm going to call the police and Freedom Pals!" He snatched his phone off the bed stand.

Kenny’s stomach dropped to the floor. No, he could not let that happen! For both his and Leo's sakes, he had to stop Stan from dialing.

He stole a step forward, body tense and ready to pounce. Stan noticed this then scrambled to climb on the bed. He got to his feet, just as ready to leap to either side if Kenny tried anything.

Frustration fed the Netherborn, giving it more strength to crawl farther and farther up into Kenny's conscious mind. If it took over, Kenny didn't know what it would do to get him out of the situation, but it definitely wouldn't be calmly talking things out. Kenny tried to force it back down but struggled greatly. He had to keep focused on Stan at the same time. If he put too much energy into one or the other, he would be royally screwed.

Stan pressed the nine, then went for the two ones, and Kenny pounced onto the bed. He shot himself at Stan, only for Stan to leap over him, landing in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Kenny rolled over as Stan hurried to his feet.

Stan swore as he backed towards the door, eyes watching Kenny like a hawk, and went to press the call button.

No, Kenny had to stop him. He couldn't break his promise to Leo!

In his panic, the Netherborn took over. He felt the flush of power before he threw out his arm. His dark whip knocked the phone from Stan's hand. It snatched it from the air before throwing it against the wall.

The phone broke apart, the case and back landing near the dresser, the battery sliding under the bed, and the rest of it skidding under it to hit Stan's guitar in the corner.

Stan's mouth hung open in pure shock.

Shit, shit, SHIT! This was the worst way this could go! Now there was no way Stan didn't know he was Mysterion! What was Kenny going to do? What was Stan going to do?

Once the shock wore off, Stan was going to be terrified.

Kenny fought the Netherborn back down for a second, trying desperately to hold on to any rational thoughts before all his fears came flooding back in full force.

No matter how much Stan idolized Mysterion, Kenny had still attacked him. They may have been dating for coming on a year now, but Kenny was still a creature of otherworldly power, granted to him by the epitome of the greatest and most primal of human fears. He wasn’t a normal person, but a monster. Stan wouldn’t want to spend his life with a monster who was only alive thanks to long dead and sleeping gods.

Stan would leave him! Stan would be scared of him! Stan would hate him for this!

Kenny couldn't stand the idea of the inevitable look of fear on his boyfriend's face.

He had to get out! Get away!

Escape! Escape! Escape!

Kenny rolled to his feet and bolted towards the door. In a role reversal, it was Stan this time who made a grab for Kenny. His arms wrapped around his middle, trying to pull him to a stop. Instead, they both began to fall forward.

Kenny began to let himself be pulled into the space between dimensions so he could turn into purple smoke and ghost away, but forced himself to stop. If Stan touched him while he did that, he would accidentally drag him along with him between worlds. Unlike Kenny, Stan couldn't survive in such a place.

Instead, he shoved the Netherborn back down with all his might and let himself fall forward into the carpet. It smelled like dirt and body spray. He didn't even try to resist when Stan crawled off him only to straddle his back and place his hands on his shoulders.

Kenny clenched his eyes shut.

"Fuck," He breathed.

Stan panted above him. "You're...you're Mysterion."

Kenny didn't reply more than a small nod.

He took one hand from his shoulder to place on his face.

"You are Mysterion." He sat back, his full weight on Kenny's lower back.

"Yeah, I am," He mumbled into the carpet. Steeling himself, he asked, "Stan, can you get off of me? I promise not to try and run away," a heartbeat later, Kenny added, "or hurt you."

Stan's remaining hand slipped off his shoulders. A moment passed in silence before he swung his leg up over him. Kenny pushed himself up but didn't dare look at Stan. The terror of what he might see clung to his every thought.

The two sat for untold minutes, only punctuated by Stan's 'you're Mysterion’ mumbles, until Stan finally pulled himself up. Kenny watched his back as he lumbered to the bed and sat. He took a breath then slowly stood himself.

He walked over, hands in his pockets, to stand in front of him.

"Stan?" He asked softly. "Are you ok?"

"You're Mysterion."

"We've established that, yeah." Kenny sighed. "Look, man, I'm so sorry about that. I panicked. It's no excuse, and I wouldn't ever do it again. Please don't," he choked on the words, "please don't be scared of me. I love you too much to hurt you."

Stan shook his head without raising to face him. "You're Mysterion...You're fucking Mysterion!" He snapped his head up and Kenny nearly stumbled back. His boyfriend wasn't scared. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't even in awe.

He was annoyed.

"What the fuck!?" He threw out his hands. "You're supposed to be the smart one between us! How the fuck can you be Mysterion?"

"What?" Kenny furrowed his brow. "I am smart."

Stan held his hands, palms up, and shook them side to side at him with his own eyebrows knitted together and lift half raise . "Clearly not!" He accused. "Because if you were, you would have figured it out!"

"Figured what out?" Kenny groaned. He almost preferred their heated arguing over this.

"That I'm ToolShed!" Stan threw his hands up. "Good God, Kenny! I don't even change my voice like you do—which, fucking called that! I mean, fuck, dude, Call Girl figured it out a week into our relationship!"

Kenny blinked once, his brain slowly starting to process that information. He stared hard at Stan before bringing up ToolShed in his mind's eye. Maybe they did look a little similar, same nose, cheekbones, and square jaw, same toned arms, greasy head of hair, height and build, but Stan Marsh could not be ToolShed. Stan Marsh was just a normal person, while ToolShed was a super-powered hero. They had to be different people.

And yet...

All at once, everything started to fit together. How many canceled dates happened at the same time an emergency called upon the Freedom Pals to jump into action? How many times did ToolShed have patrol happen whenever Stan had to 'work weird hours'? How many times had he seen that familiar look of compassion cross ToolShed’s face?

Hell, Kenny even had to remind himself to hold back any flirtatious comments he had when he was around ToolShed as Mysterion. He'd always chalked that up to just feeling comfortable around his fellow hero, but if ToolShed and Stan were the same person...

A thousand responses rushed through his head. He could turn Stan freaking out about him being a superhero back on him. He could be angry that Stan never told him. He could admit it was obvious that Stan was ToolShed.

He could have said anything, but the first words to come out of his mouth were, "You got to bone Call Girl? How was that?"

Kenny felt his face flush. He opened his mouth to fumble out an apology, but Stan burst into laughter. He howled, doubling over. The tension and frustration that clung in the air began to lessen and Kenny joined in.

"Ok, sorry, I don't know why I asked that," He apologized around giggles.

"No, no, it's cool," Stan shook his head. "Also the answer to that is 'really good'. I can't say more, or Wendy will leak my whole search history to the world."

"Wendy's their name? I never knew that. Either way, nice," He let out a low whistle then asked, "Dude, can I sit down?"

"Yeah, go for it."

He sat next to him, forearms rested on his thighs. He chewed his lip.

"So, what now?" He asked.

Stan shrugged then fell backward to the mattress. "You explain what exactly your plan is with Chaos would be a good start." He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Seriously, what is up with that? It's Professor Chaos. How did you two even start dating? Does he...know? About you being..."

Kenny sighed then fell back himself. "He does. I know his real name. He knows mine. It's an insurance policy I offered him when we first started out. If I tell the police his identity, he tells the criminal underworld mine."  

Stan cringed, looking away, and Kenny continued, "Don't worry. At this point, I'd have to be the one to betray him for my secret to slip.”

“You're sure about that? How do you know he's not just waiting for the right moment?” Stan asked, setting a hand over the top of Kenny's.

Kenny press his lips into a line before letting out a low breath.

“He just won't. Just know that he wouldn't sell me out unless I sold out him first.”

That was the truth. They had gotten well passed the point in their relationship that that sensitive information was anything to worry. Neither would dare use it for his own gain now.

Chaos would never do anything that would hurt Kenny, likewise Mysterion would never do anything that would hurt Leo.

Stan opened his mouth but Kenny quickly went on, “Remember that honey thing? That's how it all started."

"I remember you just came back to life after being stung to death and then dove into the middle of his honey coating machine and got trapped with Chaos." Stan frowned. "It took us nearly two hours to break through it all and he escaped in the end."

"Yeah, well, in that two hours, Chaos and I had a long talk." Kenny shut his eyes. "And I confirmed something I already suspected: Chaos is a good person; he's just scared of what he can't control, like everyone else."

In his mind's eyes, Chaos' terrified face looked back at him from across the cockpit of the honey machine, illuminated by only the lights from the control panel.

"Chaos doesn't want to hurt people. Even if his views are misguided in their execution, he really thinks what he does is for the greater good in the end."

"Even if he 'doesn't want to', he still does! He is a supervillain, Kenny." Stan shook his head. "Does he even actually care about you?"

Kenny turned, his eyes opening enough to show narrow slits. "Yes, he does." His voice came out darker than he meant it to, but he kept the tone as he went on, "I am important to him. He is important to me."

"I see."

Kenny turned his face toward the ceiling. "Haven't you noticed how he hasn't been as active lately? How his crimes aren't as extreme? Having a support system, he has someone to come to when things get too out of hand, when he gets scared, so he doesn't take it out on the city."

Stan thought on that a moment.

"You really think you're fixing him?"

"Not fixing. It's not my job to fix anyone. I'm helping."

"Ok then." Stan breathed through his nose. "I trust you. If you think you can turn Chaos, Leo, from evil, then do what you need to. I’ll support you."

Pushing himself up, he turned to Stan, eyes wide. "You mean that? You'll keep this a secret?"

He nodded. "I promise I won't tell unless I think your life is in actual danger."

Kenny examined Stan's face for any falsehoods. He had to make sure that Stan wouldn't go straight to Doctor Timothy the second Kenny wasn't looking.

When he found none, a weight fell of his shoulders.

Happy tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Before Stan could react, Kenny pounced, arms wrapping around his shoulders and pinning him to the bed. Stan pulled a hand up and petted the back of his head.

He pressed a kiss to his temple then muttered, "But, if he betrays you, know that I will personally strangle him myself."

There was not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. Kenny knew he meant every word of that.

~~~~~~~

AN: next update will be next Wednesday

[deliriumxtrigger]

I don’t think I realized

How much more harm than good Ricky and Anthony were doing to me the past few months.

I don’t blame them for my chociss or anything like that but FUCK who was letting me put up with that verbal abuse that long. FUCK. I was a joke to them. Wtf.

The things they said to me and how depressed I’d feel after that shit ain’t fucking healthy man.

No one is perfect. No one should judge. I never fucking do anymore. I can’t because immediately I look at myself and the things I have done. Yea, I’ve really racked up the shit the past year, you have no idea.

I need my fucking mom so fucking bad right now it isn’t even fucking funny. Like there are no more jokes here, absolutely none.

The pain, there’s so much

It pours over me and out of me and I don’t have anywhere to put it.

There are knives stuck in my back and I can’t get them out.

I still feel everything because I don’t want to numb myself.

I don’t want to like Andrew, I don’t want to date right now.

Yet I do , probably for he wrong reasons.

Another round of 3 guys at a time this is fucking exhausting. I only sleep with a select few. And automatically I’m told I sleep around just because I openly date, man fuck all of you.

I don’t want to like Andrew, I’m trying to shut it off and shut it out with all of the energy I have left but it’s taking more energy to fight it.

I mean where the fuck is it going? No where fast. More precious precious energy wasted.

I think therapy would be helpful. But, I don’t trust anyone as it is. That’s honestly the hump I can’t get past. I don’t want to tell a stranger who honestly doesn’t give a fuck about me anything.

I feel like I sound like I’m playing the victim card, the pity card especially with Ricky.

Ricky has been a good friend in a lot of ways to me. He’s never purposely hurt me. But the love I have for him and the trust and faith I have in him far exceeds any kind of respect he has ever had for me and I can’t get past that. I can’t get past his judgements, his condemning , his complete ack of empathy or even fucking sympathy for another hurting human being. He doesn’t care to talk to me and immediately says I’m too emotional about everything. No wonder why he’s gay, he gaslights the shit out of me just like a manipulative man. I sat there and grew from his tough love yes, I accepted my flaws my mistakes and he helped me through that but now, when you see a friend growing. You don’t continuously try to knock them back to where they were and make them feel like shit that’s fucking sick and manipulative. Like I’m the laughing stock of the friend group, funny thing is William is the same way. I guess two peas in a pod huh. William got what he wanted and I’ll be gone soon

Blessed to have more than one group of friends but man life just keeps getting harder and harder doesn’t it.

I end up more and more alone. I never minded being alone and I can’t stress that enough. But I’m also co dependent. I have to admit that. Because it’s true, I love to please and I want to make others happy, exchange energy, etc. it’s kinda how I thrive and maybe some would say that isn’t healthy. Sometimes it isn’t I guess but man my whole perspective has changed again this past month. I hope it’s towards growth. I’m just in pain all of the time, constantly, hurting. On the brink of tears. With a few moments of relief.

I also haven’t slept right in almost two months now. Go figure insomnia comes with the territory.

But my relief right now comes when Andrew calls me.

When I’m hanging around Ant and Eric.

When someone shows me any inkling of kindness or thoughtfulness which in turn makes me 40x more mindful than I’ve ever been.

Also, holy fuck the song run wild by Jon Bellion is amazing. Completely random but it’s on repeat

[gurguliare]

DVD: that one scene from your fic about Dirhaval, with the elf lady and the two of them being really intent with each other over the fire. "Do you love me" et cetera. I hope that makes sense I'm on mobile.

omg IT DOES although since that fic barely has scene divisions I’m going to take this excuse to do… a lot of it.

“I have remembered something,” she added, inconsequentially. “My aunt’s husband was Guilin’s steward. Everyone in my family hated him because he always making up to us with stories about the great princes. He said that Gwindor and Finduilas fought much over the Adanedhel’s love for her.”

I… I love this OC. She’s not even a box of rocks, she’s like, a box with one rock in it. Selectively dense; elsewhere, airheaded.

Dírhaval considered the fish with great interest. He had been told triumph lent him a fierce expression. He had no wish to scare his friend off now.

I can’t remember if @crocordile​ and I had a conversation before or after I wrote this about Dirhavel being like, not necessarily a big but an energetic guy who’s frequently seen around the camps doing SUPER WEIRD athletic shit to see if some of the feats he attributes to Turin were physically possible—anyway, whatever the timing, that concept was what I was psychically tuned into when I wrote this description. He has a beard and it bristles despite his best efforts to keep it trimmed.

“Raised voices—he overheard—Gwindor said, ‘Why does he seek you out, and sit long with you, and come ever more glad away?’ And that was true, I remember; they sat together in all kinds of places, on the terraces, in the treasury, and even by the earthworks for the bridge. No doubt he told her much you would be glad to know. But as for me, I think Gwindor a fool; few men would have loved her for listening. It reminds them what they hold dear in themselves.”

It was really hard for me to strike what seemed like a reasonable balance between hearsay and direct observation, but I leaned on the idea that Nargothrond, though huge, was not like, “modern city space” huge, more “sprawling overdeveloped apartment complex and you need a permit to go above ground”—so in five years and with perfect memory, everyone has a decent chance of stumbling on everyone else’s attempts at fresh air.

“That’s true,” he said. The first time he had interviewed her, she had spoken for an hour about the cavern of assembly, like an egg on its side—but so vast!—and with stalactites Finrod himself had sung down into pillars, or was it that he had worn holes in the walls parting small caves, she couldn’t decide; and the window on the river, whence a grey light came, like a shadow thrown on the gliding light of a thousand lamps and torches.

I think this description of the great hall is kind of cute but I have to acknowledge it was influenced, consciously or subconsciously, by the great hall in the Rats of Nimh.

And now when she spoke it was matter-of-fact and with hardly a jibe at her uncle. She was Túrin to him in that moment with her straight-sloping neck, the flushed skin of her neck and jaw with her face as fair as fair could stay at sunset, the cupful of shadow under her chin. He had burned the roof of his mouth. The fish was tender, almost flavorless, flaking between his teeth like a cake of river-flesh; a little muddy, even, as all water here was. He ate the crisped-black skin for a whiff of charcoal, which coated his mouth. “Don’t you love me, your loyal hearer?”

She gave him a startled wink; and smiled, and smiled.

Okay, so yes. I do love this moment, I hope it does a lot of things at once; basically I want 1) Dirhavel to be ironic in a nice way about his elf friend attempting to invent the term “emotional labor,” which reflects both a male impatience with this attempt to generalize everything to men talking women’s ears off, but also some vague species-based edginess about him trying to construct this human story out of testimony from elves, and like, navigating elves’ possessiveness of Turin but also the way they patronize him in the same breath, Adanedhel. And at the same time having to confront the fact that people are people and the elf-human boundary has gotten increasingly blurry with the end times, however much he might want to retain a sense of lofty apartness, whether as a human among elves, a writer among subjects, a man among women, whatever—that tension between observer distance and involuntary empathy is another big theme of this fic. And 2) I want the cook to catch it but not quite get it—like, she knows he’s making fun of her but she doesn’t necessarily interpret it in the same way he does, what she gets is that he’s talking about the limits of different kinds of love, that you can love someone and it can still go just so far: that’s why it triggers her next thought about Finduilas –> Turin.

“I do not think Finduilas loved the Mormegil either. Or, that is, I believe they loved one another as sister and brother.”

I said this in my commentary on an otherwise VERY different LOGH fic but I love when characters are wrong. Every time. Also, I love childish oversimplifications that have good reason for existing—that is, I like when you can really see why a character would with all their heart want to believe x, because the alternative is both messy and depressing.

Trying to lick his fingers clean just spread around the soot. Among the things she had told Dírhaval was that she was an only child. But he was inclined to believe her, almost. To Finduilas Túrin should have been a child. She must have wanted to love him like a brother—it would have been best, by far clearer and finer, to love him as a brother, even when her death walked near. The death he handed her down to; but if they were kin, it would have been her right to love him, blaming him.

“Do you not agree?”

Dirhavel takes this basically as like, confirmation for his thesis that all real love is irrational and unconditional (see also Gwindor wanting Finduilas and Túrin to be happy at his own expense, a few lines down) but only familial love has the “excuse” to be so. So the distinction is not, “would I love him whatever he did to me,” but rather, “do I feel fucked up and guilty about that fact or not.” In a vague way, this is supposed to set up the extremely bleak lines he gives Nienor after she gets her memory back: twice beloved.

“I can’t say.” Up again to pace. She followed him, basket on her arm, and settled onto her haunches when she saw he had no journey in mind. He stood when he performed, which was not hard, but it made him more restless when alone.

See above remarks about Dirhavel’s acrobatics, and also maaybe his ADHD

“I think—by the time—no, Túrin did not love her, and as for Finduilas, well, surely she cared for Gwindor? If they argued. Let’s see. And Túrin pursued her at last and fell in a swoon on her grave, we know that. And he loved Gwindor; how not, when Gwindor was with him at Ivrin? But Gwindor—I suppose—Gwindor must have hated him. No. He must have hoped Túrin loved Finduilas, and that was why he couldn’t be persuaded of the truth. For he would have wanted her to be happy, in the end.”

“Oh, no!”

His mood tipped down at once. “Oh no,” he agreed, and took his sandals off and stepped into the stream.

Again, I just think this interaction is fun. I mean I like the placement of his realization about Gwindor, but I LOVE the cook being like “oh no!! that’s so sad!” I hope other people enjoy “stories about the process of idiotic sadstuck brainstorming” as much as I do.

His mother had said once that both he and his father were happier than other men, but that they had no ballast, to keep steady the craft. If he took on an ounce of grief he’d sink, and yet he felt the flood almost as freedom. It made him more the master than had his dry, feckless race, his high-riding. As long as he struggled he had yet to succumb; that was the rule for a wasted night. He ought to go beg a bowl of sour milk from Linnor, or go and sing a service for the king. He could see as far as a night of stars.

I wanted to communicate a particular kind of mood downturn here where you can still clearly remember being happy, and the rising tide of discontent isn’t overwhelming on its own, it’s just depressing because you know where it leads—but for the same reason it’s also a relief, in that you know where it leads. Whereas joy is weird and easy to get lost in and you never know when the plug will be pulled. But I’m not sure the boat metaphor really works.

But it was day, it was red evening. It was his companion’s grief, filling his mind from above. She crouched and watched the far bank huge-eyed, not a tear in evidence, eyes opened but sealed, as it seemed, against sadness that strove for entry, not escape; she sat with wide mouth cracked, nostrils flared, sucking in great absent sniffs of sea-wind. She was besieged as an afterthought, safe and calm except besieged.

I also wanted to include some telepathy! As always! Dirhaval I imagine to be something of a natural, who probably has had some experience with elf mind-speech at this point—enough to recognize it but not really to manage it. I like this description of the cook in pain, I think it works well with her established personality and also evokes Nargothrond itself, which is of course the thing she’s actually grieving for. I mean, and she identifies it with Gwindor, reasonably enough, and takes unhappy pride in him as a lord of Nargothrond, and in this moment is kind of shot through herself not just with the fact of his defeat but the like, honorable necessity of his defeat, knowing that on some level he accepted it.   

(Gwindor surely wished Finduilas joy. Finduilas, dying, remembered Túrin, and told him where his quest should end. The feathered tops of the reeds glowed on dark stems, like a fire in a field of reeds—there before nightfall he planted for ever the standards of the Noldor and their unsheathed swords, kindling in the dawn.)

I’m so proud of this stupid line lol, it’s just the reverse of Tolkien’s—“The light of the drawing of the swords of the Noldor was like a fire in a field of reeds”—but I LOVE THAT LINE, it’s so perfect for Dirhaval as an author and Sirion as a place of memory/last battlefront/first battlefront for this long war. And its conclusion, still to come.

He washed his hands and greasy beard in the river. “Your fish will be cold,” he advised. He had abandoned hope of dinner until she brought it, but that was no reason to encourage bad habits in her.

Dumb friends. Dumb friends are great because they are attuned to the hazards of stupidity, and can help each other.

Then he had to pick some scales out of his teeth, and couldn’t elaborate, but he heard her uncover the basket, anyway.

He had met her before with a handful of salt, pressing a few grains to her mouth to check their purity. “Dírhaval,” she said wisely, mouth full. “Dírhaval, I have forgotten how to cook.” Meaning she had no spices, witched ovens, and trained assistants—maybe, with her, it really was as though she had forgotten; at least it was something else she had lost.

Yeah… the focus on memory in this is another unexpected link to the LOGH fic uh, an inevitable byproduct of writing about a historian, and it’s also supposed to reflect that loss of separation between elves and men, since so much of what distinguishes elves is… their wealth of resources, psychological and material. And the material resources are essential to and interwoven with the psychological resilience, as noted here, so I really wanted to capture that sense that *not having* all the wonderful things she used to have baffles her as much as a hole in her memory. Because the default is that you keep everything forever, right? Another feeling which is not unique to elves. God I love………………………… “people.”  

[parugi]

My time in the Jedi Academy RPG community

Alternative title: How I helped destabilize four forums worth of RPG players!

So I recently started posting my first let’s play, and the game I decided to play first is Jedi Academy. My reason for going with this game was not random by any means. In some ways, I attribute many of my current set of interests and skills to it--and not for particularly great reasons. Still, I can’t deny the impact it has had on me, and I feel like it’s worth it to share the absolutely insane experience that I had in the Jedi Academy RPG community back in like, 2003 to 2005ish.

I’ll be the first to admit that some of this is going to sound... very outlandish, but I guarantee that it is all 100% true as far as I can remember it. Unfortunately, for the most part, I only have my word to share, because the forums that hosted all of the evidence for this have been either shut down or archived when InvisionFree/ZetaBoards shifted over to “Tapatalk.”

Anyway, bear with me. This is me performing a sort of self-therapy after 16 years of half-repressing the memories. I’m also not sure quite where to begin, so this might jump around a bit. Again, please bear with me.

For a bit of backstory--Jedi Academy is a Star Wars game. It’s built on a system that is very mod-friendly and possessed a rather large multiplayer community back when it first released--dozens and dozens of servers with up to something like 36 players each, many of which were always full and impossible to get into. And the mod community thrived, too--there were hundreds of downloadable maps, vehicles, character skins, even mods that changed battle stances and mechanics. It was neat.

One mod in particular was called ForceMod 3, which completely revamped the multplayer so that you could select between different classes to play instead of having just a bucket of things to choose without any nuance--from Jedi Apprentices, to Jedi Masters, to smugglers, to Imperial officers followed by Stormtrooper NPCs, even a custom Yuuzong Vong class with its own adjusted mechanics. Each came with its own number of Force points, its own designated weapons, even differences in health/shield distribution. Obviously, this made it perfect for role-playing, and more than one set of users recognized this.

I don’t know exactly when or how my brother and I discovered FM3, but at some point I logged on and noticed something different about the servers being run on it. For one, there were not as many; the most I ever saw was 8 at a time, quite different from the standard 30+ on vanilla multiplayer. More than that, there were servers designated as “RPG” servers, a term I, at the time, had never encountered before. When I first discovered this, there were only three big RPG servers:

ForceMod 3 RPG Server

((RPG_Server))

and one whose name I do not remember; it was something like Jedi Enclave

The third does not matter as much, because it only suffered from the following series of events as a side-effect of the other two causing them. But we’ll get to that.

Also of note, this list would later include [[RPG_Network]]--my server.

Keep that in mind. Its resemblance to ((RPG_Server)) is not an accident.

Also keep in mind that I was 9/10ish at the time.

So, back to the list. I saw these “RPG servers” and joined one--((RPG_Server)). It didn’t click to me that it wasn’t the same as a free-for-all server at first, but I soon realized the difference when I noticed that people weren’t just randomly going around and killing each other. They were interacting as if they were characters.

That was interesting.

Interesting, and yet I thought nothing of it.

A couple of days later, though, I decided to give it a try. And it was fun! And interesting! I got to pretend to be a Jedi instead of just playing as a Jedi! Nice! That was in ((RPG_Server)). And it was super relaxed! Basically we got to do whatever, as long as we were playing characters. It was a nice community, and it got me hooked to RPGs, which I continue to play to this day.

They also had a forum. I would later join it.

But first, I had something to learn about RPG communities: They are not all fun and games.

((RPG_Server)) was not always up; sometimes it would not appear on the list. Usually, but not always. One day it wasn’t there--but FM3RPG was. That was fine; these RPG servers were all pretty lax, right? I’d just join it and do as I do, right?

Wrong.

I joined it, I did my thing--and got pretty immediately kicked.

FM3RPG was more of an “elitist” server--they took their RPG very seriously. That meant that you couldn’t play as certain classes without approval. In fact, unless I’m remembering incorrectly, you could not join the server at all without first getting a character approved on the forum. This was not a simple process, particularly for a 9 year old. They expected an elaborate character sheet to be submitted, with a full history and details down to the character’s height and weight.

I joined the forum. I submitted a character. I didn’t get approved.

That’s fine. ((Server)) was back up, so I went there and joined the forum, and that was dandy. But that also made me not like FM3RPG, so I didn’t go back there. I did ghost their forum, though, and it became clear that they held a low opinion of ((Server)) because ((Server)) wasn’t as stringent as FM3RPG.

IMO, that was a blessing. But not everyone thought that way.

Quick side-note--FM3RPG had a specific moderator who became infamous within the community for many, many reasons. This person went by Naru. Naru was petty to the point of banning players for expressing political views that they did not agree with.

Keep Naru in mind.

I don’t have a great recollection of what all occurred in ((RPG_Server)) before everything went to shit, but I think it was mostly fine. There were a set of three mods who had created the place, and these were the only mods/admins when I joined. They were Subrerec, Mose, and I think Maverick was the third one? They would later be joined by Marrin (replacing Tarrin, who supposedly died in a car accident about a month in (and I only say supposedly because Marrin and Tarrin were... suspiciously similar people in hindsight) and Aitrus, my friend who actually was very helpful in showing me the ropes.

Later-later, they would be joined by Docco.

Oh, Docco.

Docco was actually my friend for a while. Pretty much everyone was, actually. It was a good community when I first joined. But I was not good at accepting changing times, so that didn’t last--and here’s why.

The first crack in the structure, so to speak, came from a really petty conflict. There were these official profile avatars available on the Jedi Academy website. Subrerec, Mose, and Mav all had one, as did Marrin. I liked them, so I used one. It got reverted. I thought that was weird so used it again. Mose reverted it again and gave me a warning because “Only the mods got to use those.”

Twas a very petty thing to get someone in trouble over, and it made me dislike Mose. But whatever, find a different avatar and move on.

The second crack was a certain player named Dorian Remedy. Dorian was an... immigrant of sort from FM3RPG. He had played there and then joined ((Server)). Note, however, that he didn’t leave FM3RPG, he merely also joined ((Server)).

He was also the biggest fucking prick that I have ever had the displeasure to encounter to this day.

His modus operanti was to criticize. Not in a constructive way, either, but in the rudest way possible. And I say that even with hindsight. Dorian made no effort whatsoever to come off with any sort of empathy or tact, because he didn’t care--he was the embodiment of the elitism that pervaded FM3RPG. Anyone who wasn’t interested in a more structured RPG system, he couldn’t be bothered to give the time of day to, because they were too incompetent to understand why FM3RPG’s system was superior.

I was one of those people. Because I was 9. Do I think differently now? Certainly. At the time? No. And would I act anything like he did if I were in that boat? Hell no.

The problem with Dorian was that it didn’t matter how rude he was, because the mods, particularly Mose, agreed with him and wanted to revamp ((Server)) into a lighter version of FM3RPG. That itself was not a problem, but because of it, they would not take any sort of action against Dorian regardless of how he talked to anyone. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I feel as though that would drive anyone insane.

Dorian would cause many, many problems for me, personally, but he did not cause this particular incident that really broke the camel’s back.

At some point, I had suggested to Subrerec and Mose the introduction of the Sith into the plot. It was a surprisingly good idea for a kid, imo, and I was allowed to do it. So I created a Sith Lord and chose an apprentice. That was my friend Docco.

And that was cool. I had fun. Until I didn’t.

One night I logged on and had this really brief message from Docco and someone else whose name I don’t even remember. It basically just said, “We need you to log on ASAP.”

So I did, because I was 9 and didn’t think to ask questions.

Turns out, they were performing a Sith coup.

They killed my Sith and overthrew me and I wasn’t allowed to do anything about it. I felt hurt and angry and betrayed because they hadn’t given me any indication of what they were planning. I like to think that if they had, I would have been fine with it, but who knows? I was 9, so maybe, or maybe not. Hard to tell.

The short of it is, Dorian made fun of me, Mose didn’t care, Docco didn’t apologize, and I was pissed off. There were some players on my side and some who weren’t. What erupted after that was basically an all-out war of constant fighting and name calling and getting suspended and everything. In a matter of weeks--or maybe days? Months? Time is an abyss--the forum had gone from something great to just this cesspool of people constantly at each others’ throats.

I was mad and decided to split off and make my own forum with my brother (also involved in all of this, unfortunately) and a friend who went by Mara Jade. We made a forum called RPG: Palace of RPers (a very not-redundant name) and it lasted about a week before Mara Jade gave admin rights to Dorian, who proceeded to change everything and locked the three of us out.

So that was the second betrayal by a friend in less than two weeks. I did not talk to Mara Jade after that. And I was stuck in ((Server)) because I am not a quitter--even at 9.

Around this same time, someone else joined the forum, and this is where things went from just a singular forum issue and cross-contaminated the entire community.

FM3RPG ousted Naru. Naru’s already tenuous popularity had tanked. And why? For a couple of reasons. One, Naru was not a teen girl, as she had claimed, but a 30-something year old man. On top of that revelation, it came out that Naru had engaged in cybersex with several underage children.

So Naru was banned from FM3RPG.

Someone named Cassandra joined ((Server)).

Immediate. Chaos.

Some people figured out pretty quickly that they were the same person. Some were doubtful but said they should get a chance even if it was true. Some just did not believe it.

I was 9 and did not believe it.

I did not believe it because Cassandra was on my side in the Sith debacle and was nice to me and Dorian, Docco, and Mose did not like her so therefore I should like her.

Docco and Mose tried to convince me otherwise and I ignored them because I was mad at them about my Sith. Dorian continued to make fun of me.

More and more people were starting to catch on, though, and at some point it was just me left defending Cassandra. Around that time, my brother and I made another forum, with help from some different friends (Reverser, Bane, Heero, Inuyasha, Duo, and Cyran Ciin--remember that last one). This was [[RPG_Network]]. We set it up and actually were able to host a server on occasion because of Reverser. So that was cool--we were sort of official.

But there was still the Cassandra issue.

I can only guess that Docco and Mose and others were just frustrated with trying to--what I realize in hindsight--protect us from an actual, straight-up child predator. I say this because they joined the [[Network]] forum and just started causing chaos, spamming and using what I consider highly disgusting images for their avatars and signatures.

They made it pretty clear what would make them stop, and that was banning Cassandra.

Which I did, but not because of their stipulation.

Around the time we got our server running, ForceMod 3 updated and did something... interesting. Whenever someone joined a server, it would show that they were joining, and it would show their IP address. At some point, Naru joined a server--don’t remember which one--and we got a picture of “her” IP.

IPs were also visible to admins of InvisionFree forums.

Naru and Cassandra had the same IP.

She tried to tell me that it was done via proxy, but even a 9 year old can experience clarity.

So I banned Cassandra from [[Network]].

I’m lucky to say that I had this revelation before anything bad happened. So I have that to be thankful for.

Anyway.

((Server)) shifted officially to a strict system like FM3RPG. It still bore the ire of FM3RPG because FM3RPG was the only “real” RPG server. Dorian got what he wanted and made sure to lord that over everyone. I didn’t want to stay, so I left and went to [[Network]].

And you know? That could have been the end of it. It really could have. But people like Dorian can’t just let kids be. So instead of letting the servers coexist--maybe not peacefully, but certainly coexist--he instead made a point of popping onto [[Network]] not infrequently to throw his weight and insults around.

I wanted to ban him, others wanted to give him his chances.

That splintered the [[Network]] admins.

Some other things also splintered the [[Network]] admins, including these key points:

Revenge of the Sith had come out pretty recently and some of us, myself included, thought a Jedi Purge copycat would be cool. Others did not. None of us agreed on what to do.

Inuyasha did this plot in [[Network]] where a 17ish year old Jedi apprentice got captured by a Hutt and violated by said Hutt’s Twi’lek slave. It was not vague what happened. I was not a fan.

Myself and Bane concocted a plot to kill multiple characters. This included multiple of Inuyasha’s characters. Bane later went public with this. This was very hypocritical of me and I am now ashamed of my involvement. It stemmed entirely from the previous point.

Everything after this is kind of a blur. The [[Network]] stuff was going on in 2005 just before my family moved to Oregon, and after we moved I kind of just dropped out--mainly because all of this drama had spread so far and wide that a large chunk of the entire RPG playerbase had up and quit. That and I’m pretty sure my account was banned from ((Server)) at some point. I do know that during that time, my remaining Jedi character was killed in their Jedi Purge. I do have to give Dorian some credit for giving Master Kyle South a cool death scene, if nothing else.

Anyway, [[Network]] was basically dead by the time we moved, ((Server)) was barely on its last leg, and FM3RPG was ruined because of Dorian’s attitude across Network, Server, and Enclave (which also just died without much fanfare). At some point my brother attempted a revival of [[Network]], but that did not really take off and the entire thing just became a board full of spam.

Buuut that revival was after a certain event that served, I think, as just the final nail in the coffin.

And that was caused by one Cyran Ciin.

I was not around to witness this, but here is what I understand occurred:

Cyran Ciin did something to [[Network]]. This basically killed it. I don’t know what he did exactly, just that there was something done.

This got him in the good graces of Mose, and he became an admin on ((Server))’s forum.

However, Cyran Ciin was actually also from FM3RPG originally, and had a thing against ((Server)) and the other RPG servers. So, now an admin, he was free to just completely demolish ((Server))’s forum.

Just, everything moved into a trash bin, the forums rearranged, the background changed to a spam image, and all of the other mods and admins revoked of their privileges.

Karma? Maybe. 

Additional karma? Those actions getting Cyran Ciin banned from FM3RPG.

He didn’t care, though. He thought it was hilarious. I think he was an actual sociopath.

Anyway, FM3RPG was done. Their players had a reputation now and no one wanted to be associated with them. That’s my assumption, anyway. They might’ve just died to time like everyone else.

It doesn’t matter, though. The FM3 RPG community was dead--r.i.p 2003-2006ish.

There is an epilogue of a sort.

((Server))’s forums and [[Network]]’s forums were dead, but not gone--for a while. I found I was able to get back to both by correctly recalling their addresses--s6_invisionfree.com/rpg_server and I believe it was z11_invisionfree.com/rpg_network. Neither works now, of course, but they did for a time.

My brother gave me his login information for Network, so I was able to look around and see all the great things I had missed after the reboot. Luckily everything else was gone--during the reboot they had completely wiped the forums of everything from the first run, including the evidence of what I had done as a bad admin. That was nice. But I didn’t like what I saw, so I locked the forum, forgot the login information, and only occasionally looked at it via a throwaway account that I had made under the name of boxabox (password: boxabox).

The forum is gone with the change to Tapatalk, so that information is all useless now.

The real “heartwarming” epilogue comes from ((Server)). For a while, again, the forums remained accessible, and so I logged on back in like, 2013 or 2014. Surprisingly there was a thread that ran for a few days where someone was basically like “yo anyone still around?” A few people responded, including Docco, which was astounding. No Dorian, which was great.

Somehow I still remembered my login and password (although I don’t now) and decided to post on there.

The initial response was, unsurprisingly, not friendly, but long story short, Docco and I made amends and never spoke again after that.

By what I am sure is sheer coincidence, the forum got locked only a couple of weeks later, with only admin access enabled. So everything from there was already gone, and is now double-gone with the switch to Tapatalk.

I did discover that FM3RPG’s forum remains open, though. I won’t link to it because I don’t want to, but if you really want to, you can certainly find it--no login required.

Aaand that’s that. That’s my sordid history with the Jedi Academy RPG community. I won’t say I killed it, because that would be taking way too much burden of the responsibility, but... Well, let’s just say that I found a wikipedia-esque article about this same community several years back and I was mentioned as an important figure in everything that transpired. I have no idea where that page is now, but hey, it existed at some point, so I gotta own it.

Peace.