#trying to convince itself it would go away when its just been getting worse so it didnt go to the doctor for a year

[gotham-daydreams]

i just had a thought

you know what would really fuck up the batfam in the "not tonight" series imagine the reader instead of leaving gets kidnnaped and when the batfam saves them reader breaks down into crying in relief because they genuenly believed the batfam would not bother to save them

Imagine the absolute horror the batman would feel

I know its a little farfetched but i live for the angst

No, no! I love that idea!!! And it isn't all that farfetched seeing as the reader is a well known musician on some level, and even if that wasn't the case- they're still the kid of Bruce Wayne. Which, honestly, is enough motivation for someone to kidnap them, I'd say. Especially if the reasoning is for money, revenge/jealousy, or both honestly.

Besides all that, though- oh my god that would be awful! I love it!

Because imagine things from the reader's perspective (which, there is implied violence inflicted on the reader, mentions a blood, and a gun is pointed towards them. So, if it isn't your cup of tea then that's fine!):

Your 'family' that barely acknowledges you enough as it is, and the only guy who ever seems to notice that you're around is the single butler that basically takes care of everyone and everything in the manor. Now, you're kidnapped because of your relation/connection to the family, and have no hope to do anything besides just pray.

Maybe you have tried to escape before a few times at this point, but the punishment for such attempts have now gotten to the point where if you try again and fail, you'd surely die. Maybe you've also been trying so hard to escape yourself because you're just that certain and sure that the Batfam won't save you. Since, up until this point, anything dealing with or connecting back to you in some way has been ignored or dismissed one way or another. Why would something like a kidnapping be any different? Especially when they also haven't noticed other events where you have gotten hurt before.

Right from the gate, you're already thinking that the Batfam won't save you. Not that they can't, but just like with everything else- something will come up and steal away their attention, and you'll be left by yourself, and to defend yourself as always. That's what always seems to happen, and so why would now be different? In your mind, it wouldn't. So that's why when your attempts to escape fail, and the punishments not only get worse, but begin to pile up and reach a point where you think you're going to die- the situation quickly becomes much scarier.

You don't hope that Batman will suddenly show up, and instead pray that your best friend will notice your missing somehow. You don't think that Nightwing, Red Robin, Spoiler, or Orphan will suddenly swoop in and save the day, but instead try and hope that your producer/boss notices that you haven't replied to his calls or texts and contacts someone. You don't even consider that Red Hood or Robin will come barreling in and quickly deal with your kidnappers before rescuing you — instead all of your thoughts are filled with silent whispers and desperate pleas that someone- anyone you know will notice that you're gone, or that something is wrong, and will contact somebody. With that 'somebody' being the police or anyone of help, but not the Batfam.

Maybe a small thought does slip by, but you can only internally laugh at yourself because you either think that you've already lost enough blood to actually try and believe that lie, or your just growing that desperate to have a little hope. To have something to cling onto in this moment, that you chose the one thing that you're so convinced will never be given to you. A thought that only further cements itself in your mind the more time passes. With hours turning into days, and days to weeks.

Perhaps that's why you try to escape again. Deciding that you had better odds of succeeding despite your injuries, than the Batfam ever coming to save you. Let alone even thinking about it, or even realizing that you were gone in the first place. Taking that risk of getting caught again, and potentially getting killed this time, because no matter how hopeless or unlikely it seems for you to escape and make it out- those chances will always be higher than any single person from the Batfam showing up, and even attempting to save you. Even on accident, or on a whim- that possibility is so unlikely in your mind, that it's basically nothing more than a made up scenario or daydream to you. It's not an 'if' or 'when', but a flat out 'won't'.

Maybe that's why when you fail you get so scared, but can't help but feel like this was inevitable somehow. Of course, you don't want to die- but you had tried your best. You fought until the very end, and it almost feels a little too fitting that things ended up this way. With your efforts ending in vain, and you having nothing to show for it. With your attempts futile, and almost seeming idiotic from an outsider's point of view, and maybe it was.

You never stood a chance. You were doomed for failure. Not even all the training and experience you had could save you- and only now could you see how truly worthless all your efforts had been. With a gun pointed to your head, and your own blood providing the only warmth you've felt in days.

There's an odd sense of comfort and familiarity in the chill that shoots down your spine, and the cold gaze that one of your kidnappers give you. They're carelessness and disregard for your health reminding you of something, with their rough attacks and harsh punches bringing back times where you really did need the Batfam, only for no one to show up. Your call dying down as fast as it had risen that day, and one you never even bothered to make again.

So maybe that was why you were so surprised when help arrived, and even more so when you saw who exactly it was.

Before you could even fully register anything, you began to cry. A wide smile full of disbelief grows on your face, and more tears begin to fall as the smallest of laughs escape you. 'Unbelievable' is the first word that comes to mind when describing what you felt, and thought when you saw Batman drop down from the ceiling and deal with the guy who was about to kill you, and heard some commotion just down the hall.

At first, your convinced it's all some silly dream, and that maybe during your final moments- your mind decided to give you something nice to send you off. Almost like a warm parting gift to distract you from the hopelessness, and reality of the situation. Though it's only when pain shoots through your entire body when you move a certain way, that the thought of all of this being some made up hallucination or delusion vanishes, and you can't help but cry harder.

You don't know if it's a good or bad thing that after all this time- the one time they actually notice that you're gone, is when you not only get kidnapped, but can't escape by yourself. That the one time they acknowledge you, you're almost dead, bleeding out, and the most messy and vulnerable you've ever been.

Maybe life really did have some grudge against you to go to such lengths to fuck you over, but right now you're too relieved to be saved to care at the moment.

Yet, to say the Batfam feels awful on a totally new level, is an understatement. They understand feeling relieved, but to this extent? It's like you never expected them to come and save you at all... and that little thought seems to be true when one of them tries to help you out, and you're still laughing weakly as you continue to cry. Asking through a broken, wavering voice if all of this is real, and isn't some fucked up hallucination your having to make passing on easier. That they really showed up, and as a last ditch effort to not make your death anymore painful then it has to be- this isn't just some... dream, to make you feel like you were actually cared for in your final moments.

It breaks their hearts, a lot.

Especially when you repeat questions, as if trying to really make sure that they're there, that they're real, and aren't just some figment of your imagination. That they actually came to save you, and weren't off saving Gotham or the world itself instead. Constantly trying to be sure, as if the moment you weren't- then you'd be convinced that you were slowly dying all alone, with no hope of help coming — not even thinking that the Batfam would come — and just have to sit with that fact as you take your final breaths.

The pain you feel is almost equal to their's, and what really worries and scares most of them is how sure and certain you are that they wouldn't show up. That either the thought would never cross their minds, or that something else would come up and they'd leave you for dead, or that they just wouldn't notice that you were kidnapped at all.

Which, said fright and worry is only amplified when you have to keep asking "Are you really here? Are you sure?" And the like, and they have to keep finding ways to prove to you that yes, they are here. They're helping you, and they're not leaving- they actually managed to save you, and that you're going be okay now. That they aren't going away, and are very, very real.

Each little, broken laugh chips away at the pieces of their hearts, and your own disbelief that they can't seem to get rid of no matter what they do or say, is just a punch to the gut. You didn't just think that they wouldn't show up, but were fully convinced that they wouldn't even bother with it. That own realization just... hurts more than anything.

Had they really been that awful to you? Had they really caused you so much pain and hurt that you'd not only think of such a thing, but fully believe it? They didn't remember doing anything in particular that would cause you to think that way... but maybe that wasn't the problem. It wasn't what they did to you, but rather what they didn't do, and that's when the pieces finally begin to click.

Of course some don't want to believe it, similar to how some of them in "Not Here" express a brief moment of denial and disbelief themself, but they don't get to experience such a luxury anymore. Not with you here- bleeding, hurt, and crying from both relief and disbelief, because you couldn't believe that they actually showed up.

Even when they do quickly take you to a hospital and get you treated, that image of you is still ingrained into their minds. They can't forget it- how you looked at them and spoke, and just how you treated the whole situation because of how convinced you were.

From here they'll try to rebuild what they can, and all definitely be 100% more protective then they've ever been. The moment you're able to come home (which, you ARE coming home. No if's or but's. You don't get a chance this time.), they're doing everything in their power to not only 'fix' everything, but make sure that you are safe at all possible moments of the day.

It's safe to say that the whole experience traumatized the whole family to a certain degree. Not only with you being kidnapped- but you trying to escape multiple times and almost dying, because you were so convinced that no one would show up to help. (Which, while it was also because you can genuinely handle yourself and did believe you could escape on your own, the Batfam doesn't entirely believe that (and you almost dying doesn't help with that) so they chalk it up to you being desperate, because you 'knew' that no one was coming to save you. Which also may or may not make certain people worse in the process.) So they're already leaning pretty heavy on the yandere tendencies. Which most likely develop over the time you're in the hospital, and into your first week or so staying in the Manor.

Which does lead us to your little addition:

Which, you are very correct!!!

Our boy Jason, put in very simple terms, doesn't take the situation well. At all.

Seeing you bloodied, bruised, abused, malnourished, and on the brink of death no less- definitely doesn't help with his reaction at all.

Don't get me wrong! All of them react pretty negatively to the situation, and many of them have very strong reactions- Jason in particular just has the worst and strongest one. :]

The moment he sees you, he's immediately reminded of his death. The urge to comfort you is strong, but he just doesn't know what to do- and so he ends up not doing anything until you're in the hospital. Which, leading up to that point, he's checking your pulse as often as he can.

He knows what it's like to be hopeless, and feel that helpless- but to know that you experienced that? To know that you almost died like he did? It ruins him. It fucks him up more than anything else.

From the way you looked at the Batfam- the way you looked at him, and just how utterly relieved you were, despite drowning in your own disbelief- it haunts him. The state they found you in messed him up enough, but all of your questions, and just how you were even trying to reassure yourself that them showing up and saving you was real, fucked him up big time.

Before he knows it, he's hunting down the people who kidnapped you, and wiping out whatever is left of their bloodlines. Not sparing a single person, as they didn't spare you- with their generations leading to your kidnappers being born.

He's making their final moments just as painful as yours would've been. Their agony almost matching his, as he couldn't forget the night they saved you. He refused to. That moment forever engraved into his mind, reminding him of what also was if they were a second too late, and how it made him realize just how much he's fucked up along with everyone else.

While Jason can't exactly just waltz into the Hospital to visit you, since he is still considered dead and everything, he sneaks into your room instead. Trying to give what comfort he can in his own silent, but close way. Holding your hand with a gentleness even foreign to himself, and saying how he's sorry and that he'll make it up to you. Promising every night that he'll make those that made you suffer pay with their lives, and then some. Saying how he won't leave your side ever again, only to be gone by the morning.

He brings what he can as well. Even if it isn't as showy or extravagant as any of the things that Bruce, Damian, Dick and so on are getting you, or as pretty and lively as the flowers that are placed by your bedside. It's just his own little way of trying to make it up to you.

The small, little gifts he gives you are indeed little, and he doesn't give much since he doesn't think that your forgiveness or love can be bought. But he still tries to give something. So he'll give things that can be as little as hair ties or bracelets, to earrings (that totally aren't matching) and a little music box that reminded him of the melodies you've made thus far. It's all just another way of saying that he cares about you, and not only wants to build your relationship but be connected to you somehow.

The earrings, even if you don't wear them but just have them, make him feel closer to you then he can. He hopes that in some little way, that whenever you wind and let that music box play its tune, that you are reminded of him or think of him in some way. That when you wear or even look at the few ties and bracelets he's given you, he comes to mind in some small way, and manages to bring the smallest of smiles on your face.

Jason doesn't yearn to be remembered or seen fondly, but he would like to and deeply appreciate it. Since when he looks at his earnings, he's reminded of you, and the pair he managed to give you. Leaving him unable to fight back the smile that grows on his face.

For the most part, he just generally tries to be more present, hardly leaving you alone unless he has to, and spending every moment he can by your side. Moments that begin to last longer once he finishes his buisness with your kidnappers, and their families. He doesn't push too hard or is super in your face and constantly invading your personal space. He just exists in your presence, and as long as you're around he's got no complaints.

Though he does get extremely protective and possessive. Especially if your sleeping or something, and someone walks in. God have mercy if they need to wake you up, and dare to try without saying anything to Jason first.

Which- all of this boils down to you getting scary dog privileges every night, which turns into an almost 24/7 type of deal when you get discharged from the hospital.

---

Sorry if this is a little all over the place. I wrote it all in one go for the most part and haven't really looked it over, so there's probably some mistakes I didn't catch and missed 😅

Still, I hope that's alright, and as you can see- i really enjoy this idea :]

[ghouldtime]

Ghost'ed

Been thinking about literal Ghost! Ghost. Maybe it's playing too many ghost hunting games or watching too many shows but I cannot stop thinking about it. You also cannot convince me this man wouldn't be a restless spirit. His entire life is troubled and I don't see him going down in a peaceful way or leaving until he feels the job is done - and likely ending up trapped as a result

I wrote this at work so sorry in advance for any typos or slip ups!

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Ghost hunting wasn’t exactly what most people would list in "Top ten relaxing hobbies" - but it's not like you were most people. You were simply you. The same you who thought spending your time speculating about spooky specters was one of the best ways to pass by those few stretches of free time that could be all too fleeting in the hellscape known as adulthood.

The stares that followed you when you announced paranormal investigation as a hobby was something you knew all too well. After all, telling someone you’re a ghost hunter only stood as a slightly more socially acceptable version of telling them you believed in bigfoot (you did, but that’s beside the point). The dozens of cheesy TV shows certainly popularized it but they did little to help with the perception of it.

When the face of popular ghost hunting media was full of grown men who screamed like a squirrel high on helium at every little thump of a house settling, it did little to help what people automatically thought of when they heard of your unique hobby. Plenty still turned their noses up, scoffed slightly as they rolled their eyes and sneered, “Aren’t you too old to be doing that?” 

Or worse. They gave a tight-lipped smile, nodded, and crinkled their eyes as they said, "Oh, interesting." While the tension in their body told of holding back laughter or wanting to bolt right on out of there, far far away from you.

Quite frankly, you didn't care what they said anymore as it was your life to live, not theirs. You’d seen enough to know without a fraction of a doubt that there was more beyond the veil of life itself, hiding just out of sight. The hundreds of hours you spent wandering dark hallways and dilapidated ruins with nothing but your flashlight and ghost box proved otherwise. At least it proved it to you.

Proving it to others was a horse of another color. Skeptics who spit their criticism loud enough to deafen even the most positive prevalent of voices in the community were a dime a dozen. Unfortunately, their existence was as certain as the sky is blue. Skepticism was apart of human nature, after all. They would always exist as long as the day and night kept up their eternal dance.

Convincing them was a fruitless effort. You'd sooner be able to convince hippos to fly than you'd convince them of the truth you knew. Trying to get everyone to agree, to acknowledge the paranormal, was hopeless and something you certainly weren't going to waste your life on no matter what they called your or what they said.

As far as you were concerned, being paid to sit in the dark alone and find evidence of life beyond the grimy waters of death itself was a pretty sweet gig. The naysayers could seethe in their own jealousy all they wanted because at the end of the day, you’re getting paid to do what you love. That they never could take away from you.

They'd never be able to have the same thrill that you did as you took on another case, ready to see even more of what the phantasmal realm had to offer.

Anticipation, nervousness, and excitement rolled together in a palpable energy you hid beneath a calmer exterior every time you took a job. There always would be that wonder there, the question of what exactly you might find dangling just out of reach, the hope that maybe, just maybe you might see even more than you already have. Another chance to investigate meant yet another night spent lurking in the shadows, tirelessly trying to find more evidence of the great world beyond the grave and its inhabitants. Tonight certainly would be no different.

An older couple quite reluctantly booked an appointment for a standard investigation after mysterious things that they really could not explain, no matter how they went about it, happened time and time again. They'd tried to ignore it, they said, but it only got worse.

Footsteps that echoed through the house at first in a gentle patter had become confident strides. When they went to look, no one was there. Doors that used to slowly creak open, as if blown by the wind, instead started to rattle the frame with force as they opened or slammed in the middle of the night. The husband looked particularly miffed when he groused about the TV going on at odd hours of the night, while his wife seemed more concerned about the possibility of someone having broken in and the fact that it kept doubling in intensity as time went on. The list went on and on about their complaints ranging from things being moved around to always finding a light turned on in a room in the middle of the night. There most certainly was something going on if all of what they were saying was true.

The glaring parade of red flags that easily would send others running for the hills lured you in. Like a dog with a scent, you weren't going to drop the trail, oh no. You were there to sink your teeth and claws in and not let go. Come hell, heaven, or high water - nothing would stopping you.

True to your title, you were a paranormal investigator which warranted a lot more work and professionalism than the standard ghost hunters you saw on TV who couldn't tell the difference between a gust of wind and a ghost. Your job was to research, conduct a proper paranormal investigation, and provide your evidence - or lack of, if it was truly devoid of haunting. But here hardly sounded like it.

Taking your time and reassuring them that you were, indeed, a professional, you went over all the usual questions with them: when did this start, how old is your house, any history of deaths in it, have you acquired any new items recently, do you have any items that were second hand or antique, any family heirlooms in the house, was it in any particular location, etc etc.

Every angle had to be considered, especially the mundane. Plenty of times, people just had a poorly constructed house, deeply held superstitions, and a touch of paranoia to make for a perfect combination of nothing happening at all. That didn’t seem to be the case here, however. While none of their answers pointed in a clear direction of what it might be, it still all pointed to signs of something unworldly happening. But that's what you were there for. To determine if there actually was a ghost, why it was there, and maybe who it was (if things went well and it felt like cooperating). 

You bid them a good night as they headed off with family friends in a beat up convertible, chattering away without a care in the world as if they didn’t have a paranormal parasite problem. At least they were going to go enjoy their night by having an evening out instead of breathing down your neck like some of those who hired you. Locking the door, you trudged in with your gear and began the initial inspection with practiced ease.

A haunting in a house as young and modern as theirs was quite unusual. Open, airy rooms completed with white, sleek, almost eye-hurtingly clean interiors made up the entirety of the house. Even as night crawled higher and higher into the sky, pulling its dark cloak over the land, the house stayed bright. Nothing about it said haunted or caught your eye. The scariest thing there was likely the heating bill. 

As far as your research showed, there hadn't been a death in it or on the land. The owners also seemed quite appalled at the idea of antiques (go figure) so that went right out the window, too. Normally there might be some stashed somewhere that they weren't thinking about, like the attic, but this house didn’t even have that. No basement, no attic, no creepy graveyard in the back; it was a normal, suburban house that shouldn’t have anything going on.

Perusing the house at a leisurely pace, you browsed each and every room with a thorough consciousness of finding something, anything, that could possibly have started it. Yet you turned up empty handed. Everything was as pure and alabaster as the marble countertops and the expensive sleek metal furniture. 

Oh well, not every job would be easy. And not every haunted house was obligated to look run-down and rustic. Some ghosts just had more upper class tastes - or were unfortunate enough to be stuck in an eyesore like this. Maybe a ghost would add some actual personality to their home...

Seeing as they'd said there wasn't exactly a rhyme or reason as to where things would happen, you decided a central room was your best bet. The living room was open enough for everything and an easy place any spirits could find. It had plenty of room for your equipment and the open layout meant you had a great vantage point for the whole house.

Preparing your gear came as naturally as breathing to you, the tasks you've done dozens of times over were a matter of habit. Moving through the motions was your second nature as you worked, not batting an eye as you checked batteries and strategically stationed your gear. It only took a matter of minutes to have your cameras, light system, motion activated interactable objects, ghost box, and the rest of your fancy gadgets set up all around the room.

Placed on the coffee table was your heaviest piece of equipment - your modified spirit box that you had made some special adjustments to just to make sure your results were as accurate as possible. The broken antenna and attached amp weren't standard, nor were the noise reducers, but they stood as a testament to why you were a professional and why you kept getting called out to different places. You knew how to get results and tuned every tiny thing to your needs. There was no room for error or doubt alike in an already uncertain field.

Double checking everything was ready to go once more once more, you plunged the room into somewhat true darkness as you drew the curtains shut and pressed the button on the spirit box, causing it to crackle to life. Speeding through the static of radio stations, it scanned the many frequencies in a blur, far too fast for any natural noise to come through. The whirring of it evened out into a constant, muffled background noise that you’d spent countless hours listening to. Its familiar hum lulled you into a relaxed state, your heart as steady as your calm breaths despite the slight buzz of familiar adrenaline you always felt when you first started. A small beep signaled the successful activation of the digital thermometer as you walked around in a slow, even pace, checking all around. 

Taking a deep breath, you began as you always had. In a confident, but even tone you called out, “Is there anyone with me right now?”

....

........

Silence.

The static of the spirit box continued to filter through in its usual constant churning hum of white noise. Typical. Many supernatural beings wouldn't want to interact, especially not at first. You don't blame them. If a stranger barged into your house and demanded if you were there, pestering you with questions as threw their belongings around, you'd not want to answer them either. That wasn’t even considering that many were so unused to people hearing them or trying to talk to them, not at them. They didn't exactly register on the same frequency that humans did most of the time.

Walking around the room, your boots echoed on the tile flooring. Your footsteps ricocheted off of the high ceilings, amplified by the lofty ceiling and wonderful acoustics this house apparently had. Keeping your attention ever shifting, you kept alert for signs of anything happening. Looking too long in the dark and expecting things to happen would only yield false results and cause paranoia. You knew far better than to do that. 

Nothing lit up, nothing beeped, nothing changed. There was conclusively nothing happening for the first few, long minutes as everything kept at an unwavering constant. Visiting each room, you rechecked their temperatures and tried to find anything amiss or out of place. Yet all seemed well, still, and normal.

Only when you crossed the hallway back into the living room after a quick visit to the bedrooms did your hair stand on end. A chill ran down your spine, the once warm air now holding the barest bite of cold on the edge. Holding up the thermometer, you narrowed your eyes at the steady decrease. While it wasn't quite freezing, it kept dropping and dropping. Numbers ticked lower and lower, your hair stood further on end as a small shiver ran through you as the chill dipped lower and lower. Bingo. First sign of activity of the night. It wasn’t much but it was plenty to know that something was happening here.

Despite the crisp chill, nothing else shifted in the room. Silence prevailed behind the distant drone of your equipment; mainly the comforting, steady typical static of the spirit box. Even the appliances seemed to have gone quiet, exchanging their usual low thrumming rhythm for a break that suspended them in a noiseless limbo.

Your shifting movements echoed far louder than you would have liked as you paced around the room, looking for something new, anything. An actual tangible reaction you could record would be just what you needed but so far, the haunt was holding out.  “What is your name?” You asked, keeping your voice as steady as you can as you tried to switch it up. 

Continual feedback from the spirit box sounded as steady as can be. Still, there was no voice trying to get through it. The fabricated noise reigned supreme as it did its job, whirring away. Pressing your lips into a thin line, the smallest hint of a frown tugged at your lips as disappointment flickered through you. Okay, that's fine. It usually took a few tries anyways. 

A faint, sparkling crackle escaped from it as you heard one, tiny word in a rumbling timbre. One, single word that halted you mid step, your head snapping towards the machine. 

“Ghost.”

Doing a double take, a grin split across your face as your heart jumped with joy. A response! A true, actual response. Not that it exactly answered your question but it meant something was listening.

There was something here!

Nearly tripping over your own feet, you scampered over to your beloved machine. Your eyes fixated on the glowing orange screen, gleaming with glee. 

“W-what’s your name?” You repeat a bit louder unable to hide the excited tremble in your voice or hands, figuring the ghost likely didn't hear you right. 

Static white noise continued for a few seconds, the little x in the corner flashed once, twice, before it lit up solidly. 

“Ghost.”

The smile you held dropped only for a fraction of a second before you cleared your throat. Well, maybe your slight stutter and excitement got in the way. You did talk fast when excited, after all. Taking a deep breath, undeterred as can be, you repeated in a far steadier voice, “What is your name?”

This time you made sure to enunciate every single syllable, speaking clear and confidently into the air. 

One flashing X glowed in the corner of the screen. Another flash. A third. Fourth. Fifth.

Yet again, the deep voice came a bit louder and rougher this time. A thick Mancunian accent that barely picked up through the filter didn't dull the single word you were trying to avoid, “Ghost.”

Okay. Your brows furrowed deeper, your nose wrinkling slightly as your heart sank. The minor disappointment couldn't be kept off of your face as you really had hoped to hear something else. Approach one clearly isn't working. 

Maybe he didn't speak English. Or maybe he wasn't sure that he was dead. Whatever. There was a ghost and he was answering, that's what mattered, you reminded yourself forcefully until the smile came back to your face and the smallest bit of a headache dissipated. Focus on that. Not on the slight annoyance you felt and the agitated twitch of your fingers.

Exhaling, you pursed your lips. Your grip retightened on your flashlight as you racked through questions in your mind, trying to find something that it would have to answer differently too. 

“Can you do something?”

Hopeful, your eyes trailed around the room, praying that maybe the ghost would do something like interact with the many objects scattered about, or even the motion sensors. 

Nothing happened for a few long moments, silence once again prevailing in the otherwise empty house.

Orange light flashed from the spirit box as the X lit up again, only for a second before the dreaded word repeated itself. 

“Ghost.”

Before you could ask what that even meant, or curse it out for that matter, the spirit box and your flashlight shut off, plunging you into true darkness. The flashlight nearly flew from your hands in surprise as you flinched instinctually, your heart leaping into your throat. Frantically flickering the button of your trusty tool did nothing as you desperately tried to turn on your one source of light with the only way you knew how - only to be met with the continual sight of empty, non-shining bulbs. 

Curses spilled from your lips in all the languages you knew as you fumbled for a battery pack, only to find them missing. What? But you swore that they were right there -- ugh, nevermind. This just wasn't going to be your night.

The initial panic subsided as the chill left the air, the residual regular warmth of the house sinking into the room as if blown in by a lazy breeze. Your hair still stood on end as you walked around with cautious, hesitant steps, having given up on the flashlight. There wasn't coming back from that.

It's only when you approached the spirit box, trying to turn it on to no avail, that you realized what he meant. You asked him to do something and he obliged.

He ghosted you. 

God fucking damn it. 

As you glared at the air in frustration, threw your hands up and personally cursed the fiend, you could've sworn you heard a resonating chuckle behind you as breath brushed against the nape of your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine for a whole new reason.

[azulera]

Rashy noticing that's something has been wrong with you for the last few weeks and you just won't tell him and he's stressing trying to figure it out

azulera

Don’t Leave Me Alone

Pairing: Marcus Rashford x Black Reader

Words: 3.5k

Notes: ngl recent events have made me not even want to post but i already had this done and as i said, i do value that ppl like my writing enough to send requests. so here is this! hope u like it anon

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They'd picked the summer time to move in, late May to be exact, and Marcus was sure it was the smartest decision he’d ever been a part of. The prem season was ended, Y/N was out for the semester, they both had at least five weeks free to travel and relax, and there’d be no cold for the mover’s fingers to go blue in. The transporting itself had gone smoothly, each of her things finding its place in the huge expanse of his house, and the past month and a half of eating, sleeping and waking next to each other had been as nearest to perfect as Marcus thought life might get. So he couldn’t explain what, in the last seven days, could have possibly gone wrong.

“Is everythin alright, love?” He asked over the dinner table, which was sanded wood and brought over from Y/N’s apartment, much smaller than the one he’d used before.

She looked up from her plate and blinked. “Do you mean about dinner? I think I finally got the potatoes right this time, yeah.”

“No, not the food.” The side of his mouth lifted. “You’ve just seemed a bit down, this week, I don’t know. Just wanted to ask, see if there was anythin buggin you?”

“Oh,” She passed a hand over her hair. “Just tired, I guess. It was a rough semester.”

“Yeah, it was – you smashed it, though. But,” He paused until she looked at him, and was immediately taken by her brown eyes, which, unreadable as they were, he’d always found incredibly beautiful. “If anything’s wrong, you can tell me. I’d want to help.”

“Mhm.” She replied, and flitted her eyes away, pushing up from the table. “Let’s clean up?”

He nodded, though he wasn’t convinced, and stood up to take their few dishes to the kitchen. They rinsed and loaded in a silence not as comfortable as it ought to have been, and soon finished, Y/N pausing in front of the rumbling machine. From behind, Marcus pulled her into an embrace, fitting his hands around her waist and mumbling into her neck.

“Wanna come cuddle wi’me for a bit? We can watch the next Narcos.”

He felt her take a deep breath, and then lightly pat the hand that held her.

“I’ve got a little headache, actually. Think m’gonna lay down for the night.”

Marcus frowned. “You want me to watch the next episode? Without you?”

“Yeah, go ahead – I’ll get caught up when you’re on your trip next week. I’d just really like to lay down.”

Fatigue colored her voice, and Marcus felt a little more sure that she really was just under the weather, and not anything worse.

“D’you want me to bring you tea? Water? Medicine?”

She shook her head “no”, and turned around, another sigh hitting the fabric of his t-shirt.

“S’alright, then. Hope you get feeling better, babe.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then two to the dark spirals of her hair. “I’ll be up in a bit. I love you.”

A near silent “thank you” left her lips, and she squeezed his hand once. And then Marcus was left in the kitchen alone.

~~

After a mild pre-season session the next day, Marcus skipped showering to go straight to his car. When he’d seen her that morning, Y/N had still seemed poorly – she hadn’t left bed for tea and breakfast with him, and no silly texts or memes had come into his phone, the way they usually did during his long hours of training. Leaving now, he'd felt a strange, strong urge to get to her, like the sooner he did, the sooner things would go back to normal.

When he keyed into the house, however, her usual lounging spot – in the center of the living room sectional – was empty. As were the kitchen, bedroom, gym and laundry room that he walked to after. He found her instead on the back patio, cuddled into herself on the sunbed, with her curls spread wild and loose about her shoulders. A book was opened up and settled on her knees, and a pile of crumpled tissues sat just to her right.

“Hey, was lookin for you.”

The jitters that assailed him finally began to slow as he approached her, but didn’t fade completely.

“What’s all these for? You wasn’t crying, were you?”

“No, no, not really. It’s just this book. It’s pretty sad.” She tried to laugh at herself, but the sound came out wet and dull. “Or maybe I’m just dramatic.”

A range of emotions swept over him as he considered her pink, puffy eyes, the way she still wouldn’t hold his gaze for too long. His anxiety flared again, but he continued on with the plan he’d devised in the car, hopeful that it might still work.

“Well, I’m just about to run a bath, didn’t have time to shower after training. It could cheer you up, maybe. Did you wanna join me?”

It’s something special they do, just for them, a quiet and closeness involved that Marcus enjoyed far more than he’d ever said aloud. He hoped it would be enough to break through the wall he felt sprouting between them.

“But you’re all sweaty.” She said flatly.

He sucked his teeth, and sat alongside her on the thin mattress.

“That never stopped you before? When we were squeezed up in the one at your flat.”

“Right.” Her face fell, suddenly, as if she’d remembered something unpleasant. “But I’ve already showered, actually, a bit ago. Went out for a run.”

“That never stopped you before, either” Marcus wanted to say but didn’t, and focused instead on fixing his face to not reveal his disappointment.

“Okay.” He stalled a moment, weighing his next move. “Babe, are you sure everything is okay with you? M’a bit worried–”

“It’s fine, Marcus. It’s going to be fine, just …” She closed her eyes, and they glistened when they opened, focused seriously on his own. “I’m fine. Just stop pushing it, please.”

She gathered her book and trash and walked back into the house, which hurt him, but her last sentences hurt worse. If he wasn't meant to push, then what could he do? Sitting back and watching her pull further and further away from him was tortuous and seemed the opposite of what a good partner should do. Still, he nodded, even though she had already gone, and let his head fall into his hands.

A few hours later, in the bath, the jacuzzi jets going but alone, nothing was as it should have been. Already he missed the slide of her wet skin against his, how the brown of it went faintly pink the hotter she ran the water, which was scalding enough by Marcus’ standards. Now it felt lukewarm at best, the bubbles even less fluorescent, less bubbly than usual, without her there to scoop handfuls of them to paste on his face and chest, making herself giggle and cleaning their bodies in the process. He missed that, too, he realized, her body – it’s softness and strength, and how easily it yielded and came alive under his hands, but more concerning was her mind, which was somewhere outside its optimal state, and seemingly getting worse by the day.

He leaned his head back against the tub’s edge and sighed. It was a soft sound, quickly lost among the hum of the jets and the noise of his muscles singing and thanking him, but then he heard something else. Crying. Quiet, choked-off sobs from the other side of the en suite door, that he knew Y/N was trying to hide, but didn’t know why. The sound alone carved a hole deeper in his chest.

Before he realized it, he’d risen from the bath, shampoo still in his hair, and pushed open the door to their bedroom.

Squinting through the dark, Marcus could tell she was in the bed, asleep, or at least pretending to be. He debated whether or not to wake her – his every instinct begged him to, but the noise of tears had stopped, and he’d been specifically, harshly instructed not to “push”.

He waited several moments anyway, eyeing her sleeping form, burning up inside, but when she didn’t budge, he stepped back into the bathroom, mindful of the growing puddle he’d created on the carpet.

Under the shower head, he rinsed his hair and dried off, putting on his lotion and moisturizer in record time, all the while his mind racing, trying to settle the unease twisting up his chest and throat. When he got to the bedroom, he set his alarm and settled in under the covers behind her, as close as he dared.

Though her breaths came and went evenly, something in him, maybe something of his own creation, told him she was awake, that she could hear him. He felt free to unburden himself, and say what he wanted her to know.

“M’here for you, Y/N.” He used one arm to hold her against his chest, and the other to fix her hair scarf where it had ridden up in the back. “Hope you know that. Whatever it is, we can … fix it, talk about it, at least, together. Love you ... don’t wanna lose you.”

He knew the words were true, and could feel their sincerity aching somewhere deep in his bones. But he feared he was running out of ways to make sure Y/N believed it, too.

~~

By the following day, Marcus decided “not pushing” was no longer a viable option. Y/N was gone from bed even before him, and he turned to his night-table to find a message saying she’d gone out for an early run again and to get coffee. It wasn’t a strange occurrence on its own, but the way the last few days had gone, weeks really, this latest change to their patterns was enough to set him on a nervous edge. All through the day, his head was gone, drifting and distracted while training, and his thoughts sprinting to the worst - Y/N wanted to move out, she wanted to break up with him – in any moment he had idle.

But when his third check-in text sent from the rain-wet bed of the physio suite went unanswered, as did the two facetime call requests, it became slightly harder for him to breathe. The PT scrunched his face, but Marcus didn’t explain, wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak if he tried, and he’d been forced through two rounds of deep breathing before he’d let him off the table.

As soon as the gaffer released them, Marcus raced home through the rain that had begun to pour, calling one more time to no avail, but trying to stay rational. He imagined her sat in her spot on the big sofa in the sitting room when he arrived, apologetic and with some perfectly logical story of what had kept her from her phone all day, and what had depressed her mood the past few weeks.

He opened the front door, however, to silence, and her car keys still gone. His stomach dropped, and an icy, despairing prickle crawled over his skin. Was he overreacting? Or should he have pushed more?

Somehow he knew the rest of the house and even the back porch would be empty, just as silent, and found himself climbing the stairs anyway. His legs stopped by the room he used as his office, and he threw himself into the desk chair. He felt more calm, serious in there, for some reason, and composed himself enough to check her location, which was inconclusive, and click her contact another time. It went to voicemail once again, and he cursed, pulling at his hair.

After one heavy, frantic beat, he picked up the phone again to dial the only other number that would be useful at a time like this. The call picked up on the second ring.

“Mum?”

~~

Marcus’ car had been in the driveway when you pulled up, but when you stepped into his house – your house, now – there wasn’t any trace of him. Late afternoon training usually left him in the kitchen or theater room, scarfing down whatever meals his nutritionist prepared before conking out in his-your bed for a few hours until dinner.

You checked your phone, which had been dead up until the last five minutes when you’d connected it to the car charger, and realized it was closer to dinner time than you’d thought.

Dropping off your raincoat and bag, you went in search of him. The blaring missed calls and texts deserved a response, as hard as it would be to face him in person. You didn’t want him to worry any more than he already did, even though you felt there was little, if anything, he could do.

“Marcus?” You called up the stairs, but there was only your footsteps, the patter of rain, in answer.

You began climbing anyway, sure the sounds of the house would lead you to him, and eventually heard his voice, muffled through the closed door of his office. You stopped, and leaned against the wall to listen.

“She won’t talk to me, mum, she won’t, I’ve tried everythin. She’s not physically hurt, no, but something is wrong. I know that much. It’s like she don’t even want to be around me.”

There was a pause, and an ache began in your chest. The distress in your partner’s voice was palpable.

“But I’ve gave her space. And I’ve even asked her up front what’s wrong, and still nothin. I'm leavin for my trip in a few days, and I won’t be able to fix anythin from there. Reckon she might even be gone by then.”

Each second you listened, you fell further and further into the mire of guilt, and it seemed impossible to get out. Some external force, whose name or origin you didn’t know, forced your hand onto the knob and pushed into the room.

You met his eyes, cautious, but found nothing but relief, unshed tears in them.

“Y/N. Baby.” His voice cracked around the words, and he flew to your side of the room, crushing you to his body, burying his face in your damp hair.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay? Where were you?”

You tried, but couldn't speak around the lump in your throat. All you wanted was for him to hold you again, and to apologize for everything.

“Y/N. You’ve gotta talk to me, please. M’goin mad here, I’ve been goin mad–”

“I’m okay, Marcus. I’m not hurt.” You squeezed at his hands, trying to loosen their tight grip around your back and also trying to ground him. “Went for my run and coffee like I said, and then around to visit my mates at my old flat. My phone died, and I didn’t realize. I should’ve known you would worry.”

He looked back at you with wide eyes still, nodding slow like it was taking serious effort to comprehend the words leaving your mouth.

“I’m okay, baby. I promise.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was gravelly, but much quieter, and none of the terror gone from it.

“Y/N, look, know you asked me not to push, but I can't just do nothin while–”

“Wait, Marcus – can we sit and do this? Please. And you’ve gotta get out of this jacket, babe, it’s soaked. You’ll catch a cold.”

The familiar sound of your fussing seemed to center him further, and he slid the jacket off, settling stiffly on the futon along the opposite wall. His legs were spread wide, and he raised his hands to his knees, fingers digging into them.

Hesitantly, you followed, standing between his legs, watching his eyes, which you’d missed, and his lips, which you’d possibly missed even more. You paused before lowering yourself onto his knee.

“Is this okay?”

“‘Course” He breathed out, pulling you the rest of the way down and rubbing his hands gently up and down your back. It was the first moment you’d felt at ease in the last two weeks, and you took the time to just hug him, wiping at a drop of water puddled along his hairline. Gradually, everything that had been pent-up seemed much easier to face.

“I’ve been real distant the past weeks, haven’t I.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s cause I’ve been confused.”

“Confused about what?”

The intensity of his eyes suddenly became too much, and you pressed your cheek against his shoulder. You made sure your voice still reached him clear.

“Confused about my feelings. About us, about us living together.”

His stomach had gone cold with dread again, but you took the silence as a license to continue. You knew he would stop you if and when he’d heard enough.

“It’s been great, it really has, Marcus. You’re my favorite person to be around – you know that.” His insides smiled at the mention, since the past week had convinced him of the opposite. Still, his expression remained the same.

“And you seemed so happy, having me here. But sometimes, lately, it got — I don’t know, overwhelming? Like, I had my friends in my last flat with me, and it feels like I spend so much time here alone. When you’re here, I don’t feel like that, but that don't feel fair to you either.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t understand.”

“I know, it’s confusing, but it’s like, I’m used to my roommates, us all together, a lot of noise – even when you’re alone you’re not really alone. So whenever you get here, I want to recreate that, spend every second with you, if I can. Didn’t want you to think I was clinging, though? ‘Cause I know how that feels, too.” You paused to take a breath, and Marcus rubbed your back, silent encouragement to continue.

“Thought you should be able to come home and spend your time on your own, too, if that’s what you wanted. So I was moping, but trying to give you that, for a while. Thought that if I could give you some space until your trip next week, I’d be okay. I could use that week to get myself together, stop being ungrateful. ‘Cause I am so lucky, aren’t I? To be able to live with this person I love so much. But I guess I only made it worse.”

“So it’s findin a balance, then, that was hard. Findin ... where you and I, personal time ends, and where “us” time begins.” Marcus summarized.

There was an unspoken “Why didn’t you just say so?” at the back of his statement that your partner was too kind and too patient to say. But you deserved it, so you said it yourself.

“Exactly. But I should have told you that it was eating me up. Not tried to isolate myself, or shut you out. And I’m sorry, about that. ”

Marcus let the apology ring out, and laced the fingers of one of your hands together, a quiet absolution. You felt lighter, now, after having spoken your piece, but knew that didn’t mean the conservation was over.

“Don’t think I need to say I forgive you, because,” He leaned his chin into his palm thoughtfully, before looking up at you. “Because I really get it, you know. I do. I understand that you need your own space, to feel like your own person still. And also that I’m gone, and it’s just you here, a lot, which is new for you. I get that it’s overwhelming, that findin the balance bit. But– I’ve never done this, moved in with someone before, either, have I? It’s excitin, but it’s a lot of other emotions, too. You can’t assume how m’feeling, or how I want to spend my time, just like I can’t read your mind about what's got you upset, innit?”

He paused.

“And it’s like, we’ve gotta figure it out together, don’t we?”

You nodded.

“So when -if, you’re feelin like that again, you’ll tell me? Even if you think it’ll hurt my feelings, or whatever. And if you need to go spend extra time with your mates to feel alright, we’ll sort it. And I’ll do the same. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

"You promise?"

You promised, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and chin against his head. With the most difficult part of the conversation over, your senses opened up enough beyond Marcus to notice that the sound of rain outside had ceased. The wet, grassy smell of his training kit finally entered your nose, and your good humor began to stretch its legs.

“So I don’t need to go pack my things?” You mumbled into his shoulder.

“No.” Marcus snorted. “Not unless you changed your mind the last 15 seconds.”

“Nah, I reckon I’ll stay. I'd miss the jacuzzi tub too much.” You sighed. “Saying no to that bath with you was the hardest thing I ever done.”

Marcus chuckled, enough air in his chest to do so now, and kissed you lightly on the lips.

“Fancy one now?” He repeated, and your “please” was fast and enthusiastic. He scooped you in his arms, and you held tight to him, murmuring quiet “I love you”s and knowing as you walked through the house –your house– that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[genericpuff]

I reread episode 24 of LO after having dropped off between seasons 1 and 2 and it genuinely brought me to tears. I feel like there’s no way the theory about Rachel not intending this to be a depiction of SA can be true. The way it’s written feels so powerful and intentional, and I honestly think that makes her dropping the plotline that much worse.

I mean, maybe I’m projecting because of how similar the scenario was to my own experiences, but I just don’t feel convinced that she didn’t fully intend to write this as SA.

The shots of Persephone trying to physically push him away, of her standing shell shocked in the shower, after the fact, her internal dialogue about wanting it to stop but feeling like she can’t take back the “okay” she gave. It’s gut wrenching. And Apollo commenting on her hair and saying she should leave it long is such a brilliant piece of writing that hits like a punch in the gut for us readers who know why it grows.

And honestly, I think that chapter being so well written is what hurts the most. Because it feels like myself and other survivors were lured in by the prospect of seeing our stories told, and getting catharsis through Persephone even if we would never have it. The conversation she has later with Eros, where he states plainly that what happened was rape, not dancing around the word, validating what Persephone and so many real readers have gone through… It’s so, so painful to read that back and know that this plotline was dropped. That we were led to believe we would be seen only to be completely swept under the rug with no resolution to that story.

And I know people criticize that it’s immediately followed by a phone call with Hades, but honestly? After rereading that too? I loved most of the phone call. They had real chemistry, and you could still feel the weight of what just happened in how Persephone carried herself, but as they talked and she had something to distract herself, the burden got a bit lighter, at least for the moment. It felt resonant. Emotionally intelligent.

It’s like you said. Lore Olympus wouldn’t be so easy to hate if it hadn’t been so easy to love. I think it could have been good despite its flaws and problematic elements, because no media is 100% pure— but somewhere along the way, Rachel stopped caring. And THAT is what ruined it.

No but this is so valid, everything you just described was pretty much why I loved the SA plotline in the first place.

I think the scene itself is beautifully written, but it's odd how it becomes more about Persephone simply wanting an "easy way out" of TGOEM, not just in the 'decision' to have sex (i.e. she was coerced and assaulted) but later when she tries to get out of TGOEM, like... is it because she wants to actually date guys, or is it because she doesn't feel like she "deserves" to be in TGOEM anymore due to the assault? The story tries in some places to explore this but never commits to it fully so it's really hard to know what point it's trying to make at times when you actually peel back the layers.

Really the biggest reasons I 'suspect' Rachel of not intending to write a genuine SA plot from the very beginning is because of how... 'back of mind' it is. It only seems to be brought up whenever Rachel can be bothered to remember, but then it's completely juxtaposed against scenes where it should affect her (or reasonably would) and it doesn't. Case in point, a few episodes after she tells Eros what happened and he confirms it was rape, he tries to convince her to go into Hades' office dressed in a trenchcoat and nothing else underneath and it's like bro... this girl just told you what she went through, why are you suggesting she try to seduce her boss who she doesn't even really know yet LOL

As a result , it really does just make it feel like the SA scene is just there to make Apollo an easy villain, and Hades an easy hero, with the only definitions being "well, Hades didn't assault her, so he's definitely the better choice!" (as if Apollo was ever a 'choice' to begin with, Persephone didn't like him from day 1 so there was basically no chance of there being a love triangle setup except for the audience members who quickly latched onto that "I guess he's cute if you squint a little" line). And with the way episodes are chopped up, separating points of the narrative from each other, it feels like whenever stuff does happen (esp surrounding the SA plot) it's because Rachel's finally bought herself enough time to come up with something, like the therapy episode, Eros confirming it was assault, Persephone stealing the lyre with the intent of hiding it from Apollo (only to then willingly show it to him alone in her bedroom with him a handful of episodes later), etc.

If she did intend to write an SA scene from the beginning, it doesn't feel like she thought the plotline through fully to make it actually feel genuine (and this goes for a lot of the subplots in LO, they always seem to start off as these base "get your attention" ideas but with no actual follow through). And with Apollo now being written as this "huehue you fell right into my trap!" villain (and very poorly I might add) it just feels like the SA is now taking a backseat to, "Actually, Apollo is the bad guy because he wants to overthrow his dad or some shit. Forget the SA happened, I don't wanna write about it anymore."

All those points aside, I agree with you fully, if Rachel cared about what she was trying to write back when the SA was first shown, then that level of care definitely doesn't seem to be there anymore and it's such a shame to see. It just feels like it's being used for artificial drama and nothing more and that's so frustrating and disappointing for many of the SA victims who are critical of this story (including myself) to see when that plotline originally felt like comforting visibility.

[all-hail-trudos]

The way Zelda redditors behave like BotW is going to be the template for future titles is absolutely hilarious. They are convinced that Nintendo is done with classic Zelda elements forever. TotK proves it! Never mind that they can barely agree on whether this even deserves to be called a new game or overpriced DLC. Or that Nintendo themselves have said that this was a very big experiment, where they let a team comprised of mostly younger devs run the show, and the director of BotW has actually left the company to go work on Infinity Nikki of all things. I don't know what the future of Zelda is going to look like. I can't see Nintendo just walking back everything they did in BotW. (And they better not. Skyward Sword is the worst mainline Zelda title, and BotW was the exact opposite of the hand holding the series had gotten really bad for). However, we can guarantee one thing for sure. The open-air game concept that specifically defined Breath of the Wild and its direct sequel Tears of the Kingdom is not simply going to be the new template for the series.

I could leave it there with a "because Nintendo said so" but it's midnight and I'm already making bad decisions, so I'm going to go one further and back this up with a second supporting argument. That's not how Nintendo as a company works. That's not how they've ever worked. They stopped doing rational, clear iterative upgrades when they followed up the Gamecube with the Wii. The Zelda series itself has constantly been one of self reinvention. Ocarina of Time is incredibly special in that Breath of the Wild is the first time they've so clearly broken away from the model it set. But when you look at the rest of the series, it's obvious BotW was the biggest experiment, but not even remotely the first. Majora's Mask turned the main gameplay concept on its head by putting everything on a Very. Tight. Timer. When you hit midnight of the third day, that was it. Rewind or die. All your progress was reset except for your sword (iirc), your masks, and your rupees if you put them in the bank (because the banker was a time traveler?). Wind Waker flooded the whole continent and had you sailing around on a boat, using a proto-physics system to fill your sails. The wide open world of OoT was gone altogether, and Princess Zelda didn't show up until halfway through the game (we won't talk about what they did to Tetra). Twilight Princess made the game super linear and made Zelda herself almost secondary to the plot. Actually, TP almost feels like the most direct callback to OoT with the doubling down on horse mounted combat, an art style that looked more like it next to whatever WW was doing (but which would ultimately age a lot worse), dungeons that also felt more directly inspired, and a combat system that was a little less fluid and reactive. But it also had Link temporarily become a werewolf, and gave us an egregiously underappreciated Spaghetti Western shootout that came out of nowhere and was all together too brief. Then Skyward Sword came along, which was the least reinventive of the bunch mechanically, but which did at least try to turn the classic narrative on its head. Also Zelda went from being barely there to being a driving character in the narrative. And she walked so BotW Princess Zelda could run. That said, imho, you can see why they leaned so much harder into experimentation with their next game that nearly skipped a whole console generation, because by SS the series tropes were getting a little too strong. The series was actually drifting into iterative territory, and that's not the typical Nintendo way. Especially not with one of their two core in-house franchises.

(Please don't bring up Pokemon here. I know it's Nintendo's third core franchise. But please remember, Zelda and Mario are solely owned by Nintendo, while Pokemon is at this point is at the center of an entire corporate conglomerate, which Nintendo is only part of).

I get that some people didn't enjoy BotW. I can sympathize with the people who did not want more like it and who were consequently less than thrilled by TotK's arrival. But bemoaning the fall of the franchise and saying Nintendo is going to be like Ubisoft, EA, and all the other trend chasing studios out there is really going too far. Nintendo has spent too many years baffling investors to start doing that now. Yes, Tears of the Kingdom exists. No, it's not proof of the trend. It was a planned sequel (itself an enormously rare concept in Zelda history). You can't make a planned story and gameplay sequel to a game and just throw away the concept you're following up on. That would be an enormously bad idea. (Worse, even, than trying to make your sequel game stand on its own for new players and erasing nearly all memory of Link from the same people he helped save. I love TotK so much, but I am not blind to its flaws, what few there are).

ALSO yes Echoes of Wisdom has Zelda stacking beds into a diy staircase. NO that doesn't mean we're seeing a return of this apparently beloathed systems-based physics gameplay in 2D fashion. If there were physics, the beds would have fallen over. That's like calling Minecraft or Dragon Quest Builders a physics based exploration game just because they have objects you can stack. That is the dumbest take I've seen come out of a community that is profoundly skilled at coming out with dumb takes.

[alilixx]

Heyy could u write a greg house x reader

Shes a doctor or prob a surgeon and its like season 1 ep 13 , she gets sick and needs a heart transplant or something like that but she doesn’t want to then house convinces her coz he likes her and house lies for her so she can get the transplant and they used to flirt before and all but after that they confess about liking each other and start dating ☺️ thanks

IM SOO SORRYYY SCHOOL STARTED AGAINNN SOO LESS TIME FOR WRITE FANFIC BUT I WILL TRY WRITE FOR EVERY WEDNESDAY AND WEEKEND <33

Surgeon!FemReader x Gregory House

You had already noticed unusual signs for several weeks. At first, it was just fatigue. Nothing more. You convinced yourself it was due to your endless hours in the operating room, those sleepless nights that kept piling up. Just a bit of exhaustion, something every surgeon knows well. But the palpitations intensified, followed by slight dizziness, then that crushing sensation in your chest, as if your own heart was fighting against you. You eventually ran a series of tests, discreetly, hoping it was nothing.

But the results didn’t lie: severe dilated cardiomyopathy. Your heart, your most precious instrument, the one that allowed you to save lives day after day, was betraying you. But you refused to believe it.

Today, as you sat in House’s office, surrounded by his diagnostic team, you were desperately searching for a way out, an alternative explanation. Something that would prove this was all a mistake. After all, you were a doctor, you knew diagnoses were never infallible.

"I want your opinion," you finally said, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from what was coming next. "I did my own tests, but I want to be sure. Maybe I'm too involved to see things clearly."

House looked up, intrigued by your direct tone. "Too involved? You mean, too much in denial."

Cameron stepped forward to review your results, her eyes scanning every detail. "The echocardiograms clearly show dilatation of the heart chambers. You already have a heart murmur, you’ve felt it, haven’t you?"

You frowned, hesitating to respond. Of course you had felt it. But admitting it would make everything more real.

"I want to believe it’s something else," you murmured, your voice betraying, for the first time, a hint of vulnerability. "I’m a surgeon. I can’t... afford to have a failing heart."

Foreman shook his head, pragmatic as always. "You can’t afford not to act either. If you let this get worse, you won’t even have the chance to enter the operating room next time."

You looked away, your throat tight. Fear was rising inside you, a fear you hadn’t felt in a long time. You had always been able to control everything, every incision, every move. But now, it was your own body slipping through your fingers.

House, as always, wasted no time twisting the knife.

"It’s fascinating. You’d rather believe that all this will resolve itself, as if your heart is just going to miraculously decide to heal. Spoiler alert: it won’t." He tilted his head, scrutinizing your face. "But I’m curious. Why consult my team if you’ve already done the tests yourself? Looking for validation or an excuse to do nothing?"

His sarcasm irritated you, but you knew he was right. "Because I want... I want to be sure."

"Sure of what? That you’re dying? Let me confirm it for you, you are. Now that’s settled, we can move on to the next step: you’re refusing the only solution that could save you because you’re afraid of losing control. Interesting, but not surprising."

"I’m not afraid," you retorted, more to convince yourself than to answer him.

House didn’t believe you for a second. He moved closer, leaning his cane against the edge of his desk.

"You’re lying to yourself." His gaze pierced through yours, as if he could see past all your defenses. "You’ve seen how many transplants fail. But you’ve also seen how many succeed. So why condemn yourself when you know you have a chance to make it?"

Silence fell over the room. His words struck you deeper than you wanted to admit. You had spent months running from this reality, pretending it was just a passing episode. But here you were, sitting in front of specialists who left you no escape. That’s when House chose to play his final card.

"I’m going to ask you a very simple question." He sat back behind his desk, tapping the file of his favorite patient: you. "Do you want to die just to stay loyal to your own arrogance? Or do you want to live long enough to annoy me even more?"

You felt a strange warmth rising to your cheeks. House hadn’t spoken those words with his usual cynicism. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you knew he genuinely cared about you. And that thought unsettled you more than anything else.

You lowered your eyes to your trembling hands. You were a surgeon, a strong person. Yet, for the first time in a long while, you felt vulnerable. And House had seen it from the very beginning.

The silence in House’s office was heavy after the intense discussion about your condition. The diagnosis was now certain: a heart transplant was your only chance. Yet, one question remained, one that had been haunting you. If you were really going to undergo this operation, there was only one person you trusted enough to put your life in their hands: House.

So, in a rare moment of vulnerability, you took a deep breath and asked the question you had been dreading from the start.

"I want it to be you. You’ll be my surgeon."

The team exchanged stunned glances. House, however, remained silent for a moment, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you. Then he let out a dry laugh.

"Me? No. Bad idea. Very bad idea."

You frowned, stung by his reaction. "Why? You’re one of the best doctors I know."

House straightened up, pressing his cane against the floor before fixing you with an unusually serious look. "I’m not a surgeon. I diagnose. I play with ideas, I take risks, but I don’t hold a scalpel over living patients. I don’t do surgeries."

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He was so confident, so skilled at solving impossible cases, and yet, here in front of you, he seemed hesitant. You stepped closer to him, determined to understand.

"Are you afraid of messing up?" you asked, your voice low but sharp.

House let out a sarcastic laugh, but you sensed a certain nervousness behind his tone. "No, I’m afraid of killing someone because of my damn leg and my trembling hands. If you want someone to do this surgery without screwing it up, ask a real surgeon."

His rejection hurt you deeply. You had opened up to him, and he was pushing you away without a moment’s hesitation. You felt anger rising within you, mixed with the pain of a feeling you didn’t want to name.

"I thought I could trust you," you whispered, your eyes burning with disappointment. "But I see I was wrong."

Before he could respond, you turned on your heels and left the office, leaving House and the team behind. The sound of your footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as you walked towards your own uncertain future. Your heart was pounding painfully, both physically and emotionally. He had rejected you when you had offered him your fragile trust.

A few days later, you found yourself in the pre-op room, your face calm, but your mind in turmoil with conflicting emotions. You had finally accepted the transplant, even though it terrified you. Another surgeon had been assigned for the operation, a competent colleague, but not House. His refusal still haunted you, the abrupt way he had pushed you away, as if your life meant nothing to him.

The medical team busied themselves around you, but all you could hear was a dull hum, lost in your thoughts. An anesthesiologist approached, and as you lay down on the operating table, a strange sense of calm washed over you.

Then, in the haze of preparation, something caught your attention. A voice, familiar, behind the masks and caps.

"Start the anesthesia. We’re going ahead with the transplant."

You weakly opened your eyes. It was House.

Your heart skipped a beat, as if, even before the surgery, he already knew how to unsettle you. You tried to move, to speak, but the anesthesia was already taking effect. Everything became blurry, but you heard his voice clearly, that deep, slightly rough voice that comforted you despite yourself.

"Sleep now, it'll be fine. You’ll be alive to yell at me later."

Then total darkness.

You woke up in a hospital room. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, and you felt a dull ache in your chest. But more than that, you felt your heart beating. A new heart. A strange sensation, both comforting and unsettling.

You slowly turned your head, and to your surprise, you saw House sitting in the corner of the room, his gaze fixed on you. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes locked on yours with a new intensity, almost worried.

"I knew you were stubborn, but you really outdid yourself this time," he said, without a hint of humor.

You looked at him, still too weak to speak. Then, slowly, you remembered what had happened before the surgery. He had refused. You had been hurt. But now, he was here.

"You... operated on me?" you finally murmured, your voice hoarse.

House gave a slight nod, avoiding your gaze for a moment. "Yeah. I didn’t really have a choice, apparently. Everyone’s incompetent except me." But there was something else in his voice, an unspoken admission.

You tried to sit up, but the pain in your chest made you wince. House immediately stood up and moved closer to you. "Take your time. Don’t be stupid."

You stared at him, still in shock from what you had just discovered. "Why? Why did you do it when you said you didn’t want to?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because..." He paused, searching for the right words. That wasn’t like him. "Because I couldn’t let another surgeon kill you. If someone was going to save you or lose you, it had to be me."

He looked straight into your eyes, and this time, you saw the fear behind his usual cynicism. The fear of losing you, the fear of failing. It wasn’t just about the surgery, it was about feelings, the ones he didn’t want to admit, but which were so clear in that suspended moment.

"You were scared," you said softly, a slight smile on your lips. House looked away, grumbling. "I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just smarter than everyone else."

But you knew. You knew he had taken this risk because he cared about you, even if he would never say it outright. You placed your hand on his, a simple gesture, but one that spoke for you. And, against all odds, he didn’t pull his hand away.

The days following the surgery were filled with moments of uncertainty and relief. Each steady beat of your new heart was a promise that life would go on, a victory against fate. But something lingered, like a palpable tension between you and House. He came to see you almost every day, always with his usual sarcasm, but something had changed.

That morning, you woke up with the same familiar pain in your chest, but this time it was different — the pain of healing. You slowly sat up in your bed, observing the soft light filtering through the hospital curtains. Your body was still weak, but each day felt like a small victory. And despite the fatigue, you were more clear-headed than ever.

The door to your room opened gently, and of course, House walked in, leaning on his cane with that familiar limp you knew so well. He stared at you for a moment, as if assessing your condition, then casually remarked:

"How’s my favorite patient? Still alive, apparently."

You managed a smile, even though part of you still wondered why he could never be serious for more than a few seconds. "I’m doing well, Greg. And you know it."

He raised an eyebrow at the sound of his name. That wasn’t something you used often. Usually, you always called him "House," like everyone else.

He came closer and sat in the chair next to your bed, letting out a sigh. "Well, that’s good news. I would have hated to explain to the team that I messed up my best patient. That would be bad for my reputation."

You knew he used humor to mask something deeper. A silence settled in, almost comfortable, but filled with unspoken words.

"Why did you decide to operate on me?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "I hurt you when I asked, but you did it anyway."

House looked away, as he often did when faced with a question that was too personal. He tapped his cane against the floor, searching for words or perhaps a way to sidestep the answer.

"It was a challenge. I couldn’t let another surgeon handle such a complex operation, especially on someone as annoying as you." He smiled, but his gaze betrayed something else, something more sincere. "And I guess I was a little afraid you’d slip away from me."

This confession took you by surprise. You knew House wasn’t the type to openly express his emotions, especially not with such direct words. You watched him in silence, your thoughts swirling. He had taken a huge risk by operating on you, not just medically, but emotionally.

"I’m not going to slip away from you, Greg," you murmured. "Not now."

His eyes settled on you, softer than usual. "Not now," he repeated, almost to himself.

Initially, it was supposed to be temporary. Just long enough for you to fully recover from the surgery, for your body to adjust to the new heart, and for you to be closely monitored, "just in case." House had insisted, almost casually, on this option.

"It would be stupid to leave you alone. If something goes wrong, I’d rather have you in my sight, not on the other side of town," he had said, as if the decision was purely pragmatic.

You had hesitated. Living at House's, even temporarily, seemed risky, given the complexity of your relationship. But somewhere, you felt that beneath his usual cynicism, he genuinely cared about you. So you had agreed, thinking it would last just a few days, maybe a week or two.

The first night at his place was strange. His apartment, which you had visited a few times before, felt more welcoming than you had imagined. A blend of old and modern, of perfectly organized chaos, typical of House. Medical books stacked everywhere, piano sheets scattered about, whiskey bottles casually left on the coffee table. You felt like an intruder in his space, but he made no effort to make you feel otherwise.

"Make yourself at home. I don’t have silk pillows or almond milk, but there’s unlimited Ibuprofen," he had said, settling onto his couch with a glass of whiskey.

That first night was calm. House kept an eye on you from the corner of his gaze, even though he pretended to be absorbed in an old documentary. Despite the strangeness of the situation, a certain serenity had settled in.

The next day, as you began to get used to this new arrangement, someone knocked at the door. You weren’t expecting visitors, especially not this early in the morning. House, already up (for once), went to open it, and you immediately recognized the familiar voice of James Wilson.

"Hey, House, I brought donuts. I wanted to talk to you about a case..." His voice cut off abruptly as he entered the living room and saw you sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in hand.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Wilson looked at you, then at House, then back at you, as if he had stumbled upon a scene he couldn’t quite comprehend.

"What the... ? What are you doing here?"

You gave a slight smile, a bit embarrassed, while House, completely unfazed, grabbed one of the boxes of donuts that Wilson had brought.

"She lives here. Well, temporarily," House replied before taking a bite out of a donut, as if the situation was perfectly normal.

Wilson stood there, speechless for several seconds. "You... you let her live with you? You?"

House shrugged. "It’s easier for post-operative monitoring. And besides, she’s not unbearable. Well, not all the time."

Wilson blinked, still in shock. He slowly sat down on a chair, setting down the other box of donuts. "That... that’s so unlike you, Greg."

"Well, maybe I’ve changed. Or maybe it’s just convenient." House made a dismissive gesture, but you could see that even for him, this situation was still new.

Wilson gave you a questioning look, searching for answers. You simply shrugged, an amused smile on your lips. "It’s temporary, really."

Wilson shook his head, clearly disturbed but also amused. "If you tell me he let you choose a movie last night, I think I’m going to faint."

You laughed lightly, and even House cracked a small smile, despite himself. The tension slowly faded, and Wilson relaxed, even though he continued to shoot you incredulous glances from time to time.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement stretched on longer than expected. There was no specific date for your departure, and House didn’t seem in a hurry to see you go. In fact, he even seemed to enjoy your presence, even if he categorically refused to admit it.

One evening, as you settled into the couch with a blanket over your knees, House sat down next to you without a word. He turned on the TV and flipped through channels until he found an old black-and-white movie. It had become a routine: you spent the evenings together, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging sarcastic comments about what you were watching.

It was in this tranquility that Wilson made his second appearance at House's place.

"I brought wine," he announced as he walked in, looking noticeably more comfortable with the situation this time.

You smiled, shifting a bit to make room for him. House raised an eyebrow. "Wine? Since when do you bring wine to my place?"

Wilson shrugged. "I thought we could celebrate... I don’t know, this strange normality?" He glanced at you as if to make sure everything was okay.

The evening went off without a hitch. The wine flowed, sarcasm flew, and Wilson, despite his more serious habits, allowed himself to be caught up in the relaxed atmosphere. The movies changed on the screen, but soon it was the discussions that took over.

"I have to say, I’m still surprised you let her stay," Wilson remarked, casting a glance at House.

House, lounging casually on the couch, responded without really looking at Wilson. "It’s not so bad. She doesn’t bother me too much. Unlike you."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I bring you wine, I do my best not to invade your space, and this is how you thank me."

You laughed, shaking your head. "He doesn’t know how to do anything else, James. You know him."

"That’s true," Wilson replied with a smile. "But anyway, I’m glad you’re recovering well. He seems to be taking good care of you."

You turned to House, who was clearly avoiding your gaze. "He’s doing what he can," you said softly, but with a smile in your voice.

House pretended not to hear, focusing on the television. But in his silences, you could feel that he was getting used to this new life.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary living arrangement quietly settled into a routine. Little by little, you had begun to integrate into House's daily life, and he, without a word, had allowed you to do so.

One evening, after a long day at the hospital, you got home before him. House had sent you a terse message: "I’ll be late. Bistro operation in the kitchen." You smiled at his words, already imagining what that meant.

Tired but determined not to let it get you down, you began rummaging through House's kitchen cabinets. He had everything, but nothing was in its place. A controlled chaos that, surprisingly, made sense to you. You grabbed some vegetables and an old skillet, determined to prepare something before his return. The kitchen was a place where you could lose yourself in simple tasks, away from the complexities of your work as a surgeon.

A few dozen minutes later, as you were focused on a sauce you were preparing, the door opened. House entered, looking tired but intrigued by the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

"Are you pretending to be a chef now?" he said as he approached you.

You smiled without turning around, continuing to stir the sauce. "I thought it would be a change from pizza boxes and whiskey."

House leaned in slightly to smell what you were making, nodding his head in approval. "I suppose that works for me. But if it’s bad, you’ll hear me complain for days."

You chuckled softly, knowing very well he meant it half-seriously. He made no attempt to push you away from the kitchen; on the contrary, he grabbed a knife and started slicing the bread, his movements precise despite the cane that always lingered nearby.

The scene was almost domestic. House, with his usual sarcasm, and you, focused on your sauce. You didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a certain peace in these simple moments. You sensed that he was getting used to this new dynamic, even though he was still incapable of admitting it out loud.

"I have to admit," he finally said, slicing a piece of bread, "you’re not doing too badly for a surgeon. Maybe it’s time to change careers."

You gave him an amused look. "You say that now, but just wait until you taste it."

"Oh, I fully intend to critique every bite."

He was smiling slightly, but you could feel the bond growing a little stronger with each shared meal, each simple task completed together.

It had been a long time since you had left the operating room, but you didn’t miss your home at all, and House understood that... well, House is House.

A few weeks later, after several similar evenings, you had finally made official what was happening between you. It hadn’t been a grand romantic declaration, far from it. As with everything involving House, things had evolved naturally, in a sort of unspoken agreement that was becoming clearer and clearer. One evening, as you were both settled on the couch, he had placed his hand over yours, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you mind if we drop the ‘temporary’?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

You felt your heart race, even though the question was posed in that casual tone that characterized him. You squeezed his hand slightly in response, your smile overshadowing the answer you didn’t even need to say. Indeed, it was his way of asking you to be his girlfriend.

The following Monday, things were different, but not enough to shake up the universe of Princeton-Plainsboro. You had decided to keep nothing hidden, but without making it a topic of conversation. After all, it was impossible to hide anything from House’s team.

Wilson, of course, was the first to react. When he saw you enter the hospital together that morning, he furrowed his brow, an expression somewhere between amusement and surprise.

"So, it’s official? You finally made it official?"

True to form, House simply rolled his eyes. "Officially? If it makes you happy to label it that way, then yes."

Wilson smiled, a little too pleased with himself. "I knew this would happen, but I have to say, it’s impressive that you held out this long before admitting it."

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, amused by the dynamic between the two friends. "He has his moments of resistance," you added jokingly.

But the real test came when you arrived in the diagnostic room, where House’s team was already gathered. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman were discussing a new case, but they all looked up when you walked in together.

Chase was the first to react, his eternal smirk in place. "Oh, I see. That’s why we all stayed until midnight last week. You had ‘personal’ plans."

House stopped, crossing his arms with a piercing look. "You’re right, Chase. And if you keep talking, you’ll end up with the chore of sanding the autopsy room again. Unless, of course, you want to find yourself a social life."

Foreman cracked a playful smile while Cameron seemed half-surprised, half-envious. "So... you’re together?" she asked with a mix of shyness and curiosity.

You exchanged a glance with House. You hadn’t discussed how you were going to handle this with the rest of the team, but it seemed it was already out in the open.

"Yes," you replied simply, with confidence. "We’re together."

Without missing a beat, House added with a smirk, "But don’t worry. It’s not going to affect my desire to make your lives miserable."

You had gotten into the habit of cooking together from time to time, even though House continued to tease you about your culinary skills. You also spent many quiet evenings talking about everything and nothing or simply watching movies in silence.

One evening, as you were chopping vegetables in the kitchen, House approached you and set a glass of wine on the counter.

"Looks like we’ve become boring, huh?"

You laughed softly, setting down the knife. "If that’s what you call boring, I’m perfectly fine with that."

He looked at you, a smile softer than usual on his lips. "Well, as long as you’re okay with it, I guess I can get used to the boredom."

It was the first time he admitted, without sarcasm or dark humor, that he enjoyed this new life together. And you knew that behind his facade was a man deeply attached, even if he showed it in his own way.

[mackmp3]

3, 5 and 9 for both your OCs!

YAYYYYY thank you :]

3- What is your OC's fatal flaw? Are they aware of this flaw?

strangeways' is probably thinking that the correct solution to a situation she doesnt like is to just. do nothing about it and believe it will either go away, or be fine, or blow up in such a way that it all gets dealt with really quickly. avoidance? like if she has a big argument with someone she'll just avoid them for as long as possible. having an Alien Problem? her first instinct is that its probably not thatttttt bad right? surely this will be fine and there's no need to do anything tooooo drastic to try to fix it right?? it will all sort itself out???????? i think she is aware of it but possibly not the magnitude of how That Is Actually Not Ideal - when she realised she ages slower she more or less never saw her family again - she'd rather send them the occasional letter than have to see them age & explain why she isnt. like she'd rather not see her sisters or parents again (she wasnt super close with them but yknow, its her family) than have to explain any of what happened to her. but this is combined with being really bad at letting things go so she'll be doing nothing to change a situation while also being devoured by thinking about it. like a fear of change sort of thing

for mihangel..... in a sort of inverse of strangeways, mihangel sort of thinks that nothing too bad will ever happen to him - like yeah he died but that wasnt too bad was it? like he came back its literally fine. he can do xyz kind of dangerous thing because she'll probably be fine right? yeah she was distraught for months before he met strangeways because the doctor had left him back on earth without barely explaining anything but like she's mostly over that now so like its totally okay. this is a normal way to think about things 👍 like she doesnt believe she's indestructable or anything but has the potential to become very reckless, or impulsive, because she's either a) lived through worse & has convinced herself it wasnt that bad or b) just doesnt think anything could possibly go wrong. like she knows that dangers of, say, going swimming alone in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere in a whim, but just does it anyways cos he doesnt think anything bad will happen to Her. does this make sense

5- How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

ooh this is a good question because i uh. am not super sure what either of their base character motivations are lol

i think strangeways and mihangel both are likely to end up in a situation where they're both so in deep with a situation that they Cant just stop whatever it is & go back to their normal lives. b/c strangeways doenst know when / if she'll die she'd probably let herself get, ah, a wee bit closer to finding out than most people if its in pursuit of something she wants - though i think mostly she wants to feel normal again. the time vortex changed stuff within her & she doenst know what & has been living with it for so long thats she's not sure what she was like before, who she could have grown up to be. she'd think well, if i'm going to die then at least i know that i can & i'm doomed to be immortal, and if i dont die then i'll find out later. she's about 75ish but still looks in the mid/early twenties range so she think shes lived a normal lifespan and wouldnt... mind? if she doesnt live for far longer even though she technically could. damn thats dark uhm sorry. she does want those extra decades for her hobbies though :)

mihangel i think would be driven to one (1) act of violence and then be so horrifically guilty about it for the rest of her life, like anxiety-spiral guilt over one thing, that she's do anything & everything to never do it again. he would think of it like that too

9- Do you have a specific lyric or quote which you associate with your OC?

not at the moment no :( i havent made playlists for them or anything though i might in the future. strangeways esp. listens to english trad folk & like nico, and mihangel to post punk & goth of a specifically 80s variety and im sure theres lots of stuff in there thats very Them but i dont have anything at the moment. however while writing this i did think of that bob dylan quote about joan baez 'she looked like a religious icon, like someone you would sacrifice yourself for' both of them have defintely had that thought at somepoint about someone

[19thperson]

19th's Next Fest Impressions - Day 7

Day 0/Day 1/ Day 2/Day 3/Day 4/Day 5/Day 6

Last day, and only day where I had zero other obligations. Lets go out with a bang.

Keylocker

In a grim cyberpunk future where music is banned, you're music. Therefore, you're banned

I wanted to like this game, but aside from the writing not landing with me, there was a key mechanical problem constantly getting in the way.

The game has a timed hits and timed defense system that's punishingly strict, and enemy damage is tuned under the assumption that you'll be getting at least partial dodges consistently. Which I wasn't. It was worse on the first try when I unknowingly chose a class that could only damage on counter.

This isn't usually a problem for me... until I realized a 2nd problem. One that's probably just restricted to the prologue since it's about escaping the anti-music jail

There's no music. Nothing to mentally time beats and inputs to.

I got frustrated and ended it early.

Tenebris Somnia

Horror game whose main claim of interest is that it's mixing retro pixel art with high definition live action footage. In demo this was presented by solving a series of puzzles, then it cut to live action to show the monster that appeared, then you run away from the monster. There is something interesting going on beneath this. It seems to be setting up a story specifically about film. You are playing as a girl who is checking up on her shitty ex, because she's had nonstop nightmares of him being killed by The Creatures and she needs to reality check herself.

Both you and the ex are severe film buffs, both worked together on a short film. When you arrive to his apartment, it is beaten to shit, broken film trophies, his film reels in the oven burning, the poster for his short film "Devourer" shattered. While it's not stated, I'm guessing that the monster that attacks us is from said film.

Shitty ex seems to have turned to the occult both due to dissatisfaction with how his film career is going and out of being torn up about you leaving.

There's roads for this to go some really interesting places. There's also roads for this to go pretentious places. But I still wanna see.

Simulacro

Greek art student goes out to a mysterious island recently uncovered by a massive lake's water level going down due to climate change. She's here to paint the nature. While there she discovers artifacts talking about "The true nature of reality," and at one point is overtaken by inspiration to draw the ruins she imagines would have been there in its heyday. The ruins then appear in real life.

There's a core problem with this game that feels really unfair to say considering it's a small Brazilian team's first game. It's a painting/photography game, and the main character is constantly talking about how beautiful her surroundings are. But they're writing a check that their rendering ability and art direction can't cash. I would accept the island looks kinda off if the game wasn't constantly trying to convince me otherwise. The two types of puzzles the game has in the demo are painting puzzles, find an angle where you get certain targets all in one frame, and artifact puzzles, arrange these broken pieces so that they're one again. The former is more interesting than the latter, but the system to recognize if something is "in the shot" is kinda finicky. The trailer shows more types so hopefully there's more variation in the final release. Most interesting thing about this game thematically is that it takes place in the 2080, and climate change has gotten bad bad bad. The game is selling itself as being a philosophical exploration, and ideally it seems like it's trying the difficult maneuver of "What's the point to these abstract questions when everything is dying?"

Boyscout - Patrick's Town

Your name is Patricio and not Patrick and you are a kid who likes helping people in your town. In the demo your day is spent getting ingredients and then delivering an apple pie to your grandma for her birthday. Then in the middle of the night a UFO crashes near the town. The pixel art ranges from competent to fantastic depending on the mode (although I do not like the artist's propensity for Usopp lips.) Music is really good. Aside from the combination of aliens and idyllic towns, this is where the homier mother influence feels really noticeable. Although that specific style is not really reflected in the trailer... Writing is… they need a 2nd pass on the translation. Sentences missing a lot of punctuation, an apple pie also being referred to as an apple cake interchangeably, awkward wording throughout. It's thankfully a text lite game, not as detrimental as a visual novel or RPG with the same problems, but still a very visible roadblock.

SoulQuest

2D DMC. 2DMC.

I will say this: they've gotten the combo game down. Chaining shit together feels good. If that was the only metric this was being judged by, the game would be exceeding all expectations.

but there are a few problems:

1) It is not just combat. There is platforming. Platforming where the hitbox of the platform seem slightly thinner than the sprite. And there's no coyote time. The game also likes to place spikes underneath you in these sections.

Did I mention checkpointing is frugal?

I'm not mad.

2) Unless I'm crazy/misreading things, your dodge roll doesn't have I-frames on startup, just during the middle of the roll. IT feels like I'm getting hit by things I shouldn't be hit by.

I'm not mad.

3) Say you got overconfident and chose hard mode, and want to change the difficulty:

turns out each difficulty is on a separate progression track so if you got to stage 3 and then decided "I've trapped myself in a bad situation" well guess what you gotta redo stages 1 and 2 again on normal to try stage 3 on normal.

I'm not mad.

Sky Oceans: Wings for Hire

I've heard people describe this as a successor to Skies of Arcadia. I've never played that so I can't really comment on how accurate that is Plot and tone wise its a typical JRPG. You start at an Idyllic home town that might as well be a stack of firewood prepped and ready to burn. You and your friends complete your coming of age ceremony to become Pilots. Oh no here comes The Empire Alliance burning everything to the ground because your dead dad and live mom know about the void century lost history. Try to escape but mom sacrifices self to save you. There doesn't seem to be any on foot combat, all air. While there's an interesting "advantage" system I was expecting more about positioning to be there, who is on whose tail. still, early JRPG battle systems are always kinda thin, so it'll probably get more complex later. Presentation wise, I kinda wish the models emoted a bit more instead of relying solely on the character portraits. The eyes and mouths are flat textures on the face so they could theoretically be swapped out contextually. Overall if you are JRPGpilled, this'll be to your taste, and if you aren't then this won't change your mind.

Boyhood's End

A very very very loose adaptation of Night on the Galactic Railroad, from the devs behind Needy Streamer Overdose.

In a scifi future where humanity is overseen by a massive AI program spanning the galaxy, ranking all humans and directing all activity, Giovanni Stylus is the lowest ranked, namely due to his father, who once attempted a hack said galaxy spanning AI system. He attempts to support his comatose mother by doing petty hacking jobs, such as hacking into security cameras to confirm infidelity. All while being bullied the shit out of.

When his health insurance is pulled, he takes a desperate job to infiltrate said AI system and shit goes wrong. But he is saved by Campanella, who may or may not have been the one who set the job in the first place. Now they are on the run.

Pixel art is very impressive, at least when it's on close up portraits. Also has a really nice fake PC interface for menus, alongside reading fake websites and chatlogs.

The hacking system was very simple "find password" that's basically just following story prompts, but I can see it having fun uses later.

It's now on my wishlist.

Heart of the Machine

Going from fighting the overlord AI to being the overlord AI. I am very bad at being the overlord AI.

I half remembered the trailer and thought this was going to be mostly branching story events and stat balancing. When I got to managing and customizing units I knew I was in unfamiliar territory.

There is something interesting in this basically being a stealth 4x, with a major factor being "how aware is the world of your machinations" and individual units having different security clearances and the like. But I couldn't figure out how to effectively utilize any of that before I felt like my time was spent going other demos. I've heard good things so I assume that 4x heads will like this.

The Operator

You play as an Operator in the not-FBI, who gives assistance to on-site agents from your computer. It's another fake-computer-terminal database mystery game, involving going through files and finding relevant information. Also aliens may or may not be involved.

Two major things of note so far:

1) Every one of these games handles their database a different way, trying to do some means of keeping the sprawl of info digestable. This one does so by just having a handful of files related to the case immediately sent to you, with the only outside help being a persons database and a car database to cross-check details, at least so far. Torn on this. On one hand it keeps things incredibly intuitive, on the other hand "pruning through fluff" feels like it should be part of the challenge.

2) Game is very intuitive on how to put in "answers" though. You're given a question and then once you figure something out you turn on answer mode and click the relevant text or image on the screen. No messing with a prompter or choosing a whole file or whatever.

Dungeons of Hinterberg

Modern fantasy setting where monster slaying and dungeoneering has become touristy sport, like mountaineering or skiing. You play as someone who is aiming to clear all 25 of the tourist town Hinterberg's dungeons.

Gameplay is split between previously mentioned dungeoneering, exploring areas and fighting monsters, and persona-ish town stuff, buying gear and making social links.

They are genuinely skilled at beautiful dungeon design. The one in the demo was a tribute to mario galaxy with a lot of circular land masses you run around. The actual hitting things… needs more impact. It does have bayonetta timeslow on perfect dodge though.

Only got one day of town stuff so I can't really pass too much judgement there.

I am worried about "how do you squeeze pathos out of this concept if all risk has been essentially gentrified in-setting" but there is a stinger at the end of "something is rotten in hinterberg"

Has promise but not top of the list.

[puellafuriadarkmagica]

So it's been a week, exactly as promised. It's just that it's also been some other weeks on top of that. I'll explain why at the end of this post, what I plan on doing about it, generally where my efforts have been lately, and how YOU (yes YOU!) can get involved.

Chapter 5: The Best Venue in this Small, Pathetic Town

From The Chats - Keep The Grubs Out. I mentioned before that my brother got me into The Chats. They're a world away from the kind of music I'm normally into, but they happen to be really fucking funny. That's generally enough for me to make an exception. Check out the music video to their big hit Smoko and try your damnedest to convince me this isn't one of the greatest music videos ever made.

"Oh, Kimmie, me 'n' Kel had the time of our lives. We had twenny-four hour room cervix, eggs derelict for breakfast..." the television blared feebly through its blown-out stereo system.

I've said it before but one of my favourite differences between our world and that of PFDM is that somehow the existence of magical girls has resulted in Kath and Kim still being on the air in 2009.

Fuck, I miss Kath and Kim.

"You, and me, we have an opportunity / And we, can make it something really good…" Zoey hummed from somewhere in the kitchen.

I also remember mentioning that this passage is included to remind people that despite her generally matronly(??) role to the rest of the cast of Part 1, Zoey's only in her mid-twenties. Bit sad, innit?

Thunk. A metal rail, roughly forty centimetres long, sailed neatly past Marie's head, drove itself clean through the skull of the Incubator perched on her shoulder, and dug itself into an oblique resting place in the pavement behind her.

Oh my God.

Oh my God!

They killed Kyubey??

"Introductions aside, have you run this past Lara yet?" "The thing is I think I've got to… warm her up to the idea first?" Danika smirked. "You can say she's too stubborn. It's not a crime, you know." "She's not as bad as you guys say she is, you know!" "Too right!" Hope leaned forward and coughed into a fist. "See, she's actually worse."

She's actually soooo cool and nice with it.

Hold on.

When did "such-and-so with it" re-enter common parlance? I remember it being a pretty ubiquitous way to suffix an adjective back in the late 2000's, and then it disappeared. And now it's back? Where did it go…

"Cool, cool. Hey, would you mind if I just confer with my friends about some stuff? I'm pretty new to what I do, and if we brought you on board that'd be a pretty major undertaking for both of us." "It's okay," Phoebe protested. "I can train her!" Hope shrugged. "Yeah, that's fair. Now it'll be a major undertaking for three of us."

Taking so long to reread this stuff presents the side-effect that I do find myself laughing at my old jokes that I'd forgotten I'd written.

Phoebe shot to her feet and clutched her skull (still contained within the flesh of her head, of course. Only one person with even the most tangential relationship to her life is intense enough to do otherwise). "I can't deal with you people! I can't… I'm… I need some air."

What?

Holy hell, what?

There's no way I foreshadowed Alex burning off her flesh this far in advance. Are you serious?

We've only just recently learned that she will be doing that, what, 45 chapters later? 46?

Hope's jeans pocket blared a harsh, percussive synth monotone. She noticeably flinched before practically ripping her phone out of her pocket and putting it to her ear.

Back when I wrote this, I said it was probably The Presets - My People. More recently I've locked that in. I was going to write that it's one of the few radio hits that's actually good, but then I realised my vision was completely clouded by nostalgia when I began to pen that. The past half-decade or so has been kind of nuts for mainstream pop. Charli XCX has got a couple tracks joint-produced by AG Cook and Hudson Mohawke on her new album, for crying out loud. Death's Dynamic Shroud is getting mentioned on the same electronic pop lists as fucking Beyoncé. Porter Robinson's… well, he's Porter Robinson. How did we get it so good? Should I be thanking Missy Elliot? Daft Punk? Dylan Brady?

Wait. I'm supposed to be talking about PFDM.

"Sure thing." Marie responded with a thumbs-up goodbye, like some kind of absolute mutant.

Not long after I wrote this passage, I did actually give someone a thumbs-up goodbye. Mind you, I was having an absolutely shit day and was pretty distracted, but I've still gotta live that down, on the inside.

"I'll get it," Hope announced. She opened the front door, saw who was behind it, and closed it again. Lara jammed her foot in the door before it could close. "Evening, Fearnley," she cooed. "Would you mind if I popped in for a chat?" "If I said no…" "I'd find other, less courteous ways to open this door, don't you worry."

I've barely started watching Utena, but she's Nanami, isn't she? She's totally Nanami.

"Shame. What's say you and I underthrow Deckard and find a new girl ourselves instead?" "Under… throw?" "It's like overthrow, but she's our inferior. She's really, really inferior, actually. You know how she spends her time? Going on witch hunts with this new girl just for kicks. I hear Woodward - not the dead one, of course - is third-wheeling whatever it is those two have got going on now."

"Underthrow" is one of my favourite Lara-isms, but it doesn't hold a candle to…

"Well then, why would I do that?" She smirked. "Face it, Fearnley. If I needed to psychologically outplay you, I wouldn't resort to spreading rumours. I've got a rapper wit." "You mean a rapier." "A what?" "She said rapier," Zoey huffed. "That's the expression. Rapier wit." "What, like a sword? That's stupid. The only thing a sword ever thinks to do is cut something, and that's only because somebody else tells it to. A rapper, on the other hand-"

"Rapper wit" is potentially my favourite malapropism of all time, and I came up with it. Thanks, me! Why, you're very welcome.

The Citadel, like all things, is metaeclyptic with an infinity of other things, places, times. One of these things happens to be a lighthouse on the west coast of Ireland, operated by a young man named Douglas Murphy. Though neither of them knew it, at the exact moment Audrey Wong lost her blue socks, he found a pair of green socks he had lost four months ago. The strangest part of all this, he would remark if he understood his circumstances to any meaningful degree, is that his role as a textbook example of metaeclypticism is, in fact, the only meaningful reason for his existence at all. The speaker god has, as it happens, written a proverb pertaining to this feeling of existential ennui, which goes as follows. From here until the end of the last chapter. It also goes as precedes, until the beginning of the first. Due to the impracticality with which one might quote it, it is considered a very unpopular proverb.

This is one of the passages which I think best encapsulates the style of PFDM, and hopefully my writing on the whole. It's definitely one of those key early moments where I Locked The Fuck In.

Well, that was a pretty short chapter, all things considered. I forgot how little time I actually need to write one of these. Maybe I should try for one a week, but given my track record regarding things taking a week, I don't think I can promise anything.

So what happened?

Life got busy again. I've got a job now, which does pretty much drain the life out of me. But it also gives my time some long-needed damn structure, so three cheers. Also, I've gotten a little carried away on an original webfic I conceived of last year and have been tinkering away at the planning stages of ever since. Actually, let's talk about that. And let's call it Project Anubis for short for now, in a pointless attempt to hide its true name - an aspect of the webfic I'm still uncertain about. It does have a name, and I am sort of leaning in-for-a-penny on that, but for now it's Project Anubis.

Sounds cool. What's Project Anubis?

Nothing!!! It doesn't exist yet, and won't for a serious while! Don't rush me here, okay?!?!

Actually, I'm going to talk about it here with you guys because there's like half a dozen of you maximum and I don't want to talk about this publicly yet. You won't see this on my main Tumblr. Anyone who reads that and doesn't read this, who I want to have see this announcement, already knows what this project is, and, in fact, what it's called. I mention it now, because I'm trying to open the doors to my friends who I know would be available for this, and frankly if you've spent the past… I don't even want to think about how long, conversing with my borderline manic ramblings in the comments section of my own anime fanfiction, well, are we not then friends?

Okay, but really, what is it?

Not too thematically dissimilar from a lot of the themes I've been spinning in PFDM. If you liked the oddball humour, the overly-researched science fiction, and maybe the weird underlying philosophical thriller, you probably will like this. If you were only into PFDM for the sprawling cosmology, the fight scenes, and the fact that it's Madoka Magica, you're gonna outright detest it. It will not be for you. Of course it wouldn't be. It's for me.

So what do you want from me?

I'm glad youu asked, line of bold text I put before this paragraph! Basically, I want anyone who knows a damn about more or less anything to give me a holler. I've got a lot of research to do for this, and anyone who can point me in the right direction would be a massive help. If you know anything about any of the following:

Speculative biology

Computer science

Feng shui

Biosemiotics

Astronomy

Gestalt psychology

Puzzle design

Card game design

Printing

Logograms

Conlang development

Chances are I'm gonna be coming to you for a lot of help. If this has legs, I might start hiring people to help me make it, too. If not on a stable income I can bankroll a team on, then at least on commission. If you're a visual artist who can illustrate things other than people with weirdly specific demands regarding colour palette and image composition, you're a writer and you feel like you can jive with my style (the more naturalistic, less-uranium-dense parts, at least, because this will not be the fuckin' slog that PFDM deliberately makes itself sometimes), or an actor - even if just for voice or photos - let me know that too. But don't expect anything to come of it, and definitely don't expect anything to come of it any time soon. Right now, I'm just trying to keep track of who I know who has X field of knowledge or Y specific skill. Gimme your email or your Discord or something, or just let me know if I can DM you here on Tumblr.

Why "Anubis"?

I had this idea for a gag in something where the main character dies and meets Anubis, who would be depicted entirely with photos of James Earl Jones. Anubis would then explain that everyone has a celebrity lookalike, and the gods themselves aren't excepted from this. Anubis just happens to bear a striking resemblance to James Earl Jones. I don't think this joke is going to be in anything, but I've been thinking about Anubis ever since.

What does Project Anubis mean for Puella Furia Dark Magica?

I dunno dude!!! I just work here!!! Maybe nothing? Maybe a hell of a whole lot? Maybe PFDM gets delayed for YEARS! Maybe the remaining chapters all mysteriously appear online tomorrow! I really don't know! I've just had a hell of a good idea and now I have to make it. I go crazy if I don't. I go. Crazy. If. I Don't!

Anyway see you all maybe next week I don't know? Bye

[unohanabbygirl]

I was going to post something a little bit longer but it got deleted when my computer shut down so ill just keep it short . What if there is a scene kind of like in "The Butterfly Effect," where Aemond and Luke are having this conversation in a diner and Aemond finally got Luke to meet with him but not only that it has been a good minute that they have seen each other because well Luke ran away and he got tired of all the family drama and quite simply he has too much trauma that he is dealing with his own sh-. This is the first time Aemond has seen Luke in a while and Luke appears worse than when he had last seen him, he looks pale, gaunt, heavy bags, scars now on his face, old scabs on his arms and hands, signs of drug use and other self destructive qualities. He looks tired and really doesn't care in the slightest what Aemond has to say about the past life or his apologies. Because he is over it. All the while Aemond is trying hard not to fall apart at seeing the love of his life in the condition and is trying to get Luke to come back again to his old self to come back to him, to remember the love he had for his family, but Luke can't feel that love anymore because people have shown nothing but hate and ugliness to him that its overpowered all the love he was given in the past life. Like the scene in the film he tells Luke with tears in his eyes "You were happy once." Luke is just listening to Aemond talk about the past and how he regrets hurting Luke and Storms End, and Luke has this sleepy drugged out look in his eyes scoffing at Aemond and saying that he is still that kid stuck in the past, and tells Aemond mockingly and nonchalantly "its okay Aemond, don't worry, you didn't break me, other men did that, so don't feel bad about it." "So what, you want me to apologize for the eye, okay I'm sorry, you want me to apologize for the pig joke? you want my forgiveness, fine you have it." "That kid you killed at Storms End, is dead, he died there and if he did come back, he's been dead a long time ago." Luke just gets up barely able to walk and walks away "I got my own sh- to deal with than something that happened 2k, 10k years ago." Scoffing at Aemond. Aemond at this point is broken beyond any repair.

Inspired entirely by your amazing story "Forget Me Not," Unohananbbygirl and "The Butterfly Effect."!

This is so beautiful yet so heartwrenching!

I love this little drabble because the possibility of Luke running away and falling further and further down the rabbit hole of drugs, stealing and sex work is a big one. All it takes is the wrong words from the right person and Luke could very much just say forget it and decide that fighting the person he’s become isn’t worth it in the end.

I think that’s one of many parts that makes FMN so tragic. This scenario you’ve written has just as much of a chance at happening as the happy ending we’re all waiting for. So many people who live in a simyreality end up like this everyday, regardless of their financial situation (though coming from a harsh background makes it all the more likely)

Luke very well could feel himself incapable of change and choose to part ways with everyone because even though Luke will always be that caring kid down to his very core, Lucerys Velaryon died above ship breakers bay with his dragon over a thousand years ago and isn’t ever going to come back. That in itself is enough to convince Luke that the family is better off without him since the person they’ve been looking for is technically no more.

Now that I’m thinking of it, this makes me wonder if the reincarnation cycle would just keep on continuing until everyone gets their shit together. Of course this current like they’re living is a second chance, but would they get a 3rd, 4th, 5th, so on and so forth if they fail to truly fix everything. Sort like a circle of hell, forced to continue on as the world changes until everyone gets their happy ending. My god anon, you have my brain working overtime and I love you for it lmao

[justxright]

Bruno Madrigal x Reader // “Fuck That Man that you Love so Bad”

No more soft fuzzy Bruno. I want angst. I don’t want peace, I want problems. Always.

A/N : I use she/ her pronouns, also mentions of death.

Its been weeks. Perhaps months since he has locked himself away in his tower. His room the casita redecorated for him had suddenly shifted back into its original form. It was no longer comforting and clean with a nice open space. Instead, it had revered back to having an enormous staircase in an empty, sandy cave.

He refused to leave his cave and the only time he’d ever eat is if Mirabel or Julieta would climb those stairs to bring him some food. Even then, he just didn’t feel like it but his sister and niece were determined to keep him alive.

“Tío Bruno… You can’t stay up here forever.” Mirabel’s voice echoed behind him while he lay in the sand breathing so quietly, she could have mistaken him for being dead.

“I’ll stay up here for as long as she is gone…” His voice was so silent, so quite. All the enthusiasm and improv in his voice was gone. It was like listening to the wind and hearing nothing.

Mirabel’s face had turned sorrowful for her uncle and spoke with a slight crack in her voice. She didn’t want to be the one to break the news to him. “Tío… she’s not coming back. I’m sorry but Y/n got married last week.”

His face didn’t even flinch. His body remained flat into the sand with the sound of his breathing echoing through the cave.

He knew. Bruno would always predict your future in hopes that one day he’ll see you with him again. But no, it only got worse.

He saw you meet a new man. Then he saw you get married. Oh, but the worse part was when he saw you pregnant with twins. That’s when he completely lost it and locked himself away. He knew you’d never love him as much as you loved your new husband, and that you would never be the one to have a family with him.

How he wished that you were Y/n Madrigal instead of whatever your new name was. “I’ve known before anyone else Mirabel and nothing you say will get me to leave.”

Mirabel began to slowly walk over to her uncle’s side and sat down quietly as she placed a plate of food by him. “Will you at least promise me that you’ll eat?…”

Nothing. No reply. Just the sound of soft breathing in an empty cave.

“Tío Bruno?…” Mirabel whispered while turning her head towards his face.

His face was red and puffy from all the crying. It’s like he had nothing left. No tears. No more screaming and crying to do. He was left with an empty heart and with whatever else was left of him.

“Fuck…” he whimpered quietly. “Fuck that man that she loves so bad. Fuck everything he took from me. If my future isn’t with her then I don’t want one.”

Mirabel felt his heartache and even began to feel tears in her own eyes. It was hard to see him the way he was now, and no amount of trying to convince him to move on was going to work.

For the time being, family members would climb the stairs and visit Bruno almost everyday. Someone new every time, until one day they stopped. His door no longer glowed, and the carving picture of him began to fade away until the whole door itself was completely gone.

You had only found out Bruno’s passing when a funeral was held in the town. None of the Madrigals would tell you how he died, but when you asked Mariano, he described it as “His heart just withered away.”

You only stood there with wide eyes and disbelief. No one would tell you how he died, and you finally understand why. It was because of you and the guilt overwhelmed you, consuming you alive as you stood at the very back of the funeral.

The Madrigals didn’t want to blame you. It was never your fault to chose the one you love.

But sometimes they wished that you didn’t break his heart as hard as you did.

Yuh. I don’t even know, but I’m typing all this up in the club rn. I hope y’all enjoyed <33

[beerecordings]

The Other Monster - Part 4

Previous Chapter

Marvin is trying, and failing, to adjust to captivity when he finds a letter from his visitor down by his hiding spot. Anti deals with something he would prefer to avoid.

Warnings for human trafficking, including references to child abuse, and for references to drugs.

.

The ceiling of his prison is stone, cold and solid.

Marvin traces the patterns of the rock above him blankly. Soon he will have every imperfection of the space above his bed memorized, imprinted in his head when he had nowhere else to turn. What else is there to do but stare?

You belong to me now, okay?

He knows something happened, but the details slip away from him. That, he thinks, is a good thing.

He doesn't know how long he spends stretched out in the big feather bed – the minutes seem to pass him without looking his way – but it doesn't matter either. He has no where to be, nothing to do. Just to wait for the next time this happens again, and try to figure out how to survive it in the meantime.

“I'm not going to do anything but ease you into things,” his captor had told him. “You are precious to me, Fabian. You won't be hurt.”

Nothing did hurt. It just leaves him split open, empty, far away from himself. He thinks it carves scars into him without ever making him bleed.

“We won't go any farther til you're ready,” Amos had continued. “Don't struggle and the rope won't chafe you. Don't fight me and you won't get hit. You'll come to see I'm always true to my word on that.”

“Well, aren't I just brimming with gratitude,” Marvin had snarled at him, but he was shaking so hard by then it probably undercut the sarcasm.

He pulls himself out of the bed eventually and finds that he's still fully clothed. He hadn't been sure. It's so hard to tell what's going on when he's trying to leave his body behind and go somewhere where none of this ever happened. Maybe he really should be grateful. It'll be worse soon. For all his talk of patience, Marvin knows the waiting game is much more for Amos's enjoyment than Marvin's.

Grim thoughts for a grim day, he thinks to himself, resolving to pull himself out of it, but there seems to be little else but grim thoughts left in his head. The way it affects him is almost humiliating in itself. Like he should come up out of it hissing and fighting, but instead he just... lays in bed.

He has to get out of this prison cell room. Marvin washes himself up and changes his clothes, feeling in a daze as he steps carefully out into the hallway. He has free roam of the fortress and its grounds during the day, but as Amos has warned him, it might not be entirely a blessing. The guards stare openly. He thinks the servants do too, but Marvin tends to be more focused on the armed men who seem to constantly circle his hallway, waiting for a look at him. The best way to get away from it is sneaking down to the overgrown part of the garden, round the very back. If he crouches under the thistles and shoves his way through a couple bushes, there are a couple areas back there where no one can see him, no one can follow without trouble, and no one is sure where he is.

That little boy had found him from the outside, of course, but he was no threat. Kid like that, all dolled up with his tidy boots and pristine tunic, with those big Graceling eyes – nobody could pick a sweeter looking kid, Marvin thinks. It makes him smile, just a little. He always thought Chase was so cute as a kid too, and it reminds him of how Jackie didn't talk for months at a time when he was younger. Sometimes he still closes down for a few days. After they lost Dad, Marvin wasn't sure he'd ever come back to speech again.

And now Marvin's gone too. Did Jackie fall silent, when he realized? Or did he ride around the countryside howling his name? Does he cry for him, or is he stuck like Marvin finds himself, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself to get out of bed?

“Grim thoughts,” Marvin whispers to himself, wiping at his face as he sneaks back into his favorite hiding spot along the fence. “If I sink down into them, I won't get out again. Jackie's looking for me. He will find me as soon as he can.”

How long will that be? asks his despair. Marvin sits down heavily. You have no idea. You just – what is that?

What?

His hand has found a piece of parchment, tucked beneath a graphite piece just on his side of the gate. Marvin stares at it for a long moment, trying to find somewhere in his brain that can assign meaning to this, but by any calculation, there's no accounting for it. He pulls it out from under the rock carefully.

Dear mister,

I am sorry you were sad by the gate the other day. I would have said hi but I can't talk because I had a surgery one time to make me not get more sick. I am not sick now so it's okay.

I was looking for Abby, she is a nice girl who lives there. She went on a trip down south because the doctor said her dad needed fresh air, but I wonder if she is back. Have you seen her? Her mum is the lady of the house and her dad is Lord Errol. If you do see Abby, maybe you can tell her that JJ is looking for her at the gate. That's me.

I hope you're not sad today too. I get sad sometimes and then I like to go for a ride. Maybe you want to go for a ride with me sometime if you have a horse. You could come with me and Abby.

I like your blue hair a lot. I would like to have green hair or blue hair but my brother says I cannot paint it because hair doesn't work like that.

Or if Abby finds this note, Abby I will come back again on Thursday and we can go to the creek and find more frogs.

Your friend, JJ

It starts to make him smile as he comprehends what he's reading. It still doesn't quite make sense that the boy acts like there's nothing abnormal about seeing a Monster. Then again, maybe that's just the innocence of that age. How could a child understand that people would treat each other like objects unless they had been raised with the concept? To him, Marvin is just a person with nice hair.

His smile widens, but the tears prick up too. He wishes so badly he could go home and just be a person.

But for now, what he has is a letter from a very polite little boy, and it would be rude not to answer.

Dear JJ,

You write very well for your age. Thank you for the compliment. I am not so sad today, but you are very kind to ask.

He pauses, wondering how he lied so seamlessly about it. But it's not like he can break the news about the reality of human cruelty to some little boy. He laughs without any humor, taking a few deep breaths in. No, it's not for JJ to worry about him. Kids should only worry about kid things.

I haven't heard of Abby or her parents, but I will ask about her and let you know. The only Lord I know here is named Amos, but maybe there's a misunderstanding, or perhaps Abby will return soon. Then you two can catch frogs to your heart's content.

He's struck with a sudden need to keep writing, or maybe to offer JJ something. To tell him it's so nice to be talked to like a person. Or to give him something in return for that strawberry that made him feel real again for a minute. But this is enough. The child will find his friend and that will be that.

Take care, and be careful of the guards.

Sincerely, Fabian

.

Anti slips between shadows in the late-night quiet of the dock, his black cloak lingering behind him. To avoid attention is as natural as breathing for him. Even with his hood up, clothed from head to toe, he sticks to the shadows.

"Antiochus," calls a familiar voice, as he pulls himself up the side of a trading boat.

"Shep."

Shep reaches down to pull him the rest of the way up the ladder, and Anti scowls at him til the hand retreats. Shep just laughs. "Always so headstrong."

"Do you have my payment or not?"

"Course I do. Don't insult me."

Shep pulls back from the side of the boat, rolling his shoulders. He's gotten darker, gold from the sun, and his white clothes always seem to point it out. Anti wishes he hadn't noticed that he looks good, but unlike Anti, Shep likes to be sleeveless, sometimes shirtless, showing off all the time. Anti only puts up with him because he always delivers.

"Heard someone took out a group of slavers down the way," Shep says, leading him back towards his quarters. "You wouldn't know anything about that, now, would you?"

"I know about everything that happens around here."

"It was you, huh?"

"No," Anti lies, scowling at him. "But I know. I knew they were trying to trade."

"You've always had a thing about slavers." Shep gets into his chest at the back of his room, crouching down. Anti thinks about how easy it would be to choke him out and take the payment himself. He doesn't know when Shep started to trust him, but it was stupid. Anti's stabbed plenty of "business partners" in the back, and he's never tried to hide that. "You know, they might have already made sales."

"They were not long in the city. If they did, it was most likely back over the mountains."

"I'm just saying, you might need to do your vigilante shit again."

"I'm not a fucking vigilante," Anti snarls. "The slavers are gone, that's all can be done. People who get trafficked, there's no finding them anyway."

"Yeesh," says Shep. "Dark outlook."

"A practical one," Anti shoots back. "Now pay me."

Shep hands over his bag and Anti weighs it in his hand. "This isn't right."

"There's jewels in there."

Anti pulls it open, looking inside, and there they are: a pair of dark emeralds, slotting against his hand through the cloth of the bag.

All that pretty emerald hair.

He sucks in a half-breath, steadying himself. "Where'd you get this?"

"Someone paid me with them."

"Must have bought crates of the stuff for this price."

"They did. I can sell more, Anti. Buyers like that..."

Won't last the year. It's a self-devouring market that he plays middle-man for. But the game's not mandatory, and the players roll their own ouroboros dice.

He shouldn't be a part of it, but that's long past his consideration. Give him Jameson, let everything else burn.

"No," says Anti, after a moment. "I'll send the same shipment. You won't be able to hide much more on the ship anyway. There are more and more eyes looking for our product every day."

Shep nods slowly, though Anti thinks he wants to argue. He knows better, though, and that's all that matters. "Fine."

"Your cut will grow if this continues."

That satisfies Shepherd. It's all anybody wants. Money's not goods or services, after all, it's power. Anti wonders if any of his partners know what it's like to be sold out for a few coins. To know exactly how many pieces of gold you're worth.

Don't cry, now, emerald. Nobody's coming to help you.

He clenches blankly at the payment in his hand. Shep looks up at him from his position beneath him. Anti thinks that if he were standing over him, he'd shove him to the ground without thinking.

"Good night, then," says Anti.

Shep looks faintly amused, and Anti's sure he's never said "good night" to him before. "Good night, Antiochus."

He's drifting on the ride home, not sure where he's going, though White Bird carries him faithfully back towards the keep, towards safety. He wakes from his daze briefly as he hears her passing through a small creek that runs into the river, and then into the ocean.

"Hold, girl," he says, pulling at her reins. Anti reaches into his bag and gets out Shep's payment, weighing it in his hands for a second. Gems are so much lighter than coin.

He turns his hand over and lets all of it spill out into the creek. The emeralds glimmer with moonlight beneath the black water.

Anti winds his fingers into White Bird's mane and holds on tightly. His free hand shakes against her flank.

She understands, he thinks, because she just lifts her head and takes him home.

[weerd1]

ENT Rewatch Starlog, 21 April, 2024: Episode 3.19 “Damage”

The NX-01 continues to reel from the Xindi attack, when suddenly the ships break off. It is too late to save the warp drive however, as their primary warp coil has been damaged beyond the capacity Tucker can repair; they are trapped in this part of space.

The Reptilians rail at the other XIndi who stopped the attack, but the council has been at least partially swayed by Archer’s arguments. They insist on Archer being transferred to the council instead of the Reptilians holding him, and later reach out to the Sphere Builders to question if they had assisted the Reptilians in working behind the XIndi council’s back to go back to the 21st Century and try to drop a bio-weapon. The Sphere Builder admits it, but says it was to help hold the Xindi council together in this critical time, and to remember who the real enemy is. Degra is not convinced. 

Enterprise picks up an escape pod from a Xindi ship and is surprised to find Archer on board. As Hoshi translates the pod’s data, she finds evidence that the Xindi scientist Degra has arranged for Archer’s return, and he has provided a rendezvous point in space set for a few days later. With the warp drive inoperable, it’s impossible. 

T’Pol begins to become more erratic and have strange dreams; she risks her life to get into a damaged cargo bay and secure some Trellium D. We later her see her process the mineral and inject it into her neck.

Enterprise is approached by an alien vessel damaged in the Expanse. Archer offers to trade Trellium and other supplies for a warp coil. The alien captain refuses as it will strand their ship three years from home. After much deliberation and an almost violent argument with the unstable T’Pol, they go ahead with a plan to board and take the coil by force. They leave supplies and protections with the aliens; when confronted by the alien captain, Archer tells him, “I have no choice.”

T’Pol confesses to Phlox that she has become addicted to the presence of Trellium D, and he offers to help her through withdrawal, as the ship warps away with its stolen engine to reach Degra’s coordinates.  

Enterprise takes on some DS9 level ethical questions here, and for the most part it’s a pretty interesting study. There does not seem to be any other way to face the problems ahead, and Archer having to question his moral code, and even break it is itself heartbreaking. The idea of an unavoidable war would have been pretty solidly in the minds of the writers when this episode aired, and one can certainly debate if there is such a thing, or how we should or should not respond when we as individuals, or as a society, face that choice. 

Something that diminishes the overall argument though, and certainly T’Pol voicing her opposition, is my single most disliked story element in all of Enterprise: T’Pol’s addiction to Trellium D. The show certainly has its foibles, but Rick Berman and Brannon Braga making T’Pol an addict to subvert her strength infuriates me.  It’s a consistent theme in their era, subverting or diminishing women, and luckily individual writers and performers were able to keep these characters inspirational anyway. What really makes this all the worse for me in this rewatch, is there really isn’t a lot of lead up to this. Yeah, we know Trellium affects Vulcans from earlier in the season, but we don’t really get a slow burn of T’Pol suffering this addiction (unless we want to say her feelings for Trip ARE the anomaly, and I REFUSE that outright: T&T=OPT) that might warrant such a turn; it’s really just this episode when the ship is damaged and she can’t get her fix.  

What KILLS me here, is if you wanted to have something affect her for the drama, you could just as easily have said the damage to the ship, so many hull breaches, had increased her exposure to Trellium used to protect the ship, and had begun to change her mental state. Nope, we instead get a scene where she risks her life to get her drug and we even get the 22nd Century equivalent of holding a lighter under a spoon. Disgraceful, Berman and Braga, and bless you Jolene Blalock for managing to keep an engaging performance. 

There’s a neat moment in this episode though where Hoshi and Travis have a conversation about whether they will get home. Considering how criminally underused they both are this season, that was nice to see. And speaking of DS9, always good to see Casey Biggs who doesn’t get the grist that other show gave him as Damar, but glad he gets some more Trek under his belt. 

I would be fascinated to know though why in the age of computer models that ENT was already delving into, why the alien ship is obviously the repurposed main hull of a Romulan Warbird? 

NEXT VOYAGE: Funerals and a chance at halting the Xindi, if the NX-01 can remember “The Forgotten.” 

(Images taken from the main website for @trekcore; I am happy to remove the images if asked.)

[peninkwrites]

Lines Drawn in Sand & Concrete - Ch 5 of ?

Sam asks Ponk on a date. Ponk files a restraining order.

[CW: references past violence]

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 4

Ch 6

Mafia AU

~ Ponk & Sam ~

Ponk wants Sam to get out of their city, they want him to beg for forgiveness and then go jump in the river, they hate that man and they are forced to think of him every time their arm twinges or aches.  They also miss him so bad sometimes it feels like they could die from the pain of it.  They’ve been homesick for months and they know all that longing will only lead to a place they don’t deserve to go, but they still want to go home.

All this turmoil makes it all the more painful that they keep fucking running into him.  It’s a big city.  It shouldn’t be this hard to avoid him.  For ten years, they’ve gone to the same restaurants, parks, grocery stores, record shops, the same fucking walk along the river albeit Ponk no longer has a dog to necessitate it, but Ponk is utterly convinced it is Sam’s job to give these things up, to stay away.  At the very least he could have the fucking self respect to not look wounded at the sight of them or worse, try to talk to them.

Of course, that would imply that Ponk didn’t talk back.  That they didn’t on more than one occasion seek him out first.  That’s what that piercing pain of longing does, they suppose.  Despite the harm, they still feel drawn in like the man has some spell on them.

Some run ins it’s easier to avoid him, but others it’s like the universe itself is trying to wound both of them by dragging them closer together.

This time, it’s Fran.

Ponk is walking back to Eret’s place after doing a grocery run, paper bag held in their right arm, when a blur of white suddenly bolts under their feet.

“Oh, shit!” Ponk stumbles, the bag hitting the pavement and its contents now rolling out of their reach, they just barely manage to catch their footing and not hit the ground alongside it.  Ponk, once steadied, crouches down to gather their things when instead they are nose to nose with a familiar fluffy face.  “Oh, hey, Fran,” Ponk scratches behind her ear, she tries to delightedly lick their face but they lean away with a laugh.

“Sorry about that.”  Sam is, of course, close behind.  He leans down and begins to gather produce, pulling over their grocery bag to return its contents.

“I can pick things up just fine, thank you very much,” they quickly snatch it back and pretend not to notice how wounded it makes Sam look.

“I know, it’s just my fault she… look, I just want to help,” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be on a crutch, so, maybe you shouldn’t be crawling around trying to steal my lemons,” Ponk says irritably.

Sam dares to sound offended, “I wasn’t trying to steal–”

“Obviously I know that, Sam!” Ponk snaps.  “Thought you knew better than to let Fran off her leash by now.”

“She wasn’t off her leash, she just pulled free because she saw you,” Sam mutters.  “She misses you.”

Ponk doesn’t have a reply to that other than an ache in their chest, returning the last of their groceries and struggling to put it back in the crook of their right arm.

“Here,” Sam picks it up, taking it from them and giving them a chance to stand before he returns it.

Ponk grabs it quickly, irritated at how necessary Sam’s help had felt, even just for a moment.

“So, one of Eret’s little servants couldn’t have helped you?  Or her driver or something?” Sam keeps talking like this is in any way a conversation.

“Eret doesn’t have servants,” Ponk snaps.  “She has aids because she can’t actually see?   And no, I said I wanted to get things on my own.  I can do that, can’t I?  Not gonna arrest me for that too, are you?”  Ponk turns away, finding their path blocked by Fran.  They try to nudge past her.

“Ponk…”

“Stop doing that!” Ponk had started to walk away, but Sam daring to say their name like that has them sharply turning around.

Sam looks startled, taking a step back, Fran now pacing between them.  “Doing what?”

“You know what!” Ponk snaps.  They don’t know how to explain it, nor why they’re still standing here, glaring at Sam like it doesn’t hurt that Sam had helped them with something, no matter how small.  It felt too close to a past Sam had killed.

Sam smiles a little helplessly, hesitating.

“What, Sam?”

Sam grimaces like he knows this won’t go over well, but he says it anyway.  “Y’know, you’re still cute when you’re angry.”

Sam’s audacity doesn’t give them enough anger to walk away, it gives them something else instead, a way to name what it means for Sam to still talk to them like that.   “You’re talking like we’re still anything to each other.”

Sam looks genuinely puzzled, that same stupid kicked puppy expression that used to make Ponk weak, that still makes them a little weak.  “Aren’t we?”

“You’re nothing, Sam,” Ponk lies.  “You’re just nothing.”

Sam nods, maybe offended, but not enough to stop trying.  “Do you think you’ll ever come home?  Hurting me or not, betraying my trust or not, would you?” Sam proceeds recklessly.

“I’ve hurt you?!” Ponk laughs incredulously.  “Right, right, sure!  Like that makes sense!  And I was the one that left, Sam.  I wasn’t waiting for a… for an invitation!  And certainly not from you.”

“Well, yeah, but you left because you assumed you couldn’t stay–”

“Oi!  You’re the one assuming!” Ponk takes a step closer, a foot shorter than Sam but they refuse to cower away.  Sam isn’t a cop anymore.  If he hurts them, there will be consequences.  “I left because I didn’t want you, Sam.  Not after what you did.”

Sam still stays so calm, like they’re the irrational one, only ever looking hurt.  “Is that true?  Really?”  Sam’s anger is always so muted, even when he hurt them.  It’s so unfair.

“Why wouldn’t it be?!” Ponk knows that’s not actually a no, but part of them hesitates.

Sam steps closer too, until they’re inches apart.  “Because you could’ve left by now, Ponk.  But you’re still here.”

“I hate you,” it’s impulsive, it feels childish just like the tremor in their voice but they can’t stop it.

“That’s okay.”

“It’s okay?!” If Ponk keeps talking, if Ponk remains defensive, it means they control the hurt Sam causes.  Another lie.  “None of this is okay, Sam.”  Even as they say that, out of the corner of their eye they see Sam reach up as if to cup their cheek, but he pulls back right before.  Ponk is glad, because they think they probably would’ve let him.

“You can hate me, that doesn’t mean I hate you.  Even after everything you took from me,” Sam says, still more disdain than aggression.  “Maybe I should hate you, Ponk.  You’re selfish.”

“I’m selfish?!  You’re a bad person, Sam.  I’m not gonna let you have power over people ever again.  Maybe I did it for me, but I sleep better at night knowing you can’t–” Ponk gets choked up, the pain still lingers too raw, an open wound, and even worse that they still want Sam to be the one to make it hurt less.  “You can’t hurt anybody like you did me ever again.”

“I knew it was you–” Sam presses an accusing finger into their chest, they stumble back.  “I knew it.  You had to take one more thing from me, huh?!  What, you had some of your mob buddies plant stuff in the apartment?  You didn’t get even when they attacked me?”

“I told you that wasn’t me!” Ponk’s courage returns as they’re quick to defend themself.  “I’m not like you, Sam.  I’m not gonna just hurt you.  Even now.”

“Really?  Even now?” Sam asks sharply, like he doesn’t quite believe them.

“Even now,” Ponk repeats firmly.  “I don’t want you hurt, Sam.  Maybe I wish I could change that, but I can’t.”

Sam doesn’t even seem to be listening anymore, cogs turning, staring at them with a dangerous wistfulness rising too fast.

“Sam? Are you even listening to me right now?”

“Do you wanna go get coffee or something?”

“Do I what?” Ponk takes a step back, somehow this offer more threatening than not.

“We could… we could try all this again.  Go on a date, like normal people do.  We didn’t exactly have a normal first date, did we?”  He laughs and waits for them to reply.  They don’t.  “I’m not asking for an apology or for you to just move back in like nothing happened, but you clearly want me in your life, and I want you, and–” he gestures down to the malamute between them, “and Fran wants you back too!  So, why not, right?”

Ponk should snap back, offer an unforgiving retort, a reminder of every reason why this cannot happen again, but they don’t.  They stare up at him and there are ten years weighing on their shoulders.  Maybe they should try.  Something, anything.  Ponk’s good arm is occupied, so it is the one fresh out of a sling which reaches forward, grabbing onto the hoodie strings and pulling Sam down to their height.  Kissing him feels different now, but Sam reciprocates, surprised and then earnest.  Once more, Ponk’s groceries hit the pavement, their hands instead reaching up to cup Sam’s cheeks, his stubble familiar underneath their fingertips.

Sam’s arms around them snap them out of it.  It doesn’t remind them of Sam’s bear hugs, or an arm around their shoulder to keep them warm, or a hundred movie nights curled up on the couch together, it reminds them of Sam not letting them leave, of a vice-like grip on their wrist, holding them against the wall, and how Ponk didn’t think Sam would hurt them until he finally did.  Ponk shoves him back.

“No!  No, I’m not doing this again!” Ponk shakes their head sharply.  “It’s not fair, Sam!”

Sam laughs a little incredulously.  “I’m pretty sure you kissed me, Ponk.”

“And, well.  That was a mistake!” Ponk snaps.  “Fuck, Sam!  You just get my head spinning, don’t you?”

Sam is still smiling, still cheeky and lighthearted like this is going his way.  “Do I?”

“I’m not flirting with you, stupid!  I’m telling you that you– You fucked up!  You fucked me up!  And I want it to stop!”  Ponk doesn’t know how they can lose Sam again, but they feel like they need to find a way to.  “You cannot keep showing up to talk to me.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Sam pouts, still too lighthearted, still not taking them seriously.  “You talk to me first sometimes!”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t,” Ponk takes another step back.  “I shouldn’t.  And I’m scared that if you asked me to go home with you right now, I’d actually say yes.”

Sam’s response is too immediate, too eager.  “Come home with me.”  Sam reaches out to take their hand but Ponk yanks away.  They should have known Sam would say that; it hurts either way.

“You’re a terrible person!  Did you not hear the part where I said I was scared?” Ponk backs further away, wishing their grief didn’t radiate from their voice.  “I want you, and that means I want you gone, alright?  And you’re not just gonna up and leave, are you?  You’re gonna stay in this city until it kills you, aren’t you?” They say it like an accusation and this time Sam’s face falls and he has no reply.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ponk continues.  “That’s what I thought.”  Ponk turns to leave, going to grab their groceries, but they stop abruptly when Sam grabs their arm.

“Ponk, please–”

Ponk stumbles back, yanking free.  “Don’t touch me!”  Fear still too fresh, the act of Sam holding on too familiar, it again makes them think of sharp pain, of Sam pinning them to the wall, of Sam dragging them out of their home bruised and stunned, of Sam no longer viewing them as a person.

“Ponk,” Sam does it again, he says their name like it’s somehow an apology.  He takes a step forward.

“Just stay away from me!” Ponk shouts at him, far more panicked than angry now.  It’s beginning to garner looks from others walking this street, but at least the onlookers are looking at Sam like he’s the risk, like he’s the problem.  Maybe that’s what deters Sam from following more than Ponk’s words.  He hadn’t listened to them last time.  Ponk turns and leaves as their eyes begin to sting.  They refuse to let Sam see any more of their tears.  They don’t go back for their groceries, they don’t look back, and they pretend that kissing Sam hadn’t felt like it fixed something inside of them.

They need to find a way to cut Sam away from them.  That man cannot remain a tumor on their life, however much they want to keep him.  Ponk still feels homesick.  They’re afraid it won’t ever stop.

~

Sam’s new job is a good distraction.  He needs a distraction nowadays.  The only other thing going on in his life at present is surreal and bemusing to him.  The paperwork had arrived yesterday.  Ponk is filing for a restraining order.

Sam focuses on his job.  Quackity is such an agitated wreck it’s hard not to want to help him, despite their messier history.  Sam follows him, guards him, even occasionally offering input that Quackity either responds badly to or grudgingly with tolerance.  In his personal life, Sam had assumed running into Ponk might be an issue.  He hadn’t realized it would be a concern at his workplace.  It was a meeting with two of their major investors.  That was all Quackity had said.

Sam stops in his tracks at the sight of Ponk sitting between Eret and Captain Puffy.

“What?  What’re you doing?  Are you really gonna flip your shit over seeing your ex?  What are you, twelve?” Quackity says dryly when he sees him paused.

“No.  It’s fine,” Sam says stiffly.  They hadn’t yet had their day in court, and nothing in the paperwork mentioned a temporary order until the hearing.  Sam, for now, has every right to be in this room.  From the way Ponk, and honestly Captain Puffy as well, are staring at him, it doesn’t feel like that’s true.

“Hi, Captain, Mr. King, nice to see you both,” Quackity gives them both a nod.  “Nice to see you as well, Ponk.”  He sits across from them.  “Oh, um, I’m also here with my current head of security, who you all know.  Sam, sit.” Quackity announces Sam’s presence largely for Eret’s benefit when Sam didn’t announce himself, but there’s surely also some benefit Quackity finds in giving Sam an order and watching him listen.

“Nice to see you, Sam,” Puffy says cordially like their last interaction didn’t involve his old mentor coming at him with a baseball bat.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Eret says with a smile.  “You know, because of the whole seeing part,” she laughs.  “And you’re a terrible man.  That too.”

Quackity laughs a little too sharply.  “Is his presence going to be a problem here?  I can have him wait outside.”

“Not right now, no, but… well, there are going to be more meetings like this, are there not?” Ponk finally speaks up.  

“Uh, yeah, ideally.  My investors get input in this process, of course,” Quackity gives them an amicable nod.

“I’m in the process of getting a restraining order from your head of security,” Ponk says the title mockingly.  “So, in the future it might be a problem.”

Ponk just outright says it.  It’s humiliating.  Especially when instead of taking issue with Ponk for mentioning it, considering they’re not even actually an investor, Quackity turns to him.

“What the fuck did you do?  Or, I’m sorry, what the fuck did you continue to do?” Quackity snaps.

“Nothing!  Genuinely nothing.  Ponk and I have… we’ve run into each other a few times,” Sam realizes it’s not a strong defense.

Quackity sighs, a headache forming.  “Look, Ponk, I don’t want you to have to sit in a room with him if it’ll make you uncomfortable.  And I’m sorry if this comes off as rude, but could I ask why you’re here with Eret?  Is it essential?”

“I’m afraid so, Quackity.  Considering you’ve briefly stolen Foolish from me, and HBomb’s primary position is as my driver and therefore dealing with other errands for me, Ponk is here as my eyes.  Of course, if Ponk doesn’t want to be here, considering, I wouldn’t hold it against them.”

“Quackity, do you have other security to back you instead of him, maybe?  Just like, for these meetings?” Puffy offers her two cents.

“Nope!” Quackity smiles too wide, clearly irritable.  “At the moment, I do not.  I just have him,” Quackity refers to Sam like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Oof, buddy, that’s not a good move even without this whole deal,” Puffy winces on his behalf.  “You gotta hire more dudes.”

“I’m aware,” Quackity sighs.  “Okay, fine.  Ponk, are you okay with him sitting in for this meeting?  If not, it’s fine and he can definitely wait outside.  And… as for going forward, considering how involved you all will be… I’ll add finding more security to my to-do list.”

“I don’t care if he’s here for this meeting, but thanks, Quackity,” Ponk says.  “And like, in the future if this goes through, I should be allowed to approach him, so, he doesn’t have to like, leave the building or anything.  But I’d prefer if after this he’s not in here.”

“Got it.  Fair enough, man,” Quackity lets out another heavy sigh, but he doesn’t critique Ponk’s choice at all.  “Right, let’s get down to business, shall we?  We’re in the final stretch before the opening.”

Sam hates that they’re all talking about him like he’s a bad dog that needs put out in the yard, but nonetheless, he keeps his silence as the meeting proceeds.  He can’t stop himself from glancing over at Ponk, and once or twice, Sam thinks they were looking back, but they’re quick to look away.

Sam never thought he’d be on the other side of a court room to Ponk, but nonetheless he had his summons.  He wishes he were just angry with Ponk, that he could let them go, but the truth of it is he’s still waiting for things to go back to the way they were.  It’s becoming more and more apparent that that’s not going to happen.

Maybe he thought it would sink in by now.  It didn’t when he just read over the paperwork sent to him, Ponk’s list of reasons especially hard to take, and it hasn’t truly sunk in even now in front of a Judge.  At least it was a somewhat private affair.  Neither of them brought lawyers, instead it was just the two of them in a room with the Judge refusing to look at each other.  From the list Ponk had given of reasons, Sam already knows he’s doomed.  He’s not even sure why he’s resisting at this point.  This part was mere formality, it still hurt to hear Ponk say their piece.

“This guy broke my arm when I tried to leave.”

“I was arresting them!”

“And he is now a disgraced ex-cop accused of doing the very thing he tried to frame me for!  Look and see, all charges against me were dropped, and he’s lucky not to serve jail time!”

“All of this was– It was already dealt with, and–”

“Mr. Warden, please don’t interrupt.”

“Thank you, your honor,” Ponk still refuses to look at him.  “Even if the… the harm, hasn’t continued on the scale it was then, I think it would be best for both of us if there was incentive for us to never see each other again.  And if I’m being honest, I don’t think me just telling him to leave me alone would work.”

The Judge glances between the two of them before scanning the paperwork.  “We normally only prioritize this kind of action in more extreme cases of stalking, but the evidence and reasoning you’ve submitted clearly indicates a threat.  We’ll approve the restraining order.  Taking effect immediately.  Mr. Warden, you are not to go within 500 feet of Ponk London.  You will not approach them, you will not talk to them.  If you break this order, you will serve jail time of up to six months or face a $200 fine.  Do you understand this?”

“Yes, your honor,” Sam is staring at Ponk.  He wants them to look back at him, but they don’t.

“Good.  You will wait here, and once they leave the premises, you will be allowed to also leave…”  The Judge keeps talking, but Sam doesn’t really hear it.  He’s still looking at Ponk, waiting for them to turn back, but they don’t.  They’re leaving.

The Judge’s past words are swimming in the background of Sam’s mind.  Clearly indicates a threat.  Sam had his reasons, he did.  He’s starting to wonder if he was wrong.  Ponk leaves and they don’t look back, not once.  Everything Sam has done, it’s been for the right reasons.  It has to have been for the right reasons.  He doesn’t think his righteousness is worth this cost.

Sam doesn’t think he can bury himself in his work any deeper, but he’ll certainly try.  Las Nevadas opens in nine days.

[beevean]

I always used the Media Factory manga to talk about Hector and Isaac, because it goes much more in depth (and it’s far easier to read), but that doesn’t mean I don’t like the Prelude to Revenge manga! It’s much, much denser, but it has its interesting moments too.

I like this exchange a lot, for example:

I’m glad that it’s been confirmed: Hector did try to reason with Isaac, asking him the very obvious question “how can you, a human, be okay with Dracula’s genocide?”... and he was rejected without any hope for conversation. It says a lot about both of them.

I talked a lot about Hector affirming his own humanity in the face of Dracula and the people who shunned him, but Isaac’s non-response is just as interesting.

Just to double check, in Japanese he uses the word 賢くない, the negative of 賢い, which means “wise, clever, smart​”. So Isaac is saying that he’s not as smart as Hector... And clearly he’s not talking seriously, because no way this guy would honestly admit to be inferior to Hector in any way :P

No, he’s dodging the question, and I think the English translation nails the point. Isaac is smart, his plan in CoD is well thought out, but he doesn’t want to think for himself.

Isaac is clearly happy to be nothing more than Dracula’s servant. No higher aspirations on his part, other than probably being his favorite instead of Hector. He doesn’t care about what he’s doing, really: he waves the deep question away with “if you have a good weapon, shouldn’t you use it?”. Question is, what is this “weapon” he’s talking about? Hector and Isaac’s powers, which should be used at their fullest demonic potential because, well, they have them for a reason? ... or Hector and Isaac themselves, for Dracula...? If Dracula has two talented Devil Forgemasters at his beck and call, why shouldn’t he use them to spread his reign of terror? And really, what does it matter what they personally think of it? It’s not like they can do anything about their situation. At least, from Isaac’s point of view, who likely finds unconceivable that someone could just leave.

Another point. Unlike his Netflix counterpart, who wouldn’t shut up for a whole season about how much he hates humans, Isaac rarely mentions his resentment against humankind.

And these pages depict the same moment: Isaac directly confronting Hector after he ran away. In this context, this is more of a way to convince Hector to give up. And of course, he doesn’t make a mention of it in CoD itself, when he was at the peak of his hatred and insanity.

(btw, while sadly we never see a full flashback of Isaac’s childhood, it’s implied that it was nearly identical to Hector’s, and ngl I buy “the whole village hated me and hurt me, including my own parents” over “my master abused me” as a motivation to become misanthropic. As a child he was already bragging over turning his back on God, so I think he has suffered something even worse than what Hector went through and I wish I knew what :( )

My point being, Isaac isn’t mainly motivated by misanthropy. It’s there, but it’s just... there. This is just a corollary to his principal motivation: serving Dracula. That’s all he cares about. Look at the MF version: he puts “they turned their back on Lord Dracula” before “they chased us away”. I could even say that he’s just repeating words that Dracula put in his head, and there is nothing in canon that contraddicts it.

I also want to bring back this great scene from the MF manga, that I analyzed at the bottom of my long rant against Netflix!Isaac and Hector :P Isaac is more than capable of disobeying Dracula to get what he wants, but even after going all the trouble to kill his own underlings to get his way, he’s still convinced he’s 100% loyal. He’s deep in denial. His identity is wholly wrapped around being “Dracula’s servant”.

I also think that Hector being the “favorite” influenced how they diverged. Isaac was most likely single-mindedly focused on keeping up with Hector, which frustrated him and made him double down to be as perfect as he could be for Dracula. Hector, from his “privileged” position, could step back, look at the situation, and think “what am I even doing? All this effort for this?”.

Also, also. I am just so fascinated by those three years Isaac spent alone after the fall of Castlevania. What did he do in the meantime, how did he survive? The PoR manga... doesn’t give us the best picture:

Pictured: Isaac Not Doing Well Alone.

And I recently noticed another detail. Look at that. Look at where he’s sitting.

Ruins.

He never left Dracula’s fallen castle.

If we take Kojima’s words (art) for it, Isaac rotted three years in what was left of Dracula’s and his old home.

This is just a complete refusal, if not inability, to move on.

He had the freedom to go as he pleased, to do as he pleased. He was free from Dracula’s orders, free from being under Hector’s shadow. He could have travelled outside of Wallachia, where he wasn’t known, and started over. In fact, had he had done that, he would have not died so young.

(this is not confirmed anywhere, but I suspect that this is where his misanthropy comes into play: why would he completely avoid human civilization, were he not still suffering from the trauma of being chased away? Hector embraced his humanity despite all. Isaac rejected it a long time ago.)

But freedom is so, so terrifying, for someone who doesn’t want to be his own person.

I just... really like the idea of Isaac being utterly alienated by freedom, a concept too vast to analyze and that would force him to reflect on how much of his life he has wasted, and retreating into his comfort zone, which is acting on behalf of Dracula. No thinking. He’s just a weapon, and he’ll be the best one he can be. Even if it means going insane for three years. Even if it means being used and discarded without any dignity.

In this, he’s both a great counterpart to Hector, who finds pride in his independence, and to Trevor, a natural born leader.

Isaac is a tragic, pitiful villain, and this is the hill I will die on.

[darkstalker1247]

Hydraulics AU: Part 9

This was strange. 

Steve’s mind was racing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Here was this giant creature who’d been feral even minutes before and was suddenly tame, curled up in the corner, away from him, as well as another person talking to him. What was this place? He’d just seen another world that looked like it was made of paper mache, and he looked and felt like a zombie. Even this strange new person he was talking to looked somewhat human, despite the whole being made of ink thing. He seemed like he knew what he was doing, however, so Steve rationalized to trust him for now. After all, he’d gotten him out of what he now described to be a literal hell hole. 

“I know you probably have a lot of questions,” Sammy breathed. “Lucky for us, the gentleman who runs this place stocked up plenty of ink and paper, so ask away.” He set a piece of paper on the floor in front of Steve; their only way of communicating. Steve pondered over what he should ask first. After a moment, he scrawled one particular question he settled on:

What happened to you?

Sammy went quiet after reading it. He rubbed his fingers together; Steve figured he’d struck a nerve. After a long silence, Sammy spoke up. “I wasn’t exactly forced into this, not at first.”

“It started off normal. I was antisocial as per usual, kicking everyone out of my department as soon as I could, just trying to get some peace and quiet. Those songs of mine never wrote themselves, after all. They started giving me a new type of ink to write with, and after the Machine was put in, we’d get trapped in the department sometimes. The ink would overflow and block the exit. Our boss’ answer was more distractions for me, which only made my work harder and my mind spiral more often than usual. It’s always been a problem, but it got just that much worse after… after the Ink Demon was made.” He paused for a moment, glancing at Bendy itself, who was seemingly alert, watchful. Then he continued. “I started hearing voices. They told me to do things I’m not proud of, like drinking that.” He paused again, this time pointing at the little inkwell sitting next to the paper in front of him. “It only made things worse. Not only did the voices come and go, I swore I started seeing things. Normal things for people around the studio, but I was seeing them in my sleep. I used to joke about how Bendy and his little cartoon friends would drive me insane…” 

The Demon snapped its head in their direction, recognizing its name. The two ignored it. “It got to the point where I was convinced that the Ink Demon was some kind of god, and that I needed to appease it in some way. When the Cycle ended up starting, I decided to try some kind of sacrifice. I basically screamed at the ceiling until I’d finally caught its attention, but when I tried to get it to accept a few people I’d stumbled upon as an offering, it just pushed me into the ink.” He moved his mask out of the way of his face and pressed his hand to his forehead. “It was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. Susie warned me about getting too deep into my work…” 

Sammy had stopped, rubbing his head and trying to calm himself. He seemed finished with his story. Steve was very confused. Sammy’d mentioned some names that Steve recognized without knowing how or why. The Machine, the Cycle, even the name Susie was very familiar. He had a picture of the Machine in his mind; it was complex on the inside but had a simple purpose, to create an endless supply of ink. Strange. 

He couldn’t think of anything to say next, so he simply wrote underneath the question: I’m sorry. Sammy stared at this expression of sympathy for a minute before sighing. “Thank you,” he near-whispered, “Do you have any other questions? Anything at all?” 

Steve felt the need to write down something else, to clear this strange air of grief and regret. He scrawled down another query as fast as he could without misspelling anything. His black hands, still a horrifying surprise to look at, were shakier than usual. He managed to write out:

What happened to the Ink Demon? 

The two looked over at the Demon itself, who was fiddling with its fingers, clearly very bored. “Bendy,” Sammy called out, “He’s asking about you.” It snapped to attention and stood on its back legs, slowly thudding over to where they were talking. Steve noticed it left behind a giant puddle of ink where it had been sitting. It dragged its huge claws along the floor as it walked, and its heart beat slowly from wherever it was. It flopped down on the ground again behind Sammy, like a dog switching spots to be in the sun. It looked intently at Steve, but he wasn’t sure why. “That’s both an easier and a harder question,” Sammy said in a calmer, more purposeful tone. “The owner of the animation studio that the… place spawned from wanted to do something basically impossible. He wanted to make living cartoon characters. I’m not sure if he was actually the starry-eyed idiot he always pretended to be or if he was a money hungry monster, but he wanted living attractions. We don’t really mention him too often.” He glanced back at the Ink Demon behind him, indicating why. “Anyway, he wanted to make living cartoons. He experimented on that Ink Machine with some guy named Thomas Connor, and eventually they came up with something. The owner’s first experiment was his main character, Bendy.” He pointed behind him. “As you can see, it didn’t go so well.” 

Oh, that actually makes sense, Steve thought to himself. Money-obsessed business owner plays God and gets kicked in the ass for it. 

“After Bendy came out deformed, J- I mean, the owner locked it in some secluded location, away from us. It drove it mad, and uh… this is what we have now.” He seemed to stumble over his words. The Ink Demon grumbled. It sounded almost like it was in physical pain. It has emotions, then, Steve pondered again. Sammy sighed. “I know, buddy, I know… it’s over now. He can’t hurt you.” It whined and settled down, burying its head in its giant hands. 

Sammy looked back over at Steve. “Anything else?” 

Steve decided to write down one last question.

What was your boss’ name?

Sammy didn’t say anything. He motioned for Steve to hand him the pen he was using, and then wrote down something. His handwriting was really neat, all things considered. 

Joey Drew. 

Steve nodded in regards to Sammy. That’s all, he was trying to say, and thank you. 

___

it's been a bit hasn't it

ngl I'm really proud of the characterization in this one

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