#wait that's not the right word. preemptively take them BEFORE physical activity??

[tj-crochets]

Okay so I don’t have the fluffy blanket fabric in red for a dragon, but I do have a fluffy red blanket I can use? It’s not quiiiiite as fluffy, but it’s still pretty darn fluffy, and a nice deep red kind of color, and I really want to make baby Smaug So I’m thinking I might make baby Smaug (aka a red and gold dragon) next, but before I get started on it I’ll cut out the fabric for another Bucky Bear so I’m one step closer to finishing another auction fill item

[mythrilhusk]

Despite Everything - Chapter One

NOT RPF (RPF = Real Person Fiction) Genre - Magical Warriors (based off Magical Girl genre) Featured Relationships (only SFW): Niki/Puffy

Niki Nihachu never wanted to be involved with the corporation-funded magical battles sparring in the skies of her home planet, Io. But when she accidentally awakens an ancient evil, she's forced to take responsibility and join an ageless war to save the entire universe.

CW: Death, violence, threats, manipulation

(Ao3 link) Words: 1,874 Next Chapter 

Rain patters on the sky bridges forming webs throughout Io's largest city, Kumo Dome. Niki's boots scrape on the ironwood planks as her bridge sways over the icy void. She strides easily across, used to the motion. 

Above her, in the cold black sky unbrightened by the cold yellow speck of the Sun, several figures glide and dance in a clearly staged battle. Niki scoffs, reaching the highrise at the end of the bridge. Two-hundred stories above the ground, her favorite little cafe seems so peaceful, with icy cyan crystals growing over the railings of the balcony. Niki removes her cape and hands it to the host. "Thank you, Jack." 

"Anything for you." Jack grins and hangs her cape on a hook. "You change your mind at all? We could really use the publicity." 

"I'm not here to talk business." Niki replies, restraining her annoyance. If he were anyone else, she'd give them an earful. 

"Alright, Niki. The usual?" 

"Yes, thank you. Oh, add a few sprinkles to it, I'm celebrating." 

"Oh?" Jack leans across the counter, waggling his brows. 

"I got a new apartment that allows pets." Niki smiles as she sits down. It's not a lie, more of an obfuscation. 

"Awesome." Jack mixes up her drink and scatters unicorn sprinkles over the whipped cream. "This one's on me." 

Niki purses her lips. "I'm still not-"

"I know, I know. I'm just being nice." Jack sets the drink down on her table, then sits down in the opposite chair. 

"I'm expecting a date, actually." Niki tosses her hair teasingly. 

"Ohh? Who?"

"You wouldn't know her." Niki shoos him out of the seat. 

The door's bell chimes and Captain Puffy strides in, her billowing rainbow hair dripping from the rain and her cloak slung uselessly over her arm. Jack smirks at Niki. "You'd be surprised."

"Hey, Jack!" Puffy hops onto the seat Jack vacated and grins at the host. "Get me a bottle of Bloody Vodka." 

"Sure thing, Cap'n." 

Puffy turns her gorgeous smile on Niki. "Hey." 

"Hey." Niki responds dumbly, lost for words. "You're all wet." 

Puffy snorts in a vain attempt to restrain her giggles. "Wow, we're going there already?" 

"I meant the rain, but if you insist." Niki laughs. "Let me buy you a pastry. The donuts here are good." 

Puffy shrugs graciously. "I'll have the salamander crumb one." 

"Oh, that is a good one." 

"Puffy," Jack calls, "Please tell her to join us!" 

Puffy raises an eyebrow at Niki, who blushes and flusters. "Look, Jack, I've told you a thousand times, I will not be your goddamn mascot." 

"Mascot??" Puffy laughs brightly. "Jack, you idiot!"

"What??" Jack cries. "It's not my fault, Niki jumped to conclusions and never gave me the chance to explain!!" 

"Niki, darling." Puffy steeples her fingers and leans on the table. "You don't have to join anything you don't want to. But, that being said, we're kinda shorthanded without the Spirit of Death on our side." 

"What the fuck??" Niki cries, leaping up from her seat. Her heart pounds in her throat; her hands spark with emerald fire. She hastily smothers the flames, stuffing her hands under her arms. "I- I can not be Death, I will not be Death, I don't- I don't want this, why can't you magic bastards leave me alone??" Why today of all days??

Puffy stares at her, taken aback. Jack whistles awkwardly and retreats into the kitchen. "Niki, no, sweetie. You're not Death." 

"Damn right I'm not." Niki snaps. "I don't want to play in your goddamn staged battles, I don't want to fight anyone, I just want to be left alone." 

Puffy raises her hands in surrender. "I'm not asking you to." 

"Good." Niki's hands drop to her side.  

"I'm sorry, sweetie, I didn't realize it was a sore subject." Puffy sighs. "You're not Death. Just the reincarnation of the Spirit of Death." 

"What the hell does that even mean?" Niki cries, curious despite it all. "I'm not a Patron, I'm- I'm barely even a Hex, and I don't want any of this." 

Puffy gives her a sharp smile. "Oh, Niki. There are so many other powers out there." She gestures for Niki to sit down. Niki obeys. "What do you know about your own power?" 

"I- I can heal." Niki raises her hands. Emerald sparks flicker beneath her pale skin. "That's it, though." 

"That's green hex stuff, yep." Puffy covers Niki's shaking hands with hers. "You know Patrons, too, yeah?" 

"Yes, but I am not one." 

"Alright, alright. Spirits are reincarnations of the ancient dragons. Each dragon was a Patron of a different realm of reality. There's six of us right now." Puffy smirks and her eyes alter, mesmerizing Niki with fractals upon fractals of pulsing multicolored flames. "I am Captain Puffy, Spirit of Fire." Her voice crackles with the screams of blazing embers. 

As suddenly as the change had come over her, the normal Puffy returns. Niki laughs breathlessly. "That- that was hot." 

"Literally, yes, I am extremely hot." Puffy giggles.

"There's six of- of the Spirits?" 

"Fire, Ice, Light, Dark, Life, and Death." 

"I'm Light!" Jack calls from the kitchen. 

"Shut up, Jack, she doesn't care!" Puffy snipes back. 

"I'm just saying. She might want to know." Jack grumbles. 

"Puffy, I don't want to be involved." Niki stares at the table, at her trembling hands, at the silver lichtenberg scars on her arms. "I've seen what this power does to people. It- it is not a good thing, this Spirit, and I don't want it." 

"Alright." Puffy shrugs. "Fair warning, though, if you try to use it without being properly prepared, it will be harder to control." 

"I know. I'm not going to use it." Niki sighs, wishing the conversation hadn't turned so dour. "I'm sorry. Can we still have a nice date?" 

"Oh, of course." Puffy smiles and changes the subject. 

They talk till it's almost curfew. Jack cleans up around them, then pulls a seat up to join in the meandering conversation. Finally, Niki stands up and gives Puffy a shallow bow. "Thank you for the enjoyable date." 

Puffy bows back. "Any time, sweetie. I had fun." 

Outside, the rain has cleared and the clouds have parted to reveal Jupiter. The planet's glow bathes the city in orange light. Niki smiles up at the hidden stars. When she concentrates, she can feel them out there, massive gravitational wells of plasma. When she concentrates, it almost seems as though she is a star herself, blazing and powerful and implacable. 

A spark of terror ends the moment; her hands clench and she strides across the bridge, eyes welling with angry tears. She can't even have the stars. Not even today, the anniversary of her death.

The day Niki died started off like any other day. At the time, she hadn't learned to control her healing yet. When the errant lightning spell hit her, her magic reacted as a belated reflex. She was physically dead for a whole ten seconds. Ten seconds too many. 

The officials didn't investigate, but Niki knew the spell was from the staged battle nearby. She tried to sue the corporations who'd hired the Hexes, but nobody would take the case, claiming it was a lost cause. 

Getting more pissed the more she thinks back on it, Niki shoots a glare at the current staged fight on the next highrise over. The idiots just shoot off spells and don't even care who or what they hit, protected by the trillionaires funding them. 

One of the fighters, a cyan Hex, blinks onto the bridge, making it sway and rock. Niki grips the railing. "Fuck you!" 

He barely even glances at her before activating his jetpack to leap back into the air. A fire spell blasts past, narrowly missing the bridge. 

Niki hastily strides for the end of the bridge. She's just past the middle when the bridge tilts sideways, then swings wildly. Niki grips the railing, cursing colorfully. Overhead, laughter mocks her. 

She lets go to flip off the fighters. A fire spell slams into the bridge and knocks her into the abyss.

Niki screams, flailing as wind whips past her. Through the blinding haze of terror, she gathers enough wits to preemptively activate the only spell she knows. Emerald fire consumes her body as she slams into the ground, over two hundred feet below the bridge. 

++++

Hm. Niki? That's a nice name. I'm [redacted]. 

Huh. You're not dead, are you? That's good. If you were dead, you'd be rather less useful. 

Niki, you don't want to die again, do you?

Nobody wants to die, least of all more than once. 

I have a deal for you.

...

That was fast. I haven't even told you what it is yet.

Hm. Okay. You want revenge, that's easy enough. Just heal me and I'll give you your revenge.

Ha... 

....Hahaha....

You idiot. You really did it. You actually freed me! Heh, I guess you can have a reward. 

I'll let you rest in peace. There. Don't get in my way or I will make your eternity very painful. 

It was so nice to meet again, Spirit of Death...

++++

"Niki!!" Puffy's distraught cry shatters through the haze of drowsy distance. 

Niki groans and tries to open her eyes. She feels weightless, disconnected. Her eyes remain stubbornly closed, like she's still dreaming. Magic crackles in her body, desperately working to mitigate the damage and knit her together. 

A spark of foreign magic trickles into her hand. Niki lashes out, snatching the tendril and yanking it away. A furious yell frees itself from her lungs. 

"Wait, sweetie, it's okay!" Puffy blazes in Niki's awareness, a form of flames and crackling lightning. Terrifyingly, hypnotically gorgeous. 

"Are- are you a star?" She opens her eyes and sees Puffy kneeling over her, cutting a stark shadow from Jupiter so far above. 

Puffy hiccups, wiping away her tears. "Niki, I saw you fall and I thought- oh, gods, I thought you were dead!" 

"I was." Niki tries to reassure her, but this only makes Puffy start to cry again. "Puffy, I'm not dead, it's okay!" 

"Are you sure? Are you a ghost?" 

"No, I am not a ghost." Niki sits up with effort and reaches for Puffy's hand. "See? I'm alive." 

Puffy yanks her into a fierce, warm hug. "Don't die ever again." She hisses. "I don't like it." 

Niki laughs brightly, still recovering from the shock of her final few moments. "I will try." 

Puffy continues to embrace her. "We've only known each other for like two weeks, but if anything happened to you, I'd probably have a villain arc." 

Niki extricates herself from the embrace. Puffy looks absolutely magical, covered in grime, tear stains down her cheeks, her eyes and nose puffy from crying. "Thank you for coming." 

Puffy sniffles. "What else would I have done?? You fell from a goddamn bridge, nobody would have found your body for ages!" 

"I think most people would have left me." Niki admits bitterly, recalling her first death. 

"Fuck that, you're my friend." Puffy cries hotly. "Let's get you home." 

Niki rests her head on Puffy's shoulder as she's picked up. "This doesn't mean I'm joining your team." 

"I never said anything about that, sweetie." 

Next Chapter

[localkatshelter]

Okame’s Underbelly: Humiliation |3rd|

(ShinsoxOC) 

Katsumi’s POV (localvillageidiot#0870) and Shinso’s POV (hecker#8339)

Warning: Contains alcohol consumption, heartbreak, suicidal ideation, emotional manipulation/quirk use

Preview:

| “I feel like she just wants me to disappear...” he said from underneath his arm. “Maybe I’ll give her what she wants.”

He mumbled the last bit to himself, probably not intending for me to hear it, but I did. I felt his sadness morph into something more morbid. Oh shit, he’s taking this really hard. Before I realized what I was doing, a question had already escaped my lips.

“Do you really think that?”

“I don't know...”

I activated my quirk immediately after he responded. |

Beautiful Artwork By: Casentine

1st Chapter - Anticipation 

(Katsumi's POV)

I tapped him on the shoulder. Edgelord grunted, looking over at me through hooded eyes. The physical contact sent a jolt through me as my quirk processed the whirlwind of emotions that were coming from him.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine…” His voice was strained, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that it was true.

As soon as he opened his mouth, I could smell the soju. Oh he’s drunk drunk. I tilted my head to the side in an effort to look him in the eye.

“You sure? You don't seem fine to me.” And my quirk is screaming that you're in pain right now. I’d always hated how I couldn't leave someone once I felt that they were hurting, even when it was a total stranger and none of my business.

He chuckled sourly. “Is that so? Then maybe you’re right…” he slurred, smiling half-heartedly.

“So,” I paused, glancing down towards his feet. There were four bottles of soju on the ground, two totally empty and a third about halfway finished. “What’s the matter?”

“The person that cheated on me took it upon themself and decided we weren’t worth fighting for anymore.” He stated bluntly. He lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye. “Isn’t that crazy?” he asked, laughing bitterly.

“Oh wow, I’m sorry.”

He laughed again and shrugged. “They’re probably fucking as we speak.” he said casually and took another swig of his soju and placed the fourth next to him preemptively.

I could feel his heart crack a little further with every word. I couldn’t help but reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. I felt his entire body flinch and tense at my touch. There was a short silence before I heard him speak in a soft, broken tone.

“F-fuck...” His hands gripped the bottle of soju tightly, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

I could feel him struggling not to cry. His anger and pain began to tug at my chest as the desire to take it all away crept up on me. I unconsciously began to rub the back of his shoulder. I could feel him break beneath my hand. He started to cry, letting out short sobbing breaths. He tried to hide his face in the crook of his elbow.

“I fucking hate this crying bullshit…” he choked out while he rubbed his eyes with his sleeve clumsily.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying. Keeping it in ends up hurting you more in the long run.”

He nodded reluctantly, his head still buried in his arm. I kept rubbing small circles on his shoulder as he regained an even breath.

“I feel like she just wants me to disappear...” he said from underneath his arm. “Maybe I’ll give her what she wants.”

He mumbled the last bit to himself, probably not intending for me to hear it, but I did. I felt his sadness morph into something more morbid. Oh shit, he’s taking this really hard. Before I realized what I was doing, a question had already escaped my lips.

“Do you really think that?”

“I don't know...”

I activated my quirk immediately after he responded, pulling at his emotions lightly to make him feel a bit more open towards me. He’s so drunk, manipulating his emotions is too easy. It’s like taking candy from a baby.

“She let me go so easily...” he said softly.

I continued to pull the self-destructiveness from him little by little until I had absorbed it all, leaving him with a duller version of the anguish that had been there before. Once I let go of my hold on him, he seemed to get more of a grip on himself. He straightened up a bit and I removed my hand from his shoulder. I watched him begin to fidget uncomfortably with his soju bottle, now almost empty. He started to eye the last bottle.

“You know, I’m not feeling too great myself either.” I said while casually reached around him to grab the unopened bottle next to him. “Okame not performing anymore kind of bummed me out. I basically only ever came to The Squeaky Wheelhouse to listen to their pieces. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do on Friday nights... Wow, that sounds so lame out loud.”

I laughed at myself, trying to lighten the mood a bit and put him at ease. I could feel his anxiety and embarrassment, likely because he cried in front of me, a perfect stranger. It’s no big deal and totally not his fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine, but he doesn’t need to know that. He seemed to contemplate my dilemma for a moment.

“Fuck that guy.” he concluded with a hiccup.

“Cheers to that.” I laughed a bit as I opened the stolen soju bottle and raised it to him. Our bottles touched and we both took a long swig.

“My name’s Katsumi by the way.”

“Shinso, glad you stumbled upon my sorry ass.” He held his hand out.

I shook his hand, taking note of his firm grip and the roughness that I had admired earlier.

“Speaking of stumbling on you, what are you doing out here anyway?”

“I’ve been waiting for a bus home but it’s been taking fucking forever.”

The bus? I took out my phone to check the time.

“Um... it’s almost 1 a.m. The last bus came, like, an hour ago.”

“No way,” He started to laugh. “I’m an idiot, holy shit”

“Can I call you a cab?”

“No, my parents cannot see me like this.” he said in a lighthearted tone.

“Well you definitely can't stay here...” I trailed off. Am I really about to offer to take a complete stranger back to my apartment? I mean, he seems trustworthy and I don’t get any malicious vibes from him.... “Why don’t you come back with me? You can sleep it off and go home in the morning.”

“Are you sure? I’m just some scary man.” he joked.

“Oh yeah, that mess of lilac hair is absolutely terrifying.” I teased back, getting up.

He laughed, both shocked and amused by my retort. “You’re funny, also fuck you.”

I let out a laugh and motioned for him to get up off the bench and follow me. He tried to stand and stumbled a bit before I caught him by the arm. He steadied himself but I kept an arm behind him to be sure he wouldn’t fall over. We started to walk back to my place together making small talk and joking with each other a bit. It was surprisingly easy to get along with Shinso. We kind of just, clicked. It was actually really nice. Once we got back to my dorm apartment, I grabbed some extra blankets and a pillow to make up the couch for him.

“Just crash here.” I told him, pointing to the makeshift bed. I turned and walked over to the television. “Do you want me to turn this on for you?”

I looked over my shoulder and saw that Shinso was already knocked out. I smiled to myself. He looks almost cute the way he's hugging that pillow. I went into my bedroom, being sure to lock the door behind me. Sure he’s cute and nice, but he’s still a stranger....

I woke up the next morning and he was gone. The only trace he left behind were the blankets, neatly folded on the couch.

(Shinso's POV)

I didn’t remember much of last night and I didn’t really want to. I just remember me feeling like shit, drinking my heart out, and making a fool out of myself in front of a stranger. I remember them being super nice but even so, I dipped out of their apartment as soon as my aching brain drifted into consciousness again. I had to use my phone to see where the hell I was, but once I did, I googled the nearest convenience store. I kept swallowing hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. I felt so much like death that I debated drinking again to feel better. But I reluctantly decided against it and instead did the right thing, which was to chug water, eat something light, and suffer a bit. On the bus home, I tried to stop my mind from wandering towards what had happened last night. I can’t say I was successful. In conclusion, this whole heartbreak thing was not going to be easy.

The rest of the summer went by in a pitiful blur, in result the next semester seemed to approach very quickly.

I shoved the remainder of my belongings into my shitty little car before settling into the front seat for my brief drive to campus. I typically only brought the essentials so one trip sufficed. It probably seemed unnecessary to live on campus when I’m not that far from it, but living on my own was essential for my general sanity. Also, I much preferred living with my close friend Denki. He shed a light on my abyssal self. It was a pleasant contrast, even though I’d never openly admit it to him. It was an inside joke at this point for me to pretend that I was indifferent about his company. It had been that way since the beginning.

When I pulled up, Denki was already waiting outside the dorm building with a stupid grin on his face.

“How’s my shining baby boy?” he beamed.

I shook my head, laughing at his typical ridiculous term of endearment, and put my hazards on before stepping out of the car. He ambushed me with a hug, which I stiffly returned. He pulled back and looked me over.

“You look so handsome right now, I could kiss you.”

I chuckled, playfully pushing him away.

“Help me move my shit inside, will ya?” I ordered jokingly.

“Aye aye, boss. That’s what I’m here for.”

He saluted before hulking a huge bin of my junk over his shoulder. He’s a lot stronger than he looks; I learned that the hard way when we trained together. It was a nice outlet for stress and a way to be active without being too deliberate about exercising. It was also fun to just fuck around with a friend and kick their ass...in a friendly way of course. I won’t lie, there were a few times where I left practice more sore and beat up than he was. By a few times, I mean more than half the time. However, that percentage was slowly tipping in my favor, so there’s no use in prematurely developing an inferiority complex. Well, I already sort of have one, but for a completely separate reason. I have always been told that my quirk left me vulnerable because it heavily relied on trickery, if it failed it would leave me vulnerable physically. Except they usually didn't say it that nicely. It was often intended to be condescending. I tried to not internalize the not-so constructive criticism but when you hear something over and over again…well, it starts to stick. To push back, I started combat training with Denki recreationally. He doesn't need to know the details of why I suddenly sprung the idea on him a little over a year ago.

We lugged one round of my things into our snug room, which Denki already managed to decorate with album covers. Besides his PC and collection of questionable manga, his side wasn’t that much more complex than I predicted mine to be. Messiness was a whole other subject, but as long as he kept his stuff on his side, I couldn’t give a shit. As we returned to my car, a girl in front of the entrance caught my eye. She was staring me down, looking confused. I assumed she was looking at my ridiculous gravity-defying hair like most people do and went back to grabbing more things out of my car. Before I could gather too many items, I heard a pleasant voice call out behind me.

“Hey, Edgelord.” it mocked in a friendly tone.

My brows pinched together in confusion as I turned around to follow the voice. It belonged to the petite brunette girl who was staring at me. I looked over at Denki to see if he recognized her, but he looked just as baffled as I was. Well, maybe baffled wasn’t the word. He was uncontrollably snickering at the nickname the stranger gave me. She’s bold.

“Um, hey?” was all I could come up with.

“Funny running into you here. How’ve you been?” she inquired genuinely, continuing to speak to me as if we were familiar with each other.

Huh? How’ve I been? Where do I know her from?

“Uh, I’ve been good.” I responded, now trying to mask my uncertainty as to not be rude to this person that obviously knew me from somewhere.

“Well that's good to hear. You’ve been feeling okay?” She smiled, her eyes questioning me earnestly.

I began to shift uncomfortably at the intensity of her caring nature towards me. Especially since I honestly had no idea who she was. Shit, does she know me as Okame? That doesn’t make sense because how would she know? Is she a friend of my ex? That would be so fucked if my ex really ruined my anonymity for something I care so much about. I know she’s spiteful, but I didn’t think she could be that malicious. As these questions shot at me in rapid-fire, I studied the girl before me, trying to find any sort of familiarity. Despite having a more circular face, her jawline was decently pronounced. She was of olive complexion with a light peppering of freckles concentrated on her round nose. She had dark, arched, brows which complimented and contrasted her otherwise soft features. Her eyes were upturned, embellished with a set of thick lashes. Her irises were a striking amber shade...wait that’s familiar. That detail pulled at a vague memory in me. Her head tilted with increasing puzzlement. Fuck, how long has it been since she asked the question?

“Y-Yeah, I’ve been feeling fine.” I stammered.

She giggled at my rushed response. I felt Denki’s mischievous glare on me. I glanced back at him only to catch an annoying wiggling brow.

“Oh good. So, do you need any help moving in? I got bullied into volunteering anyway, so I might as well be of some use.” She tugged on the logo of her shirt and rolled her eyes with a scoff.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little at the idea of a “moving in crew” uniform.

“Nice, but I think w-”

Denki poked me in the side, administering a slight zap. I clenched my jaw, muting a grunt, before throwing a deadly scowl his way.

“What my colleague means to say is that he’s super weak and could really use your help moving in.” Denki interrupted.

I closed my eyes, rolling them behind my lids, while taking a deep breath and accepting his wishes. I learned early on that once Denki made his mind up on something, you’d be wasting your time if you didn’t give in right away.

She chuckled at Denki’s commentary before gesturing to the car.

“You got it. Is this everything?” She grabbed a box and held it against her hip.

I nod in response and we head upstairs. I kept to myself for the most part, still mulling over the mystery of who this girl was. In the meantime, Denki and ? were getting along just fine, surprisingly well for just recently breaking stranger status. She found him hilarious which was concerning because I didn’t need him getting an even bigger head about it.

“Who knew Edgelord would have such cool friends. I honestly thought he was a figment of my imagination until I saw him again today. I mean, who even likes grapefruit soju?” Denki and Mystery Girl cackled in unison.

Grapefruit soju...fuck. I knew she looked familiar. She was the girl from that night where I completely lost it. After ruminating on it the day after, I never really looked back, because I assumed I’d never see her again. She’s seen me at a low point and I was not comfortable with that. Denki noticed me going still for a moment and he gave me a weird look. I took a deep breath to compose myself.

“Yeah, I think me and Denki got the rest.” I interrupted plainly.

She paused, shooting me a baffled look which morphed into annoyance before settling on a neutral expression. I pretended not to notice the myriad of emotions travelling across her face. She clearly understood the intention behind my sudden curtness. I could feel Denki’s glare on the side of my face.

“Oh, okay cool. I’ll be on my way then.” she concluded lightheartedly and turned to Denki. “It was really cool meeting you though! I’m glad we got to talk for a bit. Hopefully I’ll see you around.” She flashed him a bright smile before heading to the door.

“Hold on there, stranger! What’s your name?” Denki called out.

“Oh, right! It’s Katsumi, but you can call me Kat, everybody does.”

“Hi, Kat! I’m Denki, but you can call me anytime.” He topped off the corny line with some finger guns.

She laughed softly to herself. “Okay, you got it.”

She brushed right past me and made her way out the door, disappearing around the corner. After waiting a few seconds, Denki closed the door behind him, leaning his weight on it.

"Dude," he exhaled heavily "What the fuck was that about? You got all weird at the end."

"Did I?" I muttered dismissively while unpacking one of the bins.

"Uh, yeah" he exasperated at this apparently obvious observation. "She obviously knew you from somewhere so there has to be a story. You're a shit story-teller but I'm a whore for tea so my standards are very low."

I moved on to a new box, tuning him out.

"Hellooooo? She clearly cares about you to some extent so there's history." He emphasized the last word. "She's definitely a lot nicer than She-Monster." He casually threw in his charming nickname for my ex.

My body stiffened, and I turned away from him and began to fidget pointlessly with office supplies on my desk. Denki has known me long enough to pick up on my subtle tells no matter how hard I try to suppress them.

"Something happened." He instinctually adjusted his voice to a more solemn tone.

"Yeah…" I sighed, giving in. "I guess I accidentally left that part out about my summer."

"Sure you did." Denki rolled his eyes, already scrolling through our texts. He defeatedly threw his phone on the bed, obviously failing to find any hints as to when it happened.

"But regardless," He hopped on my bed, despite having his own. "I'm all ears." He gave me a warm smile, patting the spot next to him on the bed.

[peakyblinders1919]

Our Little Secret Spot

Notes: Please enjoy Pt. 1 to a three part fic for @peakynsfw​’s writing challenge. Based on the prompt: Little one’s first trip to the beach with Michael. Please please leave feedback or message me what you think!! 

Trigger Warning: be prepared to fucking loose it

 October 15. It had just been another day until Michael began signing and dating papers. Enough time had passed that he had forgotten the significance of today, though he never forgot it once he had come to the realization that today was October 15.

With that weighing heavily on his mind, the numbers became harder to manipulate. Carry a one, no carry a two. Now did he have to borrow from the tens or… no. He slammed the pen onto the desk. Nothing was making sense. He needed to focus. 

A cigarette. He needed a damn cigarette to calm his nerves, get him back on track. Getting a cigarette from the box on his desk, he almost knocked over a picture. He steadied it, looking at it for a long time. So long he almost forgot everything he was doing. He was lost in her eyes, the same color of the sea behind her. He shook his head, finally getting a cigarette and letting it hang from his lip. Grabbing the silver lighter, he fumbled to get it lit. Not only was his mind not working properly to get the basic numbers done, but his hands weren’t working either. Shaking uncontrollably, he tried and tried and tried again to flip the silver cap of the lighter back and produce a flame. It fizzled out before anything happened until, on the fifth try it sparked to life, a glowing ember at the end of his cigarette. The lighter landed with a harsh thud on the cherry wood desk next to the pen. 

His head thrown all the way back, Michael inhaled deeply, letting his lungs fill up with smoke before letting it pour back out of him through the corner of his mouth. It took 4 cigarettes in a row to set his mind at ease, and he was calm again until he heard the beginning of his daughter wailing down the hallway.

He hated that sound. He despised the way his daughter cried and cried and he didn’t know how to help her. He couldn’t do anything about it now, not while all the paperwork was left unattended on his desk. 

Another cigarette to calm his nerves and he preemptively tuned out his daughter to get back to work. When the numbers weren’t adding up he turned to reading contract after contract. His head began to ache, his vision blurring as he tried to focus on the words. He blinked a few times, pressing against his temples to relieve the ache up there. Trying to get through just one contract, his leg began to bounce to the melody made by the tapping of his pen against the desk. Tap, tap, tap, read, read, read. Another cigarette, ash falling like snow onto some of the papers. 

Now that his attention was beginning to waver, he let his gaze wander too. He looked at the clock first. 9:46. It wasn’t even close to noon and he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t do a damn thing. He had the whole day ahead of him and he was already mentally and physically drained. Sighing, he turned towards heavier artillery; whiskey. One-shot downed in seconds, gasping as the liquid left him feeling warmed momentarily.

“Come on, just finish a few more papers.” He coached himself. He was going through the motions of reading the words but not making meaning of any of them. Then the ticking of the clock in front of him took over and the insistent tick-tock was louder than the voice inside his head.

Somewhere in the distance halls of the house, he could still hear Ella crying, a sound that physically brought him pain. Another shot of whiskey, his leg bouncing under the desk as he read out loud.

“The distributor will adhere to the…” 9:49. “Will adhere to the following…” Wailing, tick-tock. Only 9:50. “The distributor will adhere to the following…”

This time when he looked up to the check the clock he stopped. His gaze landed on the picture in the ornate gold frame that always sat on his desk. It was his favorite picture among all the others. He could hear the waves from the sea in the background. Even in black and white, he remembered every color; her hair, her eyes, the color of her beige straw sunhat and the red bathing suit she wore. He couldn’t tear his eyes away now, but the longer he looked stared at her the more his head become clouded with memory and his heart filled with sadness. He couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. Couldn’t stand being reminded of the past, and there was nothing he could do but put the picture face down on his desk.

“The distributor will adhere to the following: no….no trans-continental exchanges without proper…” Ella’s cries grew louder, the clock- could the clock actually *get* any fucking louder? Two hours of work and nothing to show for it. *Fuck*, he muttered with another cigarette dangling from his mouth. One too many to count. He inhaled deeply, blinking a few times to get the blur of the words to disappear. Tick, tick, tick, waa-waa, tap-tap, tappity tap. Knock.

“WHAT?”

The timid young lady cowered a little, fighting to find her voice. “Sir, she won’t stop crying for you.” Ella reached a hand out towards her dad, her tomato red cheeks stained with her tears making her look all the more innocent.

“It’s fine, I’ll take her. Thank you, Dorothy. Sorry.” 

He bounced the girl on his hip, walking her around the room attempting anything to get her to stop.

“Come on, Daddy doesn’t like to see his girl cry. Come on. What’s wrong?” He asked, collecting a few of her stray tears with the pads of his thumbs. She had barely turned three, a little active girl with a head of blonde curls and turquoise eyes. There wasn’t much she could say besides food and daddy, and on occasion mama but none of it would help her tell him what was wrong. And maybe nothing was wrong, it was as simple as wanting him.

He sat back at his desk with her in his lap. “Here. Draw Daddy something.” He handed her a pencil and her crying stopped as she scribbled. He held her close, running a hand through her curls before he pressed a kiss to her head, the sweet smell of her shampoo taking him to a better place.

“Mama?”

Michael looked up then, dragging his hands through her hair again, one of the only things he found comfort in. “What’s that Ella?”

“Mama?” She asked again, her little fingers pointing to the picture that was face down, beginning to start fussing as she reached for it. “Mama! Mama!” She demanded before he turned it right side up, letting her hold the picture in her hands. She stared at it intently for what felt like hours, dragging her fingers across the frame. Michael knew the feeling all too well; his wife was captivating, truly mesmerizing, and he could stare at her all day and night if it didn’t make his heart ache to have her back.

“Mama. Mama pitty.”

“Yeah Ella, Mummy was very pretty.” His voice caught in his throat as he said it, kissing her head again. “Mumm was very pretty, just like you.”

“Miss Mama.”

“I miss her too.” He inhaled deeply, looking around the claustrophobic room, the papers still littering his desk that had strict deadlines. They could wait. He looked back at the picture in his daughter's hands, sighing. 

“Come on Ella. I want to show you something. Let’s get our coats, ok?” There was no way he was getting anything done today with her haunting his every thought.

It was just a ten-minute drive to First Beach, Ella clapping and squealing excitedly as he got her out of the car. He held her on his hip as they walked down to the shore. 

It was a chilly day, a bit overcast with grey clouds dotting the bleak white sky. There was a northern wind that picked up every once in awhile, and while there was no one else on the beach, the seagulls loved it. They hopped around near the water’s edge, running back and forth as the tide went in and out with the waves, another beautiful melody being produced. 

And she would have loved it. Every day was a beach day to her.

He let Ella down, the little girl fascinated with the beach. In three years he’d never taken her there, always afraid of what memories it might bring bubbling back to the surface. She crouched down, shifting her hands through the cold sand and holding a handful out for him. She laughed and giggled, throwing sand in the air and laughing as it danced through the breeze. Michael crouched down with her, pulling him into his chest and pointing out the seagulls to her, finally smiling. Smiling for what felt like the first time in 3 years. Her laughter continued to fill the beach as she ran up and down the shore chasing the birds. 

Like footprints in the sand becoming less distinct with each roll of the tide, the memories were fading. And he was terrified that they’d be permanently washed away into the sea.

He snapped out of it then, chasing Ella along the shore and making her laughter ring through the air until he finally caught her in his arms. Tickling her sides he walked back towards the middle of the beach,they sat in the sand, Ella in his lap. He smiled at the peaceful silence, carefully moving some of her curls out of her face.

“I know your too little to understand,” he began while looking at her, “but today Mama and I would have been married 4 years.”

“Mama?” 

“Yup. Four years today. October 15. The best day of my life.” He chuckled at the memory, always able to bring a smile back to his face. He pulled the girl closer into his chest when the wind picked up and she shivered. “Mama loved the beach. She’d come here every morning to drink her coffee, watch the sun rise, chase the birds like you.” He tickled her again. “The first time I ever went to the beach was with her.” He stopped for a moment as he felt himself losing control of his emotions, staring out at the special place where the horizon met the sea in an infinite expanse. 

“She came here every day when you were growing in her tummy. She wanted you to love the beach too.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I kept you from it for so long. It’s not that bad I guess, huh? There’s nothing to be scared of.” At this point, he was just talking to himself as Ella played with a seashell that she found. He was talking to anything that would listen; the wind, the sea, the waves. “We can feel closer to her here, yeah?”

“Daddy sad?”

Michael smiled at his daughter, looking into that same face that looked just like hers with the freckles across her button nose. He couldn’t help but wipe a tear away and kiss her on the forehead again.

“Daddy is sad. I miss Mama so much. I loved her. I still love her. She’s not with us anymore, but whenever we miss her or want to be with her, we can come here, yeah? Our little secret spot.” Ella nodded, stretching to drag a hand across his cheek where another lose tear rolled.

They stayed there for a few more hours until Ella drifted to sleep in Michael’s arms. He stood up slowly, looking out at the sea one last time with Ella on his hip. He took a long, deep breath.

“I love you Y/N.” He said to the sea, a teardrop running down his face, the salty breeze leaving a gentle kiss against his cheek.

[kob131]

https://sokumotanaka.tumblr.com/post/185075585017/chill-disscussion

Ah yes, because the guy who shat himself in rage because RWBY ended up in the same game as Persona is such a reliable source....

So with death battle’s upcoming Mitsuru vs Weiss match I wanted to talk about, mostly nerd out about mitsuru, look regardless on weather you like rwby or not weiss isn’t on mitsuru’s skill level.

Spoiler Alert: he uses numerous conflicting examples and sources to effectively inflate Mitsuru as a fighter.

(I mean she fought two gods and lived to tell about it.)

Neither of which she is confirmed to fight. That’s the issue with feats like these: they rely on possibility. And it's equally likely that Mitsuru did nothing. Only Makoto is canonically confirmed to fight the Nyx Avatar.

In fact, the closest thing to a canonical representation of the battle was the P3 movie Winter Of Rebirth...where Mitsuru is fighting Shadow hordes, not Nyx who is getting soloed by Makoto. And since Makoto is a Wild Card user. he would be VASTLY more powerful than Mitsuru.

As for Erebus: Again, only one person (Aegis) was required in the fight. So we don’t know.

So let’s talk about mitsuru and then weiss as combatants. Both women fight on teams and manipulate ice in some way. They both summon things That’s about all I can compare, why? cause I took a deep dive into both series, and I’ll be frank, mitsuru fighting gods and monsters that can cause nukes is a feat enough.

That was enough for ‘Yu Vs. Jotaro’...

And again: That’s not confirmed. The only god you could be talking about here is Erebus-

And you know what? I’m just gonna preemptively go full Autism on you.

here’s Erebus’ stats according to the Megami Tensei wiki:

STR: 80 MAG: 75 END: 90 AG: 60 LUC: 70

And here are the stats of all the party memebers in Persona 3 at Level 99:

Junpei: 82 44 69 56 53

Yukari: 50 91 55 55 53

Akihiko: 69 70 55 63 47

Mitsuru: 55 85 52 61 51

Aigis: 61 58 84 56 45

Ken: 55 66 58 70 55

Koromaru: 58 56 58 82 50

Notice something?

The so called ‘mountain crusher’s’ STR stat is LOWER than the best physical attacker and Junpei’s never seen cracking any mountains.

Not just that but Mitsuru also has average agility (which dictates speed and hit rate with physical attacks) and average luck (dictating the success of status attacks) alongside the LOWEST END stat in the game meaning she wouldn’t be able to keep up with Weiss, she’d most likely fail using status attacks since they have a base success rate of 25% and one solid physical hit would do serious damage.

So right there are reasons why Weiss would have a chance if we follow your apparent standards of using gameplay.

But mitsuru is the team’s tactician and well studied in her academics despite fighting monsters, she’s top of her grade, she’s a great fighter and when she returns in persona 4 arena/ultimax she’s kinda insane as a fighter. (going through the full story in both’s massive text walls would take ages But I played through both a few months back and the things they write them capable of doing is insane)

yeah, like saying a monster can crush mountains but is weaker than an above average baseball player?

Then we have a little issue of; she’s not the tactican. Makoto is. Mitsuru is just the boss.

Yeah and? Can see use it in the battlefield?

Most death battle fighters are great fighters.

Also so now we’re using Arena as an example? Does that mean you accept her moveset in that game as canon? Meaning No status moves and no Diarahan?

so I decided to come up with a post (originally a power point before it crapped out) as to why mitsuru at her current skill is just too much for weiss.

So we’re using gameplay as a basis with Mitsuru’s P3 stats and her P4A moveset, judging how you’re talking.

Let’s talk about mitsuru first

Mitsuru kirijo:

Feats/Abilities/skills:

Mitsuru is top of her grade, she’s so good the school often ask her to make speeches for assemblies that rouse the school so much, the principal tried copying them word for word out of jealousy.

And? So is Weiss so which school has higher standards? Also speech giving ability Is not the same as tactical thinking.

Despite also studying for school, she leads and runs S.E.E.S as a tactician (a chairman actually has the final say on everything but she leads them in battle) Her persona is both good for combat and sensory support (meaning she can sense her allies and other people, persona and non persona users)

On and off mind you as you’re only required to go into Tartarus occasionally and extended time in Tartarus will wear out a Persona user.

Meanwhile, Weiss’ studies ARE fighting since she needed to qualify for Beacon so her life has been revolving around being a good fighter.

Mitsuru’s persona can conjure ice in an instant and is completely unaffected but any ice type attacks done to her, she doesn’t even react at all.

She can also heal and is a pretty good healer in battle (When she isn’t casting marin karin! Regardless there’s no rule in death battle that says they can’t heal, the only rule was outside help and with the last handful of death battles some of them had healing factors) 

She can also charm her enemy or cause them to go into panic

Yeah and she’s super weak to fire.

And-wait a minute. Why are you referencing Diarahan and status attacks in the same post as the one where you try citing feats from Arena? Are you just picking choosing what Mitsuru gets?

Mitsuru doesn’t need to use her evoker and can actively summon her persona in the real world. (This is also mentioned in persona 4 arena and shown in battle as mitsuru states she only uses it out of habit.) This is also stated by when she calls her persona in both the game and manga she doesn’t use her evoker.

Bullshit.

This is from Mitsuru’s first battle in Persona 4 Arena. 

And even IF she does summon her Persona without her Envoker here: She’s in a different world. Same in Ultimax.

You’re just lying at this point.

Also: That ice spear doesn’t look very impressive when you remember Weiss summoned an ice WALL that fast in Volume 1. Yeah, if you’re gonna use outlier feats, so will I.

She is able to again as I said snap second conjure ice within seconds in any shape she deems necessary 

Proof and no, the ice mirror from P4A doesn’t count.

Non persona users can’t see persona (one guy remakes on how he sees a silhouette but only cause he’s standing next to her, another character natsuki walks into a battle and can’t see the others persona from the distant she’s at.

And yet in Persona 4 Yosuke reacts to seeing Yu’s Persona awakening.

Her persona Artemisia has a whip that can reach long distances and instantly freeze her opponents, she can also make floating and homing projectiles.

A. That whip thing: proof

And B. Only in Arena which you pick and choose which to use.

Mitsuru herself is remarked as moving faster than the eye can react when others watch her fight her shadow, this is also reflected in her normal combots where she moves faster than the eye can see and can hit a person over 15 times (don’t believe me? watch her combo video)

https://youtu.be/fw-2yn_vKG0

Pretty sure the same thing happened in CTB with Weiss-Point is?

And at one point while fighting naoto a person with a gun who is also a persona user is able to disarm and disable in two fluid motions.

Disarm who? When? under what circumstances? Also a gun shoulding matter if Mitsuru can tank nukes right?

Need I stress mitsuru is incredibly smart, she has to run a magic C.I.A and outsmart a bunch of idiotic men in suits who think she can’t handle it, and had to at one point outsmart detective naoto, which is a feat in itself.

https://sokumotanaka.tumblr.com/post/185075529807

A. She runs it with help

B. You said ‘idiotic’

and C. Your post proves nothing

Weaknesses:

Fire is mitsuru’s weakness and while that sounds like an easy solution remember when weiss’s weapon starts burning with fire, mitsuru is either gonna back off, or disarm her.

That being said it’s her only weakness.

She also has average agility, less versatility, unreliable versatility, no debuffs or buffs aside from Mind Charge, limited mobility, a reliance on her Persona for big attacks and Mitsuru is never shown disarming someone so thee fire weakness is still major point. Especially by P3 standards which would cause her to be dazed and buy Weiss time.

That might seem bogus as being it but mitsuru has a lot of “human” weaknesses that won’t come into the death battle.

as a fight she is the superior, not just because I prefer her but because she’s been doing this longer and has to manage a fighting lifestyle and being a normal woman dealing with people who probably think she’s breaking the law for speaking out of turn with them.

Like what? Are you afraid they’re gonna bring up how Mitsuru and other Persona users tire out in places where they can use their Personas?

Also most of what you said doesn't pertain to Death Battle.

Up’s:

(this here is the things each fighter has against the other in terms of the fight.)

Persona is invisible to weiss

Persona and her ice magic have the superior reach

Mitsuru is older and more experienced

Mitsuru is smarter as she was the tactician of a team while also juggling high school.

Wrong

Unproved

Unsubstainated and unreliable

Unproven

Great upsides

Weiss schnee:

Feats/abilities/skills:

Weiss on the other hand doesn’t have much going for her. (let’s list these first)

Weiss’s semblance

Weiss’s fire dust (albeit finite)

Weiss’s speed glyph

Ignored how her glyphs can be used to leap and jump in air

Ignored how fast her glyphs can make her (stunning Flynt)

Ignored her Wind, Ice and Earth dusts

Ignored her Time Glyph which gave Blake the ability to slice lazer beams in order to cut down missiles in mid flight (outlier feat I know but has that stopped Soku?)

Ignored her Armor Gigas which is shown to be incredibly durable and powerful, slicing apart a Grimm that tanked several boxes of Dust exploding on it without a scratch

Ignored her Queen Lancer giving her projectile attacks, aerial mobility and backup

Ignored her Ice Wall which historically held the stringer of a complex sized scorpion in place for several minutes.

Wow you ignored a lot.

Weaknesses:

Weiss drops her weapon, alot, it happens often.

When weiss is surprised, she freezes up

weiss doesn’t have the experience to fight off mitsuru.

weiss hasn’t fought against opponents on mitsuru’s level or fought against gods/god tier monsters.

Example

Example

Unproven

Neither has Mitsuru

Up’s:

Fire dust

Speed glyph

Summon size change.

And the stunning coming from Fire Dust

And The ice wall giving her a time borrowing option

And the Armor Gigas being stronger physically

And The Queen Lancer being agile, flying and having built inprojectiles

And her Time Glyph giving her a powerful ranged option

And her glyphs giving her far greater mobility

And her speed glyphs giving her a blitz option.

Funny how if you explain shit and pay attention, you see things are actually very even. But hey, Soku’s never been honest when it comes to RWBY so why start now?

Real talk?

Weiss in her one on one fights has lost to all her opponents. White fang lieutenant, Flynt, And Vernal.

All powerful close range combatants. Something Mitsuru is not.

The third whom I must stress is a normal bandit, she doesn’t summon things herself, use magic, she’s not a god trapped in a human body, she’s just a normal woman, and she beats weiss down, while weiss struggles to get afoot and she loses this bout as well.

Let's just ignore how vernal is technically stronger than a complex sized scorpion and was posing as a demigod at the time....

Now I know it seems like I’m only glossing over negatives, which I must stress I’m not doing out of dislike, I took a deep dive-

Bullshit. One look at Persona then RWBY shows you doing the bare minimum for RWBY while giving Mitsuru the best versions of all her elements.

For example super and goku one which has insane feats that the other will never reach, hench each one literally ending with clark winning.

superman just has feats that are too insane.

Superman lifted infinity. Mitsuru help weaken one giant Shadow that was aid to be strong enough to destroy a mountain and yet it's strength stat is weaker than Junpeis. (And before you complain about me using gameplay on a supposed non gameplay feat-Erebus HAS NO non gameplay feats.)

They are nowhere compatible, even in the comparison range.

Weiss can kick some grimm ass, but we’ve yet to see her have a decisive victory against an opponent single combat.

where as we get to see/play (depending on weather you read the manga or play both arena/ultimax (both are canon because it’s the same thing but contextualized as a comic) mitsuru fights people with the same skill as her and comes out on top.

A. By the same standards, Mitsuru is in the same boat as Weiss

B. You’re using Arena as your line for feats but not moveset (or even consistently as feats since you still quote P3)/

And C. Np she didn’t. The investigation team is LESS experienced than Weiss so logically they’d be easier if we accepted your interpretation.

The winner should be Mitsuru with all due respect.

And yet you feel the need to lie about Mitsuru and completely gloss over and lowball Weiss.

God, now i’m scared because not only does this scream ‘Ben and Chad, do as I say or else’ but since you’re lying, it makes it seem like Weiss will WIN in a fair fight.

Word of warning Soku: I will tear you verbally into shreds if you so much as glare at Ben and Chad. And god help you if Dudeblade recognizes your bullshit.

[theperidotshade]

Part Three of Ardyn Saves Regis on a Whim (which really needs a title, damn it)

Well, I’ve been sick all day, which means the only thing I felt like doing was sitting around in sweaters and yoga pants, writing.  So here it is, the much-earlier-than-expected third installment.  Enjoy the suppressed emotions and reckless magic use!

Regis was exhausted by the time the statue of the Mystic grew visible through the smoke and distance.  He and the ex-Chancellor been ambushed many times over the course of their journey through the destroyed city to the oldest part of Insomnia, a trek that had taken a lot out of him physically and emotionally.  To see his people, his city, in such a state…no, best not to ponder that matter just yet.

Izunia took the lead, heading toward one of the few free-to-park lots within walking distance of the monument.  It was mostly empty, by this point, the vehicles wrecked and abandoned or else driven out of the city by the survivors.  The few remaining cars were mostly Crownsguard-issue, their drivers out aiding wherever they could.  The one exception was—

Regis stopped, blinked, and burst out in slightly hysterical laughter.

Gods, that had to be the ugliest vehicle he'd ever seen.

Yes, that was clearly a classic under that horrific paint job, but the color.

Regis stared at the car, then at his unlikely rescuer, then back at the car.

“You drive that.”

Izunia sniffed theatrically.  “Yes.  And your point is?”

Regis struggled to keep the amusement out of his tone.  He failed.  “You drive a car…the same color as your hair and magic.  Isn’t that taking theme a bit too far?”

The Accursed rolled his eyes.  “As if you have any room to talk.  Every single one of Somnus’ descendants have dressed entirely in black and metallics—and don’t presume your car’s color escaped my notice either.  Back in my day, we wore color.”

"Fair," Regis admitted, "I need to be closer to the statue to activate the Old Wall without the Ring—are we walking or driving?"

Izunia's lips pressed together tightly for the barest of moments before smoothing out.  "Driving.  There will undoubtedly be more foes lurking about, and I'd rather a quick getaway be possible at this juncture."

With that, Izunia unlocked the doors, slipping into the driver's side.  Regis followed his example, settling in as the Accursed cranked down the convertible roof and secured it.  Izunia turned the key in the ignition and the engine started with the sound of a well-cared-for vehicle.

Their silence lasted the short drive over to the Mystic's stone likeness.  Regis tried not to look to closely at the destruction of his city, instead focusing on scanning the streets for MTs, Glaives, and daemons.  There were none, this part of the city mostly abandoned for more populated areas as the attack stretched on into hours.  Regis kept noting strange, small details through the false-composure that had settled on him—the stray cat sitting atop a pile of rubble, washing its paws.  The bent grass poking up through the cracks in the sidewalks.  Izunia's knuckles, white with tension on the steering wheel.

They pulled up to the curb just outside the visitor's entrance for the monument.

Regis got out, leaving the door open.  "I shouldn't be long," he said.

Izunia nodded.  "If daemons come, we'll have to make a run for it.  I'll keep the car running."

Regis nodded.  He suspected there was more to Izunia's choice to remain in the vehicle, but didn't comment.  He had a job to do.

Walking forward with difficulty, Regis bypassed the visitor's center, suppressing a preemptive wince.  The stairs up to the maintenance access were going to be horrendous on his knee, but there was no choice, not without the Ring.

He climbed.

The last step finally came what felt like an eternity later but was likely only a few minutes.  He didn't need to go up far—only to the statue's knees.

The hidden panel was untouched, opening with a numerical code.  It was the next bit that was the real security.

Regis grimaced.  He'd always hated this part.

He plunged his hand into the darkness of the interior of the monument.

The world swam before his eyes, resettling as an alien presence made itself known behind his eyes.

Who dares—oh.  You live.

"I had a bit of unexpected help," Regis replied to his ancestor.

Now that's interesting, who'd have both the power and inclination…

Regis waited patiently for the Mystic to finish the sentence.  It took several minutes, as his ancestor examined his memories of the past few hours.

A noise of pure shock echoed in Regis' mind.

Ardyn?  He…he saved you…he said that, oh gods what have I done?

"Your Majesty?" Regis asked, hesitantly.

Ah, never mind that.  The mental projection gave the impression of hastily suppressing grief and guilt and who knew what else.  You came to me for a reason, I believe.

"Yes," Regis replied, making note of the Mystic's strange reaction for later consideration, "I wish to activate the Old Wall."

And you sent the Ring with the young Oracle, I see.  Well, that's easily done.

Regis hastily pulled his hand back as the statue began to move, stepping off the stone plinth.

The presence in his mind lingered a moment.  Ardyn would not have acted in your favor without motive—you have the chance to correct our line's greatest folly.  Don't waste it.

The sense of alienness faded as the stone sentinel moved out of sight.

Regis stared after the likeness of the ancient king, then back toward the street, where Izunia sat within his unsightly car.  There was tragic history there, something deeply personal, and it seemed the Accursed was the injured party.  How unexpected.

He climbed back down the stairs, rejoining Izunia.

The ex-Chancellor nodded absently in greeting as Regis slipped into the car.  He was staring off after the statue, tapping a finger idly against the steering wheel.

"How odd, to see him memorialized like that," Izunia murmured, seemingly unaware that Regis' attention had focused sharply on him at the first word.

Regis cleared his throat.  He was curious, certainly, and this felt like something he urgently needed to know, but he wasn't going to intrude on a personal moment unless he had to—not to mention that they needed to get out of the city immediately.

Izunia startled, shaking his head abruptly.  He regained his air of carefree condescension quickly, but Regis could see it for the mask it was.

"Shall we be off?" Izunia asked.

"Let's," Regis said.

"Good," came the reply, "You may wish to watch our backs—getting out of the city is going to be tricky."

The truth of Izunia's words became clear as soon as they pulled out onto the main highway out of Insomnia.

There was a blockade barring the way, hastily constructed but still impassible.  They'd have to find a way around it.

A new wave of dropships had arrived, fewer in number but enough to make trouble.  With them had come a magitek armor piloted by a vaguely discernible figure within—an officer, to all appearances.

"Ah," Izunia said, "Of course Ulldor would be here, with young Ravus out for the count and Glauca's premature demise.  I'm sure by now someone has reported my defection.  How are you at elemancy from a moving vehicle?"

"Good enough for our purposes," Regis replied, already eyeing the armor and the dropships to determine the proper order of attack.

"Excellent," the Accursed replied, "I'm about to do something exceedingly reckless."

In the next moment, three things happened: first, the Niflheimr forces noticed the unusual coloring of their car and began shouting, pointing at the vehicle barreling toward them.  Second, Izunia took his hands off the wheel to make a complicated gesture at the armor, which shot up into the sky—right into a dropship, puncturing the fuel tank.  Third, Izunia shouted something indecipherable to Regis, pointing at the breach in the 'ship.

Regis caught on instantly, sending a stream of fire straight for the leaking fuel tank.

It exploded, taking out the ship, the armor, and every other dropship in reach—which was nearly three quarters, as the outermost fuel tanks and engines were punctured by shrapnel.

That left only the blockade to worry about.

The MTs and Niflheimr officers manning the barricade opened fire.

Regis erected a shield as quickly as he could, concerned by the grunt that escaped Izunia.  He chanced a quick glance at the driver, reassured by the Accursed's quick shake of the head.

Getting an idea, Regis expanded the shield to cover the hood of the car.

Izunia picked up on his plan immediately, accelerating quickly.

They braced for impact.

The car plowed through MTs, officers, and concrete barriers alike, smashing their way out of Insomnia.

Once they hit the open road, Regis chanced a look back.  The few remaining dropships were in pursuit, gaining on them quickly.

"Three dropships behind us," Regis informed his unlikely ally.

The Accursed grinned.  "Hold the wheel steady, would you?"  He didn't wait for an answer, turning in his seat to call lightning out of the sky.

Regis swore and grabbed the steering wheel.  Triple impacts behind him sent massive shockwaves through the earth, informing him of Izunia's success, though he dared not take his eyes off the road.

Izunia took back the wheel nonchalantly under Regis' glare.

"That was incredibly stupid of you," Regis said.

Izunia shrugged.  "It worked, did it not?"

"That's not the point—you could have killed us both!"

"Killed you, you mean."  The Accursed hummed, barely listening.

"Gods, now I know how Clarus fe—wait, what?"  Regis blinked.

"It would only have killed you.  I cannot die."  Izunia's voice was bitter.

Regis examined his rescuer more closely.  The Accursed looked like a middle-aged man, on the surface, but there were little signs here and there of his long, long life—deep creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, dark bags beneath his eyes.  Nearly every inch of him was covered, but Regis could discern bright white and red patches of skin on his neck, hands, along his hairline.  It was a sure bet more scars lurked beneath those numerous layers.  The most telling of all, though, was the black patch of blood on his vest, surrounding a bullet hole—right above his heart.

Regis stared blankly at the hole.  That was a fatal wound.

"You were shot," he said, shock leeching all expression from his face and tone.

"Yes," Izunia replied.

"You really can't die.  'Immortal Accursed' is literal."

"Yes."

"Gods, how did that happen?"  Regis switched his gaze to Izunia's face.

"The Astrals' gift to me had a…side effect, so to speak."  The Accursed's hands tightened on the wheel.  "They couldn't have their tool perish too soon, you see, so they tied my death to the demise of the Starscourge, and vice versa.  Your son is the only one who can kill me.  And you know how that is supposed to occur."

"That must have been…difficult…to discover."  Regis ignored the reference to Noctis for the moment.  This was already hard enough to process.

"Oh, it was," Izunia said, forcedly light and airy, "It was quite disconcerting to be turned away from the Beyond the first time.  And waking up, well, let's just say it was quite a surprise to return to consciousness just as they were pulling my corpse from the cross."

"…Cross?" Regis asked, a sinking feeling deep in his chest.  That sounded an awful lot like…

"They crucified me, you see, after the Crystal rejected me.  On my brother's orders."  The words sounded increasingly difficult to say as Izunia went on.  By the end, the Accursed's hands were shaking on the wheel, and the dark, gravelly undertone to his voice had come to the forefront.

For a moment, Regis couldn't breathe—Six, the man must have suffered, and at his brother's hands—but then the implications of that sentence dawned on him.  The Crystal rejected him?  His brother…had authority…

Regis glanced at Izunia's face sharply.  "On your brother's orders?"

"Somnus' orders, yes."

Regis sucked in a breath.  But that would make Izunia not an Izunia at all, but…

The Accursed eyed him, bitterly amused.  "Is it really so difficult to believe?"

Regis shook his head slowly.  "Perhaps I wish I suspected wrongly."

The man laughed.  "Ah, now that is quite understandable.  Very well, allow me to reintroduce myself.  Ardyn Lucis Caelum, at your service."

Regis closed his eyes, sighing.  Yes, things were beginning to fall into place, and he did not like it one bit.

"So," he began, "Your older brother—"

"Younger brother, actually," his distant relative said, rambling slightly in a way that gave away his nerves, "By quite a number of years, in fact.  A decade, or near enough."

"Then why is he the Founder King?"  Regis asked.

"A better question would be why he's known as the Founder King," the—no, Regis really needed to started thinking of him by his given name, or this would get confusing quickly—Ardyn replied, "Our mother was responsible for most of the actual work of unification.  It could be that he was just the first to call it by the modern name."

"History says nothing about his—or your, I suppose—family before his wife and son."

"That's…probably deliberate.  Damnatio memoriae was declared in my case, though I do not know why Ama would be included in that."  Ardyn's profile, set against the sinking sun, bore a definite resemblance to the rest of Regis' ancestors, now that Regis knew what to look for.

"Ama?" Regis asked, seizing on the unfamiliar word to distract himself from the fact that it was looking increasingly likely that the royal line of Lucis (his line, oh gods) held authority they really shouldn't have ever had, save by treachery.

"A Sol term, used to refer to the parent who gave birth to you."  Ardyn's lips quirked.  "But do keep trying to deny what you've just realized, it's quite amusing to watch."

Regis rolled his eyes.  "So glad I could entertain you—"  He faltered and fell silent.  He was about to call Ardyn 'Your Majesty', wasn't he?  As a joke.  But, oh Six, it was true.

"Ah," Ardyn said, "I see it's hit you.  It's…difficult, is it not?  Realizing your life has been built on a lie."

Regis struggled to control the utter devastation that was rising up inside him.  He managed it—but only just.  He was definitely heading for a breakdown.

"You sound like you know," his voice came out strained, but even.

"I do.  Crystal and Ring were given from the Draconian into my hands, and the gift of taking in that which cannot be healed, all with the promise of ending the Scourge once and for all.  'You are the Chosen,' Shiva told me, 'You will save us all.'  So I did, over and over, until I was brimming with it, on the verge of death but unable to pass on.  And then the very tools I was meant to wield rejected me, and it was made clear that all along—I was the real tool, and I had served my purpose."  Ardyn's knuckles were white again, fine tremors running up his arms.

Regis was shaking as well.  "I—I don't know what to say.  Gods, how could that ever be made right?"

Ardyn relaxed suddenly, expression softening.  "You need not say anything.  It's enough that you do not agree with what they did."  He looked up ahead.  "Perhaps we should postpone the rest of what must be discussed for the morning.  The sun is setting, and it is still some time before we reach Hammerhead, as I will have to make a few false trails.  The daemons avoid me, so it is safe to get some rest if you need it."

Regis sighed, tension draining slowly from his shoulders.  "Yes, I think that's for the best.  We need to discuss your role in certain treaties-that-turned-out-to-be-traps as well, and I think that will be best done at significant volume."

Ardyn laughed.  "I look forward to it."

Regis settled back against the seat and closed his eyes.  The day's events were going to hit him like a freight train, very soon, and he wanted to have at least a few hours of rest before that happened.

[notsugarandspice]

get you out my mind

I....wrote it this morning. I couldn’t get it out of my head. so this is a thing that’s happening now. idk I love it so much just...read it if ya want. it’s gonna be a lil’ 3 chapter self-indulgent thing ♡

Not Rated, Meet-Cute, Skater! Eddie, Richie is in a private school & is #miserable, pretty Cali life, Bill is questioning things, Skater! Bill

Read it on AO3.

                                                    Chapter 1

Richie has always been one to get easily fascinated, and there were plenty of things around him to draw interest from, but that’s not what he wants right now. In fact, he’s trying to avoid any and all compelling things, trying not to fall into that daydreamy headspace. He came here to be alone, do his work and that’s about it.

He’s breathing the fresh air coming from the ocean, fascinated with how the dim sunlight glistens on the waves. There are plenty of surfers around, barefoot with nothing but swim trunks on, giggly and tan. And then there’s….Richie. Pale, freckly, still dressed in his uniform: blue polo and khakis, wishing he had a pack of cigarettes with him. Wishing he could actually smoke here.

Richie looks over to the side where people are skating on manmade hills, falling, giggling, happy. Richie doesn’t really have a reason to be upset or depressed over anything, but like most things, he doesn’t have a good excuse. That’s just the state he’s in.

The school has been difficult, exams have been kicking his ass, and he still doesn’t want to go to college even though he’s already been accepted to UCLA preemptively. But he still has a year of torture to endure. He’s been trying to be a good son, he’s been trying to make his parents proud. He just hopes it pays off.

There’s a particularly fascinating red-haired guy to Richie’s right side, one who seems to fall off too frequently for his own good. He laughs it off instantly, and he looks so young it’s painful because Richie can tell he’s definitely a high schooler and Richie doesn’t feel like one. He already feels shaped to be an adult, what with all the private school pressure and additional tutoring, endless soccer practice that recently ended, and that little voice in his head that always reminds him that he’s the only kid and he has an example of two hard-working parents who give him everything he wants. So there’s that.

The red-haired guy falls again after attempting some sort of a trick on the bend and starts whooping someone from the ground, someone who’s running from the parking lot. Richie should really be reading Lord of the Flies but his eyes fall on that boy who gets on the black board mid-run, skating down the slope smoothly, hangs on the top of the tall hill for several agonizing seconds and swoops back down with more grace that should be possible in this sort of thing, his lower body seemingly disconnected from the rest. Richie keeps watching the way his overgrown sandy hair flops from the wind and the corner of his mouth lifts when he notices knee socks with little red pills on them.

Richie looks away because he doesn’t want to stare - he could never skate, no matter how much he wanted - too tall and uncoordinated, and honestly no one to skate with even if he didn’t care about falling. His best friend Stan preferred to stay indoors and was disgusted by any mention of physical activity and Richie tried pressing, was even really good at it, but that was a thing about Stanley - he could never budge.

Richie turns to face the beach again, a little uncomfortable on the weird bench-like rock he’s been sitting on but instead of re-reading the same damn sentence he simply looks forward, reveling in the sound of laughter, crashing waves and the shifting of the sand. He zones out for a solid minute until a board comes smashing into his bench, making him jump a little. It’s the red-headed guy. Of course, it is.

He runs up to Richie with an ecstatic grin on his face, and Richie wants to take it and plant it on himself. He wants a smile that splits his face too. “Suh-suh-sorry, man.”

“All good here.” Richie wants to say something else, maybe make small talk which he’s usually good at but for some inexplicable reason he can’t get anything out of himself, and he bends down to look at the book again.

Richie miraculously reads a full page before he sees someone sprint in front of him, trying to catch up with their board. He realizes with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that it’s the knee socks kid - and he now clearly sees the red t-shirt, blue jean shorts, and a million dollar smile. Their eyes connect, and Richie’s heart speeds up faster than when he was on that terrifying Six Flags rollercoaster. It’s kind of nauseating, and he feels oddly nervous.

The boy huffs a laugh, cocking his hip to let the board sit there. “Sorry ‘bout that. My friend and I keep bugging you.”

“Like I told your friend - all good here. Skateparks aren’t exactly crowd-less.” Richie grins convincingly even though he’s starting to sweat for the first time since he sat down under the sun.

The guy smiles back, and his teeth are a stark contrast to the caramel tan. “What are you reading?”

“Um,” the name of the book flies right out of Richie’s head, along with his ability to coherently speak, apparently, “Lord of the Flies.”

The boy comes closer and puts the board down, balancing on it as he talks. “School? I think I read that Junior year or something.”

“You’ve been out of school for a while?” He doesn’t look like he even graduated and Richie doesn’t want to be rude, so he forces himself to stop talking before he inevitably offends the guy.

But he just smiles and squats on the board, somehow perfectly balanced, confidence unwavering. “Babyface, I know. Still in school though. Senior.” The boy looks over to the side and chuckles when his friend falls on his ass again, and Richie can’t help but smile when a small dimple appears under the boy’s pink cheek. “What about you?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” says Richie without thinking and he hopes his voice reflected the joking nature of it.

“I mean, you’re wearing a school uniform. Blue means…Junior year, yeah? Red is Seniors.”

“You don’t go to my school.”

The boy straightens again, skating around Richie’s bench. “Definitely not. One of my friends does.” He suddenly skates away, down the slope and quickly makes it all the way to the other side where he’s nothing but a red blob. Richie squints in his glasses but can’t make out the expression on the guy’s face.

He drops his head back down to the book with an uneasy feeling, hoping he didn’t do something to push the guy away. He strangely wants to talk to him more, and Richie is usually good at talking, joking, all that, but he’s kind of speechless around this particular person. It makes him nervous, and he simultaneously wants to run away and bravely grab someone’s board to make it to the other side.

Richie sits for five more minutes, skimming through a couple of pages and decides he can’t stay still anymore. He lies down on his back, putting his head on the half-empty backpack and manages to go through a whole chapter before the red-headed guy’s in front of him again, this time without a valid reason to be. He just stands there for a while on top of the board like the other guy did earlier and looks at the beach. Richie puts the book down on his tummy and cocks an eyebrow, awaiting a response.

“D-duh-do you skate?” asks the guy, his cheeks tinted pink, green eyes jumping everywhere.

Richie bends his arm to elevate his head a little as too many thoughts race around his head, starting with why is he talking to me? and ends somewhere around Richie’s observation on how much easier it is to talk to this dude. His heart isn’t jumping out of his chest, and he might be able to make this guy laugh which is all Richie lives for at the end of the day.

“Nah, too tall and gangly. Hence, ridiculously unbalanced. String bean. Whatever.” His shoulders go up to his ears, and the boy laughs. Richie smiles and feels the desire to keep this shit up like a lifeline.

“Wuh-wuh-what are you d-doing at a skate park, then?” The boy looks behind him and furrows his brows before turning to Richie again.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought no-one would bother me here.” Richie winks and the guy blushes more now, smiling bashfully.

He opens his mouth to respond, but they suddenly hear the approaching sound of a skateboard and look in the direction of the pit. Richie sees the smaller guy approaching, his hair caught in the wind, lip stuck under the top row of teeth. He instantly sits back up, suddenly too breathless to feel so relaxed. The guy smiles when their eyes connect and skates right into a sitting position on the bench, leaning on Richie heavily from the speed at which he landed on his ass. Richie’s hand somehow lands on the boy’s slightly sweaty lower back, and he yanks it away, his finger tingly, stomach churning.

The boy giggles and Richie’s heart stings slightly. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t calculate this landing properly.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” says Richie without thinking, my stupid motormouth, fucking shit, and he can feel his cheeks heat up feverishly and his throat feels tight. He’s waiting for something like dude, what? but when he finally turns to look at the boy he’s smiling at him small and bashful, sitting on his hands, rocking back and forth. Adorable is the only word bouncing around Richie’s head.

“We should p-puh-probably get out of your h-hair,” says the green-eyed boy with an awkward smile, all ready to go with a board under his armpit.

His friend ignores the offer to leave and instead extends a hand to Richie, eyes sparkly with that light grey that seems to look straight into your soul. “I’m Eddie. This is Bill,” he bends his head in the direction of his friend without breaking eye contact with Richie.

“Richie.” He shakes the boy’s hand, and it’s a lot softer than he’s used to and it makes him look down, noticing how his thumb alone bends around all of Eddie’s knuckles, covering them completely. Richie can’t help but smile at the image, unsure of why it makes him feel all that.

“Like Richie Rich?”

Richie laughs earnestly dropping the hand, the irony of it all not lost on him. “Some ways more than others.”

“Right. Private school, big house, you probably do fencing or some shit.”

“Tried fencing and I was terrible at it. Like I told Bill here - I have the coordination of a newborn giraffe.”

Eddie searches Richie’s face for several agonizing seconds with a big smile on his face, his freckles hiding in the folds of the slightly crumpled nose. “Newborn giraffes are kind of cute.”

“Okay-“ mutters Bill and quickly skates away, miraculously making it the whole way to the pit without face-planting.

Eddie snickers into his fist and turns back to Richie, seemingly scooting closer, but that could just be the trick of the eyes. Richie’s mouth is apparently faster than his brain again. Or his brain is too fast. Doesn’t it answer for everything he says? “You come here often?”

The boy giggles and blushes slightly, cocking an eyebrow that leaves Richie’s heart stuttering. “Are you hitting on me with the most typical pickup line ever?”

Richie feels his heart drop on the ground and roll all the way to the ocean and down, down, down. “Oh, no, I- I mean- fuck,” he huffs a laugh quickly rubbing his steaming face, “do you actually hang out here often?”

Eddie keeps smiling sweetly, looking at Richie with unabashed interest. He seems to think the question over from a different perspective and looks towards the water when he answers. Richie notices the smooth bend of his nose and how pretty his skin looks under the sunset light. Richie feels like he ran the field three times back and forth, he’s so breathless.

“Yeah, I mean, this is the only place I like to hang out besides home. I don’t really go out.” There’s something oddly vulnerable in that admission even though Richie doesn’t necessarily think it’s such an odd thing to say.

“Me neither. If you don’t count all the times pops drags me to be his caddie to a golf club in Malibu. Love getting undressing stares from old white men.”

Eddie laughs and looks at Richie pitifully, scrunching up his face in a ridiculously cute way. “Ew. Don’t go there.”

“I try not to! I literally ran out of excuses at this point. Whatevs,” he says throwing an arm forward, laughing slightly. Talking to Eddie feels…nice. Nicer than he wants to think about.

“EDDIE!” they hear Bill scream with his hands around his mouth, waving for Eddie to make it to the other side, pointing at someone standing next to him.

“Oh!” exclaims Eddie, gesturing Bill a thumbs up. He bends down to see where his board is and they both look over to the left where it’s propped halfway on the grass. “I gotta go. My friend just got here.” Eddie jogs towards the board, neatly jumping on the side that was on the sidewalk, making the board do a 360 to get it on the ground again.

Richie feels ridiculously impressed even though skating never fascinated him enough to be that interested in it. He might be very interested now.

Eddie runs a hand through his hair as he rolls to balance in front of Richie and he notices a thin beady bracelet, many colors on it. Eddie smiles when their eyes connect, and Richie has the biggest desire to grab the boy’s hand and take him to the little café across the street, where they make the best strawberry cappuccinos and small chocolate croissants and what the actual FUCK, Rich, you want a date or something? Richie huffs an awkward laugh at his own thoughts, nervous that the boy would hear him, knowing well enough, though, that it’s not possible and he really needs to be less self-conscious.

“Don’t have too much fun without me, Eds,” says Richie, his mouth apparently desperate to make a lasting impression. His hands are slightly shaky where he’s wringing his fingers between the two of them.

Eddie groans and leans back a little in a dramatic manner that Richie thinks he’d imitate if he was less nervous to be around the guy. “No nicknames, for the love of God.”

“It’s not like you’re ever gonna hear it again.” Richie’s heart stings instantly when he says it, and he’s terrified there might be truth in that statement.

Eddie looks at him a little bug-eyed, a smile falling from his lips. “You’re not planning on coming here again?”

Richie considers it, looking past Eddie on the water, hearing the loud laughter, the sound of boards on the smooth surface, the wind rustling palm trees above him and then at Eddie’s face, framed by the pink and orange glow of the sunset behind them. He thinks he couldn’t stay away from this place even if he tried. “Dunno. Don’t live that close.” Right. I’ll probably die if I don’t see your face again.

“Okay. Well…I hope to see you soon.” Eddie’s voice is so small when he says that and his eyes are almost pleading. Richie doesn’t know why this kid would ever want to hang out with him, but he can’t replace the responsive feeling in his chest and all the hurricanes happening in his gut.

“Me too, Eds. See ya.” Eddie rolls his eyes and runs onto his board, sticking his tongue out and screams “Bye, Richie!” skating down the slope, towards his friends.

Richie follows him with his eyes languidly, wanting to run down the slope, tumbling head first into the guy’s arms. Whatever. He smiles at the distant image of Eddie’s red shirt and picks up his book to put it inside the backpack. He waits several seconds to see the Sun finally drown itself in the water and goes up to walk to the parking lot, backpack on one shoulder. He looks over at the pit one last time, hoping to catch Eddie’s eye but he’s skating back and forth, swift and skillful, and Richie grins sheepishly, unwilling to let the image exit his mind.

He texts Stanley on the red light, asking him to come over. He has to figure out an excuse to drag Stan with him next time. Not that it’s too weird to hang out at the beach for no apparent reason, drawn to a cute tan guy on a skateboard. Shit.

Perma Tag: @studpuffin @j0ys @d-nbroughs @tinyarmedtrex @constantreaderfool @its-stranger-than-you-think @aizeninlefox  (I’m removing some people who don’t interact - I’m not here to force my work on anyone, so no hard feelings. Let me know if you want to be removed/added to a perma list or a specific fic ♡)

[spiteweaver]

previous | previous in arc | first in arc | next

“His father should be here,” Junior insisted, not for the first time since their arrival at the observatory that morning. Dreamweaver only raised a brow in response. “Yes, yes, I know I’m his father, but I meant that Zo should be here as well. This is a major procedure. We should wait for him.”

“Perhaps,” Dreamweaver said, “it is best that he isn’t here. We’ll have a hard enough time convincing you not to interfere.”

“By ‘convincing,’” Crucis chimed in as he passed, his arms laden with various magical apparatus, “they of course mean ‘forcibly subduing,’ because we all know now that you’re the type to get physical if you see the need.”

Dreamweaver wanted to “get physical” with Crucis right then (the topic of the incident with Chosen Renat was still a sensitive one), but he was careful to give them a very wide berth. Instead, they followed Junior’s panicked gaze to the observatory’s center, where Jorah sat bound to his chair in preparation. He was still young, not yet a drake, but he was old enough to understand perfectly well what being afflicted with Opal meant--and, much to Junior’s dismay, old enough to make the decision to go through with it.

It was almost eerie, how still he was, surrounded by the whir of machinery and the gentle pulsating of magical artifacts. He did not move, save for his eyes, which were ravenously curious to an extent that far exceeded that of other boys his age. Dreamweaver had no doubt then that Jorah felt no fear, even as Crucis began attaching nodes to his temples and bare chest.

(They also guessed that he felt no shame. Most young lads would have balked at the prospect of stripping naked in front of a group of their elders, but Jorah had done so as if it was only natural. He was many things, most prominently practical.)

Off to the side, Betelgeuse and Aberdeen were deep in heated conversation. There had been several disagreements already on how to proceed.

Betelgeuse was in favor of a direct approach: apply the scroll and be done with it. It had been tested on countless others, with no ill effects--in fact, the effects had been overwhelmingly positive. Their creation was as flawless as it was going to get.

Aberdeen, however, believed firmly in the old adage, “There’s a first time for everything,” and wanted to run a number of tests before the application. Jorah was not like other dragons. He was Godsent, and his magic behaved in a highly irregular manner. Since they had not been able to test the scroll on others of his nature, their previously compiled results could easily be skewed.

Then there was Junior, who wanted nothing more than to forget the whole thing and find some other way to control his son’s gifts that didn’t involve purposely afflicting him with a rare and unpredictable magical malady. This idea had been shut down quickly--not only by Junior’s peers, but by Jorah himself.

“He’s learned how to shift forms,” Junior had argued, “so surely he can learn to do other things.”

“No,” Jorah had replied, “I can’t.”

That had been that.

“Dreamweaver, surely you see sense in what I’m saying!” Aberdeen exclaimed. He was clearly becoming exasperated, uncommon for a drake of his agreeable disposition. “You better than anyone know that Jorah is an outlier among outliers!”

“He is still a dragon,” Betelgeuse persisted. “Godsent or not, he possesses the same genetic base.”

“It doesn’t matter what his genetic base is!” Aberdeen said. “It’s the magical base we need to be wary of! His magical base is entirely foreign! It isn’t draconic in the slightest! He has no proper elemental alignment, he’s a Godsent without a patron deity, his magic is tied to the eclipse, of all things--he’s as atypical as atypical gets, Betelgeuse!”

“Genes aren’t about magical bases,” Betelgeuse countered, “they’re about genetic bases.”

“Nonsense!” Aberdeen cried. “That’s complete and utter nonsense! Opal is an inherently magical affliction!”

“Yes,” Betelgeuse agreed, “but it is still a genetic abnormality. It’s merely caused by magical exposure, and has symptoms relating to magic as a result.”

“Enough.” Dreamweaver held up a hand, and the two fell silent. “You’re both right,” they said, “in your own ways. Unfortunately, Aberdeen, I do not believe running more tests will be of any great consequence. You’ve already run them many times.”

“We can run them again,” Aberdeen pressed, “and we can alter the scroll to suit Jorah’s specific needs. I’ve wanted to do that from day one, but these two stonewalled me at every turn.”

“How?” Betelgeuse asked. “How can we suit his specific needs if we aren’t even certain what his specific needs are?”

“He’s a child,” Aberdeen said. “He’s a child, and you want to take risks with his life all because you assume we won’t be able to parse him out given a little more time?”

“Forgive me if I offend,” Betelgeuse began, “but you have no magic of your own, if memory serves. You cannot possibly begin to grasp the complexity of Jorah’s being. It would take us millennia to do what you are suggesting, even if we had each and every magical theorist Sornieth has to offer at our disposal. We do not have that kind of time. Come the next eclipse, he must be sufficiently drained of his power. If he is not--”

“I know what will happen!” Aberdeen replied hotly. “I know, but I--I can’t, in good conscience, even for the greater good--I can’t risk an innocent child’s life! There must be--there has to be some way--”

“Aberdeen...” Junior placed a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. He was trembling badly, so much so that his tremors were visibly shaking him. “As much as I hate to admit it, Jorah has chosen this, and--and I don’t think there is another way. I wish there was.”

“As do I,” Betelgeuse assured. “I am not arguing out of pride or stubbornness. It is merely how things must be.”

“If you would just give me a few days,” Aberdeen pleaded, but they could all tell by the deflated tone of his voice that he had already accepted defeat. Betelgeuse was right. They didn’t have the time they needed to find some other, less risky solution--and Jorah had made his choice.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Dreamweaver vowed. “You have a good heart, Aberdeen, but your worries are needless. If I sense that something is amiss, I will intervene.”

“It’s risky to interfere with a gene change, too!” Aberdeen said. “You shouldn’t put yourself in that position!”

“Yes,” Dreamweaver conceded, “it is risky, but, as I have said so many times in recent eons, I am the most powerful being in the territories. His magic does appear to at least have a Shadow base, and my element is Rising over Shadow. If I couldn’t handle this much, I’d be a poor demigod.”

“I wouldn’t let you all do this if I thought...” Junior couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think it, but they understood him well enough without words. Aberdeen’s eyes softened, and he touched the hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “So we should go ahead with it,” Junior concluded. “It’s what’s best for everyone, especially Jorah, and I trust Dreamweaver to keep him safe.”

“Glad to see you’ve both come to your senses,” Crucis said, “because everything’s set up. It’s time.”

It had been decided preemptively that Crucis would be the one to activate the scroll. Jorah could not do it himself, Junior was far too distressed to reliably control his own magic, and Zo was not present--nor was Abaddon, who had admitted privately to Junior that he didn’t think he would be able to stop himself from interfering if he attended. Crucis had spent the most time with the boy out of the lot of them (excluding his guardians), and, so, in the absence of any other options, he would bear the heavy burden.

Besides that, he was quite accustomed to doing risky things involving unusual children by now.

Dreamweaver thought, as Crucis’ shield went up around the observatory’s center, that the sight was uncomfortably reminiscent of one they had bore witness to not too terribly long ago. They could still see Xerxes in Jorah’s place, limp, lifeless, and so unbearably young that the memory of his suffering coated their tongue with a bitter taste.

Jorah, in contrast, sat upright and alert, and when Crucis began the activation, he did not so much as flinch. His eyes, still shining with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, remained locked on the scroll in Crucis’ hands.

They left it only once, to fall on Junior. In that split second, they were not the eyes of a brilliant young prodigy, or of a stranger among familiar things, or of a god-like apparition with the power to level cities thousands strong. They were the eyes of a child with too much weight on their shoulders, trying their best to prove to their father that they were brave.

Then the scroll activated, and Jorah’s skin burst.

It was as ugly and visceral a gene change as Dreamweaver had ever witnessed. Dark blood, almost black, poured from the wounds prying themselves apart across Jorah’s body. Worse still, the wounds refused to sew back together, instead opening and reopening several times over before the first tell-tale flash of color indicated that the Opal had begun to take root.

To his credit, Junior kept his head--until his son began screaming, at which time, he promptly sagged in Dreamweaver’s grasp and dragged them to the floor with him. They held him close, his head pressed into their chest, as he sobbed and begged for them to intervene.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he croaked, “I’ve changed my mind, I can’t let him do this, I can’t let this happen, I can’t, I can’t--”

“It’s only temporary,” Dreamweaver murmured, “a few moments of pain so that he might live a long and happy life. Think of that, my dear one. Think of the life he will now be able to live. A good life. A normal life.”

Dreamweaver watched as Crucis left the scroll, sizzling with magic, upon the ground and moved outside of his shield. Jorah thrashed wildly in his seat, his nails digging into the metal and bleeding with the force of his grip. He said nothing in his agony. Perhaps he wanted to, but knew, even through such immeasurable pain, that his father was there--and he would have rather died than cause his father even a fraction of what he now endured.

“All that’s left to do is wait,” Crucis informed. “It might be wise to evacuate the observatory now. I’m not sure my shield will withstand an outpouring of his magic.”

“I won’t leave him,” Junior rasped. “I won’t.”

“I’m stronger now than I was during the eclipse,” Dreamweaver said. “The magic he used then was undeniably powerful, but I can protect us from it now that I’ve had time to recover.”

“I sure hope so,” Crucis muttered, and, as he spoke, that very same magic, that dark and deadly indigo smoke, began to issue forth from Jorah’s mouth, choking him and filling the dome to its crown. “If you can’t, we’re all going to die truly horrible deaths.”

As it turned out, Dreamweaver’s assistance would not be required. The sickly miasma broiled and whirled behind the shield, angry at its confinement, but did not break it. As the seconds turned to minutes, it dissipated of its own accord, a settling of the proverbial dust, and they received their first glimpse of Jorah in its wake.

It was clear at a glance that the poor boy was exhausted. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and his eyes had rolled back into his head, barely visible beneath fluttering lids. If he was conscious, he was only just so...

...and all across his skin were patches of sunset-colored Opal. They caught the shield’s light as it twinkled high above, indisputably beautiful against soft caramel. Already, they were expelling his magical energy in much the same way Junior’s aura did. Dreamweaver could see it sloughing off of him in sheets to disperse harmlessly against the observatory’s white stone floor.

Hesitantly, Crucis brought the shield down, and, before any of them could stop him, Junior tore off across the room to collapse before his son. “Don’t touch him!” Dreamweaver shouted, but the warning fell on deaf ears. Junior laid his head in Jorah’s lap and quietly begged the child’s forgiveness.

Jorah stirred then, roused by his father’s choked sobs, and managed a quiet, “I’m all right, papa,” before succumbing again to fatigue.

“It worked,” Betelgeuse said, “and he doesn’t appear to be suffering any unexpected or otherwise ill effects.”

“Praise the Weaver,” Aberdeen sighed, and hid his face in his quivering hands. “Oh, praise the Weaver’s glorious and radiant name.”

“Fool,” Crucis grumbled. “He could’ve died.”

“A parent’s love is absolute,” Dreamweaver replied. Junior was hastily undoing the bonds around Jorah’s wrists and ankles now, desperate, no doubt, to bring him away from the site of his trauma. “You weren’t conscious at the time, but I was similarly inconsolable during the celestine incident. I would have done anything to protect my child, even given my own life.”

“Still,” Crucis said, “it was obvious Jorah wasn’t dead or dying. He didn’t need to rush in like that.”

“No,” said Dreamweaver, “but I don’t think it was a conscious decision. It rarely is.”

“You parenting types need to exercise some self-control.”

“I won’t hear that from you, the drake with the least self-control I have ever known.”

Crucis snorted, but couldn’t argue. “Work’s not done yet,” he said. “Come on, you lot. We’ve got numbers to crunch. Junior, I know you want to take him home, but it’s for the best if he stays here, just until we’ve had time to make absolutely certain he’s not going to kill us all.”

“At least--is there somewhere he can lie comfortably?” Junior asked. He had already gathered Jorah into his arms. If Jorah was in pain, it didn’t show. He was sleeping soundly, his face tucked away in his father’s neck.

“I practically live here,” Crucis replied, and hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward his personal library, which was really nothing more than several haphazardly placed bookshelves. “There’s a bed in there somewhere. Get him settled and keep a close watch.”

“I’ll run and fetch Isaiah,” Aberdeen said. “He should be here, just in case.”

“Tell Abaddon to come while you’re out,” Dreamweaver requested, “and ask Banrai to pen a letter. I’m certain his doting grandmother will want to know the procedure was a rousing success.”

[vthiker09]

Feelings

I have many fuzzy feelings towards NH surgeon guy.  Mostly rooted in an appreciation for him being able to exhibit basic empathy and having the skill set to help me, I try quite hard to keep him out of the rest of my feelings.  I had a routine check-in with surgeon guy last week and I asked: “do I have do that running progression thing?”  Although a little preemptive, because I can’t run for another five weeks, I wanted to know where I stood.  Surgeon guy seemed to be a little taken back by my phrasing and said: “Why do you call it that thing?  Even if you weren’t hurt, it would be a good idea after not running for several months.” I mumbled something about being frustrated, said I understood, and moved on to my next question.  This is what I wanted to say: “I’m having a hard time dealing with the amount of loss I’ve experienced. Two months ago, I was running 3-4 miles three or four times a week.  This was after I wasn’t able to run for a year and a half. The idea of taking, what I perceive as several steps backwards, and then having to walk 4 min run 1 min for 30 min, wait 48 hours, and then increase the run piece by 1 min until I can run for 30 mins - makes me really sad.  I just did this.” 

Although NH surgeon guy is much better than most, I’m aware I don’t really have time to delve into my emotions, if I want all my medical questions answered and Surgeon guy isn’t really the right person to talk to.   As a community, we decided a long time ago, to compartmentalize medical care into “specialties.”  The general idea being some areas of medicine require a more in-depth knowledge than others and in order to give people adequate care, some doctors need to spend their entire career working on one area - because the human body is complicated.  Mental health was identified as a specialty area and was carved out long ago.  At the same time, mental health carries a host of societal stigmas with it.  It was carved out under the general guise of “specialties,” but at the same, it gave “traditional medicine” a way to say “nope, not us - go to talk to your therapist.”

In addition to what seems like a general fear of phrases like “I feel,” my experience has been the medical community sways in the opposite direction.  I suppose after you see a couple hundred or thousand broken bones, blown apart joints, blood, and whatever else - a person’s natural progression would be become to less empathetic. When someone’s worst day is your norm - it might be a little harder to understand why they are whimpering in your office.  There seems to be more space, however, for medical professions to be insensitive, rude, and hurtful.  It’s as if their vicarious trauma provides them with the green light to make my trauma worse.  

In my experience, the worst offenders are nurses and anesthesiologists.  I have endless examples, but let’s just stick with my most recent surgical experience:

1. Nurse after seeing how much I weigh: “So are you kind of a healthy person?”

2. Nurse when Mike takes my purse as I’m being taken into the OR: “Nice Kate Spade (laughs)” me: “Thanks!” Nurse: “Oh, it’s yours?”

3. Anesthesiologist within 30 seconds of meeting me: “Oh, looks like you’ve been a good customer” - as she reviews my surgical history.

4. Anesthesiologist: “Is your heart rate normally in the 40′s?” - with a panicked tone me: “yes” nurse: “do you run?” me: “yes”  anesthesiologist: “Oh, that must be difficult with your foot.” 

Now keep in mind, I interacted with the nurses and the anesthesiologist for maybe a total of 20 minutes.  That’s a lot of less than trauma-informed language to use in 20 minutes.  

Surgeons tend to share their lack of empathy by just not listening, belittling you, or dropping anxiety causing statements about the extent of your injury.  My personal favorites have been:

1. Me: “If everything is okay, why is my ankle so swollen, why does it give out all the time, and why does it hurt so much?” surgeon: “Well, we could re-break your leg, take the screws out, rearrange your bones again, and see if that works (laughs).” 

2. Surgeon describing my initial injury: “It was kind of like your foot was torn off your leg.” 

3. Surgeon describing the extent of damage to my foot: “It was kind of like you were walking around with an amputated toe.”

4. Me: “The inside of my ankle really hurts and I keep rolling it.”  Surgeon: “I know your MRI says your deltoid is damaged, but it’s not - you’re fine.”  me: “Then why does it keep giving out?”  Surgeon: “I don’t know.” 

5. Me: “I can barely walk 3 miles and I can’t hike at all.” Surgeon: “That’s pretty good!  I haven’t walked 3 miles in years.” 

Egos, paired with burnout, paired with vicarious trauma, paired with a general sentiment mental health and physical health have no space in the same building, has made dealing with the words coming out of my medical professionals faces, as difficult as my actual medical problems.  For anyone who knows me well, I am not quiet.  Thus, many times, I just had to bite my tongue when medical professionals would say something which was hurtful.  I did this, because I knew it was in my best interest to keep them happy.  If they didn’t like me or I was deemed to be a “trouble patient,” it wasn’t going to help my overall cause - which is to move again without pain.

What happens when your mental health is effected by your physical health? All the bad emotions I currently struggle with didn’t exist before my injury - they were caused by it.  Thus, why is it not somewhat the responsibility of my medical providers to acknowledge I’ve been through an awful ordeal and to just be decent to me? 

In theory, they would every so often ask if I was okay, but I know this would be asking too much.  If they ever did, this is what I’d tell them: 

I feel angry: I’m mad about the medical care I’ve received.  I feel like my care was delayed, diagnoses were missed, I was belittled, not listened to, two of my five surgeries were pointless - and I’ve lost 2.5 years of my life because of it.  I have a had time sitting with this and knowing the people involved will never acknowledge their role or be held accountable in any way.  In the meantime, I will never get those 2.5 years back.

I feel hurt: I’m hurt in the feelings sense of hurt.  There are people around me who have let me down.  I’ve lost friends and there are others who I don’t feel the same way about.  I saw pieces of people I didn’t want to see.

I feel sad: I spent a year and half not being able to do the things which help me relieve stress and help me maintain my mental health.  In an extremely stressful time, I didn’t have the normal activities I look to, to help manage stress.  I got them back for a few months and then had to give them up again.  I feel a great sense of loss and it makes me sad.

I feel worried: I’m worried this won’t work.  Why should it?  the other four times didn’t.  I’m worried I will never be the same.  I’m worried I will live with chronic pain.  I’m worried when you say “you have an ankle like no one else,” it means I will never be “done” with this process, because I will always struggle in some capacity.  I’m worried it’s only a matter of time before I blow out my joint again.  I’m worried I have fewer years to hike because my injury will, at some point, completely take hiking away from me.  I’m worried “normal days” are something I may not experience for a long time.  I’m worried I am going to be alone while I try to figure out how to live with this.  I’m worried I’ll struggle because I’m too stubborn to tell the difference between healing and a problem.  I’m worried about what life will be like 10 years from now and if I’ll be able to deal with it.

I feel alone: I don’t know anyone who has hurt themselves to the extent I did.  I know a pile of people with bunions, arthritis, broken ankles, broken legs, tendinitis, or other foot and ankle afflictions.  I don’t know anyone who has dealt with something like me and it’s difficult.  Sometimes I want someone to talk to - who really “understands.”  The closest person I’ve found are the surgeons and they don’t have time to talk to me.  

I feel tired: I don’t want to do this anymore.  I don’t want to drive three hours to take an x-ray.  I don’t want to go to PT.  I don’t want to have a surgeon.  I don’t want to have rules about how I have to move through the world.  I don’t want to argue with Aetna.  I don’t want to rely on Tylenol and Aleve to make it through the day.  I don’t want to have to deal with the lack of compassion within the medical profession.  I don’t want to have to leave dinner because I can’t sit in a chair any longer.  I don’t want my entire life to be based on my leg and say things like “I don’t know if I can do x, we’ll see how I feel.”  I want to go back to being “Erin” and see my primary once a year - maybe.   

I feel lost:  I know I will have to manage my healing for quite awhile.  I don’t really know how to do this.  I don’t know how to manage a serious injury.  I feel like everyday is something new and not in a fun way.  I feel like I don’t have the skills to properly assess what is and isn’t okay.  I wish I didn’t have to learn these skills.

I feel overwhelmed: I walk through everyday holding all of this and it’s exhausting.  I feel like I’ve become selfish out of necessity.  I have become someone who takes and takes emotionally from those around me and I don’t like it.  I want to be there for my friends and family like I used to be.  I don’t want to say “I’m sorry, but I can’t listen to this right now.”  I don’t want to worry someone will tell me they are having a bad day because it’s going to send me over the edge - since I’ve had 700 or so “bad days” in a row.  I want my emotional pot to empty out a little so I have some space for other people.

I feel bitter: I feel bitter both about the medical care I received and the whole process.  I complied with every single direction I was given.  I worked really hard to get better and it failed.  It failed four times.  Other people do everything wrong and they end up okay.  This seems unfair to me.  Why did it fail four times? and why can’t anyone give me this answer?

This is how I feel.  This is what I walk in with every single time I go to see a surgeon, PT, nurse, or office staff.  This is also how I feel as I manage my non-medical life.  It’s what I walk around with every minute of everyday.  

Given all of this I wish a few things were true:

1. I wish there were mentors within the medical community.  I would have loved to talk to someone who had had a similar injury and was a few years out.  I wanted someone to talk to, who has experienced what I have and has been trained to help others.  I don’t want someone who gives me faulty medical advice based on their own experiences.  I want someone who “gets it” and has the skills to listen.

2. I wish the medical community had more skills around managing the mental impact of injuries or illnesses. I wish there was a higher standard when it came to how patients are treated verbally and offenders were held accountable.  I wish the people who knew my medical situation the best could’ve also been the people who said “we know this is hard.”  

3. I wish doctors were given the time and space to care for people instead of treating individual body parts.  This piece alone would’ve made a huge difference.

[jbankai89]

Never Let Me Go [32/37]

A/N: At last, the Otabek POV chapters have arrived! :D next update will be March 15th. Trigger Warning: This chapter contains spousal abuse (emotional, physical, and sexual), child abuse/corporal punishment, and the loss of a child in childbirth in the italic segments.

A note on the Kazakh words in this chapter: I found two translations for Mother/Father during my research, and I couldn't get a clear answer on what term was more appropriate to use. Ana/Sheshe for Mother, and Äke/Yeka for Father. I went with the latter spellings because they felt more familiar and more likely for a child to use, and I am pretty sure the former ones are more formal. If someone who actually speaks Kazakh stumbles across this fic and thinks I'm wrong please let me know, and I'll adjust it.

Sorry about the delay in posting this here, I hate computer troubles XD

Chapter Thirty-One – A Good Alpha

Otabek hated himself. All his alpha instincts screamed at him as he stepped out of the hospital, climbed into his car, and drove away from the hospital—without Yuri.

Of course, that wasn't to imply that Yuri was alone—Nikolai, Minami, and Yuuri—along with the triplets—had all come to stay with him and keep him company while Otabek went on ahead to help Phichit and Viktor rearrange the living room and carry his and Yuri's bed downstairs—Alpha work, supposedly. It felt weird, and sexist, but oddly necessary at the same time.

And still, despite the logical parts of his mind telling him he needed to get home and help Viktor and Phichit do what needed to be done, he still felt like it was wrong to leave his omega behind at a time like this.

Otabek drove, and tried to keep himself from thinking. He knew his father had done similar things for his mother, after all, this was nothing new. An omega needed love and care, especially during this time of their pregnancy—at least on that, his father had been right.

~*~

 “Son, you are eight now, and your sheshe needs our help, because his only job is having my child, and he is almost ready to have it, do you understand?”

“Yes, Yeka,” Otabek said as he gazed up at his father, “it is very important that he gives you babies.”

“This is the first one your sheshe has managed to give me since you, it is indeed very important,” he agreed with a nod, “and one day you will choose your omega, and they will be ana to your children. If you are lucky, he will be more fertile than your own sheshe. Always, always have a doctor check his fertility before you sign the papers, Beka, because there is nothing worse than an omega who cannot give you children.”

Otabek turned to the sofa where his sheshe was sitting. His eyes were focused hard on the coffee table and shiny with tears, while his hands were tightly clenched into fists. His yeka chuckled, and leant past the huge, rotund belly to peck Otabek's mother on the cheek.

“Omegas are so sensitive,” he remarked fondly, as though his mother had not been able to hear the alphas talking.

 ~*~

 Phichit and Viktor were outside when Otabek pulled up in front of the house. Phichit was hopping up and down like a rabbit on steroids, and Viktor had his arms thrown above his head, while Makkachin was curled up in front of the door and watching them lazily. Otabek pulled off his sunglasses to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, but the odd scene, unfortunately, didn't change.

“What the hell are you two doing?” Otabek asked as he exited the car, and both of the alphas grinned at him.

“Stretching!” said Viktor with a grin, “the key to any successful physical activity is to always stretch first. It's rule one in the...book of physical activity.”

“That's not even a thing,” Otabek retorted with a small snort, “and we're moving a bed, it's not like we're planning to attend some sort of figure skating competition or something.”

“Oh, please,” Viktor snorted, “could you really see any of us figure skating?”

Laughter surrounded them as they headed inside and moved upstairs. Potya immediately followed them, effectively scaring off Makkachin in the process, and mewed as she wove through Otabek's ankles.

“Oh, this is an accident waiting to happen...” Otabek muttered as he scooped the kitten up, then dropped her into the bathroom and shut the door before she could escape. When he turned back around, both Viktor and Phichit were staring at him with raised eyebrows.

“If either of you tattles on me to Yuri and tells him I locked his cat in the bathroom, I will put your hands in warm water while you sleep,” Otabek threatened, and Viktor blanched, while Phichit's expression shifted to confusion.

“What would that do?”

“It makes you pee the bed,” Viktor filled in, and Phichit's eyes widened.

“Okay,” he said quickly, “I won't tell.”

“Good,” Otabek said as he nodded once, “come on, we have a bed to move.”

 ~*~

 “Sheshe?” Otabek asked uncertainly, and peered into the hospital room. His mother was wiping his eyes and sniffling a little. His belly was flat, but Otabek could see no baby. “I saw Yeka storm out...are you okay?”

“Zha`nym, come in,” his mother said, his eyes growing glassy again as he reached out an arm to him. Otabek went to him and sat on the edge of the bed. His mother wrapped him in a warm, comforting embrace, like he used to do when Otabek was smaller. He hiccoughed as more tears came to his eyes, and retracted one of his arms from around Otabek to touch his flat belly with a trembling hand.

“Your Yeka is very upset, because Allah saw fit to take your baby brother to Paradise the moment he came into this world. Yeka does not deal well with sad things, he just needs some time.”

“Should...should I go?” Otabek asked nervously, uncertain what to say or do. His father had never told him what to do in these sorts of situations. “I'm sorry, Sheshe, I...I don't know what to feel.”

“It is all right, my precious Zha`nym, just...just pray with me.”

Otabek nodded, and he helped his mother to wash, then turned towards the Qiblah. He was too weak to get out of bed, and so Otabek unlocked the wheels of the bed and turned it himself while his mother donned his Omega Taqiyah.

Otabek withdrew his own from his pocket and pulled it on his head, and knelt on his prayer mat next to the bed, while his mother bowed as far forward as he could, and covered his face as he began to pray.

 His mother's voice broke during his prayer, and he began crying again. They finished the prayer together, murmuring, “Assalamu Alai'kumWarah'matullah,” before Otabek stood back up, rolled his mat up as hastily as he dared, and pulled his mother into another hug. He wept into Otabek's shoulder openly, while Otabek wondered, 'Just what sort of god would take a baby away?'

He didn't dare to speak the blasphemy out loud, and hugged his mother closer.

 His father did not return to the room, but when Otabek stepped out not long after to use the bathroom, he let out a cry of surprise as his father grabbed him, and pushed him into the nearest wall, a hand at his throat.

“Yeka—!” Otabek protested in shock, but his father refused to hear it.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” his father hissed, softly enough that it was unlikely that any passer-bys would overhear. “Praying not just in the presence of an omega, but a cursed one, who bears no fruit? You know better, Otabek!”

“But Sheshe was upset!” Otabek protested, “he asked me to pray with him, I thought it would make him feel better!”

“I don't care if your sheshe was crying a flood of tears the size of the Pacific Ocean!” his father snapped, “you have shamed me! In public!”

“I'm sorry, Yeka—ah!” Otabek yelped as his father slapped him, and tears sprang to his eyes.

“You wait until we get home, boy,” he snarled, “for this, I'll make you wish you've never been born.”

 ~*~

 The trek between upstairs and downstairs had never seemed like much of a big deal to Otabek, but with   a big mattress supported between three people, it was a completely different story.

After the disaster of disassembling the bed, which included the headboard falling off and leaving a spectacular dent in the wall, Phichit dropping part of the bed frame on his own foot, and Viktor tripping over one of the stray legs and nearly killing himself, Otabek thought it couldn't get any worse, only to discover that he had been very, very wrong.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Viktor called from the end closest to the staircase, and both Phichit and Otabek skidded to a halt with a pair of frustrated huffs. “It's stuck again.”

Phichit groaned and bounced his head against the side of the mattress, while Otabek shifted his grip a little to alleviate the soreness in his fingers. He backed up a little, following what Viktor was doing, and they all staggered forward as they made it to the stairs—until the silver-haired alpha cried out, and Otabek stared as the mattress was suddenly yanked from his fingers, and Otabek watched in amazement as it bowled Viktor over, and slid the rest of the way down the stairs and into the living room, where it landed harmlessly against the side of the sofa, which had been preemptively moved out of the way.

Otabek and Phichit found Viktor halfway down the stairs looking a little dazed, and Phichit bit his lip, clearly trying to keep from laughing, while Otabek leant forward and stared into the alpha's bleary eyes.

“Viktor?” Otabek asked, “you okay?”

“Anyone get the number of that bus?” he asked dazedly, and Otabek snorted.

“Phichit, could you get him an ice pack from the freezer?” Otabek asked as he helped Viktor to his feet, and guided him down the stairs slowly.

“Yeah, sure,” Phichit replied with a soft snort. “Man, you rich guys are so delicate.” He grinned at Otabek. “Oh yeah, I saw you getting all shifty with your hands, Beka—”

“—only Yuri gets to call me Beka,” Otabek interrupted, and Phichit laughed.

“Anyway, yeah, okay Beka.”

Without another word, he hopped down the steps and headed for the kitchen.

 ~*~

 “But why do we have to move to Russia?” Otabek demanded, and his father glared at him over the top of his laptop.

“Because, Otabek, thanks in no small part to your mother's wretched behaviour, I have been ejected from every respectable social group in this infernal city, and word travels. Your mother has shamed us all in losing that child, and no one can quite understand why I would have bound myself to something that could only give me one child, and not many. We will have a new start in Russia; I have selected a fine estate far from society, and we will be left in peace. I can try for more children with your mother, and I have hired an excellent tutor for you.”

“But, Yeka, why can't I just go to school with the other kids my age? I hate being the only one.”

“Don't tell me that,” his father snapped, and Otabek frowned. “It is your mother who cannot seem to grow anything in that barren womb of his, save for you. I have planted many, many seeds, son, I am not to be blamed for the fact that they do not grow.”

Otabek let out a shout of frustration, and turned, brushing past his mother, who had been sitting nearby, and stormed up to his room.

 ~*~

 “Viktor, how many fingers am I holding up?” Otabek asked, presenting the alpha three fingers while Phichit offered him an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. Viktor accepted it, pressing it to the side of his head with a wince, while he shifted his gaze to Otabek.

“Six?” he asked in a wavering, reedy tone of voice that was so obviously false that Otabek could not help but roll his eyes, and Viktor grinned. “Kidding. Three.”

“Okay, you're probably fine, then.”

“Ten bucks says Yuuri morphs into a complete mother hen when he sees that I was run over by a mattress,” Viktor called as Otabek straightened up and headed for the stairs where Phichit was waiting, and the two uninjured alphas snorted loudly.

“Twenty says both Yuris get into an argument about whose fault it is that Viktor got run over by a mattress, and then Otabek yells at Viktor for making Yuri go into early labour again,” Phichit quipped, and Otabek huffed another laugh.

“And what will Minami be doing while all this is going on?”

“Nothing, because Minami is perfect and smarter than all of you, and he'd know to steer clear of the crazy pregnant omegas and their overbearing alphas.”

Otabek whipped around and stared at Phichit, who blinked bemusedly. “What?”

“Pregnant omegas? Plural?” Otabek asked, and Phichit cursed.

“Damn it,” he said as he looked up at the ceiling, “I wasn't supposed to say anything yet.”

“How is it that none of us noticed his scent changing?”

“Because all of you are amazingly dense.”

“Seriously,” Otabek retorted while he ignored the jibe, “how?”

“It's a secret,” Phichit sing-songed, and Otabek elbowed him as they made it back to Otabek and Yuri's bedroom, and they began to carefully lift the box spring off the partially disassembled bed frame.

 ~*~

 By the time they made it to Russia it was January, and their new estate was half-buried in snow. The sky was grey, and the movers kept slipping on ice hidden beneath the thick powder as they transported item after item into the expansive entryway of the new house.

“Careful!” his father barked when two of the movers nearly dropped an antique credenza, “that has been in my family for over two hundred years!”

“Apologies, sir,” one of them grunted, though they exchanged a look that Otabek knew well—is this guy for real?

Otabek hung back with his mother. Their faces were flushed from the cold, and Otabek's olive skin stood out starkly against the white snow around them, while his mother's fair, peachy complexion seemed to blend in, rather than the reverse. His father turned away from the movers to glower at the pair of them, then stomped into the house after the workmen, leaving Otabek feeling confused by his father's attitude, as well as a little bit alarmed.

“Sheshe?” Otabek asked, turning to his mother, “is Yeka mad at me?”

“He's just stressed,” his mother replied, patting his back gently. “Your yeka did not want to move here either, you know, but he had no choice. Unfortunately, our culture puts a lot of pressure on an omega's ability to have children, and because I can't have any more, it reflects badly on him.”

“You can't have any more?” Otabek asked curiously, “but...Yeka said he was still trying.”

“Your yeka does not like to listen to doctors,” his mother said with a sad sort of smile. “When I had your...brother, I nearly died from it, and they discovered that carrying children was dangerous for my health. They told your yeka that I could not have any more children, but he felt that the doctor was exaggerating, and every month keeps trying to make more.”

“Does making babies hurt?” Otabek asked, and his mother stared at him as though he'd grown a second head.

“No, Zha`nym, it's not supposed to hurt, why are you asking this?”

“Because when that time comes, I always hear you crying, and Yeka yelling...” Otabek explained, and his mother began to laugh, though it was a strangely sad sound. He pulled Otabek into a hug, and he realized belatedly that it was to hide his tears from Otabek.

“Oh, Beka,” his sheshe said, “I will explain this to you when you are older. You are only nine, and right now all I want you to worry about is enjoying your childhood, all right?”

“Okay, Sheshe,” Otabek said as he hugged him back, “I'll try.”

 ~*~

 “You know, if this keeps up, we're going to need to really renovate this house to make room for all the kids,” Phichit remarked as they made it to the living room—much more smoothly this time around without Viktor's enthusiastic 'help'.

“You and Minami planning on adding to the army of children?” Otabek teased, and Phichit barked a laugh.

“Oh, not any time soon,” Phichit said as he continued to giggle. “Could you see us as parents? Plus, Minami has some more healing to do before he'd be ready for something like that.”

“You mean sharing his heats with an alpha?” Otabek asked, and Phichit nodded. “But he seemed to be doing so well.”

“It's all a big act,” Phichit replied with a small, sad smile. “He wants to be well so that Yuri and Yuuri don't worry about him, but he still gets anxious around his heats, and he always looks a little bit grateful when I leave him to it. He's tough—he's really tough, but he's not as strong as he thinks he is. I like the idea of kids, but I like the idea of Minami whole and well more. I can wait.”

“Man,” Otabek said with a chuckle as they set down the box spring on its side and they headed back upstairs together, “where were you when I was growing up?”

“Ah, I guess you had one of those traditional Eurasian upbringings, then?”

“That's one way to put it,” Otabek said sourly, “I don't think I ever saw my mother smile.”

“And where's Momma Altin now?”

“Six feet under the Altin Estate,” Otabek replied, and Phichit lifted his hands to cover his mouth. “She died in childbirth to a stillborn baby when I was nineteen—her fifth stillborn after me, and my dad wrapped himself around a tree a year later, drunk driving. Six months after the funeral, I went to the Omega House and chose Yuri. I thought it would make me feel better, starting my own family, but...it just made everything worse. I don't mean Yuri's attitude towards me, that was totally understandable, but I was just horrible to him, a big mess of grief and longing and other stuff all crammed together...I was a total disaster.”

“Oh, Otabek, I'm so sorry...”

“It's fine, I guess,” Otabek replied as he shouldered a segment of the bed frame and glanced out the window towards the lake with a small sigh. “My mom was probably happy to get out of there; my dad made his life total hell. But the worst part is I swore to be better than my father ever was, and give my omega a good life...and look what happened.”

“You abandoned all your beliefs and fled to another country to save your omega from the harsh regime back home?” Phichit asked, and Otabek whirled around to face him, and the other alpha was smiling at him warmly.

“I didn't do that.”

“Yes you did.”

“Well, not at first.”

“So what?” Phichit demanded, while he began to shoulder his own piece of the bed frame. “We can't change the past, only the future. Sure, things were pretty screwed up a first, but look where you came from! Your dad was an abusive shithead, and your mom had no voice of his own, he could only take it, and hope that your dad didn't turn on you, too. I know how the system works, Yuuri told me everything while we were trying to bust you and Yuri out of those places. If your mom had tried to stand up or raise his voice, your dad would have had the right to take you away from him. Obviously your mother loved you, and he did what he could to protect you.

“Then, when your parents were gone, you were left with a totally screwed up set of morals, but you changed, because of how you feel about Yuri. Yuri loves you, so why dwell on the past when so much good has come around lately? You're about to be a dad! We're moving this big stupid bed so that Yuri won't go stir-crazy while he waits for the baby to come, and we just finished throwing him a massive baby shower, which included the cutest kitten in the universe, so why are you trying so hard to be miserable right now?”

“I...wish I knew,” Otabek said as he laughed weakly, then turned away from the other alpha so that he would not see his tears, as he began to carry the frame down the hall and towards the stairs.

 ~*~

 “Repeat after me,” the tutor said, waving the conductor's baton in his hand as he spoke, and Otabek watched its progression through the air nervously. “An omega's worth rests in his womb.”

“An omega's worth rests in his womb,” Otabek repeated dully, and yelped when the old man thwacked the back of his writing hand hard enough to bruise. “What was that for?”

“Say it with feeling!” the tutor said, like they were doing a drama lesson, and not an etiquette lesson, while he flicked his baton dangerously close to Otabek's hands with every syllable. “An omega does not have the mental capacity to care for itself, you must do it for him. If you do not take these lessons seriously, you will find yourself with a misbehaving omega who will not respect you. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir,” Otabek grumbled as he massaged the back of his hand. He didn't bother trying to point out that the idea of secondary sex organs making someone stupider than him was a little bit crazy—he was already whacked once for that already, and wasn't keen on getting another bruise.

“Good, now, we continue—an omega has heats once per month, lasting three to five days. That is the only time an omega can conceive a child. What must their alpha do during this period?”

Otabek shifted uncomfortably at the question, but the two-second pause was too long for his tutor, and he hit Otabek on the hand again, making him cry out.

“Ow! Don't do that!”

“Answer the question, Mr Altin.”

“A good alpha must take the omega to bed. It eases the pain of heats, and an omega must not reject his alpha, or a punishment must be enacted,” Otabek said, looking away from his tutor as he spoke, his stomach bubbling with unease—why did it feel so wrong to say that?

“Excellent, Mr Altin,” the tutor praised, and Otabek shifted uncomfortably again. “Now, punishments for an omega—can you detail them for me?”

“I really don't—ow!”

“The punishments, now, Mr Altin,” the tutor commanded, and waved his baton threateningly.

“Verbal disrespect must be met with a restriction,” Otabek mumbled. “No food past a certain time—unless the omega is pregnant—no outings, no contact with other omegas.”

“Excellent Mr Altin,” the tutor said, “and what of physical disrespect?”

“An omega must never raise a hand to their alpha. An alpha may punish their omega with equal force up to tenfold, most commonly through a beating or whipping, unless the omega is pregnant.”

“And treasonous behaviour?”

“Any attempt to escape their alpha, speak ill of their alpha, or hide a pregnancy must be met with a beating or whipping. It must bruise, otherwise it will not be a sufficient punishment, but it must not scar, for if the alpha chooses to return the misbehaving omega to the Omega House, scarring will lower their...value.”

“And misdeeds during a pregnancy?”

“Physical punishment anywhere except the abdominal area—broken fingers or other limbs, scalding water, or sensory deprivation, but any high-stress situation over a long period may lead to a miscarriage.”

“Oh, excellent, Mr Altin!” the tutor praised, “why, I would say that had it not been for your young age, you would be perfect as a trainer in one of the Retraining Houses. It is a shame you are only fourteen, but if you keep this up, you may wish to consider applying once you turn twenty.”

Otabek looked away from his teacher, imitating a humble response so that he would not see the look of disgust upon his face.

I'll treat any omega I get better than that, Otabek thought fiercely. He will love me, and I will treat him better than this, I swear it.

Outside, thick droplets of rain dotted the window, obscuring the gardens from view. The low thrum would have been calming, had it not been for the painful rapping of a wooden baton across his knuckles for the hundredth time. With a wince, he turned back to his tutor, and prayed that he'd never need to use this so-called information that he was being taught. They resumed the lesson, while distantly, Otabek heard the distinct weeping of an omega—his mother again.

He pretended not to hear it.

A/N: If you like my work, please consider throwing a few bucks into my Digital Tip Jar. I am a starving artist, and I like not actually starving to death :P

NLMG Masterpost

[nanyoky]

Nell’s Preemptive “I Told You So” Riverdale Predictions Roundup

So we’re three eps in to season two, and one of my favorite activities with an active series is to wildly speculate about what’s going to happen so I can gloat if I’m right or turn the possibilities into fic if I’m wrong. 

Things I think might happen:

~The Killer: Let’s get the easy one out of the way. We all know the writers are trying way too hard to cast suspicion on Hiram for it to actually... be Hiram. I mean he’s a shady dude, no doubt. But I really don’t think it’s actually him responsible for all the shootings and deaths. So who is it? Someone with strong black and white morals. Shooter appears to be Caucasian male- middle aged.

I’ve seen speculation that it’s either Sheriff Keller or Hal Cooper. Both strong options. Both very morally black and white to a painful fault. Add in that Sheriff Keller seems like- REALLY BAD at being sheriff (altho an A+ dad) and that seems like a good guess. This would also cause so much angst for Kevin, who is now a much more involved and rounded character. Hal is not particularly threatening, but a bit of a dick so that doesn’t seem far off either. Angst for Betty who already feels like she’s inherited the worst parts of her family and acknowledged that there are things they just #don’t talk about. So she would have sort of seen it coming. And they both fit the general physical description of the shooter, so if it’s just one person acting on their own, solid options.

Also seen guesses that it’s Betty’s long lost brother which seems kinda... cheap. This is a soap opera/suburban gothic. Shock value is worth it’s weight in gold here in genre town. For the killer to be a mysterious figure that we know exists but haven’t met yet seems kinda lame. He may be a good red herring tho- like FP in season 1.

Personally, I’m thinking more of and Orient Express situation. Multiple killers. Maybe the Messed Up Parents brigade all got together and decided to do something about the crime in their town, Hot Fuzz style. Or multiple motives with one killer claiming credit for the other attacks to gain legitimacy. It’s early. I’m still gathering crackpot theories.

~Archie’s Whole Deal (TM): Archie is going to shoot someone who doesn’t deserve it on accident. This isn’t even a theory. We all know it. Big piece of my money is on Ronniekins cuz they got together way too early and Hiram gave a very brief but threatening version of the shotgun talk so that could be real messy. She wouldn’t die. But it would seriously mess up their relationship and how all the characters see Archie. And how he sees himself because he already always feels like everything is his fault so if a case wound up where something terrible ACTUALLY WAS he would not be in a good place.

Another piece of my bank is on Fred because how awful would it be for Archie to accidentally kill the one person he’s so obsessed with protecting. God. So messed up. HERE FOR IT.

Maybe Betty. Maybe Jughead. Maybe Kev. Childhood friends. Ouch. I don’t think they’d actually kill one of the core four, but we all know how much network tv loves to kill their gays so.... 

But aside from that I am calling this HARD: Archie has not told us everything about what happened at the diner. The shooter said something or had some other identifying characteristic or SOMETHING that Archie is scared to tell people about. He’s a really bad liar and his reticence right after the event felt like it went beyond survivor’s guilt. 

Possibilities for this: the Black Hood said something that indicated a personal connection or a threat of more violence. It seems like in all the flashbacks, the diagetic sound is cut or distorted, but we can hear the shooter shouting. And normally when witnesses look at suspects, the police ask the lineup to repeat a line that the perp said so the victim can hear their voice- ESPECIALLY in a case where the perp was wearing a mask. That this didn’t happen makes it seem like archie didn’t tell Sheriff keller any details on what the guy said, which seems weird if it was just “get on the ground!” or “don’t move” or something. I dunno. This could just be a writing oversite. But it could be something so lets wildly speculate shall we.

OR: Archie knows who the shooter is. Or has a guess. He seems REAL stuck on the green eyes thing. Almost to the point where i don’t believe it. Like- I know the guy was wearing a mask so the eyes are the only detail he could pick out, but I don’t really notice people’s eye colors that often- especially when in a high stress situation. It seems weird how sure Archie is and how much he fixates on the detail. Like if he just looks the right person in the eyes he’ll know for sure. In the words of the meme world “okay... that seems fake, but okay...”

SO maybe he knows who it is. Or has a guess who it is. Maybe the killer threatened something along the lines of “you better lead them away from me or I”m coming right back” so Archie picked some implausibly minute detail to feed the cops to comply, which feeds into his guilt, thus Team Kickass.

~Pollykins on The Farm: Okay this one may have like zero basis aside from a gut feeling (and one time I got a gut feeling that Captain America: Civil War wasn’t going to disappoint me, and here we are, so go ahead and take this with a metric ton of salt) but like? Are we? Worried? About this farm Polly is going to? That there’s just some farm upstate that can’t wait to have a pregnant teen hang out with them? And the way she said “they still have room for me” makes it sound like there’s a lot of people there? So it’s not like- a plot of land and a little house she and Jason were thinking of buying- but a community they were going to click into? Add in the HEAVY Zodiac killer vibes and I am... concern. I am very concern about the possibility that maybe last season was late 50s/early 60s esque Suburban Gothic themed, but what if this season is... late 60s/early 70s esque serial killers.

Polly. Baby. Angel. I fully support your decision to leave Riverdale but please consider starting a club of #Sensible People with Joaquin instead of joining the Manson Family.

~What’s Up With Hermione- I Mean- Right? I’ve seen a lot of people saying “I really liked Hermione in season one but what the fuck happened? Why is she so awful now?” Veronica made a reference in Season one to her mom taking pills/drinking, but she seems to be drinking a lot more this season.

And I mean- she’s got shit going on. Her husband is back. There’s a lot of baggage with that. He knows she had a bit of a tryst while he was in jail so their relationship is likely strained at best. Also she knows that he threatened her safety to their fucking daughter which is just wow. Gold star hubby right here. So maybe her behavior/attitude is a reflection that she’s now back in a toxic relationship and things were more like this before Hiram went to jail, Veronica just didn’t notice because she was The Old Veronica and wrapped up in her own little world. That’s entirely plausible.

But what’s also plausible is Hermione playing a long game. She proved herself very smart and very shrewd in season one with all that happened with her husband and the serpents and Fred.  And her plot seemed to end off with Fred giving her a bit of a carpe diem when it came to her husband and their shady business dealings. Maybe she’s taking him up on that call to action, but very much in her own way. Does she want to Bring Hiram Down completely? Does she want to divorce him? Does she just want a bit more agency and control over her family and her life? We’ll see. And I’m excited to.

~Your Secrets.... Your Sins....: Is anyone else concerned about this phrasing from the Black Hood’s letter? Is it just me? I mean it’s not exactly so esoteric that it might be a coincidence, but there were a lot of people at that party and any one of them could be/have a connection to someone who might want to kill people. I’m not really including this in the killer speculation just because it’s less a prediction, more of a detail that is making me #STRESSED

Things that won’t happen but I can dream can’t I:

~I have this really intense fantasy of Cheryl hooking up with some guy who’s like- the goonish musclehead of the week for her. And they go out to the woods to make out and he gets a bit fresh. And then doesn’t react well to her rebuffing him and gets rough. And then she just straight up kills him in a bloody mess. Probably with a knife with an ornate handle because of course she probably has one of those lying around somwhere. OR with some more brutal and unexpected weapon like a crowbar. All this happens while Little Red Riding Hood by Sam and the Pharaohs plays. Cheryl looks great. The goon looks dead. Scene cuts from Cheryl’s wide eyed, heavy breathing, lip trembling, blood splattered face to black right on the “Aroooooooo” at the end of the song. Hire me CW I’m your exact brand of Extra AF but I’m better at dialogue.

Likelyhood: slim to none. This is a weirdly specific need I have and I don’t know how it would fit into the larger plot. I just need it real bad.

~I want Joaquin to come back and for there to be drama between him and Kevin because TRUST but ultimately they have a heart to heart about how different their lives have been because we know Kevin’s dad is very supportive but like- we don’t know anything about joaquin’s home life other than that he’s in a gang? and people just don’t join gangs cuz they think it’s fun? so I’m feeling Tale As Old As TIme: parents kicked him out when he came out and the Serpents were the only place he could go and FP didn’t fucking care he was gay just so long as he was loyal and so that explains that complicated relationship there. And so they get back together and continue looking very cute and in love and happy. That I feel is a good balance between the v. real “being a gay kid in a small town sucks ass” drama and the v. real desire a lot of us have to just fucking let the gays be happy for once goddammit.

Likelyhood: Low. They really seem to be steering Season 2!Kevin away from Season 1!Kevin hard so the probability of bringing back his old side character love interest seems very very low. But I dunno. I think they made an error in underestimating how attached we’d get to Joaquin’s pretty face so if they’re trawling social media they might see all the “i miss snicksnake boy...” and take pity on us.

~The “Blossoms in the Attic” joke I have been fucking waiting for since Episode 1

Likelyhood: low. I feel like if it was going to happen, it would probably have been Veronica during Secrets and Sins.

[im-reed-ing]

tagged by: @heroiiic u are a cool person and I am a chicken nugget thats too scared of bothering u on discord, but if my phone wasn't physically broken id share u a screenshot every time soren came to say hi to me in FEH

rules: answer 30 questions and tag 10 blogs you would like to get to know better.

((alright but when have I ever followed the rules...... just sayin))

1. nicknames: reed... uh..... sometimes ppl call me weed to mock me but then i just punch them and its good (just kdding im weak as shit)

2. gender: hey so i find that if you don't identify yourself, people you talk to online are less likely to preemptively subconsciously stereotype you and therefore judge you before really getting to know you. So let's keep it that way. Unlock lvl 3 friendship before I reveal who I truly am to you LMFAO

3. Star sign: aries grr!

4. Height: 5'5", maybe 5'6" ??? idk man all i know is my little sister is taller than me and it makes me mad bc I personally am not that short!!!!

5. time: 2:16 am

6. bday: March 22

7. favorite bands: well shit uh, Sakanaction, Bump of Chicken, Dogcatcher, The Oh Hellos, FOB, Unison Square Garden.... im sure im missing something but... o well.

8. Favorite Solo Artist: I can't choose so u get all of em. Hachi (Yonezu Kenshi), Aimer, Sasakure.UK, Harito, Keichi Okabe, EMI EVANS god ,,, As well as a collection of, indie people,... and anyone that did the drakengard/nier osts / gravity rush 1 & 2 Osts, wow. seriuosly. Amazing.

9. Song stuck in my head right now: Douse shinundakara, (its a lie that its not stuck right now but its been for the past few days!) because I found the jp translation and made english lyrics and have been practicing hittin those high notes in the car on the way to school LMFAO.... same with hoshii no kieta by Aimer.;..... its like car karaoke hawhaw

10. Last movie I saw was. Uh. UHHH. In theaters, it was Hitmans Bodyguard, which by the way was campy and ridiculous and pretty funny if seen with the right people.

11. Last show I watched: was Rick and Morty, earlier today, in my school lounge on my computer. s3 ep 7 is really, really good. Like really good. It's also pretty fucked up.

12. when I created this blog: its been. A very. long time. this blog has only really ever been for reblogs... if u wanna chat w me find a discord server im part of and bother me there... or pm me, because i prefer one on one conversations even if im shit at keeping them going.

13. what I post: oh shit i answered this one already by accident OOPS UHHHH i reblog good art, shitty memes, and PSA's that I think are important. Im here to haev a good time. I have a seperate art blog that's in my about tab so there's that.

14. last thing I googled: the definition of the word galvanized. I am now slightly more verbose.

15. do I have any other blogs: like, two. artblog, old blog where I uploaded covers when I was in middle school, and a personal vent blog.... i accidently reblogged something to there though so I deleted it oops lmfao. But its ok, it was meant to be ephemeral and writing my thoughts down is therapeutic so I'll make another one once again.

16. do I get asks: literally never. Not even bots, LMFAO.

17. why did i choose my url: I've stuck with the name Reed for a really long time now but its also a pretty generic name, so i came up with this shitty pun and it stuck. it's probably my steam username too but like shifted around a little. any time i can't get 'reed' as a username i default to im.reed.ing or something like that.

18. followers: whoa, 175, really???? I get the impression that quite a few of them are inactive though, or i post so irregularly and infrequently that no one ever sees my posts LOL.

19. following: 380 and still counting. I turn on notifs for artblogs I really like!!! >;3

20. favorite snack for movie/tv: Honestly I used to not chow much while watching or itd be something generic like chips, but recently I started marathoning naruto of all things w a friend and we go to the asian supermarket beforehand and we get like a bunch of popped rice chips or sweets and various foods and some iteration of hi-chews and THAT is my favorite marathon snack tbh.

21. average hours of sleep: NEVER ENOUGH. It goes from like 2-3 hours on days when i have no self ocntrol... to like 12-16 on days when i... have no... self control.... lays down slowlyl.....

22. wHAT THE HECK THERES NO NUMVER 22 TRIKEY skdjhfksu cMON MANG

23. lucky number: my rng is shit but my favorite number is 4 because someone dear to me likes that number... but also because 4 is unlucky in some places, which I identify with.... but also bc 4 is the # of sides in a square/diamond, and squares are perfect and good shit and  aesthetic. My boyfriend is a squa-- //kicked jk jk  ramiel is a octohedron, i take it bac k ....

24. instrument: i can play the piano (barely) but I used to also do violin trumpet and a teeny bit of flute.... learned the ocarina too bc im a zelda nerd, and I dont mean that silly little 4-hole one. But I also sing and stuff and have been actively practicing, one day ill make a decent cover and learn to mix and be one of dem cool youtaites..... lays down slowly. this is fine.

25. what I am wearing right now: a lot of things,,, a watch, a hyper light drifter sweater. headphones, underwear, pants, a tshirt, socks, existential dread... u name it lol.

26. first celeb crush: since i honestly never cared much for real life celebrities, i'll just give you my anime/video game crushes instead and like...... wow i can't honestly remember my first ones???? oh shit wait OK it was probably both ashitaka and san, my first ghibli movie was mononokehime...  they are just so freaking coo l... ok thtas a lie i lowkey wanted to BE them. Both of them.

.... idk man u cant ask an aroace person what their crushes were bc idk what those are!!! I assume u just really really really like something/someone and thats that, I GUESS??? I wanted to be link too once upon a time. And nausicaa. and a good chunk of the soul calibur 2 cast, and starfire from oldtimey teen titans. i was a simple child ok???

27. dream job: listen thats complicated idk about what my dreams are for a job, but I do want to be an animator and a storyboarder and a game developer and a game tester and a movie critic and a cinematographer and a director and a story lead and an illustrator at some point, and gotta try it before I can knock it ya know?

28. Dream trip: anywhere, so long as its with the people I really love. One day, I'll pack a few things into my car and run away for a little while. I'll come back some day! But for those long hours on the road with another person or two, marvelling quietly at the world around them as it passes and listening to music in the car... that sounds like a nice temporary reprieve.

29. favorite food: i fucken love poki bowl. SPICY SEAFOOD + RICE YAAAaaas

30. nationality: was born in murica, but both my parents are immigrants from now-ukraine. So we all speak russian at home lul.

tagging people: ha, tags are for nerds. @one-becomes-two @trash-knights @nhiners @awishwee @deerwood @montejeska @queenchro @chicken-mcnobody DONT HAVE ANY MORE BLOGS I CAN REMEMBER this will have to do.