#wants them to die is reason enough to save them

[postersofleon]

RE4 leon x reader. i'm trying to get out of my writer's block, so yeah. infected!leon and infected!reader but no smut. just implied friends or probably more

"Oh, my god," you grabbed your head, "Leon..." A small growl was at the end of your sentence. Everything you saw was almost completely blurry thanks to that dick ass creature who threw up a sort of acid. Despite constantly repeating it, you still didn't understand that the people in this village had bug DNA in them. Your mind wanted to make a list of all the probably insects they were, but you clutched your face and growled even louder. "Fuck." You closed your eyes and your knees gave out into the ground.

Leon hurried to your side, "I'm here. I'm here." His hand was on your shoulder to assure your safety. His other hand gently cleaned away the spit with a rag, the slime was still around your nose and cheeks, but at least it didn't burn anymore. "Thanks." You tried to look at Leon, but he still looked a bit blurry however you could spot his awkward smile. Your eyes narrowed a bit, "Thank you, Leon." You whispered softly. Leon pushed off his side bangs before properly sitting down beside you.

It was just a tiny break from this hell.

Luis just died in your arms thanks to your Major whom you trusted with your entire heart. The Major that caught you how to heal a fellow comrade. Krauser didn't like you like he liked Leon. That stung more than you would like. You liked the praise and you liked the harsh training. You wanted to see that you were worth it and just a lousy weak girl.

But in the end, you were a lousy girl.

You allowed yourself and Leon to get infected. You allowed Luis to die. You were a secondary character in Leon's life story because Krauser didn't even mention you. You weren't Leon. Now, thinking about it, you didn't know why Leon wasn't sent alone because God knew he could've survived without a person covering him from above or her stupid patching abilities.

You were just a girl who was suppose to die. A girl wasn't allowed to train beside Leon.

You were nothing.

Leon slowly looked at you, "Hey, are you okay?" He asked gently. He was treating you like a wounded animal, you wish you could be offended by it, but you knew if he didn't speak to you in that tone. You would think of running off or making an excuse on running off. But all that question made was you slump over.

"I'm tired." You mumbled. "I'm tired of dealing with merchant. I'm tired of chasing around Ashley. I'm so fucking tired." You hugged your legs against your chest. Leon nodded his head, "I can see why." He answered in that same tone of yours.

A small flashback appeared in your mind, you remembered how Leon came back from Krauser's training with cuts and a sore body. That same bitterness came into mind once again. Burning your skull with your useless self.

He has a true reason to be tried while all you had was your sorry ass kicking itself over and over. Begging for pity.

You stayed quiet. Feeling that damn bug, walking around and making her feel worse; Leon's hands cupped each other. You two were alone. Both struggled with an issue neither wanted to talk about, but you knew your issues, so that was enough.

Your finger scratched the inside of your ear.

"I'm," You struggle to even find your own words because every word after that ends with a wall, "I'm sorry." You whispered. Your legs crossed underneath your body, you wanted to say more, but what else there to say. "If I did a better job saving Luis," Your mouth turned dry, "If I," Your fingers squeezed together and repeated hit your chest, "I did a good job as your partner. This wouldn't end like this."

Leon tried to call out your name, but that anger of yours stood more. "I wanted to make myself proud. Make sure I can handle this."

"Handling this doesn't make it easier for me either." Leon remarked quickly. You nodded your head, "Well, you are Leon S. Kennedy. The president's favorite agent and everyone's favorite rookie." You mumbled annoyed.

"Seriously?" He scratched the back of his head, "You are just," Leon looked around the empty section of the castle they cleared out, "Jealous of me?"

"Envious."

"Well, I'm not." Leon folded his right leg and let his left leg stretched out. "I hate my life. I'm given a responsibility I never wanted. Krauser just saw me as his younger version of himself." Leon ruffled his blond locks of hair. "And that dick turned evil. That's fun." His head tilted a tiny bit towards you. Leon squeezed his thigh.

"Well, I'm nothing compared to you." You mumbled. "They don't even bother remembering my name." You recalled how everyone knew Leon's name, but Krauser being behind of this made more sense. "I'm just..." Your flashbacks betrayed you when Luis looked at you.

He smiled at you.

He saw you.

"I don't know who I am." Like it or not, you wanted praise for your achievements. Before Leon could answer or even you to hate yourself- Leon and you feel even more to the ground. The bug was picking more inside of you, running around and making itself a space. "Leon!" You cried out weakly. Your hand stretched out to get his hand. He grabbed your hand tightly with his.

The pain was running throughout the body. The black veins around your body were growing around your arms. You felt the burn with every inch. The veins crawled up. Up your neck and slowly up your face. You grabbed Leon's hand tighter, desperately trying to find peace and hope in this situation.

What will happen once the plagas effects them? Will they be mindless creatures every once in a while crying out 'Las Plagas' or muttering about the Lord Saddler?

Your stomach was gnawing at itself, bubbles of acid raised inside of your body. The damn bug was biting and biting. Controlling your stupid nervous system. You couldn't speak. It was grunts. Whines. Your body twitched over and over as the bug clawed and clawed. Your hand squeezed his tightly, your nails clawed and drew out his blood from his forearm.

Leon growled with pain, his arms instinctively twitched to hold you, but his own bugs was making his body hurt yet he tried to protect. His arms wrapped around your body, holding your clawing arm against his chest. Both of your body twitched over and and over. Clashing against each other. Who knows how long it lasted? It could've been days. Seconds. Weeks.

But once it ended, Leon and you were in that small silence. His arms around your waist. You let out a small sob, and your forehead rested on his chest. No matter the situation, blood and wounds always tied you two together. Leon's hand gently held your cheek, it was silent a moment as he comforted you with his touch. Like it or not. You were his partner and you loved it.

[codenamesazanka]

What Deku doesn't understand is that the “League of Villains” encapsulates exactly who Tenko - the Crying Child Deku was so adamant about saving - is. He thinks reaching out a hand, smashing that hatred, and saving Tenko means getting Tenko to abandon the League. He is completely wrong - and he would've realized this if he just talked to Shigaraki in all the time he fought against Shigaraki. And listened to what Tenko said in Chapter 418.

The League of Villains is the group Shigaraki Tomura created in order to wreck shit and kill All Might and bring down Hero Society. Shigaraki picked the name and picked the purpose and picked its members and he leads them towards the apocalypse—

—and this is also the group of outcasts that are his comrades and friends; that he gathered and created a place for, where they can be themselves in a society that ruthlessly denied them that. He accepted Twice without care for his insanity and inability to use his quirk, never pushed Twice to do more than he was able to. He accepted Spinner despite being a Stain fanboy and having a weak, nearly useless quirk, and promised him the destruction of the world that hurt him; for all of League. When Toga was pushed by the other members to choose a Villain name despite wanting to live as herself, as Toga Himiko, Shigaraki spoke up in indirect defense of her choice, providing himself as an example of someone who didn't use a Villain name, and who can override the boss' words? Dabi was allowed to come and go as he pleased, and although he was the most aloof member, by the end, he was declaring the world burn for "our" sake - plural; the League's. Mr. Compress believed in Shigaraki enough to entrust an ancestor's dream and family legacy to him; when surrounded by Heroes at Jaku, he was willing to die to save Shigaraki, to let him escape.

The League is a collection of people that Shigaraki cares for - that he saved. That was always the surest sign that ‘Tenko’, sweet and kind and hero-aspiring boy, was alive inside.

Without the League, without having seen the time Shigaraki spent with the League, a reader can just write off Shigaraki and say there’s nothing left in there worth saving. The League is literally the evidence for Tenko have still existed and that Shigaraki was "worth" saving, long before we ever saw ‘Inner Tenko’.

But Deku doesn't understand that.

To go further: outside of the League, Shigaraki still had his distorted but undeniable kindness and fairness. I've spoke about it before, and sorry for repeating myself, but even towards his Villain enemies, he gives them consideration: Shigaraki left Overhaul crippled, but 100 chapters later, he's still continuing Overhaul's work - the quirk erasing bullets - and even laments that Overhaul would be disappointed when Shigaraki sees some of the bullets destroyed. All For One at Jaku tries to take over his body, at the time seemingly only a phantom voice in his head, but Shigaraki still acknowledges that he's grateful AFO took him in. It's only when AFO oversteps that again and again, taking possession of his body, that Shigaraki would tear the AFO vestige from inside out and mock him when the opportunity arises.

And there's ReDestro, and the importance of the ending of MVA. RD and his army picks a fight with Shigaraki - something that Shigaraki explicitly points out; the blame for what happened to Deika is on largely them. RD challenged Shigaraki and the League; blackmailed them, kidnapped their broker, and attacked their pitiful 6-member team with a town-sized militia; insulted Shigaraki, destroyed The Hands, tried to kill him. Shigaraki had every reason to just dust RD while the man was sitting there bleeding out with his legs cut off. Just finish him off without even giving the guy last words. It was more than fair.

But Shigaraki didn't. He went and talked to RD. To mock him for picking this fight, but it was still a talk. And when RD acknowledge his defeat and kowtowed, Shigaraki let him live. Took over his army and resources, but RD was still alive and even made lieutenant.

Without this - if Shigaraki had just dusted RD after defeating him - we would have only seen Shigaraki as a conquerer and not someone who can be reasoned with. He would just be AFO with different minions. And Shigaraki wasn't.

He can be brutal, and he seems like he's destroying for evil fun; but Shigaraki has his compassion and justice. A Villainous Hero for the Villains. It's why he destroys; it's why he doesn't regret his actions, why he wishes good luck to Deku to continue it, even after Deku smashed his core of anger and hatred. Shigaraki saved his League, and he refuses to disavow doing so. Because he shouldn't.

And Deku just doesn't understand that.

[some-pers0n]

Oh yeah I forgot to share this pretty angsty lil' letter from Clearsight to Darkstalker. Kinda like the letters in AGTTDW. How goofy :]

Editor's Note: This is a letter recovered from Clearsight's tomb, unearthed in 5,013 AS. Date of when the entry was written is unclear, but assumed to be the end of her life.

I wonder if you dream. A part of me wishes you did. Another wants you to remain in darkness forever. I don't know what to believe. Even after all of these years, I still feel like the same, innocent dragon. Like all of my growth and change on this continent cancels the moment you cross my mind.

You were my love. You were everything to me. Even when you fell into your path, I still mourn you.

I know it's foolish. Writing this letter addressed to the dragon I know fully well is sealed away is foolish. You cannot read this. You are gone. Not dead, as you can never die, but gone. I hope you fade into obscurity as you rest under the mountains, locked in an eternal sleep. I hope that, when I and everyone you harmed have passed on, your name is never uttered again.

And yet I love you. For what reason I can only theorize. You are an eternal enigma to me. You were my light. You were the dark that almost swallowed me whole. I had hopes that you and I would have a family and live happily. You dreamt of ruling the world with utmost tyranny and ruthlessness.

Do you still dream of that? If you can dream, of course. I would hope to believe that, somewhere in your subconscious, you reform. Reflect. Through millennia of contemplation, you learn to remove that evil from your soul. I would hope that, if you ever return to the surface, you emerge a changed dragon. The dragon whom I loved.

The dragon I love now is different. The life I love now is different. Because of you, I traveled to a continent far beyond our imagination. I recall late-night conversations of exploring the world. We would joke and laugh over the prospect of being some grand adventurers. It's a shame I am the only one to fulfill that wish.

Pantala is beautiful. You would have loved it. It's more than anything you and I could have ever dreamed of. My husbands and children are more than anything I could have wanted from life. They still thank me for warning them of the hurricane that brought me here. I wonder if you would've saved them had you received that vision. If you had seen the destruction that would've befallen the continent and chose to save it out of the goodness of your heart or leave it to rot. Perhaps you might have saved it to exploit them. To let them worship you.

You wanted that the most out of life. A part of me feels guilty I am surrounded by love while the only company you have is the lonely cave you are trapped in. A part of me lavishes in it. Yet, I knew that's what you wanted most. Love. It's what made you the way that you are. Your love, both your search and way of displaying it, is the reason for this future.

You blamed your father for everything. Arctic. I never once heard you talk of him with anything more warm than a hateful sneer. I knew even before I met you that you hated him. I had seen visions of you killing him. Some with pity. Some far more gruesome than I could have ever imagined. You saw him as the catalyst. That he instilled the ideas you held.

I do not doubt that. I had been around Arctic long enough to understand what he did to you and your family. I had heard the stories, both from you and Whiteout. He was a monster in his own right.

You were a monster in a wholly new way. A monster that I deluded myself into believing I loved the current version of. I loved the future version. I loved the Darkstalker in my visions who treated me with respect. The one that would never use his magic unless it was for the one-off spell for an anniversary gift. The one who would be there at my side when I needed him most. The one who loved me for who I was and not what I represented.

You were not that dragon. You had the same scales and you talked the same, but you were not him. You were a dragon who I watched be corrupted by rage and hatred for the world. You were angry at Arctic. You were angry at the world. You felt as though you knew better than anyone. You were the savior. You would bring the continent to its glory with you at the top.

I did not love that dragon, but you loved me. You thought you could trick me. You thought you could warp my mind and shape me into somebody agreeable and nice. That earring is when I knew for certain you could never be the dragon I loved. You saw me as a partner, but I saw you as nothing more than a force of evil cloaked in the scales of the dragon that was my soulmate.

I feel conflicted about everything you were, are now, and could've been. I did love you when you were alive. I loved the future version. I don't know what now. I am nearing the end of it all, and I still cannot find a proper answer.

I always find myself asking whether you dream. I dream of you. They are nightmares no matter what way I spin them. Even when they are memories of the days we would laugh and play, I wake up with tears in my eyes. I wonder if when I die I'll be granted the luxury of a sleep without you. I want my last thought to be of my friends and family on Pantala. I want to think of what I've done rather than my past. Rather what could have been.

I know this letter may never reach you. Maybe it does, and it is simply that my powers have finally found their limit. I write for some release. Closure. That, when this is sealed away in my tomb, it remains with me. That the memories of everything you've ever done die with me.

I am not the dragon I was when I sealed you away, and yet in many ways I still am. I still hold a flicker of love for you, despite knowing that you can never be the dragon I wanted.

I remember that brief moment when I wanted to stay next to you when the earthquake would cause the mountain to collapse. I felt so grief-stricken over the loss of you that I wanted nothing more than to die next to you. I made the best choice. I know I did. The alternative was me dying when I was a young, naive child.

Yet I can't help but still feel I should have. My love for you persists to that extent. I love you. I hate you. I want nothing more than you to rot under that mountain. I wish could dream of a world where life could have been different. A life where we both made it work. Where we were happy.

Darkstalker, you were my love. Perhaps in another, more kinder life, we could be together.

Dream of our dragonets if you can.

Clearsight

[brucewaynehater101]

Hey just wanna ask about something:

Do you ever think that Tim would want to sacrifice himself bcs he thinks that the only way out of his problems is to do something for someone even though they never asked for it but he just wants to keep them safe from any disasters that befall on them.

Yet, his path is not to change but to save someone.

Unlike his brothers Tim probably still has that thought of losing someone he loves to die again. So he will be prepared for anything, like he prepared an armor/suit for every apocalyptic stuff happened, a base that have daily stuff so one of them can be safe and comfortable in that place whenever they need alone time or just wants to hang out, he would also prepare the strongest weapon he could make or find so that he could give it to them if he does die or he wants them to survive as long as they could and I think Tim will go ballistic if his love ones get injured in front of him but not that brutal bcs he can do anything especially backstabbing.

Tim also prepares some tasty information of every person even the people outside of Gotham so that he can identify and set a message to his teammates of the person whereabouts or current state.

But when someone does save him from something or someone he just says "thanks" yet his face looks disappointed bcs he thinks that he's not strong enough to save himself from his problems (which is kinda true Tim you need to go to therapy fr) and every time he got saved by someone he thinks that person probably felt pitiful for him but he doesn't tell them that probably thinking he would be a burden for voicing his opinions or thoughts.

Anyway, I just want your idea of self-sacrifice Tim Drake bcs I think it will be worthy of angst material.

Hello!!! Just to summarize, you stated that you see Tim as the type to go to great lengths for the safety of his loved ones while not accepting or feeling shame if that was reciprocal.

There are several traits for Tim that one can play around with: his selfless need to help, his self-sacrifical tendencies, his desire for independence, and his continued forgiveness.

People will hurt him, and he'll still go out of the way to ensure their safety. It's a trait about him to admire at the same time it makes me frustrated as hell.

Then, there is the chance that he feels that he isn't enough or isn't doing enough. He does compare himself to others and how they would handle the situation better than him. He uses this messed up logic to state that he isn't trying hard enough or doing well. Great angst to be had.

I find fics or AUs that highlight Tim's subtle/silent support as great ones. For some reason or another, Tim no longer provides the care and diligence he did behind the scenes. The batfam then realize just how much he was taking on.

There's a ton of fics that have the AU of Tim sacrificing his life for the Bats. Here's some other forms of sacrifice I think would really drive in that angst:

his childhood (if you go the "Bruce only treated him as a soldier/coworker" route)

memories (of the Bats or of his parents loving him)

his independence/freedom

his brain (his ability to think/put together clues)

his ability to feel love or happy

his last name (either Drake or Wayne)

his ability to fight

I personally like the AUs where he goes back in time and sacrifices his ability to be with the Waynes as a family (he saves all of them [or tries] and they don't even know him).

I'm down to talk about any of these more!!!

[spider-jaysart]

Okay soooo fun mash up idea that I've created recently, which is DC crosses over with The last of us part 1! (But the game version though with some parts of the show included)

So it would be like this:

Joel: Bruce (for many obvious reasons, like for example being the old grumpy, cold man who grows into the Father figure role once warming up to the kid that changes a part of his life, causing him to become more of a softy)

Tommy: Dick (the one who eventually became tired of Bruce's bull and went his own ways in the future, but reconciled after reuniting with him in their next meeting)

Sarah: Kid!Jason (the innocent kid who didn't deserve to die)

Ellie: Damian (has her attitude, stubbornness, fearless determination, shameless cussing, loyalty, humorous side but in his own way, artistic side, and stabbing skills, so he fits perfectly well. It would also be interesting that him and Bruce have no idea they're related to eachother at all, so they don't bond because of known shared blood, only because of the many things they've been through together that brang them closer overtime to being like a Father and Son, and then they find out this secret about themselves much, much later after the end of their very long journey)

Riley: Maya (not a love interest like in the game and show, but just the first good friend and a trusted sister figure to Damian who knew things well)

Tess: Diana (A well trusted and respected partner for Bruce in work)

Maria: Starfire as Dick's wife

Sam: Jon (shares that innocent vibe with Sam and just like him with Ellie, he'd be quick to want to befriend Damian and see him as the cool older kid he'd like to impress)

Henry: Kon (is young just like him and is just trying his best to keep his baby bro safe the way he believes is best, since he is the only one who can now)

Marlene: Amal (Talia's only known friend in comics, so she fits as Marlene who used to be close friends with Ellie's Mom and made the promise to always watch over Ellie for her, so here she does that for Talia with Damian)

David: Joker (both a total weird, creep that can secretly hide who they truly are whenever they felt like it for their own benefits and then reveal their horrible sides and true intentions by surprise)

Bill: Lucious Fox (because he makes Bruce's gadgets and vehicles in canon and since Bill has a skill of doing just that for himself and gives Joel a new gadget and also a needed car, he is fitted enough for the role in this way)

And then for some small details and also additional things that help make the au stand out a little more differently:

Chris will be included with Jon and Kon here just to have all the Superbros together

Mar'i and Jake exist here but are really young twins (6 years old)

When things were still normal, Bruce was married to Talia here and they both were raising Kid!Jason together. They both got separated during the event of the outbreak and never found eachother again after that

Instead of 20 years of the apocalypse, it's 14 years here instead, because Talia was already pregnant with Damian when things began going wild

Damian will be immune just like Ellie (well obviously loll), but just for a little bit of play, it's cause it actually has to do with mixed Lazarus blood in his body that saved him, which comes from a small, strange part of his brain that keeps creating and pumping it out into his veins. This was naturally passed down from Ra's always over using the pits so much for years, causing the body inside to develop and grow in becoming much stronger and different in unique ways. And Lazarus pits are gone now, so Damian is like the only source that holds it in him as the possibe cure of the world

Unlike Ellie's Mom, Talia survived the birth of Damian and lived until he was 7 after saving him from an attack in a herd of infected that they were both trying to outrun. Damian stayed always feeling heavily guilty about it ever since and blames himself, even though how it happened wasn't actually his fault (still kind of debating on this one just a little bit for small reasons though)

Jon won't be 8 like Sam from the show, he will be around his canon age from the game instead. He will also be Damian's first love instead in this au and they will both have crushes on eachother

Instead of the games original cities and other places as settings, things are set in Gotham and other known DC cities Instead

Instead of a switchblade, Damian was left with a dagger from Talia, and all collected comics in his backpack from his adventure are mangas. He also carries around old special photos of Talia and him to remember and cherishes them very much, since that's all he has left of her besides her dagger

All characters wear their own versions of the tlou outfits to fit their style better instead of just using the existing ones

One of the things Damian would never want is to get killed by a bloater the most, because they actually just kill kids with only a slap instead of tearing up their jaws like the adults, so he would feel SO humiliated if it ever happened to him too (based on how this actually happens to Ellie in the game whenever she gets caught by them because she's underage loll, which makes the bloaters look like a bully to children)

Despite killing in this au having to be done against all kinds of enemies in order to survive, Bruce never feels comfortable with it, but he does what he has to. He also has sympathy for all the infected people, usually seeing them more as victims who didn't ask to become what they are now instead of just harmful, angry creatures, but knows he can't be pity them too much, cause at the end of the day it's either him or them during encounters. He also tries taking the pacifist route whenever he sees he has the chance to in a situation where confrontations aren't actually nesscarry, allowing him to flee without notice instead, and during stealth he will choke human enemies in a way that he knows will only make them pass out and not die

Annnd I think that's probably it for now!

I also have a lot of drawings from this au that I really wanna make and also put out soon heheh and I'm also working on Damian outfits that replaces all of Ellie's, which I'm almost done with!! And if anyone maybe has questions for the au btw, feel free to ask anything!

@pin-crusher2000 @camo-wolf @paladin-of-nerd-fandom65 @dunkinsthings

[abarero]

Mikoto and Hanna (and Love)

(Or Abarero spent too much time thinking about the Greek Types of Love, the Color Wheel Theory of Love based on them and then wrote this in the middle of the night)

Spoilers for Magia Record Arc 2, Sayonara Storage and Memory Drops.

Mikoto and Hanna both pose a unique view into love, because prior to each other, we come to understand they really had no true experience with it. Both their family lives were severely lacking affection from parent to child, let alone between the parents who spent more time arguing than anything else. It comes to the assumption that if they did see or receive any love it would be most likely an outsider’s view of it as opposed to part of it. This may have been via movies and TV shows or even fellow students in their lives that were dating. So we can guess their understanding of love is probably lacking and perhaps a bit biased towards a fantasy view of it from fiction.

Mikoto has her false family, after becoming a magical girl and getting her parents out of her life, but that comes with the added layer that she knew any affection from them was fake. The family even mistaken calls her their actual daughter’s name at times, which would just drive home that feeling that the love isn’t real. She’s playing house, but the familial love she’s seeking is still only on the surface.

It’s interesting then to me that one of the kinds of love Mikoto has is Storge- the kind known as familial love. Storgic love often develops gradually out of friendship and Storgic lovers sometimes cannot pinpoint the moment that friendship turned to love. (Sometimes you will see this type referred to as Philia, but the color theory uses the term Storge for both friendship-based love and family-based love). Interestingly enough, I feel the umbrella term of Storge fits Mikoto better than just Storge or Philia by themselves.

Mikoto has always been about finding a place, a family, where she can be a normal girl. The closest she ever comes to that is with Hanna during Memory Drops, when they spend their days working and living together. This is Mikoto’s ideal love because it’s the one love she’s never had and yet so desperately craves. It’s when she’s the happiest too.

This leads into her other kind of love: Mania. Mania is obsessive love. Lee defines Manic love as flowing out of a desire to hold one's partner in high esteem and wanting to love and be loved in this way, seeing specialness in the interaction. This type of love tends to lead a person into a type of madness and they feel that they "need" their partner. Mikoto really shows this love in Memory Drops, where her last wish and desire is just to have Hanna back. To her, Hanna is everything and her world revolves around her completely. Her love here is intense and possessive, jealousy showing up when Hanna and Nanaka interact.

Given Mikoto’s desperation for love and affection, it’s really not surprising to see her love as Mania. Upon receiving love, she wants to hoard that feeling and person to herself, afraid to lose it. But it’s quite tragic given her background to see how her love manifests as both Storge and Mania- the ideal and the extreme.

Hanna, on the flip side, has Storge as a love but also Agape. Agape is often defined as unconditional, sacrificial love. Agape is the kind of love that is felt by a person willing to do anything for another, including sacrificing themselves, without expecting anything in return. This is Hanna, over and over again she’s willing to do anything for Mikoto. Even if it means becoming a villain. In Sayonara Storage, we see Hanna playing along but ultimately sacrificing herself in hopes it can save Mikoto. She does something similar in Memory Drops on realizing Mikoto is the reason behind the strange occurrences.

This also manifests in how Hanna is always forgiving of Mikoto’s wrongs, but resolves to die because of her own crimes. Her love of Mikoto is such that she sees herself as the tainted one while Mikoto is seen as pure.

What I find interesting in the overall picture is that aside from them both having Storge as their core ideal love, their extremes (Agape and Mania) are at almost opposite ends of each other; one self-sacrificing and the other possessive.

I think it’s what ultimately leads to their tragedy. While they share an ideal, their extremes lead them to make choices that end tragically. And I find that quite poignant. Like here’s two girls who only wanted to have a happy life together, but due to circumstances and extremes of their affection, they meet an untimely end.

But it’s why I feel their characters and story are so important. To see them go to these extremes for one another, to see them idealize the one love they never had, is just a beautifully tragic thing. It’s a very Greek Tragedy kind of story, and so I hope I’ve done even a fraction of conveying their depth in this essay.

[salsa-di-pomodoro]

IGNORE THIS; I AM JUST HAVING A CRISIS. WILL BE FINE TOMORROW

Emmet doesn't care whether Ingo lives or dies -ingo needs a kidney and Emmet is the only one who can give it- Emmet is informed- there is no one who is Ingo's new family - Emmet doesn't have to do this for anyone but Ingo - Emmet is a good person or tries to be- Emmet is aware that he is the only person that will be able to care of Ingo dies and he doesn't care - Emmet is aware that he is the only one who can help Ingo - they ask him if he'd like to donate his kidney and he doesn't want to but if he doesn't care then he can give it - Emmet donates kidney - Ingo lives - they do not speak again but they part knowing the other would help them out

[bonefall]

Are there any changes to Smokepaw (ShadowClan Apprentice in TNP) in BB? He is my all time favourite Warriors character for literally no reason, he existed twice, the second time to fall off a cliff and die, but I love him. I feel like he was a huge waste of potential, in that first time he appeared I thought of Blackstar as a sort of parental figure to him. Think like Firepaw and Bluestar, maybe? Or maybe more like Firepaw and Yellowfang? I'm sure that was just me serious projecting onto like less than a page of screen time, but I am so attached to him. I even made an AU where there was a conveniently placed river that swept him away to the Sundrown Place where he was taken in by Midnight.

Does BB have anything for my little guy?

Smokefall! Given an obligatory Sardonic ShadowClan name after he fell off a cliff and forced the entire journey to halt in its tracks for almost a month!

because shadowclan is like, ridiculously small and the family tree is a brick, Smokepaw (TNP), Smokepaw (Field Guides), and Smokefoot (Po3) are reworked. SmokeFALL survives, Smokepaw is now BILLOWCLOUD, and Smokefoot is SMOGFOOT.

Smog and Smoke are siblings. Billowcloud is not related to them.

Anyway, Smokepaw got REALLY hurt in that fall, but did survive

A (currently unpicked) Tribe cat actually climbed all the way down to get him. He had to be carried the rest of the way.

But once safe, he really couldn't move or else jeopardize his recovery. That, paired with a lack of travelling rations and a few pregnant cats close to delivery halted the Journey.

But Smokepaw still got ribbed relentlessly for "holding everyone up." Poor guy. ShadowClan humor.

Talonpaw got really close to him in that time. In fact, a LOT of cats developed close bonds in this "intermission," including many of the cats who would ultimately support Mudclaw's claim in WindClan.

Brambleclaw and Hawkfrost, as well.

In general, this is a really important hiatus because it's adding some PIVOTAL breathing room for cats to bond free of Clan divisions.

Clan Culture is never really the same after this. It's a change a long time coming.

He is also one of Birchfall's friends. This entire apprentice/kit generation has a very odd view on Clan divisions, because the Destruction of White Hart and the subsequent journey were so formative.

It was actually Smokepaw's "idea" to make Paw Soup. It came from a suggestion towards some WindClan apprentices, that they should try to make an ancient gumbo recipe that hadn't been seen since the start of Heatherstar's campaign.

Birchkit and his big bro Spiderpaw butted in, RiverClan apprentices didn't want to be left out, and the rest is history.

They never did make that gumbo but they made something new.

At the Lake, he also prevents Talonpaw from dying to Jacques and The Dreaded Susan. By also getting his ass beat.

(But that's probably gonna be offscreen because im not dedicating several chapters to it like canon when theres a civil war that should be in focus)

Smokefall becomes the next Educator of ShadowClan, and the mate of Talonclaw. Eventually Smogfoot surrogates a kit for them-- probably Pinenose.

The couple shows up at various points throughout Po3 and OotS as very important friends of Birchfall, and general friendly faces in ShadowClan which is a major ally through the arcs.

Sadly, though, they meet a gruesome and tragic end in AVoS. The Kin is a cult, and once it takes power, it immediately targets the one who teaches history. Smokefall. Talonclaw refuses to abandon his mate.

His position is taken by the infamous Berryheart, who is the educator through TBC. He is survived by several grandkits through Pinenose-- Slatefur, Puddleshine, and Happyface.

[mxdotpng]

the soremik in my head is so vastly different from anyone elses idea of them that i fear if i ever speak out on the subject i'll have rocks thrown at me. but once again they are allowed to look but never touch. you have to expect this from me by now.

[gachaparadise]

yaaarrgghhh... torn between rolling for Kazuha or Scaramouche. on the one hand. Kazuha is like. actually useful to me and would gas up Neuvillete. on the other. Hat guy is my little scrungly hater and i regret having to skip him so many times.

[cherienymphe]

A Caged Bird (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, blackmail, stalking, abuse of power, hints of dacryphilia, slightly spoiler-esque

summary: Birds are best kept in a cage where one can see them...and where you know where they are at all times.

~

You thought that it was over when you won.

That’s what winning The Hunger Games meant, right? The psychological torture, the grueling conditions, and the fear that wouldn’t leave you until you finally left the arena was supposed to be over. You made it out through blood, sweat, and tears, and so your reward was to go home and reunite with your family and try your best to put the memories behind you.

Try your best to put him behind you.

So, why were you still being tormented?

When you first locked eyes with Coriolanus Snow, your first thought was how strikingly blue his were. Almost as if they weren’t real and had been specially manufactured in The Capitol for him, somehow. His hair, too, was just so much blonder than anything you’d seen in District 12, and again, you noted how so much about him seemed…artificial.

…but then he spoke…and the effect his voice had on you was very real.

“You don’t seem like you’re supposed to be here,” you’d said to him after stepping off of that train.

His response was expected, a charming chuckle leaving his pink lips, blond curls the perfect addition to his features.

“I’m not,” he slowly admitted.

The intensity behind his gaze whenever he so much as glanced at you was enough to make any girl’s heart race, and despite what you wished, you weren’t immune. He was beautiful—gorgeous as some of the other tributes and mentors liked to call him—and despite the initial intimidation, there was something about him that made you want to let your guard down.

…but he was your mentor…and a capitol citizen…and you were nothing more than his ticket to notoriety.

“Don’t you know who his dad was?” another tribute, one from one of the better districts, had said to you in a tone like you were stupid.

That was all the confirmation you needed, really.

…but he’d hopped onto the truck with you and gotten into that cage with you and brought you and your district mate food. He gave you poison to use against the other tributes. He wanted you to appeal to the audience so he’d have the funds to send you supplies. It was hard to decipher what was purely for show and what was just because he wanted you—and him by extension—to win. Perhaps, they were one in the same though, and it was impossible to have one without the other. Maybe it didn’t matter his reasons behind his desire to have his tribute win.

Maybe all that mattered was that you’d win.

…but that was when you thought winning meant you’d be free.

Coriolanus Snow was your best chance at winning, and so when the rebels rigged the arena, you didn’t hesitate to stay behind and save him. It wasn’t even a question in your mind because mentor or not, he was hurt, and you had to believe that that one fluke was not your only fighting chance. You couldn’t allow yourself to believe that in saving him, you’d allowed freedom to pass you by.

“You saved me,” he told you, a gentle brush of his handkerchief under your eye to catch your tears. “You saved me, and I am going to get you out of here.”

You had no idea then that he meant out of the games…and to him.

It was that flickering moment of doubt where you wondered if you could actually win, and you recalled what you’d said to him earlier about believing you could, how much you needed him to actually believe it. Now, you were the one doubting, and he could see it, blue gaze flicking over your face and soaking in the fear and uncertainty, because if you couldn’t win…

You’d die.

A lingering gaze and a tense atmosphere, and you felt yourself pulling back, realization hitting you as to just what you were about to let happen. It was hard to decipher who overstepped first, but you couldn’t allow yourself to get wrapped up in something that was only ever meant to be strictly professional. Coriolanus was your mentor, and you were his tribute.

That was all.

You didn’t know then the full lengths he went to just to ensure your victory. How could you? You were too busy trying to survive, trying to fight off rabid tributes and teenagers driven mad with the sole desire to just live. It was all so unfair and angering, and you were sure that with less focus, you might’ve gone insane too. You didn’t have the luxury to worry about your eerily handsome mentor and whatever ulterior motives he might’ve had to see you beat this thing.

So, when you did win, all you could feel was relief. All you could focus on was your family and their faces when you’d ultimately reunite with them. All you could even entertain were thoughts of pushing this very real nightmare to the back of your mind for as long as you possibly could. Initially, you didn’t even notice that you weren’t immediately reunited with your mentor when they crowned you as the winner and got you out of there.

At least, not until you came face to face with him in your own district.

“I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know if my actions had come back on you too,” Coriolanus told you in a secluded corner, the loud music drowning out his words and the cover of darkness hiding your faces.

Those beautiful pale curls were gone, and any thought that so much of his beauty relied on his golden locks was gone too with one drink of him. He was still the same handsome boy that mentored you, the same one who’d garnered the nickname ‘gorgeous’ among the other tributes. Up on that stage, you’d been thrown to meet a familiar gaze, your harmonious tune pausing for half a second as he met your shocked stare with an expression of his own you couldn’t place, pink lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

Any question of how and why he was here had disappeared as you registered his words. Confusion filled you as you stared at him, a slight frown between your brows as you wracked your brain for how that could possibly make sense.

“Why would they kill me…?” you slowly asked him, and you and the shadows were all that was privy to his confession.

The water bottles, the handkerchief, and the snakes—even the poison. Coriolanus had cheated to secure your victory, broken rules that plucked him out of The Capitol and dropped him here in your very own district as a Peacekeeper. The shock you felt that your victory was far from a fair one warred with the confusion you felt as to why he’d risk everything just for you to win.

If you’d lost fair and square—as you probably should have—there was no doubt in your mind that he’d be safely tucked away in the lavishness of The Capitol instead of lingering about in some rundown excuse for a bar in lowly District 12. If he knew what awaited him should his treachery be discovered…then why chance it? Nothing about your brief tutelage with him could justify what he’d risked and ultimately lost.

You wanted to ask him why, but something in you was afraid of the answer.

That almost kiss—a kiss you hadn’t thought about in months—suddenly came to mind, and even though you didn’t ask him why, something in you knew why even if you wanted to deny it. It was there in the dim lighting and rowdy atmosphere of some rundown building that every minor interaction didn’t start to feel so minor.

Every brush of his hand against yours as he reached for you, the unsettling way he seemed to watch you in that short time that you’d simply written off as concern for his tribute, and the ruthless desire to see you out on the other side of the arena. The kiss that never was only seemed like a lapse in judgement to you then, but in this moment, you had suspicions that it was very much intentional.

You swallowed, realizing that in that brief internal introspection, Coriolanus hadn’t taken his eyes off of you once.

“Did they send you to District 12?” you finally asked him.

You didn’t know what gave you away. Perhaps your tone, maybe your face, or maybe your eyes weren’t as secretive as you’d like to believe. Either way, something about your visage and demeanor gave the blond man pause, head tilting just a tad as those baby blues glinted with something you didn’t recognize but you know you didn’t like. He studied your face before coming up with the answer he probably thought you wanted.

“Of course.”

You didn’t know if you believed him.

…and Coriolanus could tell.

You’d played enough cat and mouse games in the arena—you never thought you’d have to play them in your own home too.

Starving off the affections of some boy in your district wasn’t hard or uncharted territory. Even spurning the forbidden advances of a Peacekeeper or two wasn’t unheard of, but Coriolanus was different. He wasn’t some average Joe turned cop. He was born and raised in The Capitol with a powerful father, and even though the man had been taken before his time, your former mentor still had been brought up with the kind of influence and reach and mindset that surpassed the average Peacekeeper.

They were followers—controlled by The Capitol and tasked with maintaining order. Most were no more than dumb brutes, mindlessly following orders without question, simple enough to be bribed and swayed. If Coriolanus’ actions had shown you anything, it was that he was not a follower. He did what he wanted and played by his own rules, and it was how you found yourself hunted by a gaze you thought you’d left behind in the arena.

Since the discovery of your former mentor’s presence in your district, you never felt alone.

Every walk to trade for food felt shadowed, every footstep home was accompanied with an echo, and a sweep of your eye over the crowd as you played an instrument or sang a tune was rewarded with a familiar blue one that made your heart freeze. You were forced to ignore it no longer when a single rose was left for you on the doorstep, your ma’s gaze questioning as she held it out to you.

You didn’t know where or how he got it, but you only cared about giving it back.

“I can’t accept this,” you told him, gaze steady but fingers trembling as you held it out to him.

It was raining, and the cover over your heads sheltered you from the downpour, but it did little to drown out the sound of it. Coriolanus simply stared at the flower for what felt like too long, making no moves to take it from you, and you swallowed. His blue gaze zeroed in on the action before it lifted to your face.

“…and why not?”

“Because I think it means something different to you than it does to me.”

Your response was swift, and you watched him sigh, eventually reaching out to finger the flower like he did that day before he’d proceeded to put it behind your ear. He finally took it, and just like that day before the games, it found its way behind your ear once again. The only change this time was the shudder that traveled down your spine, and the apprehension you felt when his gaze met yours.

For the longest time, the only sound was that of the rain, a few stray drops making it’s way onto your face and clothes due to the wind. If the man before you still had the locks you’d met him with, they would’ve been rustling with the breeze, right now. Both of you were very still, or maybe it was just you—nervous and fearful of how he’d respond. He briefly looked past you, eyes glinting briefly before they hardened once again, his pink lips pressed together as he regarded you.

“…and if it does?”

He continued when you frowned.

“Mean something different to me than it does to you,” he elaborated, and you blinked.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to gather your thoughts.

“I know…that I’m only standing here, now, because of you,” you slowly started, watching him push his shoulders back. “I won because of you, I know that, but-.”

“Exactly,” he cut you off, making your lips part. “You won because of me…and everything I sacrificed was to make sure you won.”

“…but I didn’t ask you to do that!”

You felt…cornered, somehow, because on the one hand, yes. You did owe so much to the man before you, but at the same time, what did you owe specifically? Your attention? Your affection? Whatever he deemed an appropriate compensation? When you saved his life in the arena that day, and he vowed to save yours in return, you didn’t understand the full ramifications of the deal you were agreeing to.

“I saved your life, and you saved mine, and I’m sorry for the things you felt the need to risk, but that’s where it ends.”

The cold from the rain didn’t faze you nearly as much as the heat from his gaze boring into your back.

You wanted to believe that your lack of confrontation was what led you to the predicament you found yourself in. After all, things between you two had held too many ‘what ifs’ and lingering feelings and questions. You liked to hope that telling the man in no uncertain terms that your relationship should never and would never progress beyond anything professional would fix things.

You never would’ve guessed that your bout of confidence would only prove to make things worse.

“My ma doesn’t even know any rebels, and you know that.”

You’d whispered the words so quietly, throat too choked up to speak any louder as you tearfully stared Coriolanus down, your words only intended for the two of you. Your back was pressed to the doorway as he stood before you, a foot or two of space between you as other Peacekeepers did their duty to search your house as thoroughly as possible. The reason you’d been given was suspicion of treason—to the shock of your ma—but both you and the handsome man before you knew the truth.

“One can never be too sure. It’s always those you least expect.”

His cool response only made you look away, a few tears escaping.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You won, you were free, so why did it still feel like you were in the game…except a much more dangerous one this time? You could feel his eyes on you as you watched man after man rifle through you and your ma’s things, your younger sister not home to witness this. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him take a step towards you—just one, but one was enough to make you flinch.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him though.

“Unbearable,” he quietly said. “…not able to be endured…or tolerated.”

You swallowed.

“Not to be confused with hard—requiring a great deal of endurance or effort.”

Another step towards you.

“To find something unbearable means that you quite literally cannot stomach it any longer. It forces a change to come, forces something to…give,” he whispered.

Your gaze was still focused ahead, but his words made you blink, made your heart sink, and you swore that he knew that.

“I can make things incredibly unbearable for you…and your family.”

You straightened at that, finally looking at him with a venomous gaze and a heaving chest. Coriolanus reached up to pick at your shirt, removing a piece of grass from it, and you watched him inspect it before turning his blue eyes back onto you. They lingered on your own eyes before lowering to your lips, his own twitching so subtly you might’ve missed it if you were anyone else.

“Or I can make sure you’ll be taken care of, looked after as if you were my own…” his gaze met yours again. “It’s entirely your choice.”

You two stared at one another for an infuriating amount of time before he let out a sharp whistle, telling the other men that nothing seemed to be here and to move on. His wording was not lost on you, and you crossed your arms over your chest. Coriolanus was the last to walk out, and despite the feel of his heavy gaze, you didn’t look his way the entire time.

Your ma commented on the strangeness of the whole ordeal, but nothing about it was strange to you. It was all very calculating and sinister actually, and while you grew up hearing countless talk of running away and living off the grid, you were never more tempted than in this moment…but you were not alone. Your ma was sickly, and your sister was too young.

…and if you left, you could only guess what you’d be leaving your family susceptible to.

Your future seemed inevitable no matter how much you tried to find a way out of the path set for you.

The first night you slept with Coriolanus Snow, it was storming just like that day you’d attempted to give him back his flower. You’d cried for a good three hours before, feeling helpless in the aftermath of another so-called inspection from Peacekeepers—this one much more destructive. The only light that night came from the brief flashes of lightning, and the sound of the rain drowned out the reluctant gasps to leave your lips.

Hands much softer than you ever expected trailed down your frame, curving over your hips and dipping underneath your thighs. The blond man’s lips rarely left your skin, kissing whatever part of you that came to mind, nose gently grazing you as he did and pulling shudders from your frame. It was a foreign feeling to be so heated and afraid at the same time.

Under the cover of darkness, his fingers intertwined with your own and his hips were flush with yours. The feel of him inside of you was much more jarring than you thought it would be, choked deep breaths leaving your parted lips as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts were slow, the complete opposite of what you expected, and you didn’t know if you liked that better or worse.

Every kiss felt wrong, like you were betraying yourself, but in the same manner, they also reminded you of that first day you met. You thought about when you stepped off of that train, and that smooth voice escaped those pink lips, and your stomach flipped no matter how much you pretended it didn’t. The person you were that day wanted to throw your head back and welcome the little nips he left along your skin.

The person you were, now, wanted to crawl inside of your skin.

This man had stalked you to the highest degree, following you all the way from The Capitol just to collect on the young woman whose survival he ensured. The things he’d risked and ultimately lost, he placed the weight of on your shoulders as if you were responsible to compensate for that somehow. As if it was your duty to make his sacrifices worth it.

When he pulled you into his lap, resting on him with arms circled around your waist, it was your turn to press your face into the area where his neck and shoulder met. His fingers dancing along your skin made you shudder, and that just made the tears collect more because you didn’t want to enjoy this, but your body and your brain didn’t seem to be in alignment.

When you were forced to come around him, you saw stars, and you were positive your nails left marks on his back.

You didn’t really think that no more trouble from Peacekeepers was worth the figurative collar around your neck. The abundance of food and supplies might have been, if only to just see the smiles on your ma and sister’s faces, but even then, when you found your back pressed to Coriolanus’ chest as he drove his cock up into you, you wondered if it was actually worth it.

Your ma would say no, that you knew for sure, but you supposed it wasn’t her call to make.

After all, the alternative was psychological torment and worst-case scenarios you didn’t even want to entertain.

“Would you have had her arrested?” you quietly wondered one night.

The sheet was clutched to your chest, and you were facing the wall, still unable to look him in the eye directly afterwards. You’d never been able to, feeling used and low and indefensible. You tried not to dwell on the feel of his fingertips tracing patterns into your shoulder, his cool breath hitting your skin as he exhaled.

“I mean…would you have…framed her somehow? Found some justification for it?”

You didn’t know why you were asking, certain you wouldn’t like the answer, and as you predicted, you felt your throat tighten the longer the silence stretched. Against your will—like many things you’d been doing as of late—a few tears escaped, and even before he answered, you knew what you were going to hear.

“Yes,” he confessed, just as quietly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, subtly wiping your face.

“I sacrificed so much for you to win, and not just because your win was my win…but because I wanted to see you win,” he murmured, placing a kiss to your back. “…because I wanted you.”

You knew that, but having it confirmed so plainly was disturbing.

“…and when I eventually make my way back to The Capitol, as we both know I will, I’ll still want you.”

Your stomach sank at that, and for the first time, you turned to look at him while still trembling in the aftermath of what had quickly become a nightly occurrence. His gaze was still focused on where your back had been, and when his eyes flitted up to connect with yours, you didn’t have the words to convey how you felt about what he was insinuating.

“In The Capitol, you’ll have access to things you could never even imagine…and you could send those same things back to your family,” he told you, reaching up to touch your face.

When you moved to sit up, he stopped you, a firm grip on your arm. Coryo—as he liked for you to call him—fixed you with a look that you knew all too well. It was the look he gave you when you tried to come up with any excuse as to why you couldn’t meet with him. It was the look you received when you briefly forgot the power dynamics here, turning away from him and attempting to push him away.

It was a look that told you not to fight the inevitable.

“I want you there with me.”

His tone left no room for argument, and there was so much conviction in his voice that the thought of arguing seemed legitimately draining. You simply stared at him, eyes glassy, and he stared back, waiting for verbal confirmation of what you both knew was going to happen, anyway. You had no choice in the matter, you never did, and for a brief horrifying moment, you almost wished you were a lone orphan who didn’t have to look out for anybody but yourself.

That thought did make tears spill over.

It was a horrible thing to think, but your loved ones were being used against you, and you knew that your ma—and your sister if she were old enough to comprehend these things—would never want this for you. Coryo sat up with you, a hand resting on your cheek as he gazed at you, a thumb brushing the tears away. It wasn’t meant to be comforting.

Nothing he did was ever meant to be comforting.

“I want you there with me,” he repeated.

You wondered what someone like you would possibly do in The Capitol.

“I don’t belong there,” you whispered, a poor attempt to get him to change his mind.

His response was swift and clipped.

“You belong with me.”

When he pressed his lips to yours, it was expected that you would kiss him back. His thumb brushed along your skin as you did, a low hum sounding in the back of his throat that quickly escalated into a groan. His free arm snaked around you, and your last attempt at resisting proved futile, so you let him lay you down.

Sex with Coriolanus was a maddening experience.

You didn’t want it, and your brain didn’t want it, but it was as if your body was its own separate entity running on hormones and animal instinct.

When he rested his full weight on top of you, you shuddered for a multitude of reasons—one of which you didn’t want to acknowledge. When he slid his hand between your breasts and down to your stomach, your back arched, chest pressing up and into his. When he pushed into you all torturously slow as he always did, you involuntarily held your breath, shaking at the feel of his hips connecting with yours, the length of him fully sheathed in your warmth.

You were terrified of him, so that was why you opened up for him like those budding roses he used to carry around, but in doing so, you made yourself vulnerable beneath him. You made yourself more susceptible to his kisses and his touch and that maddening voice that knew just how to get its way. He wasn’t a very talkative man when he was inside of you, much more content with letting his actions speak for themselves, but tonight was different.

“Look at me,” he whispered, curving his hips into yours. “Look right at me.”

You did, and while you didn’t know the specifics of the psychology behind this, you knew that looking into the eyes of your tormentor while in the act couldn’t be good.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he breathlessly told you, nose brushing against yours with every thrust.

You could hear that it was starting to rain again, and you pressed your hands into the small of his back, trying to ground yourself in some way—trying to have control over something, anything. Tears kissed your eyes, and you swore—you swore—that something in those blues of his twinkled. It sparked something in his gaze, and in his psyche, his thrusts becoming more powerful and making you gasp, nails pressing into his skin.

He only looked especially satisfied when the tears spilled over.

When he came inside of you, and you around him, you swore you saw stars.

You even thought you saw snow.

[yinyuedijun]

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

[writingwithfolklore]

5 Tips for Creating Intimidating Antagonists

Antagonists, whether people, the world, an object, or something else are integral to giving your story stakes and enough conflict to challenge your character enough to change them. Today I’m just going to focus on people antagonists because they are the easiest to do this with!

1. Your antagonist is still a character

While sure, antagonists exist in the story to combat your MC and make their lives and quest difficult, they are still characters in the story—they are still people in the world.

Antagonists lacking in this humanity may land flat or uninteresting, and it’s more likely they’ll fall into trope territory.

You should treat your antagonists like any other character. They should have goals, objectives, flaws, backstories, etc. (check out my character creation stuff here). They may even go through their own character arc, even if that doesn’t necessarily lead them to the ‘good’ side.

Really effective antagonists are human enough for us to see ourselves in them—in another universe, we could even be them.

2. They’re… antagonistic

There’s two types of antagonist. Type A and Type B. Type A antagonist’s have a goal that is opposite the MC’s. Type B’s goal is the same as the MC’s, but their objectives contradict each other.

For example, in Type A, your MC wants to win the contest, your antagonist wants them to lose.

In Type B, your MC wants to win the contest, and your antagonist wants to win the same contest. They can’t both win, so the way they get to their goal goes against each other.

A is where you get your Draco Malfoy’s, other school bullies, or President Snow’s (they don’t necessarily want what the MC does, they just don’t want them to have it.)

B is where you get the other Hunger Games contestants, or any adventure movie where the villain wants the secret treasure that the MCs are also hunting down. They want the same thing.

3. They have well-formed motivations

While we as the writers know that your antagonist was conceptualized to get in the way of the MC, they don’t know that. To them, they exist separate from the MC, and have their own reasons for doing what they do.

In Type A antagonists, whatever the MC wants would be bad for them in some way—so they can’t let them have it. For example, your MC wants to destroy Amazon, Jeff Bezos wants them not to do that. Why not? He wants to continue making money. To him, the MC getting what they want would take away something he has.

Other motivations could be: MC’s success would take away an opportunity they want, lose them power or fame or money or love, it could reveal something harmful about them—harming their reputation. It could even, in some cases, cause them physical harm.

This doesn’t necessarily have to be true, but the antagonist has to believe it’s true. Such as, if MC wins the competition, my wife will leave me for them. Maybe she absolutely wouldn’t, but your antagonist isn’t going to take that chance anyway.

In Type B antagonists, they want the same thing as the MC. In this case, their motivations could be literally anything. They want to win the competition to have enough money to save their family farm, or to prove to their family that they can succeed at something, or to bring them fame so that they won’t die a ‘nobody’.

They have a motivation separate from the MC, but that pesky protagonist keeps getting in their way.

4. They have power over the MC

Antagonists that aren’t able to combat the MC very well aren’t very interesting. Their job is to set the MC back, so they should be able to impact their journey and lives. They need some sort of advantage, privilege, or power over the MC.

President Snow has armies and the force of his system to squash Katniss. She’s able to survive through political tension and her own army of rebels, but he looms an incredibly formidable foe.

Your antagonist may be more wealthy, powerful, influential, intelligent, or skilled. They may have more people on their side. They are superior in some way to the protagonist.

5. And sometimes they win

Leading from the last point, your antagonists need wins. They need to get their way sometimes, which means your protagonist has to lose. You can do a bit of a trade off that allows your protagonist to lose enough to make a formidable foe out of their antagonist, but still allows them some progress using Fortunately, Unfortunately.

It goes like… Fortunately, MC gets accepted into the competition. Unfortunately, the antagonist convinces the rest of the competitors to hate them. Fortunately, they make one friend. Unfortunately, their first entry into the competition gets sabotaged. Fortunately, they make it through the first round anyway, etc. etc.

An antagonist that doesn’t do any antagonizing isn’t very interesting, and is completely pointless in their purpose to heighten stakes and create conflict for your protagonist to overcome. We’ll probably be talking about antagonists more soon!

Anything I missed?

[sassydefendorflower]

One of the biggest “I love you”s in Fullmetal Alchemist are all the ways people respect each other’s bodily autonomy. There are two scenes that carry this theme to its fullest potential, and I love them so, so much.

The first one is quite iconic: Riza’s throat was slit and Roy has a chance to save her - by dooming their country and committing human transmutation. And Roy would do it. He would throw it all away just to save her, even though he knows that human transmutation is an unforgivable sin. But she looks at him and signals him to Not Do It. And he doesn’t. He wants to, but he doesn’t do it. Because only minutes earlier, he hurt her again by dooming himself (and potentially the country) with his fury.  And if there is one thing Roy Mustang doesn’t want to do, it’s hurt Riza Hawkeye any more than he already has. Even if that means watching her die. Even if that means letting her go.

He respects her and their goals enough to say no.

He loves her enough to let her die.

The second one is just as heart-wrenching: after Al sacrificed himself, basically dying in the process, Ed tries to think of a way to save him. Both Hohenheim and Ling offer him a Philosopher’s Stone to bring Al back - and Ed says No. Even though he wants nothing more in life than to save his little brother. Even though there is nothing he wants more desperately than the safety of Al. He says no for many reasons - Hohenheim is his father after all, Ling needs the stone to become Emperor - but mostly he says no because he and Al promised to never use a Stone for themselves. And he respects that. He puts Al’s wish above his own desire to see his little brother again. He respects Al’s decision (his own conviction) enough to break the rules of the world to find another way.

Because he loves Al - he loves him enough not to break the fundamentals of their principles. He loves him enough to respect the integrity of their believes.

And the narrative rewards both Roy and Edward for their choice to respect the agency and bodily autonomy of their loved ones - they survive, are saved, are brought back... and neither Ed nor Roy had to force their own desire for them to live on clearly stated last wishes.

So often we see media portray the disregard for bodily autonomy (especially in medical contexts) as a sign of love, the breaking of patient-doctor confidentiality as a sign of care, the violation of a living will as a sign of family - I like to think that Fullmetal Alchemist shows us that there’s strength in respecting it instead.

[bibxrbie]

"Luke Skywalker isn’t like the old Jedi. He saves Vader with his attachments!”

Wrong!

Luke Skywalker, at the end of Return of the Jedi, after his confrontation with the Emperor drags Darth Vader through the destructing Death Star. He’s desperate, knuckles white under the heavy weight of his father’s body, a little boy dragging his dad to safety. He sets Vader down for a moment, to catch his breath or maybe to get a better grip. He goes to grab Vader again, but Vader, uncomfortable and in pain, asks Luke to take off the mask. He wants to see Luke through his eyes instead of the eyes Palpatine built for him. Luke refuses, says that removing the mask is a sure way for Vader to die. Luke doesn’t want Vader dead, he wants Vader alive. Not to hold him accountable for his many evil acts, but for the same reason why Luke Skywalker can’t kill Darth Vader; Vader is his father and Luke loves him.

And yet, after a moment, Luke removes Vader’s mask. He doesn’t want to, he hesitates, but he removes the mask with enough slowness to allow Vader to take it back. In that moment, Luke sets aside his desire for Vader in his life, sets aside his desire to see him live, and sets aside his entire mission, the reason he was even on the Death Star in the place. In his compassion for his father, Luke stays with Vader until he dies. It is this moment where we see him be the best damn Jedi he can be. I’d even argue that this moment is the greatest example of non-attached love we see. Because Luke lets Vader go! He lets his father die, and in some ways, by removing the mask, he too kills Vader, he stays with him until his last moment, gives him the kindness of granting his last wish and finally chooses Vader.

And Luke doesn’t have to do this. If Luke Skywalker’s love for his father was an attachment, he would ignore Vader and continue dragging him to the escape pod, put his desire for a father as his central focus and ignore Vader’s wants and discomfort. Maybe he would even save him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Vader dies.

He builds a Jedi burial for his father and watches it burn the remnants of Vader and Anakin Skywalker away. He mourns Vader, he mourns what they could’ve had as father and son, considers what ifs and maybe-if-I-did-this. Vader/ Anakin is released from his mortal body, from his ‘crude matter’ and Luke lets him go. He says one final goodbye to Anakin. Then, he joins Leia, Han, Chewie, Lando, and the rest of the Rebels and celebrates their victory. He lives in the present and celebrates what he has instead of what he lost.

Luke Skywalker is THE Jedi. Everything about Luke Skywalker serves as the foundational cornerstone of the Jedi, everything about the Jedi as a culture and philosophy is reflected in his character. Luke’s desire for the New Jedi Order isn’t to throw away the values of the old Order, but to vitalise them, breathe life back into dying lungs, and rebuild a path that people set out on their way to destroy. (Yes, his Order is different from the Old, but that’s because it has to be. He doesn’t have the resources or the safety of the Old Order.) The philosophies of the Jedi are difficult and they aren’t for everyone, and like the perfect Jedi that Luke is, he struggles and stumbles and sometimes he even rejects it. But, no matter how far he falls, it is a way of life he chooses again and again and again. It is a way of life that welcomes him back each time

[homunculus-argument]

My usual problem of "and then some other shit happens" is that they keep piling up on top of each other. This morning, I was just about to start work when

mail comes in. I've received a letter from the tax office.

I open the letter and get a Fuck No Way That's Right kinda bill.

time to hit up my accountant and ask what the fuck do I do now

realise that I haven't delivered my accounting stuff for like four months either, gotta apologise to her about that too

e-mail doesn't go through, double-check the address, re-type my whole apology and explanation again

four consecutive e-mails do not go through

fuck I gotta call them, where's my phone

just as I was about to make a phone call, I receive a phone call

forgot I had a phone appointment with my doctor, turns out I do not have a natural physical resistance to poison damage, and my medication resistance is something else.

confident in my ability to execute two unrelated tasks at once, I take a sip of my tea while on the phone. Naturally I fuck it up and pour the lukewarm tea on my lap instead.

figuring that since I'm unhurt and only poured enough to soak my clothes, not my chair, I'll just sit with the wet tea on my lap until the phonecall is over, and hang them to dry on the balcony later.

phonecall done, I remove my clothes and go hang them up to dry.

spot my little ficus tree cutting on the balcony, decide to water it since it's so hot and I don't want the thing to die.

coming back inside after leaving my clothes on the balcony, my boyfriend sees me undressed and wants affection.

he also wants to show me a video that he came upon.

make myself more tea

coming back to my computer, remember the phonecall I was supposed to make.

call the accounting people and tell them I can't e-mail the person I worked with, and get informed that the person I had been working with quit unexpectedly, and the one currently running the whole business on her own will look into my shit once she's personally out of the hospital. She meant to call me earlier about What The Fuck I'm Doing but unfortunately hospital.

promise her to deliver my accounting things today since it's the least I can do to not make her day any worse than it already is.

save through my paypal activities, log onto my online bank, check my account and do some math to confirm that I should more or less be alright until my next payday. Move some more money to my bank card account for groceries, and log out.

remember that the reason why I logged into my bank in the first place was the accounting, and log back in to get that data.

send my records to my new current accountant with apologies for not doing that for four months despite of being supposed to do it monthly.

finally done with that, satisfied of actually Getting Things Done, I suddenly realise I've spent the past three hours on random sidequests, haven't even touched whatever it was that I was planning to do today, and top of that I've completely forgotten what it was that I meant to do.

waste another half an hour writing a meticulous account of how I spent my morning doing everything else than what I meant to.