#Been a while since I posted a story

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

What it Feels Like

Summary: No one said it would be easy to be in a relationship with Marc/Jake/Steven. Does Layla have regrets? How does she cope when her relationships struggle with their mental health?

Heavily introspective moments from Layla's POV. Discussions on D.I.D, brief discussion on Autistic issues, and mentions of PTSD.

Pairings: Layla x Marc x Steven x Jake

Warnings: I'm not sure.... Depression talk, mentions of struggling with mental health.

Word Count: 5,154

Her initial impression was that she had scored the jackpot. 

Marc, Steven, and Jake. Three wonderful men with three wonderfully distinct personalities that all loved her in their own way. 

She got to keep the smoking hot body and love the men that controlled it. 

She did some research, of course. She wanted to understand what was happening. She wanted to know how she had missed something so drastic. 

Relief had come in knowing that she hadn’t missed it. That Marc had just been that good at hiding his problems. Stress had come when she started to realize that she had met them all before and not known something was off. 

She tried not to dwell. Dwelling meant hours of her looking back and trying to spot the hints. It was enough to drive someone to drink. She had spent a day looking back and then decided it was a good way to tarnish any good memories of their time together she had. 

She could only look forward now. 

Yet she couldn’t ignore all the other things she had learned about in her research. The bad things. The things she had not yet noticed. 

Maybe her men didn’t have those sorts of issues. They were special, after all. They seemed well adjusted. They communicated. They switched in and out almost at leisure. 

Yet, perhaps Marc had spent just a little too long staring out the window the other day. Steven complained of being tired or having headaches now and then. Jake had a habit of clinging to his cap like it was the only thing keeping him present at times. 

There were the times when Steven would try to recall something and the memory would not come. He called those ‘locked memories’. Marc sometimes paced the room, trying to remember where he was going or why he was holding his keys. 

Then there were the days when she could not tell who was fronting. Steven called those blended days. Accents mixed and they seemed far more confused or irritated than normal. 

Usually it was Marc and Steven. They were the closest to one another. There was one rare day where Marc and Jake were so blended that she couldn’t tell who she was speaking with until she asked and they didn’t know. 

She often wondered, had all these things been present before? Had Marc really been in that much control before all of this? Was it possible that when all three of them started to talk that it had somehow made them more vulnerable? 

Doubt settled into her and she again wondered if she had failed them. Jake had admitted to her once that he had been around during their marriage. He had pretended to be Marc on more than one brief occasion just to get through the door. 

She was sure that once in the beginning she had walked in on Steven reading a book late at night, curled up in his chair under the only lamp in the room. The relaxed smile and the way he didn’t notice her until she had kissed his cheek. 

Marc had blinked up at her and shrugged as he set the book aside. Steven had no memory of the incident. Perhaps a ‘locked memory’. Or, perhaps it was something to do with the amnesia barriers. 

Barriers that sometimes meant that Marc woke up in the car and had to pull up his GPS to figure out how to get home. Barriers that meant sometimes she got a call from a sheepish Steven who wanted to know if she needed anything at the store because he didn’t know why he was there. Barriers that meant that sometimes Jake would suddenly sit up and ask if they had eaten anything all day. 

They didn’t always get along, either. Steven would have haughty discussions with one of the others that often resulted in him being salty the rest of the week. He had no issues voicing his disagreements. He would argue with them in the middle of a public space if he felt so inclined. 

Marc would let issues simmer until he boiled over and would lock himself in the bathroom to have loud ‘discussions’. 

If the discussion got too heated, Steven would be the one to emerge with apologies that Marc needed a time out. 

If the discussion became destructive, she would hear yelling and sometimes crashing. On those occasions, Jake would emerge after some time. He would apologize then take time to clean up. 

They didn’t always like to tell her what the arguments were about. Perhaps Steven was upset about their choice in food. Maybe one of them had touched Jake’s car settings and messed the radio up. Perhaps Steven had stayed up too late and now they were feeling tired and stressed. 

Layla was no fool. She knew the days when it was simply a melt down. A time when one of them simply felt frustrated at their situation. At their life and problems. 

And then there were the good old fashioned melt downs. Things that had nothing to do with their D.I.D, but with the issue that Marc refused to talk about and that Steven had once admitted to her. It was a word that whispered through her mind when they struggled, but a word that was never spoken aloud. 

Much like how Marc refused therapy or how Jake had a distinct fear of going to the doctor. There was trauma there that worked so far into their very being that even Steven would shrug and brush it aside when it came up. 

The trauma ran too deep. It lay across their existence like a minefield. There were things that belonged only to Marc, like the flash backs, the night terrors, the depressive episodes, the self destruction, and the self loathing. 

There were the things that belonged only to Jake, like his constant alertness, his occasional panic attacks, his temper, and the way he guarded their memories with such care that they often got into fights on what he would let them see. 

There were the things that belonged to Steven, like his insecurities about his identity, his insomnia, his large spans of missing memories, and his fear of being left alone. 

Sometimes, on the dark days when nothing she did was right, she wondered if she would ever decide that it was too much. 

Would she decide that she needed a normal life? A normal husband? Would a day come where it would be too much to avoid the trauma? Could she crave a normal day that didn’t involve trying to figure out who she was speaking to or why they were upset? 

–

Layla glanced at her watch and then looked back out the window. “He’s been out there for over an hour.” She muttered to herself. 

She could see Jake’s car parked at the end of the street in the usual spot. The car was off but she could still see a shadow inside move every now and then. 

The rain was coming down in sheets now. It was possible that he was trying to wait it out. Jake never carried an umbrella with him. Perhaps Steven was throwing a fit about getting wet. Steven hated wet sleeves. 

She had once walked in on him crying in the kitchen because he had forgotten to roll up his sleeves while doing the dishes. Dear sweet Steven, wanting to clean up and help so much and then not being able to cope with the feeling of the wet scratchy drag of the wet fabric over his arms and wrists and hands. 

Then again, Steven was not shy of the rain. He was known to walk home in the rain and come into the flat like a sopping wet kitten, his face scrunched up in annoyance and curls dripping into his face. It was all situational, after all. 

Layla started to pace in front of the window. Perhaps they were fighting again. Marc and Jake had argued late into the night and most of the morning. 

The argument only ended because a rather tired and grumpy Steven had told them both off. She didn’t know what they were arguing about, but she had noticed Jake stimming more. 

Stimming. Marc called them ‘ticks’. Marc would clench his fists till his knuckles were white. He never knew what to do with his hands. Yet when he was alone and thought no one was around he would make small sounds, his lips moving as he repeated words. Nonsense words that he could breathe in and out easily. 

Steven worked his hands, tracing the hems of his shirts and sleeves. His fingers dug into fabric and worked over his keychain obsessively. Sometimes he would simply reach for his rubik's cube if he was particularly annoyed at something. 

Jake only stimmed when he was anxious or upset. His fingers would tap one after another against his thumb with increasing urgency. He was a pacer. While Marc stood still and tense, Jake would circle the flat like a tiger in a cage. When it got bad enough, Jake would simply go outside without any word. 

Jake didn’t get a lot of time out. It didn’t seem to bother him. He was always telling her that he was busy in the inner world. 

Marc and Steven would often switch out multiple times a day where Jake might pop out once a week if he wasn’t feeling it. 

They never talked about the inner world. Marc didn’t like to talk about any part of his mental illnesses, much less admit that he was different than anyone else. He would shrug his shoulders and change the subject. 

Steven tried to explain it to her a few times and it left Layla with an image of a room with a big screen and a few chairs. Steven had shrugged and said it was close enough. 

Jake had been tight lipped about it all. She got the distinct impression that he had more going on in their head than Marc or Steven could even dream of. 

She had heard of alters that didn’t like to front. Alters that preferred to keep to the back or that had important functions inside. She also knew how rare it was for someone with D.I.D to have such a small system as three people. 

The idea scared her, if she was being honest with herself. The idea that someday someone knew could pop up without warning. There was also the idea that there were already other people in there that she didn’t know about. That perhaps even Marc or Steven didn’t know about. 

Worse still, maybe Marc and Steven did know about the other people and didn’t feel like she needed to know. People that refused to come out and see the world. People that didn’t want to meet her. 

She paced the window again and looked down at her watch. She sighed and grabbed her keys and an umbrella. 

Marc had woken up screaming the other night. It wasn’t the first time he had done it. She used to wake up to him yelling at least twice a week when they had first gotten married. 

It was, however, the first time she had seen how the system functioned outside of battle or arguments. 

The dream must have been terrible. Jake had been beside her before she could even offer a comforting hand. Jake had paced the flat for a solid minute, brushing off any questions she had. At last, Steven had been given the reins and he slipped back into bed beside her. 

Steven admitted that dreams could affect the whole system. Strong emotions could push through any barrier and send out ripples. 

When she asked what the dream was, Steven had looked lost for a moment then shrugged. “Locked memory”. Jake had ushered it away before Steven could analyze it. 

Layla skipped over a puddle as she crossed the street, the rain falling around her in a waterfall. 

She leaned down to peer into the passenger side window. 

Jake sat inside, clutching at the steering wheel and tapping his fingers against the leather rapidly. 

She sighed and tried the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it opened. She juggled for a moment as she got into the car and closed the umbrella, shaking it out to try to get the worst of the rain off before she shut the door again. 

His fingers paused, letting her know that he was aware of her presence even though he didn’t look at her. 

It was nearly impossible to sneak up on Jake. He always knew everything that was happening around him. He could tell her how many people were in a cafe without trying. He knew exits and he knew the risks with one glance. 

When Marc was focused, it was difficult to sneak up on him. The problem was that Marc was often not focused. He tended to space out so badly that Layla could take his hand and he would flinch so hard that he’d drop anything he was holding. 

Steven hardly ever knew what was going on around him. He would zero in on what he felt was important and the rest of the world could be on fire before he’d notice it. Yet if you asked him later what his waiter looked like he could give you their eye color and what the little pin on their lapel said. 

Layla sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rain fall on the car around them. 

Jake started to tap his fingers again then shook out his hands and lay them in his lap in an effort to hide his anxiety. 

She folded her hands in her lap and glanced around the car. 

A cup of old coffee sat in the middle drink holder. A paid parking meter ticket sat on the dash. His phone sat in the holder on the dash for easy access. The screen was blank. 

He was wearing his driving gloves, a way for him to avoid touching things he didn’t want to or to stay in his own personal bubble. HIs coat collar was popped, another way to keep things and people out of his bubble. 

She took a slow breath and put together a mental list of reasons on why he was sitting in silence in his car. 

He could be having a panic attack. She had never seen Jake have a panic attack before. Marc’s attacks were often very violent and often required intervention by Jake or Steven. Steven’s attacks involved tears and yelling, often quelled when Layla could wrap her arms around him and rock with him, soothing him gently. Knowing Jake and his responses to things, there was a good chance his panic attacks were quiet and still. 

He could be acting as system gatekeeper and protector. There was a chance one of them had been triggered and he was taking some quiet time to focus on keeping them safe. When things got bad enough, Jake would sit still and quiet as he simply held front and kept them safe as their solid rock. 

He could just be having a moment where he wanted to be alone. He wasn’t used to attention and lately maybe she had been crowding a little too close to him. She fiddled with her hands as she thought that one over. 

Maybe he was cross with her. She wasn’t always careful, after all. Sometimes she blundered into triggers, set off mines, or got frustrated with them. 

Maybe he was still having arguments with Marc after this morning. This was less likely considering he was still in his car. When Jake had full control, it took a lot to knock him out of the front seat. When he drove, he put up barriers and neither Marc or Steven ever considered bothering him. 

She wasn’t sure if it was because they trusted him or because it took too much to fight him. She suspected it was out of respect. Even Marc had agreed that Jake deserved his own time. 

“Sometimes, I try to remember before…” Jake breathed out, his breath soft. “Marc can’t see past the moment. He remembers the split. Remembers when Steven showed up. The relief he felt. Steven doesn’t remember any of it. I remember it. I remember when Steven showed up.” 

Layla looked at him in the dark cab. It always amazed her how a body she knew so well could have such a different silhouette. There was just something about the stillness of Jake that spoke so much louder than the other two. 

He breathed again as if perhaps he might find the right words. The right memories. The right answers. “We must have been whole once. Marc and I must have been one person. Just a kid running around. Neither of us remembers that split. Steven thinks Marc was the original but…” 

“I don’t think it works like that…” Layla started slowly and softly. “Marc took the name and identity but there was never a Marc Spector.” 

Jake nodded. D.I.D was caused by trauma on a young mind that had not yet formed a full solid sense of identity. That was what all the research she read had said. 

Sometimes she pictured the small boy that they must have been. Too young to know who he was yet. A small boy looking to the world to see who he was supposed to be. Marc Spector was a name on a piece of paper and an expectation that was handed to him. 

Was he kind and curious like Steven? Was he strong and mischievous like Marc? Was he quiet and watchful like Jake? Did he have a strong sense of right and wrong? Did he want to make everyone around him happy? 

Jake nodded again and sat back into his chair, head leaning back to lean into the headrest. “I still try to remember sometimes. Who we used to be. What it felt like. Marc doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t like to look back. I see grass and hear the sound of paper. I feel heat and sun. That’s all.” 

Layla thought back. What did she remember of her childhood? How far back could she just recall? She had seen pictures. If she tried she could pretend that she remembered things, but how much of the memory was hers verses the stories she was told and the pictures she saw? 

“Sunshine.” She closed her eyes and felt the heat on her face. “The color red. Spice on the air. A violin. Cool tile under me.” 

If she put it all together, she could logic it out. In the summer when the sun beat down on them, she’d lay across the tile in their front room, letting it cool her while her mother cooked in the kitchen. She liked to cook with the radio on. The red? Her father’s favorite color. He always had a splash of red on him somewhere. 

She could force a memory that way. She could imagine him coming home and finding her sprawled on the tile. He’d laugh and pretend to trip over her. 

She sighed and looked up at the rain that ran down the windshield. 

“I remember the first time I got you to smile at me.” She glanced over at him. “Before that I didn’t think you ever smiled. So serious all the time. Not grumpy like Marc, but just too focused.” 

Jake looked over at her. “I smiled plenty.” 

“You’re really good at pretending to be Marc, but you don’t quite get his frown right. It’s too tense. Marc’s resting face is a frown. I’ve never seen such a relaxed frown in my life.” She smiled. “You don’t quite get Steven right, either. His eyes are so open and relaxed. You end up just looking worried about everything when you play Steven.” 

Jake gave her a look. “I don’t have to convince people that matter. Just idiots that don’t care about knowing the difference.” 

“Steven doesn’t even try to be you. He can’t get any part of your face right. He makes it too tense. He does an alright Marc, though. He just frowns so hard that he strains his jaw.” 

“Marc can’t do either of us.” Jake gripped his steering wheel again, a finger tapping the leather again. “He’s just too…” 

“Square.” Layla finished for him. 

Jake looked at her and brought a hand up to cover his mouth as the smile spread across his face. His smile was one that was self conscious. One that said at some point in his life he had been told his smile was wrong. 

Steven’s smile was wide and open, full of life and emotion. He never had to hide. Marc’s smile was always small and full of promises of trouble. It was his smile that had first gotten her in trouble. 

Layla shrugged and looked at Jake from the corner of her eye. “Don’t tell him I said that.” 

Jake shook his head and he pretended to lock his lips and toss away the key. 

She knew she didn’t have to ask him. If the others were present, she knew Jake would not be talking to her about these things. Steven had a hard enough time with his sense of self. He didn’t like to think about who came about at what time. Marc never talked about these things. It was a rather large trigger for him to think about this time in his life. 

“So when was the first time I smiled at you?” Jake tilted his head. He had a good memory. It was his job to know their memories and where they should be. It obviously bothered him that he might miss something. 

“It was late at night.” She smiled and tilted her head back, sinking into the memory. “I was in bed pretending to sleep when you came home. I think I was hogging all the blankets and most of the bed while you were trying to wedge yourself in next to me without waking me up. You smelled of pine tree air freshener. You do that when you don’t want us to know you’ve been smoking. You had just gotten into the bed when I rolled over and practically crawled on top of you. You were warm and I hate the cold.” 

“It was dark. There was no way you saw my face.” Jake protested. 

“I think I mumbled something along the lines of ‘stop smoking, Jake. Steven is going to be so upset when he finds out.’ You smiled. I know you did. I didn’t have to see it. I could sense it.” She grinned up at him. 

Jake gave her a very serious look then rolled his eyes and looked out the window, turning his back to her. She caught his reflection in the glass and he was struggling not to smile. “Steven was furious. I thought he was going to blow a fuse.” 

“Didn’t see your mug for weeks. I honestly thought Steven had somehow figured out a way to murder you or banish you or something.” She laughed softly. “I’m sure Steven felt bad about it. Even Marc was walking on eggshells after that.” 

Jake shook his head. “It… It was a lesson in Steven’s abilities. I honestly didn’t know he could lock me out like that. I underestimated him up to that point. I don’t do that anymore.” 

Layla sighed. “I think everyone underestimates him. It’s why he fights so hard to be known.” 

“I did stop smoking for him.” Jake sighed then went quiet.

Layla wondered if Jake recalled what happened after that incident. How worried she honestly had been when Jake didn’t show up again day after day after week after week. She had just gotten used to him being around. Had just gotten used to feeling him slip into bed next to her. The smell of his cologne. The soft accent and his snappy dress sense. 

When Jake had walked through the door after all that time, and she had known it was him… 

“Marc hates the rain.” Jake sighed. “When it gets like this. The way it rushes. His anxiety gets pretty bad in this weather. We should go inside.” 

Layla opened her door and popped the umbrella open. She got out and hurried over to his side as he opened the door. She lifted the umbrella to let him get out while staying dry. He glanced up then moved to stay close to her, not wanting to knock her into the rain. 

She wrapped an arm around his waist and he took the umbrella, lifting it up a bit and holding it centered over them. 

“Next time it gets like this, all you have to do is call me. I’ll come get you.” She looked up at him. “I know you don’t like the rain either.” 

“It’s okay. Sometimes it helps me to think. To see things a little better…” He glanced back at his car as they moved further from it. “Maybe I needed you to come get me… I think I get lost sometimes. Trapped in the past. Trapped in my own sarcophagus….” 

She leaned up and kissed him softly on the cheek. “We all need reminders on what really matters, sometimes.” 

Jake shifted the umbrella to his other hand then pulled off a glove, putting it into his pocket. His hand found hers and fingers slowly slipped between hers, warm and strong as he held her hand. 

She squeezed his hand gently and smiled as she leaned into him. 

This was her life. There was nothing normal about it. To anyone else, it was stressful and full of pain and sadness. To her, it was filled with moments. Memories caught in glimpses. Memories told to her in stories and photographs where she filled in the gaps. 

Memories of arms wrapping around Jake when he looked at her sheepishly and apologized for not being around. A hand on her back as she clung to him, tears running down her face. She couldn’t imagine a life without him. Without any of them. She had sobbed as her hands dug into his shirt and he wrapped his arms around her in support. 

Jake Jake Jake… She had cried in shaking breaths. I thought you were gone… Don’t ever do that again. Don’t you dare leave me. 

The hand in hers went slack for a moment then tightened, fingers clinging. She glanced up to see large eyes taking in the rain around them. 

“Bloody hell. It’s dumping out here.” Steven looked down in time to step over a rather large puddle. “Going for a romantic walk in the rain, are we?” 

She smiled up at Steven. “I love you.” 

Steven beamed, though he wasn’t sure what was going on. “What’s that for?” 

“Because I can.” She smiled. 

“Oh.” Steven looked at her with pure adoration. “I love you too.” 

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I love you.” 

Steven grinned and squeezed her hand. “He loves you too.” It was easier for Steven to say it sometimes. When Marc watched from the shadows and let Steven feel and express the big emotions that hurt him too much to admit. Steven made it safe. Made it okay for him to say everything he had ever wanted to say. 

Steven paused then glanced over at her. “Jake says… He remembers the first time.” 

Layla looked up at him curiously. “First time for what?” 

Steven frowned for a moment as he processed and attempted to translate. “The first time he knew…” 

She remembered strong arms wrapping around her as she shuddered and cried out everything. All the stress. All the emotions. Was she really so upset because someone she had just gotten to know had gone missing for a little over a month? 

Or was she crying away old expectations for a life that she would never have? The tears came harder as she cried everyone and everything missing in her life. She cried because her husband was so broken and in so much pain. She cried for the man she thought she had and the men that she ended up with. She cried for their lost life. For the unfairness that had hurt them and her so much in the end. 

She cried because the arms that were slowly wrapping around her and pulling her close felt so right. The tears only lasted minutes before they fell to soft sniffles and gentle hiccups. 

Hermosa. He had whispered. We are here. I am here…

“What first time is he talking about?” Steven looked at her curiously. 

“Hmm.” Layla smiled and squeezed his hand gently. “That he belonged here. That you all had a home that was safe and sound. That I loved all of you. That I was happy. That he loved me too.” 

“Oh…” Steven chewed his lower lip. “That sounds like a wonderful memory.” 

Layla laughed. “It was pretty terrible actually. Not my finest moment.” 

“Do you think I’ll have that moment too?” Steven looked at her hopefully. 

Layla grinned. “Steven Grant… I knew I couldn’t let you go the first time I saw you. Really saw you… Out in the desert when you handed me a map of the stars and spoke French.” 

Steven swallowed hard then let his smile really beam. “Well… You were the first person who trusted me enough to let me do anything. You gave me a chance to prove myself when no one else did.” 

“The rest were all fools.” She leaned into him as they headed up the stairs to the flat’s entrance. 

“What about with Marc?” Steven looked at her curiously. 

“That’s between me and Marc…” She could think of any time really. Times from before. Times when she thought she had broken down his walls and seen the real him. Those were times she had known he was someone she wanted to know and keep around. 

Yet the real time when she knew she could not live without him… A gentle kiss on the forehead and a release into the water when she let her heart whisper goodbye. 

Steven nodded, knowing when not to pry. He closed the umbrella once they made it to the overhang, shaking it out a bit. 

“Ready?” He opened the door and looked at her as if he expected her to decide she wanted to linger in the rain. 

She did glance back out into the rain. Into the dark where lights reflected up in the oil slick puddles and tiny rivers. 

She hoped she would remember this moment. Darkness. Rain. An umbrella. A quiet car. Hidden smiles and soft words. 

“Yeah. Let’s go inside.” Layla hurried through the door where it was warm and dry. 

[rubyfunkey]

The Rehabilitation of Death by @bamsara

didnt have time to clean this like i wanted but i needed to get this scene out of my head desperately. im good now

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Lackadaisy Enrichment

[diamondsheep]

Some ZoSan in their 40s 💚💛

[freaky-flawless]

The De Nile sisters!

[omgkayplays]

[anachronistic-falsehood]

Vash and Femininity: Trigun Stampede and its Themes of Bodily Autonomy, Exploitation, and Vague Gender Fuckery

alright sit the fuck down. we're gonna talk about THEMES

I was on Twitter- terrible idea usually, but a couple people I follow made some tweets that got me thinking about Trigun's overall themes, and here we are. So let's talk about some themes in Tristamp! And I'll take a couple looks at Trimax as well, just for fun :3

Let's look at how the showrunners utilize gender roles and exploitation of feminine characters to show how unhealthy Knives' obsession with his ideal of Vash is, and how horrific his exploitation of Vash and the Plants is.

Vash, from the beginning of Tristamp, is someone who cares about people's choices. When people kill others in front of him, he reiterates that whether someone lives or dies is not another person's choice to make. This is something he learned from Rem (a prominent female figure in his life). He refuses to kill people because that is not his choice to make. To kill someone is the ultimate removal of their bodily autonomy. They can no longer make any choices at all; they're dead.

Vash is also someone who has almost no choice in what path his life takes. He's constantly dragged around by outside forces, namely situations that are caused by Knives (which we'll get into later). Vash doesn't make things happen, things happen to Vash. The majority of events that occur are not his fault. He's pushed and pulled in a thousand different directions. His entire life is completely out of his control.

This can be seen as early on in his life as the Fall, something he had no control over and had no idea he even had a part in. Even later, in the ship with Luida and Brad, after he's been rescued from the desert, he's kept in handcuffs right up until he's shown to be of use to them and the Plant on their ship. After that, he could theoretically say "no, I don't want to go to other ships and heal their plants," but he doesn't. He's Vash. He's helpful and nurturing at his core, and these people have done so much for him just by letting him stay, so he'll do whatever they ask, no question.

This carries over into his adulthood. At Jeneora Rock, he goes to look at their Plant at one simple request, doesn't protest when he's dragged into a duel-- he doesn't take initiative unless someone's life is immediately at stake. He lets people tell him what to do and lets himself get dragged around by the wrist. He doesn't even pretend to have control over his life like Trimax Vash does, which I mean. Fair. Why pretend to have a grip on your existence when it's impossible to do anything without a gun pointed at your head?

Vash is a very passive character. He's nurturing, kind, gentle- he's a guy that fits a lot of very typical feminine character stereotypes. If you wrote this same story but made him a woman, I wouldn't bat an eye (but I would definitely be looking at it a lot more critically, what with the amount of stereotypically nurturing/motherly female characters in media already.)

This contrasts directly with Knives. He makes a decision and carries through no matter what stands in his way. He takes initiative. If Vash is a passive character, Knives is an active character. Wherever he goes, he leaves a lasting imprint. He makes shit happen! If outside forces make things happen to him, he'll go out of his way to make sure that particular force doesn't affect him again.

These two tweets I saw are what got me thinking about this originally. I just feel like here's a good place to put them as a segue into talking about episode 11.

Episode 11 is where a lot of this feminine imagery really just. Explodes in your face. IT'S RIGHT THERE. You can't dance around it if you try. And it kind of reaches a peak when the connection reaches 100%, the gate opens, and. well. THIS happens to the Plants.

Plants, in both Trimax and Tristamp, are almost always typically feminine-looking. Knives and Vash are the only two who are male or even masculine at all. Knives, as the most masculine out of all of them, is the one trying to take charge, and mould the world as he sees fit, to a degree that is detrimental to both him and everyone else. And Vash-- passive, feminine, kind and nurturing, whose Angel Arm in the manga always sprouts decidedly feminine-looking Plant parts-- is the one being exploited for Knives' plans. It's no mistake that they made the giant plant formation at the end of ep 11 look like a giant woman that almost resembles Rem.

Vash wants people to make their own choices and keep their autonomy when it comes to their bodies and lives. Knives is the exact opposite. He wants all Plants to become independent and he uses Vash to achieve that goal, without asking what Vash wants or even knowing what the Plants themselves would prefer. He exploits Vash for the soul purpose of trying to make these Plants have Independent Plant babies. He's completely incapable of seeing that his choices are not for the greater good! He thinks he's saving them, but none of his actions are for the good of anyone but himself. He’s just violating them for his own gain.

They're really leaning into gender roles for these guys, but in a way that screams "HEY, LOOK AT THIS! ISN'T IT FUCKED UP? LOOK AT HOW FUCKED UP THAT IS. LOOK AT THIS, AND BE UNCOMFORTABLE, AND KNOW THAT IT IS FUCKED UP."

Because it is! It's so extremely fucked up. They're using this imagery and these roles, something that makes most of us intrinsically uncomfortable, to drive home how unhealthy Knives relationship with his ideal of Vash is. That's the point. We're supposed to be uncomfortable with this.

Now of course there's some nuance to it. Like, you could see Knives as somewhat of a feminine and/or queer-coded figure as well, ESPECIALLY if you look at some of his panels in the manga, which could in turn lead to themes about infighting and control within marginalized communities, but that might be something for another post. :3

And there's definitely different ways you could take this! Vash, with all this feminine imagery, could be either transfem or transmasc coded, depending on what way you'd rather see it, which could lead into themes of how people outside the norm constantly face a lack of bodily autonomy and are exploited for purposes outside their boundaries. We could also look at Wolfwood and his lack of choice over joining the Eye of Michael and becoming the Punisher, and how masculine men (particularly men of colour) are often forced into violent roles against their will. If we look at Trimax, the exact same could be said for Livio/Razlo and people with disorders such as DID/OSDD.

There are many different ways you could spin these themes, some of which I don't feel personally qualified to discuss. If anyone who is qualified to talk about Wolfwood or Livio/Razlo or even other characters related to these themes, then god PLEASE add onto this post or make a post and tag me or something. I would love to read it!

Anyway, in conclusion: Vash is a feminine figure constantly taken advantage of and exploited and and he's so incredibly trans/nonbinary-coded that it drives me insane. Thank you

[vyunok-obyknovenniy]

Really happy with how she turned out! I decided to give her some naiad features, inspired by this post and it was really fun! I hc that she can breathe underwater (even though she doesn't have gills. Do naiads have gills?), although I am not sure if she can do it freely or for a limited amount of time 🤔

The fabric piece covering her chest was loosely inspired by 18th century neckerchiefs, because I wasn't sure how the Mycenaean open chest fashion would fly with the censorship here or on other platforms ¯⁠\⁠_(•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me]

Ranger Variety Hour

A sphere doomer hunter who might dabble in darker dealings, her services are costly but his prey is garunteed caught 🦚🪶✨

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Still very wild to me when people try to gotcha Jason with the whole "if you can kill other people for being evil why can't they kill you" when jason is like. One of the most passively suicidal characters I've ever seen. What if man

[holographings]

IT'S HERE!!!

The digital English translation of my first published comic is up and available for purchase!

The comic "Break what fate builds", draws inspiration from historical events from the 12th century and motifs from the Byzantine Empire that ruled these areas. Through the characters' eyes, this story focuses on the relationship of young people within the Balkan & their home, distortions of identity, things long lost and much more.

You can get the digital version of Volume 1 here (available in both English and Macedonian) <3

see you for volume 2!!!

[squuote]

rereading 17776 rn and noticing that Nine’s hesitance to accept their new reality is something I didn’t fully take in before. Like a majority of their concerns are all focused on the idea of purpose, which actually makes a lot of sense for them to solely be hooked on that specific concern. Nine was built with the intent of space exploration and to help humans achieve that goal. Being thrown into a reality where that purpose has essentially died and doesn’t really exist anymore would be very alarming for someone whose whole reason of existence is that specific thing. Nine’s arc of acceptance in existence so to speak. sorry I’m probably last to get to this but man it just hit me like a ton of bricks

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[linden-after-hours]

As much as most of us (I assume) found Joker Out through Eurovision last year and maybe are big fans of the contest (me included), please consider boycotting Eurovision this year!

Palestinians and allies have called for the disqualification of Israel but the EBU has refused. Now Israel is participating with a song that used to be called "October Rain" (the title has been changed) that is very clearly referencing October 7th.

Russia was (rightfully) disqualified for opening fire on Ukraine. Israel is allowed to continue, despite the year-long occupation and murdering thousands of Palestinians in the last half year alone.

Boycotting means not watching, not streaming the shows, not creating or interacting with any Eurovision content. You will miss out on a glittery night of music and it will suck, but it will help path the way to a free Palestine! 🍉

Read the BDS Movements statement from March 2nd 2024 here.

[twicearoundthebend]

worstie wolverine backstory thoughtssss

What if it wasn’t a group of anti mutants that stormed the mansion - what if it was weapon x coming specifically to take Logan back

I’m going to ramble and I’m not fact checking so like - ramble back and correct me if you want

Logan had fucked off to get drunk again. Scott had pleaded as he left, but it was getting easier and easier to tune his voice out. Logan didn’t want a family, he didn’t want to be a guard dog, he wanted to be left alone. The cold of the bar was comforting, familiar - much more familiar than the warmth of the x mansion. He’d settled down to numb his brain till his thoughts froze over, but didn’t reach that point.

Instead, a news broadcast started. The reporter said it was a ‘mutant hate group’ and looking at the carnage he didn’t blame her, but she was wrong. Those uniforms, those faces, he knew them. He’d escaped them, he thought he’d destroyed them, but here they were murdering the people who’d taken him in.

Weapon X.

-

He’d ran to the mansion. Heart in his throat and lungs burning, but he was too late. The x-men were all dead, and the group of scientists and soldiers had left the scene. He’d left them, they’d pleaded for him to stay, and he’d left them to get attacked by his own demons.

He searched through all the bodies, checked over and over for signs of life, but there was nothing. Just vacant stares and still pulses.

A few hours in, he heard a wheeze. He whipped around, scanning, hoping beyond all hope, only for his eyes to land on a Weapon X soldier with vines growing through his chest.

Within a second he was looming over the soldier, ready to do anything for information. But he didn’t even get the satisfaction of torturing the information out of him. The soldier spat the truth out at him, gloating at his pain.

Weapon X had come to the mansion to retrieve Logan. To take him back to be studied, torn apart and put back together over and over again. To take his DNA and turn it into anything they set their minds to. They’d tracked him here, but when they broke through the doors he was nowhere to be found. They hadn’t planned to kill the x-men, but when no one would reveal any information about Logan, they tried to torture the information out. None would give anything up.

“After we’d asked such incriminating questions, they had to die. Can’t have any loose ends, can we? You’re a top secret weapon, Wolverine, and one we desperately want back in our possession.” The soldier managed to sneer around his pain, still looking at Logan like he was less than human. “Death of filth like them isn’t death, it’s mercy.” His face contorted, and before Logan could lop his head off, his eyes went hazy, and his breath stopped.

They had been here for him. They’d murdered the x-men for protecting him. Their last breaths had been spent fighting for him, while he’d been getting pissed. Broken bodies all around him - he couldn’t find anything inside of him besides overwhelming guilt.

[rustic-space-fiddle]

After exploring the EPIC fandom a bit, I have decided that I really really love it when something just jogs everyone’s creative brain in a similar way? The way PJATO did, and we just all had this nearly universal idea of what the characters looked like. EPIC seems to have done a similar thing, and we all just collectively decided a some things about the characters and I love that. Before I even saw there was extended lore and was just listening to it little by little on Spotify, I imagined Odysseus with 3 main things: longer (curly) hair, a beard that progresses, and a war-scarred face. Then I come online and see that’s what other people envisioned too! I just love the brain scratch that REALLY GOOD art and literature gives people as a whole. It’s super cool to see something like music/poetry convey such a vivid image in our imaginations. I love it sm.