#I hope that this is.... coherent.... and sufficient.

[glitter-stained]

On villains with tragic backstories

Sometimes I'm like "is it really psychophobic, maybe i'm reaching, the character did say that they're not actually crazy they just like killing people" and then the narrative will hit me with "some terrible, dark horrors have happened in your past and this is why you are killing people but it's not too late to get admitted in a psych ward" and I wanna throw the comic through the window and myself with it.

The "mentally ill villain" trope isn't just saying that the villain is crazy or giving them hallucinations. If you're giving a villain a tragic backstory, and that backstory has caused them severe suffering the memory of which is still painful to the day, and the story expects you to believe that the villain's horrible behaviour is explained by the fact that this suffering broke something in them... It's worth examining if you're not just vilifying or demonizing mental illness on accident.

The issue isn't that your villain can't have a tragic backstory, or that the tragic backstory can't explain their actions: the issue is when the suffering itself is treated as a sufficient cause for the behaviour. Say a character was raised and abused by a cult that taught them killing puppies is good and then they kill puppies: not psychophobic. Say a character who used to love puppies was kidnapped and tortured by some guy just for the fun of hurting someone, no brainwashing or anything just pain, and then they get out and kill puppies because of the torture: psychophobic. There's a missing link in the reasoning here, a question of "what about this event taught/brought the person to the conclusion that it was a good idea to kill puppies or gave them a desire to?" The psychophobia is insidious, hiding in the implication that the trauma (because this is what it's really all about) is what made them kill puppies. Sometimes, people with trauma kill puppies. But killing puppies (or exploding buildings with children in it, or shooting someone in the spine, or severing heads and putting them in a duffle bag, or, or, or) is not and has never been a symptom of ASD*, PTSD, CPTSD, BPD, DID, DDD or any other trauma-induced disorder. It's a good idea to verbalise the logic, emotions, needs and desire that motivate your villain and where they stem from, to avoid falling into the trap that thinking their trauma, because of the magnitude of the empathy it's meant to generate for the character, is enough of an explanation for their behaviour. A villain being sympathetic because of their backstory doesn't mean that their actions are necessarily coherent.

On top of that, it's important to take in account other factors such as the original background of the character, their vulnerabilities, their age (super important when writing childhood/teenage trauma/young villains!), but also their ethnicity, gender etc etc. This is important for realism and accuracy, because trauma is neither a magical button that creates heroes nor sociopaths, but also because psychophobia interacts so easily with other forms of discrimination slipping through the cracks. Now that you've identified that your woc character becoming a manipulative, sociopathic "crazy ex" because of her trauma was not just a consequence of her trauma but the interaction between the trauma and personal factors, what are those implicit factors that contribute to make her manipulative, obsessed with her ex, etc.? And now that you've extracted them explicitly, like a zip file, can you examine them to see how many of these personal characteristics have to do with her being a woman of colour?

I hope it's clear that I'm not telling you what to write- I think imposing the idea that villains can't be poc, or queer, or working class, or disabled, or mentally ill, etc. is harmful, because it reduces potential representation, it's based on the assumption that I know what you're gonna write and it's gonna be fundamentally ableist, and it puts this pressure on fictional characters to be perfect icons of representation rather than actual characters with depth and personality (kinda like thinking you can't write a female character who cries because it implies women are weak). This is just to encourage you to be mindful about what you're doing when writing that tragic backstory, because it's not necessarily what we think about when we talk about mental illness, and it's important to analyse what you're writing with a measure of introspection: why am I writing this? What does this imply about the character? What's my reasoning for this character's reasoning?

I have zero issue with a mentally ill character kicking a puppy as long as the narrative isn't trying to tell me that it's a symptom of mental illness to kick puppies. But of course, perhaps the story could also be a critique of those stories about mentally ill people kicking puppies, and the satyre is flying way over my head; or perhaps there will be a secret plot-twist that happens after I stopped reading that explained why the character was kicking puppies, perhaps the book was an attempt at guiding and manipulating the reader into realising the flaws in that reasoning on their own, or perhaps it was a metaphor for something else entirely, etc, etc. I don't know. The point is, write whatever you want; but write it self-aware.

*in this context, ASD meaning Acute Stress Disorder

Two examples of comics I think do it pretty well:

> Arkham Knight Genesis: for all its flaws (i didn't really like this one), I think it does a pretty decent job of getting us to understand how Jason got where he is, that it wasn't just "tortured until evil", all the reasons for his resentment, all the brainwashing and manipulation are pretty explicit. Kind of an "easy mode" because the plot revolves around brainwashing, but solid on that front.

> Red Hood Lost Days: this one I'm more mitigated because there's this whole "pit madness/the pit made him a psychopath" thing Winick introduced to limit the damage of previous runs (and rightfully so imo, Pit Madness is a much better explanation for some of Jason's most batshit ooc runs than just trauma), but there are some pretty solid elements, especially when you know earlier comics. I'm thinking specifically about when Jason says something around the lines of "you murder people; i put down a lizard", as a direct echo to Judy's "I put down a mad dog", that's one of my favourite comic lines ever, I cheered seeing that parallel like yes, I can see the reasoning, I understand where you learned the lesson and what the thought process is and I support it.

[freedcmscall]

Plotted Starter — Blood Magic | @triickst

Anders knew how drained he was, could feel that he had next to no mana reserves left in that internal pool from which he could pull. Fumbling hands pulled another bottle from his pack, a muttered curse escaping his lips as he realised it was the last one. No time to worry over that at the moment, he would be fine. His companions, however, he was not so sure of. Resolved, he pulled the cork of the lyrium potion out with his teeth and knocked back its contents, grimacing as ever at the somehow bitter yet cloying taste the liquid brought to his tongue.

It was supposed to have been another routine mission. Really, he should have known. Anders had known Lucian for long enough to know that any time something was supposed to be normal or routine, it ended up anything but. That was probably why he'd come along to begin with. It had been fine, destroying a cave full of slavers, until the point that it was very much not fine and they were considerably more outnumbered than they needed to be. Finally, though, everyone could catch their breath.

He'd tended to their other two companions, by some stroke of luck or act of the Maker only inflicted with largely superficial wounds. And then he'd gotten to Lucian, and dammit he should have started with him. Anders shoved down the panic threatening to bubble up in his throat and replaced it with stubbornness, pulling at every last ounce of mana and pleading with any whisp that would listen from the Fade to help him in healing this man. He couldn't lose him.

Soon, too soon, dangerously quickly, Anders was left panting and useless. He pulled at the Fade, begged it, pleaded, even sent a quick prayer to the Maker, and nothing. Lucian was still hurt, still too hurt. He couldn't heal all of the wounds - his mind helpfully supplying a moment later that it was likely because some were too imbued with blood magic. It was too dangerous of a combination, a large attack and Lucian's dependence on blood magic. This was the danger of blood magic, not a lack of control, not consorting with demons, but losing someone dear to him. For a moment, Anders' mind flashed back to Karl, dead by his hand, dead because his actions could do nothing to save him — no, not again. The healer was rendered a desperate man, and desperation could be a dangerous thing.

He took a deep, steadying breath, steeling himself. He had to do this. "You'll be okay," he whispered, not sure if it was to himself or to Lucian, whom Anders knew likely couldn't even hear him at this point. He was too close to dying, Anders was too close to losing him. He glanced about, ensuring no one else was watching him, reassured by the fact that it looked like the other two were conversing and sufficiently distracted, recovering energy from the mess that they had been caught in.

He blindly fumbled for the small knife he kept strapped to his belt, refusing to tear his eyes from Lucian in case his condition worsened even in the brief moments that such a movement took, moments that felt as though they were being pulled through molasses instead of the air through which time flowed naturally. Quickly, Anders unwound the gauze tied about his wrist and pulled off the leather cuff on his right arm. Taking no care, he tore apart the poorly stitched together old tear in the fabric of his coat - he could sew it back together, as he had done countless times. It was fabric, it didn't feel. It wouldn't die.

Left hand shaking and head pounding from the severe lack of mana as well as what he could feel was clearly Justice's disapproval, he brought the knife to the flesh of his wrist. His palm would have been easier - more pain but less fabric to undo, but likewise would have been too obvious. He couldn't risk anyone knowing what he had done. Before he could talk himself out of it, Anders had sliced open his flesh, floundering for a moment before he managed to get the blood to behave as close of an approximation of his normal healing as he could get.

There was a moment, too long of a moment, too tense of a moment, where he feared it hadn't worked. He had never studied blood magic, it was against everything he believed in (except for Lucian, he was okay to use blood magic except for when it left him bleeding out and dying in front of Anders). What if he failed anyway? His fears didn't last long, and at long last, the healing appeared to take. He was pale, sweaty, and exhausted, but the worst of the damage done to Lucian had been repaired and it was clear enough to Anders, given his profession as a healer, that he would live.

Before he himself could lose consciousness from the exhaustion, the mana loss, and the blood loss combined, and before Lucian could regain his own consciousness fully enough, Anders hastily re-wrapped his gauze about his wrist, messier than it had been but hopefully enough to hold. He neglected the leather cuff, wiped his small blade on his tunic, and tucked it back away on his belt.

"Come on, wake up," he encouraged, voice soft from care and wavering from all-encompassing tiredness. He would not rest until he saw Lucian stir. In Anders' state, he didn't notice that the blood was beginning to stain his sleeve. It wasn't even a passing thought or glance - he wasn't important at that moment.

[corawithfanfiction]

Sergei Kravinoff x Fem!Reader

(Kraven the Hunter, Request)

My Materialist

warnings: nudity, self-gratification, foreplay, masturbation, intimidation, oral intercourse, dirty tongue.

Summury: When you take a shower after a tiring day, Sergei comes back home to surprise you.

1634 Word

At Nova's (@novaawayne) request, I hope you like it, sweetie.

Ask for permission before quoting or translating!

Sergei had been away for a long time. He had business as usual. You never questioned much. Somewhere you knew the answers, but you also knew it was better not to ask. You thought a hot shower would loosen you up and help you fall asleep faster as the longing seeped into every fiber of your being.

You turned off the lights in your penthouse apartment, small but with enough space for you. You light one or two candles to create a calmer atmosphere and escape the tiredness of the day. The smell of the candles instantly permeated the small apartment and the dim light lulled you into a little bit of a stupor.

You get rid of your clothes and turn the water to the ideal temperature. Finally, before entering the shower, you found one of your favorite playlists on your phone and turned it on. You let the sound of the music diffuse into the environment just like the scent of the candles. When the water was warm enough, you got in and let the tiredness of the day wash away. Once you were satisfied that you were sufficiently soaked, you lathered yourself up. You let the vanilla and cinnamon flavored shower gel envelop your entire body. You tried to console yourself with the thought that Sergei had touched you wherever the lather reached.

You continued to cover yourself in bubbles until the thoughts became more and more desperate, until the longing filled your whole soul and reached your core. Desperate, you slid your hand down your body and began to rub yourself with your fingers. You accelerated your movements as the pressure became insufficient. Finally you gave up when a moan of frustration escaped your lips. You used to be able to satisfy yourself. Then you met him and all the things he could do to your body. After Sergei, nothing could ever replace him.

You took a deep breath and decided to sleep tonight in disappointment. You rinsed your whole body one last time with warm water and turned off the water. You decided that the best thing to do was to wrap yourself in a bathrobe and spend a girly girl night in bed watching 'Sex and the City'

As soon as you opened the shower door and stepped out, you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist. As your scream escaped your lips at the powerful sensation, your body betrayed you by the familiar warmth and instantly began to relax. You stopped screaming at the sound of laughter behind you and the warmth of breath on the back of your neck. A pair of full lips pressed a faint kiss to his neck.

“I'm sorry to scare you, my love, but I miss you so much.”

As soon as you heard Sergei's voice, you left his arms and immediately turned around to meet his eyes. Your breathing became ragged as you felt his blue eyes on you again. Your eyes welled up and you didn't want him to see you like this, so you wrapped your hands around his neck and buried your face in his strong body.

"Hey севгилим, won't you let me see your beautiful eyes?”

You let out a deep sigh, still holding on to Sergei's strong grip. You buried your face in his chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat brought you back to peace. “Cевгилим, I heard the moans coming out of your beautiful little mouth.” She sighed with disappointment. “Were you touching yourself while I was gone…” Shaking her head no, you pulled back to meet your eyes.

“Sergei…”, your heart, filled with longing and need, couldn't form a coherent sentence. More like a whimper escaped your lips. “Y/N, севгилим,” he took a deep breath and re-established eye contact. “We talked about this.” He moistened his lips with his tongue, as if he couldn't decide exactly what to say or do. “We agreed that you would wait for me, didn't we?” His voice was not angry or resentful. Every word came out of his lips with great care. You nodded quickly in agreement. “I miss you, I know…” he interrupted with urgency. You were in no position to continue explaining yourself when his tongue slid into your mouth.

Finally he pulled back to let you breathe. After his eyes lingered on your lips for a while longer, he made eye contact again. “I know, I know, my dear.” He leaned in again for a small kiss. Then he continued. “But I thought we agreed on this, no self-pleasuring without me.” He waited a moment to make sure you could understand his words. “And there must be some punishment for breaking the forbidden, right?”

You gasped with excitement and anticipation. Your heartbeat quickened. “Anyway, I couldn't do it without you, these,” waving his fingers in the air, ”were a disappointment.” He couldn't hold back his laughter at your words. “I missed you, Sergei,” you said, leaning in closer after accompanying his laughter.

He knew it, but your confession reawakened more primal feelings in him. His breathing changed for an instant. You could feel the intensity in their flow towards you, as evidenced by the amber color of their eyes. You could bring out the animal in Sergei. And you were always proud of it. The so-called “hunter” turned into a lion when he was with you. Your lion.

"Y/N" Sergei made a sound mixed with a growl. He could feel his hands trembling. He could feel the tiny ants moving in his stomach.

Finally, he took a few steps back and leaned himself against the sink. With his hand he pulled you towards him. Step by step you let the towel you were wrapped in slip from your body as you approached him.

Sergei held his breath, watching your skin being exposed second by second. He was mesmerized by your perky breasts, which were not too small.

A mischievous smile appeared on your face as your towel fell completely to the floor. “Should I be afraid, Mr. Kravinoff?” you asked coyly when Sergei gave a grunt mixed with a growl.

Sergei leaned down and kissed your lips. “Maybe you should be a little scared.”

When Sergei was about to pull back, you put your arms around his neck and pulled him back to you. Both of you were making unexpected moves at an unexpected moment.

Your hands ran through your lover's hair while one of his hands had already found his chest.

Sergei pulled back and this time began to run his lips over the fully exposed breasts. At first he ran his lips over the beginning of the breasts, where they began to rise slightly. Then, when this was too little, he supported your breasts from below with his hands and raised the tips higher.

He wasted no time in cupping the tips of her breasts with his lips as his eyes glowed with the pink he saw on your nipples.

His eyes glowed with the pinkness he saw at the tips of her breasts and he wasted no time in grasping the nipples with his lips. You were trying to stop your moans with Sergei's every movement. Your biggest moan came when Sergei crushed your nipples with his teeth. “Shh, beautiful, you have to be quiet, we don't want to wake the neighbors.” You had no idea how to be calm and quiet. Sergei was all over you.

Sergei's fingers moved to your waist. His lips trailed warm kisses down to your crotch.

He stepped back for a few seconds as if he wanted to memorize every detail of her body. And he studied every inch of her eyes. It wasn't the first time you were naked in front of him. But you blushed every time he looked at you like that. Finally, he decided that he had examined you enough and said “okay, it's time for us to be equal” and took off first his t-shirt and then his boxers and pants.

When he leaned in to kiss you, you pulled back. When he looked at you confused, you bent down. As he looked at you with disbelieving eyes, you moistened your lips with your tongue and reached for your favorite dessert. Sergi's eyes had both pride and disbelief in them, but it didn't last a minute. He was already saying something incoherent as you started to lick your man.

"Oh, there's a good fuckin' girl," he groaned, collecting whatever hair he could in a makeshift ponytail; looking down his nose to watch you. His cock was overwhelming, but you were determined to earn the pleasure he would surely bring; mouthing around his cockhead, using one hand to pump what didn't fit, the other alternating between holding his hairy thigh for balance and cradling his balls.

A few times, you held his eyes with yours as you removed his cock with a pop; licking his shaft up and down like it was a popsicle on the Fourth of July. His jaw would clench each time, sputtering his breath. His veins were pulsing, prominent under the skin; making your cunt contract as his throat bobbed as he swallowed harshly, groaning.

“Come here before I lose my mind,” he said, pulling you to your feet.

He chuckled and reached down to help you up, instantly searing you in a wet, messy kiss as he backed you into the sink counter; tasting himself on your tongue. It was erotic, something you were vastly not used to - no man ever being okay with you kissing them after having their dicks in your mouth.

Except your wild lion.

And you knew that your lion was hungry and this was just a preparation for dinner.

My Materialist

TAG LIST:

[familyabolisher]

hi if u don’t mind me asking, could u please elaborate on your thoughts on the critique of contemporary anti-intellectualism (specifically on social media)? i’m legitimately curious and enjoy a lot of ur analysis and commentary i mean this in good faith :)

Broadly speaking, the philosophical concept of anti-intellectualism tends to critically describe the ideological + rhetorical relegation of intellectual production to an elitist practice fundamentally at odds with the interests of the layman; and, crucially, the treatment of these categories as fixities. I disagree with the propositions of that philosophical discourse as well, but that’s not always the form that the discourse takes on this website. On here, ‘anti-intellectualism’ is more of a vague catch-all used to describe anything from people who express frustration with the literary canon & mainstream schooling in ways that don’t coddle the sensibilities of people with literature degrees to people who come out with outright fascistic views on provocative art; it attempts to corral what are in fact very disparate positions and perspectives under the umbrella of insufficient ‘intellect,’ often shorthanded to ‘reading comprehension’ or ‘media literacy’ (or ‘[in]curiosity,’ a new favourite) without any materialist investigation into what we mean when we talk about intellect and literacy and a lack thereof or whether this is a politically expedient description of the dynamic[s] in question.

When I say materialism, I mean it in the Marxist sense, ie. as a counter to idealism—because what’s being described here is a fundamentally idealist (and therefore useless) position. The discourse of anti-intellectualism as it exists on this website relies on idealist propositions—people lack curiosity, they lack interest, they are ‘lazy,’ they are ‘illiterate’ where ‘illiterate’ is not a value-neutral statement about one’s relationship to a socially constituted ‘literacy’ but communicating a moral indictment, at its worst they are ‘stupid,’ ‘idiots’��these descriptors rely on an assumption of immutable internal properties rather than providing a materialist description for why things are the way that they are. These aren’t actionable descriptors; at best they’re evasive because they circumvent serious interrogation of the conditions they’re describing, at worst they’re harbingers of an inclination towards eugenicist rhetoric. The discourse casts those who are ‘illiterate’—which in this capacity means those who fail to perform conventional literacy, who lack a traditional education, who don’t demonstrate sufficient interest in classic literature—or the more unkind ‘stupid’ (which, frankly, is what people want to say when they say ‘illiterate’ or ‘incurious’ anyway, lmao) as socially disposable and places the onus of changing one’s behaviour (so as to not be cast as illiterate/incurious/stupid) on them rather than asking what conditions have produced XYZ discourse of social disposability and responding with compassion and ethical diligence; I hope I don’t have to explain why this is eugenicist.

The discourse also lacks an ability to coherently describe what is meant by the ‘intellectualism’ in question—after all, merely appealing to ‘intellectualism’ is a similarly idealist rhetorical move if you don’t have the material grounding to back it up—and indeed tends to dismiss legitimate critiques of intellectual + cultural production as ‘anti-intellectual.’ People love to talk about ‘literacy,’ but don’t like expounding on what they’re actually describing when they do so—the selection of traits and actions that come together to constitute a correct demonstration of ‘literacy’ are built on the bedrock of eg. an ability to thrive within the school system (a mechanism of social control and stratification), fluently speak the dominant language by which this ‘literacy’ is being assessed (in online spaces like Tumblr this is usually English), and engage with the ‘right’ texts in the ‘right’ ways where ‘right’ means ‘invested with legitimacy and authority by the governing body of the academy.’ Literacy is used as a metric of assimilation into hegemonic society by which immigrant and working-class children are made rhetorically disposable unless they demonstrate their ability to integrate into the hegemonic culture (linked post talks about immigrant families being rendered ‘illiterate’ as a tactic of racism in France, but the same applies to the US, UK, etc); similarly, disabled people who for whatever reason will never achieve the level of ‘literacy’ required to not have Tumblr users doing vagueposts about how you deserve a eugenicist death for watching a kids’ show are by this discourse rendered socially disposable, affirming the paradigms which already make up their experience under a social system which reifies ableism in order to sustain itself. (This includes, by the way, the genre of posts making fun of the idea that someone with ADHD could ever struggle with reading theory.) ‘Literacy’ as the ability to understand and respond to a text is difficult and dispersed according to disparate levels of social access, and a lack of what we call literacy is incredibly shameful; any movement towards liberation (and specifically liberatory pedagogy) worth its salt needs to challenge the stigma against illiteracy, but this website’s iteration of ‘anti-intellectualism’ discourse seems to only want to reaffirm it.

Similarly, the discourse dismisses out of hand efforts to give a materialist critique of the academy and the body of texts that make up the ‘canon’—I’m thinking of a post I saw literally this morning positing a hypothetical individual’s disinterest in reading canonical (“classic”) literature as an “anti-intellectual” practice which marked them as an “idiot.” (Obviously, cf. above comments re. ‘stupidity,’ ‘idiocy’ as eugenicist constructions.) People who will outright call themselves Marxists seem to get incredibly uncomfortable at the suggestion that there are individuals for whom the literary canon is not even slightly interesting and who will never in their lives engage with it or desire to engage with it, and this fact does not delegitimise their place in revolutionary thinking and organising (frankly, in many areas, it strengthens it); they seem determined to continue to defer to the canon as a signifier of authority and therefore value, rather than acknowledging its role as a marker of class and classed affects and a rubric by which civility (cf. linked post above) could be enforced. (I believe the introduction to Chris Baldick’s The Social Mission of English Criticism touches on this dimension of literary studies as a civilising mission of sorts, as well as expounding on the ways in which ‘literary studies’ as we presently understand it is a nineteenth-century phenomenon responding to the predictable nineteenth-century crises and contradictions.) People will defer to, for example, Dumas, Baldwin, Morrison, to contravene the idea that the literary canon is made up of ‘straight white men,’ without appreciating that this is a hugely condescending way to talk about their work, that this collapses three very different writers into the singular category of ‘Black canonical writer’ and thus stymies engagement with their work at any level other than that of 'Black canonical literature' (why else put Dumas and Morrison in the same sentence, unless as a cheap rhetorical ‘gotcha’? I like both but they’re completely different writers lmfao), and that this excises from the sphere of legitimacy those Black writers who don’t make it into the authorising space of the canon; and, of course, reaffirms the canon’s authenticity and dismisses out of hand the critique of loyalty to hegemony that the ‘straight white men’ aphorism rightly imposes.

The discourse operates on a unilateral scale by which the more ‘literacy’ (ie. ability to speak the language of the literati) one has, the greater their moral worth, and a lack of said ‘literacy’ indicates the inverse. This overlooks the ways in which the practice of literary criticism wholly in line with what these people would call ‘intellectualism’ has historically been wielded as a tactic of reactionary conservatism; one only has to look at the academic output of Harold Bloom for examples of this. People will often pay lipservice to the hegemony of the academy and the practices by which only certain individuals are allowed access to intellectual production (stratified along classed + racialised lines, of course), but fail to really internalise this idea in understanding that the critical practices they afford a significant degree of legitimacy are inextricable from the academy from which they emerged, and that we can and should be imagining alternative forms of pedagogy and criticism taking place away from sites which restrict access based on allegiance to capital. Part of my communism means believing in the abolition of the university; this is not an ‘anti-intellectual’ position but a straightforwardly materialist one.

A final core problem with the 'anti-intellectualism' discourse is that it's obscurantist. As I explained above, it posits the problem with eg. poor engagement with theoretical concepts, challenging art, etc., to be one of 'intellect' and 'curiosity,' idealist rather than materialist states. In practice, the reasons behind what gets cast as 'anti-intellectualism' are very disparate. Sometimes, we're talking about a situation wherein (as I explained above) someone lacks 'literacy'; sometimes we're talking about the reason for someone's refusal to engage with and interpret art with care and deference being one of bigotry (eg. racist dismissals of non-white artists' work, misogynistic devaluing of women's work, etc.); sometimes we're talking about a reactive discomfort with marginalised people communicating difficult concepts online as a 'know-your-place' response (eg. backlash against 'jargon' on here is almost always attacking posts from/about marginalised people talking about their oppression, with the attacks coming from people who have failed to properly understand that oppression; I've been called a jargonistic elitist for talking about antisemitism, I've seen similar things happen to mutuals who talk about racism and transmisogyny). All of these are incredibly different situations that require incredibly different responses; the person who doesn't care to engage with a text in a way that an English undergrad might because doing so doesn't interest them or they lack the requisite skill level is not comparable to the person who doesn't care to engage with a text because they don't respect the work of a person of colour enough to do so. Collapsing these things under the aegis of 'anti-intellectualism' lacks explanatory power and fails to provide a sufficient actionable response.

Ultimately, the discourse is made up of a lot of people who are very high on their own capabilities when it comes to literary analysis (which, as others have pointed out, seems to be the only arena where all this ever takes place, despite the conventional understanding of ‘media literacy’ referring as much to a discerning eye for propaganda and misinformation as an ability to churn out a cute little essay on Don Quixote) and have managed to find an acceptable outlet for their dislike of anyone who lacks the same, and have provided retroactive justification in the form of the claim that not only is [a specific form of] literary analysis [legible through deference to the authority of the literary canon & the scholarship of the nineteenth century and onward surrounding it] possible for everyone, it is in fact necessary in order to access the full breadth of one’s humanity such that an absence thereof reveals an individual as subhuman and thus socially disposable. A failure to be sufficiently literate is only ever a choice and a personal failing, which is how this discourse escapes accountability for the obviously bigoted presumptions upon which it rests. In this, all materialism is done away with; compassion is done away with, as it becomes possible to describe the multiplicity of reasons why someone cannot or does not demonstrate ‘literacy’ in X, Y or Z ways in the sum total of a couple of adjectives; nothing productive comes of this discourse but a reassertion of the conditions of hegemony in intellectual practice and the bolstering of the smugness of a few people at the expense of alienating everyone else.

As I’ve said countless times before, the way to counteract what we might perceive as ‘incuriosity’ or disinterest in challenging texts is to talk about these challenging texts and our approaches to them as often as we can, to make the pedagogical practices that are usually kept behind the walls of the academy as widely accessible as possible (and to adjust our pedagogy beyond the confines of ideological hegemony that the academy imposes), and to encourage a culture by which people feel empowered to share their thoughts, discuss, ask questions, and explore without being made to feel ashamed for not understanding something. The people who cry ‘anti-intellectualism’ because they saw someone on Tiktok express a disinterest in reading Jane Eyre are accomplishing none of this.

[mongrel-mage]

A Spoiler-free review of Edge of Sleep

Fucking incredible. Like...9/10 and the only reason I say so is because there were only 6 20-ish minute episodes and I wanted the show to be longer and give us more backstory on the characters and such. It'll be a bit longer of a post, but rest assured that there are no spoilers under the link.

Main differences from the podcast, but still minor: the character of The Trespasser does not feature in the show, nor do Dave's story about the Moobles and the ensuing hallucinations he describes. However, I was satisfied with how they used the information from The Trespasser's subplot in the actual TV show, and there was a little reference to him at the beginning of Episode 5 that made me smile, so I'm really not that fussed about those things being missing.

I'm going to take a minute to rave about Eve Harlow, who plays Linda. What a goddamn POWERHOUSE of an actress, honestly. Perfect casting. She nailed a character who is tough as iron, focused, determined, and intelligent without making Linda come across as unnecessarily cold or unlikeable--I'll go so far to say that Linda was my favorite character (by a slim margin, but still there). Eve Harlow has an incredibly expressive face and eyes that convey complex emotions without relying on the same few expressions or overacting what she's feeling. I really want to see her get some sort of awards or accolades for her performance because she carried damn near all of her scenes.

Let's talk about Mark. I already knew that he could act well because I'd watched his other projects, but most/if not all of them have at least some level of comedy, humor, or character who lightens the mental load at least a little bit. We all know that he's a giggly bitch and likes to have fun, and there's nothing wrong with that. That said, I'm comfortable saying that Edge of Sleep is easily his most ambitiously dramatic project--there was a lot of raw stress, grief, anger, and pain that Dave Torres went through, and I was impressed at how well Mark portrayed it. It's obvious how much he tries and how hard he cares; it's so clear that this wasn't some celebrity vanity project. You can really feel the love and the energy and the care that he put into this, and I was, like I said, impressed at his range as a drama/horror actor. There were some moments and expressions he had in the show (namely in the first episode, when the people at the party are giving Dave a hard time about his sleep disorder and past episodes) that hit me unexpectedly hard. Amazing performance, Mark. I'm proud of you.

I also want to take another moment to rave about the makeup and hair department. Standing ovation. The gradual increase of the characters' exhaustion and general levels of dishevelment (the thing that stuck with me the most was Linda's makeup and hair, SO good) looked very real and read well on camera. Anyone who knows me irl knows what a freak I am for good practical effects/makeup, and I want to make sure that those artists are acknowledged and appreciated. I'm also going to throw in some kudos for whoever was behind the Elephant Monster--that thing was FUCKED UP (/pos). I love a Creature and it was sufficiently more disturbing than I had expected it to be, since The Elephant isn't given much of a description in the podcast. I'm not sure if it was practical effects or something computer generated, but whatever it was it was amazing. Hats off to the Creature Crew!

Lastly: I WANT SEASON TWO. GIVE IT TO ME. I WANT TO RIP IT APART WITH MY TEETH. I HAVE BEEN GOOD AND COHERENT FOR THIS LONG NOW GIVE ME MORE.

Also. I promised no spoilers and there shall be none. But that last shot of the last episode? fucking HAUNTING. Here's hoping that us catapulting Edge of Sleep to the TOP FIVE, BEFORE THE OFFICIAL LAUNCH, will seriously throw some weight to whoever can decide to give us a second season.

[incesthemes]

I'm coming to bother you even though you're asleep because your sad long dead gay arctic explorers are haunting me so you have to deal with the consequences of your actions by me asking you to talk.

I'm curious to know your thoughts on Tuunbaq. How well you think he worked as a plot device in general in the amc, whether the book portrayed it in any different ways (I believe you said you read the book, might be wrong, ignore this if you had), anything interesting you've happened to read about it through your other research into the sad dead tent men, whether you really really fucking hated the cgi, etc.

I'll be back to haunt you with questions about Jopson but right now my brain is just record scratch sounds and sobbing so you're gonna have to wait for something coherent to come out of that mess lol

i am AWAKE now and i gotta say i wasn't expecting the jopson talk last night to lead into tuunbaq but that's okay. he's my perfect fluffy wuffy teddy bear who can do no wrong

i think others have said this kinda thing better than i ever could, but i really do like how tuunbaq is used in the show. he's like a manifestation of colonial hubris—the embodiment of fuck around and find out. they came to the arctic and destroyed the ecosystem, and their imperialist entitlement to conquer the land was inevitably their downfall. and i like that it's the "land" itself (in a metaphorical way, through tuunbaq) that shows them that entitlement is nothing but a false, vain hope. it doesn't matter what you think you're owed; the world doesn't exist for you to exploit and command, and it will not bend to your will.

because like, if gore and bryant had hesitated before shooting the shaman, tuunbaq likely would never have been a problem for them, right? he certainly wasn't in the 8 months since they'd gotten stuck in the pack. had they been peaceful and had they respected the land and its people, nature never would have clapped back. it was retaliation and defense. and the explorers' escalation of the issue—trying to hunt the bear, again out of entitlement to conquer and dominate—only caused further harm. they paid the ultimate price because they couldn't let go of their own entitlement and imperialism. they refused to listen to the netsilik, they pursued vengeance and sought dominion, and they died.

(i think about that inuit account a lot where it was said that the netsilik provided a group of starving men with an igloo and seals to eat, and they came back months later to discover the seals untouched and the men consumed. that they chose cannibalism over adaption to the local food sources is a horror in itself and an exemplar of the hubris these men carried with them—while the show depicts them as more sympathetic to the netsilik (really hard to get worse than this real account, no matter how hostile the show characters are), i think it does a good job of presenting the mindset of the real expedition)

i haven't read the book though, and based on the reviews i've seen of it i don't have much motivation to either. i may end up reading it in the future but i don't currently have plans for it. as for the tuunbaq himself, i don't think much(?) of him was actually cgi! he has a whole uhhhhh like. i don't know the word or i've forgotten what it is. but he's real:

i don't know much about his production though, and i actually thought he was cgi too until i saw this picture!!! the actual cgi from what i've seen of it (i haven't had much of a chance to look at the BTS stuff tbh...) is really well done. i didn't even realize they weren't like, submerging these poor actors in frozen water until i saw the greenscreen 😭

for tuunbaq's design, i don't know. i've become endeared to his weird human face, but i prefer the Long Neck version which is apparently the book description of him. i just think it's crazy and kooky, and the fanart i've seen of the book tuunbaq is just so awesome. sufficiently creepy for a "monster" but also extremely compelling.

anyway i love tuunbaq. he's the chilling manifestation of colonial hubris. he's blanky's wife. he's my good buddy and best friend. i'm his biggest fan forever 💖

[probablyasocialecologist]

I want to address a problem that seems to arise repeatedly in public discussions about green growth and degrowth. Some prominent commentators seem to assume that the debate here is primarily about the question of technology, with green growth promoting technological solutions to the ecological crisis while degrowth promotes only economic and social solutions (and in the most egregious misrepresentations is cast as “anti-technology”). This narrative is inaccurate, and even a cursory review of the literature is enough to make this clear. In fact, degrowth scholarship embraces technological change and efficiency improvements, to the extent (crucially) that these are empirically feasible, ecologically coherent, and socially just. But it also recognizes that this alone will not be enough: economic and social transformations are also necessary, including a transition out of capitalism. The debate is therefore not primarily about technology, but about science, justice, and the structure of the economic system.

[...]

Ecological economists point out that when we scale back our assumptions about technological change to levels that are, to quote the physicist and ecological economist Julia Steinberger, “non-insane,” and when we reject the idea that growth in rich countries should be maintained at the expense of the Global South, it becomes clear that relying on technological change is not enough, in and of itself, to solve the ecological crisis. Yes, we need fast renewable energy deployment, efficiency improvements, and dissemination of advanced technology (induction stoves, efficient appliances, heat pumps, electric trains, and so on). But we also need high-income countries dramatically to reduce aggregate energy and material use, at a speed faster than what efficiency improvements alone could possibly hope to deliver. To achieve this, high-income countries need to abandon growth as an objective and actively scale down less necessary forms of production, to reduce excess energy and material use directly.

[...]

Degrowth does not call for all forms of production to be reduced. Rather, it calls for reducing ecologically destructive and socially less necessary forms of production, like sport utility vehicles, private jets, mansions, fast fashion, arms, industrial beef, cruises, commercial air travel, etc., while cutting advertising, extending product lifespans (banning planned obsolescence and introducing mandatory long-term warranties and rights to repair), and dramatically reducing the purchasing power of the rich. In other words, it targets forms of production that are organized mostly around capital accumulation and elite consumption. In the middle of an ecological emergency, should we be producing sport utility vehicles and mansions? Should we be diverting energy to support the obscene consumption and accumulation of the ruling class? No. That is an irrationality that only capitalism can love. At the same time, degrowth scholarship insists on strong social policy to secure human needs and well-being, with universal public services, living wages, a public job guarantee, working time reduction, economic democracy, and radically reduced inequality. These measures abolish unemployment and economic insecurity and ensure the material conditions for a universal decent living—again, basic socialist principles. This scholarship calls for efficiency improvements, yes, but also a transition toward sufficiency, equity, and a democratic postcapitalist economy, where production is organized around well-being for all, as Peter Kropotkin famously put it, rather than around capital accumulation. The virtue of this approach should be immediately clear to socialists. Socialism insists on grounding its analysis in the material reality of the world economy. It insists on science and justice. Yes, socialism embraces technology—and credibly promises to manage technology better than capitalism—but socialist visions of technology should be empirically grounded, ecologically coherent, and socially just. They should emphatically not rely on speculation or magical thinking, much less the perpetuation of colonial inequalities. Green growth visions fall foul of these core socialist values.

[rockofeye]

the hell is going on with these folks (and the cat accusation is downright insane): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvZTr3F_YZI

This is purposefully targeted hate speech and propaganda, and it is not new to the US political field. This is part of the racist Great Replacement conspiracy theory, and the same statements have historically been said about folks immigrating for Asian countries, from the Middle East, and even folks coming from Central and South America. I hope it's no longer a common thing said, but there were racist 'jokes' when I was young that if you went to a Chinese restaurant, you were getting cat for dinner.

These are tactics attempting to demonize an extremely vulnerable and marginalized community in the same manner that Jews and other 'undesirable' groups were demonized at the end of the Weimar Republic as the Third Reich rose in Germany. This is a tool of a political party that is trying to seize power by fearmongering, which requires a scapegoat to be successful. Recently arrived Haitians are that scapegoat, and it's dangerous.

That video is really sad, and it's a masterclass in how racism is both a class issue and is used as a tool to divide. The statements about how recently arrived folks supposedly get so much money for the government, but we can't...this is manipulating working class, blue collar workers, and folks living at or under the poverty line, and it is exactly the tactics used in the building of race and racism that the United States was founded on. Instead of white folks who fall into working class, blue collar, or poverty categories realizing that the government is the problem in that basic needs of every day persons are absolutely ignored under our so-called democracy, they are being told that it is the people who are leaving a literal war zone to try and stay alive who are the problem. At base, racism is capitalist divide-and-conquer; if working class/blue collar/poverty level white folks united with Black folks, immigrants, and those seeking asylum, this country would be on it's knees...but instead, capitalism has manipulated vulnerable citizens to believe that outsiders are the problem with claims that are absolutely out of hand

Some of this is lack of education and critical thinking skills; basic research can show people that what people claim as fact is not at all true. People who are arriving from the border or arriving via the Biden parole program are in the United States legally but honestly...who fucking cares? It is a factual inaccuracy to believe that individuals who are not citizens and/or have not passed the 5 year mark if they are legal permanent residents have access to federal benefits earmarked for citizens or folks with sufficient residency. They do not qualify for SNAP, most Medicaid, social security, federal financial aid, and on and on. When they work, they pay taxes but they do not reap the benefits--there are no tax refunds and they do not benefit from social security, which means even if they work for 30 years in the US on a work permit, they can never access social security retirement benefits.

The rest is political strategy, wag-the-dog style. This bluster distracts from the fact that the Republican candidate is a fucking lunatic who cannot string together a single coherent thought and who is able to be provoked to anger with a single side eye. This is a distraction to remove pressure and attention.

Moreover, if it was true that recently arrived Haitians were left to steal domestic pets or wild living birds to survive, the shame is on our hands, as US citizens, for allowing people to starve when there is so much food available. How would a country with one of the highest GDPs allow people fleeing terror to be reduced to stealing pets to eat? That would be disgusting and a terrible indictment of who we are as a country, not that many of us don't already see it.

The other statements about Haitians being filthy etc are just poorly informed or purposefully aimed to be harmful. Anyone who has lived with or around Haitians in any significant way knows how a Haitian home is kept. Anyone who has spent any significant time with Haitians understands how, even if someone is living in poverty with nothing, there is still pride in themselves and how they live...and that is a huge reason, all other things aside, why folks are not out stealing Fluffy to have dinner. Those things are without pride, and folks would rather starve.

There is also the purposeful misunderstanding of how immigrants acclimate to a new place. Folks coming here from the border or via the Biden program are on pins and needles because they know their situation is wobbly, and they are smart. No one is going to be knowingly acting in a way that is going to upset where they live or who they live around, and Haitian culture contains nothing that would be super out of the ordinary in the US.

I am glad the reporter spoke to local Haitians and made the effort to get accurate translations of what folks were saying. How some questions were answered gives a clear picture to folks who know that they know they are under a microscope, both in the US and with the situation in Haiti; did you catch how, when questioned about gangs and violence, the one guy knew nothing about nobody? That's not accidental.

This will also target Vodou and Haitian vodouizan as well. I have already seen commentary on social media about how Haitians who are eating all these animals--dogs, cats, ducks, rats, etc--and doing 'rituals' with the remains. This is a dangerous and slippery slope, particularly if the party supporting these statements retakes the White House.

So...pay attention. This is a masterclass in the deployment of classism and racism to create distractions ahead of an election that feels very important to many people. Don't let them control your attention.

[nostalgebraist]

comments on almost nowhere for new readers

A few points that may be useful to people who didn't read Almost Nowhere before it was complete, but who are planning to read it now. (AKA "archival readers," as opposed to "serial readers.")

(1)

You'll want to read it fast enough that you don't lose track of the plot.

But, you probably shouldn't read it as quickly as you can. If you "binge-read" it over a very short span of time, some of the effect will be dulled or lost.

When planning out the story, I thought a lot about the reader's evolving state of knowledge. "What the reader knows" was almost like a character unto itself, and an important one.

For example:

I tried to create a enjoyable, continual "rotation" of mysteries, with new questions arising at the same time that old questions get answered, repeatedly across the course of the book.

In between the point when a question is raised and the point when it finally gets a definitive answer, I often tried to create a succession of interesting intermediate states. For example, the reader might first encounter something important in the form of an enigmatic, unexplained name or phrase, mentioned incidentally. Later, the same term starts appearing more often, and gets more coloration, and this coloration is different each time, so that the sum total of "what the reader knows" traces out a series of different "shapes" over time.

So you'll have the most fun if you stop regularly to savor your current state of knowledge. The questions that haven't been answered yet, the partial glimpses you've seen of things you don't fully get. Maybe even go back and re-read earlier bits, if you like.

(1b)

All that said, I also want to caution against viewing the book as a puzzle you're meant to be able to solve on your own, like a "fair-play whodunit."

I intended it to be fun for the reader to wonder about how the questions will be answered, but there's no pretense of playing fair. And that "fun" is often more aesthetic and thematic than it is intellectual.

(2)

Almost Nowhere is divided into 3 parts.

You can see them if you look at the table of contents. In Part 1, the chapter titles are Roman numerals. In Part 2, chapters have verbal titles, together with Arabic numerals that start over from zero. In Part 3, the Roman numerals resume again.

The three parts tell a single continuous story, and share most of the same major characters. But each one is somewhat distinct in its style, tone, themes, and areas of focus, and each one extends the scope of the plot considerably.

Maybe the closest comparison-point is a trilogy of SF/F novels, where each of the sequels is clearly "its own book" that feels distinct from the other two books, while still continuing the story in a coherent way.

I mention this here in the hope that these transitions will be less jarring if you're prepared in advance for them.

(2b)

In another, more "spiritual" sense, Almost Nowhere really has just two parts.

The transition happens at Chapter 13, which could fairly be grouped either into the first or the second part, or both, or neither.

Why? Up through Chapter 12, my planning for future events had been fairly slapdash and vague. I was still in the "throw stuff at the wall so I can create the real story by looking for patterns in it later" stage of my unusual creative process.

After Chapter 12, I thought "okay, that's enough of that. Vague inklings of the future aren't sufficient anymore. It's time to get start being more serious about my planning. It's time to 'create the real story.'"

So I did a bunch of that, and it profoundly shaped everything from Chapter 13 onward. (I don't know how obvious this transition would be if you didn't know about it beforehand; to me it feels very obvious, but maybe deceptively so.)

It goes deeper than that. Chapter 13 is tonally different than any of the preceding ones -- darker, more personal, with a new focus on obsession, bittersweet reflection on the past, regret, resignation. And, semi-accidentally, that ended up setting the tone for the whole rest of the book.

It's not all like that afterwards, to the same extent. But that stuff is always there, at least in the background.

I don't know if this is actually useful to know or not, but I felt like mentioning it, so there it is.

(3)

Like Floornight and TNC before it, Almost Nowhere is a hybrid.

It combines elements from a number of different genres and story types that would not normally be seen alongside one another. At the same time, it doesn't really belong to any of the genres or story types that it draws from.

This aspect of my fiction tends to elicit bimodal responses. When I mix one type of story with another, it tends to come off either as the best-of-both-worlds or the worst-of-both-worlds, depending on the reader.

Some people see five individually good "normal" books, merged into one and singing in harmony. And people see five half-assed attempts to do five different things, without following through on the promises of any one of them.

For example, I noted above that I put a lot of care into setting up mysteries, and I expected the reader to be very aware of them. And I also noted that the story isn't very rewarding if treated like a puzzle that can be "solved" in advance.

But some people are going to see the mysteries, and the care put into them, and think, "ah, I know (and enjoy) this genre, this is a puzzle you're supposed to work out in advance." And these people aren't wrong; it does kind of look like that, especially at the beginning.

Likewise, Almost Nowhere has several chapters that explain math and physics concepts to the characters and to the reader -- either real ones, or fictitious ones that have some pretense of continuity with real math and physics. Sometimes these get very involved, in the manner of Stephenson or Egan.

A reader who sees this stuff, and thinks "ah, I know (and enjoy) this genre," is likely to be disappointed when they discover that the story is not really about math or physics in any deep way. Certainly not about real math or physics. The invented "physics" is closer to the core of it, but less so than some other things -- and anyway, there is more of pure fantasy to it than serious scientific extrapolation.

Like Floornight, AN is arguably "best" described as a fantasy story, and not the GoT kind of fantasy -- the highly aestheticized, thematic, emotional kind of fantasy, where "feels" and "vibes" are almost literally magic and drive everything from the inside out.

But if you read it for that genre, specifically, it may feel odd that it keeps lapsing into long descriptions of nuts-and-bolts plot mechanics, and into laborious explanations of made-up technobabble. Or into setting up "puzzles" that almost feel solvable-in-advance.

Or just, like, being written in this really weird, particular, often opaque style.

I can't just say "leave all your genre preconceptions at the door," as if it were that simple -- as though one could just do that by force of will. But be aware that the elements you recognize, from other fiction, may not be there for the usual reasons.

But they are there for a reason.

When I think about why I write, I often come back to an answer that Andrew Hussie gave on Formspring long ago:

Q: Do you enjoy your own work? I mean if Homestuck was made by someone else and not you, is it the kind of thing you would like reading [...]? A: I am making the kind of thing I would want to read. I am making the kind of thing I wish existed, but doesn't. Yet.

I am doing that, too. I'm taking elements from all over, and building something else out of them. It looks deceptively like the sources it draws from, but it's very different from any of them, underneath.

If it had already existed, it would not have been necessary for me to invent it.

(4)

As I mentioned in the last bullet point, Almost Nowhere is written in a very particular style.

This style gets better-defined over time, and more ossified, and possibly more extreme. (Chapter 13 played the same role in this process as it did in various others, for instance.)

At various times, I've said that Almost Nowhere is my favorite of my stories, or the most ambitious or accomplished one, or the one I like most on re-reading. And that is all true -- in certain senses, anyway.

But I don't want to convey the impression that I think the "Almost Nowhere house style" is like, the epitome of Good Writing or something. Or even that it's my best writing, necessarily. It simply is what it is, as much for consistency's sake as anything else.

(I confess there were times when I looked back on something I'd just wrote, and thought to myself: "I'm not actually sure this is, like, good. Maybe it isn't. But is is definitely Almost-Nowherey, that's for sure." And then I let it stand, for that reason.)

In the best-case scenario, you'll find that you greatly enjoy the "Almost Nowhere house style." If it's not to your taste, hopefully you will find it at least tolerable enough that you can access and enjoy other aspects of the book.

But if you find that really dislike the style, this book is probably not for you, sorry.

It's over 300,000 words, and they're all like that. I wouldn't want someone to force themselves through 300k words while hating every one of them, in the name of finding out what happens, or being a nostalgebraist completionist, or whatever.

[princess-of-purple-prose]

Hiiiii :3

So I'm starting to read more Asian bl novels thanks to a friend and she recommended me omniscient reader view and you're the only mutual that I know that has read it and I know 0 things about it, any thoughts that you would like to share? 👀

It is really going to make me cry to death?

I hope you have a good day 💖

This ask filled me with an unfathomable amount of excitement, but it also made me laugh really, really hard, because while I would never say it's wrong to call omniscient reader's viewpoint an "asian BL novel," it's kind of like... Hm. Hindu trying to think of a sufficiently funny joke about the bible here and failing. Basically: yeah, that's in there, but holy shit are you both underselling and underestimating it by saying that :)

I've answered questions about orv tons of times (see my best attempt here), but I am quite literally always happy to do so again!! I'll start with this: Since we're both tma fans, I think you are going to LOVE the apocalypse orv presents, especially its tragic themes on voyeurism and privacy and silent bystanders/watchers, self-sacrifice and suicide, and women who kill. You are also going to love kim dokja for his brand of sopping-wet pathetic bisexuality, but that was a given.

Orv is technically brilliant-- it renders its themes unto you like an obsidian knife-- but it's also INCREDIBLY funny, and although it has a convoluted timeline and a complex plot, it WILL hold your hand as you go through it. Its characters are so three-dimensional they literally jump off the page (how's that for a meta joke), and they WILL live in your brain forever after reading the novel. They're inescapable. And on that subject: YES, ORV WILL MAKE YOU CRY. It made me cry while I was reading it for the first time, multiple times, and it still makes me cry! Almost weekly! And I do not cry at things!!! This book fucks you up so so bad and you will kiss its feet and thank it for the privilege!!!

I really hope that makes sense, I have so much I want to and could say and absolutely no way to express it coherently, I just hope this is sufficient to keep you interested!! Thanks so much for the ask, I hope you're doing great!!!! 💜💜💜

[asirensrage]

Title: Promises Unspoken

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Demon Slayer

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x unnamed/undescribed oc

Warnings: Smut. Angst. Tenderness. Mention of torture. Hurt/Comfort. Did I mention tenderness? Unbeta'd.

Summary: She survived. That's enough. If only he would stop avoiding her.

Notes: This...this got away from me. I was originally planning just more detailed smut but they took over. There are so many parts of this that I love and I hope you do too. I'd like to apologize to anyone who reads this as a pre-canon thing because I broke my own heart when I thought about it. So, I'm sorry. On that note, enjoy! Lmk what you think!

She's fine.

She's fine. She's fine. She's fine.

The life of a demon slayer is a treacherous one with no guarantee of safety or length. Most die within years of becoming one. But this? This was different. This was not a matter of facing her death with open eyes and a vengeful heart. This had been torture. They had planned to take her apart slowly. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left and her voice was nearly destroyed by how she screamed. And she screamed.

She bides her time, breathing through the pain as they pull thin pieces of her flesh off of her. When she escapes, by the skin of her teeth, a lot of luck and the blessed light of the sun, she is barely coherent. Driven by the same thought that helped keep her sane, she stumbles as she searches her way through the dense forest they called home. She almost doesn’t make it but there were people waiting for her and she refuses to accept any other choice but her survival.

She doesn’t remember falling or someone calling her name. She doesn’t remember reaching the edge of the village or how long she’s been missing or the way someone cradles her against them as they run for help. 

Instead, she dreams. 

She dreams of the people she left behind, the ones she’s saved, of her family who wait for her in the afterlife, of her friends who expect her return…and of him. A human personification of the sun. An almost inhuman form of something right and good and just. She dreams of the days they’ve spent together, meals they’ve shared and the quiet conversations that held promise if things had ever been different. If neither of them was prepared to die at any moment. Her life was never going to end any other way. That never stopped her from wishing, from hoping.

And then she wakes up.

It takes her a moment to realize it's not a dream. That the pain she feels is real, a sharp reminder of her life and one that aches with every breath. She is safe. 

She is alive. She is alive. She is alive.

She cries in relief at the familiar pale walls, the soft sheets covering her and the scent of wisteria that drifts through the open window. She cries for the people she could not save, for the others she left behind and for the pang of gratefulness that she survived. She is supposed to give her body and her life to the corps, to the act of demon slaying and yet she has failed and she is still alive. 

Others come to see her. The staff at the Butterfly mansion, Shinobu herself, some fellow slayers she knows by name or face and even Tengen, who presents himself as the one lucky enough to save her. The only one who doesn’t come is the one she’s been desperate to see. 

“He was here,” Tengen tells her. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The jewels that hang off of his headband sway, catch the light from the window and display its colours against the wall. It’s almost hypnotizing. A sufficient distraction for what he says next. “Stayed at your side while you slept.” 

“Then why–?”

He shrugs. “It’s not very flashy of him, but he nearly lost you. He’s dealing with that.” 

“You say that like we’re together,” she says, ignoring the way her heart clenches in her chest.

“Aren’t you?” Tengen raises his eyebrows as he looks at her. “Just because you two prefer to dance around each other doesn’t mean no one sees it.” 

“We’re not–”

“Don’t be boring,” Tengen cuts her off. “Soon as you’re healed enough, you find him. It’s that simple.” 

She doubts that but nods if only to get Tengen off of the topic. 

A month. 

A month passes with meetings with her leader, a catalogue of exercises and the hurt settling in her chest at his avoidance. She understands. What happened is a stark reminder of exactly why they’ve never said anything, why they’ve only danced around each other and never given in to the temptation of admitting they wanted more. But it still stings. 

Someone tells her that he’s there. Before she can stop herself, before she can talk herself out of it, she looks for him. It takes her a few tries before she succeeds. 

She slides the door open and pauses, breath catching in her throat when she finally sees him. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded together, his gaze distant. It is a strange thing to see him so still. He’s been known to move even when injured, loudly thanking the people taking care of him, even as he tries to leave too soon. 

She slides the door closed behind her, moving forward and reaching out as she calls his name softly so she doesn’t startle him. It’s her that’s startled. The world twists around her until her head hits the pillow, her body lands, and she finds him poised above her. 

His gaze pins her, red and yellow scorching as his eyes meet hers. He’s looking for something as he examines her face but she doesn’t know what. All she can focus on is the fear she sees in his eyes. 

“Are you–?”

“We almost lost you,” he says softly. He’s still staring at her, mapping out every expression she makes. 

She sighs, realization setting in. “You didn’t.” 

He lowers himself, enough that his body presses against hers. She tries not to think about how good it feels to have his weight on her, how easily he fits between her legs as though he belongs there. He buries his face in her neck. 

“-as too close,” she thinks she hears him say. “I can’t–”

“I’m fine,” she says softly. She reaches up and brushes his soft blond hair back. She didn’t think she was ever going to see him again but she had hoped. She came back. “I’m okay.” She repeats it like a mantra, trying to carve it into her own mind as well as his. “I’m okay.” 

He shifts and she tries not to react to the feeling, the pressure created as he lifts himself up again, bracing an elbow on the bed next to her. His hair falls around her, framing her face and acting as a shield against the outside world so that all she can see is him. She could drown like this, in his gaze, with all the promises she sees there and the longing that he’s held back. Maybe she will. Maybe she is still in that place, with the demons feasting on her flesh and a shattered mind trying to stave off reality with this imagined potential. Of course, he would save her, even if it wasn’t real.  

“I almost lost you,” he says softly, drawing her back out of her fears and into the warmth of the truth of her position. She is alive and he is here. “I do not know what I would have…” he cuts himself off. They do not have the luxury of dreaming of a future. Not together. Not yet. 

“You didn’t,” she tells him. “I’m alive. I’m here.” 

“You are here,” he repeats. There’s a pause before he continues. “My flame.”

Her breath hitches in her throat. He’s never called her that before. They’ve always stuck to their names, a formality to remind them of their position, to keep their desires separate from the fate that could await them. It was supposed to be easier that way. “Kyo-”

He cuts her off with a kiss. 

There’s nothing soft about it. It is tinged with a desperation they both feel, years of pent-up want coming to a head. Teeth clash as their lips move against one another until they find their rhythm. His head tilts, opening his mouth just enough to tug on her lip, to silently beg her to reciprocate and allow him to taste her. How could she ever refuse? 

His body presses into hers as he lowers himself closer. She digs her fingers into his hair, trying to burn herself into his memory. If they never get a chance, if they don’t see their ending, at least they’ll have this. It’s enough. It has to be.

 He maps her mouth, tongue sliding against hers, as he reaches up to cup her jaw, calloused thumb pressing against her skin in a careful motion that contrasts the way he kisses. He touches her like she’s something delicate, something precious that he cherishes. He kisses her like he wants to devour her, to bury her into him until neither one knows where the other begins. 

They break only by the necessity to breathe. She stares up at this man, wondering how much of her he’ll claim. She’d give him everything if only to ensure this doesn’t stop. 

“I feared I would never get the chance to gaze at you again, to hear your laugh ringing across the courtyard.” He pauses for a moment, eyes tracing the curves of her face, her lips. “I feared I would never have this chance.” 

She laughs, breathless and unsure of what to say in return. “We weren’t supposed to..”

“I will not have any more regrets,” he tells her, sounding like the Hashira he is except for the way she can feel him trembling against her. “Not with you.” 

She leans up, clasps her hand at the back of his neck and drags him down to meet her lips. He dives into her with a familiar eagerness. His lips are rough against hers, but it fades to the back of her mind as she feels consumed by the taste of him. 

She’s not sure who moves first. Buttons scatter against the mats as the standard medical wear is torn open. He pulls back, staring at her in awe and the adoration she sees in his eyes is not one she expects. She is covered in scars, some deeper than others, indentations made in her skin from the demons who held her. Kyojuro traces the largest one that spans her side across her hip. His fingers spark heat that flares in her belly and under her skin. 

“Kyojuro–” he covers her mouth with one of his hands, leaving her staring at him in surprise. 

“I will not hear it, my heart,” he tells her, as though he knows what she will say. “Your beauty is not marred by this.” His eyes meet hers. “It is a testament to your strength, your conviction to survive. I will hear nothing else.” 

“I had to survive,” she breathes. If she hadn’t already been completely in love with him before, she was now. “I had to return to you.”

His gaze darkens. “Yes. I pray you always do.” He sheds the top of his uniform, throwing it to the floor haphazardly in contradiction to his haori already folded on the lone chair. She drinks in the sight of him eagerly. She has seen his chest bare before, knows each story behind each scar, and yet she silently prays he allows her to learn to navigate the path between each one. She touches him, feeling the muscles contract under her touch. “Will you tell me if you desire to stop?” he asks and she can hear the hesitation in his voice. For as confident as he is, this is breaching an unspoken promise between them. 

“Of course,” she says. “But I don’t want you to stop.” 

So he doesn’t. 

She learns what it means to touch his body, to feel him react against her with every movement. She kisses marks into his neck, licking at the salt of his sweat as he murmurs promises that she pretends not to hear. Her nails leave marks into his skin, threatening to create new scars that will permanently leave the memory of her with him. 

Kyojuro attempts to memorize every dip and curve of her body with his hands and mouth. He groans against her skin the first time he takes one of her nipples in his mouth, teeth tracing it gently before he soothes it with his tongue. He begs her to let him hear her, etching himself underneath her skin with every touch. He wants and wants and wants and she gives it freely. 

He holds her in place, fingers digging into the tissue of her thighs. She thinks that he is going to leave marks but none of it matters at the first touch of his mouth against her. His movements are slow, a tenuous exploration of unfamiliar territory, but Kyojuro is acutely aware of every reaction she gives. He learns and she is thrown into a precipice that she knows might ruin her. There is no coming back from this and with every lick, every movement of his tongue and fingers between her legs, she will gladly never return. She burns with his touch and will willingly succumb. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, wiping at his mouth as he returns to his position over her. She has stars in her eyes when she pulls him in to kiss her. He would kiss her forever if he could, she knows. So would she. 

“Let me,” she says, trying to urge him into another position. One where he is not alone in control of their movements. One where she can touch him just as easily. 

He shakes his head. “I want to see you,” he tells her. “Please. Let me see you.” There’s a desperate need in his eyes, one that tells her that he is still trying to hold back the reminder that she was nearly lost. 

“Okay,” she says shakily. She swallows tightly, wondering if they’ll be able to go back to how things were after this. If they even wanted to. “Okay.” 

It’s easy to angle him into her, to wrap her leg around him in a way that begs him closer. It aches at first, this welcome intrusion. She breathes through the pain, trying to relax into it and finds herself watching the finely attuned control on his face. His eyes are closed tightly, a hand on her hip as he presses himself closer. He moves achingly slow, considerate even in this, until he is finally completely engulfed. 

She is full and surrounded and has never felt safer than at this moment. With how he looks at her, how his hand strokes her leg softly, telling her he’ll wait, that if she wants to stop he will. If she could drown in this moment, she would. She would gladly throw herself in the ocean of his desire, but Kyojuro has never been a body of water. He is a fire, a sun that threatens to scorch anything left in his orbit too long, and she will gladly burn. 

She eases his concern with her own promises, with her begging him to move, to ease the tension that she feels building with every movement he makes. 

“You are perfect,” he murmurs against her lips as he kisses her again. “My heart. My flame.” 

“Kyo,” she breathes. “It’s you.” She smiles, lost in his promises and praise. “Only you. Always you.”

“You came back to me,” he tells her. He reaches up, testing their patience as he strokes her cheek. “Always come back.” 

“You have to too.” 

He promises. It’s a fools promise, one that they both know they will likely break, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. This moment is carved into time between them. Their oaths, their positions, the rest of the world does not matter in this moment. Just them. Only them. 

Kyojuro moves. 

They stumble through until they find a rhythm that leaves her breathless and begging. She clings to his shoulders, his neck, any place she can reach as he leads her to the edge with every thrust. He kisses her hard, swallowing her cries as he shifts her legs higher, adjusting the angle of his movement. She breaks around him and Kyojuro stares at her, enraptured by the sight of it. He buries his face into her neck, moving faster as she is kept on the brink of her release until finally, finally, he spills inside of her. 

He doesn’t stir at first, allowing her to collect her thoughts at what they’ve done and come down from the high she’s been thrown into. He pulls back, just enough to meet her eyes again. They search hers, looking for something she cannot give a voice to. He sees enough though because he kisses her again, slower this time, making her feel as though they have all the time in the world, as if there is not an end date to their lives waiting for them in the distance. 

When he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. “I cannot bear that fear again, nor can I regret this,” he says. “Do not ask it of me.” 

“Kyojuro,” she says his name softly, drawing his attention back to her. “I…I don’t regret this. Even if we cannot–” she cuts herself off. “I don’t regret this.”

“When we retire,” he says. “When Muzan is defeated, will you allow me to court you? To spend my eternity by your side?” 

Her heart stutters in her chest. This is another promise, but no longer one lost in the heat of their attempts to assure each other that they are safe. This is one that cannot be ignored. 

“I would like nothing else.”

He grins at her, as bright and blinding as the sun, before he kisses her again. He finally pulls away, leaving her empty and cold. “Remain here. I will check if the baths are empty and return for you….with something more to wear.” A blush stains his cheeks as he looks around, realizing the state of their clothing. “Wait for me.” 

“Okay,” she nods and watches as he dresses just enough so that he is not indecent before he leaves. He wants to marry her, to spend their lives side by side until the years crumble them apart. It would be nice, she thinks, dragging the sheet around her as she waits, to be his wife. If only they live that long. She prays they do. 

taglist: @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @zeleniafic @veetlegeuse @chickensarentcheap @nejires-hado @residentdormouse @endless-oc-creations  @stanshollaand @wordspin-shares @chrissymunson

[mechwarrior-rose]

Shelter: Pirate's Nightfall

DAI LONG PLAIN TESTING GROUND OBERON VI OBERON CONFEDERATION 28 SEPTEMBER 3049

Shelter turned his head this way and that. His new sidecut felt alien to him. He'd always kept his hair long. Made sense. He had more femme days than masc, and on those days he loved his long hair. Even when it was tied into a bun for work. But if he was wearing a neurohelment into combat, he needed the sides buzzed close.

When he was young and didn't know himself better, he'd kept his hair long out of social expectation. His parents had been fairly conservative middle-class folks in civilian jobs within the service, hoping their perfect daughter would escape military service and go on to be an accountant or, even better, a trophy wife for an Inner Sphere noble or something. But the War Griffins had--

The War Griffins were dead. He was the last one left who could fight. No one else among the technicians had sufficient training to do more than walk a 'Mech into a repair bay. Today would be his last day alive. Maybe there'd be enough of him left to bury with the rest of his family.

He punched the wall. Picked up the clippers, turned them back on, and went after the rest. Didn't stop until every strand was cut down to a single millimeter. Black curls coiled in the sink. His scalp was an angry red from the pressure. Shaven in mourning.

"Let's go kill some fucking pirates," he snarled to the man in the mirror.

++++++++++

Ariel's ass print was still on the command couch of her Griffin. Of all the things to strike Shelter as funny, and of all the absolutely wrong times to laugh, and of all the uncomfortable positions to be caught in a fit of hysteria: crammed into the limited space between displays and couch, doubled over, bulky helmet pressed into the headrest, cooling vest too rigid to allow him to collapse into tears like he really wanted.

He stepped over the center console and dropped into the seat, erasing the last mark Ariel had left on this godforsaken planet.

He knew the checklist. Ran through it as efficiently as any 'Mech jockey. The Griffin responded eagerly. Weapons online. Sensors online. All systems nominal.

He toggled the radio to the lance frequency. "Razor One, this is Razor Four coming online."

"That's everyone," Lieutnant Rieck's voice replied. Shelter was surprised, but he said nothing. Lieutnant Keller must have been a casualty. Which probably meant there weren't many lieutnants left.

Hell, maybe Hendrick Grimm himself would come to the field in the final defense of his world.

"Razor Lance, we will advance in formation to Nav Point Epsilon. We will hold station there."

"Yes, sir," the lance chorused back, Shelter included, as if he'd been responding to combat orders his whole life.

Two beeps signaled that the Lieutnant wanted a private chat. Shelter flicked to the direct channel. "Sir."

Rieck's voice was full of sympathy. "This is a brave damn thing you're doing, Corporal. I respect the hell out of you."

Hateful sympathy. Shelter had no time or heart left for it.

"Rather earn that respect on the field, sir. Shall we?"

++++++++++

The pirates were already at Nav Epsilon by the time Razor Lance arrived.

Their comms were jammed, just like at Black Canyon. There was no way to get the word to the main force or link up with another lance. So Rieck made the best call he could in the moment: run for Kennedy Beach to draw the enemy away from the city and into open space.

Running from Black Canyon had been terrifying enough. Running while plugged brain-first into a war machine that was screaming because it was being missile-locked by a FrankenMech was nightmarish. The tactical computer was trying to decide if it was a Thunderbolt, a Marauder, or gods knew what else. The circle-vision strip at the top of Shelter's HUD flickered in and out as his 'Mech's stock EW systems and counter-systems tangled with the enemy's more advanced tech. Lances of coherent light, the screams of missiles, the actinic flare of particle cannons. No wonder Ariel had had a heart attack.

An enemy Hunchback--wait, a Hunchback with two autocannons?--sent fire and metal shrieking into Razor Two. The Shadow Hawk folded in on itself as if its reactor core had just produced a singularity. The 'Mech's auto-eject had been enabled; bolts blew and rockets fired, carrying him skyward. Uninterested in the helpless pilot now drifting down-strand on a full chute, the Hunchback turned toward Razor Three.

Shelter didn't even think. He tied all three of his lasers to the same circuit and carved his anger into the Hunchback's side armor. The 'Mech was within the minimum range of his LRMs, but he fired those anyway. Heat washed into the cockpit. Shelter ignored it. Two missiles made it into the rents his lasers had opened, touching off the ammunition within. The Hunchback simply disintegrated from the knees up. The explosion rattled the cockpit glass of Shelter's Griffin.

But it was for naught. Another enemy FrankenMech, this one a Catapult with Marauder arms stitched on, buried Razor Three in missiles and laser fire. Wolverines were tough, but nothing could withstand an onslaught like that. Shelter thought he caught a scrap of Sergeant Baker's scream of terror before her radio was obliterated.

On the circle-vision strip, Shelter saw Rieck's Marauder go down, its leg removed at the knee by a fusillade of laser fire. It couldn't have all come from one 'Mech. Yet there was an enemy machine with what looked like a dozen lasers ringing its arms, streaking in for the kill.

It was over. But Rieck and Razor Two--Shelter had never even gotten his name--might be able to escape if Shelter acted fast. He flicked the radio to broadband, remembered the jamming, then engaged the external speakers.

"Enemy forces!" he shouted. "I am Shelter of the War Griffins, last of my family. If any of you have the fucking balls to do it, come try me. I'll take you all on myself."

As he spoke, he edged his Griffin away from the strand, away from Rieck and Razor Two. He also pressed a red button on his side console that began dumping his LRM ammunition out of a hatch in his rear armor. The enemy were all too close now for the missiles to be of use anymore, and Shelter had no intention of dying the same way the Hunchback pilot had.

The dull crackle in Shelter's ears suddenly stopped. The enemy had dropped their communications jam.

A woman's voice came over broadband. "Shelter, I am Star Captain Mila of the 11th Wolf Guards. While it is well past the time for such a challenge to be issued, we will meet it nonetheless. Let the Circle be drawn."

Shelter quickly flipped to the private channel with Rieck again. "Now run, you son of a bitch. Eject, meet up with Razor Two, and get out of here."

He'd be with his family soon. War Griffin reunion.

[noisytenant]

Something I've been thinking about lately is viewing therapy, broadly, as "studying philosophies of wellness and care". A professional therapist is someone who is trained in viewing the world and your experiences through various lenses and trying to offer advice based on what would best create a sense of wellbeing. Of course, the notion of wellbeing itself is part of the philosophical question.

I think therapy, as a professional industry, is incredibly complicated and often profoundly violent. In the pocket of our violent political and economic system, it is for many people synonymous with a vision of wellness that believes in a normative body and mind, that believes "mental health" is an isolatable topic, that is uninterested in systemic analyses, that siloes off knowledge behind expensive institutions, and that prioritizes productivity and alienated self-sufficiency above all else.

It is thus no surprise that so many people are turned off from it completely. Just because the therapeutic industry is nominally focused on wellness does not mean that it is, on the whole, capable of or interested in meaningfully achieving it.

BUT. When we view therapy as a field that collects philosophies of wellness, we can understand that as the sum of its parts it is essentially agendaless.

Therapy "is neither good nor bad, nor is it neutral".

The rejection of wellness as a goal or even a possibility is itself a valid therapeutic philosophy. And there are essentially as many types of therapists as there are types of people--There are many accredited therapeutic practices that draw from philosophies outside the modern capitalist dogma, and each have their own benefits and issues.

If you approach your existing values and politics with the therapeutic lens in mind, you can see how a philosophy of wellness naturally emerges. It is impossible to live without some implicit notions of wellness, whether inherited or constructed. You may also notice how certain areas are lacking, confused, or contradictory, which I think is the natural state of the internal landscape. But by calling attention to the value of integrating disparate notions of wellness--From food and finances to religion and relationships, and all other areas of life--into a whole, you can work toward a more coherent way of living that supports your goals.

It can be illuminating to learn more about therapeutic frameworks when you view them not as medical advice but as ways of thinking. Even if you can't become an accredited expert, many therapeutic practices are innately comprehensible, and you can develop some knowledge about the language and beliefs of different systems through research. The right therapeutic practice can connect various personal truths under a single canopy, and as you learn more, you can move between different ways of thinking and approach the same challenge from multiple different perspectives. Aside from the time and energy spent, I think you can basically only gain from investigating diverse therapeutic thought for yourself, to the extent you feel drawn to do so.

Ultimately, I don't dream of a world where a large class of people act as paid confidants and philosophical experts to a generally clueless laity. Instead, I want every person to be able to acknowledge, articulate, and explore therapeutic philosophies and incorporate this knowledge into their everyday lives. This may, for some people, include working with professional therapists--I have been lucky to have had overally quite positive experiences, and for all my criticisms, I think that reframing therapy as a philosophical endeavor and encouraging research into its particular branches and practices is a key element in making the most of professional therapy.

I hope that some day we can see therapy as something we are all capable of accessing and learning from, not as a monolithic medicalized intervention or professional service but as a vocabulary for considering what affirms our lives.

I can't tell you what it means for you to take agency for your own wellness as you define it, but I think that it is something worth doing, because everyone deserves to feel well. Smiles

[yujeong]

Pete's "I love you" ❤👀🥺

Ohh fleet, I'm so happy one of my WIPs caught your attention. But, damn, you chose the one I'm so conflicted about haha. So, here's the thing: the concept of Pete saying "I love you" is both something super intriguing to me and super personal too, which is why I had wanted to explore that. Meaning, the first time Pete says "I love you" to Vegas. The problem is, I'm going nowhere with it so idk if I'll end up actually posting anything I've written, which is mostly a bunch of snippets with no strong connection to each other. One thing I really wanted to do was connect Pete to the myth of Echo, the main reason being... my Greek roots honestly, but also the fascination about the possible parallels with Pete's character. How he had no voice of his own, how he mimicked the words other people said due to his position as a bodyguard (and even before that with his father, hmm the angst potential hmm), but then Vegas came and broke the curse. But also, how Pete wishes he still had it, only for him to be able to utter those three words that are so difficult for him to say:

Now, whenever Vegas said it, he wished he were cursed. If not forever, only for this moment, just so he could say it back, just so he could hear himself say it. Just so he could make himself believe it.

There's also the exploration of Pete's parents, how they're connected to the words "I love you", as well as his grandma, to whom we heard him say it to in ep11. So many things I want to explore here, so few coherent thoughts hahah Hope my rambling was a sufficient answer 🙏🏻

[landfilloftrash]

@friendly-books oh god I'm about to have three nickels-- sorry for the entire post dedicated to this but I needed to explain in a way that was not about to be limited by character reply limit; ok how to explain-- so in Les Mis there are two characters that feature throughout the book; these two men are Javert and Jean Valjean.

Javert is a blueprint character; the inspiration for Donald Morgan if that explains his character for you (specifically). He is an inspector/cop and he follows the law to the very letter. Extremely Lawful Neutral. Extraordinarily earnest bootlicker; he genuinely thinks that is what he should do for the betterment of society.

Valjean is literally just a guy. Extremely strong and clever guy, "rough mind with a gentle heart", but still just a guy. This was a guy who broke a law when he was like 27, went to prison for 19 years, and when he got out broke parole and commits crimes for the betterment of other peoples lives (like breaking into houses and giving money in the dead of night during his stint as mayor). He's a big sweetheart with a whole lot of issues and PTSD. Where Javert is described as being so honest that you can look into his eyes and see all the way to the bottom of his conscience, Valjean is very secretive and keeps his emotions very close to his chest, not even letting his daughter know how he feels. He's a very sad old man. I love him.

But the reason I say "tragic/toxic old man yaoi" on that post is because throughout the book you can get the sense that Javert has.. a bit of a crush. Just a smidgen. Referring to Valjean as his convict, and watching him flee (thinking he had him caught [he did not because Valjean is extremely slippery and VERY GOOD AT ESCAPING THE LAW; specifically Javert]) simply because seeing him free was interesting to him. For example, one of my favorite lines is

"When he had so unexpectedly encountered Jean Valjean on the banks of the Seine, there had been in him something of the wolf which regains his grip on his prey, and of the dog who finds his master again."

Girl there are so many things wrong with you (breathless w/ affection)

But meanwhile Valjean sees him as a doggishly persistent hound/slave of the law chasing him all the while. Javert gets alllll the dog motifs. It's very funny because it's a resigned if slightly terrified "ah its this guy again, the one guy who knows my entire history" while he's running for his life.

But back on track (ahah get it), Javert has a chapter called "Javert Derailed" where he basically realizes that arresting Valjean when all he does is good would be morally incorrect, but NOT arresting Valjean would be LAWFULLY incorrect, so what's he supposed to do??; He is stuck in between a mental rock and a hard place-- so he chooses the third option of "well I refuse to be in a world where I'm forced to make that choice of letting a good man live his life and still be cop due to it being against the law"; Death. Now throughout the book, Victor Hugo points very viciously at the blue curtains with references to drowning men, the blue of the state (uniform), and water in slightly oblique ways. Which is how we come back to the yin and yang thing due to he dies. Another thing about Javert is he's very passionate about what he does and does things I associate with bright fire, and how can you douse fires? Water. So he would be Yang (aggressive, independent, self-sufficient, associated with the heaven [in the book, specifically with the archangel michael, and then of course he Fell, so Lucifer], with the center of Yin). Yin would be Valjean (quiet, aloof, earth, winter, but with center of Yang).

I hope this was coherent I'm so sorry if this is what gets you into this fandom; we have cookies

[dawn-moths]

What if the league of villains meets a reader with a 3-legged cat named Sarafina that’s her emotional support pet. Like reader though she lost everything and then she meets the league and joins them, but little did they know they found out reader had a emotional support cat (reader tied to keep the kitty hidden but failed😅) and the league takes a liking to the 3-legged creature (especially Mr. Compress)

im so sorry this took me so long, but i certainly hope you enjoy what i came up with! and i also hope i was able to do sarafina justice in this lol

word count: 8,000+

tags: sfw! no warnings apply! 

***

When you first met them, you’d been less than five hours out from having lost everything. Your job, your last relationship, your home— all of it swept away in what was not one fell swoop but, given the proximity of the events, it certainly felt that way.

Because your job had laid you off, along with about forty percent of its entire employee populace, your now ex had decided that sending you a text saying “I just don’t think we want the same things anymore” was a sufficient way to end a nearly two year relationship, and, just as you’d dragged your feet down the seven blocks that lay between your prior place of employment and your one bedroom apartment, you’d watched as the entire building went up in flames, the unfortunate fallout from the most recent villain attack that had swept through your neighbourhood.

But the moment you saw that— saw the flames that climbed past your floor, reaching higher, charring the building’s exterior to a point you could only imagine left everything inside nothing but indistinguishable ash— you didn’t care about your job or your ex or any of the things you’d just lost inside your home.

All you cared about, as your chest began to tighten and tears began to well in your eyes, was your cat. Sarafina. Your beloved three-legged baby.

“Oh my god—” you choked out as you raised a hand to cover your mouth and muffle the first round of sobs that began to spill out, feeling your knees buckle and threaten to collapse under your weight, your legs suddenly going numb.

After that, no more coherent words would come. There was just the immense agony of fresh grief followed by the hollow expanse only acceptance of such a great loss could provide.

She’d been with you for six years. You’d raised her from four weeks old, rescued her as a stray in the alley beside your apartment where the mother had abandoned the kitten due to its disability and likely low survival rate. You’d hand fed her, spent countless sleepless nights ensuring she would have the best start to growing into the healthiest, happiest companion she could given that first month of starvation and struggle.

You’d saved her, and in return, over the years, she’d come to save you in so many unexpected ways. She was your furry little angel. Your Sarafina.

And now, just like all the other foundations of your life, she was gone.

“There you are!” you heard a familiar voice tremble from behind you. “I was so worried! Thank god you got out in time!”

It was your next door neighbour, a sweet, elderly woman who often invited you over for dinner or offered you her baked goods, since she knew you lived alone and far away from your family.

For a while, you could only look at her, everything else in your world seeming to blur at the corners, slowly closing in around you until you wouldn’t be able to make sense of anything. She continued to speak but your ears were ringing so badly you couldn’t quite hear what it was she was saying. You caught sight of something in her arms, a wriggling bundle clutched close to her chest, and when you realized what she was holding, the world around you quickly snapped back into focus, the nearby blare of approaching sirens slicing into the chaotic soundscape.

“—so worried, poor thing was practically wailing behind the door…” That’s when she exposed the creature in her grasp a little more to you, the cream-colored head of your beloved cat popping out from the baby blanket your neighbour had wrapped her in.

You didn’t even think. You just leapt into action, taking Sarafina from her arms so you could cradle her in yours, trying to believe that this was real and not just some elaborate hallucination your anguish had tried to shield you with. But as you nuzzled your nose into the top of her head, pressing kiss after immensely relieved kiss to the spot between her big, curious eyes, you felt how solid and warm, albeit shaking, she was in your arms.

She was real.

She was alive.

You hadn’t lost everything in the end after all.

As you looked over at your neighbour again with misty eyes, though this time for an entirely different reason, you breathed out a trembling, “Thank you…” You couldn’t even begin to comprehend what you would’ve done if you’d truly lost her.

“Of course, dear,” your neighbour said, placing a wrinkled hand on your arm and giving it a light squeeze in an attempt to comfort you. “It’s a good thing I still had that spare key you gave me. I was happy to help.”

After that, the surrounding crowd of familiar faces and strangers alike congregated closer for a short time while one of the heroes on duty delivered some information for those who’d been affected before dispersing and going on their ways to seek out additional help or services. Your neighbour had asked you if you had a place you could stay for the foreseeable future, at least until they relocated the residents until the needed repairs were finished, which would likely be months, if not longer.

“Luckily my grandson lives one prefecture over,” she explained, seeming a little burdened by making travel arrangements, if anything, more so than worried about the actual long term effects of what having her home and everything in it burn down actually meant. “I suppose I should give him a call, just in case he hasn’t seen the news…” She seemed to contemplate something for a moment, then looked at you and offered to see if he had enough room for you to tag along as well, but you were already denying her generosity before she’d even finished extending the invitation.

“I’ll figure something out…” you replied. “Thank you, though. And thank you for saving my cat.”

With that, your neighbour bid you good luck and farewell and you were left to fend for yourself.

In truth, you didn’t have anywhere to go. You thought about reaching out to your now ex-boyfriend but suddenly he wasn’t picking up your calls and his voicemail was full, though whether that was because he was still at work and on do not disturb or just blatantly ignoring you in fear of retaliation at his cowardly text message was unclear. So, with Sarafina still bundled in the blanket and held close to your chest, you set out in hopes of finding some means of a roof over your head until you could regroup.

The sun was beginning to set within the next few hours and you weren’t feeling very optimistic. You’d tried several short-term shelters but they were already full, others who were in the exact same boat as you already having claimed the empty beds. You were trying to search the internet to see if there were any nearby hostels that might be able to accommodate you, but none of them allowed pets. You didn’t have enough money for an Airbnb or hotel room. Your best friend was on vacation and not coming back for another week, not to mention she also lived in an apartment so there was nowhere for her to hide a spare key. Your phone was almost dead. Every manga cafe or konbini you tried to enter to see if anyone had a charger you could borrow began to usher you out the moment they caught sight of the animal you had in tow…

As you paced about the streets, utterly, hopelessly dejected and forlorn, the people traffic was finally beginning to thin. You were running out of viable options and time left before darkness fell over the city and you found yourself in potential danger. You grew anxious and frustrated, knowing you could only cover so much ground on two feet.

Though, perhaps it might be a little easier with three.

So, you decided to use the one and only advantage you had left in your current position. Your quirk— the ability to temporarily control and see through the eyes of certain animals, and, lucky for you, cats just happened to be your best match.

“Think you can help us out, Sarafina?” you murmured to your cat, who’d ceased her panicked quaking about an hour ago and returned to her usual calm disposition that you’d come to take comfort in. Slowly, you lowered her towards the street, carefully helping her untangle her folded limbs from the blanket.

For a cat with one less leg than most others of her kind, Sarafina got around exceptionally well. She had two front paws and one back one and, having been born into the world that way, her balance and reflexes seemed to work just fine. She was your little trooper, the most important hero you’d ever encountered in your own personal life, and as you activated your quirk, her world became yours.

It worked as a sort of double consciousness when you entered Sarafina’s mind, but it still required a high amount of concentration so for the meantime you veered off to the side of the street in order to avoid any accidental collisions with other passersby in your own body. From there, you were able to focus solely on the path you navigated through the crowds with your new feline view.

Bobbing and weaving through the sea of shoes— shiny black business loafers and multi-colored converse and everything in between— you quickly made your way towards the less favorable parts of town. The streets became more narrow, the veil of litter thicker along the curb, and after getting more than your fair share of sinister glances from the residents and clientele of the area you decided to turn down an empty stretch of alley to avoid getting cat-napped by any shady characters skulking around.

At least, you’d thought the alley had been empty. But, after a quick glance over your shoulder to make sure you weren’t being followed, the next time you looked forward, your green, glass-marble gaze landed on the silhouette of a girl.

You stopped short in Sarafina’s body, causing the cat to stagger and stumble slightly as it attempted to catch its footing. Then, as the figure turned to look your way, her amber eyes cutting through the dark, you felt every hair on your spine raise as your back curved into an anxious arch. Your lips pulled back into a teeth-baring hiss and, for a moment, you found you weren’t in complete control of this mission anymore.

“Oh!” As the girl’s chipper tone rang out against the cold concrete and brick as she scampered over to get a closer look at the strange little creature now in her presence, you could feel Sarafina’s will tugging against your own, fighting, thrashing, the closer the girl approached as if on instinct. You struggled to hold firm. Perhaps you should’ve trusted your cat’s animal instincts when it came to danger, but at the moment you were too focused on hoping that this girl could give you a lead.

She crouched down before the fearful, feisty little feline, hugging her knees against her chest as she beamed and hummed a lilting giggle through closed lips. She held out her hand, offering it up for the cat to sniff, and you urged Sarafina to give her a chance. Eventually, when you felt the body you were currently occupying begin to relax a little, you were able to lean forward and sniff the back of her hand. Then, very much against Sarafina’s own character, you nuzzled the cat’s head into the girl’s palm, peeking up at her to gauge her reaction, feeling hopeful when her pink cheeks blushed a slightly darker shade and her smile widened to show that she also had two pointed little fangs present among each row of her teeth.

You wondered if she also had a cat-related quirk, but that curiosity was swept away and replaced with panic when she slid her hands beneath your arms and hoisted you up to rest against her chest, continuing further down the alley. “Why don’t you come with me,” she suggested, “and we’ll find you something to eat?”

This would’ve been all good and fine, except for the fact that, with each step she took further away, the more you realized that you were about to reach the limit of your quirk’s capacity. Shared consciousness could only travel so far, and the fact that you’d been able to feel Sarafina’s will fighting against your own should’ve been your first clue, only you’d written it off as a strong enough fear that had just been peeking through.

As more dread filled your chest you tried (and failed) to wriggle free of the girl’s surprisingly strong hold. The last thing you were able to do before the thin line stretching between you and your cat was cut was let out a distressed yowl. Then you found yourself plunged back into your own brain, your own body, left leaning against the corner of a building by the curb and gulping down quick, shallow breaths.

You’d just lost everything.

You couldn’t lose Sarafina too.

So, not wasting a single moment, you took off running in the direction of the alley, trying every few steps to reach out into the vast dark and connect with Sarafina’s consciousness again.

It was much harder to move through thick crowds of people when you were the same size as half of them, forcing you to push and shove your way through those who stood in your way and earning you much gasping and grumbling and shouting from those you’d frightened or offended. Though the opinion of strangers hardly mattered to you right now. All you cared about was finding your beloved cat, and as you neared closer to the alley where you’d last seen her, once again casting your net and searching through the web of animals whose consciousness you could connect to— birds and squirrels and dogs that were currently out on their walks— you finally spotted the aura that unmistakably belonged to your cat.

You latched onto that little flicker of energy and a few seconds later found yourself once again being carried by the sharp-toothed girl.

But, unlike your last excursion using the body of your cat, you couldn’t afford to pull over and park your own body on the side of the curb. This time you had to keep running, to focus on what both your bodies were doing, though, as you used a majority of your mental energy to see through two different perspectives, you figured the best thing to do right now in order to assure that you caught up with the girl was to just let Sarafina’s body rest while yours booked it down the unfamiliar twists and turns of the sketchiest parts of the city.

“Hey!” you called out when you finally spotted the back of the girl’s blonde head, her two messy buns bobbing from further down the next street you turned down. “Stop! Wait!” But she was already turning the next corner, forcing you to sprint another block.

When you finally made it around the next turn, you half expected her to have disappeared, or at the very least be halfway down the next block, so when you nearly plowed straight into her, you were startled to say the least.

“You’re following me…” she stated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously as her cheshire’s grin only widened, those fangs of hers glinting in the last dying strokes of daylight.

All you could think to pant out in response to that was, “You have my cat.”

The girl scanned you up and down with a quick flick of her gaze, as if trying to size you up, then her sinister smile dropped and she gave a simple, “Oh.”

Sarafina squirmed in the teenager’s hold on her own accord until finally the girl let her go, your cat leaping from her grip and quickly scrambling to hide behind your feet, watching the stranger with wide, startled eyes but not seeming as hostile as before.

As you reached down to scoop Sarafina up, feeling her become calmer in your embrace, you figured that, even though you were out of breath and out of options, at least you had your cat back in your care.

“Seems like you came a long way…” the girl noted with subtle sarcasm. “How’d you find me?”

“It’s my quirk,” you admitted, seeing no harm in telling the truth. “It allows me to see through the eyes of animals…” You saw something in her amber gaze shift from distrust to intrigue. “Up to a certain range,” you added on afterward. “That’s why I had to run. If she got too far out of my range I might never have been able to find her again…”

“What did you say your name was again?” she asked, though you couldn’t tell if it was skepticism or curiosity that was woven into the inquiry.

You blinked at her. “I didn’t…”

“Well I’m Toga!” she introduced cheerily. 

“Ok…” you responded, suddenly feeling awkward and very much wanting to get back to your search for a place to sleep for the night. “Well I should probably get going… I still have a few shelters to check for any openings and—”

“You’re from that building that burned down earlier today,” Toga asked, the sight of that mischievous grin splitting across her face making you feel a little uneasy, “aren’t you?”

You told her that, yes, unfortunately you were from that building that burned down earlier today, and for the past several hours you’d been wandering around trying to find any place that could provide a roof over both your head and your cat’s for enough time for you to catch your bearings and secure a better plan.

“Well if it’s a roof you need,” she proposed, “then I might know a place…” Another flash of that ominous grin had you hesitant to trust her invitation, even if it was your only option. “Though, it might cost you…”

You tried to swallow down the fear. How could a teenage girl be this intimidating? But, then again, the further you aged from that demographic the more weary of them you became.

“I don’t have much money on me right now,” you explained, trying your best to keep your voice even. “But if I can get to an ATM tomorrow I might be able to—”

“Oh, I’m not talking about money,” Toga was quick to clarify. Then, even more bluntly, “I’m talking about your quirk.” You couldn’t quite place why, but that notion sent a wave of chills skittering up your spine. You’d heard all kinds of horror stories over the years about people being kidnapped or exploited for their quirks, just another reason why you tended to keep yours to yourself, but so long as you weren’t going to have to be involved in hurting anyone, you figured it might be a fair trade for a place to stay.

However, when you relayed this to Toga, the response she gave wasn’t entirely reassuring.

“Hmm… Well, since your quirk isn’t very strength related, I doubt he’d suggest you be involved in anything too…” But then her words trailed off. You were about to ask her who he was, and just where exactly, and with who, it was that she lived, but, having already decided that she was going to take you back and introduce you to whatever awaited you on the other side of this questionable decision, Toga quickly cut in with an almost apologetic, “Oh, but you might want to leave your cat somewhere a little less…”

You hugged Sarafina closer to your chest protectively. If this arrangement required you to be separated again then you weren’t interested. “Well, actually, I guess since it’s related to your quirk, it’s fine,” Toga shrugged. “It’s just— there’s a couple people who might not like cats very much and…” The girl ended up in a fit of rambling that you mostly tuned out, just focusing on trying to stay calm and pressing gentle kisses into the space between your cat’s eyes as she purred in your arms.

You were exhausted, both mentally and physically at this point, and you were starting to think you’d do just about anything for a place to lay down for a while.

“Anyway!” Toga beamed, back to being bubbly and blushing. “The place isn’t too far! So why don’t we get going before the real bad guys come out of hiding, hm?”

***

As much as you’d tried to brush off her earlier statement as a dark-humored joke, it turns out Toga hadn’t been kidding when she’d alluded to more nefarious villains crawling out from the dark corners of the downtown streets the thicker the night became.

And, in all honesty, you hadn’t even thought to consider the teenage girl possibly being one of them until you’d reached the building, shelter, hideout perhaps, that she claimed to reside within. But what were you to do, really? Say you’d changed your mind because the place didn’t match up to your standards? It was a little late for that now, and if she really was a villain, you didn’t think insulting her home was going to end very well for you.

“How many people live here?” you suddenly thought to ask. She said it depended on the time of day, which didn’t make you feel any better, but before you could press further she once again reminded you that you should probably find a place to stash the cat before you reluctantly followed her inside. You eyed Sarafina nervously before preparing to part ways, her big green eyes gazing up at you in a way that nearly broke your heart, once again anxious and confused.

“Don’t worry,” you told her, lowering her towards the pavement. “Just be good and wait for me somewhere safe. I’ll find you a way in once I check things out.” And, with that, your cat scampered off to hide in the shadows and await further instructions.

With the feeling of dread only weighing heavier inside you the further down the first hall that you trailed after Toga, once the door opened to reveal what looked like a small bar and a couple strangers seated inside, some of that fear was temporarily replaced with confusion.

“I’m back!” Toga announced, sounding as if her return was something to be celebrated, though the three figures currently in attendance barely even glanced her way.

That was, until they realized she’d brought company.

Then you found yourself under the strict scrutiny of various sets of eyes following a startled double take from almost all of them.

“The fuck?” one them— a patchwork-scarred man with piercing blue eyes and spiky black hair— drawled, the silver staples at one corner of his mouth tugging at his skin as he sneered, looking rather uncomfortable, but then again, you figured that was probably the least of his discomfort given literally everything else about him. “Toga, what did he say about bringing your friends back here? You tryna get us all arrested or some shit?”

Despite his harsh, and rather concerning words, the man’s tone came off as mostly tired and disinterested. But you could see it in his eyes, all that sapphire blazing with contempt. You really wish you could turn back, but now there were several people who would likely hunt you down if you tried to flee.

“Oh, she’s fine!” Toga said, brushing off her friend? Roommate? You had no idea what kind of situation would pair a teenage girl and a guy like that together, let alone leave them living under the same roof. “Besides, she has a pretty cool quirk! And she needs a place to stay—”

“Himiko Toga…” the figure behind the bar, who seemed more mist than man, began, setting down the glass he’d been in the middle of cleaning and slightly narrowing his glowing yellow gaze at her. His voice was even but firm as he said, “I believe it has been made very clear to everyone here that no guests are allowed until they are vetted through the proper channels…” He turned his otherworldly stare onto you and you reflexively took half a step back. Then he said, “Did Giran send you?”

Now, even more nervous and confused than before, you stuttered out an anxious, “Sorry— Look, I guess I made a mistake. I can go and just—”

“You’re not going anywhere, actually,” a rough, crackling voice rasped from the doorway behind you. You flinched and then turned, blood running cold as your eyes met silver and carmine.

“Uh… I’m— I—” you stammered, trying to still your trembling hands and smooth out your shaking voice. Then, seeming to finally reach your limit, your eyes filled with tears and you blurted out, “Look, my house burned down and I lost my job and I got broken up with all within the same day and I’m tired and hungry and I just need a place to stay for the night, ok?”

The pathetic whine that got tangled up at the end of your sentence didn’t seem to earn you any sympathy from anyone, not even the anthropomorphic lizard who’d remained mostly silent through all of this and simply observed with wide eyes as he darted his stare back and forth between you and the other men accompanying him at the bar counter.

The man in the doorway, who somehow looked like the most worn out one in the room, hesitated for but a moment before he quickly started towards you in an aggressive stride, one of his hands halfway lifted with intentions you could only assume were going to bare consequences to you, but Toga was standing between you two with her arms outstretched as if to deescalate the situation.

“Wait!” she shouted, causing the man, who, the more you looked at him, the more you started to think you’d seen him somewhere before, or at least seen those eyes, the image of them cutting through the silvery dark and trying to rise from the dead in the graveyard of some distant memory filled with tv static and chaos, to stop short, though his gaze remained trained intently on you. “There’s a good reason I brought her here! I swear!”

The man’s malicious stare narrowed as he studied you, not even bothering to look Toga’s way as he spoke to her. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and you felt every muscle inside you recoil, begging you to at least try and make a run for it, though no matter which angle you looked at it, your odds of escape didn’t seem very good. “If she’s not from Giran then she could be a plant from the heroes. Or a spy…”

The more you looked at him, despite the adrenaline pumping and the cacophony of fear swelling within you to its ultimate crescendo, the more you became confident that you had, indeed, seen him somewhere before.

Just not his face.

When they’d broadcast the story about the aftermath of the breakin and attack at UA way back when, his features had been carefully concealed beneath a mask— a hand— but now that you were seeing it up close, those silvery waves and that spindly frame could only belong to the same person you’d seen in the grainy, blurred photographs depicting the suspect on the news.

You were standing in the middle of the League of Villains headquarters, a helpless little fly caught in the hungry spider’s web with no way out that didn’t end in you left in a pile of pitiful dust on the uneven hardwood floors.

“I’m not a spy—” you desperately cut in. Though, in hindsight, that’s exactly what a spy would say, wouldn’t they? “I’m not… I didn’t want to come here!”

Tomura Shigaraki then seemed to consider this whole predicament from a new angle, relaxing his stance just a hair as he pondered over the possibilities. He could just decay you and be done with this headache, or…

He could find a use for you.

“I’m assuming the only reason you were brought here—” Tomura eyed Toga in a way that was so sharp it could’ve cut had she been standing any closer to him before flicking all that visceral crimson back to you, “was because you have a quirk that could be useful for the party as a whole…” You tried not to raise a brow at the implication of being added to the so-called party against your will and exploited for your quirk, but couldn’t suppress the urge to swallow down the lump that had been forming in your throat. “So out with it then,” he demanded, taking a step closer to you and crossing his arms over his chest, Toga taking another step back as if still intending to defend you if he attempted to reach out again. “What’s your quirk?”

You had to go about this carefully. Say too much and you might become their prisoner, say too little and you might find yourself on the missing persons list.

So you gave the most basic explanation you could think of— the one you tended to rattle off whenever someone asked you by means of smalltalk— that you had the ability to see through the eyes of certain animals within a certain range.

Though, of course, you should’ve known better than to assume the leader of the League of Villains would just leave it at that.

Thus began the barrage of follow up questions. Which animals? It depends, though cats, dogs, and birds were what you’d had the most experience with thus far. Can you control them? Most of the time, yes, but it depends. How far is the range? It depends. What happens to your consciousness and body when you’re in their heads? It depends. Do you have any other answer to a question than ‘it depends’?

“Ok, look…” you began, slow and steady so as not to reignite the tension in the room, the way his eyes had narrowed in anger more and more with every answer you gave making you feel like a bomb was about to go off. “I’ve lost just about everything I have. So what, right? Why should you care? But can you least just give me a moment to think all this through—”

The scarred man huffed out a cruel breath of a laugh, clearly mocking you and once again reminding you that you would find no sympathy here.

Meanwhile, as if trying to rewrite his most recent plan to figure out how your quirk could fit into it, Tomura once again retreated to his inner pondering. Then he looked at you and stated with a threatening amount of finality, “Well, if you weren’t a spy before, then you can consider yourself one now.”

You felt sick. You felt like your vision was tunneling and soon the whole world would collapse around you where you stood.

“So, for now, you can stay, but—” You felt like every fear you’d ever had was reborn inside of you at once, an amalgamation of despair and horror and distress swirling in a catastrophic tornado. Tomura took another step closer to you, arresting every urge you had to turn and run with a single stare. “If I get any notion that you’ll betray us…” Every word that he said was a threat, tone laced with venom and vengeance. “I’ll kill you on the spot. Got it?”

You learned that, though you thought that you’d lost everything, there had still been one last thing left the universe could take from you.

Your freedom.

You tried to hold back the squeak that was rising up your throat, again swallowing over the lump that had formed there as you nodded your head in terrified understanding. And then, just as quickly as it had seeped into the room, that air of murderous tension seemed to dissipate, Tomura stepping back to retreat to wherever he’d come from among the second story of the building.

***

You’d been delegated as Toga’s responsibility, though the girl couldn’t have been more happy to have a new friend and, seeing the personal quarters of the place were running low, a new roommate as well. It was only after you’d used your quirk to merge with Sarafina that you were able to guide her up the several dumpsters, crates, and boxes to the thin ledge that ran along the side of the building that Toga’s room was on, pry open the dirty window, and allow your cat inside, trying to muffle your weeping sobs as you held her close and dampened her cream colored fur with your unending stream of tears.

Toga was nice enough to give you your privacy for an hour or two at least, returning once she’d pressed her ear to the door and felt relief that she couldn’t hear you crying anymore, bringing with her some water and snacks and a spare blanket as she reentered the room.

“It’s not much,” she said as she slid you a granola bar and a sandwich she’d swiped from one of the local konbinis. “But it’s better than nothing, right?” 

She offered you a softer smile, seemingly the only one who was sympathetic to your current situation, even though she’d been the one directly responsible for it. But you didn’t blame her. Perhaps because you knew, if you did, then you’d be all alone in your sorrow and suffering. She didn’t apologize and she didn’t tell you it would get better. She sat with you and tried to offer what small comforts she could— her favorite hard candies, her favorite plushie, the new album she’d been listening to recently that she really liked— and she’d just talked to you, rambling about anything she could think of until eventually you found yourself dozing off, your cat curled up by your feet.

You hoped that, when you woke up in the morning, all of this— this entire traumatic day— would be nothing but some horrible dream.

You were a lot of things.

Lucky wasn’t one of them right now.

***

As the next week passed in thick, tense silence, you and Sarafina grew restless. You kept going back and forth between slipping away in the night and finding a real place to stay until you regrouped and formed a stable plan— not that you thought one of them, now that you’d met all eight of the current members, wouldn’t track you down and either drag you back or just kill you— or staying and risking finding a place for yourself among them here.

You’d never wanted to be a hero and you definitely didn’t want to be a villain either, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel at least a little temping at times. Because when you and Toga sat together in the room you now shared, Sarafina curled up on one of your laps (your cat had begun to take quite a liking to her, despite her initial fear of the fanged teen) as you chatted about what your lives were like before passing the threshold of the bar door that had inevitably sealed both your fates, you actually found yourself feeling content, dare you consider it actual relief or happiness.

Toga was the friend you always thought you’d have— chipper, lively, a little twisted but ultimately funny. But she had been through a lot. Much more than you probably would’ve been able to stomach, which also made her capable and cunning.

At least, with her, the torture of awaiting the role Tomura would force you to play in his upcoming schemes became a little less intense. She granted you a distraction, even if only a little, and she got along with your cat on top of it.

Toga and Sarafina became your only comforts in your small little world.

But, like most things in your life as of late, something was sure to swoop in and try to destroy it all.

***

You’d been approaching the end of your second week with the League when your secret got out to the rest of them.

Well, really, the secret got out to one of them— the man with the cold blue eyes who you now knew as Dabi— who then spread it to everyone else like a spark that ignites into a wildfire.

“Get rid of it,” was Tomura’s initial reaction when he’d first found out, everyone gathered around to witness the conflict with varying degrees of confusion, amusement, and worry as you stood in the middle of the bar clutching Sarafina close to your chest, ready to sacrifice yourself to shield her if those deadly hands of his made any sudden moves.

“Well if she goes, I go!” you protested.

As soon as the words left your mouth you felt your fear spike, a quiet gasp following your bold statement when you saw Tomura’s hands flex. You knew what those hands could do, the horrors they were capable of, so you figured you’d better make your case before the leader of the League of Villains turned both you and your cat to dust.

“Besides!” you argued, trying to shake the quiver in your voice and fight off the tears that threatened to well in your eyes. “She’s the animal most compatible with my quirk! It’s more effective the more the animal trusts me!” Which, in all honesty, was just a theory you had, though in this case you were more than willing to swear it as fact.

“Ok, fine…” Tomura huffed, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, which only made you slightly less nervous. “But if you don’t prove both yourself and the cat useful on the next mission…” He turned, as if to leave, but shot you a scathing glare over his shoulder which made your blood turn to ice. A crooked grin split across cracked lips as Tomura said, threatened, challenged, “I’ll make sure the two of you don’t have to worry about finding a new place to live.”

With that, he departed, causing you to quickly retreat back to Toga’s room to once again cry in private, keeping Sarafina in your arms as you repeatedly kissed the top of her head, murmuring words to her about how you’d never let anyone hurt her or keep the two of you apart.

When Toga came to check on you, she tried to offer consolation but you both knew there wasn’t much to be done. You couldn’t just leave. If that much hadn’t been blatantly clear to you at the start, every day spent here was only further reinforcement of that damning fact. But you couldn’t very well stay if the threat of Tomura Shigaraki decaying your cat remained hanging over your head.

Who you really hated at the moment, though, was Dabi. Even after Toga made him apologize (which was really nothing more than a disinterested, insincere drone of, “Sorry, I guess…”) you were still mad. The shadowy bartender, Kurogiri, seemed neutral on the whole cat debacle, so long as it didn’t hinder Tomura’s plans. The man with the lizard quirk, Spinner, seemed intent on staying out of it, though wished you luck on the upcoming task, the odd man with the duplication quirk called Twice (though after he’d introduced himself with that name he’d immediately backtracked and insisted you refer to him as Jin) would extend his sympathies only to retract them moments later (you were still trying to figure him out), and the initially intimidating woman known as Magne had actually come around to you more once she learned of Sarafina’s existence, for whatever reason.

Other than Tomura, no one seemed to have any strong objections to Sarafina’s presence, so long as the litter box was kept away from all of their rooms (which wasn’t easy in a place that had become this cramped with residents) and you cleaned up after her. Dabi avoided the cat, acted cold and disinterested, was probably more likely to torment her than anything else, though once you’d caught him holding out the back of his hand for her to sniff when he thought you weren’t looking. Toga stole cans of cat food whenever she could and once or twice even Jin let the creature nuzzle its face against his arm if he was sitting at the bar and she happened to hop up onto the counter. Spinner seemed wary of her but became slightly less nervous after Magne convinced him she was mostly harmless.

However, out of all of the misfits that comprised the League, it was the energetic and eccentric man known as Mr. Compress who enthusiastically offered up the fact that he was also a fellow cat-lover.

“She’s just a little sweetheart, isn’t she?” the usually masked man, currently devoid of his disguise, cooed as he came to sit beside you at the bar one evening, Sarafina resting nice and cozy in your lap. You smiled and gave your cat’s chin a little scratch. She tilted her head up to allow you more space as she began to purr, her squinting eyes glancing at Compress out of the corner of her vision.

“Yeah, she is,” you confirmed, your voice soft as you continued to dote on your cat. “She can be picky about who she shows that side of her personality to, though.”

Compress leaned in closer, moving slowly so as to not startle Sarafina. “What happened?” he asked, then further clarified with, “Her leg. Was it always missing, or…”

“Oh—” you perked up, Sarafina twitching a bit in response. “Yeah… She was born like that. At least, I think she was.” You went on to regale the story of how you’d found her, so tiny and abandoned, in the alley that ran alongside your apartment, and how you’d nursed her back to health and become her forever home along the way. 

“Ah…” he seemed to contemplate, like he understood. Then he said, resting his chin in his palm and gazing upon the three-legged cat dreamily, “You just couldn’t help but fall in love…”

You told him yes, you supposed you had, and then thought to yourself privately that you dreaded the inevitable day where she would be gone from your life. You’d be forced to move on without her, and even if you got another cat someday, it would never be the same.

“And what about you?” you asked, trying to pull yourself from those depressing thoughts. “Did you ever have cats, or…?”

Atsuhiro exhaled a reminiscent chuckle. “If you count feeding strays in my neighbourhood growing up,” he said, “then yes, I suppose I had quite a few.”

You listened as he recalled some of his favorite ones, the silly names his childhood self had given them, and found yourself thinking about how, perhaps in another life, one where none of these people had fallen into villainy for some reason or another, they’d all have lived lives not so dissimilar to one you’d had before the fire. You could easily see yourself getting along with Atsuhiro, along with Toga, of course, if you’d just happened to meet them in passing.

Maybe you would’ve been neighbours. Maybe you would’ve made sure to check in on each other’s pets when the other was away. It made you consider, perhaps for the first time, that maybe it wasn’t entirely the villain’s fault for becoming that way, that maybe it was society that had done them wrong in some way, set them on the wrong path, or maybe never given them the chance to get on the right one in the first place.

Because, hero or villain or just plain old civilian, everyone had hopes and dreams and things they’d once desired for their lives. Everyone had once just been a child, and some of those children had fed stray cats.

Now that didn’t sound like a very evil thing to do, did it?

***

The mission comes and goes and you prove yourself useful.

You’d been tasked with stalking a UA student throughout the week, charting his daily schedule, his usual habits and patterns. Something about insurance for a plan B if the initial kidnapping attempt went wrong.

When you reported back, you felt a pang of guilt surge within you. He was just a kid. A teenage boy. When you tried to press for more information the general consensus just seemed to be that they were trying to recruit him. That he’d been the winner of UA’s sports festival and might have what it takes to be a good addition to their group. Not quite knowing exactly what the League had in store for him made you feel awful. But maybe it was better that you didn’t know.

It gave you a false sense of hope in thinking you might be able to escape all of this and still view yourself as a good person in the end.

***

Another couple of weeks passed in the blink of an eye, but with Tomura’s stamp of approval that Sarafina could stay after your successful mission, so long as you kept her off the bar counters going forward, you felt you could relax a little bit.

Almost all of them, including Toga, prepared to head out to commence plan A. Tomura had initially ordered you to come along, use your quirk to help scout out the surrounding area, but due to the constant use of it during the week you’d spent following the highschooler around in the bodies of birds and squirrels almost around the clock, you’d fallen victim to the severe migraines that could occur due to an overuse of your quirk, the pain showing up with a delay, building, then gradually subsiding again, which could take a week or more to recover from if you really went overboard.

Or at least, that’s what you now had to convince everyone of anyway.

So he’d let you stay behind, albeit very begrudgingly, which had surprised you. Now, as they recounted the plan one last time and took a final stock of their supplies, Sarafina watched them from her perch on the arm of the couch, alert and curious. Atsuhiro came over and bid Sarafina, and yourself, a personal farewell, patting the cat’s head and saying something about the gesture being for good luck.

“Get some rest,” he reminded you. You nodded and promised him you would.

“Feel better!” Toga chirped as she departed, and you gave her a bittersweet wave goodbye.

One by one, you watched them leave until only you and Kurogiri were left.

You took a seat at the bar, slowly sipping at a glass of water as you held your head in your hand and kept your eyes closed and, against Tomura’s wishes, allowed Sarafina to leap onto the counter one last time. As night approached, you took your leave and retreated back up to Toga’s room.

Then you pried open the window and dropped down onto the dumpster below, wincing when you made noise, but urging Sarafina to jump, to trust that you would catch her.

And she was hesitant, if not outright refusing.

It was almost like she didn’t want to leave, so you had no choice but to activate your quirk and leap down into your own arms before heading as far from that part of town as you possibly could.

Your cat seemed content to make a home here. You just weren’t sure yet whether you really felt you belonged. Though, if your intuition was anything to go by, this probably wouldn’t be the last time you saw them.

It was only a matter of time until one of them dragged you back or left no witnesses. You just hoped it was Toga or Atsuhiro who came to reclaim you. 

Until then though, you and Sarafina had better find yourselves a place to stay.

***

(Thank you to @supernatural-hunter1 for your request and I hope you enjoyed! Also I know I left the ending so ambiguous but I couldn’t think of how to end it. Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful day and remember to do something kind for yourself. Byyyyye <3)