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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

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Time and Time Again - CHANGBIN

I cannot believe this is finished??? I feel like I say this every time but genuinely I didn’t think this would get done until maybe bin’s birthday in August but I somehow finished it the second day of January?? Anyway, I really loved this (the concept LITERALLY came to me in a dream), and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :)

(The idea that prompted this response to a @quillstarters challenge is the same one that inspired this story :D)

Pairing: Changbin x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, reincarnation!au, soulmate!au

Triggers: death, mentions of suicide, blood (nothing graphic)

Word Count: 10.8k

A vengeful god curses one hundred lifetimes of your love.

SKZ Masterlist

In your first life, the life that starts it all, your mother knows magic.

She’s a healer, one whose patients come from all walks of life, all over the world. From that first lifetime, you remember the heavy, comforting smell of dried herbs, the softness of her hair tickling your face, the shimmers of magic emanating from her practiced fingers into bubbling pots.

You sort of remember a father, hazy memories of a smiling man who wasn’t home very often but when he was, liked to pick you up and swing you around the room. He isn’t around by the time you’re six, maybe seven, though.

You know not to ask about it. The first time you did, your mother’s face just turned sad, an awful sort of sad that looked more like regret and repentance and anger and desolation. It takes a few more slip ups, but eventually you learn to ignore your curiosities. For though your mother never outright dismisses them, they upset her, and you never get a straight response.

Until the god arrives.

They appear in a shower of blinding light. Cold, white sparks burst into brilliant rainbows that fade in the air. You watch, mesmerized, even as your mother drags you away.

The god is beautiful. Fine, androgynous features, red eyes as soulful as song, lush locks of hair that tumble around their shoulders. But it is the severity in their face, as well as the bloodred bow and the bone-tipped arrow nocked in their hands that tell you who they are.

“You hid yourself well, disciple of Hekate.” Cupid’s beautiful lips curl in a mocking smile that doesn’t even attempt to disguise the anger in their eyes. “Eight years. I applaud you.”

Three slow, ominous claps echo loudly in the room.

You look up at your mother, heart about to leap out of your chest. Her face has gone pale, devoid of color. It only scares you more.

Cupid’s eyes flicker to you, clutching your mother’s skirts like a toddler. They freeze you in place. “So she never told you.”

Told me what?

“You never wondered where your father was, child?”

All the breath stops in your throat.

My father?

The god shakes his head disapprovingly. “It’s the least you could have done, sorceress.”

“What would you have me do?” Your mother’s voice brims with desperation and anger – though aimed at whom, you aren’t sure. “How could a child ever understand?”

“You should never have made the mistake in the first place.”

Understood what? Your eyes flit between the god and your mother. “Mother?” you whisper, tugging at her sleeve. “Mother, what do they mean?”

The story spills out in broken fragments. Your father had a liaison with your mother and she found she was pregnant with you. She loved him, but he didn’t want to stay. So she dabbled in forbidden magic. Gave a love potion to a man who did not care for her.

You were born. He realized, eventually, what she had done. Then he left, leaving you without a father.

You can’t even try to speak when the story is over. It feels as though you can’t breathe, can’t feel, can’t see anything beyond the god’s blood red eyes. Fingers cling to your mother’s skirts numbly as you attempt to process the flow of words that just passed through your ears.

Dimly, you register your mother pulling free from your hands to kneel on the floor. “Do with me as you see fit,” she whispers.

“With you?” Cupid laughs. The sound tears at the silence in the room. “What use would that be? No, I think your child will pay for your crimes.” They pin you under their gaze. “Yes, I see many lifetimes of pain in these eyes that would suffice.”

You don’t understand. You can’t understand. What does the god want with you? What have you done to anger them? It was your mother who committed the error, not you. Why must you pay for it? Your heart pounds faster and faster as their eyes refuse to waver.

“Yes.” They nod, finally satisfied. “A heart broken one hundred times will pay for your crime.” Cupid lifts their bow and arrow, aiming at your heart.

Your mother’s head snaps up. “You would condemn my child’s love to centuries of turmoil?” Her voice shakes with barely controlled anger. “You would punish my child for my mistakes? Take me instead!”

Cupid’s cruel eyes flicker between you and her. “Love is hardly fair, as you should well know,” they snarl. “By meddling in my affairs, you have secured your child’s fate.”

Their gaze fixes on you with the intensity of a thousand suns. You shrink under their glare, even as their eyes gain some semblance of softness. For a moment, it seems as though the god will take pity on you.

Then the arrow sinks into your chest, exploding into a shower of the god’s cold sparks. No blood flows but your chest throbs.

Through a dim haze of pain, as though they speak through water, you hear the god speak their final words.

“A hundred lifetimes will pass before I will allow your love to rest.”

. . . . .

It takes years, really, for the information to sink in. You don’t fault your mother entirely for her actions – raising a child alone is hard, you come to know as you grow older. But at the same time, you can’t find respect for a man who would abandon a woman he had a relationship with over the birth of a child. You can’t understand why your mother would love such a person, can’t quite understand love in general. You know you love your mother, of course, but what does such an emotion really mean?

You learn the meaning at age twenty in your first life when you meet Seo Changbin.

Your mother rushes into the house that day, almost collapsing under his unconscious weight. You immediately zero in on the huge gash on his leg that’s still leaking blood, despite the makeshift bandage, and start pulling down the necessary salves and potions.

He doesn’t wake up for a week. Other patients filter in and out of the little hut as the days go by and you dutifully do your best to treat them all, gently treating scrapes and brewing tonics. There’s something about the man lying unconscious and feverish at the back of the hut, though, that draws you in like a moth to a flame. Day by day, you sit by him when you can, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with cool cloths, forcing brews down his throat and dabbing creams onto his leg to fight the infection.

He doesn’t look like one of the gentlemen that sometimes come to town. He doesn’t seem like he has the stately grace of Hwang Hyunjin, the lord’s heir, nor does he exude the cold elegance of Choi Chanhee, the magistrate’s son.

So this man is probably a commoner, if your deductions are correct. But you know almost everyone in the village – they’ve all come to the healer’s hut at some point and met you – and this boy’s face is new. You don’t recognize him, not at all.

You wake up to a soft crash in the middle of the night, then the sound of a loud curse. For a moment, you lie back down on your pillow. Probably Mother.

Then you sit bolt upright. That was a man’s voice. Not your mother’s.

Thieves?

Then you realize.

He’s woken up!

Large, terrified eyes glow in the flickering light of your candle when you enter the healing ward, carefully holding your hands in a purposeful gesture of surrender. “Hello,” you say, trying not to fixate on the beauty of the boy’s eyes. “My name is Y/N. My mother found you in the forest with an infected wound and brought you to our home for treatment.”

He glares at you, still distrustful, but speaks. “How long have I been here?”

“Almost a week.”

The boy visibly tenses. “One week?”

“Yes.” You step forward. “And I would advise you not to leave for at least another two, given the condition of your leg. Wherever you’re going, if you go now, the infection will kill you before you get far.”

“How long will I have?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you suicidal?”

For several tense seconds, you stare at each other, neither backing down. Finally, the boy lowers his gaze. “Fine,” he says, the fight leaving his voice. He smiles a little, apologetically. “I’ll stay. Thank you for treating me.”

“You’re welcome.” You help him back onto the cot. “Now try to sleep. I’ll come back to check on you in the morning.”

Just before you fall asleep, you think of large, brown eyes and petulant lips. For some reason, they make you smile.

. . .

His name is Changbin, you come to learn after several days of pained grunts, spilled salve, and muted conversation. He won’t tell you where he comes from, but a name is far better than nothing. At least you have confirmation that he isn’t a local, and he smiles too much for you to suspect him as a murderer.

That would be unpleasant.

And Changbin is the opposite of unpleasant. He has this smile, a smile that no matter how small, is bright enough to light up the room. He’s so smart when it comes to life but he’s also a little dumb, really, telling bad jokes that make you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. He snorts when you tell your own stupid stories and insulting jokes and as a result, you think of more and more for him, more tall tales and bad puns just so you can hear that beautiful laugh that sounds like a cross between wedding bells and a pig’s snort.

He stays for your recommended two weeks, then another, and another. Your mother doesn’t mind, only smiles at him like he was her own son. Changbin isn’t useless, after all – he helps you tend to the herb garden, chops wood for the fire, and is receptive to the eventual lessons you give him on the basics of healing.

(And if you stare at his muscles when he lifts heavy pots over the fire, what of it?)

The boy your mother found so many weeks ago in the woods lights up your life in a way you’ve never experienced before. Even though it makes you feel guilty, sometimes you’re glad that Changbin injured himself in the forest. Otherwise, you might never have met the boy who sits with you shoulder to shoulder on the bank of the river that runs through the woods, laughs ringing through the trees.

“Y/N,” he says on one of those quiet days by the river. When you look up from your feet dangling feet in the swift current and when you look up, you find Changbin staring at you with something so soft, so deep in his gaze that you can’t decipher it.

(It makes your heart thump.)

“Hm?” You pull your feet out of the water, feeling almost shy as you meet his eyes.

“Have you ever been kissed?”

When Changbin kisses you that afternoon under a green canopy of leaves, golden light showering his dark hair and tanned skin, you can’t think. There are no thoughts of anything in your head (and certainly none of Cupid’s curse) except the euphoria of his lips against yours. With his mouth pressed softly to yours, you feel like you’re flying, drifting on the breeze without a care in the world. It’s bliss, pure bliss.

Your mother knows when you walk back into the hut, suppressing an uncontrollable smile. Her gaze remains carefully neutral for the rest of the day, but when Changbin has gone outside to chop wood, she speaks. “You know about the curse.”

Dread mixes with the bliss in your heart. Your head hangs over the herbs you’re grinding. “Yes, Mother.”

“Darling, look at me.” She turns you around, and you see the tears building in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

There’s bitterness in your chest and mouth, tingeing the tip of your tongue, but this is your mother, the woman who bore you and cared for you alone for so much of your life. Though angry words rise in your throat, they never make it past your lips.

“It’s okay, Mother.” You brush the tears away, valiantly holding your own back. “I can’t blame you for a mistake you made in the name of love.” Blind, blind hope rises in your chest. “Maybe the god forgot. Maybe they will have mercy.”

Your mother just looks at you with dreadful eyes, eyes haunted by the knowledge that your words will prove false. But Changbin’s already coming back inside and the fluttering happiness in your heart from seeing him expels all negative thoughts from your mind.

One year passes in domestic bliss. Your mother never brings up the curse again, and you push any thought of it to the back of your mind. Changbin’s kisses do much to dispel any worries of yours, anyway.

Late one night, curled in a blanket next to the fire, Changbin tells you the reason he came. “I left because of a family dispute,” he says, almost ashamedly, staring into the flickering flames. “I had a falling out with my father, and he told me to leave. Even though I knew he really didn’t mean it, even though my mother pleaded with me to stay, I… I left anyway.”

You hold him closer under the blanket, comforting him with your warmth. In the light of the fire, his eyes look ghostly against the dark.

“I’m telling you this now because I want to go back.”

Your heart freezes.

Back? He wants to go back to his village, go back home… and leave you behind?

But Changbin’s smiling now, slightly. It settles your heart a little – he couldn’t speak of leaving you forever and smile in the same sentence, could he? You look at him, eyes pleading with him to continue.

“I want to go back to apologize,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I want to go back to make amends. But I’ll come back to the home I have here.”

“Can I come with you?” you can’t help but ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer.

He shakes his head, and your heart sinks. “No, I think this is something I have to do myself. But I won’t stay, I promise you that. I’ll come back home.”

“Promise?” you ask, voice barely a whisper over the crackling flames. Your fingers clutch his desperately. He has to come back, or you’ll go with him.

“I promise.” He lifts a thin silver chain from his neck, a necklace he’s never taken off since he arrived, and loops it around your throat. “That’s my promise, all right? I’m leaving this with you because I know I’ll return. And when I do…” He sweeps one of your hands out of the blanket and places a gentle kiss on it. “I’m going to marry you.” A note of uncertainty enters his gaze. “Unless you… uh, unless you don’t want to?”

You tug your hand out of his and punch him in the arm. “Are you stupid, Seo Changbin?” you ask over his yelps of mock pain. Eyes turning shy, you smile. “Of course I do.”

Your heart explodes in bliss when he kisses you, the fire’s warmth dancing on his lips.

. . .

“No more than two months,” he promises you the day he leaves. “I’ll come home.”

He keeps looking back and you keep waving as he starts out into the forest, green leaves beginning to shroud his path. The last you see of him is his bright smile as he disappears between the trees, the gentle pressure of his lips still a memory against yours.

One month passes, then two. You wait outside the hut eagerly every day, waiting for a sign of his returns.

Then another month goes by. And another. Winter settles in, heavy snow coating the forest in cold, white blankets.

“Perhaps he was held up,” your mother says, guiding your shivering body back inside the house. “He couldn’t travel in the winter, so he’s probably staying somewhere for the time being.”

You want to believe her. You really do, with all your heart and soul. But Cupid’s curse remains in the back of your mind, twisting and turning in its depths, whispering to you that Changbin is gone, that he will never return.

Winter has passed and a month of spring gone by before you decide to find Changbin’s family yourself. It takes several months because really, you don’t have any guide other than the name of his old village, but eventually, exhausted and almost losing hope, you find them.

A stooped woman answers the door with a confused smile on her lips. “Hello.”

“Um, hello.” You swallow. “Is this the Seo residence?”

“Yes, can I help you with anything?”

You pull the necklace from under the collar of your shirt. “Did Changbin come visit some months ago?”

For a single moment charged with hope, you see the widening of the woman’s eyes and believe that she will say yes, that Changbin came and is just having a hard time returning.

Then she shakes her head, and the world begins to crumble at the edges.

. . .

You stay just long enough to tell Changbin’s family who you are and what he set out to do, then flee back home as fast as you can. Tears stain the forest floor and when your mother opens the door to the hut so many months later, it only takes one look for her to fold you into her arms as you begin to cry on her shoulder.

He could be alive, you desperately hope. He could be somewhere, lost, unable to find his way back home. You know your Changbin would never break a promise to you, not if he could help it.

One year. Two years. Then three. The months pass with no sign of his return.

And you know, dead or not, he isn’t coming back.

It hurts. Everything reminds you of him, of Changbin, of what could have been and what should have been. You curse Cupid, cry for the god to come down so you can scream obscenities at them face to face, but they never answer your pleas.

The silver chain Changbin left you burns around your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to take it off. It’s the last thing you have of him, the only thing you have of him. You clutch it on your worst days, imprinting the tiny chain links into your palm when you fall sick, wasting away without a desire to live.

This is what it feels like, you think, delirious with fever, to have lost your entire world.

Your crying mother stays by your side as you wither, sponging your forehead, feeding you soup, whispering apologies into the blankets she covers you with. In moments of lucidity, you clutch her hand and tell her it’s not her fault. That you understand, now, what it means to love someone with the force of the universe.

Weeks pass in a feverish daze until winter seizes control of the earth. Numb with cold and sweating with warmth, you pray to the heavens above to release you from this pain.

The day you drift away is bitterly cold. You’re wrapped in at least five blankets, your mother shivering beside you as she grips your hands, trying desperately to warm them.

There is one brief moment of absolute clarity. You sit up, eyes wide, and cup your mother’s cheeks between cold, cold hands. “I love you, Mother.”

She kisses your forehead. “I love you too, my darling child.”

Her tears drip onto your cheeks. You don’t remember anything more.

In your first life, in the dead of winter, you die of a broken heart.

. . . . .

Your second life begins in a poor family, though happy. Sixteen years of life pass in ignorant bliss, with no knowledge of soulmates or vengeful gods. A week after your birthday, hope filling every step, you set off for the nearby village to try your skills at sewing. Luck paves your path and you find a kind mistress who values your quick fingers and eye for color. The village is bright and cheerful, you’re making money to send back to your family, and life is peaceful.

Then the dreams come.

The first vision is barely there, just a quick glimpse of green trees and a disappearing smile wedged between the scenes of your mind’s musings. You wake up, an uneasy feeling in your chest, but the image is already fading. You shake the discomfort away and get to work.

The second dream is longer, more vivid. You hear a voice, feel a gentle touch, see a mop of dark hair and a pair of gleaming eyes. In the moment, you feel happy, so happy in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure, this happiness, something so deep that your entire body feels warm when you wake, even as a chilling breeze seeps in through a crack in the window.

The dreams continue for several days, and each morning, you only grow more curious about the strange man who keeps wandering into your mind. Who is this man? you wonder as you sew, poking your fingers with the needle more times than you’d like to admit. Who is he, and why does he make me so happy?

Why does it feel like I should know him?

After a week of lovely, warm, but deeply unsettling dreams, it hits you all at once.

Needle in hand, you’re about to push the sliver of metal through a silk shirt, ready to begin embroidering the next leaf on a flowering vine. Taking a second glance at the embroidery you’ve already done, you blink in confusion.

This kind of vine doesn’t exist in your little village. In fact, you’ve never seen it before. But each leaf, each flower is so perfectly stitched that it doesn’t seem possible that you just made this up on the spot.

Oh.

Green leaves, sturdy trunks, water rushing down a river. Firm muscle, a flowering vine curled into a crown, fingers placing the circlet upon your head. A brilliant smile, bright as the sun, and a peal of snorting laughter that sounds like wedding bells.

One name hurtles through your mind, the name of the dark-haired, lovely-eyed boy who, by now, is a frequent visitor in your dreams.

Seo Changbin.

The needle embeds itself in your palm.

. . .

It’s hard to explain away your frazzled state when your mistress comes into the room to see you staring at the embroidered silk, palm dripping blood onto your clothes. Voice trembling only slightly (and you’re proud of yourself for that), you tell her that you just made a mistake, really.

Never mind the fact that the needle stuck itself far enough into your hand that you really have to pull it out, releasing a small spurt of blood that raises your mistress’s eyebrows so far they look like they’re about to jump off her forehead.

Shakily, you get back to work. Years of practice have steadied your fingers so that the stitches remain even, but as you sew, your mind races with memories. Memories of a trembling mother, a red-eyed god, a gaping leg wound festering on an apothecary table. Memories of boys you’ve never met in this life, a Hwang Hyunjin and a Choi Chanhee, but most importantly, a strong young man with sweet lips and a raspy, whining voice named Seo Changbin.

“Seo Changbin,” you murmur, testing the words between your lips. Just saying his name sends a rush of warmth through your chest and brings a small smile to your face.

The smile disappears, though, when you remember how the story ends.

Night brings dreams again, full, vivid scenes that begin with joy and happiness and warmth. You see your mother from another life, smell the comforting scent of herbs wafting through the air in the hut. You see your love, Changbin, feel his arms wrapped around your body, see the flush in his cheeks when you press your lips to his in a kiss.

The day he leaves is vivid, too. Sharp greens against a bright blue sky devoid of clouds, his smile disappearing into the forest as he begins his journey home.

A journey that you know he will never finish.

You know what will happen next and you don’t want to see it. You beg yourself to wake up, to stop these visions before your heart breaks, but sleep pins down your limbs and forces you to watch, to experience, to live the turmoil of emotions that flooded your heart those last few years of your life.

The next morning, you look so ill that your mistress forces you to take the day off, despite your pleas that you can work, you really can. The last thing you need is more sleep, after all, more time for vengeful gods to replay past lives for their leisure.

So after sixteen years of blissful ignorance, you know. You know of your love, you know of the curse, you know of the life that began it all. Sick emotions mix in your heart, syrupy and viscous and heavy, hope for a love as deep as your life before and terror for the heartbreak that will inevitably come.

And this time, you don’t have a loving mother who knows of your predicament.

You imagine Cupid laughing in the heavens as you face his wrath once more.

. . .

It happens by chance, purely by chance. On your days off, you sometimes like to visit the marketplace, see if you can find some fun trinket to send back to your family or to keep for yourself. Today is no exception.

Something makes you pause in front of a jewelry stand, a stand you don’t usually visit because your apprentice’s pay, though enough to support your family, doesn’t allow for expenses on jewels. However, a thin chain necklace catches your eye as you walk past.

It’s silver, shiny, not a hint of rust on the metal. A small black stone hangs as a pendant and you’ve never seen it before, but you can’t shake the suspicion that this is a necklace you wore in a past life.

A necklace Changbin gave you in a past life.

Uneasiness grows in your mind the longer you look at the chain. How did the jeweler even get this chain? Who took it away? You’re pretty sure you wore it until your death, and you don’t believe your previous mother, based on your dreams, would have taken it away.

You think you want it back.

Pointing at the chain, you look up at the jeweler. “How much is this?”

“Eight gold pieces.”

Your heart sinks. A day’s work gives you five silver pieces, and there are twenty silvers to a gold. Most of your money goes back home, leaving you with only a little pocket money of your own – certainly not enough for a piece of jewelry worth eight golds. Lips pressed thinly together, you nod before beginning to walk away.

A voice stops you, a familiar voice you’ve never heard before. Not in this life, at least.

“Wait!”

You turn around, slowly, slowly, as Changbin’s voice asks the jeweler, “Eight gold pieces, you said?”

It’s him, you think faintly. It’s really him. Different hair, skin a shade lighter, but his eyes… his eyes are the same. The absolute same.

He doesn’t look at you with any recognition, though, and he’s dressed in silk, indicating high status – at least, higher than yours. So you politely avert your gaze, trying to calm the pounding in your heart.

Eight golds appear on the counter, exchanged for a small silk pouch with the necklace inside. You’re about to walk away – why did Changbin stop you, anyway? There’s not a single chance he would give it to you – when the pouch appears in your line of vision, held by a familiar hand.

You blink once, twice, then look up from the pouch to the man holding it in his palm.

Only one thought runs through your mind.

There is no way, in two consecutive lives, that Seo Changbin would offer me the same necklace.

Your confusion must show, because he laughs. “It’s for you,” he says (and oh, gods, his voice makes you want to just sit and listen to it forever). “It looked like you wanted it, no?”

Thankfully, your vocal cords remember how to speak, even if your mind doesn’t. “I couldn’t possibly take such a gift, sir,” you say, stepping backward slightly. “You paid for it – it’s yours.”

“Then it is also mine to give. And I believe you would appreciate this much more than I.” He unstrings the pouch, slips the chain into his fingers. “May I?”

For any other person, you would have said a polite no before speed walking into the crowd, hoping to disappear between the stalls. Now, though, you stay in place, rooted to the ground under Changbin’s steady gaze.

You nod.

His hands are gentle in their feather-light touch against your skin, clasping the chain around your neck. The pendant hangs at the base of your throat, cold at first, but slowly warming with the afternoon sun.

It feels right.

“Thank you,” you whisper when he’s finished, sinking into a low bow. “Thank you so much.”

Changbin smiles, loosely taking your hand. He drops a butterfly kiss to your knuckles and you physically have to restrain yourself from gasping too loudly, because – oh, because –

The spot where his lips touch your skin sends warmth spreading throughout your body.

“It was my pleasure,” he says, still smiling. “My name is Changbin.”

I know.

“May I know yours?”

“Oh.” You smile, hoping your lips don’t tremble too much. “I’m Y/N.”

His smile widens at your words, making your heart flutter in shy embarrassment. “I hope to see you around once more, Y/N,” he says.

A sudden burst of courage turns your smile a little teasing. “Just once?”

Changbin’s laugh – it’s shy, it’s a shy laugh, your heart can’t take it – makes you want to melt into the ground. “Maybe not,” he finally says, ears red. “Maybe many times more.”

. . .

He keeps his promise of many times more, appearing again on your next day off, then again, and again. If possible, you seem to fall in love with him even more than you did in your previous life, his laughs tickling your heart, his smiles like sunshine against your skin.

Deep down, you know this won’t last. If Cupid took your love away so harshly in your last life, he won’t hesitate to do it again, possibly with even more malice. But Changbin is intoxicating, pulling you toward him like a leaf on the wind, forever fluttering in the breeze, only resting when the air does.

It’s not even just Cupid. At least before, you and Changbin were on equal footing – one a healer, the other a poor runaway. There was no status difference. Now, though, Changbin wears silk while you clothe yourself in homespun fabric, finer perhaps than a peasant’s, but homespun nonetheless. No matter how daintily you embroider the cloth with leftover threads from your work, it will never match up to the rich, gorgeous clothing of the nobles with whom Changbin must walk.

Such differences inevitably drive a wedge into a love that could have been.

It starts after you go to the market once, twice, three times, and Changbin doesn’t meet you at any of the stalls. It feels empty, walking around with no one by your side, and you’re just wondering if something’s happened when you receive a note written in your love’s handwriting, asking you to meet him at midnight where you first met.

He arrives a bit later than you, footsteps softly padding across the empty market. For a moment, you only stare at each other, faces lit just barely by the light of the moon.

Changbin breaks the silence. “I’m getting married.”

The words send a knife into your heart, but you try to ignore the pain. It was expected, you tell yourself, expected of someone with Changbin’s high status. The two of you could never end up together, not a sewing apprentice and a member of nobility. “I see,” is all you say.

For the first time since you’ve met, Changbin looks broken. It hurts your heart and you want nothing more than to hold him close until that expression disappears, but you can’t. You’ve barely even touched – you don’t have a right to hold him the way you’d like.

“I don’t want to be,” he says.

Your hands shake slightly with your reply. “Why?”

“Because…” Changbin’s voice almost fades into the silence. “I think I love you.”

His words should make you feel happy, should make fireworks burst in your heart the way they did when Changbin kissed you in your past life. And yes, a small part of you jumps for joy. But a larger part withers with disappointment, with pain, with the knowledge that none of this will come to good.

“Y/N.” His voice turns insistent. “Don’t you… don’t you feel the same?”

You swallow. Take a breath. “I do.”

A lovely brightness enters Changbin’s eyes, hope filling his face. You hate yourself for having to crush it. “But you have a duty to your family.”

“We can run away,” Changbin says, taking your hand. You want to melt yourself into his touch, rest in his warmth forever. “We can run, Y/N. We don’t have to stay.”

Only the greatest force of will allows you to pull your hand away. “I have a family, Changbin,” you say, trying not to focus on the light that’s fading out of his face with every second. “I have to support them. And you… you have a duty to the village.” You swallow. “We can’t run. It’s too selfish.”

He doesn’t blame you, you know. He understands what you’re saying, has probably already thought of it himself. Still, it doesn’t stop pain from breaking the glass in his eyes, gaze becoming fragmented as he nods once, twice. “I know. I just thought…”

Changbin never finishes his sentence. In fact, you never speak again. He walks you back to your mistress’s house that night, squeezes your hand once under the moonlight, then disappears back into the darkness.

And with that disappearance, he leaves your life forever.

Over the years, you hear stories of Changbin’s lovely partner, her flowing hair and vibrant face and pretty smile. You hear stories of how much they love each other, the children they have, how well they watch over the village together.

It doesn’t matter how much your heart hurts, you tell yourself every time you hear one of those stories. It doesn’t matter at all, not even when his wife commissions a dress from the shop you now own, years later. It doesn’t matter when Changbin comes with her and stands in the main room silently as you take her for fitting, and it doesn’t matter when his eyes linger slightly on you when you lead her back out.

You exchange no words that day, but you’re certain Changbin sees the black gemstone still resting at the base of your throat. He makes no obvious expression, but when his eyes flicker over it, their light dims the slightest bit.

In this life, there are no kisses, no hugs, none of the passion you shared in your first life. Instead, you love through vivid conversations, knowing smiles, and in the end, the barest brush of his hand against yours before he leads his wife out of your shop.

In the end, you never marry. Instead, you spend the rest of your life sewing until your eyes go blind, leaving you all too much time to contemplate everything you’ve lost.

Which is worse, you wonder, losing your love to death or to societal pressures and another woman? Which is worse, never knowing how Changbin suffered as he died, or knowing that he’s doing well without you?

Which is worse, having your love die in a land unknown, or having him live so close, yet so far away?

. . . . .

It continues, over and over again, endless cycles of living, remembering, loving. He’s a thief and you’re a merchant. You’re a shop owner and he’s a soldier. Both of you are orphans, living on the street. None of it matters, not gender, not occupation, not social status – no matter what, you end up apart.

With every lifetime, the dreams grow more vivid, as though to make sure you don’t forget a single instant of the love you experienced, the love you could never see to the end. You’d think that the lines between each life would grow blurred as each one passes, but they only grow sharper, more defined. It’s impossible to forget how many lives you’ve lived, not when Cupid forces each one to remain in your mind, endlessly playing in your dreams time and time again.

On your twenty-ninth reincarnation, you experience a month’s worth of dreams in your silken bed, the bed of a noble heir who can have nothing to do with the boy who stays by their side day and night as a bodyguard and nothing more. You wake up every night stifling screams resulting from twenty-eight lifetimes of broken hearts, muffled cries and tears that bring Changbin running into your room, asking if you’re all right, reminding you that you’re safe.

Physically, you agree. You trust Changbin entirely – he’s proven more than capable of protecting you after multiple attempts on your life – but mentally? Emotionally?

How can he protect you from a god’s wrath, a wrath he doesn’t know of, when you can’t even protect yourself from that same wrath you’ve known of for twenty-eight, soon to be twenty-nine lifetimes?

You try to harden your heart, speak to Changbin a little less, spend more time focused on your lesson books and less on Changbin’s lovely face, but it’s impossible, you find after several months of this forced silence. It’s impossible to ignore the allure of your guard’s lips, his entrancing eyes, impossible to ignore the gentleness of his strong, roughened hands guiding you through life.

But with every chaste kiss, with every stolen hug or brush of skin, you know, deep in your heart, that something will befall your love. Something will tear you two apart.

When he dies, stabbed in the chest by a traitor to your family, rage drives you to take the knife that fell out of your love’s hand and shove the blade into the attacker’s heart. It drives you to cry, to weep, to wail to the sky as Changbin’s skin grows cold, the remnants of his last “I love you” still hanging on his lips.

Watching your love die in front of you, you decide, is the worst punishment of all. Nothing, absolutely nothing could be worse than this, knowing that Changbin died because of you, for you, without a singular doubt in his mind as he did it because he knew you would do the same for him.

Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating Changbin’s blank face and the blood on his chest. As people begin entering the room, pausing at the carnage next to your bed, you raise your head, tears still flowing down your face.

“YOU SELFISH GOD!” you scream at the cold moon, resisting the arms tugging you away from the body of your love. “YOU SELFISH GOD! I GAVE YOU TWENTY-EIGHT LIFETIMES OF MY LOVE, AND YOU WANT MORE?”

Someone’s speaking, trying to make you hear their words over the raging of your voice. You don’t care, violently wrenching yourself out of their grip to stay thrown over Changbin’s body, tears mixing with his blood. “COME DOWN AND FACE ME!” you gasp. “COME DOWN AND TAKE MY LIFE, DO ANYTHING, I DON'T CARE! FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”

Strong hands, too strong, containing none of the gentility Changbin used to show you, begin pulling you away. You thrash in their grip, still staring at the moon. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME!” you scream as they drag you out of the room. Blood stains your nightclothes, sticky against your skin. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME, NEVER DIED FOR ME, DO YOU HEAR?”

. . . . .

The god grants your wish.

. . .

You regret it more than anything in all of your now-thirty lives.

. . .

To know of your love, but to never experience any semblance of it in your entire life? To know of a certain Seo Changbin, but to never meet him, never know how he is, never see him once in over fifty years of living?

Torture.

. . .

From your sixteenth birthday, when you begin having the dreams, until your death well into your fifties, there’s only pain, endless pain, marred by a piece of disgusting hope that rests in your chest, a piece of hope that keeps you praying that you will see him just once in this lifetime, that you’ll know his face and he’ll know yours.

. . .

It becomes so clear as you grow older that you will never know the Changbin of this lifetime, if he even exists. You will never touch his skin, see his smile, bathe in the glory of his laugh. You’ll never kiss, never experience even the briefest joy of seeing his face.

But your heart hopes, anyway, even though your mind sees reason. It prays, refuses to accept the truth.

. . .

Hope, you decide, is a weapon. A weapon far deadlier than the sharpest sword or the heaviest club, a weapon wielded by only the most intelligent of tyrants.

. . .

Apparently, you go mad towards the end of this life. You can’t blame those who eventually put you in an institution, over fifty years old and withering away. They don’t know who Changbin is. They never will.

You never will.

. . .

You blame the dreams. If you didn’t know of your previous lives, if you didn’t know Changbin existed, you might have lived happily – well, maybe not happily, but you’d be content, at least. You wouldn’t be wishing you were dead every minute of your existence.

. . .

You die in that institution, supposedly of a wasting disease, but more accurately of a broken heart, a heart even more broken than the one Changbin left behind that first life when he never came back.

. . . . .

Your forty-sixth life is first one in which you end the love with death, not Changbin. Looking back, it was probably better for you, you suppose, because you didn’t have to feel the pain of losing your love. Maybe this was Cupid’s laughable attempt at some sort of mercy.

You loathe it anyway, loathe it almost as much as the lives – yes, plural by now, which automatically cancel anything Cupid tries to do to make up for it (if the god is even trying) – where you dreamt of certain sparkling eyes and a lovely smile but never met them face to face. It’s not quite as horrible, but nearly.

To know that your love had to deal with any measure of the pain you’ve felt for so long, the pain you wouldn’t impart on even your worst enemy, is unimaginable.

It’s ironic, too, considering your occupations in life. You’re a healer on the battlefield, wearing the strip of blue silk on your arm that denotes your immunity to the opposite forces. He’s a soldier on the same side, though he has no protection other than his skill from enemy swords.

You are sworn to heal. He is sworn to kill.

Isn’t it strange, then, that fate wills you to die first while forcing Changbin to live?

You weren’t supposed to be killed in war. Your healer status, that piece of blue silk tied around your arm, was supposed to protect you from enemy blades. But some unsuspecting enemy soldier, perhaps not seeing the blue amidst the dust of the battlefield or genuinely just not caring for the rules of war, drove their blade into your back as you knelt over a fallen man of your side.

Within minutes, you had succumbed to darkness. The pain of dying, the blade in your back wasn’t even the worst part.

All you could think, after all, as you lay there gasping, was that he would have to learn of your death from finding your body, that you wouldn’t even get to say a proper goodbye.

. . . . .

It’s a pitiful, desolate figure who sits on a clifftop fifteen lifetimes later, blankly staring at an expanse of open ocean, waves crashing against the rocks below, contemplating every single one of the sixty-one lives you’ve lived so far.

You married Changbin in this one, this sixty-first life. You married him for the first time in sixty-one lives, made your vows with him, kissed him under a shower of flower petals.

It didn’t change your fate, not even when, unable to have a baby of your own, you adopted your first, then your second child. It didn’t change anything, not when Changbin had a duty to this village that you couldn’t interfere with. It didn’t change anything, not when pirates came ashore and massacred the village population, killing your two children and half of the rest of your family.

Changbin threw himself from this very cliff, you remember, threw himself to a watery death rather than die at the hands of the pirates who came to raid the town so many years ago. He was brave to the last, fending off invaders even when countless others had thrown down their swords, and he never lived to see the defeat of the pirates whom he died fighting.

You hug your shoulders tightly, staring down at the waves crashing against the rocks. With all that’s happened to you over sixty-one lifetimes, who would blame you for tipping off the edge the same way Changbin died, albeit much less heroically? Who would blame you for giving up in this life, giving up in every life if you knew just how badly it would end every time?

“You’re right,” a rich voice sounds behind you, a voice that you once heard in person, many centuries ago. “Who would blame you? Not even I would.”

Your eyes slam shut, refusing to gaze into blood red. You don’t speak.

A sigh passes from the god’s lips, breath puffing softly. Where the air hits your neck, you feel your skin curdle with disgust.

“It’s no use not speaking,” he continues, a hint of amusement tinging his voice that makes your hands curl into fists. “I can hear your thoughts.”

A snarl twists your lips. “They must be very loud,” you snap, words dripping acid.

More silence.

“You hate me,” he finally says.

You breathe in, out, in, out. Calm, you tell yourself.

“Why wouldn’t I.”

A pause.

“Perhaps you can elaborate.”

For the first time since they appeared, you turn around, eyes blazing, to stare into the red gaze of the wrathful god who cursed you. “I would rather throw myself off this cliff,” you seethe, “than relive my lifetimes in front of you.”

Is it remorse that glitters in ruby eyes, pity that rests in their shadows? Whatever it is, it makes you smirk without mirth, lips curling without cheer as you turn back around to watch gray waves crash against the cliff. It doesn’t matter how a vengeful god feels after lifetimes of revenge. Apologies from the curser mean nothing to the spite of the cursed.

“I made mistakes,” the god says simply. “I acted rashly. I should not have taken my anger out on you, and certainly not with so harsh a punishment.”

You want to snort. “I am ever grateful you realize after sixty-one lifetimes of wrath,” you say, acid practically burning a hole in your tongue. “Now quit with the blather.” You don’t care that you’re staring at a god who could smite you down a thousand times over with a single flick of their finger – they’ve already hurt you too much for it to matter anymore. “After so many years of never answering my calls, you finally come, unbidden. Tell me why you’re here, or I will jump off this cliff.”

“I’ve come to offer an exchange,” they say. “It is impossible to erase a curse, but I can impart it on someone else.”

In a flash, you’re standing, staring the god dead in the center of their bright red eyes. “You said you could read my thoughts,” you snarl. “Tell me, God of Love, what I’m thinking right now.”

They raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want it,” they say calmly, though surprise coats their words. “You have no one, then, on whom you would impart this curse?”

“When I tell you,” you snap, “that I would not wish this curse on my worst enemy in all of my sixty-one lives, I do not lie. That –” you take a breath – “that is how much you have hurt me.”

Astonishment shows itself in the god’s gaze. “I don’t understand,” they say, for the first time looking bemused. “I have given you everything, dying first, dying last, watching him die in front of you, never seeing him in a lifetime –”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you cut him off. “I know it very well.”

“Then you would not even give this curse to me?” they ask. “Not to the god who has shown you so much pain?”

That almost gets you, almost. The desire for revenge claws its way through your chest, begging to be released in a monstrous cry of pain, but you rein it in with a scoff. “For a god of love,” you say, turning back around, “you really understand nothing of it.”

More silence.

“I will leave you with two gifts,” the god finally says. “Two gifts to try and make up for what you have lost.”

You suppress another snort.

“Your love will remember you on your one hundred and first lifetime,” they continue. “When the curse is over, your love will remember you, will know how you have lived one hundred lifetimes without him.”

The words, acerbic with derision, fall from your lips without missing a beat. “Will I remember him, then, or will you take that away from me too?”

A short pause. The air seems to grow slightly warmer, as though the god has been angered, but it cools quickly. “You will remember him,” they reply, voice thinner with a tinge of frustration.

You smirk.

They clear their throat. “The second gift you will find when you return home.”

You give no response to that, only stare resolutely at gray waves, feeling the ocean spray tickle your skin. The god must disappear at some point, because when you finally turn around to return home, they’re gone. But once you enter your empty house, there’s something on your table, something that sparkles in the last glimmers of sunlight peeking through the window.

You pick it up, eyes narrowed, and almost immediately drop it.

A thin silver necklace, polished to shine, with a small black gem as the pendant.

Though there’s no way to prove it, you’re sure this is the very same piece of jewelry that Changbin gifted you so many centuries ago, two lifetimes in a row.

The chain trembles on your shaking fingers as you place it back down, carefully, so carefully, like it’ll explode any second. You go to bed that night wondering if the necklace will have disappeared by morning, but when you wake up after a fitful rest, it’s still there, glittering on the table.

You wear it for the rest of this lifetime, hiding it beneath your clothing so no questions are asked. And when you feel you will die soon, you carefully place the chain in a small box and bury it just outside your home.

You’ll find it in your next life. You’ll find it in the next, then the next, time and time again until the end of your hundred-lifetime punishment.

It’s a small comfort, that simple silver chain with the little black jewel, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, a piece of your love to carry with you until the end of your times. Even if it was given back by the god who cursed you.

. . . . .

Years trudge along, years of waiting and waiting and more waiting for the torture to end. More death, more illness, more societal pressure to drive you two apart. In five lifetimes, you die first. In the others, Changbin either leaves you to face the world on your own, or you never know him at all.

It seems that even though Cupid may have felt some remorse for your curse, that didn’t stop the god from finding new ways to hurt you.

At some point, the lives finally begin to blur together. There have just been too many. If you tried, you could probably piece them all together, work out the details of how the two of you lived and how you were ripped apart, but after seventy, then eighty, then finally ninety lifetimes of broken hearts, it becomes too painful to relive.

(As you near the ninetieth lifetime, if you’re lucky enough to be born to a family who cares, someone always comes running in for months to the tears that stain your cheeks through dream-filled nights. You must have helped send so many people to an early grave with the endless screaming they would wake up to on the nights you dreamed of particularly painful lives.)

There are two saving graces to this pain, and as much as you hate to admit it, they came from Cupid. The god never deigns to meet you again (something you’re grateful for), but their gifts keep you from losing all hope as you near the end, the blissful end of your punishment.

One, the necklace. In every lifetime, no matter how painful, no matter whether or not you find Changbin, you find the thin silver necklace from your previous life. And no matter how rusty the chain gets, how dull the jewel becomes after years of wear, it shows up shiny and polished the next time you find it.

Two, the knowledge that Changbin will recognize you that first lifetime your punishment is over. You don’t have to keep track of your lifetimes, don’t have to count them until the hundredth has come and gone, don’t have to live any unnecessary lives with the fear that Changbin will be taken away from you suddenly and horribly.

As much as you loathe saying it, these gifts give you the slightest bit of hope that keeps you going.

So you trudge through lives, living as a tailor falling for a shoemaker, a nurse who comes to love a bedridden patient, a rich socialite who wants to marry the son of your family’s sworn enemy (this one’s interesting, quite like Romeo and Juliet, really. In your next life, when you dream of it, you wonder if Cupid met Shakespeare after the playwright’s death and decided to have a sick laugh at your expense). Seventy passes at some point, then eighty, then ninety.

By your hundredth life, you aren’t entirely sure what number you’re on. You think it must be ending soon, what with all the dreams your seventeen-year-old self had to suffer through, but it hurts too much to pick them apart and count. When Changbin doesn’t recognize you, though, a student at the same university as you, you resign yourself to several more lifetimes of heartbreak. It’s too much to hope for at this point, too much to hope that you’re on your last cycle of punishment, that the next time you live, you will be able to love Changbin wildly, freely, without a care in the world.

The dreams come once more in your hundredth and first life. It makes you despair that your punishment isn’t over, not even now (because though you don’t dare to freely pray, hope still buries itself deep in your chest, allowing Cupid to wield it like the monster he is).

Cupid assured you on his second and last visit that you would remember Changbin when you met him, though. You don’t like it, but hope only grows when you recall his words. Blind, blind hope.

It’s a cold morning, bitterly cold, when you roll out of bed to go to work. Eyes blinking blearily, you fumble around the cabinets for a package of coffee before remembering you ran out yesterday.

Just my luck, you think, scribbling “coffee” onto the grocery list on your refrigerator. You shove the piece of paper into your pocket, hoping you remember to go shopping later for whatever’s on the list. Your roommates are out of town, so you can’t rely on them to get anything this time.

Bitter wind slashes at your face as you walk to the small café just down the street for your daily fix of caffeine. By the time you’ve reached the shop, your nose is already stiff with cold, and the steaming cup of coffee the barista presses into your chilled hands only briefly warms your skin before you have to step back into the cold.

The bus will be coming soon, you note, checking your phone for the time. Steps quickening, you bend your head into the wind and set off for the stop.

So focused on your destination are you that you don’t notice the person until it’s too late. You smack right into them, sending them lurching into a nearby pole. They fall to the sidewalk as you spew apologies from freezing lips, holding out a hand to help them up.

They take your hand, squeezing with a grip that seems a little too familiar to be coincidental. A familiar sensation of warmth, a lovely, dreadful warmth, spreads through your body, emanating from where the stranger’s hand touches yours.

You freeze, eyes hardly daring to look up and gaze into someone who might be Changbin, who might be the love of one hundred of your lifetimes. You don’t even know whether to hope it is him, because if it is, will he finally recognize you after so many cycles of pain? Or will this just be another love that ends in heartbreak?

Slowly, slowly, your gazes meet.

It’s him.

Lovely brown eyes, eyes that throughout twenty, fifty, ninety years of pain, have remain unchanged in their depth and gentleness, stare into yours. Your breath catches. The coffee in your hand drops to the ground.

It’s really him.

Belatedly, you realize he’s still on the ground and give a quick yank to pull him up. You try to apologize, both for hitting him and for the coffee that’s spattered onto his shoes, but your vocal cords won’t work. All you can do right now is stare.

He doesn’t recognize you. He hasn’t reacted to your touch, hasn’t given any indication that this is anything more than a chance meeting, an everyday occurrence where a stranger bumps into him (albeit a little harder than normal). You’re about to retract your hand, to force your vocal cords into giving an apology for smacking into him, but then he opens his mouth and speaks words you never dared to believe you would hear.

“It’s you,” he breathes, gripping your hand even more tightly, almost involuntarily, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded to the earth. His eyes, now wide with confusion and awe, search your face greedily. For what, you don’t know, but you’re doing the same, even though you’ve seen his face millions of times by now over a hundred lifetimes.

“It’s you,” he repeats once more, raspy voice breathless with emotion. “It’s really you.”

Finally, your throat manages to choke something out. “Changbin?” you try, words small and soft, conveying all of your disbelief in that one single word, that one single name. “Changbin?”

He says your name, then, says it once, twice, as he keeps staring into your eyes. It sounds like honey on his lips, sweet in a way that makes you heady with bliss, and only the biting wind keeps you rooted to the present, reminding you that this is real, this is not a dream, that this is real, completely real.

Slowly, naturally, one of your arms curls around his waist, just as his hands rise to cup your cheek. His fingers are cold against your bare skin but you lean into his touch, pulling him closer, closer, until your faces are only inches apart.

“It’s you,” Changbin murmurs, still as though he can barely believe it. “It’s really you.”

A strangled sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a laugh all at once. “You remember,” you choke, eyes beginning to fill with warm, salty tears. “You remember, Changbin.”

He cups your cheek with an ungloved hand, cold skin brushing against yours with a gentleness that makes you want to melt. “I do,” he replies, voice almost cracking with emotion. “I’m only sorry I didn’t remember before.”

In your previous lives, time and time again, you kissed Changbin’s lips. It was always lovely, absolutely lovely, lovely in a way that made it feel like a field of flowers blooming in your chest, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. But there was always a lingering desolation on your part, a despair born of the knowledge that this love would not last, that Cupid would not allow you to see it to its natural end.

Today, Changbin’s lips taste of sunshine and honey, dew on green grass on a summer morning, the excitement of a first snow, nothing reminding you of a lingering heartbreak to come. You can’t even feel the bitter wind with him pressed so closely to you, lips molding against yours as his hands cup your cheeks.

The last walls on your heart crack down, walls formed with the knowledge of your hundred lifetimes of punishment. From the broken walls springs a new warmth, a sparkling warmth that you can’t even find the words to explain, a warmth that spills through your body and makes you feel full, happy, joyous in a way you’ve never felt, not once before in your hundred lifetimes of heartbroken love.

When you break away, tears are streaking down your cheeks. Changbin’s eyes glitter, too, but the smile on his face is radiant as he gazes at you.

Cupid’s punishment was cruel, you know, crueler than it had to be. It was harsh, evil, almost wicked in the pain he inflicted on you. But even though the vestiges of that pain still line the edges of your heart, it’s easy to ignore it in favor of staring at your love standing in front of you as a wobbly smile of the purest joy finally begins to curve your lips.

Is this real? you wonder to yourself. Is this truly real, your punishment finally ending, Changbin remembering who you are and the lifetimes you’ve shared? This bliss, this love, this warmth… it all seems too good to be true.

As though he can read your thoughts (and perhaps he can – a hundred lifetimes of love have probably given him a window into your soul, the same way it’s given you one into his), Changbin grins, vibrant, radiant, warm even in the bitter cold. “This is real,” he says, lovely lips curved into a brilliant smile.

“It is?” you ask, soft, wondrous, childlike, hardly daring to believe.

He brushes away a tear on your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with the gentlest touch. “It is,” he whispers. “As real as your love for me, and mine for you.”

Time and time again, you burned your heart for Changbin, burned it with the love you felt for him over one hundred lifetimes of a curse. Time and time again, you swore at love, swore at the god who inflicted the curse on you without so much as an afterthought until sixty-one lives had passed.

But now, as you crush Changbin close, fitting your lips to his once more, you push those thoughts to the back of your mind and lose yourself in a kiss finally free of pain.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 slap in the face for Cupid fuck them)

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iceeckos12 · 4 years ago

Note

some prompt ideas for your perusal! cold hands; lingering gaze; sharp words; an unexpected gift; walking with the wind causing your scarf and hair to billow out behind you.

a;kdjf i am very slowly working through these prompts. thanks so much for sending them! i settled on sharp words. and since you didnt specify the pairing that means i get to pick so....s2 canon divergence jontim??

thank you again to Bloodsbane on discord for helping with characterization.

cw for stalking, jon is vaguely suicidal, casual discussion of tim theoretically murdering jon

It’s two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Tim is standing in front of his house, arms aching under a heavy load of groceries, staring at the person sitting on the bench across from his house. Their face is hidden behind a newspaper, but he can faintly make out the peach-colored plasters that encircle the fingers even from here, and he cannot do this right now.

He sets the groceries down on the front porch with a bit more force than he meant to and marches across the street. The fingers tighten and the paper crinkles loudly as he approaches, but the hands don’t lower, and that somehow pisses him off even more.

Tim grabs the top of the newspaper and yanks, and Jon lets out a surprised cry as half his cover is ripped away. They stare at each other for a moment, Tim so incandescent with anger that he can’t even begin to speak, Jon’s eyes wide and surprised and tinged with the faintest flush of fear.

Tim takes a step forward. Jon lets out a tiny, pathetic sound and flinches, lifting his arms to protect his head, and Tim -

Stops. Feels every bit of the anger drain out of him, replaced with bone-deep hurt and bitter disappointment and pure exhaustion.

“Well?” he asks, gesturing toward his house. “If you’re not planning on leaving, you might as well come inside.”

Jon’s throat bobs as he swallows once, then twice, and slowly lowers his arms. His gaze is still bright with fear as he tentatively asks, “Are you...are you going to kill me?”

Anger flashes through him white hot, and he closes his eyes and breathes through it. Once he feels like he’s not going to start screaming, he opens his eyes and looks steadily down at Jon. “And what would you do if I was going to kill you?” his gaze travels slowly over Jon, noting the rumpled shirt, the stark lack of anything to defend himself with. Out loud he wonders, “What was your plan?”

Jon just looks at him, mouth agape, like he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Tim sighs, turns around, and walks back to the house. Either Jon will follow him, or he won’t.

He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved when he hears quiet footsteps behind him.

Jon doesn’t say anything as Tim lets them into the house, as he puts his groceries away. He just hovers in the living room, looking around warily like he’s never seen the place before, which he has. Tim, Jon, and Sasha used to have movie nights here when they were researchers, and the memory of them sitting together on the couch, laughing over some stupid plot twist or what have you, almost bowls him over.

“Take a seat,” Tim orders stiffly. “Tea?”

Jon opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and simply nods, shoulders tight as a bowstring as he sits carefully on one of the chairs.

Tim thinks about all the things that he wants to say, all the things he probably shouldn’t say, as he fills the kettle. What he really wants are some magic words that will make everything go back to the way it was before they joined the archives, when there were no worms or murderers and things were easy. There aren’t, of course there aren’t, and it’s a stupid, wistful thought, but he wants it so badly that he has to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands to ground himself.

But that’s impossible, because there were worms, and Jon’s paranoia has a very real source, for all that his reaction to it is invasive and unacceptable. He doesn’t think there’s any possible way to fix it, but there has to be a way to make this better, to - to relieve the pressure, so to speak.

Christ, Tim just wants his friend back.

So he puts the kettle on the stove, removes two mugs and a box of tea down from his cabinet. Takes a deep breath and turns to look at Jon, whose gaze immediately snaps from the house to him.

“So,” Tim begins, then stops, uncertain where to go from there. Then, because Jon is still favoring him with that wary, suspicious scowl, “Stop looking at me like that.”

Jon’s head jerks down and his gaze skitters away, but he doesn’t apologize.

Tim lets out a ragged sigh, drags his hands over his face, and reminds himself that Jon came here despite his suspicion, which must mean that deep down he’s sick of this too. “Jon, this has to stop.”

Jon bites his lip, his shoulders tensing up around his ears. He looks two seconds from bolting, but still he says nothing.

“Christ, Jon,” Tim bursts out, slapping his hand against the counter for emphasis. He almost pauses when Jon flinches so hard he almost falls right out of his seat, but shakes his head and soldiers on. “What - what the fuck do you want? From - from me, from Martin. What can I do to convince you that I’m not some cold-blooded killer?”

“What I want is to find Gertrude’s killer!” Jon bursts out, finally. “If I can just figure it out, get some answers -”

Tim throws his arms into the air. “And then what? You - you’re not even carrying anything to defend yourself. What if I was the killer?” he looks around the kitchen frantically. Points to the kettle, “What if I poisoned this tea? Or,” points to the knife block, “Or took one of these knives out and stabbed you? What then, Jon?”

“Then at least I would know,” Jon grits, eyes wild. “At least then it would be over.”

“Well sure,” Tim retorts, sharp as anything. “And then you’d be no better off than Gertrude, because you’d be dead.”

They both freeze mid-gesture at that. Jon stares at Tim, eyes wide, mouth pressed in a firm, tight line. Tim lowers his hands to his sides, the air in his lungs escaping in one long, slow rush.

“Is that really what you want?” he asks, and it comes out all soft, less like the sharp accusation he wanted it to. “Because...even if you don’t believe me, that’s not what I want.”

Jon finally looks away, his long, clever fingers rubbing senseless patterns against the arm of the chair. “I want to believe you,” he says miserably. “I’m just....”

The kettle behind him screams, and Tim finally creaks into motion. He turns around and mechanically pours the boiling water into the mugs, watching as the liquid almost immediately begins to darken. He adds a bit of the milk that he’d purchased just that day, then some sugar, and walks over to deposit one in front of Jon.

Then he sits down on the couch, cradling the other mug between his palms, and asks, “Do you really think that I’m a killer?”

Jon turns to him, eyes wide. “No!” then cringes inward, one hand reaching up to tug at his messy curls. “Yes. Fuck, I can’t...I just don’t know, Tim. You’re, I don’t think you are, I don’t - but Gertrude didn’t either, did she? She wasn’t, she wasn’t careful enough, and someone killed her, someone got her, and if I’m not careful they’ll get me too. I, I can’t relax, I can’t get comfortable -”

Tim raises a quelling hand, cutting him off before he can spiral any further, burying the hurt that one desperate yes had caused. “So we’re all equally suspicious.”

“Yes,” Jon says, relieved. He picks up his tea, looks down into it, before setting it aside again, like he really does suspect that it’s been poisoned.

“Okay,” Tim says, drumming his fingers against his knee, thinking. Jon is watching him intently, though it’s less frightened and more hopeful, like he’s expecting Tim to magically produce the solution to all his problems. It used to be nice, when someone as smart as Jon looked at him like that. Instead he just feels vaguely annoyed, because this isn’t his fucking responsibility - except he’s committed now, so it kind of is. “...What if I helped you?”

Jon gives him a startled look. “I - what?”

Tim shrugs, trying to figure out how to word this in a way that’ll get through to Jon. “I mean, you said it yourself. You don’t actually have a plan if you find the killer, so it doesn’t matter. If I’m the murderer you’ll be dead, but at least you’ll know.” He can’t believe he’s actually suggesting this. “If I’m not, then you’ll have a second pair of hands helping you figure this all out.”

Jon looks equally incredulous for a moment, but then it fades into quiet consideration. Eventually he says, “...But why? Why would you...”

“Because I hate that you’re doing this, but you’re scared and I don’t think I can convince you to stop,” Tim tells him tiredly. “I’d rather know what you’re doing instead of you just...shutting me out.” That hurts more than anything else, he doesn’t say. “And if I help, maybe this will all be over sooner. Maybe this will finally end.”

For a moment Jon looks at him, and for a moment he gets a glimpse of what’s buried beneath all the primal terror and sleep-deprived fervor: Jon as he was, young and small and scared. That little bit of clarity lands like a gut punch.

“...I’m sorry, Tim,” Jon whispers, curling in on himself, wrapping his fingers in his sweater. “I’m sorry that you have to do this. I’m so sorry. But...yes, please help me.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim forces a wry smile on his face that probably looks more like a grimace, and feels something lock in place. “What are us assistants for?”

#smallhorizons #my writing #iceeckos12 writes #i guess this is more pre jontim than jontim but #jontim #tma

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specterchasing-a · 3 years ago

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Eddie Carridine & Dani Edwards

A first attempt at analyzing Eddie’s relationships.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Depression, suicidal ideations (in the form of disregard for their own lives), and generally heavy topics such as loneliness and death.

At first glance, Eddie and Dani don’t seem to have much in common. She’s a dedicated slayer with a strict code, someone who values the importance of supernatural secrecy above almost all else. He’s a loose-lipped kid with a camera, preaching about how wonderful supernatural beings are. Needless to say, they clash—hard, but dig a little deeper than surface level and these two have more in common than they might ever know.

SOCIAL LIVES

Dan’s moms kept her on a rigid training schedule with little room for interpersonal relationships to develop. Eddie’s parents, albeit with vastly different motivations behind their actions, tried their best to keep him quiet and obedient. As one would assume, this kinda fucked them both up in a major way. Neither is particularly well-versed in navigating social situations, though that disadvantage presents itself in different ways between them. Dani keeps her emotions to herself and prefers to keep people at arm’s length while Eddie throws himself at whoever shows him an ounce of kindness. Different, yet alike, you feel me?

VIEWS ON DEATH

As a slayer, Dani’s gift is death (sorry, not sorry, for the Buffy reference) and Eddie, being a medium, has been surrounded by death since childhood. They cope with grief in different ways but both view death as something inevitable, maybe they even think that’s a good thing. Dani’s purpose is to die for the sake of humanity. If she doesn’t, she’s a failure. Eddie believes he doesn’t have a purpose outside of shepherding the dead and exposing the truth. Beyond that, he’s just a corpse waiting to happen. Neither Dani or Eddie view death as something to be afraid of. It is what it is, and it’ll probably come sooner rather than later.

STUBBORNNESS

Yes, Eddie and Dani hold directly opposing views on the subject of supernatural secrecy but, more than that, they’re both assholes about it in the same way. When they first reunited at the grocery store and Dani saved Eddie’s life, Eddie blew up at her. He told her exactly what he thought and didn’t pull punches. It was not the first time Dani had been assaulted with narrow-minded stupidity and probably wouldn’t be the last. Initially, she bit back as she asserted her own views. Neither listened to the other, not really. Both of them were dead-set on believing the other was wrong, leaving no room for growth or understanding. They were like two unfortunately similar magnets pushing each other away.

IDEALS

Another instance of Dani and Eddie being alike, yet different can be seen in what motivates their actions. Clearly, they go about things with oppositional methods, but they are both driven by a need to make the world a safer place. Dani, rough-n-tough slayer that she is, is more interested in protecting humans and ridding the world of supernatural threats. By doing her job, she literally makes the streets of White Crest safer for its squishy, mortal inhabitants. Eddie, on the other hand, wants the world to be safer for supernatural beings. He sees them as outcasts with targets on their backs, bogged down by unwarranted prejudices and falsely spun bad reputations. In his idea of utopia we’d all hold hands while we sing ‘We Are The World’ and outgrow things like murder and human sacrifice. If you ask me, neither of them have realistic expectations for how the world should treat supernaturals, but what matters is that they firmly believe they’ve got it all figured out and that the rest of the population needs to catch up with their massive brains. I realize this echoes a lot of what I said about their stubbornness but this is my impassioned rant about two idiots and I’ll be redundant if I want to.

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS

Dani, considering she was raised to be a murder machine with a quickly approaching expiration date, doesn’t see love as a possibility for herself. For other people? Sure, but such luxuries shouldn’t be wasted on someone with a terminal birthright. Eddie, though this is quickly changing in lieu of his budding relationship with Alfie, never saw himself as someone who would fall in love either. Because of repression and guilt, he wanted to be right, too. Romantic love, whatever shape it took, was wonderful for everyone else. Let them fall into each other’s arms and make five-year plans together, Eddie would keep himself busy memorizing gravestones. Love scared him, so he left it alone. From what I can tell, Dani’s not scared of love—it’s just inconceivable to think she might experience it. Still, recent growth on Eddie’s part aside, they used to both be resigned to going through life alone.

LONELINESS

Okay, yeah, they’re resigned to going through life alone but, unfortunately for them, human beings are social creatures. Dani, I believe, might not always be aware of how much she needs other people but, at times, she reads as an exceptionally lonely character. On dash, characters have reached out to her after crises and her initial responses were always heartfelt and, most importantly, crossed out. Her first instinct is to show affection and concern because she does, in fact, know on some level that she needs people in her life but… that’s not supposed to be in the cards for her. Dani shelves her unfeigned distress in favor of lukewarm receptions. Some exceptions might be with Athena or a few other characters at times but, for the most part, Dani tends to isolate herself.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have Eddie. If someone says so much as one nice thing about him, he’s prepared to commit atrocities in their name. He’s not shy about it, either. He loves deeply and without prejudice. Recently, people have shown up in his life that give him countless chances to show-off how much devotion spills out of his heart on a daily basis. But it wasn’t always like that. For most of Eddie’s life, the majority of people he met made him feel like a freak. High school was hell for him, not that he’s unique for that. His fellow students tormented and ostracized him, his parents wanted nothing to do with him, and he struggled for a long-time trying to figure out how to love himself when no one else seemed to. That particular obstacle is still an issue but it’s thankfully becoming more manageable. However, even with new friends and old relationships being galvanized, it’s hard for him to believe the past won’t infect the present and future. Yesterday’s heartache comes back to him in aftershocks of loneliness and fear. No matter what, Eddie cannot completely escape feeling alone. So, he and Dani sadly have that in common as well.

#c: dani #wickedscontent #// LMFAO did i write an essay about eddie and dani? yeah pretty much #it's not my fault ci's amazing and their child has a vice grip on my heart #plus i plan to do these for a few of the other major players in eddie's life #so stay tuned #suicidal ideations tw

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mnictasbcl · 3 years ago

Text

Life without death

For #dbhcolorsofdeviancy, prompt:

June 4th: No human lives forever @connor-sent-by-cyberlife

Rating: Teen

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson, Markus

Relationships: Connor & Hank Anderson, Connor & Markus, hinted Connor/Markus

Additional Tags: Mortality, Existentiality, Fear of Death, Swearing, Gun Violence, Injury, Graphic Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, kind of but it’s there so keep safe readers, Hospitals, Medical, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Connor learns about Hank’s mortality on a mission gone wrong.

TW: Blood, Graphic gun injury, Slight suicidal thoughts

Story below! Or, read it on AO3

There were some things Connor didn’t like to think about. As an android, it was quite easy to shut away these topics in little boxes in his mind, neatly sorted away.

One of them was Amanda. Of course, that box would open itself up sometimes, despite the fact she and the control she could exert over his programming was gone… it would open itself up and play back images in his mind whilst he went into stasis.

The point of these boxes, however, were to protect himself, and for the most part, they worked. Never in his waking moments would he have to experience the unpleasant feelings they brought.

Of course, never… well, never experiencing them in a perfect world. And the world was far from perfect.

Mortality was another.

He knew he could not die, instead his body would be fractured beyond repair and if he did not upload his memories, he would cease to exist. That’s what the more logical side of his mind tried to argue, anyway.

The side unlocked by deviancy, well, it quivered in the face of fatal danger, it took the fears of no longer experiencing the world, no longer experiencing at all, and locked it away in a vault.

Connor supposed that’s why he’d never even thought to breach the subject of human mortality.

In hindsight, maybe he should have at least acknowledged it.

_________________

It was a Monday. Late afternoon, and the weather in Detroit was less than optimal. Rain was pouring down, making every known surface slippery with moisture. Hank, as predicted, was grousing about it.

“Fucking weather. Fucking rain. Fucking criminals.”

Of course, Connor couldn’t deny that it was rather unfortunate they were on their way to a crime scene, a murder that had been committed outside rather than in the comfort of a rain-free building.

“It is rather loud.” He commented, listening to the raindrops hammering onto the roof of the car. “I can’t even hear your music, which is at a few decibels above the recommended levels of—”

“Rain?” Hank scoffed. “I can’t hear it over the stick up your ass.”

Connor pursed his lips, still in the process of reaching to turn down the music. “If I had a proverbial stick up my ass, I don’t believe it would make a sound.”

Hank laughed. Pulling the car into park, he was still chuckling. “I just… can’t get over the sound of you swearing.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “Would you like me to say it again, Lieutenant?”

“Please don’t.”

Hank’s good mood was gone again as they got out of the car, expression souring as the rain pelted down onto his head.

Connor found it was even more troublesome as he crouched down beside the body to analyse it. Whilst a small tent had been set up over it, the rain had already done enough damage to wash away vital evidence.

“All blood on the body belongs to the victim, Caria Moltoz.” He sighed, rubbing his hands on his trousers as he got up. “However, the sample is fresh, and along with evidence shown by the wounds… I don’t think the crime was committed all that long ago. We may still be able to find evidence of the killer on the nearby security feeds.”

Hank nodded, turning to go and find these feeds, before noticing Connor’s LED was swirling yellow, eyes flickering rapidly. He was about to express concern, until the android suddenly turned to him.

“I have accessed the cameras and have reviewed the footage—”

“Of course you have.”

“—and I believe the suspect is not too far away from this location.”

And so, they made their way to the direction Connor had viewed their suspect going in. They had appeared to duck into a nearby clothes store, which unfortunately was quite large.

“At least we’re getting out of the rain.” Hank sighed in relief as they entered the building, placing his coat on the rack so he didn’t track water all over the store.

Connor shook a little, reminding him of Sumo coming in from a walk after the rain. At Hank’s look, he frowned and placed his own jacket onto the rack. “Apologies, Lieutenant. I forgot I am no longer wearing my Cyberlife jacket. It was waterproof.”

“Looked shit, though.”

He nodded. “I agree.”

The store was fairly busy, with handfuls of customers here and there. No one had any recollection of a human running inside the store in a hurry, so the suspect must have kept their cool.

Luckily, they were fairly undercover themselves, so it was unlikely the suspect would see them with suspicion and find a way to slip out unnoticed.

“They were wearing a navy blue coat along with dark jeans when I viewed the footage,” Connor whispered to Hank through a stand of clothes which they were pretending to browse through, “but I cannot see anyone of that description in this store.”

Hank nodded, eyes scanning over the room himself, before he spotted something. “Wait here.” he said, taking a black shirt off the hook and making his way towards the changing rooms.

Connor nodded, data piecing together in his mind, forming a conclusion when the older man came back over to him, navy blue coat in his arms along with other items of clothing.

“The suspect changed. Unfortunately, then, I didn’t manage to get a look at their face on the footage, it was covered partially…”

“We’ll get ‘em.”

Deciding it was in their best interest to drop the undercover act, they had the store manager close up briefly, keeping everyone inside for questioning.

“It won’t take long.” Hank placated the disgruntled shoppers.

They made their way through the groups, Connor using his questioning tactics to try and find out who it was. He kept an eye on everyone’s stress levels, including those they weren’t currently talking to, but nothing changed drastically. There were no signs of a killer among them.

“Yeah, thank you for your time.” Connor could tell that Hank was trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone as the shop opened up again. He shared the feeling. They’d spent all this time searching, probably on what would be their best lead to solve this case, and they had nothing.

“Fuck. Well… at least whilst we’re here, I could do with a new coat. This one barely kept the rain out.”

“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant.”

Hank made his way over to the displays, pointing at a brown overcoat. “That looks like it’d suit me. Maybe not the hat, though,” he laughed, pointing to the fedora perched atop the mannequins head. He reached for it, pulling it—

Connor shouted at the same time the mannequin moved, pulling a gun out of the pocket of the brown overcoat, shoving Hank to the side just as the shot went off, and another.

People screamed. The suspect managed to run out of the store, skidding out into the rain, away, away, away…

Connor didn’t move. Why wasn’t he moving? He needed to move. Needed to chase away the…

He groaned. Something flashed in his vision, red and warning. A damaged biocomponent. Huh. Maybe that’s why it hurt.

He was losing thirium, however, it wasn’t fatal, not yet. “Hank, we need to get them, they’re…”

That was strange. Why wasn’t Hank answering? Usually he pushed Connor back to the ground, telling him he’s injured, that he should stay down and wait for him to come back.

But there was nothing.

Panic coursed through his systems. Despite the hot flare that spiked in his side when he moved, he didn’t stop, not until he saw Hank—

Hank, laying beneath him. And there was blood. There was a lot of blood. Red, flowing on the floor, soaking into his coat, staining the fibres and the bits of Sumo hair caught in the fabric—

“Hank!”

He couldn’t focus. He might get repaired, but Hank couldn’t. He… humans didn’t live forever. Would he die? Would Hank die here, on the floor of a clothing store in Detroit, whilst Connor could do nothing to stop it?

The wound. Right. The wound. He grabbed the nearest thing he could find (a scarf) and pressed it against the wound. He had to stop the bleeding. Staunch the flow. Stop Hank from dying—

His grasp was weak. Stupid, it was weak. It was the damn wound in his side, thirium leaking out of it steadily, it was making his hands shake and his brain go fuzzy.

“Hank.” He tried again. The Lieutenant didn’t stir. He could see he was breathing, but was if he stopped? What if he died?

Sirens. Sirens were loud, he noted, hands shaking, blood caking his fingers, getting stuck up his artificial nails. Someone was pulling him away. They seemed comforting, but they were pulling him away from Hank, and their words were distant, sucked away in a vacuum—

“Please, you have to save him,” Connor choked out, “he can’t die—he can’t—”

The hands tugged, and with his fading strength, Connor let them. He hoped they would save Hank. And if they didn’t, he mused internally, blackness creeping in the edges of his vision, the warning messages getting dimmer, then he would like to join him.

_________________

The first thing Connor registered upon waking was that he wasn’t dead.

The second thing was that he couldn’t see Hank.

He sat bolt upright, finding himself restrained slightly by a tube attached to his side, along with multiple wires across his body. Connor didn’t register where he was—the sheer panic from before starting to creep back into him.

He tore the wires out, before beginning to tug on the tubing. However, before he could get it dislodged, alarms set off by his disturbance had alerted people to his struggle. Some technicians ran in, shouting something about blue blood. But he couldn’t think about that right now, whatever damage he had sustained; he couldn’t see Hank.

Hank was dead.

Connor pulled on the tubing with more force, only stopping when gentle hands clasped around his arm.

“Connor, you need to calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The words were steady, despite the situation, filled with comfort, and the voice was familiar.

“Let the technicians plug the wires back in, they’re helping you. Just… easy…”

He couldn’t yet put a name to the voice, but he complied, allowing himself to be eased back onto the bed. If Hank was dead… there was nothing he could do about it anyway.

He stopped his struggling but couldn’t stop the tears slipping from beneath his lashes. His body shuddered minutely, hand scrubbing over his face. As everything became more in focus, he looked up to the voice, and saw Markus.

Markus met his eyes, and his gaze softened. As soon as the technicians were done, he ushered them out of the room before perching on the side of the bed Connor was laying on.

“What’s wrong, Connor?”

He took a breath. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. His thoughts were incoherent. The box was open, tipping its jumbled contents all over his mind, and he couldn’t string the words together. In the end, he mumbled, “Hank.” Voice breaking in the middle of the syllable.

Markus nodded. “I know you must have panicked not seeing him here, but rest assured, he’s safe. You saved him, actually. The shot you blocked would have hit—well,” he softened his words upon seeing Connor’s expression, “you saved his life.”

Connor furrowed his brows, looking down at his hands. They were clean. “But… there was so much—so much blood. Hank’s blood.”

The other android grimaced. “Yes, the wound he sustained did hit some arteries, but nothing major. He will need a fair amount of time to recover, as will you, but he’s stable.”

“That’s… good.” Connor breathed, suddenly feeling the urge to change the subject. “But—recover? I thought my systems would be able to self-heal.”

Markus shrugged. “The technicians said that you will be able to self-heal the damage now given adequate thirium, but because the damage was to a major biocomponent, it will take time.”

He nodded. That made sense. At least it would give him an excuse to stay home with the Lieutenant whilst he recovered.

“He’s lucky he didn’t die. I’m… lucky.” Connor breathed after a moment of thought.

Markus placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Humans are fragile. That’s why he has you.”

“But one day… I might not…”

“You’re not perfect, Connor.” The RK800 blinked at that, taken aback. “No one is. But you didn’t fail today, and you won’t tomorrow. Besides, Hank is a skilled detective.”

Connor breathed in deeply. Markus’ words made sense. But now the box was tipped out, his mind was rifling through its contents. Mortality.

“Even so, the Lieu—Hank won’t live forever.”

Markus smiled sadly. “No, he won’t.” He agreed. “Someday, neither will we. But that isn’t what living is about, Connor, not thinking about death.” A pause. “What do you enjoy doing with Hank?”

He thought over it. “I like working on cases with him. But- right, other than work. Well, we do watch movies together in the evenings; he usually ends up falling asleep halfway through them, but it’s—well, it’s endearing. And sometimes he comes along with me when I’m walking Sumo, we stop in the park…” he drifted off into the memory, looking to the ceiling, eyes starting to feel heavy, tired out from the wound and the exertion.

“That’s what life is about, Connor.” Markus said softly, hand moving away from his shoulder, briefly trailing over his forehead and pushing the stray strands of hair to the side. He smiled.

#dbhcolorsofdeviancy #dbh #detroit become human #dbh fanfic #fanfic #dbh connor #dbh hank #dbh connor and hank #dbh markus #angst #tw suicidal thoughts #tw gun violence #tw blood

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anti-anti-stevinel · 4 years ago

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What the fuck is the deal with "ankle-beez"? They seem to be the biggest Steven Universe blog around. Every other SU blog I know (even the world's only proshipper Connverse normie, picturejasper20) reblogs from them.

They're also the world's biggest hypocrite.

They make analysis posts about the real message of SU, about love and forgiveness, against revenge and that sort of stuff.

At the same time, they are a hardcore anti-shipper bully.

They sent me gore and death threats last year when I was 17, for shipping Stevinel. Said "yer a pedo kill yerself!!11" (okay, that's paraphrased).

What's wrong with Stevinel?

Is it that Steven is "a minuh and not ready for sexual relationships"? Then, why is Connie, a human fourteen-year-old in-universe, ready for sexual relationships when it's with Steven? Why is Steven ready for it with Connie?

This leads me to believe it's the stated "aGe GaP!!11". In that case, Greg/Rose, which ankle-beez likes, is child rape (he wuz twenty an she wuz twentythousand!) That's fucking stupid. Kataang and Bubbline are "child rape" too, by those standards. Stating an exaggerated number next to a supernatural, non-aging, cartoon character does not child rape make. Is Katara a "necrophile" for having kids with Aang, a so-called "hundred-and-forty-something-year-old" character? Because 140-year-old men are all known to be dead? Is everyone who's read the Bible a Child Rapist™️, because the eternal, ageless God impregnated the thirteen-year-old Virgin Mary, as part of the biblical canon leading to the birth of Our Saviour Jesus Christ?

Also, by the same fucking stupid standards they use to call Spinel an "aDulT", Steven is one too. Gems don't fucking age. They're robots. If I have a 200-year-old baby doll, it's still a baby doll. Dolls don't age. Since Steven's gemstone (and with it, Pink's/his memories) has been around for 20000 years, he is "an adult", an "elderly man".

That brings me to the next point: one cannot "ship pedophilia". I wish I could "ship" mental disorders. I wish my autism, ADHD, OCD, Tourette's, depression and paranoia were as simple as fictional "ships".

More or less, "pedo" hysteria is NOT about protecting chilluns. When a child is murdered, nobody bats an eye. When child-on-child sexual abuse occurs, the same applies. Also, when an adult is raped. It's not about healing sexually abused children, or preventing rape. When adult-on-child sexual abuse occurs, the emphasis in media is never about helping the kid. It's always about torturing and murdering the "pedo" (sexual abuser). Basically, because nobody cares when there's no "pedo" to punish, it's not about protecting children, it's about hating people with mental disorders. Apparently, because I turned 18 two days ago, I lose my human right not to be raped.

What "paedophilia" actually is, is a mental disorder characterised by a greater level of arousal towards prepubescent individuals to pubescent ones. You cannot support or oppose it - you cannot be convicted for it or commit it - it's a disorder. Something you're pretty much born with and can't change. Conflating it with rape is like conflating "schizophrenia" with serial murder. While schizophrenic individuals have a higher murder risk compared to the general population, nobody ever says "commit schizophrenia" when talking about murder.

Fandom discourse is not a PhD. You cannot diagnose me with a disorder from the DSM-5 for writing the wrong fanfiction. You cannot convict me of a crime for it, either.

The most common anti argument that fanfic/hentai/whatever "encourages pedophilia". You cannot encourage a disorder. I will not magically sprout mental illness from reading fanfic. If you mean it ""encourages child rape"", if I were to rape someone, I could not blame reading a fanfic. Rape is caused by far deeper issues than having read a stupid fanfic.

Rick/Morty is canon in the multiverse, and Morty is a fictional teenager (who wishes incest porn had more mainstream appeal) with Rick, his equally fictional grandfather. So, who is raped by this? Nobody. Again, if you rape someone, you can't say Rick x Morty incest fanfic made you do it.

ALL ships are fine. Even stupid shit like Rick/Morty. Stevinel, though, isn't even of that kind. It's literally no worse than Bubbline, Kataang and Gregrose, all of which are canon to their shows.

So, what is it? "She """tried""" to kill him"? Strange. When Steven lets his shield down, Spinel could just blow him to fucking bits with that city-sized, injector-smashing fist of hers. She doesn't. SU's definition of "try" means "stop yourself". "Try" suggests someone else has to stop you with force, and that didn't happen, in which case, Steven "tried" to kill Greg in Mr. Universe, White (and with her, every Gem) in Homeworld Bound, and Connie in Buddle Buddies and every episode where he gets Connie into fights, and, and EVERYONE in Laser Light Cannon, Little Graduation and I am My Monster. He also "actually murdered" Jasper in Fragments by the standards (mind you, shattering isn't lethal and the Diamonds did nothing wrong).

Anti-shippers have implanted this stupid idea that non-aging things age as humans into my head. The idea is there to virtue-signal against MUH EBIL PEEDOUGHS. Now, I have paranoid thoughts about being a child rapist when I cuddle naked with a pillow that's been manufactured one year ago. Pillows don't age. But, in antis' heads, they do.

Why am I supposed to think of Spinel as an elderly woman? The character who is shorter, less mature and higher-pitched than Steven, sobs like a baby, plays peekaboo and gets adopted at the end of the movie?

It just disturbs me, honestly, how anklebeez can understand the show's message against violence and for healing, while literally murdering real children (and adults) for the rights of fictional ones, by bullying into suicide.

Why are they so popular? Anyway, I accidentally got carried away and wrote a masterpost when I meant for a quick ask. Hope you appreciate it.

Also, what determines whether a cartoon character is okay to "sexualise" or not?

Stated number? Then I can draw a stickman with a dick, then write the number 15 next to him, then you're a Child Rapist™️ for having looked at the image?

Height? Then is why is R34 of Madeline from Celeste, Sans and Amethyst, okay, when it's not okay for Steven and Hat Kid?

The word "kid"? Then, kill any teenager with a crush on a cartoon of Kid Cudi, I guess?

Don't harass ankle-beez. It's not worth it. Revenge is pointless. Never, though, have I been so confused by someone's self-contradictions.

Seriously.

Wow, this is huge, I didn’t know they allowed asks to get this long now, lol.

Um, but no comment on all of this since it’s just a rant, lol. But I don’t disagree.

#Anonymous

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lady-of-the-lotus · 4 years ago

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Fractured Ice - Ch. 5/7

Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 6

Ch. 5: damn right, you should be scared of me

Lan Xichen feels dull and heavy as they pass through the gates of the Unclean Realm.

“We were not expecting Zewu-jun!” babbles the Nie chamberlain as they arrive. “Please excuse the lack of reception; we received no notice of the Clan Leader’s arrival—”

Lan Xichen glances at him dispassionately, then dredges up a small smile and ducks his head at the chamberlain, almost overbalancing and falling forward thanks to the weight of his forehead ribbon.

A-Yao never would have been unprepared like this when he served in the same role. Never would have shown it, at the very least. Would have made the guests feel welcome, his quick mind adjusting to the new circumstances with alacrity and grace—

“My name is Xiao Xingchen,” says Xue Yang. He puts his hands together and bows deeply at the chamberlain. He’s fully back in his Xiao Xingchen role, all gentle refinement and forceful softness and slight _ otherness _, as if he’d learned social graces somewhere outside of normal society. “Zewu-jun and I have come to see Clan Leader Nie on matters of grave urgency. Our visit is to be kept secret.”

The man glances at Lan Xichen for confirmation. Lan Xichen nods.

Another bow. “Please follow me, then, Zewu-jun. This way. Thank you.”

Xue Yang winks at Lan Xichen as they follow the chamberlain through a series of side passages to the reception hall. Lan Xichen gets the idea that he’s hugely enjoying this farce. In another life, he feels, Xue Yang, might have been an actor.

Lan Xichen, on the other hand, feels his sense of dread growing as they near the hall.

Any hint of color in the Unclean Realm is swallowed by the overwhelming sense of grayness. Slate gray walls. Slate gray floors. Gray ornaments, gray ceilings, gray fixtures and furniture and sconces and statues and carvings.

Exactly like a tomb.

Lan Xichen keeps one hand out, just in case the stifling walls begin to move, to crush him, as he’s convinced they will at any second.

“One moment, please.” The chamberlain bows low at Lan Xichen and disappears through a door. Slate gray, with black accents, set in a dark gray frame.

He returns a few minutes later. “I regret to inform Zewu-jun that Clan Leader Nie is in an important conference, but he would be happy to meet with you tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow—”

Lan Xichen backhands him into the wall with his full Lan strength and pushes open the door, locking it behind him and Xue Yang.

Nie Huaisang hops to his feet, dropping his paint brush. “Zewu-jun! What a pleasant surprise—”

“Some conference,” says Xue Yang, glancing around at the empty chamber.

Nie Huaisang gulps visibly. Lan Xichen can almost hear the ropes and pulleys creaking in his head as he decides whether to fall back on his old Headshaker routine or acknowledge the fact that Lan Xichen is onto him.

He goes with the former.

“What can I do for Zewu-jun?” he asks, bowing deeply and seating himself on his throne-like seat. He seems to make himself smaller as he does so, as if well aware of how the seat dwarfs him and wanting to play up the impression of smallness, of helplessness, of innocence and vulnerability. “And, of course, our venerated cultivator friend.” He rises again, bows at Xue Yang with a flap of expensive silver sleeve. “It is a true privilege to meet Xiao Xingchen once again.”

That’s right; Nie Huaisang met Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen at the same time A-Yao and Wangji did. Lan Xichen hopes that Xue Yang, remembering this, will reign in the theatrics.

Xue Yang bows a bit too low. “The honor is all mine, Clan Leader.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Nie Huaisang is wearing one of his after-all-it’s-not-as-if-_ I- _ can-be-of-any-help-to- _ you _ looks, and Lan Xichen is seized by the sudden urge to rip his quivering little face off—

He blinks the thought away, a bit unnerved at the idea that Xue Yang might be having more of an influence on him than he’s thought.

Nie Huaisang, in turn, looks even more nervous than usual, as if he’s aware Lan Xichen is not quite himself.

_ Good. You should be afraid of me, you murderer— _

Lan Xichen looks away from Nie Huaisang, eyes roaming over the familiar room. He’d spent many hours here visiting with Nie Mingjue, and then, later, playing guqin opposite A-Yao—

Had A-Yao truly killed Nie Mingjue?

Nie Mingjue had tried to kill A-Yao more than once as his mind deteriorated, but Lan Xichen doubts A-Yao could have done such a terrible thing to their sworn brother in return. If there was one thing A-Yao had proven, it was that he could bear up under repeated slights. He can’t remember if A-Yao confessed to Nie Mingjue's murder at Guanyin Temple, but it doesn't matter. He’d confessed to killing Qin Su, and Lan Xichen himself had watched her commit suicide, witnessed A-Yao’s grief. A-Yao’s guilt and self-loathing, it seemed, was all-encompassing at the end, smothering him, choking all rational thought and pushing him to shoulder every impossible sin in the face of the united wall of hatred that faced him in Guanyin Temple.

_ Not me, _ Lan Xichen wants to say. Will be able to say, soon enough, if all went well. I _ never hated you— _

“Brother Xichen?”

Lan Xichen pulls himself out his thoughts. “We have come to pay our respects to Chifeng-zun,” he says.

Nie Huaisang looks alarmed. “Mingjue?”

“It has been a year since his entombment. I thought it only proper to pay my respects now that I am able to travel again.”

Nie Huaisang picks up the fan he’s painting, using it to hide the lower half of his face. “I’m—I’m afraid that’s not possible, Brother Xichen.”

Xue Yang bows low. “And why not, Clan Leader? Zewu-jun has traveled long to get here.”

“I—er—”

Lan Xichen wonders if Nie Huaisang received a message from Lan Qiren, something about keeping Lan Xichen in the Unclean Realm until the Lan cultivators could arrive. For all that he doubts his uncle would have taken Nie Huaisang into his confidence, the signal could have gone out the second he’d stepped inside the fortress’s gates. Or perhaps Nie Huaisang simply sensed something wrong on his own.

“It’s like this,” says Nie Huaisang, emitting a nervous little laugh from behind the silk fan. “Er—you see—Da-ge is resting in the eastern family tomb.”

“Meaning?”

“Er—well—that’s where we keep our more—how should I put it?—problematic dead.” His eyes dart over to Xue Yang, as if he’d rather not air clan laundry in front of a near-stranger, no matter how distinguished. “There are many seals on the tomb, many—er—dangerous areas—”

“The tomb is booby-trapped,” translates Xue Yang bluntly.

“It’s perhaps not as safe as one might have liked—”

“Like the sabers’ Stone Castles?” asks Lan Xichen. Even before Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s little adventure, he’d heard stories from Nie Mingjue.

Nie Huaisang blanches. “Nothing like that! These spirits aren’t dangerous—it’s simply a precaution—”

Lan Xichen can almost see the calculations in Xue Yang’s head—how fast the cultivator could pounce at the clan leader, snatch his stupid fan away, grab him, _ force _ him to help them—

Lan Xichen shakes his head at Xue Yang warningly. “Your brother was my friend, Huaisang. I have a right to pay my respects, as I was in no condition to do so when he was entombed.”

Nie Huaisang’s tone changes to one of pathetic flattery. “You won’t hold this against me, will you, Brother Xichen? Please understand, Brother Xichen. You know how I value our clans’ friendship, Brother Xichen; but I just simply cannot. Nobody in a hundred years has stepped foot inside the tomb unless it’s to bury a body; even I pay my respects from outside the tomb—but not _ too _ close—”

Xue Yang smiles as if about to make a comment about there being one more Nie body to bury if Nie Huaisang keeps this up, but for once his mouth remains shut.

Nie Huaisang hops off his oversized seat and scurries over to a side door in a funny little trot. “I’ll call the chamberlain; make sure you have comfortable rooms made up!” he says, and he darts out.

Xue Yang smirks. “He certainly lives up to his reputation.”

But Lan Xichen shakes his head. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

By request, Lan Xichen and Xue Yang eat alone together in Lan Xichen’s quarters, the same ones he used to stay in when he was a frequent guest here.

“This food is as bad as the Lan junk,” says Xue Yang in disgust. “What did they put in here? Haven’t they ever heard of salt? Meat? Chicken? Honey? Are these raw carrots and leaves stewed in fucking barley water?”

“They prepare it specially for me,” says Lan Xichen absently. He can’t bring himself to eat. He paces the room, trying to ground himself with the firmness of the hard gray stone beneath his feet, the solid smoothness of the walls under his palms, but he’s drifting and he knows it.

“So we can blame you for this inedible garbage? At least at the Cloud Recesses they know how to prepare the stewed leaves properly; this, however—” Xue Yang frowns suddenly. “You don’t look so good, my friend.”

Lan Xichen has sunk to the bed, leaning forward on his knees.

“Zewu-jun?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not worrying about the Lan popping in? I'd say we should get moving, but you don't look great. ”

Lan Xichen glances up. He'd forgotten about the Lan since leaving Nie Huaisang. “I thought we decided my uncle would never trust Nie Huaisang with the truth, and you told me you asked around and were told no Lan cultivators were seen heading here—”

Xue Yang shrugs. “I’ll admit, I half expected to be arrested the second we stepped foot in this metal box. Glad we got an opportunity to eat instead, if you can call this food. I'd figured you could fight us out, maybe take out the Headshaker in the confusion, do the Nie Clan a favor while getting a bit of your own back—”

“I wouldn’t hurt Nie Huisang, no matter how much I wanted to.”

Xue Yang raises an eyebrow. “Never?”

“I am not a murderer.”

“Murderer, killer, same thing.”

“We’ve been through this. It is not at all the same thing.”

Xue Yang makes a face and puts down his chopsticks. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be right back.” He slips out of the room. Through the door Lan Xichen hears him sending the chamberlain out for different food, but he doesn’t pay attention to the actual words. He’s been here many times before, he knows this guest chamber like the back of his hand, but suddenly the room is unfamiliar. A flash of alarm, as if he can’t remember how he got here even though he can clearly remember the past two hours.

At least he thinks he does.

He lies down on the bed, taking deep, meditative breaths. Stares up at the ceiling. Familiar gray ceiling with familiar stone carvings, but the memory of when he last saw this ceiling is hazy. Hard thin mattress—was it always so hard?—“a warrior’s bed”—who had told him that?

A faint brush of memory: a shared meal—a war conference—a blade flashing beside his—but all that stands out is the sound of guqin music, played in duet.

A sensation of floating, of expanding, of being outside himself, reaching through the walls, feeling the wetness of the rain that has begun to fall—

He opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. Xue Yang is just finishing up his meal, watching Lan Xichen with an almost worried expression he just manages to hide as Lan Xichen sits up.

“We leave in five minutes,” he tells him.

Xue Yang grins. “To the tomb?”

“To the tomb.”

* * * * * *

They fly out over the fortress walls.

“I counted a dozen sentries on the parapets,” says Xue Yang as they land. He returns Jiangzai to his qiankun sleeve. “They definitely saw us, despite the rain.”

“Your knocking out the chamberlain did not help matters.”

“He was in our way.”

“He was bringing the dessert you ordered.”

“He had it coming.” There’s a new bounce in Xue Yang’s step, as if he’s happy to be _ doing _ something, _ after _ something. If Lan Xichen didn’t know that there had been nothing but vinegar-water at supper, he’d think the delinquent cultivator had been bending the elbow too freely. “You should have seen the look on his face when I asked for extra honey for my dumplings. As if none of these musclebound Nie ever—”

“Xue Yang, we haven’t the time.”

They hadn’t flown very far, needing to preserve their spiritual energy for the booby-traps and ritual at the tomb. They hurry down the road, expecting guards to be following them at any moment, but the night is quiet save for the pattering rain.

“You do know the way, right?”

Lan Xichen nods. He knows where all the many Nie tombs are thanks to the many internments during and after the Sunshot Campaign, but he hadn’t known which one contained Nie Mingjue and A-Yao or he could have spared them the afternoon’s charade.

“The Headshaker, I feel, is someone I could get on with,” says Xue Yang, who seems to feel it his duty to fill any silence with conversation despite the fact that silence would serve them far better. “Squirrely little bastard, isn’t he? Never boring around him, I’d guess. Always something to laugh at.”

Lan Xichen ignores him. Barely even hears him. He’s outside himself again. He tries to bring himself back into his body, focusing on the drenching wetness chilling every inch of his skin and the muddy squelch beneath his feet as they cut through a hardscrabble little farm, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s bobbing above his body, watching a tall blue figure and smaller green-and-black figure slog side-by-side though the rain.

Without consciously deciding to, he embraces the feeling.

He’d spent the better part of a year like this. It’s familiar. Welcome. A cushioning cocoon of numbness.

And yet, still somehow sharp. Focused. Clear.

A part of him somehow knows that it’s a blessing, how a few hours in the Unclean Realm undid all of the changes of the past month. Knows that he needs the old version of himself to do the things that will need to be done to bring A-Yao back.

Besides, he’s happier this way, on some level.

It’s almost dawn when they arrive, drenched and shivering, at the tomb.

Outside the tomb are seven Nie guards, which explains why nobody has come after them.

“You!” Three of the guards converge at the sight of the intruders. “Oh, it is—begging your pardon, Zewu-jun—”

Lan Xichen reaches inside his qiankun pouch, removes his guqin, and blasts them into the tomb’s outer wall with a single arc of blue light that illuminates the falling rain like lightning.

Xue Yang nods approvingly at the three bodies lying prone at unsettling angles. “You tore through them like rice paper.”

“Captain! We heard—” Four more guards run up.

Four more guards flung into the wall with such force Lan Xichen has Xue Yang check to make sure none are dead.

Not that he cares. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.

But just in case.

“All breathing,” says Xue Yang. “Do you think you could teach me that technique? No?” He glances at the tomb door. “How about using it to open the door, then? Preferably without the blue light giving everyone and their great-aunt our location.”

Lan Xichen’s heart is pounding so hard it’s a miracle the countryside isn’t roused by its thunderous beat.

This is it. Inside is A-Yao.

His A-Yao.

Waiting for him to rescue him—

He summons the awful, wonderful energy swelling within him, focuses it, releases it through his guqin in an explosive blast of energy, rocking the thick stone door off its hinges.

Xue Yang grins delightedly. “I was wrong about you Lan,” he says. “What you lack in pizzazz you make up for in power.”

Lan Xichen strides in. Xue Yang follows, Jiangzai out and resting across both shoulders in a way that, if he’s not careful, might result in his severing the tendons in his shoulder.

Xue Yang takes a torch from a wrought-iron sconce on the wall and lights it with a touch of his finger, a trick he’d learned from the Wens. The light and warmth are welcome, but Lan Xichen is still soaking wet and chilled to the bone. The chill goes deeper than mere autumn coolness. It’s a chill he thought he’d gotten rid of but had in fact just burrowed deeper, to be excavated in the Unclean Realm.

That’s fine, though. He likes the cold. It keeps him awake. Keeps him on his toes, despite his detachment.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

“No booby traps,” says Xue Yang as they step into a chamber a bit bigger than the Nie reception hall. “Do you think the little chipmunk lied to keep us out?”

“Undoubtedly. Lying is his specialty.”

“Same decorator as the Unclean Realm, I see. All gray stone and ugly monster carvings. At least the Unclean Realm doesn’t reek.”

Lan Xichen ignores the overwhelming musty smell. “There. This one.” He rests both hands on the lid of the sarcophagus. A faint hum can be felt through the thick stone. They had sealed off Nie Mingjue’s ghost, immobilized it, but he can still sense the power of the two spirits, locked in eternal battle. How metaphorical of a battle still remains to be seen. “What next?”

Xue Yang is pulling materials out of his qiankun sleeve. “First of all, we have to be prepared to fight a ghost once we open that coffin—”

“We are not fighting Nie Mingjue!”

“He’s not exactly going to want to sit down to tea, though if we had tea it might we worth a shot—”

“We immediately suppress him.”

“Not liberate? Xiao Xingchen was always keen on setting them at rest.” His tone is dismissive, but Lan Xichen senses the effort it takes to mention Xiao Xingchen so casually.

“His spirit is too far gone for that. The kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery.”

Xue Yang shrugs. “You’re the boss, Zewu-jun. Don’t mind me. I’ll work around you. Actually—” He bows, suddenly deferential “—I will need a drop or two of your blood.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t bother asking him what it’s for. Doesn’t matter at this point, as long as it can help.

With surprising delicacy, Xue Yang pricks Lan Xichen’s finger where it won’t interfere with using his flute, guqin, or sword.

“And now,” he says, removing something from his qiankun sleeve with a flourish, “we prepare the accommodations for our guest of honor.”

It’s the spirit-trapping pouch he’d given to Lan Xichen and long since taken back, its brown sides smooth and blank. As Lan Xichen watches, riveted, Xue Yang uses Lan Xichen’s blood to cover the bag in intricate, entirely foreign symbols.

Xue Yang hands it to Lan Xichen when he’s finished. “Just one moment; I need some...grass from outside. I’ll be back in a second.”

He lights another torch and leaves, returning soon with a handful of grass. He scatters it on the coffin and sets up the rest of the ritual, humming to himself, drawing an intricate array around the sarcophagus in red from a jar he has with him. Red paint, Lan Xichen would have assumed had he been paying even the slightest bit of attention to anything but the spirit-trapping pouch. After all, where would Xue Yang have found so much fresh blood?

“All right, then,” says Xue Yang, straightening up and rinsing his reddened hands off with water from his canteen. “Step away from the sarcophagus, Zewu-jun, if you please. We have work to do. I’ll need the pouch back, please. Thank you.” He waits until Lan Xichen is a safe distance away before putting his hands on the side of the sarcophagus lid. “Sword out,” he reminds Lan Xichen. “Or flute, or guqin, but don’t just stand there.”

Lan Xichen shakes himself out of his reverie. “Do you truly think he might attack?”

“I just know that that fan-waving little prick would rather torment your friend’s spirit than set his own brother’s spirit at rest. After a year of being confined in there like that—”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Lan Xichen has to admit. It had been explained to him once, the rationale for leaving both spirits like this, but he can’t remember the details right now.

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it isn’t. Now, places, everyone.”

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Xue Yang pushes the heavy stone lid off the sarcophagus.

Black smoke roars up from the sarcophagus, spinning furiously in a tight vortex. It rushes Xue Yang, flinging him into the wall before he can react.

Lan Xichen begins to play battle music.

Nie Mingjue is one of the angriest spirits he’s ever encountered. But though Lan Xichen is not the man he used to be, tonight he’s committed.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

Xue Yang is back on his feet, Jiangzai drawn, but he’s smart enough to stay put as Lan Xichen plays.

He channels all of his remaining spiritual energy into Liebing, channels the affection he bears for the man the spirit had once been, channels his feelings for the man whose spirit this man is tormenting, and with the sense of something rupturing, Nie Mingjue’s spirit dissipates.

“I told you it was sheer spite, keeping him in there,” says Xue Yang, spitting blood. “If you could do it, anyone could.”

“Not everyone can do what I can.” Lan Xichen isn’t bragging; it’s simple fact. He glances over anxiously at Xue Yang, who stands looking down into the sarcophagus. “What now?”

Xue Yang turns away and draws unfamiliar symbols in the air.

The array glows red.

At the sight, Lan Xichen goes entirely numb. He’d swear he’s as faded as Nie Mingjue, as vague and amorphous as his birth name, Huan—“to dissipate”—a handful of vapor, a human-shaped patch of nothing so focused on Xue Yang’s next words that it’s lost all sense of self.

Xue Yang turns back to Lan Xichen. In his hand is the spirit pouch.

The symbols on the sides are glowing with a touch of the array’s eerie red light.

Grinning, he tosses it to Lan Xichen.

“He’s all yours,” he says.

* * * * *

Up Next: Xue Yang and Lan Xichen pay Chang Ping a friendly visit in a desperate bid to bring A-Yao back.

Or: Don’t try this at home, kids.

Chapter 6

#Chapter Summary: Nie Huaisang is (almost) utterly useless #Or: The Nie chamberlain’s very bad no-good day. Also some tomb robbing if that floats your boat #Fractured Ice #Xue Yang #Lan Xichen #XueXiao #XiYao #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfic

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fatesdeepdive · 3 years ago

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Entry 52: Moron the Idiot Does Something Stupid

So, it’s time for Conquest. I started up a new playthrough, this time as a boy Corrin named Moron, a fitting name for the sheer stupidity we’re about to view. I replayed up to Chapter 6, this time using Rinkah and Sakura as disposable meat shields and stealing their weapons. In case you’ve forgotten what happened at the start of the game, because it’s been a few months:

Unexplained future vision! Corrin is the prince of Nohr! His siblings and servants love him! King Garon is very very evil! Garon’s minion Hans tries to kill Corrin! Corrin is actually from Hoshido, which is awesome and perfect! Garon turns Corrin into a suicide bomber and murders his mother! Garon invades Hoshido and Corrin is forced to choose between basic morality and standing by his family!

Five months ago, when this blog first reached Chapter 6, I mocked the very idea of choosing Conquest. And I stand by that mockery. Garon is an evil, abusive prick who attempted to kill Corrin twice! He murdered a crowd full of civilians and Corrin’s mother a single chapter earlier! Setting aside the moral problems with fighting for a brutal group of imperialist invaders, joining Garon is suicidally stupid.

And yes, not joining Nohr forces Corrin to fight their loved ones. But that’s messed up by having the Hoshidan family. If this choice was between protecting your family and doing the right thing, then it would be interesting. Instead, it’s a choice between your family and your family except they’re evil and keep trying to kill you. The core conceit of this game simply does not work. Choosing Nohr is an idiotic, suicidal, amoral, and quite frankly cowardly decision.

So anyway let’s side with Nohr.

Conquest Chapter 6: Embrace the Dark

Moron arrives at the battlefield where Xander is leading an invasion because his daddy told him to. Moron, in the first of many idiotic decisions in this route, chooses to join Xander. Ryoma points out that the Nohrians are evil invaders who murdered Moron’s mother like an hour ago, but Moron still decides to side with Nohr because he won’t abandon his family. Xander says that he’s happy Moron has returned. Ryoma tells Xander that Garon tried to murder Moron a fucking hour ago and Moron says he wants to hear Garon’s side of the story.

Ryoma attacks Moron and says its good Mikoto is dead so she doesn’t have to see Moron betray her. Damn. Xander protects Moron and begins fighting Ryoma. Moron begs Xander to just go home and Leo says that Moron has to fight and kill innocent people to prove he’s loyal. Camilla says that they’ve done nothing wrong, because Camilla is a terrible person.

The battle begins. Felicia shows up to assist us. To win, we need to take out four of the following: Yukimura, Sakura, Ryoma, Takumi, and Hinoka. Cool.

Each of them has unique dialogue with Moron. Ryoma begs Moronto to come back. Hinoka begs him to say he's being tricked. Sakura begs Moron not to fight her and Moron tells her to take a nap before stabbing her. Takumi says that he knew Moron would betray them. Yukimura says that Mikoto would have respected Moron's choice before shooting him.

I personally chose to spare Sakura, because beating up a defenseless medic is a war crime and we’re going to be committing too many to count in this run and I’d rather avoid that one. After the battle, Azura approaches Moron and tells him they will meet again. Fucking ominous weirdo. The Conquest intro plays; its similar to the Birthright intro, but Azura wears a purple dress and it’s more focussed on the Nohrians.

Now time for Supports. Normally, I’d do Supports for characters we have, but right now that’s just Corrin and Felicia. So let’s do some Birthright Supports.

Support: Jakob/Sakura

C: Sakura is worn out after healing a bunch of people. Jakob tells her to take care of herself, but Sakura argues that it's our army's fault that people are hurt and she needs to do something because no one else will.

B: Jakob tries to convince Sakura that she cannot save everyone, but Sakura says she feels guilty and must keep working herself to death.

A: Same thing, again.

S: Jakob says he loves Sakura. Sakura says she doesn't want to drag him into her depressing life and Jakob, who is also a healer, promises to walk her path with her.

Review: This is the same Support three different times. And it’s a fantastic Support that gives great depth to Sakura, but it’s also repetitive.

Support: Kiragi/Shiro

C: Kiragi, with his ridiculous eyesight, spots a lost pegasus from far away.

B: Kiragi and Shiro go hunting. Kiragi spots a deer from far away and Shiro carries him through a river so he can shoot it.

A: The cousins talk about how they're a good team.

Review: A very lackluster Support.

Support: Saizo/Subaki

C: Subaki is nice to Saizo, but Saizo assumes it’s some sort of facade. Saizo challenges Subaki to a duel with real weapons.

B: Saizo and Subaki duel.

A: Corrin stops them from killing each other. They reflect on how they're both strong and loyal retainers.

Review: This one is fine, but not great. It suffers a lot from the fight being told through dialogue and the lack of a strong ending.

Support: Dwyer/Rhajat

C: Rhajat rips out some of Dwyer's hair to use in a dark ritual. Rhajat explains that she's hapiest when doing evil dark magic.

B: Rhajat, who is apparently a 17th level Wizard, offers to cast a Wish spell fo Dwyer. Only problem is it required her to cut out his eyes.

A: Rhajat asks if she creeps Dwyer out. Dwyer says she's fascinating and quirky. Rhajat orders him to get a bunch of rare ingredients for her.

S: Dwyer asks Rhajat to cast a matchmaking spell for him so he can get together with the woman he loves: her.

Review: To be honest? This one was genuinely really fun. Rhajat asking for Dwyer’s eyes, then realizing that she’s being ridiculous, then saying she only needs one eye is hilarious.

#fire emblem conquest #fire emblem fates

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cinematicnomad · 4 years ago

Note

1, 7, 25 for the fanfic end of year ask :)

001. favorite fic you wrote this year i have a soft spot for take my hand (take my everything) which was the first fic i wrote this year! and kind of the first step back into writing creatively on something new that wasn’t the 7 year monster sterek fic. also my first foray into 9-1-1 fic and was just a lot of fun!

007. longest completed fic you wrote this year the longest fic i wrote was my second for the year! so show me (family) wound up being around 16k+ for 9-1-1 which kind of burst out of me over the course of one 48 hour window unlike take my hand which took a few weeks to crank out.

025. a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read SO MANY FICS DUDE!!! i’m gonna rec a couple, some that i re-read this year and some that i discovered for the first time, all from a variety of fandoms. BUT heads up, you didn’t specify a fandom so it’s gonna be a little scattered. also someone else sent me this same question but specified 9-1-1, so i’m gonna reserve those recs for that ask. GET READY!!

and this, your living kiss by opal_bullets (7/7 | 84k+ | M) destiel; AU: college/university; john winchester’s A+ parenting; angst with a happy ending

only a very few people in the world know that the celebrated and reclusive poet jack allen is just kansas mechanic dean winchester, a high school dropout with a few bucks to his name. not that it matters anymore; life has left him so wrung out he never wants to pick up another pen.

until, that is, a string of coincidences leads dean to auditing a poetry course with one dr. castiel novak. the professor is wildly intelligent, devastatingly handsome...and just so happens to be academia’s foremost expert on the poetry of jack allen.

note: i discovered this fic back in the pre-pandemic times of feb 2020 and i’ve read this fic TWICE since, leaving a lengthy comment each time. the poetry in the fic itself is stunningly gorgeous and i have a habit of reading it out loud to myself while reading bc it begs to be heard. this fic is seriously beautiful and makes me want to read all the poet!dean au’s out there in the world. unfortunately there aren’t that many so i just keep coming back to this well. i don’t think i can express enough how much i love this fic.

lost time by ARCurren (105/105 | 350k+ | T) bransonxsybil; AU: canon divergent; outsider POVs; original characters; slow burn

the story of a free spirit who was asked to give up the man she loved for a system she didn’t believe in and what happened next. AU after 3.04.

note: did i think, when i stumbled across this fic years ago, that it would wind up being one of my all time favorites that i return to time and again to re-read? never. did i re-read it for like the dozenth time this year?? 110%. this fic is everything i want from fanfiction—it’s beautifully written, expands on canon, and shows me all the hidden moments the cameras never did (not to mention it’s historically accurate and delves deep into irish politics of the time). the first third or so of this fic is all about tom and sybil’s slow burn romance at downton, but the fic really bursts into its own when we follow the two to dublin and get introduced to all of the author’s deliciously detailed oc’s. heads up warning: this fic was never officially completed, though the final chapter is a beautifully written summary of the final arc of the fic. even so, it’s fucking worth it.

misfire by mothlights & unpossible (6/6 | 28k+ | T) sterek; time travel; angst with a happy ending; alive hale family; magic; alternating POV

“the debt must be repaid,” she says, and it has the weight of a vow. the words resonate through him, ringing through his ribcage and the bones of his jaw, and stiles loses his breath and maybe his grip on reality because she draws herself upright and where there had once stood a supermodel-level MILK now there is galadriel’s much hotter older sister, a presence of unmistakable power in their ordinary, smells-vaguely-of-thai-takeout hallway.

“oh shit,” stiles says.

note: this fic is the first in the misfire ‘verse and i need you to understand that it literally broke me when i binge read these fics a month or so ago. i am a sucker for a solid time travel fic especially bc there are such few good ones in fandom. but this gets at the heart of it all by exploring the idea of stiles getting the chance to save derek’s family and taking it...after he and derek are romantically together in his true timeline and then actually dealing with the ramifications of how that alters everything and how stiles survives in this new present where he and derek are virtual strangers. everyone should definitely read this, but you should also know that i fucking sobbed while reading the sequel (which also has a happy ending, but really digs deep into the nitty gritty angst of the repercussions).

map of the world by seperis (11/11 | 154k+ | M) destiel; end!verse; alternate universe; canon divergent; original characters; slow burn

the world’s already over and they’re already dead. all they’re doing now is marking time until the end.

note: look, if you don’t know about down to agincourt by @seperis, what are you doing with your life?? the series is over 1M+ words so far, the fic author is on book 4 out of a planned 8, and it’s fucking phenomenal. i know i’ve tagged a couple of these recs as slow burn but...this is the slowest slow burn to ever burn. canon!dean travels back into the end!verse timeline just as lucifer kills dean and somehow cas made it out alive and has to keep dean safe while he learns to become his end!verse counterpoint. the world building in this series is intense and i cannot recommend it enough. i’m still in the midst of my re-read bc it’s SUCH an endeavor but i highly recommend it to everybody.

invictus by ellanasan (116/116 | 355+ | M) hayffie; au: alive abernathy family; pre-hunger games; canon prostitution; slow burn

“so then, before i can even think about doing something stupid like trying to stab him with his fucking golden paperknife, he gives me a choice, see?” haymitch continued, almost detached. “either i play nice like all the other victors or he’ll kill my family. i could either become his puppet—greatest punishment he could give me, according to him—or i could become the example.”

AU in which haymitch’s family lives.

note: hello, have you ever wondered what the hunger games series would be like if haymitch’s family were alive? i fucking hadn’t until 2 years ago when i stumbled across this fic and fell head over heels in love with this ship. @ellanainthetardis is my go to hunger games fic writer for anything exploring canon and i’m obsessed with anything she writes about the OG victors pre-canon (finnick, joanna, chaff, etc). this fic is just 300k+ exploring that world and all the intricate details of how cruel the games could really be. HIGHLY recommend. i definitely re-read it this fall when i needed a pick me up.

don’t know what i’m supposed to do (haunted by the ghost of you) by crazyassmurdererwall (1/1 | 30k+ | T) sterek; canon divergent; angst with a happy ending; ghosts; stiles POV

stiles sees dead people. yep. seriously.

(he’s got this. he’s totally got this. so what if one of them is derek’s mom?)

note: did you know that @crazyassmurdererwall is one of my all time favorite people? and that she’s wicked talented? and that in our spare time she’ll send me a billion fic ideas that are amazing and i get to hear all the intricate details of her plot bunnies? but i digress. this fic is one of my all time fave sterek fics i’ve re-read it sooo many times. there’s just something about the heartache and stiles’ insecurity and the way he tries to shoulder it all on his own. and then there’s alli’s brilliant writing, the way she weaves through a scene and paints a picture just so and manages to tug at your heart strings with her precise word choice. there’s some amazing world building in this fic as it explores this other facet of the supernatural that canon teen wolf never touched upon, and i’m so grateful for that bc alli is the only one who should be allowed to write about ghosts and teen wolf together.

lagavulin and guinness by snarfle (10/10 | 163k+ | explicit) hartwin; slow burn; PTSD; suicidal thoughts; graphic depictions of violence; domestic abuse

plenty of people had looked down on eggsy throughout his life. he had gotten fairly used to it. didn’t mean it was fair, but he knew how these things worked. what really sucked was that the new arthur was worse than the old one.

“eggsy grimaced. he didn’t know how to explain to harry—who seemed like he hadn’t been discriminated against a day in his life—that the new arthur kept giving him what amounted to suicide missions, and that he was currently bleeding out in a warehouse because of the deliberately bad intel she had given him.”

also featuring: dean is harder to get rid of than eggsy thought, his mum is going off the deep end, there are way too many nefarious plots in play, and eggsy is really beginning to wish that harry would stop holding his hand and kiss him instead.

note: look, i know i recced this literally less than a week ago but i ALSO stayed up til 5AM re-reading this last night and it was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. i was on a bit of a kingsman kick earlier this year, so i’ve actually re-read this fic TWICE so far in 2020. i will give you a serious warning in that this fic delves deep into domestic abuse through the lens of a variety of different relationships. it also explores the potential for abuse in hartwin, bc this fic is one of the few that actually commits to the fact that they’re literal spies who murder people. actively. a lot. but seriously, this fic is one of my fave in the fandom and i STRONGLY recommend it.

waste of breath by bryrosea (1/1 | 22k+ | M) loganxveronica; canon compliant; missing scenes; navy; past child abuse

logan echolls, the nine years, and the navy.

note: bryrosea has an obscene number of amazing logan and veronica fics (her canon divergent series stay with me is another i re-read this year), but i’ve found myself returning to this fic a lot over the years. i’m a sucker for canon compliant fics that explore the missing scenes in between canon and this fic hits all the right buttons by diving deep into how logan echolls went from being a trash fire at hearst college at the end of s3 to being a decorated navy pilot by the movie. it explores logan seeking out therapy and making a life for himself that he can be proud of, all while pining after the girl who got away. and bc this author is amazing, she followed it up with a sequel from veronica’s point of view in the series done by only me.

the law of equivalent exchange by awed_frog (8/8 | 60k+ | M) destiel; POV castiel; pre-canon; post-canon; canon compliant; immortality; reincarnation

“and what’s the point of it?”

“of love? there isn’t one. loving is its own purpose.”

note: i mean??? i don’t really know what to say except that this is one of the truly most beautiful fics i have ever read. it follows castiel through time as he meets different reincarnations of sam and dean across history and falls ever more deeply in love. it is achingly tender and so ecstatically written that i die just thinking about it. and that summary? i mean. holy fuck break my heart why don’t you? i don’t know how i missed out on this fic for so long since it was published in 2015 but i only learned about it for the first time back in july and it was. life changing?? when the fic finally reaches the canon timeline and he meets THIS dean it’s peak yearning. 10/10 will read again.

ahead in the count by elisela (17/17 | 50k+ | E) sterek; AU: sports; pitcher!stiles; teacher!derek; long distance relationship; getting together

“yankee fan,” derek says, laughing when stiles makes a disgusted face. “the bronx bombers, stiles, you can’t be a new yorker and—”

“stop talking right now,” stiles sighs, shaking his head. “i can’t believe i still want to kiss you after that,” he says, pulling derek in by his coat. “this is making me rethink everything.”

“i’ll never watch them again,” derek promises, and stiles laughs against his mouth.

or: stiles is a starting pitcher for the NY mets when he meets and falls in love with derek. derek doesn’t know.

note: i read SO MANY of @elisela’s 911 fics this summer, which i loved, and then she got into teen wolf and started writing sterek and i just about died. this fic is amazing, one of my fave sterek AU’s that i’ve read in years. it’s just the right amount of drama and angst and fluff filled with all the joys of miscommunication and character relationships that makes reading sterek such a joy. reading this fic and finding out eli needed fic recs pushed me to dive back in to reading sterek fics for a bit this fall so i can say with the utmost authority that this is one of the best i’ve read in a long time.

i used to think one day we’d tell the story of us by notequitegucci (2/2 | 32k+ | M) gendrya; alternate universe—modern setting; outsider POV; friends to lovers; friends to lovers

9 times a stark encounters gendry + 1 time he meets the starks.

note: again, this is the first in a 2 part series titled love me like you do that explores arya and gendry’s dynamics together through the point of view of her family. game of thrones ended last year with a whimper but i keep returning to the gendrya tag on ao3 to seek out new, amazing content and also to re-read some old favorites. i can’t remember if i came across this for the first time last year or this one, but i’ve read it and re-read it more times than i can count since and i love it more than i can describe. i’m a total sucker for outsider POV fics and my biggest pet peeve in canon is the fact that none of the stark’s ever found out that arya and gendry had a history together. this modern au fic almost makes up for it by giving me a gendry encounter with every family member and then the big reveal. it’s peak content.

theeeeeeese recs got a little away from me. i wasn’t originally intending on adding lengthy notes to each entry but ... oh well!! these are all amazing so please enjoy.

fanfic end of the year asks

#lilolilyr #ask #if i knew an authors tumblr i tried to tag them in this #seriously my reclist got away from me for a bit #also if you're looking for 911 recs #like i said they will be in another ask where someone specified!!#fic rec #about kat writes

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bellablue42 · 4 years ago

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Myself as a writer and Death of the Author

I’m trying to write a novel, and it’s really hard. I feel like I’m not getting anywhere, I’m on my fifth draft and trying to create a lengthy enough narrative that doesn’t feel like filler. It is difficult, to say the least, and I really admire people with the ability to write quickly and well.

But there’s a lot about She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named going around again, and it made me think. We all know that she’s not the best person, but she is a writer, and she is a creator, and her works are widespread. And that... causes problems.

Is it ok to consume her work? How much do her opinions reflect in her work, and can we spot it? I have no idea, but here’s my best shot, as an aspiring writer and a high-school literature student.

Please be warned I have no experience, and I’m kind of making this up as I go along, but here we go.

Last year, at the start of the school year, in Literature, my class watched Midnight in Paris. The movie was written and directed by Woody Allen, who is... well-known for all the wrong reasons, namely allegedly assulting seven-year-old Dylan Farrow. One of the girls in my class pointed out this fact, and my teacher nodded and said that we were discussing Death of the Author.

Death of the Author is an interesting topic. It holds that an author’s intentions and background should have no impact on interpreting a text. It is interesting, and it is really bloody hard to do.

Keep in mind that if you pick up a book by a relatively famous author, you will know something about them. If you take Mrs Dalloway, for example, if you’ve ever heard of Virginia Woolf, you will doubtless know that she was a writer and that she committed suicide, even if you know nothing else. The fact that she did commit suicide will influence the way you read Mrs Dalloway.

If you read Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath, for example, you will probably know that Plath was not mentally healthy and committed suicide by sticking her head in an oven. And that will influence the way you read Lady Lazarus. If you read any of Lovecraft’s work, you will come to the conclusion that he is a racist. It’s not hard to figure out.

Death of the Author means separating these facts from the way you interpret a work. It is really hard, trust me.

Because we look for links, everywhere we look for these links. We know that Sylvia Plath committed suicide, so when you read Lady Lazarus, you make connections. Go read Lady Lazarus now, go read it knowing that Plath committed suicide, and keep that fact in mind. Here’s the link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus

Now read it again, and try to forget it, all the connections you made knowing that Plath stuck her head in an oven. It is really hard to do, because you know, and you remember. Death of the Author is forgetting the context of the author, forgetting their impact on the text.

Here’s a thing, I write a lot. Like, a lot. Not published, obviously, but I write about as much as I read, and that is a lot. And I believe, that when you write, you put a bit of yourself into it. It doesn’t have to be obvious, maybe just the way you connect to a character, or your views on a topic. I can’t say I don’t do this - my main character is an asexual lesbian who panics a lot and loves her girlfriend. Her competence doesn’t come from me, but the gender, the sexuality, the panic? All of that is inspired by, you know, me. My experiences, my opinions. I am conscious in my word choices, I’m trying not to use gendered language for the soldiers, because they are men, women, non-binary, genderfluid and others, all together, so my main character can’t call them her men, they are her soldiers. It’s hard. I’m aware that I have biases, and my reading experiences are usually texts that ... do not do this.

Sorry, I’m rambling, and no-one wants to know.

But I as a writer, put a bit of myself in my work. And I think that’s what makes Death of the Author so hard to do, so hard to remember.

And now onto HER. I can’t remember what brought my attention to her in the first place, maybe a post about a Harry Potter tv show?

The problem about JK Rowling is that she wrote Harry Potter. And Harry Potter is... huge. The problem is that we grew up on Harry Potter.

Looking back, there are big problems with the series; plot holes bigger than my fist, a lack of original plot lines, and little creativity. Harry Potter is a mishmash of already well-established genres and archetypes, and it... doesn’t fit together particularly well.

(Take Dumbledore, at once the mentor archetype from the fantasy genre and the authority figure in the boarding school genre. The problem is that being both causes a bit of dissonance. He mimics the typical ‘wise old mentor wizard’ from fantasy, like Gandalf, but he is also a school headmaster. He is a grandfatherly teacher who takes an interest in the son of two of his past students, nothing particularly new, but at the same time, he’s a figure out of legend, an incredibly powerful man, both magically and politically. It is hard for my brain to fit them together well because they are two different archetypes and they don’t mesh. They belong in different genres, because the way he is written can’t seem to decide which one he is. I might write more on this later if anyone’s interested)

But Rowling’s a TERF. And she’s been on Twitter and said all sorts of bizarre things about the odd mish-mash of genres she’s created. I’m not really a fan of Harry Potter anymore, I grew up with it. I have seven books in a shoebox under my bed. I have read far better books, I have read many, many books with more interesting stories, better internal consistency and characters with actual depth, who don’t need fandom to be interesting.

And yet I still have all seven books in a shoebox under my bed. It’s hard. I genuinely liked the books - when I was twelve. I’d sooner recommend the Discworld books by the late great Sir Terry Pratchett than Harry Potter, and not just because of HER. They’re better books. Harry Potter is average.

But we loved them.

And Rowling’s a TERF. Her views on trans people are... not okay, by any measure. I don’t have words for ... how great the cognitive dissonance is. She wrote a series, a seven-book, eight-movie series, about the power of unconditional love. Over a million words, just under 20 hours about acceptance and tolerance. And yet she doesn’t believe that trans women are women.

The problem is that it is hard to apply Death of the Author. Once you know that JK discriminates against transgender people, it is hard to read Harry Potter without remembering that.

Then you get into other issues about how all of the endgame couples are straight. And Dumbledore’s only gay when the series is ended. And there’s a lack of diversity in the books and the movies. And once you start reading into it, it gets ... iffy. Because it’s not meant to be read into, not meant to be analysed. It’s a children’s series. But it’s problematic, not for the things it says, but fo the things it doesn’t say.

The thing is that SHE is impressive. As a writer, at least, not as a person. Because it is hard to write, and she managed an extensive, relatively-coherent storyline across seven books, released over ten years. But her first book got rejected, again and again.

Her net worth is somewhere between 650 million and 1.2 billion. And she earns all that money off a book series whose main themes are friendship and love. And she’s a TERF.

I can’t say I hate her - I don’t know her. She might be a genuinely nice person, but she’s a TERF. She doesn’t believe that trans people are the gender that they say they are. I cannot understand how you can believe that, but. She does, apparently. She wrote so much about love conquering all evil, and friendship saving the day, but she doesn’t think that trans women should be allowed into female bathrooms.

I hate her ideology.

Go read Discworld instead. Think about Death of the Author, then read Night Watch. It’s a great book. Or go read Good Omens, because Pratchett co-wrote that.

The thing about Discworld is that you can tell what Pratchett thinks is worth paying attention to. Small Gods is primarily about religion, about belief, and about people. The last one is the most important, because Pratchett believed that the greatest thing you can be is human and kind, and he’s right. The witches on the Discworld are... perhaps not nice, but they are decent, and they are fundamentally people. They are human, and they are kind, and that is what makes them good people.

The thing about Harry Potter is that “Muggle” sounds like a slur. There’s all this attention paid to the whole “mudblood” thing that people forget that behind all the blood purity nonsense - which sounds a lot like eugenics - the purebloods, the rich entitled kids, believe that non-magical people are less than animals. The Wizarding world is stuck in the Middle Ages, not even the bloody Renaissance. Human history has passed them by. It is so hard now to read Harry Potter without finding problems, like how all the magicals are fundamentally stupid, how a literal one-year-old is praised for supposedly killing an extremely powerful mass-murdering psycopath. A one-year-old. The Wizarding World is not a functional society, and it’s not meant to be. It’s not meant to hold up to scrutiny.

Look, Harry Potter is average, at best. Ask me for good kids books and I will point you in a dozen different directions, and I will point you in a dozen different directions - but not there.

Because Death of the Author is hard. Not taking the creator’s intentions and background into account when interpreting a work is hard. You can know that an author is queer, or a person of colour, or of a certain religion, but once you know it, it is hard to not see it.

You see, all the main characters in Harry Potter are white. They’re also all straight. Everyone not Harry Potter is flat. There is very little depth to anyone in those books, because they don’t matter. Hermione is defined by her relationship with Ron because her relationship is the most debated part of her character. Ron - in the movies at least - is seen as stupid because he is written stupid, he is written as comic relief. Book-verse Ron is a strategist, but that’s only really shown in the first two books. They’re not written with depth, they don’t need it. Harry’s the protagonist, Hermione’s the smart one, Ron’s the dumb-but-loyal comic-relief best friend. Ginny is the love interest, Luna’s the crazy one, the twins are comic-relief pranksters. Draco is the racist antagonist, Voldemort is a more extreme mass-murdering version. There are exactly zero trust-worth adults in a whole seven-book series, there are three? characters with depth in the whole series, everyone else is defined by a role and a single characteristic.

It is so hard to look critically at Harry Potter and not see everything that relates to Rowling. It is problematic as a series, and problematic as content created by a TERF. It is problematic as literature in the first place. It’s written as a kids book, but for all its ‘adult’ themes, it can’t stand up to scrutiny.

This got long - I got a bit carried away. Sorry.

Tell me what you think, tell me your opinion. I’d love to discuss this with you because it so hard to write about. Argue with me, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m right if you think I am. Have I said anything problematic? Please lets start talking about this because it’s interesting and a difficult topic, and I think we need to start looking closer at authors and content creators.

#i didn't wake up today to write a long meta post #but i did anyway #long post #meta #Harry Potter #Death of the Author #please debate more with me #harry potter is problematic and here's why #this has no cohesion to it #please give me feedback #i apologise for shitty writing #this had no plan #sorry

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crystallos-sol · 4 years ago

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The 3K event

Okay so here I am making a massive 3K analysis again. I wanted to do one of Gray Fullbuster because he's a character I relate to the most and he's definitely one of the more complex characters. The rest is under the cut, be warned its long & you might not agree with some things but its a fact of life to not agree with everything.

To make it easier on my poor hands I am going to divide this up by arc! I will list the arc at the top starting from the beginning of the story. It will be two paragraphs of his behavior for each arc!

Maco Arc:

Gray here first appears nude, fighting and asking Lucy for her underwear because he lost his. That is mostly the extent of his appearance during that arc. Analyzing that small moment we can conclude: He has a nude problem, He has a temper, Him and Natsu don’t get along very well. We can also conclude or make an educated guess based on the fact that he is nude and asks Lucy for her underwear: He is a pervert or has those types of intentions.

We also have only just met him during that arc. So there isn’t going to be a lot of information about him at first. Looking at his behavior, he is certainly interesting and seems to almost be brash. There is something about him that does say he has a brain under his head of emo hair.

Daybreak arc:

This arc focuses on Natsu and Lucy and Happy.

Lullaby arc:

This is where we learn alot about Gray. His interaction with Natsu before Erza shows up says that they are in some type of friendship. It is clear that they can stop fighting one another but it appears they just want to fight one another. We definitely learn Gray is a humorous character based off of his reactions throughout the arc. His behavior suggests he is scared of Erza and gets along with Natsu when he needs to. Gray also seems to be more on the calm side of things unless he gets mad. Gray doesn't show that much emotion within his face when calm.

Gray seems to show his feelings and thoughts through actions. He also has some weird behavior and even strips off his clothing. He is a quick thinker when it counts and during the train station section of the arc, we see that he is strong in his own right. That idea is reinforced by the speed and strength of his ice magic during the battle with Lullaby. Based on all of this we can conclude that Gray is on Natsu’s level of power, He is strong and emotional in a way most people aren't. He has a stripping habit based on how when serious and on the magic car he stripped off his top.

Galuna Island Arc:

Here we learn so much about Gray. The paragraphs will be larger so please be prepared to read that.

Gray is clearly traumatized and doesn’t react normally because of it, Before Erza arrives to take them back to the Guild he is calm and collected. This suggests that it is a facade or only one part of him. Gray also has a tendency to ignore the pain he is in or twist it around. Gray is shown to have been the sole survivor of his village and having lost his parents to Delliora, a demon from the books of Zeref. This makes his actions against Lullaby who is also a demon from the books of Zeref seen in an entirely different light than before. Gray is faced with his adoptive brother who is destroying the ice that is his mentor or mother figure to get to Delliora. Gray clearly believes what happened that day was his fault.

Gray also irrationally thinks that Delliora who has been sealed away under lost magic is alive. This is shown when he tries to commit suicide to end Delliora. Surprisingly enough it is Natsu Dragneel or his rival that saves him and fights against Delliora. This moment is such a huge action. Here is really where they become even closer on Gray’s end of things. For him Natsu just destroyed the monster that took everything from him, the very thing he likely had nightmares about for years. The same event he cant process correctly because he is so emotionally vulnerable and traumatized is ended by his rival. Gray was actually set free at that moment. Afterwards there is an air of Gray that he didn’t have before. He seems almost relaxed but not sure what to do about it. Gray cannot believe he's finally free and he is also still processing that Natsu Dragneel was the one who put himself between Gray and the nightmare of his entire life.

To Gray his whole life just changed. Not only was his master set free finally but his friend saved him from self destruction. Looking at that attempted suicide it puts Gray and his character in a new light. It is clear he loves Fairy Tail and would do anything for his guild. It is purely the most drastic change in a character because he had everyone fooled. This is the first analysis of him:

Analyzing that small moment we can conclude: He has a nude problem, He has a temper, Him and Natsu don’t get along very well. We can also conclude or make an educated guess based on the fact that he is nude and asks Lucy for her underwear: He is a pervert or has those types of intentions.

Gray wore a mask and he had everyone fooled. Even the viewer/reader.

Phantom Lord Arc:

Here Gray is lighter. His character seems at peace until he sees the ruined guild hall. Almost all of his hurt and agony is thrown out the window in favor of his family. During the moments leading up to the fight Gray is stressed and angry. Like the rest of Fairy Tail he is mad. During the battles Gray doesn't hesitate. However the most outstanding moment that showed his actual character was when he stopped Juvia from dying. When he accidentally grabbed her chest during an attack and immediately backed off. Not getting into Juvia's character at all here however her reactions to those events influenced Gray’s own reaction. He wasn’t rude and didn’t attack her after the fight. He let her lay there and even smiled at her because Gray despite the mask he wore has the biggest heart in Fairy Tail.

Loke Arc:

This arc shows us a relaxed and genuinely worried Gray. He knows something is wrong with Loke during this arc, and like a friend is concerned about him. The two are painted to be friends and they both clearly have a history together based on the way Gray is worried. Gray isn’t exactly appearing in this arc a lot so sadly that's it.

Tower Of Heaven:

This mostly focuses on Erza but it does showcase that Gray despite being scared of her genuinely cares about her. It also shows again that Gray is awkward and doesn't exactly know what to do when his friends are upset. He cares about them but he hasn't figured out how to approach it or handle it,

Battle of Fairy Tail:

There isn't really anything that can be said about this that I haven't already said.

Oracion Seis arc:

Gray instantly is concerned about Wendy and wants to help her. He also automatically considers her a friend. Gray when fighting against them is clearly upset about them trying to destroy Wendy’s guild. He is mad and saddened like he is when Fairy Tail is facing a conflict. Once again showing Gray is more emotional than people give him credit for. He also backs and approves of Erza’s decision to allow Wendy to join Fairy Tail. It is clear Gray wasn’t about to let her wonder off without knowing if she would be okay first.

Daphne Arc:

I have said it before and I will say it again, there is no way Gray “ I care about my family “ Fullbuster would ever do anything like he supposedly did in that horribly written episode. I can admit that some points of Fairy Tails plot is stupid and or badly written but I don’t understand how it managed to embody a cringey fan fic from the early 200s that is in first person pov and has only 700 words and multiple chapters with no spaces.

Edolas Arc:

Gray is again upset about mistreatment and that his guild is being harmed. He also is once again showing his thinking side when he goes along with the plan Natsu, Erza and Him come up with to save their friends. He is worried about his guild mates fighting the King, but of course is relieved when they all come back alive and just a little banged up.

Tenrou Island Arc & X791 Arc:

Gray is deathly protective of his guild and it didn’t go over well when Ultear hurt Juvia. Now during this Arc Gray is targeted by Ultear because she believes he killed her mother and took her away from her. She intends on murdering Gray for it. He however is emotional about it because Ultear is UI’s bloodline. Both Gray and UI had no clue that she is alive and they certainly if aware of it would have torn that organization to shreds to reach her. Gray when faced with a monster coming to destroy them is more concerned about his family than the impending doom. He does like the rest of the guild stares death right in the eye without a hint of fear.

As any Fairy Tail member knows they are all together and they are never once going to go through something alone here. In the end when woken up by members of his guild he is happy to still be able to interact with his friends and family.

Key Of The Starry Sky Arc:

This arc mostly focuses on Lucy and the relationships of her family. There are however moments where other members of Fairy Tail have their own relationships with her explored. With Gray he is worried about her and doesn't want to lose his teammate and friend. Their relationship however is shown slightly from Gray's actions when fighting and doing his best to prevent her death. He doesn’t exactly have a relationship with her outside of friendship however that doesn't mean Gray can’t view her as an important part of his life like he does with the rest of his guild.

Grand Magic Games:

Gray's love for fighting is definitely shown here. He is also downright cheerful during the games at points. But he still is angry when his guild is targeted and when his guild mates are hurt. Gray does seem to have his head on straight during his fights, even cheering for his brother and telling him to essentially stop being stupid. Gray does get concerned about Gajeel and the Dragon corpses purely because he cares about his friends and also because he doesn't know if he feels so happy knowing dragons got pitted against one another here. He has been accused of murdering Frosch by Future Rogue who comes back through the gate. However it is believed he is lying because when Gray meets Frosch he thinks the excess is adorable and instantly wants to befriend them.

However an extreme point to know is that Gray dies for a period of time. Shoving Juvia and Meredy out of the way of a magic attack he got hit multiple times. The final shot was right through his head. Gray was however saved by Ultear who sacrificed her own life to turn back time. He has expressed no memory of this happening but says he has a blank spot in his memories he isn't sure about.

Eclipse celestial spirit arc:

Here Gray goes to fight Cancer and return him back to normal for Lucy. We also learn that Gray can’t dance well but since he was put on the spot he threw a routine together for his friends sake. He is also relieved when his friend Like or Leo is returned back to normal.

Sun village arc:

Gray is faced with the obseratady of being turned back into a child. It is also revealed that Gray can make ice disappear. He cant make the Ice that is covering the village go away without some effort. After they get the flame back to its strength he is shown confused about the ice around them. He can also safely cool others down with his magic. It really shows how much he has improved.

Tartaros arc:

Gray finds his dead father. Even though he receives a gift from his father it clearly doesn't change the pain he is in because of the loss. He is really shutting down at the fact that he lost his father twice. Gray however handles his grief differently than another character. He knew from the moment he saw his dad that he was dead. Gray looked at him and saw that without a problem. The problem here is that Grays has a knack for looking at things as his fault. He views this event has something he caused. No other character twists their pain and grief so badly. Gray knew his father was dead from the beginning. He already lost him, it's not that the second time didn't hurt just as badly it's that Gray could have prevented this. In his head he could have had his father back in his life. To Gray he failed and wasn't strong enough to save his father.

Avatar arc:

Gray is lost here. His guild, his constant in his life is gone. He has lost that contact with them. Gray clings to the part of his family that is with him. Erza scarlet. Now during the arc he had to renounce Fairy Tail and play a dark persona that isn't him for almost a year. For almost an entire year Gray was a monster he created. A monster he created for Erza, for this mission he threw himself into. He went through a massive transformation and Gray while parts of himself are still there has changed. His world view has been altered and Gray now knows that not even Fairy Tail is going to be his constant. I have written about this on my Ao3 Littledanceingdragons it is under the title: Undercover. I am not going to link it here check the notes since Tumblr shadowbans any post with links.

When Fairy Tail is brought back Gray is back to his normal self and even looks relieved because his family came back for him.

Alvarez empire arc:

This arc caused Gray so much pain. I am not going to cover the Juvia & Gray scene fully, mostly because that scene was so horribly written for a core plot moment it felt so forced and out of character.

That being said I am going to talk about how Gray would rather die than hurt a guildmate. Now this is purely because I think Gray has been pushed to his limit. He lost his father, fought demons, lost his family, transformed into a dark persona for a mission. At this point Gray at his lowest develops irrational thinking and suicidal thoughts and actions. It is crucial to remember the past for this so here are they key points of multiple paragraphs:

Gray also has a tendency to ignore the pain he is in or twist it around. Gray is shown to have been the sole survivor of his village and having lost his parents to Delliora, a demon from the books of Zeref. This makes his actions against Lullaby who is also a demon from the books of Zeref seen in an entirely different light than before. Gray is faced with his adoptive brother who is destroying the ice that is his mentor or mother figure to get to Delliora. Gray clearly believes what happened that day was his fault.

He however is emotional about it because Ultear is UI’s bloodline.

He is mad and saddened like he is when Fairy Tail is facing a conflict. Once again showing Gray is more emotional than people give him credit for.

Gray here at that point has lost it. Thinking back on those episodes it makes sense for Gray to snap at some point. He has merely done it now, when in a war, after believing one of his guildmates died. Logically that makes sense and it is understandable. Getting to Natsu vs Gray fight. Ignoring that it doesn't make sense for the cause for Gray or the cause Canon says is what happened. The fight between them was more than out of character. Mainly for a point that Natsu has addressed before the war:

Fighting when your friends are on the line isn't fun.

Yes, they fight one another constantly. However it is really more accurate to say: Spar. It is described as this:

If you spar with someone, you exchange light blows — either literally by punching each other, or figuratively by exchanging verbal blows. If you box, you might spar with an opponent at the gym while you're training. You don't strike too hard — it's just practice.

Or in other words, it's not serious. Gray and Natsu aren't trying to kill each other. The only reason it is mentioned is because Gray is clearly in a bad place there. He is having a breakdown. I also direct your attention to the fact that Gray tried to kill himself because he felt like shit over it.

You all know the scene.

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