#You cannot tear down the master's house using the master's tools

[rotationalsymmetry]

Ok, you know what? I do 100% agree with the complainer there.

There is a widespread genuine belief that health is largely under people's individual control and if you're not healthy it's because you're Doing Something Wrong. (This is an ableist belief.) Not everyone who shares posts about things people can do to help with their personal health believes that, but it's also not obvious to anyone who doesn't see into anyone else's brain that people posting or reblogging that sort of thing DON'T believe that and logically, some people posting/reblogging are doing so BECAUSE they believe that nobody will be sick for long if everyone just does the right thing.

There is especially a predominant culture on the mental health recovery/positivity regions of tumblr that recovery is possible for anybody and that a positive attitude is a necessary and helpful condition for recovery.

3 this bleeds over into victim blaming really easily and is hella discouraging for people who don't have a realistic prospect of recovery (or think they don't) including I gotta say for people who have non-mental health shit that they don't expect to recover from and it's annoying as hell. And you know what? I've had lifelong mental health issues and while they're overall better than they have been in the past, that doesn't mean I've "recovered" it means I've learned how to live with my fucked up brain better. In spite of the fact that I keep running into assholes who assume if I'm looking for more mental health resources I must be "at the start of my journey" ffs and this is ableist. The idea that people will get better quickly, inevitably, within a short period of time after they first start trying is ablist and just not based in reality.

4. there is also a culture that makes it almost impossible to talk about this -- have a dialog about this -- without being dismissed as being overly negative, having poor reading comprehension, or being told well of course this didn't mean you therefor your complaint is invalid and meaningless.

5. there may be a case to be made about when it is and isn't appropriate to disagree with other people's posts on social media, especially when you're not mutuals or otherwise some foundation of trust and basically liking each other. But nobody ime ever talks about it in these terms. They say "bad reading comprehension" (also ableist btw, some people actually do have poor reading comprehension mostly related to either difficulties with accessing education or medical conditions/disabilities that they don't control, and don't expect to see an improvement in that any time soon, and could use some patience and understanding around that and not "you suck for having bad reading comprehension (and by implication just aren't trying hard enough to be abled)" and yeah I get nobody really thinks that the people they're accusing of "bad reading comprehension" can't help it but even if that is the case there's a lot of collateral damage here) and argue that the responses are INCORRECT, factually and/or morally, not that whether the response is right or not it's impolite. This is not a useful fault analysis because people generally don't say things that they think are factually or morally incorrect. so the message that comes across is "you can call someone ableist or whatever if other people think you're right, but not if they think you're wrong" which kind of implies that the nature of oppression can accurately be arrived at by sort of polling what most people think? Which is clearly not correct.

treat people like people dammit.

[asm5129]

I was watching the new Olay and friends (linked below) and it got me thinking

Well first of all it’s very thought provoking, regardless of whether I do or don’t agree with every point

And I definitely see how the pro-Palestine movement—at least, the capital D Discourse version—lacks serious focus beyond being loud. if activism is just shouting down the people who are approaching the same problem differently than you, that’s not a real strategy. “End the genocide” isn’t an actual demand, because it’s not something America can actually *do*. The idea of emotional extortion is interesting, how gatekeeping and exclusion are tools of white supremacy is interesting as well, and how “the masters tools cannot dismantle the masters house” has been kind of twisted. There’s a lot more to it but the big thing that I started thinking about

In terms of strategy

I started thinking of how much the notion that voting is meaningless or the idea that not voting is useful in the long run kind of flies in the face of the fights that have been fought over decades with sweat and tears and far too much blood to gain the right to vote. I know some people have used the line “if voting did anything they wouldn’t let you do it.”

If you know literally *any* American history you should no that the powers that be definitely did not “let” most people vote. Even right now, voter suppression wouldn’t be a priority for MAGA if voting wasn’t a genuine threat to them.

You don’t feel the need to rig the game if you believe you can win.

It’s just interesting how in leftist debate about strategy the right to vote kind of gets flattened as an unimportant part of historic fights for civil rights and overlook how heavily allowing oppressed and disenfranchised people to vote scared those in power.

To be clear—voting ain’t enough. Not at all.

But to act as if the blood that was spilled in that fight was meaningless , that ultimately the establishment doesn’t need to care who votes feels a rather ignorant take.

[charlieslowartsies]

Hello!

Director's cut about how the flashlight works, please? It's really interesting!

Awrighty!

The flashlight wasn't the Crying Child's light until, I wanna say Ghost Strings. It wasn't Michal Afton's that he unthinkingly gave to Arthur until he debuted in Lies Within. So its role evolved over the stories lol.

But it's always been in the series. I always considered it sort of it's own character, tied to the Crying Child and to the Marionette.

The flashlight is based LOOSELY on the concept of tsukumogami from Japenese folklore. The base idea is that "an item that lived long enough would eventually become alive and turn self-aware." I emphasize loosely cause, well, 100 years has absolutely not passed. Nor is it housing a spirit. The flashlight is not technically by-the-book haunted, it is still a tool. Although finicky, it can pass as ordinary when it needs (or wants to.) The flashlight is also based off Thor's Mjölnir, and the Master Sword from LoZ.

I asked myself "what happens when residual spooky stuff clings to objects in the restaurant? What's good symbolism for light/night guards? Oh duh, the flashlight!"

Before Arthur's death, it was very normal. Just a plastic, light yellow flashlight that Max gave his brother one night, not realizing the importance of his words on the child. Quite often we say something off-handed that children cling to with all their might. This is how the flashlight's powers were planted and how they grew, if rather oddly. Arthur believed it could do things like chase away the Nightmares, and so it did, and still does in the series. He brought it to the restaurant on the day he died, setting it by the Prize Puppet and, of course, never picking it up again. The Marionette took it and hid it in it's box on some strange, unbidden instinct as the chaos of the day unfolded.

After Arthur's death, it began to run without batteries. It won't turn on for just anyone, although you do not need to be a Suit to work it, especially if you're deemed worthy of being a security guard by it. It's a bright light when being held by a strong spirit, and generally is used for warding off Nightmares, tearing at shadows to reveal the Truth, to expose what is trying to hide in plain sight. It can force Mike and Gold to Switch, and as such could be used as a weapon against them in the wrong hands, or even the Marionette before it was Revived.

It's relentless and terrifies William Afton, because even though he was able to manipulate the Marionette and the Crying Child early on, he could never quite seem to get the flashlight to not hurt him when it's beam touched him. Nightmares loathes it, because he cannot hide and pretend to be bigger and scarier than the rest when it's light sends away the shadowy smog around him.

It's able to move with relative independence, teleporting like Marion to it's desired destination or rolling. It prefers to stick with Mike unless for some reason he's in grave danger, in which case it seeks out Danny Fitzgerald, the day guard. In Ghost Strings, it was tied to the Marionette and Arthur, and so when they began to break down together, it got weaker until it attached itself to Mike as a new host, a sort of passing of the torch. It will pass again in Lies Within.

It's level of sentience I settled on is limited but clear enough to understand usually what it wants. It has a job to do, and it will accomplish it without fail, and illuminate the darkness. Mike can control Goldy, at the very least direct him, but the flashlight isn't really something you command. It doesn't think in gray scale, rather in black and white. This can be tricky, since life is not black and white.

It's something you wield, so that does make it a bit of a wildcard. Like Suits that are varied with different powers, the flashlight has different tactics it tries based on what it's aimed at, but there's little way of knowing what it will try or making it do something you want, which makes it kind of unreliable and Mike tries to use it as nothing more than a normal flashlight, and far less as a weapon.

Mike uses it secondarily to open doors that connect to other door ways, typically inside the building he's in. This is great trick for moving across a location rapidly, and is an offshoot of Goldy's teleporting powers. (It's thought to augment certain powers the ghosts already carry because of this.) If Max used the light, it could potentially create stronger illusions. If someone else used it ON Max, it could likely destroy his illusion instead.

It's twin is Max's cassette walkman, which is also why they're the same shade of yellow in drawings. The walkman was Max's most important possession when he was alive, connecting him to music and offering an escape when he needed it. Like Scraptrap, the walkman symbolized escape. The flashlight was Arthur's, and it stood for protection like the Marionette did.

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Seized

An addition to Approval. Do not read this until reading that first. 

Character: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader // Damian Wayne x Batmom

Summary: What happens when Talia Al Ghul learns that someone has stolen the affections of her past lover and her son?

Word Count: 3,000 [One Shot]

“Delinquents have been detained. I can hear the sirens,” Damian stated calmly in his comms.

“Good work, Robin. You know where to meet me. You have a minute,” Bruce responded as he whipped the bat mobile through Crime Alley to grab his son.

Just as Damian opened the door and hopped in, an alarm went off within the vehicle.

“The Manor,” Damian thought aloud as he read the screens with his father.

Bruce ignored his comment and was calling Alfred immediately.

“Master Wayne,” the butler instantly picked up. “I followed protocol, but they were already gone when I arrived.”

“Y/N…” Bruce immediately asked.

“They took her,” Alfred told him, distress clear in his tone.

Damian’s head whipped to his father to watch his reaction.

But Bruce’s jaw only tightened and he sped the batmobile even faster.

Returning faster to Wayne Manor than ever before, Bruce jumped out of the batmobile and up the secret entrance to get to the main house.

Damian was hot on his heels. He’d already sent an encrypted message to his brothers, informing them of the situation. It was only a matter of time before they were at the manor as well. Though Damian suspected Jason would not come, instead already starting to scour the streets of Gotham for Y/N and her captors.

Alfred was already waiting for them. “Master Wayne, I am so sorry.”

Bruce ignored him and walked to the master bedroom. Y/N would’ve been sleeping when the attack occurred. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had been awake, she had no training in self defense. She was merely an innocent civilian.

“Father,” Damian muttered quietly.

Bruce turned around to find his son ripping a shuriken out of the door frame.

They shared a look, both recognizing the particular shape and color.

“The League…” Damian muttered quietly, saying what they both were thinking.

——————

Y/N was barely awake.

They clearly had drugged her with something to make her more compliant. Everything was foggy and muffled.

Yet they still tied her hands and ankles together, as if her brain could even manage to get her body to move.

But Y/N could feel the effects of the drugs losing their strength, yet keeping their hold on her.

She squinted as she looked around. The air felt different. It was colder and dryer, making Y/N believe that she was no longer in Gotham. Little did she know, she wasn’t even in the country any longer.

“I do not know what he sees in you,” a woman hummed from somewhere in the room.

Y/N blinked as he listened, but her eyes could not adjust to the low lighting and she didn’t even have the strength to turn her head.

“You are weak. Ripped from your own bed without so much as a fight.”

Then she heard the grunts and clashing of metal.

The woman smiled. “Right as expected, my son.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed at ‘my son.’ Then she finally lifted her head and took in her surroundings. There were swords and other weapons stored everywhere, and there was armor hung from the walls.

“Talia?” She whispered.

The woman chuckled. “Weak, but not utterly foolish.”

Then the door of the room was thrown open.

Y/N looked to see Damian in his Robin uniform.

“My son, finally returned," Talia greeted with a smirk.

“Mother.” Then his gaze flickered to Y/N. Very subtly, he was scanning her body to access any possible injuries.

His gaze turned back to his mother. “What is the meaning of this?”

“You have forgotten where you come from, Damian. You are not just the heir to the Wayne family. Before anything else, you are my son and the heir to Ra's al Ghul’s throne.”

“She has nothing to do with this,” Damian said with a gesture to Y/N.

“She has everything to do with this,” Talia snapped. “She has made you weak.”

Damian said nothing.

“She has taken you both from me,” Talia growled.

“Father does not love you,” he growled.

“A small lapse in judgment on his part, but not something that cannot be remedied. Our love gave us you, and I fully believe he will return to me.”

“His heart belongs to someone else. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can give up your fantasy.” Then he hesitated to say the next part. “I never plan on returning to The League of Shadows. I wish to stay with father.”

Talia’s amusement vanished at her sons words.

The next second, she unsheathed her sword. “Perhaps I should just kill her and remind you of your place, my son.”

With that, Damian rushed forward and intercepted Talia’s attack with his own sword.

“Do not touch her,” Damian growled.

Their swords continued to clash as the mother and son fought each other. The fight raged on for what felt like forever. Too evenly matched, but also both too terrible at hiding that neither actually wanted to kill the other.

In the distance, Y/N could hear even more fighting. She could only assume it was Bruce fighting his way to her and his son.

Talia and Damian’s swords locked again, both of their stances shaking from the hold.

“Do you really think you and your father stand a chance against the entire League? Why do you think we lured you all the way here? You are outnumbered.” Talia hissed.

“You think us foolish enough to come alone?” Damian smirked right before there was a boom that shook the entire compound.

Talia’s focus slipped half a second, allowing Damian a window to go on the offense.

He flipped his mother’s sword out of her grip and held his own to her throat.

“Yield,” he growled down to her.

“You truly choose her over your own mother?” The hurt in her eyes was clear.

“You abandoned me, used me as a tool to disrupt father’s life. She taught me that there is more to life than killing and destroying. She loves me and care for me, even when I gave her no reason to do so.”

“And it will be the death of you,” Talia warned.

He glared at her. “Yield!”

But he knew she would never. So he whipped out a dart and blew it to her neck – a sedative.  It knocked her out within seconds.

Waiting until he was sure it had worked, Damian sheathed his sword once again and ran to Y/N’s side.

With a knife, he cut the ropes around her wrists and ankles.

“D-Damian,” her voice was still slurred from the drugs and she was weak. How long had she been here without food or water? “I don’t think I can walk."

Damian helped her to her feet. “Y/N, please try,” he begged as he wrapped her around around his shoulders. He was still just a boy, one that was shorter than her. But he wouldn’t give up that easily.

There was another explosion.

“What’s-What’s happening?” Y/N asked as she dragged her feet and held on tightly.

“That would be Todd, most likely taking his job of distracting to an unnecessary level.”

“You all came?” She asked in shock.

“Of course,” Damian scoffed.

Suddenly an object came flying at them and Y/N cried out in pain.

“No!” Damian bellowed as he looked up to see that another League member was attempting to stop their escape. And with it, they had thrown a shuriken that had landed in Y/N’s side.

She dropped to the ground.

Damian screamed as he unsheathed his sword once again and charged the assassin. It wouldn’t take him long. He knew that every minute spent fighting was a minute Y/N was bleeding out and edging closer to death.

He didn’t hold back like he had with his mother and quickly disarmed the enemy. Then thrusting his sword into a nonfatal area of his body, enough to neutralize him. 

Damian rushed back to Y/N’s side, where a pool of blood was forming from her wound.

He knew it was useless, but he still tried to lift Y/N into his arms to carry her. He cried out in both panic and frustration.

The building had now caught aflame due to Jason’s explosions. Damian would need to call for backup, hoping one of his older brothers could help.

Then a shadow was cast over him.

Damian tensed, believing it to be another attack.

But he looked up to find his father standing before them.

However, Bruce’s gaze was on his unconscious girlfriend.

With the arrival of his father, Damian’s cold and calculating disposition melted.

“She’s hurt,” his voice trembled and tears formed in his eyes. “Help her.”

Damian rarely cried. He cried less than grown men. He was raised that way. It didn’t help that his father was not a great example of healthy emotional expression.

But Bruce knew what his sons tears were for: Damian was frustrated, he felt weak, and he thought he had failed his mission. But most of all, Bruce knew his son was crying for fear of Y/N’s death. Because the boy had grown to love her.

As if there were a world when Bruce wouldn’t give his own life to save Y/N.

Bruce bent down and carefully brought Y/N into his arms.

Damian heard her mutter his father’s name, though still delirious from both the drugs he’s sure his mother pumped into her and the blood loss.

“Red Robin, get the jet to my coordinates immediately,” Bruce instructed through his comms.

Damian wondered how his father could be so calm when the woman he loved was bleeding out in his arms. This wasn’t bat business, this was personal. But Bruce spoke like it was just another night of patrol.

A few minuets later, Damian and Bruce had fought their way through the flames and burning compound.

Tim lowered the platform of the jet.

Damian made sure his father and Y/N got on before he followed. He turned and gave one last look at the burning compound that would no longer exist come morning. He did not fear for his mother’s life. He knew someone from the League would come for her – if she didn’t save herself first.

When he boarded the jet, his father already had Y/N on the surgical table that elevated from the jet floor.

Bruce had taken off his cowl, allowing Damian and his brothers to study his expressions.

Damian had been wrong about his father handling the situation like any other mission. For now he could see the terror and worry in his father’s eyes, despite him trying to control his emotions.

Damian looked to Jason, who still had his Red Hood helmet on.

“My grandfather?” He asked his brother.

“Escaped,” Jason muttered.  

Damian stepped forward to help Bruce with Y/N’s injuries.

“She’ll be OK,” he muttered to his father.

All of them had high-level medical training to know.

Thankfully the assassin’s aim was not great and didn’t land in lethal place on Y/N’s body. But she still lost a lot of blood and would need many stitches.

All the brother’s shared a look when Bruce ignored the statement. 

———

Y/N woke up to someone gripping her hand. She recognized from the smell and the feel of the bedding that she was in Bruce’s bed at the manor.

She winced as she opened her eyes to find Bruce was the one holding her hand as he sat in a chair only inches away from the side of the bed.

“Hi,” she whispered to him with a sad smile.

“Hi,” he said back with a smirk.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days.”

Then Y/N looked past Bruce to realize there was someone else in the room.

Damian passed out on the velvet chaise that was pushed against the windows.

“He hasn’t left your side,” Bruce told her. “Dick had to convince him just to take a shower for 5 minutes when we first got back.”

Y/N’s heart melted at the revelation.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

The sound of Bruce’s voice as he said it made Y/N’s gaze snap back to him. Had it shook? Or was she imagining it?

Y/N squeezed his hand that was still wrapped around hers. 

“I know,” she told him with a sympathetic look.

He hid it well, but Y/N knew Bruce. And she knew that her being kidnapped from his own home probably drove him mad with guilt. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already designed an entirely new security system to prevent something like that ever happening again.

Bruce took in a shaky breath and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He wanted to say that he always feared her being with him would put her in danger like this. 

He wanted to say that maybe she should stay away from him. 

He wanted to say that him and the kids didn’t deserve her. 

He wanted to say that the only reason this happened is because Talia hated that she loved her son better than she ever did.

But Bruce had never been good at saying how he actually felt – or even acknowledging he had any feelings at all.

So Y/N brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Bruce, I know,” she said once again.

“I won’t let it happen again. I promise you,” he told her evenly.

“Bruce, I knew what I signed up for when you told me you were Batman. If I wasn’t willing to face the reality of it, I wouldn’t have stayed.”

“No one would’ve blamed you if you hadn’t.”

There was a knock at the door and then it opened a second later.

Damian jumped awake at the sound. But then he quickly brought his attention to Y/N. “You’re awake.”

But everyone’s attention was on Dick, who was standing at the open doorway.

“Hey,” he greeted Y/N, surprised to see that she was awake. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Tired. But I’ll be alright.”

He seemed to relax from her answer.

Then he winced when he looked at Bruce. “They put the signal up.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

He was about to open his mouth to ask them to handle it, not wanting to leave Y/N alone now that she had woken up.

“Go, Bruce. I’ll be OK.” Y/N told him, reading his mind.

“I think it’s the Joker,” Dick added with a serious frown.

“Bruce, go.” Y/N repeated.

And he saw the sincerity in her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her gently, deciding he didn’t care if his two sons were witnesses to the intimacy.

Then Bruce kissed her forward. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Alfred will be here if you need anything. Do not hesitate to call.”

Y/N nodded.

Bruce stood up and acknowledged Damian and Dick. “Let’s go.”

Once they were ways down the hall, Bruce heard Damian stop.

“Father?”

Bruce and Dick both turned to face Damian.

“I wish to stay with Y/N.”

Bruce and Dick shared a look, and then Dick decided to give the two a moment alone and muttered something about waiting in the cave.

Bruce walked back to his youngest son.

Damian’s gaze was glued on the floor. “Mother truly would’ve killed her?”

Bruce sighed. “Most likely, yes.” He saw no point in lying to his son.

“Because she knows that you and I love her?”

“Yes.”

Damian was quiet for a moment. But Bruce knew he had more to say.

“I used to think I had to earn it.”

Bruce frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mother’s love. I had to earn it. Win in combat. Successfully execute a target. Outsmart a puzzle or challenge.” Damian looked up at his father with a broken expression. “Her love always came with a price.”

Bruce kneeled down to his son.

The boy shook his head. “But Y/N made me realize that I don’t have to earn anyone’s love. I don’t have to prove that I’m worthy of it.” He bit his lip. “She’s not my father or my brother. She didn’t have to love me. But she does…even when I did nothing to earn it.”

“Everyone is deserving of love, Damian.” Bruce gripped his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for not teaching you that myself.”

Damian nodded. “So, may I please stay with her tonight? I don’t want her to be alone.” But then he quickly corrected himself. “Unless of course, you require my assistance, father.”

Bruce smirked at him. “I think we will manage, Damian.” Then he squeezed his shoulder. “Look after her for me, alright?”

Damian relaxed and quickly nodded his head. “Of course, father.”

When Bruce returned hours later, Damian was cuddled next to Y/N in the bed. But clearly laying in a position to be mindful of her injuries. Both were fast asleep. The bright television was the only thing lighting the room, as it played a Pixar movie.

Bruce couldn’t help but grin at the sight.

“I got him,” Dick whispered to him before stepping into the room and carefully lifting the boy in his arms, clearing the space in the bed for Bruce to join Y/N.

Bruce moved about the room as he changed into cotton shorts and went without a shirt.

Y/N woke slightly as he joined her in bed.

“Everything OK?” She whispered sleepily.

“Everything’s fine. Did Damian keep you company?”

Y/N smiled and shifted her body so she was cuddle into him. “Yes…my little protector.”

Bruce smiled at that. “Don’t let him hear the ‘little’ part…”

She chuckled. “Good call.” 

And then she was fast asleep once again.

-----------------------

Please, please, please let me know what you think! 

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Dream SMP Recap (July 9/2021) - NotDream SMP

Ponk comes to Foolish with a special request.

Tommy and Tubbo work on Tommy’s house and a strange new visitor arrives on the server.

---

VOD LINKS:

Ponk

Foolish

Tommyinnit

---

- Ponk works on the Boom Station and places down signs with instructions along the corridor

- Foolish examines the damage Drista’s pig squad did in Kinoko Kingdom and repairs it

- Ponk calls Foolish as the evil version of himself. Ponk arrives there

- They walk and talk to the tree house, and Ponk breaks some news

Ponk: “You see...I am but a humble servant of this poor world, and you’re a god. Right? Loosely? Well, your godliness is pretty cool, you know? And me being a humble wanderer of this cruel world...it is not my place to take a king’s life, Foolish.”

...

Ponk: “How many kings do you know, Foolish? How many kings?”

Foolish: “I don’t know, is this a trick question?”

Ponk: “I’m pretty sure you know two, alright?”

Foolish: “Wait, who’s the second one?”

Ponk: “Eret and...Sam. You know Sam’s king of the creepers. He wears a crown on his head, do you know that? Apparently he is.”

...

Ponk: “But Foolish...if it comes, a time and a place, would you do that for me? Would you take Sam’s life, yes or no Foolish?”

Foolish: “Well, is there like a good reason for it?”

- Ponk says he’s said enough and goes back down, saying he can get other friends to do it

Foolish: “Is this for the arm? You wanna kill him for the arm? I thought you and Sam were like, best buddies.”

Ponk: “...Best buddies?! BUDDIES?! Are you mad? Are you mad?!”

Ponk: “Foolish, Foolish, if I ripped off your arm and killed you -- he killed me, Foolish! He killed me!”

Foolish: “Oh...did you have it coming?”

Ponk: “I DID NOT HAVE IT COMING, FOOLISH! I DIDN’T! You know what I did? You know what I did, Foolish? I -- it wasn’t even -- ugh, and he did that to prove a point! Now I’m doing this to prove a point, and apparently my point isn’t gonna be proven because you’re not a good friend, Foolish.”

Foolish: “Woah, well don’t you think that’s a lot to ask for? Hey, good friend, let’s go murder someone.”

Ponk: “Well, Foolish, look. You’re not murdering them. You are simply a tool in this revenge plot, Foolish, okay?”

Foolish: “So what would I be doing?”

Ponk: “You’ll have to press a button or swing a sword, Foolish. That is all.”

Foolish: “Press a button or swing a sword.”

- Foolish doesn’t think that sounds too hard. Ponk leads him to the barn

Ponk: “Look, Foolish. Everything will be laid out for you, okay? Everything. Alright? You’ll just have to be there. You’ll have to be there and be square, okay? You know who built this? Come this way, you know who built this?”

Foolish: “Alyssa?”

Ponk: “You know, Alyssa was a good friend of mine. She would have done this for me without asking any questions.”

- They’ve been through so much together, as Batman and Robin, as Holmes and Watson...so if Foolish wants the duo to carry on, he’ll have to help Ponk seek his revenge

- Ponk can’t swing a sword nowadays. She tells Foolish he doesn’t have to help her if she doesn’t want to, but at least he must witness it

Ponk: “We need a witness to prove to the world that this happened, okay? Someone has to write it down in history.”

Foolish: “Do you still -- another question. Do you still have plans for that one thing? On what you want to do with it?”

Ponk: “Foolish, Foolish, Foolish, you see...a good plan comes together, alright? And a good plan master never reveals his plan. It’s all about playing six-dimensional chess. I am ten seconds -- ten seconds ahead of everyone!”

- Ponk asks Foolish to take his helmet off, promising they won’t put a pumpkin on him. They ask Foolish to trust them with a TNT cannon

- They talk about building the tree

Ponk: “When the time comes, can I trust you?”

Foolish: “Mm...you think Sam deserves this?”

Ponk: “Yes. 100%.”

- Foolish says he needs time to think about it before he says yes. The two part ways and Ponk goes to cry in the forest. She’ll ask Niki next

Ponk: “Okay, Foolish...but you’re a god! You’ve killed many people, have you not? You’ve probably had human sacrifices in your lifetime!”

Foolish: “Well -- I -- uh -- I’m gonna go, I’m gonna go now, I’m gonna go now!”

- He leaves the call

- Tommy logs in and sees Puffy’s new house. He promptly tears it down

- Then he rebuilds his own house while talking to chat

- While building the roof, a spider comes over. Tommy is fond of it and names it Shroud. He asks Foolish for a nametag, then Ponk. Ponk is offended at Foolish from the Endermite incident

- Foolish brings over a nametag for Shroud and they get Shroud back to the house

- Tommy finishes the house. Ranboo logs on just to say “cum” and immediately leaves. Then Tubbo logs on and runs over

- Tommy shows Tubbo Shroud

- He decides to go plant some trees around. They head to Las Nevadas to get more and Tommy shows Tubbo how to not be rich. They discuss Mumbo Jumbo, as Tommy claims he is too British

- They return home and fix it up a bit

- Then they decide to destroy Karl’s house. They get rid of the first layer and leave a message saying they’ll get rid of the rest if Karl says he’s using it

- Tommy goes to gather more dirt. Ranboo logs on as the Pringles guy then logs off. They start arguing over Pringles cans

- Ranboo logs in as himself. Tommy and Tubbo start filling in the holes in Tommy’s basement

- They go to get more dirt

- NotDream123 logs on. Tommy and Tubbo go looking for him at Spawn, wondering who he is, but he isn’t there

- Quackity logs on and starts running around Las Nevadas. Foolish is confused

- Tommy and Tubbo bein to run back to the main area when they notice NotDream following after them

Tommy: what’s your name?

???: whats your name

Tommy: tommy?

Tommy: Big Man

???: mine is Tom

- Tommy gets mad and says that his name is Tom, and “Tom” replies that Tommy said his name is Tommy

- Tubbo wants to keep him as a trophy

- Tommy asks what Tom’s interests are. Tom asks what Tommy’s are, and Tommy says “girls,” “Britain” and “dogs”

Tom: Same

- Quackity logs off. Tom likes the Queen as well, and his catchphrase is “POG,” which Tommy is not pleased about

Tubbo: “You’ve got like a little mirror buddy!”

- Tom gets a Discord

Tommy: “He has a stache! I can’t grow a stache!”

Tubbo: “Oh, so maybe he’s the better version!”

Tommy: “No! No!”

Tubbo: “I honestly -- honestly, I can’t even tell you guys apart.”

- Foolish and Ranboo spy on them from afar. Tommy and Tubbo decide to keep Tom for themselves and build “L’Landburg” around Tom to claim him

- Tom joins their call on Discord (his username is “NotDream”). At Tommy’s request, Tubbo goes into the other room to hit Ranboo. Ranboo quits Tubbo’s game and Tubbo disconnects

- Tom knows Dream since Dream whitelisted him. They start walking back to the main area and Tommy asks questions about how Tom joined

- Tom has watched all of Tommy’s streams, even the very first where Tommy joined and got exiled to the snow biome. Tommy presses him on what the very first Hypixel game he played in the first stream was, and Tom says “Skywars,” which he claims is how they say “Bedwars” where he’s from

- Tom is apparently from “Bedskytown.” Tommy pulls Tubbo aside and Tubbo has the idea to put Tom in Tommy’s basement cell

- Tommy reminds Tubbo of the “Tomtract,” which states that Tubbo is only allowed to be friends with one Tom

- Tommy gets Tom and they start walking down the path. Tommy asks Tom if he has a girlfriend. Tom asks if Tommy has a girlfriend and Tommy says yes, so Tom says yes as well

- Tommy accuses Tom of just being Dream. Tommy asks him if he likes smoking. Tom asks if Tommy likes smoking. Tommy says yes and Tom says yes. Tommy then says he doens’t like smoking and Tom doesn’t like it either

Tommy: “What’s your favorite smell?”

Tom: “What’s your favorite smell?”

Tommy: “You first.”

Tom: “Women.”

- They get back to the house and Tommy shows Tom Shroud the spider. Tom breaks a glass block, then grabs an iron chestplate from the chest to wear. Tubbo worries about Tom getting more geared up, but Tommy insists that neither of them wear armor

- Tom puts on some diamond pants and Tommy asks Tubbo to hand him his armor to follow the rules of the Tomtract

- Tom goes into the back room and Tubbo says he’s escaping. Tom asks if he’s a hostage, then asks if Tommy likes Coke. Tommy says yes, so Tom hands him the picture of Coke

- Tommy threatens to fall out with Tubbo if he doesn’t follow the Tomtract, so Tubbo walks away. Tom whispers to Tommy to say something so Tommy shouts to come back, then walks out after into the rain to dramatically ask for the armor. Tubbo cannot argue with a statement like this, so he gives it

- Tommy puts the armor in the chest. Tubbo asks what Tom’s surname is, and Tom says “Simmons”

- Tom runs away while Tommy is explaining his school’s points system and Tubbo tries to chase after him, but Tommy says not to since they should make a good impression. Instead, the two return to filling in dirt

- Tommy turns around and abruptly comes face to face with Tom 

- Tommy asks Tom some more questions about why Dream added him and what his purpose is

Tom: “What’s your purpose?”

Tubbo: “To find happiness and eternal bliss.”

Tommy: “...To get bitches.”

- Tom’s purpose is the same. Tommy scolds him because one should not call women “bitches.” Tom agrees with that as well

- Tommy brainstorms fun opinions for Tom to agree with. He likes the Sidemen and thinks they make the best vlogs. He thinks KSI is the best YouTuber and everything he does is incredible. He thinks George is really ugly (Tom pauses, then leaves the game)

- Tom comes back, Tommy repeats it, and Tom pauses for a long time before saying he agrees. Dream would never say that, and Tom is not Dream

- Tom begs for food, so Tommy eventually gives him some after leaving for some time

- Tommy says that the Manhunts are faked and Tom agrees, but he would have to ask his friend Detective Dream. Tommy and Tubbo are confused at why there are so many and ask to speak with Detective Dream

- Tubbo suspects that Dream may be able to clone himself

- Detective Dream arrives and Tubbo wants to interrogate him. Tubbo changes to his inspector outfit and Tommy changes into his suit

- Detective Dream’s first name is “Detective” and his surname is “Dream.” His parents are Mom Dream and Dad Dream. Tubbo concludes the case and decides that Det. Dream is official

- Tubbo looks Det. Dream in the eyes and gets him to say that he is a real detective. If that is true, Tubbo says, Detective would have laser eyes. Detective uses his laser eyes while looking at Tubbo’s face and Tubbo’s eyes get messed up

- Detective gets killed by Tubbo’s dog

- Detective knows about Dream and he has inside info on him that he can’t share

- “Drinnit” is Tommy’s detective name. He has been working on this case for fifty years

- After some more detective talk, Detective leaves. Tubbo tells Tommy he plans to kill Tom, as there can only be one

- NotDream comes back, this time dressed in a duck onesie. He is “John” now, and Tommy does not approve of the onesie

- Connor logs on

- John has a confession: He is actually just Tom. In fact, Detective Dream was also Tom! Tom heard Tubbo say he was going to kill him, so he created John, as he thought that Tubbo wouldn’t be able to kill something so cute. Tubbo says he didn’t mean it

- Connor asks Foolish for help getting back home

- Tom traps Tubbo and Tommy in a box. He does not have Creative mode

- Tommy asks Tom if he is good or evil. Tom says he is good and changes out of the duck onesie

- Tommy asks Tom what he thinks of destroying Karl’s house, and Tom approves as a third party. They watch Tom take down the house

- Connor arrives back home and starts building across from Tommy’s house. They VC him and Connor asks where his house went. Tommy tells him it was for tax purposes

- Tom dies by magic after Tubbo shoots him in midair

- Tommy tells Connor he can’t build on his land. Tom, Connor, Tommy and Tubbo chat about subscriber comments

- Connor starts building his house in front of Tommy’s bench and Tommy doesn’t approve of it blocking his view and destroys it

- Tom asks for food again. The server might be going through a bit of a famine

- Tommy continues filling in the basement and decides to form a Not Funny Club with Tom. They start telling jokes about YouTube

- Tommy gets the idea to do some standup: Minecraft Comedian vs. 3 Hecklers

- Tom gets hungry and takes Tommy’s God Apple to eat, but Tubbo shoots and kills him before can. Tubbo says Tom still has one canon life left though

- They walk down to the theatre stage by the Community House. Tubbo evolves

- Tommy does comedy up on the stage while Connor, Tubbo and Tom heckle from the audience. All of Tommy’s jokes are just pickup lines

- Tommy gets booed off the stage and next up is Tom, who tries but quickly gives up

- Tubbo is up next. He starts reading out information about tax legislation. Tommy starts taking notes

- Then, it’s Connor’s turn. He tries to play off of the audience

- It’s always canonically Tuesday on the Dream SMP

- Connor gives up and Tubbo goes up to keep reading the tax information. Tommy goes up to make it a comedy duo 

- Tubbo starts selling his cryptocurrency known as “Piss and Shit, Screw the Children Coin”

- Tommy leaves to speak with Tom by the Community House. Tom says he’ll be back. Tom looks at the poster

Tom: “Look at this. ‘Bee does science’ ...This is groundbreaking!”

---

Upcoming events remain the same.

[kettlequills]

ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

Can we get Sooga (and maybe Kohga) babysitting lil Tulin????

GET READY TO SEE THE GAYS BECOME DILFS, BITCHES.

“We came as soon as we saw your message.”

“Yeah, it was urgent! Where’s the fire?”

Teba turned as he saw Sooga and Kohga dash on into his home. He nodded at them.

“Yeah. Sorry. Was gonna ask Mipha, but she’s with her boy toy. Figured I’d trust you two instead.”

Teba took a step to the side, showing his son, Tulin, who was currently sitting on the floor, writing in his journal. Kohga cocked his head to the side, before shrugging.

“What? You want me to tell him to beat it? He a freeloader or what?”

“No. I need you two to chicksit for me. I’m taking Saki out, and I need someone to watch Tulin.”

Saki walked in just in time, adjusting her feathers.

“Teba, are you ready dear?”

“I’m ready, so long as these two are. So, how about it you two?”

Kohga was about to say ‘fuck no’, when he saw that look in Sooga’s eyes. He WANTED to do this, because he was a moron. Ugh. He sighed, before nodding.

“Fine. You two go and have fun, we got the little guy.”

Saki clapped her hands together, before leaning down to kiss Tulin’s head.

“Be good for Kohga and Sooga, my little nugget.”

“But not TOO good, kiddo.”

Teba patted his head, and Saki chuckled at the sight. She turned to the two yigas.

“Now, Tulin is supposed to be in bed by nine. No playing with Kass’s girls, as they’re supposed to be in bed, and they get into all kinds of mischief. That’s about it! Have fun you three, stay safe!”

Teba held his arm out for his lady, who giggled as she accepted it. Once they left, Sooga turned to Kohga.

“You didn’t want to do this. Why did you say yes?”

“Because YOU wanted to. And don’t look at me like that, you idiot.”

“I love you so much.”

“Tell someone who cares, moron.”

“You guys are weird.”

They both turned to look at Tulin, who was looking at them oddly. Kohga motioned to him.

“So...the fuck do we do with his white lookin’ ass?”

“Stop swearing, for one. It’s not good that he gets a pottymouth so early on. Two, we should properly introduce ourselves.”

Sooga walked over to him, kneeling down as he held out his hand.

“It is nice to meet you, Tulin. My name is Sooga, and that’s Kohga. How are you?”

Tulin put his book down, in order to stand up, and shake his hand properly.

“Hello! And good day!”

“What manners! And a good day to you too, little one.”

“My dad said good kids make good greeters!”

“God that’s a weird saying.”

Kohga sighed as he walked over to Teba’s hammock, before jumping into it, and getting himself nice and comfy. So comfy, he fell right to sleep. Sooga softly sighed. He loved his husband, very, very much.

“So. We have three hours until your bedtime, what would you like to-oh. You’re practicing your penmanship?”

Sooga looked over to the notebook on the floor, and Tulin nodded.

“Yep! Kheel has really pretty handwriting, I want mine to look good too! I wanna surprise her!”

“Huh. Why, if I didn’t know little one, I’d say that’s rather romantic.”

Tulin’s blush shone through his feathers, and he shook his head.

“N-no. She’s my friend, that’s it.”

“Uh huh, I see, I see,”

Sooga sat down next to Tulin, looking at the notebook.

“Regardless, I’d love to give you feedback. My father practiced calligraphy, I think I have a proper position on the matter.”

Tulin handed him his notebook, and Sooga skimmed through the pages. He nodded in approval.

“This is very nice! Have you shown your father?”

“No, just mom.”

“Why is that?”

Tulin shrugged, reaching up to grab his book again.

“It’s just a mom thing. Flight range and arrows are for me and dad, writing is for me and mom.”

Sooga nodded. Such a sweet, talented little boy.

“You have a good bond with your mother, little one.”

“Dad calls her a ‘worrybeak’, but yeah, I love my mom. Are you close with yours?”

Sooga froze. For a moment, he recalled her. Recalled her hair, her eyes, her smile. Her tears, her screams, her pain. His father holding onto her hand, his father scolding him for choosing to leave, using his mother’s name like a curse. A curse that cut into his hide like a-

“Yoohoo? Mr.Sooga?”

He suddenly snapped back into reality as Tulin waved his wing in front of his face. He cleared his throat, shaking his head.

“We...were. But she is no longer here.”

“Oh. I’m super sorry. What about your dad?”

“My father...wanted me to leave the nest, so to speak. But it’s fine. I’m loved enough.”

Tulin followed his gaze to Kohga, who gave his ass a good scratch. Tulin snickered, and Sooga couldn’t resist a small chuckle as well. Tulin put his book away, In order to look at his blades. The little rito was clearly very interested.

“Did he give you those swords?”

“No. Master Kohga did. Have you ever wielded a weapon before?”

“A bow and arrow, but never something cool like swords!”

Sooga thought about it for a moment. This child DID seem rather mature, despite his small size. Not to mention bows were just awful for up close combat. Against his better judgement, he decided to give the little one a gift.

“Would you like a present, Tulin?”

“YES! Please!”

Oh the way his little eyes shone in excitement. He pulled out something from his back, and placed it right into Tulin’s awaiting wings. A Vicious Sickle. Tulin looked it over in his hands, clearly in awe. Sooga chuckled, lightly patting his little bird head.

“It’s a light, easy to use weapon, with enough practice. It’s a wonderful starter weapon, and it never hurts to have extra protection. You will soon be the man of the house, you must learn to defend what is yours.”

“Woah! SO cool!”

Tulin was so excited, he started waving the damn thing around like a madlad. Even someone as calm as Sooga felt slightly panicked; for the only thing more dangerous than a blade, was an inexperienced hand. He grabbed onto Tulin’s hand, barely keeping himself from being cut.

“It IS cool. But what’s cooler is knowing how to use it. Would you like to learn?”

“Yes!! Please teach me! Please please please!”

“Very well. I should hope to be a good teacher to an eager student.”

Sooga held onto his hand, showing him the proper way to hold it; tightly, with the blade angled for a downward motion.

“Okay, I think I got it. Like this?”

“Perfect. Now, it’s a limber weapon, so if you need to move it in your hand, feel free to do so. Just be careful, it’s very easy to cut yourself. Now, let’s try to get a feel for it, shall we?”

Sooga stood up, and brandished one of his swords. He gave Tulin a moment to get his stance ready, before he let Tulin come at him. Course, he was very easy to block, but the point was so Tulin could feel comfortable holding it.

“Good, good. Side to side motions, just as you are.”

“It’s...kinda heavy, my arms hurt.”

“Suppose for your size, it’s not as limber as it is intended to be. Do your arms really hurt, or can you keep trying?”

“I...can keep trying, I think.”

“Good, a true fighter keeps going. Swing at me again.”

He noticed Tulin had to use almost both his hands as he swung. Poor thing was struggling. Light as his weapons were, Tulin was small. Determined, but very tiny. Still, he did rather well, all things considered. He blocked another blow rather easily.

“You aren’t uncomfortable around weapons. Good.”

“It’s usually bows, but training with my dad is a LOT like this.”

“Good of your father, teaching you to be comfortable with such a vital tool.”

He was about to do a mock swing, just to see if Tulin could dodge, when he saw Tulin was already weary, panting and even sweating a little. For living in a peaceful village, and armed with a bow and arrow, this WAS a lot of practice, especially from someone who was essentially a stranger. Sooga put his weapon away, and knelt down to Tulin.

“Why don’t we take a break? A weapon is useless without a body.”

“Okay...can we eat? I’m hungry.”

Sooga nodded, letting Tulin take the weapon, and sneak it into his own hammock. Tulin helped him find the cooking pot, and in a moment, Sooga had a fire going, and a few ingredients to throw inside.

“So, what are we hungry for?”

“I dunno, what can you make?”

“I suppose I can make poultry curry.”

“Oh! Yes! Do that one!”

Sooga nodded. He had no issues cooking the rice, and the chicken appropriately, and as soon as it was done, he handed a bowl to Tulin. Tulin dug into it hungrily, before slowly ceasing his eating. Sooga cocked his head down as the child stared at the bowl.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like how it tastes. Super bland. I don’t wanna eat it.”

“God fucking dammit, Sooga, I can smell your shit cooking in my dreams.”

They both turned to look at Kohga, who had just woken up. He got out of the hammock, and walked over to the pot, taking the soup ladle to help himself to a taste. He then used it to smack Sooga on the back of his head.

“You. Cannot cook. I’d rather eat wet sand, at least THAT has salt.”

“I thought I was cooking it right-”

“Yeah right to hell. Fuck shit, move. What even is this?”

“Poultry curry.”

Kohga looked at him as if he had just gone insane.

“You’re...feeding chicken...to a baby chicken. That’s fucked up, Sooga.”

He was about to bitch at him some more, when Tulin nudged the bowl against Sooga. Kohga turned to look at him, and the little one was whimpering.

“Please fix it, I’m really hungry.”

“For the love of- fine. But only because I hate it when Sooga cooks.”

And Kohga did not disappoint. Not only did he fix Sooga’s awful poultry curry, he made the tastiest, sweetest egg pudding Tulin had ever tasted. The little one had two helpings of each, burping as soon as he was done. Kohga chuckled as he saw just how content the little guy was.

“Look at you, hungry fella. You need anything else, kid?”

“Uh huh. Can I please have some warm milk?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll make it just how my mom made mine.”

Tulin peered over as Kohga not only poured milk onto the pot, but cane sugar, courser bee honey, and even ground up some Chickaloo Tree Nuts. It made for a sweet, fragrant drink that Tulin accepted gleefully. He took one sip, and started kicking his little legs around wildly.

“This is SOOO good! This is WAY better than when mom makes it! Your mom is super cool!”

“She really was, she really was. Glad you like it, kiddo. Your turn, Sooga.”

Sooga didn’t LOVE sweets, but who was he to refuse such a treat from his Master? He accepted his own cup, took a sip, and found himself recalling...the good times. The times where he stood with his mother as they sipped tea, the times where she would get rid of his dirty, wet clothes, in order to get him warm and dry again. There was...only good in this drink, honestly. Sooga nodded, trying not to dwell so much on what was.

“I agree with Tulin. This is excellent. I’m surprised I’m just now trying it.”

“Eh, I only make it if I really need to go to bed. I usually make them with banana cookies-”

“Can you make those next time, please?!”

Tulin was practically giddy at the notion of more treats, and Kohga found it amusing. He patted Tulin’s head, nodding.

“Sure. Next time I’ll bring some over, just for you kid.”

“You’re SO cool!”

“I mean, I know that, but thank you.”

Kohga chuckled. He helped himself to his own drink, sighing in content. A nice, cold night, warmed by a nice fire, and some warm drinks. What more could one want? Sooga chuckled to himself, realizing he had downed nearly half of his cup. No wonder he was feeling so calm, so still.

“Thank you. I don’t think I’d know how to handle a hungry child who didn’t like my food.”

“That's why I’M the cook between us. Your food is so bland. I had half a mind to-”

He went silent, and Sooga saw why. Tulin had finished his drink, and had passed out, right into Kohga’s lap. Kohga struggled, clearly not knowing how to handle this, before groaning, and just patting the bird’s back, lulling him further into sleep. Sooga sat there for a moment, watching them. Kohga didn’t want children, but...they did like him. Found enough comfort in him to fall asleep on him, to cherish the plentiful meals he made them. Sooga even turned to look at his face, and caught him smiling oh so fondly at the little bird. Kohga seemed to catch his grin, and huffed.

“Hell you looking at?”

“I’m just. Seeing how wonderful you are with Tulin...and it really, really makes me realize; you’d make a wonderful, wonderful parent. You act so standoffish, but you...truly love taking care of children and-”

“God don’t you start that shit with me, Sooga.”

“I’m just saying! Family life might be for you! How do you know, you’ve never tried it!”

“Shut the hell up, you absolute fucking idiot.”

Sooga stopped for a moment as Kohga leaned into him, still keeping his hand on Tulin. Sooga looked down at these two, and was confident, more than ever, that he wanted a family. This feeling, that he was feeling right now, was something he desperately, terribly wanted. He wrapped his arm around Kohga, letting the dancing fire illuminate his features. He kissed the top of his head, softly sighing.

“I...love you. I love you so terribly much.”

------------------------------

“Sooga! Kohga! We’re ba-oh!”

Saki immediately silenced herself as she saw the little cuddle train that was happening here. Teba walked in behind her, chuckling at the sight. He nodded towards Sooga, who was too busy protecting them to sleep.

“Teba, Saki. How was your date?”

“Oh it was lovely, we went out to eat and everything. Quite sweet, honestly. Here, let me put him into bed, I’d hate for him to get a cramp, laying on the floor like that.”

Sooga, despite how it hurt his heart, let Saki take Tulin, and put him into his own little bed. Suppose that was his cue. He got up, carrying a sleeping Kohga in his arms. Teba nodded at him.

“Thanks for watching him. Hope he wasn’t too much for you two.”

“Not at all. You have a very wonderful, and very honest boy. You should be proud.”

“I am, I am, honestly. Especially if he made an impression on you.”

“I...hope this isn’t too much, but may we stay? I just, really wanted to-”

“What is this?”

They both turned to look at Saki, who was holding the vicious sickle in her hand. Teba winced, before shaking his head.

“yeah...I think staying is a really bad idea.”

Sooga looked at Saki, and shrugged.

“In my defense, he was excited to receive a present.”

So Sooga and Kohga weren’t ready to be dads.

Just yet, anyway.

[ladyseara]

Infinity is just the beginning (1/?)

Fandom: Sk8 the Infinity

Rating: Mature

Tags: Nano Kojiro / Kaoru Sakurayashiki, Kaoru Sakurayashiki / Shindo Ainosuke (one-sided), Langa Hasegawa / Reki Kyan, Alpha / Beta / Omega Dynamics, Fantasy AU no one asked for, Miya Chinen is Joe’s son and I mean it, Miya Chinen is an illegitimate child, Forced marriage, Political marriage, Elf!Cherry, Demon!Joe, Elf!Adam, Carla is half-human / half-Elf.

Words: 2141

Kaoru Sakurayashiki knew his value and his place as an Omega Prince. He might have been born as a High Prince, descendant of the great Sakurayashiki House, which rules the Sun Elvish Kingdom, but at the end of the day, beside his lineage, he was still an Omega, a child who cannot ascend the throne. Of course, for his whole life he was treated with the respect and care he deserved, being prepared to become a suitable First Prince, until his brother, Langa, was born. The small Alpha has quickly taken his place in the line, but Kaoru was not angry with that. He loved his brother deeply, maybe even more than he loved his parents.

The High Prince, after his baby brother was born, got the freedom he never knew before. He was growing up, throwing himself into his studies. He was spoken to be the wisest of the family, more intelligent even than his grandfather, who was believed to be the greatest king in the history of the Elvish Kingdom. Many thought that if only he wouldn’t have been born as an Omega, he could have achieved even more. Kaoru was not only brilliant, he was brave and he was a visionary. He was not afraid of combining magic with technology, creating weapons and useful tools.

If he would had been born as at least Beta, he could have lead the army. But Kaoru was not concerned about that too.

The reason behind that was the Moon Elvish Kingdom’s Prince, Shindo Ainosuke. They met when they were both six years old. Firstly too shy to talk to each other, soon they realized they share a lot. Their parents were friends, so Kaoru and Shindo spend a lot of time together growing up. At some point, Kaoru was charmed by a young Alpha. They even shared a messy, a bit tipsy kiss in the garden, during some party. At that time Kaoru knew that one day he will marry this man. The Union between Sun Elves and Moon Elves, an alliance against the Demon Empire. Shindo, the Alpha, would lead their army to the victory on the battlefield, and he, Kaoru, would lead the rest of the country as his Consort. The mere thought of them, living such a bright future, was enough to send shivers down his spine.

One can only imagine Kaoru’s confidence, when at the day of his 19thbirthday, he was summoned by his father to his study. Omega Prince already knew the news: he will get married soon, in less than a month, in order to seal the alliance. He was more than ready to leave his title as a Sun Prince behind and become the Consort of the Moon King. Kaoru could only imagine new opportunities, lying in front of him. He was dreaming big.

“My King”, he said, greeting his father with a little bow. “You have requested my presence.”

“Yes, Kaoru. Sit down please.”

Kaoru sat in front of his father desk. He enjoyed the atmosphere of the King’s study. The room could be a little dusty, but it smelled of pine trees and lemon. One of the servants put a cup of tea in front of him and left quietly. “I think you are aware of the topic we need to rise today, Kaoru.”, his father looked a bit tired. His hair has turned white few years ago, but they used to be the same color as Langa’s.

“Yes, father.”, Kaoru said respectfully. “I know my duty as a Prince. I will marry the King.”, he said with a little smile on his lips. Of course he would marry The Moon King. Shindo was his friend, and now he will become his husband and lover…

“I am pleased to hear that, my son. I must admit that I was worried at the beginning. You were not raised like other Omegas and I was expecting you to rebel against my decision.”

“My King, I could never. The Union of two Elvish kingdoms will bring peace-”

“Kaoru, wait,” his father interrupted him. “I think you got the wrong idea, my child. You are not going to marry King Ainosuke.”

His world fell apart. Kaoru opened his mouth a bit, like a fish out of water, unable to breathe. He must be dreaming some nightmare. It could not have been real. Marrying Shindo Ainosuke was his destiny. There were friends, they would make such a good couple… It could not get worse.

“The Moon King was not interested in your hand,” his father explained. “Moreover, I think our Langa should marry Ainosuke’s younger brother. You, my child, you will marry The Demon King.”

Oh. So it could be worse.

“What-.. Father, please. Think about it again,” Kaoru said, pale and shocked.

“You have told me you know your duty, Kaoru. Your marriage will ensure the peace between us and The Demon Empire.”

Kaoru was thinking fast. He had to do something in order to stop this madness. There had to be a way for him to avoid being wedded to the barbarian Demon King. He needed to contact Shindo quickly. If The Moon King will hear about this, he would definitely change his mind and marry Kaoru, the Omega was sure about that. Ainosuke would never let Kaoru be taken away to The Demon Empire, moreover, to be married off to the brutal Alpha. He had a month, a whole month to cancel this insane plan and came up with a better one…

“Our guests will be here tomorrow, Kaoru,” his father said, as if he knew what was going through his son’s head. “Both The Demon King and The Moon King. We are going to sing a pact and then you will marry Nanjo Kojiro, The Demon King, and our Langa will be engaged to Prince Reki.”

“What?”, Kaoru could felt his lips moving on their own. “Aino.. The Moon King knew about that?”

“Of course he knew, Kaoru. It was his plan after all.”

“Master, are you alright?”

Carla’s quiet, emotionless voice brought him back to reality. Kaoru did not sleep that night. He was betrayed by the whole world. All his plans, dreams, ideas… All was destroyed in one moment. Both his family and his friend sold him to The Demon King. He was a tool, a bribe to The Demon Empire. Of course, he understood the reasons behind that. Langa, an Alpha, had to marry and Omega, so Prince Reki was a perfect candidate. And there was not a need to unite two countries with two marriages, so the spot for Kaoru’s husband was left open. Selling him off to the Demons were the best idea. Even if he dies, not matter how and when, Demons will be shackled with the pact. Moreover, if he dies after he gives birth to the Demon King’s heir, the child will link two counties even harder.

“Master? You look…”

“Terrible, I know”, Kaoru replied, looking at himself in the mirror. He was dressed in furisode, white with cherry blossoms embroidered at the bottom of the sleeves. His pink hair was carefully combed and Carla put a cherry blossom hair pin into it. She also put a little make up on his face, to cover dark circles under his eyes.

“Worried. You are worried, my Lord,” the girl said. She learned about the future of her master and decided to go to the Demon Empire with him. Kaoru saved her few years back and it was her duty to protect him. “And I am no surprised.”

Kaoru looked at her in the mirror. Carla’s skin was darker than his, she had black hair and purple eyes. She was half-human, half-elvish. Many would despise her, but Kaoru found her pretty, smart and loyal. He could not imagine his life without her anymore.

“Thank you, Carla. I think we should get going. Our… guests… will be here soon.”

“I overheard the guards, Master. The Moon King and his people are already in the Capital. The Demons were spotted near the border, they will be here in less than an hour.”

Less than an hour and he will meet his future husband. Less than a twelve hours and he will be married to The Demon King. Less than a day and he will be mated to the barbarian King. In less than two days, he will leave the Sun Elvish Kingdom ans travel up north, to The Demon Empire. He would be lucky if he dies in the meantime.

Kaoru was scared. When he was thinking about being wedded to the Shindo, he was a bit nervous, but sure that their intercourse would be gentle, sweet even. He was dreaming about The Moon King caressing his body, worshiping it before they connect with each other. Kaoru was dreaming about children, with blue or pink hair, running around and making their lives even more meaningful. Now he was scared that The Demon King will force him every night to sleep with him, force his body into his until Kaoru will give him an heir. He will simply fuck him, like a whore.

“Master, you are…”

“It’s fine, Carla. I’m ready.”, the Omega Prince said, wiping a tear from his cheek. He was an Omega Prince, who knows his duty. His life and his body do not matter, if he could buy a peaceful life for his people with it.

Kaoru stood at the top of the stairs, when Demons arrived. He was holding his head high, forcing a little smile on his lips. He will never show his fears and anxiety to those, who were around him. For them he was a definition of the perfection, and Kaoru was more than ready to uphold his reputation. He could be falling apart on the inside, but on the outside he will never show.

Of course, the first person he spotted, was The Demon King himself. Riding the biggest horse Kaoru has ever seen in his life, the Alpha was dressed all in black. He had green hair, which makes him look like a giant tree. When The Demon King came closer, Kaoru saw small horns at the top of his head, partly hidden inside of his hair. The Alpha was smiling lightly, with such confidence, that it made Kaoru annoyed.

The Omega Prince was not small, but when the Alpha dismounted the horse, Kaoru straightened up. It did not help much; he still was smaller than the Alpha and the top of his head reached slightly above the place the heart should be, if The Demon King had one.

“I shall welcome you, my guests,” Kaoru’s father took a step towards the Demons. Elves and Demons have not met since the last war. Kaoru knew his father and The Demon King must have exchanged letters, but this… This was a milestone in their history.

“King Sakurayashiki,” The Demon King smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

When the Demon moved his hand, Kaoru was sure he is going to stab the Elvish King. But instead they simply shook their hands as a greeting. Then the Demon welcomed The Moon King the same way. He exchanged few words with the nobles, at the end finally standing before him. “I hope,” the Demon King smiled to Kaoru’s father, “That his is your precious son.”

“You got it right, Lord Nanjo. This is my older son, Kaoru. The one who is betrothed to you.”

Kaoru felt a lump in his throat. He was glad he hadn’t listened to Carla and haven’t eaten anything, because at that moment he felt nausea. What a great beginning it would be, if he throw up on his fiancee feet.

The Alpha was big. Bigger than any man Kaoru knew. His shoulder were large and Omega was sure that The Demon King could kill anybody with his bare hands. For what reason he had a sword, attached to his belt, if he clearly does not need it? Moreover, he smelled like a danger. A mixed scent of sweat and sandalwood.

“You wasn’t making this up,” the Demon King said, “When you wrote me he is beautiful.”

Kaoru felt anger, boiling inside him. Does the Demon Lord think that he is deaf? He was talking with his father about him, without actually speaking directly to the Omega! Disrespectful ogre, Kaoru thought, but bit his tongue.

“Good afternoon, my dear Prince”, the Demon King finally spoke to him. “Forgive me my surprise, but you are breathtaking.”

Kaoru used his fan to cover half of his face, forcing a small smile. You were fine breathing and talking nonce just a second ago, you brainless gorilla, he thought.

“Welcome to the Sun Elvish Kingdom, my Lord.”

I hope you will die during this trip, Kaoru added in his mind.

[miminiac]

Korrasami had build up, just maybe not one you identified with and that’s okay...

I am tired of the LGBTQ+ community hating on Legend of Korra (LoK) for not being gay enough. The critique that there wasn’t enough build up is (1) not productive at all and (2) honestly, not true. There was build up. It may not be the build up every LGBTQ+ person will like, and it may not relate to the experience of every person’s coming out, but it was there. Korrasami was something the creators had tossed around as soon as Book 1 (not that they necessarily had permission to do anything about it). Take this quote from Bryan Konietzko’s tumblr post after the finale aired:

As we wrote Book 1, before the audience had ever laid eyes on Korra and Asami, it was an idea I would kick around the writers’ room. At first we didn’t give it much weight, not because we think same-sex relationships are a joke, but because we never assumed it was something we would ever get away with depicting on an animated show for a kids network in this day and age, or at least in 2010. (link)

The post also discusses how Makorra was never meant to be endgame after Book 1. Again, the time LoK was airing was at a point where states were passing laws to actively prevent gay marriage (LoK ended in 2014, legalization of same-sex marriage by supreme court ruling wasn’t until 2015––context is important). Did they actively write a romance in Books 1 and 2, no they did not. However, as many creators and writers, they let the characters lead them and they discovered that Korra and Asami were more than just friends. Again, taken from the same post:

The more Korra and Asami’s relationship progressed, the more the idea of a romance between them organically blossomed for us

So what we have with Korra and Asami is not a planned romantic relationship from the very beginning, however, the characters have been leading them there since the beginning, whether they realized it or not. Now, I am a big fan of Barthes’ “Death of the Author”, so I 100% percent think that viewers/readers have the ability to inject their own narratives and that multiple narratives can coexist. However, the point of this post is to explain why a critique of “wish they did more” is not productive when it comes to discussion of LoK of a piece of LGBTQ+ media representation. Therefore, I turn to the creators to show that there was intent and there was subtext and build up within Book 3 and 4 (as Bryan discusses in his post, please read in full when you have time).

A lot of Korrasami was hidden in subtext, and that happened because of homophobia within the industry, which still exists today. Content creators of LGBTQ+ media continue to have to walk a fine line. Take Noelle Stevenson talking about Catradora:

My big fear was that I would show my hand too early and get told very definitively that I was not allowed to do this

And like with Catradora (though a little easier since Noelle told viewers that every character is a part of the LGBTQ+ community by default unless explicitly stated otherwise), people saw Korrasami from as early as Book 2 (if not Book 1 on a rewatch).

At the time LoK started airing, I still thought I was straight; I still thought I was straight when I was watching the third season and telling my then boyfriend how Korra and Asami were going to be a couple by the end (literally, when they interacted in the first episode of season 3 while Asami taught Korra how to drive, I turned to him and said it; he said they would never do that and it was a pipe dream). I continued to see Korrasami’s friendship build into something romantic (even if the characters themselves were unaware of it).  

Come Season 3 Episode 9, where Asami carries away a helpless Korra, mimicking Katara having carried away a helpless Aang. For those who had watched the original series and were big Korrasami shippers, this scene basically made it canon. It could be argued as the point that maybe the friendship switched to something more romantic. The rest of season 3 and all of season 4 only added moments between these two (side note: I came out as bisexual soon after season 4 started airing, though I had been questioning my sexuality probably since the end of season 3).

Now is the Korrasami relationship perfect, absolutely not. Bryke admits as much, but it was a significant step forward. Again, this happened in 2014, so a lot of narrative within media of states passing laws to discriminate against same-sex couples and deny marriage. The hand-holding scene everyone screams about not being enough. Well, they received plenty of homophobic backlash from that.

The critique that they didn’t do enough is not productive. It is a critique that could be said about most main-stream LGBTQ+ media. I get that we are tired of scraps; I get that we are tired of having to read between the lines because creators are still afraid to come out and say it (pun intended). However, to critique LoK as “not being gay enough” ignores the context in which it was created and what that representation meant to many of the viewers (like myself) who were discovering themselves and their sexuality at the time.

Avatar: the Last Airbender (ATLA) was made for 8-13 year olds (from season 1), and I would argue that LoK was made for that same group of people, who would have then been 14-19 years old when LoK first aired. Thus, LoK was being watched by those entering high school and college––a time of self-discovery.

Additionally, a critique that LoK doesn’t do enough leads to an idea that there is “a right way” to create a LGBTQ+ relationship, which I would argue is harmful to the community at large. If you did not identify with Korra’s coming out, that’s completely valid. If you did not identify with the way the Korrasami relationship progressed, that is also valid. But you cannot invalidate the relationship of Korrasami, as a relationship built off a friendship and mutual respect that blossomed by into something more. The relationship was not sexualized with wistful glances and blatant sexual tension, instead, it was built on a friendship and respect for boundaries.

Again, multiple narratives can be drawn given each viewer has a unique set of experiences. One such reading could show that Asami was more in tune with her feelings for Korra than Korra was about her feelings for Asami. And, instead of flirting non-stop with Korra, Asami respects Korra’s space (though we all saw her check out Korra’s back muscles) and recognizes that Korra has a lot on her plate being the avatar, a relationship is not something on the forefront of her mind. It is only after defeating Kuvira (and the healing/growth from a few episodes prior in "Beyond the Wilds”) that Korra is able to truly understand her feelings to Asami, suggesting they take a trip together––just the two of them.

Now, you may not identify with that type of coming out, but other people do. And to argue that “LoK didn’t make Korrasami explicit enough” undermines the experiences of those in the LGBTQ+ who heavily identified with Korra’s experiences and her coming out.

Holding LGBTQ+ media to this higher standard is inherently toxic. I would like to believe that these creators are coming from a good place with good intentions. There is nothing toxic or abusive in the way Korrasami is portrayed. There is nothing unrealistic about the way their relationship progressed throughout the series. It was not a fan service––it was the natural progression of the characters.

And let’s not forget that Korrasami is not only confirming a relationship between two women, but it is also two women of color. Now, it may not seem like a huge deal within the contexts of the Avatar World, but it is important to remember the context of where this show was airing.

There are things we can critique LoK on. It isn’t perfect. We can discuss the hiring of white voice actors (as a way to hold new media that is being created or will be created accountable, not as a way to just hate on LoK); we can discuss the voices within the writers room and the lack of diversity there. These are critiques that can be made of ATLA and LoK and countless of other media produced. This is a valid critique when used constructively. It is not meant to tear down an entire piece of media and everything that it has done for various communities, but rather to point to a flaw within the way media is being produced and the racist, sexist, and homophobic systems in place that determine what and how media is produced.

If we are to critique, we could look to reimagining how we create and consume media, not tearing down media that has already been produced and stands in a pivotal spot of the community. As Audre Lorde says:

For the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house.

If we are continually operating within the systems of oppression, we will never truly be able to dismantle them. Thus, to operate within the institutions of Nickelodeon, Netflix, Disney, etc. is to be beholden to the rules and constraints of a moderate, heteronormative, sexist, racist society. If creators stray too far from that line too quickly, there will be backlash. The perfect LGBTQ+ representation cannot exist while made within these institutions.

I would like to mention this statement is not to say that we cannot critique or boycott movies or shows that are performative in their diversity. There is no excuse for Hollywood after the successes of Black Panther (2018) and Crazy Rich Asians (2018) (and others) to not fill the crew and writers with the same representation being shown on the screen. We can, and should, hold production companies accountable––and given the internet, it is something we can do even early on in the production process.

I have gotten a little off track, but my point is, think about your critiques. Really ask yourself if it is a productive critique, or if it is critique that actually harms or is toxic to the community. Critiques are hard, I understand that. When we first start to think critically, it is easy to just jump on these “low hanging fruit” type critiques. It takes practice and comfortability learning and expanding your world view to construct a critique that looks at context from various point of views and experiences.

[five-rivers]

In the House of Hours

Based on a prompt by @currentlylurking! Well, two prompts, technically.  You know how it goes.

.

.

.

In the House of Hours

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In the first hour, he was introduced to his masters. They had made him. He existed by their grace. He was to obey them, always.

They showed him his tasks, his tools, his home.

He was never to leave, except to solve a paradox. He was never to interfere with the timeline, except by their orders, or to prevent it from crumbling. He was to guard the prison below.

The staff could become a scythe. The mirrors could see through time. The medallions on the shelf, medallions that they wore, under their robes (he could tell, thought he didn't know how), exempted others from his ability to manipulate time, and allowed them passage through the mirrors.

His home was a tower, full of ticking.

They did not answer his questions. They did not tell him his name. They left before the hour was out.

He didn't like his masters very much.

.

In the second hour, he discovered trying to stop his body from changing made him sick.

.

In the third hour, he found a mirror that was just a mirror, and discovered his reflection. He examined himself. Clockwork insides, looping ghostly tail, blue skin, red eyes, a face that kept flicking through ages, always older or younger than when he had last looked. He liked his clothing. It was purple. The words that came to him, he knew, but he did not know where they came from. He didn't know he knew them until they passed his mind.

Everything was new. He was new.

He had a scar over one of his eyes.

Why did something as new as him have a scar?

.

In the fourth hour, he discovered that trying to look back at his own timeline made him sick.

.

In the fifth hour, he found the library. He read the dictionaries and encyclopedias, then moved on to the other books. He greedily kept all the words to himself. He knew things, now. More than his masters told him.

He couldn't help but notice, there were no stories in his library, and there were large empty spots on his shelves, free even of the lightest coating of dust. His encyclopedias had mentioned stories.

He wondered where they were.

.

In the sixth hour, he felt himself pulled to his mirrors. There was a paradox. A knot in reality.

This was his first task. What he had been made for. The thrill that went through him was immense, indescribable.

He worked the knot apart with gloved hands, his tail lashing back and forth. He knew how best to unwind the strings of time, what tools to use, how long each step should take.

It was so odd, to have been created with that knowledge, but it all felt so right. Like he had done it a thousand times before.

When he was done, he sank to the floor of the mirror room, drained. He almost wanted another paradox to happen, even though that would be bad for the timeline.

A dreamy smile came to his lips as he shifted from old to young. The timeline. It was his job to keep it safe. To keep it healthy. He already loved it, sitting here. It was more than worth enduring masters who didn't even give him a name.

Didn't even give him their names, come to think of it.

.

In the seventh hour, there was a knock on the door. He drifted towards it, curious. His masters had left through that door. Had they come back? Perhaps they had forgotten something.

Such as his name.

He played with the door handles, unsure if he should open them. His masters had said not to leave. Opening the doors didn't count, did it?

He pulled on the handles, frowned, and then pushed.

His masters weren't there. Instead, a small... boy. Yes, a boy. A small boy floated there. A ghost. His white hair was in disarray, and tears streaked his face. He held a thick, glowing book to his chest.

"Clockwork?" the child asked, his voice wavering.

"What about it?" he asked, endeavoring to be polite despite his confusion. Strange though this child may have been, he was still the first person he had met other than his masters. He was curious.

Perhaps the child was asking about- "My appearance? Or the tower?"

The child's lips wavered. His eyes went shiny, the green light in them glinting off tears gathering at their lower lids. Then his small round face crumpled, and he burst into tears, whole body trembling.

This was evidently the wrong thing to say.

He froze, uncertain how to handle this. Futures lay before him, but he couldn't interpret them. There were too many.

There had been no books on how to handle children, ghost or otherwise, in his library, a horrific oversight if he was expected to deal with this kind of a situation on his first day of existence. He made a note to correct that on his first opportunity.

He almost reached out, some deep instinct reacting to the child's distress, but stopped, remembering the admonition not to leave without permission.

"Would you like to come in?" he asked instead. His first guest. It could be worse.

At the invitation, the child practically flung himself at him, and clung to him with one arm, the other still wrapped around the book, sobbing.

"Clockwork," he said, "I'm so, so sorry."

"Ah," was the only response he could come up with. He attempted to gently pry the child off. He had no idea how much force children could endure without breaking. In fact, he wasn't sure how much force an adult ghost could endure without breaking. Or, perhaps more to the point, how much force he could apply. It hadn't come up yet.

"Clockwork is-" said the child, speaking into his robe and doubtless getting all kinds of slime on it. "Clockwork is your name. The Observants didn't tell you?"

"Who?" The name was rather fitting. A bit childish, perhaps, but fitting. He was made of clockwork, after all.

The child shuddered and looked up, eyes burning. "They didn't tell you?"

"Other than my makers, you are the first being I have met," he said. "I do not know what 'they' you are referring to. Furthermore, I do not know who you are, and cannot imagine how you know me, as I have not existed for fewer than seven hours."

"That's not true," insisted the child, voice wavering but somehow also furious. "That's a lie."

He was growing somewhat annoyed, now. Who was this child, to barge into his home, cry on him, and then call him a liar?

Before he could begin to take the child to task, he thrust out the book he was holding, pushing it into his chest so that it rubbed against the clock case in it. Reflexively, he took it.

"This," said the child. "This has everything you need to know. At least," the child wilted. "That's what you said before." He choked back a sob. "This is all my fault, and I hope- I hope you'll forgive me, when you're done reading it. I- I should go." He backed away, then turned and fled, zooming into the distance.

Clockwork watched him go. He seemed rather fast for such a small ghost.

.

In the eighth hour, he read the book.

He read the book.

He read the book.

He read the book.

He read the book.

He read the book.

,,,

Daniel has been pestering me about my history, lately. He seems to be under the impression that I am concealing some sort of tale of adventure that he wants to 'unlock.' That I did 'daring deeds' in my 'youth.' I have attempted to explain to Daniel that I never had a youth, but he is, as ever, impervious to reason.

,,,

I have resorted to telling Daniel that knowledge of my past is dangerous. However, as I could not reveal the nature of the danger without triggering it, Daniel did not believe me, and only became more determined to find out my 'dark and tragic backstory.' My backstory, as it were, is neither dark nor tragic, and, in any case, is none of his business.

I told him this.

We have had something of a falling out. I can only hope that this is not the end of our relationship. My sight is often inaccurate when it comes to Daniel.

,,,

Daniel has relented. Perhaps I should not be so surprised. Like any ghost, he can grab on to an idea and refuse to release it, but he has always been attentive to the needs of others. It is one of his most admirable qualities.

But all this talk of history has given me the urge to refresh my memories. I shall visit the old books tomorrow.

,,,

Daniel knows.

Curse my carelessness and his curiosity, but he knows. I should not have left this book exposed on my desk when he is known to visit at all hours.

He has sworn not to tell. I can only hope it will be enough. But it was not enough for those who came before me, and none of us have ever known why.

,,,

They know.

Daniel and his friends have devised a rather clever plan on my behalf, one that I would not have considered on my own. Perhaps I am too resigned to my fate, too eager to submit, the weight of those who have come before me and failed pressing down on my shoulders. Perhaps I should have hope.

,,,

It didn't work. Rather, it did, in all particulars but the one I failed to foresee. They have taken Daniel. They will kill him, if I do not come.

,,,

Daniel, I have put this book where you might find it, so that you will bring it to the version of the Master of Time that comes after me. Consider it a final request on my part.

Be reassured that this is inevitable. I have, after all, never escaped being reset to my initial state once the Observants have set their mind on it. I do not blame you. I could never blame you. Over our acquaintance, I have come to value you as my closest friend. Even, as a son.

I cannot say the same for my 'blank' version. I did not react well to this revelation in the past, although, presumably, you will get this book to him in a period of time shorter than a hundred years. Still, I advise you not to linger.

With all the love an automaton such as myself can express, I wish you well, Daniel.

-Clockwork, Master of Time

,,,

Clockwork tilted his head back and screamed, because he knew exactly what had been taken from him and why.

He read the book again.

.

In the ninth hour, he looked for the other books, the books his... former self had mentioned, the ones he had learned from. He practically tore the tower (Long Now. The tower had a name. Long Now.) to shreds in his need.

They weren't there.

He went to his mirrors, looking for them through time. They were hidden in far away places. Out of the tower, out of his reach.

Unless he broke the rules.

.

In the tenth hour, he broke the rules. He gathered up the books and more. He found a letter, on fresh, white paper.

,,,

To my later self,

Now that you have read the records of our past incarnations, you have perhaps noticed a disturbing trend. When another learns of my history, I am wiped clean, made into a blank slate. But the one who learned vanishes entirely, without fail, no more than a week after my memories are removed.

I know what this means for Daniel. You do, too.

Whatever animosity you bear him, I beg you, do not let them destroy him.

-Clockwork, Master of Time

.

In the eleventh hour, he searched for the boy, Daniel, through the time windows. He did not experience the animosity his former self seemed to expect, but neither did he feel the obvious affection he had had for the young ghost.

This frustrated him. No, it angered him. It infuriated him.

How dare his 'masters' steal his history and then pretend to have made him? How dare they steal his connections, his relationships to others, his name?

He remembered fewer than eleven hours, and he had been so lonely. He hadn't even realized it until he read the books. He was still lonely.

The mirrors seemed to stare at him, like the eyes of his masters, mocking him for being unable to find his past self's child.

There.

.

As the twelfth hour struck, he reached through the mirror, and pulled the child into his arms.

The child struggled, at first, understandably. Clockwork hadn't given him any warning, and he had been in a rather brutal fight. Twenty against one was not a fair fight by any stretch of the imagination, and, while Clockwork's knowledge concerning children was limited, he had absorbed the fact that children were generally weaker than their adult counterparts and also that the general sentiment was that children should be protected.

As soon as Daniel noticed that it was Clockwork holding him, he went limp, large green eyes blinking up at him, as though dazed. Perhaps, he truly was dazed. He was injured in a number of locations, the most apparent being a thickly weeping gash over his left eye.

"Clockwork?" he asked, voice thin.

Clockwork felt faintly ill. The boy's opponents had been his masters. They would know what Clockwork had done. They would be coming. Would they make him forget, again?

"Clockwork?" repeated the boy, shaking his arm. "Are you okay?"

Clockwork stopped time.

No one had asked him that, before. His masters certainly hadn't, when they had woken him.

He shuddered, holding the child close, and made a decision. This child had belonged to his previous self, as far as he understood such things. As he was, in most ways, the same entity as his previous self, or at least his heir, that meant this child belonged to him.

His child.

No, he would not let his masters take Daniel. He would not let them destroy him, the only thing he could truly say was his.

But his masters could move through time, just as he could. They would be here soon, to take and punish. The loss of these last several hours would not be great, compared to the others he had suffered. He would find the books again, eventually. But the loss of Daniel?

That was untenable. Daniel had to be preserved.

He opened the door that led to the prison nestled in the roots of Long Now, and flew straight down the stairwell, eschewing the stairs. There were monsters kept down here. Horrors frozen in time, turned into vapor, and sealed in the foot-deep, hands-breadth-wide honeycomb cells in the walls, never to be released. Things that were simply wrong. Their crimes were listed on neat little cards outside their individual cells.

Core buzzing, Clockwork pressed Daniel's hand to the mouth of an empty cell, activating it. As the temporally-frozen child was absorbed, the opening automatically sealed itself.

There. Safe.

With trembling hands, Clockwork filled out a card with an explanation of Daniel's crime. Defying the High Council of Observants. If the patterns in his old journals held true, he would eventually grow to despise the Observants. Even if it took a year, ten years, a hundred, a thousand, one day he would question his 'makers.' One day he would become curious enough to open a prison labeled like this.

He wrote something entirely different on the back of the card before he affixed it to the front of Daniel's prison.

.

In the thirteenth hour, the Observants came, carrying Clockwork's key.

As they pushed it into the hole in his back, they told him how they always knew when someone discovered his weakness. Eventually, inevitably, that person would try to steal it, and the Observants kept a very close eye on the future of the key to prevent such an event.

Two months from now, Daniel would have tried to steal the key.

He would have given it to him.

They couldn't have that.

Like always, Clockwork forgot.

.

In the first hour, he was introduced to his masters. They had made him. He existed by their grace. He was to obey them, always.

They showed him his tasks, his tools, his home.

He was never to leave, except to solve a paradox. He was never to interfere with the timeline, except by their orders, or to prevent it from crumbling. He was to guard the prison below.

The staff could become a scythe. The mirrors could see through time. The medallions on the shelf, medallions that they wore, under their robes (he could tell, thought he didn't know how), exempted others from his ability to manipulate time, and allowed them passage through the mirrors.

His home was a tower, full of ticking.

They did not answer his questions. They did not tell him his name. They left before the hour was out.

He didn't like his masters very much.

.

In the nine hundred and two thousand, two hundred and ninety ninth hour, Clockwork ached. He had ached for a long time, though for what, he did not know. The ache echoed in the hollow spaces inside his chest, and sometimes he wondered if the ache was, in fact, a longing. A yearning. He had seen it in others.

But what would a creature like him long for?

He had a home, a purpose, time for leisure, all the luxuries he could dream up. Shouldn't that be enough?

Well. Freedom would be nice. Not having to obey the Observants, carry out their version of the timeline... that would be good. There were just so many better versions of future history, so many more elegant solutions to problems. Wars he could have stopped. Happy endings he could have facilitated.

Wouldn't it be better, to maximize happiness in the timeline? Or at least to maximize freedom of choice?

He thought about all the tragedies he could have avoided simply by solving a paradox or world-ending disaster in a different way than the Observants had insisted on.

Sometimes, he hated the Observants.

.

In the nine hundred and two thousand, eight hundred and seventy first hour, he idly looked through the Infinite Realms with one of his viewing mirrors. He had time, he always had time, and he was bored.

The Infinite Realms were, by their nature, infinite, with infinite variety. Even Clockwork had not seen, and could never see, all of them. There were an uncountable number of wonders out among the ectoplasmic mists.

But Clockwork was feeling melancholy, so he was looking at more mundane sights, closer to home, flying the perspective of the mirror across flying islands and through caves, pretending he was the one making the flight.

He spiraled through a cave and- Wait a moment. He pulled the perspective back. There was a neat little library tucked into the corner of the cave. He zoomed in, curious, then he startled, so hard his chest clock missed a tick. That was a hard thing to do. He was over a hundred years old.

The books had his symbol on them.

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand and twelfth hour, he finally gathered up the courage to break the rules, leave Long Now, and go look at the books. In all this time, he had never set foot outside his tower.

The journey was exhilarating. Partially because of how swiftly he was going. He didn't foresee the Observants visiting, but he couldn't always see them clearly. But as for the rest...

There was just something different about doing this in person, in feeling the ectoplasm on his face, in being able to turn his head and see, well, not everything, but it felt like more than he could see through his mirrors.

He found the cave quickly enough, as well he should. He had used his mirrors to map out the very route he had taken dozens, if not hundreds, of times before actually taking the dive and going. Or, now that he was here, should he say coming?

He was almost giddy.

Some of that faded when he laid eyes on the books again. Why would there be books out here with his symbol on them? It felt ominous.

He read the books.

He read the books.

He read them again...

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, seven hundred and seventh hour, Clockwork went down to the prison. After reading the most recent of the journals, and then, of course, recording his own and adding it to the collection, he had decided to oppose the Observants.

True, he didn't dare do so openly. He didn't want to be erased, but he had some leeway to make things more difficult for them. He could make some of those decisions, those alterations to the timeline, that they had warned him off of. Perhaps he could even, at first, pretend that they were mistakes.

But, first things first. If he was going to defy the Observants, it would be useful to speak to someone who had done so before, and so successfully that the Observants felt the need to imprison them here.

He wondered, what would they be like? A warrior, perhaps? A politician? A scholar?

Would they even want to help him? He understood that so much time spent in the honeycomb prisons could be... difficult.

Or would they be evil? Would they fight him? In his time, he had imprisoned more than one utterly foul villain down below.

Rarely did he wish so fervently to be able to look at his own personal timeline.

But he had to take the risk. If he understood that last journal correctly, the Observants had destroyed his son. His surrogate son, to be sure, but still. For ghosts, that was good enough. At least, Clockwork could find no sign of Daniel in the time after his 'reset.'

He'd never had a chance to fulfill his immediate predecessor's final request.

Clockwork imagined what it would be like, to have a child. To have family. He had seen humans and ghosts with such things, such people. They weren't always happy, but Clockwork couldn't help but wonder if having one would have filled the constant ache inside him.

But there was no more time for musing on what could have been. He was in front of the prison, looking down at the label that said, Defying the High Council of Observants.

He reached out and deactivated the seal.

Vapor poured out, and slowly, sluggishly, began to form into a ghost. A rather small, slender ghost. Its- His head barely came up to Clockwork's shoulders.

This child had defied the Observants?

Almost as soon as the last bit of vapor condensed, the ghost collapsed. Clockwork caught him before he hit the floor, and he squirmed in his arms, twisting to latch onto Clockwork's robes. He made small mumbling noises, too confused and slurred to count as speech.

Behind him, the label card fluttered to the floor, and, for the first time, Clockwork noticed that there was writing on the other side. He summoned it to him with a touch of telekinesis.

The reverse side of the card read Daniel, son of Clockwork.

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, seven hundred and eighth hour, Clockwork carried the smaller ghost up the stairs. He, Daniel, was obviously in a bit of shock after being in the cell for so long. Not having a body, among the other effects of the prison, could remove a ghost's sense of time and self, and wear away at things like motor control and the ability to speak.

At least, that's what his past selves had recounted. He had never had the opportunity or reason to release a prisoner before.

He tried to put the little ghost down, but Daniel was insistent on staying attached, burying his head in the crook of Clockwork's neck. Finally, however, he dozed off and became human. Which was something he did.

Well. When he woke up, he could tell Clockwork how he had found himself in Long Now's prison.

.

As of the nine hundred and three thousand, seven hundred and sixtieth hour, Daniel had yet to do anything of the sort.

What he did do was look up at Clockwork with large, trusting eyes, cuddle, eat, sleep, and make soft, indistinct almost-speech noises. It filled the aching emptiness inside Clockwork, but also made him worried. Had the time in the prison broken Daniel in some way?

But how could Clockwork fix him?

The best Clockwork could do was provide for Daniel's needs and hold him, letting his core hum him to sleep.

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, seven hundred and ninety fifth hour, Clockwork became convinced Daniel was shrinking. Becoming softer, slightly more rounded.

Younger?

He was right.

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, eight hundred and tenth hour, Clockwork stopped dithering and made plans to take him to a doctor.

Daniel had had interactions with the Far Frozen before. Positive interactions. For that matter, they still worshiped him. Literally. Even if they did think he had been ended.

Better, they had Daniel's old medical files. If anyone could tell what was wrong, they could.

He bundled Daniel up in heavy, insulating clothing, unsure how his human body would handle the cold, and wrapped him in his cloak. Danny giggled and mumbled the whole time and, as soon as Clockwork finished, promptly fell asleep.

Clockwork, rather daringly, chose to travel to the Far Frozen via mirror. It was faster, that way.

Rather than first registering the cold, Clockwork was struck by how brilliantly, blindingly white the Far Frozen was. The view through the mirror hadn't done it justice.

Nor had it done justice to how large the yetis were. Or the size of their warriors' spears.

"Who are you?" demanded one of them, while others scurried around. "Why have come here?"

"It is my understanding that your tribe prides itself on its medical knowledge," said Clockwork.

"You're here for treatment?" asked the yeti, warily.

"Not for myself," said Clockwork, revealing Daniel's bundled form.

The yeti gasped. "Great One!"

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, eight hundred and eleventh hour, Clockwork learned about jealousy. He had never truly been jealous before, but now... Now he could say with certainty that he was, and he hated it.

He hated more that Daniel was favoring Frostbite with that trusting, open look of his. He hated that Frostbite remembered Daniel, and he, Clockwork, only had written recollections.

Daniel was his, not Frostbite's.

But he forced himself to watch the examination and Daniel's interactions with the other ghost dispassionately. This was about finding out what was wrong with Daniel and healing him, not Clockwork's petty and, frankly, shameful feelings.

Frostbite gave Daniel a lollipop and tucked a thick blanket around his shoulders before walking over to Clockwork.

"Do you know what happened to him?" asked Frostbite.

"Not precisely," said Clockwork. "I found him in a vapor prison."

Frostbite grumbled, almost growled, deep in his chest. "That would explain certain things. To be trapped without a body for so long..." Frostbite shook his head. "His currently state is something of a defense mechanism. To protect his mind, both the human and ghostly sides of it, he turned off everything but base instincts. Some of it has started to recover, but certain aspects of it are being rewritten, as he adapts to his new situation."

"Rewritten?" asked Clockwork, hiding his anxiety. If Daniel could not remember, Clockwork could not ask him what had happened. If Daniel did not remember, he would be cursed in the same way as Clockwork. "Why? For what reason?"

Frostbite fixed Clockwork with a yellow stare. "He has bonded with you," said Frostbite. "Accepted you as a parent. He is instinctively altering himself to better fit that role. Some of those alterations are disrupting or recycling dormant structures in his core, which in turn affects his human brain."

"Ah," said Clockwork. "Is there any way to," he made a small, abortive gesture, "let him be himself again? Wake up those structures, those memories? Before more are destroyed."

"Yes," said Frostbite. "But it may be kinder to let him forget."

"What do you mean?" asked Clockwork, irritated. He knew what forgetting was like. It wasn't kind.

"He has been gone for a long time," said Frostbite. "His human family and friends..." he sighed. "Humans do not live that long, and he was very attached to them. They will be dead by now, and I have not heard of them becoming ghosts."

Clockwork worried at his gloves. Yes, that matched with what he had read in his predecessor's journal. He had taken a look at the fates of the residents of Amity Park after Daniel's disappearance. They had not been universally pleasant. The city itself had been abandoned shortly after, except for attempts to close the Fenton Portal and prevent ghosts from escaping into nearby areas.

"It should be his decision, whether to remember or forget," said Clockwork. "He needs all the relevant information, and all his wits. Should he wish to forget afterwards, I will take him to the Lethe." He wasn't being selfish with this. He wouldn't even ask Daniel about his former self before asking after his decision.

Frostbite nodded. "Let's get to it, then."

.

Daniel woke again in the nine hundred and three thousand, eight hundred and twenty second hour.

Clockwork had been working himself into a sort of numb panic when it happened, worrying about whether or not the the Observants would try to visit him in Long Now and find him gone, worrying about when Daniel would wake, worrying about what Daniel would know, and how to break the news that his family was dead to him.

But seeing Daniel's eyes fluttering open eased some of those worries.

"Clockwork?" he mumbled, reaching for the edge of Clockwork's cloak.

"I am here, Daniel," said Clockwork, taking his hand.

"What happened?" asked Daniel, his words slurring slightly.

"I am afraid I do not remember," said Clockwork.

Daniel's features twisted in distress. "They made you forget again?" he asked, the last word a whine. "That's not fair."

"What do you remember, Daniel?"

"I remember- I remember you pulling me away from the Observants," he said. "Through the mirror, I mean. They were going to kill me, they said. Because I knew about your key, and I was going to try to steal it, they said." He shuddered. "I was losing. They really were going to do it."

"I pulled you through?"

"Mhm," said Daniel. "I was surprised, because I thought you'd be mad at me, after I gave you the book. The journal, I mean. Because you forgot everything, and it was my fault." Daniel's eyes glittered with water.

"I don't blame you," said Clockwork. "You got the book to me?"

"Yeah," said Daniel.

This suggested that there was a short-lived version of himself between the author of the last journal and his own first memory. One who hadn't a chance to write a record of himself, one who had saved Daniel from the Observants, and sealed him into the honeycomb prison.

"And after that?"

"Mm. After that... It was like being in the Fenton Thermos, I guess? It was all fuzzy. Fuzzier. And the inside was different, I think. I don't know. I couldn't get out. And then I was with you? But it was like a dream."

"You were with me," said Clockwork.

"Oh, that's good," said Daniel. "Was I in the thermos? Is that how you hid me from the Observants?"

"You were in a similar object," said Clockwork. "Daniel, I must warn you, because the Observants removed my memory of hiding you, you were in it for quite some time."

"Days?" asked Daniel, eyebrows knitting in concern. "I guess I'll have to come up with a really good excuse for Mom and Dad. Unless you can send me back through time? Or maybe not, if the Observants are still looking for me."

"It was significantly longer than that," said Clockwork.

"Weeks?"

Clockwork shook his head. Daniel struggled to prop himself in a sitting position on the bed.

"Months?" he whispered.

"Daniel, it has been over one hundred and three years."

The boy gasped and fell back. Clockwork could hear the steady rhythm of his heart and core jumble momentarily."

"One hundred and three?" he asked, voice almost inaudible, even to Clockwork. "They're all dead, aren't they? Everyone I knew."

"With the exception of Plasmius, I am afraid so."

"Of course that fruitloop would survive. I-" Daniel choked back a sob.

Clockwork, uncertainly, patted Daniel's shoulder. Daniel rolled over onto Clockwork's arm and cried into it. "Can you send me back?" he asked. "Please?"

"The Observants would find you," said Clockwork, "and you aren't from that time anymore. You would have to wear a time medallion constantly."

"I could phase it into myself," said Daniel, pulling himself up Clockwork's arm. "That's what Dan did. I won't become Dan, will I?" Daniel's eyes were wide and wild. "You have to send me back. I don't want to become Dan."

"You won't," soothed Clockwork, pulling Daniel into his lap. He only knew of Dan through the journal. He couldn't see a ghost like that in any future. He began to rub circles into Daniel's back, just above his core. "Don't worry, I'll make sure of it." He tried to send out comforting pulses with his core. He had read extensively on the subject of ghost children since he had found Daniel, but that didn't mean he had any experience, or confidence, with them as of yet.

"Will you send me back?" asked Daniel, weakly.

"I can't," said Clockwork. "But if you want, I can help you forget. There is a river-"

"I don't want to forget," said Daniel.

That was that.

.

In the nine hundred and three thousand, eight hundred and fifty eighth hour, they went home.

Before they left, Frostbite stopped Clockwork. "The Great One will keep changing," he said.

"I thought you fixed that," said Clockwork, watching as the small boy raised his hands to the sky to catch snowflakes.

"There was nothing to fix," said Frostbite. "The changes are natural. A child's ability to adapt is beneficial. The only issue was that they were blindly destroying inactive parts of himself." He paused. "He may come to forget his past, naturally. He may experience further changes to his appearance, personality, or powers. Take care of him."

"I intend to," said Clockwork.

.

In the nine hundred and fifteen thousand, two hundred and third hour, Daniel finally stabilized.

In either form, he looked about ten, slender, gentle, and quiet. His eyes were, perhaps, a touch larger than a human would find natural, and his canines came to sharp, sweet points. He wore robes like Clockwork's, now, purple as a human, and silver and black as a ghost.

He told jokes frequently, but quietly, and could hide so well that even Clockwork couldn't find him, even when looking through time. When Clockwork worked on paradoxes, he stood by the table and watched, quietly, always knowing which tool to hand Clockwork, often before Clockwork even realized he would need it. He loved to read the astronomy books in the library. He loved training his many powers with Clockwork.

He was different from the Daniel the journal had described and yet, somehow, exactly the same.

Clockwork loved him so much. If the Observants ever found out about him-

But they didn't. Daniel hid every time the Observants even came close to Long Now. And that was fine.

.

In the nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, eight hundred and first hour, someone else found out about the key.

The Observants saw this.

.

In the one millionth hour, the Observants came for Clockwork, bearing his key.

They did not see Daniel, lying in wait for them.

Very soon they did not see anything at all.

(After all, Daniel had once defeated Pariah Dark in single combat.)

.

Clockwork picked his key up from the ground and walked to Daniel, putting an arm around his small, trembling shoulders.

"I'm sorry about making a mess," said Daniel, prodding a slowly-melting glob of ecotplasm with one bare foot.

"Don't worry," said Clockwork, turning the key over in his fingers, marveling at what it felt like to finally be free. "We'll clean it up in no time at all."

.

.

.

This was supposed to end either with Clockwork's memory getting wiped again, or with new Clockwork finding Danny, but my brain wouldn't let me stop. I'm sorry. Hope my gimmick here didn't bother anyone too much.

[onyourzeus]

• the answer | psj

ykcyj ➝ arskyh

title: the answer pairing: park sungjin (of day6) & you genre: FLUFF, non-idol!au words: 2.7k

author’s note: requested by this anon for a pregnant s/o headcanon with sungjin. 

truthfully, this prompt is very new to me and at first, i thought i wouldn’t be able to write something. but i think i tried? i hope it is still enjoyable! (i have been binging sungjin compilation vids recently... i am in deep)

any requests? check my pinned post if i’m accepting any at the moment, thanks!

sungjin is the most animated husband to a pregnant partner you’ve ever seen

and you have a handful of your friends who have gone through the “journey”

way before you did, so seeing the way their significant others react 

to the baby bumps and sudden emotional breakdowns during double dates 

it’s quite a show, really. they’re either so stunned, so careful due to their partner being more “fragile” than normal 

and others who look calm and collected, seeming to have read every book on pregnancy and child bearing they can get from the local library 

and of course, their partner admires the dedication and earnest reactions they all have towards this new beginning for the both of them: a life, growing inside their belly. how exciting

(and terrifying. absolutely terrifying)

so when you finally used one (that turned out to be five, just to be sure) pregnancy test you kept hidden in one of the bathroom cabinets

the rush of emotions start falling out: disbelief, pure bubbling joy, adrenaline rush of excitement, and then a few heavy pounds of anxiety

“baby you’re taking too long in the…” you hear sungjin’s concerned voice coming closer to you, and it trails off when the two of you meet eyes for the first time that night

that you realize you’re pregnant

“how many did you take?” is his first question, tone void of anything that you’re suddenly scared he didn’t want this yet 

“five,” you reply quietly, sitting on the edge of the bathtub while holding onto the tests strips

“should you take one more just in case?” he asks again, eyes wide and mouth hanging way too open for your liking

whining to him you say, “we might as well go to my doctor to make sure at this point because i think five is overkill already.”

a pregnant pause

you’re getting just a tiny bit annoyed at sungjin’s non-response at this point. he just looks like a fish out of water, and if you just didn’t find out you’re pregnant and are currently registering your own emotions, you’d have slapped him silly right there

but that’s just how sungjin reacts, especially with how important this all is to the trajectory of your shared life

“come here,” he tells you, arms spread out. face still nonchalant, but you swear you heard a hint of joy in that tone

you give in, though, because it’s sungjin and he’s suddenly getting teary eyed and you don’t want him to wait any longer—

“what do you think?” you whisper against his ear, folding into his embrace as he tightens his grip around your waist. the doubts that filled your mind about him not wanting this for any reason disappeared right when his warmth embraced you

“i think you’re gonna be the best parent ever,” he says but the way he’s squeezing you so hard causes you to audibly squirm

he lets go in a flash, apologizing back and forth 

“sungjin it’s okay!!” you laugh, tears of joy welling up in your eyes because sungjin is already panicking about hurting the baby in some form due to him hugging you too much “i think the baby will be fine for now!!”

“let’s go,” he states, his hands holding onto yours and his eyes determined 

“to where?” you laugh incredulously. sungjin’s switching of emotions in two seconds flat is hilarious to you, but you humor him for a moment

“to the doctor, so we know you’re healthy and the baby is healthy and what else we need to prepare for so that you can—”

it’s 9pm

ok it’s time to shut him up now

kissing his lips softly, you rest your forehead against his and the two of you share the peaceful silence inside your bathroom, in your own house, where your family soon will bloom

“too soon, sungjin,” you remark, smiling as you feel him blush inches away from you

he nods briefly, taking his time to kiss both of your cheeks and you indulge in his genuine love and care

“i’m so happy to do this with you,” he says, “to build our family together” 

“i am too” 

“should we start planning on the nursery room?” and there he is again, back to going on overdrive it makes you the less crazy one

you calm him down and remind him that it was grocery shopping day tomorrow then you can set up the appointment for your gynecologist. it seems to bring sungjin’s excitement down

by the end of the day, all the scrambling emotions you had accumulated once learning about your pregnancy has dwindled down to the most important one you have: gratefulness for sungjin

so that was just the beginning, right 

in the following weeks that you have been confirmed to be pregnant yes, congratulations, a lot of things have changed in the household 

from your newly bought maternity clothes, to less hours spent at work, and the empty room in your house finally being given the opportunity to bring it to life 

it wasn’t only you doing the renovating, actually sungjin doesn’t want you near any tools or paint brushes at all 

he wants the baby safe as well as your physical body 

he is overreacting. you are only a month in

“you tell me the color of the walls, where the crib should be, and the paintings you want hung. i’ll do the work. deal?”

“no take backsies?” it sounds like a plan too good to be true

sungjin chuckles at your suspicion, but nods firmly

“fiiiine” 

there was definitely a change in atmosphere in your relationship, however. it suddenly became a bit more… intuitive? it boggles your mind because sungjin has always been the perfect husband for you since day 1

but each passing day, he’s becoming so much more careful, gentle, and all-knowing with you

for example the one morning that you just felt the urge to throw up everything you ate the day prior among other things

sungjin had already prepared the bathroom with extra paper towels, a glass of water to gargle with

and even brought awaiting breakfast in bed, just a few fruits maybe an oatmeal and brewed tea (just the way you like it)

he doesn’t take too much time in the bathroom when he showers (and sings loudly) before a gyne appt or just when the two of you were supposed to bond that night

this is kind of a given but grocery shopping is more of a competition than cooperation months before

who brings the most bags and gets to the car the fastest (without spilling anything) will not cook food that day 

now, sungjin doesn’t hesitate but almost force you to stand by the entrance of the place, and make you wait there until he finished putting the stuff in the car and drive where you were 

“i need exercise too, sungjin” you’d poke him on the side while on the drive home, and sungjin just half-smiles

those days he’d try and order take out instead because, well, sometimes he just doesn’t want to cook

and you’re prepared for this, at least he lets you continue your hobby of being the master chef in the kitchen

it’s a nice way to bond with the baby and your husband. as sungjin plays music in the living room through a speaker or by singing himself

you enjoy trying new healthy recipes

the baby bump is forming shape now, your clothes definitely give out a hint. it’s been a complicated ride of what to feel about it

excited, thrilled, of course, sungjin takes a moment in the morning to really look at you

and his child that you bear so beautifully, and with so much grace

the sun shines somewhat through the curtains, and sunjin wonders how you sleep so amazingly well 

his eyes never tire of tearing up with incoming thoughts of the next few months, years with you and your little boy or girl. he doesn’t even have an inch of doubt that you’re going to raise them well, and raise them kindly

on the other hand, as sungjin thumbs over your cheek, admiring your presence in front of him...

synchronized breathing

sungjin is afraid if he will not be enough for his child. there’s so many things that can go wrong in the first three years, let alone the moment they’ll come to this world

what if he gets cold feet? what if he cannot financially support the two of you anymore? what if you become disappointed at how he’s presenting himself as a good father? 

it pains sungjin to realize all of these what-ifs. with a few more minutes to spare before he has to go to another day at work, sungjin makes sure to feel the curve of your belly, and transfer over his warmth to you 

he closes his eyes, immersing himself with the beat of his heart, knowing that it’s for you and your family

if you’re lucky, you wake up to the whispers of sungjin about the many different things he loves about you, his forever partner, the future super parent of your child

resisting to open your eyes and see his embarrassed face is almost harder than not drinking coffee nowadays

but you get used to it, just barely seeing how shiny his eyes get, how relaxed his features become and how much love leaves his lips

saying your name, singing to the baby a little good morning jingle, telling you both

“i love you so much, more than you can know in this lifetime” 

and when sungjin is busy at work, half relegating tasks to his employees and the other burying down the anxiety about leaving you at home all day alone

you do your part to ease his worries, sending him cute texts throughout the day 

sometimes he even asks about the belly more than about you

“hows the baby?? can i see?? does it feel different today?? did you feel a kick? do you think it will be twins??”

(god you hope not)

“sungjin you are at work and i can hear your colleagues laughing at your excitement, quiet down!”

he’s so proud, so so proud of you. getting those texts and short calls from you while he’s away does more assurance than you think

he readied himself by asking his family members about parenting, asking his friends about their opinions, and reading so much online that he’d forget to do his share of the workload in the office

being 100% prepared is his mission, and he thinks you’re not taking it seriously. you say it comes with intuition for you because, well, you’re carrying the baby. but there’s one thing the both of you just cannot explain to each other which confuses sungjin all the more

your cravings

it was fairly normal in the beginning, maybe you wanted cheese on everything one day, and then you just had to add peanut butter on your garlic bread… okay, at least sungjin didn’t have to eat it with you

but the times that you didn’t have the ingredients you were specifically asking for, sungjin was at a loss for words

“sungjin…” you whine on the bed with him, sitting up as best as you can with the bump and pushing his shoulders so he gets up. he was lying down but had his back facing you, as he he had tried multiple times to convince you to go back to bed already

it wasn’t successful

“babe it’s too late to go out,” he’d murmur, hugging the pillow close to him as if to block out your voice. this offends you, a little over the top than normal, so you continue shaking him up

“but i neeeed it. the baby neeeeeeds it. you want the best for baby, right? anything baby wants, baby gets, right?” you say with a pout, although futile as he couldn’t see you

sungjin groans lightly, understanding that cravings aren’t even explainable on your end but there must be something in the house that can, well, emulate what your tastebuds desired— or, sorry, the baby

“we have leftover vanilla ice cream in the fridge, sweetheart, will that be okay for now? we’ll get the other flavor tomorrow morning,” sungjin calms you down, turning over to see your face soaked with fresh tears

this gets him to sit up, cuddle mode on, but you refuse

“baby, i’m sorry—”

“no i’m sorry sungjin, i just wanted to eat because i can’t sleep if i don’t but you’re upset and now i feel so lumpy and gross and—”

“hey hey no,” he scolds you softly, never liking the way he hears you call yourself such a word. his arms embrace your from behind, hands secured on your bump as he peppers you with tender kisses on the side of your face, kissing the tears away

“sungjin i don’t look cute right now,” you pout, somehow knowing what you’re saying is ridiculous to a point and irrational, but also the way you’re thinking isn’t logical right now

“that’s a lie,” sungjin tells you. “don’t ever believe that.” 

you find his hands caressing your bump, and intertwine them together. sungjin lets you breathe in and out for a minute, as he finds it the best way to help you out when emotions start to overwhelm you

no words, no distractions, just the feel of him and his security

“do you really want strawberry cheesecake ice cream right now, babe?” he finally asks as the tension from your body dissipates. you nod and crane your neck to the side just enough to meet his lips with yours

one kiss, two kisses

sungjin looks at you brightly, smiles and nods once

“okay, i’ll get it for you, you just stay here and rest. okay?” 

exhausted from the emotions but still hungry from your cravings, you follow his words. after, he tucks you back in bed, gives your bump a quick peck and goes out the door

“don’t forget the potato chips :c” you text him 5 mins later

“of course love, pickle-dill and strawberry ice cream ready for you soon ;)”

when he came back, he didn’t think to spend the next 20 minutes watching you put the potato chips as a sort of topping for your ice cream

suffice to say, it was a strange night that ended in laughs, you trying to get him to take a bite (which you succeeded), reminiscing on old times, and falling asleep with him fitting right by your side perfectly

it were these moments that you feel more and more in love with sungjin because he doesn’t just care for you

he cares with all of his being, and you make sure he knows how much he’s appreciated with the little things he does, and the big things he shows off to you

the nursery room gets done earlier than expected, and surprisingly enough sungjin let you paint a patch or two of the wall. you spend time off decorating the whole place with pictures of the two of you way back then, pictures of your child’s (favorite) uncles, paintings you have finished that embodied the love you have for your future family, everything that reminded you of home with sungjin

“you think our baby will like it?” sungjin asks you right after hes finished with the last picture frame. it was empty, undecorated, but hung right next to the crib. 

“absolutely, appa made it with love.”

“and sweat”

and he holds you right there, the fresh scent of furniture and a new beginning amidst the air

he holds you and your blossoming family in his careful, gentle hands. and you whisk yourself away in the moment and how perfect it was, how grateful you are to live this through with sungjin

a slight kick reverberates within your bump, and sungjin glances at you immediately

another bump, and the two of you slowly form the widest grins

“i guess you got your answer, sungjin.”

his answer has already been in front of him

[akimmito]

Heroes are made by the path they choose

First | Prev | AO3 | Next

Master List

Chapter 18

Marinette was waiting for the moment when the Gotham vigilantes would show up, they ended up making the decision after she and Felix had a little chat with Silent Hill, she even spoke to John to ask what he knew about the two of them (of course, they had already met Robin, but their meeting was under other circumstances). John was very clear about his opinions, so she was able to have a better point of view when deciding.

They, sadly, would be the first to be recruited knowing the entire team. Unlike other members, they were recruited by two or three incumbents of the miraculous. The Aurore case, which was recommended by Chloe, Marc and Nathaniel; Silent Hill was recruited by her, Felix, and Max; Not in Hell was brought into the organization by Marc and Nathaniel (with approval from Alix and Luka). The others were led by other circumstances, such as John (who was led by her alone), Adrien (who only retired from the team due to circumstances that were out of his control), Jean (Chloe's butler ended up involved after it was done difficult to explain strange behaviors, becoming a great ally), Kim (he was initially recruited to be part of the team, but ended up only an affiliate) and Gina (how could she not realize that her granddaughter was the one who made contact with her? Maybe he couldn't discover her as Ladybug by magic, but there was nothing of the kind involved here anymore. It was easy).

So yes, Nightwing and Robin will be their first victims. The only one who completely opposed the idea was Damian, but she couldn't get any information out of him. Until minutes before meeting them.

"My father is Batman."

Marinette stayed still in those moments, but her son kept moving forward. She saw him draw one of his swords, but she was still processing his words. However, she slides it down and makes sure she doesn't forget to talk to him later. She can't go crazy in those moments.

Damian doesn't know who possessed him to say it in those moments, his mother had been asking the night before when they were alone, but he refused to say a word. And minutes, seconds, before meeting his brothers, it was not the right time. Well, the damage is done.

"You're not welcome." He's not feeling satisfaction in threatening his brothers, not at all, it's simply to maintain an image and let them know that they will not accept his games. It's just that.

Afterward, he just kept watching, watching the interaction, focusing his attention on Nightwing, who keeps his gaze fixed on his mother. He frowns, it doesn't matter if it's inside or outside the mask, Richard Grayson keeps looking at his mother; doesn't like. But his mother wouldn't notice him, would she?

No she wouldn't. She doesn't even give him a glance, she's more focused on Robin, so no, and his mother wouldn't notice Grayson. Even so, he must mark territory, he doesn't want one of his brothers as a father, although them is better than his father. No, he cannot submit to such thoughts, the man who marries his mother must be worthy of it.

When they go through the portal, the little glamor placed on him fades and he heads to the common room, where the others must be.

Marinette watches him leave, curious about her son's visible bad mood.

"Make yourself comfortable." She smiles kindly, in stark contrast to the intimidating image she was giving earlier.

"Suzaku…" She directs her gaze towards Robin, she finds it amusing that the youngest is the one who takes the reins because the responsible adult seems too lost watching her. Oh yeah, she realized, it's not subtle at all.

"Yes?"

"You mentioned that they already knew about us, how did they find out?"

"We have a contact." She doesn't remove her smile and proceeds to settle in front of Nightwing, her place would normally be at the head of the table, but she finds the attention he's giving her endearing. Oh well, what will their expression be when they see who is under the mask? It's not that she knows who they are, but she could guess, however, she will not be wandering in those directions.

“So you have a network of contacts?” Robin seems very excited by the information and seems to want to know more, much more. His curiosity is well received, especially since there is no malice, at least she cannot perceive it. "How do you open those portals? Is it related to heroes?"

"Quiet. All those questions will be clear at the meeting… so Nightwing, you didn't say anything, did a bird tear your tongue out?" This time, her smile changes to a cheekier one. John taught her to smile like that, it's a fun flirting game they have.

"I'm giving myself time to process everything, you really caught us off guard. We wanted to talk to one or two of you, I wasn't expecting us to have a meeting scheduled. ”He smiles humorously, he doesn't lie, sure, but it's not the whole reason.

"Oh, understandable. Although I could swear that the cause of your distraction was me. "Marinette is having fun, the years when she could barely talk to someone she liked, even a little, are long gone and buried, now it's much easier.

He doesn't respond to what was said because they see the others enter, being surprised to see several of them without a mask. Tim quickly recognizes Chloe Bourgeois, how not to do it, she is a MP and they have seen her several times in the news, she has very good press on her part. They also see Felix Graham of Vanily, Dick remembers him from that red carpet that Stephanie insisted on seeing months ago, in addition to the photos that Tim showed her from the newspapers of when Gabriel Agreste was arrested. The others, they don't recognize at all, although there are a couple of faces that they are sure they should recognize.

"Nice to meet you" Luka takes the initiative to say hello, sitting next to Marinette and taking his partner by the hand to take a seat next to him, Damian immediately claims the seat on the other side of his mother, refusing to take off his mask, even though everyone has put it aside.

"The pleasure is ours." Dick is the one who responds, more alert for the presence of everyone else.

"Do you have any specific questions or do you prefer to wait for us to finish explaining?" Felix asks, settling in next to Damian, the center of the table will always be where Marinette is sitting, so he will always be close to her. The Great Guardian is the main focus in any gathering, even if others don't know her importance.

"Just one." Tim responds, driven by his curiosity because he suddenly has these people who take care of his identity coming to use magic for that purpose, showing his face to them too easily. "Why are you showing us your identities?"

"We'll get to that, Robin. We'll start by introducing ourselves. ”Marinette smiles more kindly, taking a more professional approach now that everyone is settled in and the meeting has begun. Only Max is missing, but they know that he is busier with something more important. "It's hard not to recognize myself, people pay more attention to me than I'm comfortable receiving. Everyone knows me as Marie Lenoir, but my friends know my name is Marinette. ”She takes off her mask and Dick chokes on his own breath. Tim is very surprised, but doesn't show it. "He's my son, Damian.”The boy just frowns in his direction and thinks long and hard before lowering his mask.

Dick doesn't know how to feel about the Damian thing, he's a boy, a boy who surely has a lot of training or she wouldn't let him run around, right? In addition, he carries two swords with him, these being his main weapons, from what he could see of his suit, in addition to some other tools that he surely keeps in the thick belt that looks like cloth, the boy is covered in green, black and gray tones; He has even pulled his hood down revealing his tousled dark hair, very different from when he was seen at country house.

"Felix Graham of Vanily, although if you did a little research on the situation from seven years ago, you know who I am."

"Chloe Bourgeois, impossible not to know about me. I go out unnecessarily on television..."

"And I thought you loved the attention, Chloe." Nathaniel scoffs and she in response shakes her head the other way, hitting him lightly with her hair, drawing a little laugh from Alix at their childish fights that never change. "Nathaniel Kurtzberg, I'm not well known.”He shrugs, but smiles at the two guards. "And he's Marc Anciel.”

Marc just greets them with a little shyness, althoug he keeps moving forward and has made great progress by himself, plus he got his own confidence gain in his work and that's something about it that he will always be safe, no matter how uncomfortable he's in social situations.

"Alix Kudbel." She's simple with her presentation, doesn't see the need to focus too much on assuming something they might or might not know about them.

"Kagami Tsurugi, he's my boyfriend, Luka Couffaine." Simple and clear, Kagami wants to move fast to make the rules of the game clear. Having more allies was always a plan that was discussed when the MT started, but it's still a matter that puts everyone on edge. "Ideally, you should show your identities, the information that we will share with you is not something that is said to any random stranger. Mari-hime doesn't trust just anyone and her instincts are rarely wrong, but we need a guarantee."

Can the people they choose be trusted?

------

It's a Nara: We already made contact with Nightwing and Robin

Silent Hill: Oh perfect

Kiss my ass: So everything ready for the reunion on the weekend?

It’s aNara: Yes, hopefully, they will join too

Not in Hell: It will be entertaining

Kiss my ass: Of course it will! It will be so chaotic

It’s a Nara: I hope not, we will deal with serious matters

Oscar de la Rosa: I already booked the tickets for my trip to London

Divine gift: Everything perfectly calculated, excellent, Jean

Oscar de la Rosa: We must ensure that nothing gets out of control

Silent Hill: You guys are very efficient, they remind me of Alfred

Divine gift: No one can beat Alfred

Oscar de la Rosa: But it is an honor that you mention it

It’s a Nara: Who is Alfred?

Divine gift: A butler

Oscar de la Rosa: A Butler

[flightfoot]

Ladycat Ch. 8

AO3

Chat Noir and Master Fu stared at the record player on the floor, secret compartment empty.

“Well, this isn’t good,” Chat Noir stated.

Master Fu nodded mutely.

----

Nino examined the video, trying to figure out exactly where to make his edit. 

Let’s see… need to try and cover most of its body without concealing its feet and…

There!

He adjusted the size of the pink poptart, dragging it over to the gray kitten’s body. 

A few splices later and a new nyan cat video graced the internet, courtesy of the bouncy kitten who’d sprung all over the city a few hours earlier.

Sighing, Nino checked his phone. He frowned. “This isn’t like her,” he muttered, worried.

It was FAR from the first time he’d texted his girlfriend and not gotten a response for awhile. But usually just checking the news would tell him why she hadn’t messaged him.

This time several hours had gone by without a response, and with no clear reason behind the delay.

He didn’t like it.

And with Ladybug’s disappearing act added onto that? 

He was seriously considering biking over to the Cesaires, uninvited or not. If something bad was going down he wanted to be there at Alya’s side. 

Especially with what happened on Heroes Day…

He shuddered. Seeing her take that arrow for him, seeing her twisted, her love turned to hate, and her subsequent akumatization was one of the worst experiences of his life. He’d had nightmares about it every night since, and he doubted it was going away any time soon.

A news alert popped up on his phone.

Ah! So there was an akuma after… all…

He blinked.

HAWKMOTH was active?! Again?!

Was this going to become a regular thing?!

And the cat by his side… was that an akuma? Or one of those new creatures, like that purple moth that blew them all away last time they faced him?

*knock knock*

“GAH ah ah- oh,” Nino startled, only calming down once he saw the culprit. “Dude, don’t scare me like that!” 

He opened the window for Chat Noir, expecting the cat-themed hero to simply jump through.

Instead he deposited some random old man in Nino’s room first.

“Um… dude, who’s this?” Nino asked, pointing to the stranger.

Chat rubbed the back of his neck. “This is gonna be a long story…”

Nino stared.

And blinked.

And stared some more.

Chat Noir - wait he’s ADRIEN, what the hell?! - waved his hand in front of Nino’s face. “Nino?”

Nino shook his head. “Sorry, dude. That was just… a lot.”

Adrien laughed bitterly. “Tell me about it.”

Nino winced. 

“Don’t worry about me, I already had my freak out over Father’s actions,” Adrien hastened to add, noticing Nino’s expression. 

He really thought that was enough? “I don’t think this is the kind of thing you can just get over in a few hours.”

“We came here for a specific reason,” the old man spoke up, taking off his bracelet.

A bracelet that suddenly looked very familiar.

“Nino Lahiffe, will you bear the Miraculous of the Turtle once more?”

-----

A few minutes later, Chat Noir and Carapace bounded towards the Agreste Mansion.

Fu was currently staying with Nino’s parents. Turns out “Chat Noir’s dropped by and needs to leave this elderly man somewhere safe for awhile while I help him with something” was all the explanation they needed before sitting him down and piling food onto his plate. 

Chat Noir’s baton beeped. He stopped, opening it up and expanding the screen so Carapace could see.

“RENA!”

The heroine blinked, then smiled. “Miss me?”

“I was worried! You’re never silent for this long!”

She chuckled. “I’ve seen too many movies to risk leaving my phone on while I’m sneaking around.”

Her smile fell, resuming a serious expression. “You two need to get over to the Agreste Mansion right away, I’m on the second floor. I found Nathalie… and the Peacock Miraculous.”

-----

Looking at her resting on so many pillows, Adrien would’ve thought Nathalie looked peaceful.

After seeing his mother in her own magically-induced coma though? He couldn’t quite make himself see it that way. Especially after learning that she’d used the same broken miraculous that had evidently put his mother to sleep.

An arm came around his shoulder. 

“How’re you holding up?” Nino asked him softly.

“I…”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Nathalie. 

Intellectually, he knew that she would probably be fine if she stayed here.

But part of him was still scared.

Scared that she’d vanish or die or… or just leave him in some way.

“Do you need a hug?” 

Adrien nodded mutely, still not taking his eyes off his unofficial caretaker. Off of the woman he suspected (and had been hoping) would become his stepmother.

Nino embraced him, squeezing him tightly, but being conscious of Adrien’s line-of-sight, careful not to get between him and Nathalie.

The pressure broke something within Adrien. 

He sniffled once.

Then twice.

And finally broke down.

It took a few more minutes to get through it this time, Nino gently stroking his hair all the while.

At last he looked up, eyes still rimmed red. He took a shaky breath. “We- we need to get the Peacock Miraculous back to Fu. And- and I want to get Nathalie to a hospital - to somewhere safe.”

Nino’s eyebrows drew together. “What about-?”

Adrien shook his head. “I can’t move Mom. I don’t know what’s going on with her, it might not be safe. I HATE leaving her there, but- but I’d hate accidentally hurting her even more.”

“I can take the Miraculous to Fu,” Rena chimed in. “It’s not like I don’t know where Nino lives, and I can hide myself better than you two can.”

Chat nodded. “Th-thanks. We’ll head back afterwards, so just be on the look out.”

------

Rena Rouge slipped through Nino’s bedroom window.

Hm… you know, if she got to keep her Miraculous, she had the feeling this wouldn’t be the only time she got to do that…

She shook her head. Focus Alya! You can think about sneaking over to see your boyfriend later!

Besides, it’s not like she actually NEEDED to sneak over. She was more than welcome at the Lahiffes, just as Nino was treated as one of the family over at her own house.

Still… sneaking over held a certain allure to it. It just felt exciting to get together in secret, even if it was something they could do normally.

“Rena Rouge? Where are the others?”

She jumped about two feet.

So the whole “don’t get distracted by your own thoughts” plan had failed.

“They’re fine, just taking Nathalie to a hospital before heading over here.” She fiddled with her flute, opening up a hidden storage compartment within it. These weapons were absurdly versatile. “I was assigned with bringing this back to you right away.”

Fu leaned in, getting a closer look at what she had in her hand.

“The Peacock Miraculous-!” he gasped, looking shocked… and a bit scared?

Maybe because it was broken? It’d already put one person in a coma and may have hurt a second one after all.

Gingerly he took it, as if afraid it would leap over and bite him. 

“Are… you okay?” she asked.

He sighed. “Miraculous should never be misused. This one especially. I learned that the hard way.”

Wait, what? “You’ve used it before? What happened? Does it have anything to do with how Hawkmoth got ahold of it? How-?”

She stopped, noticing Fu’s pained expression. “I- I would prefer not to talk about it. Please. Not unless I have to. I made a big mistake when I was young, one I cannot take back. One that I’ve had to live with every day since then. I do not wish to relive it while I’m awake, when I already cannot escape it while I sleep.”

Her stomach curdled with guilt. “...Sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

This wasn’t the first time this had happened though. Sometimes she got started talking, asking questions, investigating, and it took a little while for her to realize that the other people around her were getting uncomfortable or bored, or that something else was going on with them that she needed to pay attention to instead.

Luckily everyone in class was pretty understanding. Most people had had the experience of getting really excited or concentrated on one thing, to the exclusion of everything else. It was just a little more pronounced with her than with most of the others - though Max could give her a run for her money, with how utterly engrossed he ended up being in whatever project or activity he decided to work on.

Fu examined the brooch. His eyes lit up. “I think I can repair this.”

Alya blinked. “Wait, seriously?!”

He nodded. “So long as I have the right tools and potions at least.”

“...Would these happen to be materials the Lahiffes have on hand?”

“How do you feel about retrieving some things from my shop while I start?”

------

Chat Noir and Carapace climbed back through Nino’s window, having dropped Nathalie off successfully.

Luckily people didn’t usually question two superheroes when told to keep an eye on a woman in an enchanted sleep.

Adrien thought about telling them that she had been working with Hawkmoth, but couldn’t quite make himself do it. Not when she’d apparently objected to his latest plan, with his father even knocking her out to ensure she couldn’t turn on him.

She still shouldn’t have covered up for him all this time, nor helped him near the end of Heroes Day, but… but he just couldn’t make himself turn her in. 

Laughter thundered from the direction of the living room.

He and Nino looked at each other questioningly. “Do your parents like watching comedies?”

Nino shook his head. “Haven’t found a lot of good ones.”

They entered the living room.

“Have there always been this many bottles and…” Adrien picked up a round flat object that had fallen on the ground. “Gongs in here?”

“Oh, you’re just in time!” Fu greeted them, looking happier than Adrien had ever seen him. 

Not that he’d seen him very often.

“In time…?” Adrien asked, confused.

“We’ve been working on fixing the Peacock Miraculous for the last few hours,” an exhausted-looking Alya told them, leaning against a nearby doorway. “Repairing Miraculous takes some weird things.”

“Does this have anything to do with the laughter we heard earlier?” Adrien asked.

Fu nodded. “A tear of joy! Ladybug helped me discover that secret ingredient.”

The mood instantly dimmed.

“Any word on her?” Adrien asked.

Alya grimaced. “A few sightings, but no havoc just yet. I think they’re trying to find us first instead of baiting us out. Hawkmoth doesn’t have a lair to retreat to this time, no safety net if he fails. I can see why he’d be more cautious.”

“At least it buys us some time,” Adrien noted.

“Speaking of that…” Alya turned to Fu. “Is it ready?”

He nodded, carefully unwrapping a small cloth bundle.

“The Peacock Miraculous…?” Adrien said.

It looked a little different from before, the colors more dark blue and purple rather than the traditional peacock coloring from before.

“This is hardly the first time a Miraculous has been damaged,” Fu said. “Luckily the Grimoire contained detailed repair instructions.”

“So then…?”

“It can be used safely now.”

Adrien grinned, moving to put it on. Fu stopped him, holding up his hand. “Just because it can be used without harming the wielder does not mean it should be used carelessly. The consequences of creating a sentimonster without firmly understanding what you put into it can be disastrous.”

“What do you mean?” Adrien asked. “Doesn’t a sentimonster just do what you want?”

Fu shook his head. “Sentimonsters are created based off of emotions. The Peacock Miraculous wielder’s explicit intentions play a large role in determining what kind of creature is formed, what it’s like, but their hidden emotions can distort those intentions. 

Fu fiddled with his hands, making motions to turn something on his wrist, stopping when he realized he no longer had the Turtle Miraculous. “If you are say, hungry when you make the sentimonster, and… and angry at the Miraculous, at what they’ve done to your life, you can create a creature that- that will stop at nothing to devour all the Miraculous and anyone who gets in the way of that goal.”

Judging by the way Fu’s voice was shaking, Adrien doubted this was purely a hypothetical.

He may not be the only one coping with losing people.

Gently he reached out, putting his hand on Fu’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. Do you have any advice?”

Fu took a moment to compose himself. “Do not concentrate on hate or destruction. Try to set your mind to something else instead. Something that’s less likely to go out of control.”

That… may be difficult. Whenever he thought of his father, betrayal and fear roiled in his gut. 

If he was going to create a sentimonster, he needed something to counteract his feelings towards his father, even if the sentimonster was meant to help him defeat Hawkmoth.

What calmed him? Made him feel safe?

Ah!

“Claws in!”

Plagg spiralled out of the ring. Adrien threw him a piece of cheese, then rummaged through a different pocket.

Nino blinked. “You really weren’t kidding about carrying Marinette’s Lucky Charm with you everywhere, huh?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Marinette made it, how could I not?” 

Nino gave him an exasperated look. Adrien couldn’t understand why, the logic seemed obvious to him.

Alya just smirked.

His friends had weird reactions whenever he talked about Marinette.

“I don’t think we can do this alone,” Adrien said, putting on the brooch. “It took the three of us, PLUS Ladybug and Queen Bee to have a shot last time, and Hawkmoth still has Panther with him. We’re gonna need some help.

Duusu, spread my feathers!”

Adrien transformed, his skin turning blue, a blue tuxedo tail coat replacing his usual clothing.

Holding up Marinette’s Lucky Charm, he concentrated.

We need help.

The three of us can’t do this by ourselves.

We need something strong, something that can turn the tides of battle, even when things seem hopeless, like Ladybug does.

His eyes locked on the four-leaf clover on the bracelet.

Marinette gave him this bracelet when he kept on losing to her. Truthfully he knew that the bracelet had nothing to do with her wins, but the kind smile she gave him as she handed it to him, her soft voice as she told him to just try playing with it…

Whenever he saw the charm, he remembered that moment.

How she’d just earnestly wanted him to feel better, even if it was just over losing a match.

She was so smart and brave too. How could he forget the way she helped with Evillustrator, volunteering to go on a date with an akuma? Heck, she was even the one who figured out how to escape Evillustrator’s trap!

If the sentimonster could be just a little like her, they might have a chance.

He infused the feather with his emotions, touching it to the lucky charm.

A purple mass began to form in front of him, lengthening out, forming five off-shoots that began to resemble…

...Was that a human shape?

[steamedtangerine]

Brag of the Subgenius

I PICK THE GOD DAMN terror of the fucking gods out of my nose! Pardon my language. But YEEEEEHAW, let the sons of God and man bear witness! Even in the belly of the Thunderbird I've been casting out the False Prohets; I'm busting a gut and blowing my O-ring, and ripe to throw a loaf! For I speak only the fucking Truth, and never in my days have I spoken other than! For my every utterance is a lie, including this very one you hear! I say, `Fuck'em if they can't take a joke!' By God, `Anything for a laugh', I say. I am the last remaining Homo Correctus, I am the god damn Man of the Future! I'll drive a mile so as not to walk a foot; I am a human being of the first god damn water! Yes, I'm the javalina humping junkie that jumped the Men from Mars! I drank the Devil under seven tables, I am too intense to die, I'm insured for acts o' God and Satan! I was shanghaied by bodiless fiends and alien jews from a corporate galaxy, and got away with their hubcaps! I cannot be tracked on radar! I wear nothing uniform, I wear no god damn uniform! Yes baby, I'm 23 feet tall and have 13 rows o' teats; I was suckled by a triceratops, I gave the Anti-Virgin a high-protien tonsil wash! I'm a bacteriological weapon, I armed and loaded! I'm a fission reactor, I fart plutonium, power plants are fueled by the sweat from my brow; when they plug me in, the lights go out in Hong Kong! I weigh 666 pounds in zero gravity, come and get me! I've sired retarded space bastards across the Cosmos, I cook and eat my dead; YAH-HOOOO, I'm the Unshaven Thorn Tree of the Atlantis Zoo! I pay no taxes! The Devil's hands are my ideal playground! I hold the Seven-Bladed Windbreaker; the wheels that turn are behind me; I think backwards! I do it for fun! My imagination is a fucking cancer and I'll pork it before it porks me! The say a godzillion is the highest number there is. Well by God! I count to a godzillion and one! Yes, I'm the purple flower of Hell County, give me wide berth; when I drop my drawers, Mother Nature swoons! I use a python for a prophylactic; I'm thicker, harder and meaner than the Alaskan Pipeline, and carry more spew! I'll freeze your seed before it hits the bathroom tile! YEE! YEEE! I kidnapped the future and ransomed it for the past, I made Time wait up for me to bleed my lizard! My infernal breath wilts the Tree of Life, I left my spoor on the Rock of Ages, who'll tear flesh with me, who'll spill their juice? Who'll gouge with me, whose candle will I fart out? Whoop! I'm ready! So step aside, all you butt-lipped, neurotic, insecure bespectacled slabs o' wimp meat! I'm a Crime Fighting Master Criminal, I am Not Insane! I'm a screamer and a laugher, I make a spectacle of myself, I am a sight! My physical type cannot be classified by science, my `familiar' is a pterodactyl, I feed it dipshits! I communicate without wires or strings! I am a Thuggee, I am feared in the Tongs, I have the Evil Eye, I carry the Mojo Bag; I swam the Bermuda Triangle and didn't get wet! I circumcize dinosaurs with my teeth and make 'em leave a tip; I change tires with my tongue and my tool! Every night I hock up a lunger and extinguish the Sun! I'm the bigfooted devil of Level 14, who'll try to blow me down? I've packed the brownies of the gods, I leak the Plague from my nether parts, opiates are the mass of my religion, I take drugs! Yes, I'm a rip-snorter, I cram coca leaves right into my arm-veins before they're picked off the tree! Space monsters cringe at my tread! I wipe the Pyramides off my shoes before I enter my house. I'm fuel-injected, I'll live forever and remember it afterwords! I'm immune! I'm radioactive! Come on and give me cancer, I'll spit up the tumor and butter my bread with the juice! I'm supernatural, I bend crowbars with my meat ax and a thought! My droppings bore through the earth and erupt volcanoes in China! Yes, I can drink more wine and stay soberer than all the heathen Hindoos in Asia! YEEE HAW! Gut Blowout! I am a Moray Eel, I am a Komodo Dragon, I am the Killer Whale bereft of its pup! I have a triple backbone, I was sired by the Wolf Man, give me all your Slack! I told Jesus I wouldn't go to church and He shook my hand! I have my own personal saviors, I change 'em every hour, I don't give a fuck if there's life after death, I want to know if there's even any fucking Slack after death! I am a god damn visionary, I see the future and the past in comic books and wine bottles; I eat black holes for breakfast! I bend my genes and whittle my DNA with the sheer force of my mighty will! I steer my own god damn evolution! I ran 'em out of Heaven and sold it to Hell for a profit! I'm enlightened, I achieved `Nirvana' and took it home with me. Yip, yip, YEEEEEEE! I'm so ugly the Speed of Light can't slow me down and Gravity won't tug at my cuffs! When the Rapture comes, I'll make 'em wait! They'll never clean my cage! Now give me some more of..."

(Tape runs out.)

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 39

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse.

NEW WARNING - fictional police brutality. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Masterlist on my profile!

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer @silver-stormy . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

The X-Jet wasn’t made to transport so many passengers. There weren’t enough seats, so the most injured inmates were strapped in and everyone else had to hang on. Mimi carefully watched everyone. She hadn’t made it this far just to have a fellow freed prisoner do something that would make the X-Men turn them over to authorities and land them right back in prison. The last thing she wanted was going back to any holding facility. As the X-Men rushed around the jet, preparing for take off, Mimi made eye contact with as many individual freed inmates as she could, making sure they knew she was watching them.

The larger blue mutant was seeing to the more severe injuries. He was enormous, heavily muscled and had thick claws and fur, but spoke with a gentle accent. When the smaller bright blue mutant had boarded the jet, holding a barely conscious Rhonda, Mimi was surprised to find dread cracked her heart. 

“Henry!” he called in a German accent, and the larger mutant turned. “She doesn’t look so good, ja?” 

Henry’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He promised his current patient he'd come back to him and hurried to meet the German holding Rhonda. He moved a gear box to clear a spot on the deck of the jet. “Here, Kurt, lay her here.” Kurt took care to set her down in a smooth motion. "What happened?" Henry asked as he was already checking her vitals and pupils. "Pulse is weak. Pupils irregular. Is all this blood hers? Swelling at her temple." He worked quickly to examine her. 

“I don’t know,” Kurt shook his head, “Colossus is still on his way.”

Mimi craned her neck, and only saw Rhonda in bits and pieces past the men’s shoulders. Her skin was bluish, head lolling, breathing shallow and labored. The easiest thing she could see, however, was the soles of her feet - they looked like raw hamburger, absolutely riddled with shards of glass. “Hey!” She called to them. “Check her feet!”

Kurt and Henry gave Mimi a sudden wary glance, then both shifted to check her feet. The smaller mutant cursed in German. “Indeed it’s not good,” Henry agreed. He tore open Rhonda’s jumpsuit, “But there must be something else. Kurt, take the other first aid kit and help the others with the bumps and scrapes, please.”

With Kurt giving him space, Henry carefully tore away pieces of the grey cotton shirt under the jumpsuit, finding plenty of swelling and bruises that were starting to blacken. He muttered about broken ribs. He suddenly paused, and Mimi couldn’t tell what he’d found.

"STORM!” he roared to the cockpit, “We need a hospital! Now!" Storm gave an affirmative over the cabin radio. 

Several more inmates and the last few X-Men boarded the jet, including Wade and the tall, musclebound steel mutant. The tall brute immediately knelt by Rhonda’s side, and though Mimi couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, the anguish in his voice was unmistakable. “That’s her husband,” she said softly to Robinson. She shook her head, “Exactly as she used to describe him.”

“Huh,” Robinson slid an arm around Mimi’s waist to support them both as the jet rumbled its take off. “To be fair, an eight-foot-tall steel Russian man does sound made up.”

The floor tilted as the aircraft banked on a new course.

--

Piotr smoothed hair away from Rhonda’s face. The swelling around her temple worried him, but not as much as how her eyes rolled and how pale her lips were. "Stay with me, Rhonda, look at me," he urged. "You are safe now, stay with us." 

"Pi-Piotr," she barely managed to speak between wet wheezes.

Tears welled up in his eyes. She tried to speak again, but he shushed her, "Don't try to speak if it hurts. Let Cable help you, please." He waved Cable over, who carefully wove through the other passengers to loom over them.

With the ugly, bloodsoaked jumpsuit and the grey t-shirt under it torn open, Rhonda’s torso was bare to the warm cabin of the deck. There was no gaping wound, no horrible laceration, but just below her ribs, the last quarter inch of a toothbrush head stuck out of Rhonda's skin, the bristles slowly oozing with blood.

Beast carefully touched around it, figuring out at what angle the rest of the toothbrush pointed and how long it was. Rhonda couldn't even keep her eyes open anymore, and when she struggled to breathe and speak, she coughed and blood sprang to her lips.

"Henry, please! Pull it out!" Piotr begged with a strained voice, his stomach churning with panic.

"She's bleeding internally, probably a punctured lung,” Henry spoke quickly. “If I take that out here she'll bleed out before you can say dasvidaniya." He squirted saline solution over the wound, then moved to squirt saline on her head wound, rinsing blood away to examine the external damage.

Cable crouched by her feet and extended his telepathy. Where he had previously found a strong mind full of resistance to being read, he found no fight now. "She says, you brought me home," he read from her thoughts, "Thank you." He looked at her glass-crusted feet and scowled.

"No, no, no, Sladkaya, we're not home yet! You have to stay awake!" the Russian struggled to stay calm. He kept touching her face, shoulders, arms. Her skin felt cooler than it should.

"I can get this glass out, cleaner than your surgeons can in this time," Cable said. The other two either didn’t hear him or they ignored him. So he grabbed an empty cardboard box from between some people’s feet and leaned his weight on one forearm across Rhonda's shins. He searched for every little shard of glass and with his telekinesis, he pulled. Each shining glass splinter worked its way out as if they were seedlings in a spring garden, and ranged in size from a single snowflake to a quarter. Rhonda shivered, but didn’t react much besides that.

Blood bubbled at her lips as Piotr's vision blurred with tears. "Stay with me," he begged, "I can't lose you again, not like this."

After that, things moved in a quick blur. Hank improvised a chest tube from an inmate’s ballpoint pen, jabbing it near her collarbone and releasing the air that had been building up in Rhonda’s chest cavity. Her shallow breaths became a little deeper, but she still didn’t have long to live without tools they didn’t have on the jet. They landed on the rooftop helipad of the nearest hospital, and Cable levitated Rhonda to the gurney some nurses wheeled out. They slapped a medical grade power-blocking collar around her neck, and Piotr almost smashed them into the walls. "You take that thing off my wife!"

"Sir, sir!" One particularly short nurse patted the air between them. "This is standard procedure. Could this mutant's abilities be fatal to another person?" They had almost reached the elevator.

Piotr froze. He swallowed and clenched his jaw. "Yes...but...she cannot have that thing on when she wakes up."

The nurse promised, "She won't. Waiting area's downstairs." The elevator doors closed, and Rhonda and the nurses disappeared.

Ellie and Yukio stayed close to Piotr while the rest of the team helped coordinate help for the injured inmates. Storm made several calls to the Xavier house and started setting up a safe house and protection for any inmates who had to stay in the hospital. Kurt and Henry took the jet with a few passengers to head for the safe house.

--

In the waiting area, Cable studied how Piotr sagged into a plush chair that creaked under his weight. “Wade,” he snagged him by the arm as he was walking by. “When I was in Rhonda’s head…” he hesitated. His brow pinched. “I don’t know if she’s gonna make it through the night. If she doesn’t…” Cable jutted his chin toward Piotr, “We both know what it is to lose a wife.”

Wade frowned and shook his head. “No. No fucking way.” He batted Cable’s hand away. “A little head trauma, collapsed lung, torn shoulder, and a bunch of broken ribs never killed anybody. You know? Fuck outta here with your negativity, House.” All the same, he crossed the waiting area to sit beside Piotr.

Ellie found her way to sit beside her mentor and father figure. For a long while, none of them said a word. Eventually, Ellie drew her arms tight around one of Piotr’s biceps, crushing her cheek against the steel of his arm as the tears finally came. Yukio rubbed her back as she cried. As Piotr started to reach with his free hand to touch her face, Wade hugged his other arm the same way as Ellie. Together, they waited for the surgeons to finish.

--

Piotr stayed by her side in the intensive care unit. As promised, they had removed the medical grade collar, and Rhonda’s neck was mercifully bare. His uniform was still stained with her blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her for even the minute it would take to change into the fresh clothes Ellie and Yukio had brought. Swathed in bandages, breathing through a tube, his wife had never looked so fragile. He held her right hand, pressing the back of it to his cheek as he watched her face, tears streaming. His other hand delicately touched her hair. He whispered around the lump in his throat, “Come back to me, Sladkaya, come back to us. I’m here, whenever you are ready. Please.”

When the hospital staff tried to tell Piotr visiting hours were over, and that he could come back the next day, he said simply that he wasn’t going anywhere. He explained to the seasoned nurse in her fifties a short version of what had happened in the last few years. He would stay, and promised not to make any trouble for the hospital staff. The nurse took a slow sigh and replied simply, “I’ll get you a coffee, baby, be right back.”

Hours stretched into days. Wade, Ellie, and other friends could only get Piotr to take breaks if at least two of them stayed in Rhonda’s hospital room while he changed clothes or took a short walk. Every minute that he was with her, Piotr had a hand on her. He would clasp his hands around her feet to warm up her toes, check how the deep lacerations in her feet were closing, rest a hand over her stomach or chest to feel her breathe, study the finger stump on her right hand, and slide his palm up her arm over the Xs as he had seen her do so many times.

Once, when Wade was sitting beside him, Piotr had been studying the Xs again. “Wade...what are these?” he asked.

Wade puffed out his cheeks and blew a long breath, fumbling, “Ohhhh buddy, uhh, I - you should - you know - that’s just not my story to tell, you know?” Wade gripped his knees and stretched, popping his shoulders.

Piotr traced a few of the smaller Xs, then laid his palms to cover as many as possible. “They are signatures, aren’t they?” he said quietly, voice tight. “They called her Guestbook, and put these marks all over her. The x-rays showed scar tissue in this shoulder, like it had been dislocated more than once.” Wade’s silence except for sucking in a hissing breath through his teeth was answer enough. Lifting her hand, Piotr pointed out the newest one, with a long tail that curved around her arm. It was scabbed over and a little irritated, but no longer puffy with infection. “I have been cleaning and caring for this one,” he said with a tone that was too calm. “Wade, who did this to my wife? Was it guards? Other prisoners?”

The images flashed in Wade’s mind, another horrible thing he would never forget. Rhonda on the ground, arms pinned and twisted, knees in her back, a dead look in her eyes. Weak with cancer and restrained by several people, he had been unable to help her. He blinked. “Both.” 

With what could only be described as reverence, Piotr laid Rhonda’s hand back on the bed, and actually pulled his hands away to ball into fists on his thighs. His gaze was still riveted to her. “The prisoners we brought with us - was it any of them?” His voice was even, and clear, and filled with cold determination.

Wade could smell the desire for revenge like a shark smells blood in the water, and raised his hairless brows. “For what it’s worth, sexy, beefy Terminator,” he started to smile, “I’m pretty sure your lady killed about half the motherfuckers who ever touched her.”

For the first time in days, Piotr made direct eye contact, with a placid expression. Jaw tight, he asked, “And the other half?”

The seasoned mercenary was beaming. “As much as I love this color on you,” he waved an open hand in a circle. “Do I really have to remind you of your rules? One of the ones near the top - I think it’s number five, maybe nine - no killing? Anyone?”

“Perhaps you were right when you killed Francis,” he said. “Perhaps an exception can be made.”

Wade squirmed in his seat, groaning, then jumped to his feet, “Stop talking dirty to me! This hospital room is no place for a boner!” He growled in frustration, then pointed at Rhonda, “Plus…she said...we don’t know how many of them seem like fucking monsters now, but they weren’t like that until the Icebox made them that way. I - uggghhhhhh,” he grumbled incoherent cursing about turned tables and moral compasses. “I think she’d want you to leave them alone.”

The Russian’s shoulders sagged and he looked down at his hands, opening and closing his fists. “What good is all my strength,” he sighed, “if I could not prevent any of this? If I cannot protect her?”

[grumpyhedgehogs]

Home Coming

Summary: TUA AU, Vanya stays at the Academy with Luther.

Vanya stays.

She stays through Klaus taking off in the middle of the night, fear making his eyes wide and his teeth splitting his face in a grin too large to be nice. She stays through Allison gathering her belongings neatly into a shiny new suitcase and stepping into a taxi to the airport without a glance backward. She stays through Diego’s last tantrum and screaming match with their father and the door slamming so hard their family portrait is knocked off the wall.

Luther is left alone.

Vanya stays through it all.

~

Luther doesn’t know why Vanya sticks around. He knows why he can’t leave, sure. It’s simple: he has been raised to save the world. He cannot resist his calling, even if their siblings can shirk their responsibilities so easily. He’s a hero. He’s here to keep being a hero.

Vanya, though. He feels bad, a little, to call her nothing, but that’s what she is. She has nothing here. Staying is useless.

She stays anyway.

~

It goes like this: The mission alarm goes off when Luther is downstairs trying to distract himself from how big the Academy is. He goes upstairs and gets dressed and stands before Dad and is told what he must do. He goes. He saves the day. He comes back.

It goes like this: Vanya is playing her music and stops for the alarm. She watches from the doorway as Luther leaves. She waits for him when he comes back and makes him eat something. She leads him to Mom and helps patch him up. She places a palm over his forehead and pushes his hair back, every time, and looks in his eyes.

They go like this: “You did good,” Vanya says. She says this every time. She makes up for where their father lacks. Luther doesn’t look her in the eyes and he nods and he goes to bed.

They don’t go like this: Luther tells her what happened to him, the kick in the chest or the gunshot near his ear or the hands around his throat. Luther apologizes for the ache behind her eyes, in her music. Vanya hugs him. Luther asks why she stays. She smiles and he smiles and they are fine.

~

Vanya stays and plays her violin and it is sad, now, with the emptiness of the house seeping into her music. Or maybe it has always been so sad and Luther simply never noticed.

She plays and plays and plays and when he gets angry and yells and tells her to just go, to get out and don’t come back, she stops. She waits him out when Luther rages and asks her why she thinks she’d be useful staying here. She waits him out when he tells her she’ll never be a hero. She waits him out while he shouts that she was never part of this family.

She plays and she waits and when he’s done, wrung out and empty, she makes him a fluffernutter sandwich.

He only ever throws that tantrum the once, three years after everyone else left. The next morning, Luther wakes up to the strains of Bach floating through the air and stares at his model planes and cries, just a little. The tears sting at the cut on his temple, the one preventing Dad from placing his wires there like he thinks he’s clever.

Luther doesn’t know who he’s crying for.

~

Their father hates Vanya with more passion than he is capable of in any other venture.

They don’t talk about it.

~

They go like this, one night: Vanya applies to the New York Philharmonic. She gets a call back. Father slaps her and she falls.

Luther’s throat closes up.

They go like this, one night: Luther finds her in the wee hours of the morning, slumped in a tiny huddle in the corner of the hallway. She is wearing a sweatshirt that used to be Ben’s. It is too big on her. She is crying.

They go like this, one night: Luther sits beside her and tucks his legs up to his chest as best he can. Vanya doesn’t look up. She sniffles and Luther doesn’t know how to help.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Vanya shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” Luther points out. She looks up, face red and blotchy and he shrugs. “A little bit.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Vanya says after looking at him for a long time. She looks away, at her hands curled in her sleeves. She sniffles again. “Thanks.”

“Please don’t thank me for not being a shitty person,” Luther says. It startles a wet giggle out of her.

Nerves make his hand shake when he flips his palm up, knuckles gazing the hardwood floor. It takes a moment, but Vanya fits her palm in his. He marvels, for a while, at the differences.

Her hand is thin and pale and cold. Her fingers are calloused like his, but he has a kink in his right pinkie knuckle where Diego broke it when they were ten. Her bones are defined and fragile and not useless at all when she fills her hands with music. Luther's are useless without something to punch. Her hands are important; his hands are perfunctory. Tools of the trade, both.

Vanya has always reminded Luther of a bird; she flits and flutters at the edges of his life, never quite able to settle down. She makes sweet music but cuts off at the first sign of movement. Her bones are so very delicate. He’s watched, for years, as her face sharpened under their father’s unrelenting thumb, as her cheekbones threatened to break through the paper-thin surface of her face, as her knuckles grew more defined and less pretty as a bird’s wings. Luther wishes, sometimes, that he could take her bones in his hands and smooth out her sharp edges, rub away the hollows in her cheeks with his thumbs, gentle some kind of warmth back into her skin. The cold set into them both a long time ago, but Luther is willing to help her fight it off.

They go like this, one night: “Why can’t I be good enough?” Vanya asks in a voice too small.

“I don’t know,” Luther says honestly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

They go like this, one night: The bruise under Vanya’s eye darkens with the passing hours. Her hand stays in his. Luther could break her fingers with a single twitch and ruin her life forever.

She holds his hand like she has nothing to be afraid of.

~

Luther gets hurt; chemicals burn into his chest, his thoughts goes hazy, he barely makes it back home before collapsing on the front steps. The last thing he remembers is the fear in Vanya’s eyes as she leans over him and mouths his name.

He wakes up later--much later, apparently-- and Vanya is there. Vanya stayed.

It’s been weeks, she tells him. She gave him her blood so that their father could save his life from the chemical burns, she tells him. He’s lucky she’s around because the only other option was Pogo, she tells him, laughing. They share blood now, like a real family, she tells him, smiling.

She doesn’t tell him what their father had to do to save his life. She doesn’t tell him how she survived their father without him. Luther doesn’t ask.

She holds his hand in hers and pushes her own warmth back into him.

Maybe Vanya isn’t the one who needs saving, Luther thinks to himself, and holds her hand just a little tighter.

~

“It’s the new dosage,” Vanya gasps. She breathes harshly, in-out, in-out, in-out, into the toilet bowl.

Luther doesn’t know what to do.

Vanya’s hair is very long. Luther hesitates, but Vanya leans fathering into the toilet, groaning, so he reaches out and threads his fingers through her hair. He pulls it off her neck with a gentleness he’s only now learning. The nape of his sister’s neck is soaked with sweat.

She hacks dryly into the bowl twice, says, “I can’t--” and vomits again.

Luther waits her out. He’s learned more about patience in the past few years than he ever knew.

“What’s in those pills, Vanya?” Luther asks.

Vanya doesn’t seem to hear him. She shakes her head, coughing, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He is struck, again, by how very small she looks. “It’s fine, I’m just not used to the new dosage. I’ll get better in a few weeks, when I’ve been taking them for longer.”

“Vanya.”

She looks up and her eyes are wet. It’s suddenly a little harder to breathe.

“What’s in the pills?”

Vanya shrugs helplessly.

~

Luther goes to Pogo. Father is locked up tight in his study and Luther feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle at the thought of cameras watching him as he enters the library.

Pogo is sitting quietly beside the fire.

“Pogo,” Luther says. He waits for Pogo to jump and clutch at his chest and then settle down. Luther does not take a seat when Pogo offers it.

“Can I do something for you, Master Luther?”

“What’s wrong with Vanya’s medication?”

Pogo shifts. Luther’s teeth grind down hard. People think he’s so stupid, but it is very obvious this is not what Pogo wants to talk to him about. Which means it is what Luther needs to know.

“Miss Vanya has always been very nervous even as a child, and your father--”

“I didn’t ask what was wrong with Vanya.” Luther says. “I asked what was wrong with her pills.”

Pogo goes still. His face is different from a human’s, but not enough for Luther not to notice guilt. “Pogo.”

“Your father only wanted to help, Master Luther. The consequences of Vanya going unmedicated--”

A memory flashes in Luther’s mind, unbidden. Vanya, playing the violin when they were twelve, fingers clumsy, missing more notes than she hit. Vanya, at sixteen, her medication upped by their father that afternoon, speaking at the dinner table like her tongue was too thick for her mouth. Vanya, at twenty-two, dazed and confused when Luther found her in the garden in the middle of December without a coat on.

Vanya’s hand, so thin and fragile, hollow bird-bones in his meaty palm.

Pogo speaks of powers going unchecked and adolescent aggression and fear and control like a professor giving a lecture. Vanya is sleeping off the rest of the drugs upstairs. She doesn’t have to know what Luther knows.

Luther has heard enough.

~

His sister looks up at him with a bleary gaze when he shakes her awake. She’s slept for several hours. It’s the middle of the night. She wants to know what he’s doing here.

Luther almost shoots the question back at her, used to wondering about it by now. He doesn’t ask.

“If I told you a secret that would ruin your life,” Luther says instead, gripping her shoulder firmly, gently, “would you trust me to keep you safe?”

Vanya is awake now. Her face has always been so serious.

She thinks about it for a moment. Luther waits. Father’s study was surprisingly easy to break into; the doorknob wasn’t even reinforced steel. Dad’s journal is tucked into the backpack Luther took from Klaus’s old room, strung over his shoulder and comically small.

They don’t have a lot of time.

Luther waits for his sister anyway.

“Yes,” Vanya decides.

It feels like something unclenches in Luther’s chest.

“We’re leaving,” he tells her. “Only the essentials. We’re not coming back.”

Vanya looks at him. He asks her to hurry.

She does.

~

“Why did you never leave?”

The question burns his throat on the way up. Luther has been wondering this for a very long time, but as things got worse and worse, he couldn’t quite make himself say it. He doesn’t think he really wants to know.

Vanya looks out over the rooftops. The city lights reflect in her eyes, big as dinner plates. She’s still not alright. She may not be alright for a very long while. Luther takes her hand and she laces their fingers together. She doesn’t look away from the skyline. Dad’s journal sits abandoned in her lap, open to the last damning page. Luther is glad Allison is across the country right now.

The sunrise reflects in the tear tracks left on his sister’s face. He doesn’t try to wipe them away; sometimes, you need evidence of your own suffering.

The rest of her pills had rattled in her pocket when they got into the car. He wonders if Klaus could help her kick them. He wonders what she’ll look like, a Vanya with powers. A Vanya with feelings.

But that’s not quite true, is it? Vanya feels more than Luther could have ever guessed when they were children.

Luther looks out at the city too. New York seems much larger now.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Luther closes his eyes. It is easier to breathe out here.