#and likely die as a martyr that makes everyone rise up

[deusvervewrites]

First of all: Happy Birthday Deus!

Secondly, I have more thoughts about the whole "The Villain must Die" thing. You already allude to it in your original post, but one of the reasons that people tend to dislike it is definitely the fact that, if they were to acknowledge & accept it, they feel they would also have to "blame" themselves for liking "bad" media that does not follow this "rule".

You point out Star Wars, so some people will simply read this as "If you enjoyed Star Wars, specifically Palpatine dying, YOU ARE A BAD PERSON!"

Which is not what you said, (and I assume not what you meant) but some people will just read this into things, and feel like they have failed some invisible "vibe check" or something by liking the "wrong" media, and it all starts becoming some weird purity test even if it's often only in peoples head.

Like, stop reinventing Catholicism over here, stories can have different meanings and lessons, and one single thing doesn't mean that the story is no forever tainted and everyone who ever liked it should be branded as evil or some-such nonsense.

To use an extreme example, Metal Gear Rising Revengeance very VERY much kills its villains. It also has a very strong and important message about politics and ideology and how people justify atrocities in it. It's a different kind of story with a different kind of message compared to things like BNHA. Also, it even implies itself that the protagonist might have been wrong in killing his enemies, the fact that he did so anyway and that that was the only way he could see is a flaw that the game directly points out! So good news, liking MGR doesn't make you "bad" just as liking SU or BNHA doesn't mark you as inherently "good" or "righteous".

People need to take a step back and consider that not everything is an attack on them or what they like. Good stories are allowed to have flaws. Because most of them do. Any you are still allowed to like them. That's also fine. You can even like something and criticize it anyway, that's allowed!

This is getting long, so I want to end with another example that helped me realize how much I love villains surviving:

Fairy Tail, and the Arc of Jellal. Long Story short, when we first meet Jellal he is THE WORST. Absolute scum of the earth, sadistic maniacal supervillain that, inevitably, ends up blown up in a big anime battle.

Except, nope, ~2 arcs later, he is back, with amnesia, and involved in some other villains plot. Over the course of the arc he works with the heroes but then regains his memory and is utterly devastated to learn who he was in the past, to the point that he tries to noble suicide sacrifice himself to stop the villain. It does not stop the villain, but he still wants to go through with it to "atone", until the hero that he had hurt to most slaps him in the face and yells at him to Live and Struggle.

Because his death wont change anything. It wont heal those he hurt, or revive those he killed. He can only make up for this, only truly become better, by living.

And, spoiler, he does not sacrifice himself, but instead starts to go on a long and arduous and messy journey of atonement and it absolutely rocks. It makes him and his story a million times better than if he had died.

Anyways, sorry for the second wall of text I send you today, once again, Happy Birthday and best wishes!

One of the many things I love about Metal Gear Rising Revengeance's dialogue on the nature of violence is that, as you said, Raidon loses the moral victory at the end. When he kills Senator Armstrong, Armstrong names Raidon as the inheritor of his ideals that Might Makes Right. The entire game shows Raidon martyring himself by sacrificing his morals in an effort to save lives, implicitly comparing this to real-world warfare

[sparrowsortadrawzzz]

LEMME JUST RANT ABOUT URINETOWN FOR A SECOND NOW THAT MY ROLE IS OVER CUZ ITS SO GOOD-

see the crazy thing about urinetown is the paralells. like, we don't see Hope as this master manipulator, yet...she is???? she went to the most expensive university in the world for it?????

it first occurs in follow your heart, she practically plays with his feelings to get him to like her back (see her validating his feelings and using the "Why, my heart was saying the same thing just the other day!!" card), and from there, yes, the two are genuine, but you gotta admit, in follow your heart is she does use a bit of a persuasive direction.

then we see her manipulate again in the end when she leads the poor to UGC headquarters and. yknow. kills everyone 💀 she eventually becomes worse that her father by denying them any other option than. die from lack of basic needs, and leads their demise. ALSO SHE COULDVE AT LEAST LISTENED TO THE RESEARCH?? CONTINUED IT??? AND SAVED EVERYONE LIKE BOBBY AND CALDWELL WANTED?????? anyways-

also, Caldwell and Bobby were the same at one point. they had to have been. a poor boy in the midst of crisis has dreams to help the people of his community, so he rises up with the support of his people, and becomes a martyr...sounds like two people, doesn't it?

ALSO², PENNY AND CALDWELL ARE SO TRAGIC????? this young woman (who is perhaps a prostitute just to get by) and (probably) poor boy are in love, and once the water table drops and keeps dropping, they take a chance to give into their feelings and have their night together, which leads to their daughter Hope being born, and once that happens Caldwell has possibly already started his revolution, company, and rise to the top. so he takes their daughter (possibly so that she doesn't have to go through what he went through as a child), makes her promise to never tell Hope who she is, and becomes this hard, cold shell of a man he used to be, becoming someone Penny doesn't even recognize anymore. she doesn't love Cladwell, she loves Caldwell, the dreamer who once cared for all the people. and that's probably why she calls him such, to try and get her beloved back.

also erm lockstock how dare you just reject barrel like that-

HARRY AND BECKY ARE TOGETHER???? AND ARE ACTUALLY RABID??????? couple goals <33 /j

who tf is tiny tom, like, is he Harry and Becky's kid????

im obsessed with imagining what Penny and Caldwell were like before UGC

REMEMBER WHEN OUR NIGHT WERE STARRY????

arent you sorry..? (translation: "Are you sorry about loving and listening to me?")

..sure, I'm sorry.. (translation: "You probably want me to say I'm sorry for loving you because you no longer love me, and regret me.")

im not sorry.. (translation: "I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU AGHHH-")

JUUUST UNNNNSOUNDDDD (translation: "WE STILL LOVE EACH OTHER AND NOW ONE OF US HAS TO DIE-")

all the original broadway cast photos are 2001 crunchy 😭

HAIL MALTHUS

making fun of and calling out the government and twisted cops >:)

the harmonies make me wanna ascend

okay that's all for now 💀💀💀

[artiststarme]

Another One Bites The Dust

Well, I asked for angsty prompts and @doubleb11 delivered! I hope you guys like it and come yell at me in the comments!

~*~*~*~

When the fight with Vecna was over, the entire Upside Down started to collapse. Steve, Nancy, and Robin ran to the gate in the road where Fred had died but the shaking earth and rising flames threatened to engulf them completely. 

“Go, go, go! Nance, move! Robin, go!” Steve pushed them both through the gate but when it was finally his turn, he couldn’t make it. The gate burst into flames before his very eyes and singed the skin of his reaching palms. 

“No! Steve!” He heard Robin crying and screaming until the gate disappeared in a flurry of smoke and fire. Then he heard nothing but the crackling of everything burning around him. Steve was terrified. He was stuck in a burning world that had only ever hurt him and he could hardly breathe with all of the smoke and pollution in the air. 

He had the thought that the gate in Eddie’s trailer might still be open, the cracks in the ground hadn’t yet reached Forest Hills so he might still have a chance. He ran with all of the energy and fight he had. He had to get back to the Rightside Up. They’d won… technically. Vecna was dead and everyone else was safe. Would anyone really care if he stayed down here to rot? Everything else went to plan, he really couldn’t ask for a better solution. 

He didn’t make it to Eddie’s trailer. Halfway through Forest Hills, he dropped to his knees in shock. Lying there, prone on the ground and encompassed in blood was Eddie Munson. Steve fretted over him, touching his neck and chest to get a pulse and heartbeat but there was nothing to be found. His body was cold in the haze of heat. 

Steve tried to pick him up, move his body away from the fire surrounding them in all directions but he couldn’t move past the pain in his sides and the grief in his heart. His body toppled on top of Eddie’s and he cried. The overwhelming heat from the flames dried his tears as soon as they escaped but that didn’t stop him. He sobbed and sobbed over the unfairness of it all. What good was killing Vecna if the fight claimed Eddie in the process? 

Dying himself? Fine, expected, no big deal. But losing Eddie, the innocent newcomer that could’ve run at any point but chose to stay and help them fight a losing battle? Incomprehensibly unfair. 

So when the smoke clogged his lungs and stole all of the oxygen from his blood, Steve gave up. He died in a vengeful rage at the world that would never be complete without it’s renowned babysitter. He died on the cracking ground of the Upside Down curled around Eddie Munson, the man that he had bonded with and had the potential to be great friends with someday. 

At least he wouldn’t die alone. 

~*~*~*~

When El got back to Hawkins, it was to a barrage of questions and pleas to find Steve. The Party thought he willingly stayed behind in the Upside Down as some sort of heroic martyr. They wanted El to open a gate to go get him. 

But only El knew the truth. She’d watched from the void as Steve tearfully curled around Eddie in an effort to protect his body from the flames. She saw as the light bled from his eyes and watched in horror as the flames licked their skin. 

She could do little more than break down into traumatized sobs in front of the Party that was still pleading with her to guarantee the safe return of their favorite babysitter and older brother figure. She didn’t know how to tell them that he was never coming back. 

Eventually, she mustered up enough strength and forced herself to speak only eight words.  But those eight words were enough to break the hearts and ruin the lives of everyone around her. 

“Steve and Eddie are dead but they’re together.”

She watched Robin fall into Nancy’s arms in shock. Her Platonic with a capital P soulmate was dead. El could practically see her heart splintering into millions of pieces that would never fully recover. 

Nancy caught her but burst into tears immediately. It was her plan that Steve had tried to change, he’d tried to tell her to wait a little longer for El to come home but she didn’t listen. His painful death was due to her. She would never forgive herself for snuffing out such a bright soul. 

Dustin was inconsolable. He’d lost both of his older male friends, both of his brothers and mentors, in one fell swoop. Of all of the things that could’ve happened, he’d never imagined this. Nothing could cure the pain in his heart or the desperation in his sobs. He didn’t know if he would ever stop crying after suffering such a significant loss. Losing Eddie felt like losing a limb but losing Steve too? Dustin felt like he was dying, like he was being ripped from the inside out, almost as if Vecna himself was haunting him. 

Will, Mike, and Lucas were in shock. This whole situation felt like a bad dream that they were just waiting to wake up from. Usually in this type of situation, Steve would be there to offer support and emotional hugs. But this time, their grieving was for him and they would never quite get over that. 

Unfortunately, this was their new reality. They would sign the NDA’s that the government agents threw at them, they would accept the hush money that would never meet the cost of a life without their best friends, and they would force themselves to carry on with the heaps and bounds of trauma. The Harringtons and Wayne Munson would forever live a life of confusion and false hope as they wait for Steve and Eddie to come home. No one would ever get closure. And Steve and Eddie? They would exist only as husks of who they used to be, curled around each other in the alternate dimension that ruined their lives.

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[rubydubydoo122]

Just wanted to tell you that I read 9 out of the 11 chapters of In Every Universe Still I Rise yesterday. I haven't left a single comment because each chapter left me so drained, as if I were the person that would be put to rest or has to watch his other variants die over and over and over again until the end of time.

I didn't know where this would be headed to but there are so many small ways in which you see that Dick's and Bruce's relationship with Jason is rebuilding. How they begin to see each other again. It feels so natural.

I love how the other Jason's are like this embodiment of goodness and yeah, innocence too, which is always painfully stripped away from them. There are the obvious ones, like the lamb and the angel. The kid on the street, the toddler. A hero, a martyr. A kid whose life was decided by a poll.

I can't make myself read the No Capes Au one yet. Because that Jason has no idea. No idea of vigilantism. Of the dangers that that life style brings.

Yeah, I understand the story being draining. It is very dark, and I find myself needing to take multiple breaks while writing.

I'm going to be honest, I have two endings in mind, and I haven't set my mind on how the fic is going to end, but I'm leaning towards one specific ending and.... I'm not going to spoil it. Even the friend who I've been talking to since I've had bulletpoints on a doc doesn't know how the fic is going to end, and I think it'll probably shock everyone.

Since there wasn't much of a plot to this story besides angst, I think it allowed me to focus on the characters relationship with each other more. From the acting strictly professional with each other in the first chapter, to Jason and Dick having their banter to lighten up the mood, to the first breaking of those walls all three of them have put up in the graveyard scene. Then there's the Lamb, the Baby back to back, and we see Dick and Jason let themselves fall back into being family. (I would say that their banter is definitely sibling banter, but the Wings chapter was more of the vunerable side to being a family especially during tough times) We also see in the hotel that Bruce is trying to comfort Jason, and it's something Jason desperately wants, but he doesn't let himself fall back into being Bruce's son. Then they go to the universe where Bruce, Talia, Jay and Damian definitely resemble a nuclear family, and Older more traumatized Bruce kinda just absorbs that energy, and we see him have a conversation about Jason's death with Jason without blaming him for it. And Obviously Dick caring about weather Jason lives or dies and all that Jazz. And just that little scene where Jason, Dick and Damian are sitting on the swing and Jason leans his head on Dick's shoulder for comfort. Then there's the, what I like to call the filler chapter, where Dick and Jason have their sibling banter and Bruce punches the Joker variant for saying Jason deserved to die, and I'm not gonna lie, I loved writing that chapter. The Dark Knights of Steel AU didn't really have much family bonding, but the No Capes AU... you haven't read that yet, but read it and come back to this post and tell me what you think. It's kinda like the last piece of the puzzle Jason needs to view Bruce as a father again.

[aces-to-apples]

Never Have I Ever: djarnakin :))))))))))))))

For this ask meme

Asdfghjkl

Haven't written it (:hmmeyes:) but i suppose what i'd do is steal sheevy's victory lap out from under him by having anakin get kix-ed: someone, either a not-in-the-loop seppie or just a nondescript republic enemy, gets the jump on anakin and carbonites him for transport. Somehow *handwaves* the transport gets lost or maybe the ones who have him store him away and then get murderized before doing anything with him. No one can find him and it becomes this great republic tragedy and actually very little changes beyond not having darth vader at his side; he still activates the chips and destroys the jedi order, the empire still rises.

(Even the twins still get split up and raised by the organas and larses because padmé twigs that sheev is, yaknow, evil and decides that it's too dangerous to raise the children of anakin skywalker when sheev definitely knows that her kids would be his. So instead she pretends she lost her one child in childbirth and instead smuggles them off naboo and to their chosen caretakers; she does in fact have a relationship with them over the years, she just can't publically raise them, especially as a key figure of the rebellion.)

The Hero With No Fear becomes a tragic figure to rally behind, something something a martyr for the republic possibly even removed by palpatine himself for how he'd no doubt oppose the creation of the empire. Cut to 30 years later and din djarin the mandalorian stumbles into wherever carbanakin ended up. Maybe grogu is the one who decarbs him? And of course it's not like djarin is gonna know who anakin is, on sight or in general.

Honestly anakin probably (metaphorically) swings first, because last he knew he was surrounded by enemies and honestly carbonite defrosting has gotta be hell on the system. So anakin comes out swinging and djarin's honestly pretty used to that. They duke it out for a minute until grogu gets distressed enough to separate them using the force, and then suddenly this random feral human throwing djarin around like a tin can and taking hits that would drop the average trandoshan constitution softens into a confused young man asking djarin's baby why he feels older, why the whole universe feels so dark and cold and empty. And like, djarin's not made of stone, clearly this guy is having a rough time and? He knows grogu somehow?? So they bring him back to their ship (rip razor crest i miss you buddy) and let him catch up on the whole damn galaxy and it's. Not pretty.

I don't think i'm a skilled enough writer to make a compelling narrative about, like, grieving the loss of literally everyone and everything you've known while also forging new connections to support you through the process but like. That's what would happen next lmao. And eventually they make out about it idk. Grogu deserves two dad(die)s.

[irregodless]

end last season with so thats why its bad to take kids from their parents because you feel they cant take care of them. thats why we are going to take this girl away from her dad because we dont trust her with him

anyway lets talk about victor strand

im so tired of victor strand why is victor strand still here

he has always been an antagonistic force since he was introduced but the tower was his proper villain turn, a turn that was ALWAYS inevitable to his character so why is he stil around

why did alicia want him to try again. you already know he cant be trusted. he started a fairly successful community in the tower until he started throwing people off of it just for suspecting them of disoyalty

he cant handle power it corrupts him faster than anyone which falls in line with and is a good commentary of the fact that he was a very wealthy man before all of it. he has an addictive personality.

that should have been the end of him so why is it that now we continue to have him around and be a secondary antagonist. satan could rise from the ground and we would still have to deal with strand making things more complicated than necessary while everyone just lets him

hes had his chance to be redeemed and he just keeps turning heel every time the opportunity presents itself. hes literally just like eugene from the main series. turncoating every few minutes but still allowed around

"can victor strand change" yes and thats his problem he changes more often than the seasons. even in this episode his alliances change with whoever can help him the most in that moment. because he is still so self centered that he sees a community and says ***I*** have to be in charge of it when nobody asked him to even be involved with it

he would sell out his own friends just to get a leg up on proving himself to a girl who shouldnt have even given him a second chance let alone tenth. he is only on the side of victor strand. he would sell his own family out for his own self preservation. he only way i can see his character resolving in anything close to satisfaction is sacrificing himself to protect his family. not his friends: if he does that hes doing it to martyr himself. realizing if he cant live successfully he can die and leave a legend. no he has to die for the people he claims to love or over like. nothing. like getting a can of peaches for a random kid.

his character has been played out. the arc is done now hes just spirographing the exact same arc into some gross mutually destructive shape. the story gains nothing by havinf him present as an antagonistic force because im not saying having a character like him is bad but it was done when he threw people off a tower stole babies fed people to zombies and poisoned them

its done. im done. with him. he is not negan he cant BE negan i had a negan now i dont he is not negan

[bn-brightflower]

Land of the Beautiful Dead

By: R. Lee Smith

My Rating: 5/5

Spiciness: 🌶️🌶️🌶️/5

Kindle: Yes

Kindle Unlimited: Yes

Paperback: Yes

Amazon Link

Trigger Warnings: Gore, Torture (of adults and children), Vomit, Sexual Coercion, Intimate/Domestic Violence, Suicide/Attempted Suicide, Self-Mutilation, Other Woman, Cannibalism (of the zombie variety)

Who I'd Recommend it For: Fans of dark romance - it is dark, very, very dark, just sitting on the edge of pitch black. Fans of a true anti-hero and morally grey characters, where everyone both is and is not the villain. If you need a soft romance and characters that lean toward comforting one another, this is NOT the book for you. Neither of the lead characters are stunningly attractive; the male lead is grotesque, actually, with exposed bone and tendon, and the female lead is never described as anything more than plain. The book has spice - not a ton of it - but the spice is, at times, very uncomfortable. If you want sexy sexy smut, this is definitely NOT the book for you. Fans of a HEA that is hard to earn but well worth it.

Summary: In a Post-Apocalyptic world, Lan has come to the land of the beautiful dead for one reason and one reason alone; to ask Lord Azrael, God of Death, to end the eaters, the horrific things that rise up and attack the living when people die. She expects to have a martyrs death, but Azrael offers her a deal; he will not end the eaters, but he will allow her to continue to ask in exchange for warming his bed.

That's it, and I genuinely didn't expect it to be the best book I've read in several years, but it absolutely was.

-- SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT --

I genuinely cannot stop thinking about this book, and it's given me the book hangover from Hell because I know I will never find something quite like it again.

Azrael is a stunningly compelling character, an immortal being that's been chased, attacked and betrayed by humans since the beginning of time. He doesn't seem to know what exactly he is (my best guess would be he's Azrael, I know I'm a genius), but he knows that he's not human and he doesn't fit in among them no matter how hard he tries to co-exist peacefully. He was born into violence and the violence follows him. He is hard and even downright cruel, but he's also incredibly lonely and has been chasing a way to ease that loneliness for eons. While everything and everyone around him will die and leave him, he raises the dead to be his companions. The problem is that the dead he's raised have been with purpose; he is Lord over them and they are all, to some extent, an extension of himself.

Azrael is aware that he's fearsome, and also grotesque, and so he makes deals with those few living people that do come to him to beg for relief from the eaters he's risen as protection for himself and from a world ravaged by the atomic bomb that humans dropped on him; converse with him, tolerate his bed, and he will provide them with everything they could possibly want or need.

All of this goes about as well as it could be expected to, until Lan comes along. Lan, who already believed she was on a suicide mission and is undetered by threats of death. Lan who is unafraid to treat him like any other man. Lan, who slaps him, and also kisses him of her own volition.

Lan is a compelling character in her own right. She isn't there to do harm, she's only there to beg him not to do harm to the living. Even through his cruelty, she finds compassion for him.

Azrael and Lan are not particularly nice to each other all the time and I see a lot of complaints about that, but the truth is it just works for them and anything else would have almost been insulting. Lan berates and insults, Azrael threatens with no follow through. If they were perfect for each other in the way typical romance novels work, they simply wouldn't be perfect for each other. Azrael is desperate for someone that doesn't worship him but comes to love him despite who and what he is. He finds that in Lan.

The entire book is written through Lan's perspective. Beyond the "romance" of it, there are many thoughtful things to think about through it. Questions like what makes a villain, or what makes something alive. Is it a heartbeat, will, thoughts, a soul? Are the dead any less than the living just because their heart isn't beating anymore? Is it villainous to protect oneself through violent means when the alternative is accepting violent treatment instead?

Imo, there are truly no villains in this story. Everyone is a bit villain, everyone is a bit victim, and that's the beauty of humanity.

There is a happy ending, but it's a very nontraditional happy ending. Which I think fits it perfectly. I could talk about this book literally all day, so I'm going to stop but I'll leave it with a quote.

[little-mouse-gardens]

Character playlist - Wei Xiurong

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

there was something about the way xiurong presented herself and the confidence in her eyes that made the demon kings go silent.

they all stood still as she approached them from the top of the stone steps.

with every stride down the steps, there was strength yet elegance in every step she took.

she approached the demon kings as if she were a king herself.

when she looked at them all, her eyes and the history they told them commanded recognition, respect and warmth.

she kept her head held high without a hint of fear or submission of any kind. she stood straight and poised without even trembling.

her smile was welcoming and warm, yet somehow served as warning to them. a warning to treat her with respect or test her.

for should they knew if they should disrespect her or push her limits, she would make sure everyone knew the suffering that would follow.

looking at her now, she truly personified the strength of a tigress.

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

Everybody wants to rule the world - Lorde

All for freedom and for pleasure Nothing ever lasts forever Everybody wants to rule the world

Blood//water - Grandson

I am the people, I am the storm I am the riot, I am the swarm When the last tree's fallen, the animal can't hide

I am not a woman I'm a god - Halsey

I am not a woman, I'm a god I am not a martyr, I'm a problem I am not a legend, I'm a fraud Keep your heart 'cause I already got one

Hoist the colours - Colm Mcguinness cover

Heave ho, thieves and beggars

Never shall we die

I was here - Beyonce.

I want to leave my footprints on the sands of time Know there was something that, something that I left behind When I leave this world, I'll leave no regrets Leave something to remember, so they won't forget

darling - Halsey

Until it's time to see the light I'll make my own with you each night I'll kidnap all the stars and I will keep them in your eyes I'll wrap them up in velvet twine And hang 'em from a fishin' line So I can see them anytime I like

rise - katy perry

When, when the fire's at my feet again And the vultures all start circling They're whispering, "You're out of time" But still, I rise This is no mistake, no accident When you think the final nail is in, think again Don't be surprised, I will still rise

dynasty - MIIA

Thought we built a dynasty that heaven couldn't shake Thought we built a dynasty like nothing ever made Thought we built a dynasty forever couldn't break up

[seraph1rain]

Champion notes part 2

That said, there is more nuance to this approach because Naomi was being abused herself by the same family and her abusive tendencies were literally her being ordered around by Victor Vesta to do what she was doing. This ultimately makes prism a really hard villain to fight because effectively prism is right about how this system is and how the only way to fix it at this point is to go completely scorched earth or in this example raging blizzard to essentially save everyone from the system itself. Ferdinand and Lily have similar backstories as they're also fallen heroes which goes into the whole motif of fantasy and legacy that I really wanted to comment on with the story. Which actually explains why Niki is a champion despite being so young it's because the abusive system resulted in her becoming a super villain in the first place. What's even worse about it is how her time motif can be read as her not being able to turn back the clock on her actions. Quite literally she's killed too many people in fact she has collectively killed more people than Prism and Lily combined. Which makes sense because each one of the champions is also supposed to have a vice and a virtue. Niki as the sage of stars and ingenuity would inherently be pride. Her pride is effectively what is causing all of the deaths at her hand because she is way too prideful and way too young to actually create mechanical systems that won't hurt anyone. She has way too much pride in her machinery to the extent that she sacrifices innocent lives to obtain her goals of revenge, making her one of the most hard to excuse villains. Even though she is a kid, she's actively done more damage than the other champions and that is why you could objectively argue she's irredeemable that said, the champions are compelling villains because they're technically right. Which means no they are not going to die or lose in the same way the other villains do. Especially considering there are plans for redemption arcs for all four of them. I do want to state though. The whole reason they get redemption arcs is because people actively force them into the situations that they're in. You can argue they're responsible for their own actions all you want. But if you actively force people into these situations, it is actually your responsibility to take accountability for your actions. Which is the motif I go with with the champions which is that society actually needs to take responsibility for these people like the champions because the champions would only effectively be validated for their actions if they were killed. They would all effectively become martyrs and you do not want that because it inherently implies. The system was flawed to begin with and that they were right all along which is why redeeming them is the only option the story can go with because effectively otherwise they would actually be validated for their horrible actions no matter what the story ended with. Which is why I prefer to portray the message that even though their actions are unforgivable, they had reasons for doing them. And ultimately, despite what people might think, their actions are completely excusable because of the way society treated them and that there is no way to effectively deal with this situation without dealing with the root issues in society that systemically cause villains like this to be created. This is because there would just be more people like the champions rising up if this system continues on a broken path like this. Another thing is redemption isn't actually determined by one's actions but one's willingness to change. The champions are not flawless people. In fact, they actively prop up the violent system that they're actively trying to eradicate by approaching everything with violence.

[darkandstormydolls]

MCM

(Meet the character monday?)

I’m not 100% sure how this works, but I’m going to make an educated guess and do my best. And also not let the flow of time restrain me!

My character of today: Camaziel Malaki, from my story Shot At Dawn (which, for context, takes place in an 1890s gaslight fantasy setting)

Camaziel (Cam, to friends and family) is often described by others as a “lonely dreamer”. He tells stories (he used to make them up for Asher, his younger brother, when they were little) and also writes poetry, often in an attempt to make heads or tails of his complex feelings.

Cam has a love of the sky, especially sunrises and sunsets. He has a tendency to climb out on the roof and watch the sun rise or set, or stargaze, or look at the clouds, or watch thunderstorms building over the mountains.

He comes from a small coal mining town in a mountain range called the Kalari Ridge, in a region of the country called Namiah. Namiah used to be it’s own autonomous region, with their own language and culture, but it was taken over by the neighboring country of Lenam and became a full state rather than a territory a few decades back, so they’re sort of gradually assimilating to Lenaman culture. Cam absolutely HATES this. He feels very strongly about the importance of maintaining their culture, and takes this into practice. He learned blanket-weaving, a traditional art that’s fading into obscurity, from his father, and he went out of his way to get the few people left in town who still speak Camaran, their ancestral language, to teach it to him. Leaving Namiah when he’s drafted into the military tears a hole in his heart.

Cam holds extremely firmly to his convictions, whatever people think: that’s what ended up getting him killed. And he’s very empathetic, with a tendency to absorb emotions from other people, especially negative ones like stress or fear. Cam also has some complex feelings about himself; he often can’t see the better parts of himself, and sometimes is convinced that everyone simply can’t see who he really is when this insist that he’s wonderful.

And the “Lonely dreamer” reputation isn’t unearned: Cam tends to be quiet and reserved, always lost in his head, and didn’t really make friends until he left home. People often said that he never really grew up, since he kept taking refuge in fantasies and fairy stories into young adulthood.

As a character, Cam’s very interesting, because he’s not really a character so much as a plot device in a lot of ways: he dies in the very first scene, and his death is what drives the plot. Since he’s dead, the other characters tend to idolize him or at least look at him through rose-tinged glasses, which would make him seem really one-dimensional. So, in an attempt to add another perspective, I included some of Cam’s writing into the story, both some of the self-critical stuff, the letters he wrote to his family and friends after he was sentenced to death, and some of the other things about stories and emotions, which I think adds another fun dimension to his character. He also talks in one of them about how he knows people are going to idolize him after he dies and make him into a martyr, and comments on how they’ll see him so much differently after he’s gone. I also wrote an extension later about what happens to him after he dies, in the afterlife, since I felt he deserved a bit more than being written in just to die.

[eyesoffthemaud]

Post-Midterm Fic Rec List

Hello, my dearest My Hero Academia Readers! Tis' Maud again, and I have a hoard of fics to give to the masses again. I managed to save about 102* My Hero Academia Fanfics that I told myself that I would read..and ended up putting on the back burner.

So, since Midterms are about to be happening on my college campus...I decided to make a Post-Midterm Reading Fic List to share with anyone who’s interested!

I’ve gone through and tagged the authors of these fics! So you can see their other works and send them love through Tumblr. I tagged everyone that I could.

If I missed any please tag them or message me so I can!

Important Note: This list is divided by 4 Sections and in the order it’s:

Authors - Gen - Fluff - Romance

*There are 102 Fanfics that I planned on putting on this reclist. However, since I last did this tumblr has forced a word count upon me and it won't let me post it all together....so keep an eye out for the Angst and Dadmight fic rec list. I'll link it at the bottom of the post once I'm done.

If any fics are in the incorrect section please let me know, some of these fics I haven’t read and I sorted these fics based on the descriptions and tags.

- Gen Fics are all the fics that I personally wasn’t sure would fit into Angst or Fluff.

- I am, burnt out from my own midterms. please remember to read the tags on any and all fics.

Authors

CatchingPurple

CatchingPurple has a lot of geniunely cool ideas that I love reading. One that particularly caught my attention was the Suspected Traitor AU fic. That one personally makes me smile. I love their writing.

Mr_Unsmiley

I genuinely enjoy Mr. UnSmiley's series, Family is Everything (but you get to choose your family). I love the series so much and they're a genuinely talented author. I loved reading the aftermath of a fight they wrote, and how they described having to keep a list of the injuries he had.

s_the_queen

I have many mixed feelings about Bakugou, but oh lord Swag, Swag is my Achilles Heel when it comes to bakudeku fics. Lord I am a weak person, and Swag knows it.

Seeress

Seeress also has, a lot of fun bakudeku fics. Again. My weakness in writing. :sobs:

ThanksSmite

I found Smite on twitter. I combed through their AO3 and I am a happy clam.

CURATOR NOTE: Man, I am not realizing that these are all bakudeku writers (Except Mr. Smiley). Which is absolutely hilarious. I love all of them asdkfakjsdn

Gen

Woes of a Cryptid by AMournfulHowlInTheNight

Hero Manager Midoriya Izuku by Ashynarr

Nothing to fear but Deku Himself by Ironclad_Heart

Margin of Error by ChaosIsOrder

Lucky Penny by VideoPlay5178

Screw You Kacchan! by @passingghostfriend

knowledge comes but wisdom lingers by Ywena

What's Wrong by mycomfortacc

The Lost Brother by Minglisabeth

Divided Against Itself by @highabovethecloudssomewhere

07:05 by @droplet-dread-cat

At childhood's end by @kewltie

Know the Difference by Evil Teddy Bear (TheDragonRider)

die a martyr or live (long enough to become a villain) by luminousbeingsweare

The 18 Reasons Why Aizawa is a Bad Teacher by Mirrond

One for All Rehabilitation Center by tiredwrites

anger like a grip that won't let go / rage that'll tick until it blows by @pocketramblr

All for You by GinkoTracks

Punchline by @cyber-phobia

put your teeth into it by @catlady5001 

Feral by AnonymousTwit

Delusions by @boss-the-goofball 

Golden Boy by Starkvenger

Fluff

love meme, hate meme by @kewltie

flying for dummies by @emeraldsage98 

If You Act Like A Child, I Will Treat You Like A Child by Nezomi

Let Them Eat Cake by @academiccockroach

To the Day's Rising by IncomingAlbatross

Clouds Part by @highabovethecloudssomewhere

If Your Mother Were Here by Dawn_Till_Dusk

despite evasion by @droplet-dread-cat

Romance

Bakudeku

Long Sleeves by loveatfirstsight

No More Secrets by kosadanthebakumother

how to come out (accidentally, by deku) by orangep

His by sister_elric

Why Are The Hot Ones Always Gay? by lisaluu

Backstage Romance by @river-nix

Say I Do (Or I Don't) by @empressvika

Hero Instinct by Ellessey

Ground Zero's Number One Fanboy by tsukithewolf

A Nest for the Best by Camellia_Sinensis

DEADICATION by Doodlejoops

BakuDekuTodo - the big three (romantic) /j

A Not So Sweet Firework Child by LadyGreenFrisbee

ErasureMight - they are the dads

how the turn tables by churchofbakugou

KamiDeku - A rarepair <3

Be Bold by Dawn_Till_Dusk

Original MHA Characters - ....a rarepair? <3

Our Skies by The_Modern_Prometheus

[writer-in-theory]

All This and Heaven Too — harringrove.

Summary: When Billy is forced into a contract with the devil after becoming a Victor of the Hunger Games, Steve is there, always. Prompt: C3 - Star-Crossed Lovers // C2 - Hidden Injuries Pairing: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove Rating: Mature (due to content matter) Word Count: 6.2k Content Warnings: Mild Language, Implied Forced/Coerced Prostitution, Implied Rape/Noncon, Somewhat Ambiguous Ending Read On AO3: Here A/N: This is another fill for @billyhargrovebingo and @harringroveson-bingo !! This is my final fill on my Harringroveson Bingo card, and I have to say I have had an absolutely wonderful time participating in this event. As for this fic, it references plot points from Catching Fire so it may be helpful to be aware of the general plot of it (particularly for why those content warnings are there) but otherwise can be understood without having read The Hunger Games.

Harringroveson Bingo Masterlist // Billy Hargrove Bingo Masterlist

The lights on the stage were bright, heating up Billy’s face until he was sure Steve’s hard work on his makeup was ruined. The feel of the sun warming his skin was a comfort, but this artificial light now only tensed his shoulders and put him on edge like he was still in the arena. He ached to be back home, to sit on the beach under natural heat and disappear from the public’s eyes. 

“Billy Hargrove,” Caesar crooned, dramatically sweeping his hands out in a large show of himself. The man was decked out in all blue, from hair to shoes, in celebration of the District Four win. It was gaudy and awful, making Billy ache to be home by the sea. On any normal year, he and Max would have sat on the couch making fun of the grotesque outfit. “Did you ever expect to find yourself here, in the Victor’s chair?”

Yes, he did, because like hell he’d die in the arena so far from the ocean, from his home. He refused to return home in a cheap wooden box to be given ceremonial rights by the entire district, another martyr sacrificed and mourned. After eighteen years of fearing the very slip of paper that had been pulled that year, Billy couldn’t imagine going out without proving to everyone, to himself, that he was more of a force than anyone could have predicted.

“No, Caesar,” Billy chuckled, pulling on the charming smile he’d practiced with his mentor team. Put on a show, and give the people what they want no matter how much bile was summoned to his throat by the sickly sweet warmth. “It’s what I’d hoped for, of course, but I have to thank all of the people from the Capitol who sponsored me. I couldn’t have done it without their generosity.”

The wink Billy sent the crowd shot a wave of nausea through his stomach, rising up in his throat and stopping his improv-ed speech. Give them a show, but at what cost? Was this what he was expected to be each time a camera was forced into his face? When would the games be over?

“Did you know, Billy, that you raised the most money out of any tribute in any Games? That’s remarkable! You should be proud, my dear boy!”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask for anything better. It’s a dream come true, honestly.”

The roaring crowd felt a little more like a death sentence than a celebration.

“Oh, Billy, c’mere,” Steve spoke the second he opened his door. The man standing in front of him looked like a ghost—tanned face as pale as he’d ever seen it, lips pressed flat and blue eyes staring unseeingly over Steve’s shoulder. “Come here, Bee, I’ve got you.”

The moment Steve got his arms around Billy it was like his puppet strings had been cut, the man falling forward into the embrace. He tucked his face close into Steve’s neck, holding onto the back of his shirt like a lifeline. He didn’t cry—he hadn’t in years, ever since the first few nights—but he did sniff harshly against Steve’s skin like he was physically fighting back the surge of emotions. 

They fell into a familiar routine then, one designed through trial and error, and far too many nights spent recovering like this. Steve coaxed Billy into the large bathroom connected to his bedroom, carefully stripping away the clothes that Billy had to wear for his ‘appointment’, as President Snow had insisted he calls them. Steve had prepared a bath just before Billy had arrived, still as hot and full of bubbles as the man liked it. These baths were a luxury the man hadn’t experienced until coming to the Capitol, where he was allowed to indulge in the life he and his district mates bled for. 

Steve helped Billy into the tub, sitting on a small chair behind him so he could carefully and gently wash Billy’s hair. Steve took his time, massaging the man’s scalp and brushing soap through each lock of hair. He could see the moment Billy relaxed—knees slipping down away from his chest and head leaning back against the edge of the tub. His eyes remained closed for a while and neither of them spoke, leaving Steve to fill the air with the soft humming of a song his mother used to sing to him at bedtime. He’d long since forgotten the words, only clinging to the feeling of comfort the tune brought.

“We could do it, you know.” Billy’s voice was rough and low, yet still echoed off of the high ceilings of the luxurious bathroom.

It was dangerous, speaking so plainly here. Steve’s hands paused in Billy’s hair, slipping down to rest on either shoulder. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the skin there as Steve considered the words carefully.

“Have you ever thought about running away?” a much younger Steve asked from the rooftop of the Tributes Center, arms bracing his body against the railing. 

“No,” Billy answered quickly, sternly. 

“They can’t hear us up here. It’s too windy to put cameras or microphones.” It was impossible to miss the sudden relaxation of Billy’s shoulders at the realization that Steve had considered this, that it wasn’t all some elaborate trap. “It’s the one place we can be real.”

“I’ve never thought about running,” Billy insisted, looking to the side so he could watch Steve’s profile. “I’d consider running with you, though.”

“If that’s what you wanted,” Steve told him once he sparked back to the present, hoping their words were vague enough. It would be silly to think they weren’t being watched at every moment, that nothing was getting back to Snow about the youngest Stylist in the history of the Games and one of the most beloved Victors to date. “If you wanted, we could. I would.”

“You really would?” Billy turned in the tub then so he could look at Steve, leaning up and pressing his hands to Steve’s knees, not caring about the way it soaked his pants. “Even with...everything?”

They’d talked about it before. The wealth, the fame, and the apartment that was more extravagant than anything that existed in Billy’s home District. The life of luxury he’d been born into that Billy had never even had the option to have.

“Without a single second thought,” Steve promised, “I’m going where you’re going, Bee.”

Billy nodded once, relaxing into his new position. He crossed his arms over Steve’s lap, letting his head rest sideways on them so Steve could still run his fingers through blond curls. They stayed like that until the water grew cold, neither of them speaking but never really needing to. It was simply enough to have this time together, even when they knew it wouldn’t last. There would always be a sunrise, and they would always have to get out of bed and pretend they weren’t so close. Steve would have to give bright, praising interviews for Games that made him sick to his stomach, and Billy would continue to do the unthinkable if only to protect his sister.

They would always have nights like these, though. The rest of the world would fall away and they weren’t in the Capitol, they weren’t anything more than Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove, two people who loved each other more than they’d ever loved anyone before.

Steve held onto Billy all night, hoping his gentle fingers might erase every harsh grip his body had been forced to endure.

“Hey, good to finally meet you,” Steve spoke the second he entered the room, hands wringing themselves together to keep from messing with his hair habitually. He didn’t dare look at the tribute until he sat in the soft velvet chair waiting for him—blue, because the designers of the building assumed everything on the District 4 floor ought to be ocean-colored. “I’m Steve Harrington, I’ll be your Stylist for the Games.”

“You,” the tribute clarified, pure amusement in his voice. “That’s a good one, pretty boy. You getting school credit for this?”

“I’m 18, asshole,” Steve snapped immediately. This was the attitude he’d dealt with ever since being chosen for the job—the youngest to ever receive the honor. He was aware that all eyes were on him now, either wishing for him to fail or waiting with anticipation to see what the new generation of designers could bring to the annual honored Games. Steve let his eyes lift from his design book to get his first look at the tribute he’d be working for.

Blue. Blue was all Steve saw, so deep he thought he might drown in it. With curls the color of the sand and freckles splashed across his cheeks as evidence of time spent under the sun, Steve is sure this man was the personification of the beach. 

The tribute also looked smug, like he’d won some secret competition with Steve. “What? Become an Avox over there, pretty boy?”

“My name is Steve,” he insisted, forcing himself to look down at his sketchbook the moment he felt his cheeks heat up. “This is my first year styling for the Games but I am not inexperienced. If you were smart, you’d listen to me.”

“That so?” Billy leaned forward in his chair, smirk turning feral enough that it nearly took Steve’s breath away. His brain sparked with the idea to run, to edge away from this man that looked ready to fight. “I don’t make it a habit to listen to people who call me an asshole.”

“And I don’t make it a habit to save the ass of pompous pricks, but maybe we can both try something new,” Steve snapped before he leaned back in his chair, head tilted back long enough that he could close his eyes and compose himself. No one had ever managed to irritate him as quickly as this tribute did. If they couldn’t figure themselves out, Steve was in for a long few weeks trying to make this man appear charming enough to the Capitol. 

It was only once he felt his heart rate coming down that Steve refocused on Billy. “Listen, we don’t have to like each other. But I want to be the youngest Stylist on a Victor team and you want to not die in a month, so I suggest we work together.”

“Not if you’ll dress me up like a fuckin’ fish,” Billy answered, pure annoyance gathered around every word.

Steve winced at the callback to the Stylist who came before him—an aging man who’d reused the same design year after year with only a few slight color modifications. It was overdone and tacky, doing nothing other than to make District 4 and their tributes look like laughingstocks. 

“I’d rather step into the arena myself than have that mess represent my work,” Steve said bitterly, drawing a shocked burst of laughter from Billy. “No, I have a better idea. And seeing you...it’s perfect.”

Billy raised a brow, shoulders relaxing some after a few sentences of less painful conversation. “Like something you see?”

“You’re terrible,” Steve hissed without the same anger from before. “I was sketching out ideas based on some of the ancient stories that came out of District 4. I’m sure you’re familiar with the God called Triton?”

Something in what Steve said both shocked and softened Billy. He watched the process unfold in front of him—first complete astonishment waking up Billy’s face and then something near fondness settling in on his once harsh features.

“You read the stories?” Billy asked.

“I...yes?” Steve questioned, tilting his head to the side as if that might help figure out the situation. “How am I supposed to represent a District if I don’t know your history?”

“Right,” Billy breathed, shaking his head with wide eyes as if the very thought alone was something perfectly unbelievable. “Let’s get to work then.”

Something was wrong.

Billy didn’t show up after his ‘appointment’. After the first time, barely a year after his victory, when Billy showed up crying, crumpling into Steve’s arms talking about duty, responsibility, and protecting Max, it was all to protect Max, he had shown up every night it happened. 

Steve knew the days the Victor was expected to be in the Capitol—it was impossible to miss the buzzing from men and women alike who all wanted a glimpse of the most successful, most popular Victor to date. None of them knew that it didn’t matter how many looks they stole, how many brief touches and paid-for nights they got, it was Steve that Billy would always return home to at the end of the day.

Until this time, when Steve was left sitting in his entryway waiting by a closed door. 

Steve didn’t sleep that night.

Something was wrong.

“How are you feeling?”

It was cold, on the rooftop of the Tribute Center. Still, it was their place, carved out of a dangerous world only meant to harm, a sanctuary they could find peace for a fleeting moment. Billy was still in his interview outfit, all blues meant to pull out the color of his eyes and remind the people of his warmth. He was stood just at the walled railing, bent forward onto his arms resting against the top of the half-wall. The man had pulled his hair down out of the perfectly styled bun Steve had created, leaving golden curls blowing around his shoulders in the wind. He looked perfectly God-like, more reminiscent of Triton than he had been in costume.

Billy shrugged at the question, not taking his eyes off the lights of the Capitol. No one would sleep on a night like this—Steve could remember every all-nighter on Hunger Games Eve, everyone drinking and celebrating, placing bets on who would be a part of the Bloodbath and who would make it out of the first day set up well to win. He could hear the beginnings of said celebrations down below, practically on another planet from how distanced Steve felt from it now. 

There wasn’t much to celebrate, tonight.

“Feelin’ fine,” Billy answered simply.

“Really?” Steve stepped forward next to him, close enough their shoulders were barely brushing. “It’s okay if you’re not. I couldn’t imagine what you’re feeling now, stepping into...this.”

“I know you can’t.” It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly it made Steve wince. There was nothing factually incorrect, nothing particularly cruel or disparaging, just the simple acknowledgment that Steve truly would never understand what Billy was facing, what he would be forced to do in less than 24 hours.

“I’m sorry.”

Billy scoffed then, as though a mere apology were the thing that could make him angry. “What the hell’re you sorry for?”

When Steve didn’t answer right away, he finally turned to face him. His blue eyes were alight with more than just the moon’s reflection, something more powerful lingering underneath. “What. Are you. Sorry for?”

“I—” Steve chuckled with only the barest breath, running his fingers sharply through his hair when the understanding came rushing toward him. “For having what I have, I guess. For...being born where I was. It’s kinda stupid, isn’t it?”

“Not stupid, pretty boy,” Billy answered, eyes narrowing just enough to get his seriousness across. His lips parted to say something, but the words couldn’t escape before the man was turning his head to look out at the city again. “I’ll miss this the most, I think.”

“The view’s gorgeous,” Steve agreed, forcing his eyes away from Billy’s profile and out at the skyline.

“Not the view,” Billy corrected as gently as Steve had ever heard him. “You. I’m gonna miss you.”

“You say that like you won’t make it out.”

Another shrug again, this one sending a sharp spike into Steve’s heart. Billy was saying it so casually, so simply like the thought of his death wasn’t a new one. Steve supposed for the people of the Districts, it wasn’t. 

“One in twenty-four.”

“One in twenty-four,” Steve repeated, daring to reach out a hand to rest on Billy’s arm. “That’s not zero. You have to come back. For Max, for your friends, for...for me.”

“For you?” Billy asked then, turning his head to reveal the soft amusement glittering in his eyes. “Can’t let you go 0-1, right?”

It wasn’t what he meant, and Steve is sure Billy knows it. He can almost see the request in Billy’s features now, though, the reminder that for Billy everything could be over in a few short weeks. Even as soon as tomorrow, they just didn’t know. Don’t leave him yearning for what he might not get, and don’t leave him distracted tomorrow, Steve can practically hear it yelled between them.

So as much as he wants to say the truth, Steve nods. “You better not ruin my record, Billy. I’ll never forgive you.”

If Billy noticed the slight wobble in Steve’s voice, he didn’t say a word.

Steve nearly cried when a knock on the door sounded the next day.

Any other time he might’ve felt embarrassment course through him at the speed with which he yanked the door open, but now all he felt was sheer relief that Billy had come back.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, and at any second Snow could make his checkmate move to end the whole show.

“Billy,” Steve breathed, reaching out for a hug but stopping short at the other man’s wince. “Oh.” He allowed his hands to hover uselessly in the air before his mind sparked to life with the memory of their routine. “Right. Let’s get you a bath, okay?”

“No.” Billy’s voice was tight like he was fighting off either pain or tears or maybe all of the above. “No bath, just need you tonight.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said softly, moving aside so Billy could step into the apartment. Billy moved like he was on auto-pilot, ghosting through the place until he reached the bedroom. All Steve could do was follow helplessly behind, something dark and cold settling uncomfortably in his stomach. It had never been this bad before, and Steve felt the sharp pang of guilt flood him at the realization that he had no idea what to do to fix it. “Billy, what do you need? Please, what can I do?”

“Just need you,” Billy repeated, voice gruff as he barely waited to slip off his shoes before collapsing into the bed. 

There had to be more. There was no way it was only him that Billy needed, that there really was nothing more obvious Steve could do to help than be beside him. And yet, that was what Billy requested and so it would be what he got. So Steve complied, slipping off his shirt and crawling into bed behind Billy. He pressed as close as possible, wrapping his arms around the man’s body and holding tight. Some appointments were worse than others, some with arrogant Capitolites who seemed to want to win over a Victor themselves. It was never like this though, pulling Billy tight like a rope and seemingly sucking every ounce of fight from his body. They didn’t talk for a long time, Steve simply holding on until he felt Billy begin to relax against him, pushing further back into his hold. When Billy’s fingers traced over the hand Steve had pressed to his chest, Steve knew that he’d come back from wherever his mind had been since the previous evening. 

“Who was it?” Steve murmured into the back of Billy’s neck.

“Brenner,” Billy breathed back, a hand squeezing tight to hold onto the one Steve had pressed against Billy’s clothed chest. “Hey, I’m fine, pretty boy, don’t worry about me.”

Steve sucked in a sharp breath at that one. Brenner was known to be nasty and cruel, even before Steve had been enlightened to the true horrors of the Games. He was Head Gamemaker, popular with the Capitolites for coming up with new and disturbing creatures to stick on the tributes each year. Every year they grew more horrific, more deadly until they almost did more damage than the tributes themselves. He didn’t think the man’s reputation could be any more sinister, and yet he’d managed to surpass any and all expectations. 

“I’ll kill him.” Fear lurched in Steve’s chest when he found the sentiment wasn’t entirely false. No, the next time he was in the same room with the Gamemakers he’d have to steer clear of the man lest he makes the news for becoming the first murderer in the Capitol since its creation. He would though, if it meant Billy never had to hurt like this again, if the man only ever knew peace after this night. 

“How was your day?” Billy insisted.

“Terrible and boring, better now that you’re here,” Steve spoke quickly, distractedly. All he wanted was to focus on Billy, to make sure that he was okay. It didn’t matter what tedium his day consisted of, not when something far more disturbing had befallen Billy. “Are you hurt?”

“Why was it terrible?”

“Billy.” Steve wanted to cry. The back of Billy’s neck was wet, so maybe he already was crying. It was hard to be aware of anything beyond the anguished panic setting deep into Steve’s bones. “Please.”

“What made your day so terrible, Steve?”

Steve sighed, defeated. He knew this game too well and knew better than to go toe-to-toe at it with the Victor. “The Quarter Quell announcement is next week. Promotions for the Games have started back up. Having to be in a room with them all, pretending like all of it is just o—”

“Steve.” Billy’s voice was gentle, though the squeeze of his hand was not. A reminder.

“It’s boring, meeting with these men. Worse now that I know what they did to you. I just want to ki—,” Steve finished, knowing Billy was aware of what he’d meant. It was cruel, to pretend that he was still in love with these Games when all they’d done was torture one of the most brilliant men Steve had ever met, the only man who had ever made Steve feel alive. “Wanted to be with you instead.”

“Me too,” Billy said, “Thought about our place.” And that, alone, was enough to account for a million words. There was something to talk about, something that needed to be said away from the prying eyes and ears of the Capitol. In a week, Steve could hear what Billy wanted to say.

Maybe they were really running away together.

Every thought was halted the moment Billy tried to shift in Steve’s arms, though. He moved his hips first, unable to stop the pained whimper that slipped at the movement, exacerbated by the jolt from his abdomen. 

Billy was hurt. He was hurt, maybe had been since yesterday, and he hadn’t told Steve. They’d been laying in bed for ages and all he’d done was let Steve hold on, never minding how much it must have ached.

Billy was hurt.

“Billy,” Steve spoke then, voice more insistent as he lifted himself up to look at him properly. “Please, let me see. I need to take care of you.”

“It’s fine,” Billy grunted out, turning his face to hide it further into the pillow.

“It’s not fine,” Steve insisted. “You’re hurt and you’re hiding it. Fucking Brenner, he hurt you and I almost didn’t—you could’ve—”

Billy at least was ready to put Steve out of his misery. He sat up and pulled his shirt off, revealing miles of tanned skin once perfected by the repair process all victorious tributes go through now mottled harshly with bruises. Around his ribs, across his chest—where Steve’s hand had once dug in, how much that must have ached—all the way down his sides where dark bruises in the shape of fingers were pressed deeply into the skin around Billy’s hips and—

God, Steve thought he might be sick. 

“Billy,” he breathed, fingers reaching out to brush idly over one of the marks, tears clinging to his cheeks as the Victor grabbed his hand and placed it on Billy’s cheek instead. The man’s tears ran over Steve’s thumb, gathering there in the space between thumb and forefinger. “Is this everything? Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he—”

“Steve.” Billy’s voice was pained, tightened with every ounce of emotion coursing through him. “I don’t want you to see that. Let me keep it separate, who I am with you and what I am for them.”

Nothing else would hurt quite like this. Knowing Billy was in pain, knowing deep down what other injuries Billy was begging to keep concealed from him, knowing it was Steve’s people that were doing this to him, and if he were to do anything about it they would both be doomed. Steve had never felt so helpless, so completely and utterly defeated by the world around them.

“Okay,” Steve conceded, wishing the acceptance wasn’t the only thing he could do to help Billy now. “Okay, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Don’t do anything, Steve,” Billy told him as Steve gathered him back up in his arms, now more aware of where his hands rested. “You can’t.”

“I could,” Steve whispered to the darkened room. “They all love you. If they knew what was happening. If they knew that we...they’d put a stop to it for us.”

“I’ll be okay,” Billy told him, turning gingerly so he could face Steve. They were so close Steve couldn’t really see him, could barely focus his eyes on that button nose he loved so much. “Steve, things are...it’s dangerous, talking like that. Things are changing, you can’t...I need you safe.”

Billy was speaking barely over a whisper, barely audible even in the silent bedroom. It was all so strange, too oddly worded to make even a bit of sense. 

“What are you saying? Billy, what are you doing?” This was dangerous. Each move could be their last, every misstep carefully marked down by Snow until enough strikes were gathered to doom them. Even this, allowing themselves the time to hold each other, could be enough and yet there Billy was, talking about danger and change and—oh.

“The girl from Eleven,” Steve mouthed, didn’t even dare to breathe the words to life for all the weight they carried. Jane from District Eleven was barely twelve years old and still, she’d been reaped. Still, she had fought the odds and won, and still, she’d forced the gamemakers to change the rules for her. She’d refused to kill the final boy, refused to be the harbinger of death that Brenner and the rest of the Capitol had demanded she be. She’d changed the rules of the Games—did Billy mean she was meant to change the rules of Panem?

“Our place,” Billy promised instead of answering, reaching out to press gentle lips to Steve’s. “Then.”

The summons from President Snow wasn’t a surprise after the Quarter Quell announcement. 

When Snow had stood at the podium and announced this year’s tributes would be Reaped only from previous Victors, Steve couldn’t help but feel those cold gray eyes had stared directly at him, that every emotionless damnation of the people who’d come out of the gauntlet alive was meant simply to punish him and Billy.

Steve considered not attending, though the thought only lasted a fleeting moment before he considered what his execution might do to Billy’s focus. 

Because Steve knew his love, knew that Billy would sooner volunteer himself for death before he allowed anyone else to take the fall. 

So Steve dressed up in his newest suit—a silver thing, with sparkling accents that screamed the elegance associated with the Harrington name. He accepted the escort car to the President’s manor and composed himself for a full minute before stepping into Snow’s office. This would be the most dangerous game he ever played, stepping directly into the lion’s den and expecting to be let back out at the end.

“Mr. Harrington, I was pleased you accepted my invitation for tea,” the president spoke, standing by a little wooden table set up by the large window in the corner. Already prepared were two cups of tea, waiting like dark omens of what was to come.

Steve wasn’t naive to what this meeting was—he may be young, but he was a Harrington. He’d been involved in these games from the time he could speak, attending meetings with the most influential people in the Capitol and learning every secret they were willing to divulge. He knew what happened to those marked an enemy by Snow, and knew what was expected of him now.

“How could I refuse such a generous offer?” Steve kept to the script, waiting until President Snow sat down until he slid into his own seat. He let his fingers rest on the handle of the cup but didn’t move it to his lips yet, waiting. “Though I have to admit, I’m not sure I should be wasting the president’s precious time.”

“No? The youngest Stylist in Hunger Games history, the youngest Stylist to produce a Victor, I must say, you’ve impressed me, Mr. Harrington.”

“Please, sir, Steve is fine. Mr. Harrington was my father,” Steve said, polite smile cold on his lips. “You’re too kind, I could hardly take credit for being on a Victor’s team. That was all Billy.”

“Yes, Mr. Hargrove. He’s something of a marvel, isn’t he?”

Snow’s words were still polite, and gentle, but his expression was anything but. There was a coldness in his eyes, a hardness that reminded Steve of all the rumors he’d been told about people on this side of the table from him. Snow was a snake, and had the venom to match. 

“He is,” Steve agreed slowly, fingers tightening around his cup of tea. “I imagine we won’t have a Victor quite like him for some time.”

“I’ve heard reports of you becoming close with Mr. Hargrove. Quite unconventional for a Stylist, yes?”

Steve nodded, tongue re-wetting his lips while he stalled for an answer befitting his image. “I don’t tend to stick to normal convention, sir.”

“No, you don’t, do you?” Snow chuckled before his expression dropped, revealing every ounce of danger that Steve had been warned of all at once. “Tell me, Steve, what is it that you and Mr. Hargrove talk about? After all, you can’t have that much in common with the man.”

“That’s exactly what we talk about,” Steve lied. “He tells me about District 4, and I tell him about growing up in the Capitol. It’s fascinating, hearing how different it is.”

Snow hummed, clearly displeased by the answer. “Steve, I must admit I do hate liars. If this conversation is to continue I do ask that you provide me the truth.”

The truth meant certain death. Though, Steve supposed that the opposite was also true now. This was an Execution Trap, meant simply to lure Steve in. No choice would be enough now, he knew it.

It had to be about protecting Billy now, and whatever change he was sure Jane from District Eleven could bring.

“Well, I have to admit I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Steve answered, allowing his voice to sharpen. “I’m nothing if not honest.”

“What are you willing to do for him, Steve?” Snow asked, shoulders calm and voice relaxed like he did this every day. He likely did. “You could have everything you dreamed of. Your choice of Districts to style for, every interview you could imagine. You would never want for anything if you gave up this silly game now.”

“I’m actually pretty fond of the silliness. I haven’t gotten to experience much of that before.” Steve smirked at the quick flash of anger that cracked Snow’s perfectly constructed mask.

“You know what they’re planning, Steve. You would give up everything for them? For him?”

Steve hummed then too, sitting back in his seat. “I would give all this and more for him. That is your greatest weakness, sir: you can’t understand why I would.”

“Then I believe this conversation is over. You haven’t even touched your tea, you should finish it before you leave.”

Steve understood the demand for what it was. Pride swelled in his chest when his hand didn’t shake as he brought the cup to his lips. The tea tasted bitter on his tongue as he downed the cup in one go.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth by the time he set the cup back down.

Checkmate.

“This is your beach?”

Steve had never seen a place quite like District 4. He’d never been outside of the pristine cityscape of the Capitol, never having a reason to before Billy became a Victor.

“This is the one,” Billy said, grabbing onto Steve’s hand to guide him through the sand. The Victory Tour would begin tomorrow, where the near-nineteen-year-old would have to give speeches for all the tributes he killed or who tried to kill him. For this moment, however, all that existed in Steve’s mind was this: the beach, the gentle crash of the waves on the sand, the sun warming Steve’s shoulders and face, the feel of Billy’s large hand over his own with every callous carefully built through years of fishing erased in a moment. “Used to come here every day with my mom, then with Max or a friend. It’s peaceful.”

“It is,” Steve agreed, wishing he’d been able to see the water sooner. “I’d like to live here. You and I, get a little house by the beach. Can you imagine it?”

“Yeah,” Billy breathed. “Yeah, I can. No one knows who we are.”

“No one knows where we are.”

“Just you and I.”

“None of these dangerous games, no careful moves and strategies lies. Just the beach.”

“We’ll have it someday,” Billy spoke, more sure than Steve could ever think to be about it.

“You promise?”

Billy smiled, looking far happier under the sun here than he’d ever looked in the Capitol. He was alive here. 

“I promise, pretty boy. We’ll have this.”

“So tell me, Billy,” Caesar began, shifting in his seat to cross one leg over the other. “You’re twenty-six. You were eighteen when you won your Games, how do you feel about being back in the arena now?”

“You want my honest answer?”

Caesar laughed, clapping his hands dramatically. “Of course! We wouldn’t want to hear any less from the fan favorite.”

“Well,” Billy started, glancing off to the front row of the crowd where Steve was sitting with the other Stylists. Steve knew the Victors had some plan, knew they were trying to get these Games stopped before they had to protect Jane in the arena. He knew whatever it was had to be risky, and could topple down everything that the Victors who’d volunteered were trying to create. “I wish I could say something good, Caesar, but I admit I’m heartbroken.”

“Heartbroken!” Caesar exclaimed, clutching his hand over where his own might have once rested. “What could have our shining star so heartbroken?”

“What else, Caesar? Love. I’m in love and because of these Games I might never get to tell them.”

Oh fuck.

“Love,” Casesar glanced off-screen with an air of nervousness. The other seven tributes before Billy had done much of the same, trying to pit emotions against the Capitol. After all, they’d been taught to fall in love with each of these Victors and now were being forced to watch them kill each other in a few short weeks. No one was quite as successful as Billy yet, though, who was already sparking murmurs throughout the crowd. “I wouldn’t count yourself out just yet, Billy. This lucky girl is waiting for you back home, surely that’s motivation enough to win.”

“Oh no, Caesar,” Billy said, turning to stare directly at Steve with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. We could change everything.

“He isn’t waiting for me back home. He’s been here this whole time. I’m afraid Steve’s going to have to dress me up for slaughter again, right when we thought we had the happy ending promised to us, to me.”

The crowd was nothing less than explosive. Loud shouts of shock, horror, brief elation at the fact that two of the most popular young men in Panem were in love, and screams for the Games to end, rippled through the crowd. It didn’t stop at Billy, either. With each new Victor, another claim was made, another push for the Games to be halted. The crowd was restless around Steve, agitated beyond belief.

They might really do this.

It may not be enough to stop the Games, or even to allow Steve and Billy the peaceful ending they’d wished so hard for. Steve didn’t know if this would be enough to give him and Billy their beach, but it sparked the starter fire that would take over Panem. Finally, finally, the Capitol was beginning to see and could understand the blood that painted their hands with each new year. 

As the crowd raged around him, Steve looked up at President Snow’s viewing box and smirked.

The stage lights went dark.

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[erratic-brainrot]

Talk about Kyle

Talk about Kyle you say? Uhm, what a captivating request haha.

Especially with the vagueness of such a request, no specifications…

Lately a lot of talk around Kyle has been a defence of his moral character or general anayalists (meta), all of which I adore and love…

But I simply crave to go balls to the wall about a headcanon in a public space so everyone can further this discussion.

So, with that in mind, I present you all with my very important headcanon that unnecessarily has way too many layers to it…

Kyle is a private fiction writer. Aka he writes for his own amusement in heavy lengths and doesn’t show anyone (at least currently or is just in general secretive about it).

I don’t view it as a passive pastime either, instead being a significant hobby with high effort in creating and improving. Making full blown character charts, making world-building docs, doing writing exercises, following a lot of accounts about writing advice and general fiction, even commissioning artists to draw his OCs because he genuinely enjoys them.

It’s serious to him. Something he is genuinely dedicated to.

Though I don’t think Kyle would limit himself in genres, I see him mostly writing fantasy. He would enjoy the free range fantasy has within its world-building compared to other genres, as well as the escapism within it. Kyle would enjoy being able to get lost in a world that felt fair. To be absorbed into a world that is within his control, differing from what plights of his own. Often writing fantastical stories about heros who rise to the occasion and rein victorious, of communities where he’d be accepted as a person, of characters who share relationships he craves and so forth. His fiction would where he could indulge his own wants and needs that he struggles to obtain in his reality.

One of those needs being, likely unknown to him originally, to tackle and digest in a control environment the problems that inflict his reality. A majority of which actually get him to a deeper level of understanding, giving him some more ground to handle a situation. Not all attempts are perfect, since Kyle does have a penchant for self-destructive mindsets— mostly aligned with his martyr and guilt complex. Often recreating situations that he struggles within his reality, and through the force of being the writer, having to come up with a ‘correct’ conclusion. Oftentimes having to question whether or not he's the bad guy circumstance, with him failing to see the truth through the lense of his own personal view of himself at times.

Even with those possible missteps, he feels better within his fiction. It is overall helpful to him. This could change based on your own Headcanons, but I can see Kyle truthfully coming to terms with his orientation through his writing— specifically his crushes. It also helped him put into perspective his familial and platonic relationship. Something that increases when he actively interjects traits of people he knows into his characters. For me, as the filthy polyarnous shipper i am, see him coming to terms with one of his fictional works that are heavy interjects of himself and his friends/loved ones… which leads him to discover, through writing characters similar to Wendy and Stan that he doesn’t envy their romance as someone simply lacking their own—- that instead he seems to want either of them romantically… but he also doesn’t like the concept of choose one or the other, nor breaking up their relationship, etc, etc.

Though he would have multiple stories/universes, I feel like his favourite to write about is the one with many character injections— including himself; which was because he actually enjoyed the story of “stick of truth” but wanted to develop something similar without Cartman’s Pro(?) bigotry and less fear within creativity. It’s one of the stories he feels most embarrassed about since it isn’t just basic creativity and overtly personal and referencing real people even if the characters are different from who they're based on. Aka kyle would die if anyone ever found out about it, and why he protects it with every ounce of his being because people like Eric Cartman exist purely to bring his life pain.

I could go more into detail about the fictional world he would have and such, but I got the main points out. I like this headcanon and would enjoy hearing other concepts in reference to this that others have. :D thank you for reading!!!

[notebooks-and-laptops]

my twisted knife, my sleepless night, my winless fight, this has frozen my ground

okay this is the last draft I have to touch up and post today, sorry for the sudden influx of fics. This one is also pretty dark as a warning, exploring Anders (and Justices) thoughts and feelings the night before The Last Straw. Full warnings, as well as the fic, are available on AO3 here!

-///-

Preparations have been all that has consumed them for months.

There are none left to make.

The explosives are set. The time is decided. Whispers from the Mage Underground come in fits and stutters but they all point to Meredith’s delusions about blood magic rising and her thirst for power with them. Orsino can no longer hold her at bay.

No half measures. Tomorrow, for good or ill, the world stops waiting and putting up blockades against the inevitable. Tomorrow, justice will be set in motion even if doing so can only be achieved by the most unjust of actions.

Anders takes a deep breath. Something stirs at the base of his lungs, or, then again, maybe it doesn’t. Justice. Sometimes, he thinks he feels him in his body like a physical thing but he’s still not sure if that’s just wishful thinking or perhaps phantom sensations as his brain tries to cope with being not just one but two. Even after all these years he has no solid answer. He doubts they ever will.

But Justice is there. There. He is the only comfort that Anders will get today, and he clings to him desperately. He lets his thoughts float when he can in that space where they are neither one nor the other, but instead both. It’s comforting.

Or rather, it’s usually comforting.

But today…

“Here,” Anders wraps the bandage around the little girls cut knee. She fell, and the wound wasn’t deep, but in Dark Town infection rates are far too high. Her mother hangs off in the background, worried.

Anders wants to tell her; stay out of High Town tomorrow evening.

Instead, he gives a weak smile, “stay safe,” he murmurs as the girl jumps off the bed and runs back to her mother.

He prays that his unspoken warning will be heeded. They have wanted to tell everyone who has walked through their doors today, but if even one person let slip that the healer had told them so…their plan was too delicate, too fragile.

Already they had risked too much by telling Sebastian that Hawke would require his assistance tomorrow evening when Hawke had asked him to tell him no such thing. If they let it slip to too many people all of this would be for nothing…

They couldn’t let it all go to waste.

So instead, they watch, and the thought comes once again to Anders’ mind what will it feel like to die? And the hope comes once again I hope Justice can return to the fade afterwards.

There is an answer, in the thoughts that are Not His; I hope I will not.

Anders is aware what Justice wants and it makes tears prick in the corner of their eyes. To know Justice wants to die by Hawke’s hand just as they do, tomorrow, when it’s all over and Hawke sees them for the monster Fenris and Aveline and Sebastian have always told them they are…

But Spirits don’t die, not like mortals. They persist.

Is Justice still Spirit enough to persist? Are they enough two people that Justice could just leave Anders body and return to the fade? Or are they too much the same person that they cannot be without the other.

Anders doesn’t know, but he hopes.

Justice doesn’t know, but he hopes.

They always hate it when their hopes conflict in such ways.

But there is at least one hope they still share.

Hawke.

It’s not well defined, not a wish, not really even a want. It is just one word: Hawke. It presses to the places where they overlap, slipping in through Ander’s weakness for pretty things and passionate people and nestling in Justice’s desire for humans to do right.

Hawke is their hope. When they start a war tomorrow, when Hawke presses a dagger into their chest, Hawke will take over. The mage rebellion…it might remember him as a martyr, or it might remember him as a killer. Whatever it thinks of him, it will need a leader and one whose hands are clean. It’s why they couldn’t tell her. Because she has to be that person. She has to be.

They ask too much of her.

But still, they hope.

Still, they believe.

If not in the Maker, if not in the chantry, or society, or Andraste, they believe in Hawke.

And right now, they long to go to her.

Instead, Ander’s checks the lantern to make sure it is still burning and invites in another sick patient. They still have time. They can heal, and heal, until all that’s left in them is destruction. And then they will go home – home – and they will crawl into Hawke’s bed and they will kiss her and kiss her until it’s all they know.

They will try not to make it feel like a goodbye.

But Hawke is so clever. She’s passionate and loud and she knows them inside and out. It’s dangerous to love. It’s fascinating. Anders loves with the memory of Karl on his mind; he knows how love can break you apart. Justice loves with the memory of Aura and how he’d wondered at the passion she felt for the rotting body he once wore. They both know love differently now, in Hawke. They know a love that is sure and true and beautiful and their own, a love that could last forever if it wasn’t for what they had to do tomorrow.

No. No. They cannot think about some…some undefined hope, a maybe they’d let themselves have before things became so dark. Hawke and their love for her…it was a good maybe, the best maybe of either of their lives, but it was always just that: a maybe. And what they are – apostates – well. It was always going to keep that maybe just out of reach.

Anders heals instead. Heals another. And another. He’s careful, gentle, holding his tongue against the warnings that threaten to spill out.

Is it an injustice to keep his lips sealed?

He hates that he doesn’t know anymore.

He hates what they’ve become.

They are not themselves anymore, they are…an instrument. They are what is necessary.

Necessity doesn’t leave a lot of room for who they used to be.

Darkness, hovering. Between each patient, Anders thinks about leaving and going to be with the others.

If he left now, he could have one last round of wicked grace with Varric.

If he left now, he could have one last argument with Fenris.

If he left now, he could have one last drink with Isabela.

If he left now, he could have one last laugh with Merrill.

But time ticks on. Ticks on later and later. He continues to heal. He drinks a lyrium potion to keep himself going, to keep himself awake.

The sick always need healing, here.

Kirkwall has never had any justice within its walls.

So, he heals. And as he does, he loses his last chance at…at something. At goodbye.

He wants to go to Hawke.

He wants to make love to her one final time.

He wants to hold her in his arms and feel her heart beating in her chest.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

But he’s so scared she’ll know.

It’s well past midnight, by the time he finally closes the clinic. He takes his time. It is the last time he will come here. He used to hate it; the smell, the sound, the fact that this – a hole in the ground – was the best health care that Kirkwall could afford its citizens. He was eager to leave when Hawke offered to let him move in.

Funny, how something he once hated could make him feel so nostalgic. So sad.

He puts out the lamp. The healer in darktown will not operate anymore.

There is nothing but destruction and death in his bones.

He picks his way through the underground cellars; the old slaver passageways that lead to the basement of Hawke’s house. Sometimes, late at night, he’s attacked down here, but not this evening. Not tonight.

Kirkwall is…almost peaceful. It waits with bated breath.

Orana has left the candles lit for him, though she has retired from her rooms. Dog is nowhere to be seen. Anders wonders if he’ll be safe, after this. He never much liked the animal, but he knew Hawke loved the big mangy thing.

Anders wants to go straight to Hawke, but instead, he hesitates. By the fire, by the window. He sees the books that Hawke has been teaching Fenris to read from. He sees Varric’s scribbles in Hawke’s journals. A letter from Carver on the desk. A halla statue gifted by Merrill on Hawke’s last nameday. The lock is broken on the chest on the landing, a sure sign that Isabela had been there.

He feels justice stir inside him again, just as eager as he is to be in her arms, for him to stop this melancholy that he’s torturing himself with. It won’t help. It won’t help either of them.

He gives in, eventually, when there’s nothing left to procrastinate with.

He readies himself for what he has to say, the love he has to pour out.

He opens the door.

He opens the door, and she is asleep.

She is not up reading. She is not freshly back from the hanged man. She is fast asleep, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, her chest rising up and down slowly.

A pang presses in his chest. He knows he will not wake her.

He knows he must be gone early in the morning.

He knows he’s lost his chance to say goodbye to her too.

Tomorrow, when she sees him…they’ll be nothing between them but betrayal.

He takes a shuddering breath.

Perhaps it was for the best.

He runs. Ander’s always run away. From everyone and everything. Even from this. He’s never been good at goodbyes. He just runs away from them.

Tomorrow…the world would change, and everything in it.

There would be no place left for the friends of Kirkwall, or his lover and her blood-stained nose.

[mediocre-writerr]

state of grace [leah rilke]

leah rilke x fem reader

requested: Could I request a Leah x insomniac reader, it’s so cool finally finding someone to do wilds imagines !!

*not my gif*

This wasn’t unusual for you. Not being stranded on a deserted island, but the restlessness. 

Despite your plane just crashing all of the girls seemed to be sleeping peacefully. You, no you couldn’t do it. And it wasn’t your choice, it was just how your body worked. 

You just continued to lay there the stars shining down upon you and the rest of the girls. The ocean breeze rippling along your body. 

Letting your mind wander, you just couldn’t think about anything else, other than how you’re gonna help the rest of the girls survive. We need a shelter, water, food, and to not kill each other. 

That’s easier said than done.

You always had that hero-complex to you. You would die a martyr if you could 

You don’t know how long you were laying there, but the sun started to rise over the big trees of the jungle. And you sat up in your spot, waiting for the rest of the girls to wake up. 

The tiredness already affecting your body, just like it always did. 

As the rest of the girls started to wake up Leah approached you, “Hey, you were up early.” she whispers to you.

On the plane before it all went to shit, she was the one Shelby partnered you up with to get to know each other. And you weren’t complaining. She caught your eye on the plane.

Her nose stuck into a book and her brunette hair framing her face perfectly. 

“Oh yeah. I couldn’t sleep much last night.” you reply with a shrug.

All of you decide to separate and scavenge for things that may have washed up from the wreckage. And Toni and Shelby went to go look for fresh water.

You were walking with Leah along the beach, “You know those cheesy people who enjoy long walks on the beach will really enjoy this island.” you make a joke.

She snickers, a small smile appearing onto your face, “You know you’re probably right.” 

The two of you continue to walk in silence looking around to find something. When she finally broke the comfortable silence.

“So you and Shelby?” she asks.

You hum in response, “What about me and Shelby?” 

“You guys went to the same school, you looked pretty close.” she draws out and you finally catch on to what she’s implying.

“Oh no. Me and Shelby are just friends. Best friends actually, she’s the one who suggested that I come with her.” you respond. 

“Oh okay.” you hear Leah say and you could practically hear the smile in her voice.

“Are you smiling?” you ask, finally looking back at her nudging her shoulder.

“Noooo.” she says, but it was very unconvincing.

You nod in response, “Mhm okay.”

The two of you continue talking about everything and anything. Not getting too personal, but personal enough to actually get to know each other. And out of everyone you were paired with, you were happy it was with her.

The tiredness that you had from the sleepless time on the plane to last night was still weighing heavy on you. It was hard to fight off the feeling, but you didn’t want to weigh everyone down. 

“Hey Y/L/N!” Dot yelled gesturing for you and Leah to follow, “Look at all of these Diet Coke cans! Catch!” 

She threw you one, but it fell onto the floor in a little carbonated explosion. The can spraying all over the three of you. 

“Shit. Sorry. I don’t know what happened.” you mumble apologetically.

“Well we’re down one can, but it’s fine Butterfingers.” Dot teases, patting your back and carrying a few cans back to camp. 

But you know exactly what happened. Your acute insomnia was really starting to take effect.

The rest of the nights were restless. All of the girls would get some sleep, but you stayed up. And as much as you wanted to you couldn’t. So you just stayed up, making sure nothing would attack them.

You usually took medicine for it, but since your bag was lost at sea that was out of the question. 

And your sleepless nights was really taking an affect and everyone could tell now. 

“Shelby please! I’m fine!” you yelled at your blonde best friend.

You just burned your arm while boiling the fresh water Fatin found. You didn’t know what happened, you just forgot what you were doing. Getting distracted by the stupid bird that flew overhead. 

When someone called out your name, you accidentally knocked the boiling water onto your arm. Shelby immediately arrived at your aide along with Leah who soaked the newly fresh water that you found on your burn. 

You weren’t angry at her, but you were angry at yourself for losing focus so easily. 

“Obviously you’re not Y/N. You’re blistering up!” the rest of the girls left the three of you space, surprised at how your calm demeanor was turning more and more irritable as the days went by. 

You knew fighting with her wasn’t going to help your case. So you just sat there in silence, wincing at Leah’s gentle touches. 

“Have you been sleeping?” Shelby whispered. 

You were gonna lie and tell her that you were getting some sleep. But as the words were about to leave your mouth, she already caught the look in your eyes, “Don’t lie to me Y/N. Lord knows the truth.” 

Shrinking at her words, you shook your head, “When was the last time you got sleep?” Leah asks.

“Two nights before we left.” you mumble, feeling embarrassed.

“That’s almost 10 days Y/N!” Leah exclaims, worry overwhelming her features. 

You felt guilty that you worried her, but you didn’t want to worry anyone. All of you had more important things to worry about than your sleep schedule. 

“Did you bring your pills?” Shelby chimed in and you nod.

“They were in my suitcase.” you say.

“Shit.” she mumbled. 

Leah’s eyes brightened, “I’ll stay up with you tonight. See if we can get you some sleep.”

“No it’s really okay-” you were about to continue, but she cut you off.

“I’m staying up with you.” she says sternly and you reluctantly nod.

That night you and Leah were sitting next to one another. Your shoulders resting against one another. Shelby was fast asleep next to where you two sat. She wanted to stay up, but Shelby was always the one to fall asleep first to an all nighter that she recommended. 

Leah rested her head on your shoulder as the breeze hit the two of you. 

“Thank you for staying up with me.” you whisper, “It gets kind of lonely.” 

“Anytime, but let’s lay down and see if we can get you to fall asleep.” she suggests and you nod. 

Both of you lie on your back, eyes facing the stars. Shoulders were still grazing onto one another. Hesitantly, you laid your hand out in between where the two of you laid.

You could feel her move her arm ever so slightly. Her pinky intertwined with yours. Neither of you saying anything or looking at one another. Leah’s hand continued to graze over yours until your hands were intertwined with one another. 

Leah shifted her body closer to you so she was on her side facing you. You rolled over so you could look at her. The two your faces were so close, one small move and your noses would touch. 

She lifted her head up ever so slightly kissing your forehead. Before she rested her forehead on yours. A grin tug at the corner of your mouth and a matching one appeared on her features.

An overwhelming sense of comfort and peace filled your bones. It was a state of grace the two of you were in.

You weren’t trapped on a deserted island after a plane crash. It felt like you were home, in your bed with someone you love.

And before you knew it you were lulled off into a peaceful bliss. 

The Next Morning

“You owe me a Diet Coke.” Toni whispers to Rachel.

Rachel tosses Toni one of her diet cokes, “Damn it.” 

The rest of the girls watched as you and Leah slept peacefully in each other’s arms. 

[ask-the-crimson-king]

More Stuff from Betrayer

[While on the topic, I want to show the various humans out there a very interesting scene out of Betrayer.

Two, technically, but one that's a bit longer than the other. Image IDs will be provided at the end of the post, cause there's going to be a LOT.

Some interesting insights into how Lorgar views Chaos and a bit about the Emperor as well. I always find this scene to be fascinating, especially since he's borrowed the astropathic choir of the Conquerer to listen to worlds dying across Ultramar while he muses on this.

And then there's when Angron walks up.

Some interesting, albeit a bit morbid, banter between brothers. I do like how Angron even greets Lorgar on the way in, and Lorgar is just standing there stunned. The insights into how Angron views the Devourers is also neat, and it is to be expected at this point. Lorgar trying to argue for them and trying to get Angron to stop ignoring them outright is another neat touch.

The two begin talking of Ultramar, and Lorgar reveals that Nuceria is going to be the capstone for his ritual. Angron asks why, and the following is said:

I like this passage for a few reasons. Firstly, how Angron "dreams" has always been something of interest to me. Because I doubt he ever really gets much rest and respite. Here we get some insight into this, although this also was already expressed a bit earlier. This passage also leads into Angron's recollection of the Night of the Wolf, but I wanted to focus on this.

Lorgar and Angron's "bond" is something that's always intrigued me. It definitely feels more one-sided, with Lorgar seeking for brotherhood that isn't really there, but there are a few moments to make it feel a bit more genuine. However, there is still something missing from these interactions. I can't really describe it other than a barrier between two primarchs who will never see eye-to-eye. Lorgar does, to his credit, try to be understanding and patient throughout, but I can also definitely feel his annoyance coming through at certain places.

In a way, I can almost feel a similar sort of vibe to how Magnus interacts with some of his brothers. Namely with Perturabo in one of the opening chapters of his primarch novel. However, the bond between those two is still very different from the one Angron has with Lorgar; those two actually do have a deep connection, while these two don't. There's a misunderstanding and underestimation coming from both sides in certain aspects; Lorgar in almost sounding condescending to Angron, and Angron still thinking Lorgar a weakling.

TL;DR, Betrayer good.

Image IDs below the cut:

Image ID 1 & 2: A scene from Betrayer where Lorgar is standing and listening to worlds burn. It reads:

Serving as conductor for an astrological orchestra was more taxing than he’d dreamed, though his blunter, more militant brothers would struggle to grasp the finer points of his efforts. Exhaustion left him wondering, even if only briefly, whether absolute peace would create a stellar song as divinely inspired as absolute war. Fate had played its hand and Chaos was destined to swallow all creation whether or not Horus and Lorgar raged against the Imperial war machine, but if what if they’d stayed loyal to the Emperor? What then? Would the Great Crusade have shaped a serene funeral dirge, to play behind the veil as humanity died in a defenceless harrowing?

Therein lay the fatal flaw. The Emperor’s way was compliance, not peace. The two were as repellent to one another as opposing lodestones. It didn’t matter what enlightenment the Imperium stamped out in its conquering crusade when obedience was all its lords desired. It didn’t matter what wars were fought from now into eternity. The Legiones Astartes would always march, for they were born to do so. There would always be war; even if the Great Crusade had been allowed to reach the galaxy’s every edge, there would never be peace. Discontent would seethe. Populations would rebel. Worlds would rise up. Human nature eventually sent men and women questing for the truth, and tyrants always fell to the truth.

No peace. Only war.

Lorgar felt his blood run cold. Only war. Those were words to echo into eternity.

He didn’t trust the Ten Thousand Futures the way Erebus claimed to. Too many possibilities forked from every decision made by every living thing. What use was prophecy when all it offered was what might happen? Lorgar was not so devoid of imagination that he needed the warp’s twisting guesswork to show him that. Anyone with an iota of vision could imagine what might happen. Genius lay in engineering events according to one’s own goals, not in blindly heeding the laughter of mad gods.

More than that, Lorgar sought to keep one thing in mind above all else. The gods were powerful, without doubt, but they were fickle beings. Each worked against its own kin more often than not, spilling conflicting prophecies into their prophets’ minds. Perhaps they weren’t even sentient in the way a mortal mind could encompass. They seemed as much the manifestations of primal emotion as they did individual essences.

But no, there was a wide gulf between hearing them and heeding them. Gods lied, just like men. Gods deceived and clashed and sought to advance their own dominions over their rivals’. Lorgar trusted none of their prophecies.

Image ID 3-5: A series of screenshots from Betrayer. Angron comes into the scene. It reads:

Angron entered the basilica, armoured in his usual stylised bronze and ceramite and with two oversized chainswords strapped to his back. He even wasted time with a greeting, raising his hand in the first time Lorgar could ever remember such a gesture from his broken brother. The Word Bearer tried not to let his amazement show at his brother’s new consideration.

‘Lotara says you stole her astropathic choir.’ Angron’s lipless smile was a ghastly thing indeed. ‘I see that she may have been correct.’

‘Stole is a strong word. “Appropriated” seems much less ignoble.’ Lorgar spared a glance for the skies above the cathedral, as the Lex ripped onwards towards Nuceria.

‘What do you need them for?’ Angron asked. His wounds from being buried alive had already faded to scrunched scar tissue pebbling his flesh, just another host of scarring to overlay the last.

The Devourers lurked behind him, stomping into the cathedral without the primarch sparing them a glance. To be one of Angron’s bodyguards was no honour, despite how fiercely the World Eaters’ champions had fought for it in the first, optimistic years. Angron ignored them no matter where they went, never once fighting alongside them in battle. In their Terminator plate, they’d never managed to keep up with their liege lord, and they were as prone to losing control as any other World Eater, meaning any hope of them fighting as an organised pack was a forlorn one at best.

Lorgar watched the Devourers – those warriors who’d spent a century learning to swallow their pride and pretend they weren’t ignored – speaking amongst themselves at the basilica’s entrance.

‘Hail,’ he greeted them. They seemed uneasy at being addressed, offering hesitant and wordless bows.

Angron snorted at his brother acknowledging them. ‘Bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Even their name annoys me. “Devourers”, as if I’d named them myself – as if they were the Legion’s finest.’

‘Their intentions are pure,’ Lorgar pointed out. ‘They seek to honour you. It’s not their fault you leave them behind in every battle.’

‘They’re not even the Legion’s fiercest fighters, any more. That rogue Delvarus refuses to challenge for a place in their ranks. Khârn laughed when I asked him if he’d ever considered it. And do you know Bloodspitter?’

‘I know Bloodspitter,’ Lorgar replied. Everyone knew Bloodspitter.

‘He beat one of them in the pits, and carved his name into the poor bastard’s armour with a combat knife.’

Lorgar forced a smile. ‘Yes. Delightful.’

Angron’s face wrenched again, at the mercy of misfiring muscles. ‘What primarch ever needed guarding by lesser men?’

‘Ferrus,’ Lorgar said softly. ‘Vulkan.’

Angron laughed, the sound rich and true, yet harsh as a bitter wind. ‘It’s good to hear you joke about those weaklings. I was getting bored of you mourning them.’

It was no joke, but Lorgar had no desire to shatter his brother’s fragile good humour. ‘I only mourn the dead,’ Lorgar conceded. ‘I don’t mourn Vulkan.’

‘He’s as good as dead.’ The World Eater smiled again. ‘I’m sure he wishes he were. Now, what are you doing with Lotara’s choir?’

‘Listening to them sing of other worlds and other wars.’

Angron stared, unimpressed. ‘Specifics,’ he said, ‘while I have the patience to hear such details.’

‘Just listen,’ Lorgar replied.

Angron did as he was bid. After a minute or more had passed, he nodded once. ‘You’re listening to the Five Hundred Worlds burning.’

‘Something like that. These are the voices of the freshly dead, and those soon to join them. The mortis-moments of random souls, elsewhere in Ultramar, as our fleets ravage their worlds.’

‘Morbid, priest. Even for you.’

‘We’re inflicting this destruction on them. We mustn’t consider ourselves distant from it. It may not be our hands holding the bolters and blades, but we are still the architects of this annihilation. It’s our place to listen to it, to remember the martyred dead, and to meditate on all we’ve wrought.’

‘I wish you well with it,’ said Angron. ‘But why steal Lotara’s choir? What happened to yours?’

‘They died.’

It was Angron’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did they die?’

‘Screaming.’ Lorgar showed no emotion at all. ‘What brings you here, brother?’

Image ID 6 & 7: Two screenshots from later in the previous scene, when Angron asks 'Why Nuceria?'. It reads:

‘The metaphysics are complicated,’ said Lorgar.

That had Angron growling. ‘I may not have wasted days in debate with you and Magnus inside our father’s Palace, but the Nails haven’t left me an absolute fool. I asked the question, Lorgar. You answer it. And do so without lying, if you can manage such a feat.’

The Word Bearer met his brother’s eyes, and the rarely-seen palette of emotions within their depths. Pain was there in abundance, but so was the frustration of living with a misfiring mind, and the savagery that transcended anger itself. Angron was a creature that had come to make his hatred a blade to be used in battle. He’d weaponised his own emotions, where most living beings were slaves to theirs. Lorgar couldn’t help but admire the strength in that.

‘We’re going to Nuceria,’ he said, ‘because of you. Because of the Nails.’

Angron stared, and his silence beckoned for his brother to continue.

‘They’re killing you,’ Lorgar admitted. ‘Faster than I thought. Faster than anyone realised. The rate of degeneration has accelerated even in the last few months. Your implants were never designed for a primarch’s brain matter. Your physiology is trying to heal the damage as the Nails bite deeper, but it’s a game of pushing and pulling, with both sides evenly matched.’

Angron took this with an impassive shrug. ‘Guesswork.’

‘I can see souls and hear the music of creation,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘In comparison, this is nothing. The Twelfth Legion’s archives are comprehensive enough, you know. Your behaviour tells the rest of the tale, along with the pain I sense radiating from you each and every time we meet. Your entire brain is remapped and rewired, slaved to the implants’ impulses. Tell me, when was the last time you dreamed?’

‘I don’t dream.’ The answer was immediate, almost fiercely fast. ‘I’ve never dreamed.’

Lorgar’s gentle eyes caught the warp’s kaleidoscopic light as he tilted his head. ‘Now you’re lying, brother.’

‘It’s no lie.’ Angron’s thick fingers twitched and curled, closing around the ghosts of weapons. ‘The Nails scarcely let me sleep. How would I dream?’

Lorgar didn’t miss the rising tension in his brother’s body language – the veins in his temples rising from scarred skin, the feral hunch of the shoulders, no different from a hunting cat drawing into a crouch before it struck.

‘You once told me the Nails stole your slumber,’ Lorgar conceded, ‘but you also said they let you dream.’

Angron took a step closer. He started to say ‘I meant…’ but Lorgar’s earthy glare stopped him cold.

‘They give you a serenity and peace you can find nowhere else. Humans, legionaries, primarchs… everything alive must sleep, must rest, must allow its brain a period of respite. The remapping of your mind denies you this. You don’t dream with your eyes closed. You dream with your eyes open, chasing the rush of whatever peace the Nails can give you.’ Lorgar met Angron’s eyes again. ‘Don’t insult us both by denying it. You slaver and murmur when you kill, mumbling about chasing serenity and how close it feels. I’ve heard you. I’ve looked into your heart and soul when you’re lost to the Nails. Your sons, with their crude copies of your implants, have their minds rewritten to feel joy only in adrenaline’s kiss. Those lesser implants cause pain because they scrape the nerves raw, thus your World Eaters kill because it gladdens their reforged hearts, and ceases the pain knifing into their muscles. Your Butcher’s Nails are a more sinister and predatory design, ruining all cognition, stealing any peace. They are killing you, gladiator. And you ask why I’m taking you back to Nuceria? Is it not obvious?’

End Image ID.]