#and when all my fears turned into horror and then disgust and then empathy and then more horror

[otomelavenderhaze]

I watched the Barbarian and I never said "fuck this shit" so many times, that movie taught me a lesson, if a man asks for your help in a sex tunnel and he's screeching, let him, LET HIM, fuck that. Hell no.

[youranxiousgf]

Embrace the Cringe

23-04-2023, 12:00 am

(This is an article I wrote for my INTJ boyfriend who doesn’t like to do “cringe” things like romance, affection & emotions lmao. As an INFP dedicated to the cringe along with my ENFP friendo, we decided to write articles convincing him. Here’s mine! If you're tsundere like him, this may help you a little 😌💞)

-----x

Person A demonstrating cringe: "Aww I wuv you my snuggle pookie bear, your tushy is so mushy I’m gonna smooch it all over!! Watch out, the smooch monster is closing in!!! Mwah mwah mwahhhh"

Person B making it worse: "Uwaaa save me!! I’m drowning in the smooch bombs! >0<"

Me, you, everyone who's watching: "Uhhhh *vomits inside and chokes*"

Chances are, while reading the above disaster you either smiled uncomfortably, felt an icky chill, or made a face reminiscent of biting into a sour lemon. What you may not know is that the physical response of the body in moments of cringe actually betrays a much deeper fear within us. 

You might assume that we “cringe” at other people because they’re acting in socially unacceptable ways, that our bodies are rejecting their behavior. And you’re correct! The reason we like to make our bodies smaller, want to curl up inside and disappear in the presence of cringe is because we view it as a Social Evaluative Threat and want to be as far/invisible as possible so it can’t be tied back to us. 

A social evaluative threat is any situation, person, or thing that carries the risk of being negatively judged, shunned, and rejected by society. Something which may be *evaluated* by *society* as a *threat*, if you wanna think of it that way. Our biology understands its danger to our survival, hence the cringe, hence refusing to be a part of that behavior. There u go, I just validated your horror of cringe using science. Now let me debunk it again >:3

Just because you’re scared or disgusted of something doesn’t mean it actually poses a danger to you. The body will often lie to us- just think of a panic attack before a school presentation or running away from invisible demons to a well-lit bedroom after turning off the kitchen light. Are you going to die? No. Will people throw tomatoes at you at the speed of a bullet for stuttering during your speech? No, maybe they’ll laugh but laughter is harmless and you’ll live another day. Will Satan himself emerge from the darkness and make you his sex slave because you turned off the light and didn’t run to safety fast enough? No, but if he did I would say yes, he has big dick energy- 

THE POINT BEING, cringing at another person means they’re putting themselves in the spotlight of social rejection, and you don’t want to join them… you’re afraid of the same rejection (or maybe genuinely agree they’re a disgrace to society and it’s not a question of association lmao). Cringing doesn’t necessitate however, that you truly, TRULY despise their actions or even find them actually worthy of getting marginalized by society. In fact, you may even admire them deep down, feel amazed and awed at how this person is able to express themselves so openly in the face of possible judgment whereas you can’t imagine putting yourself in that position. You’re shrinking inwards because you are in fact imagining yourself in that position and embarrassed of it. What you call “cringe” might be “brave”, “authentic”, “real”, “free”.

When you're feeling cringe, what you're really feeling is empathy. In empathy, there is room for understanding, room for acceptance. 

It’s not always that you don’t want to participate in cute baby talk with your girlfriend, or that you don’t want to join the drunk extroverts on the dance floor, or that you don’t want to say I love you to a friend, or that you don’t want to write “mommy” in the comments like all the other horny simps… maybe you want to, you just feel that you can’t, that you shouldn’t.     

I know you love and encourage my infp weirdness, [bf’s name], even when it’s cringy to us both. And I love and encourage your weird, edgy, and grumpy self, even if it’s cringy to us both. Because at the end of the day we admire the other’s ability to be themselves, we hold the other’s authenticity in high regard. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Me embracing your cringe doesn’t mean me becoming you. I stay who I am. But I dote over your cringe and accept it wholeheartedly as a very real, very special, very vulnerable part of you. I'm honored to see it. When [enfp friend] and I scream at you to embrace the cringe, we don’t mean becoming us. You can stay who you are if you like. But you don’t have to reject it only because you’re afraid that’s how you’re supposed to act and can’t be caught liking it. You don’t have to hold yourself back from joining us and putting your cringe at full display too.  

You already know all this ofc (smort hubby), but nonetheless, perhaps this will help redefine cringe in your mind as something bold, rebellious, maybe even an agent of truth in the sea of rules and conformity. Not as something unacceptable, but as something… harmless, innocuous, merely a threat to the part of you that still cares what people think. 

HA I DID AN UNO REVERSE CARD!! *evil laughs* ok bye

[papirouge]

I can’t stop crying, I’ve lost more friends in Gaza… yet so many Christian evangelicals have yet to even mention that Christians in Gaza exist. Or if they do, it’s criticism and blaming Gaza for the genocide that’s happening. It’s as if they fully believe it’s a Jew/Muslim conflict when it’s not. It’s an idf-Hamas conflict.

I lost contact with one of my friends and haven’t been able to get any info. The terror keeps coming. And there was no where to go, it hurts. And I’m so angry at that Christians in the west just ignoring it all

.......... I'm really sorry anon...

I've never felt that powerless in my life, and my heart aches for all those people being murdered before our eyes, and the Christian community either condoning such heinous act or turning the head around... They will have to take accountability for their cowardice....

The body of Christ is ONE. If someone cuts your leg or hand, you will definitely feel it and your whole body is going to react to it. But Western Christians? They look away like the cowards that they are. Mind you, they are the same ones that are so suuuuure to resist the antichrist when he will come. Meanwhile, they are unable to voice the slightest support to our Christian brothers in Palestine out of fear... What kind of clownery is that? At least, I don't mind people refusing to cover any sort of world news bc they are consistent in their lane, but I'm thinking about all those Christians who have aaaaaalways so many things to say abt the latest stupid stunt in the news, the wokes, feminists, liberals... Suddenly they are VERY quiet. That's a choice. They are disgusting.

Even the anti Muslim/let's protect Christianism from Islam uwu Christian YouTuber squad are pulling out video exPoSinG Hamas while not saying a single word abt the Christian casualties (David Wood, Apostate Prophet, etc.) They are full of it, and I will never ever again take them seriously in their defense of Christianity in middle east when those ghouls don't even have a word to say about our Palestinian Christian brothers dying under Israeli strikes and PLEADING for our attention and prayers... They only care about Christians dying because of ISLAM, when they die for any other reason, they will defiect. Like, yeah, Hamas sucks - we been knew. What's the point of making 1 video a day about them? In what way does it remotely dismiss the atrocity of whatever's happening in Gaza???

It's so sick to see pro Israel constantly move the goalpost to paint themselves as the only victims, and worse, downplaying what's happening in Gaza.

They will deflect on antisemitism in pro Palestine protests (while acting like the very same didn't happen in pro Israel protests with the most rabid islamophobic genocidal crap), semantics about what Zionism is and whether it's antisemitism (meanwhile palestinians are literally DYING), that they don't care about Gaza as long as the hostage aren't fred (when if they actually really cared abt the hostages they wouldn't encourage Israel to bomb Gaza bc the actual hostages risk dying out there along the Hamas...🤦🏾‍♀️), or shouting "free Gaza from Hamas !!" as if any of that justified bombing civilians... oh and let's not forget the feminist/liberal edge of Israel defense with the "Palestianian are sexist/homophobic so there's no point defending them" stupid narrative....

I think the reason pro Israel are so bad in their rhetoric is that for years they've been used to leverage their Jewishness to get empathy and immunity against accountability.

But it's over now. We have social medias and we can witnessing in real time the horror of Tsahal actions. How they aren't any morally better than Hamas. We've seen the Israeli mocking Palestianians nit having water or food...

"you were quiet when the Hamas assassinated Israelis" we were quiet because this operation went so fast and that Israel quickly retaliated. There was no way to stop the Hamas bc NO ONE knew it was coming, so what did they expect us to do?? Just bc we don't say anything doesn't mean we approve. Do you see people condemn suicide/terrorist attacks whenever they happen?? IMO there wouldn't be such an outrage is Israel left it at that and didn't go overboard with launching a whole war against Gaza. The reason the world is siding with Palestinian is because we are witnessing the ongoing massacre of population with the actual (political and/or economical) backup of our respective countries for DAYS now. Unlike the Hamas attack, there are ways to stop it. The Hamas didn't cut the water & food supply of Israelis. Palestinians aren't clowning on social medias the Jewish civilians who were killed by the Hamas. That's why the world is shocked and is siding with Palestine and is slowly but surely getting fed up with the cognitive dissonance of Israelis crying oppression while acting like soulless ghouls. Crying antisemitism isn't fooling anyone anymore.

[petrenocka]

I posted 1,521 times in 2022

120 posts created (8%)

1,401 posts reblogged (92%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@martianmage

@isabella-rosebud

@derinthescarletpescatarian

@limelocked

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I tagged 773 of my posts in 2022

Only 49% of my posts had no tags

#art - 302 posts

#peak comedy - 88 posts

#politics - 27 posts

#dnd - 13 posts

#save - 13 posts

#skeleton war 2022 - 11 posts

#skeleton war - 11 posts

#dnd 5e - 9 posts

#goncharov - 8 posts

#writing - 7 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#personally my main concern with ai art is that due to it's nature of using peaces of pre-existing art to cobble together something ''new''

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I love Wrathion's dragon form. He is short, you never see him sit on his hind legs when on ground, his teeth are a bit fucked up. He may look cool an imposing by himself, but next to most other dragons he seems unrefined and skittish. He has jewelry.

The problem child energy is on full display there. Love it.

65 notes - Posted October 28, 2022

#4

For how often 1984 is referenced in political discussions all the interesting stuff gets left out each and every time, it's so disappointing.

All I ever hear talked about are concepts of thought-crimes, thought-police, double-think and double-speak. Which are, don't get me wrong, very interesting and very relevant in this day and age. They also are like 50% of the book at best.

There is also commentary on proletariat and class awareness, war, artificial scarcity, constant surveillance, loneliness, fear.

The biggest theme in the book is how the government has to keep its citizens lives miserable so it can control them. How even two people properly coming together is a threat that must be eliminated. And the book describes in extreme detail how the Party achieves this.

And that's just the world building! The actual plot of the story is almost entirely about sexual freedom. Extremely overtly so too. The book takes its sweet sweet time to describe how and why imposing a certain rigid family structure is essential to government oppression. Spoiler! The biggest act of rebellion our protagonist ever actually gets to commit is having sex with a person he's not supposed to be having sex with, in a way he is not supposed to have sex, according to the government and society it enslaved.

Winston reads as closeted queer on one two, despite his hetro relationship! The Party is the scariest eldritch horror entity I ever read about! Yet all I ever hear talk about is how "boo hoo, they kill you if you think the wrong thought, scawy wawy". Such a shame.

I need to make and/or go bother my academic friends.

177 notes - Posted January 22, 2022

#3

From what I have seen pro queer arguments most often rely on moral, humanitarian arguments. "This kind of treatment is unfair", "We deserve to be treated like humans", these are all appeals to empathy.

But people who disagree don't have empathy. Not towards groups they aren't a part of. So different talking points could be more effective.

Oddly enough, I never see anti-government arguments being made.

Like, "aren't you made uncomfortable by the gvt spying on your bedroom in order to make sure you aren't breaking sodomy laws?" "Enforcing those laws would take resources that can be better used elsewhere". Make it about the harm homophobia is going to do to them. Make your cause relatable and universal.

You are never going to move over the fully committed "lgbt is a sin deserving of death penalty" fanatics. But plenty of bigots hide from themselves behind flimsy justifications like "the gays make no children, which is bad for the economy".

Sometimes a simple "Same sex household is at least better then an orphanage and it alleviates some pressure form the system. Our stupid and corrupt government is acting irrationally by preventing queers from adopting." is enough to turn a homophobe indifferent, and that is a net gain.

Speaking from experience. It's exactly thoughts like "Gays sure are disgusting, but the government shouldn't be prosecuting people who aren't causing harm to others. And it's not like the gvt has a good track record of making good decisions anyway" that kept me anti-homophobia enough where learning that violent hate crimes are a thing was enough to turn me vaguely pro-pride. At which point talking to real queers turned me fully into an ally/possibly a bi guy. It's a pipeline. A good one. But it needs a start.

204 notes - Posted November 27, 2022

#2

Black-Footed Cat is the most deadly cat in our world, with about 60% succecful hunt rate (almost 3 times the lion’s score), this species are the colibri bird of murder, who kill about 10-14 creatures per night, due to their high metabolism.

They also look like this:

And now, compare your reaction to the image with the data provided.

The hell is wrong with humans and things we consider cute?

Like, imagine you’re an alien and a member of these new speices called humans promises to show you the cutest, most precious animal from their home planet, and then goes on to introduce you to this absolute engine of Death. horrifying.

309 notes - Posted February 8, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Btw, I am obsessed with The Sandman's portrayal of divinity more then anything else.

This is probably why the Hell episode was my favorite. The transformation battle? Yeah, o k San-Wu-Kong!

But the best part was the "what power have dreams in Hell?" "what power would hell have if those in it couldn't dream of heaven?" exchange.

Because of the way the power dynamic shifted in it. It was a brief philosophical exchange, where Devil starts on top, assured they can keep Dream in Hell, but ends up defeated after his retort. The acting really sells this dynamic there.

It feels the same way their "fight" did, minus the visual representation of their "blows". Because it was! They are gods! Manifestations of their respective abstract concepts! For them philosophy, a clash of ideas, should be no different from physical throwing of hands! Like Greeks!

I hope, I'm making sense here. Essentially, what I'm saying is that for these guys, talking or just simply existing in a place seems as much of an extention of their divinity as their fancy magics, and can carry just as much, if not more meaning and power.

Speaking of - the magic. It is amazing. Vague and without many internal rules, it still makes sense for certain things and ppl to produce effects they do.

Most blatantly - it is not described what exactly Dream's tools do. Even the functionality of the Ruby, which gets the most exposition (read - any), is "makes dreams come true" with no hows and conditions attached. But still, when they are put to use I go "yeah, ok, I see how that would do that" and don't feel cheated.

I don't have analytical eloquence to understand why it works, but it does, and it makes gods in The Sandman feel exactly the same way gods in mythology do, minus the age of the text. Which is fantastic.

619 notes - Posted August 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[jokingmaiden]

it’s my turn on the hyperfixation rant post maker and oh am i going to use it

okay so like. ive been seeing a lot of people talking abt the collector and either how sad it is for them to have been alone for so long, OR how much of a horrifying monster they are in the disguise of a sweet little kid. both of these are partially right, but not the whole story

since the collector speaks deeply to my inner child (twauma babey), adding in my tendency to psychoanalyze everyone and my incessant need to understand my kins as well as possible, i think i’m in a uniquely suited position to put these pieces together

okay. so we don’t get very much content of the collector as of the end of season two, save for some interactions in the mirror realm, the shadow speak technique, the one brief memory with the owl beast, and the last episode. from the minimal interaction we get, we can gather a few key things about them:

-thinks everything is a game

-“collects” things by sealing them in scrolls (or did this at least once, doing so in the form of the owl beast “curse.” this hobby is probably why he’s named the collector)

-is not a witch, human, nor demon. possibly the only one of his kind, rivaled the power of a fully grown titan

-has wanted to “be friends” with King since he was born (laid? put in incubation??)

-trapped in the mirror realm by the titan, assumedly for being dangerous

-is horrifically lonely, hates being contained

-can “zoom in and out” with their eyes, move celestial bodies with the wave of a finger, turn a large, half-palismen-half-corrupted-racist-dude into sludge with a single pointer twirl, break down and rearrange the entirety of a titan’s skull with nothing more than a thought, etc.

-doesn’t react to fear, anguish, disgust, horror, etc. when seen. doesn’t seem to register these emotions at all in fact, other than surface level disappointment and an unprocessed loneliness

-similarly, doesn’t seem to understand death, harm, pain, etc

with these in mind, the collector’s full character begins to approach clarity. they’re, as some have called them, a ��toddler with god powers.” this meme is significantly more accurate than i think most people realize when saying it, though.

for starters, empathy takes each child a different amount of time to develop, and does so through exposure to experiences of sharing pain (see: babies crying due to external expression of emotions from others), among other similar occurrences (learning abt how each person has their own memory, experiencing disagreements, etc.)

the collector, seeming to only have long-term emotional exposure to 1. a regal, godly titan, and then 2. a horrible, egomaniacal, manipulative, colonizing, barely-human man, would have absolutely no opportunity to be able to develop empathy towards any creatures capable of experiencing emotions stemming from survival instincts (which, it turns out, is most of all perceivable emotions).

fear means nothing to them. death isn’t a concept they can understand, past knowing a person who dies isn’t coming back (hence why it’s used as a tool to remove the manipulating “LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!!” phillip, yet not understanding why it scares the kids).

they full on obliterate belos for convenience. not malice, not violence, just a desire to remove someone who doesn’t play fair. they then have absolutely no idea why the gang looks terrified when he turns around and suggests they play the same game he was just referencing when he turned a man into soup.

without the ability to empathize, the collector would have no way to understand why those two things are connected for the main gang, because in his own mind, his desire to play a game with them is completely separate from his need to get rid of belos. why are they scared? of course the collector isn’t gonna squish his new friends!! he has no way to know how and why his presence scares the absolute shit out of these traumatized children.

extending this idea, the collector has no problem with erasing the boiling isles entirely if it means he’s finally free. most humans don’t have a problem with crushing ants for personal benefit, right? why would such fragile creatures, so much like ants to the titan he once knew, be any different?

then there’s king, a creature potentially on the same power level and understanding as the collector. one who could be their equal. one who, despite being on the same level of potential, grew up in the place of a low-level demon, and had the opportunity to learn empathy and love and fear and connection. perhaps the only one who can explain it to them while actually being regarded.

but how would someone help them understand? well, the only way to help someone so late in development connect with empathy is to provide a method of logical understanding.

how would one do this? well, it would be best to start with explaining death as loneliness.

what does the collector hate? what does he understand is an awful, terrible experience he would do anything to avoid again? being trapped in darkness and isolated for what feels like an eternity, occasionally able to access a passive, minimal form of contact like a shadow on a wall.

y’know, like death.

if king can get these dots to connect in the collector’s mind, or at least get them to listen to a mature adult long enough for someone else to do it, they could potentially be brought up to the mental maturity level of king, or maybe even the main gang!!

if everyone plays their cards right, the collector could be properly raised. they could, slowly but surely, unlearn these unhealthy mentalities, escape their constant, traumatic loneliness (even before the mirror world), and get to live life as a real kid, even if they’re still absolutely OP. maybe they could even go to hexside to learn how to be a kid!! they could connect with hunter who, in a way, shares quite a lot of conceptual problems in terms of trauma, loneliness, being manipulated by belos, separation from kids their age, etc.

they could finally have a family. maybe, in a world where people love them unconditionally, they could learn to let go of exchanging world-altering favors for childlike forms of affection. maybe, with king, they could learn not to need external worth and connection to feel loved.

it’s up to the community to help them understand this, though, especially the parental figures. after all, no child is beyond redemption.

right?

[nanasparadise]

“Dream Invader” Yan! Abbacchio x gender-neutral reader (Soulmate AU)

Hello everyone! I hope you are doing fine. I don’t know if you have read my previous post, that talks about a dream I had, but I decided to turn some elements of it into this piece of writing. This fanfiction is set in the soulmate universe. I really hope you enjoy it, because I decided to write this instead of studying for my French essay I have tomorrow (please wish me luck, God knows I need it) :D. And for the requests: I haven’t forgotten you, please remain patient. T-T I’ll write my last test on Thursday, after that I have holidays, so I’ll definitely catch up on them!! Thank you for sticking around. <3

Summary: Your soulmate keeps visiting you in your dreams, but you don’t feel comfortable around them…

TW: noncon touching, toxic relationship, angst, reader gets hurt physically, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

 I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

 Word count: 2626

It had happened yet again. You had dreamt again of this man, one of many countless dreams. Breathing heavily, you abruptly opened your eyes and wiped away the sweat that was accumulating on your forehead with the back of your hand. “Does that really mean…?”, you mumbled softly. Most people would be happy to find out they had a soulmate and finally had met them. But most people’s match certainly wasn’t someone, who conveyed a deep obsession and possessiveness towards their beloved. Still mentally in your dream, your body started to tremble slightly. What were you going to do now? At first, you had brushed off the dreams, convincing yourself that they didn’t mean anything. But you knew the gist of it. You knew that when a certain person kept infiltrating your dreams, that they were your soulmate.

Sighing deeply, you turned around in your bed, your left cheek resting on the soft pillow. The clock on your bedside table revealed that it was 4:30 a.m. You certainly couldn’t fall asleep again, but it was still too early to wake up for work. So you remained there in the quiet, your shallow breaths being the only sound in the dark room. Despite your efforts, your racing thoughts kept returning to your dream. “Who is this man?”, you whispered as you looked down on your fingers, which seemed to still hurt.

 Every time he had shown up, he had never revealed his name to you, wanting to keep it to himself. “I‘ll tell it to you once we see us in real life, amore”, he had told you, a certain spark igniting his admittedly gorgeous yellow and purple eyes. Truth be told, your soulmate was nothing short of beautiful. Long white hair with a purple hue graced his stoic face. His athletic body was adorned with a dark bodysuit, accentuating his muscles. All in all, he reminded you of a vengeful Greek god, breathtaking but dangerous. Dangerous… You began to feel threatened by the presence of your mysterious dream visiter. Since he had never offered you his name, you hadn’t given him yours either, sensing there might be something off about him.

 Still, he had found it out. This night in your dream, you two had been on the flower field you had met for the first time. You had felt dizzy, as if your head had been caught in the clouds. This light atmosphere had convinced you that this had been truly a dream, since a sense of haziness always accompanied your nocturnal adventures. The summer sun had been setting, turning the sky into a colourful spectacle of orange and pink. This would have been a picturesque and maybe even romantic moment if it hadn’t been for the feeling of dread building in your stomach. A small smile had formed on his purple lips when he had perceived your form. Quietly, nearly inaudibly, the stranger had murmured your name into the warm summer breeze: “Y/N.” Immediately, goosebumps had formed on your arms. 

“How do you know my name?”, you had replied, visibly shaken. Had he somehow managed to get some information on you? 

“It’s such a fitting name”, he had mused contemplatively, ignoring your question. “Y/N…” His unique eyes had been fixed on you the whole time, analysing every detail of your face. Fear had started to take over your body. The slight shivers had transformed into noticeable trembling. Your breath had shortened as you had desperately searched for a way to get out of that dream. 

„Why are you doing this?”, you had shouted out, panic manifesting in your voice. “Why do you keep entering my dreams, just to behave like a creep? How should I trust you when you don’t even tell me anything about yourself, yet you somehow know my personal information?” The man in front of you had sighed at your outburst. Sparks of sympathy had danced in his eyes, making them appear even brighter. Slowly, he had reached for your hands, holding them in his larger ones. You had tried to pull off from his grasp, but your fighting had been futile against his stronger form. So you had been forced to remain there, listening to the dream man’s words. 

“I know this is confusing for you,” he had said while rubbing circles on the back of your hands with his thumbs, “but I can’t give you any information yet, my job makes it hard. I need to see you in real life and I promise, I’ll tell you everything then.” Tears had pricked in your eyes, clouding your vision. Why had he assumed you two would meet? The thought of the stranger knowing your address had turned your initial dread into hot anger. No matter if he was your soulmate, you were still your own, independent person! He couldn’t just stalk you, talk to you as if you were a couple and leave you in the dark about his own identity. The dream man still had held your hands, expecting some kind of reaction from you. 

“No”, you had simply answered, refusing to meet his intense gaze. 

“No what?”, he had replied, impatience swinging in his voice. He had been in your dreams endless times, reassuring you of his love and loyalty for you. Why hadn’t you been reciprocating his feelings? He was your soulmate after all! 

“No,” you had repeated while your eyebrows had furrowed, illustrating your resistance,”we’re not going to see each other.” The grip on your hands had suddenly become stronger and hurtful, nearly crushing your fingers. For a second time, you had tried to take away your hands from him but without success. The stranger’s orbs had fixated you, darkness swirling in the iris of the same colour as the flowers on the field. Terror had made itself visible again in your body and mind, amplified by the man’s sombre look on his handsome face. Yes, he looked just like a statue of Ares, so enchanting and yet so enraged. And dangerous… 

“So you don’t want to meet your soulmate?”, he had stated calmy, which only had increased your anxiety. 

“Please, let go, you’re hurting me”, you had pleaded despairingly. The man had squeezed harshly one last time your hands before he had eventually released them. Protectively, you had cradled them against your chest, trying to soothe the pain by softly rubbing your fingers. “What kind of person would do this to their soulmate?” you had thought in disgust and fear. Hesitantly, you had looked up to him, his face remaining a stoic façade. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Y/N”, the dream man had said coolly. The fact that he had addressed you with your name again had put you in a state of fear once more. Nevertheless,  you had gathered all your courage to reply to him. 

“No, I don’t. Someone who hurts and stalks me can’t be my soulmate, no matter if they enter my dreams. And even if you are, I still don’t want to be with you. Please, I’m begging you to respect and accept that.” 

The Italian – you had guessed that this was probably his nationality since he called you Italian pet names –  man’s gaze had immediately softened at your words. He had known he’d got carried away with his rage. Of course, your words had pained him more than any weapons ever could, but he had to be patient with you. He could only imagine how he had come across to you, especially now that he had hurt you. No, he couldn’t pain a loved one again, not you… 

“I’m sorry, cuore mio,” he had said remorsefully, regret manifesting itself, “I really shouldn‘t have hurt you. I promise it won’t happen again. I just want to see you, really see you, and hold you in my arms. I know, I might not be the best man to have existed.” His face had abruptly twisted into a pained grimace. This had been the first time he had ever been that sincere to you. Your feelings had begun to transform into a mix of sympathy, fear and confusion. He had really appeared to feel bad about his actions, maybe he had lived through a trauma to react that way? Your pondering had quickly come to a halt. No, you really couldn’t start to show empathy for the man. After all, he had stalked you, hurt you, crossed too many lines. Nonetheless, your dream invader had kept up with his speech. “I don’t know if I deserve your love, but I really want to believe in it. You are my soulmate and I am yours, we can make it work out if we try. Please, give me a chance and I will do everything in my power to show you I am worthy of you. Just don’t reject me already.” He had paused for a moment, a slight tremble in his voice making itself visible. You had stared at him with big eyes, not knowing what to do or how to feel about this situation. “I’ll be truthful with you. I’ll tell you everything you want to hear.” The man had tried to grasp your hands again but had immediately stopped when he had seen, how you had flinched away. His lips had formed into a thin, bitter line while seeing your reaction. Was he a monster? “I see that my words don’t seem to get through you” he said stoically. “I’ll show you what I mean, that might help. We’ll be seeing each other soon enough.” His last sentence had sent you a cold shiver down your spine. You had had the feeling that he hadn’t referred to another dream… An expression of horror had slowly crept on your face.

“What do you mean?”, you had blurted out loudly, “you mean in our dreams, right? You don’t know where I live, do you?” But the stranger had cruelly decided to stay silent, staring at you ominously instead. Suddenly, the light atmosphere around you had changed. Heaviness had taken over you, the scenic landscape had turned black as you had woken up.

 You took another look at your clock. 5:15 a.m. Did you really spend so much time recalling that dream? Deciding that you already wasted too many thoughts on that man, you stood up from your bed and took a shower, even if it still was early. “Some distraction will do me good”, you sighed, exhaustion manifesting in your voice. Your dreams involving the stranger were always so vivid that the next morning you woke up completely tired and drained. As you entered the shower and felt the warm water hitting your skin, you finally managed to relax a little, even if that tiny voice of fear kept reminding you of the dream man’s words…

 Weeks had passed since your last encounter in the dream world with your so called soulmate. A sense of hope blossomed in your chest. Maybe he had finally come to his senses and realised that it would be best to leave you alone? That was at least what your friends had told you. They had reassured you that it happened often, that your soulmate could be invasive, they had heard that before from other acquaintances. But in those cases, it had always ended well, none of the people had been harmed. You had chosen to blindly accept that explanation. Truth be told, you did need comfort right now. Because, what your friends didn’t know was, that you felt a pair of eyes burning holes into your back every time you left your home. Yet, you never saw the person behind the gaze. Foolishly, you clung onto the sense of security your friends provided you with, even if it was but wishful thinking…

 As you returned home one evening after your work, you already perceived intuitively that something was wrong. Why was there a light on? You always did turn them off… Cautiously, you entered your bedroom, as that was where the light source came from, with your phone in your hand with the emergency number already typed in. Your palms grew sweaty and your breath heavy as fear flooded through your veins. Only now, you thought that you should have maybe taken a knife from the kitchen as protection. But alas, it was already too late. When you saw the person sitting on your bed, you were surprised to see a familiar face.

The man from your dreams quickly stood up when he glanced at your form. His eyes first landed on your horrified face, then on your phone. Without a second thought, you quickly tapped on the call button and placed the device next to your ear. The man knew exactly who you were planning on phoning. “Please, take the phone away Y/N, I’m not going to harm you”, he said lowly. Even though he promised to not hurt you, his dark expression on his face made you think otherwise. Of course you weren’t going to hang up now. You heard the Italian sigh at your act of defiance. After the second beep sound, a voice appeared on the line. 

“How can I help you?”, the person on the other side of the phone asked politely. Before you could reply, an to you invisible force ripped the device out of your grasp and slammed it onto your wall. The screen of your smartphone turned black and cracked into thousand pieces. With eyes as big as saucers you stared incredulously at it. 

“I’m sorry for that”, the man simply uttered. Though you couldn’t hear a hint of actual remorse in his voice. “I’m gonna buy you a new one.” 

“What do you want?”, you managed to voice, “I thought you had left me in peace.” 

“I’ve told you at our last encounter that we would see each other again, fiore mio”, the man replied with softness. “I can’t believe you’re really here physically”, he kept on musing in a dreamy tone, eyes lighting up. He took a few steps towards you, a hand reaching out to you. You instinctively took a few steps back until your back hit the door. 

“Please, don’t come near me”, you begged, feeling completely helpless and exposed. 

“It’s fine Y/N, really. I promised I’d you show that I won’t ever hurt you again.” He was now in front of you, your faces so close, you could feel his breath fan over your nose. Tears welled up in your eyes and threatened to stream over your face. What were you going to do now? You were scared to react in a sudden way, scared it would trigger the Italian and his dangerous invisible force. Gently, the man shushed you and placed a hand on your cheek.  A calloused thumb brushed away the tears that had finally escaped. “I know that I have done bad things in the past,” he whispered quietly to you, “but I, Leone Abbacchio, swear I will fix it. I will be a better person for you, Y/N.” Your eyes widened at the revelation of his name. Abbacchio basked in your innocent reaction. He took a mental note to replay it with Moody Blues later. While one hand kept caressing your cheek, the other one grabbed into his pocket to take out a yellow flower, matching perfectly with the man’s eyes. Your gaze fell upon the plant, recognising it from the flower field of your dreams. Abbacchio softly tucked it behind your left ear while admiring your face. You hiccupped anxiously at his obsessive staring. “We will have a beautiful future ahead of us, I’ll make sure of it” the Italian murmured in your ear. 

“After all, we are soulmates.”

[thevindicativevordan]

Ideas for Parasite Stories

Reading horror stories usually has me thinking about Parasite. Vampire stories especially are good source material to mine for what could be done with Parasite in terms of storytelling. Reading Salem's Lot was what made me really start thinking about Parasite's potential as a more vampiric entity, and the arc he should undergo. So in honor of it being October, setting my take on Parasite's arc for the record.

Stage 1: The Hunger

Starting out I want Parasite as a thin emancipated figure who is almost out of his mind with hunger. This would be the stage where he's the closest to "classic" Parasite. All he cares about is his appetite and gorging himself. However unlike how he's usually written, I want to see some intelligence in how he feeds. I spoke a bit about how I want to see Parasite's powerset changed, and this would be the place to show that. I want to see Parasite eating and consuming high-ranking members of Metropolis society, and then using their forms to feed further. Very much an evocation of the "Invasion of the Body-Snatchers" horror franchise where Parasite walking amongst society causes terror and panic.

I think there's also something to be mined in terms of Clark and Parasite's "secret identities" at this stage. Clark wants to live amongst us as one of us, in order to maintain a connection with us. Living amongst us strengthens his empathy. Parasite is the opposite, he hides amongst us all the better to feed on us. Examining these two characters who aren't human, yet disguise themselves as ones, and how they view humanity could add some deeper flavor to the stories.

This Stage would end when Parasite finally gets "sated", taking on the fatter aesthetic of Gary Frank's design. Twist though: he's not fat, he's pregnant. With himself. One morning the guards of Stryker's Island hear screams coming from his cell, and rush to investigate. What they find there horrifies and disgusts them, the bloated carved up corpse of the old Parasite, and the new one standing smiling amongst the carnage. Turns out this new incarnation grew inside Rudy, and when it was ready it fed on him the way he fed on everyone else, draining his life force, memories, and personality into itself as it was born.

Stage 2: The Terror

This new incarnation still considers itself to be "Rudy Jones" as it has all of his memories and exhibits parts of his personality. Everyone who interacts with him can't believe that though. There's some fundamentally wrong about this new incarnation, something utterly inhuman. Whenever he tries to pass himself off as Rudy Jones, nobody listening to him can accept it. The old Parasite was dominated by an understandable human desire: the need to eat. This new version doesn't share the same weakness as his predecessor, he doesn't appear wracked by constant hunger pains, pushed to take a bite out of whoever he can safely eat. "Picky eater" is how analysts would describe this guy. Humans needs to have a certain flavor in order to appeal to him, and nothing tastes better to this Parasite than terror.

Parasite thus constantly seeks to spread terror throughout Metropolis to spice up his meals. He'll work for crime lords and megacorps, doing anything from assassinations to burglaries to sabotage, all to find entertaining new ways to spread fear and misery throughout the population. Superman recognizes that this is a new much more intelligent Parasite who doesn't have the same weaknesses of the old. Where the old one would love to take a bite out of Clark, the new one tries to avoid him if possible. He recognizes that attacking the Man of Tomorrow head on will result in failure, so he simply bides his time and lays plans to eliminate the main opposition he has.

Stage 3: The Dread Lord

In the final stage, Parasite reveals himself as the greatest threat to Metropolis and Superman yet. While he was performing jobs for the power players in Stage 2, Parasite was quietly utilizing a new power that neither Superman nor anyone else knew about. Instead of fully draining a person, Parasite had enough self-restraint to only drain part of a person's life force leaving the person alive but enthralled to him. These "Leeches" as they come to be called, also are able to drain others life forces to enhance themselves, although none can match the extent of Parasite's powers. They are seeded throughout major organizations in Metropolis, since so many proved themselves willing to try to use the Parasite for their own ends. Demanding a portion of whatever they drain from others, Parasite established a network of feeders who could provide him sustenance while he worked on a much grander scheme in private: turning Metropolis into his personal fiefdom.

Commanding most of his Leeches to kill the heads of whatever organization they're embedded in, Parasite wrecks havoc on Metropolis' institutions. Terror descends upon Metropolis as the city seems to turn upon itself. Superman is stretched thin trying to find the source of the attacks, the "hope" he tries to spread doing nothing to alleviate peoples fears about what will come next. The remainder of the Leeches are quietly attempting to seize control of whatever institutions remain, or pin the blame for what's occurring on Superman himself. Meanwhile Parasite has worked out a truly audacious plan: to enslave the entire city to his will, and to finally consume Superman himself. When that's done, nothing will be able to stop him from using the citizens and technologies of the most advanced city on Earth to bring the rest of the planet under his control...

This stage is all about contrasting Superman's "Hope" with Parasite's "Fear", how each uses their embodied attribute to empower themselves and those that follow them. Ultimately Parasite will be defeated of course, but the damage he wrecked won't be so easily forgotten. He'll have become the greatest terrorist to ever attack Metropolis, and not all of his Leeches will have been found. Some will still be operating in secret, ready to answer their master's call should it be issued. This sets up Parasite to be an ongoing never ending threat who can bring Metropolis to it's knees in a variety of ways whenever the writer wants to.

Well I think that would be an exciting set up/story arc for our freak anyway.

[xo-cuteplosion-xo]

Your redemption| Dazai x reader |

Your Redemption | Dazai x reader with a dark past|

Warnings- Violence, blood

It was funny, how little you both knew about the other. Even under the darkly lit sky where your lips met, there was no real connection. There was love, love between only the present. He knew nothing about you, nothing about the you that existed before your meeting. It went both ways though. Neither of you knew anything about what the other did in the past.

It had never mattered to either of you.

Tonight was the first time that the past came back to haunt you. You had run from karma for too long. Everything was bound to pull back like a slingshot. You could run forward; extend the rubber forward. The moment you stopped, you'd be flung into the pool of karma that awaited you. Dazai could escape the karma of his treachery, all the mass horrors his hands committed, they were erased by a friend. He could live freely, you could not.

Your breaths came in ragged puffs. It had been years since your hands held this color. This dark wet crimson that dried a deep auburn. Tonight would be a night enveloped by liquor. Even as you looked at the body that lay on your carpet, your only thoughts were about how Dazai would react if he walked in on this. Biting the inside of your cheek you shoved away the frustration and disgust you felt with yourself.

It took you three hours to move the body and dispose of it. You didn’t bother to clean your carpet. The white fur of the rather pricey carpet was already crusted over. The blood on your hands left smudges of the dried liquid. An emotionless facade kept you together. Pouring the sweet drink that would knock you out, you let your head fall onto your arm. Swigging the liquid down you felt your mind unravel. You wanted Dazai to hold you. As much as you hated to admit it, you could drink yourself silly quite fast. The only downside, you were a heavily open and emotional drunk. You'd cry yourself into the dark abyss of sleep. It was better than hurting for hours as you stared into the stars. Insomnia was something you shared with Dazai. When you two snuggled it was easier to fall asleep, but if work that day had been tough, you would both stay there in the embrace, completely awake for hours.

You didn’t register your fingers type over the keyboard. Misspelling and making errors all over the place. You slipped over the send button. When he received the text he sat up from the couch of the agency. Sighing, he turned to the only other person left. “I’m needed elsewhere.” he hummed, grabbing his coat as he left the blond to work on his own.

You’d already fallen slightly asleep before jolting up. Not even alcohol seems to cloud your mind enough tonight. The glass in your hand shattered as you stared at your hands. Normally you’d laugh at this. Tonight was not a night you felt you could laugh with. Water began pooling in the corner of your eyes. It dripped slowly at first before turning to silent rivers. Your chest skipping breaths. It would rise and fall in uneven patterns. You don’t know how, but you’d ended up running to the restroom and leaning over to toss away the disgust. When your wobbly, drunken body stood to look in the mirror you could only see them, that version of yourself. The past you that seemed an inevitable fate. Normally rationality would stop you from shattering the glass and sliding to the floor. You leaned against the sink's cabinets. Sobs escaped your lips as you heard the door slide open.

Dazai noticed the broken drinking glass first. Then looking to the rug his feet stood on, he noticed the dried blood. He listened until the sound of banging pierced his ears. He ran towards the sound, flinging the bathroom door open. You had stood up and were now scrubbing furiously at your hands. You gave him a side glance before backing away. Dazai made the connection relatively quick. Walking towards you, he grabbed you. He moved too fast, you had no time to dodge his body as it pulled you in. He kissed your forehead, ignoring the splatter of blood over your clothes, your hair, and your face. It was a color he was used to seeing. “Dazai… you shouldn't... it might get on you. I don’t want to… I don't want you to be pulled down with me.'' The irony of that statement killed him. A sigh passed through his lips as he brought you closer.

“You don’t have to worry about that, my belladonna,” he whispered into your ear. He lacked the skills to soothe your aching mind. He lacked the experience to properly comfort you. No matter what he did, he knew he risked making it worse.

Shaking your head, you pressed your face into his chest. The familiar comfort of the embrace aiding to comfort you. It let you know you were not alone. “You don’t understand… I'm a monster! I haven't changed, I could have spared them, but it was instinct to just do it.” you whimpered shaking. Words continued to fall from your lips as you began to push away from him.

Dazai could only chuckle at the situation. The world brought two of the same together. Here he had thought he’d be the only darkness in the relationship. Releasing his grip a bit, he tried to show empathy even though he had no idea what the feeling would be like. He understood you were in pain and needed help. Despite that, he didn’t know how to react. The words fell from his lips without much thought. “Then I'm a monster too.” The confusion settled in quickly. The way your body stopped refusing to accept his touch, and the halted pulse of your chest.

“What?” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes. They were soft and filled with empty sadness. One of his hands left your back to cup your cheek softly.

“We’ve both road a path in the dark. While that's true, it's the past. I’ve watched you, and not once have I ever seen you as a monster or evil. You help people now. Your life was threatened tonight, you acted in fear. It’s alright.” your head pressed onto his chest again. Hands gripping his shirt as he lifted you into the tub. His hands worked around to remove your bloodied clothes. He turned the water to your preferred temperature. Bathing you as you continued to sniffle. The silence comforted you.

When the shower was over he left you alone, before he came back with one of his t-shirts. Slipping it over your body as he dried your hair with a towel, he smiled. The corners of his lips tugged lightly, almost unnoticeably. He lifted you once more and dropped you on the bed. Dropping the covers over you, he planted a kiss on your head. He laid next to you holding you tight. It took a while before the influence of the alcohol finally drove you into an empty sleep. He lifted from the bed to clean the shared home.

You would wake up to a clean house, not even the smell of liquor would remain. The mirror replaced, a new glass to replace the one you had shattered. The rug wasn’t stained either. Sitting with a cup of coffee would be your boyfriend. He’d hold out poorly made breakfast. The toast burned, the eggs slightly overdone.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” you would smile and kiss him softly as he smiled back and returned your kiss.

[the-silentium]

In Emergency Only

Masterlist

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Words: 2120 words

Warnings: TUA season 1 and 2 spoilers, violence, blood, sexual innuendos. 

Requested by: Anon!

Your last fic about Five was so good!!  Loved your unique twist you added and the interactions were so believable. Definitely one of my fav fics! If requests are open, could you do one of the same reader reacting to Five fighting and kicking ass, would they fight too or just hang out in the back and wait? Big fan and I love your work

A/N: Still 30 years old Five here! Same Reader and Five as in Doppelganger! Sorry for the title, I really had no idea. Oups.

The music playing in the background brought a smile to your face. You loved to learn more about different cultures and their different people dancing the Polka almost made you regret the reason of your little visit. You swore that this woman, the Handler, had Five in the middle of her palm, enraging your boyfriend to no end, but he sucked up his ego and accepted her deal to save his family. 

You followed Five through the enormous cabin. The architecture was truly beautiful, catching your eyes quite easily. You were occupied by admiring an intriguing animal carved into the wood that you didn’t see Five stopping in front of a vending machine and slammed into his side. He was quick to get a hold of your arms before you fell to the ground and hurt your behind, pulling you into his chest with a seductive smile on his kissable lips. 

“Distracted?” 

You rolled your eyes at him before pecking his lips. “I just like slamming into you.” Five’s groan made you chuckle before you turned your attention to the assortment of snacks displayed behind the glass. 

“See something you want?” Five buried his face into your neck, tickling you with his warm breath. Giggling, you pushed him away and pointed to a chocolate bar in the middle of the display. It has been a while since you last ate some, so you figured why not? You knew that you were sitting this one out, so eating would not be a problem. 

“Please?” You offered him your best puppy eyes, although you knew that it wasn't necessary. He asked you first after all. 

“Sure.” He pecked your lips one last time, turned to the machine while digging some money in his pocket and inserted the coins into the slot. He pressed the letter and number assigned to the candy and karma decided to hit you by stopping the spiral metal thing before the sweet could fall down. 

Frustrated, Five tried typing in the code again, without success. You knew that at this point in time, Five was getting pretty impatient. The last days haven’t been easy on him, especially when you almost got shot by one of the Swedes and every one of his siblings was scattered around town and not listening to him, causing Five to get irritated pretty easily. 

You grabbed his arm to calm him down when he started to push the machine and pulled him along with you to the cake further down the hallway. The only way to calm down Five was to allow him to successfully grant your wishes of eating something and the cake would do just fine. 

You quickly dipped your pointer finger into the icing, turned to him and when he opened his mouth to voice his anger you shut him up by putting your finger into his mouth. His pissed-off expression soon morphed into a cocky one when he noticed the red coloring your cheeks, proceeding to see if the color could reach your neck by sucking harder on your finger. Embarrassed by his antics, you retrieved your hand and hid your face in his chest. 

“This icing is heavenly.” He chuckled before reaching for something behind your back. “Look up.” You reluctantly did as told, dreading what you would find. Instead of being hit square in the face by a hand full of icing like you feared, a single maraschino cherry dangled between Five’s fingers, two inches away from your mouth. Instantly, your mouth started to water, the sweet ingredient had always been your favorite part of a dessert. “Open up.”

You would have blushed if it wasn’t for your excitement of eating the prized cherry. You didn’t hesitate to tilt your head and open your mouth to the incoming sweet, a delighted moan filled Five’s ears when you grabbed the fruit between your teeth and chewed.

“Now that’s a sound I like to hear.” The bliss of the cherry moment now over, your blush came back full force at his innuendo. You weren’t used to his flirty attitude, he was gone for 17 years and as young teenagers, your relationship wasn’t really oriented in that direction. You had to remind yourself that he was, in fact, 58 years old regardless of his physical appearance. 

A kiss fell on your cheek and Five let go of you to make his way to the fire axe on the opposite wall. 

“Do you think preventing the end of the world is enough of an emergency?” 

You smiled at his question and nodded once in approbation. “Definitely.” 

He winked at you before grabbing the axe with both hands and walked into the room. He passed in front of you and you took care of closing the door after yourself, this time your job was to keep watch and stop anyone from entering the room. Because it was the Commission’s board that was targeted, Five had thought it wise to take the matter into his own hands and keep you out of it. 

You weren’t against it, the memory of the barrel of an automatic rifle pressed at the back of your head was still pretty vivid and every time you thought about it you had goosebumps. In other circumstances, you were sure that you would have participated in some kind of way. Maybe with a knife or something, the fire axe was definitely out of your mental capacity. 

You had helped Five in some of his fights before. Not every fight, but some of them. You were impressed by the amount of bloody fighting your boyfriend could be engaged in and were truly amazed that every time he would get out almost without a scratch. 

Back at Griddy’s, you had to hide behind the counter where Five teleported you and wait until he had neutralized every armed guy in the room. You knew how to defend yourself, having followed some training with the Hargreeves when you were kids, but your skills were useless when guns were involved. This was the very first time you had seen the extent of Five’s ability. Never would you have thought that his space-jumping would be that effective. 

Then there was the fight with the Swedes in the Mexican consulate. The absence of guns gave you the opportunity to land some punch to the tough Swedes hitting the shit out of your boyfriend, the perfect distraction for him to throw the white-haired out the window. You hissed out of empathy for the guy before fist-bumping with Five and space-jump outside. 

Screams erupted from the room Five recently entered. Curiously, you made your way to the open doors to assess what you were sure was a gory scene. In the 2 seconds it took you to reach the doors, Five had already neutralized 4 of the board members and was quickly axing his way further into the room. You’ve never feared blood, your uncle had a butcher shop and you helped sometimes to put the meat into packages, nothing too dangerous, and while you helped you had seen the carcass of different animals being emptied from their organs so you were certain that you could handle whatever was happening in the next room. 

A blue spot flashed before your eyes and Five appeared at the same time a man hit a wall and fell down with a lamp. You rolled your eyes when Five took the time to take a sip from a glass, the next thing you knew a guy was hanging from the ceiling and three more board members were dead in a pool of blood. As much as you hated the view of dismembered bodies, you had to admit that Five was pretty efficient in his work. You managed to make eye contact with your boyfriend when he stopped for a second behind the last Commissioner, Five shooed you with one hand so you obeyed. If he thought that you couldn’t handle it, then you couldn’t. End of story. You had to admit that the sound of the axe hitting the bones was pretty disturbing, the sound occasionally made you shiver in disgust. 

You had your back pressed to the closed doors separating the bloody scene worthy of a horror movie and the welcoming Polka party, patiently waiting for your boyfriend to return victorious when a man with a fish tank as head stopped running when he saw you. If possible, you were as stunned as he was. You weren’t prepared to face a non-human person and he clearly wasn't prepared to see someone guarding the exit. 

However, he was faster than you to regain his senses and try to push past you. His sudden movements made you jump, his hands were almost on your arm when Five appeared in front of you and pushed the weird robot-man-fish away from you. 

“Surely we can come to some form of agreement that benefits both parties.” Your eyes widen at the voice, not expecting the fish to be able to talk. You tilted your head to the side so that you were able to see over Five’s shoulder and take a second look at the panicking talking goldfish. “Quid pro quo? What do you say?” Oh. His hope was cute. 

“Why not? Here’s your quid.” Five hit the human body’s leg with what you noted wasn’t the fire axe but something that looked like a cricket bat. “Here’s your pro.” He hit him again on the opposite leg. “Here’s your quo.” Five charged his hit as much as he could without hitting you with the bat, the fish’s pleas reaching your ears, then Five smashed the tank as hard as he could. The glass exploded, water got everywhere, the body fell to the ground in a thud and the goldfish dropped to the ground. 

As Five took a deep breath, you carefully stroked his back in a soothing manner before crouching to retrieve the gasping fish. You already had a bag ready for it, looking around you found a vase proudly showing off its beautiful purple flowers. You disposed of the flowers and poured the vase’s water into your plastic bag. Turning around you met your boyfriend with the fish’s tail trapped between his fingers, its head facing the ground. Hurriedly, you made your way toward them as you felt bad for the little thing convulsing out of the water.

“Poor little fishy! Put it quickly in the water!” You couldn’t help yourself and enveloped Five’s hand with the bag so the fish could be in his appropriate environment. 

“It’s far from being a ‘poor little fishy’ you know? It planned for the apocalypse to happen and ordered hundreds of people’s death.” He said letting go of the fish’s tail. 

You closed the bag so it wouldn’t escape and smiled sheepishly. “I guess I still can’t accept that a fish can talk. Or be at the head of an organization of killers.” You brought the bag at eye level to analyze the goldfish closer and sure enough, the fish was staring right at you. “I guess it does seem intelligent-” You paused as the fish nodded at your words. You controlled your surprise and smiled sweetly at him. “Can we name him sushi?”

The fish started to swim in circles, hitting the bag from time to time making you laugh at his apparent anger. A hand got a hold of the bag, taking the little burden out of your hands. At this moment you noticed that Five’s eyes were dull, their bright spark gone with every life he took. Worry etched your features, you reached for his empty hand and squeezed lightly hoping to give him some sort of comfort. He shot a small smile your way despite his eyes still being emotionless. 

Your heart broke for him, all this time he was forced to kill against his will and it ate at his soul. Oh how you wished you had a special ability like him and had the capacity to remove all of the darkness hurting his mind. Without warning, Five pulled you to his chest and jumped to an alley. The unexpected spacial-travel made you dizzy for a few seconds. You had done it enough time before to be used to it and be spared of the once usual wave of nausea following a jump. 

You knew that the Handler would come here sooner than later, so you engulfed your boyfriend in a hug regardless of the blood covering his clothes. Deposing a light kiss on his less stained cheek, you smiled lovingly at him. 

“It’s almost over. Then we’ll be only the two of us.” 

His forehead met yours and a sincere smile stretched his lips. “I can’t wait.”

[peninkwrites]

Ooh #3 for the fanfic asks???

#3 favorite line/scene you wrote this year

I have realized that doing an ask game where I have to pick favorites is impossible for me! Well, lets go with a few favorites, depending on the fic :D This is gonna be so much more than necessary, and there's more that I'm definitely forgetting, but to be fair I've written more this year than I have in the last three combined! And it was fun to look back on my old fics.

TDDD:

“It hurts worse to know he was loved enough to be mourned but not enough to be saved.” -about Tommy

And I think the scene with Tommy running to Techno in chapter 5 might be one of my favorites I’ve written!

Rocks that Bleed:

“The extent of his empathy is no longer a hard line but instead a fickle, malleable thing outside his control.

He hates being out of control.” -About Sam

And the scene in ch 8 of Sam and Ponk talking. Love me some tragic awesamponk.

Rage and Fear Are Two Sides of the Same Coin:

“Everything I am goes to them.” -Tubbo

“Youth doesn’t give priority in suffering, but none of this was fair.”

"These last words slip out before he can stop himself, even as he knows it’ll deepen an already open wound, betrayal is worse than hatred, betrayal requires trust.  “And he said he loved us.” -Tubbo, about Wilbur

A Talk Long Overdue:

“You promised to take care of me, so why aren’t you? Do you even know what that means?” Tommy to Wilbur

“Puffy had walked into this prison like she thought she was meeting someone else, only to see the face she’d spent so much time taking care of, just as loving and reverent even with the blood on his hands.” About Dream

“Dream reminds her of Tommy, she realizes with a twist in her gut.  Tommy asking for the clear steps that lead to recovery, Dream expecting instructions that lead to forgiveness.  They’ve infected each other.”

“He supposes that was what Dream was trying to do. Manufacture a piece of hell where Tommy would grovel and gladly lay his life in Dream’s hands. Dream had dug his claws in so deep he even infected Tommy’s suicide.”

(this is a long one, but this whole confrontation was so fun to write) "Tommy’s grief is traded for rage in an instant.  It still isn’t hate.  He wishes it was.  “I was there for you in Pogtopia! I never gave up on you, I never fucking gave up when everyone else wanted to– and if you’d been there– you would’ve left me alone with him? With him?!  Knowing what you know?” He snarls every word, wishing it wasn’t from an open wound, now he steps forward, jabbing an accusing finger into Wilbur’s chest.  “You would’ve left me to die with fucking Dream!?”

“But you didn’t die then–“

“YEAH I FUCKING DID!” Tommy’s voice breaks as he screams it out, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, refusing to let him go as Wilbur tilts back.  It’s as close to a hug as they’ve gotten.  “He fucking killed me out there and I still crawled out.  All that blood, all that hurt, ‘cause I was actually fucking alone, Wil.  Don’t pretend you know what that’s like,” disgust grows for the man Tommy had wasted himself to save."

Is your blood as red as this?

“What do you mean I sound like you?

The endless horror of recognizing the self in the other.”

Wilbur’s Mistake

 In that moment Wil would’ve loved you enough to save you.  Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine being saved, Tommy?  Can you see it?  Dream dead on the ground, you already know what blood smells like, what’s the scent of a little more?  What’s the harm in one more piece of tnt turning that man into a scar on the earth?

Your big brother, your shining hero.  Would he have gutted Dream in that yellow sweater of his?  Would he have hugged you after, or is that different from killing for you?

And he’s the only Wil you have.  He’s the only one you’ll have ever again and this Wil says he loves you and if he’d been there he would’ve done nothing as Dream made you afraid.  Would he bottle his anger?  Or has he let go of it entirely?  If this Wil had gone back to that day, would he have walked away from you and Dream and the hole he’d dug for you?  Or would he have stayed, would he have the decency, the cruelty, to witness his hero break his favorite toy?  Break you apart even as he says he still loves you?  Would he dare say that to you if he stayed to watch the reckoning of his own violent pacifism?

Love is Violence:

“I know you’re a good person, Ponk.  I’m sorry that it’s been so hard for you to stay that way.” -Niki

“The last act of love between them had been a lie.” Awesamponk :(

In Which Punz is a few minutes late:

Maybe Tommy was always just meant to hurt.  He was made for violence.  That’s what it always came back to.  Tommy wasn’t meant for music, that was always Wilbur, he wasn’t meant for peacetime, that was always Tubbo, he wasn’t meant for control or justice or certainty.  He was always meant for this.  He taints everything around him.  Wilbur died.  Tubbo died.  And somehow he’s still here.  He’s meant to break things, not keep them safe.

THIS PLACE IS HAUNTED AND SO ARE YOU

(this little fic reads almost like a long poem, there are so many lines that I love, so here's just one favorite)

“But you and your brother had each other.  He was angry, hellbent on becoming a ghost, on haunting the place you’d fled like a threat and an echo all at once.”

Guilty (after)Party

“Three lives. To the final control room they owed a life, to Wilbur’s betrayal-driven descent into madness they owed a life, and now to Foolish they owed a life.

They were living on borrowed time.” Eret :(

To Protect

“You burned the tree, right?”

“I did,” Niki said stiffly. She took no pride in that fact. It was another casualty of a conflict she never wanted to begin with.

“Niki…” Jack put a hand on Niki’s shoulder, an offering of support as she wavered. “You are rooted in this conflict. And it has taken root in you. That cannot be burned.”

[hamliet]

Pain, Fear, Death, and God: Fyodor and Gogol as Two Halves of Kirillov

God is the pain of the fear of death. Whoever conquers pain and fear will himself become God.

-Alexei Kirillov, Demons

So remember how when I first read Bungou Stray Dogs I started screeching incoherently and turned those screeches into a somewhat-coherent meta on how Fyodor in BSD was modeled after Alexei Kirillov from Dostoyesvky’s Demons? 

Well, here’s the follow up.

As I said in my previous meta, Demons is (tied with Crime and Punishment) my favorite novel of all time, and Alexei Kirillov is my very favorite character of all time, in any fictional medium, ever. He’s a walking bundle of paradoxes, existential angst and stunning compassion. But Demons is not necessarily a popular novel by Dostoyevsky standards and so Kirillov, despite being written about by literary critics and Camus, is somewhat obscure. That Asagiri is so clearly inspired by his character is shocking and thrilling for me; I’m pinching myself. 

The tl;dr version of Kirillov is that his whole schtick is that he wants to kill himself to prove that he is free and thereby can escape. It’s far more nuanced and complex, as I’ll go into, but essentially both Gogol and Fyodor’s philosophies and goals reflect this.

Gogol does not want to kill Fyodor because he hates Fyodor; rather, it’s because Gogol and Fyodor are two halves of a whole. They are a paradox together, embodying Kirillov’s complexity. Like Kirillov, they are suicidal, because killing one of them is like killing themselves. To achieve their goals, they both need to die. 

Fyodor reminds Gogol that he is human and can connect; therefore, Gogol wants to kill him to assert his free will, as he views connections as a cage. Similarly, while we haven’t gotten much insight into Fyodor’s thoughts on Gogol, I think it’s highly likely Fyodor allowed Gogol to kill himself (he thought) because he clings to his beliefs at the expense of his (very much there) empathy, and it’s better for his goals if people who provoke his empathy die. Basically: Fyodor allowed Gogol to “die” not because he doesn’t care about him, but because he does. 

For a brief background: Demons itself is an allegory about how people who become consumed by their ideas become possessed by said ideas; thus, they become devils or demons. The actual title of the novel, Бесы, is difficult to translate, hence why it has three different titles in English: The Possessed, The Devils, and Demons. The word “Бесы” in Russian refers to the ones doing the possessing, which is why the latter two are generally considered to be more accurate translations of the title. In particular, the novel demonstrates the tragic consequences of Russian nihilism and singles out moral nihilism. (It’s also looked to as a rather eerie novel, because almost everything it wrote about happening in a--then fictional--political revolution is exactly what happened in Russia a few decades later.) 

As I wrote in my previous meta, Fyodor, like Kirillov, is “consumed” by his ideas, something Kirillov laments in Demons. Fyodor’s consumption with his ideals means that he is willing to sacrifice everything for his goals. Gogol, too, shares this trait. 

Where they differ is in motivations for their respective plans, motives they share with Kirillov. Kirillov’s master plan is to commit suicide for two reasons: firstly, that he has free will and will thereby inspire society to live freely, and secondly, because he sees life as nonsensically painful and thereby not worth living. The first reflects Gogol’s personal aims, and the second Fyodor’s.

Let’s discuss Kirillov and Fyodor first. Kirillov believes that mankind invented God (keep in mind the context this was written in; God=Russian Orthodox Christianity) to go on living because of the absurdity of life. 

Listen: this man was the highest on all the earth, he constituted what it was to live for. Without this man the whole planet with everything on it is--madness only. There has not been one like Him before or since, not ever, even to the point of miracle. This is the miracle, that there has not been and never will be such a one. And if so, if the laws of nature did not pity even This One, did not pity even their own miracle, but made Him, too, live amidst a lie and die for a lie, then the whole planet is a lie, and stands upon a lie and a stupid mockery. Then the very laws of the planet are a lie and a devil's vaudeville. Why live then, answer me, if you're a man.”

Fyodor's disgust for the world and determination to save it from the sin of abilities reflects this same attitude. Life is wrong, so it should cease to exist. Abilities are wrong, so everyone with one should cease to exist. The reason is, most likely, strongly based in how painful Fyodor’s ability has been for him.

Kirillov laments:

“God is necessary and so must exist… But I know He doesn’t and can’t… Surely you must understand that a man with two such ideas can’t go on living?”

...

“If there is no God, then I am God.”

If Kirillov is god, then he is the ultimate master of his fate. Kirillov is very aware of his own limits, and so he thinks this absurd and life pointless. 

That conversation continues (Kirillov’s responses are bolded):

“There, I could never understand that point of yours: why are you God?”

“If God exists, all is His will and from His will I cannot escape. If not, it’s all my will and I am bound to show self-will.”

“Self-will? But why are you bound?”

“Because all will has become mine. Can it be that no one in the whole planet, after making an end of God and believing in his own will, will dare to express his self-will on the most vital point? It’s like a beggar inheriting a fortune and being afraid of it and not daring to approach the bag of gold, thinking himself too weak to own it. I want to manifest my self-will. I may be the only one, but I’ll do it.”

This very much reflects Gogol: killing his high moral power (connection and empathy) through the man who identifies himself as a god (Fyodor) to prove his independence and freedom. 

But we’ve kind of already seen where this ends:

Gogol you’ve literally shown yourself terrified of dying (which Kirillov is as well). I know Gogol was likely acting in this scene, but given the themes of BSD and Gogol’s character, plus the fact that he did, in fact, choose not to die, I think this is likely somewhat reflective of his true feelings.  

But again, Kirillov asserts:

“I am awfully unhappy, for I’m awfully afraid. Terror is the curse of man.… But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that I don’t believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the door, and will save. That’s the only thing that will save mankind and will re-create the next generation physically; for with his present physical nature man can’t get on without his former God, I believe. For three years I’ve been seeking for the attribute of my godhead and I’ve found it; the attribute of my godhead is self-will! That’s all I can do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible freedom. For it is very terrible. I am killing myself to prove my independence and my new terrible freedom.”

As Gogol outlined, what disrupted his plans was Fyodor’s empathy for him, and his empathy for Fyodor. Their connection literally saved his life (hence I kind of doubt their connection will kill them in the end). He cannot die without killing that connection. 

Two things almost disrupt Kirillov’s plans. Firstly, and chiefly, it’s his empathy for others. Kirillov is noted to be a character who is extremely kind, good with children, and unafraid to risk himself to help others. When Kirillov finds out his friend betrayed him and is planning to use Kirillov’s suicide to get away with the murder of a third friend, Kirillov is horrified. He refuses to go through with his suicide at first, screaming in horror that his friend is dead and that he unwittingly enabled his killer to end his life. When he does ultimately go through with it, he states that it is because “I want to kill myself now: all are scoundrels.” He goes through with it because his human connections are failing. 

Even the novel’s most villainous character concludes “I agree” when Kirillov is called “good.” Kirillov will stop at nothing to help his friends, and he believes all people are good and will become good if they are just told they are. However, the tragic irony of this scene is that the person speaking to Kirillov--Nikolai Stavrogin--is very much a literary example of a psychopath. (Those of you who follow me know I don’t use that word lightly.) However, Stavrogin does not want to be this way; he wants to feel, he wants to be bothered by the terrible sins he’s committed. What he’s asking Kirillov, essentially, is to understand this and call him wrong for what he did, which absolutely no one does in the novel:

“Everything’s good.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. Man is unhappy because he doesn’t know he’s happy. It’s only that. That’s all, that’s all! If anyone finds out he’ll become happy at once...

“And if anyone dies of hunger, and if anyone insults and outrages the little girl, is that good?”

“Yes! ...They’re bad because they don’t know they’re good. When they find out, they won’t outrage a little girl. They’ll find out that they’re good and they’ll all become good, every one of them.”

“Here you’ve found it out, so have you become good then?”

“I am good.”

“That I agree with, though,” Stavrogin muttered, frowning.

“He who teaches that all are good will end the world.”

“He who taught it was crucified.”

“He will come, and his name will be the man-god.”

“The god-man?”

“The man-god. That’s the difference.”

Stavrogin’s examples are based on things he’s done. Kirillov isn’t aware of these deeds, but he does know his friend’s mind better than most of their other friends. The problem is that Kirillov refuses to truly act on this empathy, to accept that men can be scoundrels and good, because he wants what he believes (that all are good) to be so. Kirillov’s too consumed with his desire to end the world (hello Fyodor) to save mankind via proving himself free to actually use his empathy to help his friends. In fact, the murderer points out to Kirillov that if he’d focused more on his friend, he might have been able to prevent the murder. 

A similar attitude is reflected in Fyodor’s desire to destroy ability-users (i.e. end the world) and in his interactions with people. He doesn’t put his empathy into forming actual connections, and those he has he deliberately does not invest in (such as when he kills the kid in his introductory chapter). He kills ability users paradoxically because he cares about them and about other people. I wrote about it a bit in this meta here:

Fyodor... lives very much in a world of black and white. He makes Goncharov happy all the time, unable to experience pain or negative emotions. He believes all ability users are a sin and should be destroyed. He’s an idealist in a lot of ways, believing in absolutes (which is also a hallmark of a childish perspective...).  he wants to... force every single ability user to feel his pain (that their abilities are a sin) by wiping them out. In short, Fyodor wants empathy despite refusing to listen to the feelings of others. (He understands their feelings; he just chooses to emphasize his pain over theirs.)��

Unlike Kirillov, however, whose last scene is renowned as “the most harrowing in all of literature” (I can’t even describe it; it has to be read) I think there’s pretty good reason to hope that Fyodor and Gogol will not end up taking each other out. Because the thing about Kirillov, the reason his character resonates so much with me, is the second reason his plans are almost disrupted: it’s how desperately he wants to live. He just wants to know that his life matters. The way Kirillov expresses these desires is absurd in a lot of ways and certainly hyperbolic, but it’s a desire reflected in most of BSD’s characters, and in, well, a lot of us in real life, too. 

Empathy and genuine human connection are the greatest powers in BSD’s world, as we saw recently through Atsushi getting the location of the page from empathizing with Sigma by telling him what he most wanted to know: that he mattered. 

Sigma now knows, to an extent, that he matters. At least, he’s been told as much.  

Gogol states that Sigma is key to his plans succeeding: Sigma’s ability can tell him Fyodor’s ability, which will enable Gogol to kill Fyodor. Except... Sigma’s ability might just work in an way that cultivates empathy post-connection with Atsushi. If Sigma can trust that he matters, despite having been created by the page and having been abused and subjected to all manner of lies and exploitation, he might be key to Fyodor and Gogol’s conflict resolution rather than to them actually killing each other.

Fyodor matters despite having an ability that seems to make him unable to touch people--because he can touch people with his empathy. (His empathy is, of course, literally what draws Gogol to want to kill him.) Fyodor’s empathy with Gogol has already physically saved Gogol.

Gogol matters even if he is understood by someone, because empathy is a strength and not a weakness. Someone understanding him doesn’t make him matter less, and being bound by feelings isn’t actually a bad thing. His connection with Fyodor has already saved his life.

Both Fyodor and Gogol have now saved Sigma at some point. Sigma’s design, of course, is literally split with two different colored halves of his hair, indicating that the artist likely means to symbolize the clash of two halves (see: Q, who represents how soukoku (Dazai and Chuuya) are two halves of a whole in terms of their best and worst traits). However, they exist in one person, and Sigma seems reasonably stable for someone with his situation. 

Additionally, Fyodor and Gogol both are also somewhat modeled after Rodion Raskolnikov, the protagonist of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, whose name literally means “split” in Russian. (Actually, Kirillov is very much a more internal, tragic version of Raskolnikov.) Like Kirillov, Raskolnikov is a paradox embodied: he’s stunningly empathetic and kind (rushing into a burning building to save orphans), but his philosophy is that it’s fine for him to kill others because he’s a “Napoleon” (special figure; “man-god,” to use Kirillov’s term). 

But what is split is ultimately made whole in Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov meditates on the raising of Lazarus from the dead and essentially resurrects himself, redeems himself. 

I highly doubt Gogol and Fyodor’s story will end with them dead because:

It’s BSD and nobody stays dead unless you’re Oda or a red shirt; 

Gogol and Sigma have already served us fake-out deaths, so it’s a lot to ask your audience to buy another death from the same character (killing Fyodor is essentially Gogol killing himself);

them surviving and having Fitzgerald-esque redemption arcs very much fits with the themes of Dostoyevsky’s works and specifically with the book after which Fyodor’s ability is named;

resurrection seems to be a motif with everything involving Fyodor, from Cannibalism to this current arc.

[moontheoretist]

The recognition in Howard’s voice. “ Sargent Barnes? ” And the beating. The metal arm punching Howard’s face repeatedly. Tony flinching away from the screen, eyes closing in pain. Tears in Bucky’s eyes. Steve watching Tony. “Why? Why is he… stop,” whispered Wanda, absolute horror in her eyes. And what did it say about him that the girl who had hated Tony for more than half of her life could show more empathy than he was doing in film? Maria Stark groaning on film, and Bucky realising she was alive. Approaching her and then choking her with his flesh hand. “But why?” whispered Wanda, her hand going to where the collar had been resting less than a month ago. “Steve, why is your friend-” “It wasn’t him,” he pleaded, voice coming out shaky and… afraid. Afraid like he was in Siberia again, like he was watching his friendship crumble again. “It wasn’t him.” The Bucky of the assassination video shooting the camera, and then Tony making a move at the ex Winter Soldier who jumped back, fear and pain in his eyes. “ Tony, Tony… ” from a too calm Steve, a too cold Steve. Tony turning to look at him - because Siberia Steve and Now Wakanda Steve were the same, it was him - pain in his brown eyes and then… confusion. Steve could see it now, the quick question of ‘why isn’t he hurt?’, ‘why is he so calm’. The realisation. The betrayal. “Did you know ?” ask Tony and Sam at the same time. Tony’s tone is hurt and rage. Sam’s is fear. “ I didn’t know it was him-” “ Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. Did. You. Know .” Why had he even tried to lie? Why hadn’t he stood in front of the screen the moment he figured out what was going on? Why hadn’t he just told Bucky to run and tried to keep Tony from going after him? “ Yes,” and it’s too loud, the word is too much, and Tony is flinching away from Steve like he had just been slapped. “Steve?” Sam’s voice was a whisper, and Steve refused to turn around to see the same disgust pain fear anger in his eyes. But the video wasn’t over, of course the video wasn’t over, and then Tony was punching Steve in the face, and Bucky was training his gun on Tony, and then they were fighting - “What are you doing!” shouted Sam, unable to look away from the Steve on the screen to the Steve next to him. “He just watched his parents die why the fuck are you fighting him?” Natasha was looking at the screen, still like a picture, but her index finger was shaking slightly as the fight progressed. “ It wasn’t him, Tony! HYDRA had control of his mind!” Wanda was horrified. “He was the weapon, and he was in front of him.” “ Move .” “It wasn’t him!” Sam turned to face the Steve in the room with him, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “How can you expect him to understand that after you lied to him and he had to watch… that?” Steve hated the look in Sam’s eyes. It was like Sam was watching someone he loved die in front of him. “He was going to kill Bucky. I couldn’t… I had to save Bucky.” Natasha didn’t look at him, her finger still shaking even as she kept her tone of voice bored. “If he wanted him dead, all he had to do was activate the unibeam from his chest when he first had him pinned on the wall. Or use the lasers and cannons he has in his suit.” She eyed him with mistrust hidden behind a blank canvas. “You saw him when he was killing against Ultron and the Chitauri. He went toe to toe with Thor and the Hulk. He has Veronica.” “Do you even remember them?” Steve refused to listen to Natasha’s words - because she was right, because he used deadly force and Tony was pulling his punches, and it took two of them fighting back to back to actually stop him - shaking his head. “He was going to kill him. You didn’t see his face.” “ I remember all of them. ” He had to believe that, he had to hold onto that because if not… if not… Natasha was implacable. “He wanted to hurt you as much as he was hurting. He wanted to make you bleed. But he was not trying to kill you.” “ This isn’t gonna change what happened!” “ I don’t care. He killed my mom .” The soldier turned his eyes on the TV again, hating how every trained part of him was telling him all the openings Tony had, while his mind replayed the fights they had against villains and gods and robots alike. He was attacking them the same way he had attacked the baseline humans in HYDRA. Maim not kill. “ He’s my friend. ” “ So was I,” Tony’s voice is hurt angry tired and Steve feels his heart break. Back then, he hadn’t cared. Back then he was in a fight and Tony wasn’t a friend, Tony wasn’t an ally: Tony was an obstacle. Vision’s words from that livestream - save James Barnes, no matter who or what stands before you . Tony had stood between him and Bucky, and Steve… had turned on him. “ I can do this all day. ” “Steve what the fuck is wrong with you?” there was agony in Sam’s voice, and it hurt hurt hurt that his own friend was disgusted by him, but what did he expect? Hadn’t he known? Wasn’t this exactly why he hadn’t told them the full truth had lied, lied lied.

you want a war? (you don't know what you're asking for) by graveltotempo

[theoriginalladya]

"Holiday Celebration" for Alexandre/Kaidan :)

from this prompt list

On AO3 here

My friend, thank you so much for asking about Alexandre and Kaidan!  I won’t apologize for the length of this prompt - it’s the beginning of Alexandre’s story, and for that I am very grateful!  (also pardon the extra information for that purpose! lol) I hope you enjoy it!

~~~

Title: Six Cents Dix-Neuf

Summary: 619 days ago, Alexandre Shepard received secondary exposure to eezo in an accident that killed his father. Today, he enters the hospital, room 619, and begins a journey that will change his life forever.

Characters:  Alexandre Shepard, Kaidan Alenko, Nathalie Alenko

Series: Copains de Combat

Author’s Note: Many, many years ago when I was in high school, I was paired up with a pen pal over in France. For decades, he and I wrote back and forth to one another. Twice, I was fortunate enough to meet him in person. He was one of the nicest, kindest people I've ever had the fortune of knowing. We lost touch about 21 years ago, shortly after my son was born, but I always looked for him online in the hopes we might connect again. Sadly, about a month ago, I came across irrefutable proof of what I've known deep in my heart; my friend died shortly after we lost contact with one another. Now, all I have left are the memories.Alexandre Shepard is a fictional creation of the man I called friend. I can only hope somewhere, somehow he knows I still think about him fondly.

~~~

Room 619.  

Alexandre Shepard stares at the number and hears his father’s voice inside his head.  Six cents dix-neuf, mon fils.  A tremor shakes his hand as he reaches for the handle.  Either God has it in for him, or He has a very wicked sense of humor. Six cents dix-neuf.  The same number of days since the eezo ‘accident’ that killed the elder Shepard and exposed Alexandre, which in turn, led to him being here, at this hospital.  

Room 619.

He enters the room, sets his things by the empty bed nearest the windows before walking over to stare outside.  The hospital room is like any other in any Alliance hospital. This one happens to overlook the city of London.  Not a bad view by any means, particularly in winter with brightly colored and festive holiday decorations hanging, but it is not where he wants to be.  Anywhere but here would be preferable; finishing his studies, preparing for enlistment, anything other than waiting for surgery, for an implant to help him control his sudden and unexpected access to dark energy. He never asked for it; he saw the faces of the crew, of the other kids in his class.  His mother.  His brother. Disappointment.  Horror.  Fear.  No, he did not ask for this; apparently, what he wants out of life no longer matters.

Room 619.

The door opens behind him some time later. He isn’t in a private suite, and all Alexandre knows is that his roommate is also biotic.  Though greater in number than they once were, not many come through this hospital, and certainly not enough to create a wing specifically to deal with them.  What few rooms the hospital does set aside for them have to double up on occupancy if and when necessary.  Alexandre swallows tightly.  The fist that rests against the wall tightens, and his gaze is captured as the strange haze of blue returns to spark weirdly around it.  He doesn’t want a roommate, doesn’t want anyone else to know his ‘condition.’  Maman insists he keep it quiet, to protect himself, his one chance at a future. And David?  Well, he was lucky to hear from his older brother at all, and even then, the message was brief.  The ship’s doctor said biotics weren’t a deadly condition.  Someone needs to explain that to his family and friends.

“Six cents dix-neuf,” he mutters, the energy fading as he releases his fist.  Six hundred nineteen days.  Why?

Shuffling steps approach, but stop short of his position. That is something, at least. Alexandre is not in the mood for conversation, good or bad.  He wants to be elsewhere, anywhere but here.  No choice.  But, th minute he knocked Stacey Ratzenburger from her seat in class after a violent sneeze with an added dark energy kick, his life was forever changed.  It’s no longer a question of what he wants, but where he can be put so as to not be a danger, to himself or others.

“Beautiful view.”

Alexandre huffs softly but does not turn.  The voice is deep, warm, comforting in a way, but he really isn’t in the mood to chat.  Still, they’ll be roommates for a time, and his parents raised him to be polite. “It is … different.”  

His companion chuckles softly.  “Your accent suggests you aren’t from around here.”

Alexandre nods.  “I was born in the colonies.”  Which is true enough.  His mother was on leave when he was born, and his documentation lists Terra Nova as his place of birth, even if it was his home only for a few days.  Glancing to his right side, he spies his roommate standing off to the side in the shadows.  Odd behavior, particularly for one who seems to be otherwise outgoing and friendly, but Alexandre does not ask.  The man’s reasons are his own; Alexandre can respect that and hope for the same consideration in return.  “You are from …?”

“Earth.  Canada, to be more specific.”

Canada.  A wild country filled with mountains, trees and wild animals in the western provinces and descendants of his kinsmen in the east. At least, that is how his father explained it once when he was young.  He knows better now, of course.  Half turning, he eyes the shadow.  “Vous parlez français?”

A soft snort – disgusted?  Amused?  He isn’t certain – fills the air.  “Only when I have to.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Alexandre leans back against the wall, a smirk toying with the corner of his lips.  That is a mood if ever he’s heard one before. “Tu me comprends?”

This time, it’s a disgruntled sigh of exasperation. “Yes, I understand you.  I would have thought that obvious?”

“When you hide in the shadows, nothing is obvious.”

There is just a moment when Alexandre thinks perhaps he’s pushed a bit too much.  After all, they have only just met, and not even formally.  Yet, something about this man tugs at memories of his past, at a time more comfortable for him than now.  

How long has it been?  Four years?  Five? I wonder where you are now, mon ami, and where your life has taken you?

With a soft shuffle of slippered feet, his roommate steps out of the darkness.  He is tall, at least equal in height to Alexandre himself, with a mop of dark hair and warm amber eyes.  But it’s the lines of pain at the corners of his eyes that Alexandre notices and he recalls the warning at the desk; he suffers from migraines.  Immediately, Alexandre reaches over and pulls the curtains to block the direct light from outside.  

“Merci.”

Alexandre’s lips curl upward a tick in appreciation, but he cannot help but tease, “Was that so difficult?”

The amber eyes narrow.  “Anyone ever tell you that you are impossible?”

This is what he needs; the distraction, the banter, the return to familiar times. His lips form a full-fledged grin now. “My older brother.  Often.  Repeatedly,” Alexandre replies.  The grin fades a little.  “And an old friend.”  He shrugs, a gentle movement but one that apparently catches his companion’s attention as his eyes focus on it.  “I have not heard from him in a long time.”

“Ah.”  Sympathy? Empathy?  It isn’t unwelcome, but unexpected.  His roommate moves a few steps closer, nods in the direction of the curtains.  “Thank you for that.”

“No trouble.”  Alexandre gestures toward the beds.  “Is it easier for you if we sit?”  He tilts his head in some concern.  “I can fetch a nurse?”

His companion moves toward his bed even before Alexandre finishes asking his questions.  “No nurse,” he insists.  “It’s just … results of the tests they did.”

Alexandre follows, climbing up onto his bed and making himself as comfortable as anyone can in such places.  He tugs his pillow onto his lap, bunching it in his arms. Old habits offer comfort.  “Tests?”

The Canadian lies down, eyes closed tightly, but he still engages in conversation.  “I have an L2 implant, given to me when my biotics manifest a few years ago,” he explains. “Horrendous migraines are one of the many possible side effects.  They are testing to see if there is anything they can do to help.”

The complete and utter lack of hope in his tone leaves Alexandre on edge.  All he knows is what the ship’s doctor told him before leaving.  You are fortunate.  You will receive one of the newer implants, not one of the defective L2s.  To a teenager who has no idea what that means and doesn’t want one, it did little to reassure.  “Do all who have implants suffer?”

One eye opens and focuses on Alexandre. “No.  Is that why you are here?  For an implant?”

Alexandre’s gaze drops and he hugs the pillow close to his chest.  Lifting one hand, he turns the palm up while wiggling his fingers slowly, cautiously. He still has no real understanding of how the biotics thing actually works.  It takes a few moments, but the glow returns.  “Yes.”

The other man pushes up a little, folds his arm and rests it beneath his head as he watches closely.  “You’re worried.”  It’s a statement, not a question.

Alexandre shrugs again.  It’s vaguely disconcerting his reaction is so easily seen.  “I have no choice in the matter,” he replies. Pulling his gaze back to his companion, he counters, “Fate has decided I need more challenge in my life.”  He tosses his pillow back to the bed and flops onto it, staring up at the ceiling.  He does not want this conversation.

“That’s a rather fatalistic approach, don’t you think?”

Alexandre says nothing in response, only rolls so his back is to his roommate.

Several minutes of silence pass.  In the back of his mind, Alexandre hears his father chiding him gently for being rude, but he ignores it.  A soft knock at the door precedes it’s opening, but he ignores that, too.  No one is here for him, and he doesn’t expect the nurses to take undue interest until later this evening in preparation for tomorrow’s procedure.  

Soft steps echo through the room, followed by a soft, feminine voice.  “There you are.”

His roommate’s voice has a slight edge to it when he speaks, but there is nothing but welcome in it.  “Hi, Mom.”

Mom.  Alexandre fights back a wave of jealousy that grasps hold.  It’s stupid; it isn’t his roommate’s fault; it isn’t even Alexandre’s.  With another long glare up at the ceiling, he silently challenges, Why do you do this to me?  Why am I such a tempting target?

When Fate does not reply, he sighs heavily and rolls over to face his roommate and his visitor.  But, when his gaze falls upon the other bed, he frowns.  Something about the woman, about her face, her hair, maybe even her voice, speaks to him.  Or, maybe it’s the small box she carries, so brightly colored and festive looking.  A reminder of happier times.  

“How were the tests?”  She sets the box on the rolling tray table and positions it between the beds.  The response is unintelligible, which is just as well.

Alexandre loses track of time as he focuses on a ray of light coming through the curtains and shining across the room.  Just a sliver, but not enough to bother his companion, he doesn’t think.  Still, it’s plenty to remind Alexandre of the world outside.  Timing, as is often said, is everything; Fate’s decision to throw his life all akilter right before the one holiday he associates most with his father six hundred nineteen days after losing him is ill-timed at best.

Six cents dix-neuf, mon fils.  Joyeux Noël.  

Alexandre closes his eyes, teeth gnashing together. “Six cents dix-neuf,” he whispers to the shadows.  “Joyeux Noël, Papa.  Tu me manques.”

He doesn’t notice the room go silent, or hear the sharply drawn breaths at the other bed.  He doesn’t see two pairs of concerned eyes turn toward him, focused on his huddled form.  Alone in his own private world of despair, Alexandre knows nothing but the pain of loss and change thrust upon him.  Until a moment later when he is torn from his misery by something completely unexpected.

“Kaidan, why didn’t you tell me –?”

Kaidan.

The name is common enough, he supposes, but it is one tied to a happier time in his life, one that has been tickling at the back of his memory since meeting his roommate.  Bolting upright with a sharp gasp, Alexandre half turns until he can look, really look at the man lying in the other bed.  “Kaidan?”  It comes out as a strangled whisper, but the other man must hear it.  Their eyes meet, and Alexandre stops breathing.  Dark hair, dark eyes.  An older face marked by time, a few scars, but beneath it all, something so familiar and unexpected …  Swallowing tightly, Alexandre chokes out, “Mon copain de combat?”

The man’s eyes widen a fraction despite the pain he suffers from, but it’s the word that passes his lips that are the true gift for Alexandre this year.  “Alex?”

He has only ever allowed one person to call him by that shortened version of his name.

Alexandre scrambles off his bed to stand beside him. He glances up to the woman, the ache in his chest lessening.  “Nathalie?” She nods.

Kaidan adjusts his bed.  “Mom, it’s Alex.  Don’t you remember?  From the Lisbon.”

Nathalie Alenko blinks in surprise, but a slow smile curves her lips at the same time.  “Alexandre Shepard?”

One, last tour, the final cap to a long career in the Alliance; the forging of a friendship, now rekindled after seven years separated.

Alexandre turns back to Kaidan.  “I …  It’s you. C’est un miracle.”

With a smile, Kaidan extends a hand that Alexandre takes immediately.  “Well, it is Christmas …”  

[angelwars11]

Title: Remembrance

Prompt: Vespers

Pairing: Jesse/Kix

Rating: G

Word Count: 2k

‘During battle, his senses become hyper-aware and then so numb afterwards that he can barely even feel the blood on his fingertips. It paints his hands in scarlet that once was inside of his vode’s bodies, flowing freely and keeping them alive. Kix hates that part—when he’ll exit a tent and stare down at his hands, and finally address it.The sensation of silent distaste surrounds him in white and black ghostly shadows of what once was.’

— 

‘To no man or being will I cause or permit harm to befall, nor will I refuse aid to any who seek it. These obligations I willingly and freely take upon myself in tradition of those that have come before me. These are things we do so that other may live.’ -The Medic’s creed.

This is day 2 of the ClonecestInJuly challenge! I finally finished this story, oh my lord; it took forever!! Thank you to all my beta readers/editors, @blazesurrender, @maplerosekisses, and @starimperial. You all did an amazing job and I really appreciate it. I hope you all enjoy this one! Lots of angst and tears and pain this time! *evil laughter*

*Warning: Very VERY brief mentioning about a suicide attempt

Fire explodes from left to right. Troopers scream in pain, in agony. Multiple howls of anguish and despair bounce across the damaged land as Kix runs to each and every injured trooper—checking on them to make sure they are still alive. If they are, they get a tag indicating whether they have minor or major injuries. Deceased soldiers receive black tags indicating death for those who will come to collect the bodies and bury them later. 

Kix almost falls to his knees when an explosion sends him forward. He growls under his breath and continues blasting away as he goes. White and blue fall to the ground like fallen angels from the heavens. It’s anything but graceful; they crumple unceremoniously to the ground in bloody heaps of tangled limbs. Kix kneels down, checks for their pulses, and tags them. He administers a small dosage of painkillers out of empathy.

“You’ll be okay. The other medics will come for you soon,” Kix reassures each one of them who is alive before he moves on.

It’s a never-ending cycle of dread, sorrow, and frustration, but he keeps moving. He can’t stop for long periods of time or other men who need him will die from their wounds. Kix cannot let that happen; he will save as many brothers as he can, even if he has to leave a couple with some painkillers and move on. ‘They will be okay’ he always reassures himself even in these dire situations. 

During the battle, his senses become hyper-aware and then so numb afterward that he can barely even feel the blood on his fingertips. It paints his hands in scarlet that once was inside of his vode's bodies, flowing freely and keeping them alive. Kix hates that part —when he’ll exit a tent and stare down at his hands, and finally address it. The sensation of silent distaste surrounds him in white and black ghostly shadows of what once was.

Kix is never verbal about how much he hates feeling the blood on his hands. Other times, especially after a hard battle like this one, he’ll make it known to everyone near him how broken he truly can be. Kix’s sight blurs with tears of absolute anger and hatred. He is angry that he's lost vode, and he despises this war for what it’s done to them, to him! More blaster rifles sound through the fog in the distance and droid poppers crackle nearby, too close for comfort.

The gun in his hands feels so heavy all of a sudden. He doesn’t want to hold it anymore; he hates it. He wants to drop it and run away, but he can’t because—I have to save them all! Kix can taste salt from the sweat dotting on his upper lip as it makes its way down and into his mouth. He doesn’t mind because it’s a distraction from all the blood, horror, and gore he sees beyond the black visor hiding his terrified features. 

He may seem like an emotionless soldier, but underneath he’s kriffing scared, petrified even. Kix has to hide all that unadulterated terror in the back of his mind and raise his walls up to protect himself from getting exposed to the wrong people.

Kix slams his heavily fortified facade up so he can save lives. 

Another brother falls to the ground in pain. He’s not dead, not yet, so Kix dashes across till he reaches the white armor decorated in contrasting red, and pulls him into a hiding spot to check him.

What lives am I saving? I keep losing so many! So karking many!

“It’s okay, udesii. Udesii, vod. You are going to be okay. Alright?” Kix kneels down beside the injured trooper and takes off his white med-pack.

This is going to be a long day.

...

Hours later, it's over. The sun has set and the temperature has dropped to comfortable and manageable levels. Gray clouds create a dark formation in the sky in the silence that is only broken by the occasional noise—moans of agony, the sounds of cleaning and quiet chattering, troopers walking the perimeters, or the officers debriefing with the Generals. Despite the silence the night carries, there is still so much going on.

The medical tents are a holy mess of different sounds, smells, and sights. The worst part is the distinguishable metallic scent of blood on surgery tools that have to be left out on silver platters. Not surprising at all; the Republic does not give aid to the 501st or provide appropriate sterilization, which means that microorganisms live on the blades of each tool. It disheartens Kix to be well aware of that disgusting and unsanitary fact. 

Kix is used to the smells, however, thanks to years and years of being a medic. It's fortunately —and unfortunately— a side effect of olfactory fatigue, which is also known as nose blindness. 

Kix stares at the glowing holo-pad with empty golden eyes as his finger skids across the glass. Numbers move about on the screen. There are many casualties and many designation numbers—names—covering his holo-pad. On and on until he reaches the very bottom and lets out a shaky breath. Exhausted and trembling, he places it on the nearest tray, like a pitiful coward who could barely hold in his lunch, and walks out into the lukewarm night. 

He stumbles as far away from the tents as possible, near a little grove of trees, and becomes sick. Kix trembles for so long with his clammy glove-covered palms on his knees and saliva slowly dripping from between his pale lips and sickly green covering the bridge of his nose. He says the blood doesn’t bother him, and it doesn’t, not on its own, but the number of men that died today does.

The green treetops up above sway as Kix slowly kneels in the sand near the pond, nearly as silent as the world around him. Nothing will bother him as long as he stays right here away from the others. He can still feel their blood on his hands, and his skin itches like holes cover every inch of it. He can still hear their cries of pain and agony, fear, and devastation—sounds that carry in range for miles, especially when one has lost a loved one. Kix couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would feel if he lost Jesse to the clankers on the battlefield. What if Jesse had died alone without Kix to be there for him?

 Kix closes his eyes against the negative thoughts. Jesse may not be with him right now because he's in a debriefing, but he'll come back and find Kix. He’ll search out his riduur like always, no matter where they are. Nonetheless, Kix feels so lonely that he digs his blunt nails into his skin until they create half-moon indents. Kix wants so badly for his cyare to come back and hold him, sing to him, and comfort him any way he can till the nightmare is over. 

The numbers Kix saw on his holo-pad left him pale and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like sandpaper.

Death count: Thirty-five men. 

Kix grunts and slams his hand into the ground. 

“Kriff,” He hisses in frustration. He lowers his head towards the soft sand under his body and breathes. The silence is broken temporarily by the wind whipping around him, the feel of it on his skin comforting, almost a physical touch.

The wind is practically hugging him.

“Kix,” A voice calls. A familiar, caring voice that almost always has an undertone of warm amusement in it. 

Jesse. 

He feels the sand under him shift as Jesse kneels beside him.

“Hey, you okay?” Jesse asks. He eyes the puddle of stomach bile a couple of meters away with concern before he glances at the medic once again; Jesse offers a sympathetic smile and his facial expressions soften a great deal. Kix stares at the moving sand for a second, blank and wide-eyed, before he turns his attention onto Jesse with eyes full of exhaustion and hopelessness. Jesse immediately pulls him into a consoling hug. 

“Okay, it's okay. I've got you.” Jesse brushes his hand back and forth along his back and makes small shushing sounds. “What do you need?” 

Kix tucks his face into the side of his neck. Hot salty tears roll down his cheeks and cross paths with the sweat and grime covering his face to create visible tear tracks. Kix tries to focus on breathing for a moment but the smoldering negative feelings return like an avalanche.

“There were so many that died, Jess. Force, I lost so many good men. All of them were good men. So man shinies...it was their first battle and they didn't even make it. It…it hurts to have to run, check them over the best I can, mark their bodies, and then keep moving. But the ones who died… Why do I have to leave so soon? Why can't I say goodbye to them,” Kix whispers into the junction between his collarbone and neck. 

Jesse's hand halts on his shoulder.

“You still can. Right now. A prayer for the dead, for our brothers who've marched on to join our aliit in tra.”

Kix blinks pensively before nodding without saying another word. Jesse is right. Kix can still have a Vesper and pray for their dead brothers. It’s safe to do so now that the battle is over and the surge of adrenaline has faded. Kix isn't needed right now; the patients are resting and the other medics are watching over them, which means that Kix is free to rest— or pray with his riduur. 

The two of them place their hands on their knees and bow their heads. 

Kix whispers solemnly, “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.”  His eyes flutter closed. 

 “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” Jesse whispers after him. 

Kix opens his eyes and gazes up at the stars. Each one looks the same but they are all unique and different. Just like us clones. Kix opens his mouth and lets out a sigh that’s weary but resigned.

"Bongo." The first name. The first known trooper he tried to save. When Kix found him stuck under a huge pile of rubble he immediately remembered his name. The poor trooper was so scared; he thought he would die alone but Kix was there with him at the very end. 

He even held Bongo's hand as the life departed his gilded eyes. 

"Anzanti." The second name. A shiny who came to his med-bay once asking for help because he found one of their brothers trying to hurt himself in the ‘fresher. Anzanti was afraid and tried his hardest to distract their brother, Duros, while Kix stopped him from successfully taking his own life. Anzanti begged Kix not to tell the higher-ups, the Generals. He promised the medic he’d watch over Duros and would never take his eyes off of him.

Now Anzanti is gone. 

Who will watch over Duros? 

Kix knows that Duros did not die in the battle which means that Kix can find him and make sure he’s safe and well.  With Azanti gone there’s no telling whether Duros, with that knowledge, will try and hurt himself again. 

Kix makes a little mental note to search for Duros later. For Anzanti. 

Three more shinies. "LMC-211. Ennez. Sephi." Kix remembers their names only because he saw them on the list; like many names he’ll utter in remembrance tonight. 

And maybe a little more.

On and on and on till he hit the last name. 

 Kix swallows his grief. "Heart." His throat feels so parched without a drink of water. 

Jesse thinks he's finished so he opens his mouth to say something to console him but—"Echo," Kix pushes through clenched teeth. Jesse jerks up in surprise and then he sighs, soft and reminiscent.

"Hardcase," The medic groans out this one—a painful name to remember. A name that belonged to a spirited, uplifting, and crazy vod that now only two remember. Kix ends it with a choked off sob and his arms curl around his abdomen in grief; he leans forward and rocks back and forth to withhold the tears from breaking through his carefully constructed walls. Jesse raises his hand to steady him and console him but he aborts the movement when Kix makes a sound of abandon. 

Jesse sighs internally. Oh, Kix. 

"Dogma," Kix growls, irate. His fingers grab at the sand that falls away around his trembling knees and legs; Kix throws it in a frantic attempt to find another outlet for his rage. Jesse lowers his head, as he is angry too but holds it back and glares at the ground. 

Kix bites his tongue till it almost bleeds. So many vode. Gone. Gone! 

"Tup…" Tears trickle down his face in his grief; his shoulders shudder with barely restrained fury and quickly growing anxiety. Calm yourself Kix, come on! Come down. This isn’t you and you know it. Just breathe...in and out. Be at peace. His eyes flutter closed again and his chest lifts with each careful breath. 

Jesse watches him with pride, his eyes burning with that aching urge to cry in frustration. 

Kix tips his head back finally and stares up at the stars for who knows how long. Millions of them glow in the night, showing the way like a lantern. There are crimson, azure, white, gold, and orange ones. Each radiating star creates part of a constellation up there, and each one is massive, alive right down to the very core of their divine being. 

Jesse settles one hand on Kix's shoulder, and finally, Kix looks over at him and shivers involuntarily. Jesse nods in silent understanding.

"Fives," Kix whispers the last name almost as if he’ll get struck down. "I couldn't save him, Jess. I stood there and let him walk out of that 'fresher, I should've,” —Kix bites the inside of his cheek to stop the tears. “I should've stopped him from going out there, from getting killed."

"You couldn’t have done anything, cyare. Fives… He did something that got him into trouble, and if we had helped him in any way then we could’ve been arrested. We could’ve been taken from the battlefront and decommissioned. And I…I believe you did the right thing, Kix. Okay?" Jesse hugs him gently.

 Kix takes a sharp breath and tenses. 

"Stop blaming yourself for their deaths. You had nothing to do with it, and you weren’t the one who killed them. You tried your best to save them and that’s all that matters." Jesse breaks their hug in an instant so then he can stare at Kix firmly.

 "Did you kill them? Any of them?" Jesse asks. Kix looks down and Jesse grabs his chin softly and brings it back up. 

"Did you kill them?" He repeats, but this time plain-spoken.

"No. No, I didn't."

"Good." 

"But I miss them so damn much! I wish none of them died! I wish they were here right now, next to us."

"I do too darling. I miss them every day," Jesse whispers. He cocks his head to the side, and a small tear slides down the right side of his face. Kix reaches up immediately and wipes it away. 

It's silent, giving Kix time to think for a moment. 

"Where they are; they are marching ahead in Tra. With Gods, we cannot see. But we will join them when it's our time as well," Kix says. His eyes, hopeful. 

"Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la," Jesse whispers. He looks up at the sky in silence. 

"Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la," Kix echoes. 

Like that, the prayer is over. They whispered the names of the fallen and their loved ones and then they said ‘they are not gone, only marching far away.’ Afterward, the two of them remain curled against one another in the relentless sand; Jesse and Kix stare up at the heavenly skies above filled with gas giants and stars of pure beauty. The two troopers' fingers interlock together in between their thighs and then Kix rests the side of his head against Jesse's armored shoulder. 

"Thank you, Jess." Kix slowly closes his eyes.

Jesse leans over and kisses his forehead. 

"Of course, cyare." 

In the far distance, the planet’s second moon beamed down upon a vivid, tiny funnel-shaped flower called a Statice. It stands at least 28 inches in height. The flower features small, delicate petals that fluff together atop green stems in a beautiful soft shade of pink. The Statice looks spectacular under the soft glow of radiance. The petals of this flower are visibly ethereal in every way. 

Its pink shade stands for something. A special meaning. 

It symbolizes Remembrance.

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me. 

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down. 

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.  

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable. 

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation. 

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice. 

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees. 

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation. 

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded. 

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable. 

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached. 

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried. 

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men. 

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe. 

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.  

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror. 

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian? 

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’ 

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore. 

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later. 

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face. 

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet. 

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him. 

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away. 

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat. 

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s  Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him. 

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly. 

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back. 

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole. 

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull. 

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth. 

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing. 

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it. 

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now. 

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him. 

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all. 

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is. 

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby. 

Xoxox Nukyster 

[moviesrotbrains]

DANIEL ISN’T REAL... but I’m so very glad this film exists.

After dealing with increasing anxiety and fearing a grip on reality, a college freshman turns to his childhood imaginary friend for comfort and confidence boosting… only to realize that his much cooler and carefree pretend buddy has an unsettling violent darkness about him. Could Daniel possibly be something more than a figment of his imagination?

DANIEL ISN’T REAL is an utterly surreal fever dream, channeling the best in cosmic horror, body horror, and psychological horror while also taking a bold look at deeper issues. It comes from Elijah Wood’s SpectreVision imprint, the same company that gave us such gems as MANDY, A GIRL WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT, and COLOR OUT OF SPACE...  and this one’s right up there with those modern classics. And you can watch it now on SHUDDER!

Full review and some seriously kickass poster art below:

Directed by Adam Egypt Mortimer (and based on Brian DeLeeuw’s book, In This Way I Was Saved), DANIEL ISN’T REAL is a wonderfully fantastical ride through fucked up subject matter. It tackles mental illness, trauma, dual nature, identity, male toxicity, and empathy… with a good amount of Lovecraftian madness and trippy, yet terrifically disgusting Cronenberg-esque visuals thrown in for good measure.

It’s an engaging story too, about a young man, Luke, overwhelmed with life as his mother’s mental health condition worsens. He’s dealing with that on top of everything else college kids go through, lack of confidence, anxiety, etc. There’s also a fear of his own sanity. He keeps hallucinating and blanking out. His therapist suggests that maybe he should try to tap into that creativity he had as a child, where he’d regularly play for hours on end with his imaginary friend, “Daniel”. Only things got very weird and unsettling the last time he played pretend with his fictional playmate.

Once Daniel re-enters his life, things start to change. Luke’s mother issues get better. Luke suddenly feels more confident in life. Luke is finally doing well with girls. Luke’s getting creative again with photography... and all of his problems seem to go away… Only Daniel seems to want more credit and recognition. And Daniel seems to be getting angrier. And that’s when things get really fucking messed up.

This film is wonderfully acted by a mix of up-and-comers and veterans of the scene. Luke is played by Miles Robbins (HALLOWEEN 2018) and gives that immediate likeable and kind, yet also meek, portrayal that perfectly conveys what kind of a person that Luke is. There’s a lot of range in emotion in this performance, from hurt and confused to confident, to something else entirely. I always get a kick at seeing an actor completely flip their performance and style midway and totally embody something else, and this film has that and more.

Contrasting that likability and meekness is Daniel (played by Patrick Schwarzenegger, SCREAM QUEENS), the titular imaginary friend who’s pure Freudian Id. He’s cool, slick, charismatic, and always knows the right thing that Luke should say, or do, to get ahead. He’s helpful… when he wants to be… but he also has a lot of darkness. A scary darkness that seems to stem from… something else. Patrick excels when he taps into this dark alias. He’s evil as fuck. There’s a sinister glee in his manner. Epitome of “Chaotic Evil”. He’s such a great asshole. He really kicks it into gear when the audience fully know what we’re dealing with… 

Yet even then, nothing is over explained. And that’s the beauty of this film. There is no expository dialogue or wasted scene. Everything is laid out there and the actors just bring it. This film lives in a world of it’s own and the audience is a passenger for the unholy ride. It’s a very slick flick full of world building and the kind of outstanding performances that really make everything shine.

Rounding out the supporting cast is Luke’s troubled mother (veteran Mary Stuart Masterson, who powerfully played a similar and memorable role in BENNY & JUNE), Sasha Lane (HELLBOY) as the love interest, artist, and really, the heart and soul of the film, and Hannah Marks (DIRK GENTLY) as the other girl faced with Luke’s dark side. again, all perfectly played and perfectly cast, giving a much needed balance in this heavy film.

And it’s a very heavy film. The story was a deeply personal one for Mortimer (as he explained to us in 2019, when he brought the film to the Montreal FANTASIA film fest). The director drew from his own experiences from his youth, when a friend was similarly dealing with mental health issues. Mortimer had to help him, because his friend was “falling off the rails”, with no one around really helping him out, “not friends or professionals”. He talked of his friend’s life being in ruins, and how it just “spiraled off into mania”. 

That experience deeply impacted Mortimer. It was from this that Mortimer wanted to make a film about empathy and compassion for people going through severe mental illness issues. While Luke’s troubles stem from something more, the parallels are still there to people in real life going through non-otherworldy issues. The overall sense of helplessness, and a desire to be understood and taken seriously, is still there, and still a universal theme. Especially right now.

This film also tackles a lot more than just matters of wellness. Mortimer also wanted the film to deal with the “increasing danger” young men are in these days. “The Dangers they face and the danger many are to themselves”. 

Mortimer talked about them, “Living in a world where men have been driven insane by society. A society where many men are both the product and the villain of it.” A lot of this is seen on film when Luke battles for control with Daniel. Daniel representing that alpha and that Id. Luke grasping for control and trying to be that voice of compassion and reason. It’s a wonderful character study that is only heightened by the horror elements that come into play.

And yes, it’s an absolute horror fan’s delight and it’s visually stunning to boot, mixing psychological & psychedelic horror together. It felt like I was watching HELLRAISER again for the first time, but if that film was shoved in a blender with FIGHT CLUB, JACOB’S LADDER, and copious amounts of mind altering drugs. But comparing it to anything else does no justice to the wholly original eye-gasmic feast set before us. I keep saying this, but it truly is an utterly wonderful surreal fever dream. It’s so very layered and out there. 

It’s refreshing to see new films like this come about with something to say and looking as great as it does. Yes, this film looks very different from most things that are currently out there, with it’s violet texture throughout, and otherworldly feel. Mortimer, who came from a music video background, wanted his second feature to have a distinct look to it, saying that the “violet hue throughout had a very futuristic and contemporary colour about it”. He wanted to create the feeling of a manic episode, and overwhelm the viewer with colours and density. 

And he totally does. It’s such a beautiful looking film, and one you’ll definitely go back to just to soak in the wonderful hypnotic visuals. Much like MANDY, from the year before, DANIEL is a cinematic treat for your eyeballs.

And there’s also some deeply messed up visuals that mix in with that beauty. The FX on a whole are amazingly bizarre. There are visuals that are so jaw-droppingly good that you’ll permanently have them etched in your brain. It’s the kind of film where you’re watching and you immediately want to rewind and see that scene again.

From faces being merged into each other in a pink tentacled mess of VIDEODROME-esque flesh, to other visages literally being mangled like putty! Pure body terror. People crawling into other people’s mouths– I could go on, but I don’t want to spoil it. It’s icky and wonderful all at once.

And I can’t go on about the FX without mentioning the nightmarish and hellish creature design by Martin Astles (who also worked on the brutal and classic nightmare fuel that is EVENT HORIZON). The creature FX are so fucking out there, each very distinct and very memorable. The kind of things that if you confronted them in real life you’d be quick to claw them out your own eyes. 

One beast looks like a hellish death beast with a fleshy castle for a head-- an absolute architectural artifice. Mortimer said they attempted to convey that a whole universe was in its face, and it existed outside space and time. Another Face looking like piercing bullets poking through the flesh and protruding from his cheeks, like a moment frozen in time. They’re all so freakishly creative and disturbing. I can’t even describe them right. I’m not sure I want to, but they’re seared into my mind. Body Horror and Cosmic Horror at their best.

In addition to the visuals, this film also brings it on the sound design and score front. It’s got an incredible score by Warp Records act Clark. It contains synthy goodness along with manipulations of actual orchestral pieces. And it was Clark’s first time working on a film score, something Mortimer preferred. 

He wanted someone that wasn’t used to working on horror films, or films in general, so they’d throw everything they had into it from the get go. Mortimer told Clark to make it sound like Bernard Herrmann got stuck in some horrible industrial accident. A relentless sonic assault that tries to capture that same feel that Clint Mansell did with REQUIEM FOR A DREAM. The results are a superb original work of music that completely enhances and already spectacular looking film.

I was a fan of Mortimer’s SOME KIND OF HATE when I caught it six years ago at FANTASIA FEST, but DANIEL is an entirely different beast and next level filmmaking. He’s easily grown as a filmmaker and I’m totally on board to see more. I can’t wait to see what he tackles next, because DANIEL was easily one of my top Fantasia picks for 2019.

DANIEL ISN’T REAL is one of those dark films that will most likely be seen as a cult classic in a few years, right up there with DONNIE DARKO and movies of a similar ilk. It’s full of so much imagination and gusto, all while tackling important issues and core themes. All that and it remains highly watchable and engaging. It’ll satisfy any horror junkie while also winning over fans of thought provoking art. Daniel isn’t real, but I’m glad it exists.

-Theo Radomski, Movies Rot Brains 

Seriously how fucking awesome are these posters?  Why can’t more horror films hire the people that made these posters? Why can’t film in general hire these people to make better promo art? 

This article was previously seen on Mobtreal.com