#at least. in a way that is not dangerous or unpleasant for anyone involved

[kaylatoonz]

Ok I'm not sure if I’ll ever pick up the comic for this AU again with me slowly losing motivation to draw scu/sonic content (the trailers aren’t helping 😑).

So I’m going to give the gist of the story of this AU.

(Edit: This came out longer then I intended 😅).

Art for the AU

Metal/Metal Sonic character sheet

Amy character sheet

Bonus post one and two

context:

In this AU metal sonic or metal (for now) was not created by dr eggman he was created by a rival tribe to the echidnas, a hedgehog tribe. Metal was designed to hold and wield the chaos emeralds and then master emeralds in hopes of overthrowing the echidna tribe's war hungry reign. Unfortunately the project was proven to be a failure and later unnecessary when the owl guardians got involved. With no purpose for the robot and fears that it could be dangerous if it were to fall into the wrong hands, metal's creator sealed him away within a temple. Sentient or not, Metal’s creator had his mind fully set on never letting his tribe or anyone see his work. To keep the world safe and to make sure his failure would never see the light of the day again.

And it would have stayed that way if it weren’t for one fateful winter.

During one particularly brutal winter a pink hedgehog takes shelter within an abandoned temple. Due to the temple ruins not providing enough warmth and her curiosity of the uncharted ruins, she ventures deeper. In the Midst her exploration of the sacred ruins the pink hedgehog finds many intriguing artifacts and trinkets. One peculiar trinket caught her eyes were two golden rings. These rings weren’t like any ordinary warp rings to the hedgehog’s disappointment. The rings were more like bracelets being large in size. It made it so very tempting to try them on just for a moment. Surely it wouldn’t hurt. She hesitantly but eagerly place the rings on her wrist to admire for a moment. but when she decided she had her fill she moved to remove the bracelets only to find she couldn’t. Like any sane and rational being who was dealt with this situation she panicked. Unbeknownst to her panic awoke belated chao power sending pink sparks and bolts of energy from her quills. And that power awakened something that resided within the space the pink hedgehog was currently inhabiting. A loud rusty creaking sound jolted the hedgehog from her panic, arising a new fear that she wasn’t alone. A pair of Neon blue eyes illuminating the space did nothing to ease her fears, edging her to take cover from the being view. She tried to wait the creature out in hopes it would leave but the rattling of chains and continuous unpleasant creaking noise dashed those hopes. the hedgehog start devising a way to escape undetected until her ears picked up something. A sadly familiar sound. The rattling of chains told her that the creature was securely contained within the opposite side of the room. Normally this would bring relief but it was the sound that accompanied the chains that made her heart ache. A whirring sound that almost sounded like whining as the creature fought against the chains. It wasn’t a monstrous beast fighting to free itself to hunt her down, no it was trapped and it was afraid.

Coming to that conclusion she decides she'll try to get a better look of the creature and maybe help them. Upon closer expectation the creature was a robot and it was in fact afraid. Now the robot was even more afraid, learning it wasn’t alone backing itself into the wall it was chained to. Taking note of this the hedgehog approaches the robot as slowly and non threateningly as possible. with caution and care Amy managed to get close enough to the robot to free them from their shackles or at least she tried. It turns out the shackles were a lot harder to remove then she anticipated. She would need to find a key if there were one.

Sometime later the hedgehog had become increasingly frustrated upon realization that there were in fact no keys for the shackles. if there was one they were long gone with whatever jerk who decided to lock up the poor thing. The poor thing in question fears had long disappeared now replaced with amusement of the pink hedgehog's failed attempts to free them. Despite the seemingly hopeless situation they were in, they couldn’t help but feel content that they weren’t alone. At least for now. Unfortunately for them those feelings were short lived as the pink hedgehog growing frustration had triggered her powers which in turn caused both inhabitants to panic. The chao energy surges into the ring bracelet activating some form of ancient power. The sudden unknown power emerging from the relics did nothing to decrease their increasing panic. Just when strange power reached its peak it summoned something strange within its light then the power surge ceased. As the pink hedgehog’s eyes adjusted from the blinding light she locked on to a large hammer that she was pretty sure wasn’t there before. And judging from the confusion in the robot eyes? He didn’t have any prior knowledge of the new tool. turning her attention back to the strange new object she couldn’t help, but feel that it was calling to her. then an idea came to mind. The idea in question didn’t give the hedgehog much comfort, not knowing what the new weapon could affect her upon contact. Having no other option she hesitantly took hold of the hammer’s handle. When no negative effect followed she adjusted her hold into a tight one and lifted it. It was heavier than she expected but she managed. She then returned her focus back to the now very nervous robot who must have caught on her plan. The hedgehog could only offer a few words of encouragement and promise to be as careful as she could. The robot's confidence still waned But seeing that there were no other options, they straightened himself as if to say “bring it on”. Taking his gesture as saying he was ready, she took two confidence swings at the Shackles,Taking care to put enough force to shatter his restraints, and not his wrists. with that the robot was free. After a brief celebration the Hedgehog decided it was about time she properly introduced herself to her possible new friend. She introduced herself as Amy rose while also quickly apologizing for the rough first impression. Amy then asked for the robot name and if he would like to be her friend. The robot nodded eagerly but didn’t seem to feel inclined to answer The first question. Or maybe he couldn’t. The robot hadn’t spoken a word since they both met. This didn’t bother Amy in the slightest If he didn’t wanna talk, she would give him all the time he needed. If he couldn’t talk, then they would just have to find a better way to communicate. Figuring out if he had a name would have to be to the start. She rephrased her first question asking if he had a name. maybe she could guess it through yes or no questions maybe charades. The robot looked down solemnly and shook his head. With that response, Amy's anger towards the robot's creator deepened but she buried those feelings for now. There were more important things right now, like finding a perfect name for her new friend. Plus she didn’t wanna make him think her anger was directed towards him. So she took a breath and suggested they make a game out of it. Amy would suggest some names and see which the robot liked best. At first, she suggested some silly ones just to get a reaction which succeeded in pulling him out of his gloomy mood. Later along the line, she got a bit more serious with the names, but none seem to fit. After some time though , they finally settled for Metal. It was simple, but it felt right.

At this moment their loneliness came to an end and their bright yet tragic story of friendship began.

As the seasons passed Amy and Metal’s bond grew stronger with each trial they faced surviving together alone. They share everything, their struggles, strengths, weaknesses and even their hopes and dreams. Amy dreamed of one day exploring other worlds, going on adventures and meeting new people. While Metal was content with things staying just the way they were, by Amy’s side. But making Amy happy meant the world to him. If it meant a little change to their status quo Metal would do anything to make Amy‘s dream come to fruition. The only problem lied in the lack of rings. During his time spent with Miss Rose, he came to learn that rings were a form of currency and a way they travel between worlds. And Rose didn’t have much access to them. There weren’t many ways to make rings while staying in hiding so Amy mostly scraped by throughout her life.

This way of life for his friend never sat well with Metal. how was she ever to achieve her goal if she never took what she deserved. If Amy couldn’t reach her goal Metal decided he would do whatever it takes to help Amy get what she wanted. or at the moment what she needed ,what she needed was rings, and he knew just where to get them. The arena.

In the past Amy had mentioned that some chose (or were forced) to partake in battles against opponents to win rings. Sure, Amy had warned him of the dangers and their unsavory practices but Metal would be careful. Besides, he was built sturdy and he was confident the fighters in the arena were inferior to his power. In way he was right, he was victorious in battle and got the rings he need but at a cost. He had greatly underestimated his opponents leaving him a bit worse for wear. His condition was not preferable but he got what he needed and Amy joy would be worth it. Unfortunately what Metal got was in fact the opposite. Amy flipped out when metal return not even paying mine to the pouch of ring he held. Which led to an argument between friends. Amy was furious, how could Metal do something so stupid and reckless. With how damaged metal was, Amy doubted she could repair him. The chance of finding someone who could was just as slim as finding some who wouldn't try to take him apart. Metal on the other hand had grown frustrated that she hadn’t acknowledged his prize and only greeted him with rage. When Amy finally took notice of the pouch of rings she softened and her fury subsided. She was touched that he went this far to do someone special for her but reaffirmed that what he did was extremely stupid and dangerous. If he had died in that arena she would have never known. She tells him that she would rather have him then some dumb rings and make him promise not to do anything like that again. Metal nodded, feeling warm at his friend’s care and concern for him. He knew how much he needed her but he never considered how much she needed him or cared for him. Before they moved on from the topic, Amy made it clear to him that they’re not using the rings for her. They would be using the rings to find someone they could trust to repair him. Metal shakingly nods seeing how stern Amy was with this demand.

This is where team sonic comes in.

After some trial and error they eventually find themselves on earth. Metal’s condition grew increasingly dire with each world they traversed. With each venture Amy grew more determined to save her friend, despite the hopelessness. Fortunately, her strong resolve paid off when she ran into one of the Wachowski bros, Sonic. unfortunately upon Sonic's first encounter with Metal mistook him for a banged up badnik looking for trouble. So he attacked Metal which led to a misunderstanding when Amy came to defend her friend. She made it clear that she wouldn’t let Sonic do any further harm to her friend. If he dared to try again he would have to go through her and her hammer. At that moment Amy brought some clarity to the situation, that Metal wasn’t a threat. Upon realizing this sonic was quick to apologize. He even offered his help, vouching for his little brother Tails who was the best man for the job to repair metal’s damage (and the one’s he caused). Not having any other options, Amy took on his offer despite Metal’s grievances. As promised, Tails was able to repair metal to the best of his ability (though there would be some kinks to work out, Metal was an ancient piece of work). When the looming threat of the possibility of losing her friend and sonic proving to be trustworthy she decided to properly introduce themselves. Sonic in turn reintroduced himself and his brother’s tails the fox and knuckles the echidna. Sonic also proudly claimed they were the trusted protectors of Green Hills and earth. This piqued her interest and excitement, past transgressions ALMOST forgotten. She was meeting heroes who probably had all kinds of cool and exciting adventures. She wanted to know everything and Sonic was happy to oblige. Metal was not happy he did not like nor trust these.. “heroes” And wanted nothing to do with them. He hoped Amy would follow suit but she was too enamored by the blue idiot’s stories.

As Amy spent more and more time with team Sonic (mostly sonic) she grew to be closer to the gang. This closest in turn made Metal feel more and more out of place. He started to notice some things that he never felt when it was just him and Amy. he noticed how his fingers could never quite intertwine with Amy’s as perfectly as they did with Sonic’s. He noticed that he could never enjoy a meal with Amy like Sonic. And that he could never make Amy feel special in the same way Sonic did. Metal slowly grew to envy and resent Sonic for simply existing. These unchecked emotions eventually lead to an outburst and misunderstanding between Sonic and Metal. The incident drove a wedge in Amy and metal’s friendship(at least in metal’s eyes). Leading to Metal wander off alone to sulk. He was vulnerable. Vulnerable enough for a certain doctor robotnik to take advantage of him. Offering twisted promises that he could refine Metal, making him no longer inferior to Sonic. If this could make him do all the things Sonic could do and more he would do whatever it took to get Amy to smile for him. And only him.

[effable-as-f]

Bro I just realized that Thomas (at least. In a way) incorporated one of Remus’ ideas

[cloudshuffle]

Hi, d for the request can I please have yandere Royal Jade x thief reader?

gem in the rough. yan!jade

nobility au

Her grace, the elegant, classy, duchess Jade, also has a penchant for being frightening.

So terrifying is she that it's said she can make grown men wet themselves at a single glance (this is untrue, on accounts that it was only one man who she caused to wet himself, and there were many other factors involved in his pants-wetting, so he says. I think it’s more amusing to leave it down to the duchess.)

Yet all rumours sprout from a seed of truth. Jade is a formidable individual, demoness or not, and it’d do anyone good not to cross her. She near monopolises the flow of jewels in and out of our borders, and as far as it’s been recorded, none of her ventures have ever failed. She’s wealthy. Some even say she’s more powerful than the emperor himself.

The duchess has an eye for valuable things; things that would pay her back tenfold, if invested in the right way. Despite her cutthroat methods, I know merchants who would kill to be in partnership with her - provided they get an audience with her first. Duchess Jade is a very difficult person to get a hold of.

Speaking of valuable things. I suppose it’s dangerous for a thief to keep a diary, yet here we are. I’ve been feeling rather… lonely and sentimental recently, something about how there might be no one to remember me by. Anyway. It’s been said that the duchess has in her possession something called the Dragon’s Eye - an exquisite, rare, lovely jewel that would buy me not only my freedom out of these borders, but also a life beyond them. I have someone who’s willing to pay.

I do intend to acquire it for myself.

I’ve been watching the duchess’ estate for a period of time now, and I’m quite confident I’ll be able to slip in easily tonight. After that, well, let’s just hope the plans to the castle are up to date. If they aren’t, this will be my first and last entry, which is amusing in a way.

Though aren’t my best heists always the ones less planned?

In confidence, (Name).

I have to admit, the duchess herself isn’t the only frightening thing about her estate.

Security is nearly watertight, and I nearly got mauled at least thrice tonight. But humans are ultimately foolish creatures, and I managed to trick the guards at the outer walls into thinking their mutts were acting up at a squirrel. Still, I thought my heart would jump out of my throat.

The guards in the corridors? Less perceptive than the maids. Those twittery ladies never miss the slightest bit of gossip to pass around. I slipped into a uniform, hinted that the stable boy had his eye on the duchess, and slipped out quickly as they begun speculating on what might happen. He does have quite the looks. Shame he might be fired soon.

And finally I was close enough to slither into her jeweller’s vault, right underneath the guard’s feet. Or the carpet under them. It was a tight, unpleasant squeeze, but what’s playing pretend as a snake compared to my future on the line?

Rumour had it that Jade’s vault was manned by a host of the continent’s best lapidarists, all chained to their desks and made to slave away to produce only the best jewels for her. That rumour always seemed a little silly to me. Didn’t people work best when they were well-fed and happy? But there were no lapidarists. In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in that chamber, not even a guard.

The carpeted floor ate up all sound, and the gems sparkled silently in clear cases. I probably could have stolen the cushions they rested on and fetched a small fortune - the workmanship and the gold embroidery spoke enough.

But I was here on a mission. And though I usually turn away at the sign that something might go awry, maybe it was the temptation of my reward, or maybe it was the sight of the jewel that drove me on.

Fiery red and deepest purple laced with the richest gold. Lovely didn’t even begin to describe such a jewel. Though an eye for aesthetics didn’t come with the job, I think even a blind man could simply feel its beauty radiating from it.

The gold in the middle did somewhat resemble an eye. And I took it with gloved hands and slipped it into a velvet pouch.

Leaving was easy. The compound was designed to keep people out rather than in, and I made it back to my temporary quarters without fuss. I deposited the jewel safely (even I’m not foolish enough to note down where it is), and satisfied at having a job well done, decided to treat myself to a drink at the bar downstairs.

There was a lovely lady at the bar with a presence about her. She looked normal enough with a nondescript cloak and brown hair (save the covering across the lower half of her face), but she didn’t feel normal, and so all the other patrons were giving her a wide berth, even raging drunk. I was in no mood to contend with rowdy, stinking men, so I took up the empty seat next to her.

“Good evening,” she said to me, and I had to sigh. Conversation really wasn’t on my agenda for the day, but she must have misunderstood. “Long day?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Just got home from work.”

“So late!” she exclaimed. “You must be working very hard.”

I shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

Conversation died down, and she left shortly after that. She did tell me she was looking forward to seeing me again.

I wonder what she meant.

Yours unsurely, (Name).

With much difficulty, I’ve finally managed to make contact with the buyer! Pardon the excitement, but we’ve arranged for a meeting at the docks tonight, where they’ve already arranged passage for me. I asked why they weren’t worried about me running off with the jewel, and they said that I likely didn’t want to keep it in my possession any longer.

Which is… true. It’s hard to find a buyer for such a high profile object, but harder still to keep it around me. I’ve been checking on it every day, and I’ve noticed that I feel… somewhat queasy around it. Like it’s a drain on my energy.

Hey, I didn’t survive this long without being at least a little superstitious.

That aside, it was discovered that the jewel went missing sometime in the night that I stole it. Though it’s an important item, the upper echelons seem more interested in covering up the theft than issuing a public notice. I suppose I understand. How would it look if not even the nobility had safe, secure homes?

Regardless, as long as it doesn't harm me, I suppose the jewel and I can coexist for a day longer. And I'll let the stone keep its secrets. It’s not much longer before it’ll be off my hands.

Looking forward to the future, (Name).

I’m writing this entry by candlelight, still sweaty and breathless from escaping from that place.

I made my way to the docks once the sun set. The Eye was heavy in my pocket, but in some way, I felt like the weight of my future was finally in my hands.

I was feeling unusually optimistic. And I’ve learnt, thankfully, that that’s when things go wrong.

Like any respectable thief might, I concealed myself amongst the many crates and boxes waiting quietly to be brought inland the next day. Making the first appearance is always foolish. My boat, supposedly, bobbed quietly on the water with not a soul in sight. Not unusual - the sailors would all be inland at the moment, causing ruckus at the taverns. But it didn’t help to reassure me any better.

Shortly after, a trio of horses and riders come down the docks. Not the most discreet way to get somewhere, and definitely not the level of caution I would expect from someone about to attain the Dragon’s Eye. I knew I was right to be suspicious.

The lady in the middle got off first - I knew she was a lady despite the cloak because she rode side-saddle. Also another unusual detail in this day and age. The other two men at her side moved with a familiarity that I didn’t like; the kind that reminded me of trained soldiers and patrolling troops. They didn’t stir up particularly happy memories. When one of them moved, I caught a glimpse of sheathed blade under his cloak.

Two soldiers. And a noble lady.

I knew this, because Duchess Jade lifted the hood off her face in one smooth motion, her pink curls tumbling out like a cascade of silk.

I bit back a gasp. Because seeing the duchess up close, I recognised her too - the same lady who’d just sat next to me at the inn bar. No matter how she’d changed her hair, using magic or otherwise, it was definitely still her, aura and all.

“My dear master thief.” Her voice rang out, clear and full of authority. I knew immediately that confrontation wasn’t an option. “I know you’re hiding somewhere. You’ve done such a wonderful job, attaining the Dragon’s Eye. Do show yourself so I can present you with your reward.”

From under her cloak, she pulled out a drawstring bag, large and heavy with coin. Jade shook the bag as if to prove its contents, then retrieved papers and slipped those inside too.

“More credit, and legitimate papers for your safe passge.” She patted the bag. “This offer won’t last forever, master thief. Or should I call you, (Name)?”

By the time she finished her sentence, I was already gone.

I pick up this entry, once again by candlelight, once again fleeing.

The duchess knew where I was staying, which gave me valuable time to pack what little I had and sneak onto a transport cart. Once out of the city, I hopped off and hitched a more legitimate ride with another cart. Not that I trusted these people not to rat me out, but there was no way I was stopping any of these men in the dark without giving them a fright.

I’m on my way towards the border. The Eye is still heavy in my pocket, sitting quietly like an obedient child. I hadn’t known what to do with it, and figured it might be better to carry it with me, in case I needed to barter for something valuable. Like a life.

This journal will have to take backseat for now. I get the feeling I need to jump carts soon.

(Name).

[mariana-oconnor]

Wisteria Lodge pt 1

Definitely haven't read this one before. If there's a Granada version I will have watched it, but only once about five years ago, because that's when I bought the box set and just straight up watched them all. I don't remember the name even slightly. Wisteria is very pretty, though, so I've got a feeling I'd want to live in this lodge even if it does get a bit murdery.

Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”

That is not what I was expecting him to say. Do you mean the adjective or the noun, Holmes?

“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.

That's... not how I would define it either. Is that an evolution of the meaning in the last century? There's a definite meaning of ugliness or disgust these days, not just 'strange'. I'm not sure I'd call any of the cases grotesque, in fact, because it's really more a visual adjective to me than an experiential adjective. I guess The Five Orange Pips was fairly grotesque, given the subject matter involved, but even then... I assume the meaning has evolved slightly.

“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you? — “Scott Eccles, “Post Office, Charing Cross.”

I know you had to pay by the word for telegrams, but that is the least descriptive telegram you could possibly have sent, Mr Eccles. Clearly you belong to the school of 'leave them asking questions'.

I'm a little confused by Watson thinking that the name Scott Eccles could have been a woman in 1892. Did Scott used to be a gender neutral name? But also, Holmes assertion that a woman would have come rather than just vague-telegramming at him makes me laugh. I feel like anyone else would have just turned up, or at the least sent a message that gave a smidge more information, y'know. Like a ballpark description, a hint of danger, or a location?

HIs name is going to give me a craving for eccles cakes, though.

“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world."

Who is Colonel Carruthers? So many colonels recently. Is colonel statistically the rank most likely to require the services of Sherlock Holmes? Although one of the colonels wasn't a colonel at all, and was also the villain of the piece, and the second colonel was the victim, so didn't really require Holmes' services so much personally.

Love Holmes waxing lyrical about how boring all the criminals are, though, and how they're just not as good anymore as the old criminals were. Woe! There is no light in the world with criminals going around being so prosaic and uninspired.

His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree.

Alas. A tory.

Quite a restrained description from Watson here, though I have only quoted some of it. He's fairly restrained apart from the 'pompous' part. The rest of it is all rather 'ymmv'. I mean, personally I see that list of descriptors and wince, I'm genuinely not sure what Watson's own intention with them is. On the one hand, Watson's very much pro-establishment in so many ways, and his classism is entrenched, though often soaked deep in patriarchal condescension that he must feel is open minded (and probably was for the time). On the other hand, his best friend is Sherlock Holmes and he clearly enjoys unconventional things. So is Watson singing Mr Eccles' praises here or is he too wincing internally?

“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper—most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.” He swelled and puffed in his anger.

Given the description, I'm now expecting this to be something along the lines of 'a man with the wrong accent said hello to me'. But I'm probably being unfair. That would not be worthy of a Holmes story.

"Private detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard your name—”

OK, reading this sentence, I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to be feeling very charitable towards him. You don't just walk into a place to ask for someone's professional assistance and insult their occupation. Firstly, that's an idiot move, secondly, it's incredibly rude. I put the idiot bit first because honestly the stupidity of it offends me more than the rudeness. You're asking to be overcharged or sent packing. Asshole tax is alive and well.

But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals...

Inspector Gregson does not get compared to an animal in his description! Instead he's called 'gallant'. I guess Watson likes him more than Lestrade.

OH, Scott Eccles is a two-part surname. That's why Watson thought it might be a woman. Right, Scott would have been a surname at this point in time. Everything makes sense now.

Well, not everything... but I feel like that's too much to ask of my dear friend Dr Watson.

“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.”

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUN

Aloysius is a name my brain never remembers how to pronounce unless I stop and stare at it for a minute. It just doesn't look how it sounds to me, y'know. Not that that's the relevant part here. The relevant part is he's dead. So Wisteria Lodge is looking a bit murdery. I bet it's pretty, though.

“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm."

This story brought to you once again by the healing properties of brandy. Brandy, the cure for all ills.

"He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life. “In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement."

So Mr Scott Eccles met a hot young guy and they hit it off and one thing led to another. Hmm... *eyebrow waggle* and then he was invited to stay for a few days, hmmm? And he went to fulfil this engagement... HMMM?

Likelihood of this being explicitly queer in a Victorian era short story: -1%. Likelihood that my brain will insist that these two were lovers, or at the very least flirted outrageously: 101%

My opinion of Mr Scott Eccles just went up a little bit because closeted Victorian gay is a better look than just straight up pompous Tory, but then he used the term 'half-breed' and he has sunk even lower. For two whole sentence I almost liked him.

"I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought."

🤣

"It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair."

So it's a fixer-upper... sure... I could fix it.

"I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly."

Victorian Grindr date gone wrong.

"About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door—the room was dark at the time—and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o'clock."

Dude. This is no longer giving queer Victorian fling vibes, it's giving 'Mr Scott Eccles is oblivious to the fact he's on a date' vibes. Guy meets you once, invites you to his home, has a 'tête-à-tête' dinner and seems nervous. Then shows up in your room at one am asking if you rang...

Garcia wanted to get laid, Mr Scott Eccles. He's into the older, buttoned up, repressed gentleman look.

Clearly this is not the case, because Victorian literature. But my brain can see no other explanation.

Mr Scott Eccles was so busy being judgemental about the food he didn't realise he was being flirted with so hard.

"You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted."

Very ghost story. Once again the Gothic horror vibes. I suppose this is where the word 'grotesque' comes in. I feel like the word they were searching for was 'unsettling'. But yeah, waking up to find the house abandoned is creepy af. BUT

"My host had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door."

So before he came into your room at one am to see if you rang for him, he showed you his room... I stg, I know this can't be what it looks like from a modern perspective, but it's so very blatant, I can't even.

Honestly, at this point it reads like a ghost story where Mr Scott Eccles made a narrow escape from a ghost who wanted to fuck him, and through that somehow either steal his life force or trap him forever in the creepy ghost netherworld with him.

Obviously that's not the real answer, but you could finish this story like that and it would be a perfectly valid ending.

I will forever find it hilarious that ACD is most well known for writing stories where things seem supernatural and then his main character proves everything is mundane, while he himself was a fervent believer in all things otherworldly. Just... amuses me.

Other than the obvious 'gay ghost wants to seduce the living to spend forever in limbo with him', the only reasoning behind this I can see is similar to The Red-Headed League and The Stockbroker's Clerk: For some reason a gang of people wanted Mr Scott Eccles to be away from his home for the night, then split once they had accomplished their illicit goal. Although that doesn't solve the murder, just the weirdness. I don't think there's any way to solve the murder at this point.

[walkingstackofbooks]

DS9 4x20 The Muse thoughts (I’m re-watching, so beware spoilers for future episodes!) [12 July ‘23]

I had no idea Jake's mind-nomming happened in the same episode as the Lwxana/Odo marriage - okay let's gooo!

"I won't let him do it, Odo." "Who? What?" I guess being telepathic, she might forget she actually has to start from the beginning of a story and explain it rather than have people pick up from what she's thinking?

This alien talks in the weirdest way. I'm glad Jake starts out uneasy, at least.

I hate when Jake picks something over spending time with his dad. Like, it checks out, he *is* a teenager, but Sisko's always so disappointed 😭

"What do you want me to do about it?" "Either cheer her up or get her to leave." Love how Quark thinks Odo could cheer her up rather than just be security getting her to leave.

Oh!! At Quark's request Odo does go and give up his routine and free time to make her happier :3 I do love these two.

Odo's war with himself over being unpleasant to ward her off from his quarters but also not wanting to. :3

"Major Kira and First Minister Shakaar are involved now." "How sad." "Not at all. I'm happy for her." For most of the time Odo is actually such a good bro. I don't like the framing later on that he somehow 'deserves' Kira just because he likes her, but he really is so respectful.

"Well, just don't go do what I did. Look for someone to fix your broken heart then end up pregnant and on the run." "I don't think there's too much danger of that happening." His little laugh. I am sad he and Lwxana couldn't be together.

"[I feel] Like a changeling who's had to hold his shape too long." It's sweet that she puts it in understandable terms, I think?

"Lwxana? Your replicator isn't really broken, is it?" Aww it took you that long? Call yourself a detective XD

"I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome." You literally did less to make her feel unwelcome than you do to any other person who comes your way though!

Oh damn I had paused this halfway through and once again forgot Jake's storyline was the other half of this episode!

Why do I feel like that pen should write in Jake's blood?

This alien is so creepy and I hate this so so soooo much

Haha! Odo laughing! I love how much they enjoy each other's time

Why not lie to Lwxana's husband, and tell him that she's not here??

IT'S ODO'S IDEA TO GET MARRIED??? I HAD THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LWAXANA! HE IS THE SWEETEST

Odo's so tender as he helps her up to the stage thing!

Miles' uncertain look at "add her to what is mine"

Quark's wistful sigh at Odo's "I didn't need anyone else."

"The truth is, I was ashamed of what I was, afraid that if people saw how truly different I was they would recoil from me." *camera pans to Julian* OH THESE TWO GIVE ME FEELINGS. They would just have the ability to relate so hard to each other! Tell me that that quote couldn't belong to Julian in DBIP.

"The day I met her is the day I stopped being alone." *Kira looks down* Oh, I wonder what she's feeling about that. Because she definitely thought they were good friends.

I am still surprised the husband doesn't fight harder. All he needs to do is doubt it. I guess some part of him really did love Lwxana?

"What can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic!" Really, Quark? Sure.

"You know, for a minute there, I really believed you wanted to marry me." Oh, he DID.

"Orange juice." Sometimes Jake does things that make me remember how young he is. (Even though I'd be ordering apple juice all the time though... But everyone else usually guess got tea or coffee or alcohol.)

At least Jake's in a public place when he collapses. Glad he didn't go back to his quarters.

"He was the youngest I ever found. So eager, ready to give everything he had in one great burst." Apart from he hadn't agreed to give everything, he didn't know that was what you were doing and he wouldn't have consented if he had!

"You really should stay." "I'll miss you, too." Ohhh. Lwxana's ability to cut to what Odo is feeling.

"I could stay, try to make you fall in love with me, but we both know that won't happen. Then I'd end up resenting you, and our friendship is far too important for me to let that happen." I love these two so much though ❤️❤️

"The dialogue is sharp, the story's involving, the characters are real. The spelling is terrible. I especially liked the father." SISKO :3 I love his dad-ing

"All you need to do is learn to find them by yourself." Sisko is such a wonderful dad. And so good at advice and saying the right thing!

Anslem - he wrote that in the alternate timeline where Sisko dies? But on his own? I guess in that timeline, at this point was he too sad for the alien to find him an alluring target? I like how we know it's his - and I'm guessing Sisko does too from his memories of that timeline. :3

[bluevaractyl]

This feels like terrible timing to post, but I couldn't wait 😅 Here's chapter 3

The anticipation was going to kill Sky before the Shadow got the chance.

Apparently deeming their conversation over, the Yiga had dragged Sky over to the edge of the floor and tied the end of the rope to one of the leering wall sconces. The high angle meant that even standing up, he couldn’t reach it with his hands bound. The rope gave him enough slack to sit, but not enough to comfortably lie down. He couldn’t even lean against the wall because there was a bottomless pit in the way.

Sky sighed, wincing when it aggravated his sore throat. He was alone for the moment. The Yiga were understandably confident that he wasn’t going anywhere and hadn’t even left a guard.

Sky leaned his elbow on his bent knee and propped his cheek in his palm. Even before his capture, he had been worn out from walking for hours and fighting that obnoxious bird-thing. After being roundly defeated and then choked into unconsciousness by the Yiga, he was so exhausted it hurt. He longed to give into his desire to sleep.

Despite all of that, he wasn’t sure he could. Leftover adrenaline was making him jittery and alert. Every small sound had his eyes snapping open again. His head was pounding, pain radiating from where they had hit him. His hands tingled with pins and needles from lack of circulation. His wrists felt like he’d sprained them landing on them earlier. His chest hurt. Worst of all was the burning ache in his throat. It felt swollen and raw, every breath a painful effort. He was beginning to suspect he’d need a potion or two by the time this was over.

Sky shifted to take pressure off his knees. The rope rubbed against his neck with the motion, an ever-present reminder of his situation. He shuddered. Time to think about something else.

He hoped the others were alright. Had anyone else been wounded in the fight? Did they know where he was? Were they planning a rescue mission, or had they decided Sky wasn’t worth risking the obvious trap?

Sky paused at that thought. It wasn’t fair of him to think like that. He knew they valued him as more than a traveling companion. They were all linked (ha!) by their shared love for the land and its people, their courage and struggles, their determination to do what was right despite the cost. He loved them all so much that it scared him. He knew they felt the same.

So, if they didn’t come, it wouldn’t be because he wasn’t worth it.

The situation was precarious. Sky wasn’t oblivious to the danger he was in; any wrong move from the Chain, and the Yiga would—well, maybe not kill him. It seemed like the Shadow wanted him alive, at least for the moment. They could make his life even more unpleasant, though.

Did the other heroes know about the Shadow’s involvement? What was the Shadow planning? It seemed strange that it was apparently uninterested in what the Yiga did with Wild. Did the Yiga actually believe Wild would come alone, or were they preparing to fight the whole group when they showed up?

Again, Sky wondered whether Wild would come at all. It certainly wasn’t the smart thing to do; he’d be playing right into their hands. The Yiga had no intention of freeing Sky either way. But like all of them, Wild was stubborn and big-hearted. It wasn’t in his nature to abandon a friend to save himself. Sky found himself cursing that fact even as he was deeply, guiltily glad for it.

Sky’s eyelids drooped, exhaustion finally winning out. He leaned his head against his hand and let himself drop off to sleep.

~~~

The sound of fluttering paper jolted Sky out of the doze he had fallen into. He looked up to see two of the smaller Yiga coming toward him. One held a wooden cup and a waterskin. Sky was suddenly aware of how long it had been since he’d had anything to drink. Desperately thirsty, he leaned forward. The rope shifted, making him freeze.

The Yiga noticed and laughed. They stopped, and the one holding the water crouched and offered it. When Sky didn’t move to take it, they tilted their head and mockingly said, “Aren’t you thirsty? Go on, I’m sure a drink will help.” They laughed again.

Sky glared, then awkwardly got to his knees and shuffled forward. The rope pulled taut, and he stopped, fighting back the panic. It was fine. He would be fine; he just needed some water.

He was close enough now that he could have reached out and taken the cup, had his hands not been bound. He waited. Sure enough, the Yiga sighed as if put upon and brought the cup to Sky’s lips. They tilted it and lukewarm liquid rushed down his throat, too fast for him to swallow. He choked and spluttered, hacking as he tried to clear the water from his lungs. Each cough made pain shoot through his chest and neck. He leaned back, trying to give the rope some slack so he could breathe easier, but it was no use. Black spots crept into his vision. There was the feeling of falling, and then nothing.

…

This time, waking up was slower. Sky felt as if he were drifting. He was disconnected from his own body, voices and sensations filtering through a layer of thick fog.

He gradually became aware of cold stone pressed against his cheek. Everything hurt. His heart was thumping as if it would leap from his chest. He groaned, but only a faint rasp came out. With incredible effort, he rolled onto his side. His stomach roiled and he raised his head enough to vomit. He shuffled away as best he could, then let his head fall again, utterly spent.

Sky lay there for an indeterminate length of time. His heart rate gradually slowed, though it still felt unsteady. He dazedly considered how he was feeling and concluded that everything was terrible and sleep sounded nice. Something about that thought made alarm trickle through. He tried to focus.

He’d been asleep—no, unconscious. The rope had tightened when he started coughing, and he’d passed out. He was struggling to stay awake. His thoughts felt slow and sticky, like molasses. He had an awful headache. He’d thrown up. Wet fabric stuck to his legs. His alarm rose further. This was…this was bad. This was really bad.

Sky suddenly registered that he was lying down but he could still breathe. He pried his eyes open. The room looked just as it had before. The Yiga were gone. The water spilled on the floor showed him where he had been when he passed out. They must have dragged him back over to the edge and loosened the rope just enough that he wouldn’t strangle himself by lying down. He tried to be grateful for that, but all he could muster was tiredness.

How long had he been captive? Time moved strangely here, with no natural light to hint at its passing. He’d been asleep before the Yiga came with the water, and he had no idea how long he’d been insensate afterward. The battle in the forest could have been hours or days ago.

He missed his brothers. He missed Fi.

Tired of thinking in circles, Sky decided to do the only thing he could to be helpful. He curled up, getting as close to comfortable as he could while lying tied up in a dungeon, and he went back to sleep.

~~~

A rough kick to the stomach roused Sky. He promptly pitched forward and threw up bile. Above him, someone exclaimed in disgust. They seized his bound wrists and his hair and hauled him upright. He blinked, trying to clear his blurry vision. As soon as he could see, danger sang through him.

Standing before him was a black lizalfos with red, pupilless eyes. Its lip curled into a sneer. With a dismissive flick of its hand, it had the two Yiga holding Sky scurrying away. They disappeared with twin flashes of red. Without them holding him up, Sky swayed on his feet.

The two sized each other up. Sky was keenly aware of his own raspy breathing, the bruise on his forehead, the blood and soot staining his clothes. He felt bare without his sailcloth.

The Shadow prowled closer. It brought a clawed hand up to finger the coil of rope at Sky’s throat. The increase in pressure on his windpipe was probably his imagination, but he could feel his breath coming faster in response.

“Hm. Crude, but effective,” the Shadow mused in a gravelly, sibilant voice. Sky stiffened at the confirmation that it could speak. Since their first encounter, it had seemed more intelligent than the other monsters, with motivations and strategies beyond what they understood. It hadn’t been until its transformation into the iron knuckle that they had begun to consider that there might be more to it, however.

The Shadow stepped away, and Sky felt like he could breathe again. It began to pace slowly back and forth in front of him, its tail swishing behind it. It continued, “I hadn’t planned on coming so soon, since those fools insisted that they weren’t finished with you yet, but my eagerness got the better of me.”

Sky probably couldn’t have responded if he wanted to, but the Shadow seemed unbothered by his silence.

“You’re an interesting soul, Hero of the Sky. Underestimating you was nearly a fatal mistake on my part. Yet here you now stand, brought low by the loss of your blade and less than a day in the hands of these pathetic lackeys. I wonder, will those you call friends mourn you? Or will they be grateful to no longer have to hold back, slow down, for your sake?” The Shadow paused and turned to look at him, a sinister smile on its reptilian face.

The words drove the breath from Sky. It was true that his own weakness had slowed them down and gotten him caught, but they had never held it against him before. Only hours (minutes? days?) earlier he had reassured himself with the knowledge that they cared about him as much as he cared for them. But maybe this time they would finally decide he couldn’t keep up with them. Maybe they would decide it was for the best that they move on without him. Someone else would take up Fi’s blade, and they would defeat the Shadow, and they would tell Zelda, his light, his sun, that he had been no match for their enemies and there had been nothing they could do, they were sorry.

Sky sagged.

A triumphant light gleamed in the Shadow’s red eyes. “Did you know you are the first of them all? I imagine you’ve put that much together, but has it occurred to you that your future is their past?” His voice became contemplative. “Suppose the first hero dies on his journey through time; he never goes on to found the kingdom of Hyrule with his precious Zelda, and she never has a daughter with the power to seal away evil. Who will defeat the demon king when he next rises?”

The Shadow’s grin widened as he declared, “No one.”

Despair swept through Sky as the enormity of his defeat sank in. The Shadow meant to kill him, and with him, all hope for the future. The demon king the others had fought would rise up and destroy the world in one blow, with no one to oppose him. They wouldn’t even be born—not Four, not Time, not Wind, Twilight, Legend, Hyrule, Warriors, or Wild. His brothers.

Sky fell to his knees. Grief filled him, as if he were mourning them already. And why not? If he was about to die, this might be his only chance.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He bowed his head, and he let his tears fall.

[selflessanatta]

(Some) Schizophrenics are Enlightened, Minus Proper Body Anchoring, https://selflessanatta.com/some-schizophrenics-are-enlightened-minus-proper-body-anchoring/

New Post has been published on https://selflessanatta.com/some-schizophrenics-are-enlightened-minus-proper-body-anchoring/

(Some) Schizophrenics are Enlightened, Minus Proper Body Anchoring

The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration of the US Government, likely backed by the entire scientific community, declares:

Schizophrenia usually involves delusions (false beliefs), hallucinations (seeing or hearing things that don’t exist), unusual physical behavior, and disorganized thinking and speech. It is common for people with schizophrenia to have paranoid thoughts or hear voices.

The first two statements, the ones with parenthesis for clarification, are wrong.

Completely and totally wrong.

Illustrative of a more significant mindset that is even more wrong. As if they can define what exists and does not exist, the height of hubris and arrogance.

Allow me to explain.

Who am I, and why should you listen to me?

Several years ago, I arranged my life to spend several hundred hours in float tanks practicing Lamrim in total sensory deprivation.

I put in the time.

I learned how to observe my mind.

I have actual insights into how the mind works, not some academic interpretation based on books and a destructive material reductionist mindset that says the only reality is the one we can see and touch.

I have data.

And not just data from meditation.

I’ve spent time in a mental health facility. It was illuminating and unpleasant.

See: Unsafe and Unclean: Pacific Grove Hospital in Riverside, California

So here is how your mind works.

The mind contains an Ultimate Divide that separates objective reality from subjective experience.

This split creates two realities: Body and Mind.

Body Reality and Mind Reality

Body reality is the objective reality within which we must interact. It’s the reality of material reductionism, the mechanics of how things work.

Eliminative Materialism is the ultimate wrong answer. Completely 100% wrong. The opposite of Truth. No wiggle room here.

The Mind reality a subjective reality within which we have unlimited control to create reality as we wish.

Fundamental Truth of the Mind

Every belief in your head begins as a seed planted in Body Reality.

Some information in the outside world enters your awareness.

Philosophers call these Brute Facts or, more simply, Data.

From there, you have complete control to interpret the meaning of that fact.

This is the key insight from Victor Frankl’s Man Search for Meaning.

Interpretations are up to you.

People don’t realize that they have this power, which is why so few are enlightened, but everyone has this power.

Anyone can develop this power.

Since you read my words, you understand it now, at least on an intellectual level, the level of data and facts.

But there is a deeper level, the level of heart and mind. It doesn’t know that yet.

In order for me to cross that divide in myself, I had to spend countless hours in float tanks practicing Lamrim in total sensory deprivation.

I wish I knew an easier way to get there.

It’s a lot of work, much of it very emotionally difficult.

But if you follow that path, you’d get there, too.

Experience the Reality of a Schizophrenic for Yourself

I can drive this point home to you with an experience you can obtain anywhere you see a VR headset being sold, often at Microsoft brick-and-mortar stores or wherever the Oculus is sold.

If you try Richie’s Plank Experience, you will quickly discover that your Mind Reality can completely disconnect from your Body Reality.

In the Plank experience, your Body Reality is that you are standing in a completely safe environment with no physical danger at all.

However, your Mind Reality is that you are standing on a plank many stories up, and the slightest misstep will result in your untimely death.

The VR experience makes this disconnection so complete that you will have the emotional experience of actually being there.

Let the profundity of that sink in. We will return to it momentarily.

The Mind of a Schizophrenic

Schizophrenics fully understand the nature of the Human Mind.

Far more so than the reductive materialists around them telling them they are crazy.

This is why Schizophrenics often have strong religious experiences and are utterly impervious to reasoning thrown at them by the “experts” around them.

They are right.

Everyone else is wrong.

Not just in their Minds but in Truth, in the objective world.

It takes a lot of gaslighting to convince someone their Mind Reality is not real, particularly when you’re talking with a Schizophrenic.

In their mind, they are an adult who knows, and the person gaslighting is a toddler who does not.

The Schizophrenic is right about that.

Schizophrenics are never going to respond well to cognitive therapies designed to convince them their Mind Reality is not real.

It shouldn’t be surprising that the entire medical community turns to drugs for the answer.

Drugs are an Essential Safety Net

No, I’m not going to say we should stop using drugs with Schizophrenics. That would result in a large number of completely unnecessary deaths.

Remember back to Richie’s Plank Experience? A Schizophrenic has the opposite juxtaposition of safety and danger.

A Schizophrenic could, in Body Reality, be standing on a plank where the slightest misstep results in death, but in Mind Reality, they may be roaming the Scottish Moors, free and untroubled.

The clash of these two realities becomes apparent when they take their first step.

So, if Schizophrenics lose their connection, they can expose themselves to great danger, necessitating a safety net to prevent untimely death.

I would not practice on a Trapeze without a safety net. Would you?

I don’t want Schizophrenics to die. And neither do you.

Drugs are a necessary safety net when Schizophrenics lose the bridge to Body Reality.

It’s absolutely critical that you find the right drug to do this if you want to make sure Schizophrenics don’t make the ultimate mistake.

I know many people are resistant to even exploring drug options. I highly suggest you drop that resistance.

Why Drugged Schizophrenics are Unhappy

When you drug a Schizophrenic, you make them very unhappy. We give them the necessary drugs to keep them alive, but offering cognitive therapies does little to make them feel good about it.

Allow me to share a personal experience that illustrates this.

See: What I Felt When I Won the Lottery

My life circumstances came together in an intense emotional experience where the rate at which my brain processes information temporarily doubled and even since operates at a level much, much faster than before this experience.

The experience arrived with little notice, so I could not properly prepare my family for what they might see.

It was traumatic. They took me to the hospital for testing, rightly so.

When the physicians examined me, they couldn’t find anything wrong other than my heart-rate had jumped from 50–60 beats per minute up to about 100 beats per minute.

I felt great, highly amped up, but it was not the slightest bit painful.

Out of their concern, they asked me to take some medications. They handed me a cocktail of Xanax and Valium, two powerful neurotransmitter suppressors.

I joked with them that I didn’t want to take that poison because it would take a lot of effort to purge it, perhaps several hours. I didn’t obtain complete poison immunity in the power-up as I hadn’t mastered all the needed visualizations.

The nurse told me to relax, and that I would feel better in the morning, so I decided to take the pills.

Within minutes, I could feel the fog of these drugs dragging on my mind. It did nothing to drop my heart rate, which I watched carefully.

I called in the Marines in my mind and started imagining each one grabbing an enemy and then parachuting down to my kidney for filtering and removal.

It’s a great visualization, but there are better ones I don’t know.

Grigori Rasputin knew more visualizations. He had near poison immunity.

I wish I had his knowledge. His death was a loss because I don’t believe he passed it down to anyone.

About an hour in, I struggled to maintain the discipline as I approached losing consciousness.

After another hour, I began regaining more clarity, and I called up the Marines with renewed enthusiasm to complete their mission.

By the end of three hours, I stepped out to the nurse’s station to tweak her. I looked her straight in the eye, held her gaze, and said. “Three hours.” And I went back to my room.

I remember clearly the emotional side of that experience in the last hour.

An awful feeling arose.

A concern that the gift I received, the payoff for 35 years of meditation and countless hours in float tanks practicing Lamrim in total sensory deprivation, everything I had worked for had been taken from me by modern medicine.

I didn’t start at birth, so I’m ancient, not 35 years old.

I mentioned that time and Effort are required to obtain these realizations.

I felt the pain of all Schizophrenics who get pulled back from their beautiful state of Mind Reality and are forced to live in a crappy, reductionist world.

I don’t have to live there because I am not Schizophrenic (despite the cries from material reductionists who, out of willful ignorance, fail to see that).

Unfortunately, those who are Schizophrenic must live there until they learn to use their Mind Reality to bridge back to Body Reality.

Photo by My name is Yanick on Unsplash

This Doesn’t Apply to All Schizophrenics.

One of the most saddening aspects of Schizophrenia is the overwhelming sense of confusion many experience.

I remember asking a kind Schizophrenic in a hospital what his name was. He looked at me, then pulled back his sleeve and beckoned me to look at his arm tag.

He didn’t know his name.

He had no idea who he was or why he was standing there.

He was still the kind soul with the same drives as a typical person, but his mind was so confused that nothing penetrated it.

That’s sad.

Those Schizophrenics are not enlightened, or if they are, they don’t know it, and that makes them even more dangerous to themselves.

How To Extract Schizophrenics from their Safety Net

There is hope for Schizophrenics, but it will not arrive in the form of some magic medicine that material reductionists believe will find that one enzyme, one gene, one whatever is the physical cause.

The cause is not physical, so material reductionists will never reach their goal.

Finding more safety net drugs is helpful, but drugs are not the answer, not a cure.

Why Schizophrenics won’t stay on drugs

Schizophrenics are among the most resistant patients when it comes to taking medications.

I feel their motivation.

If someone attempted to take away my freedom of choice and simultaneously take away what I felt was my greatest gift, I would resist that.

In fact, I would resist that with every fiber of my Being.

I hope you understand why they don’t want those drugs you believe will save them.

Schizophrenic Choices

If Schizophrenics were offered a choice, a path to get off the drugs, they will be highly motivated to follow that path, and not make a single misstep.

To a Schizophrenic, a pathway off drugs is a Stairway to Heaven.

And literally, in Mind Reality, it is a Stairway to Heaven.

Tibetan Buddhism Bridges the Divide

This wisdom comes from a very old Tradition that was nearly destroyed by the Chinese Government in one of the most atrocious acts of wonton destruction and cultural genocide in the 20th century (Shame. Shame. Shame.)

The Tibetan monks learned that in order for monks to integrate the realizations of enlightenment, Mind Reality, they needed to be firmly anchored in Body Reality, or they would become Schizophrenics.

The entire Lamrim is preparation for a new Mind Reality by providing extensive grounding.

Yes, that really is why they did it that way.

And that’s how the few remaining monks carry on.

Chanting requires feeling the Body.

Listen to a bit. You will feel it in your Body, I assure you.

Body Work, Body Work, Body Work

There is only one method that Schizophrenics have to be freed from their Safety Nets and get to embrace their gift.

They must maintain the connection to Body Reality, all the time, 24/7, like non-schizophrenics.

While non-schizophrenics are trapped in Body Reality, schizophrenics have difficulty keeping in touch with Body Reality.

It’s a problem so far outside of the experience of non-schizophrenics that they don’t really grasp the problem.

I hope this explanation helps with that.

Schizophrenics still need a safety net, but rather than a material reductionist drug, they can develop mental practices and maintain them instead.

Schizophrenics, at a minimum, should meditate each day for as long as needed to feel every point in their bodies fully.

After warming up with breath meditation, which is also part of Body Work, they should scan and feel their body parts one by one.

Acknowledge their Body Reality.

Mentally check in with your little toe every day.

Massage, Massage, Massage

When the Body and Mind enjoy Harmony, the Body functions with near perfection. You experience no persistent pain, and your Qi flows freely.

When Body and Mind Harmony is lost, dis-ease is introduced to the system. Not disease as Body Reality would define it.

A lack of ease. Dis-ease.

Everyone should use Massage to maintain balance.

But it’s even more essential for Schizophrenics.

Massages are the Body’s call to Schizophrenics.

Please, please, facilitate that communication as much as possible.

(See author’s notes at bottom for more information).

More mental techniques to explore

I’ve described above the most basic, foundational technique required.

Many, many more techniques exist.

Since Schizophrenics already possess Mind Reality, they should be able to develop many more on their own if they know to look for them.

Gradual Reductions, Keep Meds for Emergencies

Over time, and with disciplined practice, Schizophrenics can start reducing the dosage of the drug they use as a safety net.

With careful observation, they can chart a safe course to freedom from the drug.

The observations should be from the Schizophrenic and from physicians and psychologists (not messed up by their material reductionist mindset) to ensure the process is safe.

If the Schizophrenic loses control, the meds are there for an emergency to restore the safety net.

Freedom

Schizophrenics really shouldn’t be too upset by the demands of the path.

They will need to maintain a strict discipline of daily bodywork for the rest of their lives, but their reward is their Freedom.

And even the Tibetan Buddhists never stopped doing Body Work.

People imagine that Enlightened Beings never have to work at anything.

Go to Tibet and ask one, and they will tell you that the work never ends; that bridge must always be maintained.

Nothing is being put on Schizophrenics that isn’t put on those who’ve bridged the divide between Body Reality and Mind Reality.

They should find comfort in that.

Enjoy with me….

Also see Carlos Nakai.

~~wink~~

Anatta

[electricbluebutterflies]

Jess/Leto + hand on chest during a casual conversation

"Casual" is not a word that works well anywhere near these babes, but I TRIED. Mid-era, PG-ish, also on ao3.

There is nothing to fear.

She never fully believes it, not even many years in, but she learns to bury that damning emotion deep enough that even her partner can rarely find it. How cursed she is to have been paired to someone who not only can see through her but wants to, who pursues her and yet she is not and never prey and-

Her heart will never really be as silent as she presents herself, but it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. She was supposed to make herself small, once. Nowadays, when she does so, it is a warning sign.

She is stable enough now, on a day when she finds enough minor tasks to occupy herself – her various roles are always so fluid, and she thinks sometimes that she might somehow be the only truly free being in the complex, constantly clashing dual loyalties be damned. She is good at what she does, she reminds herself at every step, and in the quiet season the household runs like clockwork without much involvement from her. It probably would at all times, but-

Domestic tasks are minimal and adequately delegated, and she is not in an intensive phase with preparing her son – she is trying so hard to take a slower pace, to not repeat her own past, to echo her partner’s desire to be better than what shaped them – and that means adequate time for the years-long process of organizing a lesser library space. Jessica has been more or less banned from the formal archives, and even she couldn’t figure out what she did there, but she sees decades of neglect and something in her wants to try to fix and-

She hears a door open behind her and feels that unpleasant instinct within her. She has had no reason to hide her whereabouts today but she can’t imagine anyone would come looking for her unless something has gone very wrong, and-

“Will this project never end?”

If her partner has the slightest idea how easily and often he destabilizes her, at least he has been kind enough to be quiet about it. She turns slowly and forces neutral expression and body language in a way she knows will be understood as a façade, laying a trap for her own amusement. Nothing is wrong, she reminds herself, nothing is vitally wrong, nothing is-

“If your predecessors had any sense of space, perhaps it would,” she murmurs. “Unfortunately for me…”

“You know no one ever asked you to-“

“And no one ever tried to stop me,” she counters. Questioned her sanity, perhaps, and it’s in her best interests if those close to her partner do so just often enough to be reminded that she is still dangerous, but no one has said anything outright about this recurrent project in years and-

“That’s unfortunate. Always so amusing to watch that happen.”

She thinks sometimes that they bring out the worst in each other, that something went terribly wrong somewhere in the decision-making that brought her here, and perhaps the worst part is she doesn’t mind. No one else she’s ever been in proximity to has brought out that side of her, given direction to her bitterness and even found beauty in it, and-

“It keeps me out of the way. Any such outlet would be encouraged.”

“If I need to-“

Jessica crosses the space, needing closeness to steady her. How damned fragile this love has made her, she thinks, and how she should hate herself for it and she never could, and how she should hate her partner for it and that is somehow even more unthinkable, and-

“Don’t fight my battles for me,” she murmurs, lacing her voice with the slightest persuasion, still the most she will ever use her power against her partner. Light enough that it will not be detected, but even this is infrequent behavior and-

“I want to do what I can. You know…”

She reaches out, needing a hand on him, needing to tether herself every way she can before she falls off the edge. If she were what she should’ve been, she would take kisses or perhaps fall to her knees, but she has been made soft and she is not that kind of woman anymore, and-

“I know,” she repeats, because he needs those words even if she doesn’t. “I do appreciate that. But there’s no need. This isn’t important enough. Save those tendencies for when we need them.”

One of his hands finds the indent of her waist, and she can feel the tension of uncertainty in him, of indecision and several different next steps. She’d tolerate any of them, she’d say if it wouldn’t ruin the moment, she trusts him so much, she-

“You always expect so little.”

If she were in a different mood she’d easily list a dozen reasons why, some of them deserved – she has never questioned her partner’s love for and commitment to her, but reliable expression of that attachment is a whole separate issue – but he has done nothing to irritate her lately and there is no point in escalation for the pleasure of it. As fun as it sometimes is to provoke until she gets pinned to the nearest wall…

“You carry so much,” she murmurs instead. “I cannot add to that.”

This is the compromise at the core of everything she has built, she thinks as she takes the moment for what it is, as she rests her head on her partner’s shoulder. She has made two damning choices in her life – to open her heart and to open her body – and she will keep that number where it is. In exchange she will be near-perfection, never in need of the worry she understands as love, and-

“You could,” her partner replies. “I would not fault you for it.”

She is in no mood for a fight, and instead she lingers in the quiet. There is nothing to concern her; this is not some avoidance tactic, not as it would have been a few years ago when it was more important to stabilize their dynamic. If her partner seeks her out, it is not in place of other tasks anymore, and-

“What were you looking for?” she asks after a while.

“Is it not enough to want you?”

Another thing she doesn’t say, a temptation to point out that this encounter isn’t playing out like he wants her, but… it is, just not as she is still used to the concept. Nowadays it is any closeness they can find, even so innocent, and-

“It can be,” she breathes. “As long as I am not…”

“Keeping you from getting trapped in your head is a perfectly good use of my time,” he says before she can even really start. “And keeping you away from… I always half expect you’ll find dead things when you’re in here.”

“Disuse, not decay,” she murmurs. “It’s all been kept clean, but whomever thought this counted as organized…”

“Ambition runs strong in us. Follow-through is… not always so consistent, especially domestically.”

She makes a soft sound almost a laugh – these rare moments of confessed weakness delight her more than they should, especially when they are so small. “So I should be deeply concerned if you ever…”

“You’ve inflicted more renovations than I have,” he points out.

“Worst I’ve done in almost ten years is change a few curtains.”

“Exactly my point.”

She takes a heartbeat of a kiss, and her mind is not calm but at least she’s close enough to function. “If you really don’t want me to-“

“If you want to spend a few afternoons a year trying to untangle this… at least you’re documenting what you’re doing.”

“Might as well make things easier for whomever decides to take this on when I’m gone,” she counters.

“You’ve never made things easier for anyone,” and there’s so much affection in his voice, it’s not an accusation at all, it’s not-

“Maybe I could start.”

“You won’t,” he murmurs, disentangling their bodies. “I know you too well.”

“I do like a challenge…”

She won’t, she knows as he leaves her, as she turns her attention back to the day’s efforts. She tries, some days better than others, but she is all that she is and-

Maybe, she thinks in one of her fleeting moments of reckless hope, maybe somehow that’s enough.

[c-is-for-circinate]

On Names (EXU Calamity)

One of the many very cool things that's gone into the making of a miniseries full of very, very cool things is all the thought and intent visible in the way these characters are named. The cast went in hard on names that evoked ancient Greece and Rome, which I love, and several of them referenced actual or mythological people! I don't know how much of this is intentional and how much coincidental, but at least some of these references are for sure real, so a list of things I've noted so far:

Zerxus Ilirez -- Many people have noted the similarity to 'Xerxes'! As a refresher, Xerxes I was a king of Persia circa 480 BC. He did a lot of impressive king things and conquered several places, but is best known for the time he tried to invade ancient Greece and got his ass handed to him. In particular, he's best known in modern times as the bad guy in the movie The 300. (Interestingly, in that movie he's an extremely and overtly queer-coded villain, set up against almost comedically hypermasculine heroes, and much was made about that when the movie came out.) I don't know about Illirez, but it sound like, if it's Latin-derived, it's something filtered down through Spanish. Anyone have thoughts?

Loquatius Seelie -- Easily the most obvious, this man's name is literally 'talkative fae creature'. What I really love is how clear it is that Loquatius named himself upon coming to this plane, picking words to describe himself that are so incredibly on point. I also appreciate how Loquatius in particular is spelled in such a way as to evoke Roman naming conventions.

Laerryn Coramar-Seelie -- Okay so this one baffled me for the longest time, but I had a brainwave writing this post, and I'm going all in on 'Laerryn' being a reference to the Lares -- Roman household gods whose job was, to quote Wikipedia, "to observe, protect, and influence all that happened within the boundaries of their location or function." (Ouch!) They were probably ancestor spirits, meaning that they were the spirits of actual, once-alive-now-dead humans who were worshiped by their descendants as gods, which also hits real hard in the "I will be remembered forever", "what's so unreachable about the gods?" place. (Still no idea about Coramar, though. Again, I crowdsource this unto all of you.)

Nydas Okiro -- I love 'Nydas' because I think there might be two separate references buried in there. One, we've got the Nydas = Midas connection, the king who turns everything he touches to gold, guild leader of the Golden Scythe, which is up front and great and I love it. But thinking about Zerxus, it seems like there also might be a reference to King Leonidas I -- you know, the Spartan king who defeated Xerxes I and was the main character/hero of that aforementioned movie. Given that Zerxus and Nydas have apparently been BFF for years, that is a very interesting little tidbit (especially in light of how the party's been fracturing). Also, as per above re: Okiro -- this crew has a lot of very evocative first names and very unfamiliar last names.

Cerrit Agrupnin -- I'm really not 100% on this one, but 'Agrupnin' immediately brought to mind Agrippina, a Roman Empress circa 50 AD. She was by all accounts a pretty forceful, unpleasant woman, involved in all sorts of political maneuvering, assassination, etc, but as a connection to Roman nobility it's not bad. (Bonus, I'm like 90% sure she got mentioned on a chocolate frog card in Harry Potter, which would mean Travis has definitely heard her name before, albeit randomly and very much in passing.) Beyond that, 'Agrupnin' sounds very much like 'gruff' and 'abrupt', while 'Cerrit' invokes 'serrated' -- a dangerous, no-nonsense name for a dangerous man who's had it up to here with this shit.

Patia Por'co -- Patia's name is a masterpiece of references, and I love it very much. There's the 'Portia' similarities, which I don't discount -- Portia the wife of Brutus who killed Julius Caesar, Shakespeare character, tragic figure, killed herself after her husband's whole deal half-collapsed the empire, hopefully not foreshadowing -- but I am also absolutely sure that she's named after Hypatia of Alexandria, philosopher and mathematician of the Eastern Roman Empire. Brilliant lady, torn to pieces by a mob, and remembered in recent years as dying a martyr in the fall of the Library of Alexandria (which absolutely did not happen, she was not even there, but it's the story and an excellent reference for our Keeper of Scrolls). Bonus, Por'co both reflects portico, a column-delineated stone porch typical of fancy rich houses in ancient Greece, and politico. INCREDIBLY fitting for our political climber, throwing her magnificent parties in her magnificent mansion.

AND AS A BONUS:

Evandrin -- (Or possibly Evandran? I can't seem to find a consistent spelling.) All startling similarities to Fjord's old mentor aside, best guess here is a reference to Evander, a Romanized Greek name that literally translates to "good man". (So maybe it's Evandren.) There was a folk hero named Evander who was credited with first bringing Greek culture to pre-Rome, but again, that probably even wasn't his name, just what they called him, because he was a classic folk hero whose name was literally Good Man.

I open this up to the community from here! What did I miss? Who's got thoughts about those many surnames I couldn't figure out? How much does Laerryn as a lare make you go OUCH?

[monochrome-effigy]

In Defense Of My Stances On Necrophilia

In light of some trends I'm seeing on current necrophilia blogs, I feel that it's necessary for me to go over my reasons for my stances regarding necrophilia. I've at least touched on a lot of this before, but I think it's about time I write out a proper defense of my position. This post is not intended to be overly confrontational, however, I won't be making any attempts to make my opinions more agreeable to people with differing opinions, either. I would also like to note that while the first three points are broader topics, points 5 and 6 are entirely an intra-community issue, and point 4 is mostly also directed to other necrophiliacs, although there are other people I would expect to have opinions on it as well.

Necrophilia is a natural type of attraction, and it shouldn't be pathologized nor stigmatized. While the cause of necrophilia is not known, the majority of people seem to agree that it's either entirely innate or it's caused by some kind of experience someone has during their life (usually assumed to be something traumatic). In the first case (which seems to me to be more likely, as necrophilia has been observed to occur naturally in other creatures), there's no more argument needed as to why necrophilia is a natural type of attraction. In the second case, the necrophilia itself is still a naturally occurring response to trauma, and should be treated no differently than any other kind of sexual coping mechanism. Now, with the understanding that necrophilia is natural, there's no reason why it should be pathologized. Some people might argue that, in the case that it comes from trauma, it should be considered a mental illness and treated as such, however, given that it doesn't pose a danger to anyone, I would argue that only the trauma itself should be treated, not the necrophilia. And as for the stigmatization of necrophilia, it's both cruel and unacceptable to stigmatize something that's natural, and it's likely to cause necrophiliacs serious mental issues if they're stigmatized for something they have no control over.

Necrophilia should be legalized. There is absolutely no good reason why necrophilia should be illegal. It poses no significant danger to anyone involved, as a corpse can't be harmed, and the necrophiliac is actually at less risk for any potentially unpleasant effects from having sex with a corpse as opposed to a living person. It's not detrimental to society in any way, as it's very easy to just mind one's own business and not worry about what other people's sex lives are like. The only argument against the legalization of necrophilia that leaves is the issue of morality. The problem with making a moral argument against necrophilia is that morality is subjective, and without any concrete reason as to why necrophilia should be considered immoral, no one can construct a good argument against its legalization.

People who dislike necrophiliacs on the basis of them being necrophiliacs are inherently in the wrong. This is a form of discrimination no matter how you look at it. To dislike someone because of something they have no say in, and which doesn't have anything to do with you, is just plain wrong, full stop.

Necrophilia is not, and should not be considered, a part of LGBTQ+. As someone who is both a necrophiliac and a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I don't feel like being a necrophiliac is at all equivalent to being LGBTQ+. Both are equally important parts of my identity, but the communities around those things are very different. The LGBTQ+ community has a longstanding history of support for one another and fighting together towards common goals, and none of that has ever included anything related to necrophilia, and most of the people in the LGBTQ+ community would most likely be very hostile to the idea of something like necrophilia being included. For those reasons, as a necrophiliac I would say I have more in common with zoophiles and pedophiles when it comes to my experiences, so I would much rather form a new, paraphilia-centric community than try to force necrophilia to be included in a community where that wouldn't be welcome.

Necrophilia is the correct term for a sexual attraction to corpses. Necrophilia is a paraphilia, and for that reason the correct term is necrophilia, not 'necrosexual' or similar. A paraphilia is just a sexual attraction to something considered 'abnormal'; it's not the same as a paraphilic disorder, and it's certainly not a bad thing. There's absolutely no reason to make up a new term for necrophilia, as the current one is not offensive in any way.

Necrophilia can be a kink or a part of someone's sexual orientation. It really just depends on the role of necrophilia in someone's sex life, and it's up to each individual to determine for themselves what that is. Necrophilia just can't be placed entirely into one box or the other. It can't be considered just a kink, because there are some people for whom it's such an integral part of their sexual attraction that it would do it a disservice to call it a kink. It can't be considered just a part of one's sexual orientation, either, because for some people it's no more involved in their sexual attraction than any other kink.

Bonus: It's not okay to demonize people with a different paraphilia to make yourself feel better about yours. I shouldn't have to say this, but apparently I do, because I've seen way too many necrophiliacs recently who will post necrophilia positivity, and then follow that immediately with a post about how horrible pedophiles are. This kind of behavior is completely unacceptable, and if you're one of the people doing it you need to stop. You're not going to accomplish anything by alienating yourself from people who have extremely similar problems and experiences as yours. Other paraphiliacs are our allies, not our enemies.

[mimzy-writing-online]

Hello. I had a question regarding your post about blind characters. I have a character in my WIP that must cover their eyes.. but it’s blind. He may need to tell people he is blind to explain why he covers his eyes though. I was wondering how I might write this character without offending. Thank you :)

I think I want to start by explaining the “covering blind eyes” trope and why it has become a harmful trope. I think understanding why it’s hurtful helps everyone learn how to handle it better.

I would guess that the “blind people wear sunglasses” trope comes from Hollywood for the specific reason of 1. wanting to signal to the audience that the character is obviously blind and 2. avoid breaking the suspension of disbelief by preventing the audience from catching the sighted actor look at visual stimuli (because disabled characters are almost always played by able actors).

But this changed the way the public expects to experience blindness. If watching a sighted actor wear sunglasses and say he’s blind is all the exposure to the blind community a person has had, that’s the only model of blindness they’ll recognize. If they meet a blind person in real life who doesn’t wear sunglasses, it’s going to break this built perception and cause an uncomfortable cognitive dissonance. 

And then there is the common “cloudy-white blank gaze” that pops up in media. It stems from the fact that cataracts is the most common cause of blindness and the appearance of severe cataracts is a cloudy film in the eyes obscuring the iris and pupil. It can also alter what color a person’s eyes appears to be, making them appear paler and grey in the beginning and then as the cataract advances it becomes more yellow/brown and alters a person’s vision to appear more yellow tinted.

There are lots of other eye conditions that makes the eyes look visibly different. Albinism for instance affects the color and structure of the iris. Eyes might be congenitally misshapen. The muscles might be weak or not work and one or both eyes point significantly outward. Someone who was born blind and experienced no visual stimuli might also have weak muscles around their eyes because they never had a reason to focus their eyes on anything.

And unfortunately humans have the habit of feeling uncomfortable when they meet someone who looks very obviously different from the norm, whether that’s a personal style choice (hair color and style, tattoos, clothing choices) or something they can’t help (a visible disability, skin color, scars). 

To the paragraph above, @gothhabiba replied with:  “it's very weird & ahistorical to claim that racism or ableism are some kind of natural "human" trait.. like frankly it's apologia”

You’re right, I wasn’t thinking beyond that generalization or assumption.

Perhaps a better way to put it is: I was raised in a society where I was taught from childhood to think that there was only one kind of human being to be. White, cis, straight, abled, conservative. That’s a very western thing and that’s a thing I’m going to constantly be unlearning.

Racism and ableism and homophobia aren’t innate, that’s a western thing that was forced onto the rest of the world by colonialism. And because western media created this idea that the world is white, abled, cis, straight, and Christian-value leaning, it taught people to think that was the norm so that seeing someone different from that archetype would cause a cognitive dissonance, which causes discomfort.

And instead of working past that cognitive dissonance to learn more and realize there’s so much more to life than media taught you, society encourages you to ignore that cognitive dissonance by sticking your head in the sand-- or TV screen.

So combine these two tropes or common beliefs together and you get something a little dangerous: the idea that blind people cover their eyes because they look obviously different and they’re ashamed (or should be ashamed) of that.

And if you’re someone who’s just gone blind or who was born blind and you have little to no contact with the blind community, then this societal belief that you should be ashamed of how your eyes look becomes detrimental to your self-esteem and further builds internalized ableism.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read or watched a blind character cover their eyes with sunglasses because they were ashamed of how their eyes looked. And I distinctly remember a few times where a sighted friend of the character was trying to convince them to stop wearing sunglasses because there’s nothing wrong with looking different--which is true, but it plays into this fantasy of being the perfect abled ally who saves the blind character from being miserable. 

In an ideal world, the character has no reason to believe looking different is a bad thing or diminishes their worth or makes people dislike them. And if they develop this belief, it’s more likely that someone more involved in the disabled community, most likely someone disabled themselves, will set them straight. Or that the character will learn to accept themselves on their own, looks included.

But there are some perfectly valid reasons for any blind person to wear sunglasses. They might have an interest in fashion and sunglasses complete the look they’re going for. They could want to protect their eyes from UV rays while they’re outside. They may experience light sensitivity and sunglasses reduces any discomfort or pain. Those are incredibly common reasons to wear sunglasses whether you’re sighted or blind.

But there are some more complicated situations.

In your words, your character must cover his eyes. You never specified why, so my primary guess is that he has some kind of power that is unpleasant or has devastating affects and the only way to prevent it is to keep his eyes covered. My primary guess stems from this post where an anon and I discussed a retelling of Medusa, a hypothetical blinding of oneself to avoid ever killing anyone ever again, and what I think I would do if I was in that scenario.

So how do you write a blind character who must cover their eyes and avoid some of the complications?

1. Your character must always have the ability to say “fuck off, it’s my business, I don’t have to tell you why I’m blind or why I cover my eyes.”

Most blind people really, really don’t want to get into the nitty-gritty of why they’re blind and how they feel about it and what it’s like being blind with a stranger they’ll never see again or a new acquaintance they don’t know well yet. You have exceptions to that rule where sure, educating the public about blindness is a thing you want to do and you’re committed to helping your community, but I still have days where I don’t want to talk about being blind or disclose my medical crap.

And if someone doesn’t respect their right to their privacy or pushes too much, the blind character is allowed to be angry, is allowed to tell them off and complain without anyone else in the situation vilifying them or saying they’re “overreacting” and “should have just disclosed private information because big deal or whatever.” If they are angry, that’s their right, and it’s not unreasonable, it doesn’t make them a bad person.

2. Your character should not be ashamed of being blind or of covering their eyes. It is a part of their life, they’re used to it by now, even if they weren’t in the beginning.

The shame and internalized ableism is something that should be written about, but that’s for an own-voices story with a blind author. I don’t think an abled person will ever be able to understand how much society expects you to hate yourself and your disability because “being disabled is a tragic thing that ruins your life” and how that does affect your mental health, self esteem, your relationships with others, your medical care, and what kind of accommodations you can get.

3. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few sarcastic lines in response to uncomfortable conversations.

Stranger: so what’s with the...

Blind Character: what’s with what?

S: the... you know

BC: you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific

S: Your eyes?

BC: They’re... eyes

S: but you’re...

BC: Blind?

S: uh...

BC: yeah, I’m blind. *walks away*

Or this conversation:

S: *to some other character* so why are his eyes covered?

(author’s note: which, honestly, that’s fucking rude. At least have the guts to ask me yourself)

BC: If I look anyone in the eye they instantly perish.

*awkward silence*

BC: instantly.

Friend: It’s truly tragic

BC: *melancholic* that’s how I lost my sister. *chokes up* She was so young

Or this conversation:

S: Why are you wearing that?

BC: It’s called fashion Karen!

Or this conversation:

S: are you like... blind?

BC: yes?? why wouldn’t I be?? Wait, are you sighted? Are you one of those sighted people? You poor thing! What caused you to gain your sight? Do you have a car? A bike? Were you born sighted? What’s it like to see color? Do you miss not having to see 

God, I want a chance to try that last one. I haven’t interacted with a stranger in almost a year. One day...

4. Honestly, it’d also be cool if someone’s reaction to your character covering their eyes was like, “cool sunglasses,” or “cool *insert random character, even one you made up* cosplay,” (which is ten times funnier if this character is a notable figure in modern society like an actor who people might cosplay). 

5. You know, if he’s covering his eyes with some kind of blindfold, he should totally have custom blindfolds for his moods. Like, I have a mask that says “suck it up buttercup” and another that says “not today” because sometimes that’s the mood. And sometimes the mood is one of my floral masks, and sometimes the mood is my cat mask.

So, just some thoughts. I hope that helps.

Edit: a commenter said: “op, unless i'm mistaken this kind of reads like anon meant the character ISN'T blind but lies about being blind to explain covering their eyes? it seems like they made a typo on the word "isn't"”

So my original response to the question was based on the assumption that the character is blind. However,

If the character is not blind, then do not under any circumstances have them lie and say they’re blind to escape a mild inconvenience. 

It’s better to have the character actually explain the situation or straight up leave the conversation or invent a more ridiculous lie than to perpetuate the very real stereotype and misconception that there are people who fake being blind and therefore it’s okay to discriminate or harass them if you even suspect they’re faking.

Do not under any circumstances perpetuate that stereotype. Do not harass someone because you don’t think they’re blind enough.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 1

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU* Quirkless as well

Warnings: Arranged (sort of) marriage, brief mention of champagne, mentions of violence (nothing too specific). In later chapters: Probably smut

Word Count: 3.4 k

Author’s Note: ALRIGHTY here we go. I just had a fixation on Mafia AUs and, of course, it’s Shouta. What else did you expect? I’m a sucker for arranged relationships. Also he’s a little ooc in here, more confident, more ‘I want it I got it’. Hey, he’s the most powerful man in Japan, might as well have him act like it right? Anywho, I have no clue how many chapters this’ll end up being. Let’s just say this is ongoing for now.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Enjoy~

*

*

*

25 years old and you haven’t been married off yet. This was strategic on your father’s part. As a rather low-ranking clan he’d purposely saved you, his eldest daughter, for marrying into a higher ranked clan. You’d bring immense honor to the family name. If only you’d known what you were getting into, maybe you could have been better prepared for your world to flip on its head.

The black velvet gown you wear is tailored perfectly to your form, accentuating every curve and dip on your body. The skirt fanned out around you gracefully and a short train trailed behind you as you stepped through the grand doors of the massive mansion. Tonight is the annual celebratory ball, held to celebrate successful unions and achievements. This one was particularly special, you just didn’t quite know it yet.

Since the event wasn’t mandatory, you were told to go in alone as a representative of your clan, while Mother and Father attended to more important matters. Before you even stepped in you fixed your posture and schooled your expression, keeping your form humbled. Heavens know what could happen should you irk the wrong clan.

Inside you were met with an onslaught of mixed everything, mixed drinks and colors and styles. Some wore traditional Japanese kimono, others more modern versions of the garment and others, like you, wearing more extravagant european or western style clothing. Though a rather interesting mix, nothing quite clashed which you were slightly grateful for, since there was no possible way you could make it through the night without a headache if there was an unpleasant mix of visuals.

You strode through and instantly met several lower clan heads that you respectfully bowed to and engaged in pleasant small talk with, moving from person to person, couple to couple and paying respects to all of them. You kept a small smile, a pleasant facade as you waltzed over the hardwood flooring. It took almost two hours of endless conversation before you managed to catch a break in the madness, snatching a small flute of champagne from a waiter and leaning up against a wall for a breath. 

You still hadn’t noticed the pair of dark eyes that studied you from the moment you arrived.

____

You struck him as intriguing at first. From the moment you walked over the threshold his eyes drank you in, studying you, observing and judging just as he had with many other women before you. No one here knows it, but the man is looking for a bride. Someone who could stand by his side,improve and uphold his image, help him wield the power that is the Yakuza. Yes, rank is important, but Shouta is too picky to care about rank. He is looking for a specific type of woman, one that can hold untold depths of power without crumbling under the pressure or getting swept up in the rush of it all.

A woman, he decides, like you.

You held yourself with grace, pride and humility. You seemed to understand your position, your probable low rank, while also not undermining your importance nor worth. A woman like you is hard to come by in this world, most just as power hungry and ruthless and greedy as their husbands, all while putting up a cotton candy sweet mask and using it to disguise their conniving ways. 

But in truth, that’s what it took to live this kind of life, isn’t it?

It was clear you knew that, while still managing to feel genuine in everything you did, even with an action as simple as sipping champagne. At the same time he can’t deny you are quite beautiful, soft lips and softer eyes, fingers gently grasping your glass with unmatched elegance and an unwavering strength in your posture. You’d bowed before many this evening, and yet you stood taller than even the highest ranking clan heads without challenging a single one of them. Bamboo in this forest of tall, unyielding trees. Capable of wielding so much power.

For a split second his mind wandered to other things, filthy moments shared in the privacy of his chambers, shared breaths and shimmering sweaty skin. He wondered what you would be like underneath him, if you would be a brat or willingly submit yourself to him. He hopes it to be the latter, but wouldn’t completely deny the chance to tame someone difficult. How would you look pinned under his weight, completely helpless to his hands that have killed and tortured? Would you claw at his shoulders or grip the sheets instead? What would you sound like? Your image plagued his mind even if only for a moment.

He’d studied many women over the few hours since the event started, none of them giving him a good enough first impression for him to continue watching further than a minute. There was no question in his mind now. You’d be returning home with him tonight.

____

You had just finished your drink and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray when suddenly the ballroom fell extremely silent. All heads turned, eyes focused on the man that began his descent from the balcony overlooking the floor. He’s gorgeous, long black hair pulled into a low bun and exposing the light scruff on his chin and impossibly sharp jaw, a deep scar curved under his right eye. The full black satin suit is fitted to his form, strong shoulders and rolling muscle evident even under the thick materials. Ink peeked over the collar, a hint at what was definitely intricate sleeves and detailed artwork. His steps were measured, calculated and purposeful as he made his way down and across the floor, the entire room bowing down at his presence. 

You know who he is, as does every person here. Top rung of the ladder, Oyabun of the most powerful clan in Japan, his name widely known through the entire organization and yet almost never spoken. Shouta Aizawa, a name both respected and feared, holding unknown power and strength. His reputation is enough to make anyone feel small in his presence, known for his cold demeanor and the violence he’d committed, many losing their fingers, loved ones, and their own lives for misdeeds against him. He’d done most of that himself, marking him as a very dangerous man to be involved with, and an ally everyone wanted backing them.

You bowed down respectfully just as everyone else did, waiting patiently for a release, whether it was from the man himself or a collective understanding that it was alright to rise once again. The former was the first to come to fruition, though you didn’t expect him to be so close to you as he said it. Your eyes met with sharp onyx as you fixed yourself upright. It made you freeze in place, not quite tense, not quite relaxed, your expression hopefully not showing the utter shock you were feeling.

“What is your name?” You blinked only once before your mind caught up, and you willed your voice steady as you responded. What had you done to piss him off? What punishment awaited you for what you didn’t know you’d done? Despite fearing what may come, you don’t dare speak out of turn, even to beg for your life. His next words were addressed to the entire ballroom, you included, his smooth, deep voice booming out and yet somehow not loud at all.

“Any transgression against this woman is a transgression against me. As my future wife she is untouchable, and will remain that way until I explicitly state otherwise.” A collective hushed gasp sounded through the massive hall, your own eyes growing wide and your heart damn near stopping as your brain dissected the information. He just made you his fiance, with no warning, no hesitation, and full confidence. You are now engaged to the most powerful man in Japan, and you have exactly zero say in the matter. Really though, you never expected to be able to voice any opinions considering the patriarchy of the organization, so that bit of shock was quickly overlooked.

“It’s time to retire, little one.” His hand was held out to you, waiting for your own. You blinked, deciding it was best that you saved your shock for later you focused on the here and now and what to do in this moment. Taking a breath, you schooled your face into a pleasant smile and placed your hand in his waiting palm, allowing him to tuck you into his side as you both walked out the front doors and climbed into a black limouzine.

You didn’t allow yourself to relax, sitting silently next to the man as trees and telephone poles whizzed by the vehicle. It was tense, to say the least, his hand possessively sat on your knee as his eyes remained fixed in front of him and yours did the same. Neither of you talked, you slightly out of fear, of respect, and slightly out of sheer shock, your mind just barely able to keep itself together. He remained silent for a purpose. He would talk when you were alone, or when he felt like talking. Which isn’t right now.

You let your mind whirl a bit, worrying about what this meant for you. Worrying about how this powerful man would treat you, how he acted behind closed doors and if he even cared about you or what you might have to say. It’s nerve-wracking, suddenly bound to a power such as him, not knowing what could happen next, not knowing what to do next. There was nothing that could have prepared you for this.

The car slowed as it pulled up to the gate of the enormous estate, shaking you out of your thoughts, and once it opened the drive to the main house took nearly five minutes on its own. It’s a modern home, several stories tall with the top clearly penthouse-style with a full glass wall that overlooks the landscape, the rest of the huge inner home hidden behind crisp walls.

At a full stop, a man opens the door for you, the Oyabun having already exited and held a hand out for you to grab once again, strong muscles pulling you up with ease and leading you through the building and into an elevator. The silence is stifling as you wait for the machine to come to a stop, the soft chime indicating you’ve landed. 

Now you’re completely alone with him.

He leads you in and stops in the center of the large main room, stepping away and turning his scrutinizing gaze onto you. You do your best not to tense in front of him, not to show fear, partially for his comfort though you’re sure he’s used to it. His shoes clack softly, rhythmically on the polished wood floor as he begins to circle you, like a predator eyeing its prey, eyes burning paths up and down your form. You barely keep from squirming under his intense gaze, managing to keep still from sheer willpower. He stops suddenly behind you and you feel his warmth as he leans in close before a hand presses into your mid back and another gently grasps your shoulder, gently making you straighten even more, stand even taller.

Once he’s satisfied with your posture he rounds you and tilts your chin just a tad higher with a hooked finger. He’s silent as he shapes you, adjusting your body to his liking. You let him tenderly push and tug, grab and knead and trail those deadly fingers over you until he stops before you, studying you once again. 

“You’re my fiance now. You will hold yourself as such, radiate power as I do and command the attention of a room with only a glance.” The reminder of just what was happening made your breath stutter a little, and his hand came up to grasp your chin, making you look up into his dark eyes.

“You will learn, little one, to be the powerful woman I see.” He was so close, the heat from his body rolling over your skin and his breaths fanning over your face. Then he was walking away, motioning for you to follow as he led you to his chambers and bathroom to get cleaned up. You’d be sleeping with him from now on, he said, handing you a robe to change into after you’ve bathed and guiding you into the bathroom before closing the door and leaving you alone with your thoughts as you set to cleaning yourself.

Given you don’t screw things up, you are going to be the most powerful woman in Japan, solely because of a sudden arranged marriage dropped seemingly from out of nowhere. But the longer you think about it, it isn’t really out of nowhere is it? The Oyabun is 30 now, and until tonight hadn’t named a wife, nor any love interests, and therefore no possible heirs. If the man were to die for any reason, those chances only increasing the older he gets, the power vacuum his absence would create would be absolute madness. You’re part of a strategy, just as before. Just as always.

Yet there was no denying he’d struck something inside you. Of all the women in that hall he approached you, a woman he didn’t know from a low ranked clan, for reasons you could only barely begin to guess. He’d called you powerful earlier, the sincerity in his voice making your mind spin. Did he really see you as powerful? And the name he’d used for you felt far too tender on the tongue of such a dangerous man, though you understood the nod toward your previous rank. 

Father and Mother must be either confused, shocked, or overflowing with joy right about now. Confused as to why you haven’t returned, shocked, happy, or both at the news had they learned it. With your mind processing everything, your body finally begins to feel fatigued. 

You shut off the water before drying yourself, patting your hair in the towel before pulling on the fluffy robe. It was clearly meant for him, the fuzzy black garment large around the shoulders and sleeves engulfing your hands, the garment nearly touching the floor where it’s meant to hang several inches from it on his frame. Despite swimming in the robe, you couldn’t help but feel a bit vulnerable. You’re bare beneath it, not having planned to not return home. Still, it’s late, and the Oyabun needs to shower as well. With a steadying breath, you step out into the room.

He’s standing near the bed, the top half of his clothing discarded and bare skin exposed, along with the heavy tattooing and scars along his body. Dragon scales decorated his skin, along with delicate swirls heavily resembling smoke and clouds that followed the curves of his corded muscles. He is undoubtedly a beautiful man. You don’t realize you’re staring until a miniscule smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Enjoying the view, little one?” You blink away your daze and shift your eyes to the side, feeling the slight burn in your face at being caught. Instead of answering the cheeky question you choose to change the subject.

“I’m finished with my shower, Oyabun.” He hums, a low sound you can feel in your chest.

“I can see that, little one. And you call me Shouta.” You take a quiet, sharp inhale and nod.

“Yes, of course...Shouta.” His name feels heavy on your tongue, a name that people didn’t normally dare speak. He’s silent as he gathers his things and moves toward the bathroom, stopping momentarily by your side. You’re confused a moment before his calloused fingers gently grip your jaw and turn your head, his lips pressing softly against your temple for a split second before he’s disappearing into the bathroom. 

You stand in shock, the tender touch unexpected. Shaking your head, you decide it’s best to lay down. Hopefully you’d fall asleep by the time he finishes bathing, but you doubted it. You’re proven right when, in the midst of mulling over your own thoughts, he emerges in nothing but sweatpants, dark hair still damp as it fell around his shoulders. You managed to avert your eyes before he could catch you staring for a second time tonight, and it wasn’t long before he slipped under the blankets next to you.

There wasn’t a single word shared between you as he flicked off the lights with a remote and settled into the plush mattress. There was no movement from the man as you lay with your back to him. You aren’t entirely sure if the lack of movement unsettles you more than if he were to be shuffling around. It felt like hours had passed in the darkness, your eyes had adjusted and you couldn’t sleep despite how exhausted you felt. 

Your mind raced with questions. What happens now? What happens with your clan and parents? Would you have clothes soon? How would he treat you? How were you supposed to act around him? When is the wedding? Is the engagement already official? What if you disappoint him and fuck everything over? The entire situation makes you anxious, for more than something as trivial as your own safety. You shift onto your back and listen to Shouta’s soft snores, signaling his sleep. As silently and gently as you can, you slip out of bed.

You have no clue what you were going to do or where you were going to do it, but you had to get away from him if only for a moment, to let yourself breathe and think. Almost mindlessly, you find yourself staring out of the glass wall and out into the night. This far out, you can see the stars in the night sky clear and bright, and it was a sight you missed having lived in the city most of your life. Right here you have room to think, space to spread your thoughts and calm your mind to keep from jumbling everything in your brain and stressing over it more. 

From what you can tell there is a very small chance Shouta would treat you maliciously, so for now you don’t have to worry about that. Considering his power and status, you won’t be without clothing for long. The thought was silly in the first place, but stress tended to make you question even the most ridiculous. As for how you’re meant to act, well that would have to be tested. He’d already told you how to appear to the public, so that shouldn’t be too hard, but being alone with the man was driving you insane.

Soft footsteps broke you from your thoughts. You spin around, suddenly very much on guard, before Shouta’s voice broke through the darkness, his figure slowly approaching. 

“What are you doing up, little one?” You bite your lip and turn to gaze outside again, hugging your arms tight.

“Just thinking. I apologize for waking you, Oya-… Shouta.” His warmth hit you before his skin did, chest pressed into your back and large rough hands gripping your shoulders firm but gentle. His breath is hot on your ear and neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Such an intimate action from him only hours after he’d made you his fiance was quite the shock in and of itself, only enhanced by the fact that this man is known for his cold nature.

“Thinking about what?” His hands smoothed down your arms, following them around your waist and encompassing your hands in his, tugging you into him further. Unnatural as it may seem, it feels good, his warmth. In the arms of such a dangerous and powerful man you should feel small and scared, but you don’t. You aren’t entirely sure what it is you feel. Truthfully, you don’t have the energy to answer his question properly.

“About a lot of things. Too many things.” Right now, the only thing you want to do is melt into the man’s arms. His presence is suddenly comforting, instead of worrying, and you feel safe in his embrace. You sigh and lean into him, fatigue finally beginning to tug at your body and mind. Strong arms scoop you up like nothing, and suddenly you’re being placed down on the bed before he climbs in and pulls you onto him. An arm circles your waist while the other cradles your head, a tender kiss placed at your hairline.

“Sleep, little one.” His fingers thread through your hair, massaging your scalp lightly. It’s a soothing action, especially after nearly giving yourself a headache from stress. It isn’t long before you’re nodding off, relaxing into his body and letting his steady heartbeat lull you to sleep.

[jinmukangwrites]

@damianwayneweek Day 1 (6-13): Truth serum | Damian Wayne Protection Squad™ | Best friends to lovers

Note: Rushed. I'm sure it's still the 13th somewhere.

Warnings: kidnapping, nonconsensual drugging, needles.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick wakes to the taste of blood on his tongue.

Thankfully, after slowly moving his tongue around, it's just because he bit the inside of his cheek sometime between when he was knocked out and when he woke up. His head pounds like a war-drum with his heart as he tries to get ahold of his situation. Without opening his eyes, he assess his arms are restrained behind his back and he's sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair. His legs are also tied to the chair, keeping him from running.

The suit he wears feels suffocating, proof that—once again—him wearing Batman's cowl isn't some sort of sick joke. However, his shoulders are a bit lighter suggesting his cape has been taken. Not that he'll mourn it.

His cowl is on. He silently curses himself for not checking that first. It would be the first thing Bruce checked.

He always prioritized the identity. The mission. Secrecy before safety, Gotham before everything else. Not injuries, not friends, not family, partners-

Dick's eyes fly open, reminding him of the real thing he should have checked for first.

"Robin," he gasps out loud, looking wildly around the room and tugging on the ropes holding his back to the chair.

The room is dark and small, the walls made of cinder bricks that have water mold where it connects to the cement floor. In front of him is a metal table with a black, palm sized box placed on top. Dick ignores that for now and looks to his side, only relaxing when he finds Damian to his right, tied similarly to another chair with his chin to his chest. Only unconscious, Dick notes as he watches his stomach rise and fall.

However, anxiety flutters in his gut when he sees there's a dried trail of blood running down the side of his head.

"Robin," he tries again, knowing at the back of his head that Bruce would be telling him to be quiet. Check for cameras. Look for an escape route. Don't let them know you're awake until you have a plan-

Dick shakes his head. Damian could have a concussion, and that takes priority. Dick could have one as well, considering how badly his head hurts, but Damian is only ten years old and Dick knows better than anyone the lingering effects injuries could have when you're a child.

He presses his feet to the ground and pushes, attempting to slide closer to his protege. He does nothing more than jolt in place. There's not enough leverage.

However, it seems the sound of the metal scraping against the ground is enough to wake up the boy. He comes to with a small groan and a pain laced crease between his brow.

"Robin," Dick repeats a third time. He can do nothing but sit as Damian blinks slowly behind his mask; his shoulders tensing as he too notices the restraints.

Damian opens his mouth, but before any words could leave there's a loud clang. The door in front of Dick and Damian, on the other side of the table, swings open.

In walks three men; two are unfamiliar, but the third Dick recognizes from the case files he and Damian got from Gordon about a week ago. Jonas Gibbs. Known arms dealer and smuggler. He's made his moves in Gotham these past few weeks, getting the police and public nervous about shootings with illegal guns. Batman and Robin had finally pinned down the date, time, and location of his next shipment and intended to take him down then, but he was smart and had hired help from various mercenaries that Dick could confidently bet used to be in the military before they were dishonorably discharged.

The way they moved, worked, and attacked was too strategic and planned. It was only a matter of time before one got a lucky hit on Damian; a blow with the butt of their rifle across the kid's forehead. The barrel of the rifle pointed down at Damian's unconscious body was all it took for Dick to raise his hands in surrender.

And now they're here, in some damp old room. Tied to chairs. A table placed in front of them with a mysterious box set on top of it.

"Perfect timing," Gibbs says, grinning. The two other men, clearly mercs, stand on either side of him as he drags up a chair and sits on the other side of the table. "I was almost afraid we'd have to dump water to get you up."

"What do you want?" Dick growls. He must want something. He hasn't taken off the cowl… or at least he hasn't tried to get through the various traps to pull it off. It means he must need something that an identity reveal wouldn't give him.

"I'm glad you asked, Batman," Gibbs says, a grin spreading on his face. He looks to one of his goons and they immediately pull a small camera out from a bag they had around their shoulder. He points it at Dick.

Dick gets a bad feeling about all of this.

"I want you to tell your real name for the camera."

Dick glares. "Are you serious?"

"Very. One of my men has second degree burns thanks to that cowl of yours electrifying him. So, I decided I'll let you go without any more harm. You tell me your names, and I'll let you go. Won't even show the video to anyone. Well," he smirkes, "unless you get in my way."

Dick clenches his jaw. Besides him, Damian mumbles something.

"I'm going to give you to the count of three," Gibbs says, unphased. "Otherwise it will get unpleasant."

His eyes drift to the black box, signifying it's mysterious importance. Dick doesn't let it scare him. He's not going to let this low life criminal blackmail him... put him and his family in danger. He'll take whatever will be thrown at him until he can work out a way to escape.

Gibbs counts down, and he reaches zero uninterrupted.

"Well," Gibbs says, unsurprised. "The hard way then. Gag him."

The grunts move like clockwork, and before Dick knows it his face is being grabbed and held in place while the other shoves a rag into his mouth and wraps a layer of tape around his face to hold it there.

"Batman..." he hears Damian mumble as the grunts back up. He sounds out of it. In pain. Dick can only hope that the hit he took to his head isn't too serious.

Gibbs retakes his attention, however, when he reaches forward and presses a hatch on the side of the black box, flicking it open on spring-loaded hinges. What's inside makes Dick's stomach drop. A needle and a glass vial filled with a yellow tinted liquid lays neatly inside. One of the grunts lifts the needle and the vial to begin filling it up.

"Do you know what this is?" Gibbs asks as the liquid fills the syringe. "I've yet to test it on anyone, but word is from the man I bought it from... It forces the truth out of you." The grunts finishes filling the syringe and flicks the bubbles. "Truth serum."

Dick has no doubt that the serum will work. He only wonders why he's threatening with it while he's gagged.

When the grunt walks around the table to Damian, he doesn't wonder anymore.

He can only tug on his restraints as the grunt grabs Damian's arm to aim the needle. Damian, for his effort, attempts to pull away, but the weakness of his head injury and his restraints do nothing to stop the needle from entering the inside of his elbow.

"You could have done this the easy way, Batman," Gibbs says. Dick watches as the syringe is pressed down, pushing the liquid into Damian's body. "I never like getting children involved."

Damian squeezes his jaw shut and turns his head away from the needle in his arm. It only takes a moment before the grunt pulls the empty syringe out before returning to standing besides his leader. A bead of blood appears where the needle left Damian's skin, but the boy doesn't move.

The air feels solid. Dick can hardly breathe as he tries to conceal his panic. He wants nothing more than to get out of these restraints and punch Gibbs and his men into next year, but he can't reach anything useful to do so. All he can do is watch Damian sit stock still as drugs spread through his veins.

A minute passes as Gibbs sits there in smug silence. Then, when a few more moments pass, he speaks.

"Robin," he says. Damian flinches, but doesn't look his way. His jaw still clenched. The goon with the camera points it right at Damian. "Why don't we start with something easy? What's your favorite animal?"

Damian curls his fingers behind his back and keeps his jaw grinding shut.

"Tight lipped huh?" Gibbs chuckles. He doesn't look surprised. Or worried. "Don't worry, I was assured that once it's fully in your system, it will hurt more to say nothing. What's your favorite animal, Robin?"

Damian says nothing, but he looks ridged. Tense.

"You look uncomfortable, Robin. Do you feel it in your head? I promise it will get better when you stop resisting. Let's try something different while we wait. Are you from Gotham?"

Damian's knuckles must be white under his gloves.

"How about your favorite color? Is it blue?"

Damian breathes a shaky breath through his nose, and Dick's heart breaks. He works harder to find a weakness in his restraints.

"My, your resilience is admirable. Were you trained on this?" Gibbs asks. Damian remains stubborn, but Gibbs still doesn't look worried. "Who were you trained by?"

"The best," Damian whimpers, cutting himself off with a growl and shutting his jaw. Gibbs smiles.

"What's your favorite animal?"

Damian shakes his head, a frustrated cry caught in his throat.

This continues, Gibbs finding victory in the one slip and pressing with everything he's got. Dick doesn't know how long Damian can last like this, and he doesn't want to find out. With every passing second, Dick knows it's only a matter of time before Damian's lips loosen. No amount of training can beat a good concussion and drugs designed to make your lips loose.

"What grade are you? Do you have any friends?"

After each question, Dick can see more and more discomfort in Damian's position. He's beginning to fidget and whimper and Dick's... Dick's had enough.

"What's your favorite color, Robin?"

"Green," Damian says with strangled gasp, sounding horrified with himself.

Gibbs smirks like a predator, knowing he's finally won.

"What's your real name?"

Yeah. Dick's had enough. With a hard tug, the ropes around his wrists finally snap against where he's been rubbing at them with his gauntlets. Gibbs and his men can barely react before Dick's upon them, cutting away the rest of the ropes with a batarang from his belt. He makes quick work of them in their shock, knocking them out and leaving them on the floor in unconscious piles.

He almost bends to put cable ties on their arms and legs, but he hears a tight whimper behind him. The moment after, he's rushing over to Damian to undo the ropes.

"Are you okay?" Dick asks, cutting through the bonds.

Damian shakes his head. Dick almost kicks himself.

"It's okay," he quickly says. "No one can hear. Let it out."

He's almost afraid Damian will force himself to remain silent, but to his relief and heartache, Damian opens his mouth and lets out a heaving sob. "It hurts- it hurts-"

Dick finally undoes the ropes, then he pulls his kid in close to his chest. "Get it out," he soothes, rubbing Damian's back.

"Dogs-" Damian starts, dissolving into quick rambling breaths. Every question he had been asked begins to be answered. Dick holds him close and lets him get it out with his tears. Silently, he sends a message to Gordon to pick up Gibbs and his men, then he messages Alfred to get the med-bay and lab ready. Soon enough, Damian is silent except for pain laced gasps, he holds tight to Dick's chest as Dick lifts him up and stuffs the vial with extra serum into his belt.

"I got you," he says as Damian continues to cry all the way to the batmobile. "I got you."

[britishassistant]

When Villain!Yuu manages to return to their dimension and finds out their minions did, it’s one of the few times that the Supervisor has lived up to their title as heir. The next day the head of the minions of the attempted murder squad was found battered, covered in bird poo, and tied in front of RSA. If Crowley asks, Yuu makes the excuse that they are simply following one of the rules of villainy. If a minion steps out of line, don’t correct, make an example out of them.

Thank you for the ask, dear anon!

Warning for dark under the cut.

There are three items on the desk.

One is a cellphone. It’s a compact, black brick of a thing, the sort that could survive a drop from a window a story up. Its screen is currently dark and silent. It has not buzzed or vibrated, or given any indication that it’s even on.

The second is a glass of clear liquid. The glass looks pretty standard, no fancy plane designs or rectangular shapes. Just a squat round cup with a round lip and clear liquid an inch or so from the top. There are small bubbles forming in the bottom, the longer it remains undisturbed. It doesn’t seem like those are the results of carbonation, or some other nefarious properties.

No. If anything, the cup is there for the third object on the table.

A pair of two pills are sitting innocently by the cup’s side. One is larger, pale pink, and lozenge shaped. The other is smaller, a capsule that’s colored dark green and blue.

The minion swallows. The phlegm feels like it’s lodged in his throat.

There’s a sigh from the other side of the table.

The Supervisor leans forward. The supervillain’s features are slightly drawn, like they’re preparing to undertake an unpleasant chore.

The minion has the insane urge to giggle at the sight.

“So…” The Supervisor splays their hands. “Unfortunately, following reviews of your recent performance, we have found that you are…not a good fit for this business. It’s been determined that it’s in everyone’s best interests for you to be terminated from your current position effective immediately.”

The minion—or rather, ex-minion—gives a shaky nod.

The Supervisor tilts the brim of their top hat up, so they can better make eye contact with him. “You have two choices for your…ah, severance package.”

One hand gestures to the glass and pills. “Option one: you take these. The pink one is a sedative, and it’s up to you whether you take it before or after the other. It’s pretty fast acting, so it shouldn’t matter so much either way. All you’ll know is just falling asleep.”

The other gestures to the phone. “Option two: I make a call to Dr. Crewel. You’ll be transferred to his department. But in the, ah…volunteer capacity. Instead of the minion one. Do you have any questions?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“W-what?” The ex-minion stutters. “B-but…I, I don’t understand?”

“What don’t you understand?” The Supervisor asks, patience in every line of their posture. Like they were an adult helping to explain something complicated to a small child.

This, in spite of the fact that the ex-minon was a decade the supervillain’s senior.

That helps the ex-minion order his thoughts somewhat. “I-I thought the rules for g-getting fired were that the min-minion in question would be turned over to the police for arrest. Or to the local sup-superheroes.”

The Supervisor nods. “That is what happens in most cases, yes. However, in those cases, the termination is contingent more on minion incompetence or betrayal. You and your…friends, regrettably, fall outside that purview.”

The ex-minion’s mouth moves soundlessly. “But…I don’t understand. Isn’t this for betrayal? That I betrayed you?”

The Supervisor’s mouth tightens, even as the rest of their face remains impassive. “That…is another crime you committed, and one that was taken into account when making this decision. But it is far from the main motivating factor behind all this.”

The ex-minion wracks his brain. “But, what…?”

“You attempted to murder a child.” The supervillain exhales, some dark, wounded emotion entering their eyes for the first time. “Another version of myself, true, but an injured, defenseless child. One who had never done anything to you, or anyone else in this world. Who had no involvement in whatever quarrel you have with me. Who nearly bled to death on my roof due to the injuries sustained as a direct result of your attempted murder.”

The Supervisor shakes their head. “And that would be bad enough, especially as I was under the impression that they would at least be cared for in my absence. Except this? This was not an isolated incident, was it? Looking over the behavior of the perpetrators, it’s become clear this is only the culmination of a dangerous trend I should’ve seen and put a stop to ages ago.”

The ex-minion doesn’t think he can breathe.

“The first endangerment of Miss Elena Blackwood back at the bank. The repeated suggestions of attacking elementary, middle or high schools or public playgrounds to divert heroic attention during heists or schemes. The inclination to ignore my orders when I specified that children were to be released immediately if caught up in a hostage situation we organized. The attempted hostage taking of Mr. Cheka Kingscholar while he was my guest.”

The ex-minion tries swallowing again. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I thought you didn’t know about that.”

He winces at the mindless admission.

The Supervisor’s eyes narrow at him, and fury rolls off them in almost visible waves. There is no doubting the Night Raven’s genetics were used to make them like this.

“I have my ways.”

The ex-minion quails under their glare.

The Supervisor sighs, scrubbing a hand over their eyes. “Do you understand now? You are not being fired for betrayal. You and your cohorts are being terminated for repeated and willful perpetuation of un-villainous crimes of one of the highest orders, in accordance with League Statute A55. So, what’ll it be?”

“Sh-shouldn’t there be a hear-hearing, or, or an appeal, or something?!” The ex-minion begs desperately.

“If you wanted forgiveness, you should have applied to the Royal Sword Association.” The Supervisor rattles off blandly. “We here at Night Raven Corporation specialize in putting the super back into supervillainy.”

The ex-minion slumps. “…I always hated that slogan.”

The Supervisor pulls a commiserating face. “Not some of Dad’s best work, I’ll admit.”

He stares at the pills and at the phone.

“…Which did Miette pick?”

The supervillain pointedly glances towards the glass and its companions.

He snorts. “Naturally. She’d rather be dead rather than be something monstrous like you.”

The Supervisor inclines their head but doesn’t deny his words.

He considers it some more. “…Would I still receive a paycheck? As a volunteer?”

The Supervisor shrugs. “One that’s considerably reduced from what you currently earn, but yes. You would be compensated for your services. And your current life insurance will still be maintained and paid out to those you specify in the event of an accident under Dr. Crewel’s care. Or, indeed, if you take the other option.”

Like he has anyone he wants that money to go to.

His eyes dart between them.

The choice is easy in the end. Miette can call him a coward all she wants beyond the grave, but he’s not letting this thing be the last sight he sees.

“Make the call.”

The supervillain nods, and picks up the phone.

It’s screen lights up as they lift it towards their ear, pressing a button. “Dr. Crewel? Mr. Aston Michaels has expressed his consent to be transferred to the volunteer department. When can we expect pickup? Five minutes? Yes. Yes, this is the last one. Well, thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”

They hang up, and set the phone back down on the table.

Something flickers across their face— distaste? Weariness? Regret? Whatever it is, he hopes it haunts this thing’s nightmares for the rest of its miserable existence. It’s the least it deserves.

The two of them sit there in silence. Then there’s a knocking behind him, and light spills over him as the door is opened.

A pair of minions in impeccable suits step through, nodding to the supervillain, who nods back. Each one of them takes one of his arms and gently pulls him up from his seat.

“I’d say you’re going to be dammed to Hell for this.” He says, almost cheerfully, before they can turn him away. “But I’m pretty sure you need a soul to go down there, and things like you don’t have those.”

There’s a subtle intake of breath from the suited minions on either side of him. He ignores them, his glare fixated on his now ex-boss.

The Supervisor smiles grimly back at him. For some reason, that kind of pisses him off.

“Oh, believe me, Mr. Michaels. I know.”

[deceptive-jo]

Whumptober 2021 - Alt.5 Forgotten

Egos lived for decades. But some day the videos stop, the powers leave and everyone fades away.

Words: 1584

(We’re done!)

---

There was only one way for Egos to truly die in their realm. Granted, if the powers involved in your death were great enough it could stay permanent but the only ones subjecting themselves to that danger were Egos with enough power to ensure their survival. And then the only thing left was life. Bruises healed, with the right support you could be pulled away from death itself and the Egos went about life mainly unbothered by the entire concept of decease. But that didn’t mean that Egos couldn’t die. Every Ego, no matter how powerful or confident, feared the painful inevitability of Fading.

The Iplier Egos were luckily. There was a large number of them that ensured even the weaker Egos’ existence simply because fans remembered them through the more popular ones. That didn’t mean that none of them had faded before. An entire section of their backyard was reserved in memory for the especially short-lived Egos, those that didn’t last more than a few days. Even out of the current ones a few had already gone, through the unpleasant experience before finally solidifying, like Bim, Silver and Reynolds. But over-all their running system worked and the Ipliers were lucky. There weren’t many groups that were blessed with the same fate. When creators only had one Ego it assured their existence for a while but not indefinitely. The entire music district laid vacant by now.

The Crankgameplay Egos could hold their existence for a surprisingly long time but with their last appearance in 2020 they had to fade at some point. The Jacksepticeye Egos took longer, most of them were still around, even if weakened immensely. They had moved into the side wing of the manor after much protest and discussion, to simplify daily check-ups. They were needed now, with more characters disappearing every week. There was an air lingering in the manor over every meeting and social evening. Because it was only a matter of time until the Ipliers started fading, no matter how lucky they counted themselves before. Because while videos still went up the last Ego-related content was almost three years old and while anniversary videos still got them a minimal surge of power their view count was hardly climbing anymore. Their door to the real realm- and last connection to Mark- had faded months ago.

-

Ed was the first one to fade. They hadn’t even noticed right away. With tensions in the household growing the man had spent more and more time at his office, subsequently sleeping in most days. But then he didn’t show up for breakfast, didn’t answer his calls and when Silver went up to check on him, he only found an empty room and office, phone laying abandoned on his desk.

It was actually the Silver Shepherd that faded next, too weak to still carry out his usual patrol but determined to help regardless no-one noticed his absence until he didn’t meet up with Jackie like agreed. Jackieboy Man never even reach the manor that night (there was a certain power in association, they mused, not that it helped much anymore).

The atmosphere only grew thicker after that. The doctors blamed themselves, of course, not that anyone was responsible for the passage of time. Anyone that had still worked in the city moved their jobs into the manor or quit all-together, not like it mattered anymore. Because not a week later Eric and Reynolds faded, luckily in their sleep, which at least promised a relatively painless death. None of that made up for missed goodbyes and company and opportunities.

Whichever one of these made the Author and the Actor show up on their doorstep no-one bothered to ask. Not even Dark, who recognized the wariness etched into his old enemy’s body, regret and waste of years for hateful revenge reflecting in their souls. So, they simply let him in. Just in time, it seemed, as Bim stumbled into the living room, translucent form clinging to the Author, Marc hovering close by. Bim didn’t tear his eyes away from his husband as the Author swallowed the terror clinging to him in favour of one last glance of affection before his love’s form slipped through his fingers.

And then, for an impossible long time, absolutely nothing happened. They grew weaker, powers wearing on them more than they were used to and auras getting increasingly harder to summon. But they all remained. Silence and peace in the Iplier household had never been a good sign, however, and soon enough the dam broke. They felt, more than saw, the house shift when it reverted back to a years-old state to accommodate for Magnum’s sudden disappearance. Yancy and Illinois were up the stairs in seconds, racing down the hallway when the realisation set in that the closest thing they had to a father was gone. In the end it would seem weird that this became the turning point for most of the Egos’ states but at this time no one was asking.

Marvin faded while the Egos sat together, body slowly going up in smoke while he desperately clung to his brothers. The Septics dropped in unimaginable speed after that. Jameson barely managed to sign a last goodbye before his hands disappeared first, quickly followed by the rest of his being. Dr Schneeplestein’s absence left Dr Iplier working himself to the bone, only further adding to the exhaustion that constantly painted the doctor’s features. He wasn’t gone long after, his husband the only one present. It was impossible to keep count of the Jims but CJ’s expression was telling enough when they left their studio behind. The two original twins died in their embrace, surrounded by the few members of their family that still remained. Yancy followed Illinois close behind, rest settling into his shoulders for the first time in a long while.

Then came Chase, surprisingly peaceful (but then again, maybe it wasn’t surprisingly at all, when he had dealt with death so closely). King had held up very well for a good decade but there was only so much energy the old Ego could draw from his surroundings. Bing’s fading signalized the death of the last lesser-powerful Ego.

The Google’s previous malfunctions turned into hazards from then on, sparking and leaking the brothers spent most of the day fixing each other up. Until one day, when Green didn’t get up anymore, eyes dimmed. Red went down two days later with Oliver, body simply collapsing from beneath him. Blue pulled through for almost another month, a weird sense of responsibility driving him forward even when his limps kept locking up and his memory file seemed to grow smaller with every passing hour and when Anti glitched out of their reality for the last time. Being the last android in the house he had no help to fix him up and when his body finally locked up completely, he had no choice but to sit in his workshop and wait, unable to move a single finger and incapable of conveying to the others that he was still conscious. He went dark three days later. The Google’s grave was bigger than the others, their bodies were the only ones that didn’t fade away.

The graves filled the entire backyard by now. They weren’t needed but as a last act of respect and acknowledgement…the found it necessary. One last memorial for the people that couldn’t help but be forgotten. That’s where Author and Host ended up. They had been giving the ‘luxury’ of clarity, in exchange for their peace. They didn’t have much, as they knelt in the graveyard, embraced by their family and warmth fading from their bodies. But they had each other and that would have to be enough for the next eternity or so.

It took an unbearably long time for Wilford, Dark and the Actor to fade away. The three of them alone spend another two years or so in the manor. It was too big now, they mostly kept to the ground level except for the very rare times when one of them wandered upstairs to sit in silence in one of the old bedrooms and lean against the cushions that still somehow held the scent of their previous owner. There was a lot of tears in that time, a lot of talking too, but no judgement anymore. They didn’t have time for judgement, even when the need to blame somebody grew appealing at times. Dark grew calmer over those years, by the end their form was almost constantly split up, images no longer mirroring the demon’s form but more and more shaping into the familiar figure of a proud woman and a soft man. Wilford did not seem to struggle, his mind, as fractured as it was, had never seemed so complete. It was not something to celebrate but he sought as much comfort from every possible memory. Found joy in the happy ones, beauty in the sad ones and reassurance in the angry ones. They were his after all.

So, when the three entities- no more human but oh so human right this moment- felt their ends nearing there was a peacefulness in their souls and mind that left them not unafraid but accepting of their fate. And when golden eyes locked with red and two Gods in black and white led them to the other side, what more was there to do but smile and relish in the richness that life ultimately provided.

[interstellarflare]

Bend and Break || Homelander

-PART FOUR-

Warnings: Gore, violence, course language, angst.

Summary: People can only bend their morales so far before they break. Homelander is the world’s greatest superhero, and you, a tech analyst, somehow become entangled in his world when he learns that you provide intel to The Boys. He makes it his personal mission to find out exactly what you know, but he never expected such resistance from someone as damaged as you. But broken things can be mended, sometimes in the most unexpected ways possible.

Author’s Note: As a bit of a disclaimer, I have only seen snippets of The Boys. I haven’t actually watched all of it, so forgive me if there are some details that are wrong, as well as the many spelling errors that will undoubtedly be in this series. There is a tag list open for those who wish to be added. I apologise for the long chapters. Gif by @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom

|PART ONE| |PART TWO| |PART THREE|

“Where do you think you’re going?” You asked angrily, as you followed Homelander up the large staircase of your apartment complex and onto the roof. He hovered a few metres away from the edge, whilst you stood as close to the edge of the roof as you could. Homelander turned to face you, his hair gently rustling in the wind. “I’m going to confront Stillwell. I want answers, and she is going to give them to me”.

“We need to be smart about this...” You persisted throwing you arms out in annoyance “if you go charging in there all high and mighty and demand answers, she’s going to know that something is wrong. We need to do this discreetly, otherwise you’re going to fuck this up for everyone”.

“Excuse me?” Homelander growled, flying down so that he was hovering just away from the edge “I’m the Homelander. And I can do whatever the fuck I want. Nothing goes on at Vought without me knowing about it. You have no powers, you’re not special, no one would give a damn if something happened to you. So what makes you think you can help me?” he asked angrily, his eyes once again beginning to glow a dangerous red. You didn’t know why his words hurt so much, you didn’t understand why your chest tightened painfully. But you stood tall, clenching your hands into fists as you shouted “I don’t care who the fuck you are! What I care about is doing this right. If you go to Stillwell and demand answers, there’s a likely chance you will put The Seven in danger, and likely anyone else involved. I might not have powers, but at least one of us has to have some common fucking sense!”.

When no response came from The World’s Greatest Hero, you scoffed shrugging your shoulders as you stepped away from the edge of the roof “Then again, what do I know. I’m not special. But if I hadn’t hacked into your servers, you wouldn’t have known about this, and you would have been covering Vought’s arse for all the wrong reasons, not that you don’t do that anyway”. You turned on your heel and headed back towards the door, hugging your arms close to your body as you suddenly felt cold. You shivered, reaching out to grasp the door handle as a firm hand was placed on your shoulder. Homelander spun you around, glaring down at your form with his eyebrows furrowed as he stepped closer to you. “What makes you think I don’t have any common sense?” he asked loudly, throwing his arms out in exasperation as he waited for your response. As you forcefully pushed him away from you, you ignored how surprised you were to see him stumble. He never stumbled. Then again, he didn’t let just anyone punch him either. Rolling your eyes, you scoffed loudly and stepped toward him “Classic Homelander tactic, you always rush in first. You act without thinking it through. You think that just because you are ‘The World’s Greatest Superhero’, that everyone will automatically grovel at your feet and beg for mercy!...” you shouted, your voice breaking as your tone became angrier “well guess what, even superheroes get screwed over. That’s just how the world works. And you’re angry. You’re angry because you got played-”

“Just shut up!” Homelander cried, his eyes glowing a menacing red before firing one large beam directly beside where you were standing. You shrieked, falling over onto your backside with a fearful gasp. The gravel atop the roof smouldered, grey smoke rising into the air in a steady pillar. That was it, this was the last straw. You quickly stood to your feet, rage surging through your blood as you shouted so loud, that you were certain that the entire neighbourhood could hear you. “Fine! If you want to go and fuck things up for yourself, then by all means go ahead. I’m not going to stop you! But you don’t get to come back to me and beg for my help when things go wrong. I’ve dealt with enough of this shit to last me a lifetime, and I don’t need more of it. Especially, not from someone like you!”. With one final glare, you stormed off the roof, slamming the door to the stairwell behind you hard enough that the sound echoed throughout the entire building. The walk to your apartment became a blur, so much so that you don’t even remember walking through the door, or hearing Max’s pestering questions about where Homelander had gone.

Instead, you stormed straight to your bedroom, closing the door behind you with a harsh bang before leaning back against it. You buried your head in your hands, collapsing to the floor as you brought your knees up to your chest. And for all the wrong reasons, you cried. You cried, because the fucking bastard didn’t care about anyone else but himself. You cried, because he couldn’t see what he was doing to the people around him. What he was doing to you. A small part of you still wanted to believe that there was still some good in him, after he had saved your life from a car accident all those years ago. The accident had happened just before Max had been born. You were on your way to the hospital to meet Michael when your car collided with that of an intoxicated driver. You car flipped several times, trapping you inside the wreckage upside down as it caught fire. You still wonder what had possessed him to save your life that night, what made him decide that you were worth saving? How could someone with such extraordinary gifts, abuse them in such a way?

You sighed heavily, wiping the tears from your face as your wrapped your arms around your form, giving yourself what little comfort you could. Unknown to you, or anyone within the apartment complex, Homelander had never left. He could hear your faint sobs through the layered walls, your heartfelt cries and awkward sniffles as you tried so desperately to assure your nephew that you were fine. He could see you hiding in your bedroom, alone and hurting. And a small part of him felt guilty for causing you to feel this way. But he couldn’t talk to you, not now. He needed answers, and he would get them by whatever means necessary. But your words stuck with him the entire flight back to Vought International, ‘We need to be smart about this...at least one of us has to have some common fucking sense’.

Maybe you were right. Maybe you weren’t. But he would never know now, as he instead changed his direction and flew about the city, trying to clear his head of tonights events.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since your argument with Homelander, and nothing had changed.

It had been quiet for the most part, except for when Max stopped by every afternoon after school as your apartment was within walking distance. More often than not, Black Noir stopped by as well. He often sat outside on the fire escape, perched either reading a book or casually watching you as you went about your daily activities. So at some point, and you’re still unsure as to why, but you invited him inside.

You started to leave your window unlocked again for whenever he came by, and he didn’t talk much. Which surprisingly made him a very good listener. He listened to your every word with some sort of interest, and it felt good to have another adult around, one that actually listened to you and didn’t argue. In those two weeks, you managed to get a new phone, a new number, and managed to establish all your old contacts again. Butcher was the only one you couldn’t make contact with. He hadn’t stopped by your apartment either, which left you a little disheartened. You figured that the CIA considered you a loose end, and that Homelander had or would likely kill you when he was done with you. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine at the thought.

You sat at the dining room table, trying to weave your way through Vought’s servers for a second time. But you hadn’t expected such resistance. They had definitely upgraded their technology, their firewalls were practically impenetrable. You cursed under your breath, slamming your hands against the table’s surface out of frustration. Noir looked up from the book he was reading on your couch, his head tilting to the side out of confusion and questioning. You groaned, running a stressed hand through your hair “When did Vought upgrade their servers?” You asked him, not really expecting a helpful answer from him at all. When Noir shrugged and returned his gaze back to his book, you poked your tongue out childishly in his direction. “Thanks a lot, arsehole” You grumbled, rolling your eyes as he gave you a sarcastic thumbs up. Before you could respond with a disrespectful quip, there was a loud knock at the door.

Again, you groan, muttering a few jumbled incoherent phrases under your breath as you approached. You swung the door open without thinking, and almost choked on air when you eyes landed on the person on the other side. Homelander stood with his eyes downcast, his hues a darker and sadder shade of blue than they usually were. His right arm leaned against the doorframe, his usually combed back fair hair in slight disarray. You looked him up and down, swallowing thickly as a heavy silence filled the hallway. You cleared your throat, folding your arms over your chest as you opened your mouth to speak.

“I want to try it your way...” Homelander suddenly spoke, his voice low and devoid of his usual sarcastic and pompous tone. Your eyes widened as you were taken aback by his sudden sincereness. You bit your bottom lip, raising an eyebrow in challenge “Did demanding answers not do it for you?-”

“I didn’t...ask Stillwell about Project Cerberus...” He snapped bitterly, gritting his teeth as he lifted his eyes to meet your own. You nodded slowly, hating the way you so easily gave in and stepped aside, allowing the man before you to step into your apartment. But before he could walk past you, you reach out and grabbed his upper arm with your hand, looking up at the Supe from the corner of your eye. “Yell at me like you did two weeks ago again, and I’m done. Understand?” You spoke seriously, your grip tightening around his bicep as a silent promise. Homelander nodded wordlessly, and you released him from your hold. You closed the door to your apartment and headed back towards the living room, where Homelander nodded a curt greeting to the other Supe sitting on the couch. “Just out of curiosity, is there something else I can call you other than Homelander? Otherwise I’m just going to call you prick or arsehole” you stated blatantly, smirking tauntingly as the man before you turned to face your figure with a stern and harsh expression. With his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring in anger, you held your hands up in defence “Okay then, baby steps...baby steps”.

Your eyes widened in shock as Noir released a huff sounding close enough to a laugh. After making eye contact with Homelander out of bewilderment, and after seeing that he wore a similar expression, you shook your head. After deciding that Noir possibly laughing wasn’t as weird as having two of The Seven currently situated in you apartment, you motioned Homelander over to your laptop, where the two of you set about breaking into Vought’s servers.

Tag List: @tardis-23​ @freshmakertaco​