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wondernimbus · 4 years ago

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once upon a time — cedric diggory

pairing: cedric diggory x female!reader

prompt: cedric dies and part of her is lost along with him.

t/w: death

Everyone at Hogwarts knew of Cedric and [Y/N]. Everyone, from the most timid first year to the strictest teacher, knew that the two of them were perfect for another; they were both kind and loving and honest—the quintessential Hufflepuffs. They complimented one another extremely well, and thus it was to no one's surprise how close the pair of them were; they called one another "best friends" up until their sixth year, when they finally got together after years of mutual pining. The day word got out that they were finally official, the entirety of Hogwarts was in collective quiet celebration, because bloody finally—Cedric and [Y/N] finally realized what everyone else had known before them: they loved each other.

It was obvious. The way they looked at one another was a dead giveaway; every time Cedric looked at [Y/N] it was as though he was seeing the world in a new, magnificent light, and [Y/N] looked at Cedric as though she would give up the entire world for him and more. At first glance, anyone would be able to see how much the pair meant to each other.

Hogwarts had plenty of casual relationships going around, but what Cedric and [Y/N] had between them was different—they were two young people who had fallen completely and utterly in love and everyone knew that eventually, at some point in life, they would get married. It was the only valid scenario. No one could imagine them ever separating: they were end-game, and that was final.

So when the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament rolled around and Harry Potter came staggering out of the giant maze with the corpse of Cedric Diggory at his side, everyone was left in disbelief.

But it didn't really sink in for [Y/N].

She rose from her seat in the stands and watched as Cedric's father pushed through the crowd of people, already a wailing mess as he cried for his son and begged the heavens for a miracle that would somehow bring him back to life.

But why bring him back to life? Cedric wasn't dead. He couldn't be.

When the first few screams cut through the air and people started crying, and Amos Diggory sank to his knees and let out the most horrible, heartbroken howls known to man, [Y/N] simply stood by the stands, watching the scene from a mere few feet away.

Cedric wasn't dead.

He couldn't be.

Someone was rubbing her back consolingly. A group of people had gathered around her and started murmuring "I'm sorry"s—but what were they sorry for? Cedric wasn't dead.

He would open his eyes any time now and smile at her like he'd always done. He would gather her into his arms and press kisses all over her face, like he had always done, and he would tell her he loved her and ask her to talk to him about anything she wanted just because he liked the sound of her voice. Like he had always done.

Cedric wasn't dead.

"My boy!" Amos Diggory was wailing. Someone was screaming.

[Y/N] stared, eyes open but unseeing, standing completely still save for the trembling in her hands.

"I'm so sorry," someone was saying. "I'm so sorry, [Y/N]. He died too young."

[Y/N] blinked. A ringing sound was building up in her ears, blocking out all sound until Amos's cries and the hushed murmurs of disbelief faded into mere static. The words "he's not dead" left her lips without her really realizing. Her eyes had gone vacant. Slowly, she started to move, and she didn't even have to shove her way past the throng of students in the stands—no, they got out of her way, eyes downcast as though they didn't want to witness what was about to unfold. But maybe it would have been better if they hadn't let her through. It would have saved everyone a lot of pain to not have heard her broken pleas as she knelt down at Cedric's side and reached out with a shaking hand to touch his cheek.

"Ced? Wake up. Look at me."

Silence filled the air. No one was talking, all of them watching the girl who was knelt on the ground, cradling the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory in her arms, clutching him to her chest as the first few broken whimpers slipped out of her lips.

And suddenly [Y/N] was no longer the girl with an infectious smile and a liveliness that everyone was fond of; as she cried and wailed and pleaded on the grass, the brightness she had always held was drained from her very being in the form of the tears that dripped down her cheeks and onto Cedric's skin.

He was dead.

Cedric was dead.

And part of her died right along with him.

—

Months went by. The year ended. People didn't forget, but they moved on. They kept living through each day until each one became slightly more tolerable than the last. Wounds healed, and while they never quite disappeared completely, they left behind a faint scar; a mere ghost of the fresh, gaping hole that death leaves behind. Not as painful, not as excruciating, but still there, a reminder of loss and sorrow that never really goes away.

But things didn't get better for [Y/N].

The pain of losing Cedric stayed with her through every moment. She would wake up almost everyday with tears on her cheeks that hadn't dried out yet; tears brought on by dreams of Cedric that felt so horribly real it hurt. She would sit up in bed at three in the morning and clutch her hand to her chest as though it would help quell the pain in her heart that had been there for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like without it.

She'd started going to a psychotherapist at St. Mungo's after her mother came across an advertisement on the Daily Prophet. It didn't help, of course, but her parents liked to think that it did.

The moment [Y/N] first stepped foot into the cozy therapy room, she'd decided that she hated it. The space was far too bright. Cozy. It reminded her of things that she didn't want to be reminded of.

Of laying down on her favorite couch in the Hufflepuff common room with the boy she loved at her side as he cuddled her close and smiled into her hair. Of him asking her how her day went only to cup her face in his hands while she was speaking just because he "couldn't help it, love, sorry—you looked too lovely". Of the subtle warmth of sunsets as they sat by the Great Lake, the sun sinking below the horizon painting a magical picture right in front of them but both [Y/N] and Cedric unable to tear their eyes away from each other. Of Cedric and his smile and the warmth in his eyes and how he'd given her more love than she ever deserved—

"How are you?" The lady—the pyschotherapist's eyes were kind and gentle, but [Y/N] could barely bring herself to meet her gaze.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on a potted puffapod in the corner of the room.

"I understand that you're here because you lost someone very dear to you. I'm here to help you, if you'll allow me to."

[Y/N] nodded, more out of courtesy than understanding.

"Would it help if you were to talk about what you feel?"

Silence. [Y/N]'s gaze was blank, like she wasn't really there. Hovering somewhere between reality and the own little world she'd built up in her head that held memories of happiness she hadn't felt in a long time.

"[Y/N]?"

She blinked.

"Would it help, honey?"

[Y/N] swallowed and bowed her head. "No. I'm sorry."

The lady nodded, lips pursed in a gentle smile. "Okay. I understand."

At this, [Y/N] looked up.

She didn't. She couldn't possibly understand the pain [Y/N] was feeling unless she'd lost someone that meant the entire world to her. It was the kind of pain so unbearable that it shut everything out but her own heartbeat; the kind you couldn't put into words no matter how hard you tried.

Without [Y/N] having even noticed, tears had formed at the edges of her eyes that were now dangerously close to falling—and they only did so when she looked away, hiding her face from view the moment the droplets were let loose and fell down her cheeks.

"You don't," said [Y/N], gritting her teeth, an odd anger overcoming her. "You don't understand."

She didn't understand. No one did.

"I can't possibly say anything to make you feel better," the woman said gently, and [Y/N] hated it—hated her soft tone and her kind eyes, loathed the warm touch of her hands as they caressed hers in a manner that was supposed to be comforting but only had [Y/N] squirming in her seat. "But coping with loss is so much harder to do when you're alone. You have to know this."

"You don't understand," was all [Y/N] could say. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her hands away, curling them into fists, nails digging almost painfully into the skin of her palms in a feeble attempt to stop them from trembling. [Y/N] wanted to leave. She didn't want to talk about death or loss or coping. The last place she wanted to be in was in front of this woman who claimed to want to help her heal by poring over memory she ever had with Cedric—

Cedric.

A broken whimper tore its way out of her throat.

Cedric.

She hunched over in her seat, clamped her hand over her mouth, and cried.

Cried for the boy who loved like it was the only thing he knew how to do. For the boy who was honest and brave and kind and taught her how to see the good in the world. For Cedric, who died too early.

And she cried for herself. For the girl whose eyes, as Cedric once put it, had enough brightness in them to light up the entire universe. But that was a long time ago, and that light had long since died out.

—

Sometimes, it is better to forget things.

When a year passes and the sutures in her heart don't show any signs of healing, she starts to wonder what it would be like to do that—forget.

Forget every moment she spent with Cedric: every kiss, every inside-joke, every night spent under the stars, every laugh they shared. Forget all of the memories she'd clung onto for Merlin-knows-how-long like if she thought about them hard enough, she could somehow bring Cedric back.

But she can't. Nothing can.

Because Cedric is dead.

She's been going to psychotherapy for far too long, lying both to that frustratingly patient Healer and to her parents by claiming that she's getting better when she's not. The gaping hole in her heart is still very much there, nowhere near closing. And the more time passes, the more [Y/N] realizes that it won't go away.

How do you fill up a void that large?

—

[Y/N]'s hands are shaking as she folds the piece of parchment into a neat square and tucks it into an envelope.

And she still hasn't quite stopped trembling even as she hands it to her mother, who stares down at the letter with a pained gaze.

"Are you sure about this?" Her mother's voice is uncertain. There's that same kind of sadness in her eyes that has been there for a year now; it first surfaced when she saw [Y/N] come home at the end of last year as a mere shell of the girl she once used to be, eyes void of any sort of warmth.

Her daughter isn't the same. She hasn't been for a long time.

[Y/N] nods. In a quiet voice, she says, "When I'm in a better place. When you think I can handle it—give it to me. So I can remember him."

At sunset, [Y/N] sits on the lakeside by their house and watches the sun dip below the horizon.

And even though it's painful—even though it would be so much better to close her eyes and clear her mind and have it done with—for those last few seconds, she hangs onto the memory of Cedric Diggory, who was honest and kind and brave and shone brighter than any star ever could.

She feels her mother's wand press itself to her head from behind, like [Y/N] had asked her to do. In those very last moments of knowing Cedric Diggory, she clings onto her thousands and thousands of memories with him until she hears a broken whisper from behind her:

"Obliviate."

And when she opens her eyes a few moments later, they are bright again.

—

Fourteen years later, an owl comes knocking on her window.

[Y/N] looks up from where she is sitting on the couch surveying this week's Daily Prophet. Hogsmeade house prices have gone up again, and Celestina Warbeck is having a concert in Liverpool sometime next week.

"Honey, will you please get that?" says her husband's familiar voice from the kitchen. "I'm cooking—well, trying, really, but—"

"I've got it!" [Y/N] calls back, laughing a little under her breath as she pushes herself to her feet and sets the newspaper down on the coffee table.

It is early morning. Their little London apartment is quiet, but predictably not for long. The soothing silence will only last until five-year-old Ava and seven-year-old Ben wake up and begin wrecking havoc around the living room.

For now, [Y/N] basks in the peaceful calm. She hears the sound of something sizzling on a pan in the kitchen (and smells the worrying scent of something burning) as she makes her way to the window, pulls it open, and takes the small bunch of letters from the owl's beak.

There's their weekly subscription to Witch Weekly, a letter from Hermione Granger—likely about the get-together they'd spoken of having sometime in the near future—and an envelope addressed to no one.

[Y/N] flips the mysterious envelope over in her palm. Written across the bottom left in handwriting that strangely resembles her own are the words "when you have healed".

Brows furrowed, she opens the envelope, unfolds the piece of parchment inside it, and reads.

Once upon a time, you found a home in a boy named Cedric Diggory.

I imagine you won't know who he is. Maybe you've heard of him before. Maybe someone accidentally let the name slip and looked at you with a pitying gaze, and you couldn't understand why.

But I will tell you now that the world once gave you a boy who taught you the meaning of love only to take him away from you. I will tell you now that it was painful when you lost him—painful enough that you chose to forget instead of having to relive every moment you spent with him every single day.

You are not a coward for choosing to forget. You are brave. It takes a lot more courage to let go than it does to hang on; that's something Cedric used to say.

The reason you are reading this now is because you are in a better place and it is safe for you to know.

I imagine you won't be able to remember everything. You won't be able to remember the absolute joy that the feeling of his lips on yours gave you, nor will you be able to recall all of the promises the two of you made. You won't know what it felt like when he held you in his arms and murmured words of affection into your hair and you will have no idea what it was like to have him stare at you with a look in his eyes that made it hard to breathe.

But all I want you to know is that once upon a time, there was a boy named Cedric Diggory who was honest and kind and brave and shone brighter than any star ever could.

That once upon a time, you loved a boy named Cedric Diggory, and he loved you back in equal measure.

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howlingmoonrise · 4 years ago

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Thoughts on Petshop of Horrors: Wandering Ark volumes 1 & 2

(also on dreamwidth)

HOW did I manage to miss the translation of my long-awaited Papa D PSOH series?? I've been stalking it ever since I found the announcement and somehow the fact that @ruthlessnightsscans already put out the first two volumes completely went past my head.

Obviously I had to read it right away, sleep be damned.

this is the edited version of my brain thoughts after i managed to get two sleeps and calm down a bit or it would be a lot more incoherent

The art: the initial pages really remind me of the old art! Unfortunately it goes back to the roundness prevalent since the Shin series (which has only become even rounder with time) not long after. That art style is also a lot less dynamic than the original, I find. It's a bit of a problem on scenes that are supposed to have some tension caused by movement. This is nothing new since, like I said, Sensei has been using this art style since a good while ago. I really miss the original art though. It had a major nostalgia punch to it and a lot more feeling as well.

-- First chapter: "I am on a journey with no destination in mind" just say you're on vacation and go off I guess.

Papa is... weirdly easy-going. I want to say it's because he's not yet mad with grief and his son being taken away and so on, but the glimpses we saw at his time in university definitely didn't paint him this soft. There's no edge to him, on this volume or the next.

Regarding the story itself, I can't say I loved it but it’s not the worst out of all of them (there are four in total between these two volumes, and a third volume is on the way). I liked Koushun's character, but Seiyou annoyed me, especially when he presumed to know what she wanted (or perhaps he didn't presume, but decided for her what was better anyway) - something like I Shall Revive This Species So Breed In My Name Okay Bye. Note also that while Koushun was willing enough to marry (thinking she was marrying someone else but that's another point entirely), the groom himself came in chains. And then Seiyou... locks them in together? Great. Just great. Very conducive to a loving mood indeed, locking a woman with a potentially dangerous stranger who might cause her harm and telling them both to fuck (note. the. chains. you don’t put chains on someone you think is harmless; they never put any on Koushun even when she attacked Seiyou). I was afraid for her when it cut to another scene here, with the last we saw of her being pushed against a wall and being told by the groom that it seemed that he would have to make a child with her. "Rather than hate each other, I want to break that curse"? Seiyou, sweetie, that is NOT the way to make them not hate you. ((The reveal that Koushou is some sort of creature - very PSOH-y - does not help, since putting two wild animals together without them being used to each other is perhaps even more likely to them killing/harming one another.))

MAJOR little mermaid vibes on Koushun standing over a sleeping Seiyou with a knife.

There are quite some parallels with the D species on this tale of bloodshed and revenge. The Ds could stand to learn from this, though historically they don't. "Even if you kill the third prince, the Kagetsu people are already gone. They won't return." Papa himself says that 'winning on the last available tile' is a waste of time, which really resonates with his research into reviving lost species and the issues of his own kind. A reference to the health of descendants when no new blood is introduced is also made here, which might or might not point to our D depending on where in time this Papa is from.

Second chapter: it's... frankly, super choppy. The story is all over the place. On the author's note, Akino herself says that it's a challenge to put the whole life of that empress in 57 pages, and I have to agree. Either it should have been cut to the REALLY relevant parts and worked on them some more, or be discarded in its entirety. It's too rushed. The whole first part was unnecessary: it could have started with her already working at the palace or being chosen as a concubine, and then made references to her previous life in her thoughts instead of wasting several pages on it when that backstory won't be going anywhere (except for some references to Hakubun whom she sees on that other actor - who dies like, two or three pages later, so that's that on that). I do like Ranji herself as a character: she's clever and quick to pick up on things. Her life is just a series of tragedies one after the other, unfortunately.

Papa D is some sort of benevolent helper in this chapter for some reason - this pattern repeats somewhat on the next chapters, but on this one there isn't really anything to gain for him at all, other than perhaps his dubious acquaintance with one of the concubines/future empress, which wouldn't really hold much weight since he met her ?once? apart from near her death.

And then, somehow, the initial Papa D in this chapter was actually Sofu?

Sofu???? I'm calling bullshit. As far as we know - going back to Sofu's own series and flashbacks on the original PSOH, even - Sofu never had a hairstyle of that length, and out of our three known Ds (new!D excluded) he's the one least likely to help a human just because. The ark is also said to travel through space and time, so I'm saying that's Papa D and that's it. Fun aside: on this chapter, Papa says he's the "third generation", meaning that on this series he's probably the youngest existing D (and by inference our D does not exist yet).

Also, some issues with in-story continuity here: when the last emperor dies Ranji still looks fairly young and the emperor-to-be is three years old, a couple pages later she looks a lot more aged but the new emperor is still three years old. To be honest, I think the story would have been tied off much better if A-chan had some connection with Hakubun or the eunuch instead of each having their very brief, individual emotional connections to her - which, in turn, doesn't really make them memorable. The "wishes" thing was interesting, really called back to the old PSOH tradition with the mystical pets and bittersweet be-careful-what-you-wish-for endings.

Third chapter: I think, overall, this was probably the one I liked the best. Can't really bring myself to call it my favourite though, since none of them even begin to compare to the original PSOH chapters. I cackled at the "jawline is too sharp" dialogues and thoughts: with this art style EVERYONE has the same round jaw as every other character, and it's the furthest thing from "sharp" possible.

With this series it really seems like Sensei is giving more focus to trying to tell historically-accurate stories rather than focusing on the stories themselves, as there is a huge amount of superfluous historical information to be found in these volumes.

The empress Elizabeth reminds me of Sofu, in truth. She won't "mind" affairs and the like (read: she will hate it but ignore them) as long as it works towards her ends. Her taking away the newly-born child is a huge parallel to Sofu regarding both Papa and D, and D and new!D. Child-snatching FTW! That being said, I actually kind of liked her, ruthless as she was: the whole reason why Sophie made it as far as crown princess was because Elizabeth valued her hard work. You don't get to hold an empire together without having a steel spine and a cunning mind (or people to do the work for you I guess, but here it doesn’t seem to be the case).

I hate that Sophie had to change even her name and religion to fit her new reality, accurate as it is to history. That sort of thing always messes me up (throwback to the Nazi/teddy bear chapter of the original PSOH series, where there was also a name/religion change for the sake of survival). Not a reflection on the author in any way, I just hate that this is something people had to go through. As something I hated that kinda does reflect on the author, though, was the ugly = terrible association with Pyotr and the maid. Sophie/Catherine is initially said to not be beautiful but she's not depicted in the same way those two are at all.

Papa's benevolence is thankfully offset this chapter by the fact that he does have something to gain here. For some reason Ds doing things merely for the goodness of their hearts kind of rubs me the wrong way unless it's D during or post-Leon.

Most PSOH victims clients: oh a pretty person! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S AN ANIMAL Sophie/Catherine: a dog you say? sounds kinda hot ngl

Gotta respect how she just jumps straight into the dog affairs. The take-back of the empire was also nicely executed, and I'm always here for ladies in traditionally male clothing.

Fourth chapter:

This is linked semi-directly to the third chapter by virtue of the amber room Papa D craved. Marks also the second time that Papa takes a human on board of the ark.

D, circa end of original PSOH, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he watches Leon plummet towards the earth: Humans have not earned the right to board this ark. Papa D: I'm gonna go for a joyride and take along this human and this human and this human and this human and--

Papa really gives Doctor Who vibes on the ark matter. Travelling through space and time, occasionally taking human companions? The one for this chapter - who I'm guessing might be a cameo from one of Sensei's other series, since I didn't recognize him and there was no backstory for him on the chapter - even has era-appropriate wardrobe changes (at least assuming it's the same person and not just someone who looks similar scratch that they have eyes of different colours so I guess Papa has been giving rides to delivery men now), the second of which leaving me very ??? as to WHEN he is from.

That last Look(TM) reminds me a of Leon Orcot, between the long ponytail and the clothes resembling the ones Leon wore on the last chapter of Shin PSOH (in PSOH time, that would have happened approximately 15 years after the end of the original series, meaning that Papa was already long dead then. Unless Leon's style was just stuck in time, which is also very possible).

It might or might not have endeared him to me for that exact reason. What can I say? I'm a sucker for Leon Orcot, and apparently also for characters that visually remind me of him. ANYWAY.

Why another Nazi-era chapter??? Sensei plz. One was already enough on the original PSOH - it wasn't anywhere near my favourites back then, either - and the fact that this one mostly followed a Nazi colonel didn't help either. Here we witness them tearing down the amber room, "reclaiming" art from all over the world, a father's heartbreaking sacrifice to “save” his daughter’s dog, and Papa D coming to meet the Nazi dude. One would expect the Ds to avoid genocidal racists given the fate of their own species, but apparently the Nazis were relevant enough for not one but TWO Ds to interact with them. Oh well. Either way, I really don't like how Papa appears to not care one way or another - when the D for the original series interacted with people he didn't like, his mask was really fairly obvious (at least for the reader). Perhaps Papa simply has a better mask. Perhaps those nuances were lost to time and round art styles. Perhaps Papa or Sensei just don't give two shits. Guess we'll never know.

EVERYONE seems to comment on the flavour of Papa's tea: it's 4 out of 4 so far for these two volumes, and in this chapter in particular it seems as if it's laced with some kind of truth serum - it seems to be Papa's version of D's (and possibly Sofu's?) incense from the original PSOH. A reference to the original PSOH's Nazi chapter is also made here, with Papa mentioning that Sofu was on friendly terms with Eva Braun: this implicates that in this time they were in closer contact (not surprising since Sofu probably hasn't stolen his still-non-existent kid yet).

The colonel seems to value art over human life - surprise surprise! - so he kills his own comrades to keep the art "safe". A stomach-turning moment comes where they find human golden teeth being kept as treasure, which Papa mentions remelting to turn into golden nuggets. Why, Papa/Sensei, why? It's in poor taste, even if you're testing the colonel the way D did with some of his clients on original PSOH.

At the very least an eerie moment comes next where Papa explains that dead creatures can be revived using DNA. "Even dead people?" Cue Papa's all-seeing stare directly into the reader's eyes (and presumably the colonel's as well) with a backdrop of an inverted black-and-white multitude of graves as he says that future is not very far. Colonel almost shits his pants, with reason when you consider the amount of people the Nazis killed off that would presumably come after them. This almost forgives the teeth comment, and it's probably the first moment in these two volumes when we see some genuine emotion on Papa's face (on this page and the next), creepy and maniac as it might be.

Colonel dude has spent the whole chapter justifying everything under "orders of the fuhrer" so far. Then comes the moment that Papa calls him out by saying that the orders were to burn his sweet dear art so that it wouldn't fall into enemy's hands, and it's here that we see how much of an hypocrite the colonel is when he doesn't want to follow those orders. Suddenly it's "treasures of mankind" (even though he's been stealing them left and right) and the fuhrer is "a fool" (even though he's been using his orders and his "greatness" as justification for everything).

Suddenly, Papa's companion! Who the heck is that! Shoots him! This is someone whose family was killed by the colonel (directly or under his orders) or so he says; he's gripping a piece of art we don't get to see, which is presumably the reason for those deaths. Now in the future! A guy who looks a bit like that other man who shot the colonel, but who I'm not 100% sure if it is or is not the same person because the round art style makes everyone look alike Someone who is definitely not the same guy because his eye colour is different (and who's dressed in a sporty outfit with a long ponytail, which I've mentioned kinda reminds me of Leon) looks for the amber in the place the art was stored, alongside Papa. He flies on the ark (all these humans on the ark, Sofu would have a conniption!) and reminds me of Leon once more while being shouty and holding on to the main mast for dear life.

The sacrificial father mini-plot also gets resolved with the dog returning (but not the father himself) along with a picture with that family. Which is presumably the picture the other dude who shot the colonel was holding, which begs the question: how is he related to them? He doesn't look like any of them, but he did say the colonel killed his family while (presumably) holding that same picture, so hmmm. Maybe he's the dog, colour-scheme aside? But apart from the father, the rest of the family seems to have survived, so it's kind of a strange thing to say since that sort of wording usually means more than one person. Even if he is the dog (my money is on that option), it's not exactly obvious to a reader who's not looking very closely. Some loose ends there, or at least ends that don't really look like they're tied together at all.

"No matter how long winter is, spring will come." Fairly hopeful final words there, Papa D. These echo similar ones spoken by D at the end of Shin PSOH, after running from Leon once more ("someday, the season for returning will come"): perhaps both these Ds are not as pessimistic as to their future, at least at this point? Poor Papa definitely had a change of heart between his series and the ending of original PSOH, unfortunately.

General thoughts: Sensei hasn't quite managed to replicate the feeling of the original PSOH just yet. The storytelling feels a bit shallow and rushed, though the pacing improved from the first volume to the second. There's also very little focus on Papa himself for some reason: he's more of a background character on his own series except for the fourth chapter, which is a very strange narrative choice. In part this might also be because he doesn’t have a permanent companion to discuss/argue with like in previous iterations of the PSOH series. I wonder if the third volume will continue on this trend? I wish it’d delve a bit more into Papa, but either way it’s still nice to get some more PSOH content.

I've heard Vesca will make an appearance next volume, I'm so excited!! Out of Shin PSOH, my favourite chapters were Leon's (surprise surprise!) and the ones with Papa and Vesca on their university days. Papa definitely seemed a lot sharper there, which I miss here - I feel like Sensei has been smoothing out all their edges like with the art style lmao, and in turn it makes them feel a bit lacking since the Ds are not meant to be bland and forgiving and easy-going, at least as per their original portrayal. I've also seen sneak-peaks of Leon and D from author notes of the next volume so I can't wait at the chance to weep at the slightest panel of my son Leon.

A final shoutout to RNS for continuing the PSOH translations! I really can't thank them enough!!

#PetShop of Horrors #pet shop of horrors #psoh #hyouhaku no hakobune hen #papa d #wandering ark #psoh wandering ark #psoh ark adrift #petshop of horrors hyouhaku #howl rambles a lot

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sierraraeck · 4 years ago

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Dancing, Drugs, and Lies (Pt.2)

BAU x OC Aundreya

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

(This is my gif so please give credit if used)

Summary: Morgan’s cousin is in danger. Aundreya decides to use some of her ‘special talents’ to help the team find her. Story seven.

Category: Working a case with the team. A bit angsty, I guess.

Warnings: Cussing. Drugs. Implied drug abuse. Normal CM gore and situations.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: Just a reminder that this is all fiction and I don’t actually know about drugs or exotic dancers.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

When I got back to the office, I could feel the tension radiating through the room.

“What’s going on?” I asked carefully.

“The tox screen came back and they were only able to identify three of the substances in the mixture: heroin, cocaine, and MDMA,” Reid said.

“So there are more within the mixture?” I clarified.

“Their best guess is that there are two others in there.”

“What? And they can’t test it?” I was flabbergasted. How could a lab not test drugs? Wasn’t that literally half their job?

“They’re saying that they’re being overpowered by the other three in the mix, and they don’t have a good starting point as to what the others would be.”

“Do we have the drug?” I asked. I could give a stab at it. I was, what one could describe as, well versed in drugs.

“It’s in evidence,” Spencer said, skepticism coating his voice. Instead of explaining, I marched out of our meeting room and headed straight to evidence.

When I got back, everyone was looking at me. I opened the bag and dumped just a little bit on the round table.

“What are you doing?” Hotch asked. I pinched the white powder between my fingers and lightly rubbed them together.

“I’ve had a lot of experience with drugs. I’m just trying to figure out what the other two are,” I said.

“You’re not going to be able to do that. Especially not by just looking and touching because a lot of drugs come in white powder form,” JJ said.

I sighed. “I know, you’re right. But if I can figure out what the other two are, is that information going to lead us to our unsub?”

“There’s a very good chance. Obtaining five different drugs would hopefully leave enough records to track someone down, especially if the other two aren’t classic street drugs,” Reid said.

“Okay,” I said, ignoring the lingering question pertaining to my motives. I took a deep breath as everyone’s eyes were still on me. I looked around at the people in the room, trying to completely absorb them in their entirety, attempting to remember as much of reality as I could. Then, before anyone could bat an eyelash, I swooped toward the table and sniffed up whatever powder I had put there.

Amanda was not messing around when she said they acted almost instantly. I had barely raised my head back up when the euphoric feeling hit me. That must be the cocaine.

Cocaine acted the fastest so I would feel that first. Someone was grabbing my shoulder, ushering me to sit down, but I swatted them away.

“Shut up,” I mumbled. The noise around me had amplified, either because of the drugs, or… because of the drugs. Because I had taken the drugs, and people were freaking out.

The noise didn’t stop so I yelled, “Shut up!” That did it. “Listen to me,” I said, looking at everyone around the room. “There is nothing you can do about it now but let it run its course. I need you to trust me. Like I said … I’ve had a lot of experience with a lot of different drugs. I need you … I need you to let me do this my way. I can help,” I said. Sentences were already hard to concentrate on forming.

“What are you feeling?” It sounded like Emily.

“Yes, can confirm, there is cocaine in this,” I responded. “What do I look like? Like do you see any signs of other drugs?”

“Your pupils haven’t changed, but your eyes are watering,” JJ said, leaning in.

“Okay yeah. So we know there is also heroin in it,” I said.

“Wait, what?”

“Cocaine would make my pupils big, but heroin would make them small, so they’re balancing out. Also, heroin causes watery eyes along with flushed and itchy skin and a runny nose and drowsiness,” I explained. Speaking of, I was starting to feel woozy and put my hands out on the table.

Definitely heroin.

“Thank you, Doctor Spencer Reid,” Prentiss joked.

“You’re welcome, Aundreya Chambers,” I clapped back. It was almost always me that was on the receiving end of the info-dumping.

“Touché,” Emily acknowledged.

Spencer, ignoring our jabs, reached his hand out and placed it on my neck, which shocked my whole system. His hand felt like ice pricking my burning skin.

“That must be the MDMA,” he said, retracting his hand. He was checking my temperature and pulse. Nice. I looked up at him and immediately turned away, grimacing. “What, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. You’re right, Molly’s kicking in, that’s all,” I sighed.

“I don’t understand,” Hotch questioned. If I wasn’t so high and using every ounce of willpower not to be dragged under by the euphoria pounding in my head, I’d make a smartass remark regarding Aaron’s uneducatedness in the realm of drugs. Not like I expected anything different.

“MDMA usually causes hallucinations, and some of them can get pretty weird and pretty graphic. She must be experiencing one now,” Emily explained, and I was grateful she stepped in. Wait. Ha! Of course Emily knows the effects of MDMA. I should have guessed.

I tried to look up at her to silently thank her, but her face was too messed up and I had to look away. Now I just had to wait for other signs of other drugs.

“Your hand twitched.” It was a voice that I hadn’t heard before.

“Huh?”

“Your hand. It’s twitching,” the small, squeaky voice restated. I whipped my head around to identify the source and it was a little girl in a white sunflower dress. “Look.” I directed my attention to my hand and she was right. It was in fact twitching.

“That’s not a cocaine thing, right?” I asked her. My mind was getting foggier by the second.

“What’s not a cocaine th-” JJ started.

“Shh!” I snapped. I bent down and stretched my neck out as far as I could toward the girl to get as close to her as possible without moving a foot.

“No. It’s not,” she answered simply, “so then what is it?”

“I don’t - I don’t know,” I racked my brain, but nothing was coming.

“Your foot. You’re tapping your foot,” she said.

“What does that have to do-” I tried.

“And your eyes. Everything looks shaky, doesn’t it? They’re moving around really fast,” she said in that high pitched, sing-songy voice.

“What other drug does that?”

She just shrugged at me. Twitching, fast eyes, uncontrollable and jumpy muscles…

“Hyperactivity,” I realized.

“What?” someone around me asked.

“Hyperactivity! Spence, what’s the drug that makes you super hyped up?”

“There are a lot that do that,” he said, and I jumped. His voice came from the right side of me and I snapped my head up to look at him. Had he always been standing there? I thought for sure he was on the other side of me.

“There’s Adderall, concerta, dexedrine-”

“No, no, no. Twitching, jumpy muscles, shaky eyes, that kind of thing,” I said, getting impatient, knowing that I didn’t have time to spare for one of his lists right now.

“Methamphetamine?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s the one! There’s meth in here too,” I verified.

“Can I ask you something?” Emily asked. I nodded.

“Who are you talking to?” I turned around to look at the little girl. She waved at me.

“Uh, there’s a uh …” How should I explain this? “She’s helping me figure out what I’m on.”

“Who’s she?”

“This girl over here,” I said, turning back to face Prentiss and pointing my thumb over my shoulder.

“Cool, cool. That girl is obviously a hallucination-”

“I know that,” I interrupted.

“Right, but a hallucination from what drug?” Prentiss asked. My eyes got wide.

“Em, you’re a genius! Not to take anything away from the actual genius over here. Not saying that you aren’t smart or like super-nearly-genius-material or anything-”

“Aundreya,” JJ said sternly. I swallowed and looked at her. “What drug causes that hallucination?”

“Right. Um …” I started.

“Acid,” the girl behind me helped me out.

“Yeah. What she said,” I seconded. The team looked at me. “You can’t hear her, either. Sorry. Acid.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, the swirling in my head nearly becoming too much.

“Okay, well those are the other two drugs in there,” JJ concluded. She gave me a reassuring smile. “You did great.”

I sat down, prepared to let myself fall into the euphoric feeling now that I had gotten the information we needed, but it never came.

What’s that about? I take five different drugs which are supposed to make me feel better and I get nothing?

“Let’s move you to a private room,” Rossi said, approaching me. I backed away, shaking my head. “It will only be for a little while until you come down from your high.”

“No! I don’t want to move,” I said on impulse. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was stay with people I knew, people I was comfortable with, and just curl up in a corner.

“Whatsamatter? Are you nervous?” the little girl taunted. I turned toward her, but she evaporated before I could ask her what she meant.

“Come on. I’ll help you there,” Rossi offered again. I took another step back.

“I can get to wherever it is myself,” I insisted, turning toward the door. I got halfway out when I realized, “Where is it, exactly, that we’re going?”

Rossi gave me a soft smile. “Why don’t I lead the way, and you can follow me, yeah?”

“Alright.” He led me straight to his office and shut the door. He locked it too.

“Wait, no, please don’t lock it,” I begged. He looked at me confused.

“Okay, I won’t. Is it okay if I stay in here with you for a while?” I nodded. I felt paranoid, like someone was watching me. I frantically looked around to identify anything that seemed out of place, or anyone else that could have been spying on me.

Come on, where’s that euphoria? I could use a little release right about now…

We sat there in silence for a good 20 minutes when he got up.

“Where are you going?” I asked. I would have been embarrassed by how childish and reliant my voice sounded, but I was honestly too worried about his answer.

“I’m just going to step out for a bit, and JJ is going to come in here instead. Is that alright with you?” he asked. He seemed to know a bit about how to deal with high people, yet another one I should have seen coming. I attempted to make a mental note that Emily, Rossi, and I should get high together at some point. No need to drag in inexperienced people, although I would definitely love to see our team members high. I hoped I would remember that when I was sober.

“Fine. Yeah. Sure. I’m good with that,” I said. Rossi opened the door and JJ quickly slipped in. Had she been waiting out there this whole time? Obviously not, but considering how fast she came in, it was like she was already prepared for the swap. Duh, Aundreya, you’re high and already seem to have an unstable personality. Of course she was already prepared for the swap.

Next up was Emily’s shift, but things didn’t get bad until after that, during Derek’s shift. Why’d it have to be during Derek’s shift? He already had a lot on his plate, and I didn’t even think he should have been watching me to begin with because of that, but being the good guy he was, he wanted to help in any way he could.

I started screaming. “Oh my god! Help him! Somebody please do something!”

On the floor, in a bloody heap, was none other than Spencer Reid. His body was bent in ways it shouldn’t have been, blood was pouring from his chest, his neck, his head, his mouth. And those eyes, those precious, movie star eyes, were completely glazed over. There was a split second before I started screaming in which I tried to remind myself I was high, and convince myself it was only a hallucination, but I couldn’t take that chance.

I rushed over to him on the floor and just started shouting for anyone to help and to save him. Oh dear lord just save him.

Morgan got down on the floor next to me and placed a hand on my back. “Who, Chambers? Help who?”

“Spencer!” I yelped. He got up and backed away from me. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you helping?”

“Aundreya, I’m going to be right back with help.” His gaze was the most intense I’d ever seen it. When the door opened again, I saw Spencer. My jaw hit the floor.

“Spencer?” I stammered, standing up. “Tell me that’s not real!” I gestured to the other him on the floor next to me, “Tell me that’s not fucking real!”

“I’m right here and I’m okay. What’s wrong?” he asked. He seemed sincere but I had to be sure. I glanced back to the floor where the other Spencer was still dying and bleeding profusely. I winced and tore my gaze away.

“Tell me something that I’m too stupid to come up with on my own so I know you’re not just another hallucination,” I demanded.

Without hesitation, he said, “Quantum mechanics is the science dealing with the behavior of matter and light on the atomic and subatomic scale. It attempts to describe and account for the properties of molecules and atoms and their constituents-electrons, protons, neutrons, and other more esoteric particles such as quarks and gluons. These properties include-”

“Oh thank god!” I stopped him, quickly embracing him with everything I had. I’d never been more grateful to hear his rambling, and I was pretty certain he was prepared to continue on until I knew he was real and I told him to stop.

He gladly accepted the hug, rubbing his hands up and down my back, assuring me he was real and was okay. I pulled away from him, and he cupped my face, brushing away the tears I hadn’t noticed falling. Standing so close to him with relief pulsating through me, his hands still supporting me, I suddenly had the intense urge to kiss him. I’d never felt that before, but even with the uncertainty, I was totally willing to let that urge dominate my actions. My eyes quickly scanned his face, trying to see if he was feeling the same.

What are you thinking? You are high, remember? Don’t do something stupid. This is not you thinking, this is drugged out crazy you thinking.

That was the problem, though. Even if it was drugged out, crazy me, it was still me thinking those things.

It scared me so much that I actually gained a moment of clarity, finding the willpower to turn away. Hoping he didn’t read the thoughts on my face and embarrassed by the whole thing, I said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you or pull you away from what you were doing. And Derek, I’m so sorry. You already have enough to worry about, you don’t need me adding to the stress.”

“It’s okay,” they both said at the same time. Spencer’s voice was soft and supportive in contrast to Derek’s strong and understanding one, both of which I needed to hear. It was nice to have a sturdy base and a safe net to fall back on.

“You don’t need to apologize. You took a dangerous, unknown mixture of drugs just so you could help get my cousin back. The least I could do is look after you for a little while,” Derek said, changing to that silky smooth voice of his.

“And I’m just glad that I could help you out of whatever terrible thing you were seeing,” Spencer added.

“I don’t know what got into me. That’s never happened to me before,” I stated, still feeling like I owed them an explanation.

“It’s just gotta be the intense mixture of drugs,” Derek said, waving it off.

“You’re probably right…” I started, but it didn’t feel right.

‘Whatsamatter? Are you nervous?’ The little girl's voice came ringing back into my head. What was she trying to tell me?

“What’s wrong?” Reid asked, clearly able to read my troubled expression.

“I’m not sure yet. Has Garcia come up with anyone?”

“She’s narrowed it down,” he said. Why’d he pause like that?

“What’s that mean? What’re you not telling me?”

“It’s just that, uh, she has narrowed it down to eleven people.”

“Eleven? Not farther than that? There are eleven people who are using all five of these?” I asked. How is it possible that my extra information didn’t narrow it down farther than that?

“I guess, but don’t worry,” Reid quickly added, “we are still using what we know to narrow it down even further.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed, “I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” He gave me a small smile and exited the room. It was back to just Derek and I.

Whatsamatter? Are you nervous? Something about that was not settling right with me. That girl was helping me figure out what I was on, but she just left me with a cliffhanger? A taunt? What was she trying to tell me?

I sat there for the next 20 minutes (it felt like hours) trying to figure out what was going on.

Nervous, lack of euphoria.

Think, Aundreya, think.

A hallucination that had to do with a big fear, drowsy.

Come on. There’s got to be another drug involved.

Anxiety, emotional. Wait. Anxiety.

I was anxious about moving locations, I was anxious about people switching out, I was anxious that someone was watching me. Spencer dying is a root of anxiety, not to mention just sitting here, unmoving? There’s got to be another downer in here. What downer do you have less experience with? One that would cause lots of anxiety and a hallucination you aren’t familiar with?

I racked my brain until it came to me.

OxyContin.

“OxyContin!” I yelled. Derek looked up at me, drowsiness in his eyes. I rushed toward the door and into the meeting room before he could do anything about it. “There’s OxyContin in this, too!” I must have startled them because Penelope nearly knocked her drink over from the surprise.

“Don’t do that to me!” she yelped.

“Sorry. Narrow down your search by only looking at those with access to OxyContin, either because they work in the medical field or because they or someone in their orbit just had surgery,” I commanded. My thinking felt sharp and clear.

“Okay, that leaves us with-” she stopped. Her eyes went wide. “Only one suspect. Dom Forester.”

“Address?” Aaron insisted.

“Already sent.”

“Let’s go. Morgan, Chambers, stay here,” I nodded. Morgan was about to challenge that order when I lightly grabbed his arm, leading him away from the rest of the team.

“They’ve got it,” I said.

“I know. I just wish he’d let me help more,” he complained.

“I know.”

“Hey, how are you feeling? You seem pretty clear headed for someone who is supposed to be high on now six different drugs,” he pointed out.

“Have I mentioned that I’ve had a shit ton of experience with drugs?”

“Yes you have.”

“Let’s just say I’ve built up quite the tolerance,” I said with a quick eyebrow raise. We didn’t need to get further into it.

He sighed. “Well I appreciate you doing that. Let’s just hope they catch this sonuvabitch.”

“Amen,” I replied.

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

So they didn’t catch the sonuvabitch.

Actually, they didn’t catch anything. They swept his whole place, twice, and didn’t get even so much as a dirty sock on the floor. The guy was squeaky clean.

“That’s not possible,” Derek said, fuming. “Can we track his phone?”

“We tried, but it's pinged at his house for the past two months without moving. Everything we have is purely circumstantial,” Prentiss said with an undertone of pity.

“So what do we need to do to nail this guy?” I asked. We were certain it was him, but we just didn’t have anything to prove it.

It was several hours later, so I had pretty much come down from my high. Drugs pumped in and out of my system very quickly at this point.

“The best way is if we can catch him in the act,” JJ said.

“Okay, but how? You want us all to split up and stake out the clubs? That would take too long,” Morgan said.

“Well, Amanda said that he only went to three of them, so we’d only have to look at those three,” I said, trying to add some optimism.

“We don’t know if he’ll go to one of those tonight, though,” JJ said.

“Okay, let’s revisit the profile. What do we know,” Hotch redirected us.

“We know that he’s devolving because he got thrown off his routine, which probably means he’s accelerating,” Rossi said.

“It also means that he’s probably going back out tonight,” JJ added. It also means that Thia is probably dead.

“Okay, so he goes out tonight. What then? We’re at the clubs and just have to bust into all of the private rooms constantly to make sure none of them are our guy?” Morgan said. He was right. That was never going to work.

“Catch him in the act right,” I confirmed, a plan forming in my head.

“Right,” Aaron said. He looked at me suspiciously because he knew I was coming up with something.

“Why don’t you send me in? I’ll go in and act like I’m one of the dancers there, then he can-”

“No,” Emily said, cutting me off. “You’ve been through enough today. I’ll do it.”

I shook my head. “Trust me, I can-”

“I don’t think either of you should do it,” JJ said, cutting me off again. “There’s got to be a better way.”

“But this will work. We can make sure that-”

“It seems risky, but I think we can pull it off,” Morgan said, the third in a row to interrupt me. I rolled my eyes.

“How though? There are too many factors to consider,” JJ questioned.

“Well if any of you would like to let me finish one goddamned sentence around here, I’d tell you,” I snapped. They all turned to look at me. “Sorry. All I’m saying is that you can send me in as a dancer, he’ll ask for a private with me, then when we are in the private room, Dom will make his move and we catch him in the act.”

“How are you going to make sure he’ll ask for a private with you?” Morgan asked.

“Trust me. He will,” I said. If there was one thing I knew, if I paid enough attention to him and made eye contact while I was dancing, he’d almost certainly pick me for a private.

“Let me guess. ‘I have a lot of experience with dancing?’” Morgan mocked. I just nodded. “Is there anything you don’t have a lot of experience with?”

I shrugged, “Anything legal.” He blew a slight laugh out of his nose.

“That’s great and all, but you actually have to be at the right club,” Rossi stated.

“So we divide and conquer. We’ll stake out the three clubs and call to let her know which one he’s at,” Emily said.

“Are you sure you are okay with this?” Spencer asked me.

“I’m positive. Plus, I’m the only one with a heavy resistance to drugs so I’ll still have my wits about me to alert you. You’ll give me like a small button or something to push when he’s gone too far, right?” I confirmed. Hotch nodded. “Then let's do this.”

Part 3

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graigoo · 5 years ago

Text

Jivin’ Bones (Chapter 1)

Summary: The above world isn't what Sans thought it would be, not that he had ever given it much thought. With all his old friends busy living their own lives, even Papyrus away from home more often than not— Sans is left to entertain himself. Bored, he turns back to the Underground. To the broken machine hidden in the back of his workshop. In the process of fixing it, the machine malfunctions and sends Sans into an alternate world.

Thrust into a harsher reality, Sans must survive long enough to find a way back home... while being pursued by a version of himself that's all too interested to know who the new skeleton in town is.

Inspired/Influenced by Sooner or Later You’re Gonna be Mine

Pairing: Bara!Mobfell Sans/Sans

Warnings: Mature, Graphic Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter One

Sans sighed, he huffed, he chuffed.

He lay on the couch, eyes straining as another raunchy comedian sauntered across the TV. The small square box’s glow was bright and the contrast between it and the dark living room was enough to pain his eyes. He rolled over on the couch to face the back of it, both to escape the light and because he was no longer enjoying the comedy special marathon. Raunchy comedians were the worst. Absolute party poopers. Why if Sans were in that crowd, he’d boo the bozo off the stage.

Anyone can spout swear words and point to their nether regions. It takes real comedic talent to get a crowd going with just one’s wit and line delivery. A talent Sans prided himself on, though he admittedly had a preference for puns over everything else.

There had been a time, when the monsters had first come to the surface, bright eyed and full of hope, that Sans had considered a career as a comedian. Touring the world, exploring, teaching the humans what monster comedy was all about. But then he’d really got to thinking about it, talked it over with his brother. And realized it would be… a lot.

He’d be on a schedule, have to actually plan the shows, constantly be moving based on where the crowds are and not where he wanted to be, not to mention having to workout contracts and payment. Too much work so soon after coming up from the Underground and Sans was too tired to be bothered.

Or at least that’s what he had told Papyrus.

He couldn’t have very well told his brother that if he became a professional comedian, then he would have to leave their newly settled home and that they wouldn’t see each other nearly as much. And after spending almost the entirety of his life caring for his younger brother, Sans was reluctant to leave him. For anything. The younger skeleton was a magnet for trouble and danger seemed to follow him wherever he went. Who knew what the hyperactive monster would get up to without Sans around to curb his enthusiasm?

That, and his brother’s dusty remains having slid through his trembling, segmented fingers enough times to be counted on both hands, might have also played a role in his unwillingness to leave his brother behind. Just a small one. Nothing major.

Knowing that Sans’ decision to stay in this little, cozy, do-nothing town was linked entirely to his desire to stay by his brother’s side, would make said brother feel guilty.

Just chalk another mark on the board next to the thousand other ones that represented all the things he couldn’t tell his brother.

Sans groaned as another curse-word laden joke boomed from the TV. Such poor taste, so low brow.

It didn’t suit their new little house, the same as their old, only with more windows. Papyrus, for whatever reason, loved the sun and raved about their home having natural light sources. Sans hadn’t seen the appeal, but was never the argumentative type, least of all over windows. Though he had wanted to mention how easy windows are to break in to. How human children were known to throw rocks through monsters’ windows, graffiti their walls, tee-pee their trees.

Mean spirited pranks that just spoke to how terrible human-surface-world comedy truly was.

Hundreds of channels and somehow the one that used to play in the Underground topped them all.

Tired as he was, lazy as he prided himself on being, the TV would be no distraction tonight. It was late, his brother was out on a patrol, having eagerly and early on joined the human police force. Their version of a guard, a much more boring version. With stricter rules, uniforms, and a harsher schedule. Too much work to join and not enough entertainment value to bother.

Undyne had taken to it immediately, though her more violent tendencies had somehow led to her never making it past the rank of police technician. A dumb name for a rank, because she didn’t actually work on anything technical, like the name suggested. She just helped kids and old humans cross the road, and handed out the occasional parking ticket.

Going from Captain of the honor guard to babysitter, and she wasn’t even bothered by it. Which probably had something to do with the street she regularly patrolled being directly across from the school Alphys taught at. Another step down, from royal scientist to middle school teacher.

The monster kingdom had fallen apart almost immediately after reaching the surface, the integration into human society easier than anyone had thought possible. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a jumbled mess of working parts left behind in the Underground. One no one seemed in any hurry to fix.

Being on the surface didn’t mean they could take it easy. There was more work that needed to be done.

It was just a pain being the only one to remember it needed doing.

The bother of it all didn’t stop him from smiling, even as another horrid joke came from the TV, threatening to put a damper on his already soggy mood. He slid off the couch and picked up the remote, pointing it threateningly at the glowing box.

“Sorry to cut you off early,” he said to the TV comedian. “But you’re not even remotely funny.”

Sans chuckled at his own joke, too tired to give it the proper guffaw it deserved.

“I’d telly you in person,” he continued at the screen. “but I got places TV tonight.”

That got a proper laugh out of him, at the same time the audience started roaring. Sans took a bow then clicked off the television, leaving the white glow from his eye sockets as the only light in the house.

Sans allowed his laughter to carry him out of the living room and to the front of the house. If he couldn’t focus on TV or hang with his brother, then there really was nothing for him to do in the above world, at least not this night. It was too late for anything to be open, and too early to try and get some sleep. That strange in-between that always came after midnight.

So instead he’d do the work no one else remembered needed being done.

Sans closed the door behind him as he stepped outside, only to shiver and shove his hands into his coat pockets. Even after spending so long in Snowdin, Sans still wasn’t a fan of the cold. Not like his brother, who acted like it didn’t affect him at all, the younger skeleton more susceptible to the heat than the cold. To the point that his brother wore crop tops in the winter.

Maybe the cold affected Sans differently because he was already such a chill guy.

Sans snorted, only to cringe as cold air filled his skull. Didn’t stop his smile, or laughter. What would he be if he couldn’t laugh at himself? Sans one funny-bone, is what he’d be.

His snickering was cut short as the first snow of the season began to fall. Looked like it was going to be a white one this winter. He held a hand out as if to catch it, but before a flake could land in his palm, he teleported.

Pop.

Sans landed outside town next to a great big, blue welcome sign.

Welcome to Delta| Population: Growing

Grinning, he nodded at the sign. “Sorry, didn’t notice you there.”

Without waiting for a rebuttal, he teleported again. This time he landed at the base of Mount Ebott, the soft pop of his teleportation the only sound to be heard for miles. Well, except for the howl of the wind. Looking up he could see a storm coming, the moon slowly being eclipsed by dark clouds. The lack of luminescent light made the forest ahead of him appear even darker. Good thing he wouldn’t be traversing it.

That’d be a real pine in the neck.

With another pop, he teleported to the mountain’s summit.

Being so high up, looking down at the shining city down below the mountain, only made him wonder how a human could possibly fall from such a height and survive. Every time, he questioned it. Flowers weren’t so soft that they could cushion a body. He had theorized that it was actually the barrier that cushioned the human’s fall. It hadn’t parted to let her through, but rather bent forward from the power of her soul, her fall had been slowed by the barrier pushing back against her decent, until the she fallen too far for the barrier’s magic to follow. The little human had pushed through just close enough to the ground to survive.

Or, so Sans theorized.

If he cared enough, which he didn’t, he could always ask Frisk directly what her fall had been like. That was more along Alphys’ line of work, though. Sans had stopped bothering with the barrier years before the human girl had fallen into their lives.

No, his own line of research was much more… theoretical.

With one last look Delta City, sans teleported again.

Pop.

He landed just outside the ruins, his magic enough to get him past the Underground’s entrance, but not all the way to Snowdin. Not that he was in a hurry to arrive or return home. With his brother always patrolling or tired from always patrolling, Alphys and Undyne occupied by their own love lives, and Toriel busy reconnecting with Asgore and raising Frisk—There was no one to miss him.

The corners of his smile twitched, but didn’t drop. Work would distract him from those unwanted and unnecessary thoughts. He had no reason to be anything but content. To have everything every monster in the Underground had ever wanted now possible and only then start to pull a frown…

Well, it wouldn’t be very ice of him.

Sans chuckled just as he teleported to the main entrance of Snowdin.

Pop.

He sighed a contended sigh at the familiar sight. Or, mostly familiar. The town was dark, all the homes and shops empty, abandoned not long after the barrier trapping the residents in the Underground had been lifted. The only light in the town came from its own natural luminescent glow and the decorated tree at the other end of the town. Not even the welcome sign was lit. He’d call it a real ghost town, but he doubts even Napstablook would live here. No one did anymore.

And Sans couldn’t blame them. Even if he would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of his days in the little town, he never expected his brother or the other residents to share his same sense of hopelessness. All from an incident that occurred well before he and his brother had moved to Snowdin.

It had taken Frisk threatening everything in the Underground to snap him out of his funk. Fighting the human over and over- and had he been a more narcissistic skeleton, Sans would have said it had filled with determination.

Then, one random reset, the fighting had stopped.

Sans had thought maybe Frisk had hit her head the last time she fell into the Underground. He hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, willing to ask her too many questions about it, should they reawaken some deeply buried memories. Like every reset prior, he had stayed mostly in the background, watching her choices, and for once the human refused to fight. Even with her life on the line, she hadn’t fought. It was enough to make him cautiously optimistic that Frisk would, at the very least, stop dusting his brother.

Not that he ever really remembered her doing it the first time, or second, third, fifth… But he knew when a reset occurred. The knowledge came to him as a feeling, no concrete evidence, but each time his spine would tingle, and the strongest feeling of déjà vu would strike his skull, feeling almost like a physical blow. It would leave him dazed for only a moment, but it was enough to let him know something wasn’t quite right. Conversations he never remembered the words to would repeat, and he would go through the motions of a normal day. Knowing that everything would reset and nothing anyone did really mattered made it really hard to take anything, anyone, seriously. He’d grown lazier by the day, thinking each one would be the day he stopped trying. But then he’d find his brother’s dusty remains, the pain a fresh wound every time. He never remembered enough to stop the murder from happening, never enough to change the outcome.

Then Frisk had stopped dusting monsters and started befriending them. Each reset that followed, she had come back friendlier and more determined than ever, making something he daren’t called hope build within him. The resets hadn’t stopped until she succeeded in breaking the barrier, at least twice, he thought. Not sure why it took two times, but he never asked.

It wasn’t important and Sans didn’t want to chance another reset.

He breathed out an amused sigh and started his lonely walk through the town. Only slowing as he passed Grilby’s. The place had closed soon after the barrier had broken, and he hadn’t seen the flame monster in a long time because of it. Like with most of Sans’ friends, they’d never been close enough to talk when not physically around each other. Certainly not close enough to share future plans and goals.

Two things Sans never had anyway. Unlike everyone else in the Underground, it seemed. They all had been so excited and hopeful, everyday looking up and thinking about what they would do once the barrier was down. Not that Sans had begrudged them their hopefulness. They just didn’t know what he knew. And Sans had been determined to keep it that way. Anything to keep that hopeful spark in his brother’s bright eyes.

Shaking his head, Sans continued walking. The years he had spent just existing were behind him. Not that he thought anything really mattered, it could still all go away one day. But while there was still some sort of motivation inside him, he would use it.

Gotta make up for lost time, and all.

Sans stopped in front of his and Papyrus’ old home. Looking at it with a wistful kind of longing. It’s interior was exactly the same as the one they lived in now. Save for one thing.

Instead of going in through the front door, Sans walked to left side. He placed a bony hand on the yellow wall and dragged his digits along it. The sound of wood scraping against something hard followed his movements. He didn’t stop until he came to a vertical parting in the wood, unnatural, but so thin as to be unnoticeable. Pulling back from the wall, he reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a silver key.

He opened the door, covered with wood and painted to blend with the rest of the house, and walked inside, closing the door behind him. The entire process made no sound, the door itself was silent, as it had needed to be. He hadn’t wanted to alert his brother to the existence of what lay inside.

Lest his dear brother become curious, lest he learn of Sans’ research. At first it had been to cover for his own lack of knowledge. That he was essentially trying to teach himself theoretical physics would have been too out of character for Papyrus to let go, and Sans would have been left with no choice but to tell him everything. He couldn’t lie to his brother, but he didn’t have to so long as the younger skeleton never asked questions.

The lights, attached to a sensor, clicked on as Sans walked further inside his small workshop. Tiled purple with blue walls, it was too small and sparse to be called a lab. Barely any tools and one piece of broken machinery in the back, covered by a blue tarp. Though, could a machine be called broken if it had never worked to begin with?

He’d built it not long after he and his brother had moved to Snowdin and his secret workshop was completed. He’d pursued the task with a fervor he’d not known himself capable of. That after it was completed, it hadn’t worked, was probably where his slacker attitude had first started. He barely remembered why he was building it, anyway. He had a name and a feeling.

W.D. Gaster and guilt.

Both confusing, where was the guilt coming from and who was W.D. Gaster? Sans still didn’t know, but he knew it had something to do with the blueprints he had found in the Hotland labs during his brief stint as an assistant to the head scientist there. Though, he had never worked for Alphys and she couldn’t recall at all his time there or just where the blueprint had come from. But he had the badge to prove he had, indeed, worked there. Alphys hadn’t been able to explain it and he hadn’t pressed the issue. Though, maybe he should have.

The most Alphys had been able to do at was tell him the strange text written on the blueprint was wing dings. Meaning it was almost impossible to translate accurately. She had then politely told him she wouldn’t be needing his assistance and fired him from a job she didn’t remember him having.

Sans hadn’t thought anything of it until he had gone home and discovered the photo album. Filled with pictures of himself and his brother during their younger years. And one single picture of himself, Alphys, and a skeleton he doesn’t remember knowing. Even now, the face was a blur, and if not for the photo, he would have forgotten it completely.

Whoever this W.D. Gaster was, the blueprints had something to do with his disappearance and... it was probably Sans’ fault he was gone.

It was the only explanation he could think of for the guilt. The guilt that had led to the generally lazy skeleton to teach himself theoretical physics, to create an underground workshop, to build a machine he had no idea the function of. And still didn’t know, because when he’d finished building the thing, it hadn’t worked. It had blinked, blooped, then shuttered off.

He’d given up then, with the intent to maybe, one day go back to the machine once the demoralization that came with failure lessened.

Then a human had fallen into the Underground and the cycle had begun. And how could he focus on fixing the machine when nothing he or anyone else did mattered?

Now that the barrier was down and everyone had started their new lives, the resets had stopped; there was no excuse not to continue his work. What else was he doing with his life? Nothing, and it was hard to enjoy himself with the guilt that W.D. Gaster was lost somewhere, not enjoying the freedom of the above world because of something Sans had done.

W.D. Gaster? More like W.D. Guilt.

Heh.

Sans chuckled to himself and pulled the blue tarp off of his machine. It was gray, cylindrical, nothing fancy. At least, not on the outside. There were different colored nobs and dials, it looked like every other high-tech science machine Sans had ever seen inside of Alphys’ lab. The only difference being the inside. It was just… a mess, a jumble of wires and pieces Sans still wasn’t entirely sure the function of.

Even though he had no idea what it did, after so many years working on the machine, it was very gear to his soul.

He’d been coming back every few days since moving to the above world. Though, it had taken some time before he actually mustered up the energy to begin working on the busted machine again. It was something to do, at the very least. Kept his mind off how empty home felt with Papyrus at work more often than not.

With that thought, he began his work. Using the few tools he owned, stashed away in cabinets in the wall, to pry open the back of the machine. He needed to see what had caused it to power off mid function. He’d already made the hypothesis that it was wiring related, just going through every single wire in the back of his machine was taking longer than Sans had anticipated.

He took his time, making sure every wire was connected properly, that the right kind of wire had been used. That nothing was crossed or had come undone. He didn’t keep track of time as he worked, not that he was ever one to do so even when timing mattered.

Eventually he came to a green and blue wire he thought had been mistakenly switched around during the building process. It was good a guess as any, and switching them around and trying to turn the machine back on wouldn’t hurt. Not like the thing could work worse than it already did… Well, it could explode, but Sans wouldn’t let the thought burst his optimistic bubble.

Chuckling to himself for what felt like the tenth time that night, Sans switched the wires, stood from his crouched position behind the machine, and turned it on. Time to test his luck. Heh.

At first, nothing happened. The machine sat quiet as it always has. Then he heard the telltale sounds of a machine booting up. The whir of fans and the hum of power going through its cables.

He watched, almost excited, as the machine’s knobs and buttons began to light up. His eye-sockets widened, however, when the machine started to shake violently. It rocked on the floor, scratching the tile and buzzing in a way that definitely sounded dangerous.

Thinking quickly, Sans reached for the machine’s short power plug, intent on pulling it out. But as his digits got close, electricity burst from the outlet, striking him, causing him to hiss and shake his hand. Smoke started to seep from the machine’s seams, dark clouds poured from where the back panel was open. A high-pitched ringing started to emanate from the machine, loud enough to be painful. Sans covered both his ear-holes, not that his bony hands were very effective in keeping the sound out. Seeing sparks come out of the open back panel was what finally convinced Sans he needed to leave. He’d flip a breaker in the house to cut the power, come back with a fire-extinguisher… Something he probably should have already had in the lab.

Oh well, live and learn- or burn, in this situation.

Sans gathered his magic to teleport, but just as he felt the area around him shift, the machine exploded. Heat blew past him, through him, Sans felt as though he was being torn apart. He shouted, clutching around himself as though to hold himself together. Teleportation had never been so painful. His body was being pulled into a thousand different directions. His teeth rattled like they were going to fall out. Just as he could feel the tips of his fingers disintegrating into dust—

Everything went white.

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Oh, man. Did anybody get the number of that bus? Because Sans felt like he’d been run over, backed over, a real case of navicular homicide. Only Sans was still alive… probably.

He wiggled his fingers just to see if he could. They moved, then he did the same with his toes. They moved as well as they could inside his socks and slippers. Not really wanting to, but knowing he needed to, Sans forced his eye-sockets open. It took a minute for his magic to flare up and the whites return to his eyes. And when they did, his vision was blurred. All he could see was darkness. He blinked a few times, and slowly his sight returned.

The first thing Sans noticed after regaining his vision was the snow. It was falling hard around him, cold and wet. He shivered, then winced. He felt like he’d been in a fight, or several, but the familiar feeling of a reset was thankfully absent, so likely not.

“Phew,” Sans sat up and rubbed his skull. “That was some guilt-trip.”

Maybe he’d teleported far enough to strain his magic. It was possible, a fight or flight thing after realizing the machine was going to explode. He took in his surroundings, blinking in confusion; they were familiar. Looking around, he could tell he was still in Snowdin, so he hadn’t teleported too far away. What confused him was that the particular view of Snowdin he was looking at could only be seen from inside of his old home, from the front. But he wasn’t in a home. There was no indication that there had ever been a house where he was sitting.

Sans rubbed his skull again, aw crud, had he blown the house up? Not that they were using it anymore, but when Papyrus found out he was definitely going to explode. And Papyrus had such a booming voice when he was mad; might be better for Sans’ developing skull-ache to just wait for his sibling to find out on his own. If he ever did. As far as Sans knew, his brother didn’t have any plans to go back to the Underground anytime soon. Good. Gave Sans time to come up with a banging excuse.

Groaning, Sans pushed himself to his feet. He almost frowned at the realization of what an explosion would really mean.

No more workshop. No more machine. No more blueprint. No more photo album. No more badge.

Without that blueprint, there was nothing for him to go off of to build a new machine. Without the photo album, he was bound to forget why he needed to build it in the first place. Without seeing the wing dings printed on the blueprints, he’d forget what the W.D. stood for. Without his old badge he’d forget that he ever even worked at the Hotland labs…

Eh, there were worse things in life. Sans shrugged the realization off, taking the opportunity to brush fallen snow off his shoulders and the top of his skull. Must have been laying in the snow for some time to get this covered. And besides, maybe with everything else, the guilt would fade too. Not a bad turn of events.

Shivering, Sans shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

Yeah, definitely nothing to lose his cool over.

Snowdin was colder than he ever remembered it being. Darker too, now that he thought about it. The tree at the end of town wasn’t on meaning there was nothing to provide light, what with the faux-clouds up above covering the natural luminescence of the Underground. His explosion must have knocked the power out, blown a fuse or something.

Oh well, a problem for another day. Right now, Sans was cold, and his mood wasn’t doing so hot either.

He was too tired to teleport, so he was forced to walk through the snow. Passing by empty houses that somehow looked more abandoned than when he’d first arrived. The dark will do that sometimes, he supposed. Again, he found himself slowing in front of the old bar he used to frequent. After the night’s disappointments, he could really go for a drink. The ketchup he had back in Delta just didn’t cut it. Even the expensive stuff tasted off, like the humans focused on the tomato and garlic flavor over the vinegar.

Sans looked over at the bar, smile forlorn, only to do a doubletake. The sign wasn’t lit up, but through the windows he could definitely see a light emanating from the back of the bar. And if his theory about the power being out was true, then there was only one monster bright enough to be seen from the outside.

Sans laughed at his good fortune. Looked like Grilby was back in Snowdin. Probably to grab anything he’d left behind, or close up for good, or maybe he, like Sans, had felt the cold call of nostalgia.

Either way, it wouldn’t be very cool of Sans to pass by without at least a hail and farewell.

Chuckling, Sans stepped forward and pushed the front door open.

“Bonejour,” he loudly greeted the flame monster, taking the opportunity to show off how he’d learned to make puns out of other human languages. It had been almost a year since he’d last seen the bar owner, and Sans planned to use the opportunity to fire up some of his favorite flame puns.

The lack of a reaction was the first sign something wasn’t quite right with the bar owner. Though, it really should have been the second. How could he have missed that the light coming from the back of the bar was purple. The monster at the back, behind the bar counter was purple. Grilby? Was Grilby purple now? The monster on the other side of the bar, paused with one hand in the air, holding a dust cloth over the dirty bottles on the rack.

Looked like the bar owner had been in the middle of cleaning up. The bar itself was covered in cobwebs, there was dust on every surface, and he couldn’t even make out what the bottles in the back on the bar rack were, they were so filthy. Surely so much dust and dirt couldn’t have accumulated in less than a year? Sans had gone an entire year without cleaning his room before, and it hadn’t looked half as bad as Grilby’s bar did now.

“A skeleton? But I thought…” Sans heard the flame monster mutter to himself.

A single eye-socket rose as he looked his friend up and down. Something was up, was off-color with the whole situation. Purple flame, run down looking bar- even Grilby’s attire was different. A long black coat with a white-furred collar, a red tie.

But then, the human world was known to change a monster; hue was Sans to judge?

“They’ll want to know…” The flame monster muttered again, and Sans decided it was time to join in on the conversation.

“Grilby?” He questioned, walking forward until he came to a stop in front of the bar counter, hopping up to sit on a dirty bar stool. It’d be difficult to talk if he didn’t; he was only just as tall as the counter itself.

“And if I am?” The flame monster snapped in response, as if irritated to be interrupted. “Who are you? What are you doing out past curfew?”

Grilby stared at Sans like he wasn’t glad to see him and the cold reception would have hurt, had Sans let it. Instead he just shook his head, perplexed by his old friend’s odd behavior. He sure sounded like Grilby, well, except for the attitude. But what was that about a curfew?

“Funny,” Sans laughed awkwardly. Grilby had never been one to crack jokes, though Sans supposed he could appreciate the attempt. Because that’s what this had to be.

“I don’t see how,” Grilby said, turning to face him fully. “Some strange skeleton I’ve never met before comes into my bar after hours, after curfew- and you think it’s funny?” There was a suspicion that couldn’t be faked in his old friend’s tone, and it shook Sans to the bone.

“Grilby…” Sans said. “… Don’t you recognize me?” He asked, trying to tone down his confusion.

It was apparently the wrong thing to ask, though, because the monster’s purple flame burned higher in anger. Even a different color, Sans recognized the signs of friendly fire headed his way.

“Don’t play games, skeleton.” Was the flame monster’s response.

Sans started to sweat, and it wasn’t just because Grilby was burning hotter than Sans had ever seen him burn before. “C’mon, I used to come here all the—”

“Are you trying to implicate me?” Grilby accused, cutting Sans off.

Implicate? In what, Sans wanted to ask, but he got the feeling more questions would only add fuel to the fire.

“Woah there pal, don’t go getting all hot under the collar.” Sans said, palms up to indicate he didn’t want any trouble. “You don’t know me, I got it.”

A theory started to form in the back of Sans’ skull, though he didn’t like it. The machine he had built had something to do with time, that much he knew. What if when it had blown up, the force of the explosion had thrown him back in time? Far back enough that it was before he and his brother had moved to Snowdin. Back far enough that Grilby still had trouble controlling his heat, was going through a purple phase, and was terrible at customer service. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had ever happened to the skeleton. But he would need more time to think on it. Heh.

Plenty of time for a drink then. After all, when else would he ever have an opportunity like this?

“You got any ketchup in this place?” Sans asked, a blatant attempt to change the topic. “I’m usually more talkative after I’m good and sauced.”

Grilby groaned, but his eyes were no less suspicious than before, and without another word, the bartender turned away from him and back to his dusty bottles. Movements slow, contemplative.

Under his breath Sans muttered “Well, that backfired.”

Grilby’s flaming head snapped around to glare at Sans through impossibly narrow eyes, to which the skeleton only shrugged. If he remembered right, it had taken some time for the fire monster to come around to Sans’ particular char-isma. Maybe even further back in the timeline, Grilby had been an even bigger hot head.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Grilby started. “But since you are here…” Grilby turned back around to face him, seemingly calmer than before. A single bright finger was raised, pointing off to the side of the bar counter, and Sans’ gaze followed that finger. It was pointing to the left, where a small metal container held napkins, salt, pepper, mustard, and—Ketchup!

Grinning, Sans stretched for it, not above placing a knee on the counter top in order to reach his delicious drink. Ha, even years in the past and Grilby knew to keep the good stuff on tap. The bottle was glass, looking a lot fancier than Sans was used to. But it didn’t matter, ketchup was ketchup.

As he reached for it, the flame monster continued talking.

“Drink all you want,” Grilby told him, that suspicious tone ever present. “Just don’t leave until I return.”

That only elicited another shrug from Sans. “Sure thing, pal.”

Where would he go? His home was gone, the town empty save for the bar. It was cold outside, and like always, Grilby’s was the warmest place to be in Snowdin. The ketchup was lukewarm, just how he liked it, and just for a short while Sans could pretend like he wasn’t probably thrown back in time and that everything was still as it once was. Before a small human had come to the Underground, before the resets, before the surface world had brought everyone closer together while simultaneously drifting them apart.

Wow, that almost brought a frown to his face.

And if that wasn’t a sign he needed some ketchup, Sans didn’t know what was. Deciding tonight was one of those nights, he unscrewed the top.

“Maybe when you get back, we can ketch-up.” Sans said with a wink in the flame monster’s direction.

Grilby grunted in disgust then disappeared to the backroom of his bar, the door closing behind him, sign tacked to it, stating employees only, swinging from the momentum.

Once again Sans shrugged, not really getting the fire man’s problem. Maybe he was just embarrassed to have his bar seen in such a dingy state. If this Grilby had known Sans, he would know that the skeleton was the last monster to judge another’s cleanliness. But as Grilby had yet to meet Sans… or had met him, but at the wrong time? And probably won’t remember meeting him once everything was said and done—Sans didn’t really hold the curt behavior against him.

Forgiving skeleton that he was, Sans wouldn’t make a tissue of it.

Ahahahaha-ha-ha-haaaaah…

Without hesitation, Sans knocked back the ketchup bottle and chugged. A comfort drink if there ever was one. Or so he thought. The vinegar taste was stronger than he remembered, the whole taste an almost unfamiliar tang. If not for the distinct texture, he would have questioned what he was drinking. Was this really ketchup? Sans slammed the half-empty bottle back on the table, coughing and glaring at the fancy bottle with mild, amused annoyance. That sure was some strong ketchup. What did Grilby do, drown the tomatoes in vinegar? Heck, if Sans had wanted to get plastered, he would have asked for a shot. Not that he was the type for it.

With one digit, he pushed the bottle further away. His smile never wavered, even as the vinegar burned down his throat, heating his chest in a painful way. He placed a hand over his white shirt, feeling to make sure his ribs weren’t actually melting. Mean as it might be to think, but if all of Grilby’s drinks were like that, it’s no wonder the bar was empty. It had probably taken a while for Grilby to figure out the right tomato past to vinegar ratio. Good thing Sans was here to set him down the right path early.

Though, would anything he did now affect the future? Until he knew more about just what had happened, he would need to be careful not to let too much slip. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about running into himself here. Maybe—

The sound of a door opening pulled Sans from his own theorizing thoughts, and he waited for Grilby to come out of the back room so Sans could give him some well-meaning criticism. He waited, but the fire monster never stepped out. Actually, now that he was looking, the door to the back room had never opened. At the exact time Sans noticed, a breeze blew into the bar from behind him, causing him to shiver. Cold.

Had Grilby gone out the back and come back in the front? Maybe flame monster had needed to cool off.

Sans turned his head, ready to greet Grilby with a joke, only to stiffen at what he saw. Cold sweats rolled down Sans’ face and the chill from the wind sank into his bones. And in that moment, Sans didn’t think he could have moved even if he wanted to.

Even after living in Snowdin for so long, Sans had never been frozen in fear before. And if asked, he would never admit that might be what was happening to him now. And he definitely couldn’t say why.

It definitely couldn’t be because, standing in the bar’s wide doorway, was a massive monster. Tall and wide, the monster nearly took up the whole of the door frame. It blocked out most of the town’s natural luminescent light, creating a shadow that stretched from the entrance of the bar to just where Sans was sitting. He swallowed down nothing, the icy chill of the monster’s red stare having long since put out the burn in his throat.

Outside of King Asgore, Sans had never seen a monster so large. Though, why should it matter? Sans had always been on the short size, so height alone was never enough to intimidate him. In fact, Sans couldn’t remember a time he had ever felt intimidated. The ability to teleport and knowledge of resets had really taken the thrill out of life.

Not content to stand in the doorway, the large monster walked forward, the wooden floor creaking under its weight with every step. It didn’t take long for Sans to get a better look at the monster. The skeleton monster.

He was tall, taller than Papyrus. Wider than him too. Was he bigger than W-w… Gaster had been? The memory of the skeleton was already so vague, he can’t possibly begin to know. What if he was Gaster? Had he been thrown back in time too? Or did he just exist in this time period unrelated to the machine’s capabilities?

The monster was staring at him like he didn’t believe what he was seeing and Sans couldn’t help but do the same.

The strange skeleton’s clothes did nothing to distract from his impressive size. And they said black was supposed to be slimming! Sans blinked just to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Because not only was the skeleton the largest Sans had ever seen, he’s also the best dressed out of… well anyone he had ever known. And Sans was good friends with royalty.

A black undershirt, shining like it was made of silk. The sleeves were up to the skeleton’s elbows with the top two buttons undone. A fashion choice, or had the guy left in a hurry? If it was the latter, Sans didn’t want to know the reason why…

Okay, he did, but that was only because it could possibly have something to do with his presence in the bar and Grilby’s disappearance to the backroom.

The only thing covering the undershirt was a dark red vest with thin black pin stripes. It looked tight on the skeleton’s massive body, and Sans doubted it was the most comfortable outfit. What with the dress pants, the belt, and black dress shoes with laces? Didn’t matter that they looked fancy and expensive with their red and gold accents—The monster would have to bend over to tie them. No level of fashion was worth that.

More striking than the clothes was the skeleton’s smile, it was wide as Sans’ own, though much less welcoming. Sharp teeth were clenched together, a single gold tooth glinting in his smile. It was the most threatening smile Sans had ever seen. Did it even count as a smile at that point?

The monster certainly didn’t look like any scientist Sans had ever seen. But then, Sans doubted he looked very scientific at a glance.

Their staring contest was broken first by the stranger, who had come to a full stop directly in front of Sans, the monster’s shadow completely covering his much smaller form.

The stranger chuckled, then asked, “and what have we got here?” The voice was deep, rough, but jovial. Sounding like he stepped straight out of one of those old mobster movies Frisk loved to watch.

The friendly tone gave Sans hope that in spite of the monster’s intimidating appearance, he didn’t want a confrontation. All good then, as Sans wasn’t sure what fighting the strange skeleton would do to the future timeline, if anything he did in this timeline mattered at all.

Them both being skeletons, Sans went for his tried and true classics when answering the most likely rhetorical question.

“Tibia honest,” Sans responded with a forced chuckle. “I’m not really sure, myself. You pa-tella me.”

Not his finest work, but Sans cut himself a break. It had been a while since he’d had to joke under pressure. His bone-saw was rusty, so to speak.

The large skeleton only continued to stare at Sans; his smile replaced with a look of confusion. What, had the monster never heard a joke before? Sans’ puns weren’t that bad, he’d definitely told worse. He tensed, prepared to teleport if the stranger turned violent. Only for it to be his turn to look at the other skeleton in confusion.

The monster had started to chuckle, a low menacing sound, then he placed his large hands on his stomach and threw his head back, bellowing the most guttural and intense laugh Sans had ever heard. The skeleton laughed, and laughed, and laughed, his large body shaking from the force of it. He showed no signs of stopping and for a moment Sans wondered if the guy had snapped. His jokes tended to do that with the more violence prone monsters.

Then the stranger wiped an invisible tear from his eye-socket, sucking in a breath and straightening back up. Those red eyes almost looked warm and Sans thought maybe he could make a friend out of this monster. Maybe it would mess with the timeline, but Sans doubted it. He suspected nothing he did in this time would affect the future. Besides, what was the alternative? Ignore the skeleton? That would be a level of rude Sans wasn’t comfortable with, and Papyrus had nagged better manners into him than that.

“Got a real funny-bone, don’t-cha?” The skeleton asked, voice wheezy from how hard he had been laughing.

Sans shrugged and leaned back against the bar; legs spread and posture loose. Intentionally appearing more relaxed than he felt. It never hurt to be underestimated. Literally.

“I’d say yes, but I haven’t got the nerve,” Sans responded casually. The urge to laugh at his own joke was strong, but Sans’ will was stronger. Once he got started it was hard to stop, and laughing too hard would leave him vulnerable. And until he was sure of his situation, he couldn’t afford that luxury.

Something the larger skeleton didn’t seem to worry about, as he laughed once again, shorter than before, but no less unnerving. Heh.

The stranger grinned down at Sans, and it was an unsettling enough look that Sans had to second guess his own ever smiling choice. Not that he could help it, most of the time. There was just too much comedy to be found in the world. Even now, with a six foot something skeleton towering over him, Sans couldn’t help but imagine how hilarious they must look from the outside.

“You’re not from around here, are ya?” The stranger asked, sounding sure of himself.

“What makes you say that?” Sans answered the other skeleton’s question with a question of his own.

Another question he never should have asked, Sans realized too late. The larger skeleton took it as an excuse to place both his hands on the counter behind Sans, caging him in. And had those teeth looked any less sharp, Sans would have snickered at the attempt of intimidation. The tough guy routine was always a funny one to witness. Though, the one usually trying to pull it off was his brother, and not some giant skeleton who looked like he could snap bones with just his jaw strength.

The strange skeleton’s good humor from before was gone, though the smile stayed. It was just too bad for the stranger that Sans’ wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He’d only ever felt threatened during one recurring fight in his life, and big as he was, this skeleton would never measure up to it.

“Now let me make something clear—I’m the one who asks the questions here, capisce? You cooperate, and maybe you’ll get out of here alive.” The stranger threatened with a smile that was too close for comfort.

“Whatever you slay, buddy.” Sans joked.

The other’s eye-sockets narrowed, and he lifted a large hand as if to strike the smaller skeleton. Sans tensed, but the movement toward his face was too slow to slow to be meant for a blow.

“Somethin’ about you seems…” The stranger ran his thick bony fingers over the top of Sans’ skull, the touch light and very unwelcome.

“What—what are you…” Sans was taken off guard and seconds away from teleporting. He’d never been one to shy away from touch, but something about the way this skeleton ran his digits over Sans’ skull really rattled his bones.

“Humerus me,” the skeleton responded, still sounding amused.

Sans laughed nervously; the whole thing was too strange to be funny. Well, almost. Everything was funny in its own odd way. Curfews, giant skeletons- turns out Snowdin was a crazy place before he and his brother had showed up. One day Sans would look back on this and laugh. One far, far away day.

For now, he just stayed still, allowing the stranger to turn his head this way and that, run his large hand over the back of Sans’ skull. Feeling him like he’d never seen one before. What, did the guy never look in a mirror? Sure, he looked a lot more textured than Sans, but still.

“So smooth,” the stranger murmured.

It was the perfect opportunity to interject with a joke. Being called smooth was such a comedic opening that he’d be remiss to let it slip by. But before he could get a word out, his jaw was gripped tightly and tilted upwards, forcing him to look directly into the larger skeleton’s eye sockets. They glowed a menacing red, the light reflecting off the sharp gold tooth that was all too visible.

Was the threatening look intentional? Why would a monster, outside of the royal guard, ever bother to appear a threat? Could… Perhaps…

More credence was being given to his back in time theory. Back far enough that he ended up in a time right after the war with the humans had only just ended? It would explain Grilby’s tense behavior and the lack of patrons in the bar. From what he’d read at the Libraby, Snowdin had taken several decades to really take off, most monsters preferring the warmer temperatures or water areas. Not until overpopulation in the capital had monsters begun venturing out into the colder regions. Even then, Snowdin had never been the most populated of towns. With such a low population, it didn’t even qualify as a village. With a population of less than one-hundred and fifty, it was technically a hamlet.

But then, Sans had never been one for labels. If the citizens of Snowdin wanted to call their home a town, what did he care? It just added to the town’s quirk. A great, interesting, place to live.

Why did they ever leave?

That’s a bad thought and Sans quickly cast it out of his mind. He was usually so careful about what thoughts and emotions he allowed himself to feel. Must be the cold, it was chilling his sense of humor.

The strange touch stopped and Sans didn’t bother trying to stop his sigh of relief. He couldn’t very well let the monster think his touch had been wanted, welcome, or appropriate.

“Definitely not from around here,” the other skeleton whispered to himself. Though, not quite soft enough for Sans not to hear, if that was even the intent.

“You look like you crawled out of a dumpster,” the stranger grinned at him, eyeing the smaller skeleton up and down like he thought the clothes he wore came from a dumpster too.

Sans’ own eye-sockets narrowed. He had a snarky quip ready to go— And you look like you escaped from a balloon factory— but he thought better of it. Not because he was intimidated, but because if a fight did start, Sans only had the one jacket. If it got torn during a fight, the chances of finding another like it in his size were extremely low. And it was cold outside.

So, he shrugged, maintaining his nonchalant façade.

“A skeleton’s gotta sleep where he can.” No joke that time, after the complete disregard for Sans’ personal space and disrespect toward his threads, Sans’ didn’t think the monster deserved his material. Mostly because the stranger seemed to actually enjoy it. Which would have been a welcome change of pace had it been literally anyone else.

“That I hear,” the stranger responded. Like Sans sleeping in a dumpster would be some normal, everyday revelation. “What I’m not hearin’, is why I haven’t ever seen you around before.”

That same deep, menacing timbre from before returned and Sans’ couldn’t stop his flinch at the abrupt shift in tone. What was this monster’s deal? One minute he was laughing at Sans’ jokes, the next he was getting too touchy and acting all threatening, the red in his eye-sockets glowing brighter.

“You know every monster?” Sans asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“From Snowdin- and every skeleton, yeah.” Was the quick rebuttal. “And you’re not from here.”

Sans, not about to argue, simply replied, “I’m from out of town.”

“Way outta town, I take it. What’s a daisy like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“Daisy?” Sans parroted. If there was joke, Sans didn’t get it.

“You’re wearing’pink, ain’t ya?”

“… Yeah?” Sans said, waiting for the punchline.

“So that makes you a daisy.” The other skeleton replied with a nasty grin. Was it an insult, then?

… Sans didn’t get it, but out of respect for the art, he chuckled anyway.

Which was, once again, the wrong thing to do.

The large skeleton growled and Sans almost felt annoyance at the rapid change in attitude. One minute, everything was rosy, the next, he’s pushing up daisies. What in carnation was going on?

“Now listen here, you little daisy— That’s the third time I’ve repeated myself, and I’m not a man who likes repeatin’ himself.” Faster than Sans could follow, the larger skeleton summoned a sharp bone with his magic, and pointed it under Sans’ chin with a level of speed he hadn’t thought someone so big could possess.

“Now I’d hate to cut such a pretty face, but you won’t want me repeatin’ myself a fourth time.” The tip of the bone pricked the underside of Sans’ jaw. “Usually it’s three strikes and you’re out, but I’m lettin’ you take one more swing.”

The larger skeleton’s speed was interesting, the whole situation was interesting. It was something new. Being called pretty was new. But the threats? Sans eyed the stranger with an air of boredom about him and simply responded, “I’m more of a basketball man, myself.”

Then, unperturbed, he placed a bony hand over the one currently holding a knife to his face.

“You first, buddy,” Sans said. He was always one to hold what he knew close to his chest, and if the stranger wanted to know who Sans was, well, all the more reason not to tell. The whites of his own eyes glowed brighter, though the other skeleton didn’t seem to notice. The monster once again barked out a laugh, then looking at Sans like he didn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing.

“… You don’t know?” The stranger asked, like Sans should know.

Some ego on the guy, no wonder he was so big and wore such restricting clothes. He needed them to contain all that hot air.

“You must’ve had that dumpster locked tight if you’ve never heard of me before.” Just as quickly as it’d appeared, the bone dagger was wisped away in a cloud of red smoke.

“No wonder you don’t have any manners, you haven’t a clue who you’re dealin’ with, do ya?” It was said so matter-of-factly that Sans wondered if he had somehow overlooked the large skeleton in the history books.

“The name’s Sans, Sans the skeleton.” A hand was held out to him. “And you, lil’ daisy?”

Sans soul thudded in his ribcage, the large hand was directly in front of him, but he could no longer see it. Everything was a blur as those words played over and over in his head.

Sans, Sans the skeleton. Sans. The skeleton.

Sans.

Anything the larger skeleton—Sans said after was drowned out by the buzz in the back of Sans- his, skull. His smile waivered as the answer to his situation rattled around inside his skull. If only it would stop bouncing around, he’d know what to do.

“Take my hand, lil’ daisy.” It was an order said through sharp, clenched teeth. Whatever humor the other Sans had been getting out his lack of knowledge was apparently disappearing.

Just like he was about to. Haha.

Before his smile could fall, Sans teleported.

Pop.

To the mountain’s summit, completely covered by snow.

Pop.

To Mount Ebott’s base, the forest behind him looking gnarled and dead.

Pop.

He landed heavy in the snow. It was too dark and he was too far from the city’s welcome sign to read it. But he didn’t give himself time to collect his thoughts or to regain his usual cool. And though his smile was still stretched across his face as he stumbled forward, it was painfully forced. A wretched, familiar feeling of hopelessness was filling him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since those first few battles in the castle corridor. And given the circumstances, it didn’t make sense.

It was just a name, his name, so why did it fill him with so much dread? Like he was being faced with a problem that had no solution. Just like the resets all over again.

Sans stopped in front of the city’s welcome sign, hands on his knees, out of a breath he didn’t need. The sign was red instead of the familiar blue. Its paint was chipped and the edges rusted. It was obviously old and not well cared for. However, the black words written across it were clear, looking freshly painted. The strength in Sans’ legs gave way as he read the sign, his knees hitting the snow as he looked on with wide eye-sockets.

Welcome to Fell City | Population: Shrinking

~ End

AN: This will likely be the longest chapter of the fic, on account of all the exposition I had to fit in. I want to explore OG Sans' character with this, focusing on his wants, his intelligence, and I think the perfect foil to match up against Sans is Sans himself.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.

1900s Slang:

Daisy - None too masculine

#kustard #underfell sans #sans #mobfell #sancest #bara sans #underfell #jivin' bones #jivin' bones 1 #my writ

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thereoncewereflwrs · 4 years ago

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in where i try to date a professor, and we never get to the point

A few years ago (in 2019, although we had known each other since 2015) I fell in love with my ex roommate in Brooklyn. He was, in fact, the total opposite of anyone I had ever had a remote or deep feeling towards prior to him: a white, Jewish, red curly haired, thin, freckly, trans man from upstate New York who had studied at the University of Chicago and knew fancy words in Russian. Regardless, or in spite of this great gap between my taste in men and his entire being, he had been the only man I had ever truly seen myself happy with. With him I learned new things about myself, words like ‘fat’ and ‘ugly;’ I learned that I was not a socialist because of its existing inability to reconcile the impact and affects of the industrial revolution; I learned I liked traveling with him and embarking in mindless and meaningless traditions in ways I had almost sworn myself off to. I had thought ‘well, I don’t ever want kids, but I’d raise his,’ or ‘I’ll never find a singular partner to spend the rest of my life with, but I don’t need that when I want to spend the rest of my life with my best friend anyways.’ Funny how it only takes one particular bundle of culminated cells to eradicate years of logical conclusions that have led you to the ideological and pragmatic decisions made. During a trip to New York that involved a very chaotic Passover dinner that led to an even more chaotic, and much more dangerous, outing in the middle of Manhattan at a lesbian dance club at 4 in the morning, I came to the realization that maybe the love I felt for him was beyond the kind one feels for friendship (up until this point I had convinced myself, and everyone around me, that I was living into the values of radical friendship....). On that trip I drunkenly confessed my newly realized feelings, clumsily putting together words the way a small child puts together lego blocks for the first time with sticky hands. That same trip his boyfriend gave me two books as a gift. I’ll never know why he did this, or what they really meant, but the awkwardness of the moment has stayed with me almost as if it happened yesterday.

Yesterday, in all actually, I scrambled through the piles of books in my small library and stumbled upon the selection of poems by Ocean Vuong that he had given me. As a general, personal rule I dislike poetry. Most often then not I don’t understand the different scraps of sentences cut and pasted together in strange formats to describe, what really? Hardly a plot, hardly a set of characters. A feeling, or sensation, or a set of things subjectively and rhythmically important but lacking in context or deeper development. Vuong is not the exception to this rule, but rather one that cleverly supports my self developed premise. Of course, my ex roommates boyfriend did not know any of this, and probably, he liked poetry and Ocean Vuong very much and thought it was a very nice gift indeed to give to his partners best friend (at the time). I feel inclined to say that Ocean Voung is a beyond amazing writer and I thoroughly enjoyed the few pages I did read of his novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.” Anyways, I perused the pages on his poetry book with slight amusement. More then the words on the pages, I relived my ex best friends face as his partner handed me the gift, his expression as he described how annoyed he’d been by the uncalled gesture, and how intrusive he had found the entire affair. I imagined his laughter, his comments, how his silence felt like so much presence that it felt like being home. That’s what it was like to be with him: home, being my own, authentic home, and always having him to gently guide me to that conclusion over and over again.

The only pages that stood out from the book go as thus:

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 1:

‘Tell me it was for the hunger

& nothing less. For hunger is to give

the body what it knows

it cannot keep. That this amber light

whittled down by another war

is all that pins my hand to your chest.’

A few months ago, while driving up from South Florida after having picked up my mother from the airport, I confessed to her that I had been dating for the last 4 months, and had recently broken up with a Married Man. It had been the early hours of the dark night, and we had just passed the traffic infested city of Atlanta and were making our way through curved roads that led deeper into rural Georgia before it met Southern Tennessee. Tennessee was a new home away from an old home that had never been home to begin with. My anxiety came from the obvious places - a fear that she’d disapprove of my actions, that her judgement would lead to scrutinizing all my past decisions and actions until they became morally ambiguous to us both, and a fear of anger. More and more I think that in reality I feared seeing what I had been feeling all along: that I’d made a cliche joke of myself. Even through that haze, however, I could still feel the overriding, desperate sensation of being utterly heart-broken and sad. I had carried this feeling with me for the entirety of the 21 hour trip, and once the first words tripped over themselves to be heard, the watershed of memories and experiences flooded the car. It was both unbearable, like drowning, and overwhelmingly relieving, like being seen for the first time. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d told this story. But it had been the first time with my mother, and that, for some unrecognizable, instinctual reason, was different.

She held her tongue - an unusual practice for my mother - as I recounted event after event of the last 4 months. I was as honest as I could be: we’d met on tinder after my break up with my previous partner of almost a year, I had wanted to have casual sex, he had wanted more, and (I emphasized) I had not known he had been married at the time. More importantly (I *double* emphasized) when he did tell me, he had confessed that the marriage had been one of convenience. As a fellow immigrant, and as a person who had witnessed a few of these kinds of entanglements, I had cleared myself, in almost the same quickness as I draw breath, of the moral implications of the situation. “As long as you’re not *cheating*” I had muttered, and he had nodded emphatically, “I’m not.” His reassurance was short lived. Soon after that the realities of his “entanglement” became less clear, and more obvious. He had a 4 year old daughter, he had been married for several years (technically, more years then necessary), he couldn’t, as a matter of convenience and then as a practical, legal afterthought, tell his wife where he was or what he was doing (he was lying, that is). I knew very early on that he was indeed cheating on his wife, even if the beginnings of their relationship had started as a marriage of convenience. But by the time I came to that conclusion, it had felt too late, almost as if I had dug too deep into the ground and could now fight my way through mud and dirt until I asphyxiated, or enjoy the eternal rest that was promised.

Loving the Married Man (because yes, I had foolishly loved him) had not been like loving my ex best friend. Married Man’s love had been wide but shallow - not in the way that denotes a superficiality, but in the way that one sees on the surface of a lake small things grow fast and move away even faster - small tadpoles and water lilies, the creeping of little reptilian noses and little ducklings floating on by. It was the kind of love that felt strongest when we touched, as if my physiological sensory threatened to spill in words and phrases that put together sounded like ‘I love you,’ ‘please don’t hurt me,’ and ‘yes.’ Married Man was married, and therefor there had always been the foreshadowing of a great plot twist, one were he (very unoriginally, as to be expected from men) promised to leave his wife and start a life with me. I rejected this almost as much as I desperately and willingly fell into it. In the same breath taken to tell his lies, almost as if our tongues collided from the desperation of wanting to believe our own delusional narratives, I gave him everything I possibly had in me. My energy, my time, my body, even my money. His wife, you see, had been away for a few months, seeing family in Baltimore with their baby daughter, while he had stayed to work. I had known from the beginning that we weren’t going to end up together, I had righteously, almost superiorly, thought that I knew exactly where we were heading and therefor had control over the entire situation. He had persisted he loved me, didn’t want to lose me, didn’t want to see me with anyone else, needed me there, and that he was in fact preparing the divorce papers as we spoke. I upgraded my status from a casual fuck to his girlfriend, and shamelessly introduced him to my best friends (who, true to who we all are, did not judge but made room for my own dramas to unfold). It took me a while to see that I was a mistress playing the role of pretend-girlfriend. Even more, I was a clown donning on mistress attire.

I can understand, in subtle and in abruptly immediate ways the ‘hunger’ Vuong speaks of. Married Man did not create the conditions for this ‘hunger’ in me, it has always existed. Before Married Man there had been My Ex, and before My Ex there had been my Ex Best Friend, and before him there had been every other man I’d engaged with romantically and in a familial way.

I know this ‘hunger’ inside me craves what can only go right through me. I have stubbornly, recklessly and without analysis, allowed myself to feed it with emptiness disguised as bountifulness. I have sat myself in a table that is all together wrong for me, in a chair that has been made too small for my thick thighs and bulbous belly, looked up at faces that have not smiled back, and taken a bite of food that has not been prepared with love, not really. This is no ones fault. I do not remove myself from accountability by saying this. What I did in a lot of ways can be considered hurtful, immoral, disdainful, distasteful, etc,. I also know that I am learning, still always learning, and need to be graceful and gentle with myself. Today, through a configuration of thoughts, I have realized I have been feeding my body meals foreign to me and my well being. And that I must now learn, or re-learn by tapping into what I hope is some collective, ancestral knowledge, how to make the meals that will nourish and settle in me forever.

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 2:

‘I wanted to disappear - so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast-cancer ribbon on his key chain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of the suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky - to hold flight & fall at once.’

In October of 2020 I went on a date with a Professor from a State University. His profile on tinder promised 1 free joke if you matched with him, and I had casually indulged in the free entertainment. He had sent me 2, neither of which were funny, and instead had proceeded to insult me through a flurry of scattered presumptive discourse that I, true to my very nature, found anxiety inducing and oddly attractive. He had originally chosen to withhold his profession from me, having stated that he had “too many people under him” and wanted to keep the information hidden “for now.” I shrugged it off. I could trick myself into finding this level of secrecy mysterious, or I could see it for what it was, a waste of time as most tinder conversations tended to be. Through further indulgence he had confessed that he was a teachers assistant (here on by known only as the Professor) and was doing research on something or other in history (I really wish I could remember, but it was THAT obscure). I wanted to ask him what the impact and reasoning, and really, the justification he gave himself, was for embarking in studious, rigorous research and reading for a subject matter so far removed from our every day realities, especially during a pandemic and the mass murders of black and brown people at a national scale, but I kept silent. Instead we bantered a bit, exchanged ideas around Imposter Syndrome, and settled on an evening to see each other in where I’d drive to his apartment and he’d cook for me.

I wore my ‘date dress’ - a simple, black dress that hugged my torso and spread over my hips, tricking the eye into seeing less fat then there was on my body. I dressed this way not to obscure my fatness (although I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t sometimes don the dress in part because it had the added bonus of doing so) but because it was an easy ‘fuck’ dress. All I had to do, I knew by then from practice, was lift the skirt part and bring my underwear down. The efficiency of the dress, and how it made me feel, gave me confidence enough to walk into a complete strangers apartment and make casual conversation as if pretending to be old friends who were excited about catching up. This is always the pretext that is built. I pretend to be captured by the magic of his words - he being whoever he is - and ask question after question in the hopes of digging deeper into who the person really is. I didn’t really care that he was from Ethiopia or that his parents had been revolutionaries or that he was stressed about his profession although he got paid almost double what I did, but I didn’t *not* care either, which made all the difference. He had been the *presumably* smartest man I had talked to during my time in Tennessee, and I have always liked feeling like I knew less then the male partners I had. I had my period that day, but after a few awkward moments in where he asked to kiss me (I said no, then felt horribly guilty about it and relented), grabbed my boob, and had his dick out while still in the couch, he came. It was one of the few times I have had casual sex with someone where I didn’t finish. In a strange, almost methodical way, I could give men my attention, my emotional presence, my intellectual capacity, my dry or dorky humor, even my body willing or unwilling, but I found it unacceptable to not finish while having sex with a cis-hetero-male. For this alone I was vexed by the entire interaction, and after taking him to buy cigarettes at the near by gas station and back (he was a Professor without a car), and after he had reassured me that he liked me, that he had had a nice time and that he hoped to see me again, I made the 30 minute drive home. We texted sparingly after that. We tried to make plans but he always flaked, claiming to be too busy and stressed with work (I don’t disbelieve this) and apologizing profusely about it. Saturday, October 31st had been our last text exchange, until two days ago. There’s no reason to berate this long winded summary with the details of that conversation. Suffice it to say that he once again asked to meet up with me, and then today canceled with the familiar excuse of work and stress. I think about him now and write about him because it took everything in my power to not text him reassuring words, to not ease his expressed anxiety at potentially “wasting my time.” To not ease his turmoil of using me by sending him a song and being witty and casual. I have felt, in fact, that my time has been wasted. That he got way more out of the flimsy arrangement we had concocted, and that after having had sex with my hand and mouth, he had no longer felt a genuine interest in talking with me. Of course, he owes me nothing and I am not entitled to his time or presence. But all together this story feels too similar to the many random encounters one has with ‘fuck-boys’ in where they feign interest until they are sexually fulfilled and then suddenly no longer remember your name. I don’t type any of this with bitterness. At most, I feel a slight comical annoyance at him. More importantly, I feel things for and towards myself.

Where does this hunger that needs fulfilling come from? Where was its conception? It’s birth? I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough for myself.

As Nina Simone once said, “you’ve got to learn to leave the table when loves no longer being served.” Tables and chairs and foods and a hunger. That’s all I can think of today.

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colorful-yarns-queer-stories · 4 years ago

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Wayward Son: You’re Probably Going to Hate Me for This

A quick caveat: This post took me almost 8 months to write because Wayward Son wrecked me that thoroughly. It left me that much of a mess, reeling that hard over how very wrong it went after Carry On. This post reflects those kinds of feelings from a queer reader, so if you love the book and feel extremely positively toward it, this post is not for you. Just keep scrolling and go on to enjoy your day. Your opinion is valid. If Wayward Son left you feeling sick, betrayed, and worse than before you got it, maybe we can commiserate. If you’re teetering back and forth on whether to read it, this post offers you the worst to look at opposite the best. If you don’t want to hear it, don’t read it. It’s that easy.

On September 24, 2019, I was practically shaking when I opened my eyes and began setting up my cozy reading nook. I requested the day off work, cleared my entire schedule, and settled in my comfiest sweater and blankets with a fully stocked tea cabinet to read what was, for me, one of the most highly anticipated book releases of the year. I pre-ordered a signed physical copy of the book, the audiobook, even got the collectible patch. I could not WAIT to sit down and read the healing story of Simon Snow’s cross-country queer road-trip with his boyfriend Baz and his best friend Penny. I was so excited to see how Simon was helped on his road to recovery from the trauma of the previous book. Rainbow had psyched us up so much to see how things would get better for our favorite Chosen One, despite how hard his journey to mental wellness might be.

Oh, reader. I was so naive.

Now, before I go into my complicated emotions about this book, I need to clarify something. This is not really a book review. This is a brief and personal examination of how queer characters and audiences are advertised toward vs. what product/representation they receive. Because Wayward Son? As a book, it was solid. Great story, great conflict, great characters. A Very Good Book. But it wasn’t the book we were advertised.

If you are a member of the LGBT+ community, you know what it is to be queerbaited. Shows advertise as though there will be LGBT+ representation, market these stories as queer love stories or stories about queer people learning to love themselves, but in the end, those promises are never delivered upon, leaving LGBT+ audiences open to attacks from cishet fans mocking them for hoping for representation in the first place and reminding LGBT+ audiences that their stories will never be center-stage unless they are fetishes, jokes, or tragedies. (Teen Wolf, BBC Sherlock, and The Cursed Child are just a few immediate examples that spring to mind.)

Rainbow Rowell did not technically queerbait. She wrote two LGBT+ main characters! They got together at the end of the first book! She delivered, right? Mmmm, not quite. Yeah, Simon and Baz got together at the end of the first book, and it was wonderful and heartwarming and hopeful, even if it was still a little bittersweet. After all, that’s realistic right? And they are both still the main characters of the second book. They are still together. She kept her word, right? Wrong.

Rainbow Rowell marketed us a hopeful cross-country road-trip with the Chosen One’s boyfriend and best friend in pursuit of healing and recovery for Simon Snow after he was left traumatized and adrift in the wake of saving the magical world. Well, we got a road trip. He did have a boyfriend and best friend present, sort of. Healing? Hahaha no. None. Not even a little bit. We were promised recovery and hope. What we got instead was a whole lot of Queer Suffering. Literally hundreds of pages of it.

Look, part of writing solid representation is being aware of the cultural and political climate in which you are writing. After the 2016 U.S. election, the LGBT+ and POC communities came under massive fire from the U.S. President, the federal government, and all of the devoted bigots who have loudly and violently sworn themselves to the cause of rooting out and eliminating every minority present here in the States. Since 2016, minority communities have done nothing but suffer under attack after attack over and over and over again. If you look at the majority of books published for LGBT+ audiences since 2016, you will notice that most of them are geared toward messages of healing, of hope, of strength in the face of adversity, because that is what we need given the reality of our existence right now. We need strength, we need hope, we need healing. We exist under a constant barrage of hate and vitriol and violence, and the number of hate crimes being committed against minority communities have risen consistently through the entirety of this Presidential term. So when we are marketed a book about hope and healing, by god we are putting faith in you to deliver on that promise, that commitment you are making to us as a community. We are trusting you, giving you our money, our time, our emotional commitment.

Wayward Son did not deliver on those promises of healing and hope and recovery. Nothing positive happened to any of the characters in the book. Nothing. What hope? What healing? What love? You made Simon and Baz essentially strangers planning their breakup from chapter one, not to mention their individual suffering you attached to their own identities (Simon as ex-Chosen One, Baz as a vampire). You made Penelope Bunce lose her partner of several years. You forced Agatha Wellbelove into a traumatic kidnapping specifically imitating and amplifying her brand of trauma from the end of Carry On. Every single character in your book was a minority (LGBT+, POC, QPOC, women), and every single one was forced to suffer even greater trauma this time with no reprieve or recovery from their previous experiences. YOU MARKETED THE BOOK WITH A FU**ING PRIDE PATCH ONLY TO HAVE YOUR QUEER CHARACTERS PLANNING THEIR BREAK UP FROM CHAPTER ONE. WHAT ABOUT THAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE PROUD OF? Did you even take the time to become aware of the big tropes aimed at queer characters by straight authors? Of either burying your gays or making them end up apart? Of why it’s wrong to use your female characters constantly as damsels in distress (I thought you wanted Agatha to be the opposite of that, but here she is being the damsel in distress AGAIN)? Rainbow, YOU were the one who wrote Agatha hating her part in the Chosen One BS. You wrote her hating danger and magic and you wrote her escape only to reel her right back in? Wayward Son felt like Rainbow Rowell hitting the “Undo” button on all of the positive rep she gave us in the last book and replacing it with loads of misery just because cynicism is “In.”

If someone asked me to recommend a YA fantasy for their teen with solid queer rep, a diverse cast, and healthy messages, I absolutely would have had no problem recommending Carry On. I have, in fact, put it into the hands of LGBTQIA+ teens on multiple occasions. I could not, however, recommend Wayward Son. This book was the antithesis to Carry On and destroyed everything I loved about the original. Was Wayward Son, from a literary standpoint, a good book? Absolutely. But I cannot in good conscience recommend it to any LGBT+ readers, especially given the current political and social climate in which we live. Maybe the third installment will be a fix-it. Maybe things will get better. As for me, though, my faith in this author’s representation of minority characters was broken with Wayward Son.

What kills me about it, though… the thing that really just tears me up inside… is that if she had marketed it to us as, “Lol you’re all going to suffer, this book is totally going to hurt,” I would have been okay with it. I love TJ Klune’s books, but they tear your beating heart out of your chest and then feed it back to you by hand. His books hurt. The difference between him and Rainbow Rowell, though, is that he advertises them that way. When he writes something painful, he markets it as painful. When he writes something soft, he markets it as soft. We know we can trust him because he makes realistic promises and then delivers on them. Rainbow did the exact opposite, promising us recovery and giving us nothing but several hundred pages of pain for literally every single character involved. How are we supposed to trust you now? Honestly, for my part, now I know I can’t.

I’m sorry if this is upsetting. I know lots of people (if they ever see this) are gonna be VERY, VERY angry with me for writing it and for feeling this way. But this is my honest take on Wayward Son: the entire book is one giant trigger, and I think that, until there is anything at all positive to offer in its place, that it’s better for LGBT+ and other minority readers to avoid this one. Maybe wait until the next book or stop after Carry On. If you are a member of a minority group and struggle hard with mental health issues, this might be one to avoid for now.

#lgbtq books #queer books #lgbtq book review #book blog #wayward son #simon snow #baz grimm pitch #penelope bunce #agatha wellbelove #penny bunce #rainbow rowell #i'm about to get a lot of hate for this one #that's okay #this is just my opinion as an lgbtq+ reader

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theredhairedmonkey · 5 years ago

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What do you think will happen in "Through the Moon"?

Hmm, I’ve changed my mind a couple times as to what I think will happen, but I’ll let you know what I’m thinking right now, anon:

Since this story takes place in the Moon Nexus (and involves some kind of invitation for a ritual there), I imagine that some time must have taken place since the Battle of the Storm Spire. Just throwing out a number, I’ll guess that something like a year to 18 months have passed, which gives the trio enough time to change and adjust to the new peace they helped create.

So, some background on each of them before we dive into “Through the Moon.” All three are now living in Katolis.

Ezran is having a tough time, as he now has the most responsibilities of the three of them (oh, how the tables have turned). It turns out that Opeli’s “peace will require just as much strength as war” was not a joke. The battle to save Zym might have led to peace with the elves and dragons, but it has upended the entire world order. Katolis now has closer ties with the elves (the Sunfire elves in particular) and the Dragon King Azymondias than it does with several of the Human Kingdoms (particularly Neoloandia, which has cut off ties to Duren and Katolis after Prince Kasef’s death).

The battle also shifted the balance of power; Katolis lost much of its army, while Duren, which suffered the fewest casualties, is now the strongest Human Kingdom and breadbasket for the Pentarchy. While Queen Aanya means well, King Ezran has been encouraged to allow General Amaya to rebuild the Katolian army. Additionally, racism against elves and dragons is a hard beast to overcome, and Ezran has been struggling with certain voices in his court that are urging him to take an aggressive stance against Xadia. Keeping these people pacified has been a challenge…especially now that Rayla is living in the capital as a permanent guest.

In spite of his age, Ezran is pretty much on top of this all—Corvus once commented that he had shown more “courage, strength, and grace than most leaders show in a lifetime,” and I think that will shine through here. He might not be the most learned or most well-informed person in the room, but he knows when to rely on experts and when to rely on his sense of right and wrong.

So, “Through the Moon” might show a little bit of that–how Ezran has begun to fill his father’s shoes (as well as make his own), how well he’s adjusted to being a ruler during peacetime, and how much he still has to grow.

Callum is a prince reborn. In just a few months after the battle, he quickly mastered Sky Magic in its entirety, even coming up with several new techniques along the way. He has also learned quite a bit about the other Primal Sources and their respective Arcana. Callum is also within striking distance of finally understanding the Moon Arcanum (more on that later).

He’s trying to help Ezran as best he can, but this “awkward step-prince” always had trouble succeeding at his princely duties, and that extends to administrative and political matters. He’s no Viren, and neither his personality nor his Sky Magic provides much help at court. His abilities are more physical than the creative, complex spells that Viren often does.

Instead, Callum finds that he’s most helpful outside and beyond the walls of the castle—this is, after all, where the sky is, and where Callum is at his strongest. He’s often flying to other towns, and helps the common people with building roads, constructing dams, clearing out fields for farmland, irrigation, and the like.

The people who knew him before are quite surprised by this change. He used to be this bookish artist boy who could barely hold up a sword, wearing a signature red scarf and blue jacket. Now, he’s a strong, confident mage, sporting sleeveless shirts that reveal elaborate runes on his arms. He can fly and is therefore more physically capable than any ordinary human in the kingdom. Many less tolerant people are also put off by how protective he is over his new elven, um, “friend” Rayla.

Now, on to Rayla. Hoo boy…

Here’s what we first hear about her—Only Rayla is still restless

At first, I was wondering why she was refusing to believe Viren is dead, when it seems everyone else is ready to move on. And then I remembered this scene:

Viren: “I’ll return for you soon. It will be a pleasure to add one more Moonshadow elf to my collection”

Both her terrified expression and her registering what Viren is saying help explain why she’s so restless—whatever was in that bag must contain something related to other Moonshadow elves (either their remnants or their essence).

Then, when talking to Callum about what he saw in his spell, she’ll start to put two and two together. Even if he didn’t understand what he was seeing, he must have seen Lain and Tiadrin get coined by Viren.

Rayla doesn’t know if they’re dead or not, but she realizes she needs to find that bag. Maybe they can be revived, maybe they can’t. But the pain of not knowing is overwhelming.

She’s also probably fearful of the man himself. While she’s been overpowered before, she’s never been so helpless as she was before Viren. His “I’ll return for you soon” line stays with her, and not being able to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that this monster is gone will haunt her.

And to make matters worse, no one has been able to find Viren’s remains. Most assume his body was just lost, perhaps in a ravine somewhere. But Rayla needs to find his bag of coins. Combine that with the sheer terror she expresses in the scene above, she probably doesn’t fully believe that something like a fall could kill someone like Viren. And part of her hopes that’s the case; if she’s right, there’s a chance she can find her parents’ coins (and whoever else) and either revive them or, at worst, make peace with the fact that they are gone for good because the uncertainty is just that painful.

Without knowing for sure whether Viren, her parents or Runaan are gone, she’s lost. At least Callum, who tragically lost his parents, knows they are gone. There is a bit of solace in the finality of accepting your loved one’s passing. Rayla, on the other hand, is trapped between hope and fear. Hope that they may be alive, fear that she’ll never know.

Callum will pick up on the fact that something’s wrong, and Rayla will likewise let him in. She knows now that she’s safe around him. She can be vulnerable and scared and raw around Callum, because he will never think less of her, never judge her, and never love her any less.

And this is just something she will absolutely adore about him. Even though he’s incapable of giving her closure (even as a mage, he can’t just bring them back or give her an answer), he’ll always try to make her feel better, even if only by a little bit and for a short while.

Nevertheless, the three of them are called to an ancient ritual at the Moon Nexus. I’m guessing that, since there’s peace with Xadia, Lujanne either invites the trio back, or reveals the Moon Nexus to the Human world. In either case, there’s an invitation for Ezran, Callum, and Rayla to come back and take part in this ritual.

At some point, either by accidentally overhearing something or just from Lujanne explaining the ritual, she learns that the lake is a portal between life or death.

This is her chance, she thinks. This portal contains the answers to all the questions she’s been craving. The questions that have been eating away at her that no amount of “Big Feelings Time” has been able to ease.

Part of it is to see once and for all if Viren is dead, but the main reason is that she wants closure. She wants to know whether she needs to save her parents and Runaan or mourn for them. At least then, in either case, she can move on.

But the portal is unstable, and the ancient Moonshadow Elves who destroyed it never intended for it to be reopened. It seems as though Rayla will have to risk life and limb (and maybe not just her life and limb) to reopen the portal. I’d wager that, in the midst of the ceremony, she’ll jump right into the lake because, let’s face it, jumping into certain danger is something she’s used to at this point.

And speaking of things certain characters are used to, Callum will for sure have another episode of “here I go doing something reckless to protect Rayla,” and follow her.

As a quick side note, if there’s a time for Callum to unlock the Moon Arcanum, it’s here. He’s already worked through his understanding of reality and appearance well enough to apply it when facing Sol Regem. He’s also cast his first Moon spell, and hence knows how it “feels” to do Moon magic. Just as with the Sky Arcanum, Callum’s got all the details he needs “swirling in his head,” and just needs a way to bring it all together.

But, for Rayla, this is very much an introspective journey– Will Rayla’s quest to uncover the secrets of the dead put her living friends in mortal danger?

I am very skeptical that we’ll learn Viren is alive before S4. That is such a huge reveal to occur before we even see the trio on screen! And to a lesser extent, I have a hard time imagining how S4 could start off with Rayla knowing that her parents and Runaan are indeed alive.

Instead, I imagine “Through the Moon” to be more of an introspective look into Rayla—How does she see the world? How does she see herself? What’s bothering her, and what does she do to overcome her internal strife?

This would honestly be a breath of fresh air—while S3 does a good job shining a light on Rayla, it’s mostly from Callum’s perspective (he notices her sobbing and goes to comfort her; he observes and comments how she’s a hero; he helps her work through her feelings about her parents).

This graphic novel is a great way to focus on Rayla’s perspective instead. Her journey at the end of S3 left us with a bit of a “now what”? So, this book might be a good way to begin answering that.

#rayla #through the moon #tdp speculation #thanks for asking #the dragon prince #tdp #runaan #tiadrin #lain #callum #ezran #viren #zym #moonshadow elves #lujanne #tdp graphic novel

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akar0ku · 5 years ago

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“Do you think at all before you speak?” Cairn and Gawain, if you feel like it. I know I already sent you one.

“Fallacious”

Gawain had never seen the entirety of the castle in such an exuberant state of celebration. Though parties were by no means a rarity, they were most always reserved affairs. Events for the aristocracy and other such notable people to mingle and flaunt their status. This event was much more akin to the frat parties young recruits would throw in the dungeons.

Gawain held fast to a neutral expression, not an easy feat considering the rage and disgust roiling within his core. The feeling was not targeted at the party; however, but rather the subject for celebration. He supposed he could let the laymen off easy for celebrating the demise of the water dragon. They hardly knew better and the hidden realities of their world were too complex to try and teach to a species who had long forgotten the past. But Kelvin’s slayer on the other hand.

He definitely had a few words to say to Cairn...That is if he could actually find the man among the throngs of celebrating knights and nobility. Cairn was nowhere to be found in either the ballroom or his quarters. With the easy spots out of the way, Gawain resigned himself checking every room, hall, and stairwell to find him.

After a long and thorough search of the fourth, third, and second floors, Gawain made his way to the smallest of the two towers. Before descending the staircase, Gawain peered down through the center of the spiral. And there was where his search finally ended. There was his long time friend, standing motionless at the bottom and staring at the set of doors opposite of the staircase. Under normal circumstances Gawain may have found the behavior concerning, but now all he could focus on was the barely controlled anger and disappointment for his friends actions.

“Cairn!” He bellowed before he was even half way down, his own voice echoing harshly within the narrow building. Cairn doesn’t move to acknowledge him and now Gawain’s concern is finally starting to override his anger. His descent slows as he reaches the final flight and he comes to a pause on the bottom floor, only a few meters from his friends back..

Cairn doesn’t turn to greet him, only staring steadfast at the doors before him. Gawain approaches Cairn, not quite cautious but still concerned as he circles a wide radius. The look on Cairn’s face is blank, eyes wide as he stares at a fixed spot ahead of him.

Gawain turns to look up at the spot the other man is so fixated on. He scans up and down the doorways expanse but finds nothing out of the ordinary. As he turns back, he opens his mouth to question the odd behavior, but his breath freezes in his lungs when he makes eye contact. Cairn is now staring directly at him, his usual warm dark eyes are now as sharp and cold as an obsidian knife.

Gawain was not a cowardly man by any means. He had fought one on one with green orcs and blood orcs, slayed many a number of frightful beasts, and apprehended some of the most depraved and dangerous criminals. Many times he had put his life on the line, and never once had he feared for it. But now all he could feel was the hammering of his heart against his chest, the roar of blood rushing in his ears, and the adrenaline spike that called for him to fight tooth and nail for his life.

But this couldn’t be right. This was Sir Cairn, his long time friend, his brother in arms. They had always had each other’s back, ever since their trainee days. He absolutely trusted Cairn with his life...but why was he now feeling like this very man could take that life away from him any second?

There was something so disturbingly unnatural in that stare.

“Gawain, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The abrupt shift in tone and instant softening of facial features left Gawain in a state of mental whiplash. “Are you alright?”

Gawain let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. What had that been about? Had he just imagined that? “I...am fine. Just growing tired from the ruckus going on upstairs.”

“Could it be the great Sir Gawain is starting to show his age? Too old to have any fun and in bed by sun down.” Cairn teased in his familiarly upbeat manner, making Gawain question for a moment if that was the case and he was starting to grow senile.

“I’ve plenty of vigor left to keep me going a long while.” Gawain replied curtly, now focusing on the original reason why he was here.. “I’ve searched nearly the whole castle for you. I’ve a mind to beat you senseless on what you’ve done!”

Cairn hummed a confused sound, head tilting to the side ever so slightly as he crossed his arms. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Do not feign ignorance with me. You know exactly what I speak of.”

Cairn sighed and closed his eyes as he nodded in realization. “The water dragon. I probably should have guessed you wouldn't be very happy about that. You do realize though that I had to follow orders?”

“This is not comparable to dealing with some farm pest! What you’ve done, you’ve disrupted the very balance of our world. Did you not think of the repercussions, of the eventual chaos you’ve inevitably brought onto everyone.”

“The dragon threatened our safety!” Cairn snapped. “I was ordered to take care of it. You know I couldn’t refuse a direct order from the prime minister himself.”

“So then are you going to be hunting down the other dragons?”

“Only if they threaten humanity’s safety and I am ordered to do so.”

“When did you grow to be so selfish? Do you not realize that all you’ve done is prolong the inevitable? Do you not realize how your actions will irreparably damage our relations with the other races? Do you think about your actions at all before you go through with them?!”

“Do YOU think at all before you speak?!” Gawain was taken aback by the outburst. Never before had he heard Cairn yell with such force. “What was I supposed to do? Just sit here as the dragon tore through the countryside, killing innocent people? Should I have waited for the others to join it in it’s rampage? Should I have waited for them to fulfill their part in the cycle and just shrug my shoulders as my family and friends die?”

That look was back in his eyes, cold, sharp, and now laced with killer intent. Instinctively, Gawain reached behind him for his morning-star, only to find with blood chilling realization that he hadn’t brought it. This would not be an easy fight if things escalated...and fleetingly he wondered if he would be walking away at all.

“You know this is how it has to be.” Gawain’s voice came low and raspy, hoping that somehow he would get logic through whatever fog had possessed his friend. “If family and friends are your biggest concern, then why not go be with them? Instead of running off on a pointless mission that will only wind up with you dead.”

“You might be fine with sitting back and waiting for the end. But I will not allow us to be sacrificed without a fight.” Gawain shook his head at Cairn’s words. They had known this day was likely coming, Nogueria and Zane had both explained the old legends with them. He had thought Cairn was of the same understanding as he was on the matter.

“What is it that has changed your perspective on this?”

Or had Cairn been harboring such reservations and denial this whole time, Gawain wondered.

A flash of quick movement had Gawain instantly falling into fight mode. He saw both of Cairn’s hands fall to the sword at his hip, one grasping the scabbard and the other the hilt. On instinct, Gawain pressed forward, knowing at this point that his best bet for survival was to be too close for a sword to be effective and rely on grappling his way out of here.

Both men remained in close proximity, staring intently at one another and waiting for the first move.

“Father?” Gawain could feel the color draining from his face as he recognized his son’s voice.

Cairn also took notice of their new visitor, slowly turning to look over his shoulder and also leaving enough of an opening for Gawain to look past him. There; at the base of the stairway, stood his twelve year old son with the uncomfortable look of someone who knew they had interrupted something but weren’t sure exactly what that something was.

“Ganz…” Gawain breathed, his adrenaline now spiking higher as his concerns shifted from self preservation to doing whatever it would take to ensure the safety of his own child.

“Ganz! Look at you, I feel like you’ve grown since the last time I saw you!” Cairn’s shift in mood once again left Gawain with a sense of whiplash and unease.

“I saw you last week. I uh, I don’t think I could grow so notably in such a short amount of time Sir.” Ganz replied sheepishly.

“Ganz, I’ve already told you, you don’t need to call me Sir.” Cairn chided lightheartedly.

Gawain bristled as he watched the taller knight begin to approach Ganz.

“Ah, right Sir. My apologies.” Ganz laughed with nervous innocence.

Cairn let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head. He reached out a hand to ruffle the stocky boy’s blond hair, but was smacked away before he could reach his mark. Cairn recoiled, staring at Gawain with a look of hurt in his eyes.

Gawain only glared up at him, a protective anger radiating from every point on his body.

“Gawain, what’s gotten into you. You’re acting like I murdered an entire orphanage” Cairn accused, sounding a mixture of hurt, confused, and indignant.

“I will speak with you more on it later.” Gawain gritted between clenched teeth. He had no clue what was going on with his friend's mood swings, but he wasn’t about to linger here with his son and no weapons with which to protect them with just to find out.

Gawain nudged his son back towards the stairs with his elbow, feeling the boy hesitate for only a moment before obeying. He followed after the boy, never once taking his eyes off Cairn until said man eventually exited through one of the doorways.

“Father,” Gawain looked at his son, finding he had paused several steps above him. “What was that about?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He replied, feeling a slight pull of guilt in his chest when the boy gave him a disappointed look. “What are you doing down here? Where’s your mother?”

“She’s upstairs saying her goodbye’s. She wants to go home but I wanted to find you and ask if perhaps I could stay here with you at the castle for a few days.” Gawain was at a loss for how to answer. Things between him and Cairn had escalated concerningly fast, and no matter what, he couldn’t shake that sense of endangerment he was feeling towards his long time friend right now.

He must have taken too long to think of his answer, since Ganz started back peddling his request and apologizing.

“I’m sorry my boy. Something’s come up that I need to look into.” He couldn’t risk taking his attention off of Cairn right now. Not until he’d figured out what was going on.

“I see…” Ganz mumbled, the look of disappointment on his face pulled at Gawain’s heart but it was better off this way. Father and son made the rest of the trip up the stairs in silence.

When they reached the third floor, Gawain stopped his son from leaving with a hand on his shoulder. That boy stared him at him expectantly, but Gawain only took the moment to take in the site of him. His mind wanders back to Cairn’s words and for a moment he wonders if maybe he was the one who was misguided in blindly swallowing humanity’s fate without question.

“This matter should only take me a few days. Once it’s resolved, I’ll take time off to come home. Will that make it up to you?”

A smile instantly breaks across Ganz’ face and the boy agrees eagerly. It’s the least he can do for the boy at this point.

Gawain watches his son leave until the boy is long out of site. His mind is heavy with the weight of processing everything that is going on and tangential thoughts on how to rectify them. For now, the only place he can think to start is to speak with both of the elven leaders.

Satisfied with his next step, he retreats to his chambers with the intent to write to Nogueira about his impending arrival and to put in his request of personal leave.

---

A/N: While writing this I got the idea to actually try and make this into a multi part series. I have a couple other ideas based around Cairn’s Algandars and in writing this I kinda want to better explore a few thing. This one would probably take place somewhere in the middle of that project so I’ll probably be re-posting this with edits that make it better fit in with the others. Especially where I’ve kinda come to the idea that Cairn and Gawain are both aware of the Gold and Silver dragon cycles but the both of them have different views on it that are kinda not quite wrong or right in their own ways. Also thanks Henry!

#radiata stories #Cairn Russell #Gawain Rothschild #Ganz Rothschild #Fanfic #Just posting this to Tumblr for now #bet you thought I forgot about this btw lol #with cairn being the strongest knight ever #him having algandars must be a terrifying thing #apparently it's like violent dementia lol

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hufflly-puffs · 5 years ago

Text

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Chapter 14: Percy and Padfoot

So Harry wakes up early, finds the common room completely alone and uses the time to… write a letter. Damn it Harry, you should be doing your homework!

“‘Right, I know this says Snuffles on the outside,’ he told her, giving her the letter to clasp in her beak and, without knowing exactly why, whispering, ‘but it’s for Sirius, OK?’ She blinked her amber eyes once and he took that to mean that she understood.” – You know that in reality owls are incredible stupid animals? Getting them to fly through the Great Hall in the movies (even without a letter, which they would include later digitally) took months. I’ve already speculated that Wizard pets are in general smarter than common Muggle pets, which seems to be very true for owls.

First we have Mrs Norris watching Harry going to the Owlery, then some time later Filch storms in, accusing Harry that he ordered Dungbombs, wanting to see the letter he wrote. I think it is very clear that Umbridge uses Filch to spy on her students, especially Harry, giving him the order to get his hands on every letter he might write. But because Harry is too occupied with swooning over Cho he doesn’t see that.

I think a lot of Ron’s insecurity during their first Quidditch practice has to do with his family, with 5 older brothers he has to compete with. He is good when he practices with Harry alone, but loses his self-confidence once Fred & George are around, as well as the Slytherins watching them. Harry is someone he can trust, someone who didn’t make fun of him for trying out, unlike Fred & George.

“Katie’s nose was bleeding. Down below, the Slytherins were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converged on Katie. ‘Here, take this,’ Fred told her, handing her something small and purple from out of his pocket, ‘it’ll clear it up in no time.’” – As we later learn Fred gave her the wrong sweet, making her nose-bleed even worse. But let’s say he did gave her the right one, it would mean that the sweets Fred & George invented would have a medical use. I assumed they contain some sort of potion and a counter-potion, but they also seem to work if for example the nose-bleed isn’t caused by their sweets in the first place.

“Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred and George all flying as fast as they could towards Katie. Harry and Alicia sped towards her, too. It was plain that Angelina had stopped training just in time; Katie was now chalk white and covered in blood.” – But Hermione is right in pointing out how dangerous Fred & George inventions can be. Technically they should not be allowed to anyone underage, because they can cause severe complications if not used properly.

I love how perfectly Rowling finds Percy’s voice in his letter to Ron, in this very pretentious way only Percy would talk.

Hermione’s decision to help them after all with their homework had all to do with Percy’s letter. Ron might not have said it, but she can tell how much it must hurt him, as well as Harry, and this way she can help them having one thing less to worry about.

“He knew that half the people inside Hogwarts thought him strange, even mad; he knew that the Daily Prophet had been making snide allusions to him for months, but there was something about seeing it written down like that in Percy’s writing, about knowing that Percy was advising Ron to drop him and even to tell tales about him to Umbridge, that made his situation real to him as nothing else had.” – There is a difference between strangers believing the lies about Harry and Percy, the older brother of Harry’s best friend, part of the family who adopted him, someone who knows him. If people like Percy, or Seamus, don’t believe Harry and Dumbledore, how can he expect the Wizarding World to believe him? If they express doubt anybody could. Dumbledore’s trust in Harry means others trust Harry as well, they take his word for granted, and Harry has got used to it. It is yet another privilege taken from him.

People smarter than me (the lovely ladies of the “Witch, please”-Podcast) have pointed out how the entirety of book 5 is an example of gaslighting. Harry is repeatedly told that he is nothing but a liar,that he only tries to seek attention. He is put in the very same situation thousands of women have to face when they went public with allegations of rape and sexual abuse. Both Harry and these women are victims, but instead of believing them, instead of helping and supporting them, they get accused to made things up, to try to get attention, to ruin the lives of others, often powerful men (in this case Fudge). Which is very interesting, because despite being told from a male perspective the Potter series allow a feminist reading and put Harry in situations of violence and abuse familiar to women.

One of things Hermione and Molly do have in common though (I wrote about their differences in the previous chapter notes) is their view of Sirius, how he is unnecessarily reckless and how unhealthy and unbalanced his relationship with Harry is (as they both see James in the other: Sirius who misses his best friend and Harry who longs for his father).

“‘Yes, but the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters,’ said Sirius with a wry smile.” – It is interesting how this line is used in the movie adaption as well, but in a complete different context. Here Sirius talks about Umbridge, how she can be evil without being a Death Eater (the same way Fudge acts like a villain without being one). In the adaption this line refers to Harry himself – he is seeing visions of Voldemort and is afraid that he might becomes evil. Sirius reassures him that is not the case and that you can’t divide the world simply into good and bad people. The older Harry gets the more complex the characters we see get – the first two books had a clear black and white morality, but ever since then we get more morally grey characters. Which is why I prefer the later books.

Despite not being a Death Eater, Sirius tells the trio that Umbridge hates part-humans, such as werewolves. Even without supporting Voldemort she supports his ideology, which is why she had no problem working under his regime in the Ministry during book 7. Casual racism exists and the fact that both Umbridge and Fudge (who shares her views) get away with it shows that it is socially accepted to a certain degree.

“‘That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,’ said Sirius, ‘or, rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid Dumbledore’s doing – forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic.’” – It shows the kind of influence and power Dumbledore has, how among wizards he is an almost God-like figure for Fudge to become that paranoid. Fudge knows that many people trust Dumbledore blindly, that they would follow his orders without questioning (I mean Harry does). He is aware that Dumbledore could abuse this power. And he does in a way, but instead of an army he builds up a soldier, Harry, and uses Harry’s trust to manipulate him.

“‘You’re less like your father than I thought,’ he said finally, a definite coolness in his voice. ‘The risk would’ve been what made it fun for James.’” – Sirius is fully aware how much proud Harry takes in being like his father, that learning for example that James never had been a prefect made him feel better about not being a prefect either. So this is a low blow. But after seeing Snape’s memory later in the book Harry realizes that not being like his father isn’t always a bad thing.

#Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix #percy and padfoot #chapter notes #ootp

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hcpefulmarshmallow · 6 years ago

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Hello friends, this is just a thing that I wanted to mention real quick (you: “stop it Jenny, we know you don’t do real quick”) because it’s been playing on my mind for some time. Trigger warning for mental illness.

To begin, a (somewhat) brief preface. When I talk about what’s a ‘real’ diagnosis and what’s not, I’m referring to what exists in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition (DSM-V); and the International Classification of Diseases (ICD-11).

The most recent edition of the DSM-V was published in 2013 by the American Psychiatric Association, and the most recent edition of the ICD-11 in 2018. They are both common diagnostic tools for mental disorders, offering clear, standardised criteria. The DSM is more commonly used in America and is more universally known, while the ICD-11, despite being less common knowledge, actually has a wider reach professionally and is used more in Europe and other parts of the world. It also has a broader scope than the DSM, covering overall health instead of just mental disorders.

Please bear in mind that I have not read either resource in their entirety, this is just what I can work out from more general research of the two, compared to patterns in writing that I see all the time. And just know that I’m not calling anyone out or trying to police anyone’s creativity. Consider this an information dump, and inspiration to research what you write.

So, with all the boring stuff out of the way: what’s my damn point? Why did I take on the mammoth task of reducing a complicated and very nuanced issue to a single post? In fact, what is the issue at hand? 5 paragraphs in and I’ve still not addressed it, I’m a great essayist.

Well, it all started with the song “Sweet But Psycho” by Ava Max. And no, I don’t know it -- and neither does my sister who seems to think she does, because I hear the first four lines sung out loud more than I ever needed to: “Oh, she's sweet but a psycho / A little bit psycho / At night she's screamin' / I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind”. And when you have that catchy but annoying tune in your head, the things you hate about it are inescapable.

At this point, you’re probably thinking this is another rant about the glorification (or even, gasp, the cutesification) of mental illness around us and, uh...sort of? Like I said, I’m not here to police anybody. And I don’t think almost anything is truly bad in isolation -- it’s the trend that scares me. There’s not much I, a lowly internet dweeb, can do about the mainstream, but I do think I can educate my fellow peers. And what I want to educate you on today is the use of words that don’t mean what we think they mean, as an example of why we need to mind the subject matter we handle.

So. ‘Psycho’. In terms of writing, most people use it to refer to their characters who are your batshit off-the-wall cutesy crazy types. Your Yanderes and Jeff The Killers of the fandom world. It’s usually short for two different terms: either Psychopath or Psychotic, and in neither case does this do anybody any favours. Let me explain.

The term ‘Psychopath’ is often used to describe someone who is cruel, violent, has no care for others, and is often bloodthirsty. These characters are usually presented in one of two ways: as someone who can blend into wider society until their true dark nature is triggered, at which point they become deadly and dangerous; or as someone who is simply unapproachable at all times. Psychopath also has a sister term it’s often treated as interchangeable with, of which I am sure you’re aware: Sociopath. A ‘Sociopath’ is someone who cannot or simply does not experience empathy, sympathy, all those wonderful emotions that make us caring and considerate towards others. As a result, a ‘Sociopath’ often winds up doing radically hurtful things to other people.

The trouble with both of these words is that, medically, they do not exist. Not how we think they do. We just made them up to be mean to each other. That’s right, you can’t be diagnosed as a Sociopath, or a Psychopath. Yeah, I was shocked too. I got so used to hearing people described like this, I thought they must be real.

And I’m not saying that these words are invalid, just because they’re not real diagnoses. That’s not how words work. The beauty of language is that we invented it, and we can keep on reinventing it. If people use the term ‘Psychopath’ in this way, it will inevitably come to mean this exact thing, no matter what psychology says. And that’s fine. The trouble is that they are often conflated with real mental illness. Used in the place of a genuine diagnosis so we can still have our crazy villain type without the constraints of real, attributable illness. Because you gotta keep ‘em guessing!!1! In the same way they become real words if we use them like they are, they become interchangeable with actual mental issues if we use them that way. The ‘symptoms’ of being a Psycho- or Sociopath are oftentimes just exaggerated forms of symptoms belonging to actual, diagnosed illnesses. And like I said, trends are worse than individual problems, but when we see a combination of symptoms in an illness, whether that illness is given a fake name or not, in exclusively characters who we’d never want to meet in real life, the real sufferers suffer. It puts a stigma in our minds whether we mean for it to or not; it closes us off to conversations, to understanding these people and how to help them.

The worst cases are when writers take the opportunity to justify their use of the word by ‘diagnosing’ the character themselves, which takes on a whole new level of Yikes. We’re in such an awkward place in terms of representation at the moment, and I know it’s hard to navigate. I have all the love for people who do so with pure intentions. If, for example, you have a straight character, it’s easy for that character to be themselves. But if you have a gay character, everything they do is Gay, and it’s a representation of the Gay Community, and you will be held to a higher standard because of that. That is the lens through which we look at media right now, and it sucks for everyone, and is so easily exploited, but it is what it is. In much the same way, if your character is the only character in your story with a certain illness and they’re also your Big Bad, or someone who would be genuinely terrifying to approach -- well, I don’t think I need to explain why that could be seen as a major disservice. And of course, if your character is the only one in a whole darn genre...yeah. This is why trends matter. And why the trend of mental health getting misrepresented is so troublesome.

But I digress: because remember, I did say there were two uses of the word Psycho, and the second is grounded in reality. The word ‘Psychotic’ is, medically speaking, a real thing. Again, used to mean someone who is deranged, possibly murderous - and like I said, if a word is used a certain way, it will come to mean a certain thing. But the term has a psychological basis. Psychotic describes someone experiencing Psychosis - a mental disorder in which the sufferer experiences a break from reality. The most classic case is a war veteran who thinks he is suddenly back on the battlefield.

But obviously, a sufferer of a serious and damaging phenomenon isn’t what we think of when we hear ‘Psycho’ or even ‘Psychotic’. I don’t want to lean too much into the impact on mental health as a whole; that the idea of being neurodivergent is subsequently glamourised and demonised at the same time; that people latch onto labels that have real, practical use, all for the sake of feeling special. I want to keep it basic now. I want to ask: do terms like these have a place in writing? Specifically, in RP, since that is the form with which I am most acquainted right now. Obviously I can only answer with my own opinion, since there’s no Holy Doctrine to tell us one way or another.

I’m not going to sit here and demonise everyone I think has mishandled subject matter. Believe me, I’ve not always been good at it -- I’m still not always good at it. And as someone actively playing a character whose mental issues are a major part of his characterisation, and who does things that make him unlikeable because of those mental illnesses, I know the pressure to get it right all the time. That unsteady balance between realism and demonisation, glorification and representation. The desire to put labels to traits, to have an understanding of what’s going on in such a complicated mind. It’s tricky. Everyone’s experiences are different. And I’m not saying we need to get rid of “crazy for the sake of crazy” characters, or view everything through the lens of “but who will this hurt??”; or get rid of these terms altogether. Like I said, societal meaning is still meaning. And I personally like to believe that most authors have good intentions, even those with poor execution. And I’m certainly not trying to shame anyone for falling for societal opinion. Everyone has about something at some point.

If there’s a point to this at all, it’s this: research. Learn. Adapt. Not even my information is perfect and correct. I’ve seen everything above done a million times in so many ways, good and bad. If you want to follow a trend in writing or in storytelling, do, but try to understand it first so you can execute it better. Give it a purpose, and a place. Seize your right to be creative, by all means, but also take the opportunity to learn something new. And in turn, use your art to not only express and entertain, but educate.

Tl;dr: The best premise in the word can still be executed poorly, but likewise, a poor premise can be executed well. No subject matter has to be wholly off limits, and not everything has to be a statement about something. But handling matters, so handle your work with respect. Do your research and understand what you’re saying before you say it. Make something you’re proud to stand by.

#( man that got long and waffly #but hopefully this will inspire someone to learn a new thing #and maybe even grow as a writer )#ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴍᴏɴᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ [mun]#ʜᴇʏ! [psa]#long post/

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wisdomrays · 5 years ago

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Internalizing Islam

QUESTION: What are the key points for making Islam become an essential part of someone’s character?

ANSWER: Feeling the theoretical teachings of Islam in one’s conscience as they truly are and making them an essential part of our character depends, first of all, on knowing that putting theoretical knowledge into practice is an absolute requisite. With “practical reason” and similar notions, some philosophers actually drew attention to this fact, and Sufis tried to realize this issue with ways and systems of spiritual journeying.

From philosophers, for example, Bergson states that the truth can only be found with feeling and sensing of the conscience, and Kant notes that God can only be known through practical reason. It is always debatable how familiar these philosophers who were raised within Western culture are with the truth or how much can they help us become familiar with it. This is another issue. But it is a reality that most of the time if the evidences you present with respect to knowing God merely remain as theoretical knowledge, this may not suffice for preserving faith and the essentials of Islam. Every kind of knowledge that remains at the level of theory could be taken away by a dissident wind. Thus, theoretical knowledge must be placed on the basis of deeds.

The way to deliverance: Faith and good deeds

In fact, the Qur’an relates deliverance from ultimate loss and falling to the lowest of the low to belief and good deeds:

“Surely We have created human of the best stature, as the perfect pattern of creation; Then We have reduced him to the lowest of the low. Except those who believe and do good, righteous deeds, so there is for them a reward constant and beyond measure...” (at-Tin 95:4–6).

The fact that a verb form is used both while referring to belief and deeds denote the significance of “continuity” in faith and deeds in terms of deliverance. In this respect, a person should never see the belief he or she had yesterday as sufficient but should say like the Companions said, “Come on, let us have faith in God anew” and thus be in a constant endeavor to renew one’s faith. You may have settled all problems about having no faith before and condemned them to execution. However, in order not to lose the gains you have obtained in terms of faith, you should never see the point you have reached as sufficient, always seeking ways to renew your faith every day.

After faith, constantly-practiced good deeds, free from defects and showing-off, are given importance. The scope of “good deeds” is very extensive: from faith in God to devotions; from there to observance of parents’ rights; and from there to protection of believers’ rights… Good deeds being referred to with a verb form denotes that a person should not suffice with doing a good deed once, but allow oneself to be a waterfall of good deeds and living continuously within this stream.

You can see the same theme in the chapter Asr. Right after stating that humans are in loss, deliverance is related to belief and doing good deeds. In human nature there are certain powers and feelings such as the faculty of desire, faculty of anger, and faculty of reasoning, which are also open to abuse. These can drift a person to loss and fall. So in these two Qur’anic chapters we have mentioned, God Almighty showed us the prescription that can be an antidote against these dangers. As an expression of this truth, Imam Shafi said, “If people pondered deeply over the chapter Asr together with its beginning and end, this would suffice them.

Impotence, poverty, enthusiasm, and thankfulness

In order to internalize the truths of Islam and thus attain a higher character, Sufis advise spiritual journeying, which has different ways and methods of its own. Great personages took into consideration the factors that pressurized Muslims in their time and established systems suitable to struggle against them. Some of them related their system to the seven levels of the soul, while some established their system upon the ten human faculties.

The system he established taught the four essentials: impotence, poverty, enthusiasm, and thankfulness in the absolute sense. He also talked about two complementary essentials, affection and reflection. This system is a way that should be followed so that those potentially human can become truly human and attain perfection. However, a person’s embracing these essentials and acquiring them as an ingrained character trait require a serious endeavor.

The first of these essentials, absolute impotence refers to a person’s awareness of being unable to do anything he or she wishes. Happenings unfold according to a plan and program determined by God Almighty, and most of the time we cannot interfere with them. Even though we do not deny the function of willpower with respect to this issue, it is a well-known truth that God Almighty creates the results. So a person must see himself like a drop in the ocean before the Infinite Divine power and will, and admit his place and position before God.

As for absolute poverty, it refers to a person’s recognition of the fact that God is the true owner of every object and being. Everything we own is from Him. It is He who brought us into existence, granted us certain means, made us Muslims, let us know the Sultan of the Prophets, blessings and peace be upon him, guided us to the highest horizons, made us attached to lofty ideals, and guided us to realize these in spite of our not being eligible at all. If we put aside our Divine blessings and stood on our own, nothing would remain in our hands. Given that our body, reason, feelings, thoughts, and everything else we possess are from Him, what are we then?

Reflection and compassion

These essentials we have mentioned are very important, but they cannot be internalized just by reading them a few times and thinking them over. Making them part of one’s character depends on serious pondering, deliberation, and reflection. A person must deeply ponder over the Qur’an and the universe, and bring the topic of every talk to the explication of these considerations. One must constantly reflect upon what he actually owns, how much capital he possesses, and how much power he has. A person’s truly reaching considerations of enthusiasm and thankfulness depend on such an active system of contemplation.

As for compassion, one of the other essentials of our path, it refers to being compassionate toward humanity and exerting oneself for the sake of saving others. Not even limiting the feeling of compassion we have to humanity, one should outspread it to the entire existence and deeply reveal this feeling at every opportunity, to such an extent that one must have an immense feeling of compassion to the degree of crying in the sight of a bee floundering on the ground. Undoubtedly, gaining such a feeling depends on having a strong belief in the Hereafter, along with reflection and contemplation.

I think that the origin of the extraordinary excitement and disquiet of the Prophets, peace be upon them, was their anxiety of perdition and desire for salvation. They knew that people left on their own would tumble down to Hell, and they had firm belief in the existence of a Paradise in the next world with all of its splendor and magnificence. It is for this reason that they fully exerted themselves for the sake of guiding people to this Paradise. With a little difference in wording, the Qur’an describes in two different verses the concerned state of the Pride of Humanity, blessings and peace be upon him:

“It may be that you (O Muhammad) will torment yourself to death with grief, following after them, if they do not believe in this Message…” (al-Kahf 18:6; as-Shuara 26:3). This state stemmed from his immense consideration of others.

A person must try to make spiritual progress as if ascending on a stairway spiraling upwards. While giving his present station (maqam) its due on the one hand, one should constantly turn his gaze to higher stations and always ask, “Isn’t there more?” as an unquenchable journeyer for knowledge of God. If he can make good use of the inspirational blessings and Divine favors bestowed in his present spiritual station, this will evoke eagerness toward new things in him, and such a journeyer will keep continuously knocking on different doors.

A resolute path and ceaseless endeavor

Such a journeyer for truth who acts in line with the enthusiasms evoked in him will constantly desire to raise the standard higher, and as he raises it higher, there will be an opportunity to act accordingly. He will step in a virtuous cycle, where righteous enthusiasms will continuously emerge in him, and he will ask for new levels with these enthusiasms. That is, when the person fulfills what falls on his part by striving in compliance with the apparent causes, then the Divine power—the true Necessity—will come to act and make him reach the levels that he wished for.

Naturally, it will not be possible to internalize and make these a part of one’s character all of a sudden. This calls for a serious endeavor. In some exceptional cases, though, people have rocketed to the peak of human perfection in a wondrous fashion. For example, people who remained for a short time in the presence of the noble Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, reached the horizons of being a Companion because his presence is an atmosphere which deeply imbued the attendees with its hue. His state, attitude, acts, manners, silence, speaking, and the lines of his face, which conveyed awe or joy from time to time, reminded of God in their entirety. Every state of his made those near feel their being in the presence of God.

In the same way, some saintly figures who lived after the Prince of the Prophets may also make those who enter their atmosphere reach the horizons of human perfection, sometimes in a very short time. However, these are rare happenings and such cases are not recursive, since they are special Divine bestowals. While these bestowals happen with the Prophets in the form of miracles, they happen with saints as wonders (karama). As for the objective form of this issue, that is, the form that can apply to everyone and all the time, it depends on giving one’s willpower its due in this respect.

If we wish to make our values an essential part of our character, then we need to engage our own sources of spiritual nourishment ceaselessly, always bringing any issue to the talk of the Beloved and orienting all of our conversations toward this.

In addition, it should not be forgotten that if one makes a serious effort to become a true servant of God, He will help that person.

If you turn to God, He will treat you accordingly. If you turn your gaze toward him, He will look at you as well. If you open your heart to Him, then He will not leave that heart empty.

Let me point out one final thing: if a person can make practicing Islam a part of his character, he will not have much difficulty at carrying out certain devotions. For example, dividing sleep to offer the Tahajjud Prayer in the night is a burdensome task for the carnal soul. But if a person makes a habit of this like a natural behavior and virtually makes a secret contract with God, then he will not have much burden at rising from the bed. One may waver with the drowsiness at the first moment, perhaps. But after one prays and crowns it with a supplication to God and begins to open up to Him, he or she will not help but say, “It’s been so good that I woke up and made good use of these private hours of the night in terms of my relations of God!”

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horrorhouse · 5 years ago

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A Response to Josh Gad

On August 28, 2019, actor Josh Gad decided to post a lengthy Twitter thread regarding our political climate. I decided I wanted to post it in its entirety as one long letter instead of just posting each individual tweet and then give my response point by point. So here we go.

I don’t want to be the guy always shouting at the top of his lungs about the same thing. Life is too short. So this (I’m hoping) will be the last time I try to put into words how I feel about the current political situation we are in and reach out to those of you content with where things are right now in our country. So here we go. I know some of you wanted and hoped to throw the whole system out and see what happened if we disrupted political norms and elected a “guy who says it like it is” and in a weird way, I guess I even understand that impulse. But this is where we are now objectively: Donald Trump has never been fit for office and it appears that he is mentally unhinged. We can talk around it. We can play word games. We can debate what that means. But by all appearances he is truly a “madman.” I know it sounds funny and entertaining to hear the absurdity of the President of the United States threaten to nuke a thunderstorm to send it away or get angry at a country for not selling him another country but it’s not funny. It’s actually debilitatingly [sic] sad. Because our lives aren’t a reality show, even if he thinks he’s living in one. We have all lost the plot. We are chasing him down a rabbit hole of insanity and avoiding real issues like gun violence, immigration, health care, poverty and most importantly the very real threat of climate change, something this man doesn’t even believe exists because apparently he knows more as a realtor than the entire scientific community. We aren’t on the precipice of catastrophe or at the doorstep of doom...we are sadly past it. We need leadership to help us formulate how we adapt, grow & tackle environmental changes unlike any humanity has seen in the last few thousand years. But we don’t have that. Instead we have a man more interested in who likes him & who doesn’t than in anybody’s welfare currently reading this thread. I know some people out there believe he must be supported because he represents the religious and moral values you and your family share. But, the truth is, I know nobody really believes that because each and every single version of religious texts I’ve come across say that lying, cheating, stealing, coveting, and deceiving are not moral attributes worthy of lauding. He’s the definition of a fraud. You know it. I know it. Hell, even Fox News knows it. For them, it’s just another inconvenient truth. This isn’t about moral leadership. If you can sleep at night telling yourself that this President is a morally righteous, mentally sound, truthful man, I envy you. I wish I could fool my brain into believing a single syllable of that sentence. I’d have much fewer gray hairs. But I’m not living with my head in the sand. I can, sadly, see what a child should be able to see...we are all in danger as long as this demagogue is in the Oval Office. He is a monster. A racist white Nationalist, who doesn’t even bother using dog whistles, but is singing out loud for all to hear. Our allies are now our enemies. Our enemies are now inside our gates making a mockery of our system while our President cheers them on. 2020 isn’t an election year. It’s the single most historically important moment for our country in the modern era. We have already failed this test once. If we fail again...there is no do-over. History will bury us in its annals and assail us like those fools whose mistakes we repeated because we were too greedy, stubborn or polarized to do the right thing. After all, this is no longer about political differences. This isn’t a football game where we’re all on different teams. This is one union. One country under God that has been through hell and back but carried a torch of greatness on its shores promising something better than anywhere else in the world...opportunity. “The American Dream.” For far too many that dream has become a waking nightmare. Let’s wake ourselves up. Let’s come together. Before it’s too late. Register. Fight. Educate. Learn. Read. Resist. And most importantly. VOTE. Vote like your life depends on it...because this time it does.

Josh, I hope that you have the chance to read my response and consider what I have to say. Part of the problem with the condition of our country is the divisions created when people aren’t willing to listen to and respect each other’s differing viewpoints. First of all, you say that you don’t want to be the guy screaming about the same thing at the top of your lungs and life is short, yet you say you’d have much fewer gray hairs if you could go to sleep at night believe the President is a morally righteous, mentally sound, truthful man. If life is so short, why are you keeping yourself up at night over your own personal beliefs? It’s self-sabotage, and maybe you should consider seeing a doctor for the benefit of your mental health and also a cardiologist so you don’t have a coronary. I voted for President Trump, and it wasn’t to throw a wrench in the system and shake up “political norms”. I weighed my options. I didn’t vote for him in the primaries. But between Trump and Hillary Clinton, I chose who I felt at the time was the lesser of two evils. Voters had no real yard stick with which to measure Trump’s political accomplishments or failures. We had one for Hillary, and clearly the American people didn’t want her in office. She has a history of racism going all the way back to her time as First Lady of Arkansas. There’s video of Hillary on the campaign trail from March 2016 at a coffee shop in Minnesota when she snapped at a young female person of color for questioning her on whether she planned to address the diversity of elected officials. Not to mention the emails that leaked days before the election no doubt had an affect on voters. Her history with her husband’s victims didn’t help her, either. The President isn’t avoiding issues like gun violence, immigration, health care, poverty -- you just don’t agree with what he has done on those issues. He’s addressing the issues and looking for bipartisan solutions. For one thing, he instituted a ban on bump stocks. He pressured Mexico to crack down on migrants passing through their country to get into the United States (the majority of whom were entering the country illegally -- you can hate the law all you want but until it changes, it’s the law that exists and should be enforced), his administration has expanded access to prescription drugs and the slowdown in prescription drug price growth during his time in office has saved over $26 billion. With regard to poverty, President Trump created 4.7 million jobs in his first two years and lowered the unemployment rate to its lowest in recorded history, particularly for African-Americans and Hispanics. I’d love to hear what your solutions are for these issues. As for climate change, President Trump said climate change is a complex issue and added “I’m not sure anybody is ever going to really know” the cause. There are several theories that have been explored by scientists and numerous solutions presented, both small- and large-scale. Some aspects of earth’s core temperature changes have nothing to do with man - they’re do to natural environmental effects. So how do you intend to completely eradicate global warming? I know the President isn’t perfect. I know he’s not a paragon of moral virtue. But in my opinion, he’s still a better leader than Hillary Clinton would have been. At this point, you sound like someone standing on a street corner holding a sign that says THE END IS NIGH. If anyone’s mental state should be considered and questioned, perhaps it’s your own. Just from reading your tweets, it comes off that you’re some foaming-at-the-mouth lunatic.

#Josh Gad #politics #Donald Trump #President Trump #fearmonger #celebrity #Hollywood #Liberal #rant #response #wtf

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antheiin · 5 years ago

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Revered - Supergiant Challenge

Part 3 - 3,411 Words

Part 1 | Part 2

The garden is an interim, an in-between time that acts much like purgatory. In it, Miriam has time to her own head, enough to think about just what this entire thing means. Maybe, she’s floating about in a dream, in which there has been an entire city built out of pieces she hasn’t even experienced, full of people she can hardly picture coming up with. That’s the part that makes it hard to completely buy in to, the fact that she can’t reasonably make it all true.

Though, the impossible had been proved to her a few times before. Namely, her ascension, which had been put away as an impossibility when Miriam was younger. So, at this point, it could go so far either way that she hates to make any conclusions.

Fedir and her had talked for a time, under their breaths and slowly traversing the overgrown areas. He had told her more when pressured, spurred on by Miriam’s insistence and furrowed brow, the edge of concern in her voice that didn’t reach a whine, but still expressed her distress. They had gone over the impact on her in their initial attempts to remove Miriam from the location, her panic rushing her out the door before she could be truly impacted by it.

Bleeding a god from their mortal form was a phrase that made Miriam just a tad bit nauseous to think about. The implications of anything of that nature happening to her person was worth the upset. It wasn’t anything she couldn’t watch in a horror movie, but when the process was placed further into reality, she found it repugnant at best. That was all she needed at that moment, but leaving sight of the house behind meant lowering her anxiety at least a little bit, forcing Miriam to think.

What else would happen? What else could happen, even?

Fedir had answered her with that prodding, and she’d known the moment his voice lowered even more in preparation had let a rock of dread settle into her abdomen. Despite her own abilities not requiring the first law of physics or thermodynamics, this apparently does. The extent of the power requires input of its own, something not found on any measurable scale.

Hundreds of thousands of people, he had said, people who would be going about their days before suddenly seizing and being taken by the actions of people miles and miles away. People they had never met, doing this for a god that they had not met, and likely would never meet in the end. That fact scared her, and badly, so running away from the source of it seemed like the best possible option to undertake.

Miriam had run and run and run, not looking back to the house until she snagged herself on a crawling root, falling down with a muffled thump that turned into a semi-uncontrolled somersault. Fedir’s footsteps behind her skidded on the stones lining the path, both of their breaths caught up in a shallow wheeze.

“Hey, hey, you can’t run away like that.” Fedir is hissing his words, crouching down to help Miriam get to her feet. She does so, stumbling and clutching at her chest as she tries to stomp her panic down. “It makes a lot of noise. I don’t want us to be heard. There’s not a lot of places to hide here.”

“Can’t we go any faster, then?!” Miriam’s voice, while hushed, strains and even cracks at one point, her fingers digging into Fedir’s sleeve. “Things were already pretty bad, but that extra information just makes it so much worse.” It could be comedic, were the situation not so dire.

“...Fine.” Fedir stands, pulling Miriam up with him, and linking their arms together. Somewhat comforted, she squeezes her son’s arm, and tugs them onward, content to take the lead this time. “Just, keep your ears open.”

Any strange sounds, any oddities, and she was about as likely to hurt someone as she was to flee.

“I can’t, I can’t wrap my head around why they would do this.” Miriam speaks softly after the next few minutes of walking don’t alert to anyone following them. “If that many people are going to die, how do they know that they all won’t just be wiped out?” It’s a reasonable question, in her mind, but Fedir doesn’t seem to know anything on it, and shrugs his reply.

Perhaps the philosophies of Katherine Piwowarski had held on for the time she’d skipped through. After all, in Poland, there had been twelve-hundred present, scattered about and ranging from warrior sorts to children. It was a compound, practically disguised as a rustic little town. That was enough people to pass a story on to colleagues and children, for however long. It wasn’t as if she was taking in the world after the sun had gone out, or something similarly catastrophic. Those philosophies of Katherine’s were timeless, to a degree, and her gospels claimed to be by Miriam’s own tongue, a wondrous collection of obsession and a belief so strong it had manifested itself into a global threat.

The entirety of it wasn’t something Miriam knew. But, in her times bound to the center house in the first foggy town, Katherine had ranted and cooed as she sprawled herself across Miriam, the oxygen tank hissing with the effort of her preaching. At times, when her mind didn’t scream with danger alarms, it was almost serene. A different sort of her could have been loved by a woman invested more in her power than her person. At least she was beautiful, at least she was hard pressed to pull her attention away from Miriam for any length of time.

For the Miriam who was desperate and lonely and unsure about what had happened to her, this was set up as a story reaching it’s romantic conclusion. She had liked Katherine for a good long time, when she seemed like a dream come true. Really, if she had not become what she was, she could have loved Katherine dearly. Could have taken Bruno and Tabi along as well. At one point, there was a Miriam so intuned with the world around her, who would be happy to tie herself to a group of similarly odd sorts. They could have been friends, really.

Miriam could have married a woman like Katherine Piwowarski had she not been what she was when they met. There have been fragments of a reality like that that she’s been gifted, where the idea was more prominent. Katherine could have been something wonderful in her own troubled existence.

Besides the gift of blood in the dirt and stone, the interim garden is left with little else to present. Miriam does pluck a flower, a dappled lily that she cups in her hands, unsure of what to do with it. She needs to chase away this face before the people around can get attuned to it. “I’m switching up again.” Miriam speaks lowly to her brother, and tugs the cloak further around herself, as if hiding the transformation in her cloak. This form is a bit more slight, and the notches in her borrowed hands and the blonde hair at a weird length makes her think that she’s landed comfortably as Cole. He wouldn’t mind, she doesn’t think. It’s for the good and safety of her and someone she cares about very much. The pilfered lily is slipped behind an ear, shaded by the heavy weave of her stolen cloak.

“Thank you hon,” she mumbles that bit under her breath as the pair leave the garden, diverting from the path to clumsily scale an adjacent stone wall. “I’ll take good care while I borrow this for awhile.” Really, Miriam assumes that she can hold this form while Cole is Cole. No issues with one physical form, and multiple vessels jockeying for it.

On the other side of the wall, the world drops into brambles and oddities that she only sort of recognizes. Miriam had gotten better with botany as time had gone on, but she still is lost when her feet hit the ground. The snarls at her ankles prompt a grumble, and Miriam has to pull herself free, before bending to unsnare some of Fedir’s coat from tangle of thorns.

“What’s through here?”

“This is where it starts getting bad. Someone’s going to alert that you’re gone like, any minute. People use the path through the wooded area like a main highway. So we’re going off the grid for a bit.” Miriam nods, thinking of leave no trace mentalities that had been imbued on her during some camping expeditions. She can do off the grid, she can disappear.

“Then let’s, get a bit off trail, I want to repack our bags. Quiet as possible is the plan, yeah?” She’s picking her way down carefully, cutting north-west to get away from the garden. The noise of bugs drops off, and for a moment, they’re cast in silence that’s just relaxed enough to not be a problem. Once they’ve left that silence space, and have gone back into the faint murmur of the woodland, does Miriam take her bag off, and gesture for Fedir’s.

“This shouldn’t take long.” The bags are near empty, but hardly neat. Miriam moves lightening fast, pulling things out and tucking them away. The spotted extra boots are given a stern look. “I hope you ordered on the larger size, I guess I can stuff these with socks if I need to.”

“I don’t know women’s sizes, so I just got what looked close. So uh, it’s probably not the best.” Honesty, that’s something to appreciate. Rearranging Fedir’s bag as well, she finds a few more things. A locket (tarnished), a few pill bottles, and an obscene number or bandanas (colored obnoxiously). It’s worth little more than a chuckle, before they’re both heading out down the hill and through this woodland.

The woods surrounding the gardens and the hidden town had grown exponentially since the people had come. Well, the fog had rolled in first, blanketing it from imaging, and swallowed up in the same way the fog swallowed up the sound. Between the foreboding evergreens, to the ferns so broad that they could pass for an eccentric skirt. Those sensitive to the subtle changes of the world- the deities and Conduits she once knew- could tell that there was energy bubbling over this chosen land.

It’s kind to them, though. The woods is quiet and mossy, and allows for slips and falls and blunders with great forgiveness. Nevertheless, the serenity only lasts for forty-five minutes, as most things do. The silence was broken apart by voices coming closer, urgent feet crunching through the rock. Clutching Fedir’s arm, Miriam pulls them into the brush, fingers digging in and her other hand clasped over her mouth to prevent the whimper in her throat from working out.

“The Sergeant ordered anyone…” The first voice is muffled, but Miriam feels cold at this point, and by the way Fedir stiffens, he’s unhappy too. Determined to get a better sense of what’s being said, she worms forward, still hidden in the brush, but just a little bit closer to the source. “The Sergeant ordered anyone who isn’t in a vital post to comb the gardens and down into the Walkways. Said that there’s been a breach.”

“Oh, oh my.” The next voice is thin and reedy, really, Miriam could call it reedy without being wrong. “And I had heard that the High Priestess retreated at the news, both her and the Maw. Is the Sergeant still running the front lines like he does?”

“If he didn’t, I’d be surprised.” She can catch a glimpse now of a tall, broad man, built like a lumberjack .That’s the muffled voice. A few feet to his side is a girl no more than five feet tall, practically a fairy, considering how delicate she looked next to him. Miriam sits on her conscience, and wonders about the benefits of simply eliminating these two, to make them a problem no longer and never again.

But, she just can’t make herself, and instead, focuses on their words for something useful.

“The breach,” the woman starts, her fairy voice twisting itself into a sigh. “She got out of the house the High Priestess was holding her in, didn’t she?” It’s snide now, grating on itself and making Miriam shiver. “Now we’re all putting up with extra for the sacred cause because someone couldn’t get the whole thing right in the first place.” Kind of an interesting way to consider things as a cult member, but Miriam figures she wouldn’t know unless she was one person. Just best not to judge it.

“Seems so, but keep your voice down.” The woman is admonished near immediately, and Fedir fidgets when the sound can be hidden by speaking. “You don’t know who’s coming. We should hurry anyways, before we’re late.”

And with that, the footsteps and voices faded as the pair went further down the tree lined path, leaving Fedir and Miriam behind. She’s shaking without realizing it, and has to grab at a tree limb to keep herself steady as she gets out of her stiff legged crouch.

“That can’t be the last of it,” Miriam mutters, casting a glance to Fedir, before helping to pull the boy to his feet. “It was twelve-hundred here the last time I remember. How many are there now?”

“Uh, let me think.” Fedir chews on his lip, back to leading the way as he takes both himself and Miriam through the least dense parts of the woods, still remaining off the path. Eventually, he seems to give up, and shrugs to Miriam with an apologetic sort of look. “I think over four thousand, now? I dunno, I tried to do some research, but it’s all cloudy, and I think they’re all over the place. How come you don’t remember any of this?”

Miriam, unsure and unwilling, shrugs right back and stares at her feet for awhile. “I just don’t. There’s, there’s this whole section missing.” Waving a hand, her brow furrows, expression desperate for understanding. “Like waking up from a dream to, this. Nightmare, something.” His mouth stands agape, unsure and unsteady as they keep hiking just off the edge of the path. The fact that he squeezes her hand, and says no more, makes her a bit anxious.

It’s miserable walking and snagging on every other briar in the woods. However, it’s safest, by all arguments, and while they can’t talk much, it’s easy enough to pretend to be a woodland creature, venturing just out of sight. Miriam, in the meantime, tries not to manipulate anything, tries not to flex any of what she is. The plants feel heavy, as if weighted down by the atmosphere of this place. Worth watching, but touching is far too dangerous. It’s distracting, even, the way these things exist.

Too distracting, she finds out soon.

They’re about ninety percent of the way there, Fedir says. It’s an estimate at best, given how things feel so much different when you’re looking at them theoretically. Still quiet, walking one foot in front of the other, with an ear out for danger. So, it comes as a shock to hear someone else again, a shrill sound that sounds a bit too surprised to have been following for long.

“Oh, that face of your’s, I don’t recognize it. And I know everyone. So, It, it has to be you! They said that you were hiding in someone else’s skin.” It’s no voice she’s known before, cracking up an octave and stammering on itself. Whipping her head around, Miriam finds herself about six feet away from a young woman in a hooded cloak, her round glasses eschew on her nose. “You’ve been right here the whole time! What luck-”

Deciding that she doesn’t like that tone at all, Miriam grabs Fedir’s wrist, shoving the boy back and behind her with the nudge of her hip. “Stay behind me, run if you need to.” The words are muttered, strangled out, really. Fedir looks cross, but nods his agreement to the frantic, nervous plan.

“She told us you couldn’t just leave us.” The strange cultist is stock still, too still, her smile stretched across her face. “Turn face from those who would deny your faith. Keep your goddess close and reap her bounty.” It sounds like verse, and Miriam hates this entire thing more and more each moment, limbs stiff and frozen in place. “Reap the fruits of your labors.”

“Stop.” She warns, fingers digging into Fedir’s wrist. “Just, I, please stop. We don’t have to do this. We just want to go home.” It’s begging, really, her attempts to get the woman to allow them to pass. In response, her head tilts, and she gives Miriam a quizzical look. That isn’t comforting, not at all.

“But goddess,” the whine makes Miriam drop her disguise in a fit of fear, suddenly much smaller and damn near cowering. The stranger’s smile splits her face open, and she takes another step forward. “Your home is here, don’t you know? Nothing else.” Another step, another little skip that sends her off the path and into the woods, ankle deep in the undergrowth. “There’s no leaving us now. It wouldn’t be fair, after all this time the priestess has worked to bring you here with us, to grant you your power.”

That paralyzing dread stays, and Miriam can hear Fedir step back behind her, wrist still stuck in her grasp. Still smiling, the stranger slides forward again, the hem of her pants snagging on a thorn or two. She moves so slowly, that it’s hard to process, so hard that Miriam suddenly processes just how close she’s gotten to them both, how her smile has widened more and more, how open her eyes are. It’s like watching a haunting in progress, specters clambering over a living body. A moment later, the stranger is close enough to hear her breathing.

“Let me take you home.” She lunges, snapping a hand around Miriam’s free wrist. Throat stuck, all she herself can do is stand stock still, gaping at the scene. But then, Fedir finds himself faster, and pulls his mother, trying to tear her from the strange woman’s grasp.

“Let go of her-!” His cry jumps Miriam forward, and she struggles too, trying to twist herself loose as the woman snaps her other hand onto Miriam’s forearm, fingers like a vice. It feels like she’s going to die, like this stranger is going to snap her up and bring her back to be pulled apart at the seams, for people to die. This feels like the end of the world.

With nothing else on her mind, Miriam releases Fedir and snaps forward like a let go spring. The fact that she’s breaking someone’s nose is a little surreal. Despite the power, violence makes her nervous, and the memories of her own crimes is painful. Desperation does terribly funny things, though.

Faced with a great deal of pain, the stranger recoils, releasing with one hand, and then another, reaching to clutch at her face as she bleeds. Miriam’s own arm is clawed up where nails have tried to break her skin, the marks sure to bruise. In reply, the strange woman lashes out, and briefly, Miriam sees a sea of stars.

It’s difficult to process, immediately after being hit in the face. This is somewhere between a slap and a punch, her hand curled and nails striking Miriam’s cheek. Pain blooms soon enough, and Miriam just wobbles in place while the both of them try to process what’s just happened to them. Fedir, with more sense in that moment, grabs Miriam’s arm and yanks.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go! Now! Go!” She stumbles at the first tug, dancing over her feet and trying her best to not fall. It works, thankfully, and Miriam manages to break into a run.

The edge of this woods isn’t far now, and comes closer and closer the more they run. For now, the goal is to escape, to hide away from the strange woman until she loses direction of where they are. She’s too perceptive, too interested, and too touchy. Best to just keep trying to taste freedom from this nightmare.

After all, there’s just a bit longer to go.

#ic #isola drabble #isola supergiant challenge #cults tw #blood tw #bold for miri #bold n italics for fedir #italics for other

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haztory · 6 years ago

Text

forgiveness.

Summary: It’s high time you both swallowed your pride and ripped the band-aid off.

Word count: 4112

A/N: im back in action and am sincerely pleading for forgiveness for my absence. life sucks. but i am planning to make a smooth recovery and an ever more prevalent appearance on this platform. and in the frank tag. also pls comment and tell me how much of a shit writer i am lmao

Pain blossoms along the bones of his hands like a blooming flower, traveling along each nerve and neuron, setting them alight with a burning fire in each movement he takes. The fragile skin on his knuckles splits beneath each brute punch, but he remains unconcerned with the decimating pain—instead, reveling in the feeling alone. He takes it as a sign to continue, fixated under the belief that if he didn't feel the pain in this moment, he wouldn't remember what it was like to be alive. If he couldn’t feel the blood pumping through his veins and his heart thrusting out of his chest, he would never remember the brief instance of humanity surging through his body.

The pain served as the only tether he had to reality; The only reminder that he wasn’t just a ghost of a shell walking through the streets of the burning city.

The gym sat empty and dark, save for him in his corner towards the back of the establishment, enjoying the equipment way past the set closing time. The owner—an older man who claims he is forever indebted to Frank for saving him from a potentially lethal mugging—left the back door open for Frank in the event that, should he need it, he could access the tools necessary to release any stress he could have accumulated.

Frank insisted to the man that he didn't need to do that, that Frank was more than happy to keep paying his membership like everyone else, but the man refused to hear it. He placed a spare key in Frank’s palm with a wrinkly smile, saying, "She's all yours after closing. Just remember to lock the door."

It was a kind gesture, a particularly uplifting one, that left Frank in a better mood than he had been in before. He kept the key close to him, safe inside the pocket of his worn-down gym bag he took to the gym.

He doesn't remember what time he got in or how long he's been there, but he assumes a considerable amount of time has passed since the entirety of his back is covered in sweat and his hands ache beyond belief, but he refuses to stop.

While his muscles ache and burn with each jab he places against the punching bag, screaming in desperation for Frank to just take a break, the haunting images that seem to be incredibly popular this evening drive him to work harder and faster than before. And he won’t stop.

Jab. Jab. Upper cut. Left hook. Jab. Jab.

He won't stop until he can no longer feel anything. Until he can no longer see his kids. Until he can no longer see Maria's face. Until hollow eyes and bloodied skin no longer taunt him. Until--

"Prepping for an upcoming match, Rocky?"

The phrase echoes around the empty gym, the acoustics bouncing the sound around the room, that momentarily stuns him into stillness. He halts his onslaught of punches, outstretching his previously curled fingers to catch the swinging bag he that was flying towards his head. He steadies the piece of equipment, catching it with the tips of his fingers, steadying his panting breaths.

He gently closes his eyes, leaning his head against the bag as he listens to the owner of the familiar voice come out of the shadows of the gym and step closer towards him. The echoes of the shoes resonate throughout the vacant gym. Once the loud clunking of shoes stops, he exhales a deep breath, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, more than symbolic of the current situation he was put in.

He didn't need to look to know who was standing before him, nor did he want to look. Looking would only force a resurfacing of memories that Frank would much rather keep hidden.

There was a reason things ended when they did.

There was a reason he never tried to contact you.

Swallowing whatever pride, he lifted his head from the bag, opening his eyes and shifting his head towards the intruder.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting to see; Some twisted part of him wanted to see you looking damaged beyond repair, in a pain deeper than he ever was. The brutal, vengeful part of him wanted to see you on your hands and knees, begging and pleading for his help, as though that would be some sort of step towards mending the deep wound between you two. (It certainly wouldn’t be a great situation for you, but it would definitely be the first thing to be put a smile on Frank’s face.)

But of course, that would never happen. You were always smart enough to know when to jump out of a burning plane, both metaphorically and literally. Something that felt like a brand on his skin; A present reminder of the mark you left.

You stand in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of your pants—which Frank rightly assumes are some luxury brand from a designer whose name he would never remember—standing tall and healthy and clean, in your professional ensemble, leaning against a structural beam with a small smirk on your face. Amusement plays in your eyes as you scan his very taught and sweaty body.

He can feel the anger building up inside of him and the desire to punch something comes back full force.

He doesn't like it.

Frank tears his eyes away from you, his jaw clenching and teeth gritting as he returns his attention back to the blue punching bag in front of him.

"You followin’ me now?" he spits at you, the question drenched in acid, very clearly warning you not to take any step closer as though you were a predator preying on a poisonous animal. It paints a funny picture in your head, one where you were some type of bird and him a poisonous dart frog, circling one another in the undergrowth of a forest.

It wasn't an ill-fitting picture as it represented your current relationship perfectly with little to no exaggerations.

You wished it didn't.

You release a breath of amusement through your nose, shrugging off his cold shoulder with ease, focusing on him as he resumes his reign of anger on the bag, "Don't need to. I'm always keeping tabs on you, Frankie. I've got eyes everywhere."

His eyes narrow in disdain, and if there was any possibility of civility between you two it was out the window now.

He was making it very clear he did not like that idea.

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly at him, trying to hold an unfazed facade in front of him. His punches continue, only this time with much more force and you know he's imagining your face on the bag. "Don't act surprised. I'm an Avenger, I have that kind of power."

"Don't mean you gotta use it," he pants.

"On you? Oh, yes I do. You tend to get in a lot of shit Frankie."

"Yeah?" Jab. Jab. Left hook, "Well that's my business, not yours."

"I'm just making sure you're okay," you tell him, voice gentler than the previous teasing tone. He spares you a glance of uncertainty, his eyes darting from your eyes back to the bag in front of him, then back to you, the second time holding your gaze. He takes a step away from the bag, narrowly missing being hit by the bag when it swings forward at him.

His gloved hands hang at his side and his chest heaves with breaths, the sweat forcing his shirt to stick to his skin and glisten in the fluorescent lights.

It's the first time he's actually looked at you. Not even just the first time tonight, but the first time in years. It feels like he’s staring through you and it brings back a whole wave of feelings that you thought you could handle, but were very wrong. His hollow eyes stare into yours, an angry vengeance deep in his brown irises that sends chills down your spine.

He makes you feel a deep insecurity in the joints of your bones and you couldn’t feel like more of a bad guy than you did at that moment. His fixed look makes you crave for something as sweet as torture. You try to maintain a neutral face under his scrutinizing gaze only for your body to release the awkwardness of the intensity through fidgeting and shifting of your body.

"That so?" he asks, his stare rock solid and unwavering accompanying a deep gruff of his voice that sends shivers down the entirety of your spine. Suddenly, it all makes sense; You now understand the fear that comes with being the enemy of Frank Castle.

You had heard rumors in passing of the type of trepidation Frank could produce in even the hardest of men—the kind of fear that scares people for life, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders, even when they've moved miles away from him. He instills a distress into his victims that haunts them for years to come, wondering if he remembers them, if he will finally come back and finish the job he started. Frank Castle’s name became synonymous with the Devil.

If anything, he was scarier.

It stirs up a sweat in your body that beads at the top of your forehead and wets your palms. Once upon a time, you had been able to say with confidence that Frank Castle would never hurt you. He would hurt anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way. Now, you weren't so sure. If given the chance, you’re pretty sure he would pay a good fortune to have someone do more than that.

You take a thick swallow, working quickly to compose yourself in front of him. You returned his intimidating gaze as best as you could, his stone-cold eyes overpowering your sincere ones by a long shot.

"We've had our problems, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you," your voice shakes a bit as you say it, and you curse at yourself. You've faced men three times your size and aliens more dangerous than Frank Castle could ever dream to be and you never batted an eye. Yet, standing in front of him, you feel all confidence and pride leaving your body in one, quick breath. You were not a long-time friend of Frank Castle that could reminisce with him about the good old days in the military. You were not a long-time friend that could happily ask about his family in passing and receive a pleasant answer. You were not who you were five or six years ago. And neither was he.

You didn't know this man—not anymore. He made it damn clear he doesn’t want to know you.

Frank scoffs, and it sounds like one of amusement but his face makes no change to convey that feeling. It stays steady and unwelcoming, with his lips pulled in tight and his eyebrows furrowed.

"What, you think I don't care about you?" your voice raises a few octaves.

His silence answers your question, and you feel offended at the insinuation. How shallow does he think you are?

"What're you doin’ here?" he says rather impatiently. He finally breaks the fixation on you, looking down at the gloves on his hand and ripping the Velcro off. He backtracks towards the back wall and places the gloves on top of his gym bag seated there. You watch him intently, all desire to defend yourself dying at the tip of your tongue. Your damaged ego could pick a fight on that another time.

"I'm here to help." you tell him, gathering whatever morsel of pride you could to make yourself sound more confident than you felt. His back is turned to you as he bends down to his bag, placing the gloves in and taking a towel out. He dries the sweat on the back of his neck.

"Don't need it."

"C'mon, Frank" you groan out, taking a step to him rather excitedly. He sees the quick motion from the corner of his eye and his body whips around to face yours, a defensive stance taking root. It stops you in your tracks, and you can feel your heart crack at the further realization: Not only did he not trust you, or believe that you cared about him, but he was preparing for an instance where you would physically hurt him for God knows how long.

You expected the anger and the distrust, but… that hurt more than it should have.

You softly shake your head, and Frank can barely see the wet film of tears in your eyes, but he sees it. He almost feels guilty—almost.

"Ain't nothing to "c'mon" about. I don't need your help; I don't want your help. Whoever you got keepin' eyes on me, get rid of 'em before I find 'em." He leans back down to his bag, throwing the towel inside and zipping it up roughly, almost breaking the zipper in the process. He throws it over his shoulder, slowly turning himself back around to face your pitiful face. "Don't come looking for me again."

With a final adjustment of the bag on his shoulder, he makes his way towards the back door from which he came in. He almost makes it there, ready to flip the light switch off before he hears your voice call out for him again.

"I know who you're looking for."

He stops in his tracks. Why are you making this harder than it needs to be?

"I know where to find him too."

That piques his interest. It doesn't totally surprise him—of course you would know where everyone is considering your job title. He'd been looking for an underground kingpin that was responsible for the kidnapping of a number of underage kids in the area-- including his next-door neighbor's daughter. Only makes sense that you would have some knowledge of that.

He slowly turns around, glancing rather suspiciously at the file that you've seemingly procured out of thin air in your hands. It's a thick file, much too big for your hands. He can see the numerous clippings and paper clips from the side of it, even in the dim lighting of the gym.

"Turns out that the guy you're looking for is the same guy that I've been tracking for the past seven months," you look down at the file in your hands, a wry smile on your face. "Kidnapping isn't the only thing he does."

Frank places his bag on the floor, letting it drop with an intentional thud. You've got his attention; how long can you keep it?

"Kidnapping wasn't enough to get on your radar?" Frank says rather bitterly, a blatant jab at you and your job. It stings, but it's not like you could disagree. You already put yourself and the other Avengers through a whole load of shit for ignoring the monster that was slowly growing under the sewers of your home, your city.

You could make excuses left and right to those who asked about how your job as "Earth's Mightiest Hero" allowed for mistakes as big as not paying attention to a child trafficker making himself known right under your noses, to which your publicist would say something along the lines of “The Avengers try to pay attention to every situation, both domestically and abroad. But situations that are not of immediate concern are passed down the branches” or something like that. It would pass in the papers, but you would never be able to justify it to yourself. You tended to take every case presented to heart and have already been lectured numerous amounts of times on how that was your greatest weakness. Old habits die hard, and Frank knew that.

He always knew the right ways to hurt you.

You let out a dry laugh, looking at Frank with a borderline shameful expression, "I deserved that one."

"You deserve a lot more than what I'm giving you."

"Yeah, Frank. I know. I got it, alright?" The agitation was apparent, but Frank was never one to back down from a challenge.

"Do you? Do you really?" He replies, his tone only elevating the vicious turn the conversation was taking.

"Yeah, Frank. I do. It haunts me every day!" you yell at him, the file laying forgotten in your hands as you stare at him from a distance away. There was no doubt in your mind that you would have this discussion with him at some point in time. You had hoped it would be under nicer circumstances, where you both weren’t under the constraints of a child trafficker wreaking havoc upon the city.

Frank once again stands silent at your confession, unable to figure out what angle you were trying to play at. Were you trying to get sympathy points from him? Were you trying to get under his skin and manipulate him? He didn't know. He doesn't know you anymore.

"You really think that I'm just okay with the way things happened?" You tell him, a gentle contrast to the previous agitation in your statement.

He maintains his space near the door, reminding himself to be ready to leave whenever this conversation turns down a path he didn't want. Before you managed to convince him to forgive you; Before you managed to weasel your way back into his life with a smile and a temptation of a better future.

But he found his feet glued to the floor, unable to move, unable to plan his escape as you looked at him with pain and suffering in your eyes. In the eyes, he always found comfort in, and the heart he felt the most.

It was too late to leave now; You had already caught him in your hold, even if you didn't know it.

"I let you down, Frank. I abandoned you when you needed me, and I will never forgive myself for that," you raised a hand to your cheek, furiously rubbing away a stray tear that slipped out. You would not break in front of him. You needed to make this up to him. "But I was scared. Too scared to go against a man who did so many bad things to people."

You slowly took a step closer to Frank, showing him you meant no harm. "I couldn't go against someone who could easily destroy my life, who threatened to do that. But, you did. And you paid the price for that."

He knew he should've stopped you--stopped you from talking, from coming closer to him, from coming back into his life. But with every word you said, he found himself remembering his days with you, his happiest memories working alongside you in the military. He found himself slowly melting back into the repressed memories where his trust was easy to come by and your companionship tethered him back down to earth.

His resolve, his anger, his distrust, was slowly wearing away.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm not asking you to accept me into your life. I'm not even asking you to like me." He didn't even notice you were standing in front of him, a foot away from his unsteady heart and uneven breaths. "I'm asking you to let me make it up to you. Because I wasn't there to help you take down Agent Orange, but I'm here to help you with this guy. I know how he works, I know what he does, and I know how to take him down."

You shrugged your shoulders lightly, not knowing what else you could say to the man in front of you, how else you could describe the remorse that had been weighing on your shoulders for the past five years. In your moment of fear, in the face of the threat from the formidable Agent Orange as a young agent, you resigned from your post within the United States Information Operation, effectively cutting ties with Frank Castle who so desperately needed your help to try and find information to take down the corrupt man. You left him to deal with the problem alone, when you agreed to help. You remained isolated from Frank Castle, even after he tried numerous times to get in contact with you after the end of his deployment.

Then the attempts stopped, and you soon learned about the fate of his family. More importantly, you knew from who. You didn't bother to try and contact him.

When he could've-- and should've-- thrown the dogs off his scent and averted them to you, Frank Castle didn't. He denied your involvement in anything related to Agent Orange; He denied having ever asked you for help; He denied ever even knowing you.

He protected you. As you publicly rose through the ranks at your new job as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, Frank Castle was suffering through the landmine you had both tried to clear. Frank Castle's life was destroyed, and yet he had no desire to destroy yours.

That was a debt you could never repay.

Even if he told you to fuck off, or spit in your face, it wouldn't be anything you didn't deserve. But, if he gave you even the slightest chance to make it up to him, you would do your damndest to fulfill it.

You were already willing to lay down your life for him, you just had to prove you were even worth that honor.

Your eyes darted around his face, looking for some sign that revealed what he was thinking. A twitch in the lip, the raise of a brow, something that you could try and decipher. He remained stoic in his place, watching you beg before him.

"Let me help you," you pleaded to him one last time.

He tore his eyes from yours and stared down at the bag at his feet. God, what was he doing? With an inaudible grunt, he leaned down to pick up the bag and throw it over his shoulder once again.

You stared at him desperately, feeling your heart about to drop into your stomach at the realization that he would never forgive you, nor would he ever help you. And now, there would be nothing you could say to stop him otherwise. You would let him go. You wouldn't hurt him anymore.

With a sad resolve, you closed your mouth, letting your objections die on your lips and prepared to watch him do what you did all those years ago: Turn his back. You lowered your head, holding the file in front of your legs and waited patiently to hear the sound of his shoes leave the building, holding the disappointment tightly on a leash.

Instead, you heard him sigh.

"Your place or mine?"

You quickly met his eyes, and were surprised to find a gentleness behind the stones, although his face showed no other emotion. You blinked repeatedly, his words barely registering inside of your head. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words could form.

"M-mine." You finally stuttered, not able to grasp the reality of the situation.

He gently nodded his head, stepping to the side to allow you to lead him out of the building. After staring blankly at him, you understood the gesture, exiting the building and waiting for him to find you in the back alley, entire body stunned at the turn of events.

He followed behind you, turning the lights off and locking the back door to the gym, placing the key into his bag. He ignored your stunned stare, preferring to keep all his feelings and thoughts to himself for the time being.

He had forgiven you a long time ago. There was nothing that he could really blame you for other than being a young and scared cadet in the military. It was a massively responsibility he thrusted upon you, knowing full and well that there were very few that would be able to do it. He wasn’t angry that you jumped ship and resigned from your post after Agent Orange threatened your life; He was angry that he didn’t.

He should have denied helping you on the basis alone that you didn’t deserve it. But Frank could never be that cruel to you, not when he was also in need of some help.

He had forgiven you a long time ago, because it was the right thing to do. And it was time for him to stop acting like that was a bad decision.

tag list: @mooniessuniverse

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #my fics #frank castle x oc #im sorry im such a crappy writer

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