#but to have all the other characters engage in coherent conversation we need to have a solid grasp of all the technical shit lol

[brittlebutch]

i can’t stop thinking about this weird little storm chaser AU my brain dreamed up where bill&ted are the POV characters but crucially not the main characters but the problem is that I truly don’t know anything about storms and I worry I’m not smart enough to understand if I do start researching LOL

[to-be-a-dreamer]

I talked about this in the tags of a reblog but I need to expand on this because my brain is vibrating and it's all Hank Freaking Green's fault. This will not be coherent at all just roll with it.

I don't know if it was on purpose or not but the scene where The Fix and Pasha were flirting by exchanging fun facts did so so much for the Fix's character in my mind because like. Pasha is the only character we've seen who had a positive response to the Fix's fun facts right off the bat. (Presumably the orphans at the Home for Wayward Interests had positive responses but I'm specifically talking about on-screen reactions.)

The targets that the Fix talks to are so terrified by his facts that they just disintegrate on the spot. The DA is mildly annoyed at best by them. Even the other Prefrontal PIs are freaked out or confused by them at first. It takes a couple episodes for them to come around to his fun facts, especially after "half the bones in your body" one. It takes them some time to realize that that's just how The Fix communicates his thoughts and ideas. He uses his fun facts as a way to connect and bond with friends just as much as he uses them to intimidate his targets.

But Pasha is the first person we see and, presumably, one of the only people in The Fix's life to hear one of his facts and not only immediately accept and understand it to be a method of conversation, but to also respond with a fact of their own and have an entire conversation with The Fix in the way he feels most comfortable.

We've seen so many times that The Fix goes out of his way to try and appear less threatening or even avoid people altogether because he knows most people are scared of him because of his appearance. It takes him so long to convince the other Prefontal PIs that he's really not going to hurt Conrad (compare how quickly Dan is a part of the group and how his motives are never questioned despite how vocal he is about hating Conrad and being all too eager to turn him over to the police and/or have him murdered to how long it takes The Fix) and he doesn't even seem hurt by the idea that all these people think he would murder a child when he's clearly a very kind and loving person, especially to children.

He's just. Come to terms with the fact that everyone's first impression of him will be this big intimidating presence who enjoys hurting people. But he's not. He's just passionate about his job, like everyone else in the city. It just happens to be that his job is to keep Elias focused, which means letting go of the butterfly tails. When he's tasked with eliminating someone who doesn't seem like they need to be eliminated, he immediately stops and questions the case. As far as I can tell, he doesn't like to kill people, he doesn't do it for fun. He does it because that's his job, literally the only thing he was made to do. But he's come to accept that most people will always be afraid of him because of that job.

And then he meets Pasha, who immediately accepts his form of communication without question or confusion. Who isn't afraid or intimidated by him. Who isn't just entertaining his fun facts but is actively engaging and returning with her own. She is the first person (who isn't a child, who is the Fix's peer) that The Fix could talk to without having to explain himself. The first person who wasn't afraid or confused or annoyed by the way he expresses himself.

Like. I dunno I imagine it would almost be like moving to a foreign country as a child and not being able to speak in your native language because every time you do people are suspicious of you or annoyed that you aren't speaking the local language or just plain don't understand you, even if they're trying to be kind about it. And it's harder to explain yourself and express your thoughts in this new language but you learn and you adapt because it's the only way to survive. Then you meet someone who speaks your language. Someone who allows you to speak freely and for the first time you can actually express yourself fully and easily. And they're speaking back to you in the language you think in and for once you don't have to translate everything before you say it out loud and after you hear it. I think that would feel so freeing.

So yeah, I'm guessing that scene was supposed to be a silly goofy one-off gag that's just funny and cute but it genuinely means so much to me. Truly I don't get people who say The Fix isn't as deep or interesting as the other characters he is FACINATING to me and this isn't even touching on his relationship with Conrad or what he might be feeling after learning Ichabod was Pasha's brother. (If it gets revealed that Ichabod was one of The Fix's first hits I will lose it.)

Thank you for coming to my late-night nonsense ramblings I hope I was mildly entertaining

[codeandgin]

The Enshittification of TikTok

I’ve been using TikTok since around 2020. I could probably be classed as an average user; I don’t upload much, occasionally leave comments, and mostly just doomscroll. I enjoy the app; I have managed to train the algorithm as best as I can to provide me a feed of queer humour, world news, gaming content, etc. Short-form video can be a great space for that kind of content, and I love watching creative people carve out a niche for themselves. However, during my time using TikTok, I’ve noticed a wave of bizarre design decisions, alterations to the UI, changes to what kind of content is preferred by the algorithm, and I would like to vent about them here.

I would like to preface this with the statement that this article is in no way researched, more that it is an anecdotal account of aspects of TikTok that stand out to me as annoying and emblematic of enshittification.

I. UI

The UI of TikTok seems to be in an ever-changing state of flux. One day the homepage is split into “For You” and “Following”, the next day the TikTok Shop has joined them as a third tab. Then the “Friends” feed shifts to the navigation bar, only for it to be swapped out for the Shop a week later. Consistency is not key, it seems, in the minds of Douyin’s UX designers.

I understand optimising the layout. I understand the need to find places to put newly developed features. It just seems so constant on TikTok, that I almost doubt that they have a UX team at all. Given that it took years to add letterboxing so non-iPhone aspect ratios didn’t get random cutoff, I may be right.

II. Feature Added, Feature Removed

If you’ve been around on TikTok for any length of time, you’ll know how frustrating this is. With seemingly the same frequency of their UI changes, TikTok adds new features and removes well-liked features to the app. Who remembers pinned comments? I do. The repost feature that was recently added has already been gutted, as you can no longer attach comments to a repost. I don’t know if they’re unconfident in the features they make, or if they’re using us as unwitting beta testers, or what. To compound this frustration, rollout and removal of features seems almost random - dependant on the model of your device or even the region in which you reside. I didn’t get captions for nearly a year after they were first rolled out.

III. Impossible (4/4), conversations(2/4), are(3/4), coherent(1/4)

Comment threads are impossible to follow. It is impossible to have a coherent conversation with someone in the comments over a prolonged period because the comment threads don’t sort temporally. What’s the point in having the ability to reply to specific comments if the thread isn’t going to be displayed in the correct order? Sorting parent comments by an algorithm that boosts engagement, I understand. Sorting comments in a thread the same way is mind-boggling. The 100-character limit is already enough to kill nuance stone dead; we shouldn’t be forced to number a threaded comment so future readers can puzzle together the intended order.

IV. Filters, Content Scrapers, Commissions, and Ads

TikTok has some of the most bizarre content moderation on the planet, liberally applying the ban hammer on legitimate accounts for no apparent reason, and yet doing nothing about the prolific content scraper accounts. There are so many accounts that rip content from other TikTok users, from YouTube, from TV and Film, split it into a million 30-second slices, and farm engagement from it. Sometimes they go to the extra effort of pairing it with an unrelated video designed specifically to turn your brain off and keep watching. Sludge content is hell. And they see little to no pushback - from the comments, or seemingly from the copyright owners. And how could they? It’s like whack-a-mole, one goes down, and two more appear to take their place. And because these scraped videos are specifically designed to hold your attention, and leave you wanting more, the algorithm loves that shit, and pushes away genuine original creative material in favour of these rips. It’s horrifying.

Next to sludge content, with the goal of switching your brain off to farm engagement, are filters. Filter is a misnomer, in my opinion: low-budget augmented reality games would be a more accurate descriptor. With all the grace and robust programming of an interactive mobile game ad, most of these filters act as a medium to create low-effort videos, often to farm rage engagement through acting as incompetent as possible. Because people are so susceptible to rage engagement (why do you think mobile ads haven't changed in 10 years), the algorithm picks up on this and again, pushes this slop out.

Of course, TikTok is also a business and needs to make money. So of course that means, as time inexorably marches on, and they need to maintain the illusion of infinite growth, the algorithm is tweaked to push more ads, worse ads, and ads that are disguised as normal content. If you see “Commission Paid” under a video description, or a link to the TikTok shop, run, because that’s an ad. More ads between videos, and videos that are secretly ads, again diluting the wide range of actually creative art on the platform.

Block them, press the not interested button, close the app. Train TikTok not to reward this behaviour. Please.

V. Self-Censorship

[REDACTED]

Where Do We Go From Here?

Like I said, I love TikTok. It is a space that has connected communities around the world in a creative space. I learn more about current events on TikTok than I would ever learn on the ten o’clock news. I don’t want to see it continue to decline in quality, I want to see it grow.

This has been a space for me to vent, thank you for reading if you have.

Addendum

I didn’t redact V. Self Censorship for a cheap joke, by the way. I wrote about five different versions of that segment, but I couldn’t find a way to word how I feel about the topic in a way that felt adequate.

[ezzybrownmedia]

Create Realistic Human Talking Videos in Minutes—No Cameras, Actors, or Expensive Gear Required! (Vizeo Software)

Vizeo Software is an innovative tool that revolutionizes the way we create videos by offering the ability to generate realistic human talking videos quickly and effortlessly. This groundbreaking software harnesses the power of artificial intelligence (AI) to simulate human-like characters, complete with natural gestures, expressions, and speech. With Vizeo Software, anyone can bring their ideas to life without the need for cameras, actors, or expensive equipment.

Importance of realistic human talking videos

In today’s digital age, video content has become an essential medium for communication, marketing, education, and entertainment. Realistic human talking videos play an important role in conveying messages effectively and engaging audiences on a deeper level. The human element in videos allows for a more personal connection and enhances the overall viewer experience. Whether it’s promoting a product, delivering a presentation, or creating immersive storytelling, realistic human talking videos have the power to captivate and resonate with viewers.

Thesis statement

With the advent of Vizeo Software, the process of producing human talking videos has been revolutionized. This software provides a user-friendly and efficient solution for creating high-quality videos with virtual human characters that closely resemble real people. By leveraging the capabilities of AI, Vizeo Software offers a time-saving and cost-effective alternative to traditional video production methods. It eliminates the need for costly equipment, extensive set-up, and reliance on actors, making it accessible to individuals and businesses of all sizes. This software has remarkable features and functionalities that empower users to produce professional-looking videos in a matter of minutes, opening up endless possibilities for creative expression and effective communication.

How Vizeo Software utilizes artificial intelligence (AI)

This tool leverages AI to generate lifelike lip-syncing, ensuring that the video’s spoken words match the movements of the model’s lips accurately. It also incorporates natural language processing (NLP) to provide a seamless and coherent conversation flow. The software’s AI capabilities enable it to generate videos that look and feel incredibly realistic, captivating audiences and enhancing the overall video-watching experience.

Features and functionalities of Vizeo Software

This software offers a range of powerful features and functionalities that make the video creation process smooth and efficient. Some notable features include:

Extensive library of human models: Vizeo Software provides users with a diverse collection of human models to choose from. These models encompass various ages, ethnicities, and appearances, allowing users to find the perfect fit for their video’s intended message or target audience.

Customization options: The software allows users to customize the appearance of their chosen human models. Users can modify features such as hairstyle, clothing, accessories, and more, ensuring that the video aligns with their branding or specific requirements.

Voice selection and modification: This software enables users to select from a range of voices for their human models. Additionally, users can modify the pitch, tone, and accent of the voice to further personalize the video and achieve the desired effect.

Script creation and editing: With this tool, users can effortlessly create and edit scripts for their videos. The intuitive interface facilitates the easy input of dialogue, enabling users to craft engaging conversations and narratives.

Real-time preview and editing: Vizeo Software offers a real-time preview option, allowing users to see how their video will look as they make changes. This feature enables quick adjustments to gestures, expressions, and other visual elements, ensuring optimal realism and quality.

Export and sharing options: Once the video is generated, this software provides convenient export and sharing options. Users can save their videos in various formats or directly share them on social media platforms, websites, or other channels.

Learn more…

[solarpunks]

One might get the impression that for many of the characters in solarpunk stories, this has been their first run in with man-made, life obliterating disaster. Not so with Afrofuturists. Here’s a working definition for Afrofuturists: We are Black creatives who render our own science futures and past, because white people did not, and draw from our own critical pedagogy. As Alondra Nelson, founder of the first Afrofuturist internet community, has said, “The distillation of African diasporic experience [is] rooted in the past, but not weighed down by it.” Therefore, we are quite familiar with the boom and bust cycle of calamity, existing simultaneously in various dimensions of dystopia. The concept of the usable past is the third relevant tenet of solarpunk, and a touchstone between it and works that classify as Afrofuturist. ... You + your Android Galaxy smartphone = Cyborg. The metaphor of computer and software is not meant to emphasize any kind of Cartesian separation between body and spirit. Instead, it speaks to their interdependence and intersubjectivity, the networked nature of community, of us. Like software and hardware, One is nothing without the Other. We are not Vulcans. It is only through the manifold aspects of the computer software interface — the connected narratives, symbols, metaphors, categories, and systems of conceptual associations we live by and that live in us — that we can temporally arrest and process existence, which is large beyond complete description, constantly in flux, and inherently unknowable: In essence, divine. The software that is culture is the only way to express our humanness, fulfil our psychological and physical needs, and connect with others.

Promised Land: Religious Ideology and Solarpunk Science Fiction

Another absolutely fantastic essay from Rob Cameron. Building on his previous 2 part essay ‘In Search of Afro-Solarpunk’ for tor.com. (Which we thought was ‘the single most important essay about solarpunk that has been written this year (2019)’).  Cameron casts his eye over the forrest stories and imaginaries that make up solarpunk as a whole and lays out its tenets in the most concise manner we’ve seen to date. Cameron then goes on to critique and gesture towards some of the genre’s elements that remain ‘under construction’. Namely coherent and vibrant inner lives. 

“Imagining ways to create new from old, inducing change and being changed, interacting more mindfully with the environment and other people — this is the solarpunk mission. But to transform others, it would help if solarpunk becomes more open to self-transformation from unexpected places like spiritual traditions, which it has traditionally rejected. “

We know that there are witches, buddhists, occultists, traditional practitioners, and people of all faiths involved in solarpunk. Both as a movement and speculative fiction genre. But as Cameron notes this fundamental element of what it means to be human has yet to prominently make its way into its many worlds. 

If solarpunk is to fully realise its potential as a collective ‘Memetic Engine’ - A cultural construct, or tool that powers and provides the ‘re-futuring’ of our collective imaginations. Then mechanisms for accepting and amplifying individuals inner worlds must activated, aligned and developed. This blog has been around since 2012, before solarpunk was really even ‘a thing’. We wondered allowed back then what were the “ways to make life more wonderful for us right now, and more importantly for the generations that follow us”. Solarpunk is (we think), at a point where the community is established enough to engage with both individual and collective reckonings of ‘the spirt’ in its worlds. With the nuance, understanding and generosity of thought and heart that such a subject deserves (and requires). 

These conversations have been already happening slowly and discretely. Indeed, one of the the first solarpunk zines we acquired was on the ‘Sacred’. But it is perhaps time to to create and imagine stories of the sacred under the brilliant light of the sun. Whilst recognising that one cannot speak for other solarpunks. One can only ever be in dialogue and occasional chorus them. 🙏

As Cemeron concludes in his essay:

“People are less likely to take risks on new ideas when hope is precarious. Anything new may be automatically categorized as dangerous and invasive. But if it’s coming from within their own narrative, a solarpunk rewiring would not be so scary. Indeed, it might be a revelation of the Promised Land.”

-- This really is a fantastic and timely essay. If you are writing, working in a utopian mode or participating in solarpunk in any of its myriad forms we highly recommend reading it in full. 

[lemmesimpinpeace]

Albert & William (feat. Louis) Random Fluff

Moriarty Manor - Upstairs Family Room

Albert and William sit directly across from each other, both of them focusing on their individual tasks while simultaneously engaging in light conversation.

Albert who was smiling to himself the entire time releases a small sigh of relief, feeling victorious he says without looking up: “William, the scarves I’m making for you and Louis are coming along nicely. I have no doubt they will be ready before winter starts a few days from now.

William flipping the page of the mystery novel he was currently reading, looks up at his older brother, and warmly replies: “ That’s wonderful news. Thank you for your generosity and hard work brother. And I’m sure if Louis were here, he would say the same.”

Delighted hearing his little brother being so appreciative, a small chuckle escape his lips, “Really, it’s no trouble at all, this is fun. I daresay I’ve outdone myself this time. I’m using a different yarn, so they won’t feel as prickling as the ones I’ve made last year.“

“According to you, Louis and I told you the material felt fine.”

After hearing William’s remark, Albert said nothing for the first few seconds then finally: "I’m happy to hear that, but there is no harm in wanting to improve the quality. As you’re well aware I want nothing but the best for you and Louis, especially if it’s something I’m creating by hand.

William laughs a bit and half jokingly retorts : “I would say how admirable of you, but that’s just your ego talking”

Realizing there could be a hint of truth in those words, Albert has a small smirk on his face, still, he feigns ignorance because it’s more fun that way, nonchalantly he confesses: "Now, William, I need you to understand that I enjoy spoiling the both of you whenever I am able to do so. This has nothing to do with me being a perfectionist."

William plays along and responds “Of course, brother.”

Satisfied and without saying another word, Albert focuses back on the task before him —interlacing yarn in a series of connected loops with needles soon to be Louis’s scarf. But, truly, William loves and appreciates everything his brother designed for him, even if majority of the items can only ever be worn indoors for obvious reasons.

Eventually William takes notice of the first scarf, his most likely, resting on Albert’s lap. He knew it was his because the color gave it away. It was a beautiful shade of dark burgundy —his favorite color. It had a simple rib stitch design and looked long enough to go round the neck twice or be worn in a loop. Overall, it appeared cozy yet stylish enough to match with any of his outfits. Being reminded of how attentive his older brother is, William smiled to himself. The only thing preventing him from wearing his new scarf outside at this very instant, was his (Albert’s) missing signature. His signature being a tiny green embroidered heart with their initials (W.J.M. or L.J.M.) stitched inside of said heart. He does this with every hand knitted item he creates for them, it’s done at the very end but, to him it’s the most important part. Cheesy? Yes, but sweet nonetheless. The black one that his elder is currently working on for Louis is coming along splendidly as well.

He silently praised his brother’s knitting skills rather than voicing it aloud. Actually on second thought, he decides to poke fun, with a cheeky grin he says aloud: “Your knitting skills certainly have improved, so much so, that we may no longer need to keep this hobby of yours a secret from everyone... To step out in public donning your creations without fear of sullying our dear family name...It would be a glorious day for us indeed.” With that, he looks back down in an attempt to continue reading his novel, the one he had forgotten about in the last 10 minutes but now he was sporting a mischievous grin on his face. At the same time, he hears Albert laughs.

He had stop knitting by then and in the most dramatic and crestfallen tone he replies: “How cruel... you believe the work I do is not worthy of display.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, as he continues “I take it this also mean the sweaters I’ve made for you and Louis last Christmas are locked away and collecting dust? Never to see the light of day? William, you wound me... But, it matters not, you are my little brother and I love you. And I will continue to love you despite your treachery."

Of course, Albert is only pretending to have his feelings hurt, in reality he finds William’s honesty amusing. He’s also aware that most of his designs can be seen as questionable, but it’s done on purpose and everyone knows this.

Before William could expose his brother’s over-the-top performance, Louis walks into the room shortly after, pushing a cart with today’s lunch, and having already heard the last part of the conversation replies without missing a single beat: "Brother, enough with the theatrics, we love you but even YOU, wouldn’t wear those out in public.”

***Notes

I have no idea what this is, but here it is... it’s biased and ooc for sure, but whatever, I’m proud of it... You guys have no idea how long it took me to describe a damn scarf. I was literally googling how to describe a scarf because I just genuinely suck at describing things. In the end, I wrote the most blandest and generic description I could think of. Just assume they were some very pretty scarves. I also know nothing about knitting/sewing. I spent way too much time looking for descriptions for that too...I got the idea of Albert knitting from the omakes at the end of the ynm chapters. Personally I believe Albert knows how to knit articles of clothing that aren’t low key questionable/hideous, but he chooses not to because this is how he privately shows his love and affection. And he has a weird sense of humor. William and Louis know this. I also really wanted to incorporate Louis more in the story but I was only able to add him in the end. Sadly, it’s because I was already struggling with this. Adding another character would have stressed me out even more. It’s like I have thoughts, but it’s a challenge to form said thoughts into something coherent and enjoyable to read for others. I’ll do better to add him next time though.

[lizacstuff]

(1/2) At this point, I feel like talking about the last seven episodes of SCK is a bit moot, considering that the amnesia plot is done and the team of writers responsible for most of it is gone, but I am curious to get your opinion on whether you feel Serkan actually fell in love AGAIN with Eda. I personally don't feel that Eda and Serkan had enough meaningful interaction to suggest that he re-fell in love. There was definitely more "telling" than "showing" and the heart "remembering..."

(2/2) ...what the head didn't. I know I'm probably splitting hairs, and at this point, everyone is happy he regained his memory, so who cares? But I'm just feeling very unsatisfied with the storytelling. Meh.

Oh, I disagree. Well somewhat. See, I think they 100% showed us that Serkan fell back in love. However, I do agree that it was very unsatisfactory storytelling, and that they’ve exhausted me to the point that I’m also beyond really caring. I think we’re all beyond caring, because the truth is these writers dropped the ball so hard during this arc that I’m embarrassed for them. They were handed a slam dunk romantic story and they fell flat on their faces.

That being said I think they gave us plenty to suggest that Sekan fell in love. IMO it was obvious in episode after episode. You say they did more telling than showing, and I think its the opposite. They did plenty of showing. What they didn’t do is tell us straight out. Think about it this way, if Serkan had verbally admitted in this episode that he loved her prior to getting his memory back, say when asked by either Aydan or Engin, would we be having this conversation?

The problem is they didn’t do that and instead relied on what they showed us. And I think they showed us, in individual scenes, Serkan falling in love with Eda pretty much in every episode. The problem is that every episode, and sometimes in the very next scene in the same episode, they seemed to start him over back at square one so it was very disjointed for the viewer.  We’d have a romantic, emotional scene and then he would suddenly be a giant dick in the next scene without exploring on screen what was going on in his head. I think the writers themselves thought he was reacting to his trauma and guilt and manipulation and reacting against his blossoming feelings for Eda (ala ep 3) but they were lazy and clumsy and didn’t spend time and give us that insight so it just felt like whiplash. The execution of this story was appalling, I can’t believe how badly it was done (those writers suck) but the bones of it was all there.

Think back as far as episode 30. At breakfast he’s fixated on Deniz, very jealous, but is not remotely threatened or bothered by his own fiancé’s ex-fiancé who is right there. Then there is the bridal style carrying her, it was like a primal need he had in that moment to help her, and then that fireplace scene! Oh the fireplace scene. Now, I’m not arguing that he fell in love with her during that scene, but that was a very intense, very emotional, very romantic scene that showed that he was open to her, drawn to her, intrigued by her and experiencing feelings he didn’t understand. It pretty much opened the door for everything that came after and paved the way for how quickly he was going to fall for her again.

By 31, I’d argue that he was over 2/3rd of the way to being in love with her. He overhears Eda making plans with Deniz for that evening, so he invents a reason to go to his cafe, lies to his fiancé, stays all day until he can drive Eda home ensuring she doesn’t spend the evening with Deniz and then they have an adult, emotional conversation. Then they do the same on the boat, engaging in intense, emotional conversations, and when it’s over, he sends his fiancé, who has been missing, on her way so that he can sit there and think about Eda. Do you do that over someone you don’t love? Seriously? At the end of the episode when Eda’s wedding day was announced, he looked like he’d been run over by a truck. Again the only explanation for that reaction is deep, deep romantic feelings.

By 32, I’d argue that he was all the way there, but did not have the tools to recognize the emotions or deal with them. For the LOVE OF GOD he was sleeping in his office clutching her wedding invitation.  What other explanation is there for that, other than that he was in love with her? Would you do that when your business associate announces a wedding date? I’m guessing no. Then he spent the whole episode fixated on Eda and in turmoil. The coffee shop. Finding out she was in trouble and going back to the office to help. Being pleased that she fell asleep on his shoulder. Playing in the snow. He never would have thrown that party for Selin if Deniz hadn’t manipulated him into it by guilting him and telling him that Eda was only really happy now because he’d ALMOST DIED in a plane crash. However, the second she was in trouble he ghosted the fiancé on her birthday and went to rescue Eda and proceeded to be vulnerable with her.

In 33, they reset him again via Selin’s guilt, however he still was fixated on Eda, questioning her about her feelings for Deniz, going to find her at the flower shop and doing something entirely out of character for old Serkan by sitting down to make terrariums with her. Telling Engin that her scent was driving him crazy. Having Melo set up the dinner. And then kissing her. Again, this was very poorly rendered by the writers because none of the connectors between scenes really flow or make sense, but what they were trying to go for was that no matter how much guilt and emotional manipulation Selin laid on him after finding him sleep snuggling with Eda in the cabin, and no matter how upset he was that Eda remembered their great love, but could still discard him so easily, he couldn’t forget her and was constantly thinking about her and wanting to spend time with her.  Even after seemingly having Selin’s version of Eda verified by Ceren. Would he do any of that if he wasn’t in love with her? Again, I don’t think he could identify that feeling and admit to it, but that doesn’t make the feelings he was experiencing less real.

And in 34 it was pretty much full on. He doesn’t stop thinking of her for a minute in that episode. He’s fixated on wanting her to admit her relationship with Deniz is fake. Now he might tell himself that it’s because he wants to win their little battle of sexual tension, but really it’s that he so badly wants it to be true. He so badly wants for her to not have moved on from him. Eda screws up in this episode and lies to him about loving Deniz during a very sincere conversation, if she’d come clean, maybe he could have admitted his own feelings.

By 35, he’s full gone. He’s frantic when she fell off the yacht, way more so than Deniz who says he loves her. He was ready to leap into the sea, in the middle of winter, when they were probably no longer anywhere near where she went in, and then he leaps off that thing before it was fully docked in order to get to her and make sure she was okay. Wanting to jump in the water is the irrational reaction of a frantic man worried for the woman he loves.  

After that, the wedding prep drives him crazy. She drives him crazy. After seeing her in a wedding dress, he’s close to a full on panic attack and his heart practically fails on him. Even when they’re high on cake and tea, and being very close, he can’t let go of the fact she’s getting married the next day. He spends the whole episode clutching her necklace and brooding over it. It’s eating him up, but he won’t admit to Engin or Aydan that he’s in love with her, because he thinks she’s happy with another man. However, that doesn’t make those feelings any less real.

Would you walk on the docks at night starring longingly at a necklace of someone you didn’t love? Come on. He was fully back in love with her by at least 32, they showed it very obviously, they just didn’t tell us. The writers were able to give us plenty of great individual scenes that very clearly illustrated his feelings, they just weren’t able to put together a coherent narrative that told that story in a satisfying way. They suck, and turned what could have been a very romantic and lovely story into a disjointed mess but they didn’t ruin the characters. What Serkan was doing in every single scene, against all odds and attempts at abusive manipulation, was falling in love with her. 

[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 6)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~6800 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5 Read on AO3!  Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! -i reckon I don’t need the paste it again… but in short: this is a purely self-indulgent work which contains a lot of my own headcanons and whatnot. this chapter especially so! lots of talking and thinking - curious to see what you think!! THANKS FOR READING <3 Ikuro greeted him with a warm smile at the interrogation headquarters. "You produce results fast," he commented after Tobirama explained to him where his research had led him so far. They were sitting in the small office adjourning the holding cell block again. Tobirama could only muster a huff in response. "It is possible I'm being put under pressure by time." His tone was perfectly caustic again.

Ikuro, on the other hand, was entirely unfazed. Tobirama decided he appreciated that about the man; he never had been fond of fainthearted individuals. 

"I suggest we start with the least valuable prisoner," Ikuro then turned more serious, placing his broad hand on the table. "There is, after all, a chance this might backfire."

Tobirama nodded. A sensible thought. "That would be Akio." Then, he frowned. "However you noted he's broken already. Our goal is to gain information, too. All we'd confirm would be the drug wasn't lethal. And ascertain the bodily effects of this drug." As he spoke the words, he found the sensible approach - the logical one - didn’t sit too well with him.

Ikuro hummed affirmatively. "What do you suggest, Tobirama?", easily catching the uncertainty.

Tobirama crossed his arms. Frankly he had to ponder the question. There was merit in trying it in those who knew about the leash - but the danger of permanently harming or even killing them was there, too. However did they really know anything about the leash? Would they even relinquish their knowledge?

Had he reason to believe his drug could be considered  that  dangerous to not… take this risk?

He had no time. You had no time. "Let's try the strongest of them."

Ikuro's pale eyes lit up and flashed his teeth in a grin which otherwise might’ve let a shiver run down Tobirama’s spine. "That would be Zenji. The … polite fellow in the middle holding cell. You met him when you first came here."

Tobirama couldn’t have stopped the roll of his eyes even if he wanted to. He gave an exasperated groan. "Great. I’m thrilled to meet him again." That man would test his patience. Tobirama would refuse to guarantee for his safety.

Luckily, he wasn’t made to make any such promises. Ikuro rose to his feet, Tobirama followed suit. Before they set for the cells though, Tobirama explained his plan. Ikuro only nodded in agreement. An eerie kind of calm was settling over him when they finally entered the Stone shinobi’s cell block. It was not an unfamiliar feeling; rather a welcome kind of dissociation that had been well practiced in the warring states era. They all had, at some point, committed atrocious acts. Tobirama never looked back, his logic had been sound.

Just like this time. And what would follow here might be another ugly entry in a list of infamous cruelties - but another necessary one.

As they walked, he could feel the glances of the other prisoners on him as he passed them - and he spared none of them a single glance.

Once they stood in front of the cell, the lanky man’s eyes lit up in way too much delight. "How's the lady?", Zenji gloated immediately.

Tobirama ignored the question. If that was how he’d play it - he was ready. The ire burning under his skin was causing him to tremble almost still. A discussion, the man knew, might easily lead to bloodshed. And being riled up into beating up a chained up man was below Tobirama’s dignity. Although thinking about it provided some needed relief.

"Why are you keeping them like this?", he inquired quietly, hissing through clenched teeth, wondering about the fact all the cells were adjourned - what they did here, the others could hear.

Ikuro considered Tobirama with a thoughtful glance. "Additional pressure. They hear what we're doing to each of them on top of their own, ah, sessions."

Tobirama had guessed that was the reason.

He still felt like bloody murder. Rage like this - born from revenge - was a low motive, and Tobirama frankly despised himself for this. The only thing that mattered was whether one acted on their emotions or not, he knew. Yet he just had to remind himself of the fact that within less than a week, you'd run out of the despised drug  they had tethered you to. And that the man in front of him, Zenji, might know how to save your life.

All things were relative, after all.

Ikuro unlocked Zenji's cell. The man was chained up in the same fashion he had been before - no movement allowed except maybe a wiggle of his toes. The chains were suspended from the walls of the cell and over and over painted with various seals, a few of which Tobirama recognised. Chakra sealing seals mostly, as well as other, sinister uses.

They both stepped inside and Ikuro locked it again.

Zenji gave a haughty laugh. "Not gonna speak to me? Awh, come on. Maybe I'll give you a hint about the leash if you do." He wriggled his eyebrows almost suggestively. 

The blood was rushing in Tobirama's ear. His muscles were taut like a bow's string and it took every ounce of his willpower not to at least verbally jump at this man. Don’t, he chanted inwardly, don’t. Briefly, he closed his eyes and shook his head slightly as if to clear the berserk haze that wanted to settle over him.

Surprisingly, it worked somewhat.

Ikuro stepped to Zenji's side. "You're getting a treat, Zenji." A second later, his big hand had grabbed the back of his skull by his hair.

Tobirama stepped closer, procuring the vial from his pocket. 

Zenji laughed haughtily. "Ah, ah," his eyes were trained on the vial. "Trying to recreate the leash?"

Tobirama stood right in front of him then, glare icy while the rage inside burned ever hotter. His expression was perfectly neutral, he didn't even bat an eyelash. "I'm going to tether you to the leash, eventually." His voice was nonchalant despite the rage that wanted to eat him up. 

Zenji's eyes widened momentarily. Was there a hint of fear in them? But it was gone as soon as Tobirama thought he'd seen it. "You're gonna fail," the Stone shinobi spat, his smugness becoming caustic swiftly. "You can't ever hope to do that."

Tobirama tilted his head to the side, eyebrows rising slowly. "Why is that?", he asked, lazily, disinterested. Perhaps there  was  merit in trying to engage in a conversation with him, after all.

Zenji tried to whip his head from Ikuro's grasp, who just pulled harder at his scalp. "As if you'd be able to recreate it like that. You're fucking running out of leash and Y/n is gonna fucking die." His voice was dripping with hatred and no small amount of pleasure.

For just a second, Tobirama imagined ripping his throat out with his bare hands if just to ease the fury that was burning through every fiber of his body now; the gory picture helping momentarily not to  act  on it. Or at least verbally lash out. Still, he knew he’d despise himself for it - such an act was beneath him. The man was key to finding out how to save you. He had to keep telling himself in order to keep the white-hot rage crawling under his skin only. How he managed to retain his poker face was beyond him. Maybe the gruesome image did help.

He drew his lips into a condescending sneer. "I'm one of Konoha's most distinguished scientists. Don't think for a second I couldn't recreate anything your village came up with." His voice was dripping with arrogance. 

Zenji was retorting with a sneer of his own. Ikuro's lips were drawn in a fine smile. "You're fucking desperate is what you are," he snickered, "That drug is impossible to recreate. Too complicated." 

Tobirama gave only a lazy sigh and topped it off with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "Yes, I suppose for the likes of you that might be true." He leaned in a little. "I'm not  you  , though. Eventually, I will. And in the meanwhile, I'm going to test every single one of my experiments on you. You know," he mustered the man then a little as if he was nothing more than an object. "I'm wondering if you're actually afraid."

Zenji's eyelid twitched and he threw himself into the restraints binding him. Ikuro's grip was unrelenting, but he frowned slightly. "Afraid? Afraid?!  You can't even risk me!", his voice was shrill and his face became contorted by fury.

Interesting. Ikuro thought so too - his pale eyes had narrowed and stared at Tobirama intently.

Tobirama remained impassive, just swishing the vial back and forth with a leisure movement of his wrist. The truth was he was far from that. He wondered if beating on this man until he spilled the beans really wasn't an option. But he was so close. Zenji had already made a mistake, and Tobirama had caught onto it, of course. Still, he needed confirmation. "I don't see why." He knew better than to keep up with this kind of verbal wrestling. That would only yield power to the prisoner.

Still, the hint had been obvious.

Zenji clenched his jaw tightly now. He, too, seemed to have realised his mistake. 

A shrill voice floated over the corridor. The loony witch from the far end, Tobirama figured. "Zenji, you fucking idiot!" 

She did sound coherently pissed now.

Unluckily for Zenji, that was the confirmation he needed. Time to take a shot at the obvious target. Tobirama leaned back, genuinely smug now. Both eyebrows arched up, his tone as sweet as sugar. "You're the only one left who knows how to create the leash, hm?"

Zenji apparently decided to break through the figurative front then - his lips drew in a condescending sneer again. "Alright, smart science boy. Assuming you brought all of the remaining leash with you to this godforsaken village," he began in a tone that made Tobirama's neck hair stand up. "Your precious lady has had about seven days to live, give or take, since we got here."

Tobirama already wanted to beat his face into a pulp now - how he spoke of your life in a simple calculation; an unfortunately very correct one - it was maddening. His heartbeat thundered through his skull as his world was incinerated in white-hot ire; he could barely feel the pain in his jaw from how hard he bit down on his teeth.

Zenji continued. "Now I kinda lost feeling for time in this fucking cell, but it couldn't have been more than two. So how about this, Tobirama Senju - all I have to do is last a few more days and then my knowledge will be meaningless because-" he leaned forward, wearing a huge, fat grin, "- Y/n's gonna have left this world, screaming and writhing in agony."

Tobirama's heartbeat was through the roof now. His fists clenched so hard, the vial might break in them but he did not move an inch.

"Unless,... you put her out of her misery beforehand."

For the fraction of a second, eerie silence filled the cell.

Tobirama's fist shot out before Ikuro could even do so much as realise what was about to happen. A sickening crunch echoed through the cell as it made contact with Zenji's lower jaw, who howled in pain in response. 

"Tobirama!" Ikuro cautioned, pale eyes ablaze now. The situation was getting out of hand.

Tobirama almost didn't even register the warning. All he heard was the rhythm beating inside him as a fine tremor of fury shook him. His scarlet stare held him pinned, eyes ablaze - if looks could kill, Zenji would be dead now.

This man. How dared he. 

How dared he to insinuate- To even think Tobirama would- That he couldn’t-

Zenji spat blood before Tobirama's feet. "I'm gonna fucking relish telling you it all once she's dead," he repeated, blood trickling down his chin, but mien filled with hatred. "You're never gonna crack how the leash is made in five days!" He drew his lips into an ugly grin, marred by the blood blood of his split lip.

Tobirama's fist balled again to deliver another blow to his face, but Ikuro cleared his throat authoritatively. In an instant, Tobirama's free hand had grasped around Zenji's broken mandibular bone and forced it forward with a lot more pressure than necessary. He made sure to put extra force on the side he had punched, just to be safe. If Ikuro had cautioned him not to worsen the prisoner’s injury, Tobirama did not hear it. He didn’t care, either. Zenji should be grateful Tobirama didn’t punch him again.

The prisoner howled in pain as he was barely able to resist his mouth being forced open simply due to the injury, Ikuro supporting by tilting his head back now. "Time for your medicine," Tobirama announced in an ice cold tone as he poured the contents of the vial into Zenji's mouth.

In an attempt to gag or wheeze it right back out he already tried to constrict his pharyngeal muscles, but Tobirama had seized his cricoid and pressed down harshly enough to force him to swallow - or else he'd suffocate.

Which he did, just a moment later.

For good measure, Tobirama kept the pressure up a few seconds longer, however.

When he released him, Zenji wheezed. "Fuck you," he spat, but his pupils began to dilatate already.

"Start," Tobirama commanded Ikuro in a pressed tone, shaking from fury still, who nodded and rested his hand on Zenji's head in order to assault the man's mind.

Tobirama meanwhile went for his throat to monitor his body with his chakra - sadly, he really did need to keep him alive. Which was difficult, as his focus was still clouded by the rage - the maddening fury he’d chastise himself for later. 

The effects of his drug were - initially - comparable to the leash. The sensory overload of the brain worked the exact same way he had witnessed in you after indigestion - though now, it mingled with Ikuro's chakra, who was smothering him in what probably was a genjutsu or some other kind of mental assault. Tobirama couldn't help but marvel the expert level with which the man proceeded, comparing it to the brute force he had used on Akio. There was something to be learned here in the ways he didn't just smother him but let his chakra seep through every little crack of Zenji's mind, delivering mental stabs whenever he felt a crack in his mental fortress while coating him in a constant onslaught of pressure; a thick blanket of neverending slices at Zenji’s mind that made Tobirama shudder. It was much like watching a snake kill its prey - winding around the struggling victim tighter and tighter; the hopeless struggle of the despondent creature seemed to still as it starts to realise its demise while the snake viciously enjoys every drip of agony it can milk from it until finally, the unfortunate soul can no longer breathe.

Zenji's chakra on the other hand was sluggish - but not as subdued as Tobirama had hoped. The effect was there and the man definitely should feel his control over his chakra being significantly hampered, but it wasn't the same as Tobirama had seen in you. Stunted, yes, but not as frozen.

He was on the right path, after all.

Still, the screams Ikuro elicited from Zenji were music to Tobirama's ears. Just like the fact that physically, the man was fine. Tobirama flat out refused to heal the broken jaw, however. He didn't know how long the session lasted, but somewhere along the line, Zenji hat stilled. His head had tilted forward, the body limp. 

"Enough," Ikuro announced finally, frowning.

Tobirama gave the man another brief once-over to make sure he was fine - besides the abused mind - then he removed his hand from his throat. His head felt dizzy. The ache in his heart was as agonizing as ever now that the rage had subsided. Ikuro clicked his tongue and waved his hand for Tobirama to follow. They headed back to the office. This time, he didn't feel the gazes of the other prisoners on his back.

Interesting. 

Once in the office, Ikuro crossed his arms. "I don't think I need to explain-"

Tobirama cut him short with a wave of his hand. He didn't have time for a lecture. "I lost my composure. It won't happen again."

Ikuro stared back for a moment longer, then he walked to the desk. "Should I get the impression you're too emotionally biased to interrogate this man, someone else will have to conduct your experiments here."

"Understood." Like hell Tobirama would allow for that to happen.

Ikuro nodded, then folded his hands in front of him. "This was an interesting session nonetheless."

Tobirama crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Well, I'm glad you perceived it as such." He didn't cut back on the sarcasm. 

Ikuro exhaled a sigh. "We have ascertained that Zenji is the only one who knows how to create the leash. And when I tried to pry open his mind, I found your little experiment made him a lot more susceptible to my methods." A fine smile formed on his lips.

Tobirama frowned slightly. The compliment felt sour still - he remembered how this was what you had suffered, and how it hadn't been near what the leash could do. In fact, by the end of the session Zenji's chakra control had been almost normal again.

No withdrawal effect, either. 

"I did not break him still," Ikuro continued, "But I could take brief glimpses at the leash's creation, if I upped the pressure a lot."

That comment alone sent a jolt down Tobirama’s spine and he took a quick step forward. "Tell me."

"I'll show you," Ikuro held Tobirama's gaze with unwavering determination, and Tobirama stared back into the pale, turquoise eyes.

Then suddenly, he felt an image being pushed onto him - a genjutsu. Almost instinctively, he wanted to release it simply for the intrusion it caused - then he remembered what this was for. It was quite delicate anyway - fragments, loose images and echoes of sensations. Zenji's, Tobirama realised. He was holding a bottle filled with a clear substance. His chakra did something - a process that Tobirama could only guess at because every time he - Ikuro - tried to look closer, it was as if someone shoved him away. Still, there were some leads. Ways in which his chakra threaded through the liquid. Tiny - but something to go with - pieces of a puzzle. Where he still was missing about most parts of. It hinted at the utmost delicate process that seemed to be the creation of the leash - but it was proof. Proof that it truly was something of a chakra weaving process that created the leash.

"Release." Ikuro announced.

Tobirama's head was swimming again. A hand raked through his hair. 

This was a lead. He should feel excited. Hopeful. Eager to work on it. Yet his mind wouldn't push past the crushing sense of dissatisfaction with this experiment, his outburst - and worst of all, Zenji's promise.

I'm gonna fucking relish telling you it all once she's dead.

Five days. He just had five days left and all he had was a vague lead and an experiment with a lukewarm result at least.  Time  - he was running out of  time . His heart was thundering in his chest as his breaths came deeper than usual. He closed his eyes briefly. 

If only he had more time.

Giving up was not an option. He'd just work harder. He'd sacrifice who knew what to make this work.

He breathed in deeply to try and alleviate the budding agony and dread inside him. It didn't work well. The pain stabbed at his heart, the sorrow had gripped him again. Tobirama was sure that if he closed his eyes, he'd see your face - in sheer agony. 

Unless,... you put her out of her misery beforehand.

He swallowed the lump down his throat. It felt dry. The emotions that were swirling inside him were tiring him out; much like the days before, it was all too much. First the rage, and now the looming sense of doom and this utter despair he felt he couldn’t escape. He didn’t want to feel more, he couldn’t he was spent, but he did nonetheless, like a wound that couldn’t, wouldn’t stop bleeding. He was taking deep breaths against - against all this.

His gaze wandered to the clock. 

Damn. You should have been awake for quite some time now.

"I will be back as soon as I have synthesised my next experiment. This is a start." He bowed curtly to thank Ikuro, who nodded in reply. "I need to go. See you soon."

Then, the world around him lurched as he teleported straight to your room. 

________

 Your nightmare had been exceptionally vivid this time.

Not just a horrible patchwork of memories from the past few weeks but a concise, terribly real scenario. Every single bit of the memory had felt like as though you were back in the dreadful hideout for sure. The screams echoed off the wall as they carved your flesh like a sculpture, the pain a thousand times worse due to this damn drug. By the time it had ended, your tormentor had cut you apart.

But you wouldn't die.

You never died. 

The agony just never ended.

It all faded into a memory of pain supplied by your abused body. Eventually, the world was black. Then you slept.  And when you woke, it still was dark. 

With a sigh, you removed the blindfold from your eyes. Everything stayed dark. You forced yourself to take even breaths. 

This had been the third time you had taken the leash since you had been rescued.

How many more would follow?

Your breathing picked up. 

Dark. It was all too dark. 

Your eyes wandered to where you knew the window was, curtain drawn closed. You really had to tell Tobirama to keep that open if you now started to become afraid of darkness so much. Then again, that might lead to more questions. Questions you didn’t want to answer. For now, the pain in your whole body was a dull echo, but you knew that’d change drastically again when you moved. No matter. You had to. The world was closing in around you and and your heart was hammering against your ribs so harshly you thought it might jump out.

Yelping past clenched teeth you dragged your haggard form to the window again, staggering through the darkness, not even bothering with the nightstand lamp this time. You didn’t need to. You whimpered deplorably from the aches that now flared through all of you, echoes of the torment that stabbed and burned. 

You still felt so weak. It was dumb to think you had recovered much already - and without your own chakra, no less - but still. You absolutely detested this  weakness. 

This helplessness.

You grasped the curtain for support as much as you had to to pull it open. You had to fumble for it with a shaking hand, the other grasped the window sill below.

“J-j-just o-open…”, you stuttered as you ripped aimlessly at it.

Your breaths were coming so fast now your sight was blackening, your limbs feeling fuzzy. The panic was driving tears into your eyes and wrenching sobs from you.

Was this how you’d start every day, now?

Bright sunlight flooded the room finally. Instantly, both your hands clung to the sill then for support while you doused in the sight of the village. The very obvious signals your body was giving you to rest again were ignored in favour of relishing in this moment.

Safe. You were safe.

You sniffled as the tears dried down and the fright ebbed down. Somewhat. You wanted to stay like this longer, but you knew you really shouldn’t. Besides, the more you calmed, the more unbearable the pain became in all of you. Plus, if Tobirama caught you now, he’d be livid. He hated repeating himself. It wasn’t as though he was wrong, anyway. 

You opted for sitting on the bed again and looking out of the window from there. A small comfort. 

“Okay,” you murmured to yourself in preparation of the way back. With a deep breath you let go of the window sill and turned around. 

A moment later your shaky foothold tipped, the ankle twisted - and with an agonised yelp that nearly had been a loud scream, you fell to the floor. Instinctively you broke the fall correctly, your training ensured that. Even in this deplorable state.

But the pain was searing. It damn near was equal to the torment - or at least it felt like that. You curled into a fetal position on yourself as your mouth was open in a silent scream. 

You didn’t want anyone to get in now. 

Tears were flowing freely over your cheeks. You kept silent. Silence had been a lesson well-practiced - though of course the Stone shinobi had made you scream so much your voice still was hoarse, that had been after a lot of silence.

You’d endure this, too.

Even so, lying on the cold floor - it felt just like after all the times they’d tortured you and then shoved you back into that dark pit. Helplessly on the ground with the agony fresh on your mind and weakened by the leash, by all the misery you were in. Unable to move from sheer pain alone, really-

Your chest was closing in again.

The room was becoming darker.

No, no, no. Not now. It’d be fine eventually - right? Wait, what if it wasn’t? Shit, where did that come from now? You mustn’t think like that. But here you were. Alone. On a cold floor. In pain- Bleeding?

No- You were sure if you opened your eyes now, they’d open to nothing but darkness. “N-no…”, you whimpered miserably, your arms covering your face as you curled up even tighter.

Cold.

Everything was cold, you are alone - There is nobody here, they’ll come again, and again for you.

…

“What the hell?! ”

You had no idea how long you had been laying there when the familiar, furious voice ripped through your consciousness like a horn’s blow. The world was slowing down again. You suddenly became aware of the fact you had been wheezing erratically. Trembling. The tears - an odd tear would run over your cheek. But you had stilled perfectly. You heard fast steps approaching. You tensed.

They stopped in front of you. Clothes rustled.

“Y/n?” - the voice was different now - panicked. Softer.

Slowly, you opened your eyes to see Tobirama’s black clothes in front of you. He was crouching. His hand was on your shoulder, you realised. A warm touch.

Your breathing levelled out.

You were safe.

You had just fallen down. Silly.

“I fell,” you admitted defeatedly, your gaze seeking his face hesitantly. This was embarrassing enough as it was, but Tobirama - he looked perfectly anguished himself. His scarlet eyes mustered you up and down, there was urgency in his expression. You sighed and began to heave your chest off the ground with your arms, ignoring the pain again.

“You shouldn’t have-,” he began in a scolding tone, but the moment you moved, it became stern. ”No, don’t do that.” The worry was mellowing it down still.

His arm snuck around your shoulder to heft you up from the floor. You became utterly stiff from the pain that shot through you as you were moved, but you uttered no more than a hiss past your clenched teeth. Your arm moved to rest around his waist for support, but the way you fisted the fabric of his black shirt was telltale, nonetheless.

Which Tobirama picked up on easily. “Just one step,” he muttered tersely. Frankly with the force he put in his grip he might as well carry you, but you appreciated the fact he granted you this shred of dignity. You took the step as gracefully as possible, which was simple given how Tobirama shouldered near all of your weight. You whimpered as you sat down the ankle you had fallen over on the floor.

“Easy,” Tobirama supplied immediately, holding you closer, his free hand securing your waist tightly.

His arm released you only momentarily as you leaned forward to spin and sit on the bed, but his palm lingered on your shoulder the whole time. He grasped your legs gingerly to help swing them into bed again when you turned to lie down.

You stared up at the ceiling once you had pulled the blanket over you. The trembles had ceased; your breathing was normal again.

You were safe.

Tobirama didn’t waste time, either. “What have you been doing?”, his tone was as strict as it was accusing. The mellowing worry had turned down a notch now that you were in bed again it seems.

You felt bold when you turned your gaze to meet his again. He was frowning, the scarlet eyes were ablaze. “I did say you could knock next time,” you answered in a small voice.

The answer was prompt. “So you’d have time to get back into bed, you mean?”, strict was becoming angered rapidly.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d have made that in time.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, the face scrunched in a frown and the eyelids narrowed to slits. No, he was pissed off. You sighed.

Your scathing comment didn’t even make him bat an eyelash. “Yn/!” If anything, the quip had angered him more, if that outburst was anything to go by. “You must rest,” he began sternly. “Most likely that stunt has ripped at your healing wounds and inflicted damage - setting you back. Not to mention you need to recover more strength first.” He extended a hand as he argued, frustration leaking into his voice.

“I know, Tobirama,” you snapped back. Both of your aching arms rose to your face to cover it. “I am painfully aware.”

He fell silent for a moment, the comment earned you a low huff from him. “So then why do I see you anywhere but your bed whenever I come around?”, again, his tone was unfazed. More stern, in fact. You knew your comments were riling him up.

Because I feel like I’m suffocating when I’m alone in the dark and that fucking window is the only thing that convinces me I’m free.

“I’m going a little crazy here,” you supplied, figuring that wasn’t even a lie. “I’m either drugged, becoming delirious or flat out in pain, as you know.” That much definitely wasn’t a lie. 

It made Tobirama balk a little. Peeking past your hands you saw his shoulders droop, his arms at his side now. Weird. You had expected something along the lines of ‘it’ll be over soon’ or ‘pull yourself together’ - not in an ignorant or diminutive way, but rather something to remind you this was temporary. That all you had to do was be stronger for a little while. Tobirama wasn’t great at comfort to begin with, so he’d stick with the logical aspects of the situation, naturally.

“Tobirama?”, you inquired then, when he didn’t speak up again.

“I know,” he then answered, the anger fading somewhat. His mien remained firm, but he took a seat on the edge of your bed now to level out the height difference somewhat. Because that hadn’t escaped your notice either. “It is a difficult situation, but you  must  rest. I don’t want you going on walks now. At all.” His gaze lifted up to your eyes again - the frown still present.

Your hands dropped to your side again. Now was your turn to avoid his gaze. “I just wanted to pull the curtains back, Tobirama,” you explained in a quiet voice, your ironic undertone vanished. “I had to look outside.”

You heard him take a sharp breath and then - “Y/n, you mustn’t-”, then he abruptly paused. For a few moments, the room was completely silent. "Is… that why you were crying?", he asked suddenly, his voice dropping the strictness, completely soft again. 

You didn’t answer him, but you closed your eyes. You had to, they were becoming wet again.

“Y/n…”, Tobirama whispered brokenly, his hand reaching for yours at his side. His grip was tight, his thumb ran smoothing circles over your skin. You exhaled a little gasp when you felt his chakra graze over your network in the way you were so familiar with, so warm and welcome.

“I’ll try not to get up again,” you murmured after a moment of quiet comfort. “Maybe just leave the curtain open.” You sighed. It wasn’t as though you didn’t understand his objections to you moving around - your ankle was testament to that - but the panic was just so much worse.

Tobirama didn’t reply to that directly but simply kept caressing you both outwardly and inwardly. “Alright.” He finally spoke. “Perhaps… I can try to be here earlier, too.”

You opened your eyes again to find his gaze was cast down at your body again, his eyebrows furrowed in worry again. You never had seen Tobirama in this much distress since these last few days. “You don’t have to. You’re busy,” your voice was becoming more somber again.

“We talked about that already.” Back to the firm tone, shutting the discussion down, it seems. Tobirama hated discussing in the first place, and with your time basically dictated by a vile drug that he had to administer regularly there wasn’t even much arguing ground on your behalf. You rolled your eyes.

His hand released yours and was pushing the blanket aside then, “I’ll see what I can do for you now,” he mumbled, then, already focused as he turned himself to face your side more.

You gave a low sigh. “I’d say save your concentration and chakra, but-”

Tobirama’s voice instantly was terse again. “Y/n.”

You rolled your eyes. “Exactly.” You resigned and helped by pulling up the gown somewhat as he placed both palms on your abdomen again. You felt his chakra’s presence intensify as he began and couldn’t help but gaze at his face while he first examined you and then went to heal - his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Over time, that became more dismayed. Of course.

Much like the last time, the procedure took its pretty time simply for how intricate the work was - how little chakra he could actually use in terms of overloading you still, and when he did, he’d have to put it to its best use. The thoroughly comfortable feeling was settling in soon however as the aches dulled and you began to relax under his treatment. You’d never deny this wasn’t good, no. Especially when he directed his attention to your ankle, the sensation was warming, itchy almost in how the joint began to ache less in tune with the healing warmth swirling inside of it.

After quite a while he retreated with a finishing brush over your network, which you let warmly hum in response. As much as you could, anyway. It’d never not feel alien to you how your chakra was there - inside you - and yet not ready at your disposal. When Tobirama drew his hands back, his face remained scrunched up. 

��As I said,” and here he was again, scolding, naturally. “There was quite some damage to your wounds. And you sprained your ankle.” He crossed his legs and rested both arms on the edge of the bed. “I’ve repaired quite a lot of it. Y/n, you’re barely-”

You wanted to prop your head up your palm and rest on your side, but you were positive he’d yell at you. You opted for quipping again. “-healed and need to rest.”

His frown deepened. “I can also just physically stitch you up if the sight of those ripping serves as a better reminder for you. Because that’s what you’re doing, internally.”

Ouch. He fought back. “No, thank you.” You deflated and sighed. “I’m trying.”

That served to mellow him down significantly again and his shoulders slumped somewhat. He didn’t speak up again though, but his gaze had fallen to the floor, seemingly lost in ponder.

You simply eyed him for a moment before you tilted your head slightly. “Well, I ruined the mood, didn’t I?”, you attempted a little laugh, but Tobirama could only shrug his shoulders in what you think might’ve been an ironic motion. You frowned. “What’s wrong, Tobirama?”

His gaze lifted to gaze at you from the side, cautiously now. It didn’t sit well with you. “Just stay in bed, Y/n.”

You arched up an eyebrow. That was not what truly had been on his mind now. The lack of sternness in his voice proved that. “I know I should,” you began, “but that is not what is on your mind.” His nostrils flared slightly. “Tell me, Tobirama. Is everything getting too much for you? You don’t need to take care of me, too. That’s why I am here.” It still baffled you how much he did in the first place, yet-

“No,” he firmly cut you short. His arms crossed in front of his chest as he slightly leaned back. “I’m fine taking care of you and researching this leash.” You believed that much with how much conviction he spoke it. 

“Then what is it, Tobirama?”, you demanded now. “Because I have the fleeting notion it’s to do with me.” And you didn’t like that at all.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’ll be fine, Y/n. Don’t worry about that. Just rest and get better.”

Anger started to flare in you. To be bedridden and get basically yelled at for drawing curtains back was one thing. But to actively be kept in the dark was another one. However you’d still try reason first before you went to demanding things because open confrontation only got you so far. “I’m injured, Tobirama. Not mentally capacitated. You might as well tell me, because I caught on the fact something  is  weighing on you and at the very least I’ll now worry as to why that is. Even if you tell me not to. So, please.”

Tobirama straightened and squared his shoulders a little. "Honestly, the only thing you have to worry about is your own recovery." He was getting more terse again.

You were onto something. You narrowed your eyes. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'll just get up after, scream until someone gets around and demand to speak to Hashirama." You had every intention of going through with that. You'd have to be fast though - weakness would settle in soon.

Tobirama clenched his teeth, his head whipped around to you to stare at you downright menacingly. "You will do no such thing."

"I absolutely will, unless you tell me."

Tobirama’s eyes closed slowly. He shifted back to his original position. When he opened them again, his scarlet pupils darted to the side to pin you with an intense stare, his mien was grave now. Your pulse picked up. Instinctively you braced yourself by heaving your chest up with both your elbows. Thanks to his recent treatment, the pain was dull, for now. Tobirama didn’t even protest when you moved. It just served to make you more tense.

“Creating more of the leash is proving to be a difficult task I’ve not yet accomplished,” he finally churned out, slowly, against his will, almost.

You gulped.  Wait. That meant- “How much is left?”, you asked before you could even comprehend what you just said.

Tobirama closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He didn’t want to tell you. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know anymore. “Five and a half days at our current rate.”

Around you, the world seemed to lurch like when he teleported you with the hiraishin seal. Your ears felt stuffy, your vision became a tunnel focusing on the face of your beloved and yet gazing right through him as darkness threatened. You felt numb.

Five and a half days.

Right now, you had five and a half days left to live.

And you wouldn’t pass peacefully, that much you had experienced before.

Your elbows gave out as you limply crashed back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Breathing was becoming harder as the figurative weight of the news was bearing down on your chest. Before you knew it, you were wheezing again. Ugly sobs were breaking past your lips and a wet sensation rolled down the sides of your face. Tears, you realised.

Faintly you realised Tobirama shifted. A hand took yours in it firmly, another on your shoulder. He was talking, but you didn’t hear anything. Not right away, anyhow. It was only when you felt his chakra again that you became more grounded again, but even then, it still was hard not to burst all over again.

“Y/n,” he pleaded, over and over again. Your blurry vision shifted to focus on his face, closer to yours now. It looked as agonized as you felt. There was a tremble in his deep voice. Your breathing levelled out slowly. Your free hand slowly reached for the one he had put on your shoulder as you sought his gaze again.

“Tell me more,” you urged, gulping.

“I’m not sure if-”, he hesitated.

“I want to know everything, dammit!”, you almost shouted.

Tobirama’s eyes closed, he winced as though you had physically slapped him.

And then proceeded to tell you - everything. What this leash was - besides what you knew it did to you - what he knew so far. The problem he faced. Instantly, you realised the task he faced was not just ‘difficult’. It was near impossible to achieve in such a short timespan.

“I’m doing all I can, I swear,” he finished, and the sincerity of the statement had the timbre of his voice shaking. His scarlet eyes were glistening - the hand you put on his on your shoulder reached for his face. No, you’d never question his resolve to save you. Neither his determination to keep you from any harm - his secrecy had just been another facet of that.

An eerie calm gripped you.

“I know,” you whispered, stoic. A sad smile stretched your lips. “If there’s anyone in Konoha who can figure it out, it’s you.” You believed that with every fiber of your being.

Tobirama frowned, tilting his head slightly. His breath shook.

“You need more time,” you added, your thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“There isn’t any, Y/n,” he answered, broken.

“Not if we proceed like this,” you agreed, somber. You couldn’t believe your next words, but here you were. You knew exactly what you needed to do - duty, if you will, albeit calling it that was odd considering it was your own survival that was on the line. Still. You were the one making the sacrifice. 

“You start giving me what you have of the leash at the greatest possible interval.”

Tobirama’s face fell completely, the words hitting him almost like you had slapped his cheek. 

“What?!”

[charming-charlie]

One More Chance

Title // One More Chance

Pairing // Anthony Ramos x Fem!Reader

Warnings // Light swearing, fluff, mentions of loneliness.

Summary // It’s been years since you last saw Anthony, one of your high school friends. What happens when you finally see each other during his Hamilton run?

Word Count // 2,879

Prompt // “Be kinder to yourself, alright? For my sake. I can't stand watching you beat yourself up like this.”

You thought for sure Anthony wouldn’t remember you. He was a big, fancy Broadway star. You had to be one of the last things on his mind, if you were even on there. But he came through. After you direct messaged him your address, which was in New York since you never left, he sent tickets and backstage passes to the show that he was a part of. This was a dream come true for you. Not only would you get to see your long-lost friend again, but this was also the first Broadway show you’ll ever attend. Tickets were always out of your price range, and you didn’t make enough money to splurge on such an extravagant purchase.

It would be nice to see him again, but you knew it would probably be wishful thinking that he would remember you in person. It’s been a while since the two of you were in high school. You could go on and on about the memories in English class, but you wouldn’t dare bring those up. No, you are only going just to enjoy the show. That’s it.

Perhaps that was also wishful thinking because the Richard Rogers Theater, on this particular Friday night, was packed. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Hamilton received glowing reviews. People were raving about it. It made sense that it was such a sensation. You found your seat with the help of an usher and you were equally surprised that it was in the center off to the right, close to the stage. You would get a clear view of facial expressions and everything. Damn, Anthony was really taking care of you.

You purposefully left the backstage pass at home. You didn’t want to bother him, or the cast, when they had other fans and people to see. It’d be okay and it was no stress off your back. You just wanted to see the show and have a good time. That was enough for you.

It was curtain time, and everyone took their seats. The lights went dim and you sat there in awe, watching Leslie Odom Jr. take the stage and begin the first song. You didn’t get to be immersed in the musical for long, because there he was. Your long-lost friend, dawning a white coat, hair pulled back, taking the stage as he began talking about the ten-dollar founding father without a father. That was all it took.

You could not take your eyes off him for the entire first half and you swore he saw you too. Though you knew that was impossible, with the dark lights in the theater and everything. But for a few moments, it brought you comfort that perhaps he recognized you and all was well.

His character, John Laurens, engaged in a duel and you wouldn’t admit it but your heart almost stopped at the count of ten. You knew it was fake, but the tension sent you in a bit of a frenzy. Still, you couldn’t hide the fact that you were genuinely upset that John Laurens didn’t make it to the second act, but the playbill said Anthony was credited as two characters. Luckily, he wasn’t done yet. Good, you weren’t ready to see him disappear from your life again.

Intermission came so fast, it shocked you. The pace of the show was fast and upbeat, and you were so engrossed in Non-Stop, you didn’t realize that was the end. At least, for fifteen minutes. Letting out a sigh, you stood up and stretched your legs. You weren’t thirsty but a lot of people were rushing out to grab a drink or use the restroom. You were fine. You checked your phone and tried to occupy yourself until you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss.”

You turn around and you saw a tall man wearing a security tag. Sudden panic rose inside you and he could tell. “Can you follow me, please?”

You nodded, saying nothing. The tall security man walked through a side door labeled Employees Only and you were quick against his heels. There was a lot of commotion backstage. People were rushing around, changing costumes, dancing in the stairwell, recording videos and taking pictures… it honestly looked like a good time.

The security man approached a dressing room and knocked on the door. It was Lin’s door. Wait, what? Your breath hitched in your throat. You read that this show was basically Lin’s baby. Were you somehow disrespecting it? Lin opened the door with a smile. He was in the middle of changing clothes, but he wasn’t rushing. “I brought the patron you requested,” the security guard said before turning and walking away.

Lin was adjusting the microphone in his hair and he opened the door to invite you in. There wasn’t much room in the tiny dressing room so you stayed out in the hallway, looking confused but feeling surreal that you were staring at Lin-Manuel Miranda. “Sorry if that scared you, but we’ve been waiting since My Shot to get you back here.” He held out a hand, offering it to you. “I’m Lin.”

You blinked and coughed out your name. “Y/N,” you said while shaking his hand.

He nodded, as if he already knew. “I’ve heard about you. You have some fans back here,” Lin said. He adjusted his shoes, putting on the final touches for whatever he needed for the second act. Fans? Surely he was confusing you with someone else.

He sensed your confusion, and he let out a soft laugh. “This must be a little weird, right? I mean, first Anthony asked for backstage passes for this girl, and then she doesn’t bother showing up with said passes. I’m assuming you forgot them. He thinks you don’t want to see him. Which one of us is right? We have a little bet going on back here.”

You felt like you should be offended but Lin was so polite about it. The way he was talking about it, it made it seem like it was a joke, all in good fun, his attempt at jest.

“I um… I mean, I didn’t think it was…” you were stumbling over your words, not sure how to put it into a coherent sentence. This was definitely off putting, and Lin was sensing your discomfort. His smile fell and he looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Come with me,” Lin said, and he nodded his head in the direction of a hallway. He began walking and you followed him. You passed several people, including some you recognize from the show. It was a bit frantic though. There was not a lot of time between the first and second act, but everyone looked as though they had a routine and it worked for them.

“Hey Anthony, I found your girl for you,” Lin said and he turned to you, “we’ll get you another backstage pass. No worries about forgetting it at home.” He winked at you and left you standing in the doorway of Anthony Ramos, your long-lost high school friend. He was out of the blue coat and was wearing something entirely different. This was probably his second character. You wouldn’t know since you ignored his section in the playbill completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to read about him, not after everything.

He turned to look at you, his eyes alight and a soft smile on his face. “Y/N,” he said, and damn did your name sound good on his lips, “you made it. Come in.”

He extended an arm and you walked into his dressing room. It was jam packed with all kinds of stuff. You sat on the couch and he turned back to the mirror, fixing whatever he needed to do in order to prepare for the next part of the show. He looked at you through the mirror, studying you a bit.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you said suddenly. Your eyes shot off him, avoiding his gaze. You felt your face get hot. You were not expecting to suddenly just say whatever was on your mind.

Anthony’s smile turned into a slight frown and he turned around to face you. “Really? Tenth grade, Chemistry partners. You, Ms. Y/N, broke a slide under a microscope and I took the fall. Remember that?” he folded his arms across his chest, slightly tilting his head. His voice didn’t sound accusatory, it was more like he was trying to light up your memories that you hid in the deep corner of your brain. You honestly forgot about that situation.

Not wanting to be outdone, you stood up. “Freshman English, Shakespeare partners. We made fun of Romeo and Juliet for their stupid, short love story where like, eight people died in three days. I called it tragic, and you called it teenage drama. We got lunch detention.”

Your memory caused Anthony’s smile to come back and he moved in with his arms outstretched slowly. Since you were now positive that he remembered you, you wasted no time pushing yourself into his arms and hugging him. It felt really good. It felt like old times, like for a split second, a tiny moment, you had your friend back. He wasn’t just some big, hotshot Broadway star. He was your Anthony Ramos, the goofy kid in high school that made you laugh and made school so much more bearable.

“I’m glad you reached out to me,” Anthony said as the two of you let go of the embrace, “how have you been? What’s life been like since high school?”

That was a conversation you wanted to avoid completely. Instead, you turned the conversation back on him, ignoring his raised eyebrows at the sudden topic change. “I never thought I’d see you on Broadway. You look good. I mean… you look happy, not that you look good. I mean, you do look good but that’s… you know what, never mind.”

Damn you and your stupid word vomit. Anthony only laughed.

An announcement above said that there was ten minutes left until showtime and Anthony looked completely unfazed by the sudden voice. He was so used to it, he probably has the intermission down to the second.

“Shouldn’t you get ready?” you asked him, unaware of his overall routine.

To your surprise, he shook his head. “I just have one thing left to do, and I have time. I’m not in the first song when the show comes back.” He could tell you were sort of closed off, and he didn’t want to push, but you could see the curiosity in his eyes. “I had a crush on you in high school, you know.”

Your head snapped in his direction and you refused to believe it. “Stop, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

You folded your arms over your chest, taking on a defensive stance. He was trying to get you to talk, but you didn’t want to tell him. You didn’t want to tell him that you liked him too, and when the two of you stopped talking, you drifted into an unhealthy mental spiral. It was stupid how much you relied on him when you were younger, how much you needed him in your life, and he just left you in the dust. Not that you held that against him, it all worked out. For him, that is.

“Well, thank you,” you manage to say but that wasn’t enough for him. He leaned forward and grabbed you by the arm, but your arms were tightly linked together over your chest. He didn’t relinquish his grip though.

“That’s it? A thank you?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“Say what you always wanted to say.”

Of course, he didn’t mean that. That was some word vomit you wanted to keep in. This was the first time in how many years since you’ve seen him, and you didn’t want to say something you would regret. Yet would you regret it if you didn’t tell him what was running through your mind? Your eyes turned to look at him. He looked somewhat sad, a tiny frown twitching at the corners of his lips.

“You left without saying goodbye. Which is fine, you had some great opportunities, but you were honestly my best friend. I liked you too and it sucks because I didn’t think you would leave this giant hole in me. How stupid is that?” you asked, and you practically slammed your mouth shut. No more, you don’t need to say anything else.

Anthony genuinely looked like you slapped him. There was a look of pain that graced his freckled face and he let go of you.

“Here, fresh off the press. Or… the box. Whatever.” Lin laughs while swinging a backstage pass from his fingers. He sensed such tension that he stopped in his tracks, his face fell in surprise and he slowly looped the backstage pass over the doorknob of the dressing room. “Uh… there’s like five minutes until curtain, Ant. Don’t forget to fix your hair. Philip hair, remember? That’s not Philip hair.”

Lin disappeared shortly after that and that was your cue. “Thanks for the invite. I’m going back to my seat now.” You turned on your heels and made one step toward the door, but Anthony’s reach was fast. He grabbed you by the elbow and pulled you back. You stumbled just a bit and regained your balance thanks to Anthony’s grip. The moment you turned to look at him, he stared at you, a sort of boldness now making its way through his face. In the blink of an eye, it all changed.

He kissed you.

You don’t even recall him leaning in. One minute, you were about to tell him off, and then the next, he was kissing you. It was soft and sweet, a gentle touch that let you relax against him. Anthony, however, kept a grip on your arm, which was probably for the best. You liked the fact that he was trying to keep you in place.

His forehead rested against your own and he let space come between your lips and his as the kiss came to an end. He whispered softly, “Be kinder to yourself, alright? For my sake. I can't stand watching you beat yourself up like this.”

Letting you go, Anthony grabbed the backstage pass off the doorknob and looked at it. He turned it back and forth, like he never seen it before. “If I give this to you, are you going to use it this time?”

Your mind was still swirling from the precious kiss and you couldn’t manage to say anything. Instead, you just nodded. He smiled, approached you, and placed the pass around your neck. It weighed next to nothing. Anthony’s fingers traced the lanyard, down to the pass itself, but his hands continued moving. They finally stopped on the curves of your waist.

He was going to kiss you again. God, you hoped he would.

A voice on the speaker crackled through, warning the cast, crew, and ensemble that there was one minute left until curtain and then the second act would be in full swing.

“I need to finish getting ready,” he said, sounding a bit sad.

“What’s Philip hair?” you asked out of curiosity.

Anthony turned to the mirror, reached a hand up to his hair and pulled the tie out. His long hair fell out of place and he grabbed a brush, brushing it out. “Philip hair.”

You laughed which caused him to smile. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He turned back to face you, letting an arm slip over your shoulders as he pulled you in for a side hug and held you in place. His lips pressed themselves against your temple and in that moment, things felt right. He was patching the hole that he left you with. He was fixing you, even though he shouldn’t have to. He didn’t do anything wrong. Still, it felt nice. It was nice that he cared.

“You are free to go back to your seat and finish the show, but I want you back here when we bow out,” Anthony said. The demand was enough to send some butterflies swirling in the pit of your stomach.

“I’ll be here. Good luck.”

What’d I Miss started playing in the background and he kissed you again. You had to break free and go back to your seat, you were already missing part of the show. It wasn’t difficult to find your way back, and you caught Lin’s eye as your sat back down. You sent him an apologetic look for disrupting the show, but he only smiled and nodded before doing his bit in the song.

This night was the first time in a long time where you smiled so much. It was going to be tough to sit through the rest of the show when all you wanted to do was go backstage and be with Anthony. Your long-lost friend wasn’t long-lost anymore. The hole in your heart was almost filled in. You couldn’t wait for the show to be over. Soon, you’ll be back in Anthony’s arms. He’ll be waiting for you. Finally.

[phantomato]

As a Voldemort fan, what do you think about the "Voldemort is my past, present, and future" line? Do you like it? Agree with it? I'd love to know!

So, I don’t normally think about specific lines of dialogue, and I took some time to do so before responding to this. Thanks for your patience!!

Reading within the context of canon

There are a couple of factors I want to keep in mind about this piece of dialogue:

It’s delivered by Diary Horcrux

It’s said as part of a villain monologue/identity reveal

I don’t bring these up to discredit the sentiment. It’s just that, in the realm of the books, we get relatively little direct interaction with either Tom Riddle or Voldemort, don’t we? Most of what we get is mediated through someone else’s memory or is a soul shard operating on its own (diary, locket, Harry mind-meld). Diary is the most coherent horcrux by far, which you can headcanon to be true for any number of reasons. I suppose he’s a useful lens into some part of Voldemort, but I am not sure I view him as a true snapshot of V at 16, more like a mix of V’s ambitions for himself, his mental/emotional state around that time, and whatever it means to be part of a soul stuck in an object for 50 years. And I don’t mean to imply that Diary has been sentient and awake and trapped, necessarily—maybe he’s dormant unless someone interacts with him, idk—but he is clearly disconnected from time, relying on the people who write to him to inform him about current events.

I suppose I’d say that the line sounds like the kind of bluster that an overconfident teenager might say, mixed with the sort of moral certainty that comes from flattening a person into a shade of themself. Adult Voldemort is more clever, and his dialogue, even when campy, has a subtlety to it in that he sounds like he’s saying things to amuse himself. Half of his conversations post-resurrection sound as though he’s not talking to anyone else in the room, and maybe that’s the cauldron-body Second Coming thing messing with his mind, but mostly I think of him as… intelligent and bored. Around someone who kept up with his pace of conversation, he wouldn’t need to be so distracted, because the other person would keep him engaged.

And, well, Diary is demonstrating the early stages of developing that skill, but he’s stuck with the mind of a 16-year-old and never gets to progress to the levels of genius that adult Voldemort reached. He thinks it’s funny (and frustrating) that this stupid child hero needs the whole “I am Lord Voldemort” thing spelled out so clearly, but Harry is… not the cleverest 12-year-old, and really, Diary, your monologue isn’t all it seems to be for all that Harry is amazed by it.

So, onto the sentiment.

Past

Personally, I much prefer a Voldemort who sees an intentional break between his childhood as Tom Riddle and his adulthood as Voldemort. I don‘t mind an acknowledgment that the potential was always there, or for him to believe that Voldemort was inevitable, but I like the agency of Voldemort deciding to live with this identity and deciding that this identity should not have ties back to Tom Riddle, or that he should get to control those ties and when they are invoked. But I’m also comfortable with the idea that he might have taken some time to reach that point, that at 16, beginning to question who he is, he might have been more comfortable erasing anything other than the Voldemort identity, especially as he was forced to perform Tom Riddle every day.

Future

I just like more fluidity to my Voldemort than this unyielding quote provides. What defines him above nearly all else, for me, is his desire to survive—and I will usually settle on the idea that if survival means preserving the identity of Tom Riddle for possible use (as in Made of Clay), then I think Voldemort would consider it as an option. This is all to say that Voldemort might ideally be his future, but… I think he’d consider Tom again if the choice was death as Voldemort or life as Tom.

Present

I’m working on a first-war Voldemort piece right now; the first chapter should go up late this week. I love Voldemort. I think he’s a fantastic character, with his own wonderful challenges both related to but separable from the idea of a middle-aged Tom Riddle. A Voldemort who has chosen to become V, to abandon the birth name and shed connections to people who knew him as such, redefining those relationships as something new, is compelling to me. There’s a particular attempt to sever himself from humanity that I think only exists when he has gone fully into being Lord Voldemort, and how humanity sneaks back into even that identity is a fundamentally interesting question. I don’t think 16-year-old Tom was presently Voldemort, though. I don’t think he truly becomes Voldemort until much later in life, and I’d bet he prefers not to relive the almost… naive joy that his teenage self took in claiming that name, given everything he must go through before he can truly live as it. He wouldn’t want to be that boy again. Mid-40s Voldemort is very happy that teenage Tom’s version of Voldemort is not his present.

[alloftheblackwidowfeelings]

I’m sorry I haven’t read any of your other responses, I’m too afraid of encountering spoilers so major apologies if you’ve already answered this question. I’m simply wondering, how much of the movie is typical marvel action (little emotional substance and superficial fight scenes) and how much of it is deep and emotional scenes that develop Nats character further?

Hey, anon, first: Thank you for this ask, because it lets me clarify:

This is exactly what I want.

I mean I'm hoping once people see the movie they want to discuss things I've been thinking about, and I imagine at that point I'll shift more analytical (I have all these things I've been tossing around in my head), but right now the paramount goal for me is to not spoil people who want to be surprised, so I'm really glad that I can answer questions without you having to sacrifice that!

Anyway. An answer to your actual question, which is long but hopefully not spoilery at all because I'm talking more about what I was looking for and how much I believe I can trust my own responses:

I feel like I can't answer this fairly because I am extremely aware that I tend to zone out during fight scenes, and retain very little of the fighty parts. I'm not good at tracking fight choreography in any case, and the dynamics of fights don't particularly interest me. So please accept the caveat that someone else can probably answer this better than I can, because I was not really watching the fight scenes as anything but "How is this enhancing the characters I already care about?"

And part of my answer to that is that I'm so neck-deep in my personal interests that it's hard to analyze if I'm being reasonable. Because Taskmaster's skill is mirroring, and Natasha's role in every MCU film to date has been to be a reflection of someone else, and so I spent most Taskmaster scenes focused on what it means to Natasha, and how it challenges her, to be the subject rather than the reflection. I can't actually say this is the text of the movie- after seeing the movie I still can't say definitively that Taskmaster was chosen as the villain because of how much mirroring is part of Natasha's MO so it's a thematic slam-dunk- but it made the fight scenes more interesting to me, because that was there to dig into.

The third act is a big explosion-y set piece and I understand exactly why it was there and yet it didn't feel necessary to me at all, because the most important parts of the movie for me were the conversations. I felt like most of the fight scenes had enough rooted in the conversations that I was engaged, but if were being honest, I don't know how much I was engaged because it's Nat and I love Nat, versus the fights doing something.

That said, I enjoyed all the Widow fight scenes because those, I think, are inherently answering the questions we've had for Nat since forever. I kept thinking of Winter Soldier, not because the fight scenes are that caliber (there really isn't an equivalent of the elevator scene here), but because there's that same externalized conflict, where one person wants to save their opponent and the other person does not. For me, too, the scenes were less about the fights themselves and more about how competent the Widows are, whether they're fighting against each other or on the same side. The MCU tends to view human fighters as boring, and it's not that Nat is more skilled in this movie, but that her skills are given the respect they deserve, particularly because there isn't an Iron Man or a Hulk here; Alexei is a super soldier, but he isn't foregrounded as the peak of human perfection in contrast to regular humans.

I think for me what makes the fight scenes work is that from the beginning, we're shown how much the Widows didn't choose this. So to me every fight scene doubles as a wound; this is what they were made into, and having that hang over the scenes changes how I interpret them.

Is that intentional, though? I'm honestly not sure of the answer- I mean, it feels intentional to me, but so many of the reviews didn't see it like that that I feel like I need to own it just might be me being used to searching for crumbs in any scenes of Nat I'm given. (I mentioned to a friend that reading Natasha through the text actually caring about her is a completely different skill set than reading Nat through scraps and subtext, and I am very worried I'm not transitioning as well as one might hope.)

Overall, this movie works for me as an attempt to bring cohesion to what we know about Natasha Romanoff and what we know about the Black Widow, which are two topics that sometimes intersect and sometimes don't. This is absolutely not a "the MCU has had a plan since Iron Man 2" thing; it's a "we're building this arc in a cave with a box of scraps of canon from her previous seven appearances." But I'm so used to seeking out the tiny details to try to figure out a coherent whole that seeing a movie on screen, that considered the details about Natasha to be important, was emotional and moving and resonant for me, in a way that it probably wouldn't have been if it was a character I wasn't this invested in.

I mean, my ultimate answer is that my satisfaction with the movie comes largely from how I feel like there are so many things we could take away from what the characters did in this movie (and some of those things contradict other things! I have a lot of messy and unorganized thoughts right now). But I can also argue about a bunch of ways that Iron Man 2 can be used to further Nat's character, and appreciate it for that, even though I know that I'm backwards-engineering to give Natasha agency though the text's exploitation.

So I guess my deeply-unhelpful answer to your question is that I thought it had a pretty deep emotionally foundation, even though some of the fight scenes went on too long for my tastes, but I don't know if that's because the text is actually that rooted or because I've spent a decade training myself to find what I want in any tiny shred of Nat content I'm given, and through that lens, there was really no way this movie couldn't be a rousing success.

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Mary Ruth Keller

Mary Ruth Keller has 42 stories at Gossamer, plus her stories are at AO3. She's written a number of short standalone stories, but she's thought through the X-Files mythology and written about it probably as much as anybody ever has. So if you want to dive into the mythology and all its drama, you need to go read her mythology fics ASAP. (But read this long, interesting interview first!) Big thanks to Mary Ruth for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Quite frankly, yes. The Kuxan Sum Cycle branches off the actual series following the Third Season episode Syzygy. I took the myth-arc as it stood at that time, post Nisei-731, and the agents in mid-Rift. Although I didn’t quite realize it when I started out, I was most interested in moving the myth-arc forward in a continuously unfurling narrative, one where Scully and Mulder became an effective investigative team who support each other as partners and friends again. After I started writing in my little corner of the X-F universe in 1996, there was a lot of stuff on the show that just happened, with no real storytelling logic to it I could fathom, but that seemed to be popular. I stopped writing in 2000 because I was frantically busy at my new job (which consumed far too many twelve-plus-hour workdays and weekends) and because my sister and I were trying to take care of my elderly, increasingly frail, Mother. So, I never expected, when I started writing in 2018 and posting again in 2019 (I reposted all my stories, in order, to AO3 and fanfiction.net, because Chermera would never have made sense without them) for readers to take an interest in myth-arc and character issues that the series writers had simply abandoned to go chase, well, anything else, especially if it made no coherent sense whatsoever. What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

The fandom was a lot of fun. There were many interesting, engaging discussions I took part in with other fans of the show, some of whom I am still in touch with.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

All of the above. I spent a lot of time discussing writing and characters with other writers on ATXC, except when I was actively working on my novels. Since I was doing basic research into microwave remote sensing of the Earth while working at the Naval Research Laboratory at the time – yes, I was one of those dreaded Department of Defense scientists the show had a love/hate relationship with – my writing happened at night and on weekends. Novels, especially the longer ones, take me about a year from first words on disk until release, which meant I didn’t have all the time to participate on-line as I would have otherwise. But, I enjoyed chatting with the fellow denizens of the Endies Board, and on the EMXC, Scullyfic, and Je Souhaite mailing lists. I’ve saved some of those posts and conversation threads on my older computers, where it’s fun re-reading them from time to time. What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

There were a lot of generous, funny, very intelligent fans involved with X-F back then (not that there aren’t now; there are, of course). I started writing because I wanted to get the myth-arc and the characters back on-track, the long-term story moving forward and the agents again being the smart investigators I loved hanging out with on Friday nights. But, outside of having read a lot of myth, literature, fiction, and non-fiction, I didn’t know enough about the mechanics of writing fiction. Several authors were willing to help out, some explicitly through E-mail conversations, and some from general comments about crafting stories that were posted to ATXC. I had a real problem with how I initially handled dialog, which I had some E-mail guidance on, that was very much appreciated. I also had two quite diligent beta readers, one an on-line fan, and one a real-life friend, both male, who helped me with the direction of the Scully-Mulder half of Anath. I was, at the time, utterly exasperated with how the pair of them had become such complete morons on the series, both totally incapable of investigating anything successfully, which was affecting my writing the characters in that story.   What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show? Ooh, boy. I’d like to say I started watching with the show with the Pilot, but I didn’t, quite. Tom Shales was the Washington Post TV critic at the time the Pilot aired – yes, not only was I a government scientist, I was living in Alexandria, Virginia, in 1992. He was intrigued by the characters and premise and found Duchovny and Anderson engaging while playing their roles. At the time, I was wrapped up trying to work on a PhD while still employed at NRL, so I tucked the review away, waiting until I had Friday nights free to check it out. I’m a great lover of science fiction, so I thought to give the show a try, eventually. [Lilydale note: I found a couple things Tom Shales wrote about The X-Files premiere in 1993: Fall 1993 TV preview article and a “Pilot” episode review.]

The first episode I sat down to watch was the First Season Darkness Falls, where Mulder and Scully get trapped at the logging camp with the Earth Firster, Doug Spinney, the logging executive, Steve Humphries, the Forest Ranger, Larry Moore, and the gooey green bugs. I was amazed by that story. It was as perfect a little piece of science fiction as I have seen on TV (except for one bit toward the end), with an environmental moral to it as well, where all the characters make good and bad choices, and they all suffer or succeed because of them.

What hooked me, really hooked me, were the first/second acts, specifically, Dana Scully’s actions, once they find the desiccated logger in the tree. The investigation is handled logically, in that it’s not the big male agent who goes shinnying up the trunk to look at the evidence while everyone else stands around watching and wailing, “Whatever shall we do!” No, it’s little Dana Scully who takes the ride to the upper branches. This made oodles of sense, in that she was this tiny woman whom two men could lever up that far with a rope, a hand winch, and pulleys. When she gets there, after grimacing (who wouldn’t, considering what she saw), she starts investigating. She does an on-the-spot post-mortem exam, while Mulder makes an ooky male-body-parts joke, but everyone takes her results seriously. I was thrilled. Here was a female character I could really relate to, someone who could hold her own in a difficult situation, unlike most of those on the tube, then or now.

I made a point, over the following summer, of watching as many re-runs as I could, catching up on the episodes and characters. The stories ran to science fiction and horror, which are my preference. Further, although there was an emphasis on the paranormal, several of the first season episodes were written so both Mulder’s wanting-to-believe-but-needing-proof intuitive, emotional approach and Scully’s logical, scientific, justice-oriented viewpoint each got the narrative coherently from initial crime to identifying and apprehending a suspect. It was some spectacular, complex writing, and I was hooked, hopelessly hooked. I discuss this some on my old author web-page, which still exists, courtesy of the Wayback machine), so I won’t belabor it. What got you involved with X-Files fan-fic? The shenanigans within the Third Season, quite honestly. The myth-arc wasn’t moving forward, as it had during the Second Season, which I really couldn’t understand. Carter had given us this bang-up start in the ABC Trilogy with all these new fictional possibilities to explore, but instead, bupkis. The MOTW’s were retreads with no depth or moral/ethical weight to them, except for Darin’s stories. The intelligent agents I had enjoyed spending time with while they pursued their oddball investigations were evaporating before my eyes. Mulder had always been this deeply intuitive character who cared about others and knew he could get it wrong, so needed Scully’s logic in their investigations, even if he didn’t always want to hear her observations and questions. But that character was being replaced by a cookie-cutter misunderstood anti-hero, who wasn’t thinking, just running off to chase butterflies, who was always right because he was The Guy. Scully, as an investigator, the little agent who could, was simply being sidelined. Sure, she’d argue with Mulder, but the writers had stopped giving her and her logical viewpoint a real role in their cases, Darin excepted, again. As the series went on, the Agent and Doctor Dana Scully I respected was replaced with this snappish little female whose only notable skill was running in high heels, who spent her time standing around with her arms crossed, and made pruney faces at Mulder if she were required to do any actual investigating. I hated that character, but, apparently, the all-male writing staff just loved her.

I knew about the on-line fandom, so I thought to check out if anybody else had noticed these “improvements.” First, I spent time at ATXF, discussing the changes with the series, that disturbed a lot of folks, not just me. Eventually, I tripped onto ATXC. There were writers there who understood the two characters, quite well, but weren’t that interested in the other problems with the show that bothered me deeply.

Like many fan-fiction writers, I decided to try to bring in, or in my case, bring back, what I was missing in what was being aired. Sins of the Fathers was the result. As I mentioned above, it was a far from perfect story, but I learned much putting it together, and it got a lot of positive feedback. So I kept writing and trying to improve what I wrote. Folks appreciated it, then and now, surprisingly, which was endless encouragement to keep going. What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom? With work and my Mom, as I mentioned above, I dropped out for a few years. My new job is still microwave remote sensing of the Earth, at a University-affiliated laboratory, not working directly for the government, but the NASA/NSF-type funding for the research I like to do is much harder to come by, so it takes up a lot more of my time to keep funded and working. Adding to that, I haven’t found places like ATXC in the 90’s or the Endies Board, but I suppose lightning only strikes once. Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Not really, no. I’ve enjoyed other TV series, but, I never felt those shows were just throwing away essential parts of themselves as X-F did, or, if they went bad, I simply stopped watching them. A fandom is, or can be, a huge time commitment, which, as I’ve noted, I don’t have that much of. I discuss this quite extensively in my author’s notes at the end of Chermera, so I won’t repeat myself. [Lilydale note: the long author notes are at the end of the story’s last chapter, not in the AO3 notes section.] Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

As a child, I loved reading myths and legends from many different cultures. So many amazing stories, so much that touches on truth. Greek myth, Norse legends, Islamic tales, Celtic fables, all of them. It goes without saying that discovering Tolkien’s fully-realized Middle Earth in my early teens was like falling into an river of endless delights.

In literature, perhaps the character I enjoy most is Sherlock Holmes. On television/in movies, I’d have to say: Beverly Crusher, (early) Dana Scully, Susan Ivanova of Babylon 5, Pa’u Zotoh Zhaan and (early) Aeryn Sun on Farscape, Samantha Carter on Stargate SG-1, Hermione Granger, and most recently, Lagertha on Vikings. Dunno, there might be a pattern there. Possibly. Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

Yes, absolutely. I started rewatching the series when it ran on BBC America, enjoying the first two seasons again. I’d actually never stopped thinking about Mulder and Scully; I just lost the time to write about them, until two years ago, when I managed to land some long-term funding so I wasn’t staying up nights writing proposals every few months. I’d have a thought about how to advance the story that became Chermera, so I’d make a mental note and play with it in my head. I also have two more novels and a satyr play left to go in the sequence of stories I want to write, so I’m turning over plot-lines and potential arcs in my head all the time. Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom? I do read X-F fan-fic. Since the series has wandered so far away from what engaged me, and most fan-fic keeps up with that, I don’t read very much. As far as other fandoms, one was enough. Do you have any favorite X-Files fan-fic stories or authors?

Reaching back into the dark ages, I’d say Pellinor and Nascent. They may both be available on Gossamer. [Lilydale note: Fortunately, they are!] What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise? Zurvan is the favorite of my older stories. It, like Twelfth Night (Denha on AO3 to avoid confusion with another X-F story named Twelfth Night), builds on the past stories in their trilogies and brings the overall arc to new places. It’s fun to uncover surprises when writing and develop challenges to address in the future, which both of those stories did. Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I’d certainly like to. I had planned to write three trilogies with their satyr plays, each of them focusing on an aspect of the mythical Triple Goddess: Maiden, Matron, and Crone, in the X-F universe. Only, being me, I turned it around. Sandra Ann Miller (Samantha) is the Maiden, but I’ve just started telling that part of the arc with the transitional Anath and the first trilogy story Chermera. I’m approaching this trilogy as a coherent tale spread across the three novels, which is different from the other two. The Caroline Lowenberg Trilogy didn’t really get organized until Twelfth Night. It was only the third story I’d ever written, so perhaps I can be excused. The Dana Scully Trilogy was all interconnected, but that was more of an organic, rather than a pre-planned and deliberate, effort. I didn’t really grasp the full arc of what I was creating there until I was writing Chermera and looked back over the threads running from Rustic Suite through Anath. The next story in the Sandra Ann Miller Trilogy involves the exposure of the Japanese arm of the Consortium, but, I need to read up on Japanese history, myths and legends, and world view before I write it. After finishing and posting Chermera, that’s what I’ve been doing. The conflict between Amaterasu, the Sun goddess, and her ne’er-do-well brother Susanoo-no-Mikoto, the god of, among other things, storms, marriage, and love, as told in the Kojiki and the Nihongi (both written down in their near-final forms at the same time as we in the West were just recording the first skeletal versions of the Arthurian Legends), will definitely get worked into the Sandra Ann Miller Trilogy. I’m starting to put the arcs and plot-lines together, but, I’m not ready to begin writing yet. Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work? As I’ve discussed, I do. Part of why I take my time is because Mulder and Scully are owed real, challenging cases to solve - the two intelligent agents with their own approaches, strengths, and weaknesses, remember. Partly, because I have original fiction ideas I’d like to pursue. Trying to do the best I possibly can in the sheltered world of X-F where I attempt to create stories with universal themes, well-realized settings, coherent plot-lines, and original characters who resonate with my readers is practice for the original fiction. I’ll never write the Great American Novel (whatever that is), but I’d like to write stories that are as good as I can make them and fun for my readers, so I keep plugging. Where do you get ideas for stories? Reading and thinking, mostly. I try to look for ideas that haven’t been done to death, or different approaches to old themes. I have four original novels I scribble mental notes on. After I bring this myth-arc I’ve been working on to its (to me) logical resolution, I hope I’ll be able enough of a writer to get started on them. What's the story behind your pen name? Actually, it’s my real name. At the time I started writing, I didn’t think to do anything else. On ATXC and Gossamer, I wrote several of the shorts that are separate from the Kuxan Sum Cycle under the pen name Lise Meitner. She was a Twentieth Century theoretical physicist who explained nuclear fission, then was cut out of a Nobel prize because the judges of her day thought Marie Curie and Irene Joliot-Curie were “enough” women physicists working in radioactivity to be so honored. [Lilydale note: here’s her Wikipedia page. Among many other fascinating things talked about there, she was nominated for the Nobel Prize 48 times in two different categories and had the 109th chemical element, meitnerium, named after her. She also escaped Nazi Germany in a plot involving trains, boats, planes, and an emergency diamond ring. You really ought to read about her.] Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

I’d shared the first five of my novels with my family back in 1996. They liked them, my sister especially. I’m not sure they knew what to make of them. I haven’t shown them to my in-laws, but, I think my sister-in-law found them on her own. We haven’t discussed them, as they aren’t her usual preference, which is Romance. One distant blood relation was thrilled to discover them on-line and wrote me about them. My sister, though, is my (self-admitted) biggest fan. When we were kids, she and I shared a bedroom, where I’d make up stories to tell her at night so she could fall asleep. She and I correspond regularly by E-mail (she’s in Florida and I’m in Maryland). Back while I was working my way through Chermera, she asked out of the blue if I was ever going to write any more. She was thrilled to hear I had been but she doesn’t have regular Internet access other than at her job. I made printed, bound copies of all my stories to mail to her last Christmas. She loves them, bless her. Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

I’ve sent Chermera to Gossamer, but, it hasn’t been updated since July 2018. All the rest of the stories are there.

At AO3, my stories are under: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkeller. The Kuxan Sum Cycle is linked together at: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555492.

I’ve published the Lise Meitner stories under my own name there: Faustus Mulder; Late Night Thoughts on Evolution, Hard Times, and Lost Pets; You Just Don’t Understand; and Lux Perpetua. Since I could separate out the trilogies into their own cycle, it just made sense.

At fan-fiction.net, they’re under: https://www.fanfiction.net/~maryruthkeller

Again, the Lise Meitner stories are under my own name. Since fanfiction.net doesn’t have a linked series option like AO3, I’ve added a header to all eleven of the stories in the Kuxan Sum Cycle so far explaining the order. The novels all are tagged with thumbnail versions of the covers I made for them. Also, the literary quotes I started each chapter and begin and end each story with, are kept in the AO3 versions, but are removed at fanfiction.net to avoid potential copyright issues. Shakespeare, Christine de Pisan, the Popol Vuh, the Ugaritic myths around Anath, and others are all long out of, or never were in, copyright, of course, but, just to be on the safe side, I’m following fanfiction.net’s rules.

If folks care to write, I’m still at my old eclipse address: mrkeller@eclipse.net. Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

Enjoy it, use it as an opportunity to make connections and expand your horizons as a storyteller. Fan-fiction was much more of a home-grown effort back in the 90’s than it is now, when there are how-to books, of all things. But, don’t get so wrapped up one forgets about real life. That’s where all the best stories are.

(Posted by Lilydale on October 27, 2020)

[winterisakillerwrites]

Becoming - Part Six

Title: Becoming

One Shot: 6/6

Character: Tom Hiddleston

Genre: Realistic(?) fluff; Angst

Rating: T

Summary: Learning about his son was only just the start of the story. As Tom Hiddleston struggles to adapt to this sudden change in his life, he comes to learn that becoming a father might be the biggest role he’d ever taken on. *Sequel/Continuation of Lovers’ Eyes*

Authors Notes/Warnings: This story came about because I knew there was still so much about Tom and his son that I wanted to explore. I fully intended this to be a quick flash forward into their lives, a snapshot if you will….They had other ideas and so here we are. This is technically all one story but has been broken down into parts to make the reading easier.

Thanks so much first and foremost to @ciaodarknessmyheart who has dealt with me throwing all of these ideas at her and has helped shape them into something coherent and wonderful.

And here we are, dear readers, at the end of this particular part of the story. This has been on hell of a ride and I’ve enjoyed getting to know this Tom and watching his relationship with Jaime grow and change. While this particular part of their story is done, I have potential ideas for future stories and situations I would like to explore. Until then, here is part six of Becoming. Hope you all enjoy!

Tag List: @tinchentitri @messy-insomniac-bookgirl @noplacelikehome77 @blacksuitofdoom @nonsensicalobsessions @theheartofpenelope @ms-cellanies @nuggsmum @inkededucatednnerdy @redfoxwritesstuff  @just-the-hiddles @wolfsmom1 @theoneanna @hiddlescastle @sabine-leo @alexakeyloveloki  @echantedbytwh @finchbaggins  @kenzieam @ciaodarknessmyheart @ladyblablabla @trippedmetaldetector

PREVIOUS

Jaime had been thrilled to find Tom waiting at the foot of the stairs and, in that moment, Tom wished he’d had the forethought to have had a camera to capture the look of pure, unadulterated joy that spread across his son’s features.

 “Daddy!” he squealed, all but throwing himself into Tom’s waiting arms.

 Tom bit down on the rush of emotion which choked him at the boy’s sudden action and breathed, “Jaime lad” into his sandy hair.

 It had been one of the brighter spots of that difficult day, holding his son in his arms. Breakfast was a quiet affair; Jaime, usually full of questions and stories, seemed to draw into himself as the morning drew on. Tom knew his thoughts were on his mother, knew the boy understood, at least to an extent, the magnitude of this day and of what he had lost.

 Jamie had dawdled when instructed to go upstairs and dress for the day. They would be visiting the gravesite, a place Tom had only been once shortly after the funeral, and it was clear the boy was hesitant to do so. And Tom understood. It had been simply too painful to go back himself after the funeral, seeing her name and the dates carved in stone had made it all far too real. But this was something they needed to do, regardless of his own feelings on the matter. So Jaime had reluctantly taken the stairs to his room and rejoined his father and grandmother ten minutes later, following them quietly out of the house and into Keira’s car.

 Tom spent the majority of the drive to the cemetery in quiet thought, his hand linked with Jaime’s. The firsts are always the worst. The thought swam through his mind as the car sped along. First birthday’s, first Christmas’, the first anniversary of their passing; they were all painful in their own ways. And this…This was never going to be an easy thing, he’d known that.

 But nothing in him had prepared him at all for just how difficult it truly would be. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known life without her, he’d spent the six years before on his own. But that had been wholly different. He’d known she was still out there, still living her life. Happy, he hoped, but out there living. This year…And it hit him fully for the first time that this year had been one in which she was truly gone. That he would never see her again. Never hold her. Never be able to beg her forgiveness for his selfishness and his self-centered choices that had cost them both so much. And all of this only cemented that fact.

 The cemetery was quiet for a Tuesday morning. There had been a few people wandering about, Tom could hear the quiet murmuring of voices as they spoke to each other and to the loved ones they came to visit, but for the most part they were alone. None of the people he’d seen seemed to pay them any mind and for that Tom was exceedingly grateful. Part of him had feared looking over his shoulder to find cameras watching them, waiting for an image that would sell whatever story the papers thought would make them most coin. It was a part of his life he had feverishly wished would remain far, far away on this day of all days. And so far the fates seemed to be on his side.

 Jaime, tearful and solemn, laid a small bunch of daisies by Eliza’s headstone. He whispered words Tom did his utmost best not to hear. It wasn’t that he cared little for the boy’s grief but more that he knew if he had any hopes of keeping himself together enough to make it through this trip, he couldn’t let himself hear them. Jaime needed him to be strong, needed to be able to fall to pieces and know his father would be there to set the world to rights again after. If Tom let himself fall apart, how could he possibly be of any help to his son?

 Silence remained a steadfast companion as they made their way back towards the car. Tom helped Jaime buckle in and offered the boy a small smile which was returned with a trembling lip. The drive to the house felt both instantaneous and agonizing in length. No one spoke as the car pulled into the drive and they piled from it into the warmth of the house.

 Keira disappeared into the kitchen almost as soon as she’d walked through the door and busied herself with lunch preparations, sending Jaime upstairs to change. Tom followed quietly behind her; his attempts to offer aid were brushed aside, leaving him nursing the gently steaming mug of coffee she’d handed him. He’d taken it with softly murmured thanks and watched as she flitted about. He could so easily see the strain of grief painting her tired features and felt a kinship with her for it. He considered briefly trying to engage in her conversation but thought better of it, the ground they held was shaky at best and Tom did not want to be the one to cause its collapse. Not today.

 Loud thuds from above caused both to freeze. Tom shot Keira a knowing look and quietly slid from his chair and out into the hall. The thuds were followed in rapid succession by a crash and yelling. Tom was up the stairs and bursting into Jaime’s room before he’d consciously made the choice to do so. The boy was standing by his bed, tears streaming down his face several toys and a lamp scattered across the floor. Mindful of the glass, Tom made his way towards his son, crouching before him. He called the boy’s name and felt his heart break as wide, tear-filled eyes met his own.

 “Oh my boy.” He pulled Jaime into a tight hug and kissed his head while the boy wept into his chest. Tom rocked him slowly back and forth, murmuring words of comfort into the top of his head. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

 Tears burned in his own eyes and he shut them tightly in a vain effort to stem their flow. There would be time enough to fall apart later, Jaime needed him now. Several minutes later the boy’s sobs quieted and his shaking slowed. Tom held him until he finally seemed to calm and Jaime sat silent in his arms.

 Jaime’s voice was muffled from the way he had pressed his face into Tom’s shirt. And his father, though he tried valiantly, could not make sense of what had been said. With a calm, quiet tone, Tom pulled the boy back and asked him what he’d said. Jaime sniffed twice before murmuring once more, “I want Mummy to come home.”

 The words shattered Tom’s heart and he gripped the boy tightly to him, unable to speak. When he finally found his voice, he was disheartened to hear the emotions he’d been trying so hard to tamper down resonating clearly. “I know. I wish she was here as well.” Several moments of silence passed before Tom spoke again. “But as long as you remember the happy times you had with your mummy then in a way, she’s never really gone.”

 Jaime blinked up at him with glassy eyes. “Really?”

 Tom nodded, leaning down to kiss Jaime’s head once more. “Really. As long as you keep her alive in your heart, she’ll always be there.” They sat quietly for several minutes before Tom sighed and pulled back. “So let’s get this room set to rights and go see what your Nan’s made for lunch?”

 Silently, Jaime nodded and climbed off Toms lap. They made quick work of the mess Jaime had made (Tom refusing to let him anywhere near the glass from the lamp bulb) before heading back down stairs and joining Kiera in the kitchen. They passed the rest of the day quietly together, occasionally talking but mostly sitting together or watching Jaime play with Lego.

 As Tom carried his exhausted son up the stairs, the small boy clinging to him, that night he was grateful to have made it through the day. His own eyes burned with tears and exhaustion but he’d done what he’d set to do; he’d been there for Jaime, been as strong as he could have been. There was time later to fall to pieces, though Tom knew that time would not be put off much longer.  

 Teeth cleaned and tucked into his bed, Tom watched as Jaime blinked sleepily up at him. He smiled softly, closing the book in his lap and leaning in to kiss his son gently on the forehead. “I love you, Jaime. Always.”

 A muffled, “love you too,” echoed from beneath the covers. Tom smiled softly as he stood and flicked off the overhead light. He pulled the door to and slowly descended once more down the stairs.

 “Tom?” Keira’s voice echoed from the living room.

 Freezing on the landing, Tom took a deep breath to steady himself before answering, “Yes?”

 “Can you come here a moment?”

 Tom padded quietly down the hall and into the living room, finding Keira sitting on a chair, book in her lap. “Yes?”

 She smiled quietly at him. “I wanted to thank you for coming today. I know I’ve not been the easiest person and we’ve not really ever gotten on but you’ve been there for Jaime and I appreciate that. So thank you for coming today. Jaime needed you and I think you needed him just as badly.”

 He stood in the doorway, mind reeling. He wasn’t sure what to think let alone how to respond so he remained silent for several moments, staring at a spot a few inches above Keira’s head, before finally nodding and returning her smile with a strained one of his own. Rubbing his hands on his jeans, Tom took a breath and motioned at the door. “I should probably be on my way. Thank you, again, for having me. I know it’s not been easy for you, any of this.”

 It was Keira’s turn to nod quietly. 

 Still unsettled, Tom turned and walked slowly down the hall and towards the front door. Bidding a silent goodnight to his sleeping son upstairs, he disappeared into the cool evening and set on his way home. 

 The next several weeks were a blur of activity, Tom spent several hours in and out of both Luke and his agent’s offices, working to finagle his upcoming schedule into something more home based. He had put the idea out there or maybe a theatre production, of at all possible, something that would allow him the flexibility of bringing his son more steadily into his life. Honestly, Tom would have been grateful for anything more locally based. He’d spent so much of the last several years running the world over and as exciting and challenging as that had been, he’s missed the comfort and steadfastness of home and of his family. With Jaime now in his life, it would be a good time to finally, truly start putting down roots. 

 Jaime appeared to be thriving in his new school. He’d made friends as easily as breathing and was consistently full of stories and ideas on his frequent calls and visits with Tom. It warmed Tom’s heart to see and hear his son doing so well. There were moments still when he could see the shadow of grief on Jaime’s face and Tom knew it was something that would take time to heal and fade. If it ever fully did.

 The first weekend of October found Jaime in London with Tom, one of the first days they’d been able to plan a day trip between the boy’s school schedule and Tom’s own. His son had been a whirlwind of excitement on the drive up, asking Tom hundreds of questions about the places they passed and about their plans for the day. It would be his first proper meeting with his Gran, as he’d taken to calling Diana on the few phone calls they’d shared, and his Aunty Emma. Tom wasn’t sure who was more excited for the outing, his mother and sister or his son.  

 He’d been grateful at Emma’s forethought in bringing a camera for this outing. Tom would cherish the photo she’d captured of the way Jaime’s face lit when he first laid eyes on his grandmother and the way his mother’s echoed the same for as long as he lived. He’d hugged his baby sister tightly when she’d given it to him, professionally framed, a few months later as a Christmas gift and it hung in a place of pride in his living room. 

 They’d spent that day wandering around Covent Garden and, for the most part, they had been left well enough alone. A few braver fans had approached, shyly asking for autographs (which he agreed to with a smile) and photographs (which he declined). Jaime had been, thankfully, kept occupied by his aunt and grandmother though he did ask Tom if any more of his friends would be coming with them. 

 Jaime had been exhausted on the drive back to Keira’s that evening and Tom had, briefly, considered insisting that Jaime stay at his overnight and then heading back the following morning. Keira wouldn’t have fought him on it, of that Tom was certain, but a quiet voice in the back of his head yelled ‘too soon.’ So he’d buckled Jaime into the backseat of the car and driven his son home. 

 The day trips and visits happened with fair regularity as autumn turned to winter. Jaime enjoyed seeing the Christmas lights and decorations lining London in mid-December. And he’d been excited to finally meet Tom’s sister, her husband and their little girl, “my cousin!” he’d exclaimed when Tom had picked him up Christmas Day and driven him to Diana’s. Jaime had again babbled excitedly on the way home how he’d loved being able to meet his Auntie Sarah as well as his uncle and older cousin but that he’d been happier seeing his Gran and Auntie Emma (it was something Emma had lorded over Sarah for months after, much to Tom and Diana’s amusement). 

 January saw Tom flitting about trying to hammer out his remaining unsettled commitments for the coming year and with school in full swing, the occasional weekend visit from Tom took the place of outings. And February had been just as packed for both father and son, though Tom had been thrilled to receive the handmade card from Jaime in celebration of his birthday. He’d showed it off proudly to Luke, Emma, his mum, and anyone else who’d stopped by his home long enough for him to pull it out. Benedict had laughed good-naturedly, a knowing look in his eye.

 By early March Tom found himself with time on his hands once more. He’d sat then with Jaime and Keira to discuss the possibility of an overnight stay in London. Jaime brightened as understanding dawned and it had taken a fair bit of discussion with Keira to figure out the when and how of the matter. A bank holiday weekend seemed to fit the bill and once the dates were set, Jaime had been absolutely giddy, talking of nothing else. And so Tom found himself pacing the living room in anxious anticipation two weeks later, waiting for his phone to ping once more. 

 Tom glanced again at the watch on his wrist and then out of the living room window. Keira had sent a text nearly half an hour before saying their train was arriving at Kings Cross. He’d insisted on going to pick them up from the station (as his initial he’d offer to drive up and pick Jaime up from Keira’s had been dismissed as unnecessary. “I’ve got plans to stay with friend up north and this would be on the way.”) but once again Keira had turned the offer down, insisting that Jaime would enjoy taking the Tube and the walk would do them both good. So he had relented, and watched the minutes tick by as he paced an ever growing groove in the floor by the living room window.

 He sighed, and dropped himself onto the couch, grabbing his phone from the table beside it. This weekend had been months in the making and Tom had agonized over every last bit of it. They’d gone on countless day trips, both in and around London, but this would be the first time Jaime would be staying after. They’d spent some time in Tom’s house between activities, but never longer than a handful of hours. Yes, he had stayed with Jaime at Keira’s when she’d had an unexpected trip up north to help out her younger sister. But that had been in territory Jaime was familiar and comfortable with.

 Emma had teased him mercilessly when he’d called and voiced his concerns two nights prior. All good-naturedly, but teased nonetheless. “Seriously Tom, it’s not like you haven’t done this before. It’s just on your turf this time.”

 “Yes,” he’d challenged back. “It’s here and he’s never spent more than a night away from Keira’s before. What if he…”

 “Tom, stop, please. You’ll give yourself grey hair worrying yourself like this. He will be fine and if he’s not, you’ll be there. You’re his dad, Tom, he trusts you.”   

 He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair (god he’d need to get it cut soon it really was getting to be a touch too long). Emma was right, he was being ridiculous. Tom let out a soft, quiet sigh. “How did you get to be so smart?”

 Emma’s laugh echoed in his ear. “Sarah is an excellent role model.”

 “Alright, brat,” he answered with a chuckle of his own, “I see how it is.”

 “I just call it like I see it, brother mine.” They both laughed. “So just take a deep breath and run with it. You have this and you know Mum and I are only a call away if you get out of your depth.”

 He ended the call, still nervous but bolstered enough to relax. And then he’d spent an inordinate amount of time straightening his already neat home. Not that he though Jaime would care overmuch, but he’d had this innate desire to show Keira he could do this. That he was ready and capable to be the father Jaime needed. The father he deserved.

 And now that the house was near spotless and groceries, movies, and activities for the evening had been acquired and set into motion, all Tom could do was pace back and forth like a madman, lost in his own thoughts. It therefore came as a surprise when his mobile pinged ten minutes later. God had it only been ten minutes? He glanced at the screen and found Keira’s message letting him know they’d alighted at the nearby Underground stop and were beginning to make their way towards the house. She’d verified the address with him and, when he confirmed, messaged they’d see him shortly. 

 Hand buried in his hair, Tom padded towards the front door and waited for the front gate bell to ring. When it did five minutes later, he quickly buzzed them through the black metal gate lining his property and pulled the heavy wooden front door open. 

 “Daddy!” Jaime squealed, breaking free of Keira’s grasp and darting towards the opened door. Tom caught him mid leap and spun the small boy around, his own face breaking into a happy grin. 

 “Hey buddy.” He kissed Jaime’s head and released him, turning his attention back to Keira who was making her way up the stone path, Jaime’s small rolling case in one hand and her own larger in the other. 

 Tom stepped from the house to help take Jaime’s case and invite Keira inside. She smiled warmly at him and followed him through the front door. Jaime had descended into the living room, climbing onto the sofa and talking a mile a minute about his trip. Tom smiled at the boy indulgently and turned to ask Keira if she would like a coffee or a tea.

 She smiled warmly and waved him off. “I have a train to catch. But I wouldn’t say no to use of your loo.”

 He’d showed her to the downstairs bathroom before padding back into the living room. Jaime pushed himself up at Tom’s re-entry and asked excitedly about the evening’s plans before transitioning into a detailed description of the movie he’d seen two nights prior that he thought Tom would love. When Keira returned several minutes later, she kissed Jaime goodbye and told him, in no nonsense terms to behave for his father and then, with a warm smile, to have fun. 

 She smiled at them. “I’ll see you both Sunday evening.” And with a hand on her case, made her way out the door and into the early afternoon light. 

 Tom turned back towards Jaime, who’d once again spread himself out on the sofa. “Have you had lunch yet?”

 Jaime shook his head. “We had snacks on the train. But I wasn’t hungry then.”

 “Are you hungry now?” Jaime nodded. “Alright.” Tom clapped his hands together. “Let’s get you fed and then we can get the afternoon started.”

 Jaime bounced off the sofa and followed his father as he made his way into the kitchen. Ladened with sandwiches, crisps, and soda (“Just this once,” Tom admonished with a conspiratorial wink), the pair made their way back into the living room. They ate in companionable silence and once finished (and their dishes cleaned and put away), Tom turned and asked Jaime if he wanted to head to the park for a bit. To which the boy readily agreed. 

 Appropriately bundled against the chill, father and son made their way from the house and towards the nearby park. They spent the next hour and a half wandering around before Jaime spotted the nearby playground and excitedly dashed towards it, leaving Tom near panic in his wake. 

 Heart in his throat, Tom caught up with his impatient child and made his disapproval of the boy’s rash action known. “You cannot run off like that, Jaime. It’s not safe and you very nearly scared me to death. You need to stay with me when we are out and let me know when there is something you want to do. You cannot run off. Ever. Have I made myself clear?”

 Lip slightly trembling, Jaime nodded. “I’m sorry.”

 “I know,” Tom breathed, his heart slowing as the panic and adrenaline drained from his system. He smiled softly at Jaime. “Let’s go play for a bit now, alright?”

 Jaime nodded and together they made their way into the fenced in play area. Jaime took great pleasure in climbing the metal climbing tower and then later swinging far higher than Tom was honestly comfortable with, on the nearby swing set. And when Jaime pointed at the open swing beside him, Tom didn’t hesitate to join him. 

 Tom was winded by the time Jaime had had his fill. He’d not swung on a swing set in far too long and he was clearly out of practice. Hand in hand, they lumbered their way back through the park and towards home. 

 A quick shower for Tom and bath for Jaime later, found both back in the living room in their pajamas. Jaime lay on his stomach on the floor, looking through the movies Tom had chosen for the planned movie marathon, his brow furrowed. The expression was so utterly Eliza that it ceased Tom’s heart. He brushed away the painful and fruitless desire the bubbled in him for this to have been a true family night. The three of them; Tom, Jaime, and Eliza preparing for an evening in after a long work week. 

 Tom sighed. That was something they would never have and the knowledge of it burned. But there was nothing he could do about it, no matter how badly he wanted. Clearing his throat, he smiled warmly at his son. “Anything to your liking?”

 Jaime held up a Blu-ray case and smiled. 

 “Excellent choice.” Tom placed the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and bent to take the case from Jaime. Movie set up, Tom lowered himself onto the floor beside his son, settling into the nest of blankets they’d set up for the evening. He set the volume on the television low enough so he’d be sure to hear the buzz of the gate when the pizzas he ordered arrived. 

 They made it through nearly three films (and one and a half pizza’s between them) before Jaime’s eyes began to droop alarmingly. The boy had curled on his side against Tom, head half buried in the pillow he clinched tightly. Taking advantage of this, Tom gingerly pushed himself to his feet and padded towards the kitchen to put the remaining pizza into the refrigerator. He switched off the television, placing the remotes back onto the coffee table, before bending to pick his sleeping son off the floor. 

 Jaime stirred and buried his head into Tom’s chest at the motion before settling back into a doze. It was a bit perilous trying to navigate his way upstairs with Jaime little more than dead weight in his arms, but somehow he’d managed. Rousing Jaime to clean his teeth was a struggle but once managed, Tom was able to get Jaime into the guest bed and settled back into sleep. He made quick work of cleaning his own teeth and climbing into bed himself. Grabbing the latest potential script he’d been sent from his bedside table, Tom settled back against the pillows behind him and read until his eyes grew heavy and sleep lulled him into her alluring grasp. 

 The sound of his bedroom door creaking open startled Tom out of sleep what felt like only moments later. Soft footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he pushed himself up, blinking in the darkness. Confusion flooded through him until belatedly understanding dawned. “Jaime?” He asked, his voice gravely with sleep. 

 He heard a soft snuggling as the edge of the bed dipped and his son crawled beside him. “Can’t sleep,” he murmured, burying his face into Tom’s chest. 

 “Bad dream?”

 Tom felt Jaime’s head shake against his chest and waited for his son to add more. When Jaime didn’t speak after several long minutes, Tom simply wrapped his arm around the boy and let him settle quietly against him. 

 He couldn’t say how long they lay there, his son curled tightly against him. The feeling blooming in his chest at the pure and simple trust Jaime has for him was near indescribable. Tom wanted to say something to the boy, offer him words of comfort and of understanding. But everything that came into his head fell woefully short. So he remained silently, gently rubbing his hand up and down Jaime’s small back. 

 Time crawled by in inches as Tom watched Jaime’s breathing slow by degrees until it settled into the quiet, even rhythm of sleep. Once he was sure Jaime was out, he shifted slightly, moving the boy’s small head from his chest and onto the pillow beside him. Tom waited on bated breath as Jaime shifted, his face scrunching, and then relaxed.

 Leaning his own head back against his pillow, Tom stared up at the ceiling. Every once in a while he felt Jaime shift in his sleep and he leant down, kissing his sandy hair. Tomorrow would be full of excitement; a trip to the zoo with Emma and then, if Jaime wasn’t too tired, possibly a movie at the Odeon, but for now Tom was content. He doubted he would ever reach the point where he felt completely at ease in this new role of father, but Tom knew without a doubt he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. 

[filthyjanuary]

I've never seen an episode of supernatural all I see is what's on your blog and each and every day I become more confused about the writing of the show and why people enjoy it :l

okay well first off i am SO sorry you have to see me like this jknbuvgyuhjn i cannot believe im spnblogging in 2020 like im 15 again but things happen i guess.

second of all, the thing to know about supernatural is.... i think, for general audiences, it is an average-to-good show. it's not Bad. It's not Beloved and/or Acclaimed. objectively, i think is also probably the most balanced view of the show and is also probably what the cw and/or people who worked on the show see it as. it lasted 15 years because it consistently pulled in reliable numbers for the cw and grabbed a lot of demographics. like i know the tumblr bubble skews perceptions but, people of all ages, genders, sexualities watched and enjoyed supernatural, yes even to the very end. most people are also not looking at supernatural with the hyperfocused lens that tumblr is and that’s like... okay. those fans aren’t any less relevant or important. if only tumblr was watching supernatural, i promise it would’ve been cancelled like at least 7 years ago.

the spn *fandom* is interesting because like one, no one is watching the same fucking show. like we all watched the same episodes but like this fandom cant even agree on like...basic facets of canon, let alone digging into complex meta. people’s views of characters actions and motivations skew wildly. things one side of the fandom considers nearly canon are like essentially viewed as ooc on other sides of the fandom. you love and hate all the characters and everyone is always about to start swinging on everyone else. you have to simultaneously juggle the ideas that the writers — and for the record this show has had four showrunners and like a billion individual writers who all see and interpret it slightly differently — are brilliant and the writers legitimately are both stupid and bad at their jobs. you have to turn your brain off in terms of continuity because they retcon their own lore every 15 seconds. this isn’t even getting into the ship wars, the boundary crossing, the weird invasiveness , etc., etc., etc. supernatural’s writing is sometimes incredible, sometimes terrible, but generally pretty average, but it had a charm (ESPECIALLY IN SEASONS 1-3) that reeled you in, even if you hated the genre.

when a show is on this long, i think the fans (rightly so) will look back and dig in and get nitpicky on things they wish were covered with more care. things that the show obviously did not decide to write with the intention of addressing/grappling with later on. case in point: dean’s drinking habits. with the exception of like... season 7 where they DO address it, dean drinks a lot as a feature of his character with little to no consequence. he doesn’t get drunk. he’s always driving. it might as well be water. the writers don’t intend for that to be more than just a facet of what makes him a rough and tough action hero even though logically, he should be drunk all the time. even w/ interviews w/ the cast/crew, it’s clear the writers don’t think the fans will care and/or notice a lot of things. they do, because well, they’re invested. the fandom extrapolates because that’s what fandom does, but i really don’t think the writers connect those dots because dean’s drinking /isn’t/ a problem until they need it to be. because spn has gone on so long, it has more instances of things like this than other shows, and our cultural contexts have also evolved a lot along the way from 2005 to 2020. so again, there’s a lot to work with. i don’t really think that’s so much a reflection of the quality of the show than it is a reflection of how long it’s been on and the way society has changed since then. dean not knowing what myspace is is funny for two completely different reasons in 2005 and in 2020, for example.

my own personal opinion is, there’s a lot to enjoy about supernatural. seasons 1-5 are legitimately good tv. for all their flaws, they have a very clear aesthetic and tell a story that is well-structured and relatively coherent in terms of themes and continuity. they set up complex characters and relationships and everyone’s motivations make sense and that arc wraps on a tragic but ultimately narratively consistent and thus fulfilling point. of course, there’s stuff i personally like and dislike but separating my emotions from it, it’s very good. i think if anything, i would recommend anyone watch those five seasons and then decide whether they want to continue or not. if you don’t, you’ll end on a note that feels complete. it’s what i’m doing w/ my friend elaine, currently, actually. if she decides she wants to continue after 5, we’ll do that, but for now we’re just vibing in season 1. after that point, i think if you decide you care enough about the characters to push through wildly inconsistent writing, there’s stuff to enjoy in seasons 6-15, but the quality and particularly the consistency dips and this is also where the retconning really starts to...intensify. it’s also where the mythos of supernatural grows bigger than the show itself, which i think was always supernatural’s downfall. the crew started caring more about the whims of the fandom and frankly the fandom became more of the story than the show, and that’s how you get people piecing together what supernatural is based on out of context gifsets that skew perceptions wildly and get Supernatural Fandom™ which... frankly, in my opinion, changed fandom culture as a whole for the worse, like yes it’s a huge, powerful and often memeable behemoth but also... the way it changed creator-fan interactions is something we’re going to be unpacking for a long time. i think had the writers tuned out fandom wars and internet yelling and strived to tell a story that made sense and was well constructed to /them/, we wouldn’t be here and seasons 6-15 could’ve found a way to be as beloved as the first third of the show. i’m personally of the opinion that being a fan of something, for better or for worse, does not entitle you to part of it’s creative process. it doesn’t become a collaboration, and the door is always there if you get to the point where you want to leave. i think supernatural getting too caught up in its own fandom and balancing all these conflicting interests is ultimately what made the last 10 seasons, and particularly the back third of the show oftentimes flounder. the finale chaos, in my opinion, happened because they tried to please everyone by keeping too many things vague so people would have room to play in their own sandboxes and round out the story the way they wanted to see it and thus ultimately, a lot of things were left in the air and so for many people, the closure they were hoping for just wasn’t there.

i dont know how this became a long and scattered collection of thoughts but tldr, people enjoy supernatural because at the end of the day, it’s an enjoyable show and i think the more you stew in a fandom bubble, there’s more to get worked up about. which is fine. i like that fandom engages in complex conversations that the show won’t grapple with, but that’s not for everyone and i don’t think the fact that we have these conversations is necessarily an indictment of the show’s overall quality.

[ddarker-dreams]

undesirable information. yandere!dabi x reader

dabi and reader are on a date, reader is entirely oblivious to his true nature. that’s when reader gets a call from an old friend, claiming that dabi is not who reader thought they were originally...

word count: 1.8k

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” you inquire, sparing a quick glance over to your boyfriend. He’s standing at the door frame of your bathroom, arms crossed. You dust a bit more blush onto your cheeks, your eyes going back to the mirror in front of you.

“Not really,” he confirms, nonchalantly. “If you really want to we can.” 

At this, your lips form into a smile. A part of you felt guilt when you made the plans originally, but hearing that Dabi doesn’t mind in person makes it all the better. For your three month anniversary, you texted and asked if he’d mind going to a fancier restaurant with you. 

Dabi has voiced his displeasure for dates in public, preferring just to hang out with you in your apartment. You had nothing against that, but you loved eating there and was hoping he’d enjoy it too.

“Thank you so much!” you exclaim, twirling around to finally face him. You strike a pose, sending him a wink.

“What do you think? I worked so hard to look nice for you.” you teasingly ask, attempting to get him to blush. To no avail, as his eyes slowly scan your entire body, his mouth quirking into a smirk.

“Maybe I want to stay here with you after all, sweetheart.” he begins, slowly walking towards you. He places his hand against your neck, slowly moving it down to your shoulder. The touch makes you shiver.

He moves his lips to your ear, relishing in the quickened pulse of your heart.

“Lookin’ the way you do now isn’t fair. You’ll make it up to me later, dollface.” 

He accentuates his words with a wink. Your plan seems to have backfired, as you entire face flushes. Playfully, you gently punch his shoulder.

“I will, I promise. Here, let’s get going before we miss our reservation.” 

While you start to walk past him, he wraps his arm across your waist, and squeezes you against him.

---

So far, your experience with Dabi has been pleasant. Aside from a few stares from other customers in the restaurant at Dabi’s appearance, nothing of note has happened. 

Currently, you were engaging Dabi in an exciting conversation about your week as you wait for your orders.

“That’s why I think the ending to the show was bad. If you’re going to commit to a path for a character, you need to stick to it! Suddenly making them evil is bad writing, not a good plot twist.” you conclude to Dabi, who is surprisingly still paying attention.

“I recall you saying that show was one of the best you’ve ever seen,” Dabi snickers. “I never understood the appeal. It was obvious to me what they were going to do.”

You hum, wondering if that’s true. “I don’t know... maybe their reaction to some stuff was off, but I didn’t think they’d actually kill their former rival in the end. It doesn’t make sense.” 

Before you could continue your conversation, you hear your phone buzz. Sparing it a quick glance, since you don’t like using your phone on a date, you realize it’s from an old friend.

From: Yuuta-kun

I have something urgent to tell you. Please get back to me as fast as you can.

Squinting, you begin to debate your options. Yuuta was a friend from a few years ago, one that you lost contact with. If you remember correctly, he said he wanted to become a private investigator since his quirk wasn’t suited for hero work.

Ever since then, you’ve heard nothing from him. This would be the first time. You can’t help but feel anxious while thinking about the message, and wonder if he’s in some kind of trouble. 

Biting your lip, you fail to notice Dabi closely scrutinizing your expression. He breaks you out of your thoughts by speaking up.

“Something the matter babe?” 

“A-ah... just someone saying they need to talk to me. I’m sorry, I’ll write back fast and put my phone away.” 

To: Yuuta-kun

i’m a bit busy right now, i’ll talk later. are you okay?? 

The response comes instantly.

From: Yuuta-kun

I need to call you right now. You’re in danger.

Now your anxiety is beginning to spike. A part of you wonders if this is a joke in poor taste, but you know Yuuta -- he was never the joking type. This makes matters worse as your mind runs through countless possiblities. 

“I’m really sorry Dabi. My friend says it’s important. I’m just gonna call them and see what’s up, and come back okay? It shouldn’t take long.” you explain, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of your face.

Dabi simply nods, raising a glass of water to his lips. You give him one more apologetic smile, and begin to walk towards the front of the restaurant to call Yuuta. 

Once you leave, you immediately call him. Bringing your phone to your ear, you prepare yourself for whatever it was he wants to say.

“[First]! Oh thank god... listen, this is going to be a lot to take in. I need you to breathe. Where are you now?” Yuuta’s voice is uneven, he sounds almost out of breath. Your lip quivers. 

“I’m on a date...? Yuuta, what is all of this about? You’re really scaring me.”

“You’re still with that Dabi guy, aren’t you?” Yuuta asks, his voice serious and low. 

“Yeah? What does that have to do with any of this?”

On the other line, you hear an uneasy sigh. “Listen to me very carefully. I saw the two of you in public a few months ago. I was hired by a hero to dig some information up on the League of Villians you probably hear about in the news all the time.”

“Your boyfriend is apart of it. This news hasn’t been released to the public yet, but I couldn’t live my life in peace knowing how much danger you’re in.”

None of it is settling in your head yet. You stare ahead at the traffic in front of you, heart pounding, and mind racing with numerous thoughts. Your entire body feels cold, as it slowly starts to settle in.

“N-no... that can’t be right. Dabi might not be the nicest person ever, but he would never do the things those people do...!” 

“Where do you think he goes during the day?”

You blink, wondering. He has told you he does freelance jobs, doing whatever when someone contacts him.

“The night of the attack at the U.A. training camp, where was he? You remember that on the news don’t you?”

Dizziness sets in.

“His quirk has to do with fire, doesn’t it? Blue fire? The people he murders are burnt to a crisp. Witnesses who have gotten away have mentioned his quirk.”

Murders.

“Yuuta... what... what do I do?” your voice is weak, barely a whisper. A sense of dread unlike anything you’ve ever felt before overtakes your entire body. The entire world around you feels like a blur as the information clicks. 

“You need to go to the police. They won’t be able to do anything about him, but, they’ll contact a pro hero to protect you. Don’t talk to him, act as natural as you can--”

Yuuta stops mid sentence, as what sounds like a disgusting squelching noise greets your ears. Frantically, you begin to call out his name. The low quality sound of a thump makes your blood run cold.

“[First]... run--” Yuuta’s voice sounds terribly forced before the phone hangs out. Too many questions pound in your head, as you shakily bring your phone back to your side. Did Dabi kill him? Was that even possible? What do you even do? 

‘The police. I need to get to the police.’

Primal instinct seems to take over your body as you run from the entrance of the restaurant, remembering a nearby police station. If you run as fast as you can, it’s possible you could get there in ten minutes. 

Dabi was still inside, waiting for you. What if he got suspicious? What if he comes after you?

You shake your head as your feet harshly hit the ground, breathing uneasily. People on the street gave you weird looks as you run past them as fast as you can. You see an alley that would give you cover for a few minutes so you can call the police.

Taking a harsh turn to the right, you bring your phone back out. Shakily, your fingers begin to type. 9-

“I didn’t take you for a dine and dasher type.” 

That voice.

Slowly, you lift your head up. It feels as if your blood went cold as your eyes meet dark blue, his expression ever unchanging. The cruelty in his voice was present, different from the teasing Dabi normally did with you.

You prepare to bolt, but before you could even blink, he was in front of you. You open your mouth to scream, but his hand slaps over your mouth before you could form a coherent thought.

He uses his other hand to pin you against the wall of the alley, using the weight from his body to keep your squirming self in place. You’re ready to activate your own quirk, a quirk that can utilize light, but stiffen when you feel his hands grow warmer.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna hand me that phone of yours, and we’re going to go back to my place. Now, keep that pretty mouth of yours shut or I’ll kill whoever comes to help.”

This has to be a nightmare. This can’t be real. Dabi couldn’t possibly be threatening you. You feel your legs weaken, as tears begin forming in your eyes. He frowns at your horrified appearance, before flashing you a grin.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d find out so soon,” he sighs as if he was irritated. “But it is what it is. I won’t hurt you, dollface, but I can’t make that promise for any unfortunate souls you try to ask for help from.” 

Dabi retracts his hand from your mouth, a small blue flame forming in his hand.

“You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you? I’d hate to have to punish you.” 

All you can do is nod your head, dread filling your entire being. Dabi seems pleased with your robotic response, but speaks against.

“Tell me you’ll be good.” 

“I-I’ll be good. I promise. Please, don’t hurt anybody...”

He snickers at you, his free hand reaching out to grab your own.

“That’s all up to you, princess. Though, that snooping pest has probably bled out by now,” he states casually, pulling you along to god knows where. “No, it wasn’t me who did it. Simply a friend in the area. If only they had been a little faster, who knows? We could’ve gone home and fucked like I originally intended.” 

The way Dabi seems so casual about this horrific situation makes you want to throw up. Instead, you silently mourn the loss of your old friend and follow him into whatever hell he had in store for you.

[astrallines]

Earth to Air #02

The most pertinent astrological event of these years is the once-every-two-centuries transition in the elements of the Jupiter-Saturn synodic cycle. In December 2020, we are moving from an earth age to an air age. I will be cataloguing reflections and predictions, as well as amplifications of the elements and their zodiacal signs. What follows is a short essay on how the bias of the material age might compromise the utility of astrology.

Who do I speak to about astrology, and what is the purpose of public speech about astrology?

At its best, the astrological community comprises spiritually fluent, intellectual, open-minded, zeitgeist-informed individuals who are interested in cultural progression and restoration in appropriate measure. However, the common use of astrology appears more and more predicated on the determination of a natal chart in the governance of an individual—but this is typically contradicted through practices of individuation. The more a person is in touch with themselves, the less a birth chart is “lived out,” and the more that it is “felt out.” As archetypal currents flow through an individual, it seems that these forces only becomes externalized if the native is not consciously engaging with the material in their inner life. If someone is continuously meditating on Pluto-conjunct-Venus, for instance, and is unfolding the archetypal material through contemplation, art, and attention, it is less likely to manifest as a concrete objective event in their life.

This is something seen easily during every mercury retrograde. For those who are following mercury-as-psychopomp into continual modes of reflection, the life becomes slower and not as many trains are missed.

When you’re reading the chart of an individual, or checking their transits, you are essentially painting the attitudinal environment of that person or that period. But you cannot account for the actions that result from these moods—the client is governor of their own responses going forward. Skilled astrologers can sometimes predict specific events, but that is a testimony to the homogeneity of the culture as manifest in the client as much as anything. It is probably harmless to see Uranus transiting a person’s 4th house and say, “Oh, you might move soon,” but to frame transits as only literal denies the complexity of the psychological backdrop upon which the transits are operating.

What is far more harmful, and ideologically related, is using astrological tools to shame people and create scapegoats. “Geminis are liars,” or “Any Leo placement produces narcissism,” etc. In this case you are fixing the conception of the archetypes involved, limiting their expression in the life. It accrues over time, just as any other constructed cultural narrative—internalized gender or class prejudices, for instance. But if you were to actually unpack “gemini” and its significations, you would arrive at no limit. Any depth psychologist knows that archetypes are literally inexhaustible, and that is what makes them archetypes. And when you have any planet in any sign, that is already two inexhaustibilities in conversation with each other—boundless permeability.

That we think we can pin an archetype down, objectify it, is a result of our materialist era bias, by the way. A material conception of the world, predicated on atomic sciences and all that, benefits from categories and objects. That’s how we fit them into the scientific method. We also like it for business purposes. When something can be boxed it can be sold. Whether we are building a formula or an economic system, an incredible amount of our mental effort goes into navigating these assemblies. This is the Minecraft world we’re in, and it does not seem unrealistic to us.

Taking Marie-Louis von Franz’ view that matter is psyche’s extension into time, if we are to turn around and look at psyche in its pre-instantiated state, of course we are going to bring the bias of materiality with us as observers. Inevitable as it is, the narrower we settle in our conceptualization of psychic content, the more we become trapped in our own lives. The operational shorthands of logic are great for designing a machine, but hopelessly impoverished for assessing character: “Virgos keep clean roooms because they like organization!” As if it will happen each time. “It depends,” is the continual cry of the feeling function. Feeling is only the measure of appropriateness, the evaluation of meaning which is never twice the same. Imagination is the sole tool we have for creation, it is the force that coheres form, and in order for it to design an effective world it needs both discernments: reason and feeling.

It is not only in astrology that people want to take psychic subjects and put a pin in them. There is always going to be a fascination with the uncanniness of fringe phenomena, objects of mysticism, occultism, parapsychology. Of course it is a very thin margin between the uncanny and the fearsome, for the uncanny marks the edge of the known.

Thinking now of some memes and things that were recently trending as punchlines: the moon, hexes, fairies. “Astral projection” has long been a twitter punchline, as has “the name of God.” Psychedelic depictions of angels were having a moment not long ago, but these renditions were really only monstrous eyes upon flaming wheels. There is no supernal fire in any of them. Psychedelic means “manifesting the mind,” and all art is thus inherently psychedelic, but the copy-of-copy-of-copy of what was once a mystic encounter produces not any more exuding of mana than the average spongebob fan art. What mind is manifest here? Only some pale mimicry. 

All of this is a commodification and a profanity of the unknowable. Weirdly, the history of lovecraftian motifs in net culture has long been associated with the STEM set of people. “Imagine something outside of reason! What the heck?!” On the other hand, Ezekielian angels and the “astral project to ur job” memes seemed to be more endemic to arty types. Just an observation.

We are flirting a little with these edges of the unknown because we can never shake the drive to expand our awareness, a little inner flame licks at our hearts telling us that some concept is unresolved. We draw to ourselves the low-res, more palatable images of archetypes so that we can position them in our lives or let them simmer on the back burner. Even hella long ago Plato recognized that false images can act like crutches leading you closer to the numinous, ineffable subject. Really the only risk is keeping them around inordinately as they leak more and more of their prejudice into your worldview, or worse yet that you cling to them so long you mistake them for yourself.

Astrology in its excellence functions as an alphabet of myth, living and dynamic, responding to the zeitgeist as much as the subjects of its study are coloring that zeitgeist. So when we cheapen the practice, by reducing it to operating instructions and standardizing its prejudices, we deprive ourselves of what could be the most accessible and practical psychological tool of our time. It’s a little awkward, since interest in astrology was relatively dormant for a while, and is now trending hard... We are coming back to it with a fervor that attests to our thirst for myth! Let’s hope that we give the archetypes enough time and space to speak for themselves.