#but when it's like no this takes place on real earth. somewhere ambiguously in the 2010s. suddenly im boo boo the fool

[potatoesandsunshine]

writing modern AUs is fun bc characters can have cell phones and you can spend a lot of time thinking about how they take their coffee. unfortunately it also makes me realize how many basic facts about the world i simply do not know

[rotworld]

1: Hellhound

you get an unexpected visitor on the night of a hunt.

->explicit. contains gore, murder, feral behavior, very ambiguous consent (consent not explicitly given but you have a good time), and knotting.

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Molly says there’ll be a hunt tonight.

You’re visiting the village market together when she suddenly stops in the middle of the road, the evening crowd parting around her. Her hands tremble at her sides, her head turned towards the sky. “Do you feel that?” she whispers. “That heat? That prickle in the air? Like a storm, but I know it’s not. They’re coming. Herbs—you need herbs. Can’t be out late.” You don’t feel anything but you take her word for it. They call her Mad Molly, but only when you aren’t around to smack some sense into them. Not just anyone survives being stranded outside on the night of a hunt. You’d like to see them try.

“How do you tell the difference?” you ask her. “Between a storm and a hunt?” 

Molly taps her nose. “The smell,” she says. “Storms are wet. Earth and sky. Hunts are something else. Try and see.” 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Crisp autumn air fills your lungs. You smell the savory aroma of meat pies, the musk of herbs, the sharp scent of pickled vegetables, but nothing like what Molly describes. You trip on an uneven patch of road and she catches you, snickering. Somehow, she’s still twice as graceful as you, even without her eyes.

Dusk settles in the sky by the time you reach Molly’s. She gives you a basketful of herbs from her garden, flowering purple stalks of betony and clary sage. “Put the dill and rosemary over your door. The betony, you’ll want that once the night’s through. Clary sage is for the eyes, but you knew that already.” She sends you off with a stern reminder, “Stay inside. Lock your doors. And don’t get in their way.” She taps the side of her face, the whorls of scar tissue where her eyes used to be. “But don’t be scared,” she says quietly. “They can be surprisingly gentle.”

It’s a long trek home from Molly’s, back through the woods and the village square. The shadows are long and the sky dim. Children chase each other, chickens run loose, and a couple of persistent women haggle with the butcher for cured meats. But when the church bells toll, everything changes. Fear grips the market. People scatter like frightened animals. Stalls are hastily abandoned, artisan goods trampled in the streets. Doors slam and windows are shuttered. A town crier rings his hand bell and shouts to be heard over the commotion. He, too, is running. “Hear ye, hear ye! The hounds come to hunt this eve!” You catch glimpses through the stampede, fur like night sky and eyes like burning coals. The beasts come pouring from dark places, shaking the clinging shadows from their coats. You smell ash and sulfur, see the heat haze fizzling around their claws. The howling starts. You’ve never run so fast in your life.

They’re everywhere, slinking through the alleys and prowling between the trees. You see them watching, waiting, their gazes burning into you as you pass. You wonder if this is how sheep feel under the scrutiny of herd dogs. The crowd thins the further you go from town until you’re alone in the woods, sprinting for the soft glow of a lantern left outside your front door. You’re breathless when you stumble inside, hunched over, legs aching. You realize, belatedly, that you lost your basket of herbs somewhere in the chaos, but you’ll manage without. All you need right now is some tea. 

The water is just starting to boil when you hear an ungodly commotion, a wet sound, a clattering, banging and screaming. It takes you a moment to come out from beneath your table and realize someone is knocking frantically at your door, begging for help. “Please, please help me, please I don’t, I don’t want to die, please—!”

Cautiously, you peer through the foggy glass. You can just make out a young man standing there. You open the door and the sight of him churns your stomach. Vicious claw marks cut through one side of his face, leaving the flesh mangled and hanging limp. That wet sound is the splatter of blood every time he moves, dribbling from his face and his hands. The hounds will smell that, clamor for a taste of it. “I didn’t know,” he sobs. “I’m not from here, I didn’t—I had no idea what it meant! The bells started ringing and everyone ran, and I—I don’t have anywhere to go!”

You let him in. He comes stumbling through and collapses, sinking to his knees against the wall. His cloak is torn and the clothes underneath ragged, everything saturated with blood. The first thing you do is clean the wound and cover him in gauze and bandages, anything to staunch the flow and cover the metallic scent. He croaks miserably, pale as death. You aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night, but you’ll do what you can.

“The bells mean there’s a hunt on,” you tell him, sopping up a red, watery mess oozing from his chin. It makes little difference now, but if it were you, you’d want to know. “The hounds are just doing their job, hunting for monsters and infernal things. But we have to be careful. They’ll attack anything that gets between them and their prey, and blood excites them.” 

“Monsters?” the young man says weakly. “Infernal things? What does that mean?” 

You shrug. “I’ve never seen one. It’s just what I’ve heard.” 

“Then how do you even know it’s true? What if they’re just running amok out there, killing whoever they want?” 

“I just know,” you insist. It’s a common rumor whispered around the village; humans are the real prey. The stories of monsters are just to keep them obedient, never getting in the way of a hunt. But Molly told you it’s not like that. She said she saw something. The hounds, she whispered, weren’t what took her eyes.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” the young man presses. “Not knowing what a monster even looks like? Whether or not you’d recognize one if you saw it?” Thin, bony fingers wrap around your wrist. He has claws, you realize, your heart skipping a beat. “It should,” he purrs. His teeth are inhumanly sharp. Eyes flutter open and shut along the uninjured side of his face, yellow and glowing like a creature of the night. He stands, suddenly steady on his feet. Your blood runs cold as you understand that his corpse-like complexion is natural. More hands unfold from beneath his tattered cloak and slam you back against the wall. 

“Let me go,” you say quickly, a frightened tremor sneaking into your words.

The monster you let into your home leans in close, smirking. A long, forked tongue slithers along your jaw. “I don’t think so,” he hisses. “I’m staying until sunrise. If the hounds come, you will send them away. If you don’t…” His jaw cracks at the joints, unhinging, his mouth opening even wider revealing a maw lined with rows upon rows of teeth. “Then there will be nothing left of you come morning.” Just like that, he drops you, watching you squirm on the floor with cold amusement. “Get up,” he says. “We have to prepare.” He doesn’t wait for you to begin shoving furniture against your door, lifting the heavy oak table as though it weighs nothing. You slowly climb to your feet and stand there, paralyzed.

“It won’t work,” you say.

He stops, dropping a chair and letting it clatter loudly to the floor. You regret speaking when those eyes flutter open in shut again, fixing you with an unnerving glare. Silently, he slinks towards you, backing you into a corner. “It will,” he says lowly. “You’ll turn them away or you’ll die. It’s that simple.” 

You swallow a ball of cold, hard dread stopping up your throat. He doesn’t understand. There is no turning away a hound. A long howl cuts through the silence and you both look at the door. Another howl rises in answer, much closer than the first. A glow like distant fire burns in the woods. The monster grabs you with three hands and shoves you closer to the door. It stands behind you, draped against your back with a claw pressed threateningly against your throat. You hear a beast’s trotting steps, leaves crunching along the path to your home. A large silhouette looms outside. There’s sniffing, and then a low growl. Something scrapes against your front door.

“Huuuuuman,” comes a low, velvety purr.  It almost sounds like a man, distinctly masculine but with a deep, animalistic rumble coloring every sound. “I see you standing there. Good evening.” 

“G...good evening,” you manage to stammer through the shock and fear. You had no idea hounds could speak. You can’t make out a face, canid or otherwise, but you see his eyes glowing in the dark, red and blazing. 

“I smell something delicious,” the hound says. “May I come in? I think you might have an uninvited guest and not even know it.”

You take too long to reply. You hear the sound of flesh peeling, the monster’s jaw unhinging behind your head, and scramble to force out the words, “There’s no one here but me!” 

The hound lowers itself. You hear more sniffing, see unnatural shadows swirling beneath your door and seeping into the house. “Are you certain, human?” the hound says. “I’m not often wrong.”

“I’m sure,” you say, as firmly as you can with hot saliva dribbling on your shoulders. You hear one last frustrated, sniff, a huff, and then the hound’s footstep’s retreating as he slinks back the way he came. Neither you nor the monster can quite believe it at first, remaining perfectly still until the fiery glow dissipates and everything is dark outside. The next howl is far, far away. 

“Good,” the monster mutters, sounding nearly as exhausted as you feel. He shoves you away and begins throwing anything else he can find into the barricade. “Now help me with this—”

He smells it only a second before you do. Sulfur. Burning. Hellfire. The unearthly glow sparks to life right outside your door once again. Time slows to a crawl as the monster turns, looking back at you with a snarl frozen on his half-mangled face. All of his eyes open wide and you hear just the beginning of a frightened whimper before flames erupt from the barricade. The fire is red like blood and the force of it bursting through knocks the monster back, sending him sprawling to the ground where it circles him, engulfs him like a living thing and eats him alive.

You can’t tear your eyes away as the flames take the shape of the biggest dog you’ve ever seen, wolf-like and ferocious, one massive paw on the monster’s chest as its maw tears his belly open and rips into his guts. The terrible, sharp stench of death seemingly burns away, overpowered by cleansing smoke and fire. The screams will haunt you for the rest of your life.

When you come back to your senses, the inferno has disappeared. Rings of scorch marks are seared into the floor around a charred corpse so horribly mutilated you couldn’t begin to guess at what it once was. A man crouches over it, licking his bloodied lips. You know he’s the hound. His wild hair writhes with shadows and the fire is still burning in his eyes. He turns to you, stands to his full height, and you fight to keep your gaze respectfully above his collarbones as you realize he’s completely naked. He takes a step towards you. You take two stumbling back.

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” you say, helpless. If he decides to kill you, there’s nothing you can do. “He told me to lie to you. He threatened me.”

“Lucky for you, you’re a terrible liar,” the hound sneers. He stalks towards you like you’re prey, a snarl pulling at the corner of his lips exposing the teeth that just tore the monster apart. “Did no one ever teach you not to open your door to strangers on the night of a hunt?”

“I didn’t know!” Any further excuses die on your tongue when he shoves you, barely more than a gentle push on his part but it knocks you to the ground. He’s on you before you can squirm away and you realize suddenly just how big he is. He’s enormous, a good head taller, all rippling muscle and faded scars. And he’s—you don’t look, but you can feel that he’s hard. His cock twitches where it’s nestled between your bodies, smearing precum on your clothes. “Please don’t...don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to,” he says, but it certainly stings a bit when he rakes his claws down your body and shreds through your clothes. He ignores your protests as he shoves the fabric aside and then his hands are on you. He has claws like the monster, but even thicker and more frightening. Somehow, they barely graze you even as he caresses your skin. You flinch when he leans in suddenly, but he doesn’t bite you. He’s smelling you, you realize. His nose grazes the hollow of your throat and he licks you, a rumble building in his chest. “This is what I smelled,” he murmurs. 

You don’t understand. He doesn’t bother to explain, either, but he pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. You expect him to reek of sulfur, but without the fire, there’s only the lingering scent of the forest. His gaze wanders your body and he presses his hand against your chest, right over your pounding heart. 

“I want you,” he purrs. “I’m going to have you.” You nod shakily. What are you going to do, fight him about it? You just watched him burn his way into your house and kill somebody in a flurry of fire and entrails. “Turn over. Let me taste what’s mine.” You hesitate. He doesn’t ask twice. You’re flipped unceremoniously onto your stomach, breath catching in your throat when he tugs your hips higher. 

You feel his breath, scalding like chimney air, against your sex. The wet press of his tongue on your flesh makes you flinch and whimper. It’s hotter than you expected. The warmth is just shy of painful. You bury your face in your arms, face heating in embarrassment, as he laps at your sex like he’s starving for it, saliva dribbling down his chin. You find yourself shivering, moving back against his face, whining when his hands catch your hips and hold you in place. 

You think that growl is pleased, almost affectionate. He adjusts his position ever so slightly, his thumbs pressing into tender flesh to spread you open. And then his tongue is inside of you. You cry out in shock, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. His tongue is long and thick, twisting inside of you, opening you wider as he makes encouraging sounds. “That’s it,” he hisses, licking a lazy circle around your entrance. “That’s it, human. Let me in.”

It’s not long before you’re shivering in his grasp, gasping, even begging. You hear a chuckle, feel his tongue leave you empty and wanting. “You’re ready,” he murmurs. You hear a slick sound. His hand on his cock, maybe, but you don’t get the chance to look and see. His claws land heavily on your head, shoving your face into the floor. He’s going to fuck you like an animal. The thought drifts almost absently through your head as he mounts you, blankets your back with his body and begins rutting his hips against you. His length, hot and pulsing, shoves between your thighs in teasing thrusts, letting you feel how thick he is. What can only be a knot drags against your sex, the friction making you whine. “Do you want me, human?” he growls. “Do you hunger as I do?” 

You make a noise, something humiliating, needy, more animal than human. It’s exactly what he wants. With a playful bite to the nape of your neck, he presses his cockhead against you. He pushes slowly, patiently, his hands smoothing along your sides. You hear him speaking against your skin, rumbling into the side of your neck or your shoulder. The words are low and indistinct but you feel the intent behind them, the desire in every sound. “Fuck me,” you beg him. He makes a bestial sound and with a harsh, forward motion, spears you on his cock. 

It’s blinding, the pain and the pressure, but it’s so good, so filling. Your fingers scrabble over the floor with nothing to hold onto. The hound rocks his hips, driving into you harder and faster, building a rhythm that makes you see stars. “Fuck, just like that,” he pants against your ear. “You take me like you were made for me.” He sinks deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge of him through your skin. It’s impossible to hold your voice in, every thrust dragging a yelp or a whimper from your lips. “Don’t hold back,” he growls, nipping at your ear. “Scream for me. I want my brothers to hear you. I want the whole village to know you’re mine.” 

You won’t last long, and neither will he. The exhaustion of the night catches up with you, the primal terror, the relief, the lust burning in your veins. You feel the hound losing rhythm as he loses himself to his frenzy, groaning and growling, driving into you with bruising thrusts. He tries to force his knot inside of you and it won’t fit, you’re sure it won’t. You try to tell him it won’t and he makes a truly inhuman sound, a laugh and a bark and a roar all at once. One of his claws lands on your head again, keeping you trapped and still as he rotates his hips and pushes harder, fucks you harder, drives his cock as deep inside as he can get.

The sound is small. The muted, wet pop of something locking into place. But the sensations are too much, too good, too painful. The force of your orgasm nearly leaves you unconscious. You feel him cum, hear him let out a long moan as his hips move in frantic little thrusts against your ass. He stuff you full and collapses on top of you, his legs hooked inside of yours. You gasp for breath as he keeps rutting, still riding the high of his climax. You smell blood. You feel his jaw come unclamped from the space between your neck and shoulder, his tongue lapping gently at the wound. 

He shifts slightly and your hips are dragged with him, the pull on your insides making you wince. “Sorry. We won’t be going anywhere for a while,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your hair. He soothes you with a hand along your side, peppering kisses between your shoulders. “Hunt’s not over. I’ll have to leave as soon as I’m able. Are you well? I didn’t hurt you?”

You don’t feel terrible, all things considered. There’s a deep soreness that might bring regret in the morning, but mostly you’re content. His heat, the fire at the core of his being, dampens the worst of the pain. There must be some magic at work. You can’t believe he’s still inside you. “I’m okay,” you say slowly.

“Good.” The hound nuzzles his face against you, taking in your scent again. You could almost call the behavior affectionate or gentle, a stark difference from how he fucked you earlier. 

Molly’s words come back to you, the strange little smile on her face. You have some questions for her in the morning.

[madara-fate]

If Kishimoto really wants people to believe that Sasuke loves Sakura and that they have such a good marriage then he's doing a piss poor job at it. You don't see people arguing if Minato loved Kushina or not or if Dan loved Tsunade or not. You don't. The fact that there are so many people arguing whether Sasuke loves Sakura or not, and many people believing he doesn't is just proof that Kishimoto failed somewhere or else there wouldn't be this much controversy surrounding this matter. It's either Kishimoto implying Sasuke does not love her, either Kishimoto intending to portray his idea of a good realtionship/loving husband through SS and failing miserably. Sasuke did not look happy when he saw Sakura in Gaiden first time after 10 years of absence. He couldn't even bother to send a letter to her and Sarada to let them know he was alright and thinking about them during this period. And no, please don't come at me with that bullshit excuse that he didn't keep in contact because he wanted to keep the secrecy of his mission and did not want any private information to leak and that's why he was only keeping in contact with the Hokage or whatever. No one says that if he ever bothered to write them he had to go into details about his mission. He could've just told them he's alright, that he misses them and hopes they're fine and that would've been great too and wouldn't have compromised his mission in any way. The man has space time abilities for fuck's sake. He could've easily teleported to see them and then go back to his business. In my opinion Kishimoto wrote SS in this ambiguous way to appease both the SS haters and the SS shippers. He knew SS fans were going to be happy with whatever he threw at them even if it was the absolute bottom of the barrel and he knew the antis were gonna have a good time using Gaiden to further tear the ship apart. This man is either terrible at writing romance either a huge troll who enjoys pitying his readers against each other. Or maybe both. And I assure you, I don't even hate SS, despite what I have written so far, nor do I ship something else. And Sasuke is also my favorite character. I'm indifferent to this pairing and maybe that's why I can have a more objective opinion on it than its shippers or its haters since I'm not biased due to personal feelings of either distaste or love for it. SS can be seen in both a good and a bad light, but to be honest the balance is more inclined towards the bad light.

This is just more of the stuff that I've heard plenty of times before. I'll firstly preface this by saying that I'm very highly critical of Gaiden because it included pointless drama for the sake of pointless drama. It's execution was horrendous to say the least, but I'll always still appreciate the message that Kishi was trying to relay. However, I will always take issue with those who defend the notion that Sasuke doesn't love Sakura. Hence, the following.

You don't see people arguing if Minato loved Kushina or not or if Dan loved Tsunade or not. You don't. The fact that there are so many people arguing whether Sasuke loves Sakura or not, and many people believing he doesn't is just proof that Kishimoto failed somewhere or else there wouldn't be this much controversy surrounding this matter.

Minato wasn't drowning in hatred due to a supernatural phenomenon which cause him to push away love in favour of the darkness. Dan wasn't made to undertake a preposterously long mission while intending to keep everything about it confidential. Why on earth do people think they can just compare any random relationships to SS's and go "well look at this couple! Why couldn't SS have been more like them?". Well here's your answer - Because their situations were nothing alike. But why do people constantly believe that those relationships are the only models for what a loving relationship can be? The struggles that Sasuke and Sakura faced during Gaiden were not due to issues with each other, but rather, they were shown facing hurdles which they overcame together. They were perfectly happy with each other, and not once did their dedication to one another ever falter during Sasuke's mission. Just because the couple faced hard times does not mean their bond is any weaker. On the contrary, the fact they they faced those hard times together and came out of them just as strong if not stronger than before, is a testament to the strength of the relationship.

You wanna know what I don't see? I don't see people questioning Neji and Hinata's relationship despite Neji trying to kill her during the Chuunin Exams. I don't see people questioning Hiashi's feelings towards Hinata despite essentially disowning her because he deemed her to be a failure. I don't see people questioning Gaara being the Kazekage despite him previously being feared as a killing machine who slaughtered many innocent people, by the very same villagers who now respect him as their leader. I don't see people questioning why Kabuto was trusted to become the head of the Orphanage and taking care of the future of the village, despite being a notorious war criminal. No, but of course people will question SS right? Despite them just being another example of the same theme.

It's either Kishimoto implying Sasuke does not love her, either Kishimoto intending to portray his idea of a good relationship/loving husband through SS and failing miserably.

Kishi flat out said, that the love between the Uchiha family is the real deal. He's not implying anything, and if he truly failed at depicting this, then SS wouldn't have consistently proven to be the most popular canonised pairing for years following the manga's ending.

Sasuke did not look happy when he saw Sakura in Gaiden first time after 10 years of absence.

And you think that's indicative that he doesn't love her? Are you serious? The entire time, Sasuke was very clearly shown to be aggravated because people who weren't supposed to be at his and Naruto's secret meeting place kept showing up. He didn't look happy when first meeting Naruto either, despite not seeing him for just as long. So what? You think that means he doesn't care about Naruto either? He was aggravated that Sarada was there because she was supposed to be in the village safe from all this, he was annoyed with Naruto for allowing the kids to follow him in the first place, and yeah, he didn't jump for joy when seeing Sakura because again, she was meant to be watching over Sarada in the village. One of the biggest incentives for his secrecy was to keep Sarada safe, and everything that was happening then, was the opposite of that.

He couldn't even bother to send a letter to her and Sarada to let them know he was alright and thinking about them during this period. And no, please don't come at me with that bullshit excuse that he didn't keep in contact because he wanted to keep the secrecy of his mission and did not want any private information to leak and that's why he was only keeping in contact with the Hokage or whatever. No one says that if he ever bothered to write them he had to go into details about his mission. He could've just told them he's alright, that he misses them and hopes they're fine and that would've been great too and wouldn't have compromised his mission in any way.

You can call it a "bullshit excuse" all you want, but that doesn't change the fact that this is the reason that was given. But it's like people just refuse to acknowledge the fact that Sasuke admitted that he had made a big mistake, and refused to allow Sakura to apologise because he knew that he was the one at fault:

I mean what? Do people think that Sasuke has to be perfect or something? Is he not a human who makes mistakes just like everyone else? Sasuke knew that he took his secrecy too far, he hadn't anticipated the adverse affects his absence would have on Sarada, and he apologised for his mistake. Why? Because he cares, for goodness sake it's not hard to comprehend. I seriously would have never thought that people would actually question whether or not he loves his family. Why would Kishi promote a loveless marriage in his manga aimed at young boys? It just boggles the mind. If Sasuke didn't care about them, he wouldn't have thought he did anything wrong by his lack of contact with his daughter. I emphasise with his daughter because Sakura was still somewhat in contact with Sasuke as she was kept informed of what he was doing.

In my opinion Kishimoto wrote SS in this ambiguous way to appease both the SS haters and the SS shippers.

Why would Kishi care about appeasing the same fans who harassed him so badly following the manga's conclusion, that his editior had to respond in broken English and basically tell those entitled children that the story doesn't belong to them? I'll reiterate that there's nothing "ambiguous" about their relationship, nor is Kishi implying anything. Gaiden made it crystal clear, that the love between the Uchiha family is the real deal, there's nothing ambiguous about that statement, there's nothing ambiguous about Sasuke giving Sakura the forehead poke, and there's nothing ambiguous about Sasuke flat out clarifying that his heart is connected to Sakura's.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Sacrifice Part 10: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: death isn't always the final stop.

wc: 1.2k

tw: none

masterlist

You can breathe here.

Your eyes wink open and you’re no longer on the mountain.

There’s an echo of slats falling into place and clicking neatly as a wooden bridge forms beneath you and spans across a starry sky, like the ones you used to lie under when you were on your own.

You look down at your hands and find that they’re translucent, just like the rest of your body.

“Y/n,” a voice calls out to you from somewhere far away, and you look around you, trying to find the source. You locate the voice on the other side of the bridge, where two figures float toward you slowly. “You grew into such a beautiful woman.”

“Mom. Dad.” The figures stop in front of you, smiling and reaching out to you. They’re outlined in a blue glow, but they look the same as when they left you, still youthful and brimming with pride.

“You did the right thing. You were brave until the end. Now, come. Join us.” You hesitate at their words, thinking about--

“Don’t think about that now,” your mother interrupts. “They will all make it without you. You did what you were destined to do.” You consider the possibility of joining your family and being in the underworld together. But what if...

You glance back to the other end of the bridge, the other side of this earth. It’s just an empty expanse, but it’s something other than the emptiness of the underworld. You turn away, the voices of your mother and father gaining volume the more you think about those you left behind.

But you’d finally found something to live for.

Would you accept the fate Toji dealt you or--

“You do have one other option.”

The voice comes from a blonde man who appears on the bridge, leaning on air and reading a book. When he looks up, his spectacles catch the light of the stars, obscuring his eyes from sight. “But you would never be able to see your family again.”

“Immortality,” you breathe, and the man shuts the book.

“Bright girl.”

“How did I--” The man sighs, removing his glasses.

“Toji’s rage reached beyond and interfered with the way of things. You have a choice, and you must pick wisely. There is no path back from either side.” You look back to your parents and think again. Would you forgive yourself if you never got to see them again? Would you regret choosing them over your future with Geto? “I must tell you this, though. You were with child when you departed from the mortal realm. As the god of transformation, I have the power to grant you life… and your child’s life as well.” With child? Your hand flies to your translucent stomach, and you inhale deeply. There’s someone else to think of now.

“What must I do?” The man swings his arm to the opposite side of the bridge, then looks at you.

“Keep walking.”

You nod, then begin your trek to the other side of the bridge. “I hope you’re happy with your choice,” is all the man says before disappearing behind you along with your parents.

The first few steps are silent, and nothing occurs. But five steps in, the bridge behind you begins to disappear and you feel yourself speeding toward a yellow light, loud sounds and smells rushing at you. It’s more than overwhelming, and part of you longs for the silence you had before.

The light engulfs you entirely, and sensations rush at you like never before. You can see all of time in a flash, memories rushing between your hands and body, and wrapping you in ribbons of gold. “All of time is accessible to you here,” you hear the man echo. “All of the world is yours now. You are afforded any time and all of time, and you are allowed to go as far back and or as far forward as you please. Where will you go?”

“Back home,” you whisper, and think of Suguru, Gojo, the girls, everyone you left behind in the world of the living. And when you feel your fingers, your toes, the dry clothes on your body, and hear the sounds of Suguru and Gojo speaking quickly, you rest in the feeling of being back in your body… your old body.

You rise from the bed and feel for the cut at your neck. But there’s nothing there. No one is in the room - your room - when you sit up. But the sounds of arguing and fury reach you from the outside of the room, and you hear Geto roar,

“Find him and bring him to me!”

“Your Holiness, it’s been three days. Toji has not appeared anywhere, and he’s not in his realm right now.”

“Find Nanami, then. He knows where everyone is.” You contemplate opening the door. You’ve been dead for three days? But it’s only been a few minutes… When you finally decide to open the door, you find Gojo pacing frantically, hands running through his messy hair. He’s mumbling to himself, and it takes a moment before he realizes someone is standing behind him.

“Gojo?” The man flinches at the sound of your voice, not turning around.

“You’re not actually here. You’re not real. She’s not real, Satoru. She’s gone. Just… just… it’s Toji. He’s playing a trick on your mind again.” Gojo slaps his hands to his ears, grunting as you try to pull him away from his delusion, from his fear.

“It’s me, Gojo, I’m really here, I--” Clymenestra appears, first to try and comfort Gojo, then backing up in terror at your visage.

“Y-y/n…” As you approach her, her hands fly up, stopping you in your tracks. “Come no closer, evil spirit. You must return to where Toji sent you from. Haunt us no longer.”

“Cly, it’s really me! I haven’t been haunting you, I swear. I was dead, but now I’m immortal and I--” Cly moves to push you away, but when she touches your hands, she snatches them back.

“Gojo,” Cly hisses and grabs his shoulders. “Snap out of it! Toji’s sending his worst. This one we can touch, so we need to get this thing away from Geto before he tears this temple apart.”

“Wait, Cly, but I--”

“The room.” Gojo murmurs and Cly grabs your arm, dragging you behind her and Gojo. You go down a dark hallway to where there’s no one around, and you look around, noticing the shredded tapestries, the doors that are torn apart, and the massive gaping hole in what you assume used to be your bedroom shared with Suguru. “Put her in the room.”

The door you never opened is standing in front of you, looming large in your fear. You try to yank away from Cly but she holds onto you with a death grip as she unlocks the room and then pulls you down the stairs.

“Geto!” you shout, fear latching onto your bones. “Geto, please come and help me, oh god-- Geto!” Clymentestra shoves you into the dank room without care and spits at your feet.

“You had the chance to leave, apparition. Now you will be confined to the darkness until your master calls you back to his side.” Before you can clamor up to your feet and catch up to Clymenestra, the door shuts and seals you in darkness yet again.

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @wack0-genius @sunfloweroranges @jibe-gajima @jotazinha @brownskinnedgirll @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9 @fuegy-fuegy @ambiguous-something @kontentious@missbonekitty @fyotituti @honouredsatoru @sandyscastle @flare-on @sasahime @ggotgame @just4readingfics

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

(Un)Wanted Part 3

Read on Ao3 

(Un)Wanted Masterlist

A child that sees demons in every dark corner is not a child that is wanted.

A child that cries and freezes and mumbles of terrible things is not a child that is wanted.

A child that jumps and startles and hisses is not a child that is wanted.

Unwanted things are purged from the Earth.

So Virgil runs.

In other words: Virgil is an outcast, ostracized and shunned for how he was born, forced to flee an angry mob only to stumble right into a fae garden.

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, child abuse, and self-harm, nothing super explicit. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks.

Word Count: 7,040

Words are fucking stupid if you ask Remus.

Mortals have no idea what they’re doing with them and half the time they just make shit up and expect everyone else to go along with it. They don’t know what words are supposed to mean and half the time they try and pin down something that can’t be made into a single word into one and it’s just a big mess. There is one exception.

 Feral.

 Remus isn’t quite sure what gave mortals this one stroke of genius but he’s grateful for it. Feral. Even the word sounds like chaos. Which is just Remus’s cup of snail intestines.

 Feral, or more accurately, going feral, is the closest thing a fae gets to absolute bat-shit. Which, in fairness, by mortal standards, isn’t that bat-shit. Oh, yeah, sure mortals don’t have nearly the firepower of the fae, but let’s be real, here folks, mortals perfected the clockwork of murder far better than any fae could hope to.

 Going feral means what little hold a fae has on this fucking stupid temporal plane is tenuous at best. It means that bits of their aura manifest in ways that quickly go beyond the pitiful visible spectrum that mortals can tolerate. It means shapes and colors and energies that aren’t meant to be seen by mortal eyes, all barely held together by a flexible container of mostly water. A body, if you prefer the un-fun definition.

 Going feral is the fine line between creation and destruction.

 Remus is the one who goes feral the most often, even though it’s not why you think. It’s not directly tied to emotion, not really. If it was, Patton would be going feral every two seconds. It’s not even tied to sheer raw power. As much as Remus hates to admit it, that’s probably Snakey, even if it is only through his role as Gatekeeper.

 No no no. It’s much worse than that.

 Sir Nerd-A-Lot was right when he said that each of their ‘rooms’ is a slightly different layer of reality, something mortals can’t understand because of the way they’re made in this world. Although Remus’s way of understanding it wasn’t some tender touching of hands or soft words of explanation.

 The rooms are different ways to see.

 L’s room is like a normal pair of glasses. Makes things sharper, easier to understand, clearer. Less ambiguity.

 J’s room is like looking through mist or fog. More gray areas, easier to twist the truth to what you want to see, easier to let your mind play tricks on you. Less easy to figure out exactly what’s going on.

 Patton’s room is like always being in that weird soft stage mortals always say they have when they’re really sleepy. Not tired, because of course not, words are stupid. Sleepy is soft yawns and smiles and too-long sleeves and adorable smiles that make Remus want to pinch their cheeks until they fall off. Tired is squinty eyes and muttered complaints and downing that mysterious brown liquid. Patton’s room is being sleepy, everything a little softer, sweet enough to make Remus’s teeth ache.

 His brother’s room is, uh, well. Remus really doesn’t know what makes his brother’s room that different from his when you get right down to it. It’s like…it’s like looking in two different mirrors. Princey’s room is like that mirror that always shows you what you’d like to see. It’s the one that makes your hair do whatever the fuck you want it to do or makes your eyes glimmer like whatever the fuck you want them to glimmer like. It’s dreamy and it’s whatever and Princey seems to like it. And yeah, okay, Remus isn’t too big to admit that his brother’s good at what he does, even if it’s a little boring for his taste.

 Remus’s room is like looking into a mirror and the mirror looking back into you.

 Remus doesn’t really give a shit about what mortals would rather tell themselves about what it is they really want or don’t want. He’s with Snakey on that one; mortals don’t really know what it is they want, and if they do, they rarely say it out loud. That’s okay. Remus can do that.

 Remus lurks in the darkness, where mortals would rather not look. He delights in the twisted little things that straggle across their brains. It’s so much more interesting, looking at the absolutely horrible things that drift through their little minds and how much it makes them squirm. He’ll never understand why they try so hard to pretend they don’t exist, they make things so much more interesting.

 And that’s the problem.

 Remus is tied to those dark little things and sometimes…sometimes those dark little things don’t stay so dark and little.

 Sometimes they come out and they’re darker in the daylight. Sometimes they take that darkness and force it somewhere it should never go. Sometimes they try and pretend that their darkness is other people’s fault.

 That pisses Remus off.

 Mortals hurt each other. That’s what they do. Sure, they also do a whole lot of other things but mortals feel. That’s what they’re built to do. So it’s inevitable that they’ll get hurt. But the darkness it takes to blame someone or something else for your darkness? That type of darkness makes Remus’s stomach curl.

 Literally. He can feel it squirming around in there.

 Or maybe that’s just the tentacles.

 Listen, mortal forms and mortal-like forms are so stupid, okay? There’s no place to put anything and Remus has to make do.

 When he goes feral, well…different story.

 Remus hasn’t gone feral in a while. Not really. Not like this.

 Not like the agony that was pushed into him by the snake, not like the ants that crawled around in his bones, not like the way it stripped him of himself, layer by layer, until he could only smile until his cheeks ached.

 There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain.

 Then he’d showed up in the garden and seen. Seen this tiny tiny mortal that should never have this much pain. Seen the lines drawn in burned wood in its head, seen the fear that clung to the little thing like water clings to a dead leaf, seen the marks.

 And then they had been so cold.

 Mortals aren’t supposed to be cold. They’re fiery little beasties, even the prissy ones. Their blood runs hot and their little heads like to run themselves silly and they have an awful tendency to burn themselves up with just the slightest push.

 V shivered. V shook. V trembled and his skin had been so icy Remus had been teetering on the edge of going feral before he learned that other mortals did this to V.

 He hadn’t really tried to stop it after that.

 When he had V in his arms, it was better. He could feel V’s darkness scrabbling around inside his head, had been able to wrap his arms around it, hold it tight, feel so much and try and make it settle down.

 Double-edged sword, that was.

 Here’s the thing. Here’s the fucking problem.

 V’s carrying around darkness that isn’t his.

 Whatever monsters did this to him—he shouldn’t fucking call them monsters, monsters were better than this—made him carry around their darkness. Not his. Remus doesn’t even fucking know what darkness is V’s and what darkness has been made V’s. It’s like they picked one person, one person, and made them responsible for everyone’s darkness.

 Mortals don’t like darkness.

 Remus can’t imagine what they must have done if they gave their darkness a singular, corporeal, punishable form.

 Well, no. He can imagine. That’s the fucking problem.

 That’s the main reason why he pulled V aside and told him that, uh, maybe going to his room wasn’t the best idea. Don’t get him wrong, if V wants to Remus will sure as hell take him, that’s cool, but uh…might be a bad time. Thankfully, V didn’t seem too bothered by it, well…not more bothered. Remus wasn’t about to look a gift gulper eel in the mouth.

 Seriously. Uma likes to eat some weird shit.

 The lake is Remus’s favorite part of the forest, just because it’s the only place he really gets to work with his brother. Princey’s great at making everything else but like…it gets boring. Plus, they work better together anyway, even when they don’t agree all the time.

 V’s got a much better appreciation for his stuff anyway.

 Speaking of V, he’s sitting at the edge of the lake, knees tucked up to his chest, idly toying with a branch that drifted over to the shore. Remus paddles over, using his tentacles to keep him afloat as he cocks his head.

 “Find something interesting?”

 V shrugs. “It’s just a stick.”

 …yeah, but like…it could be something else.

 “Wanna play with it?”

 V’s brow wrinkles. “How do you play with a stick?”

 Ignoring the rush of what fucking mortal child doesn’t know how to play with anything and everything, Remus grins and whistles. A few seconds later the water’s surface stirs as something big trundles up to the surface.

 “Ollie!”

 The kraken burbles, wrapping Remus in an arm and giving him a light squeeze. Then it notices V, curled up on the shore, and hums, the water rippling all around it, as it moves toward the edge.

 “Be careful,” Remus scolds as it pulls him with, “don’t beach yourself.”

 Oliver protests lightly, before huffing and reaching out to lay one tentacle in the shallows. V smiles—Remus is so fucking happy V’s smiling now, okay? It’s so good—and waves. Oliver pokes the end of the tentacle out of the water and waves back.

 “Your name is Ollie?”

 “I call him Oliver,” Remus says, patting the tentacle still around his waist.

 “Hi, Oliver,” V says softly, “it’s nice to meet you.”

 The kraken rumbles happily, reaching out for V.

 “Hey!” Remus lightly smacks the tentacle. “Ask first!”

 “A-ask what?”

 “He wants to hug you.” Sure enough, the tentacle near V twitches slightly, water pouring off the sides as it raises out of the lake. V watches it move warily. “he won’t hurt you, V, he’s sweet.”

 Oliver burbles again.

 “You don’t gotta,” Remus says quickly, “if you don’t wanna.”

 V reaches out one hand, trembling slightly as the kraken reaches out to meet him. He pats the arm. Remus grins as Oliver gently taps him back.

 “You wanna play with him?”

 “How?”

 “Throw the stick.”

 “L-like a dog?”

 “You throw dogs?” At V’s horrified face, Remus bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Yeah, V. Ollie likes playing fetch.”

 V’s brow wrinkles adorably. “Really?”

 Remus grins. “Ollie!” The kraken turns its head to look up at him. “Toss!”

 The kraken rears back the arm and hurls Remus across the lake.

 “Wheee!”

 There’s nothing quite like being flung through the air and splashing down into a nice big body of water. Using his own tentacles to propel him back over to the other side, Oliver trills and reaches for him again.

 “Ask,” Remus chides lightly, only to giggle and pat the arm that curls around his waist again. “You just want to hug? Okay.”

 He turns to V, whose mouth is wide open. “See? Fetch.”

 “That…that’s not normally how fetch works.”

 Remus shrugs. “Ollie likes it.”

 “Do..do you like it?”

 “Yeah, I like it. It’s fun!”

 Oliver reaches out slowly for V, laying the arm next to him on the shore. V glances at Remus before carefully reaching for the stick and nervously offering it to Oliver. Oliver takes it and passes it to Remus who grins.

 “Ready?”

 V nods.

 “Ollie, toss!”

 This time, as Oliver hurls him across the lake, Remus chucks the stick as hard as he can away from him, laughing when Oliver trills and dives after it. As Remus swims back, he sees V scramble to his feet, peering anxiously into the distance.

 “Don’t worry,” Remus calls, treading water, “he’ll find it and come back. He always does.”

 Sure enough, not a few seconds later, and the water parts, revealing a very pleased Oliver and a stick clutched delicately in one of his arms. V’s eyes widen as Oliver holds it out, taking the proffered stick carefully.

 “See?” Remus beams. “Fetch.”

 “Fetch,” V echoes breathlessly, “good job, Oliver.”

 “You wanna do it again?” V nods. “Great. Chuck the stick at me.”

 “Wait, but...what if it hits you?”

 “I’m a fucking fae, V, and it’s a fucking stick. Chuck it at me.”

 Remus catches the stick even if he has to lift himself out of the water to do it. Oliver burbles and Remus nods, letting Oliver curl around his waist again.

 “V,” he calls, “you wanna tell him this time?”

 Glancing back and forth between the two of them, V nods. “Toss!”

 Oliver launches Remus with more enthusiasm than he has in a while. So much so that Remus laughs the whole way across the lake and the whole way back.

 “I think he’s trying to impress you,” he remarks when Oliver zips back and forth faster and faster.

 “I’m impressed.”

 Oliver lays the stick on the grass and reaches out for V. V pats the arm only for his eyes to widen when Oliver reaches further and rumbles.

 “He wants to pick you up, V,” Remus explains.

 “D-does he want to throw me?”

 “I’m sure he’d love it if you let him,” Remus says, quickly continuing when V balks, “but I think right now he really just wants to hold you.”

 V still looks unsure. Remus taps his fingers against the arm around his waist, thinking.

  Hmmm…

  Oh hey wait I’ve fucking got it.

 “V?”

 “Y-yeah?”

 “You wanna ride?”

 V’s eyes widen. “Ride?”

 “Yeah.” Remus gestures around. “Lake’s fucking huge, and there’s cool shit everywhere. Plus, Ollie likes you a lot and he’d be real happy to give you a ride if you wanted.”

 Oliver trills in agreement.

 “…okay,” V mumbles eventually, “can I…can I have a ride?”

 “Sure you can. You wanna swim out and let me help you up or you want Ollie to set you on his head?”

 “I—I can do it.”

 “Cool.” Oliver sets Remus on his head and Remus shifts around a bit, trying to work out where the most secure place for V to sit would be. He glances up when V carefully steps into the water, having removed his boots. Oliver shifts around slowly, arranging his tentacles into stairs that V can use to get up.

 “D-duke?”

 “Yeah?”

 “H-how do I get up?”

 “You can climb, climb his arms.”

 V tilts his head. “What if I hurt him?”

 It makes Remus chuckle. “V, you’re tiny. You’re small and light and you’re a mortal. You probably couldn’t hurt him if you tried, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be doing this if it was gonna hurt. You’re all good, climb up.”

 V climbs, slowly and carefully, always wary about where he’s putting his hands or his feet, until he steps onto Oliver’s head and sinks down next to Remus.

 “Good job!” Remus shuffles a little closer. “Ollie’ll go slow for you, but if you wanna hang onto something, you just lemme know, okay?”

 V nods. Remus pats the head under them.

 “Okay! You be nice, yeah? You’re carrying precious cargo here.”

 Remus bites back a laugh at V’s nervous squeak when Oliver rumbles, starting to move. He scrabbles a little for a handhold.

 “Here,” Remus suggests, flopping onto his stomach, “get low. Less chance of falling off.”

 V just curls into himself, trying to hold onto something. Remus frowns, then carefully sits up as Oliver finishes turning toward the rest of the lake.

 “You can hang onto me if you want,” he offers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 “Can I?”

 “Mhm.” Remus shifts a little closer, opening his arms. “Or I can hang onto you.”

 Nothing feels better than the satisfaction of having V crawl into his lap, letting Remus cuddle him with his back against Remus’s chest, tentacles hanging onto Oliver. Oliver rumbles happily, lazily swimming around the edge of the lake. As they go, he can feel V start to relax, some of the tension seeping out as he slumps against Remus. Remus smiles, closing his eyes to just feel V not being so afraid, for once, feel that pain start to lessen, even if it’s just the smallest bit. Let a little bit of the darkness be chased away.

 By the time they’re back to the familiar shore, Oliver eases gingerly into the shallows and hums. Remus chuckles.

 “Good workout today, huh, buddy?”

 Another rumble.

 “Come on,” he mutters to V, “you want me to help you down or you got it?”

 “I got it.”

 Remus opens his arms and watches V climb back down just as gingerly, giving Oliver one last pat before sitting on the shore. An arm wraps around Remus’s waist and squeezes.

 “Yeah, yeah, I had fun too, buddy. You go eat something?”

 Oliver gives one last rumble and disappears below the surface of the lake. Remus hauls himself out and flops down on the grass beside V, stretching lazily. Snakey’s got a point with this whole sun-warmed surface thing. He can feel himself relaxing.

 “Thank you.”

 At V’s mumble, Remus opens one eye. “Sure, you’re welcome. You have fun?”

 “Mhm.”

 “I’m glad.”

 There’s another stretch of silence. Remus sits up, looking at how V stares at the lake. It’s one of the only times V’s brow isn’t furrowed. Remus decides he likes it better than way.

 “I like the lake,” V confesses quietly, almost too quiet for Remus to hear. “It’s nice.”

 The note of childish wonder in his voice makes Remus feel…weird. It’s not a bad weird, it’s not necessarily a good weird either though. It’s just…weird. Like there’s something fluffy in his chest, something that really wants to make V always sound like this.

 “Good.” Remus shifts a little closer. “What do you like about it?”

 V thinks for a moment, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I like the water.”

 “The water?”

 A small nod. “Water is good.”

 Something changes.  A little darkness colors V’s tone and Remus sits up a little straighter.

 “…’good?’” He tests the word out on his tongue. “Why is water good, V?”

 “Because it isn’t fire.” V curls in on himself. “Fire is bad.”

 The fluff is gone.

  Pain pain pain pain there’s flames rising higher and higher as the crowd grows more and more restless there are sparks and smoke and the wood burns slowly so slowly so slowly the flames creep higher and higher and the man holds a torch aloft and it burns it burns it burns it’s getting closer no please not now—

 “Duke! Duke!”

 Remus growls, the power seeping through him. How dare they, how fucking dare they, the darkness rolls off in waves, crashing, building, flowing higher and higher and higher and—

 “Shh, shh, you stay behind me, okay?”

 It runs deeper. Pushes. Pulls. Opens his mouth. Tilts his head back. The tentacles writhe. The lake trembles. So much. So much.

 “Duke, duke, I need you to listen to me.”

 …Princey?

 What’s Princey doing here?

 “Duke. Duke. You need to stop, you’re scaring V.”

  V.

 Remus growls again, closing his eyes and swallowing the darkness. It sinks into a pit in his chest and he swallows, pushing it back into the depths and away from him. Away from V.

 He growls, curling in on himself, willing the mass of tentacles to behave, settle down, holding himself tightly and trying to dissipate the extra energy.

 “Good…that’s it. Both of you just have a breather, okay?”

 Remus opens his eyes. He’s by the lake. There’s no one here to hurt anyone. He’s alright. They’re alright. He takes one more breath and the last of the mania settles.

  V.

 He looks over and regret burns a hole in his chest. The prince stands there, having pulled V behind him, one hand held out towards Remus, the other hovering protectively over V. V’s curled in on himself so tightly he can barely see him behind the prince.

 Fuck. He fucked up. Did he…

 “…is he blind?” Remus manages, unable to tear his eyes away from this poor poor thing.

 “No,” the prince says softly, “he’s not.”

 “Fuck.”

 “Yeah.” The prince looks at him with a soft fury. “Come on, Re, you know better.”

 “It hurts, Ro,” Remus mutters, unable to stop himself from slipping into the nickname, “it…it’s fucking painful.”

 “Does it hurt still?”

 “Like maggots crawling under my skin.”

 The prince winces sympathetically. “How do you think it is for V?”

 “I know,” Remus mutters angrily, “I’m pissed about that too.”

 They both stop, looking at V huddled on the ground, shaking and mumbling something. Fuck. Fuck, what has Remus done?

 They just fucking got him feeling safe, he just got comfortable asking for things, hell he’s just started being able to sleep in his room…did Remus fuck all of that up?

 “…ke.”

 Remus blinks, straining to hear. The prince does too, turning his head to look down at V. Neither speaks.

 “…ke…d…ke…”

 Remus’s chest clenches.

 “…duke…duke…”

 The prince drops to one knee, reaching out to gather V close. “It’s alright, V, breathe…shh, you’re alright, sweetheart, no one’s hurt.”

 “Duke…”

 “He’s alright, sweetheart, he’s okay.”

 “Duke.”

 The way V’s voice cracks hurts almost as much as going feral did. Remus watches helplessly as V rocks himself back and forth, his arms wrapped so tightly around himself that he can hardly see where one ends and the other begins. He keeps shaking his head, mumbling ‘duke’ over and over.

 The prince glances at Remus then back to V. “…do you want the duke, sweetheart?”

 “…d-duke…”

 Remus swallows. Please, please let this be right.

 “...V?”

 V keens, one of his hands slowly reaching out. Remus scrambles forward, almost knocking his brother out of the way. The prince merely huffs. Remus stares at V, hoping, hoping…

 “V, can you hear me?”

 “Duke?”

 “Yeah, V, it’s me, I’m—I’m sorry.”

 “Duke.”

 “Can I—“

 Remus doesn’t get to finish his sentence. V doesn’t quite throw himself into Remus, but it’s close. Remus wraps around him immediately, tentacles and all, curling in on V as V clings to him, tighter, tighter, tighter.

 “Oh, you two,” he hears the prince murmur distantly, “what will we do with you?”

 Remus doesn’t much care what his brother thinks right now. All he cares about is having V safe in his arms and alive and warm, holding onto him tightly. V keeps sobbing out ‘duke,’ over and over, slowly growing less and less frantic. The prince sits there, gently stroking his hand through Remus’s hair.

 It takes a while—much fucking longer than Remus would like—to finally get everyone to settle down. They slump there, on the ground, still curled around each other. The prince huffs a laugh, ruffling Remus’s hair before standing up.

 “I think you two,” he murmurs, “should talk, hmm?”

 Remus nods, still holding V tightly. The prince gives him a nod and vanishes back into the forest.

 “…V?”

 V shifts a little. “Mm?”

 “Can we talk about, uh, what just happened?”

 A few seconds pass and V scoots further into Remus’s lap. “…can we stay like this?”

 “Of course,” Remus says instantly, “we can stay like this. I, uh, I wanna apologize.”

 “For what?”

 Remus swallows. “Going feral. Scaring you. Almost blinding you.”

 There’s a moment of silence.

 “…I’m not mad at you.”

 “You’re not?”

 He feels V’s head shake against his neck. “It—I—mmphf.”

 “Take your time,” Remus says quickly, “I’m not gonna let go if you don’t want.”

 “Don’t…”

 He squeezes. “I won’t.”

 V is the perfect little weight in his lap. Soft, not too heavy, just this side of too warm, cuddling into him with the persistence of a snuggle-deprived jellyfish.

 Oh, V should totally meet the school of jellyfish. He’d love them.

 “…no one’s ever done that before.”

 V’s voice is so quiet that for a moment, Remus isn’t even sure he’s spoken. Then he shifts again.

 “No one’s ever done that for me.”

 “…go feral?”

 V shakes his head. “…be protective.”

 Oh, this is not the time to be making such broken, heartfelt confessions because Remus can and will get pissed all over again at everything and everyone that made V think he wasn’t worth protecting.

 “…oh, little monster…”

 If V doesn’t like the pet name, he gives no indication. In fact…V almost burrows into him. Remus tightens his grip again, rocking V back and forth the way he remembers Patton doing.

 “I—I’ve never had—“ V gasps against his shoulder— “I don’t know how—it—I—“

 “Shh, little monster,��� Remus burbles, trying really really fucking hard to remember how to do this, “you, uh, you just breathe, okay? I’m right here. You don’t have to know things.”

 “—I don’t wanna be afraid,” V manages, “I don’t wanna be afraid.”

 “You don’t have to be, little monster, you don’t.”

 “Y-you—“

 “Hang on, little monster,” Remus interrupts gently when V’s breaths start to get faster again, “you gotta slow down, come on…”

 They breathe together.

 “…yeah?”

 “You make me feel safe,” V blurts, “and—and I don’t wanna…I don’t wanna not.”

 His fingers tap out an anxious rhythm on Remus’s back.

 “Feral is scary.”

 “Feral is scary,” Remus murmurs in agreement, “and, uh, I’m trying not to do it.”

 He pulls back and gently nuzzles into V’s hair.

 “Don’t wanna scare you.”

 “No one’s ever been angry for me before,” V whispers, “it’s…it’s nice.”

 “Well, I’m not gonna stop being angry at them,” Remus mutters, “but I will get better at not scaring you.”

 “I-it’s okay.”

 “No, it’s not, little monster,” Remus corrects gently, “the others are right. I could hurt you going feral way more than I would hurt anyone who deserves it. So I gotta be better about that. For you.”

 “For me?”

 Remus clutches him tighter. “For you.”

 He’s being serious. Absolute fucking stone right now. This cinched it. He could’ve hurt V really fucking bad by going feral right then. He knows he can’t risk that happening again, so he’s gotta figure his shit out real fast.

 There’s one person he knows will be able to help him.

 L raises an eyebrow when Remus appears next to his desk. “Well, this certainly is unexpected. Is something the matter?”

 “Yeah.” Remus shuffles. L’s room makes him feel like sandpaper. “I need your help not going feral.”

 L blinks. “Well, that’s not what I was expecting. I must highlight the fact that suppressing your nature is not a long-term solution.”

 “I’m not trying to stop it permanently. I just…” Remus twists his hands together. “I fucked up earlier.”

 L sits. “Tell me?”

 Remus explains what happened, from the fetch to the ride to learning that one of the reasons that fucking hurt so much was that they burned—

 “I see,” L interrupts stiffly, his own hands starting to clench, “and I am…proud of you, Duke.”

 Remus blinks. “Wait, what? Why?”

 “Of your restraint,” L mutters, “and of the fact that you recognized that this was a problem and you have come to try and find a solution.”

 Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, Remus gnaws on his bottom lip, trying to relieve the extra energy. Going feral twice in one day is not a good idea.

 “Don’t do that,” L says.

 “Do what?”

 “Bite.” L taps the side of his mouth. “Not healthy.”

 Remus rolls his eyes. “it’s not like I’m gonna bleed out, L.”

 “No, you won’t,” L says, “but it’s still not a healthy coping mechanism.”

 “So?”

 “So—“ L crosses his arms— “you’re trying to be better for V. V will very much be hurt by something like that.”

 Ah.

 Fuck, that’s a good reason.

 “Okay,” Remus mutters, “okay. What can I do?”

 “What helps you calm down normally,” L asks, “when you go feral?”

 “Fuck, I don’t know,” Remus sighs, “I don’t—it’s not—it’s not like it’s happened recently!”

 “It’s V, isn’t it?”

 “What?”

 “V.” L motions for Remus to sit down, folding his hands in his lap. “V has…a lot of emotional trauma. You are perhaps the most linked with emotional trauma.”

 “Isn’t that Pat-Pat’s job?”

 L shakes his head. “Pat works with emotion, what is currently being experienced. You, however, and your brother, are more closely tied to memory.”

 “So…”

 “So you, more than any of us, even your brother, are being affected by this change.”

 “But it’s not his fault.”

 “No, and neither is it yours. It simply is.” Remus buries his face in his hands. “Not the answer you were looking for, I’m sure.”

 “Really fucking wasn’t.”

 “You didn’t answer my question,” L prompts, “what normally helps you calm down?”

 “Fuck, I don’t know! Calming down isn’t really my strong suit. That’s my birthday suit.”

 L pinches the bridge of his nose. “Focus, please.”

 Remus sits back in the chair. What helps him calm down?

 Well…

 “…safe,” Remus mumbles, “safe makes me calm down.”

 “When you feel safe?”

 He shakes his head. “When V is safe.”

 L makes a noise of understanding. “Your ‘going feral’ is caused by the pain you experience when V is under stress, caused by his past trauma. Thus whenever you can remind yourself that he is safe, and no longer in danger, it helps you snap out of it.”

 “But now I’m the danger.”

 “Are you trying to hurt V?”

 “What?” Remus leaps to his feet, the air crackling. L sits, impassive as always. “No!”

 “Are you willingly putting V in situations where you know he will be upset?”

 “What the fuck is—“

 “Are you?”

 “No!”

 “When you are in a place where you could hurt V,” L continues, still smooth as fucking glass in his chair, “do you try and distance yourself so you do not?”

 Oh. Remus gets it now.

 “…yeah.”

 “Then,” L says firmly, “you are not the danger you believe yourself to be.”

 Remus sits back in the chair slowly. “…said I make him feel safe.”

 “You do,” L says, “more than most of us do, I would guess. I imagine that…having someone be as protective as you are is something quite foreign to V.”

 “Shouldn’t be.”

 “No. It shouldn’t.”

 Remus scrubs his hands over his face, wishing that this was fucking easy, that they could just…wipe them all out. Make the fear go away. Make the scars disappear.

 But they can’t.

 “What can I do, then,” Remus mumbles, “it—it wasn’t so bad today because Princey showed up.”

 “Having another person helped?”

 “No, well, kind of.” Remus twists his hands together again. “…made sure he pulled V outta the way.”

 “Mm.”

 There’s a few moments of silence while L thinks, idly tapping a finger against his wrist.

 “I have noticed,” he says after a while, “that the times when you are most likely to ‘go feral,’ so to speak, coincide with times when V is experiencing particularly high levels of stress.”

 Remus nods.

 “You have also stated that when V feels safe, and perhaps when you are able to make him feel safe, you’re able to calm down faster.”

 Another nod. L’s fucking good at problem-solving.

 “Do you think, then,” L says, “that if we were to help you get better at calming V down, you would, in turn, be able to calm yourself faster?”

 “L, you’re a fucking genius.”

 L blushes too, did you know that? “Well, I…”

 “So what do I do?”

 “Right.” L adjusts his tie. “What do you know already?”

 Remus thinks. “He, uh, he likes to be asked before anything happens, including being moved or touched.”

 “Good. What else?”

 “…he doesn’t like loud noises, or bright lights.”

 “Good.”

 “No fire.”

 “Mm.”

 “He likes the lake?”

 “Does it help him calm down?”

 “…dunno.”

 L nods. “Anything else?”

 Remus thinks. What else, what else…

 “Having his eyes closed,” he says carefully, “helped before, didn’t it? Stopped him from getting super overwhelmed?”

 “That is possible,” L says, “but it is unlikely to be something you try first, as it would require a decent amount of cognitive awareness or physical contact to achieve, both of which are not frequent in times of high stress.”

 “What can I do, then?”

 “How likely do you think it is that you will be able to speak calmly?”

 Remus snorts. The corner of L’s mouth quirks up.

 “Mm. Then it might be better to try something else, then.”

 “Something else?”

 L tilts his head, looking at Remus with that stare that makes him feel like L can see through him. “I have also noticed that with you, V does not seem as…averse to physical contact.”

 Wait, what?

 “When you held him in the garden, when he first arrived,” L says, “and when you rubbed his back. He was not afraid of you, no more than he was startled. Admittedly, this was during a prolonged period of high stress.”

 “W-wait, you’re right, earlier, he—“ Remus wraps his arms around himself— “by the lake, he…he asked for me. He…”

 “He initiated contact?”

 “…yeah.”

 A soft smile comes over L’s face. “I’m pleased.”

 “Why?”

 “Because you, perhaps more than the rest of us,” L continues, “are very eager to protect V. So much so that it leads to…”

 “Going feral.”

 “Indeed. And if V chooses to seek comfort from you…” L raises his eyebrows pointedly.

 “…then…then I can do it that way.”

 “Correct.”

 L gets up, reaching for a glass of water. He holds it out to Remus who takes it carefully.

 “Why’s this so fucking hard?”

 “Because nothing like this is easy, Duke,” L answers, fetching a glass for himself, “for anyone involved. I, for one, am impressed.”

 “…by?”

 “You.”

 “Me?”

 “Yes,” L says, “and how much you have…decided to change your approach.”

 Ah. Yeah.

 Yeah, the last time they found a mortal that had been…mistreated—apparently, Pat-Pat had an issue with Remus calling it ‘super fucked up’ even though it was—they’d died just on the outskirts of the garden.

 “Not with V,” Remus mumbles, “I want V to stay. They were already gone.”

 A few moments of silence pass, then there’s a soft whoosh.

 L sighs. “You can come out, J.”

 J strides out of the shadows, part of Remus’s mind trying valiantly to convince him that he’s been there the whole time. He hasn’t, Remus fucking knows he hasn’t, but still.

 “Where’s V?”

 “With Pat,” J answers smoothly, “eating.”

 “Good,” L says, “difficult emotional experiences should be followed by food.”

 Remus winces. He can almost feel the fucking room get colder. J’s head tilts.

 “I’m sure I know exactly what you’re referring to,” he says softly, “and I wouldn’t appreciate an explanation.”

 L, the asshole, just looks at Remus. Remus sighs and explains again.

 J takes one deep breath and lets it out slowly. Remus bows his head, waiting. Then he feels gloved fingers carding through it and he shudders.

 “Did you need something?” he hears L ask.

 “I was out for a walk,” J says, still stroking Remus’s hair, “by the lake. Something felt…off. So I tried to find the duke.”

 “‘M here.”

 “I can see that.”

 “Needed L’s help.”

 “And did you get it?” Remus nods, not wanting to jar J’s hand loose. “Good.”

 “We do just have the theory, however,” L muses, “and no practice.”

 “I may be able to help with that.”

 Remus looks up when J’s fingers leave his hair. “I’m listening.”

 It’s later, much later, when Remus finally leaves L’s room. The forest is twinkling, his brother sitting crosslegged on his favorite stump. Remus hugs him tightly, thanks him for being there earlier.

 “Of course, Re,” his brother murmurs, “and thank you for being there.”

 “I will be,” Remus says, “I will be.”

 It’s not much later when Remus is walking back to the clearing and a scream rips through the air.

  V.

 The door is locked. It’s locked tight. Remus can’t push. He can’t push. He can’t ruin this.

 The scream keeps going.

 “V! V!”

  Keeps going.

 It aches. It aches and the longer it goes, the longer it hurts, the harder it gets for Remus to keep from breaking the door down. Then a flurry of footsteps and—

 “V!”

 Remus catches V as he barrels out of his room, barely having enough time to open his arms and catch his balance. V’s eyes, wide with panic, settle on Remus’s face.

 “V,” Remus repeats softly, “V.”

 “…duke?”

 “Yeah. Yeah, little monster, it’s Duke.”

 “…duke.”

 Remus eases them to the ground, keeping his arms firmly around V. He draws him gently into his lap, closing his eyes and burying his face in V’s hair, feeling V curl up in his lap, still shaking, still shivering. A bolt of pain shoots through his chest when he feels the raw cry against his throat and his arms tighten around V, trying in vain to take some of that pain and push it into himself. V so desperately needs to stay mortal, to stay V, to feel. The last thing he wants is for this to destroy V beyond repair.

 “It’s alright, little monster, I got you, you’re safe, I’m not going to let anything hurt you, shh, just keep breathing for me.”

 He keeps up the litany of calm reassurances and comforting noises, rocking V back and forth on the ground. V’s shuddering breaths echo in the still clearing. His hands and arms tremble violently against Remus’s back and he can’t tell whether it’s because they’re holding onto him so tightly that his muscles are shaking or if he’s panicking so much he can’t stop shaking. The monster growling inside Remus’s chest starts snarling when V shudders harder.

  No. Not now. He’s safe. Keep him safe.

 Remus breathes. Tells the beastie in his chest to pipe the fuck down. Wraps himself around V and holds him close.

  Safe. Safe. Safe.

  They’re safe.

 “...V?”

 V mumbles, burying his cold nose in Remus’s neck.

 “Hey, V,” Remus murmurs, “can we, uh, can we get you out of the forest? It’s gonna get cold before too long, little monster.”

 V nods, not moving.

 “…can I carry you then, little monster?”

 Another nod.

 Scooping V gingerly into his arms, Remus hesitates. He doesn’t want to take V into his room, not now, but he also doesn’t want to push V too far, to push his way into V’s room.

 “V? Little monster?” V moves a little bit. “Can we go into your room?”

 “…stay?”

 “Yeah, V, I’ll stay with you, little monster.”

 Remus carries him inside, gently sitting on the floor with V still in his lap when he flinches at the noise the bed makes. He uses his tentacles to hold them slightly off the floor. He keeps rocking them slowly back and forth, murmuring safe, safe, safe.

 “…safe?”

 “Yeah, V.” Remus swallows. “We’re safe.”

 “You promise?”

 “I promise.” He adjusts his grip. “…you wanna talk about it? It’s okay if you don’t.”

 V mumbles something.

 “I can’t hear you, little monster,” Remus murmurs, shifting a little, “can you say it again?”

 “…just names.”

 “Names?”

 V clutches Remus’s arms tightly. “…names they used to call me.”

 “Like what? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he adds hastily.

 V hooks his chin over Remus’s shoulder, still breathing hard. Remus glances around.

 “Can I get you something to drink?” V nods. “Still want me to keep hold of you?”

 “…please?”

 “Sure.”

 Tentacles are useful things. When V has a glass of water in his hands, Remus lets him sit back a little, drinking carefully as Remus runs his hands over V’s back. V’s eyes drift closed and he lets out a tired mumble.

 “Sleepy?”

 “Mm.”

 Remus hums, letting V collapse a little bit more into his lap. He turns V slightly so that he can keep hold of the water.

 “…said I was a demon.”

 “What?”

 “The…others,” V mumbles, fear and weariness warring in his tone, “said I was a demon. That I was…cursed.”

 Words are so fucking stupid.

 Mortals are so fucking stupid.

 “You’re not cursed, V,” Remus says firmly, “promise. We’d be able to tell if you were.”

 “…really?”

 “What the hell made them say you were cursed?”

 V hesitates, little ripples appearing in the water. Remus tugs him closer, murmuring safe, safe, safe.

 “…my eyes,” V whispers, “they said my eyes showed I was…evil.”

 Now that.

 That is truly the fucking stupidest thing Remus has ever heard.

 V giggles softly when Remus says as much, letting Remus stroke a hand through his hair and wrap his other arm firmly around his waist. He slips a hand slowly under V’s tunic, pressing against his tummy and rubbing.

 “Mm,” V hums, “…warm.”

 “Good,” Remus says, “good, V.”

 He shakes his head. So fucking stupid.

 “You’re not cursed, V. You’re not evil. You’re not a demon. Words are fucking stupid and mortals are stupid too.”

 “…they are?”

 “In big groups? Absolutely.” Remus sets his chin protectively on top of V’s head. “You are a smart one. And that’s good.”

 “I’m good?”

 The vulnerable shake in V’s voice coaxes Remus to guide V’s gaze upward.

 “You are,” he says firmly, brushing the hair out of V’s violet, violet eyes. “And your eyes are fucking stunning.”

 He chuckles when V flushes, trying to hide his face in Remus’s neck again.

 “Princey must’ve had fun with you, hmm?”

 “Still is,” comes the mumble.

 “He’s not hurting you, is he?”

 “…no, I’m just…not used to it.”

 Remus hums, closing his eyes. The arm around V’s waist squeezes tightly. At the breath that sounds almost torn out of him, V relaxes.

 “…is that what Oliver’s hugs feel like?”

 Grinning, Remus squeezes him tighter. “You want to find out tomorrow?”

 “…please?”

 “Of course, little monster.”

 V’s not cursed.

V’s not a demon.

 And V’s eyes are gorgeous.

 Words are just fucking stupid.

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[lost-in-yujikiri]

References of Classic Literatures in SAO

This post are thoughts I have on discord plus discussion with friends. I didn’t intend to publish this publicly but this was so well-received and a friend asked me to do so, so here it is.

Below are the classic works that I think SAO main arcs took many inspirations from:

1) Aincrad arc & Little Red Riding Hood

- Asuna is the Little Red Riding Hood, with Kirito as the brooding hunter who protected her and led her to a happy ending, and Kayaba is the wolf who disguised himself as Asuna's "Grandma" (aka her caretaker).

- Kayaba's nickname is the same name as the central character of Wuthering Heights (Heathcliff), both men created their world of their own obsessions (for OG Heathcliff is his love with Catherine, for Kayaba is his castle dream) and during that creation they ended up destroying a lot of lives, even innocent people involved.

2) Fairy Dance arc & A Midsummer Night’s Dream

- Fairy Dance might take references from A Midsummer Night's Dream with Fairy King & Queen Oberon & Titania, who are a married couple under quarrels (Asuna and Sugou). The Fairy Dance arc also presents the themes of falling in love with the wrong person (Suguha/Leafa’s feelings for her brother/cousin Kazuto/Kirito) and unrequited love (Recon to Leafa, Leafa to Kirito) albeit in a different way than the original story.

3) Phantom Bullet arc & Sonezaki Shinjuu 

- The classic kabuki play Sonezaki Shinjuu (The Love Suicides at Sonezaki) is a story about close acquaintances/families/lovers being tangled in conflicts of opposing sides, with the main couple performing a double suicide ending so they can be husband and wife in afterlife (just like Kyouji & Sinon). In SAO Kyouji tried to force the double suicide on Sinon but it failed.

3) Alicization arc volume 9-14, Eugeo’s story & The Little Prince

- When people see Alicization cast many might think of Alice in Wonderland first. However Eugeo's whole story in Alicization 1st half was most likely inspired from The Little Prince, with Eugeo as the Prince, Kirito as the Prince's wise old buddy and also the story's Narrator, and Zuberg as the Prince's Rose flower in his homeland which he loves so much but was separated from for so long. Only Alice S30 is the Alice in Wonderland, which is why she isn't the one Eugeo looked for.

- Friendship between the Narrator & the Prince is somewhat similar Kirito & Eugeo, in how the Prince is the only one who truly shares the world view of Narrator. In stories of his own journey, the Prince met a lot of adults, each of them showed their greed, selfishness, ugliness in their way, and the Prince's pure heart couldn't understand or withstand most of them. Just like Eugeo's naivety and pure heart can't accept even the littlest unfairness and evils of his world.

- The Prince thought he didn't love his rose in the correct way, and during his journey he knew his rose isn't so special because there are millions of beautiful roses on Earth. But later he learned that it's the time and space that he spent nurturing his rose that made the rose truly special and distinct. Isn't that similar to how Eugeo learned that love is giving, like nurturing flowers continuously?

- However, the Prince agonized then because he was in a place too far from his home and he left his rose for too long that it might have been eaten, like the distance and long pining towards the Alice in Eugeo's past that killed him inside, while his childhood has long gone.

- In The Little Prince's ending, the prince followed a poisonous snake's offer that if he lets it bite him, he would be able to return to his planet with his beloved rose (Quinella's deal, anyone?). The narrator realized what would really happen but couldn't stop the Prince. Before following that offer, the Prince told the Narrator please look at the stars to remember him, if it looks like he has died, it is only because his body is too heavy to take with him to his planet. The next day, the Prince's body couldn't be found and in his later journey, the Narrator ask the readers if any of them have seen the Prince. In Eugeo's story though, instead of creating an ambiguous ending, Reki presented both ends of the Prince's fate literally. Eugeo died in a sacrifice of his choice, and at the same time went into the light with the little Alice in his past (aka the Little Prince's rose).

- Kirito, just like how the Narrator who believed the Prince didn't die, continued to live in his own world of darkness like the time he spent with Eugeo hasn't gone.

4) Alicization volume 13-18, Alice Synthesis 30′s story & Alice in Wonderland

- Alice Synthesis 30, from an empty knight who has no knowledge of the world with a forced Knight identity, was thrown to the unknown in War of Underworld and had to fight off everything and figure her self-identity out on her own, has parallels with Alice in Wonderland. Original Alice fell into a rabbit hole into Wonderland when she followed the White Rabbit, while Alice S30 fell from Floor 85 of the Cathedral when she fought after Kirito, both Alices learned about the mess that is happening in the world they're in after this.

- The original story is more about all kinds of creatures and humans in Wonderland rather than just about Alice herself, while War of Underworld is also more about people participating in the War rather than just about Alice S30.

- Kirito is the cheshire cat who guided her somewhere along the way but left her on her own device at some point. There are pig-lookalike creatures called "Rath" in the original Wonderland story, and in SAO we have RATH company who is monitoring project Alicization as well as the pig-lookalike Orcs in WoU. In many versions of Alice in Wonderland the stories involve a coup d'état towards a tyrant queen, in Alicization we have a Quinella as similar type of ruler whom Alice S30 and her friends fought against.

- At the end of both stories Alices left the mess in their "Wonderland" to get to real world. Though for OG Alice it's getting back to reality, while for Alice S30 she just got thrown to another "Wonderland" where she has even less attachment to as well as being shunned by most other humans without being able to go back to the UW she knows.

5) Kirito’s character arc in Alicization & Yu Boya and Zhong ziqi:

Kirito's character arc in Alicization was inspired by the story of Yu Boya & Zhong Ziqi, whose story has invented the words 知音知己 ("2 souls who understanding each other's tone & self the most") which usually get translated to English as "bosom friends", Chinese usually called them the epitome of friendship/ companionship. In Japan their names are translated as "Haku Ga" & "Shou Shiki".

Full story can be found here:

http://chineseaesop.blogspot.com/2012/09/yu-boya-and-zhong-ziqi-romance-of-guqin.html

Summary: Boya was an accomplished statesman from the Kingdom of Tsin and also an expert musician who played the "qin". One day as he played a musical piece on the river when he sailed to the Kingdom of Chu, he met a woodcutter named Zhong Ziqi, who might be poor but is very knowledgeable about music & what Boya's soul wanted to convey through his music. Being very happy that he could find a partner who can so quickly clicked with him, Boya & Ziqi stayed with each other talking for 3 days. Though Ziqi eventually had to go back to support his parents so they had to part with a promise of seeing each other again. The next year Boya went to find Ziqi, only to hear from Ziqi's father that he had died while trying to both work to support his family & study to catch up to a successful man like Boya. Boya played his last piece of music in front of Ziqi's grave and then destroyed his beloved musical instrument and swore to never play it again, because the life friend who could understand his heart & soul was no longer in this world. He then told Ziqi's father that he would adopt Ziqi's parents and support them like Ziqi did, saying "I was one with Ziqi and he with me. Do not think of me as an outsider."

So Kirito = Boya who are both accomplished in life (battles/social hierarchy), Eugeo = the woodcutter Ziqi who's inexperienced but wise and shared a love of something (swordmanship for Kirito & Eugep/ music for Boya & Zhong Ziqi) with the other man, both died young before they truly accomplished any of life goals. Their deaths devastated their friends, Boya destroyed his own musical instrument and his own musical ability, while for Kirito even though he was right at the chance to wake up from coma, due to the guilt of Eugeo’s death he intended to use his sword to stab himself, but having no sword so he tried to destroy his heart instead.

In the end though Kirito was stopped by a fragment of Eugeo’s soul, who give him the strength to stand back up again.

Personal thoughts:

- I find it interesting that Kirito is very apt for 2 different roles in the Little Red Riding Hood and The Little Prince, more than any roles with other heroines. In Aincrad/Progressive he is the hunter who managed to protect the Riding Hood Asuna from the wolves and in one way or another lead her to her own happy ending. In Alicization he is the best friend to the Prince Eugeo, he wanted to show the Prince the world and lead him to happiness too, but ended up having to watch his Prince walking to his own death.

- Mother's Rosario is treated as a side story in the original Web Novel and not a full-blown arc, so it doesn't have classic references. But Reki said in an interview along with the author of yuri manga/anime Bloom Into You that it's the most yuri-esque story he has ever written (despite not being technically yuri).

[cxplqnce]

Behrad Tarazi - Naked

Based off Naked by James Arthur

Word Count: 1597

Hey, you there

Can we take it to the next level, baby, do you dare?

Don't be scared

'Cause if you can say the words, I don't know why I should care

Your relationship with Behrad was interesting, complex and difficult to explain. You had been a close friend of the Legends for years before joining them after your trip to Earth-X. You had met Behrad a few times but hadn’t really interacted with him about anything outside of superhero stuff.

One of the reasons you had joined the Legends was because you had been through a pretty bad break-up and Star City just wasn’t a good place for you anymore. You had hundreds of bad memories, of your family’s deaths and almost dying yourself so you thought it was best to leave. You were going to leave the superhero life all together, travel somewhere and work through your problems but when you were offered a place on the Waverider as the team’s newest scientist, you couldn’t refuse.

That’s when you started getting closer to Behrad. You became friends with him and didn’t even consider him as anything more until Nate mentioned how much you and Behrad acted like a couple on one of his trips over from the Time Bureau. You had chickened out of telling him about your feelings for weeks, until Heyworld. Nate almost died and so did Ray, you knew that it could be you or Behrad in that position at any time with your line of work so you told him after you got back on the ship.

Your confession ended with the two of you in bed together, but that’s all it became. The next morning, Behrad was acting like it never happened and when you asked him about it, he told you that it was a mistake and never should’ve happened so you agreed to forget it.

Unfortunately, it was easier said than done. It was obvious Behrad didn’t share your feelings and you weren’t going to push him but it hurt. You had completely fallen for him and after your last relationship; it had taken you a long time to trust yourself enough to want a relationship with someone else.

Hey, get out

I've got nothin' left to give for you give me nothin' now

Read my mouth

If you ever want me back, then your walls need breakin' down

After you guys had taken down Bugsy Siegel, you were headed to the lab to retrieve the blanket you had left in there when you heard Nate and Behrad talking. You were going to interrupt but stopped when you heard Behrad mention your name.

“What the hell am I supposed to do here, Nate? I was a complete dick to Y/N and I’m pretty sure she hates me now.” Behrad huffed, plopping down on the couch with his head in his hands.

Nate sat next to him, “Just tell her how you feel. Be honest with her.”

“What if she just wanted our night to be just that?” Behrad asked with a saddened look on his face.

“Well, you won’t know until you talk to her, like I’ve been telling you to do for the longest time.” Nate said, before getting up to leave the lab.

You immediately moved and hid around the corner from the door and once Nate had left you decided now was the time to talk to Behrad about everything. Unfortunately, the team was called by Gideon to deal with the next Encore.

'Cause here I am, I'm givin' all I can

But all you ever do is mess it up

Yeah, I'm right here, I'm tryin' to make it clear

That getting half of you just ain't enough

Gideon had informed the team that the next Encore was a guy named Freddy Meyers, a serial killer from 2004. Most of the team had gone down to try and find Freddy at his class’ high school reunion. You were coming out of the kitchen when you bumped into Behrad, who was heading in there. “Hey,” You said simply.

“Hi, Y/N. You didn’t go with the team?” He asked.

You sighed, awkwardly, “No, I am QB-ing today. With you, apparently.”

“Cool. Well, I’m gonna grab a burger.” Behrad said, moving past you. You turned to leave as well but quickly changed your mind.

“I heard you.” You started, Behrad turned back around to face you, “I heard you and Nate talking in the lab earlier when you mentioned my name. What did Nate mean when he told you to tell me how you feel?”

Behrad’s face lost all colour. What was he supposed to do now? You clearly didn’t feel the same way as he did and he was scared that if he told you, your friendship would be ruined forever. “It was nothing, just I didn’t want that night to ruin our friendship that’s all.” Behrad lied, well, it was more of a half-truth. He didn’t want it to ruin you friendship but he wanted way more than friendship to begin with.

“Oh.” You started, your heart breaking at his words, “Well, don’t worry, we’re all good, B.” You smiled, stuffing your feelings inside of a locked box and burying them six feet under.

I wanna give you everything

I wanna give you everything

I wanna give you everything

I wanna give you everything

You cried that night, so much that you began to get a splitting head-ache so at around one in the morning you left the safety of your room to go to the med bay, stopping off at the galley to grab a glass of water on your way.

Once you got to the med bay you notified Gideon of your situation and she prescribed some painkillers that you took with your glass of water. Since you knew you wouldn’t sleep now you decided to go to the lab and play some video games.

However, a certain someone had had the same idea.

I'm not going to wait until you're done

'Cause you pretended you don't need anyone

'Cause you see that I'm naked (naked, naked)

Oh, you see that I'm naked (naked, naked)

I'm not going to try 'til you decide

You're ready to swallow all your pride

I'm standing here naked (naked, naked)

I'm standing here naked

Behrad saw you before you could scurry away and you knew he could tell that you’d been crying by the concerned look that washed over his features. He stood up from his place on the couch and came over to you, “Have you been crying?” He asked, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, b-but it doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” You lied.

“It doesn’t look like your fine. And whatever it is you were crying about had to matter because it made you cry, what’s wrong?” He asked, pulling you in for a hug. You couldn’t stop the tears from falling again as you stood wrapped up in his arms. You desperately wanted to yell and scream at him that you were crying over him – over the feelings you had for him but you couldn’t form the words. “Whatever it is, I can help but only if you talk to me.”

“I can’t.” You snapped, a little too loudly, pulling away from Behrad. “It’s the one thing that I can’t talk about with you.”

Behrad’s face held a look of utter confusion, he didn’t understand what had gotten you so upset and so riled up, “What? Why can’t you talk to me about whatever it is?” He argued.

“Because it’s about you!” You cried, instantly regretting the words that came out of your brain. It was like the filter that was between your brain and your mouth just broke for a few seconds.

“You were crying… because of me?” He asked, his voice was soft and quiet like he felt guilty and was wondering what he’s done to make you so upset. “What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did, it’s how I feel.” You admitted, you’d already sprouted the seed so now you had to continue, “I like you, B. And after we slept together – you called it a mistake and it hurt so bad… and earlier, you said you were worried about our friendship. I was literally friend-zoned by you… So, I’m standing here, in all my stupidity, telling you that I like you and I want to have a relationship with you because you make me feel so happy and so safe and I like you.”

Behrad stared at you intently, you didn’t know exactly what he was feeling since his facial expressions were a bit ambiguous and hard to understand until he smiled, standing closer to you, “I said those things cause I thought you only wanted to be friends and I didn’t want to lose you by admitting how I really felt about you. I like you too, and that relationship thing… sounds real good.”

“Perfect.”

[fremedon]

Brickclub I.5.13, “Resolving Some Questions of Municipal Policing”

“Curiosity is a form of gluttony," Hugo says, of the onlookers trying to peer through the station house door. "To see is to devour."

This is the most direct statement of a theme Hugo comes back to over and over--the destructive power of gossip and idle curiosity. It's a theme that pulls a lot of weight, but starting on this reread so soon after my last one, one thing I'm wondering is how much that theme is supposed to be setting us up to excuse Marius's lack of inquiry into the version of his history Valjean shares.

Observations on Fantine:

--Fantine, a panther during the fight, now cowers "like a frightened dog" in the station. I think the panther line might be the only feline metaphor Fantine gets. 

--"She would have softened a heart of granite, but you cannot soften a heart of wood." Fantine has been turning herself to stone for the last few chapters, but there are worse things to be.

--And one of those is to become even stonier. In her last monologue, right before she attempts to leave: "Oh! I won't do it again, Monsieur Javert! Whatever anyone does to me now, I won't react in any way." 

--Fantine's two long monologues keep coming back to two points: The injustice of prison wages, both to the prisoners and their competitors, and her ability to be respectable when given the means to support herself. She used to have so many changes of underwear, and now she just has one silk dress for the evenings. She still owes 100 francs to the Thenardiers, but she's up to date on her rent now, just ask her landlord. And at the end, Madeleine agrees with this: "I will give you all the money you need. You shall again become honest in again becoming happy." 

We've seen, and will continue to see, how the lack of means bars access to 'honesty'/respectability, but the reverse of that statement is surprisingly hopeful: only provide the means to live honestly, and a person will be honest. 

--Madeleine and Javert's battle for Fantine's liberty is framed almost exactly like the battle for Valjean's soul between his convict self and the bishop in "Petit-Gervais," and Fantine's heart softening back to trust is a much more direct parallel of Valjean's change of heart than I had realized. Valjean never manages to reach Javert this way, but he does pull Fantine back to humanity for her final weeks.

There is one major difference, though, and it’s not actually in the level of their transgressions. Fantine has spit in the face of the mayor in the place of his power; Valjean has stolen a sentimental treasure from his host, in the home where he was given shelter. Both insults are a thing that can be absorbed or shrugged off, practically, but with immense symbolic weight behind them. 

But Valjean’s reverie ends with him obliterating the convict within him and letting the bishop take full possession of his soul. Fantine keeps hers. She doesn’t have to go through any of Valjean’s extreme self-abnegation to get her humanity back. 

And speaking of extreme self-abnegation, there’s Javert. This got long. 

Javert, despite being wood and not stone, is the one who gets the statue imagery in this scene. From the moment right before he stops Fantine from leaving, after Madeleine instructs that she be freed: "Up to that moment Javert had stood stock still, staring at the ground, out of place in the midst of this scene like some statue left in the way, waiting to be put somewhere." I am reminded of the cart in Montfermeil--the broken cart that is a metaphor for outmoded institutions, left in the way to finish decaying. Javert, the automaton of the law, is left in the way, waiting for a purpose.  

Twice in this scene, we see him imagine himself an empty vessel for the law. It’s the only kind of grandiosity he ever has--humbleness to the point of self-obliteration, so he can embody The Law. 

The first is while he is first handing down Fantine’s sentence, and I’m going to quote at length: 

"It was one of those moments in which he exercised without restraint, but with all the scruples of a strict conscience, his formidable discretionary power. At this moment he felt that his policeman's stool was a bench of justice. He was conducting a trial. He was trying and condemning. He called all the ideas of which his mind was capable around the grand thing that he was doing. The more he examined the conduct of this girl, the more he revolted at it. It was clear that he had seen a crime committed. He had seen, there in the street, society, represented by a property holder and an elector, insulted and attacked by a creature who was an outlaw and an outcast. A prostitute had assaulted a citizen. He, Javert, had seen that himself. He wrote in silence." (Wilbour)

And the second is after Madeleine intervenes to demand Fantine’s liberty a second time: 

"It was obvious that Javert must have been 'thrown out of kilter,' as they say, to allow himself to address the sergeant the way he did after the mayor's request that Fantine should be set free. Could he have forgotten monsieur le maire's presence? Had he in the end convinced himself it was impossible that any authority could have given such an order, and that surely monsieur le maire must have said one thing instead of another without meaning to? Or in view of the outrages he had witnessed over the past two hours, did he tell himself it was necessary to act with the utmost resolve, that the humble must assume greatness, the sleuth must turn himself into a judge, the police agent must become an agent of justice, and that in this exceptional extremity he, Javert, was the personification of law, order, morality, government, the whole of society?" (Donougher)

Hoooo boy. There is just so much to unpack here, and I’m glad we have another year and change of brickclub to keep unpacking it. 

Just on the surface: Law, order, morality, government, and society are all the same thing to Javert. The purpose of law is to uphold the social order. It is a contradiction in terms that authority should seek to undermine itself: 

"Javert felt he was about to go mad. At that moment he underwent in rapid succession and almost all at once the most violent emotions he had ever experienced in his life. To see a common prostitute spit in the face of a mayor--this was something so monstrous that in his most dreadful imaginings he would have regarded it as sacrilege to believe it were possible. On the other hand, obscurely, at the back of his mind, he made a hideous comparison between what this woman was and what this mayor might be, and then he had an inkling of something very simple about this extraordinary attack that appalled him. But when he saw this mayor, this magistrate, calmly wipe his face and say, 'Set this woman free,' he was stunned, thoughts and words failed him equally. His capacity for astonishment was exceeded. He remained speechless." (Donougher)

Refusing to punish this transgression against established hierarchies undercuts Madeleine’s legitimacy in his head so much that he takes it upon himself to contradict the mayor, to argue with him, to put forward his abstract embodied Authority as more valid than the mayor’s actual authority. Madeleine only wins by literally citing the legal code, in a scene that reads almost like a battle between wizards. 

Going back to Fantine’s attempted departure--"The sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an expression of supreme authority, an expression that is always the more frightening the lower the level at which power is invested, ferocious in the wild beast, atrocious in the man of no account." Wilbour says "in the undeveloped man"; I prefer Donougher here, because it gets the ambiguity in "the lower the level at which power is invested"--both that power is frightening in the hands of beings who cannot, personally, wield it well,  but also that small concentrations of unaccountable power create petty tyrannies. 

Javert knows he is a small man who, on his own merits, neither possesses nor deserves power over others. But he is a small man channeling the whole of social authority, and that makes him terrifying. 

If what he were channeling was actually Justice, it would also make him--well, it would make him Enjolras. But it’s not. I talked a couple of chapters ago about the themes I’m starting to think of as Hugo’s major arcana, and one of the big ones is Fatalite. He brings it up in the very first sentence of the prologue: 

“So long as there shall exists, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation which, in the face of civilization, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates with human fatalite a destiny that is divine...”  

The divine destiny--the intention of Providence--seems to be whatever humanity is capable of achieving. Fatalite is whatever human-made factors interfere with that achievement: Social condemnation. Custom. And Law. It’s all fatalite.  

The more Javert imagines himself an empty vessel for the law, the more self-abnegating he is in his duty, the worse he is, because what he is channeling is the force that creates hells on earth. 

He has lost this purity in Paris, and to some extent that accompanies real tolerance of corruption--this Javert would have resigned rather than serve with men he knows are taking bribes and enabling double agents like Le Cabuc. But this Javert would also never have casually granted Bigrenaille's request for tobacco in solitary. And I’m not sure this Javert would have noticed the grievances in his suicide memo--certainly, he doesn’t respond at all to Fantine’s repeated refrain about the prison wages. 

I really like @everyonewasabird's idea that Javert, in frightening Fantine to death--in taking an innocent life, one he has no claim over--Javert will break a geas. He loses the ability to be this empty vessel, and is muddling through on his own instincts and prejudices after that--and his own instincts and prejudices are terrible, make no mistake. But they’re malleable, in a way that the whole force of abstract social condemnation isn’t.

And also, god, now I’m thinking about Valjean standing there listening to Fantine talk about the unfairness of prison wages. What must be going through his head.  

[inliar]

spaced in, spaced out

word count: 4.5k

hyojin-centric

hyojin wholeheartedly loves space; the big kind, like the sky and the planets and the brilliant, brilliant stars, but also the small kind, like the time he gets to himself when everything screams louder than it should.

mildly inspired by on the run LA ep 22, time stamp 10:25

a/n: i’ve posted this on ao3 and have since orphaned it (due to unnecessary worrying) so if you recognize it, that’s likely why.

warning: mentions of exhaustion / depressive symptoms

on days when practice runs late (which is almost every day when you don’t know when to stop; a trait hyojin admits he has but refuses to see the problem with), hyojin likes to look at the sky. when he’s feeling lazy, or when dance practice is exceptionally gruelling, he can only really manage to make it to the nearest window and do his best to look up and over the surrounding building’s walls. but when he’s feeling particularly active, he’ll take the stairs up to the rooftop patio and enjoy the sight. from there, he has a clear, unobstructed, view.

not that it’s all that clear, though. light pollution, residual smog, and occasionally cloudy skies mask what hyojin imagines would be a stunning scene without. he’s looked up some night sky pictures on nasa’s official gallery, and they were absolutely breathtaking. so were their ridiculously high quality photos of the solar system, and the milky way, and all the constellations. he has these images saved in a neat little folder on his phone, for days when his own view doesn’t cut it. one day, hyojin would like to see them in real life. maybe he could visit an actual observatory with professional telescopes.

but as it stands, all hyojin can see from his place on earth is the moon, and, if he’s lucky, a couple of stars. on most days, that’s enough. he can observe how far along the lunar cycle the moon is, and he can close his eyes and make a tiny wish to the first star he saw that night. he’s not sure if his wishes help — luck is a fickle thing that he’s never quite had enough of — but he figures it can’t hurt. and after his little ritual, he can return back to his practice room or his dorm with a peaceful mind. he’s here. he’s grounded. he has a more or less beautiful sky to look at. on most days, that’s enough.

but on other days, it’s not. like today.

for one, it’s not even nighttime. a glance at the clock in the practice room tells him that it’s 17:34, which he eventually translates into 5:34 p.m.. it’s much too early to look to the sky for comfort, and it is definitely much too early for the type of crisis that hyojin normally only gets very late at night or very early in the morning. the ones where he can’t do anything besides sit in place like some useless tree stump while he questions his life.

“do you want to go get dinner?”

hyojin hates wasting time, so he doesn’t let them happen often, but every now and then one sneaks by him. especially when he’s overworked and tired and doesn’t have the energy to fight it off. he’s not sure what’s happening just yet, but he can sense that familiar, unsettling feeling simmering somewhere very near.

“hyung, you good?” hyojin hears, and he jolts in place where he’s sitting on the practice room floor. yuto’s looking down at him, all wide eyed and polite, and seungjoon is draped over the poor boy’s back.

“yeah, sorry, i was just … thinking.” hyojin replies lamely, cursing himself for his lack of a better explanation. all of these thoughts, and not a single one is of any use outside of his head.

“seungjoon hyung asked if you were getting dinner with us, but you didn’t answer.” yuto continues. hyojin pauses to process this, before noticing just how quiet the room is. a glance around the room confirms his suspicions; the room is empty, save for the three of them. “where did everyone else go?” hyojin asks.

“jaeyoung and minkyun said they were going to the studio after practice today to work on a new song, remember? and changyoon went to start a vlive. they all said goodbye before they left?” seungjoon explains.

huh. hyojin doesn’t recall any of this. “right, now i remember!” hyojin lies, perhaps a bit too eagerly. he can feel seungjoon staring at him, but he avoids the impulse to look back and stubbornly maintains eye contact with yuto instead.

“so … dinner?” yuto asks.

hyojin hesitates. he is hungry, but going out to eat means talking to someone to order. it means maintaining a conversation with his members, or at the very least keeping up with what they’re talking about. they’re usually really good at sensing when doesn’t want to talk, and they never push him, but hyojin doesn’t want to show off how drained he’s feeling at the moment. just thinking about it makes his head hurt.

“i don’t really want to go out today.” hyojin confesses. seungjoon and yuto nod together like a pair of synchronized bobble heads. cute.

“i’m kind of getting a headache, so i think i’ll head back to the dorm for a bit and take a nap. maybe i can go live sometime today, too. did anyone say they wanted to go after changyoon?” hyojin asks.

“no, i don’t think so.” seungjoon replies, which causes hyojin to accidentally make eye contact with him. darn. seungjoon can be ridiculously perceptive when he wants to be, especially when it comes to reading him. hyojin is not in the mood to be read right now.

seungjoon must come to some sort of conclusion in his head, because he stops staring at hyojin with that weird, ambiguous gaze. “i’ll drop some food off at your place after we’re done. that kimchi fried rice and those dumplings you like.” seungjoon says decisively, before pushing himself off from yuto’s back. “are you coming down with us, at least?”

“yeah, let’s go.” hyojin mumbles as he stands up. his muscles are sore, more likely a result of yesterday’s practice than today’s. the teachers went particularly hard yesterday. it was this constant series of ‘again, again, again’ for all these minuscule details that even yuto seemed to have a hard time catching. but they were much better afterwards because of it, so hyojin figures he shouldn’t complain.

he’s happy to listen to yuto and seungjoon babble about dance practice as they walk down the stairs; partially because he loves hearing the passion in their voices as they discuss how they want to present themselves, and partially because he doesn’t think he has the power to sustain a conversation right now. thankfully, neither of the two push him to say anything. he’s not sure whether it’s because he said he was getting a headache or because they can sense something is actually off with him, but he’s grateful nonetheless.

hyojin remembers to smile and say goodbye when he parts ways with seungjoon and yuto. then, he puts his phone on do not disturb before starting his trek home. he doesn’t want to talk to anyone just yet.

-

hyojin sits down on his bed and he doesn’t cry. he simply thinks.

sometimes he feels like a fake. he’s been told by dozens of people that his singing voice is so emotional. that it conveys a depth of feeling that’s heart wrenchingly beautiful when it needs to be, and technically perfect when it doesn’t. and he’s grateful for that, he truly is. but sometimes, he worries that it isn’t enough.

not that he doesn’t express emotions, because he does. he knows he does. anyone who’s observed hyojin long enough can see it. but the one thing he feels like he hasn’t openly expressed is sadness. which is understandable, after all, since he’s an idol. people come to him and his music for comfort, not to hear him complain. but he’s starting to believe that his absolute inability to convey this basic emotion is what’s causing all of his weird crises.

hyojin wishes he could cry. but he hasn’t cried in so long that he fears he no longer knows how to. bottled up emotions don’t free themselves easily, not when he’s tightened the cap so hard and so often that he’s not sure where the bottle ends and the cap begins.

‘don’t you feel bad?’ he chides himself.

‘yes,’ his inner voice croaks.

‘then prove it,’ he thinks. he challenges himself. he demands.

hyojin doesn’t cry, so he stands up. it’s time for him to get a grip on himself. he takes a shower and changes into comfortable clothes. he doesn't have anything else to do for the rest of the day, so he tries to take a nap as well. it’s hard at first — he’s oddly cold under the power of the air conditioning (that he never bothered to learn how to turn off) and his mind is still whirring with empty, useless, thoughts — but his sheer exhaustion overpowers it all as he falls into a shallow, troubled rest.

-

when he wakes up, his room is much darker then it was before. he reaches out for his phone, his hand haphazardly scrabbling for purchase on his nightstand before finally picking it up. squinting, he manages to read the time: 8:19 p.m.. cool, so he got around two hours of sleep. he figures that’s not too bad. he got four the other day when he was actually trying to go to bed.

for a moment, hyojin contemplates attempting to sleep again before deciding against it. he’s a little drowsy, but he’s not physically tired anymore. with that in mind, he gets up, slips his phone in his pocket, and opens his bedroom door. he could use a cup of water.

the lights are on somewhere out there, which hyojin guesses probably means that changyoon is on the couch playing kart rider or something. his assumption is proven to be correct when he spots changyoon, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, mumbling under his breath at his phone.

“what are you doing?” hyojin asks, turning towards the kitchen to pour himself some water. just before he looks away, he sees changyoon flinch. “n-nothing, i was just texting minkyun,” he hears changyoon stammer awkwardly.

hyojin pauses. suspicious. changyoon is definitely hiding something. hyojin considers confronting his roommate, but before he gets the chance to do so he feels his stomach grumble. right, he skipped dinner.

“did you already eat?” hyojin asks instead, taking his cup of water with him as he walks to the couch. it’s then that he notices the nearly empty takeout box of dumplings on the coffee table.

“never mind, i guess you have.” hyojin answers himself, putting his cup on the table and sitting down next to changyoon. “hmm, what should i eat?”

“oh, right!” changyoon says, popping the last dumpling in his mouth and standing up. “i ran into seungjoon and yuto on the way here. they gave me some takeout for you,” he explains as he walks to the fridge.

hyojin had forgotten about that, but he remembers now. “yeah, i think he said he was going to do that. kimchi fried rice and dumplings, right?” hyojin asks. he could really go for some dumplings right about now, especially after seeing changyoon eating.

changyoon freezes. “o-oh, so seungjoon told you,” he chuckles nervously, pulling a clear plastic bag out of the fridge and bringing it back to where hyojin is sitting on the couch. he’s trembling, which is odd. hyojin already has a very bad feeling about this, but he doesn’t want to say anything yet. surely changyoon wouldn’t do something so dumb as to -

“where are my dumplings?” hyojin demands, after opening the styrofoam container and only finding fried rice. he looks inside the empty plastic bag one more time, just to be sure (they’re not there), before glancing at the empty styrofoam container that changyoon was eating out of before. funnily enough, it’s the same type of takeout box as his fried rice container.

“you ate my dumplings?” hyojin shrieks, immediately grabbing a pillow from the couch. changyoon has already wisely retreated to the very end of the room, but hyojin wastes no time in lunging to where changyoon escaped to with agility akin to his deer nickname. changyoon futilely attempts to dart out of the way, but hyojin manages to grasp the collar of his shirt with one hand while he smacks changyoon with the pillow in his other hand. “what - were - you - thinking?” hyojin hisses, punctuating each word with a thump from the pillow. he notices that changyoon is covering his head, so he makes sure to hit the deserving food thief extra hard.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” changyoon wails as he drops to the ground to shield himself further. “i was hungry!”

“and you thought to take my food, you jerk?” hyojin yells, dropping and holding changyoon down with his knee while he continues to bash him with the pillow. “you didn’t even leave any behind for me!”

“i’m sorry, i’m sor- ow! stop hitting me, please, i’ll buy you more dumplings!” changyoon begs, and it’s enough for hyojin to graciously let changyoon go. “you better,” hyojin threatens, standing up. “you’re lucky i’m weak right now, you brat.”

“i’m sorry, what? you call that weak?” changyoon asks incredulously, sitting up and leaning back on his hands. “was that pillow made out of rocks?”

“if i hadn’t just woken up, and i wasn’t so hungry …” hyojin trails off.

“you know what, i don’t even want to think about it,” changyoon decides. “but the food stall closes at 10, so we should get going if you want the dumplings tonight.”

“i’m sorry, we?” hyojin asks incredulously. “why do i have to go out?

“don’t you want to personally make sure i get the right ones?” changyoon offers.

“no, because i can tell you right now which ones i want — pork, by the way — and if you forget you can text me.” hyojin says.

“but i don’t want to go outside alone! it’s dark, and it’s scary!”

“sucks for you, then, you shouldn’t have eaten my food in the first place. and since when have you been scared of the dark?”

“please?” changyoon asks. “i’ll buy you ice cream if you do.”

hyojin pauses. ice cream does sound really good right now. “okay, fine.” he decides. “but i’m not changing.”

“yeah, me neither. the food stall lady has known us for forever, though, so it’s probably fine.” changyoon reasons, standing up. “let me get my wallet and then we can go.”

“okay,” hyojin agrees. “i need to fix my hair anyways, it’s probably a mess.”

hyojin manages to tidy up his bedhead/warrior hair and find a cap in his room, but changyoon still hasn’t come out yet. “are you coming?” hyojin calls, walking out of his room to sit on the couch. he picks up his unfinished glass of water and takes a sip. he wouldn’t want to have damaged his throat after his screaming fit.

changyoon walks into the living room, looking sheepish. “so, um, how mad would you be if i told you that i think i left my wallet at the company?”

“... you’re serious.” hyojin deadpans incredulously.

“yeah, uh, i just realized i left my coat in the room where i did my vlive, and i normally carry my wallet in my pocket.” changyoon explains, before wincing. maybe he was expecting to get hit again?

hyojin sighs. “it’s fine. it’s on the way, anyway. let’s go?” he asks, before downing what’s left of his drink and standing up.

changyoon nods happily. “you’re the best and i love you?” he offers.

hyojin pushes changyoon. “ew. you can be sappy after i’ve eaten,” he laughs. “now get me some food.”

-

“come in with me?” changyoon asks, once they’re in front of WM. “i swear i saw the ghost last time, and i don’t want to face it alone.”

“well, why do i have to see it?” hyojin grumbles, but he opens the door for changyoon anyway. hyojin’s not heartless enough to ditch him, especially when he’s buying him food. but if he’s being really honest, he’d accompany changyoon regardless.

“what room did you leave your stuff in?” hyojin asks as they climb up the stairs, before coming to a realization.

“should we have asked the security guards for the keys?” hyojin pauses, before turning around. “wait, we should have, hold on, let’s go back -“

“wait!” changyoon calls, his voice amplified in the empty stairwell. hyojin reaches to cover his ears.

“oh, sorry, that was too loud,” changyoon realizes belatedly. “but trust me, we don’t need the keys.”

“what do you mean we don’t need the keys? the security guards always lock everything up after the office workers leave.” hyojin says, puzzled.

“minkyun’s in that room, he’s the one that told me i left my sweater there.” changyoon explains, as he continues to climb the stairs. instinctively, hyojin follows him.

“but why didn’t you tell me before? you could have told me that minkyun was there when you said that you left your wallet here.” hyojin asks.

“well i - uh, i forgot?” changyoon stammers.

hyojin frowns. changyoon is somehow being even more suspicious then when he ate hyojin’s dumplings, which is very confusing. something about his words are not adding up. he opens his mouth to ask something else, before being interrupted by changyoon.

“okay, we’re here!” changyoon exclaims, opening the door. except it doesn’t lead to the second or third floor like hyojin had expected.

“why are we on the roof?” hyojin asks, following changyoon before stopping in his tracks.

“oh hey, you’re here!” minkyun exclaims.

except it’s not just minkyun. the rest of the members are all there, bizarrely sitting in a circle on a large blanket on the roof. there’s various soda cans scattered around the edge of their huddle, and a couple of chip bags lie in the middle. if hyojin didn’t know better, he’d guess by the food that it was a poorly prepared picnic or a decently prepared sleepover.

“what …?” hyojin trails off in confusion.

next to him, changyoon breathes a sigh of relief and runs towards the rest of the members. “i am never doing this again. that was the most stressful hour or whatever of my life. i am incapable of lying, i swear he almost caught me twice, i have aged because of this -“

“oh, be quiet, this was your fault anyway.” minkyun snaps, but without a single hint of malice in his voice.

“so, um?” hyojin asks, frozen in place, as changyoon and minkyun bicker in the background. “what?”

“well, uh, this might sound pretty dumb, but you were really out of it in practice today.” jaeyoung starts, standing up and walking towards him. the rest of them do the same, abandoning their drinks and their snacks. “you were listening to what the teacher said and doing the dance moves correctly and everything, but it was like you weren’t actually there? you didn’t even say ‘bye’ back when minkyun and i left.”

darn. he was being obvious. hyojin opens his mouth, ready to give some kind of excuse, but seungjoon cuts him off.

“we wanted to ask you about it, but we didn’t know what to say and we didn’t want to make it awkward for you. and you mentioned how looking at the sky clears your mind, right? so we thought it would be nice to stargaze together? except it’s really cloudy …” seungjoon trails off.

hyojin looks up. seungjoon’s right, he can barely see the moon behind the clouds, let alone any stars. but the mere fact that his members came together and planned this in the first place is really, really nice.

hyojin looks around again and thinks. he knows for a fact that no one had chips at their dorm (seungjoon recently confiscated them all and donated them to the staff when he was feeling particularly sensitive about his self induced diet), so someone had went out and bought all the snacks so they’d have something to eat. someone had brought drinks so they wouldn’t get thirsty. someone had lugged this very big blanket up many flights of stairs so they’d have someplace clean to sit. someone had suggested doing this because they thought he felt bad, and someone had planned the event, even taking care to keep it a secret, to make him feel better. and they did this in their spare time, instead of practicing more or taking a well deserved break, for him.

they planned this all for him.

jaeyoung takes his silence as a bad thing, and hurriedly chimes in. “i mean, this might not have been what you were thinking of when you said you liked the galaxy, and we can always do something else! we don’t have a group practice tomorrow anyway, so we can do something fun tonight.”

“no, no! i’m just … this is good. actually, this is perfect. i - you didn’t have to do this, but it’s really thoughtful, and i?” hyojin buffers, completely lost for words.

seungjoon takes his arm. “you can just say thank you, and come sit with us.” he laughs, guiding hyojin back to their blanket where they’ve conveniently left a space for him to sit.

yuto hands him a coke as he takes his place, and hyojin wordlessly opens it and takes a sip. “thank you,” hyojin says, after a short pause. “i’m serious. this is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

“you’re always trying to take care of us, yeah? we can do this for you.” minkyun says, and it’s so thoughtful hyojin winces a little. he’s not in the right headspace to vent about his emotions right now. he’s not even sure if he has the right words for them. maybe later, when he has them sorted out in his head, he’ll share them with the others. but for now, he just wants to spend some time together, in each other's proximity.

hyojin normally looks to the sky to clear his head, but for once, his mind is blissfully empty. something about this entire situation brings him genuine peace and he’s extremely grateful for that. it’s not like he tries to overthink or overwork himself, but he somehow ends up overdoing things anyway. very rarely does hyojin let himself sit back and just do things. very rarely does hyojin let himself be content with just being enough, and not more. right here and right now, though, hyojin feels like enough.

“so that’s why changyoon ate my dumplings.” hyojin realizes belatedly.

the rooftop was silent before, but somehow it becomes even quieter. “changyoon stole your food?” yuto whispers in horror.

“okay, in my defence!” changyoon screams, raising his hand. “i wouldn’t have had to resort to this if you guys didn’t make me bring him here! you know i’m bad at lying, and you still chose me! i needed a reason to be nervous in front of him!”

“and you’re still alive?” seungjoon asks, shocked. “after eating his food?”

“barely.” changyoon complains. “he makes a pillow hurt.”

“i knew you wouldn’t be so dumb as to eat my food for no reason.” hyojin mutters under his breath.

“do you know how many times i nearly had a heart attack because of you?” changyoon begins, pointing an accusatory finger at hyojin. “when you came out of your room i was so stressed. we were all texting each other trying to make plans, and i was eating your food, and i had to pretend i was texting minkyun about something normal and not this whole surprise event. and then i had to make a dumb excuse to get you here, and i said i left my wallet in my coat — why would i even wear a coat, it’s summer?”

hyojin didn’t even notice that. probably because he was so caught up on the food he was missing that he didn’t even see the signs right in front of him.

“i realized it the second after i said it, but i’m so grateful you didn’t call me out for it. and then you asked me about the keys, and of course we didn’t need the keys because everyone was already here, so i had to make up another lie about minkyun, except it didn’t even make sense because i totally would have mentioned it before, and this was just an overall traumatic experience. kim hyojin, never ask me another question again.” changyoon finishes dramatically.

“but we wouldn’t have made you do this alone if you didn’t try to add hyojin to the group chat. this is technically your own fault.” minkyun points out, and hyojin frowns. “what groupchat?” hyojin asks.

“you didn’t get the notifications?” seungjoon asks, and hyojin shakes his head.

“so seungjoon tried to make a groupchat with all the members except you so we could figure out what to do together, right?” minkyun starts. “but changyoon, this absolute idiot, literally asks, ‘oh, why aren’t we just using the groupchat we already have’ and adds you. why do you think we left him out in the first place?”

“it was an honest mistake!” changyoon whines. “anyone could have done it!”

“but you did it.” minkyun teases, and changyoon stutters out excuses.

“wait, but you had no clue that we were doing this?” jaeyoung asks. “i figured we ruined it after we added you to the groupchat by accident.”

“i didn’t even get the notifications, though, are you -? oh.” hyojin says.

“what?” yuto asks.

“i turned my notifications off after i said bye to you and seungjoon.” hyojin realizes.

“then i didn’t even ruin anything! it didn’t have to be me in the first place!” changyoon screams. “this is so unfair!”

“but hey, at least you were successful.” seungjoon points out, and everyone else nods.

“the emotional trauma? that you put me through? what about that?” changyoon asks, but he’s interrupted by the sound of jaeyoung slapping his own arm.

“sorry, mosquito.” jaeyoung explains sheepishly.

“shoot, we forgot about bugs.” seungjoon sighs. “do you want to just go inside? we can order chicken or something.”

“actually, that sounds great right now. i haven’t had dinner yet, and i’m so hungry.” hyojin says happily.

“you didn’t have dinner? i literally brought you food!” seungjoon complains.

“okay, but after changyoon ate my dumplings, did you really think i was going to focus on eating over revenge?”

seungjoon pauses. “yeah, never mind. but still!”

“it’s okay, i’ll eat it later.” hyojin says. “but let’s order something in for now? and we should probably clean all this up, too.”

“we’re going inside? good, i’m getting cold.” yuto adds, standing up and picking up his empty coke can and a half eaten bag of chips.

“do you want to sleep over in the practice room?” minkyun suggests, laughing. “we’re already ordering chicken, this is basically our trainee days all over again.”

“you know what, i’m actually down for that.” jaeyoung says, grinning. “if they let us do it five years ago, they’ll let us do it now.”

“honestly?” hyojin asks, smiling one of his first real smiles. he hasn’t been this content for a while. “that sounds really, really good.”

it’s been a while, hyojin thinks as they clean up, since he’s been truly happy like this. it's been a while, he thinks, since everything has felt right. but here, in this space with five of the people he loves the most, he feels like enough. and for now, that’s all that matters.

[queencamden]

i hope you don’t mind me asking,, but what is three dark crowns? it seems really interesting

Ooh, ooh okay! I was actually considering getting a side blog for it, but this is bringing attention to it, and that is very much a Good Thing. Also my username is a character so (kind of)

Three Dark Crowns is a YA book series (4 books and a couple novellas) I’m about to give you my honest description of this book, because the marketing’s super misleading.

The story takes place on a mystical island surrounded by mist. The mist cannot be broken, and so the island has developed quite differently from the rest of the world, including being a matriarchy (!). However, being queen of Fennbirn has a catch. A big one.

See, every generation the previous Queen has three triplet girls. Always around the same day. The triplets always have black hair and black eyes, and they each have a specific power: elementals can control the elements (I saw somewhere that it’s basically like Avatar but you can bend EVERYTHING, which, even though I haven’t seen that show, sounds like the best description.) earth, water, fire, wind, and weather, though generally they are each better at one specific thing. There are poisoners, who can eat or cover themselves in any amount of poison and not die, and are highly adept at poisoning others. And there are naturalists, who can make plants grow and control animals. They also have familiars, which are a specific animal that bonds with them and is their companion forever. The stronger the naturalist is, the stronger the familiar (it can be anything, from a chicken to a mountain cat- both real familiars in this story). There are also two other gifts- warriors, who can move weapons with their mind and are very good fighters, and oracles, who can see the future, but these gifts aren’t that important in the first book.

Each gift has their own city, and the triplets are taken there as children and raised by a family of their own gift. Then, when they are 16, they have to undergo the Ascension Year- basically, they have a year to murder each other, and whoever survives gets to be Queen.

But unfortunately for two of this years triplets, their gifts have refused to show, and they, and their families, will go to any measure to protect themselves.

Now here’s where the bad marketing comes in, because many would assume that this series specifically followed the queens during the Ascension Year, and sees who would win. But that’s not true. The Ascension Year doesn’t begin until the second book. The first book is buildup, introducing the characters and their world and following their families various attempts to secure the queen’s places.

This led to the series being poorly reviewed and (in my opinion) massively underrated. People didn’t understand why it didn’t start off straight away. But that’s missing the point of Three Dark Crowns. And what I love about it the most.

Three Dark Crowns is very political for YA fantasy. It follows how this system would realistically go down. These teenagers aren’t running things on their own. They are surrounded by corrupt advisors, ambitious family members, and rival factions determined to see their gift triumph. (By the way, forgot to mention this before, but if a queen of a certain gift wins, the entire gift gets stronger and all the others get weaker, so it’s kind of important for a gift to win) That’s probably part of why a lot of TDC fans also like Six/the Tudor dynasty- royals and power structures are FUN! In the case of TDC, however, these royals can also hurl poisoned weapons and set things on fire (which spices things up)

It also has a pretty much 90% female cast, which is great for a fantasy, and they’re all such well-rounded and brilliant characters. (Another reason why Six fans tend to like it) Lots of moral grayness! And, in the later books, wlm content (but not in the first two)

Trigger warnings: At least one scene of sexual assault (I say at least one because the other, at the end of the second book, is rather vague and ambiguous- could just be coercion) The main one’s in a flashback from 400 years ago in the third book and again, is very vague and not graphic at all. Both perpetrators get their comeuppance. Also, more prominent trigger warning for abuse (two of the queens are abused by their foster family- one physically and emotionally the other just emotionally) And some gore, particularly among the poisoners. It’s a YA book, so none of this is as bad as it could be. One type of magic is used by bloodletting (but not in a self-harm way)

(That trigger warning list looks way longer than it is. It’s only about three things, and like I said, none of them are bad or graphic enough that it makes the series unreadable. Please don’t let these turn you off, I felt like I had to include them, but like I said, the sexual assault is very vague and the abuse is kind of ... fantasy abuse. Getting poisoned repeatedly is probably unlikely to trigger anyone)

PLEASE read these books they’re SO GOOD, and COMPLEX, and TWISTY and AGGHH

[jackdawyt]

Contaminated with the Blight. Known to thin the Veil, and forces anyone who dare wield it go mad. There’s a lot we’ve got to talk about regarding this most blighted material, however, in order for us to foreshadow what involvement red Lyrium may have in the future, we’ve got to excavate its original source – raw lyrium.  

Lyrium

Regular, non-tainted Lyrium is a mineral constantly mined for its properties, it has many purposes in Thedas today. The dwarves have built a trade empire mining and selling the material across the entire continent because of its usage. This trade is the main reason why Tevinter and the dwarven kingdoms have such a close relationship.  

Lyrium is essentially a mana booster, able to strengthen one’s magical power beyond what anyone might naturally muster. When mixed into liquid and ingested, Lyrium allows mages to enter the Fade consciously.  No wonder the mages of the Imperium have such a secure trade of the substance.  

While mages combine Lyrium with spells and rituals. Templars ingest the substance to enhance their abilities at resisting and dispelling magic, while the dwarves and non-magic wielders use Lyrium to create magical runes and enchant items.  

Even the Qunari were intrigued by its usage and began experimenting with the properties of Lyrium to bulk up their own mages called “Saarebas.”  

In the current Dragon Age, Lyrium has become a beneficial and essential mineral for the majority of Thedas.  

As Lyrium exists in both the physical world and The Fade, the Chantry believes Lyrium to be the “emerald waters of the Fade, the very substance of creation itself.” While others call Lyrium a conductor that "bridges the gap between the dreamer’s world and the waking world” (WoT V1).

Whatever the truth is... There’s a lot beyond the surface regarding this powerful substance that the common Thedosian may never know.  

The dwarves call “Lyrium” - “Isana” which translates to “singing stone” (WoT V1).

This is because Lyrium is; in fact, a living substance, it’s said to be the very blood of the world-shaping Titans.  

According to; their children, the dwarves, the legendary, ancient beings sculpted the world. Their earthquakes are apparently their method of reshaping Thedas to their accord.  

It's impossible to describe in words how truly vast a Titan is. The one I met is so large you can only glimpse parts of it. I had wandered inside its body for who knows how long without even realizing it. I've heard tales of dragons and giants on the surface, but descriptions of their size do not compare to the Titan's.

Its blood now flows through me, and its song fills the gaps in our history. I close my eyes and see glimpses of the world that was, before everything changed and the dwarven race broke in two. Something caused the Titans to fall, and the fate of my people fell with them. The Titan wants me to know. No, more than that. It wants me to understand. There is a loneliness to its song.

Codex entry: Titans: Shaper Valta's personal journal.

Whether the Titans, or “Pillars of the Earth” created Thedas, and have since been dwelling since the beginning of creation itself is still a rather ambiguous mystery. However, based on codex entries, we can confirm that the Titans existed before the Veil was created.  

In actuality, before the Veil’s creation, the Kingdom of the Elvhen hunted and declared war against the Titans, stating their death will be a mercy and will make the earth blossom with their passing.

"In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing."

Mythal, All-mother of the Elven Pantheon struck down a Titan, as the people praised her name.  

"Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!" 

With the defeat of a Titan, the Ancient Elves discovered Lyrium from its body. The elves continued to fight with the Titans, mining their bodies for raw Lyrium and "something else" which has been made unclear.  

"The runes say the Evanuris fought the Titans. They mined their bodies for lyrium and... something else. It's not clear."

While I’m trying not to theorise and speculate, Cole once said: "They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget."

Perhaps the Ancient Elvhen made Lyrium bodies from the Titan’s blood. Crafting strong, resilient vessels for the Evanuris and their people to inhabit. Continuing their savage hunt against the Titans.  

Thus, explaining the fall and disconnect of the Titans from their children, the dwarves. Justifying why the dwarven kingdom have grown disattached to their creators throughout the ages, and only now have begun to re-establish that connection once more.  

In any regard, the Titans were not completely silenced. They slumbered for years, and somewhere down the line, Red Lyrium came into existence. Perhaps caused by the Evanuris war, or perhaps self-inflicted by the Titans themselves, we don’t know. Red Lyrium’s origin is still a huge enigma... However, we do know that the spread of Red Lyrium has merely just begun.  

The red corrupted substance is a perverted form of raw Lyrium. Just like its predecessor, Red Lyrium is alive, it has a lifespring, and it grows and multiplies across Thedas. It too ties power between the waking world and the Fade.

To answer your question, my lord: yes, I have indeed heard of this "red lyrium" of which you speak. A single piece of it surfaced in the eastern city of Kirkwall, and its influence alone was nearly enough to cause the city's destruction. As near as we can determine, it is regular lyrium that has been somehow corrupted. Those who have touched red lyrium—or even come near it—report that it "sings" to them, like whispers in the mind that slowly drive them mad.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

As discovered by Bianca Davri, Red Lyrium carries the blight, explaining its twisted form.  

Unlike regular lyrium which requires you to digest it in order for it to impact you. Red Lyrium corrupts everything it touches, being in close proximity to it will greatly affect you.  

Far more disturbing is the fact that lyrium could be corrupted at all. Treat any red lyrium you encounter as if it were poison. Do not go near it, do not attempt to destroy it... and most importantly, do not attempt to use it.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

The substance is most unique, it can thin the Veil, allowing spirits and demons to interact with the real world. Prolonged exposure will change not only your mental outlook but your physical appearance too.  

It tends to leave people or animals in a mad-like state. They become paranoid, and see no reasoning for morality, as Bartrand sabotages his own brother Varric. Red Lyrium tends to consume the mind and take over. Much like the reasoning for the Red Templars in Inquisition, Red Lyrium is very deadly, and grows off of anything living.

We do not know, however, what might stem from extended contact with red lyrium. Madness, surely, but would there be a physical corruption as well? What would happen if a mage or a templar used red lyrium as they use regular lyrium?

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

Speaking more specifically on Red Lyrium’s growth - its corruption throughout the land has merely begun - and attempting to remove the mineral is likely a fruitless effort, as it will have already introduced itself into the food chain, which begets more corruption: as Red Lyrium effects all it touches, insects digest blighted soil, animals then digest the blighted insects, this will have a knock-on effect, more animals, plants and trees will become tainted by merely following their survival instincts until eventually the people of Thedas are infected by their own harvest.  

While a lot of the growth of Red Lyrium has been greatly caused by the hands of many Thedosian’s, a great deal of its development into the eco system is simply inevitable. It's merely a matter of days until a Ferelden Farmer has spoiled crops, an Orlesian Noble eats an infected nug, and a predator hunting its prey soon becomes blighted.  

And that’s not all that lingers for the future, Red Lyrium has plenty of involvement in many scenarios that awaits Thedas.  

The Titan’s connection

When Valta connected with a Titan, she felt pure, wasn’t afraid anymore, and could somehow survive without needing food or water, as if the Titan’s essence was her sole sustenance. The Titan connected with one of their children stopped the tremors throughout the land.

Valta established a longing connection with the dwarves supposed creators, as adult and child rekindled once more, Valta’s consciousness intertwined with the knowledge of the Titans. Vital information that would shake up the entirety of the dwarven kingdom’s foundation.  

With Valta’s connection, surely the Titan’s seek to find the rest of their children, becoming one once more.  

Red Lyrium Idol

The Red Lyrium Idol is still a mystery. This McGuffin was brought back in Tevinter Nights, instead of being destroyed when Meredith created her sword Certainty, it stayed within her statue-like corpse, preserved for a fair while.  

it’s been described as: “a couple hugging, too thin to be dwarves”, or “a god mourning their sacrifice.” However, disregarding what it supposedly looks like, this idol belongs to Solas. It’s his, and he wants it back, he has a purpose for it.  

Its current whereabouts have been set up for interpretation, we can assume the Idol is either with a noble’s son heading to war torn Tevinter, or Solas has indeed collected his long-lost possession after some time. Again, we can only assume at this point where it may be, and why Solas requires it.  

Red Lyrium Sarcophagus

In Dragon Age: Blue Wraith, the most recently released comic book roster, the comic cast uncover a Lyrium Sarcophagus, originally utilised for Fenris’s transformation into a “Blue Wraith”. The device infuses the occupant with Lyrium markings that grant the host with immense power like the ability to go through walls, and tear an enemy's heart out of their chest.  

Towards the end of Blue Wraith, we understand that the Venatori have this device and intend on willingly putting one of Fenris’s trusted friends through the device using Red Lyrium to make him a most formidable, unstoppable warrior.  

If successful, perhaps this practice may become common in Tevinter for the remaining Venatori and their elven slaves.

New clusters of Lyrium  

Discovered briefly in Tevinter Nights, The Horror Of Hormak, other colours and variations of Lyrium seemingly exist. A massive Lyrium crystal glowing yellow and green hung suspended deep within a lost dwarven thaig.  

Above it, a massive lyrium crystal hung suspended. It glowed with a sickly light, tinged with yellow and green. Streamers of energy flowed from it into the pool, sending it bubbling wherever it touched. (Horror Of Hormak, pg. 100).  

With more variations of Lyrium deep underground, perhaps we’ll begin to see different properties of this mineral, who knows, perhaps this could lead to other Titans waking up across Thedas.

Origin Of The Blight

And of course, we need to comprehend how the blight began. I attempting at looking at this plot thread, without going to deep into theory, but I do believe it has something to do with the Titan’s war between the Evanuris, because suddenly Red Lyrium pops into the picture and the Elven Pantheon are becoming mad with armour of the Void, turning against each other.  

Perhaps a Blighted Titan is the original source of the blight, as it reaches out for revenge against the Evanuris, attempting to establish a connection with their children once more, destroying everything else in its path...

So many mysteries, and so much to go on for the future of Dragon Age!  That is it for my first entry in this Road To Dragon Age 4 series, let me know what you thought of it, and tell me your potential theories for the future Dragon Age narrative.  

[dalekofchaos]

The Fireflies’ vaccine wouldn’t have worked or why Joel did the right thing

In the last part of The Last of Us, Joel kills all the fireflies and saves Ellie but by doing so he may have doomed humanity by ending the possibility of a cure being made, making the ending bittersweet and morally ambiguous. The thing is, Joel didn't really do anything wrong, and saving Ellie was the right choice, here are my reasons:

The doctors would remove Ellie's brain to try to create a vaccine, but that's not how vaccines works, a vaccine is a tamed version of a pathogen that "teaches" your body to defend against it, to do a vaccine you need to use the pathogen in small quantities or a modified version of it, Ellie is immune to it, you don't create vaccines from the immune system, that's called a serum, and it works differently, a serum is used when someone comes in contact with a disease and it contains a series of antibodies that fight the infection, but it doesn't make anyone immune. So what they were trying to do was pointless;

Even if the doctors know what they were doing, it was a wild shot a with no guarantee that it would work;

Even if a vaccine was successfully made they wouldn't save the world, the world was destroyed 20 years ago, society collapsed and was rebuilt again on a new way, and everyone already new how to deal with it, also the greatest threat were not even the cordyceps fungus anymore, it was the infected (that the vaccine couldn't do nothing about) and the crooked humans that walked the earth. Besides that, the fireflies had no way to distribute the vaccine worldwide, not even in a national level.

If you listen to the tapes in the Colorado segment, it pretty much confirms that Ellie is not unique and they wouldn’t be able to make a vaccine anyway. The doctor has practically lost his mind and Ellie is just his white whale. Ellie was not the first subject and she most likely wouldn’t have been the last. 

The doctor pretty much went against the common ethical code of all medical practitioners just for a CHANCE at a vaccine/cure.  

And wouldn't it take a lot of time to study her? A day to do all the tests is outright impossible. Just look at the corona vaccine. With all the tech the world has the biotechnologists are going to take more than a year to make a vac.

Vaccines for Fungal infections are nearly impossible and are a logistical nightmare.Even in today’s world,they can only be treated with antibiotics and anti-fungal medicine. They didn’t even bother with thoroughly researching Ellie���s blood and trying to extract the fungal specimen without killing her. The tests were blood samples and samples from the area where she was bit and then only cutting her brain open as THE LAST POSSIBLE USE for her, then when their step 1 was "lol just kill this incredibly rare specimen" I was shocked.

BTW, PS4 version actually removed a piece of paper that's available in all the other forms of the game. What is this piece of paper? Just the one that describes how they've tried this process dozens of times before and how they've NEVER gotten any useful info.

The Fireflies are terrorists. The Fireflies are terrorists, and not even competent ones. Here we go. We first hear of the Fireflies in credits, where they are taking credit for attacking the Federal Disaster Response Agency. Not a good start.The next time we start to see hints of them is through graffiti in the quarantine zone. What does this graffiti say? Fireflies will take it all back. That sounds great! Burn it all down. ...oh. That’s, uh, a little less great. Fucking die, pig. Um… Uh, that’s uh, not a great look here guys.And that goes on and on. The graffiti does not exactly inspire. All it does is get angry.Next time we see them, it’s when they literally bomb a checkpoint and supply truck, then begin firing wildly all over the place. This is straight terrorism. They don’t care if there is collateral damage, in fact, Joel gets injured in this scene.Then we meet Marlene, the so-called Queen Firefly. Injured and on the run, the military is slowly wiping them out. This leads to a line of dialogue that is absolutely hilarious. Marlene starts to preach about “We’ve been quiet. Been planning on leaving the city, but they need a scapegoat. They’ve been trying to rile us up. We’re trying to defend ourselves”Those are big words from someone who just bombed a checkpoint.This clearly shows us that Marlene cannot be trusted as a narrator. She has an agenda and is lying to Joel and possibly herself. And that despite how effective guerrilla tactics usually are, her group is still managing to get absolutely devastated. They are failing so badly that they have to recruit smugglers just to try to get Ellie out of the city.So begins the trek showing dead Fireflies at every turn. Downtown subway station? Dead Fireflies. The Capitol building? Dead Fireflies. Pittsburgh? Oh, let’s talk about Pittsburgh.Pittsburgh is a monument to Firefly failure. Pittsburgh was originally another Quarantine zone held together by FEDRA. So what happened here? Well, times got hard, and the Fireflies instigated a civil war or insurrection. This fighting lasted for months, with Fireflies lynching soldiers that they caught alone, burning soldiers alive after dousing them in gasoline, and FEDRA retaliating by executing Fireflies. FEDRA finally gave up and retreated from Pittsburgh, putting the Fireflies in control- and then it all fell apart. The people of Pittsburgh discover that the Fireflies had planned to move right into the space FEDRA had previously occupied. And so, after this was discovered, the Fireflies were driven out just like FEDRA had been. Only much faster, and with less fight. And now Pittsburgh is nothing but anarchy. People gunned down in the streets for nothing. Rooms full of bodies, clothes and shoes. Almost looks like after images of Dachau. Bravo, Fireflies. Excellent revolution.Next up, we meet Tommy, Joel’s brother, and disenfranchised Firefly. He worked for them for years, going all the way to Colorado for them. Somewhere along the way, he lost faith in them and left their cause. He doesn’t specify exactly why, but it seems he might have lost faith in their methods.Then we come to the University. This is where we really discover how incompetent the Fireflies actually are. One of the first notes you see at University is about a guy who is angry he got yelled at for falling asleep on guard duty. Real professionals. This same note indicates that while they’re still getting some supplies, it’s not enough for what’s needed, with gasoline being particularly short. The next note comes from a recording, telling us that they’re losing more guards, with the doctor clearly concerned about how much equipment and data will be lost if they have to move. The doctor even calls the Fireflies incompetent in this note. And then we have this genius.. That’s right. Bitten by his own lab monkey. Because he just had to set it free, rather than putting it down humanely. Brilliant work sir. Brilliant. He kills himself before turning though, but not before informing us that they hadn’t accomplished anything for over five years. And even that small breakthrough was ultimately a failure. And now the entire lab is compromised, and abandoned.And then there’s a long break from Fireflies until Salt Lake. Ellie, having just gone underwater, isn’t breathing. Joel attempts to perform CPR on her when our hero Firefly shows up, and knocks Joel unconscious. Ah, violence. The first solution. Willing to forgive it, since it strongly mirrors the scene with Sarah, only the Firefly is in the soldier’s shoes this time. But still. Military was gentler.And now for the hospital. The final failure of the Fireflies. This is where so many people are convinced that Joel screws the world by preventing a vaccine. But somehow, I just don’t think so. This is one last desperate bid by the Fireflies for control. How do they intend to do this? Comprehensive bloodwork? No. Vigorous testing with laboratory animals, like, oh, maybe monkeys? No, someone let all their monkeys go. Crack open her head and hope for the best? Hell yeah! Does the fact that they’ve lost their biologist concern them? Nah, it’ll be fine! Does the fact that this is the only time they’ve seen immunity to this degree even give them pause? Pfft, crack her open! Does the fact that there has never been a successful vaccine against fungus give them pause? PASS THAT SCALPEL! No need to think this over, let’s blow our whole load on this once in a lifetime lucky strike as fast as possible. No, I’ve never heard the story about the goose who laid the golden eggs, tell it to me after I finish butchering surgery. Even if we make this vaccine, how will we deploy it? You're thinking too hard, hand me the saw!This is just bad science. Done by bad scientists. Cheered on by fools. Fools who wanted to murder Joel after he made that long trip.And for people who insist on government and democracy, it’s funny how they didn’t risk telling Ellie their “plan” and just sedated her and rushed her to the table.

Even by SOME MIRACLE they managed to make a vaccine, the world ain't gonna automatically return to what it was. It's a dog eat dog world and that is the new normal. Infected, cannibals, more psychos like David and raiders are still there and it ain't going away soon or maybe ever. On top of that, mass production and distribution of a vaccine is an absolute logistical nightmare in a post apocalyptic world- they simply don't have enough resources for that. And who's to say The Fireflies wouldn't use it to as a bargaining tool to put everyone, willing or not, under their new rule? And even given all that, they debated killing Joel after he delivered Ellie. He did the job and the payment he received was getting knocked out and being marched outside of the safe zone AT GUNPOINT WITHOUT HIS WEAPONS AND SUPPLIES! The Fireflies broke their deal and fucked Joel over. Joel had ever right to kill them and save Ellie.

So I believe what Joel did in the end was the right thing, the fireflies was an extremist group that was willing to do anything not to save the world, but to prove their point, even kill an innocent girl under a delusional precept. 

[consilium-games]

Setting, Genre, and Principles

I talked recently with a friend about Apocalypse World, genre, and Principles. For those unfamiliar, Principles are a design and game-running technique that Apocalypse World did not invent, but did refine and explicate, a bit like how the Greeks knew of static electricity, but it was Galvani who made a battery on purpose, that others could study. Since I haven't died yet, I have a project in mind, in this case one that really explicitly relies on Principles in its basic design, so in this essay I want to work out a basic edge of 'what Principles can cover'. Namely, the edge of 'genre'.

I'll define a couple technical terms here because I intend to use them pretty narrowly:

Diagetic means the usual, "bound within the world of a given story".

Commentative means "outside of any story, things we say about stories-generally".

So a setting counts as diagetic, bound within its own logic and the logic of the single work it appears in. Diagetically we'd ask "why does the author choose to write dragons in this way?"

A genre counts as commentative, not bound within any story. It may or may not codify some stories, an author might consciously bend to or defy a genre as they understand it, but most importantly on the genre level, we don't ask "why did the author write dragons like this?" Instead we ask "why do people-generally like to see dragons?"

In talking with that friend, she said she had difficulty reading AW, which I can't really fault anyone for: I'd consider AW almost as much a polemic manifesto as a procedural manual. And the former undermines the latter. Part of her issue came from her looking for a setting, not realizing that properly speaking, AW doesn't have one. I said as much, and as we talked, I then said a lot more than I should:

After confirming that "Baker does not give AW a setting", in a bit of enthusiasm on the idea of 'genre emulation', I went on to say that "Baker gives his apocalypse". This prompted confusion, for the reasonable question arises, "how can Baker provide his own, particular, post-apocalypse story without giving a setting?" So I should have spoken more carefully, and I wrote most of this essay to over-answer that question for my friend. I've massaged it into its current form, for you non-her readers, in hopes that it helps someone, or if nothing else I can refer back to it as I clarify my own cranky lit-game-dev ideas.

To me, 'a setting' goes like this:

DnD has a kind of proto-setting, it has dragons like-so, it has elves who look pretty and live in the woods, it has dwarves who look TV-ugly and live in the mountains, it has orcs who look ugly-ugly and live in the wastes, it has humans it treats as default and live wherever. It has vague gestures of settler-colonial race-relations but not enough anything to explore, unless you the reader put it there. DnD doesn't really have much of a genre more specific than "uh, generally sword-and-sorcery fantasy".

Shadowrun has basically the same things, and a specific setting: neoliberal dystopia and collapse of the state, but otherwise 'basically our world'.

But more than that, Shadowrun also--for its many faults--has a commentative-sense genre: in Shadowrun, might makes right (or at least right-now); money rules everything, except maybe loyalty; it treats magic as innately cool and natural but technology as evil and you maybe would better die than get an artificial heart. These story-contours don't care at all about where things happen or what institutions exist.

To take another example, Cowboy Bebop tells a solid noir western story set in space. The fact that it takes place in space ultimately matters very little to the 'western' or 'noir', though. Spike knows he lives in space, and he'd agree that--to someone alive in our world today--he lives in a sci-fi story. He doesn't know that he got cast as a western-revenge-fable protagonist (though he might agree if someone asked). He definitely doesn't know that he has a corner of the story that goes more-western, while Jet lives in a corner of the story that goes more-noir.

If you wanted, you could tell Cowboy Bebop beat for beat, almost unedited, as a straight-faced noir western. Instead of Jet's main ship they have a wagon, the individual bounty-hunters have their own horses, Ed does something weird with telegraphs and adding-machines. Instead of vacuum between planets of our solar system, they weather the desert waste between far-flung towns. It would remain a story about revenge, losing oneself, finding oneself, remaking oneself, and the things we have to do for the people we love, and what happens when we don't.

You could not do this and also remove the noir, or the western, those define the kind-of-story. If you left it in space but took out the noir, entire episodes of moral ambiguity would disappear (like Ganymede Elegy). Likewise taking out the western, the premise of bounty-hunters wouldn't fit and couldn't stay. I would even go further, and say that while I don't mind Cowboy Bebop sitting on the 'sci-fi' shelf so that consumers can find it, I wouldn't class Cowboy Bebop as sci-fi. A masterpiece, but not sci-fi. Because I think that as a genre, the core of sci-fi asks "where are we going, and what will we do when we get there?" Cowboy Bebop does not care to ask this question, it cares about the human condition right now, and what people right now will do. It takes place in space because space is cool.

Second hot take: Kafka's The Castle counts as sci-fi, by the above conception. Extremely, disturbingly prescient sci-fi, precisely predicting things from call-centers to Big Data and the professional managerial class, and warning of the ease with which a competent, level-headed, and well-meaning person can confront The Machine, and The Machine will completely hollow out and dehumanize them, rob them of every competence and agency, until The Machine no longer notices them as a foreign object.

No one would put The Castle on the sci-fi shelf, because it has no shiny labcoat SCIENCE![tm], telephones and typewriters show up as cutting-edge in the setting. But just look at the concept of tracking, monitoring, filing, and refiling, and bureaucratic shuffle and managerial maladaption and "not my department" and "oh you have to fill out a form 204B -> well file a form AV-8 to requisition a 204B -> look do I have to do everything for you, I'm a busy cog you know". Look at that concept as a technology, like Kafka did.

The story explicitly refers to this as innovation, as a deliberate thing that the Count and his bureaucrats did, on purpose, with intent and expected effect. The Castle explores social science, political technology. And Kafka rigorously explores its psychic effects on the subjects, more thoroughly than Gibson waxing poetic about VR headsets and the Matrix. The Castle qualifies as fiction about science, where we're going and what we'll (have to) do when we get there. It takes place in a quaint provincial village that might lie somewhere in Bohemia in the very early 20th century.

So I allege that while setting matters for writing a given story, it doesn't matter a lot for kind-of story. And in my conversation with my friend, I should have sensed the kernel I could have dug out, but instead, I wrote the rest of this essay, particular to post-apocalyptic genre fiction, and germane to Apocalypse World.

Bringing this back to apocalypsii:

In the Australian outback in the late-70s, the gas supply all but disappears, causing societal collapse and civil breakdown.

In the American midwest, an unspecified disaster wipes out communications and supply-lines, causing survivors to turn feral and cannibalistic.

In New York in the late 60s, food shortages and overpopulation cause the government to criminalize almost everything so that they can grind people up into food.

These are settings in the sense that I mean: a place, a time, implicit societal structures and institutions, "where is this, what world is this, what is here?" DnD's setting doesn't have much of a 'where' but it more or less assumes "uh, Earth kinda, sorta"; Shadowrun says "literally Earth but N years after magic becomes real and also DnD races". But the above three post-apoc settings have very different everything-else: if you were making a post-apoc section of a library and wanted to break down into sub-genre, you'd want to put the three works above on different aisles.

Mad Max tells a story where holding on to old power structures is complicated, sometimes good, sometimes bad, and it emphatically matters how we go about doing it: when marauding punks kill your family, you may justifiably go and kill them back; but when a power-mad warlord inflicts his brutal regime, you owe him no allegiance.

The Road tells a story where everything we care about can just blow away in the wind, and at best we can only cling to what we cherish, while we can. Power comes and goes, structures don't last, but cruelty and misery endure eternal and will always win--but we try anyway.

Soylent Green tells a story where societal structures can technically endure, but themselves have no moral compass and can inflict as much cruelty as uncaring nature. You may live in an illusion in which civilization appears to function, but in fact you have no more safety than the wilderness, and indeed you didn't realize it, but you're the cannibals, and perhaps soon the meal.

Those considerations all sit at the genre-type, commentative level, and I class them as wholly unconcerned with setting. Each of these stories would tell just as well in space, or an underground complex, or even Bronze-Age Fertile Crescent if you twist a few narrative arms. The where and when and what doesn't define or determine the kind of story, the genre, even if setting can help or hinder genre goals.

Bringing this back to Baker: he doesn't give a place where things happen; he doesn't give an inciting event that brought the apocalypse; he doesn't even describe what happened during the apocalypse, or how long ago it happened, or give a date for "today". I'll list three AW settings I've run or played in or heard about:

Sunlight vanished altogether, though somehow it hasn't gotten any colder. Darkness and shadow can become animate and even sapient, and can claim people, though it doesn't seem exactly malevolent or 'evil'. Rule of law has mostly fallen apart, but out of fear and prudence people mostly avoid wanton violence, because if you see someone you don't like, you could roll up on them and take their stuff--but just as easily they could kill you, and just as easily as either, the Dark might just take both of you; you're safer keeping the Dark at bay and not hassling someone else, unless you've got good reason.

A few years(?) ago, survivors woke up from total amnesia and some kind of fugue: it seems like this fugue lasted at least some years, there's some decay of modern-to-us structures, but the ruins look fully recognizable and often quite well-preserved. But signs abound, literally painted twenty-feet-high on buildings and structures, that something unfathomable happened. The giant wordless pictograms seem to warn to protect tools and structures, to stay together and not go off alone, indicate places that once had lots of food or other important resources, and most alarmingly they show gigantic hands reaching down from above onto some of the pictogram figures. No one can remember anything from before the wakeup though, so the meaning is lost.

Something like twenty years ago, the world broke in some fundamental way: it always rains or at least fog abounds, long-distance communication inexplicably but insurmountably fails to work, and cityscape has sprawled on its own to incorporate seemingly the entire world. As far as anyone knows, the city spans infinitely in every direction, it has no edge, only more city. The city-cancer seems waterlogged and rotting everywhere, some few places fit for use and occupancy, but if you go down any given street and step inside an empty house or shop, it probably won't suit human habitation. People still habitually carry on the forms and outlines of societal norms, mostly, because what else can they do? You can't burn it all down as long as it keeps raining.

I brought these up because Baker's conception of 'post-apoc' does not cover the whole of "all post-apocalyptic literature"--it couldn't, shouldn't, and if it did it would have little or no use to anyone. Baker's narrower conception, the Principles that AW's rules expect a setting to follow, narrow things down and keep the rules crisp, tight, and tractable.

Each of the AW campaigns above has a totally different setting, aiming in totally different directions for different things--but, they all live inside Baker's Principles for a post-apoc that fits within AW: scarcity, weak but present society and norms, a Before, an After, and no going back, and each has a 'Psychic Maelstrom' that excuses a lot of narrative fiat and deus ex machina and having characters just do weirdness not otherwise specified.

That 'Psychic Maelstrom' comes closest to giving what I'd call "a setting" as in "place, time, institutions", because it sits at the diagetic level. A distinct thing bound within a given story--except it only barely counts as 'diagetic'. Because Baker only gives loose guidelines for what a Psychic Maelstrom should be or do. Baker's own at-his-table Psychic Maelstrom will look nothing like mine, or my girlfriend's, or her erstwhile friend's, because in those three AW settings up there, each of us had totally different ideas for what to do with a Psychic Maelstrom in a post-apocalyptic setting.

But: all three of us used our Psychic Maelstroms for the things Baker says to use them for: unleash weirdness, justify unrealistic but narratively satisfying twists, allow and excuse extra awesomeness, maybe use as a metaphor or allegory for "how it got this way", as well as "where it could go", in literary terms. And . . . Baker doesn't really get closer than this, to giving "place, time, institutions, history and people and events". So in the sense I understand 'setting', a diagetic construct within a given story, AW doesn't have one.

But in the commentative genre sense, AW very definitely gives Baker's apocalypse, in that it gives a recipe for the things that Baker considers essential to the post-apoc genre (or at least, the aisle of the post-apoc library he wants to confine his game to). He doesn't try to tell a Soylent Green apocalypse so much--you'd need to twist some arms and ignore some Principles to tell Soylent Green. Nor does he try to tell Children of Men so much--you'd have to leave a lot out to rein AW in to just Children of Men. He instead aims* for something closer to Mad Max, but heavy on Weird West, and a lot less somber and desolate, so more like Fury Road. And he says, "here's how:".

(*) But, of course, he doesn't actually tell these stories. Instead he has the project of telling the reader how to tell this kind-of story. So, while he gives some sample poetic images of skylines on fire and the world torn asunder, he doesn't care to talk about the virus, or the metorite, or the gas-shortage or the food-shortage. He doesn't care about the where or when or what, and even with the Psychic Maelstrom, the one concrete diagetic thing he gives--it sits there as a meta-thing, explicitly unstated whether it resulted from The Apocalypse or its inciting event, or caused it as the inciting event, or something else.

All of which boils down to: commentative, about-stories, genre-level stuff owns bones, and I weigh it heavier than diagetic, in-stories, setting-level stuff. Baker gives excellent tools, within his purple polemic prose, for that first stuff and gives little or nothing for the second.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 11 Part 2

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 11, cont.

Crowley purred upon seeing the Bentley. It was a little obscene, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t had a day off in ten years. Going for a drive was one of Earth’s greatest pleasures, as far as he was concerned,[1] and he’d been sorely neglecting it. He stroked the door lovingly before letting himself in.

“Don’t get anything on the seat,” he told Adam.

“Er,” Adam said, peering through the back window.

Crowley leaned back to wave him inside and saw somebody already sitting in the back seat.

“Hello,” she said.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “Who the Hell are you?”

Aziraphale leaned his head in through the passenger door. He blinked at the woman in the back, as if unclear whether Crowley had left her there by accident.

“My name is Anathema Device,” the woman said.

She was wearing a dramatic green coat and prim, thick-rimmed glasses. Despite the Wiccan-ish aesthetic, there was something stern and school-teachery about her. Crowley had the impression he was about to be told off.

“You’re two minutes late,” she said. Ah. There it was.

Adam decided he might as well sit down. He slipped into the back beside Anathema. She smiled at him.

Crowley made a decision there and then. No more tagalongs. Whoever this person was, she could get lost.

Anathema leaned forwards, business-like. “I’m here about the Antichrist.”

Adam looked offended. A lot of the people he’d met today seemed to have spoken to his mother.

“Nope. That’s it. I’m done with this. I’ve already processed everything I’m willing to hear today. Whatever revelations you’ve got, you can keep. I’m content not knowing everything, I don’t need whatever you’re selling. Get out of my car.”

“You’re going to want to hear this.”

“I definitely won’t. Angel, get in.”

Aziraphale got in the passenger seat. He gave Anathema a polite smile. “Hello, my dear.”

“She’s not your dear. She’s a woman who’s broken into my Bentley and spread patchouli everywhere.”

Anathema sighed. “Please. I didn’t break in, it was unlocked.” At least, it wasn’t locked very well.

“I don’t lock it for a reason. Because nobody touches my car.”[2]

“I remember you,” Adam said to Anathema. “You came round the house. You were trying to give us magazines. You talked to the head of security for ages. Most people don’t get that far.”

Anathema brightened. “Um, actually yes. I was trying to speak to you.”

“Oh. I was round the corner on my Gameboy,” Adam said.

Anathema had spent an interminable forty-five minutes keeping the security guard talking, hoping to catch a glimpse of Adam. “...Oh.”

“I read the magazines, though. They were cool.”

“Oh! I’m glad.”

“We’re actually in a hurry, if nobody minds,” Crowley said, to no-one in particular.

Anathema straightened up. “Right. Allow me to explain. I’m here to prevent the End of Days.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances.

“Oh, that’s not a real thing,” Adam said, confidently. “That’s just stories an alien told me when I was a kid.”

Anathema looked up, sharply. “An alien? There are aliens in the Book…”

She hefted a much-thumbed, elderly tome onto her lap and flicked through it. Aziraphale’s bibliophilic senses rang a faint bell.

“Yeah, I like books with aliens,” said Adam. “This alien was real, though. Actually, there were lots of them. They kept telling me I was going to grow up and destroy humanity and burn the planet to a crisp. And then Hell would defeat Heaven and blah blah blah. I was a bit worried about it all.” Adam scratched his head, near his gem. Anathema’s eyes zoomed in on it. “But it all makes way more sense now I know it was aliens.”

“Oookay. This is pretty big, actually,” Anathema murmured. She was staring at Adam like a rare specialist who had just made the find of their career. “I wasn’t positive, even after everything… but it’s really you, isn’t it?” Her eyes shone with various emotions. Awe was in the mix. So was fear.

“Nanny was definitely an alien,” Adam said, darkly.

Anathema’s eyes flicked down to the open Book on her lap. They fell onto prophecy 1011, And the devile dide saye: we doe notte have time for alle this nonesense.

“We don’t have time for all this nonsense,” Crowley said.

“I know who you are,” Anathema blurted. “Agnes says you’re going to take the Antichrist away. The family don’t all agree where, there are a few different readings, but the important thing is that you won’t succeed. Listen to me. Armageddon will happen here, at this house.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged tense looks.

“No human prophecies have come anywhere near predicting any of this.” Aziraphale craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the Book. “Did you say Agnes, my dear -?”

Crowley didn’t like this. Who cared what a prophecy said? He didn’t need strange women popping up and putting him off before they’d even set out.

“You two are in this whole batch of prophecies. You can set things right if you just listen to me and don’t leave. Your only hope to save the Earth is if you do exactly what I say -”

Crowley snapped his fingers. Anathema vanished.

“Crowley!”

“She was wasting our time. And we haven’t got much of that left.”

Crowley gunned the ignition. The Bentley sputtered to joyous life. He jerked the steering wheel and veered out onto the road. He almost took out a pillar box that mysteriously leapt into the air and settled safely a few feet down.

Aziraphale shook his head. “All her things are in the back seat. What if she needs them?”

“Should have thought of that before she touched my Bentley.”

Crowley took a corner at an alarming speed. He mumbled something about the emotional violation.

“I’ll be very cross if you’ve sent her somewhere bad.”

Crowley waved the concern away. He tore down the street. It had been too long since he’d done ninety in central London.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Aziraphale finished crossing himself and clutched the roof of the car in the apparent hope that he could jimmy himself in place in the event of a crash.

“My old bookshop, if you would be so kind,” he said.

In the back seat, Adam picked up the Book and flipped through it.

~*~

Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder Private, perched on the edge of the discoloured sofa belonging to his employer, Sergeant Shadwell. He was just starting on his third hour of daily newspaper clippings when a woman tumbled out of the air and landed on top of him.

There was chaos. There was screaming (mostly from Newt). There was shouting (from Shadwell). There were accusations of foul sorcery and witchcraft (from Shadwell; for once in his life, he was spot on).

Eventually, things calmed down enough that Newt noticed the woman was rather attractive, and that she seemed annoyed but not surprised to have teleported to a first-floor flat in Tower Hamlets.

Her name was, apparently, Anathema Device. Well. Why not. Newt recently learned he had an ancestor called Adultery Pulsifer. He wasn’t about to judge.

Anathema surveyed her new lieutenants in her stand against Armageddon. A cigarette-charred man with an ambiguous regional accent and a scowl that could cut rocks. A nervous young man who was vaguely threatening her with a pair of scissors, but who was obviously likelier to injure himself with them than her. And some kind of “painted strumpet” (not Anathema’s words) across the hall who hadn’t shown up to the proceedings so far, but who they could tag in later if things went badly. Not a promising start. Lieutenants might be too strong a word. Sidekicks, then.

It frustrated her, leaving all her possessions behind in the car. Losing the Book would have devastated her, but Agnes had predicted it, so Anathema was prepared. She had compensated for its loss by memorising the remaining prophecies that seemed relevant.

“OK, guys. Is everything clear so far?”

Shadwell glowered. He held something that was apparently a Thundergun. It slightly resembled a bass trombone. He made no move to shoot her, and she doubted anyone had reloaded it any time in the last century, so his grip on it seemed to be for comfort. Newt had put down the scissors as a gesture of magnanimity.

“I think I’ve followed so far,” Newt said. “The world’s going to end. Um, there’s a boy called Adam Dowling who’s the key to everything, but he’s out of range now and there’s nothing anyone can do about that - er -”

Anathema nodded encouragingly.

“- And our job is to take care of stuff here, and hope that the people with this, er, Adam do their part, because otherwise the Earth is doomed,” he finished. Luckily, he’d passed through the barrier of absurdity and into the vista of calm that lay beyond.

“That’s about it, yeah,” said Anathema.

“So - what should we be doing now?”

“Now we need to stop the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Great,” Newt said, weakly.

Anathema nodded, satisfied. It was coming together. She hoped.

It was the two men, or men-shaped-beings, with the Antichrist she worried about. They had to do the next part on their own. And if that went wrong…

She’d known there was no genuine hope of diverting them from their course to escape… wherever they were planning to escape to. But Agnes said she would try to stop them, so she had to try, no matter how vain the attempt. She had hoped to see more evidence that her words were sinking in before the goth one banished her from his equally goth car.

What they did next was out of her hands, so there was no point in worrying. She turned to her new sidekicks. There was work to do.

---

[1] Specifically, speeding.

[2] Crowley got pretty far, normally, assuming that no-one would dare break into the Bentley. He was mostly correct. Witches, however, were unimpressed by demons.

(Link to next part)

[freshlyjuicedbeetles]

Commodore Norrington x Reader Fic! Chapter 3

Title: The Same Water

Genre: Romance, Supernatural

Rating: General Audiences thus far.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, drowning, and racism.

Summary: Commodore Norrington washes up on the shore and you must find out why.

Notes: I intentionally kept the main character ambiguous (but female) so readers can fill themselves in!

James and I got up early the next morning to head down to the marina. The sky was a dazzling pink only an island could produce.

“Here she is, Seaclusion! Don’t make fun of me. My dad named it.” James got a chuckle out of the other punny names of the neighboring boats.

We climbed aboard, and James inspected the vessel, fascinated by hundreds of years of progress.

“Here,” I said, tossing James a life vest and securing my own.

“What is this?”

“It’s a life jacket. It’ll help you stay afloat if you fall overboard.”

“Ingenious!” James said in awe as he put his on.

“Oh, and these,” I said, digging around in a compartment by the wheel. I pulled out a pair of old aviators and sunscreen. “To protect your eyes and your skin. Though you’re probably already riddled with skin cancer from living in the Caribbean unprotected for years. Keep an eye on that freckle behind your ear.”

James touched the freckle self-consciously.

“You know how to swim, don’t you?”

James rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Of course I do.” He put on the aviators and dang, he looked good. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of interrogation with him. He had an intimidating air about him that he could turn on and off.

The engine roared to life, and the beginning cords of ‘The Real Thing’ by George Strait played on the speakers. James looked overboard to the motor and rudder underwater.

“I’m sure you have better sea legs than I do, but you might want to take a seat,” I said, gesturing the rows of seats on the front deck.

“Hold on!” I said and came up to speed, pulling out of the marina. James was pushed back in his seat by the motion, not expecting a boat to go that fast. I wanted to show him what ships were like nowadays. Even over the rushing wind, I could hear him laughing with glee.

We sailed to the other side of the island with dolphins in our wake. How lucky was I that I lived somewhere where dolphins were so accessible!

I turned down the speakers, “This is Pier 21. Our cruise ships dock here, and on the other side are the shrimp boats that supply these restaurants first.” Large pelicans lazed around the docks and boats, hoping for some fish scrap from the sailors. James wasn’t paying attention; he was gazing at the Elissa like a starved man in an oasis.

“What is this glorious creation?” James stood as we idled.

I smiled, “That’s the Elissa. A little after your time, but I’m sure you can sail her just as good as anyone else on this island.”

The Elissa was a tall ship from 1877. After many different roles in life all across the globe, she was moored in Galveston.

“Is she still functional?”

“Oh yeah, she goes on one big sail to Europe once a year. She’s mostly a teaching vessel now. And next to that is a yacht. Some restauranteur owns it and has a staff to keep it ready around the clock even though I’ve seen him use it like five times.”

“Is it common for laypeople to own such vessels?” He asked, finally pulling his eyes from the Elissa.

“Here on the island, yeah, pretty much everyone has a boat. They’re still quite common on the mainland, depending on how close you are to water. I’d say a boat is definitely attainable to the upper-middle class.”

“You mentioned a ‘cruise ship’?”

“Yeah, they’re huge ships that can hold thousands of people who sail for vacation. See that huge thing over there?”

“Is that a ship?” He asked in disbelief.

“Yep, let’s get closer.”

We were dwarfed by the cruise liner. James looked up in disbelief as we buoyed in its shadow. “Galveston is a port city for cruise liners, bananas, farm equipment…Oh, and you need to see this,” I said as we turned and sped into the open water.

“I think you’ll like this,” I said as we pulled up next to the wreckage of a rusted and splintered ship.

“I am perplexed, yes,” James answered.

“This is the Selma, and it’s totally made out of concrete, or mortar, I guess is similar.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yep.

“Surely, she never saw the open ocean.”

“It did actually. Until it was damaged, and it was far too costly to repair due to war, and it was scuttled.”

James looked to the horizon, “Why are those ships not in the harbor?” Container ships always loomed in the distance of Galveston Island.

“Again, costs too much but also because the channel isn’t deep enough.”

“Are pirates a concern?”

“I’ve never seen a pirate in my life. I guess pirates were your version of terrorists,” I said.

James thought, then nodded, seemingly decided the word was correct.

“Unfortunately, we still have a problem with terrorism, plus pirates as you would know them. Instead of big ships, they run around on jet skis or dhows today. They’re mostly a problem in the Indian Ocean and around that area.”

“So, they’ve been cornered…”

“What? Down boy! You want to go pirate hunting? Well, unfortunately, pirates are actually looked upon favorably as of recently.”

James looked at me like I’ve grown two heads, “Especially here. I guess people like the freedom of just going wherever you want to and forget that they were actually terrorists. Not that piracy is now legal or anything.”

“And what are those machines in the distance?”

“Oil rigs. They dig oil from the earth, and we use it to power just about everything. Crews live on them for weeks at a time. Usually, there are less parked here, but the price of oil has dropped, so companies don’t need as many.”

Container ships and offline oil rigs loom in the distance of Galveston Island. It’s almost like the giant guardians that protect us.

“Do you want to try?” I asked, gesturing to the wheel.

He looked hesitant at first but quickly accepted. “The wheel is the same as it ever was, this is the accelerator, how fast you want to go, the kill switch if something goes awry…” I explained. James and I then switched places, but I stood behind him in case something happened. I could tell he was uncomfortable with the proximity to another person and a woman, but when we got up to speed, he looked like a bird who could finally fly again. I almost didn’t have it in my heart to ask him to surrender the wheel.

When we got home, there was a package at my doorstep. My heart started to thrum when I saw it was from the police department. I hurriedly tore it open when we got inside. The contents of the box smelled like mildew, salt, and brine. It was James’ uniform. I pushed it to him as I read the letter that was on top of it. It was a standard form letter saying they were closing the case due to insufficient evidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the uniform.

James held the uniform in his hand. “Do you have a fireplace?” He asked.

“Why?” I asked.

“It makes me ill.” He replied.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s a mark of failure, both personal and professional. I would think it best if it was gone.”

“I have a fire pit.”

“Splendid.”

Later that night, Jericka came over, and we started the fire. James unceremoniously dropped the heap of clothes in the fire and sat down with us around it.  Jericka and I drank while James abstained.

“To new beginnings,” I said, raising my bottle of Ziegenbock. James nodded, watching the fabric burn.

“You know, there are probably costumers and historians who would have dove in there for that uniform,” Jericka said.

“So…what happened? Before you died?” I asked.

James was silent for a moment, composing his thoughts. “I can pinpoint the exact day when everything changed. An idiot pirate sailed into my port. To attempt to capture him, my men and I sailed through a hurricane. Only a handful survived, and I resigned in shame. I essentially became a pirate myself for the time, drunk, and destitute. Then, I meant Davy Jones.” James leaned forward, the fire casting shadows on his face, almost making his sharp features look hawk-like.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“I am. He is something of a grim reaper of the seas. I was stabbed by one of his crewmen. That’s all I remember.”

“You sailed into a hurricane?” Jericka asked, “And you made it all the way to Admiral?”

James scowled. “I had no choice.”

“But what’s so wrong about the uniform, or being called Admiral?”

“I didn’t earn it, nor was it through the Royal Navy. I worked for the East India Trading Company, who were no better than pirates themselves when I was an admiral. I took the post out of necessity, greed, and selfishness. I was only serving myself, not the Crown, not the people. I was no better than a pirate as well. I much rather be called commodore if you have to address me by title.”

Jericka gave a low whistle, “Then I’m sure you heard of Galveston before.” She took a drink from her bottle.

“Was it a pirate’s den?”

“Oh yeah, Jean Lafitte owned the place.”

“Lafitte? I have heard of him. I always seemed to run into a sun-drenched lunatic named Jack Sparrow.”

“He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. If Lafitte settled here, I must be in Campeche.”

I snapped my fingers. “I never thought of that! That’s like Galveston history 101!” I said to Jericka.

“Well, I know where I’m at, so that brings some more comfort,” James said.

“Okay, Commodore,” Jericka said, “Tell us about yourself.”

James looked like we just asked him to explain nuclear physics.

“Pets? Did you have any pets?” I asked.

“Well, I had a horse named Scout back in the Caribbean.  I think she tried to kill me once.” James said casually. “And there were coconut crabs all over the fort I was stationed at. They stole everything.”

“A horse? Tried to kill you? And crabs stole your stuff?” Jericka asked skeptically.

“No one believed me! Even then!” James said adamantly and gestured wildly as he told the story, “I swear this horse was calculating, and she hated me. How would a horse know to stop right below a hanging lantern so my tricorn would catch fire?”

“Maybe you should have been paying better attention…” I said gently.

James started to speak, but thought better, “Fair enough.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Jericka said excitedly, “We need to take him to Pieces of Ship! Down on Mechanic street!”

“Excuse me?” James asked, not believing his ears.

I laughed, “It’s a shop that sells parts from ships; maps, flags, wheels, bells, you name it.”

“No, Mrs. Norrington, huh?” Jericka teased as James stoked the fire. She winked at me.

“Close, but it wasn’t meant to be,” James said, looking down for a moment.

“Yeah, everything I’ve read about you never mentions anyone,” I said. I was noticing I was relieved when I found out James never married. However, by his wording and the tone of his voice, there was someone he wanted. Jealousy tingled at my nerves.

“I appreciate time for forgetting such a blunder.” He gave a small, defeated smile.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “I think you need to see a therapist.”

We burst out laughing.

By the end of the night, we were laughing incessantly. I felt like we became friends with James at that point.

[popscenery]

Florence + The Machine, »Queen of Peace«

by DS

In the last decade, I have spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating my own existence, as a woman, as a person of color, as someone who doesn’t neatly fit into the boxes I was supposed to fit into by virtue of my birth and upbringing and appearance. I have conceptualized myself in a million ways, embodied a thousand cliches, but as one of the Gossip Girl fanfictions I tore through during the nights I couldn’t sleep during my sophomore year of college said, all the cliches make a real girl. I don’t believe in astrology any more than I believe in religion (my relationship with God is rather more ambiguous) but I have always overidentified as a Libra since, like my birthday twin Oscar Wilde before me, I am fixated on balance to the point of running almost solely on anxious death drive. And the most Libra song of them all is my favorite song released in the last decade, Florence + the Machine’s “Queen of Peace” from How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful (2015).

For a period of several months back in 2016, I had this recurring dream. My husband and I were married and everything seemed perfect; we were beautiful and successful and madly in love and after a saga of not being okay in so many ways, I was finally okay. But the image that kept on playing in my mind, over and over like a broken videotape, was of me kneeling at my oldest son’s hospital bed; he was dying, sometimes from a car accident, sometimes from a premature heart attack, sometimes from a drug overdose, but at the end of the story, he always died. In some versions of the dream, he had a baby sister, other times, he was a golden only child but always, he didn’t deserve to die even if his parents deserved to be punished for hurt they wrought upon others and themselves in the years before they were his parents. My husband would be watching my vigil; he would be looking at me not as if he blamed me for our son’s condition but as if I should have warned him in the first place that I bring about death in this manner. I remember being fixated on the vividness of the scene that sometimes still rewinds and replays in my head, the colors of it, the light blue crispness of the hospital room, the red of the shirt I was wearing (it was always red), the dark in my husband’s eyes. Don’t get me wrong, my husband never stops loving me even if he believes I ought to have warned him about who I truly am but nonetheless, nothing would ever be the same again. And while I didn’t know it at the time, I have come to realize that this dream was at least partially caused by my several hundred listens of “Queen of Peace” that year I was 21 to the point the song metaphorically embedded itself in my bones the way no other song has before or since then. 

In the first verse of “Queen of Peace,” Florence Welch sings, “Oh, what is it worth/ When all that's left is hurt?” And you could say that I related. I’ve come to terms with most of the things I did and said when I was hurt but despite being healthier and happier than I’ve ever been, I’m sometimes still completely terrified that I’m going to bring about impenetrable darkness to those I love wherever I go because of the nature of my past, because of my history of violence against myself. I’m afraid that because of my long-standing existential despair, because of not wanting to be alive for a large portion of my life, there is nothing more to me than the pain that I felt, the pain that was often self-inflicted in more ways than one and that is all I can bring to the table. But I have come to realize, there is life after survival and the fear and anger and abject sadness that I have felt for longer than I can remember cannot take that away from me. 

The thing about expressly not wanting to be alive for an entire decade is that you stop planning for a future that you don’t believe you’ll be around for. When I was 17, I was flying home from Boston and on that cross country flight, I distinctly remember thinking, who cares what college I get into because I’m not going to be alive to graduate anyway. I planned out what outfit I wanted to wear at my funeral and contemplated what color I would write my death notes to my loved ones and the weird thing is, I never called them suicide notes even to myself because that seemed far too intentional to me and some part of me was convinced that I was born to die young so I didn’t need to put in the effort to kill myself. But I’m 25 now and that time still hasn’t come and I’ve stopped expecting it. Somewhere along the line, something changed within me, like a candle being snuffed out, and I just simply ceased believing in my long prophesied death and began desperately wanting to do and say and simply be as much I can in my time on this Earth. 

However, and this is embarrassing to write, some part of me hardcore judges myself for wanting to live so badly and doing so much to ensure my own survival, fighting until my knuckles are bleeding and burning what bridges have rotted and crying so much the salt dries out the skin on my cheeks. It feels gauche and pathetic and downright childish to be so doggedly determined to live but I’ve grown to accept that aspect of myself, the silliness of living as Voltaire once called it. The fragments of good, no matter how small, will always endure and I really believe that.

In any case, despite the sorrow inherent in the blood flows through my veins and all the sometimes inarticulable damage that has been done to and by me, I made a decision some years back to defend life complete with all its accumulated anguish, fury, confusion and most of all, its complete mundaneness. In “No Choir” from High As Hope (2019), Florence Welch sang, “And it's hard to write about being happy/ Cause the older I get/ I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject” so I’d like to think she understands, and I hope that you all reading this do as well.

– DS