#cause he forced himself to learn what they are for that exact reason

[merakiui]

me & you, beyond a horizon so blue.

scaramouche/wanderer x (gender neutral) reader cw: slight angst, brief and vague mentions of scaramouche's past and the shouki no kami fight, you and wanderer have adopted a child together, this fic takes place before scara tries to erase himself in irminsul note - after he's defeated in a fight against the traveler, scaramouche wakes up in the distant future and learns a few things about an emotion he's always felt undeserving of.

It’s dark until he has the courage to force his eyes open.

Immediately, he wants to shut them. Near-blinding, the afternoon sun beams into his room through a part in the curtains. If he were human, it would have caused some sort of irreversible retinal damage. He’s not—though he isn’t spared the impending irritation—and so he’s able to adjust with relative quickness, his indigo eyes soon finding comfort in the brightness. It means a new day has dawned. He’s not dead—if that mortal concept can even apply to a puppet like him.

With a weak groan, Scaramouche drags a hand down his face and, like a sluggish, reanimated corpse, sits up in bed. The sheets are clean and soft, a soothing balm amidst the unrest that vibrates through him. It has been a long while since he’s slept through the night, preferring the shadows over the sun. Nocturnal like nature intended. A creature created in gloom can change and adapt, but it will always seek familiarity no matter what. 

Intrinsically like a rooted habit.

It’s only natural he would be forced into sleep, considering the fall was not pleasant, nor was the inevitable impact. He brings his fingers to his cheek, presses against the area, and assesses for injury. Nothing is damaged.

But then nothing is fixed. Not internally.

Having expected the dreary interior of an infirmary, he’s struck with bewilderment when he makes note of the bedroom he’s currently confined to. It’s furnished like a typical residence, unlike that of any inn he’s ever known, and there is a strange sense about this space. As if he’s always known about it and has just recalled it, destined to wake here one day and submit himself to its simple charms.

This can’t be right.

He’s never seen this bedroom before, let alone slept in it. Until now, that is. Perhaps a part of him has subconsciously willed it into existence with all of his fruitless wishing, the result of some illusion weaved from the intricacies of hopeful dreams.

Scaramouche glances at the bedside table, his brow furrowed in the beginnings of a wary scowl. Something is so obviously, painfully not right. He knows it has something to do with this room and the fact that he’s alone and unguarded. Lesser Lord Kusanali is not a fool, no matter how much he’d like to comfort himself with that delusion, and so he knows there should be no reason why he’s here instead of where he’s meant to be. 

And then he hears them—voices. Three of them, actually. One is high and giggly. It’s a little girl. Judging by the intonation of the other, an adult. Her guardian, to be more exact. He can’t place the third, especially since it’s one that sounds so grossly affectionate. He’s never heard anyone, human or not, speak with such tender warmth. 

He’s never known such a thing. Not in a long while. 

Scaramouche throws the covers off at once, stumbling from the bed in a panicked flurry. Watching it like it’s a threat, he clutches his chest. He doesn’t feel a heartbeat; rather, it’s the crackle of Electro deep within the core of his being that resounds, fizzling like snapped, angry circuitry. His fingers dig into wrinkled fabrics and he takes pause, realizing his actions.

To think something as mundane as a bed could startle him.

To think comfort would feel like a curse. 

What a joke. Even here, I’m not allowed the peace of a lonesome parting. 

He walks on intact legs, bidding the room a final glower before throwing the door open and stomping outside. Wherever he’s found himself, whether the mortal coil or a place beyond, he’s determined to get out. He pays no attention to the picture frames on the wall as he stalks down the hall, his mind working twice as fast to conjure a plan. If this place proves to be foul, there will be casualties. Three of them. 

Bloodshed is nothing new. 

What is new, though, is the scene he walks into when he approaches the kitchen, stepping through the threshold and immediately stopping short when he sees himself. 

Only…he’s different.

“You’re in poor shape,” his other self comments, almost conversationally, as if this sort of talk is casual. He’s dressed in breezy colors: whites and blues, the prettiest of hues. It’s a color scheme he would never entertain at present, but it sings of free skies with fluffy cumulus. An unburdened soul, light as a feather. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth to retort—so are you—and shuts it because that’s not true. His other self looks better than ever as he sits at the table. He looks healthy. 

He looks happy. 

“Whoa! There are two Papas?!” 

He flinches, horribly rigid, every sense on high alert. His gaze pans over to the little girl peeking out from behind your legs. She looks at him like he’s a wonder to behold—like he’s someone worth adoring. 

It’s different. It’s not the fondly fearful gaze of a devout follower, nor is it the clinical stare of a mournful creator or a deranged doctor. It’s something else. 

It’s…

What is it? What is that emotion—the one that has evaded him for the entirety of his existence?

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. We were beginning to wonder when you’d wake up.”

He turns to look at you. A smile softens your features. Coupled with the glorious sunlight filtering in from the window, you are the most seraphic creature he’s ever seen. Horrified at the development of his thoughts, he hardens his face into a vicious glare and tamps down the weakness that rises to the surface.

“You were expecting me?” he asks, but it sounds like a demand. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

“Why don’t you take a seat? I can fetch you a cup of tea,” you offer, your voice gentle and coaxing. He glances at the little girl. Her gaze is worn down with worry.

“I will do no such thing,” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. “You have no authority over me. I’ll sit if I so please, and I do not please. So I will not sit, nor will I indulge in tea.” 

His other self barks out a laugh. “To think I was like that… I was intolerable.”

“Still are,” you reply with a cheeky grin. 

“You’re just as bad,” he snipes back, but there isn’t any heat to the remark. There’s that emotion again, reflected so clearly when he’s looking at you. His other self smiles—genuinely smiles—and then addresses him next. The smile tightens into something serious. “Relax. We’re not going to bite.”

“No, but I can and I will. Don’t think for a minute that just because you’re me I won’t—” He stops himself when the little girl tugs on his shorts, peering up at him with more wide-eyed concern. Rather awkwardly, he does his best to bring his attitude to a child-friendly level. “I… I’m fine.” He searches the silence for her name. 

“Aaliya! Nice to meet you, Papa Number Two!”

Scaramouche nods mechanically, moves to bend down to her height, and then straightens again, thinking better of it. “What is all of this?” His hand sweeps across the room. “Just who are you?” 

Like clockwork finely tuned, you and his other self exchange a furtive glance before nodding. It’s some unspoken language Scaramouche can’t decode. He frowns as he watches this interaction, even more suspicious than before. 

“Aaliya, could you draw something for me?” you ask, guiding her from the kitchen towards the neighboring sitting room. Aaliya grabs a notebook and pencil from the countertop as she goes, humming her compliance. “We need another masterpiece to hang up, and you’re the best artist we’ve got.”

She giggles. “You can count on me!”

The sound calms him. He almost allows his shoulders to drop. Almost. 

Scaramouche watches from the doorway, observing the way you interact with the girl. It’s parental and adoring. You care for this child, and she cares for you. 

Just what is that elusive emotion? Why can’t he place it?

Once Aaliya has been successfully distracted with the allure of art, you return to take your seat beside his other self. Scaramouche stares between the both of you, utterly lost. 

“You don’t have to sit—not like I could get you to after you’ve made up your mind—but, at the very least, let’s talk.”

Scaramouche’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”

“So entitled…” His other self sighs. “I shouldn’t expect anything less. I am you, after all.” 

“Was,” he corrects astutely. “This isn’t the present day, and it can’t possibly be a dream.” He scrutinizes his surroundings, slowly fitting the pieces together. “It’s gone on for much too long.” 

His other self tilts his head, playful. “Are you sure you’re not just stuck under Buer’s thumb?”

Right. Dreams. Lesser Lord Kusanali can poke her nose in and out of dreams as she pleases.

“Plausible, yes. But this is too detailed. And you—” he gestures to Blue Scaramouche— “are different. I wouldn’t dream of something so inane. Something like…this.” 

Something so carefree and content, he almost tacks on as an afterthought, but he refrains. Weakness. 

“Oh, but of course. You’re too good for good things,” his other self jeers, sardonic in a way that incites violence. He pushes that urge away. There’s a child nearby. “For what it’s worth, we’re still the same person.”

“Do not compare me to a weakling like you.”

“Hah? You think I’m the weak one? I’ll show you—”

“Wawan, relax,” you say, moving your body to obstruct his view. 

Both look on, horrified. 

“Wawan?” Scaramouche ventures, brows furrowed. 

“You…” He turns away with a huff. 

“What? It’s cute! You like it!” You smile and nudge him.

Scaramouche is in awe, nearly slack-jawed from witnessing such a bold display. If anyone were to do that to him—to the fearsome Lord Harbinger Scaramouche—they would not get away unscathed. In fact, he’d subject them to a death so brutal they’d beg for release even in the afterlife. No one lays a finger on him unless they’re actively seeking a bloody finale. More importantly, no one reduces his being to such flowery nicknames. 

Disgusting. 

His other self—this Wawan fool—recovers from his flustered state and clears his throat. “Wanderer,” he says, hurrying the syllables before you can make any more comments. “The name I go by. You should know it because you’ll use it one day.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Wanderer’s expression softens at that—out of sympathy, he realizes. Uncharacteristic, Scaramouche thinks. I do not soften, nor do I sympathize. 

“You lost, Balladeer. There is no future for the god you hoped to become because he doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

He bristles, suddenly defensive. “And who’s to say I haven’t already achieved godhood? Your claims are as useful as a corpse. You have no valid proof.”

“But I do. I’m you.”

“Even so, you’re woefully uninformed if you can so carelessly prattle on about—”

Wanderer sighs again, and this time you offer your hand. He hesitates, looking between Scaramouche and you, before his hand slips into yours, holding tight. Scaramouche’s face twists. 

Foul. 

“You failed, and this is the result of that—the future neither of us could have foreseen.” 

“Failure is a strong word,” you chime in, running your thumb over the top of his hand. You look at Scaramouche next. “You didn’t succeed, yes, but you can learn from your mistakes and grow.”

“And grow I so apparently did,” he mutters, bitter and resentful. “Into a weakling who…” He pauses, his tongue heavy in his mouth, eloquence escaping him. “A weakling who… Who shackles himself to idyllic nonsense with nothing but…” His fingers curl into tight fists. “Nothing but filthy weaknesses to show for it.”

Nonplussed, Wanderer submits to temporary silence, to the comforts you provide. There’s a feeling sprouting between the both of you. Neither of you says anything, but you understand regardless. It’s a silent sort of communication, an undeniable connection. An understanding fostered from that despicable emotion. 

With an offended scoff, Scaramouche turns swiftly on his heel and freezes when he finds Aaliya standing there. She peers up at him, studies his poker face, and presents him with her drawing. 

“Papa tells me love is hard, but it comes easy when you’re with the right people. You need to be willing and accepting. When you are, love will find you and you’ll find love.”

She presses the parchment into his hands. Shakily, he beholds it. It’s a poorly drawn family portrait, but Aaliya’s artistic talents mean nothing to him. It’s the first time he’s ever been willingly included in a portrait. A family portrait. The only time someone has bothered to document a side of him that isn’t the vindictive, villainous, ever-raging tempest he’s known for. The one time he’s ever known what it means to be loved. 

Ah. There’s that emotion. That temperamental, difficult, stormy emotion. It’s love.

In this future, he is treasured and cherished. He has a family. He has love, and he feels it and it’s reciprocated. Or Wanderer feels it, that is. But Scaramouche can see it: the quiet intricacies of your relationship—it’s all the result of love. You love him. Him—a being who was never created for the sake of loving. A being who has always been undeserving, unfit for the burden of divine admiration and reverence. You love him, and he loves you. Godhood and power and control—none of these things matter when compared to love itself.

Scaramouche stares at Aaliya next. He folds the drawing into a neat square, clutches it in a trembling fist, and—

And he cries.

Silently. His shoulders do not shudder. He does not gasp and wail like a newborn. It is entirely soundless, a reaction delayed by years. Tear trails streak down his porcelain cheeks in steady streams. His lip wobbles.

And he cries. 

He cries as he brushes past Aaliya, ignoring her protests and your mumble of, “Let him go. He needs space,” while he flees, beelining for the bedroom. He cries when he unfurls his fingers to cradle the folded square in his palm. He cries when he thinks of the life he’s lived—the suffering and the lies and the tragedy and the backstabbing and the manipulation. He cries because he can’t hold back anymore. Because he failed. Because he will never be a god. Because he is inadequate in the eyes of the divine—as unsubstantial as a common pest. 

He cries because he’s loved. Because someone has found something within his fractured being that’s worth loving. 

He cries into the night, curled in on himself to protect what’s left of his exposed weakness.

It’s dark when he closes his eyes, and unlike before they remain shut. Because if he opens them—if he doesn’t patch up the damaged floodgates—he will cry. 

And it hurts to cry.

And Scaramouche, for all of the pain he’s dealt, has never enjoyed being on the receiving end of agony, self-inflicted or otherwise.

It is a long, sleepless night punctuated with the soft pitter-patter of rainfall.

He’s lying sprawled like a defeated starfish when the first few rays of sunshine poke through the window. Groaning, he slides his arm over his eyes. He knows himself, even if Wanderer is a version of himself he has not yet experienced, and so he doesn’t expect to be checked on. The silence is both a comfort and a curse, smoothing his nerves and chewing through to the core of his being. 

He thinks I’ll come to him first. How utterly foolish.

Scaramouche turns his back towards the sun and presses his face further into the sheets, drained of energy even though he’s just woken up. His ears prick at the sound of a girlish giggle and he lifts his head slightly, his eyes sliding towards the window. Aaliya skips down the pathway, carrying a basket in one hand and holding another girl’s hand with her other. 

A friend, Scaramouche observes, watching the girls until they’re out of sight. He hears you call out to them even though they’re already long gone: “Be back before dinner and don’t get into any trouble!”

He peers at his own hand and flexes his fingers experimentally. Is everyone this feeble in the future, or am I just too strong?

There’s a knock on his door next. He intends to lie back down and block the world out, but instead he sits up and stares. 

“Balladeer, I’ve put a pot of tea on. You’re more than welcome to have some if you’d like.”

He won’t dignify you with a reply. Or that’s what he initially thinks, but then he’s covering the distance to the door before he can stop himself. He yanks it open, much to your surprise. 

“I—” he starts, his scowl mellowing into a reflection of the cold and cruel Fatuus he’s known to be. “I…will have a cup,” he finishes, oddly subdued.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk. You can glare at us if it makes you feel better. Just make sure to take care of yourself, okay? We’re here for you if you need anything.”

He scoffs, straightens his posture into something regal, and pushes past you. “I was feeling much better until you opened your mouth and spat that irritating dross.”

You exhale through your nose, tentatively stepping into his path. For a minute he considers sweeping past you, but deep down he knows that he—the one he supposedly becomes in the future—would regret it. He would hate to push you away when you’re making an effort to be close—an emotional proximity he’s so clearly avoiding.

“You’re always welcome here.”

“Considering the circumstances, you have no choice but to be hospitable. It’s pointless to feign sincerity just because I’m here. I’m not fragile. Do not treat me as such.”

“You’re right. You’re far from fragile.”

He opens his mouth to argue that point and then pauses, absorbing your words with a dubious frown. 

“You may not believe me, but you’re very resilient and so strong. I should know because I wake next to him every morning, and his existence is enough to remind me that he’s come a very long way.” 

Smiling, you continue onwards. Scaramouche stalls, wondering what that could possibly mean. A very long way from what?

He’s not sure he wants the answer to that.

As if it matters.

“Without spoiling too much, I’ll say you’re in for a world of development,” Wanderer says once Scaramouche has graced the kitchen with his arrival. He’s sitting at the table, which is set for three people and adorned with the usual Sumerian snacks. The scent of tea hangs in the air, fragrant like perfume. “Lots of fun things.”

“Fun,” Scaramouche parrots, his nose scrunching. “What an unconventional way to refer to countless days and nights of agony.”

“I never said it’d be easy.”

“You never said it’d be difficult either.”

“Both of you,” you cut in—vocally and physically, you’re standing between the two of them— “no fighting at the table.”

Wanderer takes your hands in his when you lower into the seat beside him, his thumbs tracing delicate patterns into your skin. “Do you see how troublesome he is? Did you really have to put up with him all those years ago?”

“He’s part of you, Wawan.”

He scoffs. “No part I particularly care for anymore.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest so the couple in front of him won’t pick up on his discomfort. “I’m not asking to be cared for or coddled. Hate me all you want. I don’t intend to like either of you.”

“Well?” Wanderer raises a brow, a smirk lazily tugging at his lips. “Insufferable.”

“Bitter like your tea,” you agree, to which Wanderer and Scaramouche huff in unison.

They glance at one another, searching the other for an indication of mutual tolerance, before turning away.

“I suppose,” Scaramouche says after a beat of silence, “I shall indulge. Be grateful.” He steps closer towards the table, lifts his cup from its saucer, and brings it to his lips. It’s lukewarm and just as bitter as the tea he’s enjoyed in the past. “It would be a shame to let tea go to waste after your efforts to prepare it.”

He nods in your direction and you beam under his approval.

“Thank you, Balladeer.”

His brow raises, but he doesn’t ask. You fill in the blanks yourself.

“This is the current you. Right now, Wanderer and I, this entire home, the life we share, and even our dear Aaliya—none of it exists in your present. If anything, we’re just a dream to you. So who else are you if not The Balladeer?” 

Who else…

“Obviously I’m no one in this…reality.” He frowns. “If I’ve become that, there’s no need for any of my current aliases.”

“Perhaps not, but you’ll see for yourself when you get there.”

“I’d rather not. I’ll simply shut my eyes.”

“Avoidance is a common symptom of unresolved trauma,” Wanderer oh-so-helpfully adds.

“Oh, you’re a comedian now, are you?” But he isn’t laughing. 

“Just passing on a fact I learned. You’ll hear it for yourself one day. Why not share it in advance? Soften the blow a little.”

“And you’re so perfect?���

“I have no intention to be.”

“Sure.” Scaramouche sips his tea, swallowing the torrent of insults weighing heavy in his mind and on his tongue. “I suppose all of this just fell into your imperfect lap then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before they can continue their petulant bickering, you gaze sharply at Wanderer and then at Scaramouche. He’s never felt compelled to obey anyone; he’s never needed to heed those who have always sat below him on the hierarchical pyramid. But for some reason he shuts his mouth and lowers his gaze to the floor.

This is pointless. I must find my way out of here at the earliest convenience before he drives me into the ground with his irritating sentiments.

“Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. He’s our guest, first and foremost. We should treat him like one.”

“I guess it can’t be helped. If this truly is our reality for the next few days, there’s no point in living in denial and self-loathing,” Wanderer concedes with a huff.

“Which is precisely why we should welcome this opportunity. It might not come around again.”

“Let’s hope it never does,” Wanderer and Scaramouche admit at the same time.

That elicits a giggle from you, and they turn on you with disapproving glares. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not funny—I know. I just couldn’t help it. You’re the same person, yet so different. Even your stares hold different feelings.”

Scaramouche won’t acknowledge your observations with a response. Instead, he watches his reflection as it warps and wavers in the tea. And then he drinks.

This is by far the most excruciating dream I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

There is no pain or death in this dream. No power tantamount to that of a god. He may as well be an apparition without an apparent place in this world. But there is domestic bliss and that is by far the most torturous aspect of this dream.

To think anyone could look upon my visage with such tenderness… You must be out of your mind.

“It’s not like I particularly care, but you seem to lead a quaint life.” Scaramouche sets his empty cup down and leans against the wall, his arms folding impetuously. “Why?”

Wanderer, troublesome menace that he is, bats his eyes and pulls you against him in a possessive half-hug. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

Scaramouche wants to scowl, but he refrains. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“It’s mostly quaint,” you cut in, smooth as alabaster. “Life is always busier when you’re with your loved ones and there’s plenty to do—never a dull moment, as they say—but I don’t mind it. I like busy days.”

The delivery sounds rehearsed, but Scaramouche suspects it’s the truth. Your eyes soften and your smile mellows into something adoring when you nudge Wanderer. He almost retches outright when his other self nudges you back, discreetly reaching for your hand beneath the table. He won’t comment, but it prickles his skin with disgust when he watches this display. His other self fancies you so openly… The current Scaramouche would never.

Could never.

“Also, busy days prevent useless idling.”

“And keep boredom at bay,” Wanderer finishes. He assesses Scaramouche with a fleeting once-over. “You’ve always been a sad, lonesome existence. Your busy days were but minor distractions meant to fill a bottomless void that could never truly be filled.”

“What of it? I prefer solitude.”

He exhales a humorless breath. “Centuries of solitude and all it took was a single vase of flowers… Neither of us could have guessed.”

A vase of flowers? he wonders, bewildered, but too prideful to ask for an explanation. When will I ever receive flowers?

“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” you say, sipping at your tea with a cryptic smile. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘good things’ for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Even if you don’t think so, you’re deserving of good things. Everyone is, even if they’ve done something bad.”

He waits for the gutting punchline. It never comes.

He watches the world beyond the window: fluffy clouds, grass rustling in a breeze, a bird hopping about on the ground. His reflection frowns back at him. “I don’t agree.”

Wanderer shrugs. “If you say so.”

“That’s okay. If that’s what you think, who are we to judge your opinion?”

Briefly, Scaramouche wonders how you can have the patience to put up with him. With Wanderer, he thinks, even though he knows he’s just as troublesome, if not more.

He finishes the rest of his tea and then rises from his seat.

It’s not as if it matters. He doesn’t fit in this family portrait. He never will.

But he does in some distant future.

How peculiar…

Scaramouche wakes on his third day in a rather pleasant purgatory. As it happens, he’s still stuck in this unusual cottage with a bizarre doppelgänger.

So be it, he thinks, sitting up in bed. It occurs to him that he hasn’t been very resistant since he was plucked from his timeline and dropped here. But what is there to resist? You and his other self? This comfortable home? Family? Happiness? Love?

I should get back to my world as soon as possible. That’s my priority. Do not get distracted.

Ideally, he’d like to imagine that’s where he belongs, but he knows there’s no place in this world—or any other world and timeline—where he’s wanted and accepted. At the very least, there’s some semblance of home in his timeline. Even if it isn’t the most welcoming.

When he wanders into the kitchen, he finds you standing over the stovetop. Strips of meat sizzle in a pan. Sitting at the table, doodling on a blank page, is Aaliya. He hasn’t spoken much to her since his first day, and she hasn’t come to his room to pester him. 

“Let him settle in,” you and Wanderer tell her whenever she stalks past the closed door. 

Still, he feels the beginning of a smile pull at his lips as he watches her kick her legs to and fro to an imaginary tempo. 

I’m looking after a child in this timeline. Me. A parent…

He struggles to fathom it.

“Oh, Papa’s back!”

“Already?” You whirl around, a greeting on your tongue. “Ah, no, honey, that’s our visitor. The Balladeer is his name. He does look like Papa, though, doesn’t he?”

“B-Balla… Ballaba… Babadeer?” She scrunches her face up, perplexed.

Scaramouche offers her a gentle, understanding smile. “You may call me ‘Baba’ if it’s easier to pronounce.”

She lights up immediately. “Okay! You’re Baba and Papa’s Papa!”

He finds that the term is more endearing than any alias he’s taken on in the span of his lengthy existence.

“Speaking of, where is he? I would assume he’d be smart enough not to leave me by my lonesome.” 

“He’s out for the day. Won’t be back until later.” You lift the pan from the stove and proceed to distribute breakfast between two plates. He shakes his head at you when you attempt to fix him a plate. With a shrug, you add, “You slept in. How was it?”

“Acceptable,” he admits, lowering into the chair beside Aaliya. “I suppose it’s better than most places.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” You place a cup of tea in front of him. “Bitter. Just how you like it.”

Scaramouche eyes it like it’s poison. “Your hospitality is…appreciated.”

“What do you think?” Aaliya lifts her drawing, proudly showcasing the portrait she’s sketched of you.

Scaramouche is a critic of many things. Art is not one of them. Still, he takes the page in his hands and spends a moment admiring the shaky linework.

“Very wonderful,” he praises, and he means it. “You should become an artist.”

“I want to, but I also wanna be like Papa. He’s really smart.”

“Is he now?”

“Mhm! He’s studying at the Akademiya. My friends told me only really smart people go there.”

I’m a scholar? Truly? He looks to you for confirmation. The proud smile on your face is answer enough. To think this is what becomes of me in a distant reality…

“A commendable occupation. You should always do your best in your studies. They’re very important. But most of all…” He hesitates. Thankfully, his other self isn’t here to listen to his encouraging words and ridicule him. He’s certain he’d never hear the end of it. “You should pursue what you enjoy.” He reaches out to pat her on the head. “Always dream, Aaliya.”

“I will! I promise.”

Scaramouche doesn’t do promises, but somehow he’s convinced by this one.

You sit across from him. “Time to eat, my dear. You can finish your pretty drawing later.”

She nods and pushes her pencils and crayons away in favor of focusing on her plate. Scaramouche watches, stiff and awkward. Family meals are not an unusual occurrence, but it’s been so long since he’s spent quality time with another living creature. With humans.

Am I really so foolish that I’d willingly indulge in a life with humans? Don’t I know better?

“Wawan told me your arrival might be linked to a faulty Ley Line. We’re not sure when you’ll return to your world—if that’s even a possibility—but until we know more you can stay here with us.”

“If I must. Although I assumed that was already established.”

You chuckle. “Is that right? Then it looks like you’ve gotten comfortable in the three days you’ve been here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your singular deeds are not enough to earn my veneration.”

“I’m not trying to.”

With a huff, he averts his eyes. An uncanny feeling crawls up his throat and settles on his cheeks. You hide your playful grin behind your utensils and eat alongside Aaliya in peaceful silence.

If only everyone could see him: a puppet now named Wanderer, who attends the Akademiya and has a family of his own. A puppet who seems complete when he surrounds himself with his loved ones. It’s impossible to live in denial when all of it is unfolding before his eyes like a fantastical tale in a storybook. He really can’t believe it.

“Tell me—am I fulfilled in this reality?”

You blink back at him, and suddenly he regrets asking. There’s vulnerability in a question like that. An open wound waiting to be exploited.

“Will knowing put you at ease?” Before he can snap back with a defensive reply, you add, “I suspect you’re already aware of the answer.”

He stares at the amber-colored tea in his cup. “I am,” he confesses quietly.

“And do you feel any better?”

“Am I supposed to feel that way?”

“I can’t tell you because there’s no right or wrong way when it comes to emotions. You just…feel them.”

Just feel them?

“I’m more conflicted than anything else. That Wanderer fool… He can’t truly be me. I would never allow myself to grow so weak. To surround myself with weaknesses… How utterly thoughtless.”

“What you see as weakness is his strength.”

Scaramouche’s gaze slides from the tea to you. “And he… And I… I’m happy here? This isn’t a grand farce?”

“As absurd as it seems, this is to be your reality. You’re not always going to be happy. Sometimes you’ll dwell on the past. Sometimes you’ll feel angry and upset. It’s all part of existing.”

“That sounds horrendous.”

“What does?”

“Existing. Isn’t it tiring? I’ve never understood how humans do it.”

“It’s tiring, yes. But it’s also very rewarding. To exist is to cherish happiness and weather hardship. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. Sometimes all you need is enough.”

What if I’ve never had enough? What if I’ve never had anything?

He shuts his mouth. So many questions flit around in his head, but he already knows the answers to most of them. He just doesn’t want to hear it from himself.

To have enough when you’ve never had anything—when you’ve never felt like anything substantial—he surmises Wanderer can sympathize.

The first few drops of rain patter dry earth. Like dolls moved with wire, you and Scaramouche turn towards the window to watch water beads pearl on verdant fronds.

“Oh, it’s raining!” Aaliya exclaims with a delighted giggle. 

Scaramouche reaches to touch his cheek. A single tear wets his fingertip.

“Huh,” he mumbles. “So it is.”

Sitting on the stoop, watching worms wriggle in wet soil, Scaramouche sighs.

“Did you know the worms sometimes lose their way when it rains?”

“Is that right?” he murmurs, glancing at Aaliya who scoops one up from the stone path and places it in the grass. He smiles at her kind impartiality. “It’s very admirable of you to help them.”

“Mhm! Papa tells me even worms need homes, so it’s important to help them when the rain washes them away.”

He breathes a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “I really said that? That’s difficult to imagine.”

Ironic, too.

“If no one helps, how will they find their homes?”

“They’ll find their way. Everyone does eventually.”

“Even you?” She blinks at him from where she stands in the grass, worms held in her palms.  

He exhales slowly and gazes skyward. The clouds have opened to let in the tiniest peek of sun. “If worms can find their way, then so, too, can I.”

He’s not sure he trusts it. Not now, at least. But it’s just as inevitable as the shifting seasons—an undeniable, irrefutable fact. He’s changing, if only slightly, and soon he’ll be in Wanderer’s shoes—a puppet with a home and a family. With all of life’s greatest joys and sorrows at his fingertips.

Aaliya sets the worms down in the grass before meandering over. She lowers to sit beside him, resting her head against his arm. “I believe in you, Baba.”

“Thank you.”

Soft as rain, subdued like a snuffed candle, his voice doesn’t waver. For the first time in a while, Scaramouche is defenseless. He’s not so sure he believes in himself. Wrapped in waning sun, listening to the hushed sway of grass, he tries on a smile. Albeit awkward, it fits.

He knows why his future self has become the wind, free and flowing, gentle and tumultuous all at once. Liberated from the past.

Even though he has his doubts, he knows he’ll get there soon.

The sky clears up just as Wanderer’s form comes into view. At first, he’s an insignificant pinprick against a blue sky. Aaliya jumps up from her spot on the stoop to run the rest of the way, calling out to him in an eager voice.

“Feeling any better?”

He keeps his eyes pinned stubbornly ahead. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“You’re our guest, silly. Of course I’m going to be concerned if you’re not comfortable during your stay. Ah, but I expect you’re coming up on the end of that, aren’t you?”

He blinks at his hands and realizes they’re transparent. “So it appears.”

“Does it?” you tease, patting him on the shoulder. Or you try to, at least. Your hand goes through him. “Guess it wasn’t very funny.”

“Not in the slightest,” he snaps with a scoff. He checks to make sure Wanderer isn’t within earshot. He’s kept occupied with Aaliya, who jumps around him like an energetic bunny. “But… Thank you…for everything. I’m aware I wasn’t the most grateful guest, nor the kindest.”

“You don’t have to be. As long as you felt safe and secure during your time here, despite everything that’s happened in your timeline, that’s all that matters.”

Scaramouche stares at you. I suppose it was a worthwhile escape. Unnecessary, but worthwhile.

“It wasn’t as hellish as I thought it’d be.”

“I’m glad. It was nice having you.”

Just then, Wanderer approaches. Aaliya sits proudly on his shoulders, her fists in his hair. “Glad to see everything’s still in one piece. No atrocities today?”

Suddenly, any sort of security Scaramouche might have been feeling evaporates. He’s reminded that it’s impossible to endure his other self for more than a few minutes. It’s actually impressive you’ve put up with him for this long.

Love is weird like that.

“Go back to the Akademiya and maybe you’ll learn a better sense of humor.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of joy?” Wanderer chuckles and levels him with a playful smile. His next words are tender and truthful. “Good luck on your journey. Have lots of fun.”

What sort of fun could possibly be found in pain? I don’t want or need your sardonic optimism.

“Oh? Baba’s leaving already?”

Scaramouche and Wanderer share a look. You smile behind your hand.

“Baba?”

“P-Pay it no mind!” He reaches for his hat in hopes of relieving everyone of his flustered expression and stops short. He’s not wearing his hat. He hasn’t had it this entire time. Refusing to admit he forgot such a crucial detail, he turns away and folds his arms over his chest. “It matters not.”

“Sure,” Wanderer concedes, but Scaramouche can tell he’s thinking something snarky. “We’ll go with that.”

“Thank you for visiting us,” you interject before the two of them can argue semantics. “Even though our time together was short, it wasn’t any less enjoyable.”

“I’ll miss you, Baba!” Aaliya extends her arm for a high-five.

“Careful now,” Wanderer warns, steadying her on his shoulders. “I suppose, though you’re more trouble than anything, it wasn’t so bad seeing my past self again.”

“You’re a welcoming lot,” he says with a curt nod. “It made this entire debacle slightly tolerable.”

“Only slightly?”

“Your presence didn’t add anything of substance. Don’t get it twisted.”

“Hmm. Perhaps not. At least I get to say I saw you once more.”

At that, he rolls his eyes. Am I supposed to feel flattered?

Wanderer smiles, but Scaramouche can’t place the authenticity. Maybe it’s there and he just doesn’t want to confront it.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know the feeling well enough.”

“And live every day one at a time. There’s no rush,” you advise, sweet like a real parent. 

“I believe in you, Baba! You’ll find your way just like the worms.”

Wanderer raises a curious brow, but instead of ridiculing him he takes your hand in his and squeezes. Aaliya giggles and pats Wanderer’s head. The three of you make a family. Togetherness. Love. It’s everything he’s never had.

Now he understands. When Wanderer is with you and Aaliya, he’s whole. He’s happy. Free. He’s turned a new leaf. There are still so many apertures and questions—so much he’s missing from a puzzle not yet pictured to completion—but he isn’t worried. Equipped with this new information, he finds himself at peace with the present situation.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again in this timeline, but if we do let’s not dwell on the past.”

Scaramouche can feel his consciousness slipping from this realm, every sense pouring in like light through the gaps in trees. Just before he can make sense of it all, he notices the pendant glowing just above Wanderer’s chest.

Impossible… Is that what I think it is?

“You have a lot to look forward to, so next time let’s talk about the future.”

Suddenly, he’s not so sure he wants to leave. Scaramouche steps towards his other self, hand splayed, and wants to say something. Anything. A million words and phrases stick to the roof of his mouth.

I’d like that, he thinks just as the rest of his corporeal form vanishes in a blip.

Scaramouche comes to in the infirmary. He lifts his arm towards the ceiling, observing shattered fingers and broken joints. Thin cracks run along his arm—surface injuries as far as he’s concerned. They’ll be gone within the day, a testament to his self-sufficiency.

You’re very resilient and so strong. Someone once told him that. But who? And why does it warm him so?

“Oh, you’re up!”

He gazes sidelong at Lesser Lord Kusanali, the God of Wisdom, past the wellness bouquet on the bedside desk, and his features harden with antipathy. “Buer.”

“Did you have a nice dream?”

“Dream?” He scoffs. “I don’t dream. Not anymore.”

But it feels like I’ve been asleep for ages… Just what have I been doing all this time?

“Everyone dreams—even when they’re awake. Dreams are what give us hope.”

“Not me.” He turns on his side and shuts his eyes to block her out. “I have no need for childish dreams and misguided hope.”

What does it matter? I have nothing. I am nothing. There’s nothing for me in this rotten world.

Her hum of acknowledgment reaches his ears. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Scaramouche scowls. Stop poking around in my head. You have no authority over my thoughts, Buer. Get lost.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m here to give you a second chance.”

“I don’t want it. It’s pointless to put me on the path to redemption. Inane, even.”

“Redemption starts with recognition. If you realize that what you’ve done is wrong and are willing to change, redemption will find its way to you.”

He inhales a long, weary breath. “What more is left for me?”

Scaramouche, despite his grandiose title, feels small lying here and contemplating the worth of his existence.

“Plenty of things—good and bad—that you’ve yet to experience.”

He tries to envision what these things could be and turns up blank.

Strange. I was so certain… He sits up in bed, clutching the space where his heart would be if he was human. I could have sworn there was something…

He gazes at his palms next. What happened while I was unconscious?

Surely he witnessed a joyous scene. Otherwise why would he wake feeling so…hopeful?

Inhaling a resolute breath, Scaramouche decides it doesn’t matter.

“Why don’t you take some time to think about it? I may not know the full extent of the turbulence in your mind, but I do know it’s not something to treat lightly.”

The void is both loud and quiet when she departs, and now he’s forced to come to terms with his reality. He lost. Even as a manufactured deity, he was still unfit for godhood. It was a moment so short-lived it was practically a blink—insignificant in the colossal tapestry of time.

“What a joke,” he spits, glaring at the wall ahead. “All of that for nothing…”

He sits back against the cushions and drowns in the silence. It doesn’t comfort him.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. Where has he heard that line before?

Perhaps it was just another delusion.

Scaramouche’s gaze is drawn to the bouquet next. The flowers are fresh and vibrant, each blossom a representation of good health and happiness. Someone placed these here. Someone went out of their way to assemble a bouquet in his honor and then send it over. He wonders if this is the work of Lesser Lord Kusanali.

Who else could muster the empathy for a sorry creature like him?

Will knowing put you at ease?

He thinks it might. At the very least, it would soothe a restless part of his being—the part that craves a connection and yearns to be wanted despite everything he’s done. He wants a heart and a home. He wants to feel the rays of the sun stinging his skin and bathe in the exhilaration of being alive and in the moment. He wants to finally know all of the sweetness he was deprived of in life. The sweetness that comes from love in all its many shapes and forms.

Scaramouche reaches for the bouquet and pauses. He could swipe it off the table and watch rumpled petals scatter amidst shattered glass in a puddle. He could ignore it and pretend it’s not worth his time or attention.

He wants to act like it doesn’t matter, but something’s nagging at him.

For once, the feeling isn’t terrible. For once, he has something to look forward to—an anchor to cling to in this vast, wild sea.

And he isn’t going to let go.

[ninadove]

hi!

i’m so sorry if you’ve already made a post or answered an ask like this before, but i remember you saying a couple times how the lovesquare is queer-coded.

i think that’s such an interesting observation, and i was wondering if you’d be willing to elaborate on that a little more?

i’d love to hear your thoughts!! and thank you for taking the time to read this. :)

Absolutely Anon! Thanks for dropping by! ❤️🖤

I’m sure there are a lot of wonderful, more complete posts on the topic out there — my Sentikids tunnel vision means I don’t always grant other characters/relationships the attention they deserve. That being said, here are some things that popped into my head:

1. Secret identities

You know ‘em, you love ‘em. Secret identities are the core of the show — the very reason the Love Square is a square! Hiding part or the entirety of who you are for safety reasons is a theme most queer people unfortunately relate to, and the great thing is that we get two very different perspectives on the matter from our two protagonists.

For Adrien, Chat Noir means freedom: being away from his father’s grasp (read: from a power structure that tries to sculpt him into something perfect and bland — more on that later) allows him to become bolder, funnier, more like himself or at least more like the person he wants to be — which very prominently features being in love with Ladybug, aka exploring romantic connections outside of Kagami, the only acceptable option for Adrien.

And yet… Chat Noir is also something dangerous. When Chat Noir gets rejected, Adrien tries to renounce his Miraculous, aka to bury this part of himself as far down as possible; when Chat Noir gets unmasked by Ladybug, the object of his affections, IT’S THE LITERAL END THE WORLD (twice and a half now). There’s an entire post to be made about Cat Walker and Aspik and Adrien folding himself into what he thinks Ladybug’s perfect partner should be.

The point is: Adrien being himself puts him (and the people he loves) in harm’s way, both emotionally and physically. You see the themes, I see the themes, we cry together and hold hands.

Marinette, on the other hand, fucking hates being Ladybug for most of the series. She wants to be a normal girl (!) with a normal life (!!) and it’s just not happening. The reason? There’s something about her that no one knows yet (!!!) ‘cause she has a secret (!!!!).

If anything, being Ladybug keeps getting in the way of her romantic shenanigans: she can’t be with Adrien/Chat Noir because Apocalypse, she can’t be with Cat Walker because her Lucky Charm doesn’t like him, she can’t be with Luka because she has to lie all the time! Not only that, it endangers her friendships as well, as seen in The Gang of Secrets. Look at the wording of her talk with Alya in this episode:

“I won’t try to figure it out our force it out of you. If you can’t tell me what’s in your heart… it’s your right.”

“Will we still be friends?”

“Marinette, I’m your best friend, and I’ll always be. That’s why it kills me that I can’t help you with whatever’s making you feel so alone.”

[…] “You know why I broke up with Luka? Not because I don’t like him! He’s amazing! It’s because there’s something that I can’t tell him. You know why I have to forget Adrien? For the exact same reason. You’re right! I keep secrets, I lie all the time, I lie to my friends, to my parents, everyone, and the worst thing is I can’t do it any other way. […] I tell you, things will never be the same between us again, it will mess up everything — maybe even destroy it!

“Marinette, I’m your very best friend.”

“And I… I’m Ladybug.”

If this isn’t a coming out scene, I don’t know what is.

Of course, Marinette progressively steps into her role as a superheroine and learns to navigate her relationships accordingly — but she’s still carrying this secret that sets her apart from the rest of the world. It’s the othering, isolating part of queerness, and it’s really well portrayed throughout the seasons.

2. The Adrigaminette-to-Lukadrinette pipeline

I cannot not mention it, because what the hell was going on here.

Adrigaminette felt less like a love triangle and more like the girls voting themselves out of the polycule in quick succession. We got an entire episode of the three of them running around, holding hands and jumping in ballpits together. Both Adrien and Kagami went heart eyes over Marinette’s loose hair.

Then André came in with his cart and clown shoes and said “Nah you can’t all share the Magical Ice Cream Of Romance. :( Yeah sorry my ice cream is for two people and two people only. :( Also I guess I could serve Marigami and Marigami only but the flavours would taste gross together. :( Don’t look into the subtext too much” HE JUST HAD TO RUIN IT FOR THEM DIDN’T HE

I’m really happy he ruined it for them, for bird reasons, but still. Adrigami is also the one time we get to see Chat Noir ruin Adrien’s love life, and most of the fuel for my aroace Adrien thoughts, but I digress — LUKADRINETTE

Luka is in the unique position of knowing both Ladybug and Chat Noir’s identities, aka the most secret part of their souls, and immediately went in repression mode in Wishmaker upon finding out his two crushes were basically soulmates. It pays off in Migration, when he becomes their de facto safe place, the one person they know has both of their backs no matter what. Just look at the way they all look at each other:

With Marinette knowing she does not have to lie to him anymore and Adrien being Adrien. I’m sorry but in my mind they both independently proposed to him right then and there. This is the timeline I live in now.

Parenthesis over. Let’s get back to business:

3. Feligami Adrinette

By which I mean the themes explored throughout their relationship.

Adrinette’s story has always been about rescuing Adrien from the abusive environment he grew up in, as Marc and Nathaniel so helpfully drove across through their delightful storyboards:

(Note the gender role reversal here, blurring the lines between Marinette and Ladybug as she takes on the role of the knight in shining armour, while Adrien is the princess locked away in her tower… Adrien’s gender deserves another other essay in itself, but for today, let’s just agree that he is Not Cis.)

In S5, this theme escalates into a full-on Romeo and Juliet situation. Gabriel and Tomoe are of course the main obstacles to Adrinette’s happy ending: given A. Gabriel’s history of forcing his son into a mold, B. the strict expectations placed on Tsurugi women and C. the oppressive, uniformly white world they want to create through Perfect Alliance (Perfect!!! Alliance!!! Rings!!! Marriage!!!), it’s not a stretch to see them as the messengers of a certain vision of masculinity, femininity and relationships. You see it, I see it, Marinette doesn’t see it because she’s too busy sobbing on the floor, which finally brings me to my favourite thing ever:

“But Nina!” I hear you protest, “you’re making everything about Feligami again!” To which I reply: first of all, yes I am. Second of all, you can’t stop me. Third of all —

Third of all, characters don’t exist in a vacuum, and this is particularly true of the Adrinette & Feligami quartet. Kagami’s name literally means mirror; Felix is a foil to Adrien, of course, but also to Marinette (and Gabriel and Emilie and a bunch of other characters and I love him so much but let’s not stray too far from the point). Of course Feligami is going to parallel and contrast Adrinette, especially since Felix is Aware of the Themes and Motifs and has decided to make it everyone’s problem.

So in June (!) 2023, a little thing called Representation (!!) aired.

There are sooo many things to say about the queer-coding of the Senti-lore in general and of Felix and Feligami in particular. Today, though, I want to draw your attention to the way the kids talk about themselves at the end of the play, drawing clear narrative links to the Love Square (and most specifically Ladybug):

“You know what it’s like to not be able to love the one you want.”

“To constantly fight to save the people you love.”

“To have to lie all the time and never reveal who you truly are.”

[Wipes a single tear away] They grow up so fast…

At the end of the day, this is what both Feligami and the Love Square are all about: embracing who you are and the love you feel, no matter its form, in a world that perpetually tries to enslave and/or kill you for it. I don’t know about you, but I find it hella queer in nature.

Thank you for coming to my DUUSUTalk! 💙🦚

[colleybri]

Cassian gets the balance right; Dedra doesn’t

Back in season 1, Maarva passed on - via Brasso - beautiful words of faith in her wayward adoptive son: “Tell him, he knows everything he needs to know, and feels everything he needs to feel - and when the day comes when those two pull together he will be an unstoppable force for good”.

In season 2, Cassian moves step by painful step closer to that day, the one where he can walk out across Yavin towards whatever destiny might be awaiting him. He’s self-assured. He’s known love and loss, but he’s also learned to balance his emotions and his reason. Bix, knowing that his love for her was tipping the balance too far towards emotion and that he would give up everything if he gave in to the old fear of losing her, removes herself from the equation and Cassian goes into Rogue One able to love without it disabling him, without it clouding his judgement. He has a desire to save people but it’s no longer entirely centred on a desire to assuage his own guilt about his sister. It’s balanced with reason. He can calculate risks and act on them. Kill quickly, if necessary. He knows what is most important, that there is a cause larger than himself. That his own death might be necessary if it saves countless others, but that he should still hope to live for a better future. He’s also strongly intuitive - intuition itself being a reason-emotion combination. He knows when to trust, whether people or to his instincts. This will lead to him disobeying his order to kill Galen Erso and placing his trust in Jyn (and we’ve seen him do that already with Kleya). These are decisions showing a perfect balance between his reason and his emotions.

In contrast, Dedra fails to find that balance. An incredulous Krennic finds it ‘terribly perplexing’ that Dedra could “balance such passionate competency with the mindless decision” to confront Luthen alone. He genuinely doesn’t believe her, and it’s so telling that Dedra, who was praised by Partagaz for her individualism in her dogged pursuit of Axis in Season 1, is now condemned for having let her feelings get in the way. “Passionate competency” is a perfect description … depending on the exact balance, this could be a positive quality. In s1 it was. But in her blind pursuit of Axis in the final arc, seemingly fresh from the raw and no doubt unfamiliar feelings from Ghorman and the loss of Syril, she seems to have made the most basic of mistakes: not realised that what to her was an irrelevant by-product of her search - the leaked Death Star files - was evidence against her of the most damning kind. Her pursuit of Axis became a dangerous obsession in the same way of Syril’s obsession with Cassian.

More broadly, Cassian learns ‘how’ to feel, and achieves that balance that Maarva predicted. Dedra never learns this because she’s so unused to emotions like love and grief. I think that Dedra’s downfall was signalled from the very start, but that the death of Syril made it a certainty. Vel is another character who is described as having become ‘reckless’ in the wake of the grief of loss, but like Cassian she is shown as having successfully come through it. Dedra never does. Ironically, for someone who appears to have real difficulty with experiencing and empathising with many emotions, I would argue that it’s emotion that is ultimately behind Dedra’s downfall.

[sinkjustlikeastone]

Listen to me ramble about amputee Soda okay. BE WARNED THO ITS A LIL GORE-Y FOR A SEC THERE

I’m no longer waiting for someone to ask me. Let’s talk about Soda okay. Specifically my dear and beloved amputee Soda (which is an hc that I found in my notes from when I first read the book in 7th grade btw).

SO! Since it is apparent unspecified in the book what event Soda rides in. Bareback. Because I said and as a country person I would know. Rule of thumb for this post is as a country person I would know.

So obviously in the book Soda had to stop riding (because he tore his ACL I believe) BUT I have made it more tragic.

Instead, due to a series of events, Soda’s leg is absolutely *shattered*. Like. Bones sticking out shattered. Terrible, disgusting, think ten times the worst injury you’ve ever seen. (To continue on, the series of events which I mentioned is that he gets hung up and kicked, comes off the horse and lands on the leg weird, proceeds to be knocked to the ground and stepped on at full bucking force twice, and then additionally is stepped on by the pickup man’s horse that is throwing a fit. This is a goshdamn dangerous sport and this is all fairly possible. I want to say rare but honestly shit happens)

And obviously the exact second anyone sees it they know it’s all over. His family is worried for his life.

And his life doesn’t end but his career as a bareback rider who had *just seconds before his injury* qualified for the NFR (National Finals Rodeo for yall who have no clue what I’m talking about. Go watch a rodeo holy shit).

None of his family, him included, actually know how it works to be lacking a limb.

What they learn is that it’s expensive. That goshdamned prosthetic is expensive. But they want for Soda to be able to continue on with his life, so they take that chunk out of their bank account and do this for him.

It takes Soda a long time to figure out how to walk good. And he suffers awful phantom pain, especially after waking up from a gore-y nightmare about the accident that’s printed to the back of his eyelids.

but again things continue on. So yay for that!!!

now for just the bullet points cause I can

-he’s absolutely torn about not getting to ride anymore

-he can fight still. Ask the soc whos ass he kicked at the rumble. Maybe he’s not too fast but bro can pack a punch or six

-Darry and Pony try to be sympathetic to the fact that Soda still can have a hard time (mentally) but they really just don’t understand until they loose their parents. Because until then Darry and Pony had never truly lost anything, and Soda had.

-soda can’t bring himself to go to rodeos anymore because it makes him so so sad

-is the Ultimate Annoyed because yeah sure girls flirt with him a lot but after the accident all the flirting feels like sympathy and he don’t need that from them

-is even more drawn to Chet than before because Chet is still an absolute BITCH to him (just. Just a little. It’s guy flirting but soda can’t see that) and it makes him unreasonably happy

-like their first interaction after the accident goes like: “Hey, grease!” “Yup.” “I’m gonna kick your ass to Canada if you don’t get the fuck out of my sight” “ain’t ya gonna be nice to me cause a this” “I’ll keep it as a souvenir if you keep talking”

-but then they fall in love ofc

-the leg is names Angelica by the way.

-he wears long pants to cover it up even tho everyone knows about it, and compensates for that covered skin by Never Wearing A Shirt

-he absolutely uses it as an excuse for everything. Like sometimes it’s reasonable but sometimes it’s like “soda can yo pass the peas?” “No.” “Why” “Angelica.”

-at first he was really self conscious but after a good while he gets used to it and isn’t as bothered

-“Do you need help-“ “YOU CAN KISS MY ASS!”

-(I’ve written this part into the thing I’m writing but) Chet: is there anything you can do with just your hands? Soda: YOU

-two bit had hidden Angelica as a prank on more than one occasion

-soda also uses crutches instead of Angelica sometimes

-“you have two feet for a reason!” “HOLY SHIT ITS A MIRACLE!”

-“I’m gonna kick your ass.” (Proceeds to swing angelica unthreateningly in pony’s direction)

-“WATCH THIS!” (Stands for .5 seconds without Angelica and then has to get stitches on his head from falling down the porch steps)

“Don’t do horses kids” whenever anyone asks what happened (in reality tho he probably talks to people about how dangerous rodeo is. He tries to talk Chet and Dally out of competing but they won’t listen)

-“I’m not clumsy at all.” (Falls. Stitches again cause he hit the table)

-(has his leg showing) twobit: “you’re gonna scare the kids” soda: “what kids?” Twobit (joking): “Me.”

-“I’ll shove it up your ass no hesitation.”

-talks to Angelica casually to annoy Darry

-he let two bits little sister paint the “nails” on Angelica because “she wants to be pretty”

don’t question me for hells sake I did my research best I could and I know a lot about rodeo and stuff so like. Kindly correct me if I’ve been offensive but babe. On the topic of is this accident possible I know. I am aware. I have seen shit. Nothing this bad but this similar. Also go watch eight seconds it’s a true story people ACTUALLY HAVE DIED so don’t come after me on that bit. Hope you enjoyed.

BUT TALK TO ME ABOUT IT I BEG YOU

[amethystfairy1]

Okay, fic is over (I think-) so checking my predictions!

Honestly.... major oversight on my part is that I miiiight have completely forgotten the collars were a thing lol. My bad for forgetting a huge part of the story building was even there, I don't even have an excuse I'd been rereading like stars around my scars and the entire accidental order saga while I waited for updates so that's just a my bad lmao but out of 17ish predictions, 9 came true despite my oversight so I'd say that's pretty good! I was more focused on the fact that in my mind the only way for a relationship to be established would be through a Ren confession, and there was no way that could be verified, since Martyn is really bad at telling when Ren is acting (even when he does pick up on his tells, like his laugh being wrong or just blatantly lying). I really should learn to stop doubting Amethyst by now loll

Anyway here's the predictions that came true:

Martyn POV chapter 3

C3 is the aftermath of C2

Martyn doesn't believe Ren's feelings are genuine

Martyn blames himself for Literally Everything that's happening in the relationship because he "forced this" on Ren and he IS just as bad as the others

Martyn breaks down and apologizes for his intrusive thoughts, thus confessing to them (he's under the impression Ren already knew) causing

a meta-ish conversation about those unwanted feelings not defining someone esp since Martyn is actively disgusted by them

Martyn confession

An actually healthy conversation occurs

We get treebark by the end of the fic!

And side note some honorable mentions:

Martyn runs away again and/or throws up again or something after the kiss because intrusive thoughts just EXPLODED in his mind {this prediction actively didn't come true for the exact reasoning I thought it would, as Martyn himself says, running off would not be great for the situation and would only cause problems}

Flower husbands give relationship advice (they are very unqualified) {I still stand by the fact that these two are the exact type of person who would give unsolicited advice and have no doubts it would only be like 30% helpful}

Martyn breaks down and apologizes for his intrusive thoughts, thus confessing to them (he's under the impression Ren already knew) causing more angsty relationship strain before the resolution {this kinda happened but also not really}

Yeah! I really really loved the fic (my bsf has been hearing me rant about your writing since last year now [haha funny new years joke] and is probably sick of it and my endless predictions and conspiracy theories so I've come to brother you with relentless long asks apparently. Sorry for the consistently space-consuming asks btw I promise I'm not trying to fill up ur inbox, just have a lot to say lol. Good luck with the ask backlog, I look forward to seeing what you've got in store for the TTSBC crew!

I'm so glad you enjoyed the fic!!! I LOVE the long asks and predictions and ideas, I'm just sorry it usually takes me longer to answer them because I wanna take my time and respond to them fully 😭

I'm so glad you enjoyed the fic!! Awhh heck I'm glad you have confidence in me, I try to make sure things are planned out That's why the collar comes into play here, because unfortunately, messed up at this all is, Martyn wouldn't have believed Ren's confession any other way. That's just how it be, sadly. But hey, worked out for them!

I'm so glad you enjoyed it! Thank you thank you!

[milliesfishes]

꣑ৎ౨ৎSpellbound (Part Three)꣑ৎ౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: talk of witchcraft, trauma, threats of death, mentions of abuse, violence pairing: billy the kid x fem reader summary: witch reader x billy the kid author’s note: I really hope I did the end justice. thank you for all the support on this series! anon who sent the original request, you have my heart <3 Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Nightmares were as regular as breathing for you.

Billy learned so the night he pulled you from the pond. He'd fallen asleep beside the fire; you cradled in his arms. You were so soft and warm despite your earlier tryst in the water, all warmed up from the adjacent flames and the comfort of his arms. As soon as you slipped into sleep, he allowed himself to shut his eyes, confident you were protected and safe resting against him.

An awful scream pierced the night, and he shot up wide eyed, head jolting around for the source, holding you tight against him. It was only when he felt the vibrations on his chest that Billy realized they were coming from you.

He lifted you under your arms to sit directly on his lap, running his fingers through your hair until you awoke, blearily looking up at him. "Billy?"

Sighing in relief, he pressed your face against his chest, rocking you back and forth soothingly. "Honey...'r you okay? Whatsa matter?"

"I get bad dreams sometimes," you murmured, rubbing your eyes. "I have ever since I was spellbound."

"'bout...?" Billy didn't want to say it out loud for respect of the situation.

Nodding and resting your body against his chest, you murmured, "Yes."

"Baby," he whispered, eyes clouding over with concern. He stroked your hair, roving his fingers through it. Mind and heart both were weighed heavy with your revelations.

Married. The mere thought of you being trapped in a situation with someone alike to the scum of the earth made his blood boil. The fact that anyone would dare do such things to a woman filled him with a desire to hunt your former husband down and teach him a new meaning of pain.

But, looking down at you, he knew that wouldn't make your current situation better. It would only weigh you down more with unearned responsibility. Besides, you possessed more power than he knew. If you'd truly wanted to you would have exacted revenge.

You were goodhearted. Purer than him in every way. It was something to marvel at: the difference between you. He'd been forced into a situation that'd caused him to pick up a gun, become a murderer. Now his name was associated with danger, his face splashed across many a wanted poster. His intentions were good, but his actions spoke otherwise.

But you had endured the same thing, powers endlessly thrust upon you like earth on a coffin. You despised your situation as he did, eyes on the horizon for any sort of way out of it. but you were still good. You kept your heart kind, your actions free of entanglement with personal bitterness toward what you could not control.

Nothing anybody said about you was true. You were a sweetheart, through and through. He was deserving of his reputation. You were not. Not in any form of the word.

You had every reason not to trust him. Not only was he an outlaw, he was a man, the exact species that had caused your misery. And yet you let him in, let him help you bear the burden of your title in what little ways he was able. Looking down at you resting in his arms, he felt stirrings of love expand his heart once more.

Your fingers were on his bare collarbone, tracing symbols onto it. He pressed gentle kisses to your hairline, hoping they would reaffirm his love for you, the safety he could maintain while you remained near him.

It was a heavy toll, the price you paid for magic. It was horribly undeserved. The least he could do to balance out the unfairness of the world was give you love. Something you clearly hadn't received for too long a time.

So, with that in mind, he rested his chin on your head, keeping you thoroughly burrowed into him, where it was safe. Fish wandered over and settled against your thigh soothingly. "Try 'n sleep, sweetheart. I'll keep the dreams away."

Knuckles collided with Billy's jaw, sending him flying backwards into a table. He struggled to stand, knees wobbling, but a force collided with him, knocking his body back and tumbling over the table. Wood splintered under his back, and he cursed the poor craftmanship. There'd be splinters in his back morning come.

Determinedly, Billy found his bearings and managed to stand. He dove at the man who'd caused his tumble, shouting obscenities. The man hadn't been expecting it, and the surprise attack gave Billy the upper hand. He pounded his fists against his face, beating him bloody until a bystander shoved him away, tossing him out of the saloon on his ass.

Spitting dirt, Billy stumbled to his feet and ducked into a nearby alley. The law would've likely been alerted by now and he was already on thin enough ice with that lot.

Somehow he managed to find his horse and ride off without being spotted. Trekking through the forest, he searched for the one place he knew he could go. The night was cold but clear, and your beloved stars gave him comfort even as his injuries stung. The moon was his light, guiding him to his one love, the only good thing he was next to possessing in this life.

"Think that bitch's got fight in 'er or would she let me take 'er?" the drunked man slurred, slamming his bottle on the table. "She's too lil' t' really bite back."

"She's got that innocent look in 'er eye." Another man grinned. "Look real pretty underneath ya."

"n' she's a witch," the first man laughed. "Y'know she'd be into some nasty shit-"

Knocking on your door, he winced as some of the blood from his knuckles stained the surface. But his worry over that was replaced by the disarming sight of you. Your eyes widened as you took in his damaged appearance.

Wordlessly, you pulled him in, sitting him down at your table and turning your back, busying yourself with finding the perfect remedy. Once you'd found that familiar paste you knelt and began to dab it on, not bothering to clean the wound. That could come after he was healed.

You looked up into his eyes. "What happened? How did you-?" Cutting yourself off, you reached for a bottle on the table that was uncorked. "Drink this."

He obeyed before answering your half question. "Bar fight."

"What on earth for?" Your brow was furrowed, and you were watching carefully as his knuckles smoothed over. Taking a wet cloth, you began to wipe the blood from his skin. "You haven't gotten into one before. At least not since I've been here."

Billy hesitated, and you noticed. He pursed his lips, looking away in shame. "They were...sayin' some things."

Warily because of his pause, you lifted your chin. Then you got up from your knees, quietly pushing his hands from his legs. Your knees found either side of Billy's thighs, and his hands instantly found your hips. You stared into his eyes, and he was pierced by your gaze. "Billy."

It could have been the magic in you, but Billy was sure it was a natural thing you possessed. That ability to draw anything from him you wanted to know. His lips were moving before he had a chance to think. "Honey...they were sayin'...sayin' awful things 'bout you..." Your face fell and he slowed down, the last few words following his first like a dog with its tail between its legs. "...'n I couldn't let them talk 'bout my girl...like...that." He finished lamely, avoiding your eyes.

Frozen, your lips parted slightly, and your hands fell from his shoulders to his thighs. He kept his hands on your waist, unsure if you'd slap them away. How angry would you be? He held his breath in anticipation.

To his shock you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face there and pressing a kiss to his skin. He was still for a second, and then he slid his arms all the way around you, holding you close and rubbing your back. He mumbled into your hair, "'M sorry...'m so sorry baby..."

You shook your head, drawing back to look at him. "Billy...I'm not worth it. Don't hurt yourself over me-"

"I'm not lettin' anybody talk 'bout my girl like that," he interrupted firmly, his hand stroking your cheek. "'specially after what ya told me 'bout everything. 'm sorry for upsettin' ya, 'n for comin' here so late, but I ain't sorry 'bout defendin' ya."

Something changed in your expression, and you breathed softly, leaning in to kiss him tenderly. Billy nudged his nose against yours, deepening the kiss and holding you close and tight to him.

"Honey," he muttered after you pulled back. "'m always gonna protect ya. I told you that."

"Don't get hurt for me anymore," you sniffled, leaning your forehead against his. "Please."

Billy couldn't deny you anything. Not even this, which went against his nature. Forever and always, he was a defender of those he loved. "I won't, sweet girl. For you, I won't."

Nodding, you framed his face with your hands, closing your eyes. He caught wind of what you were about to do and pulled you right up against him, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You smiled lightly and started to whisper something. He recognized the spell, muttered in French. It was one you had used with him many a time before.

The air began to glow, and he closed his eyes, staying quiet. Your words, though not understood by him, were soft and comforting. There was a bright light in your unlit cottage stemming from you. Billy felt a warmth in his chest just as he did every time you did this. The magic warmed him inside and out, holding him to the earth like only something connected to you could.

Once you'd finished, he kissed your forehead long and tender, lips parting against your head and holding there. Billy murmured against your skin, "Thank you, baby."

The light had nearly faded, but the calm your magic gave him remained. You performed this spell nearly every time you saw him, taking the emotional weight off his shoulders he'd carried nearly his entire life.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then suddenly he caught wind of something over your shoulder, in the window. Billy's body stiffened, and his arms tightened around you. "Darlin'-"

The door burst open, a man storming in. He took one look at you and Billy and shouted behind him, "They're here! Him and the witch."

A crowd of around ten men overtook the room before Billy knew it, disturbing your furniture and knocking bottles to the floor. He heard the smash of broken glass, the splash of your potions hitting the floor.

Arms firm around you, keeping you tight to his chest with your head in his shoulder, he asked roughly, "The hell is going on here?" You made a little noise, shifting in his lap, and he moved one hand to the crown of your head, holding your head to his neck.

"We'll be takin' the witch," the closest man hissed, holding his pistol up, pointed at the back of your head. "Saw your little light show."

They'd followed him. Billy cursed himself for not being more careful. He shook his head, arms tightening around you if it was even possible. "She ain't done anythin' wrong."

"She's a witch." Billy hated how the man said it like it was dirty. "That's reason enough."

Two cowboys pushed forward, yanking you from Billy's arms and pulling you from his lap. Before he could jump up, a revolver was pressed to his forehead and faintly he saw a hand squeeze the trigger.

"No!" You screamed, and there was a loud noise, a burst of light more intense than before. A few of the men shouted, and the man holding the gun in front of Billy collapsed, leaving his view of you clear. His eyes widened, and he could see the terror and guilt on your face.

Quickly trying to remedy the incident as he watched your face crumple, he called, "It's okay! It's okay, sweet girl."

Your chest was heaving and the men surrounding you dragged you away despite your cries, their positions on your magic solidified after seeing you hurt one of their own. Accident or not, they now believed themselves justified.

Billy was restrained by the man who'd tried to shoot him as they carried you far past the bounds of your home. He could hear your crying and it made his heart ache. Struggling, he tried to stand and run after you but the man was determined.

It was only once the hoofbeats of horses outside had vanished that they let go. He got to his feet immediately, but his detainer punched him in the eye, making him fall like a pile of bricks.

He lay there limply, the pain literally blinding. There were sounds of boots stomping away, and he felt agony strike his chest. You were gone. Taken to a fate he felt sick imagining.

Billy felt adrenaline and anger pulse through his body, and he scrambled to his feet, picking up his hat that had been knocked off his head earlier. His legs took him to his horse, and he threw himself over it, kicking the creature into a gallop. It was halfway through the night.

By sunrise you'd be gone if he didn't hurry.

You shouldn't have been so careless.

With Billy, your guard had been down, and you loved him truly for making you feel that safe. But in his presence, you'd forgotten the world's hatred for those of your kind.

The spell you'd performed was harmless, one that gave your lover some peace of mind. It was the least you could do for all he'd given you. Though he insisted feelings weren't payment, you disagreed. Love had no debts.

Even though you hadn't hurt Billy, you had hurt the man pointing a gun at him. Guilt and pain ate you up inside, worries overtaking you. Was he okay? Had he been able to get away?

Your heart pounded a bruise into your chest. There were noises outside your cell, and you folded your arms tightly around yourself. They'd nearly shredded your dress. It was in tatters around your body where the men had torn at it, searching for any sign of magic on you. They found nothing.

The door clanged open, and a man knelt beside you, pushing you to sit up against the wall. He held a length of rope, wrapping it roughly around your arms. You whimpered as the course material scorched your arms.

He glared at you. "You'll be burnt at sunrise. Considered hanging but then the witchcraft'd still be in your body."

Eyes widening, you shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. "No...no, please. Please don't do this."

But his eyes were unforgiving. Shoving you to lie on the ground again, he stood, shadow looming and making you feel even more pathetic. "See ya at dawn."

And with that he left.

You sobbed helplessly, twisting in the binds of the ropes and struggling to get free. But the man's knots had been firm, and now you suffered for it.

Hours slid from under your feet. You closed your eyes, resting your head heavily against the stone floor. And now you wished Billy had never pulled you out of the pond. Drowning would be a less cruel fate.

Tearfully, you thought of Billy. Of the love and light he'd bestowed upon you, a beautiful thing you hadn't ever thought yourself worthy of. It was a shame you'd never gotten to live a normal life with him. So many times since meeting him had you dreamed of blissful domesticity. And now there wasn't even a prayer of such a thing.

Your dreams died slowly before your eyes, and you mourned even the ones that you'd known wouldn't have come true anyway. Love was loss. It had only ever been loss for you. Any trace of hope in your veins had been sucked out by the rope that would now bind you until your death.

He had never shamed you, never cast you out. Instead, he had embraced your difference and shown you there was a facet of the world that wasn't cruel. Now you were setting him free from any obligation of you.

It was enough for you to know that as you closed your eyes, lying weakly on the stone. All the fight had left you, and you could feel your magic pulsing faintly, begging to be used, to be needed.

But you never wanted to use it again. Not after you knew you could hurt someone. Of course you'd always known it was possible, but never had you known yourself capable of it. No, you'd rather die than injure another living soul.

The door swung open again. Hours must have passed, because through the cell window you could faintly see the sun beginning to stretch forth its rosy fingers. Your hair was strewn over your face, and you were grateful at least that the rope covered what your poor dress couldn't.

Two pairs of arms lifted you up, dragging your tired body through the halls of the jail. There were whispers around you, but you paid no mind, trying to numb yourself to everything. The world was blurry to you. With any luck, before your murder, it would be black.

Your mind swayed back and forth like a rocking ship, and you thought aimlessly of the sea. Your home. You never wanted to go back to it, but now the details of it were comforting. The tide, the waves, the sand. It was something you wanted to stay a memory, but that memory was stowed safely in your heart next to everything pertaining to Billy.

The men grew tired of dragging you, and one of them tossed you over his shoulder like a bag of flour. His steps were heavy, jostling you carelessly. Of course, you were less than human to them. What did they care for your comfort?

Now you were outside, and the fresh air stung your senses. You breathed in softly, your hair fallen over your face as you hung upside down. Dust travelled into your lungs, and you coughed pathetically. The man carrying you laughed.

Death was waiting at the end of this path. You could feel it up ahead like a light at the end of the tunnel. By the time the sun hit the sky's middle you would be long gone from this world.

The man stopped walking, interrupting your train of thought. You squeezed your legs together to try and maintain some modesty. There were a few groans around you, and you wondered briefly if something had gone wrong with the setup for your execution. The one carrying you said something you couldn't hear, and then you were falling sideways, earth tilting on its axis. You didn't know you were falling until someone caught you, shoving the other man away.

Now a course, but gentle hand was smoothing your hair, whispering something you didn't make out. You squeezed your eyes shut; sure you were dreaming.

When you dug your face into Billy's chest you knew he was real. He let out a soft, lightened noise, his words becoming clearer to you. "...honey. I've gotcha. C'mon, we're gettin' outta here."

He was running now, and you could make out shadows. Everything was blurry except for the pain of your magic. It pounded against your head, and you cried softly into Billy's chest, trying to breathe and alleviate it.

His voice rumbled against you. "Shh, I know, sweet girl. I know."

"I need...my lavender," you hiccupped, gripping the collar of his shirt.

"We'll find ya some," he promised, fingers making quick work of untying your ropes. They fell from around you, and you heard him take in a breath at the state of your dress. He put something over your shoulders, sliding your arms through sleeves, and then you felt yourself being lifted up. Fur met your legs. Billy's horse.

The ride was a mess of pained whimpers and bumpy movement. Billy did his best to comfort you but it was just so painful, all of it.

He held you close, assuring you with every step. Once you reached the apparent destination, Billy pulled you down, settling you against the grass. Reaching over, he plucked something from the ground and held it up to your lips. You inhaled gently before opening your mouth. Lavender.

The plant revived you enough to look up at your lover, who was breathing fast, anxiously watching you. He squeezed your hand. "Darlin'...sweetheart...how're ya feelin'?"

You looked up at him. Highlighted by the sun's newborn rays, he was angelic. You would have fallen to your knees if you weren't on the ground already. Here he had ridden time and tide for you, yanked you from the path of death and uncaged your love. Now you were splayed out in the light, softened by his touch.

How long had you been unworthy? How long had you deemed yourself terrible? But he had saved you. Billy, the one facet of good in your life, had seen you fit to survive. He defended you. He carried you beyond the bounds of your self-worth. Oh, how he loved you.

Looking up at him, you managed the faintest of smiles, pressing your cheek to his chest.

"Yes."

Billy was shielding the leftover sun from the day, reflecting it from his eyes. He squinted at you, kneeling several feet away from him. "Everythin' alright?"

You nodded; breaths faint. He could see the panic in your eyes, but you didn't let it show anywhere else as you pressed your palms to the grass. The open field was perfect for your intentions, you'd assured him.

It was a hard decision. You had cried and pleaded with your tired body, trying to make it last. Nightmares tormented your unconscious mind; your magic grew heavier by the day. Billy helped as much as he was able, but it couldn't be denied that your quality of life was diminishing.

It was a risk. He knew that. But more than being aware of the consequences, he was confident in the goodness of your soul. Never had he met someone whose light shone so bright from within.

Somewhere in his heart he instinctively bore the knowledge that you were pure. The origins of your magic were unknown, but he was certain that if it was evil in the majority you wouldn't be as kind as you were. He shared that with you over and over until you had no choice but to believe it.

So now, here he was, standing helplessly as you tapped into the most vulnerable crooks of your body, the ones magic and witchcraft occupied. You'd insisted he stay back in case something went wrong.

Bowing your head, your hair fell in front of your face. He could hear a muttered incantation from where he stood. Your fingers clenched the grass, knuckles whitening.

He longed to run to you, but he didn't want to ruin the process and make something go worse than it already could. The situation was precarious enough.

Billy watched as a light shimmered through your body, palpitating against your skin and making you shiver. The sky was turning grey as storm clouds feathered the air.

You were crying- he could hear it. Now your body was shaking, tremors seizing you as you somehow kept your hands flat to the ground. Billy's heart pained for you, and he watched with wide eyes as a bright star seemed to glow from within you.

Your head tilted back, and something seemed to snap. Eyes snapping open, you gasped loudly, and fell backwards, staring at the sky.

The earth was quiet. The clouds were still. You were no longer glowing.

Billy hesitated before moving. He had no idea if you were still in the process. But now you were sitting up, flexing your fingers in front of yourself with eyes as round as the moon.

A joyful smile like sunshine spread across your face, and you exclaimed happily. Getting to your feet hurriedly, you ran like a deer to him, stumbling a little in excitement. Before he could react, you were throwing yourself at him, arms and legs wrapped tightly around his torso.

Laughing a little, he buried his nose in your hair. "Did it...did it...?"

"It worked!" You pulled back, then touched your forehead to his. "Billy it worked! It worked, the magic was good...I'm free!"

He spun you around, making you giggle in delight. "'Course it was, baby! You're better than anyone else."

You kissed his nose. "Billy..."

Grinning, he nodded. "I know, I know."

Leaning in, he kissed you tenderly, moving his lips against you like it was what he was created to do. There were happy tears on your cheeks, and he thumbed them away, holding you tightly to him.

Pulling back slightly, you nudged your nose against him. "You showed me...you loved me when it wasn't for the better. You rescued me in every possible way..."

"It's all worth it," he breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth again. "You...you, my love, are worth every step. Don't know how I ever came 'cross such a sweetheart."

"I needed you," you whispered, smiling brightly. Oh, he'd been too right about your draw. Magic hadn't had anything to do with it. The gravity encased within your soul was all you. "The past was my charge to carry before, but it's faded with my magic." You kissed his nose. "The future is you. Everything that matters is you."

"My love," he smiled, capturing your lips again. "My darlin'..." Billy took one of your hands from his neck and pressed it to his heart. "It's yours. It always has been."

You kissed him soundly until the moon rose over the river, the night bringing promises of love no longer lost.

No, now it was only found. You found each other, a magic that had nothing to do with what you'd just given up connecting your souls.

Previous part

[ultfreakme]

Chapter 56 meta thought:

So Kagurabachi has had this running theme across three arcs wherein people are dehumanized into tools and objects, primarily by the Hishaku and the Kamunabi. It's happened frequently enough that I am confident in seeing this is a central theme of the story.

The theme starts in the first chapter with Kunishige emphasizing the dangers of the katana & how its use as a tool needs the human element of purpose to be used wisely. This human element is stripped away by literally everyone. In the first arcs we see that Kunishige is remembered for the blades specifically.

Then we learn that the Kamunabi value the blades over people in their willing participation in the Rakuzichi Auction, and in how the basically imprisoned all the blade wielders and dedicated a majority of their forces to protecting the Wielders over you know....protecting the rest of the country, which is their ACTUAL job.

The Blade Wielders are synonymous with their swords and that is the only way the Wielders hold value to the Kamunabi.

Hokazono had said in an interview that this is a story about people. The Seitei War was against other humans and there is no monster waiting to attack, it's just people....doing their worst towards each other and the aftermath of how everyone dealt with the ways in which they monstrously attacked fellow humans.

With that being said I specifically want to talk about the latest arc and recent chapter(Chapter 56), and highlight those themes further here.

Samura & Uruha

Samura and Uruha understand very well that their value is so high because they are synonymous with the blades and thus have begun to see their life as such.

Uruha sees himself as a "dangerous" tool(or I guess more of a key to a dangerous tool). If he falls into the wrong hands, he would be the reason for unspoken amounts of violence against others. His value as a key has already led to the death of his entire squad and so he values himself as an object in that manner- protecting himself in the moment for his abilities so he's not used against others.

Samura is the opposite. He knows he's dangerous, but he determines his value in how useful he is to others, not based on his potential to cause damage. He also sees himself as a person first- he talks about himself and his actions in the war a lot, indicating that he recognizes his autonomy and had even kind of punished himself for it. He maintains his personhood outside of the worldly possessions, his life's value is not determined by an object- and therefore he is willing to die protecting Uruha, The Makizumi and Hakuri.

Their clash in the way they conceptualize themselves is how Hakuri determines who gets the sword.

I don't think it's coincidence or thoughtless action which led Hakuri to get Tobimune to Samura.

The Makizumi and Hakuri's job was protecting the Wielders- Hakuri's mission was accomplished with the the teleportation. So why did Hakuri give Samura the exact tool he needed to put himself back in danger?

Because Hakuri also sees himself as a tool who lives in service of others. He determines his value based on the number of people he can help, not based on personal motives. He is a storehouse, he is a place where people can come and take what they need. And if Samura needs Tobimune, who is he to deny that? He's fully abandoned his personhood in service of others (I am going to make another post about the view of 'Storehouse' wrt Hakuri and Kyora+ the Sazanami family later).

Hakuri understands Samura's desperation to save others. He also does not want the Makizumi to die despite them not being a part of his mission because much like Samura, he also sees them as people (Uruha does too but he's deeply influenced by his own squad and Gurt/Bandana Guy's sacrifice), and therefore Hakuri would give Samura whatever he needs to accomplish his goals. Hakuri grew up in an environment that consistently objectified human beings(literally).

He won't make the mistake of stripping the chance to live for themselves from them again.

[coolbeesbro]

Brief brake from COTL content for a Helluva Boss hot take

This might be an unpopular opinion, but also this is a cartoon so keep that in mind before you light your torches please.

So I've been stewing on this since the release of the season two finale for Helluva Boss. Although I understand where people's irritation with Octavia is coming from, something that's being overlooked big time (at least from what I'm seeing) is the fact that Octavia's entire life has been in a house where her parents very obviously hate each other. Despite Stolas' best efforts to make things in the house ok and make her feel loved, her mother didn't exactly do the same. The constant screaming from her mother, who smashes things in fits of rage and verbally (potentially even physically) abuses her father isn't exactly an easy childhood.

Being a child growing up in an environment like that, she's bound to be dealing with untreated mental illness, like self esteem issues and depression. We as the viewer see both perspectives, and although Stolas is my favorite character I can see exactly where Octavia is coming from. He did leave her for Blitzø, however justified and right he was to do so given the circumstances, and left her all alone in a home with her mother and uncle who both don't seem to care about her at all.

She's still a teenager, and I myself at 17 wasn't exactly the best to be around and had a hard time seeing reason in times of conflict. Depression and OCD made things difficult for me, and it only got better when I started going to therapy at 18 and taking medication for it, and by 21-22 it hit me what people mean when they say you're not fully done developing until early to mid 20's. For Octavia, being 17 mixed with the feeling of betrayal she felt by her father choosing to be executed to save Blitzø on national television is a very heavy thing to experience. He chose to do this, saying his life wasn't worth living without Blitzø by his side, and that has to fucking hurt.

Once more, this situation is incredibly complicated. I do agree Stolas doing what he did was the right thing to do, but Octavia is absolutely justified in feeling the way she does.

At the time she is finally face to face with Stolas, she just came to the realization that her father was on happy pills for her entire childhood. She's unsure if it's her own fault, and even though Stolas tries to reassure her that that isn't true, she doesn't know what to believe anymore. There are so many things she's handling, plus the growing understanding that her mother is abusive and is celebrating her fathers downfall at her own expense, and her uncle doing the exact same, she's really hurting and has nobody she feels she can rely on anymore.

She's hurting, and in response is hurting the person she thinks caused it in turn. When she gets older I can see Octavia learning more about Stolas' childhood and see everything he did to break the cycle of abuse he lived with (even though he failed spectacularly in other areas). Unlike Stolas, she wasn't forced into an arranged marriage, let alone with someone who's very clearly a narcissist (at least from what the writers are showing us). She wasn't growing up with absent parents (I don't know what's up with Stolas' mother, and we all know how awful Paimon is as a father) and Stolas did things to distance himself from his father's actions. She'll begin to see why her father was so unhappy in his marriage (outside of being gay in a straight relationship), and will understand why Stolas was so attached to Blitzø.

I feel like once she hits 19 (the age Stolas was when Octavia was born) she'll also start to consider all the things he had to deal with at that age moving forward that she didn't before. They will probably make amends between now and then, and I also get the feeling that either Luna or Blitzø (or both) will be the one to bridge that gap. For the time being, for her character to grow she'll need time away from Stolas to come to her own conclusions. Most importantly, I think she needs to be the one to reach out.

Once more, this is just a cartoon, and I'm just a guy on the internet offering a different perspective.

[bisexualmcqueen]

In the apoc au, can working parts be taken from already dead cars? If so, does that mean that grave robbing could be a thing? Digging up the dead for their parts…

hehehee

excellent question. so this is already baked into the entire setup/conflict

Cars are mostly metal, but they have some semi-organic bits. Eyes, mouth-flesh, some internal organs, a non-mechanical circulatory system: all stuff that decomposes. It turns to sludge, and drips out of gaps in the living metal. As the months have gone on, the corpses have started to turn a bit …gummy. In places where winter never touched, the scattered bodies of unfortunate souls lay in pools of rank, thick liquid. [Turbine]

we've established that there's just dead bodies Everywhere. millions of people died, not nearly enough are left to bury them all. its a horror show. cars dont decompose as fully/quickly as organic beings do. theyre mostly metal/synthetics. so youd think there's just a buffet of free parts laying around right?

well, back up. how are the cars Alive in the first place...? its some sort of undefined fantasy-like magic. they are whimsical, fantastical beings. they can feel temperature, pain, pleasure- theyre fully alive as machines.

their Metal itself is alive.

and when they die, their Metal dies too.

same reasoning why when Dusty needed a new gearbox they had to find one from the Factory for him, or repair what he already had. Like... why?

same reason Doc died at the same time the AMC-badged cars went into a parts-war. [context: IRL the Hudson brand became AMC, then went out of business].

the new parts are Unclaimed/New metal, and they Bond/Mesh/Heal Into their new Body. the living metal bonds and cannot be unbonded without potentially being killed. the metal dies unless its handled by someone who knows what theyre doing- which is why car mechanics of a certain knowledge can be Doctors. or... other professions :)

Now this isnt to say parts-harvesting or graverobbing is impossible. sometimes some of the metal can rebond- some of it never died. [this is the type of work Mater does in salvage- it's part of his expertise to recognize these usable bits of metal from junk]. none of it is an exact science, because its magic, like the cars themselves.

this is where we crash into the second issue: the thing that Killed The World. The Blast, the EMP, the whatever it was, the End:

it tore up most cars on the inside. most vehicles blew the fuck up- not just their engines, but electrical systems flowing through their bodies caused damage to surrounding areas too, organic and mechanical.

not a lot of the corpses are salvageable. its mostly dead metal, and all torn up too.

Lightning’s eyes are already heavy, but in his last moments of consciousness, he tracks Cruz through blurry vision, fumbling with some living-solder and a propane tank, looking at the still-seeping bullet wound on Chick’s flank with a silent frown on her face. [Hi. I'm a grub and I live in the soil.]

parts are rare. this causes trouble. >:)

"-There’s nothing left anymore. I’m sorry.” [Old Spare]

[further reading on the blood-side of Living Metal theory, both worldbuilding ideas by Non]

OC Rundown POV in apocalypse Rundown is an old parts-harvester/engineer, forced to taste his own medicine of torment when the apocalypse strikes. He's modified himself enough to have survived- but just barely. He's trapped himself in a hell of his own evil making.

OH YEAH and to go even further. i think the vehicles themselves were employees of their own factories making their own parts [like any other manufacturing job], so the survivors have to learn the art of part-forging with unbonded living metal. its a whole process of skill-preservation. ive been slowly picking at who in the cast learns the forging skill- several characters certainly. and of course some of the factory experts survived, but they cant do everything alone!

thanks for the ask!

[meet-you-at-the-north-star]

Lucky in love

Robert Leckie x Australian barista! Reader

Summary: part of a larger enemies-to-lover(ish) narrative I have in mind where the reader is a waitress in Melbourne and her and Leckie slowly develop a relationship while he’s stationed there. But since I’m incapable of writing multi-chapter stories, this is just a little snippet lol

Word count: 967

It had been a long Saturday night at work. On weekends, the place was even fuller than during the rest of the week and I was barely able to take any rest between one set of clients and another. There was always something to do.

Worst of all, as usual, was the Americans. They had been coming in every single evening for several weeks now, a small group of them, always occupying the same exact table, around a corner of the bar that I’d begun to dread turning.

They were pretty loud, careless and obnoxious but their mere presence caused more trouble than anything else. What’s with all the annoying attention they received, for opposite reasons, from both the male and female population of Melbourne.

Some of them would take advantage of their uniforms, dancing and hitting on as many girls a night as they could. Others would simply sit and drink and talk to the locals or among themselves, growing louder and louder by the minute. They had been coming so often I’d learned all their names and faces at this point.

One of our usual guests stood out to me more than any other, and not in a good way. The only way to describe him was as someone annoyingly in love with the sound of their own voice: he wouldn’t shut up for a minute, whether it was to impress his own friends with his “superior” culture and refined way of speaking or, more often, a different naive young girl every single night.

His name was Leckie, although most of the times I heard the boys called him Lucky. Once he’d had a few drinks, he became even more insufferable and trips to their table less pleasant. It was exactly the case that night.

Fortunately for me, I’d been too busy with other tables and managed to avoid the marines one for the last 45 minutes, which made the scene I was about to witness all the more surprising.

The next time I got to his table, the blonde girl Leckie had been trying to charm, as well as all of his friends apparently, had left. For the first time ever he sat there alone, playing with the glass in front of him, almost absent-mindedly, lost in thought. His expression was incredibly sad.

I don't know what came over me at that moment when I decided to take a seat in the chair in front of him, placing the tray on the table. “Didn't work out?” I asked gently, surprising even myself in the process.

The only words I’d ever spoken to him before that were snarky, sarcastic retorts whenever he made a pass on me.

“Not exactly” He tilted his head slightly with a sad smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “Have you come to do some gloating?”

“What, a girl can't do anything nice around here?” I rolled my eyes, making him chuckle despite himself.

“Well, that's certainly nice of you” he raised his glass in my direction and drank the remaining sip of beer in one go.

I looked at him curiously. This was certainly a side of him I had never seen. The cocky playboy attitude all but gone, making me doubt it was ever there in the first place.

“Why do you do that?” I hesitated before adding “that's not really you, right?”

He perfectly understood what I meant without me having to explain.

“Being in the army is different than anything else I've ever experienced. You find yourself part of a new family, forced to play a new role and it almost feels like you can start anew.”

There was weight to every word that came out of his mouth now, each of them carefully measured.

“And I guess I just wanted to…try and be someone else for a little while” He finished with that sad crooked smile again.

I fell silent, taken aback by the unexpected display of vulnerability. Then with some trepidation I approached and placed my hand on his own that was resting on the table, near the glass. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this but it turns out that your actual self is not half bad, Robert Leckie”

He looked up at me, both of his eyebrows raised. His deep blue eyes sparkled from the glow of alcohol, but they were sharp as always. “You know my name?”

I scoffed. “Not willingly, but yes”

“If only I'd known that all I had to do to get your attention was to be myself, it would have saved me a lot of trouble.” He gave me a quick sideway glance, then looked down. “Unfortunately, it usually works the opposite way.”

I laughed, immediately dismissing his words in my mind as nothing but a joke. “You're definitely drunk”

“Not that drunk” He smirked and I finally recognized the cheekiness I'd gotten so used to over the past few weeks.

“You were doing so well, Yank” I sighed. “Don't ruin it now”

“I never did learn how to quit while you're ahead…” He teased.

“Well, for your own sake, you better start learning” I shot back.

With that I stood up, collecting all the empty glasses that were left on the table and placing them on the tray that I had abandoned earlier.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Y/N”

“Can I see you again, Y/N?” The question stopped me right before I could walk away and made me turn around.

“Of course you can see me again, you've been coming to my bar every single night”

He shot me an eloquent look, but I could see he was nervous. “That's not what I'm asking”

I allowed myself to let out a smile: “Maybe, if you’re lucky”

His smile grew into a big grin. “I’m always lucky”

[sageandred]

The way Shameless fans have always argued in favor of their faves and against their least favorite characters to be worse than them is so funny. You can't judge Shameless characters too hard on a moral basis. You just can't. The show is called: Shameless.

°

Mandy- tried to s.a. multiple times, but grew up with learned behavior around an abusive dad who s.a.'d her himself (she walks around with no pants for god's sake; that's sad because she doesn't even realize it's not normal); oh and almost forgot - ran over Karen, but had history of repressed anger problems, learned fight not flight retaliation responses, and jealousy after repeatedly being treated bad (and not just by Karen)

Fiona- made 10000+ mistakes, including almost killing her brother, but never had a childhood and was forced into parenting while never learning how to parent in the first place

Lip- #1 screw up for his own life (I guess it's his life, you can't blame him), because he hates himself and is self destructive also due to his upbringing; was angry and rude more times than I can count to Fiona, but he is angry due to his exact same feelings towards his (non) childhood

Ian- what did Ian even do...? cheat on anyone but Mickey? (edit: dang he did that too - but it doesn't count) ...be too serious for seasons 6-9?? (< jk, i love him; that's taken from real critiques.) be transphobic? (I hate, but it's valid he's uneducated - my memory is bad i don't even think he was transphobic just clueless on some things)

Carl- be the worst runner when trying to escape cops? a messed up child taxidermist?

Debbie- We can hate Debbie, jk! I do wish her storyline unfolded better, because it totally makes sense the need to grow up too fast and try to emulate Fiona (that's all I'll give her 'cause I understand, but I'm not trying to write an essay on my complicated feelings on how they could've portrayed Debbie's character arc better)

Recognize their shameless flaws. And have your faves, I agree. But to compare them and be on your moral high ground about why fans should recognize more individual actions as bad is void at the start of the argument.

Because Monica VS Frank - They both suck as much as I can recognize they both are sad, vulnerable, childlike lost causes at the core. But people always argue Monica is worse. Why, because she left? Honestly, good she spared them as opposed to mooched off and sat around doing nothing. Frank is funny (which I think is the only reason people like him more), but they're both the same level of shitty parents. WHICH IS THE POINT...to understand the kid/y.a. characters' bad trauma responses

°

"I think we as a society, should acknowledge how [blank] shouldn't be praised." That's like saying: "the Joker is villianous, guys did you know??" like why am I getting recommended arguments for why certain characters suck more?! In the year 2024, for god's sake?!?

Terry Milkovich, tho, is GOD AWFUL; hate on him all you want. x

[thedawningofthehour]

hey. :) you mentioned Draxum's dad? I don't think he's really been mentioned much, do you have anything for his character or nah? I kind of assumed his father wasn't really in his life.

Hey! Draxum's father was actually around for a lot more than his mom was, he was just way closer to his mother than his father. I've been estimating Draxum's year of birth to be somewhere between 1200-1400, and he was in his twenties when his settlement was attacked and they were forced to flee, so he was still really young in Yokai terms when his mother passed. His father on the other hand actually died fairly recently, during the third round of bubonic plague. I think I mentioned it in Book 2? I feel like it was during the library arc, that sounds correct.

If you didn't know there was a third bubonic plague, (or even a first one-the Black Death was the second) no shade man I didn't learn about it until I was an adult and obsessed with Dishonored. There were outbreaks everywhere, but mostly in China and India, with the vast majority of deaths occurring in the British Raj. Because...you know, the British Raj.

In my canon, the remaining Yokai in India (like the Copperspoons, who don't have regionally accurate names because I'm a moron and adapted OCs I had for another fic and completely overlooked the fact that they shouldn't have white people names) emigrated to the Hidden City in the second half of the 19th century when the plague started rearing its head. Many had already left due to colonizer bullshit, but pretty much everyone who was still there chose to throw in the towel then.

Draxum's father was a doctor, sort of where Drax got that from. At this point he was really goddamn old, he was one of those guys everyone is telling to retire, for fuck's sake man, you've been here forever go enjoy your golden years. (he was probably sassy about it, like "I WOULD enjoy retirement more if I had some GRANDKIDS to love and spoil, if only my children would find some nice men to settle down with!) He was in the process of begrudgingly offloading his work and training his replacements when their safety precautions failed and a Yokai coming from India accidentally brought the plague with them.

Yokai don't get as sick as humans, and generally they don't spread sickness as easily either but that didn't really matter here because Yersinia pestis doesn't spread from person-to-person so much as it does through fleas. Though the Yokai were fairly clean by that point (part of the reason why bubonic plague isn't much of an issue now is because of modern sanitation) and had better medicine and pandemic protocols than the humans did at the time. So it wasn't a bad outbreak, but it was an outbreak.

Draxum's dad insisted on treating the sick, even though he was about to retire and absolutely had put his dues in. As luck would have it, he contracted the disease. It caused a seizure, which caused a blood vessel in his brain to burst, which turned him into a vegetable.

It's the one family member whose death he can blame humans the least for-his father shouldn't have been around the infected himself, he should have known better and left it to the younger apprentices who were in better shape to fight an infection off. Even then, he probably would have survived if not for the exact sequence of events that led to him being pronounced brain-dead. But when you get to the root of it, the outbreaks in India were mostly caused by human ignorance and disregard for life. And the Yokai weren't fleeing the plague itself-they were fleeing the humans, knowing what humans tended to do in times of plague and famine. So in a way, he still blames humans for his father's death, though not to the extent he blames them for his mother's and sister's deaths.

I imagine his father as being more...quietly mischievous? Like, his wife was chaotic and insane, but he enjoyed that. He'd have his own little jokes and pull silly, harmless little tricks on people. Kind of like a fairy or something. Like, outwardly he was very calm and collected, (I always imagine him with bottlecap glasses) but he'd be the grandparent who constantly snuck Gale little treats with a devious smile and a "your father never has to know." Verses Draxum's mother who'd give the kid candy while making direct eye contact with her son, daring him to say something to her.

They'd literally be the grandparents you were always so excited to go visit and then by the end of the weekend you're ready to go back home. You love them dearly and you had a blast, but they've just exhausted you.

[astroyongie]

Astroyongie Podcast S1 EP2

Notes done by @killuachii<3

Censored Version

i have a question about felix and his new person in your reading you said this person isn't usually what he would go for and now i wonder what kind of person this is 

person has very feminine energy, def a girl, not much information, relationship seems very recent, there was something fishy → forcing himself

is she an idol?

Doesn’t think so, just a friend he had 

Who is Hyunjins crush? Or is that something you will never tell us? 

Kfc

Burger king 

yongie, will you give some tea about ateez member? (Anyone)  

jongho not with gf

seonghwa very laid back rn 

any tea ab txt? 

Yeonjun still with his girl, some issues 

beomgyu in complicated situation, mental problems 

kai: relationship

taehyun: balancing

not much on soobin

Can i ask why seonghwa & wooyoung get bad reputations among others idol? 

Doesn’t remember seonghwa having bad reputation, is just hot tempered 

wooyoung very open which can cause issues due to the culture in Korea

who is yeonjun gf?

Someone from Cencored

Oh! I wanted to ask about your Pendulum! I also have one and I kinda know how to use it, but how do you go about asking about idols partners? Also sometimes I feel more connected and sometimes I just feel nothing... Any tips? 

Can’t share, isn’t comfortable with sharing how she practices. if you want to feel more connected: pendulums have a personality of their own, doesn’t work by itself, spiritual guides and energy will connect and use it to communicate which can sometimes be dangerous, need to practice in a protected circle, set a safe space, always do pendulum in same space, yongie personally doesn’t have a close connection with pendulum bc it is very hard to manage energetically, sometimes pendulum is going its own way 

Is Sunghoon enhypen still with his 'Taurus' gf? Thx 

Yes

Can u give us some clue more about hyunjin's new partner? 

No information, but physical connection, wants to move on from kfc 

What did you mean in your readings with felix needs to be protected from the reality of his life with his idol image? 

One part can not speak on, he is someone who is very easy to influence, a lot of things impact him a lot, he is trying to protect his image → things of his past could have a huge impact 

do u have any tips on how to detach from a person? i find it quite hard to let go of ppl good or bad cause i feel weirdly “attached” :3 

will depend on type of relationship, it is not easy, not something you can do in a month or two, a lot of dedication, process relationship (What is the reason? Why do you want to detach? Etc.)  THERAPY

Why Jungkook, lee know & eunwoo suddenly hang out? I mean lee know with 97 liner 

doesn’t have an answer 

how to deal with disorganized attachment (leaning avoidant)  

therapy, can be very impactful on relationship with others, problem with connection

what CAN it mean when someone like is extremely affectionate and then avoidant, is it confusion? or insecurity what things could it be? 

Ambivalent attachment

Did you learn about numerology or matrix destiny too? 

Yongie’s not a maths person 

is it possible to read someone's energy through a screen? 

Yes, most goes from eyes, if they can see them it’s easier to read someone 

Yongie, can i heal my phobia? I have thalassaphobia (scared of ocean) even when i only saw that on the screen i feel terrified. And based on my parents i never went to the sea before, so is it possible that the phobia come from my past life? 

Fear and phobia have different meanings, phobia → impact well-being, should go to therapy, past lifes: phobia comes from something, if there is nothing in your surrounding that could explain your fear (like a person being scared of that exact thing) or it can be transgenerational. if not, then it could be connected to past life 

How do you interact with angels or start deities with them? 

Two of them very different, they start the interaction, angels: interaction are kind of limited, prayers to them every night and set candles in their honor. deity: praising and giving offerings, self love, energy as offering, offerings and not ask for something in return, deities aren’t there to serve they need to be served, lighting candles to communicate

what is your opinion on if a christian prays to someone else than god? do you think it's a bad thing? 

Depends on the person’s beliefs, personally doesn’t think it’s a problem, should stay in the christian pantheon 

how does connecting with passed ones work? i have heard of it before can u share a bit about purpose and how it works? 

Yongie doesn’t contact dead people, but a lot of cultures do, contacting them directly → you’ll never know if it is really that person, if you ant to praise/honour them → altars and such 

I meditate every day before sleeping. During deep meditation, I sometimes hear strange sounds like eerie laughter, whispers in languages I don't understand, or tinkling sounds like a cold bowl. Sometimes, I find it difficult to differentiate whether these are sounds from my imagination or actual messages or sounds from astral beings. What do you think? 

Shouldn’t meditate before sleeping since you are in a vulnerable state while sleeping

whats your opinion on haunted dolls? 

Doesn’t really believe it, one of her phobias, haunted object could be charms or could be objects that trapped energy of the previous owner

Could someone reincarnates as an animal? Or only and always human? 

Yes, they can, an animal can also be reincarnated as a human, has done a reading where someone’s cat was their great grandma 

i have heard of something called egg belief??? they believe that bad ppl will be reincarnated as the victim of the actions they did to other ppl but i personally dont believe it because it would like mean that victims are at fault if something happens to them 

tricky, karmic chains could be connected 

Do dreams tell us something we need to do or is it feelings we already have?

no, dreams are made up from your mind and tries to process something. they do have meanings but its the inner domain

what are like consequences ? when for example youtubers make content with ouija boards 

most things are made up/don’t do it seriously

what is a spiritual awakening, how does it happen? 

When someone starts being more in tune with spirituality, could be due to almost death experience or traumatic experience

what happens to us after we pass (after ur beliefs) im curious 

when we die our souls leave our body to get into the veil which is the bridge between the spiritual and the physical world. Then we go to the spiritual realm for a while eventually reincarnation

But how to break the karmic chains yongie? 

Difficult to answer, depend on what karmic chains you have 

i feel u once addressed this on ur blog but can it happen energies dont immediately reach the veil what happens exactly? 

They do because they have to, since they can't be on the physical world

Yongie, can cannabis, meth, and other psychedelic plants use trigger to awakening/ enlightenment 

personally doesn’t think it triggers it

can energies after they pass and leaves physical body, cant they stay as a spirit on earth or something like that? 

Hopes they just go to the realm, bc people who are stuck needs to relive death constantly which isnt fun

if yongie had to pick 3 idols to smoke with

jaehyun, wooyoung, chanyeol (to see how he acts) or woodz („maybe if he is high he would want me“)

so if a dead person appears in my dream it means something? 

Yes 

yongie how do i manifest a toji fushiguro build man 

camp outside a gym (and get Sukuna's number for me)

is hyunjin dating anyone from ateez/sunwoo?

nope

[hiding-under-the-willow]

do you have any songs that you associate with lahof characters?

There is!! A whole playlist of them!!! And it is the only thing I listened to for a good six months straight last year! And also all day today 😅

[Said playlist for your enjoyment if you haven't already seen it]

I love a good opportunity to do music analysis for characters though so I'm gonna. do that under the cut because it'll probably end up super long (update: it did)

Yippee let's go!!

Okay there was a brief moment here where I thought about going through every song on this playlist one by one and analyzing it and then I realized there were. 56 of them. so instead I'm going to go through some of my faves, probably at least two or three for each main character (and also probably 1 million for helsknight let's be real), and if you ever wanna know about any other specifics songs feel free to ask about them bc I will be thrilled to talk about it. obviously.

Um uh Beef first main character treatment

#1 for him is so Bird Song by Florence + The Machine

And #2 is The Wind by The Front Bottoms

Beef (especially in the first half of the fic before he gets to go on his whole restorative justice arc learning to make amends for harm and learning to forgive himself even if the person he hurt (Hels) can't forgive him) is a man wracked by guilt that refuses to face it, who is terrified of what it means to face his past with the cloning machine, the actions he took with it, the harm those actions caused, and the way it changed him. Hels calls him a coward, says that he's avoiding him not because he's scared of Hels, but because he's scared of what it means to acknowledge him, of letting the other Hermits in on what it is he did. And he's not wrong!! There is a sense, especially throughout chapter three, that Beef is terrified of what it means to have been the one who caused this, and some of it is just his own experience with the cloning machine having done something to him, made him scared of ever acknowledging the fact that it changed him, but a lot of it is blame avoidance, a fear of a lack of forgiveness, if not from Hels than from the other Hermits. It's the reason for his self-imposed isolation in that first half of the fic. Both of these songs are just. so that. That terror of discovery, of being forced to answer hard questions, one's you can't face, don't have the answers to.

And also this line from The Wind

Makes me insane in the context of Beef's whole relationship with Hels and Wels throughout the fic. Beef being Hels' sworn first kill, all of them running circles around each other to avoid a possible permadeath. Wels repeatedly putting himself in a position to take Beefs place as that first death. ough.

I also have Excuse by C418 on there. right off the minecraft soundtrack. nothing much I can say for that one except that it's a song that sounds exactly like its title. It is all quiet, solemn desperation and guilt, and obviously that is also very lahof Beef coded for the exact same reasons as the above songs. It sounds exactly like a desperate and cowardly excuse feels to hear.

#1 for Wels is definitely Rule #31 - Calamity by Fish in a Bird Cage. I mean. Come on

Tell me this isn't exactly the type of way Wels is thinking about Hels, all fear of the reflection of the self, the dehumanization, acknowledgment of emotion only so far as in rage, or accusations of insanity, unreasonable and dangerous. And "Who scraped through the dirt to survive a calamity" makes me feel normal things about Hels in the context of his struggle to cope with the whole thing with the cloning machine and his struggle to live following Wels around from server to server.

And also like

Tell me this isn't X and Hypno both trying to convince Wels to step back and take care of himself, accept help before he gets himself or someone else seriously hurt. "You might not prepare in time for the speed of consequence to plow into your radiant guise." As X's warning to Wels about putting himself in a position to possibly face permadeath, and also as a backhanded reference to Wels' knighthood being just as much performance as Hels' is, Wels' performative chivalry vs Hels performative cruelty. Normal. Normal Emotions.

I'm Not Falling Asleep by Andy Shauf is also very Welsknight to me if I'm being honest

Something about Wels hurting himself in his refusal to ever backdown against Hels, let someone else help him, the sleep loss, a general lack of safety in your own skin, own mind, always doing something, sifting through dozens of hand drawn maps in an exhausted haze after days on end in the nether. The tension between that and the server full of loving friends who would drop everything at a moment's notice to sit there with him, help him sort through it.

Also thinking about this made me add Hometown Hero by Andy Shauf to this playlist and I'm not gonna get into it right now cause. the thoughts are literally just forming but. ough. normal about him. totally.

HELS SONG #1!!!! On another Ocean (January/June) by Fleet Foxes. This song. feels like it was specially crafted for LaHoF Helsknight I don't even know if I can fully get into it like.

Him trying to make himself small and unintrusive across the different hermitcraft servers after he realized he couldn't get through to Wels through performance, hiding in the nether, staying out of the way as much as he can manage, stuck with this sinking weight, the reminder of his left behind home

Him never quite being what the Hermits', especially what Wels, expects of him. Timid and non-committal when Wels expects a villain, cruel and vindictive when he expects a mere bully or an easy fight. Being a lurking stalking presence, eyes you can feel on the back of your neck to Beef throughout the first half of the fic.

Do you (Beef) think you're above this? That somehow you get to never face the consequences of your actions? That someone will magically rescue you from yourself?

If only there was a way to reach you (Wels), a way to make you change, realize the falsity of your knightly persona, make you face the harm you caused without giving you some kind of justification for pursuing more of it

If I am half as strong as I believe myself to be this won't be the end for me. I will not be denied my revenge.

Oh but isn't it a tragedy that any of this is happening at all, that any of us should have to die or to kill because of it.

You uh. You get it. I. am so normal about this song.

I'm not going to go on my Answering the Phone by The Mountain Goats rant because I. Made a whole lyric comic about it already. But you get it. Helsknight song.

Cry for Judas by The Mountain Goats is in there for extremely similar reasons.

Self explanatory. Hels performative cruelty. Hurting himself by hurting others. Thinking of himself as in some way less than the Hermits, broken compared to them, both literally in his code being broken and the ways that affects him and figuratively in the way he feels unsocialized and almost less than human compared to them.

Feeling unable to go back once he has escalated things, being unable to reason with Wels and therefore deciding to just keep going, match the image Wels has of him, feeling like there is no one in his corner who could stop this for him.

Continued similar theming, feeling both like this is something the hermits, and Wels and Beef specifically earned for what they've done to him, but also like in pursuing his revenge he is some great evil, however performative that evil is, like he has debased himself in some way.

Just. Owchies. Banger song I heard it live in December and thought about Helsknight the whole time.

Not Joking by The Front Bottoms is also one of his songs to me. All about that performance, born from his life as a professional fighter, feeling trapped in the structure of roles and acting, never quite his own person, a piece of someone else's story, someone else's image of him.

You get it it's right there I don't have to go line by line for this one.

For last here's some general stuff :]

Tag! by Scarves is a bit of a reach but it feels very much like XB and I/skall in those early chapters trying to navigate Beef's paranoia and avoidance. just.

I'm always thinking about the world in which either Beef broke down a little earlier or was a little braver and someone else got to realize what was happening before everything went so incredibly wrong. Everyone is trying to help Beef and Wels at every turn and the two bastards can't look past their own guilt long enough to see that any one of their friends would in fact 'follow them anywhere' if it meant keeping them and the rest of the server safe.

Émigré by Alela Diane doesn't have much to do with the actual story aside from some shared themes of leaving home, death/violence, and collective struggles, but it is and always will be the theme song for chapter three. I listened to it the whole time I was writing that chapter and it has the perfect dark building tension for that chapter.

On a similar note. Would you uh. would you like to know the song I had on repeat the entire time I was writing the chapter with the fire? Because it was the Cheers theme, Where Everybody Knows Your Name by Gary Portnoy. Bad soundtrack for that chapter. Absolutely a Helsknight song to me. I mean.

Please let that man go home (I say as if I didn't write him into this situation and I don't decide whether or not he goes home at the end).

There are a lot of songs in there that tend to kind of lean towards one particular character in my head but that could also apply to. all three of them. Cause all of them are mirroring each other in various ways throughout the fic (struggles with personal responsibility, guilt, self harm and punishment vs forgivness of both the self and the other, isolation and miscommunication, masks and assigned roles, etc)

Moonsickness by Penelope Scott is definitely one of those for me

Very much that struggle with duty/responsibility and harm caused by taking on impossible struggles by yourself, self loathing, etc.

Peace by Shayfer James is very similar to me in that regard

All guilt and shame and the belief that you deserve what's happening to you in some way, do not deserve to step away from it.

Okay I'm gonna go eat dinner now I've been here for like three hours now but. OUGH. normal about them and the story and. music. in general.

[cookiecomics]

⭐⭐⭐ give me that directors infodump 👀

Hehehe I'll give my director's cut on Futaba's awakening!

So I am super in love with the day Persona 3 did their second awakenings. The idea that events in the characters' lives independent from the protagonist caused a shift in their psyche that caused them to develop as characters was appealing for me. Without Ren as the driving force behind the change, they had to change on their own which led me to try to brainstorm what events might push different characters to the brink.

For Makoto it was having everything about the police and justice stripped away with both her own actions, the actions of her sister and how it all culminated into getting a full view of what the justice system she craved to belong to can do to those with no power to do otherwise, it changed her in a way that she can't come. back from. That in my eyes, was the tamest of the bunch.

Then we had Akechi, someone who, at every turn, refused to free himself from his own mental shackles of the situation he's been in. How he viewed his mother and her complicated life. How he viewed himself in relation to his father and in relation to the world. He never really went after what HE wanted, only what he thought was what he was destined to do. To him, finding meaning in life meant finding some sort of balance that would be worth the cost of his mother's life. Bringing down Shido was that for him. A monster through and through and just like the stories and legends that Akechi is no doubt familiar with, that kind of karmic justice may not be "worth" his mother's life, but it's worth his. It's penance for what she had to go through. He wasn't living for himself, not really.

There's a saying in Naruto that really spoke to how I developed Ren and Goro in this fic. Sasuke said Naruto couldn't understand him because he's been alone from the very beginning vs Sasuke who lost everyone he loved. Those are two very different types of loneliness and two different sources of anger that feel like they should be the same, but they aren't. Fundamentally, they aren't, and that's why Ren was unable to reach him in that way.

From the very beginning, I knew Futaba and Cog Akechi were going to be the mechanism for Goro's second awakening. Goro's ultimate villain after all isn't fully Shido, it's always been himself. His perception of himself, his past, his inability to let himself have that love and adoration he craves now that he's found it. The person who could reach him was the only other person who would understand his very unique brand of pain in Futaba.

Being told it wasn't his fault his mom killed herself from someone that in his eyes, has every reason to despise him, to curse him, to see him fall, meant something to him. It reached him in a way that Ren couldn't in this side of the fic because Goro never tried to kill Ren. Not really, but he did ruin Futaba's life in the exact same way that his was ruined. That's why Futaba was the only one who could reach him.

She knows what it's like to believe and be told by others that your life was a burden on your mother, that self hatred, that hatred for the world at large, that need and desire for some sort of justice for your mother. Futaba gets all of that and she says as much in the game. She doesn't have to forgive him, but she can give him what he needs, and show him first hand, in action, that love is complicated.

As for Futaba's awakening, considering the deadly sin being explored in the palace was pride, neither Ren nor Goro was wholly equipped to deal with the palace at large.

They both wanted different things and were reluctant in their own ways to compromise the whole way through. It wasn't until both of them learned that they needed other people- that they could get saved by the person whose shown the most humility in the story thus far, Futaba.

Humility can be defined as having a realistic view of yourself and self-importance. Goro and Ren both put their goals above others, repeatedly.

Futaba is one of the few people in the story who never tries to sacrifice those around her for herself. When given the option to abandon Makoto to save herself when Goro takes everyone hostage, she rejects that. When given the choice to leave Goro to Cog Goro, she rejects that too. She stands up for Ren against the phantom thieves, and even against Sojiro. Time and time again, Futaba shows that humility when everyone else especially Ryuji, Ann and Makoto often fall to their own instances of pride or anger.

And most importantly, as much as Ren's whole life was turned upside down by Shido. The person who suffered the most at the hands of Shido were Akechi and Futaba and Futaba deserved to smack her dad (lol at my fav hc) in his stupid bald head as vengeance for her mom. I was disappointed the game didn't give her a moment like that, but alas, condense storytelling.

Throughout the story, Futaba constantly desires to have the power to save those around her. With her awakening and her turning the tide against the big bad, she does just that.

[dgknightblue]

So there is this AU swimming in my head where RVB characters are from different time periods and gets dumped into some place and are forced to interact.

Im not too sure on exact time periods for them, but an approximation of them.

But who is from the future, Wild West, and stuff?

Carolina and Church are future people trying to do something I don’t know what and accidentally pulled people at first before doing it on purpose kind of.

The people they pull they don’t get to choose who fits into what they are looking for.

But things….

All of our lovely sims are in the cast with a few of the freelancers.

Simmons is a trans man stuck in an era that doesn’t support him. He gets pulled after he finally runs a way. Well he was born with one leg and he kind of got hurt so he was bleeding pretty bad. Yeah he was a mess on the floor. He was scared and begged them not to hurt him or drag him back to his father.

I’m thinking he’s a lower aristocrat’s only child that was out of wedlock during a time of arranged marriages and stuff. He has his mother’s knife that his cousin gave him before going overseas for war. His father tells him that he’ll be marrying some merchant’s son named Gene or whatever and be grateful. He hates it and he feels bad being called his name. He likes his grandfathers name more.

Blugh what an xss!

Once he finally calms down and gets patched up, he accepts what’s happening and loves all the mechanisms he’s never seen before.

They all catch on to what he doesn’t see and don’t know what to do. Except Sarge, Kai, Donut, and Grif.

Sarge boasts about doing his own top surgery before growing a beard and enlisting into the army. Simmons finds himself drawn in and in full admiration for some reason.

Kai has Grif’s support, they would absolutely know how to get him accept little things to get him warmed up to the idea of him being him.

Donut is full of support and advice and is very friendly!

They get Simmons out of his shell enough to see his eyes sparkle some times. Sarge makes Grif Simmons’ personal carrier since they don’t have access to a wheelchair.

Grif is just glad Kai and Donut convinced Simmons it was okay to wear pants. He’d trip over that long xss dress that didn’t belong any where near Simmons.

So they end up spending a lot of time together and even sneak off. I can imagine them in the shallows of water at night talking and Grif teaching Simmons how to swim.

They get real close and Tucker and Kai and Donut try to spy on them sometimes. They individually have to cover each others mouths so they don’t blow their cover just to scream , “JUST FXCKING KISS ALREADY!!! DXMN IT!!!”.

Eventually as other things happen Sarge is more than happy to reintroduce Simmons to the group.

When Simmons gets a prosthetic leg, he gets so excited and runs up to Grif and pulls him a way to do what they usually do but Grif doesn’t have to care him any more!

He can still carry him once in a while though <3

On to other people….

Wash gets trauma sometime before getting pulled but I’m not sure which era and what gives him PTSD.

I know I said I was moving on to other people, I want to say this:

Simmons can cook really good, his father thought that was beneath an elite individual and banned him from going to the kitchen ever again.

Tricks and skills he’s learned:

Piano, violin, proper etiquette, dancing, knife things from his cousin, cooking from his mom, sewing from his grandmother, poison and plants from his grandfather.

The only one that has a problem with Simmons is his father and literally has no reason or excuse to be. Too bad Simmons got stuck with his dad being the only family member he had beside his grandmother. She refuses to die simply for Simmons sake until she gets murdered passes from natural causes.

She was actually the only reason he stayed after his cousin was considered KIA. Never found the body though. It’s been years, where did you go?

Simmons finds a book no one listens to him explain. (It’s the manual, for what? Something he has control of now :3) They are in for a surprise :3

Simmons is his cousin’s last name.

Anyways, I don’t want to separate Grif from pizza so he is in time period where there is pizza even if it’s one of the early versions that’s actually called pizza.

He found a thing called Oreos and worship them.

He also wants to kiss Simmons so fxcking bad, but doesn’t see all the signs. Simmons has no personal space with Grif and only Grif. Kai sticks to Simmons side at first to help him out and gradually slides farther a way to help her brother.

One night they find alcohol and they all talk.

They learn Simmons has more unwanted experience than wanted and that the only one that is considered experience (because it was wanted) is Simmons eating a girl out. Simmons is Bi.

Simmons invites Wash to the virgin club along with Doc. Wash declines and Doc agrees.

Tucker has Junior beside him sleeping. His baby boy <3

Carolina and Church still trying to figure out some bull crxp with the unground lab on the island they are on. Some are not helping like they think they are. Caboose.

The library in the villa is where Simmons is during the day when he isn’t with Grif.

Caboose, Donut, Lopez are sometimes making sandcastles competing with Tucker, Junior, Kai.

Grif is in the kitchen making food for Simmons and him when Simmons is in the library.

Wash is training with Sarge and whoever else from the freelancer group I haven’t a clue.

When Locus and Flex show up as antagonists somehow Locus enters the fold. He tries not to get too close to Simmons, Kai, or Junior for reasons.

Donut definitely didn’t throw a water balloon at Grif’s head from across the beach for revenge and spite.

Doc and Dr. Grey are having lessons on being a good doctor when she shows up.

Eventually things pick up when Temple and his (small) group + Zealot soldiers do the thing that start the problems that got them all stuck together.

When things get bad, Simmons realized what the book he found goes to. He summons Tex kind of and he’s under her protection now. He is also learning coding and glad he doesn’t have to go back to his era. He doesn’t exist until now after all.

Learning his cousin becomes the kings advisor was a shock, but he’s glad they are okay.

I didn’t write for everyone because I got stuck at Grimmons moments <3