#clinging to love and meaning no matter his own inherent lack of feeling!!!! doing what he wants n what feels RIGHT

[dnangelic]

anytime i think about panelset i cry btw

[bookofmirth]

ok so this might come off as a bit rambly so please bear with me lol

i've noticed that the acotar fandom has this incessant need to be right when it comes to canon and it really sucks out the funness of fandom. shipping is supposed to be fun but when it comes to this fandom, it's almost like a competition to see who will be more right when the books come out. engaging with theories/predictions about characters and the plot is supposed to be exciting but when it comes to this fandom, some of the theories/predictions are problematic at worst and nonsensical at best. like how can you say with your full chest that you're so confident about where the series is heading in the future because of this or that theory when you're stuck in the past and refuse to see what all of the text is telling you in the present. it doesn't make sense. the selective reading is so strong that it has me looking sideways sometimes lol

i guess my question is why do you think the fandom is so divided when it comes to ships right now? i've seen people say this wasn't the case for feysand and nessian, so what's the difference here?

Oh boy Brielle, I have some thoughts on this. It's complex.

To be clear, I am not saying that this applies to literally every single person who ships a certain way. This is a commentary on the fandom as a whole, and there are always exceptions.

This got really, really long, so I'm putting it under the cut.

I think that one of the main draws of this series, and of sjm's writing in general, is her ships. I think that people get very, very attached to their ships.

I also think that sjm does NOT fully think through some of the choices that she makes when writing. See: the way that she takes from all these different cultures and mashes them together, which could be seen as disrespectful of their origin. She has retconned things, like Mor being queer and Lucien being Helion's son. I think that she thoroughly thinks about some of the aspects of her books, like Rhys's reaction to sleeping with Feyre for the first time, but then really half-asses other aspects of her books, like Mor coming out.

Then, we have your good old misogyny and homophobia - people in the fandom don't like Mor because she hurt the poor bat boy's feelings when she didn't sleep with him, and they don't have a mating bond, but she's never really told Azriel "no", and so every single moment of pain that Azriel has felt in 500 years is Morrigan's fault. And Mor's experience as a closeted queer woman who feels unsafe around the people she should trust the most is completely disregarded by the fandom.

Finally, I think that a combination of these factors has created the monster we know as e*riel, and that the fandom is perpetuating its own mythology.

What all of this comes down to, and the real reason I think that the fandom is behaving this way right now, is that e*riel is dead. It's never happened, it's not going to happen, but because we don't have the clear closure we got with moriel (where people would be accused of homophobia for continuing to ship it), people are still trying to figure out any possible way for e*riel to become canon, though every single sign points to it being a non-issue.

This weird thing where people have to be "right" all the time, and the way that "right" = "canon" is a relatively new development. It's as if everyone in this fandom forgot that they are in fact in a fandom, which inherently diverges from canon.

However, I think that the need to cling to canon is because the alternative would be to admit defeat and say "well, even if it doesn't happen I will still ship e*riel, it's fine, I will live with that." But they don't want to do that. In response, they look at canon so hard that they are reading the white space between the letters to create their theories, which as you noted as largely nonsensical and often fail to take into account who the characters are as individuals, how they are connected to other characters, and why it would or wouldn't be appropriate for them to be involved in various plots.

People could say, as eluciens having been saying since day one, "I really ship this thing but I can see that it might not become canon". But they don't say that. They literally refuse to see any other possibility than e*riel becoming canon.

You pointed out that people are stuck in the past - absolutely. The number of reimaginings I have seen of scenes where either Azriel or Elain has literally zero to do with the scene, but people try to shove one or both of them in there. And this from books ago. People are stuck on the Truthteller scene, and refuse to acknowledge that neither of them have acted on their feelings, whatever those might be, for years. And they ignore the fact that once Elain and Az do act, it goes horribly wrong.

Here are the facts as of right now:

ACOSF is the most recent book. In that book, sans extra chapter, those two had no interaction other than looking at one another.

If we include his POV, then he said it was wrong, we got confirmation that nothing has ever happened between them, she returned his necklace. Elain was aroused, but that does not mean she was ready to even have sex. "Yes" to a kiss is not "yes" to every single sexual act Az can think of. They parted on awkward, bad terms after a scene in which it seemed like they were about to start something. Yikes. Unlike Wings and Embers, they did not end that chapter still thinking of one another. After they part ways, the omniscient narrator does not mention Elain, or Az thinking about Elain, again.

His POV occurs months before the end of the book. They do not interact after that.

Elain has a mate she has not rejected, nor accepted.

So anyway, your question was why are people like this. lol. I think the fandom created a monster, and that monster is clinging to life. It can't accept the idea of morphing into a non-canon ship, though it never was canon in the first place. It had just convinced itself that it was.

There are other aspects to this, that have to do with gwynriel and elucien.

Gwynriel is a new ship, it's almost guaranteed to happen, people are super excited to ship it and give Gwyn all their love. I'm sure they would rather create content for that ship than argue about whether or not it's going to be canon, but they are in constant defense mode. Some people honestly didn't like e*riel before because they don't like Elain, or because they don't like Azriel, and those are valid reasons for not liking it. Why people ship gwynriel doesn't matter. The tone of the discussion is, unfortunately, being shaped elsewhere, which I will mention below.

Elucien is an old ship, older than e*riel. I can speak from this perspective - personally, I have been holding my tongue for 4.5 years. I have been letting people live, and just talking about the things I like. Then when acosf came out, it was like I could finally say all the things I had been thinking about Azriel, because I now had proof that the things I thought about his character (and because of that, about e*riel) now had solid canon foundation. This is 4.5 years of me holding in a lot of shit and finally being able to say it. Sometimes yes, I might take joy in having been right.

I think that a few people are clinging to canon, and that sets the tone for the discourse in the fandom. Someone says "according to page whatever, blah blah blah" and people feel the need to respond, and then it turns into and "I'm right" contest instead of... a fandom... A lot of us like debating. To me, it's fun. But when Person A starts a conversation that's about canon and it actually ignores canon, it's hard to let that conversation go by and just keep creating whatever we want to create. Instead, we respond, and so the tone of the conversation is shaped by what Person A decided to say.

I also think that there is a lack of distinction between theories (what will happen in the future) and meta (analysis of what we have now).

There is also a lack of "I" statements. Opinions are being stated as fact.

idk if there is a way to make it better, other than to just go back to ignoring one another. This whole situation makes me want to throw out every single canon ship I like and create exclusively non-canon content, just for spite. Except I really like doing meta, and so I don't want to. I guess for my point, I'll just keep doing meta, keep creating different content, and keep reminding people that they aren't here to continue perpetuating canon, but to play with it.

[multimetaverse]

HSMTMTS 2x07 Review

The Field Trip was a campy ep that recaptured some of the charm of S1. Let’s dig in!

S2 has often struggled with taking itself too seriously but finally we got some good campy fun that reminded me of why S1 was so great. North High finally come into their own as villains. The Howie reveal was very well done, poor Kourtney inadvertently being the source of the leaks. I can’t tell if Antoine’s accent is bad on purpose or not but he was funny tonight when he dragged Big Red and I loved how forward he was with Ashlyn. It’s good that the trio of new characters finally feel like they’re part of a larger plot rather than being somewhat random additions to the cast.

Lily continues to act like she’s on Glee which is exactly the right energy for the role. The stick to the stuff you know line was great as was Seb’s bop to the top retort. North High clearly won the dance off though Gina being in a skirt limited her. Lily was doing it with bad intentions but she was absolutely right that the rose song was a dig at Ricky and didn’t fit the musical and that they’d be disqualified for performing it. Miss Jenn should have already known they’d be disqualified for adding it and Ricky should have already been able to tell that the song was about him. I think it’s more and more likely that Lily is the party crasher who Ricky re-evaluates in 2x12 and she could well be the unexpected face time call he gets in 2x10.  

It took 7 eps but we finally got an ep where Gina wasn’t upset over Ricky and thank god for that; the constant angst was sucking the life out of her plot. Of course, the reason she wasn’t going through it is because she was spending her time with EJ. I think this ep should put to rest any notion of Portwell just being platonic. Some people are still clinging to Matt’s interview where he refers to EJ and Gina as friends but he was clearly being misleading, even if nothing else happens it’s clear that Gina is not just a friend to EJ. I’ve seen people try and claim that Gina and EJ are like siblings with each other or that they’re practically related because Gina is roommates with EJ’s cousin as if there’s some sort of Westermarck effect by proxy but family members don’t pretend to be dating. 

The morning show was a lot of fun and the fake dating was cute. In contrast to the last time they fake dated back in 1x05 we can see how much happier and more comfortable they are with each other now. Notably they had EJ circle back to it well after it happened which led to Gina’s line about everything going back to normal which is a tell that everything has not gone back to normal for them. We can see EJ’s inherent goofiness shining through with the Risotto inside joke they now have. Much like Joshaya on GMW there are valid reasons to not go ahead with the ship, although Portwell doesn’t have the creepiness or borderline illegality of Joshaya, but the chemistry between the characters is real and can’t be ignored. 

Rini hurtles towards a breakup which could come as soon as next ep. Hard to tell if Ricky was in denial or just too stupid to understand the songs meaning. I'd prefer the former since a 17 year old would have to lack basic comprehension skills to not understand that the lyrics were a thinly veiled attack on him.

Nini trying to claim it was just a song at the end was disingenuous, she didn’t want Ricky to hear it for a reason. Her deciding to use her given name Nina for her music account is obviously meant to symbolize her independence from Ricky since he first gave her that nickname back in the first grade. However, it makes Ricky seem like some malign influence on her basically her entire life when it’s not like he forced her to go by Nini or prevented her from going back to Nina during the 10 odd years of their friendship/relationship together.

Miss Jenn and Zachie were fun but such a risk on his part to steal the mask, that’s trespassing and theft and a sure disqualification not to mention the very real risk of being criminally charged. The door is now closed on Jike and Jachie and the path for Jazarra is open.

Rouge Grand was funny but I hope this Redlyn angst isn’t dragged out too long. 

Mob song wasn’t good, the skrillex beat drop was not needed. Around You was good though. I just noticed that Tim abandoned, or was forced to by covid, his plan to have 3 songs per ep instead of 2 which is for the best I think. 

Looking Ahead:

Looks like next week will be a big one for Portwell and EJ in general. We get Gaston, career day with EJ’s dad, and then EJ hanging with Gina and helping her knit which is very domestic. I’d bet if you showed that clip of them knitting to someone who had never seen the show  they’d assume the character were dating. So it looks like Mr. Caswell has bought EJ’s way into Duke which is no longer EJ’s dream, if it ever was.

As I said last week, there’s a clear path forward for Portwell to get together in the season finale and next ep will probably take a big step towards making it happen. We have the chemistry, we’ve gotten moments between them, and we know EJ’s feelings, we just need Gina to recognize her budding feelings for EJ. I think Gina running into Jack at the airport in 2x09 will help her clear her head on what she wants and a part of that will be whether she still wants to try and be with Ricky or does she want to take a chance with EJ.

Obviously S3 will almost certainly leave Portwell in the dust in order to do Rina for a bit which will piss off a lot of fans but Tim’s screwed himself over here; there’s really no way that this series ends without a large chunk of the audience being bitterly disappointed over who’s endgame. Love triangles are a done to death trope but they typically involve some minor characters who can written off once the triangle is over, not main characters who have to be in every ep no matter what. 

More Redlyn angst next week as well as the wildcats being benched for a week due to trespassing at North High. 

A lot of people think that the show is having Nini get into songwriting because of Olivia’s success but the scripts would have been written before she released Driver’s License and shot to stardom. She’s also still contracted for two more seasons though she’d clearly leave before that if Disney would let her. 

The Rini treehouse scene could well be the breakup, gotta go my own way would fit well if that’s the case. This is another area where Tim needs to tread carefully. He can’t have Rini hate each other or avoid each other for the remaining 20 odd eps of the series but also can’t fully close the door on them since he’ll almost certainly have Rini be endgame as they graduate from East High at the end of S4. 

At this point it seems pretty unrealistic that East High would win the Menkies but this is a tv show so who knows. There’s one big song left that would work for some of the couples they, Something There, which could work for Portwell, Howell, or Rina so we’ll see if we get it.

2x07 marks the last of the clips we saw in the original S2 trailer so we’re largely flying blind now.

Until next week wildcats. 

[brownandblackpearls]

🍞 ℋunger (Asra x EDReader, ED.MC)

Memories of your disorder slowly return and take over once again. You fight it but one bad day reveals everything that you wanted to hide the most.

─── Asra x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── no smut

─── TW: Eating disorders and explicit ED behaviors, hurt/comfort, past abandonment, body dysmorphia, body image, confrontation, if you know you have triggers with ED, skip this one.

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

Some days are harder than others. You try your best.

But often, the best just isn’t enough to keep the spiraling at bay.

Asra knows your fondness for baked goods and chocolate well. Since you raved about that pumpkin bread a few months ago, he’s insisted on bringing you loaves every few weeks.

But as more your memories return to you, not all of them are pleasant. You begin to recall everything, including the unhealthy habits you used to have, and how people reacted to them before.

You remember what it was like when you were younger and larger than you are right now, you remember how you were treated by others who had so much to say about your body and how it fit into their thoughts, into this life. You remember things said in passing by family, friends, people who were supposed to care about you and love you.

Now? No matter how much you’ve tried to throw away those instances, those memories, the reawakened disorder clutches to the trauma like a lifeline, desperate to live through you. Desperate to starve and purge, and lessen and lessen you until there’s no more fear of fat.

But that’s just the thing. The fear is endless.

And worse, it’s a lie.

You know you’re not fat...And you know being fat means nothing on your inherent worth, your value, your beauty, your being. But it feels too difficult to put this beast down on your own.

As strong as you are, as strong as you’ve become, you wonder if some demons are stronger.

So you hide it.

You don’t want Asra to know what you’re thinking when he unwraps another chocolate truffle for you, you don’t want him to hear you try and fail to eliminate what you’ve eaten late in the night, you don’t want him to understand the things you tell yourself in the dark of your mind on your lowest days. You don’t want him to know that it took wiping your memory entirely for you to rid yourself of a condition that’s plagued you since before you knew him, that you’ve hidden since before you knew him.

Some days, you can eat.

Some days, you can’t.

Asra finally realizes on one of the days you weren’t careful enough.

He had brought more of that damned pumpkin bread and you’d already been silently agonizing over your physique that entire morning. Dress after dress, outfit after outfit, none of them seem to fit quite right enough to quell your inner critic.

“I’ve brought you some more from the market.” Asra is happy, holding his prize out to you.

You plaster a strained smile onto your face, thanking him, but you realize too late that it doesn’t shine through your eyes.

He sees.

“Are you...feeling alright?” He asks. “Is it the bread...? Do you not like it anymore?”

You grit your teeth behind your lips in anxiety, shaking your head a little too quickly.

“No! No, I love it. I’m just feeling a little...ill, that’s all!”

Asra frowns and lays the back of his hand to your head, brushing it down your temple and trailing his fingers down your tumbles of hair.

“You don’t feel warm…maybe it’s a chest cold? I’ll make you some tea, alright?”

You nod, feeling awful for lying to him.

Ashamed and embarrassed of yourself, you try to save the mood by plucking up the bread from his hands.

“I’ll save and eat this for later, when I’m feeling better!”

The statement does little to quell Asra’s concern over your ‘chest cold’, but he spares you a brief, appreciative smile before rushing to make the tea.

You climb the steps of the shop and head to your room to hide the bread away.

It’s almost tucked into your drawer when you smell the scent of it.

‘Not now...’

Your stomach gurgles, sick of fasting and excited to consume more carbs, more sugar, some kind of quick energy supply. All those days you hid not eating while Asra was away are beginning to catch up with you.

You grit your teeth and begin to count backwards, planning on drinking plenty of water to help kill the craving. But before you know it, the bread’s out of the drawer, in your hands, and being stuffed fervently into your mouth.

Without even really being present for the act, you ravenously chew the bread down. For a moment, the endorphins of finally getting fed surge through you and lift your spirits.

Halfway through the loaf, you feel the crash.

Hands full of bread, face covered in crumbs, your eyes well up and you begin to wail silently. Your body bends over under the weight of the grief, unchewed pastry falling out of your mouth and hitting the floor. You clutch your hands into tight fists of aggravation at yourself, crushing the pumpkin bread and trembling under the intense amount of anguish you feel right this second.

‘How could I have eaten that? Why did I eat that? What have I done?’

‘Now I’ll gain. I’ll be big again. No one will want me because I can’t control myself. They’ll make sure to let me know it, too.’

‘He won’t want me. Just like the rest of them. He’ll see how I really am.’

You cry and cry, unaware of Faust sliding out from under your bed. She tilts her head at you, swaying closer.

‘…!’

She cries your name.

Your mind is filled with fast thoughts that you can’t stop, and you don’t catch how Faust tries to reach you.

‘Sad? Hurt?’

When you don’t answer, Faust quickly slithers out the room, unseen.

Before long, fast footsteps ring out from the hall and you hear your door open.

‘Oh no...’

Asra calls your name and you hide further into yourself, clutching the floor.

He hates you, there is no doubt now, he is seeing the ugliness of your secret, the self-loathing, the ridiculousness of falling apart over blasted pumpkin bread, the lack of self-control, the fear, the shame, the shame, the shame—

Asra calls your name again, pulling you by the shoulders into him.

You try to keep your sobs in, your body wracking with the intensity of them. Your trembling grows to the point where it frightens even you.

As soft as water, Asra soothes a hand down your face, your neck, and calls to you as one would to an injured, trapped fawn.

“It’s alright. Let it out. Don’t hold on to all of that, let it out. I’ve got you, I’m here now.”

The sobs come then, long and loud and persistent. Years and years of pent up secrecy, of pain, of long body checks in mirrors and pools, of hidden and regurgitated food, of meanly whispered words and condemnations….all of it spills out of you.

When the waves of grief finally cease, Asra just holds you.

‘He is still here?’ you think. ‘Why?’

You wait for abandonment. You know how that feels. That is familiar. Judgement is familiar. Pain is familiar. And you just know it is coming.

Yet, nothing happens. Asra continues to hold you. No one says a word.

Long heavy silence rings in the air before he finally speaks.

“Faust said…that you…after you ate the bread…”

You nod stiffly into his chest, sniffling.

“I don’t eat.” You say plainly. “I never eat. At least, I try. But then I do and I ruin myself.”

Asra cradles your face, peering at you.

“Ruin yourself? From one piece of pumpkin bread?”

You tear up again, certain that you look and sound a complete mess.

“You don’t understand,” you insist, “it’s because of me…! Anyone else could have it…but not me, because if I have it…I’ll g-g-g-g-” you can’t even get the words out. “I just can’t.”

“Is this just about the bread? Or other foods...?”

Your face wilts and you look down in shame.

He knows, then.

“How long have you felt like this...?”

You trace the floor, shaking your head.

“...Years. I’m so sorry.”

“What...? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve helped you. You know I would’ve—”

Your face twists and you close your eyes, tears spilling out.

“—It’s…it’s stupid…! It doesn’t even matter, I’ve been told so in the past…I’ve told others before, and nothing was done or I was criticized, or they left and I…I just was afraid that…you’d see how silly I was...how damaged I am….that you might leave…”

Asra pulls you so close to him that you can hear his heart thrum like a locomotive in his chest. He is worried sick over you, you suddenly realize.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice so serious that you can recall nothing like it from all the years of knowing him.

You obey, eyes wide and watery.

“I will never leave you,” Asra promises so solemnly, that he sounds as if he is swearing an oath on his very soul. “I love you, do you understand that? You could change in a thousand ways and I’d still love you. You could fall for another and I’d still love you, and watch over you until we were all dust in the wind. You are the most important thing in my life and it’s my job to protect you, to uplift you. I don’t ever want you to think I would leave you. Especially not over something like this.”

“I-I’m sorry!” You plead for forgiveness for doubting his love. You know that he is loyal to you, you do. It’s just...the disorder makes it so difficult to think sometimes, to remember the truth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have doubted you…I just…! I don’t know. I didn’t want to upset you...?”

“I am upset that I couldn’t have helped you with this sooner, that I didn’t realize. I should have realized...” Asra admits, frowning to himself. “But I can help you now. You’ve told me, and it’s alright now. We’ll face this together.”

You cling to Asra’s shirt like a lifeline, just breathing.

You know you have a long, difficult road to walk. You know it’s not as easy as finally getting the help and support you need, that there’s not a snap of fingers or a spell even that can speed this process for you. It can’t do the work for you.

You will have to learn how to eat without shame again. How to stop internalizing the pain and abandonment from the past. How to realize that pumpkin bread is just pumpkin bread, and that this was never about the food to begin with.

You will have to learn to look in a mirror and smile genuinely, even on the bad days. You will have to learn to eat food without calorie-counting, without crying.

You know there will be nights where you will fail, days where you stumble, and moments where you wish for nothing more but to be ill once again.

Asra can be there to hold your hand, to keep you steady, but he can’t do the work that you will have to do.

But you also know...

...you are worth it. A good life is worth it. A life with someone who cares for you, who loves you, is worth it. And deep down, you know that you care and love yourself, in a way, through all the pain.

You want to overcome. To heal.

Asra’s voice breaks you out of your trance.

“You’re not alone anymore. I’ll...I’ll write to Julian! And we’ll all come up with a plan, together. Okay? We can start today. Okay..?”

You keep your eyes locked on him, holding. Just holding.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

AN: Do not under any circumstances copy, repost, or edit any of my work including this one. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

If any of you are interested in a short follow-up with Dr. Julian assisting you in overcoming ED, let me know.

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

[aces-to-apples]

Your Reputation Precedes You

A response to “On Fandom Racism (and That Conlang People Are Talking About)” because lmao that cowardly bitch just hates getting feedback from people that she can’t then harass into oblivion

i.e. God I Wish I Could Use The Tag Fandom Wank Without The Titty Police Nerfing My Post

-

To be frank, I'm not here because I think you or any of your little cronies are going to change your minds. If the 'name' wasn't a giveaway, your group of ~likeminded individuals~ have quite the reputation for espousing ableist, antisemitic, and, yes, racist views under wafer-thin the veneer of "calling out racism." I think we both know that what you're actually doing is using the relative anonymity of the internet and progressive language to abuse, harass, and bully fans that you personally disagree with. You and your group are toxic, hateful, and utterly pathetic, using many peoples' genuine desire to avoid accidentally causing harm and twisting it into this horrid parade of submissiveness to You, The One And Only Arbiter Of Truth And Justice In Fandom. Never mind that you have derided autistic people as lacking compassion and empathy, that you've used racist colonizer dogwhistles to describe a fictional culture based heavily on real live Maori culture, that you've mocked the idea of characters having PTSD, or that vital mental health services are anything more than "talking about your feelings with friends uwu." Let's just ignore that you have ridiculed the idea of adults in positions of power exerting that power over children in harmful and abusive ways, that creating transformative fan-content that doesn't adhere to the spirit of canon or wishes of the original author garners derision and hatefulness from you, and that you've used classic abuser tactics in order to gaslight people in your orbit into behaving more submissively towards you in order to avoid more verbal abuse.

Let's toss all of that crucial context aside in favor of only what you've written here.

What you've written here is nearly 3,000 entire words based on, at best—though, admittedly, based on your previous behavior, I am actually not willing to extend to you an iota of good faith—fallacious reasoning. You posit that a constructed language, to be used by a fictional religious group located in an entirely different galaxy than our own, is othering, racist in general, and anti-Asian specifically. This appears based in several suppositions, the first being that a language unknown by the reader will, by nature, cause the reader to feel alienated from the characters and therefore less sympathetic, empathetic, and caring towards the characters. That idea is patently ridiculous and, I believe, says far more about your ability to connect to a character speaking an unfamiliar language than any kind of overarching truth about media and the human condition. New things are interesting; new things are fun; the human brain is wired from birth to be fascinated with new things, to want to take them apart, find out how they work, and enjoy both the process and the results.

The second supposition this fallacy is based upon appears to be that to move away from the blatant Orientalism of Star Wars is inherently anti-Asian. While I find it... frankly, a little bit sad that you cling so viciously to the Orientalist, appropriative roots of Star Wars as some form of genuine representation, that's really none of my business. If you feel that a Muslim-coded character bombing a temple and becoming a terrorist and a Sith, a white woman wearing Mongolian wedding garb, a species of decadent slug-like gangsters smoking out of hookahs and keeping attractive young women chained at their feet (as it were), a species of greedy money-grubbers with exaggerated features and offensively stereotypical "Asian" accents, and an indigenous people wearing modesty garb based on the Bedu people and treated by most characters as well as the narrative as mindless animals deserving of murder and genocide are appropriate representation of the many, varied, and beautiful cultures around the world upon which they were "based," then that is very much your business. Until you pull shit like this. Until you accuse other fans, who wish to move away from such offensive coding and stereotypes, of erasing Asian culture from Star Wars. Then it becomes everyone's business, especially when you are targeting a loving and enthusiastic group of fans who are pouring their hearts and souls into creating an inventive and non-appropriative alternative to canon.

Which leads into the third supposition, that a patently racist, misogynistic white man in the 1970s, and then again in the 1990s, intended his universe to be an accurate and respectful portrayal of the various cultures he stole from. I understand that for your group of toxic bullies, the term "Death of the Author" holds no real meaning, but the simple fact of the matter is that George Lucas based his white-centered space adventure on Samurai movies while removing the cultural context that gave them any meaning, because he liked the idea of swords and noble warriors in space. He based the Force and the Jedi Order on belief systems such as Taoism and Buddhism, but only on the surface, without putting any real effort into into portraying them earnestly or accurately. He consistently disrespected both characters of color and characters coded to be a certain race, ethnicity, culture, or religion, and likewise disrespected and stole from the cultures upon which he based them. He was, and continues to be, a racist white man who wrote a racist story. His universe has Orientalism baked into its every facet, and the idea that fans who wish to move away from this and interrogate and transform the text into something better than what it is are racist is not only laughable, but incredibly disingenuous and insidious.

As I said, I am not writing this to change your mind, because I truly believe that you already know that "cOnLaNgS aRe RaCiSt" is a ridiculous statement. The way you've comported yourself in fandom spaces thus far has shown to me that you are nothing more than a bully who knows that the anti-racist movement in fandom can be co-opted for your benefit. If you tout your Asian heritage and use the right language, make the "right" accusations and take advantage of white guilt and white ignorance, you can have dozens of people falling at your feet, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. And I think that gives you a thrill. So, no, none of this will change your mind because none of this is genuinely about racism—it's about power, it's about control, it's about fandom being the only space where you have some.

So I'm writing this for the creators of this wonderful conlang, which has been crafted by multiple people including people of color, who don't deserve this nonsensical vitriol, and for the fans reading this manipulative hate-fest, wondering if they really are Evil Racists because they don't participate in fandom the way you think they should.

Here it is: fandom has a lot of racism, antisemitism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism, etc. baked into it. Unfortunately, such is the nature of living and growing up in societies and cultures that have the same. The important thing is to independently educate yourself on those issues and think critically about them—not "think critically" as in "to criticize" them, but to analyze, evaluate, pick apart, examine, and reconstruct them again in order to come to a well thought-out conclusion. Read this well-articulated attack on a group of fans who have always welcomed feedback and participation, are open about their backgrounds, their strengths and weaknesses, and wonder who is actually being genuine.

Is it the open and enthusiastic group who ask for the participation of others in this labor of love? Or is it the ringleader of a group of well-known bullies who have manipulated, gaslit, and then subsequently love-bomb people who did not simply roll over at the slightest hint of dominance? The ones who spent hours upon hours tearing apart, mocking, deriding, and falsely accusing authors of fanworks and metatextual works of various bigotries and -isms, knowing that those evaluations were spurious and meant only to cause harm, not genuine examinations of the works themselves or even presumed authorial intent. The ones who made their own, quote-unquote, community so negative and toxic that even after the departure of a large portion of them, including this author in particular, that community still has a reputation for being hateful, toxic, and full of mean-spirited harassers who will never look critically about their own behavior but only ever point fingers at others. The ones who are so very determined to cause misery wherever they go that as soon as their usual victims are no longer immediately available, they will turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness.

This entire piece of (fan)work is misinformed at the most generous, disingenuous at the most objective, and downright spiteful when we get right into it. The creators of Dai Bendu, along with various other works, series, and fan events that these people personally dislike, have been targeted because it is so much easier to harass, bully, and use progressive language as a weapon against them, than it is to put any effort into making fandom spaces more informed, more positive, more respectful.

As someone rather eloquently put it, community is not a fucking spectator sport. You want a better community, you gotta work at it. And conversely, what you put into your community is what you'll get out of it. This author and their friends have put a lot of hate into their communities, and now they're toxic cesspools that people stay well away from, for fear of contracting some terrible form of harassment poisoning.

Congrats, Ri, you've gotten just what you wanted: adoring crowds listening to you spout your absolutely heinous personal views purely to live out some kind of power fantasy, and the rest of us staying well away, because fuck knows nothing kind, helpful, or in good faith has ever come from Virdant or her echo-chamber of petty, spiteful assholes.

No love, bad night.

P.S. Everyone actually in the Dai Bendu server knows your ass got kicked because you didn’t say shit for a full thirty days and ignored the announcement that inactive members would be culled. You ain’t cute pretending like it’s because you were ~*~Silenced~*~ after ~*~Valiantly~*~ attempting to call out racism. We see you.

[shimmershae]

Some, okay a lot, of pre-mid season (tri? season) finale thoughts.  As if you actually asked for them, lol.

And no, I haven’t actually watched the last episode yet.  I’ve been putting it off all morning.  For reasons.  Reasons that I felt the inexplicable need to put on paper, er, screen.  

If you care at all to read the purging of my fatigued TWD fangirl mind, please look beneath the cut.  Fair warning.  It’s long so pull up a chair maybe, lol.  

I’ll admit it.  The spoilers indicating a significant lack of Carol/Melissa content has dampened much of my enthusiasm and there wasn’t all that much to start with.  

Let me tell you why--

The season, so far, has been woefully unbalanced in favor of the Reaper storyline and the Maggie/Negan conflict (which ties back to the Reaper storyline by the flimsiest of strings) and I’m just not invested.  

Why?  

Well, it’s multifold.  

#1 reason why?  Having a third of the last season ever of TWD devoted to going inside “the lions’ den” of villains I have no emotional connection to or curiosity about is a big fat fail.  

You might say “but there’s the Daryl double agent” aspect and I say “so fucking what” because it was so poorly conceived and has felt like such a WTF set of fraying puppet strings for this plot Angela was apparently jonesing to tell from the GO, damn the torpedoes she had to know where inevitably coming her way.  

Seriously.  I had talked myself into accepting that which I could not change, citing Daryl’s emotional brokenness after Rick.  Convincing myself he’d lost his anchor to goodness and hope and fulfillment in his years of self-imposed exile from Carol and what was left of his family and to a certain extent?  I can still by that explanation.  But really.  It’s the Leah of it all.  

Let me attempt to explain.  

To do that, maybe I should detail how I’ve always perceived Daryl.  

Daryl, IMHO, began this journey with us and the rest of Team Family with a figurative fortress erected around his true, core self.  

He was prickly.  Defensive to any overtures of kindness because he inherently did not trust them.  Loathe to form any real connection to anyone other than Merle, his blood.  

Daryl balked at the possibility of emotional connection and flinched in learned fear from physical touch.  

He did not recognize or accept affection or respect at face value because it was something rarely shown to him before.  

Anybody else remember that childhood abuse book from Consumed?  You know.  One of those first times the showrunners/writers dumped a character nugget in our laps and left it to us to do all the backstory in our own imaginations so they didn’t have to enrich their own characters beyond the scratch and sniff, wham bam this is who they are work?  

Anyway.  We were left to extrapolate from that what most of us h ad already suspected--that Daryl’s formative years were already a living hell before the ZA ever happened.  

So he was standoffish.  He didn’t form emotional connections lightly and physical intimacy was something light years out of his comfort zone.  

Until Carol.  

Daryl’s defenses started to crumble from the very start with Carol because she piqued his interest.  He looked at her, watched her withstand Ed’s abuse, and recognized something of himself.  

Against his will, Daryl started to care and when Carol lost the one good thing that had come out of her miserable life with Ed--Sophia--Daryl’s core identity started to be revealed to us and probably?  To himself after burying it so deep for so long.  

Long story short?  Daryl connected with Carol pretty quickly on a base level through the trauma of Sophia’s loss.  

The real connection, the emotional work it too to peel all those protective layers away took more like--like planting a flower from seed and tending it to help it survive and flourish.  

Simply said?  The work was put in and Daryl bloomed with Carol’s (and Team Family’s) care.  They all put in varying degrees of work but Carol planted the seed of his “belonging.”  

And the thing about Daryl?  Once he bloomed?  He grew strong.  He stretched toward the sun.  

He and Carol essentially bloomed and fought their way toward the sunlight together.  

And little by little, Daryl learned to accept the kindness, trust, and love he always deserved.  

From that newly confident man emerged a Daryl not so fearful of forming connections and none have ever been more powerful than his connection to Carol.  

I’ll spare ya’ll the paragraphs of how Daryl and Carol gravitated toward each other like magnets no matter the means of separation.  

I’ll just spell it out like this:  their bond supersedes all others, even Daryl’s bond with Rick.  And with Daryl only accepting affection from those he trusts implicitly, Carol and Daryl have been the only potential “romantic” pairing that has ever fully made sense for his established character.  

At least the character before Angela launched the grenade of Leah into the mix.  

Leah was a fail from the start.  

And you know what?  I’m thinking that was largely intended (for various reasons) but I still think they could have shown Daryl as receptive to having a “romantic” relationship to those willfully blind to the possibility that he’s actually been in a “romantic” relationship with Carol since Season 2.  Never mind that Carol and Daryl haven’t (yet) crossed certain physical boundaries yet.  Emotionally? They are already there even if neither is able to admit it out loud with the actual words yet.  But I digress.  The people that never wanted to “see” Carol and Daryl as “romantic” because they couldn’t fathom Daryl as seeing Carol in that light had already deemed that Daryl just didn’t feel that way about her, that maybe he didn’t feel that way about anybody (if they couldn’t have their way and have him feel that way about their preferred choice for him, they preferred him alone), and Angela wanted to show them differently.  To show them the light.  

That said, if Angela was so hellbent on doing Leah?  There were a multitude of better ways.  

Here.  I’ll give you one of them.  

Daryl isolates himself from his family after Rick’s “death” same as he did in Angela’s version.  

Carol’s been being pulled more and more to the Kingdom because Henry’s needing a mother figure is like catnip to her hurting natural-born, hurting Mama’s heart.  So Daryl’s anchor to the man he’d matured into, the one with all these earned emotional attachments, is reeled back in, little by little, leaving him unmoored.  

Dog literally runs into him just as before.  It hardly makes sense given how young and floppy and uncoordinated puppies are and thus vulnerable to danger, but this is the least of things we need to worry about suspending disbelief for right?  ;)

Dog and Daryl continue to have these run ins until Daryl decides to retrace the puppy’s clumsy trail and viola!  He finds Leah’s cabin and Leah inside.  She levels the same shotgun at him, they have a standoff, until---

Leah suddenly lowers the gun and incredulously says Daryl’s name.  

That’s right.  One simple change and Daryl and Leah have an undefined past already.  

Daryl doesn’t completely let his guard down because he’s Daryl, but he relaxes enough that we see he doesn’t immediately regard Leah as dangerious to his own well-being.  

From that point on, instead of tying Daryl up and threatening him, we could have been told the story of how they knew each other from before.  

My version goes a little something like this--

Daryl met Leah through Merle.  Merle, in turn, met Leah through the military before he got discharged.  He and Leah had an ongoing “I scratch your itch if you scratch mine” thing and Leah?  Well, she always had a bit of a soft spot/interest in Daryl that Daryl never really returned.  

The thing is, though?  With losing the chosen brother that filled the hole left behind by his lost blood brother Merle and losing Carol to her chasing after a chance of a new family (because she feels Daryl’s out of her reach too, our too blind and stupidly, silently in love idiots)?  Daryl finds himself embracing the shared memories however minimal of that brief past and his grief and loneliness leave him receptive to Leah’s eventual advances in ways he never was before.  

We’re still given hints of their unfolding relationship and we still don’t like it, but it makes more sense for Daryl to cling to the past when he feels he’s lost his future.  

Leah still gives her ultimatum (there’s a reason she gravitated toward Merle in perhaps his most toxic state, she’s more than a little fucked up too) and it’s not as much of a hard sell that Daryl might be pulled in Leah’s direction when he feels Carol is all but lost to him.  

Hell.  They could have even explicitly discussed Carol.  But wait!  Angela would have never allowed that because she doesn’t want to shatter all the crackship dreams in one fell swoop.  

But the story from that point on could have continued just as it has and probably I still wouldn’t have liked it but I could have at least bought it somewhat and understood it.  

Obviously, it didn’t. 

I don’t buy the Leah of it all.  Angela built that “relationship” with monopoly money and it shows.  

Because I don’t buy Leah period.  I don’t buy Daryl giving even giving a shit about trying to or feeling like there’s a snowball’s chance to redeem her so I’m not engaged whatsoever with this Daryl double agent story and him even givign her crumbs about his real family.  

That part rings false.  

So that’s a big problem right there and we haven’t even gotten to the other part I don’t buy.  

You know what else I don’t buy?  

#2?  

Why the hell are the Reapers so bloodthirsty for Maggie’s departure from this mortal coil?  

Without giving better reasoning than they’re just cray-cray, the entire faceplants and considering it’s taken up about 70% of 11A’s focus?  I’m pissed.  

Because, IMHO, they should go big or go home on this to give it any entertainment value because it’s all stale, recycled air if not.  

Maggie’s been established as a much darker character this season.  Which led me to believer the Reapers probably had a legit beef against her, but it seems Angela is reluctant to go all that way down the rabbit hole and doesn’t want to commit to what could be a more entertaining and potentially fascinating story than just Maggie’s in the right, the Reapers are just evil.  

Maggie is right about Negan, IMHO, but she’s also wrong in not listening to him when what he’s saying reeks of simple common sense.  Ignoring sage advice makes her seem more like an angry toddler stamping her feet in defiance than the leader they are so bound and determined to tell us she is.  

You know what?  The window for me to give more than the half a fuck I’m giving right now as they beat this dead horse to dust closed when Maggie decided letting Negan rot in the ASZ jail cell was enough and spared him when she finally had her best chance to end him once and for all.  

Maybe if they stopped having the same damn conversation and they didn’t take up 20% of the screen time left after the boring Reapers/Leah shit, I would be less resentful but I’m not and again, I’ll tell you why.  

BECAUSE.  We are in the last season of the OG TWD ever and this show has chosen to waste screen time on stories nobody cares about to the exclusion of the ones we’re yearning for more of.  

Like ASZ.  We’ve barely seen more than an hour of the eight hours devoted to Carol, Aaron, Rosita, Lydia, Judith, Kelly, Jerry and Co. in total.  Especially since they’ve been trying to establish the Commonwealth on the side, too.  

I mean, I never really expected to dig the Commonwealth so my expectations for it were lower than low so they’ve been exceeded at a miniscule level.  But I expected and hoped for ASZ and those characters we’ve cared the most about to receive much more emphasis and the fact that they haven’t in this last season so far has been the biggest FAIL.  

And okay.  Selfishly, I want more Carol.  She’s like salt.  She makes almost everything go down better.  

But really. Give me more of all the characters we actually care about, please.  The Reapers and the offshoots from that story wheel aren’t it.  I love Daryl but I hate this retread story for him.  Leah is a weak point that pressed upon?  Makes this weak ass arc collapse.  Maggie and Negan are giving us nothing new.  They are the definition of the word STALEMATE and that’s not what you want or need on the finale season of a show.  

Yes, I have enjoyed the majority of the episodes overall, but that was because the moments I loved I weighted more than the ones I didn’t and know they have the most impact on the show down the road.  

Probably 11A will fare better when all is said and done and the show can be binged but standalone?  It’s been an overall disappointment and that saddens me more than I can say.  

Anyway.  I’m going to stop rambling now and try to psyche myself up for episode 8.  I’ll be back with thoughts on it later, maybe.  

Sorry for the word vomit, but I felt maybe I could in someway give voice to some of the feelings floating around out there and let you know that you are not alone.  

Until later, lovelies.  

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Marital Discord

Warnings: noncon/dubcon (rough sex, toy, fingering).

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader finds her marriage falling apart; Bucky’s never home and when he is, he’s not really there, but he’s not as aloof as he seems to be.

Note: Alright, we finished Summertime Sadness, I gotta figure out HSB and my other few series that need to be tied up. Hopefully by my one year mark we have some new ones in swing. Thank you. Love you guys!

Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3

The front door clicked and you lifted your head. You scrolled up quickly on the tablet and hit sign out. You locked it and pushed it against the wall in hopes it would go unnoticed. You grabbed the oven mitt and rushed over to the stove. You opened it and pretended to check on the roast inside, lifting the lid of the pan to glance over the darkening meat.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice was dull as you heard him enter the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Thanks,” You stood and removed the glove and tossed it on the counter. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He narrowed his eyes but the tension quickly left his face. “Skipped training,” He shrugged. “Just wanted to… relax.”

“Oh,” You nodded.

Relax. Alone. He didn’t need to say it. That was just how things were these days. He was monotone, bored. So were you. He came home late most nights. You were already in bed. He didn’t bother to wake you. Didn’t think to. And when you were awake, he barely spoke to you. Even when he was right beside you, it was as if he wasn’t there. How had it come to this?

Three years of marriage and the ring chafed on your finger. Your relationship had begun when he started talking and it would look to end as his words turned again to silence. He no longer told you about his day, just grumbled when you asked about it. He kissed your cheek diligently but not out of love. And he hadn’t fucked you in months.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. You were sweet to him. Tried to be. But he echoed your ‘love yous’ like a child reciting their homework. And he bristled when you touched him. And so you stopped. You let him be. Small talk and tense silences. That was all that remained between you.

“Hungry?” You asked. 

You leaned on the island between you as your thighs rubbed together. You were wet. You had been halfway through a particularly fiery fic when he arrived. You hoped you could find it again later.

“Sure,” He said. “Is it almost ready?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” You replied.

“Ok,” He stretched his shoulders. “Let me know.”

“Of course, babe,” You smiled. He didn’t.

You watched him disappear into the living room and the tv flicked on. Baseball commentators sounded over the drone of the crowd. You sighed and turned back to the counter. He’d eat his dinner in front of the screen again. His eyes would cling to it as if you weren’t even there. You took out two plates and some cutler. You looked to the stove timer and the seconds ticked by slowly.

You reached for the tablet again. You peeked at the door though you knew he wouldn’t appear again. You punched in your code and reopened the app. You signed in and scrolled through your dashboard until you found it again. You found your spot and leaned in the crook of the counter as you began to read.

‘He held her. No, clung to her. She was everything he needed and his love was laced with that inherent fear, the knowing, that one day, she would be gone. He kissed her like it was their first, like it was their last. Her touch left fire across his skin as she traced the line of hair that led to his--”

The fridge opened and you looked up with wide eyes. You hit lock on the tablet and set it down softly as you turned to watch Bucky pull a beer out from the fridge. He popped the cap off with his vibranium thumb and tossed it in the bin. He barely looked at you but his eyes didn’t miss the tablet face down beside you. You turned before he could see your guilt.

You listened to him retreat back to the living room. You shook your head; at him, at yourself. Why should you feel guilty? He was neglecting you. You weren’t his wife anymore, you were a burden. So why shouldn’t you find solace in words? That’s all they were. Why shouldn’t you pull out that buzzing toy when he was gone and grasp at that fleeting release? Why should you try when he wouldn’t?

The timer beeped three times and you shoved the tablet back against the wall. You turned off the oven and opened it up. You lifted out the large roasting pan and set it on the stove. You focused on the aroma. You were suddenly very hungry. You took a carving knife and set to work.

Just another night alone.

💍

Bucky knew she was lonely. He was too. And he tried to try but he couldn’t. Not since that night. Not since…

He didn’t even want to think about it. It was the last time he touched her on his own accord. He was too embarrassed to try again. He could blame it on the stress, on the lingering scars of the past, on all that he felt mounted on his shoulders, but he couldn’t help but feel it was just him. His own inadequacy. The fear that he could never truly make her happy. That he could never truly be happy.

She had said goodnight twenty minutes ago. He echoed her words and glanced over at her briefly. She had her phone in her hand, the screen black, though she held it tightly. He waited for her to kiss his cheek as she did every night. She didn’t. He watched her go and his chest tightened. It was over. It was really over.

He flipped through the channels absently as his mind returned to that night. They were on the very couch he sat on. She was atop him, her mouth on his, her hips rocked as she teased him through his jeans. A whole hour of fooling around like teenagers and he was still soft. He wanted her but his body just wouldn’t respond. 

When she tried to undo his fly, he pushed her away. He didn’t mean to be so abrupt but he also didn’t know how to say it. It’s not you, it’s me. He hated that empty cliche. He apologized but was otherwise speechless. He’d left her there and waited until she went to bed to come out of hiding. He slept in the recliner.

He sat forward and held his head as he thought back on it He just couldn’t find the courage to talk to her about it. To fix this thing. He was a coward. And he let her down just like he had everyone else. 

He slid his metal fingers along his bottom lip as he thought. He closed his eyes and saw that peculiar expression on her face. The way she had looked at him in the kitchen earlier. He knew guilt when he saw it. Recognized the shame he felt so deeply. And more. She had a secret. She’d never had secrets before.

His mind strayed to the tablet, to the phone gripped in her fingers. That had to be it. She was talking to someone else. Could he blame her? Well, yeah. She was his wife, his love, but hadn’t he pushed her to it? It didn’t matter. She was his. 

His blood boiled and he sat up as he thought about it. About this other faceless guy. The man taking her from him. His own shame, his own regret, slaked away and he was overwhelmed by his anger. He let out a growl and stood.

He went to the kitchen. The tablet was gone but she hadn’t had it with her. Maybe she’d already put it in the bedroom. He shook his head and paced the tiled floor. He returned to the living room but couldn’t sit. Well, maybe she was already asleep. He could sneak in and grab it.

He went to the hallway and listened. He didn’t hear anything. His eyes were drawn to a cord as he slowly began across the carpet. Her tablet was on the side table charging. He should’ve remembered. She always kept it there at night. She’d wake and take it with her on her way to the kitchen. She’d pore over the news as she drank her morning coffee. It had been a long time since he’d shared it with her.

His fingers grazed over the screen. He held his breath as he peeked over at the bedroom door. It was closed. He hesitated before he picked it up. He exhaled slowly and turned to stand with his back against the wall. He hit the button and the screen lit up. He typed in the four digit code; she hadn’t changed it. Was it careless or was it a sign of her innocence?

He looked down the hall again before he began to swipe through the apps. Her messenger was almost dead; a conversation with her mother, several with her friends, but nothing recent or suspicious. He opened the browser and checked the history; a few recipes, some articles, but again, nothing untoward. 

Then a notification popped up. ‘We found something you might like, sugar-plum-17.’ That was what he called her; sugar plum. She always cringed at the pet name but he adored that crinkle in her forehead. He blinked and hit the bubble before it could disappear.

He frowned as he scrolled through the post that came up. It was some story or another. He hit the back arrow and found her page. He dragged his finger up the screen. He read the comment she’d left on her last reblog. 

‘This was so hot. I’d love a rough ride, if you know what I mean? Can’t wait to see how dark this gets.’

His heart was racing. He swiped back up and hit keep reading on the original post. His eyes glossed over until they caught on a particular passage.

‘This stranger knew her and yet she knew nothing of him. Not his face, not his voice, not his scent, only his touch. Rough and demanding. He held her hands in one of his as he pinned her beneath him. The mask hid all but a pair of bright blue eyes. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and moved up her body to keep her arms in place. He wrapped the black fabric around her eyes.’

He stopped and looked up at the wall. The words were burned into his mind. He was stunned. She liked this? He looked back to the tablet and continued to read. The scene was graphic and he found the heat crawling up his spine and into his cheeks. When he got to the end, he was hard. And shocked.

He hadn’t had an erection since before that last time. He had tried anything and everything but nothing. And now he was so hard it hurt. He wanted her. Too bad, she didn’t want him.

He closed out of the app and set the tablet back down. He braced himself as he walked down the hall. Maybe he could apologize. He’d wake her up and explain it all. His fear, his embarrassment, his stupidity. He stopped by the door and leaned against it, his hand on the knob. He couldn’t turn it as a noise from the other side held him in place.

There was a low buzz mingled with her heady breaths. Soft moans muffled and strained. He knew what she was doing. His cock twitched and he pressed his hand to the front of his jeans. He listened intently through the wood. She was getting close. He rubbed himself through the denim and she squeaked and gasped. She had cum but he couldn’t. No, he had to wait.

He drew away from the door as the buzzing stopped and quickly retreated down the hall. He went to the living room and grasped the back of the couch as he hung his head and thought. This had to end. This interminable stalemate. And he knew just how to draw out a truce.

💍

The house was terribly empty. Having Bucky home, even as a shell, was preferable to not at all. He texted you earlier to tell you he would be away for a couple days. Last minute mission in Prague. There wasn’t much you could say. It was a good excuse for him not to face you. His work was always a convenient out.

You made sure to lock up the house before you settled down in bed. The usual; alone, snuggled up with your pillow against the headboard as you scrolled through your dashboard. A good fic and you’d be ready to sleep. Your bedtime work-out made sure of that.

You clicked on the newest fic by your favourite author. Another part in her twisted tale of a robber and his mark. The way her antagonist taunted her main character was chilling but delectable. The man behind the mask stalked her towards the line of insanity. His desires were more than monetary and entirely arousing.

You reached for the toy nestled against your leg atop the blanket. You were getting to the good part. You bit your lip and your thumb hovered over the button. You kept yourself from clicking it as you heard a creak. You sat up and set your phone aside, the vibe clutched in your hand. You listened; silence.

You laid back and reached for your phone. As you picked it up, you heard the familiar groan of the floorboard near the front door. You shot up and hit the phone icon. No signal, no wifi. You tried to reconnect, checked that you hadn’t hit airplane mode unknowingly, but nothing. It had been working a minute ago.

You didn’t hear anything else. You hung your legs over the edge of the bed and assured yourself it was all in your head. You stood and neared the door. You’d go out and confirm your paranoia then sleep before it got the best of you.

You stepped out into the hall. You peered down the living room than to the bathroom. You slowly made your way to the former and looked around. Just the shadows of furniture and dim glare of street lights through the window. You shook your head at yourself and turned back.

As you did, a darkness suddenly enshrouded you from behind. You barely had time to react as strong arms surrounded you. You thrashed out and yelped as you were dragged backwards. Your phone slipped from your hand and the vibe clicked on in your panic. You kicked and flailed as you struggled to escape the intruder.

His hand wrapped around yours as his arm tightened around your waist. He turned you with him and dragged you around the couch. He pried your fingers from the toy and took it in his own. He chuckled and spun you away from him. He shoved you roughly and you fell onto the cushions.

“Please--” You begged. Was this your karma? Maybe a nightmare all too vivid to escape? It couldn’t be… real.

“Shut up,” His voice was gristly beneath his mask. “This what you like?”

He held up the you, still buzzing, and you tried to stand. He caught your shoulder and pushed you back down. His hand slid to your throat and he bent over you, his breath seeped through his mask and against your temple.

“Stay.” He snarled. “Or I’ll hogtie you with your own panties.”

You whimpered and his other hand pressed the vibe along your chest and rolled it down your stomach. He slid his fingers beneath the elastic of your pajamas and forced his hand between your legs. The toy glided too easily between your folds. You gasped.

“Ah…” He snickered at your lack of underwear. “Well, I can always figure something out.”

“What do you want?” You breathed.

“What do you want?” He countered as he angled the vibe against your clit. “I think I can guess actually.”

“There’s a safe--”

“We’ll get to that… once I’ve had my fun,” He snarled. “Doesn’t seem like you need much help.”

The toy was slippery in his gloved hand and you trembled as his fingers squeezed your throat and he pushed you harder against the couch. He cradled the toy with his palm and slipped a finger inside you. You squeaked and he shoved another past your entrance. He moved his hand steadily as he pressed his masked cheek to yours.

“That’s it,” He purred. “You like that?”

You tried to shake your head and sobbed. You did. To your disgust, you did.

“Where’s your husband, hmm?” He asked. “Leaving a thing like you all alone.”

“My husband?” You wisped.

“A lot of shoes for one man.” He remarked. “Lined so neatly by the door. Was that you? Such a sweet little housewife.”

You nodded and gulped. Your thighs were tingling and your core glowing. You thoughtlessly grabbed the wrist of the hand at your throat and tilted your hips. You panted. His touch felt familiar and strange all at once. It had been so long that even the roughest touch could make you shudder.

“Cum for me,” He growled against your cheek. “You can try to fight it but we both know… you can’t.”

Your thighs closed around his hand and you spasmed. Your moan was strangled by his hand. You slapped at his shoulder as you orgasmed and pushed against the cushion behind you. He released you suddenly and you sank into the couch as he pulled his hand away.

“So…” He undid his fly. “You gonna play along or do I need to go find one of your husband’s belts? Wouldn’t that be hot?”

You shook and hung your head. He pushed his fly apart. “Get undressed.” He ordered.

You sniffed and stood carefully, afraid to provoke him. You pulled your tank top over your head and shimmied out of your pajama pants, the remnants of your arousal dampened the fabric. You gulped as you looked up at the stranger. His hand was in his pants, stroking himself.

“Turn around,” He sneered. “Up on the couch… on your knees.” You glanced around and he stepped closer. “Try it.” He challenged. 

You blanched at him and turned reluctantly. You neared the couch and climbed up. You braced the back of it and closed your eyes. You sensed him behind you. His gloved hand caressed your neck and tickled along your shoulder. He trailed down your back and his fingers hooked around your hip. He pulled you back until your knees were at the edge of the couch and you were slightly bent.

He slapped your ass and pinched it sharply. You cried out. “Shut up!” He growled. “You don’t want the neighbours to hear, do you?” He spanked you again. “Gossip travels quickly.”

You gritted your teeth and hissed. His cock touched your ass and he rubbed it along your skin. A line of precum left across your cheek. You dug your nails into the couch as he guided his tip lower and squeezed your hip until you arched your back. He slickened himself with your juices and lingered at your entrance.

He bent over you as his hand slipped from your hip and he felt around for your clit. As he teased you with his fingertips, he sank into you, his stomach firm against your back. You moaned and slapped your hand over your mouth. He hummed.

“That’s right. Nice and quiet,” He nuzzled your hair as he began to thrust. “Fuck…”

He groaned and continued to play with your bud. The sharp teeth of his zipper dug unto you with each thrust. Your breath hitched and you moved your body in tandem with his. You didn’t realize you were doing it until you were biting down on your knuckles and the sounds of fucking filled your ears. 

His other hand returned to your throat. He stood and pulled you back. You grasped at his hand as he sped up. He jolted your whole body as you balanced precariously on your knees. His grunts swirled around you and your moans were barely stifled by your own hand. 

You were carried away by the sheer pleasure. It was as if your body couldn’t handle it. Your mind was smokey and your vision a blur. The snarls sounded more and more familiar as they grew louder. You reached back and gripped the man’s thigh as you met your peak suddenly. You swallowed back the whine and your walls twitched around him.

“That’s it,” He purred.

He pushed you up against the back of the couch and climbed up behind you, his knees between yours. He pounded into you and his hand left your clit as he reached up. He didn’t waver as he pulled off his mask and held it out before you. He swore as the gristle left his voice and he came in you.

He leaned against you as he stilled and nibbled at your ear. He kissed your cheek and his hand fell from your throat. He dragged his nose along your temple and chuckled.

“Is that what you like, sugar plum?” Bucky’s voice cut through the haze of your thoughts.

[kemifatoba]

C/O Berlin Magazine | It’s a space for everyone, and everyone can come in — Thoughts for the future

“I cringe when I hear words like ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion.” To quote the civil rights activist, philosopher, and writer Angela Davis, “diversity” and “inclusion” are terms that you, dear reader, might have also stumbled across in recent months, whether you wanted to or not. Inspired by global Black Lives Matter protests, mainstream media, corporations, and other institutions finally realized – in some cases as it seems overnight – that racism is also an intractable problem in Germany. Unfortunately, we need more than just hollow words and empty promises to solve this problem. You might be thinking to yourself: “But didn’t people take to the streets or write opinion pieces in newspapers to protest structural racism? And didn’t major institutions promise to offer diversity and inclusion workshops in discussion after discussion on television?” Perhaps, but don’t be fooled. Instead of critically questioning the role that white decision-makers play in perpetuating systemic racism, “society” was blamed. Over and over again, Black* people were asked to answer if they had really experienced racism through scrutiny of their real-life stories, while predominantly white “experts” were invited onto talk shows to discuss the so-called “racism debate”. Profound, structural changes are still lacking, at least as of the time this text goes to print. 

Presence equals power. This brings us to the current moment where you are reading these words about British photographer Nadine Ijewere’s solo show at C/O Berlin. Nadine Ijewere is the first Black woman to be given a space that has previously been occupied almost exclusively by white men. As such, this exhibition is significant not only for Black photographers, but for everyone more used to being treated as the object than the artist or curator in spaces like this where many people don’t feel welcome or simply don’t exist. As trivial as it may sound, visibility comes from being able to hang pictures on a wall—or write these lines.

Joy as an act of resistance. Nadine Ijewere belongs to a generation of artists and creatives who have realized that there are more options than simply following the traditional path. Knowing that society has long since changed—even if many gatekeepers in fashion, art, and the media still cling to the status quo—this DIY generation is creating its own platforms to elevate their own role models with an army of loyal followers. In their work, representatives of this generation create worlds that rarely center Eurocentric beauty norms. The same goes for this young British artist, whose work shows people in all their beauty and uniqueness. Her photographs regularly appear on the pages of British, American and Italian Vogue, i-D, or Garage, and she has collaborated with brands such as Nina Ricci and Stella McCartney. Ijewere proves that beauty is multifaceted and that fashion is fun and for everyone. 

More than a seat at the table. When artists like Ijewere make it to the top, it’s not because of nepotism, tokenism, or diversity as a trend, but despite all the obstacles that have been put in their way. And instead of assimilating after being accepted by the old guard, they continue to write their own rules. In Ijewere’s case, this means not only working with diverse models and teams, but also passing her knowledge on as a mentor to keep the proverbial door open. She’s less driven by the desire to stand out from the mainstream than she is to give back by inspiring younger generations, who are able to see themselves in magazines. “Within the time I have, I’ll use every opportunity I get and every space I can get into to expand the horizon of others.”

Representation matters. Celebrating Black people and people of color in a traditionally white space was also the goal of “Visibility is key – #RepresentationMatters,” a watershed moment for the German lifestyle magazine industry when it launched on vogue.de in spring 2019. The goal was to take first steps toward a forward-thinking future where inclusion and diversity would no longer be mere buzzwords, but lived practices. Part of that effort meant ensuring representation in front of as well as behind the camera. The results weren’t perfect and they might not have led to social change, but we proved that there isn’t a lack of creative talent among Black and Brown people in Germany. If anything, we proved that these talents are often denied the space to develop their full potential. 

Ideas for the future. As you see, dear reader, it takes teamwork to bring about long-term change, and for the first time the doors are open a bit. Nadine Ijewere's exhibition shows this, as does being able to write these very words in the C/O Berlin Newspaper. In the statements below, we asked German and international artists and creatives to envision a future where representation and inclusion are lived practices instead of rare exceptions. The results are ideas for a future that is reachable—as long as we all keep working towards it every day. Together.

Nadine Ijewere, artist Art is about art. It’s not about you personally. That’s why artists need to be seen as artists. We all get stereotyped and put into the same box—but we have our own identity. We are put into the same space just because we are Black, but we are all very different people.

Edward Enninful, OBE, Editor-in-Chief of British Vogue Nadine is one of the leading fashion photographers of her generation. She’s not only inherently British in her work, she’s also Black British. She really understands the complex mix of culture, fashion, beauty, and the inner working of a woman, so when you see her images, it’s never just a photograph. There’s also a story and a narrative behind it.

Benjamin Alexander Huseby & Serhat Işık, designers for the label GmbH Our work has always been about wanting to show our community and culture to tell our stories as authentically as we can. It was never about “diversity”, but about being seen. We want to create a world where not only exceptional Black and Brown talents no longer have to be truly exceptional to get recognition for their work, a world where we no longer are the only non-white person in the room because we built the motherfucking house ourselves.

Mohamed Amjahid, freelance journalist and author, whose book Der weiße Fleck will be published by Piper Verlag on March 1, 2021. It's time that Black women become bosses. Gay Arabs should get to call the shots. Refugees belong on the executive boards of big corporations. Children of so-called “guest workers” should move into management positions too. People with disabilities should not just have a say, they should make the decisions. Vulnerable groups deserve to put their talents and ideas to work in the service of the whole society. Not every person of color is automatically a good leader by virtue of their background, but all-white, cis-male executive boards are certainly incapable of making decisions that are right for everyone. That’s why we need more representation at the very top, where the decisions are made.

Melisa Karakuş, founder of renk., the first German-Turkish magazine For a better future, I demand that we educate our children to be anti-racist and to resist when others or when they themselves are subjected to racism. I demand that discrimination is understood through the lens of intersectionality and solidarity! I demand that even those who are not affected by racism stand up against it! This fight is not one that we as Black people and people of color fight alone—for a better future, we all have to work together. 

Tarik Tesfu, host of shows including the NDR talk show deep und deutlich When I look in the mirror, I see someone who grew up in the Ruhr region and loves currywurst with French fries as much as Whitney Houston. I see a person who has his pros and cons and who is so much more than his skin color. I see a subject. But the German media and cultural system seem to see it differently because far too often, Black people are degraded and made into objects for the reproduction of racist bullshit. I'm tired of explaining racism to Annette and Thomas because I really have better things to do (for example, my job). So get out of my light and let me shine.

Ronan Mckenzie, photographer The future of our industry needs to be one with more consideration for those that are within it. One that isn’t shrouded in burnout and the stresses of late payments, and one that doesn’t make anyone question whether they have been booked for the quality of their work or to be tokenized for the color of their skin. The future of our industry needs to go beyond the performative Instagram posts and mean-nothing awards, to truly sharing resources and lifting up one another. Our industry needs to put its money where its mouth is when words like “support”, “community” or “diversity” slip out, instead of using buzzwords that create an illusion of championing us. How there can be so much money in this industry yet so many struggle to keep up with their rent, feed themselves, or just rest without worrying about money is truly a travesty. If this industry is to survive then we who make it what it is need to be able to thrive.

Ferda Ataman, journalist and chair of Neue deutsche Medienmacher*innen A recent survey of the country's most important editors-in-chief revealed that many of them think diversity is good, but they don't want to do anything about it. This is based on the assumption that everyone good will succeed. Unfortunately, that’s not true. It’s not just a person’s qualifications that are decisive, but other criteria as well, such as similarity and habit (“XY fits in with us”). It's high time that all of us—everywhere—demand a serious commitment to openness and diversity. Something is seriously wrong in pure white spaces that can’t be explained by people’s professional qualifications alone. Or to put it differently: a good diversity strategy always has an anti-racist effect.

Nana Addison, founder of CURL CON and CURL Agency Being sustainable and inclusive means thinking about all skin tones, all hair textures, and all body shapes—in the beauty industry, in marketing communications, as well as in the media landscape. These three industries work hand in hand in shaping people’s perceptions of themselves and others. It’s important to take responsibility and be proactive and progressive to ensure inclusivity.

Dogukan Nesanir, stylist  The current system is not designed to help minorities. By giving advantages to certain people and groups, it automatically deprives others of the chance to attain certain positions in the first place. That's why I don't even ask myself the question "What if?" anymore. My work is not about advancing a fake worldview, but about highlighting all the real in the good and the bad. I strongly believe that if some powerful gatekeepers gave in, if representation and diversity happened behind the scenes and we had the chance to show what the world REALLY looks like, we wouldn't be having these discussions at all. I don't just want an invitation to the table, I want to own the table and change things.

Arpana Aischa Berndt & Raquel Dukpa, editors of the catalog I See You – Thoughts on the Film “Futur drei” In the German film and television industry, production teams and casting directors are increasingly looking for a “diverse” cast. Casting calls are almost exclusively formulated by white people who profit from telling stories of people of color and Black people by using them, but without changing their own structures in the process. Application requirements and selection processes in film schools even shut out marginalized people by denying them the opportunities that come with being in these institutions. People of color and migrants as well as Black, indigenous, Jewish, queer, and disabled people can all tell stories, too. Production companies need to understand that expertise doesn’t necessarily come with a film degree.

Vanessa Vu & Minh Thu Tran, hosts of the podcast Rice and Shine  It may be convenient to ignore entire groups, but we are and have been so much more for a very long time. We contribute to culture by making films or plays and bring new perspectives to science, politics, and journalism. We’re Olympic athletes, curators, artists, singers, dancers, and inventors. We dazzle and shine despite not always being seen. Because we have each other and we’ve created opportunities to do the things we love. We’ve created platforms for each other and built communities. Slowly but surely we are finally getting applause and recognition for the fact that we exist. That's nice. But what we really need is not just the opportunity to exist, but the opportunity to continue to grow and to stop basing our work primarily on self-exploitation. We need security, reliability, and money. That's the hard currency of recognition. That would mean being truly seen.

*Black is a political self-designation and is capitalized to indicate that being Black is about connectedness due to shared experiences of racism.

Written by: Alexandra Bondi de Antoni & Kemi Fatoba C/O Berlin Magazine April 2021

[sirowsky]

The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, Angst.

Link to Masterlist

Comment: This was painful to write. If you don’t do well with angst, I recommend skipping this chapter. BUT - there is a happy ending!

Chapter 30

  “Ah, there you are. We’ve been waiting. Now, before you try anything, I have fail-safes in place in case you try and stop me, and they all end in tragedy. Like this nasty little explosive underneath their chairs, for instance.”

  You stood frozen to the spot, trembling with fear, and not an inkling of it for yourself.

  “Don’t… Don’t do this.”

  “Not to worry, my sweet. With the help of your data, I’ve been able to streamline the process. Theoretically, I should be able to directly transfer powered cells from Marcus into his daughter. The familial DNA should help alleviate any foreign-cell attacks. Though, I’m afraid it will still be painful.”

  “My data? Someone’s been feeding you my medical information?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t think you realise just how many people in this world are interested in levelling the playing-field. I mean, how’d you think I got out of prison?”

  While he spoke, he made the final calculations to start his experiment, and as the machines started whirring and clicking, your fear escalated into full-blown panic.   They were both unconscious, for the time being, but you knew that once the pain started, they’d be forced awake. You didn’t actually remember that from your own experience with this experiment, but you still knew that it was true.   You sneaked a ghost hand towards one of the machines and unhooked a tube that was connected to Missy’s arm, at the other end, trying to buy time.   The machine started beeping to indicate that something was wrong.

  “Now, now, sweetie. Don’t go sabotaging this, or your precious family might not come out of it quite as alright as both of us would like.”

  As he walked over to reconnect the tube, he tapped on something on his belt, and you recognised an identical device to what the Inventor had used to protect himself against powers. Someone in HQ had betrayed you all, and the feeling burned through you with an aftertaste of hate.

  “My family are not your fucking toys!”

  The room shook significantly, and he looked around with real wonder in his eyes.

  “That’s impressive. See, didn’t I give you a wonderful gift?”

  “No. I would’ve preferred to stay ordinary and dull for the rest of my life if it had meant not having to live through that shit.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that? Look at where you are. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken you. You should be more grateful.”

  “I do see where I am, and I would rather have never met them at all, if it meant they were spared from this.”

  “People are inherently selfish, which is why I don’t believe you. Now, let’s get started. And a word of warning, my dear – if you disrupt the process once it’s already started, you’ll kill them both. And I doubt if you could bring both of them back from the dead without killing yourself.”

  He hit a button on the computer keypad, and the Machine connected to Marcus came alive, and started siphoning out powered cells from his blood-stream.   He woke up after just a few seconds, unable to move at all, and you could see the pain in his eyes.   Helpless to do anything else, you reached out to him with your ghost energy, trying to let him know that you were there and that you were trying to save him. You could feel him trying to use his powers, but the machine disrupted it, and caused him even more pain.

  “Please, stop!”

  The second machine, the one connected to Missy, started whirring and moving, and your blood instantly flipped from freezing to boiling.   You couldn’t stand the thought of her even knowing this amount of pain, much less being forced to suffer it, for god knows how long.   And as she woke up, and that pain became visible in her eyes, something old and sure and endlessly powerful took over your mind.   There wasn’t a single thought, not so much as an echo of anything rational or logical or sensible. The maternal instinct was all-powerful in a way that nothing else could compare to. And the power it created together with your abilities, was beyond belief.   The house disappeared, and so did Dr. Prince and all of his equipment, and you could feel the moment that both Marcus and Missy’s hearts stopped beating.   But it didn’t frighten you, because you were a healer.   Moving up to crouch in between them, where they now laid on the bare ground, you took one of their hands in each one of yours, and exchanged your life for theirs.   You had hoped to be able to stay alive long enough to see their faces one last time, but the energy required to heal them, combined with what you’d already spent, was too much, and you needed the single grain you had left, for one last thing. One small, but so very important thing.   You fell away without seeing anything but the blue sky above you.

  It was okay, though. They were worth it.

 ***

  Marcus was working in his office when Missy came to find him. It had been a long day, and he was so tired he could have fallen asleep sitting up.   But he knew that even if he were to lay down in a soft and cool bed right then, he still wouldn’t have succumbed to that blissful nothingness.   He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time, since the incident, and he was long past exhausted.

  “Dad, are you coming?”

  She came to get him every day after school. She had for the past month, and he didn’t have the heart to ask her not to.

  “Yeah. I’ll be right there, sweetheart.”

  She turned and headed off to medical, and he got up to follow her. A part of him wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction. A part of him wanted to never have to set foot in that fucking room again.   But that was just the fear. The love was so much stronger, and it relentlessly dragged him back there, day and night, no matter how badly it hurt.

  Missy was already hopped up on the bed, sitting cross-legged by your feet, when he walked in. She was so hopeful still. So positive. All Marcus could feel was pain.   Every time he saw you, he saw those moments. Those short, few seconds that had taken everything away.   He’d seen it in your eyes just before your power erupted. The complete lack of thought as your mind reverted to pure instinct, to protect your daughter. His daughter.   He’d seen how you’d dispatched the entire house, and everything that threatened your family, into one of the dimensions that you had access to, a feat that had almost completely drained you.   Then, he’d woken up to seeing you fall, and in his heart, he’d known that you couldn’t be saved. Not this time. But he’d still tried. He’d tried so hard that Missy had eventually been forced to be the one to beg him to stop before she lost him too.   He’d never screamed so loud for so long before.   And yet, somehow, that still hadn’t been the worst part.   That had come the next morning, when medical had informed him that you’d been examined that day because of nausea, and that they’d discovered that you were pregnant. The timeframe had matched that day in his office, when your bodies had reacted so differently, and you’d cried out of pure love for him.   It had broken parts of him that he had never even known before.

  He walked silently to your side, and took your burned right hand between his. He tried not to look at your face, and the tube that disappeared down your throat, the slight blue tinge to your eyelids, and the way your skin hugged your collarbones.   When the team had reached the disappeared house, they’d wasted no time in getting the three of you back to HQ, and you’d been rushed here immediately. They’d found residual brain-activity, and the decision had been made to keep you alive artificially, in case your powers had somehow been able to protect you. In case you could have found a way to cling to some thread of life and hold on until your strength could be returned.   There had been no change in your condition since that day, and if it hadn’t been for Missy, he would’ve already asked them to just let you rest in peace.

  “Hey, alma. We’re here. So, today’s story comes from Noodles. He managed to get out-witted by a squirrel, and it is too funny not to share.”

  She told you one story every day. Something that had happened during her day that she knew you would’ve wanted to hear about, and would’ve listened animatedly to, before enthusiastically sharing your thoughts about it.   Marcus didn’t hear the stories. He came and sat with her while she talked, because that’s what she’d asked him to do, but for him, being there wasn’t about hope. It was about survival. He didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to give himself that potentially crushing second wave of loss. But he also needed to see you. He needed you, and no amount of pain could crush that feeling.   Since they didn’t have a home anymore, they were living at HQ during the weeks, because it was closer to Missy’s school than Anita’s house. But they still stayed with her over the weekends.   Marcus made Missy dinner every evening, and sat with her to help her with homework or watch some show before she went to sleep, trying to keep her life as close to normal as these circumstances would permit.   But as soon as she fell asleep, he came right back here, curled up next to you on the bed and cried until there were no more tears, and sleep forced itself over him.

  This night was no exception. He walked in on legs that were impossibly heavy, refusing to look at the machines and the tubes, focusing on your hands and the parts of your skin that were bare and unbroken by needles.   It was so strange that your body was unharmed, that there wasn’t a mark on you to signify the violence and destructive nature of that incident. You were still perfect, even in death.   Wrapping one arm over your chest, careful not to disturb the breathing apparatus, he took his usual place on your left side, burrowed his face into your neck and breathed in the familiar scent of your shampoo.   He was so tired that the tears fell without the laboured breathing, or shockwaves of grief rocking his body, the way it usually did. He just laid there, completely drained of will and hope and desire, waiting for the restless, nightmarish sleep that would inevitably drag him under.   A sudden incessive beeping of one of the machines, tried to gripe at his attention. He closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into your neck, certain that if he turned his head towards it, all it would tell him would be that the time had come. That your body had finally weakened to the point where not even artificially sustained organs was enough to keep you there.   He hadn’t wanted to hope, and he’d thought that he didn’t have any left, but as he laid there and waited for the machines to declare your final departure – he realised that he had. A small part of him had clung to some imagined scenario where you could’ve somehow clawed your way back, and now that part was dying with you.   It felt as though someone had shrunk his lungs. He struggled to draw in more than tiny gulps of air, and his arm involuntarily tightened around you, pulling you into his chest, as though your lifeless body could somehow free him.

  A hand found his arm, and held it lightly, but he didn’t look up to see who it was that was trying to soothe him. He didn’t want to be soothed, he wanted to drift off into the nothingness with you.   But then the doors to the room opened, and he could hear it. So, why hadn’t he heard the person that was holding his arm, when they entered?

  “Oh, my god… Marcus, look.”

  It was one of the twins, and the tone of her voice made something inside of him wake up.   He pulled his head away from your neck, and the first thing he saw was your hand, holding his arm. The touch was light because it was weak, not soothing.   Not daring to believe it, he moved his arm, so he could take your hand, and when you squeezed it, ever so faintly, he fell apart.   He sobbed and hugged you, and tried to tell you how much he loved you and how grateful he was, but the shudders and trembles that kept coursing through him made it all garbled up and unintelligible.   He never heard the twins working around you, never felt them change the equipment, after they’d removed the breathing machine, and made sure that you could breathe on your own, before pulling the tubes out of your throat.   He didn’t notice Anita and Missy walk in, however much time later, but he felt them hug him, and he wanted to thank them, to tell them how much he loved them too, but the relief was so overwhelming that all he could manage was grunts and sobs.

  They let him cry himself into absolute exhaustion. He was so tired that it didn’t take long. He fell asleep still cradling you to his chest, and they didn’t have the heart to lift him out of the bed.

***

  A couple of days later, Marcus was sitting on the side of your bed, just staring at you while you ate.   You had to eat carefully and slowly, since your throat was still sore from the tube, but you were already strong enough to sit up in the bed, and eat by yourself.   You’d been expressly forbidden from trying to speak, until your throat was less swollen and irritated, or you might permanently damage your vocal cords. But it didn’t bother you. You and Marcus knew each other so well that your eyes and expressions were enough to let you know what the other was thinking. And Missy was enjoying getting the opportunity to blab incessantly without you being able to stop her with a well-placed quip.   You knew that big conversations would have to be had, in the near future, and while you could feel how nervous and anxious Marcus was about that, you really weren’t. There were things you needed to tell him, things you needed to try and help him understand, but none of it was bad. Not from your perspective, at least.

  You finished eating, and took a few long and slow sips of water. You could tell that there was something on Marcus’ mind, and when you put the glass down, you shot him a look to say ‘tell me’, and he sighed.

  “It’s not… I don’t wanna talk about it until you can actually talk to me.”

  You just kept giving him the same look, crossing your arms in front of your chest to let him know that you weren’t leaving the subject alone any time soon. Whatever this was, it was causing the wrinkle in between his eyebrows to deepen, a clear sign that it was something that hurt him, and he’d been hurting for so long already, it was time for him to start getting some of it out.   He saw your persistence, and he knew you weren’t gonna let it go. His eyes dropped to his own hands in his lap, and he took a minute to consider how to phrase it.

  “They told me… about the… baby.”

  His eyes were still downcast, so he didn’t see your face soften, or your eyes turn warm. But you wanted him to keep talking, so you made no effort to get his attention yet.

  “And I know that you did what you did to save us, and that you couldn’t have made it a priority right then, and I don’t blame you for doing what you had to. I just can’t help but think… what if that was it?”

  His hands were trembling slightly, but you couldn’t tell if it was with sadness or fear. His voice seemed so small.

  “What if that was our only chance? I’ve never felt the kind of… loss… that I felt when they told me that. The loss of what could have been, of the possibility. And I just…”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I had no idea how much I wanted that baby, until it was already gone.”

  He finally looked up at you, and blinked a couple of times with confusion as he took in your expression. Because you weren’t sad. You were smiling.   You picked up the notepad Amaire had left you for answering medical questions, and scribbled down the few words required to explain yourself, before turning it around to show him.

  --The baby is safe—

  You watched his eyes as he read those words, staring at them for several seconds as though he couldn’t understand them. And then his eyes snapped back to yours and there were a million questions in them, but he had no idea where to start or probably even what most of those questions were yet.   So, he just kissed you instead, and the depth of emotion that he poured into that kiss, had you both in tears.

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight​ @farfromjustordinary @allmyspideys @hrk-fic-recs @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts @computeringturtle @sarahjkl82-blog

[gohyuck]

↠ lee jeno; assassin in the thirteen colonies, year 1776

the brotherhood: guide

pairing: assassin!lee jeno x reader; based on assassin’s creed

genre: fluff, angst, suggestive (explicit allusions to sex)

word count: 4.5k

warnings: minor characters die, kidnapping, descriptions of murder

"i would rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”

↳ personality: you don’t think it’s possible to meet a more honest person. you also don’t think it’s possible to meet a more gentle person. last of all, and perhaps the most critical characteristic he has, you don’t think it’s earthly possible to find anyone as damn impulsive as him. frankly - and you mull over this constantly - it’s easy to forget that jeno is a killer, perhaps because he is anything but cold-blooded.

he’s the most hot-blooded person you know. passion is the undercurrent for all of his actions - a passion, specifically, for humanity. all that jeno does is to preserve humanity - that of others’, that of himself. he is honest, he is kind, he is sturdy, he is stoic, he is courageous, and he leaves change in his wake, running into fires to salvage even ashes if he can. jeno thanks every deer he slays, paying them homage for their pelt, their bones, their meat. jeno, believing far more in his own ancestors than in religion, prays for the souls of every bastard Englishman he kills, for them to find their respective gods, to find their unholy souls, and make peace in the next world with what they were unable to do so in this one.

he’s hot-blooded about the pursuit of his mother’s killers, knowing only that they’re not part of the brotherhood of assassins, knowing only that they’re part of the other side. jeno, gentle and kind jeno who wraps his arms around your waist from behind when he returns from missions, who plucks you flowers from the field beside to your home because he thinks they look pretty behind your ears, grits his teeth and clenches his jaw whenever he speaks of avenging his mother. you’re not allowed to accompany him on missions, of course - he makes it abundantly clear that he cannot lose you - but when he comes home, white robes soaked in red and tomahawk - a gift from the Mohawk tribe settled near you - dripping blood all over your floors, you can’t help but wonder how hot-blooded jeno is when slitting bad men’s throats or impaling them on their own muskets.

outside of the four walls of your home, his passion for humanity manifests in murder, in relaying letters for the sons of liberty, in pouring tea into the boston harbor. jeno’s slowly becoming a symbol of resistance against the british, and while it isn’t his goal, you know leading the colonies to victory is written in the stars for him. it’s why you let him go every time, even when he comes back to you riddled with slashes, stabbed in the side or in the arm, grazed by bullets and covered in gunpowder burns. it’s why you stay with him through the long nights, wincing to yourself when he cries out at your attempts to keep him infection free. the colonists only want to be free, he tells you when you ask of him, of his passion. shouldn’t everyone be free? he lives up to his morals in all aspects as well, freeing captured members of Native American tribes as well as doing his best to speak out against the rampant slavery that occurs amongst the same people who believe in their own right to be free.

jeno is nothing if not fair.

inside of your home, he gives you a new meaning to hot-blooded. you can only describe it as being utterly and absolutely ravished - his arms caging you against the bed you share, tongue laving gently over the numerous bruises he’d harshly sucked into your skin moments prior. there’s no lack of stamina with jeno - even after the longest of missions he comes home, energized and shaking with adrenaline, waiting for you to allow him to take it out on you. his palms are rough, so very rough, but his fingers are nimble when he strips you bare of clothes, when he enters three into you to make sure you can take him. whether he’s feeling benevolent, or loving, or gentle, it does not matter - jeno always pounds you into the mattress until you only know his name, until it’s the only word that falls from your lips.

jeno loves humanity. it’s why he fights so hard for everyone’s freedom. jeno loves you. it’s why he’s always gentle with you in the aftermath of him, all loving kisses and breakfast in bed. when he’s with you, when he watches you go over the homestead’s books from the doorway of your study or allows you to sit in on his training, when he bathes with you in the nearby stream and teaches you how to skin a deer cleanly, when he asks you to read to him with his head in your lap as you stroke his hair, all is well. it’s a shame he isn’t with you often.

↳ origin: he’d been not but 8 when it had happened. his mother had never hid anything from him, instilling the belief that there is nothing greater, nor more sacred, than the truth. jeno knew from the moment he gained true cognizance that his father was not korean like his mother was - he was a british government official who’d happened to fall for his mother while landing near her village for work. she’d followed him to the young british colonies on the continent everyone was coming to know as ‘america’. 

she’d always believed that jeno’s father was a good man. jeno, armed with the innocence only children can have, believed the same. even after he abandoned them readily, leaving a 1 year old jeno and his mother to fend for themselves in the woods while going back to his own new home in boston, she relayed stories of his heroics to her son. even after it all, jeno held onto the belief that people are inherently good. 

it wasn’t until british soldiers burned down the settlement of the Mohawk tribe that had taken jeno and his mother, until jeno was dragged, kicking and screaming, away from his mother’s asphyxiated corpse, that he realized he’d been wrong, that his mother had been wrong. the redcoats were inherently terrible, tyrannical. jeno’s father, not only amongst them but in a position of power as well, was a bad, bad man. 

it wasn’t until he lost everything he had that he realized just how much he had to lose. 

it’s then that he decides that, someday, when he has power, he will do everything he can to fight for justice and for freedom. he does not want anymore little boys losing their mothers for no other reason than oppressors seeing them as unfit for life. the moment he turns 14 - a strapping young man, shoulders broad but heavy with the weight of the world - he leaves the rebuilt Mohawk settlement, being sent on his way by the tribe mother with only a name: achilles davenport, master assassin. it’s at davenport’s homestead that he learns the ways of the assassin brotherhood, the ways of the other side - known as templars. assassins fight for freedom. templars - many of them living as british officials and redcoats - fight for complete control. 

jeno never has to think about where he stands. 

↳ the starting line: jeno only meets you in his 20s, when you run away from your house in new york and make your way to the frontier to create yourself a home. you’re practically passing out while trying to chop wood while he’s heading back to the homestead with a clean kill for dinner. as you stand up to wipe the sweat off your brow with a grimy hand, you meet his eyes, dark and completely unreadable.

jeno is never seen unless he wants to be seen. you don’t know this yet, but someday you will. 

“do you need help?” he asks, already setting the dead deer down and sheathing his knife in the small scabbard at his hip. there’s a bow and a quiver full of arrows both slung over his shoulders, but as he nears you he pulls them off as well. you don’t say anything until he’s right in front of you, holding out his weapons for you to take. 

equal exchange: he trusts you to hold his things if you trust him with your axe.

you take them. 

“you’re peter, aren’t you? from the homestead? i’m (name).” you finally ask as you hand him your weapon. he raises an eyebrow before scoffing slightly, grabbing the axe’s handle easy as he does. 

“jeno is my given name, actually. peter is the name i use when i’m amongst the colonists.”

“and why is that?” you step back, just as he arcs the axe over his head. you watch, in awe, as he splits the tree trunk cleanly in half before pushing it off of the block you have it on with the side of the metal. he picks up another piece of wood from the pile you’d been going through before setting it down. 

“’peter’ sounds more natural here than jeno, don’t you think? wouldn’t want to call attention to myself.” he has an air of finality as he speaks this time, and you decide not to prod him. instead, you sit back, hands gripping onto his bow and arrows as you watch him break pieces of wood with ease under the evening sun. you can’t help but notice the way his shirt clings to his muscles as his sweat slowly seeps through the thin material, outlining the ridges of his abs and the bulges of his biceps. 

it’s the first time you see jeno, but it isn’t anywhere near the last. 

you become close friends over the next few years, with jeno eventually allowing you to be privy to his life as an assassin when you find him, bleeding from a gash in his arm in your living room one night, after returning from dinner with a friend’s. you demand to know what he’s doing - why he’s in a blue and white robe, why he has a tomahawk strapped to his chest and a rope dart in his hands - and why he’s so badly hurt, and he finds that he can’t keep you in the dark anymore, not when you care so deeply for him and when he cares even more deeply for you. 

it’s as you straddle him, eyes focused and teeth sinking into your bottom lip while you clean his wound, that jeno realizes that he’s finally gained something - someone - personal to fight for. you can’t ignore the way his soft gaze is fixed on your face, or how his large hands rest gently against your waist. once you’re done dressing his arm, you look down at him and slowly, very slowly, lower your lips to meet his. 

it’s unspoken, but he’s yours and you’re his from then on. 

↳ i would rather die on my feet...: it’s been years since you’ve been together, but the majority of jeno’s things are still at davenport’s homestead even as he sleeps in the bed in your house at night. you do not mind this - he keeps you separate from where he plans most of his missions for a reason. 

he wants to be able to come home to you, to press soft kisses your forehead and feel you bury you face in his chest as you breathe him in. jeno does work for the good of all humanity, but sometimes he feels as if he would give everything up just to have a quiet life with you. these emotions are strongest in the passing scenes of his life that are difficult for him to dwell on due to a lack of time: times when your bare body is asleep and curled into the side of his own naked form, times when you drag him out to dance in fields and laugh with him as he cooks for you. he knows you hurt when he’s gone, because he hurts when he’s gone too. jeno is thoroughly convinced that he only needs your smile to stay alive. 

with a love like yours, it’s inevitable that sometime tries to tear it apart at the seams. 

it happens when he’s out on a mission: paul revere needs aid - and a horseman - in delivering news to the people. your knowledge of the intricacies or whatever jeno is embarking on tonight is sparse, as always, and you let him leave after he spends a night mumbling promises into your skin that say that he’ll come back home to you, as always. it’s always jeno who goes out, who risks his life for the collective. it’s always jeno who’s in danger.

it’s why, when you hear your front door pull open while you’re in the kitchen, you rush out excitedly, not thinking it could be anyone but the love of your life. it’s why, in your shock at seeing 4 men with glittering ruby red rings centered with silver crosses - the telltale mark of the templar - you’re rendered unable to move. it’s why they’re able to subdue you - you, a scrappy runaway who can at the very least wield a simple blade - without much effort, succeeding in forcefully covering your head with a bag and dragging you, kicking and screaming, into what you realize is a portable jail once you come to your senses. you’re stuck into what’s essentially a glorified cage on top of what you think is a wagon, and as you feel the men’s sneers on you and hear their jeering laughs, you can’t help but think of one thing.

may God turn a blind eye when jeno finds those responsible for this.

when you reach what’s evidently your destination, you’re pulled roughly from your imprisonment, snagging the cage while almost blindly tripping and falling to the ground. you regain your footing just in time although a part of your dress has ripped, but that doesn’t stop whoever is behind you to continue shoving you forward with abandon. you try to take note of what you can - running your hands over the side of what must be a building when they shove you into it to see what it’s made out of, trying to get a sense of the smell in the air. you’ve never been helpless - you know how to hunt, how to fight, how to care for yourself and protect yourself - so you almost immediately set about taking stock of important information that can be gleaned by your remaining senses. you eventually stop walking, only hearing the distinct clink of a key and a door being unlocked before you’re shoved unceremoniously onto a smooth, rocky floor. they lock the door again immediately, and as their footsteps recede you realize that you’re stuck tied up and blindfolded, no explanation afforded to you. you can only assume that they want jeno, although you have a feeling they don’t know what they will get in return. 

all you can do is wait. 

↳ ...than live on my knees.: jeno knows that something is wrong before he even crosses the threshold of the front door. 

he’d stopped by the homestead first to update achilles on the state of the brewing trouble - redcoats had come by sea, forcing jeno to cart revere all over the colonies to let people know of this. jeno knows there’s still much to be done - not even battles have truly been won yet, let alone the war. still, even though he can’t afford to rest, he finds himself craving time with you. leaving you is gut-wrenching, but coming back is the easiest thing in the world. 

so once he’s done briefing achilles, he goes straight home. jeno hasn’t shed his robes yet, hasn’t cleaned his weapons. he isn’t easily exhausted, but his feet ache almost as much as his heart does, and all he wants is to lie down with you, pull you to his chest, and talk about the stars or about your interactions with people down at the pub you help out at or about the family of raccoons you’d seen while taking a stroll. being with you is like a dream he doesn’t enjoy being taken out of.

he’s jarred awake when he sees that your front door is very, very slightly ajar. jeno’s mind goes into overdrive immediately, but he steels his nerves as he takes stock of everything around him: aside from the door being open, the grass is kicked up from the bottom of your porch to what look like wheel indents in the dirt. there’d been a struggle. he gingerly approaches your door and, upon pushing it open, breath hitched, he sees a chair overturned. there’s a basket of vegetables upended on the floor, and in his mind’s eye jeno can see you, small grin on your face, walking out of the kitchen mid-dinner preparation to give him a proper welcome home. 

for a moment, he thinks the rage consuming him might kill him - that it might stop his heart and shut him down completely. the fear that overrides him brings his breathing back, though it’s fast and choppy and impossible to follow. 

he has to find you. it’s his fault - his existence, his connection to you - that your arms aren’t around his waist right now, that he isn’t pressing kisses along your hairline at this exact moment. he has to find you, and he has to make this right. 

jeno doesn’t bother cleaning his weapons before he walks right back outside, eyes glinting in smothered anger. his hands are fists, blunt nails digging into his skin and drawing forth blood. the stinging in his palms doesn’t affect him - his mind is on one track, and one track only. he doesn’t bother cleaning his weapons, knowing full well that he’ll be putting them to use again soon. 

it takes him no time at all to track down where you are - there only one wagon wheel manufacturer in boston, and he’s well-aware of how their wheels look. he’s sure - entirely sure - that you’ve been taken by templars; jeno has no reason to believe otherwise. he can’t stand the fact that they’ve managed to hit him where it hurts most.

he can only take comfort in the fact that they have no idea what they’re up against.

by luck alone, it’s a new moon when he gets to you a day later, and jeno finds it even easier than usual to camouflage himself amongst the trees outside the redcoat fort he’s staking out. he’s already taken note of the wagon and cage that are on his right, his eyes having honed in on the piece of cloth stuck - he recognizes it from one of your dresses - to the cage’s hinge. there are numerous redcoats on watch, but jeno, his mind sharply focused on one thing and one thing only, finds clarity in his decision-making tonight.

he trails the perimeter, hidden amongst trees, until he finds a guard that’s about his stature. it takes little effort at all to pull the redcoat into bushes with a hand on his mouth, and it takes even less work than that for jeno to jab his hidden blade into the other man’s throat from behind, leaving him to asphyxiate on his own gurgling blood. jeno lets him die, not bothering to pray for his victim for the first time ever. instead, he’s as cold as steel as he strips the newly dead man, changing into the red uniform without remorse while amongst the bushes. he stashes his own robe and hides his weapons before he emerges, a man on a mission.

it’s easy to hide his face tonight, especially as he pulls his hat down low. the shadow engulfs his face, and when he returns to the dead man’s post, the other, tired redcoat beside him doesn’t even blink. jeno tamps down on the urge to kill him, too - part of him wants to leave no survivors, not when he doesn’t know if you’re safe or not. 

if he raises an alarm before he finds you, though, he risks you getting hurt if you already aren’t. this is the only thing that has him tipping his hat down kindly at the other man before leaving his post, murmuring something quietly about a bathroom. the soldier is too tired to register the fact that jeno’s voice isn’t one he’s used to. 

it takes him no time at all to get to what he presumes to be the makeshift prison - a small shed-like building made of wood and reinforced with brick. nobody bats an eyelid at his red-clad form, nobody makes to look at his face or question him. his tomahawk is uncomfortable against his skin, but he doesn’t care that it has to be underneath his uniform for once. 

breaking the lock on the prison is easy after he smothers the guard on duty from behind. he snaps the man’s neck, just in case - the ripping noise from within the dead man’s body doesn’t bother jeno nearly as much as it should. it takes everything in him not to pull the door off its hinges in his haste to see if you’re inside, and he finds luck on his side when he hurries in to find you standing, propping yourself up against the single set of metal bars within the shed. you’re blindfolded and your hands are bound, and his eyes are quick to find the exposed patch of skin in your side from where your dress had snagged, but you’re alive. you’re very much alive. 

“(name),” jeno breathes out, and you visibly perk up. 

“jeno?” your voice is hoarse, a little raspy, and he realizes with a pang that you haven’t spoken in hours. it’s likely you haven’t had water as well. 

“i’m here, my heart,” he responds, rushing over to you to reaching his fingers between the bars and run a hand over your hair. “step back for me, love.” 

you can tell how panicked he must be from the way terms are endearment are slipping off his tongue with ease. jeno is a quiet lover, a sturdy one. you know that you have his entire heart, and you know that you always will. he proves this with his actions often, but he’s far less inclined to do so with his words. he’s worried, and you want to soothe him however you can.

you step back. 

the sound of the lock breaking is high-pitched and scraping, and before you can react you’re being pulled forward into a chest you know better than you know your own features. jeno’s arms wrap around you, and one of his hands busies itself in untying your hands while the other easily pulls the blindfold off of your eyes. his tomahawk is by the door, right beside a smashed lock. 

“are you okay? do you ache? did they do anyth-”

“we need to get out of here,” you cut him off, looking your love directly in the eye. “immediately. they wanted to lure you here, and you mustn’t let them get what they want.”

it’s not fifteen seconds after jeno drags the two of you into the woods, forcing you to climb up a tree before following you up into it, that you both watch, hidden amongst the leaves and the stars, as tens of panicked redcoats rush into the place they’d had you held. you’re close enough to hear the fear in their voices when they discover their deceased brethren at the door, and you’re close enough to hear their shouts of anger when they discover that you’re gone. they double their patrol, keeping a hawk eye on the woods around them.

it’s hours before you and jeno are able to leave, shrouded in the darkest part of the night. it’s a day before you’re back home, resting your raw wrists in a bowl of cold water while jeno cleans his weapons for good. it’s weeks before you tell him exactly what you’d seen, what you’d heard the night you were taken.

it’s months before jeno can even try to forgive himself. for what, he’s unsure.

↳ in due time: “this isn’t a good idea.” jeno mutters, and you lift your gaze from your book to look over at him. he’s been lying flat on his back on his side of the bed while staring directly at the ceiling for the past few hours while you’ve been reading on your side. 

“what’s not a good idea?” you ask, not too worried about his response. jeno gets into moods often, and typically you can pull him out of them just by talking. it isn’t easy getting him to talk, especially not considering his line of work, but he’s never had trouble opening up to you. 

“us.”

the book slips from your hands, falling onto your chest, and he finally looks over at you. his face would be unreadable if the sorrow in his eyes wasn’t so obvious. 

“now what the hell makes you say that?” your words are incredulous, your tone more hurt than scathing. jeno loves you, this you’re sure of - so what is he talking about?

“being with me hurt you,” he sighs, pulling himself into a sitting position. “and it - i thought i was going to kill everything in my path. kill everyone. for a moment i thought i was going to kill myself, i- i-... fuck.” jeno drops his head into his hands, and you find yourself staring at his back.

for a moment, neither of you speak. neither of you move. 

you reach a tentative hand out, laying it square on his back.

“being with you is why i live.” you whisper, and you feel jeno’s back shudder underneath your fingertips. “jeno, when you met me, i was running from a life of-of pain, a life where i was unwanted. you were the first person to ever make me feel loved. you still are. i did not get hurt because of you - i got hurt because there are awful people, who want awful things, and you’re single-handedly standing in the way of them ruining the world with their greed and hatred. this is not a bad idea. this is the best idea either of us have ever had.” as you speak, you shift closer and closer to him.

“you don’t- you’re okay?” jeno turns his head to face you, and you can’t help but nod instinctively. you aren’t lying. you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of his spine.

“of course,” you murmur into his skin, moving so you’re situated directly behind him. you wrap your arms around his torso from the back and rest your chin on top of his shoulder. he slowly relaxes under your touch, leaning back against you, and you let him soften before you continue speaking. 

“i’m always okay with you.”

[umbry-fic]

nurture

Summary:

But just as a seed knows nothing but darkness and the press of soil upon it, until it finally breaks through the first layer and learns of the world above and its wonders, she knew nothing more than her mission. Knew not of emotions, not of memories, not of herself.

And thus began her growth.

A look at the moments Martel spends with Lloyd and Colette and how that changes her.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Summon Spirit Martel, Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Mentions of other characters Relationships: Martel & Colette Brunel, Martel & Lloyd Irving Rating: G Word Count: 9442 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 13/08/2021

Notes: This was written as a treat for @likes-words-and-shrimp as part of the Tales of Sweet Soda 2021 event organised by @talesofexchanges!

For context, this is based on my interpretation that Summon Spirit Martel is just Tabatha, but with a new body, new powers plus the memories of every soul trapped in the Great Seed. This fic also goes into DOTNW events, but isn't canon-compliant as to Martel's appearance in that game.

The original fic makes use of font changes that can't be translated onto Tumblr, but it doesn't affect much. You should be able to read the fic just fine!

~~~

Martel wasn’t just a summon spirit that acted as the guardian of the Yggdrasill Tree, tied to it in a complicated bond of mana. She was the World Tree, in spirit and soul.

In the instant she was born, from the passionate wish of a boy who fought to change the world to prevent any more suffering; from the love of a sister who had been torn apart from her brother through nothing but the cruelness of fate, and the many, many needless deaths that had spiralled out from that one event; from the body of a lonely automaton who only desired to understand the world, Martel was akin to nothing more than the sapling by her feet, which inherently knew that its sole goal was to grow. Born with the knowledge of her role in this world: to protect the World Tree, so long as the world still needed it, still wanted it.

But just as a seed knows nothing but darkness and the press of soil upon it, until it finally breaks through the first layer and learns of the world above and its wonders, she knew nothing more than her mission. Knew not of emotions, not of memories, not of herself.

And thus began her growth.

~~~

Martel spent most of her days kneeling by the World Tree, which did not yet reach her waist. With her staff stabbed upright into the dirt next to her, her fingers would rub at the small collection of leaves that clung to the sapling’s tiny branches, not even the same length as her arm. Not tending to it, no, because it didn’t need tending in the traditional sense. It didn’t need refreshing rain to drink from, nor fertile soil to draw nutrients from, nor plentiful sunlight to fuel its growth.

What it needed to flourish was the love and adoration of the people. For them to stop fighting amongst themselves, for the hatred that had stretched on for an eternity to be resolved, for the different races to stop putting each other down in order to declare themselves victors in a bloody competition that ultimately held no meaning.

She would maintain this position for any period of time - hours, days, even weeks - patiently awaiting any change. Time was of no concern to her. Her eyelids did not get heavy, her limbs did not start to shake, her mind did not become fogged. She was not mortal - she did not need rest.

In the blink of an eye, an entire week would pass.

The remainder of the endless time available to her was spent wandering the fields that surrounded the World Tree. This place that was now her home, for she could not leave, was expansive compared to the four walls that Tabitha had known, but claustrophobic compared to the lands others roamed freely. Within the circular constraints of this space tucked away from the world and known only to a select few, were many unexplored nooks and crannies.

She memorised every detail. Every rock, no matter big or small; every fallen log, moss snaking over each inch; every tree, whether it be reaching up to the heavens or barely topping her head; all the colourful animals that ran amok.

Sometimes, coming across certain sights dragged up vivid memories that belonged to the woman with whom she shared a name, but not a spirit. And attached to it, colourful emotions.

A cliff with thick and sturdy roots threading out of its surface that could act as neat little footholds and handholds.

Mithos climbed up to the top, all the time. Whenever we visited. He would sit there kicking his legs, laughing and asking me to join him. And when I did, we’d share some food. Usually a sandwich or two.

A log with a circle of daisies blooming around it, all of their heads turned towards the log like a gaggle of school children attentively listening to a teacher conduct a lesson.

That was Ratatosk’s favourite perch, regardless of what form he took, whether it be a person, a squirrel, or a bird of prey. Kratos planted those flowers. He said that he wanted to make it more colourful for Ratatosk.

A trickling brook, bordered by wild berry bushes.

Yuan would gather the berries. They were always incredibly sweet, and juice would explode in our mouths with each bite. We’d feed them to each other, and then laugh at the mess we made.

Martel would simply shake her head, attempting to clear the voice that was both her own and not, that seemed to fill every corner of her mind, trumping every other thought. She would walk on, unsure what to do with the sudden emotion flooding her heart, enough to make her unsteady on her feet. Relentlessly haunting her were the many ghosts of Martel Yggdrasill, for she had inherited them. And while she held many sets of memories belonging to all who had been sacrificed to the Great Seed, Martel Yggdrasill’s were the most prominent, in this place that had been pivotal to her life, and that harboured the ruins of wishes once held dear.

She was used to holding an incredible amount of information, able to retrieve any of it at once, for Tabitha’s android form was perfectly suited to act as a database. Gone, however, was her ability to compartmentalise and block out certain pieces of information. She dearly missed it.

She was familiar only with three individuals. The first two came as a pair - Lloyd Irving and Colette Brunel, whose faces she already knew from Altessa’s house. People she knew as “kind”, even though she struggled to understand what exactly that meant.

Her first meeting with them as Martel, rather than Tabitha, was right here. She had given them the role of guardians to the fragile sapling, such that they could join her in safeguarding the world’s mana.

She could vividly remember the awed expressions on their faces - the shine in Colette’s eyes, Lloyd’s gaping mouth. Their fervent enthusiasm in protecting this world’s future. They had departed not soon after Lloyd had given the Tree its name, saying that they had to check in on their friends, but left her with a promise to return.

The third individual was Yuan Ka-Fai. A face she knew, once again, from memories that were not her own. He kept away, for the most part, in a little shack he’d built with the help of his Renegades. It was for the best - it didn’t seem like he wanted to see her, and looking upon his face brought a stinging pain which she couldn’t make heads-or-tails of. A field of contradictions from which there was no escape.

There was a fourth, one that she couldn’t physically see, and could only feel the traces of in the lingering mana particles in the air. The ghost of the previous guardian of the World Tree, who had been ruthlessly ripped apart by people who did not even know of his existence, his essence scattered to the wind.

Days passed, much the same as each other. There was an emptiness in her heart, a hole that grew wider with each day and could not be filled. Not by her aimless wandering, at least.

What was it that she yearned for?

She herself did not know the answer.

~~~

It was a day indistinguishable from any other when she first put down roots.

The sun was out of sight, hidden behind grey clouds, the land duller in colour for the lack of illumination. Martel was seated on a stump, the log having long rotted into nothingness, staff resting in her lap and eyes closed as she let herself sink into the peaceful embrace of nature. The wind caressing her skin, the sweet scent wafting from the nearby flower field. The rustling of the leaves above her head, the bubbling of the brook, the birdsong drifting into her ears.

The sudden crunch of branches pierced through her bubble of calm, too loud to be caused by a woodland critter. Her eyes snapped open, fingers wrapping around her staff tightly.

Only to spot, in the distance, the familiar figures of a golden-haired girl dressed in white robes and a brown-haired boy dressed entirely in red, making their way over to her across the flower fields. She released the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

There were no intruders. Not at the moment.

Still on guard, she stood, awaiting their arrival.

“Is something wrong?” she asked the moment they stopped before her, words sharp as a knife.

Was there a threat approaching the World Tree, was there a need to-

“Huh?” Just like that, her thought process was shattered by Lloyd, who rubbed the back of his head in confusion. “No, I… I don’t think anything’s wrong.”

“Then why are you here?” Her mind skidded to a halt completely, her grip on her staff loosening, though the tension remained in her raised shoulders.

“To visit. We were passing through the area, so we thought we might as well.” Colette said, cocking her head. “Does there need to be another reason for us to come here?”

To… Visit…?

“Yeah. We promised we’d be back, didn’t we?” Lloyd said, shrugging as he sat down by the stump, without a care for the wet grass, water droplets still clinging to the blades from the morning rain. Colette took a seat next to him, a wide smile on her face that brought the colour back - the green of the leaves, the brown of the bark.

Their promise…?

Martel had paid little heed to it. It was not an oath. They had no obligation to keep it, no penalty from breaking it, and she had thought it just a common courtesy that held no weight.

After all, why would they return here? There was no reason to. What could possibly be found here, other than the remnants of shattered dreams and the bitter taste of betrayal?

“Sit back down!” Colette gestured to the tree stump. “It’s uncomfortable to keep standing, right?”

“I… Alright…?” she muttered. In truth, she would not get tired, or feel physical discomfort. She couldn’t help but listen to Colette, though. Taking a hesitant step back, and then another, until her legs hit the stump and she sat down. Her back was ramrod straight and she maintained a grip on her staff.

She still didn’t understand why they had come, and it didn’t seem like they were planning to provide an answer.

And one didn’t come, in the few hours they spent here. Instead, the two of them broke out into conversation. Not just amongst themselves, but with her. Filling her in on what they had been up to in the months since the two worlds had become one.

Their journey across the reunited world to collect every Exsphere, to save the whispers and stories and souls contained within each tiny sphere, just as Tabitha had once told Lloyd to do within a cave of luminous green. The towns and sights they had come across, described with so much life behind their voices that Martel felt as if she was no longer sitting on a tree stump, but instead on a bench on a cobbled street, the smell of baking bread drifting through the air.

Lloyd waved his arms around wildly while Colette giggled into her hand - an outburst of energy, against which she was helpless to do anything but absorb every word. But they didn’t stop there. They went on to ask her questions, to ask her what she thought. She didn’t answer, apart from simple shakes or nods of the head, even to open-ended answers where “yes” and “no” were no longer sufficient. Lloyd and Colette didn’t linger on her awkward non-answers, or try to drag answers out of her. They just moved on.

They did not ask her if she’d like to go to these places one day, knowing that she never could.

Martel didn’t quite know how to act. She had never spent this much time with Lloyd and Colette before. They had talked to her back at Altessa’s, sure - they were the ones to seek her out the most, actually. But even then, they were always rushing to places, their plates full with everything that they had to do.

Not like this, where their boundless energy spilt forth without anything to curb it, washing over her.

By the time they left, waving goodbye as she remained still as a stone, Martel’s head was in a whirl from the influx of information she had received. She was exhausted, yet not tired at the same time. Another inexplicable contradiction.

There was a gentle warmth, like rays of sunlight cutting through gaps in the clouds and kissing her skin.

But the sun was still smothered in a layer of clouds, so from whence did this warmth come from?

~~~

Now that the sapling had put down more roots, little buds could start to form on the branches, not yet ready to open and show their flowery faces.

~~~

Colette and Lloyd continued to return every few weeks, to Martel’s utter surprise. They checked in on the World Tree, asking Martel each and every time if they were allowed to touch the fuzzy leaves and dangling branches. Martel would nod, and watch them with eagle eyes as they handled the sapling with the utmost care, muttering well-wishes and cheering over every inch it gained. Colette, on rare occasions, would squat next to the sapling, humming a song that was pleasant to the ears. Perhaps she believed the old wives’ tale that singing to a plant could make it grow faster. Even though it was utterly foolish, Martel couldn’t help but join Lloyd in smiling at the sight.

They continued to regale her with tales of their travels, the three of them sitting around different locations in the clearing - by the stump, on the log, beside the river - her staff never far from her. Eventually, Lloyd and Colette began to bring along tiny souvenirs that they pressed into her palm, which Martel would hesitantly curl her fingers around.

A tiny lantern charm. A statuette of some strange monster she didn’t recognise. Snacks, even - crispy chips in foil packets, fruit tarts wrapped in pretty packages, fruits which exploded with juice in the mouth. She did not require food to survive, but she still ate the gifts, letting Colette and Lloyd’s words wash over her as she tasted sweetness on her tongue and left sugar on her lips. She kept the souvenirs in a little box Lloyd had made for her, one that he claimed was blessed by the elemental Summon Spirits such that it could withstand the rain and sunshine. That seemed a tad impossible. Wasn’t that too much effort to go through? It was more likely that Lloyd was exaggerating. The box never succumbed to rot, however, so she had to take Lloyd at his improbable word.

Eventually, Martel mustered up the courage to answer one of their questions, even if she didn’t know if her answers were logically correct. The fact of the matter was, there probably weren’t correct answers, to begin with. Lloyd grinned, and then further roped her into the conversation. The nervousness had seemingly vacated, almost like it had never been there, as she found herself relaxing in Lloyd and Colette’s familiar company. She was still relatively quiet compared to the endless stream of words that came out of their mouths, but she was comfortable enough to talk, and sometimes even laugh a little at the funny stories they told. Listening no longer left her exhausted to the bone.

She learned to wave as the two children always did, an action she had observed from her days as Tabitha and knew was one of the many practices of “saying farewell”. The first time Martel had done so, barely catching their attention before they left, Colette’s eyes lit up, and she waved back enthusiastically, cupping her hands over her mouth and yelling “goodbye”, the word floating across the distance between them and catching in Martel’s heart.

Walking around yielded fewer shards reflecting the distant past that pricked her heart and made it bleed, but rather crystals of memory showing the two children who kept visiting despite there being no logical reason to do so.

They came here for the simple purpose of meeting her, and she couldn’t wrap her head around that. All she knew…

Was that the hole in her heart was slowly being filled, by the sunny warmth that she now knew was happiness.

An emotion that was almost foreign. For once upon a time, emotions had been nothing more than the result of a series of interwoven conditions, dull and without meaning. She had witnessed only glimpses of true emotions, arising due to errors in the code - or perhaps an evolution, for they were one and the same.

Still, she didn’t understand why a hole had arisen in the first place.

She looked forward to every visit, her ears primed to listen for any little noise, her head perking up every time she heard their footsteps.

Martel hoped Lloyd and Colette would keep making the nonsensical decision to return.

~~~

The World Tree now reached Martel’s waist, the leaves on each branch no longer alone. More buds had made their appearance, tiny spots of pale pink among the dense clusters of deep green.

The branches were a little sturdier now, and birds took to perching upon it, their talons resting on the bark as they chirped joyfully.

But growth always came entangled with challenges.

The change of seasons brought with it stronger winds, mercifully ripping leaves from their rightful places and leaving them to fall gracelessly to the ground, where they were trampled upon by animals without a second thought, noticed by none.

~~~

The Centurion Cores posed a threat not just to the World Tree, but to the world at large. If the wrong person got their hands on them, they could wreak havoc and destruction upon the world. And if they led to Ratatosk’s awakening… There would be no telling what would happen. Even here, Martel could feel the writhing hatred of the previous Summon Spirit, fighting to be unleashed upon the world.

The Cores needed to be gathered and dealt with before any of that could happen.

But no mere person could handle the Cores. Touching them would allow their power to crawl within one’s mind, flooding it with insidious whispers, easily driving anyone without sufficient protection insane.

Which meant Martel could leave the job to only one individual.

Lloyd came alone, without Colette in sight, having been called by Yuan. Martel delivered the news in a flat tone, keeping watch on Lloyd’s expression - the way it crumbled into pieces before her eyes, and then was carefully built back up again into a mask of neutrality. It was not something she’d thought Lloyd capable of, but here was a demonstration, right in front of her.

He did not voice any objection, did not try to shirk the heavy responsibility she was about to set on his shoulders. He simply accepted her words with a nod and chose to silently bear the consequences they brought. He understood that someone had to do it, and he was willing to do anything to protect this world and the people he loved.

Martel saw that. She saw his unbreakable will, and the all-encompassing love he held for this world and the people that meant everything to him. She knew that he was the right choice, perhaps the only choice.

So what was this ache in her heart, as she watched Lloyd leave alone, struggling to keep his head aloft?

~~~

A sapling required care to grow, whether it be by nature’s impartial hands or the gentle touch of a loving gardener.

Through the friendship that Lloyd and Colette had offered to her, Martel had experienced the sunlight that was happiness.

Now it was time to learn of the torrential storm that was grief and despair, and the intruding rot that was guilt.

~~~

Silence reigned supreme again, broken only by small pockets of noise when Lloyd and Colette returned, the atmosphere nowhere near as happy and relaxing as before. Never at the same time, of course, for that could not be allowed to happen. And at a much smaller frequency than before, irregular.

Lloyd was quiet most of the time, taking advantage of the safety provided by the boundaries of this space to take a quick nap, one that sometimes stretched into an hours-long sleep. He did not stir at all, thoroughly exhausted to the bone, except for nightmares which twisted his mouth into a grimace and furrowed his brow, unshed tears pooling beneath his eyelids. Even in sleep, he refused to cry.

Perhaps he was tired of putting up an act all the time, of hiding from and lying to his friends. Perhaps he was exhausted from being accused by the entire world and having fingers pointed at him no matter where he went. Perhaps he was sick of being on his guard at all times, even when he was in his most vulnerable position of sleep. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

There were so many reasons for his spirit to be at breaking point, so many reasons for him to want to curl up into a ball and never face the world again.

Martel would not disrupt his much-needed and much-deserved rest. She simply placed a blanket she’d squirrelled from Yuan’s shack (which she hoped Yuan wouldn’t miss) on Lloyd, tucking it in around his shoulders and watching over him until he woke up. After which, he would leave to continue his mission, back small and forlorn.

Did he, like her, now see ghosts here? All the times he’d come here with Colette… Were those happy memories being turned against him, making him yearn for the past and dread the future?

The silence was draining, closing in upon her heart and dragging it down into murky depths.

Colette, on the other hand, seemed much the same as before. She continued to talk non-stop, actions animated, a smile drawn on her face. If someone didn’t look closely, they would not see past the mask she had effortlessly painted on with a brush gripped in expert fingers. Would not see that the light in her eyes had dimmed, would not hear the occasional tremble in her voice.

Would not realise that she never brought up Lloyd.

Martel didn’t mind playing along, at least at first, talking about whatever topic Colette brought up and nothing more. The stranglehold around Martel’s heart tightened with each visit, however, as more storm clouds gathered above Colette’s head, her voice getting less and less enthusiastic. Until Martel couldn’t stand it anymore, opening her mouth to ask if Colette was alright.

And the dam broke under the insurmountable pressure, Colette sobbing profusely into her hands, sounding like her heart was being ripped into tiny shreds that could never be put back together. Martel desperately tried to pull on someone, anyone’s memories on how to comfort a crying child. Yet at this most vital of moments, the lives that had always tormented her remained frustratingly out of reach, leaving her to awkwardly rub Colette’s back.

At least a weight seemed to have left Colette’s shoulders after the tears dried up, leaving behind nothing but quiet acceptance. She returned to talking to Martel, her smile somehow more genuine, her voice no longer injected with false cheer, her vulnerability shining through. Colette let herself lapse into silence sometimes, and the two of them would simply listen to the sounds of nature around them instead of trying to fill it with fake noise.

There were moments when Martel thought she felt the burn of Colette’s gaze on her back. But the moment she whirled around to catch her, there would be nothing for her to see. Colette’s head would be bowed, nothing but a smile visible on her face.

But it happened so many times that it couldn’t be her imagination. Yet she didn’t know what to make of it.

And when completely alone, Martel did little things, like practice the manipulation of mana. Things the other Summon Spirits had had millennia to master, but that she was a complete beginner in. The mana bent to her will, but she wasn’t certain how exactly to direct it to accomplish the simple task of breaking down her staff and reconstructing it.

She wasn’t just trying to learn how to be a better Summon Spirit, to learn the practices of all the others. She was attempting to ignore the hole in her heart that she was all the more aware of now, for she had finally figured out why it existed.

The silence. The lonely, empty silence.

Even when she’d been Tabitha, there had never been a day when she was alone. Not even her first, for Altessa had already been there, bringing her to life. And he had never left - from the dark, oppressing halls of Cruxis, to the cosy, if slightly mildew-infested house in Tethe’alla. He was not the most talkative of persons, but the house had always been filled with the sounds of life: the hammering in the forge, the thunk of the knife on the chopping board, the creak of doors opening throughout the house.

Then Lloyd, Colette and their companions had arrived at the front door on their quest to reunite the two worlds. And that led to Mithos staying there, who brought a lot more noise by always engaging Altessa in conversation. It might have all been a front. Mithos may have been actively avoiding looking at her. But she still wanted to believe that somewhere under the trickery and deceit, there had been something genuine.

She now knew the answer to the question she’d been asking herself. What she yearned for was companionship.

And in the deafening silence, with nothing to occupy her, she was left to contemplate the many questions that rose to the surface. Questions that she could only consider now, having broken free of the box that her mind had once been constrained to by algorithms, and come to understand the complicated, illogical matters of the heart.

Martel would stare for hours into the brook, observing the features of her face, feeling them with careful fingers. This face that was hers, yet also belonged to another woman.

When others looked at her, who did they see? For Mithos, Kratos, if any of them were still here on this world, and especially Yuan, it must have been Martel Yggdrasill. And the rest of the world did not yet know of her existence and likely never would, hidden from prying eyes. Her existence held nothing but pain in the eyes of some.

Would Altessa still see Tabitha, an android who struggled with emotion but in the end loved this world, even if she did not know how to put that expression into words? Would her existence then hold a bittersweet love, but also the stinging reminder of failure and the typhoon of guilt that could easily carry someone away in its overwhelming power?

Would the other Summon Spirits recognise her as one? Would Ratatosk, if he was still here, recognise her as the guardian of the World Tree?

Or was she something else altogether?

~~~

Who am I?

The words were spinning around in Martel’s head once again, like a merry-go-round gone out of control. She was trying, and failing, to push it down, wanting to just soak in Colette’s company without any distraction.

Colette was leaning her head against the hard bark of a tree, legs stretched out before her and hands resting in her lap, gaze steadily trained on the sky and the birds that flew free within it. Martel, on the other hand, was standing, staff abandoned in the grass.

Martel didn’t pose the question, even though Colette might hold the key to unlocking the answer. The two of them were quite similar, after all - both failed vessels who had now been given a new purpose in a reconstructed world. Perhaps Colette would know the answer, or at least know where to start.

This was her problem to deal with. She had no right to ask anything of Colette. Not after the grievous wound she had dealt to the girl’s heart. To ask anything of her would be pure selfishness.

“Hm,” Colette said, breaking the silence. She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin upon them as her fingers grabbed at tufts of grass, uprooting them. “That’s an interesting question.”

“Oh.” The word slipped out of Martel’s mouth, just as the previous ones had, without her meaning to but unable to be stopped. The question had consumed her entire mind like a parasite until she failed to differentiate between thought and speech.

“No need to be sorry.”

Sorry? She hadn’t…

“I’ve been thinking about that question too,” Colette continued, moving past Martel’s scattered thoughts. “And it’s simple, really.”

How was it simple? How was she anything more than the memories she had inherited, and the face she presented? Yet she could never be Martel Yggdrasill, and she was no longer Tabitha.

So who was she?

“It’s just like Lloyd said, you know?” Colette whispered, pain dripping from her first mention of Lloyd’s name in weeks, her gaze shifting down. “You’re you. You’re Martel, so that’s who you are. Not Martel Yggdrasill, just Martel. And who that is is something you decide, and no one else.”

“I decide…?”

That confused Martel even more. Were people not the amalgamation of who others perceived them as? Was that not even more the case for Summon Spirits, who partly drew their power from the prayers of others, and was therefore most at the mercy of how others viewed them?

“I know it’s hard. Maybe it doesn’t make that much sense. Most things don’t, not really. But it’s what Lloyd said, and I believe him. I always will.” The corners of Colette’s lips lifted into a hopeful smile. “You are who you are. Take your time.”

Time was the one thing Martel had too much of, and the one thing she would never run out of.

“Okay, enough moping around!” Colette declared with gusto, nearly scaring Martel into dissipating into mana, a feat that she had not managed to accomplish on her own. Yet now, bright, tiny particles were flying from the tips of her fingers.

Colette scampered to her feet and grabbed Martel’s hand, not giving her the chance to retrieve her staff before she was dragged off in the direction of the flower fields.

“What are you doing?!” Martel asked, voice two pitches higher than usual, too shocked to do anything but go along, trying her very best to calm her racing heartbeat down. How ridiculous this must look, for her to be led by a girl an entire head shorter than her. Even more ridiculous if someone were to know that she was a Summon Spirit, and Colette was a human. The power disparity was rather silly.

“Bringing you to go make flower crowns.” Colette grinned mischievously, stepping into the thousands of flowers that bloomed, like a blanket of white that stretched beyond the horizon. Her eyes twinkled with that old shine Martel had not seen in a while. “You haven’t done it before, have you?”

“N - no, but -”

“Now's a great time to try! It’s something every child should do.”

“I’m not a child,” Martel whispered, hands shaking as she withdrew from Colette’s grasp. Petals rained down all around them, taken from the flowers and scattered into the sky by the wind.

She was still a weak Summon Spirit, for she drew her power from the World Tree, and it was not yet grown. She would be bested by any of the others, even the mischievous Sylphs. Yet power still crackled beneath her skin, which she could easily release from her fingertips. Even if she was resolved not to use it unless something directly threatened the World Tree, and only if absolutely necessary, it was still there.

No child was meant to wield that much power.

Perhaps she had been childlike as Tabitha, possessing more knowledge than any child should, yet unable to process the workings of the world in the way others did. But even then, she had not been a child.

She had never been a child.

“Neither am I,” Colette replied, turning back. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a futile effort as a gust of wind blew, catching the golden strands within. Stray white petals caught in their hair, getting lost within. White peeking out among green and yellow. “But… Everyone deserves to be a child at least once. And who says you aren’t allowed to?”

There was a sad tinge to Colette’s smile. And in her silhouette, Martel could see another child. And another, and another, and another, within the memories she safeguarded - the many children who never had the chance to be a child, that chance ripped away by the flames of war or the cruelty of others or the destructive power of grief.

“Come on. I promise, it’ll be fun!” Colette proclaimed, sitting down cross-legged and patting the flowers next to her.

Martel hesitantly sat down, accepting the handful of flowers Colette threw into her lap. A few were small when she picked them up, sitting in the centre of her palm, easily crushed into smithereens to leave not a trace behind. So fragile.

“It might be difficult at first, but just follow my instructions and you’ll eventually get the hang of it…”

She let Colette’s voice guide her, following her every word. And just as Colette said, she got the hang of it pretty quickly, until her first-ever flower crown lay in her hands.

She stared down at it, rubbing the rough stems that were, thankfully, devoid of any thorns. It had been surprisingly fun to lose herself in the monotony of threading stems together with her head bowed over her lap, letting time slip by. A completely unproductive activity meant only for children, that she would have never thought to try on her own…

Would it be as enjoyable without Colette by her side?

“Yours is great!” Colette congratulated her, the rapid movements of her hands coming to a halt as she scooted closer to peek at Martel’s flower crown.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared to yours…” Martel snuck a glance at Colette’s lap, where three completed flower crowns were stacked atop each other. Colette was in the process of making a fourth, her progress scarily fast. And all of her flower crowns were beautifully done, with intricate knots and twining stems, the petals undamaged and the flowers cheerfully open to the sun. Colette must be extremely experienced, something she could never hope to match. Hours of hours with Lloyd, most likely.

“No, no, I mean it! And you can only improve with time!” Colette grinned, picking up the topmost flower crown in her stack and reaching her arms up.

Frozen, Martel watched the journey of the crown, knowing what the final destination was - upon her head, where Colette set it down with careful hands. Still, she could not help but reach up and feel the soft petals of the crown, sitting lopsided such that one side fell over her right eyebrow. It was light, yet at the same time, she could feel its weight, and the slight scratch of the stems against her skin.

“Keep it,” Colette said, as if anticipating the objections that Martel was about to voice.

“I… Alright,” Martel replied, releasing her grip and lowering her hand. “But if you insist…”

She took her own flower crown and placed it gently on Colette’s curls, the white standing out among the gold. It did not measure up to Colette’s, but... “Have mine in return.”

This was all that she could do, even if it was just a small thing.

“Thank you.” Colette laughed, that familiar sound that seemed to bring in spring, the flowers around her turning their heads towards her to listen.

Colette continued to weave ever more flower crowns as Martel lay down upon the fields, hair spread below her as she shut her eyes, folding her hands over her heart. Colette hummed the familiar little tune that she hummed to the World Tree, almost like she was wishing for Martel’s growth, for her to put down roots where she lay and burst into glorious bloom.

With Colette’s melodious voice washing over her, she drifted off into sleep. And in the images that played out against her closed eyelids, the two of them were just normal girls, having fun in the fields without a care in the world, shoulders completely free of any burdens, hands clean of blood, and hearts still whole.

~~~

Whether it was a temporary moment of strange lucidity or a dream born of hovering in the state between wakefulness and sleep, Martel didn’t know. When she awoke, a strange memory floated to the surface, its contents shrouded in grey - Colette, staring at her with a knowing glint in her eyes. The girl did nothing more, only bent down and swiped away a petal on Martel’s cheek with a gentle finger. The petal rested in her hand for a moment before it was blown away by the wind, disappearing into nothingness in the sky.

Gone…

Yet when Martel sat up, colour rushing back into her vision, Colette was asleep on her side, the numerous flower crowns she had completed scattered by her side. Her fingers curled close to her chest, strands of hair moving slightly in the wind that had calmed to nothing more than a weak breeze that teased. She looked utterly at peace, furrows washed away.

And it was like nothing had ever transpired - both the strange vision, and the events of the past, dipped in misfortune.

~~~

After Colette left, Martel kept the flower crown, infusing it with a tiny bit of magic to ensure the flowers remained just as pristine as when Colette gave it to her.

It was a silly use of her power. Flower crowns were not meant to last. They fell apart with time, the petals curling as rot crawled up the stems, abandoned at the end of childhood. The flowers were long dead, after all.

She could call her actions childish, even.

So, why?

It was a gift. From a friend.

That was the only reason required. It was just that simple.

And as Colette had said… Who was stopping her from being childish?

~~~

On the World Tree, the first bud burst into bloom.

~~~

“He was so fluffy! I really hope I get to see Timmie again.”

Colette finished her latest passionate tirade about dogs, this time about a “positively adorable little one” she had met in Luin. She could spend a whole hour going on and on about her “exciting adventures”, which mostly amounted to running circles around town with the dog, all her worries seemingly forgotten. “A dog can make any day better!” she had exclaimed once, and Martel was truly starting to believe that.

With one final stroke in the soil, Colette completed her rough sketch of Timmie, dropping the stick she was using.

“Cute,” Martel agreed, trying to imagine Timmie in full colour from just the sketch. Despite the surprising amount of details Colette had managed to infuse into her drawing - such as the rounded snout, stubby legs and droopy ears - Martel was still having quite some trouble. Her imagination wasn’t that great, and she’d never seen a real-life dog before.

“So, I hope you enjoyed my adventures with Timmie! I know I’m not always the best storyteller,” Colette said, rifling through her rucksack and pulling out something wickedly sharp that glinted under the sunlight. “But now I need to run an idea past you.”

Martel squinted at the object in Colette’s hands, making it out to be...

A pair of scissors.

Instinctively, she took a step back, fingers reaching for her staff - only to come to the stark realisation that it was nowhere near her. She’d left it by the river, where Colette had taken a quick rest by dipping her feet in the soothing waters. And in her panic, she was unable to summon it.

Scissors were supposed to be a fairly innocent object, something used to cut fabric or paper. Yet the sight of anything remotely sharp brought back memories of desperate women caked in blood, wielding whatever they could get their hands on in a last-ditch effort to protect their children from being carted off by men in uniforms which sported the crest of an opposing kingdom, taken as liberty to commit whatever evils they desired. Memories of hugging a child close, praying that they would not be next.

And even more sinister, the thought of anything cutting into the World Tree, tiny and vulnerable.

For whatever purpose would Colette be carelessly wielding that for?

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Colette gasped, realising her mistake and quickly hiding the pair of scissors behind her back. She and Lloyd had always taken great care not to spook Martel with their weapons, ensuring that they were in plain sight, (for it would not be reasonable to leave them without any capability to protect themselves,) their hands never straying anywhere close to them. They knew how skittish Martel was around sharp objects. In Colette’s excitement to share, she had clearly forgotten.

“It’s… It’s alright. You didn’t mean anything by it,” Martel replied, wringing her hands together to try and overcome the feeling that they were too empty. Honestly, she was overreacting. Colette only meant well. Martel couldn’t see her ever doing something with malicious intent.

“Sorry,” Colette muttered, still guilty. “But, you see, I was thinking about how Summon Spirits can change their appearances. Like how Gnome takes on this giant animal that Dirk says is a mole? I don’t think you’ve learned to do that yet, so I was wondering if you’d like me to cut your hair for you.”

“My hair…?” Martel pondered, picking at one of the many green strands that ran down her shoulders. Despite her absolute lack of care and the sometimes volatile weather, her hair had remained lustrous, not a single knot within the long, flowing locks that reached her hips.

“Yep,” Colette said, her hand landing on Martel’s shoulders as she began to slowly push her towards a boulder that was of a suitable height and flatness to act as a comfortable seat. “I thought you might want to… Well, separate yourself from the other Martel. Only if you want me to, though! It’s your decision!”

They came to a stop by said boulder as Colette patiently awaited her answer, still studiously keeping the scissors out of sight.

“I’d like that,” Martel replied. She could not yet change her face, but perhaps changing the length of her hair would make staring into her own reflection less painful, make it feel less like she was looking at a ghost who should have long departed this world.

“Then, sit down!” Colette gently pressed Martel down onto the rock, disappearing from Martel’s view as she took her position behind Martel. “And relax. This might take a while, so sorry for that...”

The tension refused to leave Martel’s shoulders, a part of her still preparing for the cold of metal against her throat, for the coppery tang of blood to fill her nose. The panic of leaving herself fully vulnerable was crowding out all else, which she could recognise as extremely stupid in the one rational part of her mind that remained.

She wielded more than enough magic to protect herself from mortals, even without her staff to channel it properly.

Weapons that were not her own just seemed to overpower all rational thought, it seemed.

Martel felt Colette minutely shift behind her, bringing the scissors up to her hair.

“If you need me to stop at any time, just tell me, alright?”

Martel was about to nod, before realising that that was a bad idea. She should not be moving her head right now.

So she didn’t respond. Even amidst the panic, she trusted Colette not to hurt her.

Snip.

The sound of the first cut was impossibly loud in her ears.

I used to cut Mithos’ hair, sweeping the loose strands off his shoulders as I trimmed the ends.

But no one ever cut my hair…

“I actually gave Sheena a haircut a while back. She wanted to try out something new! Um, it didn’t turn out too well, so I hope this time goes better…”

Snip.

“Sorry if your hair turns out jagged. Practice makes perfect, but I’ve only been able to practice on Noishe, and he’s not the most eager participant. Don’t think he feels happy over being a guinea pig. He keeps running away, and that means his fur gets all messed up over being caught in the scissors! Silly Noishe.”

Snip.

Colette continued to blather on, until she ran out of topics related to hairdressing and had to scramble for the most mundane of things to talk about. The upbeat tone of her voice drowned out the sound of the blades snapping together, until it faded away altogether.

Martel’s eyes slipped close, fingers releasing from their interlocked state. The wind carried away her hair like it did petals, leaving no trace behind, like there had never been anything there in the first place.

“And we’re done!”

Martel’s eyes snapped open at the sudden clap of Colette’s hands. The sun had shifted into the apex of its arc, and Colette was now in front of her, bending down a little to observe Martel’s new haircut.

How much time had passed? She must have drifted away…

“How do you like it?” Colette asked, gesturing towards Martel’s hair.

Martel reached up a hand, finding nothing at her shoulders. She went up higher to grip the ends of her now much shorter hair, which reached only to her chin. The difference in weight was disorienting. She felt so much lighter, like whatever had been pressing on her chest had been lifted.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the loss of hair. Perhaps it was much, much more.

“I like it,” she replied, heart swelling. Both with happiness, and with the dark grip of guilt.

Colette had done so much to help her, and for nothing in return, even as Martel continued to hide the truth from her. A truth that had taken on a ghastly life of its own and cast its shadow upon the both of them.

“I’m glad, Martel!” Colette said, plopping down on the dirt. “Oh, would you still like to be called Martel? If you don’t like that name, I can call you something else.”

“No,” Martel replied immediately, and with much more surety than she herself had thought possible. “It’s like you said. The name is mine, and I am my own person. I don’t want to give it up.”

She may hold Martel Yggdrasill’s memories, but they would not define her existence, and neither would they restrain her from making new memories of her own. Neither would any of the other memories she held, though she would continue to protect them, for they were worth protecting.

“Alright!” Colette cocked her head, smile growing even sunnier, if that was possible. “Do you want to hear more about the dogs I met at Luin? There was another one that I named Clay, and he’s so cute! Oh, I’d like to pet him again!” she squealed.

“Sure. But before that…” Martel took a deep breath, preparing the next two, simple words. Words that she had not uttered before, but that she had heard countless times, both in memories and in life, and that was long overdue. “Thank you. For everything.”

There had never been a meaning behind “thank you” before. It was nothing more than an in-built command. And while she understood the purpose the words played, there was no significance behind them. Just hollow words spit out by an algorithm, the moments she truly meant them few and far between, slipping through her fingers just as quickly as it had come.

Why would they ever cross her mind, then? Not until now, at least, having broken through the once impenetrable wall of numbers.

A simple expression was not enough to convey the amount of gratitude she felt for Colette. It was not enough to repay everything Colette had done for her. It was certainly not enough to make amends for everything she had done to Colette. She was, after all, the one that was continuing to stab a poison-tipped dagger into Colette’s heart. This could do no more than put a pitiful bandaid on the wounds that were constantly being ripped open.

“You’re welcome,” Colette replied with no hesitation, not a shred of blame in her words, her actions, her entire self. “I’m glad to have helped.”

There was nothing but sincerity in her smile, and Martel couldn’t understand how.

But she did take comfort in it, as well as garner a single reminder.

There was another person she owed gratitude to and, more importantly, an apology.

~~~

From where she was standing, Martel couldn’t see much of Lloyd. All she could see was his back, leaning against the cool surface of a boulder some distance away, his head of brown hair bowed. He’d been sitting there ever since he finished giving an update on the latest Core he’d gathered, and the rather interesting people he had come across.

She sighed, padding up to Lloyd. Her mind had been made up days before he’d returned. Some things needed to be said, even if it was difficult. It would have been easier, before she understood the dizzying highs of joy and the seeping effects of sorrow. Then the words would not get stuck in her throat as they were now.

But if that were the case, those very same words would hold no meaning.

Lloyd was quietly whittling away at a piece of wood. He’d made quite a bit of progress in the time that had passed - it was starting to resemble a dog, easily recognisable by Martel after the many sketches Colette had shown her. Perhaps it was meant to be a heartfelt apology, a prayer that it might not be too late to mend the broken bonds that trailed behind him. His shaking hands and the tiny bead of blood seeping out of his thumb from a careless slip of the knife certainly supported that.

That only cemented the need to do this.

“I’m sorry,” Martel whispered, breaking the silence and alerting Lloyd to her presence. She didn’t want Lloyd to jump.

The movement of Lloyd’s hands paused as he craned his head up. The rough beginnings of stubble was on his chin, the shadows lurking beneath his eyes deep. This was a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, yet carrying a burden that would break most man’s shoulders. He was incredibly brave.

But even the strongest needed someone to give them a hand when they inevitably stumbled and fell, because everyone had moments of weakness where they needed acceptance. And Lloyd had no one.

She was not the best person for the job. She might not be remotely good at it - she didn’t hold the innate empathy Colette had, that expertise in comforting others that Colette wielded so effectively. She possessed only the complicated knot of emotions in her chest, which she had only just started to unravel.

She was still going to try.

“For everything I’ve put you through. And thank you, for being willing to do so much.”

The apology didn’t relieve the guilt that ate away at her heart. But that wasn’t the point, to begin with. There was no easy way out, and she was not seeking one. She would bear that which was hers to bear, instead of pushing that burden onto others.

It might be far too late, but she hoped it might bring Lloyd some comfort in the bleak landscape that must have been his life.

A small smile broke out on Lloyd’s face. Not the beacon of light he used to be, but it was something. And any shred of hope one could hold onto made a huge difference.

Someone had said that, once. A someone that was not her, but whose memories held much wisdom.

“It’s alright,” Lloyd said, voice rising above the dejected murmur he had used for months. “I knew what I was signing up for, and you hold no blame for that. Thank you, though. It does mean a lot.”

“Can I see…?” she asked hesitantly, sitting down next to Lloyd.

“Sure.”

Lloyd passed over the in-progress figurine, letting Martel take a closer look at it. It was most definitely a dog - the adorable snout, the lovingly crafted ears, the eyes that seemed soulful, even though it was carved from still wood.

“I hope she’ll like it,” Lloyd muttered, frowning as he noticed the cut on his finger. “If I can ever give it to her…”

“I’m sure you will.”

She had no doubt about that. That a time would come, where everything would be better, no matter how long it took.

~~~

That time came. Eventually, all was cleared as the truth came to light. Eventually, peace came to the lands again, as everyone chose to trust in the betrayed Summon Spirit and teach him to trust again. Eventually, Lloyd was finally able to rejoin his friends, to walk freely with them, laugh and talk with them again. But the scars he’d suffered from skulking around in the dark would likely never leave him.

Perhaps both he and Colette may not be able to forgive her for what she’d done. She could accept that, for that was her responsibility to bear. Maybe they would no longer return, or if they did due to the duty they felt they were obliged to, they would act detached instead of friendly.

She could not blame them.

Come what may, she would take it in stride. But still, she would wait for their reappearance, because of the simple wish that she would like to see them again.

In the peace that came after the draining events at Ginnungagap, Martel came to spend more time in Yuan’s company. He no longer acted like a feral cat, backing away whenever she appeared. Perhaps it was the change in appearance, or the new confidence in which she carried herself - she no longer defaulted to old postures passed down through memories. Perhaps her experiments in changing form were starting to show results, even though she didn’t notice any in her reflection.

No matter the reason, it appeared he could stand her presence now. And she was glad, to make another companion and to clear the air. She became familiar with the inside of his shack, taking to sitting at the table and swinging her legs idly. It felt quite similar to the atmosphere at Altessa’s, for Yuan didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk most of the time. She simply enjoyed the silence. And occasionally a cup of alcohol. The taste was certainly… interesting, burning the tip of her tongue and down her throat.

And it was new.

Martel no longer needed to bend down to observe the World Tree, for it now reached her head.

Outgrown a sapling, but not yet a tree. Stronger now, better able to give mana to the world. Many more leaves, who were larger and rough to the touch. A few flowers, peeking shyly out of buds to face the morning sun. An extensive network of roots that she couldn’t see, ensuring steadiness.

On a normal day like any other, wind whispering through her chin-length hair and the sun falling upon the World Tree, the familiar sounds of footsteps floated through the clearing. With a heart that was full of emotions and all the words she wished to say, Martel smiled, and turned to face her friends.

~~~

One day, the World Tree would be a truly massive structure that towered over all, its leaves so dense that sunlight would struggle to filter through the tiny gaps, flowers of every colour popping on branches, and sweet fruits ripening every spring. It would provide shade and life to all that lived in this world.

One day, far, far in the future.

But the important thing, was that it would grow. Slowly, and with time.

And so would she.

[ardenttheories]

amityli replied to your post: “Completely off topic but DirkJohn actually does work as a relationship...”:

well NOW all i care about in life is reading this analysis.

Your wish is my command. 

As a Prince of Heart, Dirk is deeply entrenched in the Self. We see this a lot in the main comic; he feels physically haunted by himself, by his Splinters, unable to get away from his own Destruction. He feels Suffocated (in his own words) by his inherent ability to Destroy so perfectly that - quite without realising it - he can Destroy his own progression as a person (such as, perhaps, by convincing himself that he’s some awful villain, and that he was wrong in thinking that he could ever be better when faced by the multitude of Selves that exist across Paradox Space). 

What Dirk needs is... to learn to be Free. To let go, to go with the flow. He spends so much time thinking, in his own head, that he very rarely spends time Feeling - and if he does Feel, he then overthinks it to such a degree that he mechanises his own Emotions. It’s well within the role of a Prince of Heart to do this, of course - it’s the natural course of Desruction of the Heart - but it’s more a Prince of Heart that doesn’t know how to stop himself. A Prince who, perhaps, has a tendency to try and Control other people, himself, his Emotions - and who needs to be shown how to relinquish that control. 

Naturally, you can see how a Breath Player like John would help here, but a Breath Player who has Inherited Freedom - is quite literally Freedom Incarnate? This is more likely to help Dirk because of two things:

A) John has always been a narrative anomaly. Yes, Dirk managed to control and kill him in the Meat timeline, but all that did was pave the way for a comeback in the Candy timeline, a more aware Candy John. It is a lot harder to control John as a general rule of thumb, which means, in some ways, he’s a narrative equal to Dirk. He has freed himself from the narrative before. He can do it again, rendering Dirk’s powers fairly useless. (If, of course, the writers had thought about John’s abilities for longer than two seconds, they’d have realised this). 

B) John isn’t an active Player. He’s Passive; his use of Breath is relaxed, unassuming; it happens around him. Dirk doesn’t need someone that will try to fix him or force him to face the facts, because Dirk can easily talk about that sort of logic, can fight back against it and ignore it. If he’s exposed to it more naturally, however - put in the presence of someone who can help him Breathe, to relax, to let go - then there’s a higher chance that he’ll accept it. A greater potential that Dirk will allow himself to open up, without even realising he’s doing it, so that he can’t overthink it. 

He needs to be Freed from Himself, his thoughts, his ability need to Destroy - but as an Active-Destructive Player, it will always work best for him to be with someone who is Passive-Control (as in, someone who is strong enough to stand up to him, but not going to go out of their way to pressure him or needle him). 

On the side of John... John is so unteathered from Reality it’s startling. He has so few connections that he feels as if he has no place in his timelines, and he has a tendency to ignore everything about himself to such a degree that - for instance - he’s not even aware he’s depressed. 

John very rarely considers himself. He doesn’t tend to overthink, to analyse, to really look at himself and question who he is. 

This is great, in some ways - consider, for instance, that this is exactly the sort of thing Dirk needs to stop doing in such extremes - but also comes with its own drawbacks, since John is inherently very ignorant about sexuality and gender identities, as well as his own mental health. He isn’t aware that, for instance, he feels so Disconnected from his friends because he knows different versions of them that don’t have the same set of memories, because - for some reason - no matter what he does, they are always different. 

John needs to be guided. He actually does his best when he has a purpose, has a plan, and knows where to go. Otherwise he just floats along, completely separating himself from everything he loves, without realising that he’s the reason for his isolation. He doesn’t need someone to control his life, of course, but he does need someone that knows how to motivate people and push them back onto course. 

Someone like a Prince of Heart who has a history of pushing people in the right direction, perhaps? 

Of course, you’d assume immediately that this is a bad idea. A Prince of Heart Destroys the Self and Emotion - why would that help John?

To that, I offer you this: if John lacks a sense of Self... what can Dirk Destroy? John does not understand who he is or what he does, he just exists. There’s nothing really there for Dirk to sink his teeth into, no foothold to step on. Dirk needs a Self to Destroy to do his thing. 

Maybe, then, what he’d Destroy is the fake Self surrounding John’s true Self. The Self that exists because John thinks it does, because John’s never really looked into it, but isn’t actually the fully fledged him. In other words, a Dirk that has been influenced positively might be more capable of Destroying the barriers that stop people from being themselves - the temporary Selves we all cling to while we either try to figure out who we are, or try to ignore the Truth of our Selves. 

On top of that, one of the best things a Prince of Heart can do, when they have a rein on their powers, is Destroy Negative Emotions, destroy Impulsivity. In other words, Dirk could Destroy all of the things that’re keeping John from interacting with his friends, that are weighing him down yet allowing him to float away at the same time. Dirk can Destroy the desire that John has to flit from thing to thing, and help him settle down a little, to find a form of Stability that helps even him out. 

And, to return back to that concept that John perceives himself as different from everyone he loves... Dirk could Destroy that Self. Not the physical Self - the John that we have now - but more the metaphorical Self; the things that makes John feel different, the things that make him struggle to connect. He could quite literally just help John feel like he DOES have a place by Destroying that sense of Displaced Self and making him a part of the group again. 

Their Classpects and how they work have a fairly fitting effect. They’re uniquely positioned to be interlocking with the things they struggle with and the things they’re strong at, without having the natural flare-up that tends to happen between Opposing Aspects. Something Dirk’s weak at, John excells in; someone John’s weak at, Dirk excells in. 

John helps Dirk be Free while Dirk helps John be Real.

They could actually work as a couple, and work exceedingly well. In fact, I’d argue they’d end up being one of the best couples for how well they could bounce off of each other and mellow each other out. 

I’ve seen this as a resurgance in recent JohnDirk fiction, actually, which I love to bits. Even without fully understanding how Classpects work, people can tell that they naturally balance each other’s faults and struggles while improving upon their natural strengths. 

[frumfrumfroo]

I’m new here and couldn’t tell from the tone of some asks (sorry) but did you like what they did with Ben in TRoKR ? I saw the discussions abt him lacking agency in it and I 100% agree but did you personality agree w/ the passive, “things only happen to me” vibe they gave him? And second question: can u give examples of how soule’s writing was telegrsmed in TFA? Thank u for taking the time xx

Like I’ve said before, it’s exactly the kind of backstory I would have written for him/always imagined. I had expected to find out he didn’t kill the other students/fought them in self defence/it was some kind of accident or emotional overload incident in TLJ. That was where everything was pointing.

Someone this insecure and conflicted about what he’s doing, someone who prays for help to resist his loving nature and cries when he sees his dad, who is so uncomfortable with himself he is covered head to toe not even his voice unmasked, who immediately latches on to the protagonist as a kindred spirit in loneliness and needs her to know he’s not a creature and wants to help her rather than hurt her- that’s not a person who had an eyes-open, all-in fall to the dark side full of decisive action and unhindered agency.

Leia saying ‘it was Snoke’ told us from the get go we’re in a situation where he was haunted and manipulated. His subservience and rote, childish repetition of ‘the Supreme Leader is wise’ when Han tells him Snoke doesn’t care about him. The constant, ongoing contradiction of his behaviour and motives tell us he has no conviction in the cause he’s supposedly supporting. His self-harm and naked suffering in the face of his own actions, his recklessness and inability to commit to selfishness and lack of ambition tell us those aren’t qualities which drove him here. He is highly emotionally driven, there’s no tangible goal and he doesn’t have a vision of the future. So why is he on the dark side?

It’s not that things only happen to him or that he’s passive, it’s that Ben has never pursued or been comfortable with what darkness really is and that has always been obvious. He tries very, very hard and fights tooth and claw to cling to something good in the comic until all of it is in ashes- he’s not passive, but he can’t win. No one can hold out forever against that kind of relentless onslaught. That he was absolutely a victim doesn’t mean he has no agency in his later choices. He’s not absolved of responsibility. But his reluctance and victimhood only makes sense, anything else would be incongruous with TFA.

There was never pursuit of power for power’s sake from him- there’s nothing he wants that the dark side can give him, he is there literally because he felt he had nowhere else to go. I said this before TLJ even came out. He felt he could not escape it, both because of the fatalism his family unintentionally instilled in him and because Snoke convinced him none of them loved him, that he is only useful or valued as a tool. Ben is a person who doesn’t believe he has any inherent value just for himself- just Ben, he believes that he can’t be forgiven for the sin of being born a disappointment, and that everything is his fault because he’s wrong and bad no matter what he does. None of his choices feel to him like real choices, all of his options appear to have been taken from him, and he feels compelled to plunge forward on the only remaining path. The comic provided an emotionally and logically cogent explanation for exactly why he would feel that way which is completely consistent with all the implications about his past and his characterisation from the films.

As I’ve pointed out before, there’s a reason he says ‘it’s too late’ to coming home not ‘I don’t want to’. There’s a reason he says ‘what I have to do’ and ‘he (I) was weak and foolish’- there’s a reason he needs Han’s help to go through with killing his father. It’s not about what he wants (he wants to go home with his dad- he thinks he can’t), he has never felt free to make his own choices or that freedom is possible for him.

Even at his darkest he never became cruel, he never enjoyed killing or hurting people, and he totally fails to suppress his instinct to be compassionate. He has a highly developed conscience and an overflowing core of empathy he can’t seal off. That’s why he’s so miserable as he pushes himself to do things he finds abhorrent- but he thinks he has to, there’s no escape, it’s the only way. In the sequence which establishes this character, even before any layers are stripped away or the investment we naturally have in him because of who he is is revealed, one of the first things we see him do is have compassion for F/nn. Those two characters are connected and a comparison is invited- this is visual storytelling showing you that they have something in common (it will be made clear later on that Ben saw himself in F/nn and that’s why he takes his actions so personally- cognitive dissonance).

F/nn was a good person trapped in the mask of the stormtrooper by circumstances beyond his control, but he is able to reject it and reclaim his identity. Ben is a good person hounded into the mask of Kylo Ren by his family’s failure to reconcile with Vader. The crushing weight of their expectations and their total lack of faith in him combined with their lies and Snoke’s manipulation convinces him there is ‘too much Vader in him’ and that Ben Solo isn’t and never will be good enough for anyone. That his love, compassion, and selflessness are all weaknesses which will only cause both him and the galaxy further suffering.

He is the most morally sensitive person in the new gen, he is the most outward-orientated and loving. His impulse is to be selfless and helpful, but that impulse has been relentlessly punished until he mistrusts it and thinks he must repress his wrong instincts and serve a ‘greater order’ guided by someone stronger than him. He has an acute sense of the impact of his actions and he considers it (even when he loses control of his emotions, he overwhelmingly targets things rather than people and his angry threats are empty).

In contrast, Anakin (who was committed on the dark side and successfully cut himself off from his empathy for many years) was all in on the pursuit of power even when he still had good intentions. Anakin also knew that power was the foundation of the dark side and he and Palpatine would always be at odds, that some day he would overthrow him and take his place. Ben only values power out of fear, and solely primal fear not more abstract, possessive fear like Anakin’s, he wants safety. He doesn’t go to Snoke thinking he’s ever going to take his place or gain his power- he wants Snoke to give him belonging and acceptance. He’s then convinced that the ends justify the means and doing things he knows are wrong and which cause him pain are necessary because his whole life and Snoke’s machinations have set him up to believe that. He is still trying to create safety and doing what he’s convinced must be done and will be done one way or another.

Ben is a beautiful compassionate person and always has been and that is why he’s in such constant, excruciating pain trying to shut himself off from love and vulnerability. He is following Snoke’s demands and trying to kill his past to stop the pain, to kill this vulnerability and need and weakness in himself. Connection was always what he wanted most and he is trying to cut off and cauterise all of the broken, abandoned bonds of love his family has left him with. And even here, he still wants Snoke’s acceptance, Snoke’s validation and esteem. He is still pouring himself out for an other, giving everything to please someone else, the last person left who tells him it’s possible he can achieve value.

He latched on to Rey instantly when he realised they were alike and did everything possible to lift her up and spare her what he went through. He only rejected Han and Rey’s offers to come with them because he thinks their love is conditional and that small, dirty, broken Ben Solo will never be able to meet the conditions. He thinks he is a tool or an obligation to them and it’s easy to understand why he thinks that. Han couldn’t wipe away a lifetime of baggage in a few words. Rey pretends it’s about the cause, she doesn’t tell him she loves him.

He thinks he must ‘become who he was meant to be’ and that his destiny is to become a new Vader. Everyone told him that. Whether with their fear or directly with words. When he finds out the truth about his grandfather, it’s a complete confirmation of what Snoke has told him and how his parents have treated him. Luke deciding he can’t be allowed to live because it’s that inevitable is the nail in the coffin in Ben believing there’s any place for him with his family. There is nowhere for him to exist as himself, he has to be someone else, someone less weak. And in running away from himself, his legacy, and his identity he puts himself under Snoke’s thumb and Snoke can finish inculcating his worldview.

Being able to love is freedom to Ben. He is an immensely loving person who feels like he is not worthy or allowed to love people, that his love has done nothing but make things worse for everyone. The tension and repression of trying not to need or care about people is what makes him so emotionally unstable. Kylo Ren is a mask and a shield and a prison built by Ben’s hurt and anxiety but equally built by Snoke out of his boyhood fancies to control him and shape him into an instrument of pain. Ben could never have conviction in it because it is so alien to his nature. He is so fundamentally unselfish that he never coveted like Anakin eventually did, his love never became possessive or jealous, he never sold his soul for a boon, the only way he could be selfish enough to murder is out of animal fear and pain. Wanting the hurting to stop. Rationalising it post-facto with the philosophy that the ends justify the means.

He pours himself out for Snoke because there is no one else left. All he wants is the safety and acceptance that he has literally never had anywhere. Anakin received unconditional love from his mother, Obi-wan, and Padmé and was warped from giving compassion into selfishness by his fear of loss and need for control. Covetousness became his tragic flaw and thus his fall culminates in trying to kill Padmé rather than lose her. Control became so important that others ceased to matter and love became possession. Anakin (despite also being a victim of manipulation and Jedi hubris) got to make real choices, he had real options, and thus he was a villain with conviction. Ben’s attempts to take control of his life are unfocussed and mostly involve abnegation, he pushes people away instead of trying to clutch them close; his response to loss is to isolate himself not seize power to recover the lost thing by force. Ben never received unconditional love until Han’s sacrifice on the bridge and the experience immediately shatters him from his already tenuous position in the dark. The only thing keeping him from coming home after that is sunk cost and the idea that he can never be forgiven. That it was too late.

He just needed someone to show him it wasn’t.

[homestuckexamination]

What do you think about the characters becoming who they are in epilogues and HS2 like Dirk, Jane, etc.

For them, as people, it’s a step in the wrong direction. Dirk succumbed to the multiplicity of Bad Selves he’d been trying to fight back against for years due to Bullshit Ultimate Ascension Shenanigans. Jane fell for toxic systems of old Earth, mixed with a good slathering of biases stemming from subliminal influences and a wrong reconciliation with her Aspect that Maids go through. They’re not irredeemably evil, though. Dirk is afraid to show weakness, doubts and fear and tries to cover it up with a mean brand of narcissism. Jane pushes away her doubts through sheer stubbornness and doubling down on what she’s doing through emotional outbursts. They’ve gone really far, SPECIALLY Candy Jane, but also they don’t mark an unchangeable and inherent evil in their characters, just a bad road taken, a lack of communication with the people they used to care about. It’s painful to see them fall for their worst flaws.

As characters though it’s kind of really cool for me, I actually love Dirk’s verbosity and his justifications for his actions, while embracing the role of the Villain, and Jane going off the deep end and mirroring Condy’s ideals and Aesthetics, to the point of being called the Batterwitch? That’s fascinating to explore.

Other than them though, each character develops in different ways. Jade, isolated all her life, starts to crave excitement and action and other people, and I love love love love her new characterization personally, but you all know that. She’s made some major mistakes in Candy, yes, but I adore the... I don’t know. Open bluntness of her? Taking no shit attitude? All packaged into a still extremely-loving dog girl that adores her friends and family.

Rose, manipulated in Meat? Heart-wrenching, missing Kanaya but trying to justify ‘her own’ actions. In Candy? Spur of the moment decisions, past mistakes. Inability for foresight. But still a deep care for her friends, and now, the conflict with the wife whom she loves so much, but whose trust she’s betrayed and couldn’t DARE to tell her for over a decade, in fear of the retaliation. Unable to face the consequences. What a disaster of a woman, I love her.

Kanaya? Heart-broken, Rose taken away by Dirk in Candy, she sets out on a Galactic Quest, pinning over her, to get her back, rescue her. In Meat? A rebel leader, fighting for the freedom of Trolls, alongside her wife, and just having found about this major breach of trust. Angry, but trying to be understanding, a balancing act of high emotions, with knowing their love for each other has not faltered, but will need time to mend. The drama-

Dave and Karkat? Comfortable, domestic, in Meat, but complacent with the little pocket they have built for them, eventually pushed too far by Dirk, and deciding to take matters into their own hands before others can push them to it of their own accord. Actively dating, and searching for Rose, and Dirk. In Candy, lovers, split. Karkat cannot leave his race to suffer again, not like in Alternia. And he doesn’t want Dave and Jade to risk their lives. Dave, who keeps pinning after him, even with Jade by his side, Jade, who stays with him to cheer him up, because he lost Dirk, too, and knows it doesn’t work as a relationship, but can’t simply abandon him. And in the end, he just can’t, he succumbs to an offer from another Dirk, and finds catharsis in Other Iterations of Himself, led down a path of Narrative Relevance, but abandoning those he seemed to care so much about in the process.

Jake, oh poor Jake. He gets a rough deal, complacency, inaction, a lack of drive to push forward, he remains rather static. Dumped and manipulated by Dirk, in Meat, is left lost and aimless. Making bad choices in Candy, ending up in a loveless and abusive marriage, but eventually, oh, eventually, better late than never, takes his Kid from Jane, and stays by her side as a counter-spy attempting to outdo her. He hasn’t done much yet. But he’s in a fantastic position to actually show some drive for his family, and stop Jane from doing something even more awful.

John, depressive, isolated, fated to fight a fight he doesn’t want to and die in one Timeline, and stuck seeing a surreal and fake reality on the other. Aware that something is ever so slightly OFF with Candy, it consumes him, as the Heir of Breath he is, detaches himself once more from those he loves- But finds catharsis thanks to Jake, the drive to actually talk things out. Revelations, introspection, the slow return to form of the Protagonist, the realization that there may be more in them than they ever thought there was.

Roxy... The exploration of their gender. In Meat, leaning transmasc, non-binary, trying something that feels right for him. Friendly and open to those around him, going through his own journey of self-discovery. In Candy, they don’t transition. Finding solace in a familiar structure, she is stuck in complacency. Inaction. Not standing up to Jane and trying to gloss over that things will just work out! They won’t. She cares deeply for her family, and has found a purpose and happiness in trying to just, be a good Mom. One she never had herself. And although those potential feelings are still in there, isn’t life about being happy with what you’re doing, rather than torn up about what could have been? Mistakes can be made, bad things can happen, but... You keep pressing on.

Terezi, fuuuuuuck. Her pinning for Vriska? Vriska, stuck in Candy, isolated from contacting with her. Giving up on Vriska JUST as Vriska would’ve tried to contact her. Unable to let go of Dead John, clinging to him still. No place for her on Earth-C, no home to return to, torn up about her feelings, she joins the Narratively Relevant Journey of Dirk and Rose, only to find what she’s seeing is two broken up people who try to act tough, but are entirely unsure of what they’re doing. She’s trying to make Rose See, but those robot eyes of hers are too closed. Pitch feels arise. A fling, to try and stave off the need for a connection they both have lost.

Calliope, poor sweet dear Calliope. A Muse of Space. In both Timelines, cast aside. Ending up an Observer of what’s going on. Unable to assert their want to still be with Roxy, and ending up scared away by Alt Calliope, they at least seem to have been with her and Harry off-screen, so she’s probably Harry’s cool alien... Aunt? Gender-neutral aunt. In Meat, shocked out of their wits by Callie’s Jade-possession. Venting through gruesome art- Maybe even influencing the Candy Timeline unknowingly, which would explain so much of the Candy Timeline in general... Jade is now awake in the ship, and they may stop being so reclusive and coming back into the picture, which may also mark a shift in some things, as the scared, horrified fan regains their trust on the story, and takes on a more positive outlook on what’s to come.

Like I would love of they were all HAPPY on EARTH-C and exploring these things in healthier environments instead of being thrust into Angsty Space Adventures or Fascist Dystopias, but I looooove these characters, the good AND bad, their ties with each other, the unwarranted lashing out sometimes, the driving others away, the self-blame, the healing, the trying to make things better, the realization they have made something wrong... And the NEW characters? The Omega Kids... Just. *Chef’s Kiss*

[siberlius-moving]

i know i said no essay bUT HERE’S A LONG ONE

- spoilers for beast au ahead -

BEAST: On being human and alive

What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to be living? 

The characters here refer to Beast AU’s characters, but I will specify when I am referring to the main universe’s respective characters.

Dazai and Akutagawa: what is a beast? who is the beast?

Dazai in the Beast AU, having glimpsed into the alternate universes, had concocted an elaborate plan to ‘save’ an universe where Odasaku got to write his novel. I would like to think, that this Dazai saw the lives of other Dazais who had left the Port Mafia and lived a purposeful life where he could genuinely be a good person and help others, surrounded by people he cares about and who also genuinely care for him (thus, in spite of all the suicide jokes, Dazai in main universe is actually clinging onto life pretty tightly). But Dazai in the Port Mafia was still a person who hadn’t learnt to appreciate human life as being something more than the act of moving and breathing. As smart as he was, he hadn’t had the maturity to understand empathy, sympathy, and the value of having connection with others. Main universe’s Dazai, in fact, is still learning to do so. He has a long way to go, but you realise that it is his connections with people like Oda, Atsushi and the ADA that give him purpose to live another day, and help him be so much more successful in pulling off his schemes since people actually trust and open up to him. You can argue that he would still have been successful being his old Port Mafia self, except with a lot more deaths and violence. But, he would have lived a very short life. Which, was what happened in the Beast AU. 

Beast AU’s Dazai, latching onto the regret of main universe’s Dazai, and encouraged by his own lack of will to live in his present life, decided that this universe didn’t matter (since he technically had already ‘lived’ in other timelines) and set on a path to help Oda finish writing a novel. It is incredibly selfish, because for everyone else, this was the only life they ever had, would ever lived. By the end of the book, Dazai realised this. He got called out by Oda for it. In their one and only meeting, Oda noted that Dazai was almost childlike in the way he tried to recreate a friendship that never existed. When Oda told Dazai that they were not friends and that he would do everything in his power to get Akutagawa back, Dazai understood. At the last stage of his grand plan, where he was to die, it had seemed like he got what he wanted - Oda had his book written and had led a nice life after all. But was it really what Dazai wanted? Was he not just slave to the main universe’s Dazai’s wishes? 

Akutagawa in Beast AU isn’t very much different from Akutagawa in the main universe, at least until Dazai came about and changed everything. Dazai in the Beast AU, had become the Port Mafia boss at a really young age. All the immaturity and issues mentioned above get ramped up here. He controlled the port mafia with an iron fist. I would think it was harder for him, because at least for Mori, he had years to build his way up. The rumours that Dazai killed Mori to usurp his position made it harder for Dazai to consolidate his power. He knew that he needed multiple figures of fear to rule. In the main universe, Dazai was an executive who didn’t know the existence of Atsushi. Akutagawa was the only one he could mould into a similar role he was looking for. Thus, Beast AU’s Dazai went to Akutagawa first. 

But in the main universe, Dazai realised too late that Akutagawa was too 'wild’. He was a blunt kind of mass weapon of destruction, too much of a wild card. In any case, Dazai was just an executive then, and Akutagawa served his purpose most of the time, and Mori had a good range of competent supporters he could use. Chuuya actually respected and was extremely loyal to Mori. In the Beast AU, Dazai didn’t have that kind of support. But he needed one, controllable weapon from the shin soukoku for his future plans. He tested Akutagawa by letting him kill all the gang members (in the main universe, Dazai had them killed as a ‘gift’ to Akutagawa to entice him to join Port Mafia). Akutagawa killed them extremely brutally, almost animalistically. Too wild for Dazai’s needs. That was okay, because Atsushi was perfect, and Dazai knew of Atsushi’s existence. Atsushi had a moral compass and knew right from wrong. He was only uncontrollable when influenced by his ability and he turned into a tiger, but this can be managed by a brutal spiked choker around his neck. His conscience, along with his fragile mentality, allowed Dazai to perfectly control his actions by using said conscience against Atsushi, without the unpredictable risks that Akutagawa posed.

Here’s the important thing: Dazai thought that Akutagawa was a ‘beast’. A beast is a thing controlled by its nature. It cannot be controlled by anything else besides a severe master. It is dangerous, it is wild, it is irrational, but it is innocent. After all, it is only doing what its instincts call for it to do. How can one be guilty, when it does not know what it is doing is wrong? If it is evil, then all it knows is evil deeds. Nothing one does can change it. After all, Akutagawa was inclined towards destruction, and he was talented in it. He tends towards irrational destruction with utter disregard for his or others’ lives. Gin was injured while saving Akutagawa during the massacre, and he abandoned her for mindless, hopeless revenge. This fact was used against Akutagawa - Dazai rejected him over it and took Gin away. Dazai told Gin that Akutagawa had abandoned her for violence and would abandon her again because when it came down to it, he was a destructive beast who cannot ignore his nature and he cannot love the way normal humans do. Akutagawa proved Dazai’s point when he attacked Atsushi for calling him out on this, even though Atsushi was leading him to Gin. Gin, out of resentment and love, left Akutagawa so that Akutagawa could live on, like he was a wolf that belonged to the forest.

But Dazai was wrong. Akutagawa had lived in environments that had shaped him to be extremely reactive, violent and constantly on survival mode. He would react to threats with immediate violence. But that did not make him inherently a beast. Even he had nothing, he acted as a protector for the children, and led them as much as he could. After Oda found him, offered him food and shelter and gave him a chance to live a life beyond constant survival, he flourished. He bonded with Tanizaki over the love of their sisters. He agreed to ADA’s conditions for helping him find his sister even though he could have simply attacked them for answers. When Kenji showed him the rice plains he was enraptured by the sight. He learnt to plant rice with Kenji and had continued to help him with farming even when he had no reason to help him. He sucked at paperwork but was really good at keeping with Kunikida’s schedules and helping him track and catch criminals (and without killing them!). He helped Oda babysit 15 kids by making playgrounds, showing up for their PTAs and helping them be more confident in school. When he had the opportunity, he could choose to be kind. When he had the patient guidance of a loving community, he could learn from them and change. (Minor scene at the start of the novel: When Akutagawa gets hot tea spilt onto him, Tanizaki and Kunikida sensed instinctive bloodlust on him. But what he really did, was to catch the tea cups and the serving tray swiftly with Rashomon and hand it back to the waitress.)

Oda pointed it out rightly - Akutagawa was an emotional person and he cared too much. When things he cared about were hurt, these emotions took control of him and he would lash out in rather violent ways. And he would feel guilty over it. But, how can a beast feel guilty? It is interesting that in the Beast AU, Atsushi was hardly ever referred to as a beast, even when he was famous for being unable to recognise friend from foe when he was in a tiger state. One of the more obvious parallels is then when Akutagawa noted that Atsushi was driven mad by guilt. And Akutagawa slowly saw it in himself. They were similar that way - both were hounded by the guilt of a irreversible mistake that destroyed/changed their lives. Akutagawa never forgave himself for leaving Gin alone that night when Dazai took her away, to the point that he wanted to die. He only wanted to find and kill two people. One was Dazai. The second was himself. He was afraid of this uncontrollable beast he felt was inside him. 

Oda told him not to chase the beast for a good reason - Akutagawa was not a beast. But he could choose to be one, if he followed that path of no return. Kunikida at the crucial fight point, when urging Akutagawa to stand up and continue fighting said it too: that Akutagawa was not an evil person, but he could choose to be a good person if he chose to become a detective with the ADA. And Akutagawa chose. He allowed Atsushi to live, and told him to keep on fighting and living. He continued working with ADA, trying to solve cases and save people, so that he could prove to himself that he was not a beast, and that one day, Gin could see that he was better and came back to him. I think, even in the main universe, Dazai knows he is wrong about Akutagawa - he may have given up in trying to teach non-terrorising skills in Akutagawa when he was still in the Port Mafia, but he has since tried to amend his mistakes through Atsushi.

Being able to make choices is what makes you human. Choosing to do things beyond our instincts, our nature. We are good, because of the choices that we have made. Likewise, we are bad, because of what we have done. Akutagawa was born to have traits of a rabid hellhound, but he didn’t become one. No one tamed him. What happened, was that he had met with kindness. He had friends. He shared his thoughts and his past and his feelings to the members of the ADA, and they had connected with him and helped him out as much as they could, even when he had yet to fulfil the ‘spirit’ part of the exam. Kenji and Akutagawa had an interesting conversation in the fields. Kenji pointed out that while his companions had died, he had continued to live well. Akutagawa then wondered if it was because his companions have given him the best parts of themselves for him to live on. It is the connection with others that make life worthy of living, that make life mean something. To be human, is to make choices. To be judged on our worth as a human, is to be judged by our very actions. This is inherent in what it means to be alive: living is only worthy when we can share our lives with others. 

Now contrast this with Dazai. Did he really have a choice? If he did, he made some dreadfully selfish ones that destroyed and traumatised the people around him. The Dazai in this world had his own experiences that made him a separate person from the other Dazais after all - his actions and the consequences were his and his own to bear. Who was he to have something that the other Dazais had worked to achieve? The Dazais in other universes may have lost Oda, but Oda was a friend, who shared memories and time with him, who understood and seen him. The loss was devastating, but main universe’s Dazai didn’t truly lose Oda. Oda was still alive, in his mind, giving him the motivation to live on, reminding him to reach out to others and telling him that he was not alone. Dazai in the Beast AU was truly alone. He might have thought that he could replicate a connection in this universe, but his actions had made them nonexistent. As much as Oda was kind and empathetic and perceptive in every universe, it was just impossible. And Oda’s life involved people he cared deeply about, people who Dazai had hurt. Dazai, in the Lupin bar that he had never been in this universe, may have been in denial to tide over the years of waiting for Oda to finish writing and for shin soukoku to develop the best they can be, but once he spoke to Oda, the illusion shattered. Even with all his knowledge of the world, it was never going to recreate a purpose to live. No matter his good intentions, Dazai would never receive the acknowledgement he badly wanted from Oda. Oda would never give him the relief of forgiveness Dazai wanted for the terrible deeds he had done. And Dazai would die, in misery, fulfilling a wish that didn’t truly belong to him.

If Dazai truly didn’t have a choice, then, he was compelled by forces that created this condition within him - he was then, the only beast of this universe. 

[thewriterinresidence]

More from The Heart of Magic!

Okay, so I’m posting more from my book! Check it out of you want!

Today was going to be an interesting day, that was for sure. If anything, it certainly wouldn’t be boring.

Layla was driving after dropping her sisters off where they needed to be (Muna and Ayan at work, and Yasmin at school). Normally, driving was a moderately easy task for her, but today it wasn’t so easy because there were two things on her mind and had been all morning.

The first one was a typical one because she’d had that dream again. It always played out the same way, with the man about to take the Heart for himself, and the woman raising her arms and casting an unknown spell.

And she was no closer to figuring out what it meant.

Layla knew that obsessing over it wouldn’t help, that it was better to just keep checking back and finding ways to figure it all out than to wrack her brains and force it.

But she couldn’t help it. Her mind wouldn’t allow her a moment’s peace with this lack of information.

It was so maddening that she didn’t know what it was and how it would affect her life, and the lives of her family and friends. More than that, it scared her. The lack of knowledge and understanding made her absolutely terrified for what it all meant and what might happen. Not knowing the risks and details about anything always made Layla anxious and scared, no matter how much she told herself that it was irrational to feel this way.

There was no way that she would be able to know everything, and she needed to be patient and slowly try to figure out what was happening with her dream and how that concerned her and her sisters. Which was easier said than done in her mind. She wished that she felt that way, but the fear had a hold of her, and she had a difficult time convincing herself most of the time. She needed to know everything, and she hated that. She hated that she could just let it go, just let something like this lie, or even just wait a little while until she had more information. Every single second without any details made her more and more afraid, made more and more paranoid about what would happen to her, or worse, her sisters, her friends, everyone she cared about. Hopefully, she could overcome that someday, or at least have less frequent paranoia spells, but that just wasn’t happening today.

The second issue was much bigger. One thing that could spell the difference between danger and safety, for herself, her family and friends, and both the magical and Mortal realms.

Layla was stopped at a red light, struggling to not reach up and touch the gem that was now around her neck, trying to keep both of her hands on the steering wheel. The light turned green after a few moments, and she started driving again, trying not to make it too obvious that there was anything amiss.

She didn’t want to accidentally tip anyone off about The Heart. After all, there were so many who wanted to get their hands on it, and while she had it on, there was no way that she would be 100% safe moving through the public. There would be someone who was looking for it, who would want it for their own needs and schemes. She couldn’t allow anyone to get their hands on it.

A second later, she sighed and rolled her eyes at herself, quickly rebuking her momentary bout of paranoia. There was no one who could see her in her car, so there was no reason for Layla to be on high alert like she was at that moment. Still, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy with the Heart around her neck. She was thankful that she and her sisters had decided to cast the glamour charm to conceal it, as that made her slightly less paranoid, but it wasn’t just that. She could talk herself out of being seen with the Heart because of the glamour charm.

It was the Heart itself that was the problem.

The Heart was emitting that same energy that it was giving off when she and her sisters were holding it in the house. That powerful magical energy that felt so evil and malevolent that it hurt emotionally and almost physically to keep a hold of The Heart. It was almost crushing her, making her deeply regret taking the first watch over it and not want her sisters to go near it.

Layla quickly found a nearby parking lot and managed to safely park the car, leaning on the wheel and swallowing hard, hyperventilating for a few moments before being able to stop, although the effects of the Heart still left her hands shaking on the steering wheel. Layla blinked and took deep breaths, squeezing the steering wheel, trying desperately to ignore the energy coming from the Heart. It was nearly suffocating her now, bringing her close to tears and making her entire body shake with the effort.

She thought about the library and tried to focus on that, even with the energy trying to get her. That was the first thing that came to her mind, and she was going to cling to it with every fiber of her being, magic of the Heart be damned. It was so hard, though, with everything happening so much and the air around her becoming heavier and more cloying. It made her think about the time when she was sixteen and one of the girls who bullied her had punched her in the stomach. The wind had been knocked out of her, and she could feel that right now.

Still, she tried to concentrate as best as she could. The library was an amazing place for Layla to be, and she smiled thinking about it. She had been working there for the last three years and loved it there. She loved the inherent comfort of it. The books, her coworkers, she loved them. Everything about her job was incredibly rewarding and felt like a safe place to be. It was a place, besides the Lair, that she could feel truly like herself and didn’t have to hide herself as much as she normally did. Plus, some of her coworkers were Casters, too, so that was great!

Too bad today was her day off.

That was the funny part of all of this, if she could find anything funny right now. The Heart was making sure that she couldn’t.

Not that she was super upset about it. She absolutely loved her job, but the work was sometimes tedious, and the patrons could be difficult to deal with, so she was glad to have a break whenever possible. But Layla didn’t just want to sit around the house all day and felt like going out, so she had decided that she would spend some time at the mall and look around, maybe buy something. She wasn’t sure about that, though.

Somehow, her idle thoughts about the mall and her job managed to pull her out of her state. Her hands were still shaking slightly, but the energy wasn’t as strong, so Layla found it was safe to continue driving, but not to the mall. She no longer wanted to go, didn’t think it was safe for her to go there with this…blight around her neck.

With a quick deep breath, Layla cast another calming spell on herself to stop the shaking. This one was temporary, just long enough for her to drive home before it wore off.

It seemed like no one had seen her, she thought as she pulled out of the parking lot, and Layla was eternally grateful for that. The last thing she needed was someone seeing her freak out like this. That would’ve been very embarrassing, not to mention there was no way she could explain what happened, as that would require her to reveal the Heart.

She started driving again, desperately trying put the Heart out of her mind, and it worked. It really worked. She was able to make sure she concentrated on the road and didn’t get distracted by the Heart or her own thoughts.

For the moment, anyway.

 Layla could feel the calming spell wearing off as she desperately tried to unlock the apartment as quickly as possible, feeling her hands starting to shake again. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she unlocked the door and quickly stepped inside, shutting the door.

Finally. She was home. And that mean that she could take the necklace off and watch it without having to wear it. Thank goodness for small mercies.

The second after she locked it, Layla collapsed in front of the door, barely finding the strength to remove the Heart from her neck and drop it on the ground, away from her.

This was too much. The evil energy, it was too much.

She was on her knees now, struggling to catch her breath again, just like when she was in the car. Slowly, though, it became easier. Slowly, the energy died out, until it was barely there. The Heart just looked like a normal

With one last deep breath, Layla slowly stood up, picking the Heart up, as well, holding it by the silver chain. She looked directly at the red, heart shaped gem, wondering how she would be able to protect it without having another attack.

Instantly, she could see her dream again, but something was different. This time, she could see the woman clearly, as well as the Heart. For the first time since she began having these dreams weeks ago, Layla could see something more than just vague shapes and surroundings. Namely, the woman holding the Heart.

A blonde white woman, wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans. She was fending off the man and his cronies, casting spell after spell, before the vision cut out again.

Layla blinked. She hadn’t quite expected that. But it was nice to get something new out of her dream.

The face of the man and his lackies, as well as the forest, were still unclear to her, Layla thought to herself as she rushed to her room to leave the Heart there for a little while. It was an interesting revelation, even if it wasn’t as much information as she had hoped for. Who was that woman? She was obviously protecting it, but from who? And why? When had this happened?

There were still so many questions, and only so many times that Layla could ask herself those very same questions before she became completely frustrated and just gave up, but she had to keep trying. She had to keep going and make sure that she knew what was going on, even if it meant sitting in more frustration. She didn’t like the sound of that, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it.

Layla wished she could’ve seen more, but this was something to go on. It still wasn’t what she needed, but it would have to do for now. She would tell her sisters when she saw them later. After all, she couldn’t go through this alone. May they would be able to help her more.

Layla quickly went to her room, placed the Heart, as well as her phone, on her bed, and walked out, closing the door and casting a protection spell for good measure. Couldn’t be too careful. She felt momentarily bad for her small bit of paranoia, especially since she was able to talk herself down in the car, but she just put it out of her mind for now and went to the bathroom.

Layla closed the bathroom door as soon as she stepped inside and immediately turned on the sink, washing her face. She looked at the mirror after drying her face and gasped a little, not believing what she was seeing.

Sure, she looked generally the same (brown skin, brown eyes, black hair currently tied up in a bun to accommodate her hijab). No, that wasn’t the issue. Normally, this was one of those times where she thought that she didn’t look so bad. But now, she had scared herself a little bit.

There was only one question on her mind right now: had she always looked this tired? This haggard? Like she hadn’t slept in months, let alone weeks?

There were dark circles under her eyes, as well as a general feeling of exhaustion about her. She rolled her eyes, irritated. This was not something that she needed at the moment. She dried her fact on a nearby towel, then summoned the strength to look at herself in the mirror again., still in a little bit of shock.

Wait, what happened to me? she thought to herself, marveling at her face, wondering what was up with that.

Maybe it was just the effects of what happened with the Heart? Or her dreams? Or a combination of both? Layla desperately hoped that was the case, because this wasn’t helping her own perception of her appearance. And she didn’t want to sink too deep into that hole now if she could help it at all. She had enough to worry about, what with the Heart, her magic training, and her dreams, without her insecurities coming up and paralyzing her for the millionth time in her life. That wasn’t something that would be helpful right now, and she needed to halt those thoughts before they started up. Luckily, this didn’t happen very often, so it was relatively easy to keep herself from spiraling into a pit of self-hatred over her looks. And she could do that now.

Instead, Layla finished in the bathroom and walked out of the bathroom, quickly stopping to make sure that the Heart was still in its place on her bed. She grabbed the chain, as well as her cell phone, and walked out of the room, heading to the living room to watch TV, holding the Heart as far away from her as she could. Maybe watching TV would net some kind of distraction.

She wanted to tell her sisters about everything, and she was upset that she couldn’t at the moment, as she sat down on the couch and leaned back. She placed the Heart next to her. She wasn’t going to risk wearing it again. Layla picked up the remote and turned on the TV and searched until she found one of her favourite shows playing.

This would help her distract herself for now. Even with the looming threat of the Heart being there with her, at least the energy was minimal. It still made her uneasy, but not enough to completely overwhelm her.

This would do until her sisters were done and came home.