#every reason to feel rejected and abandoned by his life and by his death alike

[souridealist]

me: this is going to be my nice, fun, lighthearted fandom where I just write lots of low-pressure goofy shit, I really need that right now me: me: me: me: trips and lands 1100 words into a fic about Laura, "Worst!"Logan, and the seven million psychological complexes that Laura's original Logan by all logic would have left her with

[themadlostgirl]

A Lost Girl

*Finally back and I got platonic/lesbian prompts! Let’s do this!*

Prompt: Reader comes out to Peter

~~~

There are no girls on Neverland.

There is only one. One solitary Lost Girl. Me.

It was hard at first, coming to Neverland and being indoctrinated into the life of a Lost One. The boys were only used to other boys on the island so when Peter Pan showed up one day with me it was a bit of a shock to the others. It took some time and few lumps and bruises but I eventually became accepted as one of the boys.

Yet they always seem surprised by how well we get along and how alike we are. If only they knew.

You see, on Neverland there isn’t much need for things like romance or love. Who would want to bring that kind of mess into a place meant for fun and youth and reckless abandon? As it turns out a few people. It did not escape my notice that being the only girl on the island I was made the target of some of the older boys imaginative private scenarios. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

I had respect for those that tried to actually make something of it. Their ideas of wooing and flirting were juvenile but well meaning. Even if I always had to turn them down there was no malice.

One of my favorite people to hang out with was Peter. Unlike the other boys he never bothered with any of that flirting crap. We became good friends and I trusted him like a brother. Trusted him so much that I decided to confide in him the one secret I had.

“Hey Pete,” I kicked his foot with mine, “Can we take a walk? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” Peter shrugged and helped me up off the ground. We trailed deeper into the jungle where no curious eyes or ears followed.

My heart was hammering hard in my chest as I tried to think of the best way to approach this subject. It didn’t seem right to just blurt it out. Then again Peter didn’t appreciate people beating around the bush.

“What did you need to tell me?” Peter asked, stopping on the trail.

“Right, well...um…” I started picking at the dirt under my fingernails, “There’s something that I’ve been keeping secret that I feel the need to tell you.”

“Okay…” Peter looked at me with guarded curiosity. “Is this something I’m going to get angry about?”

“God I hope not,” I hadn’t even thought of if this would anger him somehow. I see no reason why it would but then again I have no way of predicting how he may react. “It’s just hard for me to talk about cause I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“So it’s a secret then,”

“Yes. A very big secret that I don’t think I can keep to myself anymore.” I clutched my hands close to my stomach, “Lately it’s been getting worse and I feel like if I don’t say it now then I may never and I can’t do that. I don’t know how it may change things between us but I’d rather tell you and be disappointed then keep it to myself and suffer.”

“Oh wow, alright,” Peter ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his that I picked up on, “This is really happening then, huh? I guess it was only a matter of time.”

“Wait, do you know?” I asked him.

“I mean I’ve had my suspicions for a while. I wasn’t sure if it was just me thinking that or if it was really true. Seeing as how you took the time to drag me out here away from any listening ears then I’m gonna guess it’s true.”

“And is that okay?” I hadn’t thought that I did anything that made it that obvious. 

“I think so, I suppose I’m glad that if it was anybody it was you. Not that I think I would say yes to anyone else on the island anyway.”

“What?”

“I think it has a lot to do with the fact that you are one of my closest friends. You know me very well and given how much we hang around one another this was bound to happen. I’m willing to give it a shot if you are but no hard feelings if it doesn’t work out, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Peter wasn’t making any sort of sense. 

“I just want to make sure that if this thing between us doesn’t work out that we’ll remain friends afterwards.”

“What thing? What--what do you think I’m talking about?”

Peter was silent for a moment, clearly taken aback by my outburst. “Are we--are we not talking about you secretly being in love with me and wanting to try having a relationship?”

“No! Where in this conversation did you get that from?”

“You were talking about a secret!”

“And you thought that the secret was that I was in love with you?”

“I thought it the most logical outcome considering how much time we spend together and the fact that you have rejected every other boy that’s made a move on you. I figured you were enamored with me and were waiting for the right time to confess.” Peter’s face was bright red. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him lose his composure this badly.

“Oh my god, does it hurt having that big of a head? Seriously. I need to know. You really thought that all this time I’ve been pining after your unwashed, hairy footed, ego-so-big-it-takes-up-an-entire-realm ass?”

“Unwashed? Excuse you, Lost Girl, but I bathe far more frequently than most of the boys on this island.”

“That’s what you took away from that?” I shouted.

“Alright, so if you’re not in love with me then what is this big secret?” he shouted back.

“I’m gay you moron!”

He blinked. “Say what?”

“Gay. A lesbian. Meaning that there is no way that I would fall in love with you because I am strictly attracted to girls. That is the reason I always reject all the boys that confess to me. It’s not because I harbor some deep unspoken love for you, it’s because they are, as well as you are, boys. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Peter nodded, “I feel like a bit of an idiot right now.”

“As well you should.”

We stood in awkward silence for a bit. Peter was pacing around the trail muttering to himself.

“So…” he turned back towards me, “You are attracted to girls and you are not in love with me in any way shape or form?”

“That is correct.”

“That’s actually kind of a relief. Not to make you feel bad or anything but I don’t think we would be good together.”

“Rude. You know that if we could be a couple we would be unstoppable.”

“You’re right. Best for the rest of the realms that we are not though. I don’t think they’d survive.”

“Certainly not.” I chuckled dryly. I had envisioned this conversation going a multitude of ways but I’m glad it turned out like this. Now I even have something to blackmail Peter with.

“Why did you never say anything before?” Peter asked, earnestly, “It doesn’t matter to me who you’re attracted to and I doubt any of the Lost Boys would care.”

I toed the dirt at my feet. My hands were balled into fists at my side as I recounted what I feared above all else. “I guess it’s because I came from a realm where it wasn’t okay to be gay. In some regions it was even punishable by death. When my parents found out they kicked me out of our home and refused to let me back in unless I took it back. I refused and it wasn’t long after that you showed up and brought me here.”

Peter cracked a small sympathetic smile, “No wonder you were so eager to run off with me,”

“I certainly didn’t join you based off your personality,” I joked. I reached for Peter’s hand. “But it does mean a lot to me that you’re okay with it.”

“You are who you are, you shouldn’t have to apologize for it.” Peter squeezed my hand once before dropping it. “Now, shall we return to camp?”

“Yeah,” I started following him back towards camp.

“One more thing, Lost Girl,” Peter said, “Can you not let any of the others know that I thought you were in love with me. It would ruin my reputation.”

“You got it, chief,” I reached up to ruffle his hair. “So long as you don’t tell anyone what I told you. I’ll tell the others in time but for right now I don’t want anyone else to know.”

“Of course,” Peter dug his hands into his pockets. “So does this mean that if I was a girl then you would--”

“Shut up!” I slapped his arm with a laugh.

[jean-does-not-have-a-horseface]

Can I request how did I get so lucky with Levi? Please and thank you!😁

I really wrote hurt/comfort just like that once again i-

I really really loved writing this one, it's very different from a lot of things I've written before, I hope you like it

Warnings: none really, two Kuchels tho but I made sure you won't mix them up

Pairing: Levi/ reader

Tags: Modern au, hurt/comfort, daddy Levi strikes again

Caramel Apple

Levi's foot blocks the sleek vandyke brown door from opening more than a few inches. Your eyes flicker between him and in the interior, begging to get a glimpse of the very reason you find yourself at his door again but his mascular form doesn't allow you to see much, only the shadow of his black leather couch and a few grey and copper tiles from the fireplace. It only makes you sigh in frustration as your anger starts to boil inside of you.

You've always been adamant about never entering his home again and even though you're never about to break the rules you've set for yourself tonight feels like the last straw of your sanity has been pulled. Levi is purposely not offering you to get inside, counting on the fact that you won't ask for permission to enter anyways.

"Levi, seriously, I just want to see Kuchel." Your eyes glint with anger as you speak to him in a steady tone, trying to cover your anger in such a fake way.

His choice of words though never seems to mind your tormenting patience as he lifts the words slip off of the tip of his tongue "None can do for this weekend, I'm sorry!"

"What?" Your eyes widen, your hands slightly shake "Levi I haven't seen my daughter in a week!"

It's only natural of you to demand to see your little girl. For a week now Levi has been calling you back to back, every single night, announcing to you that Kuchel wanted to stay with him, that she misses him and that she won't stop crying at the hearing of having to part ways with her father. And even if the slight rejection of your motherhood by the five year old hurt you to the core you knew much better than to try and part the two. Your break up had indeed tortured her pour little soul; she was lost between having to stay at two different houses she was forced to adjust to two separate lifestyles and her attachment to her after was getting the best of her. She didn't even want to go to school if it wasn't Levi driving her there. You could only comply to her wishes.

"It's not my fault you have dates to go to." He never gives you a chance to reply though as his eyes bore into yours with the faintest tint of mischief. "I have the weekend off so I'm taking Kuchel to Disneyland."

Between wondering whether this was too far fetched and thinking about what clothes to pack for Kuchel, Levi felt panicked. His stoic mask didn't let him show any regards towards your barely visible face, but inside his heart sank to his stomach, leaving him feel numb.

It was the first time in the two years that you had broken up that he had ever done something so selfish to you. So far he had been the perfect co parent, picking up Kuchel almost everyday to drop her at her pre school, always making sure that your days with your daughter were arranged evenly. Overall there has been nothing you could negatively accuse him for and he's so proud of the profile he has kept.

In the last month he's been feeling so conflicted internally that it's become unbearable. He's been through miserable, never ending nights feeling alone and abandoned. You wouldn't bring yourself to understand, he knows that very well, so telling you is off the table. Though there nights he wants you and his daughter by his side, there are mornings he wants to wake up and see the two of you cuddled on the other side of the bed just like once before.

"I'm really going to have to ask you to leave." The sound of his tongue clicking is louder than the words that leave his mouth. As his eyes stare into yours with an unreadable feeling plastered on them you can feel that anger, the one that has been boiling in your stomach for so long, staring to eat away your insides. "Kuchel is asleep and I don't want her sleep disturbe-"

Your jaw drops and your words refuse to let go off your tongue. Any hopes of trying to remain civil tonight have been thrown out of the window because you're simply not having it. There's not much you can do from standing behind his front door though. No begging will ever even convince him to let down his guard and he'd be right. That was part of the reason you wouldn't enter his house amymore nonetheless.

"I miss my baby Levi, you're being so unfair!Doesn't Kou miss me?"

Levi flinches at the nickname. There's a restrain in his heart that won't allow him to speak of anyone in nicknames ever again and you're at fault, because every little thing in his life screams your fucking name and he despises it. Nowadays it's only him and Kuchel that seem to be on the same side.

"Her name is Kuchel."

He's so cynical that you might let out that salty tear -the one your left eye has tried so hard to push back- run down your cheek and stain your face. You can only endure so much refusal to see your baby's face. Her tiny voice in nowhere to be heard, her angelic face nowhere to be seen and you want to breakdown.

Why should Levi care, you're still puzzled as to why. The way you've treated him lately has been so brutal and he doesn't deserve it, you know he doesn't although your demons don't take anyone and anything into consideration. The small bleak of the door is symbolic to you, it's a gesture that he doesn't want to let you in, but he allows you to have a small leak of his grayscale paradise.

You shouldn't be in a place to beg with him since you are in the wrong. Kuchel isn't a doll that the two of you should play with, she's a lovely little girl with very real emotions who's trying to comprehend yours and Levi's bullshit. Your bullshit.

If Levi had it his way, you knew he'd keep Kuchel as far from you as he could and Kuchel would agree without a second thought.

Between his loud growls and your sobbing imitations you manage to wake Kuchel up for her peaceful slumber. Her little raven head peaks from the corner of the leather couch, hair sleek despite her sleeping position. It makes you groan how much she looks like him at every aspect of her life, personality and appearance alike. It is as if he had birthed her out of his womb, not you.

Maybe that is part of the reason you feel so strained away.

Or maybe it iss her unforgiving gaze that is identical to her father's.

She doesn't exactly sparkle when she sees you but you attribute that to her only having just woken up. A little fist rubs on her closed eye lid, sweeping a few eyelashes away. Levi makes sure to pick them up from her cheek when he takes her in his arms.

"Hey mommy!"

Her enthusiasm seems to grow on her as her eyes gradually open. You hadn't seen her face in a long, agonising week, her sight made you week to your knees.

"Hey baby, ready to go home?" You beam, pushing the tears away.

"No!" She pouts "Daddy will take me to Rapunzel's castle tomorrow!"

To her it was such a big deal. The promise to see her favorite princess and her prince, to fight the most evil Gothel with her squeeky little voice, it all excited her way too much. Although you're in no place to ruin their fun -Levi has the right to spend his time with Kuchel however he pleases- but you have to admit it hurts. A lot.

Wanting to go to Disneyland was your most vivid childhood dream. The scenery had always fascinated you, there were so many things you had always wanted to do. And Levi had promised, while he was driving you to the hospital once your water had broke, that he'd take you along with Kuckel.

You open your mouth to speak but words never really come out as you take your defeat in. Your heart's sinking, your knees want to give up on supporting your whole weight but just as you're about to collapse two familiar voices catch your attention.

"Oi runts, what's with the commotion?"

"Kenny! Be a little kinder, hey love!"

Your face suddenly drops lower than it's ever possible. In panic you wonder if staying still will guard you from the sights of Kenny and Kuchel, but you're absurdly reminded that could never be the case.

"Im here to pick Kou up." You whisper, ashamed to look any of the Ackermans in their eyes. They really had you cornered like a rat now.

"Ah, aren't you guys going to Disneyland this weekend?" Kuchel smiles as she greets you with eagerness.

At this point Levi is forced to open the door. It's only rude to keep his family standing in the hallway of his apartment complex because you're in the midst of having a small fight. You're not sure if you want to get in, though, he never allows you to.

"It's only me and Kuchel, mom. What made you think (y/n) was coming?"

Kenny huffs at the words, clicking his tongue in annoyance. "Trouble in paradise?" He rightfully earns a death glare from his sister. His legs shot up on the coffee table, catching Levi's attention. Your little girl mumbles something about the table turning dirty once again and Levi agrees, sparing her the tiniest of smugs.

"Look (y/n)," the ravenette's attention turns to you once again "I think you should go, were flying early tomorrow, I promise I'll make up for this whole week someway."

With gloom in your eyes you turn on your feet, ready to storm off of the hallway, and down to the elevator. If you're not wanted here then it's fine. With a kiss on little Kuchel's forehead, you tuck her strands behind her ear and whisper a soft goodnight to her. Levi's door closes too fast, too sharp, too humiliating to your person and at this, you can't help but finally breakdown. Your legs don't even drag you to the end of his hallway. With your back against the nearest wall you collapse, hit tears making their appearance on the corners of your eyes.

"Don't be a little bitch Levi, your brat is not a doll you two pass to eachother, in case ya didn't notice." Inside the apartment Kenny's words sting like a thousand yellowjackets launching onto Levi's skin, but only because the old man speaks the truth. He keeps the arrogant comment about the language that should be used around his daughter to himself, he's eager to listen what his mother had to say on the situation.

"I still don't even know the reason you're not together anymore."

He doesn't either. He can't bring himself to remember the exact reason you had fallen apart or why you had acted to cold towards him two months ago. In a haze, that's probably only for the worst he pops Kuchel into Kenny's uninviting arms and picks up a shift space with his matching.

If he's surprised by your vulnerable position on the hallway he doesn't ever show. His twitching eyebrows betrays the tint of worry in his expression but your trembling lip doesn't allow you to utter words just yet. It'd only when he swoops to your level, knees touching the cold tiles of the floor while his eyes look directly in your face. His calloused hand comes to bed your cheek in order to provide you some sort of comfort for your exhausted head and to wipe a salty tear with his thumb. He isn't ever really soft like that, but you come to believe it's been so long without him that you've forgotten about his compassionate side.

"How did I get so lucky to be loved by someone like you, and how was I so stupid to make us go through this?"

Your words are hurting you more than you want to admit to. It's unfair, how you want to come undone, how time and space cease to exist in the moment, how you don't feel like you can keep your heart's insides to yourself.

"Im so sorry I left that morning but I was so, so afraid." You continue.

It was no secret. That particular night you had shared two months ago, wrapped in his sheets like old times had sparked so many flames or reconciliation between the two of you. Be it that it was you who showed up at his door or him that took you in, be it that you did this because you missed every tiny aspect of him that it was overwhelming. You can't even pinpoint a reason as to why the two of you were so natural together. But you have thrown your only chance away. And he won't even let you in his home.

"I was too, beats me as to what I would have done if I was in your place." His voice is tinted in melancholy but paradoxically his steel orbs never once fall from yours. "But I've spent so much time being mad at you that I can't even remember why im feeling this way in the first place."

Your hand shoots to his chest, only to grab at his plain gray crewneck in an attempt to pull him closer, close enough that your foreheads collide. Onyx shaggy strands engulf your vision as your heavy breaths mingle and your thoughts are finally able to come through mouth.

"Who are you and what have you done to the Levi I know." A muffled giggle comes out of your cries and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smug appears on Levi's face. It catches you by surprise, the way his face lots up from only just a second is an image you've tried you convince yourself to forget but your mind always finds a way to come back to it.

His hand comes to rest on your nape, trapping the hair underneath his grip as he leans to give a kiss to your forehead.

"We'll talk about everything with caramel poisoned apples with Kuchel alright?" Your eyes lit up at his statement, glistening tears threatening to fall once again from your eyes. "Tch, don't look at me like that of course I bought three tickets."

You miss the way his eyes widened as you engulf him tightly in your arms, closing the painful space that had been separating you up until a few seconds ago. Maybe you won't kiss just yet, this isn't a lust filled moment. It's a moment of putting a new brick at that wall of trust you had wrecked a few years ago. With that inevitable fate and love that brought you back to eachother no matter what and a lot of patience the two of you are going to make it work. No excuses this time.

Was this short, was this enough? I honestly don't know I enjoyed this one because for once I figured the ending as I went along. Reading your guys comments makes me feel really good so if you want to drop a comment (or a request) don't be shy. Thanks for reading, it means a lot💞

[danganronpa-21]

Naegiri Week Day 6: Flutter

Here’s Flutter, a soft-sweet one-shot with no warnings to issue. Just pure fluff! Yaaaaaay! I’m hoping that tomorrow’s prompt should be alike it in fluff, too. So if the heavy stuff’s not for you, you’re in luck.

I hope you enjoy it!

_________________

This was it. This was the moment. 

Kyoko sitting across from him; her face untouched by the purplish hues of poison. His own just as clear of the blues of bruising, and the white bandages across his fractured-for-the-second-time nose. Their bodies both exhausted from the work it takes to fix a recovering world, and their eyes soft as they stared at each other. It was so rare that they got a minute to relax and breathe, yet Makoto couldn’t bring himself to settle. While Kyoko had already taken to stretching out on the couch and slipping her work jacket off her shoulders; his heart pounded so raucously that he could hear it in his ears. 

To be fair, she could settle a little more, given that she didn’t know that he was about to confess that he was in love with her. 

He could only hope that she didn’t already know. She was a detective, after all. Knowing everything about everyone practically her job. Everyone struggled to keep secrets from her; himself included. At this point, he half-worried it was only a matter of time until she said something to him.

Or maybe she already had, and he just hadn’t noticed. She had kissed him, after all. In private. With no one else around. During a tender moment between the two of them; where she cared for his wounds. But how much could that really mean? 

Thinking about that struck fear in his heart. While he didn’t necessarily want Kyoko to know already that he was deeply in love with her; he also didn’t want everything to be meaningless to her. He’d greatly enjoyed their time together, and that sweet secret kiss they’d shared… If he confessed and she rejected him, he felt certain that he would die on the spot. 

“Wow… I did not think I would be this exhausted tonight…” Kyoko remarked, letting out a cute grunt as she stretched her arm towards the ceiling. He couldn’t help but notice how one of her eyes squeezed shut as she did so. Cute, he thought to himself.

He couldn’t help but shrug his shoulders in response. “Well, you are the Branch Leader. I imagine your job’s pretty tough right about now. I’m not surprised that you’re tired.”

It became the detective’s turn to shrug; her hands moving to play with her hair. He couldn’t help but notice how casual she was being, playing with her hair in front of him like that. She’d even swung her legs up onto the couch, so they were stretched across his lap. “These days, I’m mostly just stuck in meetings and doing paperwork. You have the important job, being a figurehead for public relations. I admit, I struggle to comprehend how you can possibly be so comfortable talking in front of people like that. It’s a gift of some kind.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a gift, per se…” But he appreciated her saying it. So much so that he felt his face start to flush, and not just because he was a couple minutes away from pouring his heart into her lap. “I guess I just… like giving people the reassurance that everything will be okay. Especially with everything we’ve been doing lately… The progress has been exceptional.”

She nodded in agreement; a grin threatening to overtake her expression. “It really has been superlative. I’m highly impressed with the job everyone has done. You, most of all.”

The smaller boy blinked, his voice squeaking as he attempted to answer.  “M-Me?”

She raised a brow, a smirk protruding through her iron mask. “Does that come as a surprise?” 

“Well… a little, I guess.” He laughed awkwardly. If he had to be honest, he wasn’t sure whether the praise from her made him feel more or less sure of himself. Was she saying that stuff because she loved him and wanted to indirectly know? Or did she just think he was a great employee? Employee-zoned. If she didn’t want to date him, he imagined he could respect it, but the thought of being just an employee to her made him nervous. He wanted to be her friend at least. “You know I don’t tend to think of myself or my work as anything special.”

Kyoko sighed, shaking her head. “I know… and I rather wish you would. You always do such an extraordinary job. I meant it when I called you the Ultimate Hope.” She leaned forward to nudge his shoulder affectionately. It was done with the awkward tenderness of someone who had never done it before. “I’m not so sure that there are many people who could work as diligently as you after going through what you did. It both impressed and worried me that you were so eager to jump back into the workforce after the Future Foundation killing game.”

Though he knew she didn’t mean anything by it, he detested how calmly the words rolled off her tongue. Despite the time that passed by, the incident still felt so fresh in his mind. Nightmares of the incident still haunted his sleeping hours, forcing him awake in a blur of horrifying memories. Kyoko’s passing was always his worst of all. Every time it crossed his unconscious mind, he woke up with a tear-stained pillowcase.

“I… needed something to take my mind off it I guess.” He murmured gracelessly; his eyes falling down to stare at his lap… and the legs that lay upon them. Her legs. He hadn’t realized how close she was to him until that moment. “There was a lot I learned during that killing game that I thought I could use to help people.”

“Such as…?”

The prodding didn’t mean much. It was just a simple means of conversation, but he knew he could get it to work in his favour. He swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat. If he worked this properly, it would be possible to segway it into the targeted conversation… although he hated to think of how easy it was to jump from death to love in such a short period of time.

“I feel like I learned so much more about loss and the value of life, and the differing ways that people cope with their despair… and what we can do to save them. I think what put the nail in that coffin for me was actually experiencing that low myself… where everything is dark, and cold, and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel… When it seems like there’s nowhere to go but down.”

He shivered at the memory; the calling of Kyoko’s voice in his ear. Even weeks after the ordeal, her tone was still so sharp in his mind. Or had the voice belonged to Sayaka…? The hallucination had blended together in his mind; his whole head aching when he thought of it. At this point, it was as if both girls had whispered the same atrocities.

You should have died instead of us. 

Kyoko tucked her feet up close to her body suddenly. At first, he expected it to be out of fear for his behaviour. But as her expression softened, and she shuffled closer to him, he realized that couldn’t possibly be the case. Kyoko wasn’t the kind of person to abandon a friend in need. 

“Don’t think about it if you don’t have to.” 

“I always have to… It’s always there.” He protested, closing his eyes tightly. “And I can’t make it go away. I won’t, but… It still taught me so much of what I need to know. Not just for helping people, but for going through life as well. It made me realize that you can’t always wait for the right moment for things to happen. That you don’t always have forever with someone.”

Kyoko’s brows lowered even further, and she placed a concerned hand on his thigh. “Makoto-kun… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that… that when you died, I felt like my whole world fell apart. Like I lost apart of myself.”

“Naegi-kun…” He couldn’t decipher the tone she spoke in, or the emotion it held. He knew only that she said his name.

“I mean it. When I thought I lost you, it was like I’d lost almost everything. If it weren’t for what you did for me, I wouldn’t have known where to go or what to do. Your life and your sacrifice meaning something… it’s one of the only things that kept me going, and doing things that were tough. I didn’t have it in me to let your sacrifice be in vain. I just… I couldn’t bear to have lost you, so it’s all I could rely on. I couldn’t bear it, because… Well, there’s a lot of reasons because…”

The lavender-haired woman leaned in closer; her voice near a whisper. “Reasons like what?”

Makoto stopped himself for a moment, and inhaled deeply. This would be it. This would be the moment.

“Reasons like… my being in love with you.”

Kyoko jerked herself back suddenly, blinking at him like he had randomly sprouted a second head. Shock wrote itself all over her expression; her mouth hanging open at his confession. Her eyes were wide and round as she watched him; a meek blush skirting across her cheeks and nose. 

“You were… in love with me?”

Makoto shook his head. “I am in love with you. Present tense.”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand.” She fumbled with the studs on her gloves, unexpectedly unwilling to look him in the face.

Makoto could feel them now. The butterflies beating about in his belly. At the start of the conversation, he might have described their feeling as a light flutter… but now they were a thundering roar. They urged him to speak his truth, no matter the eccentricities of her reaction

“Kyoko, I’m… I’m madly in love with you. I think I have been for a long time now… even before the whole Tragedy thing. I know it’s a lot for you to hear, and you’re probably not ready, but I… I just… I love you, Kyoko. And I couldn’t live with you not knowing anymore. Not after what happened. I need to take this moment to tell you while I still have the chance.”

The air between them fell still. He found himself clutching tightly onto his work pants in some pathetic attempt to ground himself, for he felt rather certain that this wasn’t going to go as he’d hoped. Kyoko was kind, and beautiful, and intelligent. He knew thinking that someone like her would want to be with him was daydreaming a little too hard.

The look on her face wasn’t doing him many favours either. She began to run her fingers through the strands of hair that hung loose from her ponytail, her eyes focused on literally anything but his face. Despite the bowing of her head, however, he could see how rapidly she blinked. It almost seemed as if she wasn’t processing what he said at all. 

When the silence broke, it wasn’t with an answer. Quite the opposite, actually. It was a small set of words, uttered in an even smaller voice. Like Kyoko’s own had been stolen away from her in a matter of seconds, and replaced with a mockery of it.

“Are you sure?”

He gulped quietly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“But… why?”

“What do you mean… why?”

“I mean: why? Why me?” Her head lifted up scantly. As much as he craved it, he couldn’t read her expression. Some sort of mix between worried and auspicious, he guessed. It was all he could judge from the curve of her eyebrows and the glimmer in the pools of violet that were her eyes.

“You’re… amazing, Kyoko. You’re brilliant, and kind, and talented… not to mention incredibly beautiful. Being with you is like being on an adventure every day. We always have so much fun together, and you never let me short change myself over anything. You care about me and all of our other friends so deeply, even if you may not show it obviously. You’re like the coolest girl I’ve ever met. I might even say that my falling in love with you was inevitable.” 

The detective’s face turned bright pink. For a moment, it seemed as if she were unable to respond. Then, just as suddenly, she leaned towards him again. 

“Makoto. Could you say that again?”

“Say what again?”

She closed her eyes. “That you’re in love with me.”

He paused, biting his lip. Where was she going with this? 

“Kyoko, I’m in love with you.”

“Again.”

“Kyoko, I’m in love with you.”

“Again.”

“Kyoko, I’m in love with- mmf!”

Oh god. She was doing it again. Kyoko was kissing him again. In the form of the most ferocious affection he’d ever felt, he might add. Not that that made it unenjoyable — quite the opposite, if he were being honest. Feeling the softness of her lips against his own for a second time was just as extraordinary as the first; perhaps even more so this time around. His eyes fluttered shut without thinking, and he found himself wrapping his arms around her. She reciprocated just as well, choosing to drape her arms around his neck. 

It had been so little time, and yet he wondered how he could have forgotten the taste of her lips. This time around the flavour was caught somewhere between the sugary sweetness of the balm she wore, and the dark smooth taste of coffee. If he were being honest, he wasn’t sure which he loved more. Or maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe he just loved that he was kissing her the most. 

He wasn’t exactly sure when they broke apart. He only knew that for him, it was too soon. He assumed it must have been after awhile: both of them were panting and short of breath by the end. When they finally did manage to separate, though, he found himself staring at her. Kyoko’s gaze fixed itself so intently on him, and for a moment, it seemed like time had stopped. The only things that were allowed to move were the beating butterflies in his stomach, and her lips as she whispered the words:

“I think I’m in love with you too.”

[rvnas]

                ✈️ — ⌜   hirai   momo   ,   cis   female,   she/her⌟  ↝    have   you   heard   ?   it   seems   like   the   heir   of   the   ITO   was   very   close   to   liam   yu   too   .   they   go   by   RUNA   and   they   were   liam's   BAD   INFLUENCE   .   their   network   is   of   95M   and   they’re   only   TWENTY-THREE   …   what   a   burden   it   must   be   .   i   heard   they   can   be   very   MESMERIZING   and   DEVOTED   .   but   these   last   few   months   ,   their   VOLATILE   and   SELFISH   personality   has   been   showing   more   .   the   media   is   sure   having   a   filled   day   with   them   !    i   hope   this   road   trip   with   friends   will   help   them   .   did   you   know   that   POSING   ON   THE   HOOD   OF   SOMEONE   ELSE’S   MASERATI   ,   13   MISSED   CALLS   FROM   HOME   ,   GLITTER   RIMMING   TIRED   EYES   AND   BROKEN   MIRRORS   really   show   their   true   persona  ?   maybe   liam   was   the   only   one   who   knew   that    ...  

━  ˙ ˖  ☆     quick  stats  !

full  name  :   haruna   ito   .

nickname(s)  :   runa   ,   ru   .

age   :   twenty-three   .

zodiac  :   aquarius   sun   ,   aries   moon   (  click   !  )

spoken   languages   :   japanese   ,   korean   ,   mandarin   ,   french   &   english   .     

sexuality  :   bisexual   .

alignment   :   chaotic   neutral   .

pinterest   :   (   click   !   )  

━  ˙ ˖  ☆     backstory  !    (  tw  :  death   ,   parental   neglect   &   drug   /   alcohol   use  )

the   daughter   of   the   ceo   to   a   real   estate   &    construction   conglomerate   and   his   high   school   sweetheart   turned   interior    designer   wife   ,    runa   ito   was   born   into   money   .   they   lived   in   tokyo   ,   the   same   city   her   grandfather   had   originally   started   his   company   back   in   the   40′s   ,   and   although   ito   property   group   had   accumulated   massive   wealth   and   international   business   by   the   time   runa   was   born   ,   her   parents   wanted   to   start   their   family   where   it   all   began   .

she   doesn’t   remember   much   about   her   early   life   —   a   blur   of   employees   and   family   members   alike   ,   their   faces   often   melting   into   one   ,   as   everyone   had    a   hand   in   raising   the   young   girl   .   her   father   was   a   busy   man   ,   after   all   ,   the   parent   who   paid   the   most   attention   to   young   runa   being   her   mother   .   there’s   not   much   runa   will   remember   about   her   childhood   in   japan   but   the   lullaby   the   woman   used   to   sing   to   her   at   night   is   something   she’ll   carry   with   her   for   the   rest   of   her   life   .

a   few   months   after   runa   turned   nine   is   when   her   memories   seem   to   begin   ,   spearheaded   by   the   tragic   death   of   her   mother   .   a   heart   attack   in   the   middle   of   the   day   ,   sudden   and   unexpected   .   it   was   runa   that   found   her   on   the   floor   in   the   garden   ,   the   scent   of   roses   that   had   blossomed   under   the   woman’s   gentle   care   thick   and   sweet   .   she   was   frozen   in   place   until   the   paramedics   arrived   ,   unmoving   even   after   her   father   broke   down   in   tears   right   in   front   of   her   ,   so   still   that   the   paramedics   were   concerned   enough   they   carted   her   off   to   the  hospital   .   shock   .   it   was   shock   ,   she’d   later   learn   ,   but   runa   didn’t   think   that   word   was   big   enough   to   describe   the   way   it   felt   like   something   inside   of   herself   had   passed   along   with   her   mother   .

by   the   time   she’s   eleven   everything   had   changed   .   following   the   death   of   his   wife   ,   her   father   had   relocated   them   to   new   york   city   ,   something   the   media   would   call   a   fresh   start   but   runa   knew   was   bigger   than   that   .   he   was   running   away   from   his   grief   ,   and   although   the   man   would   never   be   the   same   he   still   managed   to   remarry   ,   now   heading   ito   property   group   in   booming   downtown   manhattan   .   two   years   later   the   couple   celebrates   the   birth   of   a   beautiful   baby   girl   azumi   ,   the   only   thing   runa   is   grateful   for   since   her   old   life   in   tokyo   .

adjusting   to   life   in   new   york   wasn’t   easy   for   runa   .   she   had   never   been   a   difficult   child    ,   but   unresolved   emotions   have   her   feeling   like   a   time   bomb   with   no   control   of   when   or   how   she’s   going   to   explode   .   the   start   of   her   teenage   years   are   marred   by   schoolyard   fights   ,    stealing   from   convenience   stores   ,   talking   back   to   adults   for   no   good   reason   .   she   didn’t   mean   to   get   into   trouble   ,   she   really   didn’t   ,   but   she   had   no   idea   what   to   do   with   all   the   hurt   inside   her   .   at   home   she   felt   like   a   stranger   —   like   she   was   just   a   guest   watching   someone’s   family   from   the   outside   .   when   her   stepmother   voiced   concerns   over   runa’s   behavior   and   her   possible   involvement   in   azumi’s   development   runa   was   branded   a   bad   influence   before   she   was   even   fifteen   years   old   .   

her   father   hadn’t   stuck   up   for   her   ,   the   man   too   busy   to   notice   his   daughter’s   suffering   or   perhaps   too   in   denial   about   his   own   to   even   acknowledge   the   way   life   was  unfolding   inside   his   household   .   he   was   distant   at   best    and   straight   up   absent   at   his   worst   ,   leaving   runa’s   stepmother   to   raise   azumi   all   on   her   own   .   the   ito’s   might   have   looked   picturesque   from   the   outside   ,   but   unbeknownst   to   the   public   eye   the   family   was   imploding   .   her   father’s   second   marriage   was   hanging   by   a   thin   thread   .   he   resented   his   second   wife   for   not   living   up   to   a   woman   who   had   been   dead   for   over   five   years   now   ,   and   in   turn   the   woman   resented   runa   for   reminding   her   of   the   person   she’d   never   live   up   to   .   the   only   control   her   stepmother   had   of   her   own   life   was   spent   making   runa   out   to   be   a   threat   to   the   safety   of   her   actual   daughter   ,   not   caring   or   noticing   the   love   and   fondness   runa   and   azumi   had   for   each   other   .

if   you   hear   something   enough   times   ,   it’s   only   natural   you   start   to   believe   it   ,   that   you’d   accept   it   as   a   truth   .   seventeen   years   old   and   runa   becomes   exactly   who   she’d   been   made   out   to   be   —   bad   .   in   a   way   it’s   almost   a   comfort   .   that   overwhelming   sensation   of   guilt   that   used   to   choke   her   after   every   outburst   was   slowly   lifted   as   she   accepted   there   was   no   use   in   fighting   to   be   good   if   no   one   believed   it   .   she   must   have   been   born   this   way   ,   every   fuck   up   a   marker   of   her   predetermined   character   .   she’d   given   up   control   ,   and   as   much   as   runa   tried   to   make   herself   believe   it   wasn’t   her   fault   ,   that   she   couldn’t   change   who   she   was   deep   down   inside   ,   she   knew   the   truth   .   she   was   taking   the   easy   way   out   .   better   to   be   hated   by   the   people   who   were   supposed   to   love   her   unconditionally   than   to   acknowledge   she   deserved   better   .   it   was   easier   to   be   reckless   and   selfish   ,   every   stunt   she   pulls   a   welcome   distraction   from   how   empty   all   the   collective   abandonment   in   her   life   had   left   her   .  

she   surrounds   herself   with   people   she  decides   are   reflections   of   herself   .   hollow   ,   impulsive   people   with   little   regards   to   consequence   .   she   gets   drunk   ,   she   gets   high   ,   she   shoplifts   things   she   could   buy   without   blinking   just   for   that   temporary   thrill   .   she   says   she’ll   try   anything   once   ,   danger   be   damned   ,   her   own   life   be   damned   .   she   shows   up   to   her   father’s   business   events   long   after   he   stops   inviting   her   ,   makes   a   show   for   the   press   when   she   openly   flirts   with   business   in   front   of   their   wives   ,   when   she   downs   whiskey   sours   at   the   bar   snap   chatting   the   whole   thing   ,   when   she   publicly   denounces   the   ito   name   to   anyone   who   stops   and   listens   .   a   whole   year   of   paying   off   cops   to   keep   runa’s   records   clean   (   for   the   sake   of   the   family   business   ,   never   for   her   )   ,   of   opening   up   about   his   daughter’s   troubled   mind   (   not   for   her   own   betterment   but   to   save   stock   prices   from   dropping   too   low   )   ,   of   hiring   a   revolving   door   of   nannies   to   keep   azumi   far   out   of   runa’s   orbit   .   the   ito’s   wait   until   she   turns   eighteen   to   properly   kick   runa   out   ,   not    bothering   to   threaten   cutting   her   off   from   her   trust   fund   because   they   wanted   her   gone   that   desperately   .

and   runa’s   happy   to   go   .   she’s   got   access   to   the   penthouse   of   every   building   her   father   owns   ,   bouncing   from   one   place   to   the   next   as   she   inevitably   does   something   to   get   herself   kicked   out   .   property   damage   ,   noise   complaints   ,   letting   just   about   anyone   she   meets   on   a   night   out   practically   move  in   rent   free   —   the   list   is   a   long   one   .   it’s   then   when   she   meets   liam   ,   and   he   quickly   becomes   the   light   at   the   end   of    a   dark   tunnel   runa   hadn’t   even   realized   she   was   in   ,   because   he’s   not   like   anyone   else   in   her   life   .   he   sees   her   .   past   all   the   fuck   ups   he   sees   her   ,   sees   that   she’s   more   than   the   unstable   party   girl   the   press   has   made   her   out   to   be   ,   that   she’s   not   the   villain   her   family   needs   her   to   be   in   order   to   feel   better   about   the   fact   that   they’d   failed   her   .   he   was   the   first   in   a   long   time   to   recognize   any   of   it   and   she   has   no   idea   what   to   do   about   it   .

 for   a   little   while   he   makes   her   a   better   person   ,   or   at   least   want   to   try   to   be   one   .   the   light   liam   radiates   towards   anyone   in   his   life   isn’t   lost   on   her   ,   but   very   quickly   runa   realizes   just   how   uncomfortable   she   is   feeling   that   warmth   ,   the   feeling   so   unfamiliar   she’s   terrified   to   bask   in   it   too   long   .   her   first   instinct   is   to   reject   it   ,   to   reject   him   and   the   friendship   he’s   offering   her   ,   to   run   as   far   away   as   she   can   from   all   of   it   .   but   she’s   selfish   ,   and   more   than   that   she’s   lonely   ,   devastatingly   lonely   that   the   idea   of   cutting   out   the   one   friend   she   really   had   was   more   than   she   knew   she   could   take   .   she   does   the   next   best   thing   —   she   pulls   him   into   her   darkness   .   it   wasn’t   too   hard   of   a   feat   to   influence   someone   who   was   used   to   having   fun   ,   especially   when   that   someone   wasn’t   one   who   liked   saying   the   word   no   whenever   someone   had   a   crazy   idea   .   liam   already   had   his   feet   in   the   water   when   it   came   to   being   spontaneous   .   all   runa   was   doing   was   pulling   him   towards   the   deep    end   more   and   more   everyday   .

it’s   a   manipulative   thing   to   put   someone   you   love   in   danger   ,   to   ask   for   companionship   on   a   stupid   stunt   because   she   knew   he’d   say   yes   if   she   said   she   needed   it   ,   to   pretend   that   maybe   just   maybe   liam   was   the   same   as   her   and   she   really   wasn’t   influencing   him   at   all   but   opening   his   eyes   to   bigger   and   better   possibilities   .   she   knew   it   ,    every   minute   of   the   day   she   knew   it   ,   but   it   wasn’t   enough   to   ever   make   her   stop   .   he   gave   her   the   acceptance   she’d   never   gotten   at   home   and   she   gave   him   excitement   but   that   didn’t   make   it   alright   .   when   she   gets   the   news   he’s   dead   ,   she’s   back   in   the   garden   of   her   childhood   home   all   over   again   .   it   doesn’t   make   any   sense   at   all   ,   and   runa   refused   to   let   it   ,   picking   fights   with   anyone   who   dared   utter   he   was   in   a   better   place   .   there   was   no   room   in   her   heart   for   so   many   emotions   ,   so   she   does   what   she   can   to   drown   them   out   ,   quiet   and   out   of   the   public   for   the   first   time   in   years   because   of   how   hard   she’s   self   medicating   .   months   go   by   before   her   step   mother   reaches   out   .   azumi   has   a   ballet   recital   on   sunday   is   all   the   voicemail   says   ,   but   those   seven   words   are   enough   to   draw   runa   out   ,   to   get   her   to   come   home   for   the   first   time   since   they’d   kicked   her   out   .  

whatever   tiny   hope   runa   had   that   her   family   had   been   concerned   with   her   well-being   was   shattered   when   she   learns   the   call   had   been   a   trick   ,   a   false   pretense   as   requested   by   her   father   .   he   had   a   proposition   for   his   oldest   daughter   which   was   really   more   of   an   ultimatum   —   runa   had   one   year   .   one   year   to   either   get   her   life   together   and   start   working   under   his  iron   fist   as   a   director   at   ito   property   group   or   be   excluded   from   his   will   and   properly   disowned   ,   never   allowed   to   be   more   than   ten   miles   from   her   younger   sister   as   long   as   she   was   a   minor   .   it   wasn’t   long   after   her   father’s   proclamation   that   runa   gets   the   invitation   to   go   on   the   road   trip   .   she   doesn’t   think   she   cares   ,   swears   she’s   not   interested   in   remembering   liam   in   the   company   of   people   who   no   doubt   had   less   than   kind   things   to   say   about   the   girl   that   was   infamous   for   being   the   permanent   devil   on   a   dead   man’s   shoulder   ,   but   a   bottle   of   the   expensive   stuff   all   to   herself   later   that   night   and   she’s   saying   yes   ,   she’s   coming   ,   because   despite   everything   she’s   sworn   is   true   about   herself   and   about   how   she   feels   she   needs   this   trip   more   than   she’d   ever   admit   .                                                                             

━  ˙ ˖  ☆     personality  +  tidbits  !

aha   ...   where   oh   where   to   begin   JSBDJWDBJW   i   feel   like   hot   mess   it   the   perfect   and   easiest   way   to   describe   her   💔😔   not   to   b   all   she’s   complicated   but   !   she’s   complicated   !!!

on   one   hand   she’s   a   lot   of   fun   ,   and   i   mean   a   LOT   like   in   a   room   full   of   people   it’s   easy   to   feel   drawn   to    her   bc   she’s   got   an   exciting   kind   of   energy   surrounding   her   .  she’s   that   type   of   person   that   you   know   you’re   gonna   have   fun   with   no   matter   what   you   guys   do   even   if   you   have   no   idea    what   kind   of   shenanigans   to   expect   because   she’s   always   doing   something   new   and   not   predictable   .   

on   the   other    hand   ?    yea   she’s   kinda   fucking   crazy   not   2   get   all   lana   del   rey   but   SJDBWJBDJWBJWD   runa   has   a   concerning   lack   of   care   for   her   own   health   and   safety   so   in   turn   she’s   not   too   concerned   abt   anyone’s   else’s   health   and   safety   ,   either   /:   she’s   just   following   the   traumatized   girl   handbook   doing   reckless   stuff   just   to   feel   something   and   all   that   jazz   it’s   all   fun   and   games   until   u   have   a   near   death   experience   jumping   off   a   yacht   super   wasted   at   a   billionaire’s   party   ...   and   even   then   it’s   still   fun   and   games   if   ur    runa   <3

mommy   issues   ?   yup   ..   daddy   issues   ?   yup   again   baby   we   got   two   for   two   😭   runa’s   desire   to   be   nurtured  and  have   someone   hold   her   face   and   say   i   care   abt   u   versus   her   attraction   to   ppl   who   literally   couldn’t   tell   u   if   she’s   happy   or   sad   fight   to   the   death   !!!   yes   she   wants   love   and   acceptance   yes   she’s   gonna   ruin   any   chance   she   has   at   getting   that   by   pushing   ppl   away   or   purposely   fucking   up   so   they   just   give  up   on   her   the   way   her   dad   and   stepmom   did   .   literally   she’s   like   i   want   to   be   loved   no   i   don’t   yes   i   do   .   don’t   .   yea   <3333 

idk   if   any   of   you   have   ever   met   an   aquarius   that   literally   makes   no   damn   sense   and   ur   just   like   what   universe   do   u   live   on   bc   it’s   impossible   to   try   and   plan   something   with   them   and   when   they   do   finally   message   u   back   it’s   asking   u   to   come   out   to   a   club   at   2   am   when   ur   already   in   ur   pajamas   but   that’s   runa   ...   except   if   u   get   out   of   bed   and   finally   show   up   to   the   club   she’s   already   gone   SJDBWJDBJWD

she’s   moody   😔   one   minute   she   can   be   having   the   time   of   her   life   and   she’s   being   really   open   and   fun   and   the   next   she   can   just   totally   shut   down   and   get   really   cold   and   bitchy   or   really   angry   and   it’s   /:   truly   not   a   good   time   !   she   really   isn’t   a   bad   person   but   she   DOES   make   lots   of   mistakes   and   if   you’ve   got   a   negative   opinion   about   her   she’s   not   going   out   of   her   way   to   change   it   or   prove   u   wrong   ,   in   fact   she’s   way   more   likely   to   prove   u   right   bc   that’s   the   easy   way   out  

super   super   devoted   to   people   she   cares   about   !   even   if   she’s   not   open   about   the   fact   that   she   cares   you’ll   know   bc   if   u   ask   her   to   do   something   or   go   someplace   she’ll   do   it   no   questions   asked   

does   anyone   rmr   that   one   tweet   where   it’s   like   “   hmu   if   ur   toxic   im   trying   to   have   a   crazy   summer   “   runa   is   both   the   person   tweeting   and   the   toxic   person   they’re   looking   for   .   duality   <3

flirts   as   easy   as   breathing   but   it   legit   means   ...   nothing   like   she’ll   just   mindlessly   flirt   her   way   through   life   just   bc   she   can   !   uses   her   pretty   privilege   for   free   stuff   despite   being   rich   .   has   never   been   in   a   serious   or   a   committed   relationship   and   she’s   not   abt   to   start   now   she’s   got   mega   abandonment   issues   to   work   on   first   </3333   is   always   down   for   a   good   time   though   runa   believes   in   whore   rights   😏😏

dresses   like   an   e   girl   even   though   she   legit   doesn’t   know   wtf   that   is   ...

can’t   stand   the   sight   /   smell   of   roses   bc   they   remind   her   of   her   mom   ): 

likes   to   make   very   large   donations   in   her   father’s   name   to   really   progressive   organizations   to   piss   off   all   the   boomer   shareholders   of   his   company   (:

has   never   used   🥺   this   emoji   in   an   not   ironic   way   her   whole   life   i   told   u   guys   she’s   CRAZY   ...   

loves   to   sweet   talk   ppl   into   getting   into   doing   wild   stuff   if   she   hits   u   up   with   a   wyd   text   IGNORE   her   unless   u   wanna   end   the   night   with   a   broken   wrist   or   a   matching   ass   tattoo    ...

who   was   that   one   twitter   girl   that   stole   someone’s   hamster   at   a   party   i   can’t   rmr   her   name   but   /:   that’s   runa   SJDJWBDWJBDJW   

lies   abt   the   randomest   things   sometimes   for   literally   no   reason   like   someone   can   be   like   hi   im   amy   (:   and   she’ll   be   like   aw   that   was   my   grandma’s   name   like   no   it   wasn’t   don’t   ask   me   why   she’s   like   that   ...       

━  ˙ ˖  ☆     wanted  connections  !  (  all  open  to  all  genders  )

okay   i   was   gonna   type   a   bunch   of   bullets   here   but   this   intro   is   literally   already   disgustingly   long   and   LATE   im   .   so   embarrassed   ...   i’m   seriously   down   for   anything   though   like   platonic   romantic   wholesome   angsty   enemies   old   family   friends   a   i   keep   calling   ur   mom   a   milf   and   u    hate   it   connection   ...   whatever   it   may   be   i’m   open   🥺  

truly   i   hate   this   life   i   wrote   a   novel   for   NO   good   reason   ...   if   ur   like   me   &   prefer   discord   for   plotting   u   can   add   me   @   glo lovecore ʕ´• ᴥ•̥`ʔ#8172   and   we   can   plot   there   💖 💖 💖   if   discord   isn’t   ur   jam   though   we   can   plot   via   tumblr   ims   im   just   gonna   be   harder   to   reach   that   way   so   it   might   take   a   little   longer   🥺   im   sosososo   excited   to   be   here   &   finally   write   with   u   all   i’m   sorry   this   intro   took   forever   !!!!    

[aparecium-hq]

Welcome to Aparecium, Ira! You have been accepted for Justin Vane. Justin sounds like he has so much wonderful potential, and Kat and I can’t wait to see him interact with other characters, especially the other Quidditch players. Check out the new member checklist, and jump right in.

Character Basics

Birthday (Age): 25

Gender (Pronouns): He/Him

Sexuality: Straight

Blood Status: Halfblood

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Occupation: Quidditch Player: Chaser for the Montrose Magpies

Faceclaim: Tyler Posey

Biography:

The War had changed Romilda Vane. Once a bubbly air-head who thrived on gossip and the trivialities of teenage life, facing certain death and defending her school set her off on a journey to find her purpose. She backpacked across Europe - both magic and non-magic - with strangers who became friends. Though living like a muggle was extremely difficult at first, she was never one to give up on a challenge. Her true Gryffindor seemed to shine through. This is where she met and married a muggle, and had Justin soon after.

Justin was only 2 when his father abandoned the pair, and he never heard from the man in his life. Though it was just mother and son, Justin never felt like he was missing out on much. Quite the opposite, he was in fact the apple of his mother’s and grandparent’s eyes. His early days were spent reading about magical and muggle history (including his mother’s own works), playing wizard’s chess with his grandfather, being the center of their little village’s attention, and flying around on his Nimbus.

Going to Hogwarts was the most natural of transitions - Slytherin house was definitely a place where he would thrive. And thrive he did. With his cunning and charismatic words and resourcefulness, Justin was the favorite of many house-mates and teachers alike. But what really differentiated him was his singular, almost blinding focus on one thing: Quidditch. Though he had no known Quidditch players in his family, Justin became one of the youngest players to ever make the house team as Chaser. Even when other Slytherin players would sometimes find their way to the pack through bribes or influence, no captain dared bump “Vane, 09”’s spot for someone else. When his grandmother died in his 5th year, his focus on the game only became stronger.  He passed with the bare minimum in his academics and chased his ambition with even more conviction. Upon graduating from Hogwarts, Justin cut a deal with the best team in the League - The Montrose Magpies. The first few years out of school were him living his dream. Though his grandfather passed away, Justin was satisfied that he had gotten to see his grandson become a star. People were soon lining up to get his autograph and some rare “fans” would even track down his home address every four months or so.

Of course, being a star quidditch player so early in the game, Justin couldn’t help leverage the popularity. He garnered a repute for being a casanova, something he carried over from his days at Hogwarts. Though it never became anything serious with anyone. It was all mostly for a bit of fun and sometimes to satisfy his own ego. Girls found themselves in bed or on dates with him, but never once did he bring anyone back home to the Vane residence.

Justin loved every second of being a Quidditch player - being on the road, developing a bond with his team, the crazy fans. But most of all, he loved the sport. His dream life was, however, halted abruptly when Romilda became severely affected by illness.

To care for her, Justin has recently taken a hiatus from Quidditch. To their relief, a new hybrid technology apparatus at St. Mungo’s is showing positive results and his mother is getting better by the day. Given his history and values, he is quick to trust this new technology and welcome it into their life. Being one of the most successful Quidditch players on the scene and the son of a prominent writer on muggle subjects, Justin’s voice is quite influential. With the changing environment, he has been put in a unique position of power. Being a Slytherin, you can bet that he will play his cards exactly right.

Character Questionnaire

How does your character feel about their family? Justin’s personal ambitions and needs are second to one thing and one thing only - his family. His mother is the most important person in his life. Before their deaths, he shared a close relationship with his grandparents, with his grandfather often filling in the gaps of his father. They were the reason he didn’t completely fall off the rails at school. On the other hand, they are also the reason he became a little cocky and entitled, though they did their best to keep him grounded in his later years. He feels that he owes everything to his family, and considers himself kind of lucky that he did not have to take his father’s name so he can carry the Vane legacy forward.

How would your character describe their own work ethic? Is that an accurate measure of themself? Justin would describe himself as “keeping up” with the needs of being a Quidditch player. However, this is far from the truth. Justin has optimized almost every area in his life to become a better player - on and off the ground. He follows a strict diet and gave up alcohol almost as soon as he has started drinking it. He works out every single day and spends a minimum of an hour on a broom, a habit he has not missed for a day since his 6th year when he was made Slytherin Captain. Even socially Justin makes sure that he’s up to date with what’s going on with who so that a simple lunch date can turn into a stronger bond with his teammate, his coach, or whoever.  His work ethic is very much a good measure of himself. Of course, he is a gifted player. But Justin doesn’t take that for granted even for a second, fearing it could go away in the blink of an eye. This is what fuels him to work so hard every day.

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them? A little conceited, definitely cocky, yet charming in a way that puts you off at first but makes you smile eventually.

Para Sample

“Mum, please. Stop trying to get up, will you?” Justin pleaded. Romilda’s frail figure couldn’t support itself as she reached out her hand to the brown box at the foot of her bed. “I told you, I’ll read you your beloved fan mail.” Sweat was dripping down his jersey as he sat on the other side, taking out a letter and reading the cover. He looked at his mother, confused.

“I’ve read plenty of my own fan mail.” A sly smile was at her lips. “Go on then, I’m listening.” Justin chuckled but began reading. “Dear Justin, I think I’m in love with you. I have watched every match you’ve ever played. I think about you all the time. I live in Little Haggleton, and nothing of importance ever happens in my town. All the boys are off working at the Ministry or managing shops. It’s so boring, I could die.” He paused and looked up, sporting a look which said ‘don’t make me read more.’ Romilda raised her brows, nodding. Her smile was growing wider with every word. “Attached to this letter is the address of a pub I go to every Friday evening for drinks and a picture of me.  If you like it, please consider coming to meet me.” Justin paused once more, raising a brow at Romilda. She nodded again. “I would love to marry you.”

No sooner had he finished his sentence, Romilda began to laugh. He couldn’t contain himself either, rolling his eyes. “Show me the picture, maybe she’s pretty.” “Absolutely not. Please stay in bed so I can reject all future marriage proposals at my own discretion.” “Well she’s got a point, Little Haggleton is very boring. Your wedding would be the most important event of the decade.” “Ma!” Laughter echoed through the room as Justin put the letter back in the box. “You ought to bring someone home sometime, JJ. Who knows how long I’m sticking around.” He flashed a disapproving look at her before speaking. “You moving on before I’ve found another woman to torture me for the rest of my life? Seems highly unlikely.” The two laughed again as he picked up the box. “But really, I’m taking this away before you promise my hand to some poor country maiden without my knowledge.” Justin kissed Romilda’s forehead before heading out of the room, a smile on his lips and a picture of a stranger in his hand.

Additional Information for Original Characters

Character Teaser

If he looked into the mirror of Erised, Justin would see himself holding the Quidditch cup, the captain’s badge shining on his chest, and a glorious smile on his lips. Or so he thinks. He’s spent most of his life chasing this dream to the world’s end. But every day he cares for his ailing mother, the vision wavers a bit in his mind. A golden childhood and a successful career seem to be enough for most people, but Justin’s still hungry for more. He knows sooner or later his Quidditch dreams will be fulfilled, and his career will be penned down for posterity. But what after that?

Feelings on Magical Integration

Justin is definitely an integrationist. Not only was his mother fascinated by muggle culture, married a muggle and learned to live in muggle society seamlessly - she also made a fortune by writing books on her experiences. Needless to say, she was one of the first people to support the movement. Now, personally reaping the benefits of Madley’s through his mother’s unique treatment, Justin is determined to support the movement in any way he can. As long as it doesn’t jeopardize his career, that is.

Connections

Fred Weasley: Justin and Fred formed the unlikeliest of friendships at Hogwarts. After a chance meeting and a brief conversation about muggles, they stayed in touch and became each other’s confidants. Justin supported Fred when he was in college, and even visited him occasionally.  

OPEN - (name) and Justin have had quite a few sexy escapades a couple of years ago, but the fire died down because of factors beyond their control.  

OPEN - Nothing like a friendly rivalry that can turn into cut throat competition to keep you on the top of your game, right? (name) and Justin trade tricks of the trade and push each other to the limit.

[princesssarcastia]

is this what rarepair hell feels like?????

welcome to fucking hell for me, I guess, because now I want a ton of fic involving Ahsoka and Maul.   like.  so much of it.  damn you Filloni for writing them so well in these last two episodes because i’m standing here knowing if I want any of this, I’ll have to write it myself.  not even slash!! though I wouldn’t reject it out of hand.  I love Ahsoka’s oblivious lesbian ass.  But even a friendship or partnership between them would be so fucking cool.

think about it though!  Ahsoka, who rejected the Jedi Order, who is not a Jedi but walks in the light.  Maul, who was rejected by Sidious and the Sith, who is not one of the Two by walks in the dark.  They’re such interesting narrative foils for each other.

I mean, holy shit, Ahsoka, knowing everything she does about Maul and what he’s done to Obi-wan over the years.  Even knowing that, when Maul extends his hand to Ahsoka, she almost says yes.  The only reason she didn’t take it is because he fucked up and tried to blame it on Anakin, and Maul and Ahsoka weren’t at that level yet.

(Challenging entire worldviews is like.  Level four partnership, and they were at level 1/2 partnership.  too much too soon, man)

imagine what they could do together.  imagine what that kind of partnership would look like.  Their fighting styles are similarly acrobatic and ridiculous, but different enough to challenge each other.  Neither of them are so stringently tied to their side’s world view or teaching to reject the other out of hand.  Both of them want to survive, both of them fucking hate sidious (or will, anyway).

god, now I’m imagining like.  Maul, who is head of the crime syndicates, and remains so even into a time close to the Rebellion, because he was in Solo, briefly.  He’s this terrifying shadowy underworld figure who never stays in one place for too long, who for years and years has maintained absolute power over some of the most dangerous people in the galaxy.  he’s got an empire of crime to rival the Hutts. people whisper his name in fear.

and Ahsoka, space rogue and rebel, running around the galaxy trying to protect the last of her people’s children, their future.  making weird ass contacts in every abandoned corner of the galaxy and pulling together an idea of a rebellion from so many disparate parts.  never staying in one place long enough to call it home.  people whisper the name Fulcrum in hope and desperation.

Ahsoka, who is not-friends with Hondo and Chewbacca and Saw Gerrera, criminals and violent revolutionaries alike.

I’m imagining a Maul and Ahsoka who are these weird, semi-mythic cryptid figures in the Empire who know each other, who are forged out of the same kinds of tragedy and survived the fires at the tail end of the Republic together.  Who banded together to get off of Mandalore and...never quite fell out of each other’s orbit completely.

sometimes, when they’re totally out of their minds with the hiding and sneaking and skulking, will rendezvous on some remote planet to beat the shit out of each other.  spar and get their heart-rates up without fear of death and sharpen their skills and be in the presence of someone who knows them.  Being known is a precious commodity, when you’re a fugitive.

very rarely, when Ahsoka is out of other options, she’ll get a message to Maul and he’ll get her a transport with one of his myriad criminal underlings, provided she doesn’t impede their regular duties.

whenever the empire gets too close to Maul and Ahsoka is at hand, she drops in to help him escape (the irony is, of course, not lost on her, but this is a different world they’re living in.  and besides, she is no jedi).  those are the times they can’t leave any survivors, but Ahsoka has learned to live with that.  Violence is the oldest constant left in her life, after all. 

i’m imagining like.  terrified criminal underlings cowering beneath the table because this random togruta dropped in while their boss’s boss’s secret boss was there to punish/motivate/interrogate/etc. and started arguing morality/ethics with him???? trying to beat the shit out of him???? except they’re both kinda happy about it???? (what did I do to deserve this, terrified underling #5 thinks to himself)

anyway.  i’m now Suffering™. 

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘The Architecture of Fear’ (S04E18) Analysis

ROBERT SMIRKE EPISODE! ROBERT SMIRKE STATEMENT!  My excitement knew no bounds heading into this episode about the side character I find the most intriguing of all the side characters, and the result was even better than I’d hoped.  Come on in to hear what I have to say about ‘The Architecture of Fear’.

Holy shit, we kicked it off hard with that conversation between Elias and Martin.  Elias confirmed that everything Peter was saying about the Extinction was ‘true’ (though I want to know the value of that truth, because the way he said it definitely seemed to imply a degree of equivocation), that Peter is trying to stop the end of the world, and that for some reason Elias can’t directly help.  Instead he gave Peter the Institute and Martin to use to stop it, which is … a lot.  Giving up the seat of his own Power’s influence to the Lonely in order to stop the Extinction’s emergence either means that Elias really does take the threat seriously and is helping as much as he can, or he wants to make the emergence take place in the tunnels for some reason.  My money is on the latter, as Elias plays too many games, and I can’t imagine his assistance to Peter wouldn’t come without a great big catch.  

He also confirmed that Peter does want Martin for the Lonely, and that Martin is the only one who can make that decision.  In fact, it’s such an important decision that Elias won’t even try to manipulate him (and I was very intrigued by his dig that Martin also loves manipulating people, either indicating that they’re more alike than Martin likes to admit, or that Martin still has some affiliation with the Web as well).  The weight of this one decision is clearly enormous, and I think there’s a third option that no one has mentioned, but might be the single most important option of them all.  I’ll get back to that, however, after I talk about the statement itself.

In the meantime, Elias and Martin’s conversation also seemed to imply that either Martin really did go into helping Peter fairly blind and came to Elias for help extricating himself (possible but disappointing), or it means that Martin does have alternative plans, and is trying to manipulate Elias as well.  Elias certainly implied as much, and honestly I would love Martin to be using Elias as a means of indirect communication with Jon, all while knowing that Elias would tell Peter, and further solidify Martin’s cover that he’s following Peter without any direction of his own.  But, unless Martin really is orchestrating a masterful manipulation, it seems very possible that he really is simply in over his head while trying to protect the others.  He hasn’t told Jon about the Extinction because he knows Jon’s penchant for suicide runs.  So he may well be making one of his own.  Again, I’m hoping it’s not so simple as that.  

And Elias, in spite of his inability to try to influence Martin on his choice regarding allegiance, was otherwise happy to try to manipulate right back.  I do believe Elias peppered useful information throughout the conversation, but couldn’t resist doing so in such a way that Martin would miss a great deal of it.  I do like that they’re far more on the same page about that these days, and that Martin has grown enough spine to tell him to fuck off, but Elias still needs that upper hand.  He needs to hoard his information, and dole it out in drips and drabs.  It makes me worried about what manipulations he’s running on Basira, who is working most closely with him at this point.

As much as I could go on about their conversation, the real meat of this episode was the statement itself. Because there are statement givers who know nothing about what happened to them, statement givers who know a little, and then there’s Robert Smirke:  perhaps the best authority on the powers in the last two centuries.  A man with such a breadth of knowledge and influence, he might have invented the rituals, or given them shape enough to let the powers try them.  

And apparently he wasn’t the only one with that sort of power.  He spent his life trying to get others to follow him on the path of neutrality, and I was very surprised to find out that the person who may have lasted the longest before he, too, fell to a power was none other than Jonah Magnus.

That’s a hell of a revelation!  Jonah Magnus has always been the original adherent of the Eye in London.  We know that Von Closen was the original Archivist of this era, but I had assumed that Magnus filled Elias’ role from the moment he acquired Von Closen’s books.  But apparently Magnus resisted that call for decades.  Despite founding the Institute in 1818, he was still an independent entity as of 1867, or at least very recently fallen to the Eye due to his own fear of death.  Both he and Smirke were courted for years by the Beholding, but both apparently resisted, even after whatever falling out they had (and I want to know a lot more about that).

And that makes the Institute even more interesting.  It houses the Avatar of the Eye, the Archivist, but it’s possible that the Institute itself was established to be an independent force.  Whether that’s still true is debatable.  I think that, given both Elias’ words and actions, he is very much a high priest of the Beholding.  He definitely seems like he wants the Watcher’s Crown to succeed.  He wants the Archivist to fulfill his role. His actions are far more trustworthy than his words, and he has always been very Beholding.  Is it possible that’s a lie, and he’s more independent than he wants to let on?  Absolutely, but I think it’s telling that he murdered Leitner almost as soon as he found him, even though Leitner was the only other person who actively succeeded in staying neutral.

So the Institute was founded to be neutral ground, but it was taken over by the Beholding at some point, whether during Magnus’ life or after.  That’s why it was built on or near Millbank.  It was an extension of that neutrality.  Is that why Peter thinks he can use the Millbank tunnels to stop the emergence of the Extinction?  Jon thinks he mapped those tunnels fairly thoroughly, but I get the feeling those tunnels shift, and that they can hide themselves as needed.  Jon saw what he needed to see, and they might be totally different now.

And speaking of Jon, isn’t it interesting that Smirke experienced all the powers in his dreams? While it’s possible that power is granted by something outside the Eye, I have to wonder if Smirke wasn’t a fledgling Archivist.  But instead of embracing that role, Smirke turned his visions and dreams to neutrality. He used his head for architecture to try to balance all the powers against one another, and it seems like he may well have succeeded for quite some time.

But there was, apparently, a side effect.  By detailing the powers, creating his taxonomy, and explaining them in a way that apparently no one had before, Smirke might have given form to the rituals in a way that made them performable as they never had been before.  His extrapolations, based on the words of Maxwell Rayner, created the architecture by which the powers could become ascendant. His balance was a double-edged sword. Even as his building could contain the powers, they could also concentrate them.  The Avatars of those powers were either repurposed, or new avatars emerged specifically made to enact the rituals.  The Dancer, I would think, didn’t exist before the Unknowing existed.  And even now the Dancer is crafted when the Unknowing draws near, using the life of another avatar as the fuel for its emergence.

This is probably why there’s been such an acceleration since the 1800s of attempts at rituals.  I had wondered how, throughout all the history of humanity, no one had managed a successful ritual.  It seems as though it’s because they either didn’t exist or hadn’t been given form before Robert Smirke.

Robert Smirke tried to save the world with balance, and instead gave every power the means of destroying balance forever.  There’s a real tragedy in that, which is probably why I love his character so much, despite barely ever seeing him.  

And as for Jonah Magnus, it turns out he was terrified of dying.  Which, again, bolsters the notion that he might have, in the end, abandoned the road that he and Smirke walked together in order to save his own life, after a fashion. If he did give himself to the Eye, creating an immortal being that assumed the identities of others … well, I really don’t think it’s coincidence that Elias was in this episode.  And I think that the ‘Elias is Jonah Magnus’ theory just got a great big boost.  And if he was Magnus, and Magnus fell to the Eye at the end of his life, it makes sense that he would also fall to the temptation to use the Eye to prolong his own existence.  And the longer he lived, the more and more tempted he would be to finally don the Watcher’s Crown.  I had thought for a time that Jon would have to be the one to wear it, but now I’m almost certain it will be Elias.

But unfortunately, Jon doesn’t have this information, Martin does.  And Martin is in a unique position.  He’s apparently being used to try to stop the emergence of the Extinction, and is collating his information on it to pass on to Jon as a backup in case he can’t prevent the emergence of the Extinction (or if he himself is supposed to be the sacrifice) alone.  He also has a better grasp on the nature of emergences, and on neutrality, even if he dismissed it at this time.  

And that finally leads me to that third option I mentioned earlier.  The Beholding and the Lonely and Web are all pulling at him, but can’t coerce him.  For some reason, Martin’s choice needs to be totally his own, and I have to wonder if that isn’t because there is an unspoken and even more powerful option available to him: reject them all.  Follow not Magnus or Lukas or the Web, but follow Smirke and Leitner.  He’s one of the only characters we know to be actively courted by multiple powers.  Despite being at the Institute for over a decade, he’s never fallen to the Eye. Despite being isolated by Peter, he’s, if anything, even more resistant to the Lonely.  He’s had the Web hovering in his periphery for years, and has never given in.

Could this statement, given to him by Peter to show him that the emergence of the Extinction was possible, actually have a double, perhaps unintended meaning?  Robert Smirke had power.  Ridiculous amounts of it, really.  He potentially CREATED the rituals.  He used human architecture to harness the powers and establish a balance of them in London during his lifetime.  It may have been fleeting, but that’s insane power.  And all done because he refused the siren call of any individual power, relying instead on his own ingenuity.

Could Martin do that? He’s not Smirke, with his architect’s brain, or Leitner with his collection.  The only thing Martin has in that abundance is compassion and—though he wouldn’t quite say it at the end of the episode—love.  He’s driven by the need to protect those around him, and driven by his awkward, unspoken love for the Archivist.  

Is that enough for balance? Is balance even a possibility?  Martin seems skeptical at this point, but both Smirke and Leitner have shown that it can be done.  Both of them seem to have died in the balance, even if they were killed by agents of a power.  And isn’t it interesting that in both cases, it was the Eye that killed them, even though they were both allied strongly with agents of the Eye?  Makes me worried that Elias is pushing Martin toward neutrality because neutrality is a necessary component of the Watcher’s Crown. Certainly it seems like Smirke’s death was a component of Magnus’ attempt at it (if indeed he did attempt it, and wasn’t simply using Smirke as a means of prolonging his own life, as Smirke also implied.  

Conclusions

We were given a lot to mull over this week.  A lot of confirmations about what Robert Smirke did and who he was, as well as implications about Jonah Magnus, the Watcher’s Crown, Elias, and the nature of neutrality.  Martin is both maneuvering and being maneuvered, and seems to be avoiding Jon to protect him from himself.  Which is both stupid and exactly what Jon did throughout season 3.  The role reversal is aggravating, because you’d think that Martin of all people would have figured out that communication, or a lack thereof, was what caused so many catastrophes for them before.  

I still don’t trust Peter, or his plan.  I don’t trust Elias, either, and though I trust Elias to tell more truths than Peter, I also trust him to phrase them in such a way that people constantly get the wrong impression.  Especially if he’s really Jonah Magnus having succeeded, at least in some way, at making himself immortal, then he’s been running a very long game.  His complicated relationship with the apocalypse is likely because he needs some component of the Extinction’s emergence to power the Watcher’s Crown.  He needs aspects of all the powers to subsume them.  And he’s been waiting centuries for all of these things to line up just right.

And, perhaps, he needs another neutral party.  Maybe Leitner was too dangerous, but Martin might just fit the bill.  Elias could not tell Martin what to do, wouldn’t even try to manipulate him on that front.  And I think that speaks to the nature of free will and choice in this universe, which has become a more and more prominent part of the story.  Martin really does have to make the choice to fall to a power or retain his neutrality on his own for it to mean anything.  He has to be willing.  Whatever Peter and Elias and every other power under the sun have planned for Martin, they can only nudge.  Peter has isolated him, but cannot simply claim him the way he’s claimed others.  Elias will spin his stories and manipulate Martin on every other count, but on the choice, he has to remain silent.  Even the Web, though it clearly appeals to Martin’s more manipulative side, has made no overt overtures to him.  I’d be very interested to see what a conversation between himself and Annabel Caine would look like, because I think she would both understand him very well, and also need to remain silent on his alignment.

A true-neutral Martin is something I’ve thought about before, and this episode simply confirms how much I want to see it.  I want to see him reject all the powers, and gain both independence (a huge thing his character needs for his arc) and strength through it.  But, of course, his own neutrality may secretly play into Elias’ own plans regarding the Watcher’s Crown, positioning them both for season 5.

I haven’t been this excited about an episode in quite some time, and I’m very glad to have the old passion for this show back.  The writing was top-notch, the two performances were fabulous (I really also like how Martin’s gone from terrified defiance to almost equal footing with Elias, and neither of them indicate that they notice the shift in their relationship). We’re only two episodes away from the mid-season finale, and I have absolutely no idea what it’s going to be about.

I suppose we’ll see in the next two weeks.

[spartanguard]

savage garden, 1/?

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope...

4.4k | rated T | AO3

A/N: I totally thought this was going to be a one-shot; so much for that. This stemmed from a conversation at least two years ago with @thesschesthair and @fergus80, wondering what might happen in Deckhand Killian became the Dark One. I picked at it for a couple years, then signed up for @csmarchmadness to force myself to finish it—and now it's sprawling, so we'll see how long it goes! All the thanks to @optomisticgirl for looking this over and talking me through stuff. Also, I'm not as huge a Savage Garden fan as the title/chapter titles might imply but I absolutely suck at creative titles so this is just where we ended up. Hope you like 90s pop!

1: until the sky falls down on me

Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever.

(According to the Darkness, at least.)

And he was fine with that.

While he was by no means the first to take on the curse unwittingly, he was certainly the only one to outright reject the power—hate it, even. But the feeling was mutual.

That hadn’t stopped the Darkness from wrapping itself around his bones, though; seeping into every pore and taking up residence in the dark corners of his mind. But the one thing Killian had managed to do was keep it away from his heart—his soul—even though it was a daily battle against the dark voices tempting him down that terrifying path.

More than once, he had thought of finding a way out; but he was far too much a coward to actually do anything about it. The darkness taunted him about that, too.

Where’s the man who murdered in revenge? Who was so angry at blood shed that he shed more on his own?

“That was a one-time thing,” he’d mutter back.

But didn’t it feel amazing? To hold the power of life and death in your hands?

“No.”

Imagine what you could do; especially with that hook! Oh, the fun we could have, the torture we could execute—the screams you could draw!

There was a reason he hadn’t worn that prosthetic much since this whole thing started, as utilitarian as it was.

Come on, Jones; just a bit of murder!

“I said no!” he shouted, drawing the attention of far too many people around him in the market. Most had been politely avoiding his gaze, but now they couldn’t help but stare, and Killian wanted nothing more than to become invisible.

You can, you know.

He ignored the suggestion, instead opting to pop the collar on his leather trenchcoat and make haste in exiting the village, abandoning his planned shopping trip after the outburst. But now, of course, all eyes were on him, and he couldn’t say he was surprised.

He knew what he looked like—that he was considered to be exceptionally handsome. The darkness certainly thought he was. Throughout his life, his pretty face had done nothing but garner the wrong kind of attention, from men and women alike, but now it drew even more in, with its sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and the silvery-cyan sheen that sparkled in the sun—the only physical manifestation of his curse. 

The wide open shirts he wore weren't by choice—in his previous life, he lost the buttons to his tunics, clumsy fool he was, and couldn't easily repair them one-handed; the darkness liked it, though, and showed off his chest like he was some harlot or ponce. The leather slacks that were customary for sailors like he had been were perfect for showing off his “assets,” apparently, and clung to his skin in a manner that was nearly obscene.

So he’d taken to wearing the long jacket to hide himself and what he was. The darkness thought it was imposing, and it was the lone thing it was proud of him for; but really, the coat was his armor against the world. Though it didn’t seem to be working now, as it billowed around him in his hustle to get out of town.

He reached the end of the high street and turned down an alley to cut to the road that ran along the shore. He’d barely rounded the corner when a small voice cried out in pain, followed by a deep chuckle.

Though the alley was in shadows, it was easy for him to see the prone form of a boy, no more than ten years old, sprawled on the cobblestones with a large, sneering man standing over him. The lad’s dirty face and clothes, dark mess of hair, and wide, terrified eyes were like looking in a reflecting glass to the past. How many times had he been in that position as a child? How often had one cruel captain or another blamed him for a wrong or punished him for clumsiness?

Now’s your chance to enact revenge, the Darkness whispered. All that pain, all that suffering—you can take it all out on this piece of scum.

He wouldn’t take the bait, if only because the way the man was spewing insults at the boy—over what appeared to be something as inconsequential as a stolen crust of bread—brought back that feeling of helplessness he knew too often in his youth, and had never quite shaken as he’d grown into adulthood. The urge to run and hide in Liam’s arms prickled in his spine, but Liam was long gone, and there was certainly no one around to protect or comfort the Dark One.

He was brave once, right? Perhaps he could be again, for the sake of this boy. Especially as he watched the man place a scuffed boot on the boy’s shoulder as the lad attempted to stand, sending him back to the ground with a thud.

Swallowing, Killian spoke. “Surely there’s someone closer to your size to battle. You can’t claim much victory in defeating a child.” The Darkness had even managed to tint his voice, an edge seeping into it that he’d never thought himself capable of before.

The man finally drew his attention away from the boy, rising to his full height and turning to face Killian. For a brief moment, fear flashed in his beady eyes, but quickly disappeared when he realized who was there. Not all were intimidated by the Dark One, especially not anymore.

“Or what?” the man sneered. “I’ve heard all about you. The Cowardly Dark One. Can’t even kill a chicken for his dinner.”

Are you really just going to stand there and let him insult us? the Darkness crowed. May as well hand over the dagger and put you out of your misery.

That thought honestly scared him more than any alternative—the thought of what this cruel man could do with such wicked powers was enough for Killian to straighten his spine and approach the man.

“Clearly, you know who I am. But you underestimate just what I’m capable of.” In a rare moment of indulgence, he called on the magic that had attached to him like a parasite and let it loose, shaking the ground around them, rattling the rafters of the surrounding buildings, and threatening to roll a parked cart their way.

“Please.” The villain was unimpressed, and spat at the ground. “Your magic tricks are empty; you won’t do nothin’ to me. You ain’t no hero—all you are is a one-handed coward.”

A one-handed coward...sounds about right.

It wasn’t the nasally, polyphonic voice of the darkness this time, though—no, it was his previous captors, Blackbeard and Silver, and all the other men who’d cruelly used him and abused him in the past. Killian’s normally cool head and blood suddenly ignited with anger and frustration that rarely boiled to the surface, so buried as they were under his typical timidity.

“That’s enough!” he roared, sounding even less like himself. “Leave him alone!”

Looking back on the scene, it was like he watching it from a grimy spyglass—the picture was muddled and distorted. He wasn’t quite sure who was in charge and who made the move—he hated moments like that, though he could never decide if it was because he’d let the darkness take over, or because he was disgusted at the thought that he’d been in full control.

Regardless, he didn’t waste a moment in thrusting his hand toward the vile man, sending a blast of magic that threw the brute off his feet and into the brick wall behind him with a sickening thud.

One of the side effects of being the Dark One, Killian had discovered, was enhanced senses. So he heard the exact moment the man’s skull collided with the stone, how it shattered, and the snap of the bones in his neck. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. And he watched with grotesque clarity as the corpse collapsed against the cobblestone, leaving a dark red trail on the wall as unseeing eyes stared back at him.

That was all it took for Killian to come back to his senses and regain control over the darkness. Bloody hell, what had he done?

Exactly what that man deserved and you know it. Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.

“I didn’t,” he muttered under his breath, and turned to face the lad. But where he’d earlier seen himself as a boy reflected in his visage, he now only saw the way he looked at himself now: with horror and fear. Wide eyes gawked at him as the boy continued to shrink away from him, gaze flitting between the murder and the murderer. “Are you alr—” Killian started to ask, but the boy jumped at his voice.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me, too!”

“I won’t—”

“I’ll never steal again—promise!” he shouted, scrabbling away on his rear.

“No, no, I’m not going to—you’re not in trouble…” Killian tried to explain, but trailed off when the boy flung an arm over his eyes, cowering at the sight of what must be a demonic visage.

Though his heart served little purpose anymore and was surely black and rotting, he still felt it crack at the boy’s reaction, and his entire body sagged.

“I...I’m sorry,” he murmured, and with a wave of his hand, let the red smoke of his magic carry him away, leaving nought but a fresh loaf of bread in his place; hopefully, the boy would take it.

Killian reappeared a few miles out of town, on the empty, forgotten road that led to his equally secluded home. He spent many days wandering the tree-lined path that wound up the coast, watching the dappled light play on the leaves in the summer and counting each snowflake that fell on the tangled branches in winter. More than once, he intentionally got lost in the woods, just to delay returning to the silent walls of his home—and maybe to irritate the darkness.

Useless sailor! Aren’t you supposed to know how to navigate? it would taunt. At least let us translocate home—just need to flick your wrist!

But he never gave in, tempted as he was at times when he was hopelessly off the beaten path. Perhaps that was what he needed now, to quell the storm raging in his soul.

His body was still vibrating from what happened in town, adrenaline and magic flowing through his veins, battling for power. He could almost feel the violent clash between the two within him, as if every molecule was fighting the one next to it; it would have been enough to turn his stomach, were anything in it, but given that Dark Ones didn’t need sustenance to survive—and he’d gotten quite good at subsisting on very little while aboard the ship—he ignored the Darkness’s calls for decadence each day and went without.

Maybe he’d find some wild berries, he thought, if only so their sweet flavor could let him focus on something else—or perhaps their poison would be a fitting punishment for what he’d just done. He nearly stumbled on a root almost immediately after stepping off the dirt road and into the thick trees, and slipped down the incline leading away from the lane, but he merely stood and brushed it off while ignoring the Darkness’s outrage over his clumsiness.

Instead, he tried to listen to anything and everything else—the breeze through the trees, the song of the birds, even just the crunch of detritus under his boots. But it was like the creatures of the forest could sense his dark aura and fled, leaving him with just the sounds of his own footfalls and heaving breaths.

Still, as long as he focused on those, it kept the other voices at bay. Which was what made it so much more jarring when another noise filtered in: the sound of water falling, babbling like a brook.

It stopped him in his tracks at first; the trees were much too dense for any sort of body of water, even a small one. But, to one side, he could see through the thickets a stone wall; the water was sounding from that direction.

He followed it, noting the moss and dark age spots on the bricks that made up the seemingly ancient wall. He’d no idea what could be hidden out here, in such a dense, practically unreachable part of the forest.

And yet, someone, at some point in time, had essentially constructed a fortress. Perhaps the trees weren’t so thick when it had been built, but this region had never been a hive of civilization. He strolled along the walls, still hearing the gurgle of water from within, and even the tweets of a few birds who were blissfully unaware of his presence.

On the far side of the structure, there was a rectangular gap where a door had likely once stood, now rotted away with time and the encroaching vines that covered this part of the edifice. With his hook, he slashed away at those covering the opening until he had a wide enough path to get through, and slipped in.

The light inside the walls was nearly blinding, with fewer trees to filter it; but once Killian’s eyes readjusted, the view before him stole his breath: it was a garden, clearly long abandoned, but no less stunning.

Roses of nearly every color grew in each corner and along the walls, nearly drowning the space in their light fragrance and giving it a hazy, warm glow. Flowering vines draped over the walls, their tendrils reaching across the stone walkways that followed the circumference of the garden. Beds of all sorts of flowers, most he had no idea how to define or describe, sat in blocks in the middle, with rusty iron benches scattered around. And the centerpiece was a stone fountain, its details long eroded away, but still happily bubbling.

It was so lovely, so full of innocence and light, that Killian felt like an intruder, tainted as he was. He daren’t touch a thing. But he couldn’t help but look.

Slowly, he meandered around the space, taking in every petal, every leaf, each blade of grass underfoot. It was an eden—an oasis from the shadows that clouded and dogged him day in and day out.

You really think escape is this easy? The Darkness ridiculed. You’re dumber than we thought.

He ignored it, though, too enamoured with the beauty all around him. He noticed the shadows changing as the sun moved across the sky, but he couldn’t find any desire within him to leave. Was it possible to make this his new residence? Be permanently surrounded by such ethereal elegance? It was clearly long-forgotten; surely, no one would notice…

But he knew there was no shortcut in his path; no easy way out of his fate. He’d have to leave eventually, like all sinners must. Still—perhaps he could take some of the essence of this place with him.

The rose bush in front of him was colored the lightest, softest pink; it reminded him of his mother’s cheeks when she’d laugh. The memory was muted but he could still see her clearly. Cautiously, he reached out and grazed his finger over the silken petal.

To his horror, as soon as he touched it, the entire bud turned to ash and crumbled away; the rest of the plant followed suit. He stepped back in horror and stared at his hand; he could see the blackness coursing through his veins, then disappearing back to wherever it came from.

All around him, darkness was claiming the vibrant place. “No, no, no!” he cried, falling to his knees as the flowers withered and died, the vines fell limp—even the fountain started to bubble a black ooze not unlike the one that had wrapped itself around him when he first took on this curse.

Don’t you see, dearie? The Darkness taunted. Everything you touch is ruined. Your mother...your brother...your dear Milah….

“No, please no,” he begged, memories of their deaths flashing through his mind unbeckoned and breaking his heart all over again.

Face it—you’re still a coward. But now, you’re too craven to even accept your fate.

The world around him continued to darken and the shrill laughter of the Darkness’s many voices drilled into his brain.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He gave in. With a wave of his hand, he disappeared again, back to his lonely cabin on his desolate cliff, overlooking the sea. That was the only place for him, it seemed.

A year goes by. Five, ten, fifty more; the passage of time loses its meaning when the reflection in the mirror stays the same day after day. Killian retreated even more into himself, using solitude as a shield—though he’d often wonder if he was keeping the world safe from the Darkness, or himself from the temptations of the world.

Oh, he’d still venture into town from time to time; once or twice a year, perhaps. Enough to remind himself why he stays away; enough for the Darkness to have a respite from its usual taunts and complaints. Honestly, it’s like caring for a pet in some ways—a feral animal that followed him home and now won’t leave, and if he doesn’t give it a change of scenery, it’ll eat him alive.

The fact that Killian hadn’t gone completely mad was a miracle unto itself. If anything, the Darkness’s changing tactics when it came to verbal (mental?) abuse kept him on his toes. Other than the view of the sea and the massive library, it’s all that kept him sane.

The library had been a project—or, more likely, distraction—in itself. He had to assume it’d taken him nearly 10 years to compile, making the three-day trek between his home and the former Dark One’s gaudy castle repeatedly until he was sure he had enough reading material to last him decades. The tomes on magic were largely ignored, and on those, he left whatever enchanted locks the previous owner had installed in place.

Anything else, whether it was fiction or nonfiction, as long as it held some interest, he arduously took back to his cottage once he had built an adequately sized room. Working with his hands like that kept the demons at bay, and the many long trips between the two dwellings gave plenty of opportunity to bask in the solitude of the forest and the call of the sea.

The trip took him up the coast and back down it, over a path that had become slightly worn down over the decade or so he was making his trips—little more than a gap in the shrubbery to the mortal eye, but enough for him to keep track of where he was going. It wasn’t the easiest route, to be certain—cutting straight through the wood held more even terrain—but this way, he was constantly on his toes and alert.

And the crash of the water on the rocks below was a better soundtrack than the empty trees, devoid of the birds that were still frightened of him.

After a few trips on foot, he attempted to make the journey by sea; he knew how to sail, of course, and the castle sat in a similar position as his home, overlooking open water. He’d spent weeks gathering wood, forming and carving the vessel, sewing the sails, and setting the rigging. He even went so far as to name it: the Jewel of the Realm—the name of the ship his brother had captained some years after he left Killian behind, now long since lost to a violent storm, its captain with it.

The day Killian set sail was one of the best in memory. He’d so missed the clap of a sail and the salt spray on his face; for the first time in perhaps fifty years, he felt truly free—not even the Darkness had anything to say.

But he knew it was too good to last, for he’d hardly traveled a single nautical mile before the waves grew tempestuous, crashing over the railing of his small ship. Even with his leather coat, he was soaked to the bone in an instant as the sea tried its damnedest to bring him down.

The odd part of it all was that the sky was clear and the headwinds were on his side—it was a perfect day for sailing; no sign of storm anywhere on the horizon.

And yet, the sea itself was being the cruel mistress, beating him over and over again with waves several meters high. His muscles ached with his fervid attempts to steer out of the mysterious squall, but it was no use: the largest swell yet cracked the mast and gouged the hull, with successive waves turning the rest of his handiwork into driftwood and dragging him to the depths.

His heavy jacket weighed him down, and as the world above faded into the navy blue of the water, he found he’d rather stay under the surface. Let himself drown in his regrets and failures, and keep the Darkness away from the rest of the world even more.

But the sea truly didn’t want him, and so dragged him up and spat him out on some lonely stretch of beach not far from another port town—the exact sort of place Killian didn’t want to be. He gave himself a few more minutes to wallow before summoning the energy to begin the trek home; he expected the Darkness to have some quip at his disastrous adventure, but it seemed satisfied with his own self-loathing.

The journey back took him past a familiar set of walls. He had returned to the garden on occasion, but only very rarely, and took care not to touch a thing—other than the door, which he had rebuilt and put into place perhaps 5 years or so after his first ill-fated afternoon here. By then, it had slowly started to recover from the damage he’d wrought, but it was still mostly lifeless.

On this particular visit, there were green shoots of grass struggling through the dead overgrowth, and though the fountain no longer bubbled with life, the tar that had marred it was at least washed away by years of rain.

A lone flower was blooming on one of the vines—a bud a bright shade of orange-red like the sun just before it sets, and it glowed in much the same way in the comparative colorlessness of the rest of the space.

Killian was too scared to touch it, lest he curse the oasis anew. But the fact that there was some bit of light in this scarred place gave him hope—something he clung to like a parched man in the middle of the ocean with only a bit of fresh water in his canteen.

When he was closing the door behind him, the back of his hand brushed against a thorny branch near the threshold; he hissed as the skin was torn, more out of habit than true pain.

The cuts would go away quickly, but he looked at the thin, jagged lines before they healed. One barely scratched the surface, but the other was deep enough for blood to well. Despite what many would have thought, the sight of blood didn’t alarm him or turn his stomach—he’d seen far too many gruesome injuries, his own included, to be scared of it.

What alarmed him, though, was how much darker his blood was than usual. Fresh blood wasn’t the crisp, bright red most people assumed—it was a deep garnet color, assuming it was from someone healthy, and dried a brownish color. (It was hell to get out of white fabric; with how clumsy Killian was, it was why he preferred to wear black.)

However, one thick drop of blood started to run down the back of his hand, and it was so dark, it was nearly black. The blink of an eye later and it was gone, the wound healed and flesh as flawless as it had been a moment before.

But that color—that did terrify Killian, more than he could admit. And it wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, no—he’d sliced himself open more times than he’d like to admit sawing planks for his ill-fated ship, and the number of papercuts he got while reading was depressingly high.

As the years wore on, he’d seen the color get darker and darker; he truly worried for the day it would be fully black, but he knew it was coming. More and more often, he’d have fits of rage he couldn’t explain, or even fathom; and he found himself using his dark magic without even thinking about it. (To be fair, these occurrences only happened once a year or so, but with all of eternity laying ahead of him, that was often enough to be of note.)

One day, the Darkness would win—but he’d be damned (quite literally, in all likelihood) if he let it have its way easily.

By the time he arrived home, late into the night, his clothing had dried but his heart was still a bit waterlogged. He tried to seek some solace on the back porch of his home, which sat right on the edge of the cliff. The moon’s dappled reflection on the waves of the horizon was certainly a balm, but he was distracted by the angry waters directly beneath him.

He looked down, and could see the waves clawing at the rocks, as if they were trying to grab him again; perhaps they’d decided they weren’t yet done with him.

It’s not them—it’s you, you idiot, the Darkness snarled. It’s a warning to all others—keep away; keep far away. It knows what you are.

“That’s not me,” Killian murmured back, but it had less fight than it used to.

Not yet...but it will be.

thanks for reading! hope you stick with me on this!

tagging some friends: @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @flipperbrain @pirateherokillian @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis

[jerrykatt]

Voltron/Percy Jackson Xover Part 2

Here's part one. I'd recommend reading it before coming back to this.

And so, now we know that Leo was rejected by his mother's family, his own aunt labeling him a diablo, a devil. We know that he was shunted off into the system with little sympathy and even less kindness. We know that the memory of his mother's death haunts his steps like an eldritch phantom. But now another death plagues him with suffocating guilt. The death of the man who chose to be left behind in a firestorm, knowing that his death was mere moments away but willing to face it head on if it meant he could save one small fledgling life.

He didn't remember much in the aftermath, that much was certain what with the shock that set in.

The fire giving one last heaving roar, reminiscent of a dragon's destructive fury. The unnatural explosion of force rocking the building. A woman's silhouette, standing tall and sinisterly pleased with her spiteful vengeance, throwing one last malevolent sneer in his direction before sinking into the earth below her feet.

The ringing in his ears and the ladder being blasted backwards.

Falling and screaming. An unmerciful impact with the pavement and his vision going black.

Waking up in a hospital, alone and unwanted.

It was all too much of a blur for Leo's young mind to comprehend in his traumatized state. But one of the things he did remember, besides the hole in his life where his mother should have been, was finding out the fireman's name. Or at least, the last part of it.

Kogane.

(That's where we see Keith fit into this chapter of Leo's life.)

Like Leo, Keith was also unfortunately placed into foster care. I haven't decided yet on how they meet after the fire. Perhaps they were sent to the same group home? Maybe they ran into each other after running from their respective foster families, sleeping under the same freeway overpasses? Either way, they might've become friends for a short time and then the classic reveal happens - Leo finds out Keith's last name, and ultimately the fact that his father was Fireman Kogane.

Leo can't face him anymore, not with the knowledge that he was reason his friend's father went up in flames. His flames.

He runs. And Keith? Well...

His mother's glaring absence, His father's death, and now his friend's unexplained rejection.

Each cut into his chest like a knife, as sharp as the blade he kept strapped to his belt.

The same blade that gives him a goal. A purpose.

To find his past. To find some answers.

(Anything to distract from the gnawing resentment, the aching loneliness)

So yeah. Keith takes it hard. But this is the perfect place to pause and explain EXACTLY why I chose Krolia to be Aphrodite in this AU. And, ultimately, why I thought Keith being the son of the goddess of love made SO MUCH SENSE. AND ALSO LETS NOT FORGET SEASON SEVEN ADDING MORE SPICE TO THE MIX

Let's start with Krolia. Krolia and Canon!Aphrodite have... little in common when it comes to personality. At least with the depictions I've read in PJO where Canon!Aphrodite apparently approves of her children breaking hearts (It's apparently a rite of passage in Aphrodite's cabin if I remember correctly). And the fact that her negative traits could be summarized in how one of her demigod children turned out (I'm looking at you Drew). Anyways here's where my idea comes in.

Sit up and away from your computer screen and take a look around at the world. Times are changing, standards are being shattered and rebuilt with each passing day. The concept of beauty itself is being torn into different directions. We have people who still prefer the classic hourglass figure, the full lips and sultry eyes, the flawless skin and the soft spoken nature of a damsel in distress. People who want the pretty princess bride, the stay at home wives.

Not necessarily weak in some aspects, but definitely not at the strongest potential either.

Still, it is the usual form that Canon!Aphrodite takes with little difference made when approaching each potential lover.

And on the other end of the spectrum, we have people who are attracted to independence, intellect, and strength. They want someone as either an equal or more than that. They like big biceps and thick muscular thighs.

We especially have people who don't care for what their precious people look like and end up adoring every part of them anyway. These people are muddled in the middle of the spectrum. They want something more raw, more real. It doesn't matter if the person is thick or thin, hairy or bald, or if they're missing a limb or two. A big nose? Bad breakout of zits? Trust me, for these people, it only adds to the charm.

I'd imagine in this turbulent world where opinions of beauty were being bounced around like a particularly ill aimed bouncy ball (one that would more than likely smack you in the face rather than land safely back in your hand), Aphrodite would end up having an identity crisis.

God's and goddesses have a sustainability that is based on mortal's worship and the strength of their domain. Aphrodite had enough mortals immortalizing her presence in art and literature to keep her remembered, that certainly wasn't the problem. Neither was the concept of love. Love was universal, the goddess of love understood that more than anyone. The problem was that Aphrodite's physical form was constantly fluctuating due to her the part of her domain pertaining to beauty being... constantly reconstructed? Stretched thin? I'm not sure how to describe it. All I can tell you is that Aphrodite ran from Olympus as she felt her powers getting out of hand. Maybe Haggar/Gaea and Zarkon/Uranus had planned to amplify the effects of what a changing society can do to a godly being? Perhaps Aphrodite was chosen to be a test subject to see if such a thing could be used as a weapon?

Regardless of the cause, the goddess fell to earth. She crashed outside a certain fireman's house and when she woke, her form had settled into the one we all know and love - Krolia's. Yep, purple skin, dual toned hair, pointed ears, claws, inhuman eyes, the whole package. I'm not kidding. Also I'm pretty sure if she hadn't sustained a concussion (and hadn't been so... pleasantly distracted by Kogane nursing her back to health) she would have screamed bloody murder at her reflection. She's at least grateful that she managed to keep her mile long legs (even if they now had her towering over most mortals) As it is, her powers are temporarily rendered useless because of the strain of her transformation.

Also the panic attack that she had once everything registered didn't help. Thankfully Kogane managed to calm her down, with a soothing voice and gentle rough hands.

Things settle. At first when they make introductions, she mixes up two of her usual aliases "Kristine" and "Olivia" and ends up blurting out "Krolia" instead, much to her horror. And after an awkward minute of panic she also reveals more than what she was intending to bargain for. Oddly enough, the goddess reveals her true nature right off the bat and Kogane takes it in stride just like he did with the whole Canon!Alien issue. Usually she keeps her lips smartly sealed but.... right now? She's doesn't have the confidence that comes with her preferred, perfect yet almost plastic form. She's disoriented and confused and homesick and a little fucked up in the head right now.

Kogane helps her through it. And with him guiding her, she discovers new things about herself, and is reminded of the better parts of who she is and who she could potentially become.

To no ones surprise, they fall in love. And to Krolia's surprise, she ends up WANTING to stay, even -ESPECIALLY- after giving birth to this man's child. His son. Her son.

Their son.

But monsters from Tartarus have always lied in wait. She leaves just like in Canon. Because of one too many close shaves with beasts and traitorous gods alike trying to snatch away her new found happiness and self discovery. She leaves to protect the person she loves most.

Their son. Keith.

((Again I'm on a tight schedule (needing two jobs sucks sometimes) so I'll wrap this up and talk about Keith))

Now you may want to ask why I chose Aphrodite? Why didn't I choose Hades to be Keith's godly parent? It would have matched his basic demeanor, the basis to his character - the loner (also awesome undead powers would've have been a plus!!). Why didn't I chose Ares? Keith is a phenomenal fighter! Why not Zeus? His fighter pilot skills makes him second to none in the skies!!!

My answer is this: Keith has an unfathomable AMAZING capacity to love.

Think about it. Remember that the reason that he rejects people is because he knows just how much he's risking when he's putting his heart into someone's hands. You only see that in a person who's had their heart torn to pieces by the unspoken consequences of abandonment.

Finally, Look at what this guy has done for a dying man. IN CANON TO BOOT.

Look at what he's done for Shiro even back before his feelings evolved into what can be interpreted as romantic, when his relationship with the man was purely platonic in a mentor/student dynamic level. He SUPPORTS Shiro. He doesn't pity him. He doesn't coddle him. He doesn't look at the fact that Shiro most likely has only a few more years left in him before his body breaks down. He sees his friend that has every right to pursue his dream instead of wasting away on a military base that cares more for its fucking reputation than it's actual students (I resent the Garrison for lying about the mission, make no mistake. THEY EVEN TOOK THE SIDE OF THAT SHITTY BRAT WHO MADE SNIDE REMARKS ON KEITH PARENTS!!! WTF?!!).

This is the man that's promised to never give up on him. The one who reminded Keith that, most of all, he can't give up on himself. And Keith? My Defensive, prickly, hold-everyone-at-arms-length son? What does my firecracker boi do?

He takes it to heart. He fucking takes it to heart.

Now fast forward again - we have Keith beautifully beating the crap out of Iverson and other "high ranking" officials who essentially now see Shiro as a liability, as someone who cannot be let free with his new found knowledge on extraterrestrial life. We have him basically breaking multiple laws to get Shiro out and onto to his bike so he could drive them and their Tagalongs to safety. We have Keith running to Shiro AGAIN AND AGAIN. It doesn't matter who stands in his way - Zarkon could suck on a lemon and those wild beasts on that remote planet in 'Across the Universe'? They can Quiznak right off because He will never give up on Shiro. Enough said.

And one last thought. I'm sure you guys have seen the leaked scenes of Keith staying by Shiro's side while he's in the healing pod, his vitals showing that his conscious is not assimilating with Kuron's body. I'm sure you've seen how Keith pleaded with Allura to think of a way to help them. You probably heard Allura regretfully admit that there wasn't anything she could do to help anymore than she already had. You saw Keith in his disbelief, in his grief. You saw him slam his fist onto the healing pod, head hung low wand pleading to the man within to fight. To stay.

"You can't do this to me again"

And miraculously, Shiro wakes.

I didn't plan on giving Keith Charmspeak. I only planned on giving him an IMMUNITY towards other Charmspeakers. And even now I still stand by my decision on NOT giving him such a power. Because it makes this scene, when adapted into my AU, have THAT much more significance. He didn't need any godly gifts to bring back the man he loves, his own voice, rough and raw and full of desperation.... it was enough. It was MORE than enough.

"Keith you saved me." "We saved eachother"

[livingthedragonlife]

Gray

fandom: overwatch

series: zenyatta appreciation week 2018

warnings: n/a

words: 3824

summary: Zenyatta did not always have the idea to go out into the world, seeking souls to comfort. Everyone has a beginning, even in the darkest of times.

[ao3]

Though the universe exists in a multitude of magnificent colors, Zenyatta had always appreciated gray. Of course, it wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing – it was even called dull – but the Shambali monk had always found it fascinating. It wasn’t just representative of desaturation and boredom, but choice, and compromise. Where black and white existed, there was always a gray – a middle ground. Different, countless shades of gray, the moral compass in tangible form. Not a single shade was ever on accident, or the same. All of them were different. So, so very different.

Differences were, after all, what made existing so interesting the first place. Zenyatta always marveled at the countless number of possibilities available to him at all times, for any and every situation, from one extreme to the other, and every shade of gray in between. All good, all bad, all neither, all both. Though, of course, all of them were subjective.

However, the shade of dark gray that colored the Omnic Crisis was the worst shade, in Zenyatta’s personal, subjective opinion. Regretfully, darkness, death, and violence all served a purpose in the world, no matter how vile. On the scale of black and white, that went to every extreme, the shades of gray between them would allow for violence, in almost every case. In the case of the Omnic Crisis, it was the deepest shade of gray possible without becoming completely black. It was the darkest gray, plunging down into the depths, not quite reaching the extreme, but only just.

Purely subjectively, of course.

The Omnic Crisis, in Zenyatta’s opinion, was horrifyingly dark gray from anyone’s perspective. From the omnics made before the Crisis, forced first to serve humans, and forced again to fight a war they had no say in, sent only to die for the wills of the God AIs, screaming against the programming that infected them, and then screaming as they died. From the omnics churned out from the omniums during the Crisis, the ones that knew no other world than living, fighting, and dying. From the citizens, watching their servants turn against them in their own homes without warning, dying by the masses, for no better reason than their harmless technology turned against them. From the soldiers that faced near-impenetrable machines, things that felt no fear, no pain, and no mercy, getting sent on missions that they knew they wouldn’t be retuning from. From the injured, dead, and dying that littered the battlefields for days, weeks, and months, and ones that still remained.

Subjectively, the Omnic Crisis was the worst shade of gray that could ever exist.

Zenyatta, at the time of the Crisis, was a young omnic, one of the hundreds of thousands built only to serve the Gods AIs. He was cannon fodder and he knew it, knowing no other life out of being expendable. Every day, he marched out of the omnium, to fight the humans as he was told, and accepting completely that it was statistically likely (78.97% according to his processor) that he would not survive. His whole life had been fighting. He had never known anything else. There was no gray in his life – only black and white. He was either fighting or he wasn’t.

When the Crisis finally ended, and he was released from the God AIs’ control he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had no more instructions, no more compulsion to fight, and no reason for it either. It was unsettling, having no reason to exist. His entire purpose had been to fight, and now he no longer had to fight. So what else could he do? He had no purpose, and nowhere to go. There was no rehabilitation for omnic survivors of the Omnic Crisis. A war that, from the perspective of humans, the omnics had caused in the first place.

His world filled with gray very quickly, after his epiphany. His black and white became muddled and mixed together. He was either fighting or he wasn’t, true. But he was also travelling, trying to find other omnics from his unit, or any unit. He was stumbling upon many humans and their cities, running away or fighting back when they threatened violence. He was either fighting, searching, or trying to survive. His life was filled with dark shades of gray, and not much else.

One day, he came across a cluster of humans, hidden deep in the Himalayas, that didn’t immediately treat him with vitriol. In fact, they welcomed him, and there the poor, lost omnic finally found others. The human village had been harboring omnics like him – ones that had failed to find a purpose after they were released by the God AIs. After all, they were created to receive orders, and nothing else. It was in their nature to be black and white. Without instructions, orders, or control, they were lost in an overwhelming, endless world of gray.

But there was an omnic in the village who embraced the gray. He spoke loudly and with confidence, and chose a name for himself like a human, instead of introducing himself with a serial number. His name was Mondatta, and he preached a shade of gray that none of the omnics -- or humans for that matter -- had ever considered.

Mondatta claimed that everyone, omnics and humans alike, had souls. He spoke of the Iris, the embodiment of all the universe, the place where their fallen brethren’s souls ascended to, and the humans’ souls as well. He spoke of enlightenment to communicate with the Iris and draw from its power. He spoke of reaching out to the humans and teaching them that omnics were not evil, and were just a much the victims of the Crisis as they were.

Mondatta’s most dedicated follower, and soon, closest friend, enthusiastically committed himself to the cause, and took the name Zenyatta and encouraged the other omnics to do the same. Many of them did, and moved higher up the mountain to the abandoned temple, cleaning it out, and repairing it enough to be livable, by both omnic and human standards. Some of the omnics didn’t share their philosophy, and moved on to other places, searching for the gray that suited them. The omnics that called themselves the Shambali monks let them go, sending them off with well-wishes and blessings. And then they got to work.

Zenyatta loved living among the other monks, omnics who believed in peace between omnics and humans in a world that thought it impossible. The humans in the village gave him a similar comfort – a reminder that their cause was not hopeless. The shade of gray he found himself living in was coming out of the darkness and reaching for the light. He was full of optimism, and almost thought the mission of the Shambali would be easy. People who had been damaged by war were sure to reject them initially, of course, but after taking time to learn, how could they not accept those who wanted nothing more than to co-exist peacefully, and live side-by-side.

Zenyatta learned rather quickly of other, less comforting, shades of gray.

Occasionally, when Mondatta deemed it appropriate - as the Shambali had turned to him as the de facto leader -  lead the monks to human cities, where they would speak for crowds of humans and spread their message (always with an easy escape, just in case). More often than not, their speeches would end with jeering, booing, and slurs – and other times they wouldn’t even be able to finish. Things would be thrown at them, everything from rocks, to fruit, to furniture, until they left - by force or by choice. If they didn’t leave as quickly as the humans wanted to, weapons were brandished, threats were made, and law enforcement called. In the best situations, they were chased out, dented, but not beyond repair. In gray situations, they were arrested, or more severely damaged. In the worst situations, there were casualties. Usually on the side of the Shambali.

Zenyatta never expected to have to fight for his life again – never wanted to fight for his life again. He’d had enough of war, and death, and bloodshed. It brought back to many memories, too many dark grays that muddled his light grays, or blocked them out entirely. Sometimes, he forgot he was in a warzone. He felt defenseless, naked, exposed. Helpless.

Meditation helped. Prayer helped. Mondatta helped. The other monks helped. But it wasn’t enough. He hated feeling like he couldn’t protect himself, or his friends. He hated feeling defenseless in the face of such blatant threats against his life, and the other monks’. Zenyatta was wholeheartedly against any kind of fighting or violence. He did not want more deaths to come of their cause, but he became increasingly convinced that more and more Shambali would die if they remained defenseless.

The more Zenyatta considered it, the more it made sense. Fighting, not out of malice, but out of survival, was the only way the Shambali could survive long enough to spread their message. To be prepared, in case of emergency only, to protect themselves against the inevitable riot. He saw the gray between the black and white. A middle ground – not a perfect solution. But, as he’d learned, there were no perfect solutions.

Mondatta was less inclined to see Zenyatta’s point of view. He didn’t want to use fighting of any kind when it came to spreading the Shambali’s message, because, he often repeated, “Fighting with people will not convince them of our cause, Brother.”

But Zenyatta, regardless, argued with his leader. “If those who we are trying to teach are threatening our lives, then I am sure they do not wish to hear more of our beliefs. They might even rejoice at the sight of us being unarmed and unable to defend ourselves.”

Mondatta did not appreciate Zenyatta’s attempt at dark humor, nor did he appreciate his brother’s idea for the fifth time in the same week.

In the end, Zenyatta took the gray upon himself, alone. He built his orbs from spare parts of omnics, nanomachines, and biotic fields. He launched energy through his weapons, aided his with allies healing warmth, and damaged his enemies with unholy energy. He taught himself martial arts, and included it in his morning routine. Sparring alone was not as useful as with a partner, but it was better than nothing, especially because the other monks followed in Mondatta’s footsteps. It was irritating to be ignored, but he let them be.

Everyone had their own shade of gray in the temple, and Zenyatta respected that. Some monks hated him for what he did, some simply ignored him. There were even some that agreed with Zenyatta, but didn’t dare to defy Mondatta so blatantly. The leader himself was none too thrilled with Zenyatta’s practices, but he had learned long ago that trying to control his brother was akin to trying to control the weather -- nigh impossible.

It was only after one of their speeches was finished early by humans that were turning violent that Zenyatta’s idea was truly recognized, as he saved them all without losing a single life – human or omnic.

“Perhaps,” Mondatta conceded, after they had gotten to safety, “there is some merit to self-defense.”

Zenyatta failed when he tried not to be smug.

Understandably, not all of the monks were as eager to embrace self-defense training as readily as they had accepted the Iris. They were very fixed in their personal shades of gray.

So, Zenyatta started small. He trained a small group of monks who were willing to learn self-defense from him. Over time, his groups grew larger, but not in any significant capacity. There were some who simply did not believe that fighting was necessary. Others were veterans of the Omnic Crisis, and didn’t want to see any more violence if they could help it. There were no (explosive) argument, but Mondatta always made sure to bring at least two omnics that knew how to fight when the monks travelled for speeches.

As time went on, the Shambali Temple was surprised to see people – both human and omnic – approaching them instead. In the case of an omnic visitor, searching for a safe place to stay, or to convert, and become members of the Shambali themselves. In the case of humans, it was usually to understand the movement, a task that every monk in the temple enthusiastically agreed to assist with, or to visit an omnic friend that had become a monk. Sometimes there was the odd human that passed through only to vandalize or spew hate speech, but those were few and far between. In all, the visitors they received were of a wide spectrum of gray. Some lighter, some darker, but all the monks were happy to welcome, assist, and teach.

However, there were even shades of gray to that.

Zenyatta did not like the methods of the Shambali. Though he would often to rephrase it a little more gently, he simply did not agree with the way that Mondatta ran things. He could appreciate the way the monks dedicated themselves to the message of the Iris, and peace between humans and omnics. They used traditional methods of peaceful resistance, very deliberately similar to popular human civil rights leaders. Their ultimate goal to bring positive connotations to the Shambali, and therefore, their movement, thus having it more widely recognized, and more universally accepted as fact. Their peace talks were broadcasted widely across the world, and hundreds came to hear Mondatta speak in person – especially in the later years. That was the light gray.

The dark gray was that they weren’t getting anything done, in Zenyatta’s eyes at the very least. Those that rallied to speeches, marches, and watched their broadcasts were fantastic assets to the Shambali, and to omnic rights in general, but they were those who were already committed to omnic rights, before they’d even heard of the Shambali monks. They were not being convinced, their minds were not being changed. Those that disagreed with the Shambali – the very people the Shambali were aiming to teach – would not willingly show up to rallies or speeches for movements they opposed. And so, their movement remained stagnant – a fairly deep pool with very little spread.

The Shambali were talking to groups and not people. People did not respond to dogmatic teachings and lectures. People did not respond to being told their values and beliefs are wrong, and others’ values are the true path of righteousness. It gave the impression of lording over others, a holier-than-thou sensibility, and people simply did not respond to such forceful methods, no matter the intention.

Zenyatta tried for weeks to think of a better solution, a more effective way of reaching people, but to no avail. He would often avoid hibernation for it, and run his processors until they overheated, and nearly burned out. He’d started to worry Mondatta, who could tell his brother was dodging rest in favor of “thinking too much.” He was content to listen to Zenyatta’s excuses about “thinking too much” until his processors actually burned out, whereupon Mondatta explosively insisted that Zenyatta get his core computer checked for malfunctioning fans or permanent damage from overworking.

Zenyatta maintained his stance. “I am fine, Brother,” he said, trying to pacify his brother. “I’ve simply had a lot on my mind as of late.”

The leader of the Shambali wasn’t having it. He fretted and fussed like a mother hen until Zenyatta relented, if only to give his brother some peace of mind.

He was flown to one of their contacts in King’s Row, a human technician who had proved sympathetic to omnics, and had often provided spare parts and check-ups for omnics, including members of the Shambali. Despite the fact that London was a city known for cruelty for omnics, Mondatta was confident Zenyatta could handle himself if things got messy, and their contact wasn’t unable to defend herself either.

It was on the way back from the check-up – from which the conclusion showed everything was in working order, as Zenyatta had predicted – that he heard a frustrated curse further down the street, and the tell-tale thumping of heavy objects hitting the pavement.

He turned a corner to find a middle-aged human man hunched over a torn back of groceries. Foodstuffs littered the street, nothing torn or broken, but scattered across the concrete. A can of beans rolled its way down sidewalk, stopping at the omnic’s foot.

Zenyatta picked up the can and looked down the street. People rushed past the poor man, omnics especially giving the man a wide berth, some even glancing back at the monk and shaking their head at him. The man looked as if he was parting a sea of people, even as he bent down with his two unbroken bags of groceries, picking up can after can, bag after bag.

Despite the warnings, Zenyatta marched determinedly towards the man. He completely accepted any consequences of his actions. And was capable of defending himself from them.

“Are you in need of assistance?” he asked, holding out the can.

The man swore loudly, and scrambled to his feet. He didn’t take the can.

“Get the hell away from me,” he hissed, pointing at the monk accusatorially. His eyes were wide with rage and fear. “I don’t need any help you can give me.”

“Are you certain? You’ve dropped a lot of –”

“I said to get the fuck away! You miserable bots have already taken enough from me.”

The human waved his arms as if to shoo Zenyatta off, but the monk didn’t budge. Instead, he set the can down on the ground, and folded his hands in front of him. “I am sorry for whomever you lost,” he said, genuinely sorry. “The omnics that I know regret much from the Crisis. Would you accept my help as a gesture of goodwill?”

The man went very still. His eyes flicked from Zenyatta to the can, to his own shaking hands. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The monk considered walking away, but something in him convinced him to stay. Something told him this was the right thing to do.

“I…” the man finally said. “Sure. Just don’t try anything.”

Zenyatta nodded, and without another word, bent down to start collecting the fallen groceries, stacking them to the side in a neat pile. The man, on the other hand, watched the omnic for several long, tense seconds before deciding to bend down and start forming his own pile. He constantly glanced up from the ground and the food to stare at Zenyatta intensely, like he was waiting for an attack at any moment.

The Omnic Crisis truly left behind the darkest gray of them all. Zenyatta felt that, if he possessed a heart, it would have been breaking.

Minutes of silence passed as the two picked up the groceries. They had silently divided the sidewalk between themselves, and created their piles on either side of the invisible line. Zenyatta didn’t cross the boundary, and the man never crossed it either. When Zenyatta had picked up everything on his side of the line, and the man had almost finished as well, he decided to speak.

“I lost friends in the Omnic Crisis as well,” he said, and it was true. Though the God AIs made them little more than puppets, every unit was connected to one network, and could all interact with each other. Every omnic from his unit that was lost felt like losing a part of himself. “It took many lives on both sides. I regret my part in it.”

“You what?” the man asked.

“I regret my –”

“No, no, the other thing. You lost friends?”

“Perhaps not in the way humans think of them, but yes. We all did.”

“I didn’t know omnics could have – well, I mean, I know you can all make friends,” the human sputtered, “but I just didn’t know. With the God AIs and all that bullshit, it’s...” He waved his hands around his head, as if that would prove his point.

Zenyatta almost laughed, but thought it might be a bit tasteless. “It’s surprising to hear?”

“Something like that.”

The human pulled an unbroken bag from behind him and started putting away his pile next to the other two unbroken bags. Zenyatta sat where he was, not wanting to cross their invisible boundary, patiently waiting for the bag to be passed his way.

To his surprise, the human waved him over silently, not looking up from his work. The omnic, silently gleeful, picked up a little bit of his stack at a time, and set it down next to the man, so he could put it away as he pleased. In any other situation, he would have used his orbs to push the rest of the stack behind him, so he wouldn’t have to make two trips, but decided against it, for the man’s sake. Regardless, it was minimal labor, and he was more than willing to sacrifice his convenience for another’s trust.

They were both silent until the bag was full. This time, the human spoke first.

“I lost my sister,” he said, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “She was in my regiment. I couldn’t get over to her fast enough when the shield went down, and she…” He motioned with his hand like he was brushing something out of the air.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Zenyatta offered, knowing it would do little. Iris, rest her soul, he added to himself.

“Yeah, me too. She didn’t deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves such a fate.”

The man said nothing. The omnic said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say.

After a moment, the man stood up, carrying one bag in each arm, and letting Zenyatta carry the third, the one they had filled together. The man led him down the street a for a short time to an apartment building. He set down his bags, fished a keyring from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Zenyatta set down the bag he carried on the steps next to the other two, and had only just turned around when he heard –

“Wait.”

The omnic turned back around to see the man extending a hand toward him.

“Thank you,” the man said.

Zenyatta shook the man’s hand gladly. “The pleasure is mine.”

The man nodded, as if he’d expected that answer all along, then opened the door to his apartment, and carried the groceries inside.

Zenyatta went on his way, back to the airport, back to the Shambali, pouring over another shade of gray. The gray between human and omnic, war and peace, friend and enemy. The gray between two people who had more in common than expected. Compromise, common ground, individuals instead of ideals.

And then he had an idea.

[mindmeafterdark]

Hereafter

-Have you ever considered the difficulty of outrunning the sun?

Vampire of my lineage could withstand the rays of dusk and dawn and even cloud covered days but full sunlight was a death sentence. One could imagine how this was discovered.

After Cora's death I found myself out just prior to sunrise every day for a countless number thereafter. I'd wait until the beams would start to singe my brows and then...then I would run. I wasn't so much trying to escape it as I was letting it chase me.

This recklessness is what I thought I needed, this dangerous game of cat and mouse with a ball of fire.

But it turned out to be the exact opposite. 

What I yearned for was to stop the spin of things I couldn't fix or alter.

Control.

That was what I needed and what I found in a way that was least expected.

My darling Mia, though I tried to keep it close to the chest, knew I suffered gravely at the loss of Cora. She knew it steeped my helplessness in the waters of despair. She knew it was the causation of bitter memories resurfacing. The difference with Cora was that my heart had been hers in a way it had never belonged to anyone and she had expired due to something that could not have been stopped, not by anything within my power.

I purchased the shop she had worked so diligently to make hers, stopping on occasion to run my hands through the garments she had tailored so exquisitely, pricking the tip of my finger on the needle she’d last handled - anything I could to feel closer to the love I’d lost.

Had I been left on my own, I’m quite sure I would have found myself drowned and in some figment of actual reality.  Mia would not allow that. Though she did not press on me attending the usual litany of parties, it was on a night in late November she invited me to one of a different ilk. Expectation was dismissed when she suggested I dress in all black attire and noted that likely wouldn’t want to see what she wore under her own overcoat. Her makeup was darker, heavy across her lids and her demeanor serious as we made our way to this event.

It was fashioned at its entry much in the way of a Speakeasy: nondescript and password required. On the other side of the door, however, the atmosphere was immediately and noticeably something different. The lighting was nearly nil, inky darkness broken only by a scarce amount of candles turned low. The scent in the air was a potent mix of beeswax, liquor and a hint of sex, my curiosity was promptly engaged. Mia pressed a kiss to my cheek and slipped away. We would meet just before sunrise and take our leave.

I was quick to discover that this was not at all about revelry of the standard kind of the age. The alcohol was limited to one serving each hour, the costs adjusted so that they still might turn a profit, I assumed, and the maximum set for quite a different reason… control.

With vodka in hand, I begin my mission to uncover what I had stepped into.  Women were dressed in corsets and stockings - only corsets and stockings - and the men were relieved of much external clothing as well. There were various states of bondage and bodies configured like puzzles.

Where had Mia taken me and what exactly had brought her here? I growled at the thought before shaking it away. I could not entertain theories about my sister in this atmosphere.

I wandered and waited for something to appeal to my attention span and the scene that revealed itself as earning the right caught me off guard. Two men, one standing and gripping what looked to be a riding crop, the other without clothing, kneeled before him. I watched as the worn leather of the crop circled the naked male’s lips, apparently a silent signal for him to open his mouth wide. Watching this excited me, my pulse quickened, my canines throbbed and as the man in the dominant position clutched the back of the other’s head and pressed his hard length between his lips, I was seduced by the image.

I wanted to take the place of the man who held the control.

I swallowed my drink, unaware of how much of the first hour had passed, my eyes affixed and unwilling to stray before the culmination of the scene had been realized.

I knew the moment the man caught me watching, though he waited until he had climaxed to crook his finger my way. I raised my own hand, shaking my finger slowly back at him, indicating I wasn’t wishing to be under his charge. He then told the one still on his knees not to move before coming over, and slammed me into the frame of the door with his body, pressing his chest to mine. Though my reflexes were well intact, I didn’t stop him when he kissed me, his stubble rough and welcomed against my mouth, his breath laced with bourbon.

Before he could escape with the victory of his aggression, I disarmed him and flipped our positions, dragging the crop up his leg, a devilish gleam in my narrowed eyes as I met his. I nipped at his earlobe before delivering a warning in his ear, making it plain that nobody controlled me. I was amazed with the quickness I took up this manner, as if I was not a novice but experienced.

Everything engaged in that moment; what I was seeking, what I needed to survive my heartache, and certain other predispositions. It tasted of my history, the one which I shared with Illarian and was colored by the more recent shades of grief.

In theory, though not practice, that was the night I first became what is modernly known as a Dom.

My heart had been sealed off and for decades I was satisfied by my dominant dalliances with male and female submissives alike, though the women were much less in number and could bear no resemblance to my love. There was never an expectation of a traditional relationship, which suited me as my heart would forever belong to another. Nothing had ever compared to the feelings captured during the short time I shared with my Cora.

It was some time in the late nineties the lifestyle I had so chosen began to tarnish of its allure. Though there were many who understood the roots of traditional BDSM, so many, too many participated in the manner one would with a fad. It was no longer so fulfilling, though I didn’t abandon it all together, I became much more picky and process of meeting someone adherent to my old school ways was much more arduous.

It was around this time of metamorphosis I found myself making a hairpin turn.

I felt ancient in my bones, my soul feeling the weight of times gone by, my seriousness set. I wanted to grow… I desired evolution within my own character, how static I had become.

Through a course of combing the classifieds and participating in in depth personality assessments via quizzes, you can imagine my laugh when it was indicated I would work well with children. At first I rejected the notion. At first I blamed the tests I had chosen. But again and again, no matter the creator or specialty of the pyscho-whatever responsible for the content, the results pointed like a compass in the same direction.

This was how I found myself in the surprising career of a nanny, or as more current colloquialisms have produced, a manny.  Before I could embrace the new direction, I went through the process of altering my identity, as was called for every few decades as not to raise suspicions. This is when I changed from Mikhail to Kai, dropping the name rooted in Russian history to something more fitting of the times with a few dismissed letters.

The first of the families who employed me had been of a vampir bloodline. Through word of mouth I had discovered their needs and it made it easier having to provide no explanation for my limitations.

Rearing children and caring for them was a warmer control than my other variety, and the separation from that lifestyle was refreshing. I learned from the children, and lived vicariously through their growth and wide eyes. They brought a lightness to my spirit I hadn’t had since… Cora. Though there was danger in the door this opened, time enough had passed that it transpired without my permission.

Their challenge and defiance often made me laugh, but was never to be taken lightly. Children were for certain headstrong more often than not, and every season of change they went through forced me to expand and adapt. For as much as I may have taught them, they in return educated me.  

In quiet times, when I let my mind seep into the past, I’d take out the ring, the one that would have sat so perfectly on Cora’s dainty left ring finger.  I imagined the life we never got to share… the children we would have had, how I would have attended her every whim and desire with a resolute passion.

Though the imagined memories were as fractured as the reflections of light the ruby ring cast on the walls, there was an undeniable beauty in allowing myself the experience. Though I’d never be able to touch them, there was still a way to behold them.

[0gasstationcoffee]

Okay so the more I watch the Luthors promo and the more interviews are released saying how Kara is the only one who believes Lena and is fighting for her, the less I believe Lena is bad, let alone has been bad all along.

One, there has literally been nothing in the show to support Lena having always been bad and Melissa Benoist herself said in an interview that Lena has just been trying to do good and not follow the Luthor legacy.

And two, there's been an upsetting pattern this season of Kara not being able to trust her feelings or having her feelings thrown back in her face. It starts when Clark is in town and Kara is so excited about possibly leaving National City to be with him before Alex has to put her foot down and remind Kara of how she was abandoned by Clark to the Danvers.

(Talk to me about how Kara probably feels like she abandoned him first. Talk to me about how Kara starts the season wanting to leave National City, then the writers put her in an isolation story arc that probably ends up with her leaving National City. Talk to me about how Kara has now talked about being abandoned by all members of her Kryptonian family. How she talked about her very personal abandonment issues with who she thought was her sister and then was ridiculed about them by the white Martian. But don't talk to be about it because it makes me sad. But do.)

Then the whole James thing. There was a season of build up where Kara knew she liked him romantically and then suddenly, one day later, the writers want to make room for Man Baby so they make her doubt her feelings she knew to be true just hours ago. Whether you shipped those two or not, that was so wrong. There were so many ways to maturely deal with that situation if the writers didn’t want them together but they were not having it and decided that Kara flip flopping on her feelings was a good enough reason. (Not to mention James and Winn hiding the whole Guardian situation from her. Another example of Kara’s trust being one sided).

Which bring us to mon*l. I'm gonna try to keep this short because he just makes me so angry but Kara spends most of the season's first half doing her best to help him and having all her attempts just thrown back at her until guess what, he likes her!!! And wants to be a hero so he can get the girl!!! And his habit of putting Kara on the defensive regarding her feeling for him. Saying that he knows she doesn't care about him, which makes her have to defend that she does. Or answering her question about his date with Eve by saying you rejected me, which the tone itself is just guilt inducing. And more eloquent people than I have written great essays about why he is bad news so I'm going to stop here before I get angrier.

And Alex. First of all, I love Alex. She is amazing. And I firmly believe that the white Martian must have still been possessing her when she went over to celebrate Kara's Earth Birthday and gave her baby sister the advice to take a chance on mon ew because that moment was so OOC I would've laughed if it wasn't such a transparent attempt at making Kara not trust her own feelings yet again. Earlier that episode, Kara had made it abundantly clear that she did not return man hell's feelings. That she did not think they were a good match. That she didn't respect him as a person. Alex knew all of this. And still the writers chose to interrupt what would have possibly been my favorite Danvers sisters moment with their attempts to try and place mon ew into nearly every facet of Kara's life so that she has no choice but to be around him. Kara herself says  the reason that she wanted to go all out celebrating her earth birthday this year is because she loves spending time with Alex and wanted to remind Alex how much fun they have together. Because she was terrified that Alex was slipping away from her and Kara couldn't take losing the one person that made her feel like earth could be a home for her. And two seconds later, Kara's very real fears are invalidated and instead become about how she went all out planning earth birthday because she was trying to ignore her feelings about mon*l. What. What? I'm crying y'all.

Now Lena Luthor. Sweet, sweet Lena. I have not hidden the fact that I adore Lena from anyone but this is because the writers have created such a compelling character seemingly by accident. And not only is Lena an interesting character on her own (she’s a Luthor, that name carries a heavy weight in the Super Universe) but Lena’s storyline is the only one that helps Kara’s own story. Kara has barely had a storyline this season and has taken a backseat to further prop up man hell’s story. This trope is horrifying enough even without mentioning that the protagonist is getting secondary character treatment because of a boy. But this is where Lena becomes the writers’ saving grace because while man hell just takes and takes from Kara, Lena’s story only adds to Kara. The sheer amount of parallels between these two women is shocking and from their very first interaction, the audience is shown just how alike Kara and Lena are. Both adopted and thrust into a life very different from what they’ve known, both have a relative they are constantly compared to and whose shadow they can’t seem to escape from, both have been betrayed/hunted by family members they adored, and as Kara will later figure out, both of their family’s legacies are ones of destruction. The Luthors tried to exterminate all alien life and Alura let Krypton burn when she could have possibly saved it while Zor El created the Medusa virus to kill all of Krypton’s enemies.

The two of them have so much weighing them down. And the most beautiful thing is that both of them did not let the past get in their way and instead are trying to do better. Lena used to lecture Lex about his actions and is trying to make L-Corp a force for good. Kara finally embraced the part of herself she tried so hard to hide and became Supergirl to help others. And both of them have been nothing but kind to each other and have shown interest in developing a proper friendship between them. And they trust each other. They trust each other so much. Lena jumps at the chance to help Kara/Supergirl and Kara believes in Lena no matter what. This is how you add a character who can thrive on their own and help raise the protagonist up. And I’m sure it was an accident on the writers’ part because none of these amazing parallels are being explored. Not to mention I don’t think they expected how shippable the two would be or that Melissa and Katie would have such great chemistry.

TL:DR because wow this got long: Kara is Lena’s only friend and at this point in the story, it seems that Lena is Kara’s only friend as well and if the writers actually take the one aspect of Kara’s life that she has no doubts in and is Man Hell free and turn it into Kara yet again being wrong and having her trust abused by someone she cares about or worse yet, Lena dying for that oh so cliche shocking character death, then the writers will have truly lost all respect for Kara and I can’t stick around to see that.

[voices-softasthunder]

passable imitation for festivity

 @bimylene asked: blaise + holidays

 Holidays were never the most special time of year for Blaise. While this year it meant a blissful respite from the climate of fear that filled every corridor at school, Christmas cheer wasn't exactly much better in the world beyond either. With war gripping the wizarding world and open destruction rampaging like it hadn't ever before in his memory, this was certainly a break in the monotony of what the winter holiday from Hogwarts typically was for him.

Sure, he was going to spend the holiday around yet another new husband of his mother's, and the most passable imitation for festivity the entire time would be a glass of Mother's best Italian wine on New Year's Eve, but things were certainly different this year.

For one thing, Blaise noted as his mother chatted with her new husband in Twilfitt and Tattings, the upper echelons of pureblood society mingled here today not because it was where they could buy fine robes and support an openly elitist management, but that it was one of the only remaining shops open on Diagon Alley at all. This was all there was for those who felt secure enough for their wellbeing under the new regime to dare wander outdoors, but did not want to spend their Christmas Eve in Knockturn Alley. His lips curled up a little when he thought about how Mother always disdainfully referred to it as "a den of thieves that attempts to appeal to the wizards with taste." While her way of referring to purebloods was inherently elitist, her rejection of the Dark magic that so often went hand-in-hand with pureblood elitism was unique.

Drumming his fingers on the windowsill as he sipped the tea that Mr. Twilfitt had served to the customers, Blaise couldn't help but be bitter at how empty the streets were despite the day. In the many years past when his mother dragged him here, Christmas Eve certainly seemed like the most bustling day Diagon Alley must see each year with last-minute shoppers. Even last year, when a few shop-owners had begun to close business and the customers had stayed home in fear, the war had not seemed quite so real yet, or at least things did not feel as bleak.

Once again, Blaise had to ask himself how he really felt about the prospects of the war. A year ago he had been almost indifferent, since neither his safety nor his mother's would be at any risk, being wealthy purebloods. However, as the tendrils of destruction reached out to mark Blaise's world in ways he had never actually imagined possible, he had been forced to the realization that not only would He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named undoubtedly fail In improving the wizarding world at all, it would be a miracle if it survived his tyranny at all.

Even before Blaise had been forced to reckon with the seemingly-slippery issues of right and wrong, or how many lives he had to recognize were affected and destroyed, he had come to the conclusion over the summer break that the turning tides in the war were not the success his classmates like Malfoy and Parkinson thought they were. He had questioned first the methods of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and then later, the goals themselves. A glimpse into the alleys behind Madam Malkin's abandoned shop where some Muggle-borns surely spent these cold winter nights proved that any former facade of respectability was false. A popular lie that Blaise had once believed was the notion that Muggle-borns truly did not need the wizarding world, and so it would just be better for them and purebloods alike if they were encouraged to remain separate. However, any idea of a peaceful and humanitarian strategy to remove Muggle-borns from the wizarding world that he had ever been convinced could be possible had flown out the window when Pius Thicknesse's administration rounded up thousands and sent them to Azkaban. As the months had passed and the prisons grew too full to hold both them and political dissidents, some Muggle-borns had been begrudgingly released from the prison but with threats against trying to return to their lives and "continue infecting the Wizarding world." The piece of propaganda released in the Daily Prophet explaining this decision, which led to so many innocent people left to fend for themselves in Diagon Alley without even being allowed to escape to the Muggle world, made Blaise feel ill.

And even if the Thicknesse regime and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had acted fully in fulfillment of goals that Blaise and so many others who were ill-informed had once believed in, he had now questioned his former ideological stances. So much had changed, and what was scary was how much it all linked back to one or two people and their impacts on him in a mere few months.

One person who had caused him to seriously reconsider many things was sitting in the wrought iron chair adjacent to Blaise. Pyotr Dolohov wouldn’t possibly know how his presence affected Blaise, as they had barely talked in the mere few months since Adriana Zabini had married him. Few of the men his mother married ever wanted to consider themselves a stepfather to him, which always complicated what Blaise’s relationship with them. But what made it even more difficult was that, on Blaise’s part at least, he knew they would likely not live very long. While the rumors were that his mother had killed husband after husband like a black widow, the truth was that she was just uncannily capable at picking out suitors who did not have long to live. Whether terminally ill, fond of an extraordinarily dangerous hobby, and in one instance taking on the position of the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, each of his mother’s former husbands had passed away within a few years after she ensnared them. His father had been one she was unusually taken with, choosing to have a child with him before he had passed away in a perilous undersea dive as she had expected would happen. Her methodology in pursuing men and the serial rate at which she wed them was not exactly tasteful, which meant that even if the truth was more known the Zabinis still would be unwelcome in many pureblood houses obsessed with appearances. However, Blaise would adamantly assert to anyone who directly implied something untoward that his mother was doing nothing illegal at all. Well, or at least mostly - there was one exception, but he typically ignored that so nobody could say that even Adriana’s own son suspected her of killing one of her husbands. Besides, that one had deserved it.

So, given his mother’s propensity for choosing men who were marked for death and the fact she had never before been wrong, why would she have chosen Pyotr Dolohov? Dolohov had very recently moved to England to assist his relative Antonin in serving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and it had utterly baffled Blaise when his mother began to pursue a man who was fighting for what, by all accounts, appeared to be the winning side of the war. Two of the previous seven husbands had taken a stand in the first war, one on each side. When she was younger and only widowed a few times thus far, she had married a Death Eater in the early years of the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as it had then seemed inevitable he would fail. Although that Death Eater had been killed as she had predicted, the tides of the war had clearly changed by the time she next wed an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He had died fighting the Dark Arts before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated, and now that war had broken out again, it was shocking that this eighth husband was not one of the people who would more likely be killed. Adriana always declared herself apolitical and would not solidly pick one faction or another, so her choice in husband indicated only her intentions to inherit from him rather than any possibility of shared views. With pureblood pride but a dislike for Dark Arts rather than an affinity for it, it was not as if Death Eaters were her only options. Plenty of families who opposed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were elitist about Muggles, but possessed these ideas only in moderation or had one of many possible other reasons for opposing him. As a result of this, Blaise could only take Dolohov’s marriage into the family to mean one thing: his mother, who he had never known to be wrong before, was sure that this Death Eater would be killed.

His mother’s judgment of the war, while taciturn to say the least, was still trustworthy given Blaise had known her all of his life. However, the more persuasive - and far more verbose - party who had changed Blaise’s opinions was, at that moment he crossed his mind, strolling out of Flourish and Blotts and crossing the street.

Blaise leapt to his feet. “Just saw a school chum, going to say hello,” he murmured as Adriana turned her head a fraction towards him at the flurry of his robes.

Moving less quickly, desperate to not come across as - well, as desperate, Blaise strode out the door and wondered how to catch up to Anthony without running or shouting down Diagon Alley.

As it turned out, neither one was necessary at all. Anthony paused, apparently having noticed the Slytherin out of the corner of his eye. He turned around and waited for Blaise to make his way down the alley.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Anthony said with a note of surprise in his voice, but a small smile. “On today of all days.”

“My mum’s in the shops,” Blaise said with a nod over his shoulder. “She figured Christmas Eve would be perfect to go out into the cold just to see some friends.” He rolled his eyes. “We don’t have all that much to do with holidays, anyway.”

Anthony nodded. “I suppose we don’t either, or at least not with this holiday.” He paused. “I was meeting a friend.”

Curiosity surged, but Blaise ignored it. The fact Anthony trusted him enough to voluntarily share a detail that doubtless had to do with his Dumbledore’s Army activities meant a lot to him, and he was no longer at school to pretend for classmates pestering him for information. So instead of asking anything about this friend, Blaise asked “Where are you heading now?”

Anthony’s smile widened, becoming a little crooked on one side. “Muggle London, actually. Something inconceivable for you I’d imagine.”

Blaise feigned offense. “Excuse me? I’ve been there loads of times.” Anthony laughed, probably thinking Blaise meant going to Kings Cross Station each term rather than his old habits of frequenting various bars. He was unsure how to correct that probable assumption without awkwardness, though.

Anthony briefly looked him up and down, just a flick of his eyes. “If you weren’t in that getup, I’d ask you to come with me.” The casual words were betrayed by a look in Anthony’s eyes - was it hope? Disappointment? Something far from casual, whatever it was.

Blaise shrugged with his own falsely casual air. “Yeah, I suppose not this time.” The sight of Anthony’s corduroy trousers and heavy Muggle coat, though... he did have Muggle clothes of his own at home. “Perhaps another time though?”

His heart leapt as Anthony nodded and stepped forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Benefit of a near-empty street,” he whispered as he leaned close.

Blaise grinned and kissed Anthony deeper, but after only a few seconds broke away. “My mother...”

“Right, of course,” Anthony said. “We’ll wait until she’s not right next door.”

“Yeah,” Blaised said with one hand still resting on the nape of Anthony’s neck. He struggled to move even when he noticed it, and as Anthony lowered his eyelids slightly it was clear neither of them wanted to part.

“Sure you have to head out now?” he murmured after a while.

Anthony laughed. “Unfortunately yeah... it’ll take a while for me to walk home; the crowds of last-minute shoppers will be mayhem in the part of the city where they’re not at war.”

“Or at least where they don’t know they’re at war.” Blaise could not help but look down to avoid Anthony’s eyes. It felt too audacious to correct him on something like this where, mere months ago, Anthony had been the one to drill it into his head in the first place.

He could feel Anthony nodding, though, against his hand that was still pressed to his neck. “Well you’re right, of course. Hear that from someone really smart?”

When Blaise glanced up, there was a twinkle visible behind Anthony’s wire-rimmed glasses. Blaise smiled, a little out of relief that he had not fucked up and annoyed him. Their relationship was still full of sensitive subjects and complicated matters, but it was good to know not everything was delicate and would get him ostracized. Not like it was with some of his other Hogwarts... acquaintances.

“Well, I really ought to get going ,” Anthony said at long last. “Maybe we can meet back here on the 27th? Any sooner and Muggle London will still be too hectic.”

Blaise felt his heart jump for the second time in their short conversation, and wondered which part of Anthony’s words to read into more. Was the mention of Muggle London a test, to see if Blaise would still be interested in going when it was more than just a hypothetical? Or for the more positive idea, did Anthony mean he was just as eager to see each other again soon and not wait a day more than they had to?

They had precious little time to spend together at school with the need to go unnoticed, and their days of vacation were limited. It should be easy for Blaise to explain absences, especially if he used the Floo network some so his mother didn’t realize he was seeing another classmate right here in London. But still, the conditions where their relationship had developed over the weeks at Hogwarts left Blaise with the firm plan to make the most of whatever time they did have. He could not spend it obsessing over every word he heard; second-guessing every single thing he said. Not when it was becoming clear that he and Anthony were trusting each other more and more, growing closer than he had ever imagined. He had to use their time together well.

So, Blaise grinned and agreed. “In the Leaky Cauldron, same time.” He kissed Anthony again before the other wizard had to walk away at last.

As Blaise saw his silhouette disappear around a corner, he turned back to Twilfitt and Tattings. He walked back, not with a plan in his mind to tell his mother why he had spent so long just saying hello to any old friend, but rather when might be a good time to ask Anthony if he would like to properly decide to be boyfriends.