#except for flash who is a little obsessed with him but too self-centered to think about it in more depth than this

[ask-ursa-tonypeter]

[fic: ynyd] to the decathlon team — did anything about Peter’s behavior and actions stand out more than usual in your last year together at Midtown?

Abe: He was very distracted!

Cindy: He was kind of off his game. Senioritis?

Flash: No way, it was way more than that. He was being a total freak and he had some "arrangement" with the teachers where he got to gym late and left early. I bet he caught something super gross he didn't want us to see in the locker room. Penis Parker has herpes!

MJ: And you would be able to see that in the locker room, why?

Abe: Please don't stare in the locker room!

Flash: I don't--

Ned: That's really weird, Flash.

Flash: I'm just saying--

MJ: That you stare at people's junk in the locker room?

Flash: Oh my god never mind.

[afternoonteawithme]

A Perfect Match

Fandom: MZDS / Pairing: WangXian / Rating: T / WC: 2761

(read it on AO3)

“Don’t you think Professor Wei and Professor Lan would make a great couple?”

Halfway down a long aisle and hidden behind tall rows of stacked bookshelves, Wei Ying froze in place, one finger still on the spine of the book he’d just pushed back onto a shelf.

Since he was the only Professor Wei on the faculty, he figured it was a safe bet that he was the Professor Wei being talked about. There were, however, three Professor Lans at the college, and he was suddenly beyond intrigued to find out which one he was being paired with.

Quietly, he eased down the aisle, ducking down enough to see through a gap in the shelves to the open study area beyond. He’d just spotted the group of students sitting around one of the tables when that same young, enthusiastic voice rang out again, remarkably loud in the silence of the library.

“I mean, wouldn’t they be perfect together?”

“Oh please.” A second voice sneered. “In what universe?”  

That voice was more familiar, in a ‘this kid is really annoying’ sort of way, but Wei Ying still couldn’t put a name to it. He angled his head to the side to get a better look, and thought he’d found the first speaker. Just as young as his voice had sounded, the boy leaned back in his chair as he stared dreamily into the distance, not even pretending to pay attention to the books that lay scattered in front of him. Wei Ying knew who he was, sort of - the son of Secretary Ouyang from the school board and, so far at least, a fairly decent student - but for the life of him couldn’t remember the kid’s actual name.  

“Just imagine it, though. Professor Lan, with all that restraint and self-control and the way he’s just so regal all the time, and Professor Wei being all like…like…like that.” The enthusiastic Ouyang waved his hand through the year in a way that made Wei Ying’s mouth twitch. “They’re perfect for each other.”  

“I repeat, in what universe?” The sneerer sneered, and Wei Ying’s dusty memory clicked his name into place. Jin Chan. Already a pain in the entire faculty’s ass though they were barely two months into his freshman year, largely due to his father’s insistence that the world – and the college – should revolve around his son, though Jin Chan’s own inability to open his mouth without annoying almost everyone in his vicinity helped make him even more memorable.

Unknowingly proving Wei Ying’s point, Jin Chan continued, “Professor Lan’s so tediously boring, and Professor Wei-”

“Professor Lan isn’t boring!” A third student at the table spoke up, and Wei Ying saw, without surprise, that it was Lan Jingyi – the second most easily irritated by Jin Chan student in the freshman class. “You just don’t like him because he told you he’d fail you if you tried to make someone else do your assignments again, and he won’t take your dad’s bribes to raise your grades.”  

Jin Chan, predictably, sneered yet again. “Please. His classes are boring and useless. I’d have dropped them already if they weren’t a requirement.” He sniffed. “And besides, your grades suck compared to mine.”

Half rising from his seat, Lan Jingyi thumped a hand onto the table. “They do not.”

“Enough.” The boy sitting beside Lan Jingyi reached up and smoothly pulled him back into his chair. “You guys are neck and neck, and if you don’t actually start working on this project you’ll both fail Professor Lan’s class anyway.”

Jin Chan rolled his eyes. “As if we could fail with you in our group, Wen Yuan. You’re his pet, he’d never sully your reputation with anything but a top grade.”

Lan Jingyi was on his feet again. “Look, you dickw-”

Wen Yuan cut him off by jerking him back into his seat, and then turned his head to look at Jin Chan. Wei Ying couldn’t see Wen Yuan’s expression from where he stood, but he clearly saw the way Jin Chan dropped his eyes away, shutting his mouth as he scowled down at his books.

The enthusiastic Ouyang paid no attention to the almost fight, or to Wen Yuan’s earlier nudge to get back to work. “I mean, the aesthetics alone would make it worth it. They’re both so pretty.”

Lan Jingyi lifted his head to stare at him across the table. “You’re saying they’d make a good couple because you think they’re both attractive?”

“No, no. They do make a beautiful picture whenever they stand next to each other, but that’s just a bonus.”

A wide grin spread over Wei Ying’s face as he had a brief flash of himself standing beside an angrily yelling Lan Qiren. Nope. They probably didn’t mean that Professor Lan.

Lan Jingyi shook his head. “I just can’t see it. They’re opposites – I mean Professor Wei is always talking in class about how we need to learn how to break the established rules, and Professor Lan is…well-”

“He’s obsessed with rules. And my father says Professor Wei is a radical, and a danger to the college and to his students.” Jin Chan sniffed, raising his nose into the air even as he avoided looking in Wen Yuan’s direction. “He says he should be fired immediately.”

“Your dad thinks everyone should be fired.” Lan Jingyi shot back.

“Clearly, this college is full of sub-par staff and teachers. My father said he’d never have sent me here if he’d known, and he’s already looking at transferring me as soon as he finds a suitable alternative.”  

“I wish he’d hurry up.” Lan Jingyi muttered, and then winced away from the elbow Wen Yuan jabbed into his side.  

Still ignoring the drama around him, the enthusiastic Ouyang let the front legs of his chair drop to the ground and braced his elbows on the table. “I mean, I don’t think it would ever happen, but you have to admit they’d be such a great match. You think so too, don’t you Wen Yuan?”

Wen Yuan looked up from the book he’d been pointedly nudging into Lan Jingyi’s hands. “Me? I’m not sure why-”

“Remember this morning, when we were in the staff lounge and we saw Professor Wei talking to that Nie guy from the school board? They were playing around and I said they looked like they were friends?”

“Yes, I remember. And it’s Chairman Nie, not ‘that Nie guy’.”

“Well when we were leaving I saw Professor Lan watching them too. He actually looked kind of angry – and then he sort of rolled his eyes and walked away. So I think he has a crush on Professor Wei.”

The rest of the occupants of the table, and Wei Ying, all stared at him in shock.

“Are you serious?” Jin Chan demanded. “You made this whole thing up because Professor Wei and Chairman Nie were being loud and obnoxious and Professor Lan got irritated at them? Ouyang Zizhen, there’s something wrong with your brain.”

Ouyang Zizhen – and Wei Ying didn’t think he’d ever forget that name again - just sighed, and shook his head sadly. “I feel bad for him, pining like that. I mean, Professor Wei seems like such a flirt, but he’d never notice if someone like Professor Lan liked him unless they whacked him over the head with it, and Professor Lan isn’t the type to ever get pushy.”    

“You’re so stupid.” And Jin Chan was back to sneering as he pointedly grabbed one of the books piled in the center of the table and flipped it open. “I can’t believe I wasted my time listening to you.”

“Oh, but you’re related to Professor Wei, aren’t you Jin Ling?” As he spoke, Ouyang Zizhen turned towards the far end of the table. “Isn’t he your uncle or something? Maybe you could put in a good word for Professor Lan.”

Wei Ying blinked, and then eased a couple inches over until he finally saw the fifth member of the group. Jin Ling sat with his head down, shoulders hunched, and an aura that told Wei Ying he desperately wanted to be anywhere but there.

“I have nothing to do with any of them. Leave me alone.”

“But Jin Ling, this could be Professor Lan’s only chance at happiness!”

Jin Ling looked up, and Wei Ying had to bite back a laugh at the expression on his nephew’s face. “Can we just get on with the project?”

“Yes. We need to get back to work.” Wen Yuan spoke with gentle firmness. “If we don’t get this assignment done before the library closes we’ll have to meet again over the weekend and I don’t think anyone wants that.”

As all the boys, including Ouyang Zizhen, turned back to their books, Wei Ying soundlessly backed up and escaped from the other end of the aisle.

He was laughing to himself as he hopped down the stairs to the basement floor of the library. He still didn’t know which Lan they meant, though he was mostly sure it wasn’t Lan Qiren. It could be Lan Huan, except he didn’t think Lan Huan had rolled his eyes at anything in his entire life, ever. Lan Zhan, however…

He strolled along the aisles, and to his great pleasure found Lan Zhan at the very back, sitting at a desk in one of the alcoves tucked away behind the last row of bookshelves, his head bent over the thick book lying open in front of him as he made precise notes on the pad of paper at his side.

With a grin, Wei Ying slid onto the desk, his hip nudging the heavy book away.

Lan Zhan shot him a look, then straightened the book and turned back to the note he was making on his notepad. “What are you doing, Wei Ying?”

“Well, apparently some of the students think we’d make a perfect couple, so I decided I’d find you and see what you thought about that.”

“I see.”

Wei Ying leaned back, resting on his hands as he stretched one leg out in front of him, studying his shoe. “Apparently, you’ve been pining for me, but no one thinks you’d be pushy enough to make a move.”

“Mm.”

“I have to admit that made me laugh a little. I almost wanted to interrupt and tell them some stories about their regal Professor Lan, but I thought it might be too early in the school year to shock them that much.”

“Mm.”

“Actually, they might have been talking about your brother, or even Lan Qiren. I couldn’t really tell.”

“Is that so.”

“Uh-huh. I figure they meant you, though, because it can’t be your uncle – he’d cut out his own eyes if it meant he could see me less often. And Lan Huan would never be obvious enough about it if he did have a crush on me for anyone but you to figure it out.”

“He does not.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Well then, that just leaves you. So, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you have a crush on me?” Wei Ying leaned forward, his arm blocking Lan Zhan’s view of the page as he stretched across it to adjust the neatly knotted tie around Lan Zhan’s neck.  

“Wei Ying, stop playing around.”

Slowly, Wei Ying trailed the tie’s length through his fingers, before letting the silky fabric drop. “But I have to check, because you see, apparently I’d never notice if someone like you liked me unless you whacked me over the head with it.”

Lan Zhan sighed, then quietly closed the book, set it aside, and looked up into Wei Ying’s laughing eyes.

“I still have work, Wei Ying. Go play somewhere else for a little while.”

“But Lan Zhan, this is important. They said you looked jealous when Nie Huaisang and I were talking earlier, and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.” Wei Ying’s smile widened when he saw he’d managed to get Lan Zhan’s full attention. “It isn’t Nie Huaisang I like, after all.”

“I know.” Lan Zhan dropped his gaze away, back to his notepad, but Wei Ying saw the way the straight line of his mouth had softened, curving up ever so slightly.

“You do? That’s good. So you weren’t jealous, then?”

“Wei Ying, I need to finish writing up this assignment.”  

“I guess you weren’t, then. Oh, unless..” Wei Ying paused, then deliberately widened his eyes as he lifted one hand to his chest. “Unless it’s not me you were jealous over. Maybe you have a thing for Nie Huaisang?”

In one smooth motion, Lan Zhan pushed back from the table and stood.

Wei Ying watched, grinning broadly, as Lan Zhan slid into place between his legs, placing his hands flat against the desk on either side of Wei Ying’s hips.

“Wei Ying.”

“Hmm?” The way Lan Zhan’s upper body pressed him backwards made it a little hard for Wei Ying to catch his breath.  

“I like you. Only you.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying truly couldn’t think of a response to that, so he just wrapped his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, lifting his mouth to meet Lan Zhan’s. “Good, then.”

But as he felt Lan Zhan leaning into him, Wei Ying couldn’t resist one more comment. “Wait, wait, maybe I misunderstood those boys entirely. Maybe they thought Nie Huaisang and I were the ones who’d make a perfect couple.”

Lan Zhan shifted his hands until he gripped Wei Ying’s thighs, yanking his hips forward as he said one single, clipped word.

“No.”

  A little more than ten minutes later, Wei Ying managed to catch his breath long enough to register the voices coming towards them. He turned his head just as all noise cut off abruptly, and saw the same group of students he’d been eavesdropping on upstairs standing a few yards away, gaping at them.

Well, three of them were gaping. Jin Ling was glaring, and Wen Yuan had his face slightly turned away as he used one hand to hide what looked suspiciously like a laugh.  

Jin Ling sighed, loudly. “Why do I have to deal with you guys like this at school, too?”

“Oops.” With a wicked grin, Wei Ying pressed a hand lightly to Lan Zhan’s chest, nudging him a few inches away as he let the leg he’d wrapped around his waist drop. “Sorry, kids.”

Lan Zhan stepped back from Wei Ying, giving him room to slip off the desk, and turned to face the boys with a calm, dignified expression on his face, as if his hair wasn’t still mussed from the hands that had been buried in it a few seconds before. “Can I help you with something?”

Wen Yuan glanced at the rest of his group, before evidently deciding no one else would speak. “We had a question about the project due on Monday. One of the librarians said you were back here.” He sent Wei Ying a rueful smile. “Alone.”

“Well then, I’ll get myself gone.” Wei Ying leaned down to pick up the suit jacket he’d tossed onto the floor, handing it to Lan Zhan as he started past.

He was almost to the group of boys when he heard Lan Zhan speak from behind him.

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“My tie.”

Wei Ying blinked, then looked down at the pale blue silk tie hanging loose around his neck. “Oh, right.” He walked back to Lan Zhan, dropping it onto his outstretched hand.  

The way Lan Zhan’s lips curved in response made Wei Ying’s heart thump in his chest.

Shaking his head at Lan Zhan’s lethally growing abilities, Wei Ying turned to leave, only to find that their whole audience had backed up a step.

“Actually, That’s ok.” Ouyang Zhizen had grabbed a couple arms and was forcibly urging the rest of the group to move faster as they kept easing backwards. “We’ll just figure it out ourselves.”

A little perplexed, Wei Ying watched the rapidly retreating students disappear around the end of the closest bookshelf. A second later he heard Ouyang Zizhen say, almost at a wail, “Jin Ling, they’re already dating?”

“No.” Jin Ling’s voice was full of exasperation. “They’re married. And they’re always like this.”

As their footsteps faded away, Wei Ying turned, leaning into Lan Zhan as he grinned up at him. “We are always like this, aren’t we?”

“Mm.” And with that, Lan Zhan dropped his mouth back to Wei Ying’s to continue where they’d left off.

[myownworldstayout]

New Friends Ch. 14

Ch.1 / Ch.13 / Ch.15

(so this chapter is where I got “Prompt #17 Akuma!felix” from, but it’ll be a little different. Also, this is the last pre-written Chapter so there won’t be anymore daily updates. I’m gonna change to updating weekly for sake of sanity lol)

Lila was ticked. All of her attempts to take down the new dynamic duo in school had been futile. She had been so close, too! The class had turned on Marinette, including Adrien. True, the class never directly turned on her, but they all believed Lila over Marinette. That was the same thing in her book, and apparently, it was the same in Marinette’s book as well. 

Lila remembered feeling such triumph when the ravenette ran out of the room in tears, especially when the class only shook their heads and turned back to comfort her. But that all changed when Felix joined their school.

Lila scowled at the thought.

Felix. 

Ever since his arrival, not only has he refused to take her side, but has also challenged nearly all of her stories shamelessly. He didn’t care about the opinions of those around him, meaning he couldn’t be swayed by the backlash of going against her. That was a problem.

It didn’t help that he stood resolutely by Marinette’s side. The class’ opinion of Marinette sunk lower after that, which was a good thing, except now Marinette didn’t seem to care. Lila assumed it was because she finally had a real ally. 

Lila wasn’t blind. She knew that Adrien had figured out she was lying. He just wasn’t saying anything. Whether he didn’t want to cause more trouble or was just a coward, Lila didn’t care. It only made her cons easier to come by. 

“Morning, girl!” Alya greeted warmly, bumping her shoulder into Lila’s.

Lila forced a sweet smile. “Hi! How was your weekend?” 

“Annoying.” Alya rolled her eyes, her expression quickly turning sour. “I tried to get another interview with Ladybug yesterday, and guess who comes out of the blue and stops me? Felix!” The journalist huffed and crossed her arms. “Why was he even there?”

Lila knew she should be pleased. She hardly needed to do anything to turn the class on Felix. He was cold and blunt, easy to dislike. But how can you feel like you’ve won when the losers aren’t affected?

The answer is you can’t.

“Maybe he wanted to get his own interview?” Lila suggested.

Anger flashed across Alya’s face at the thought, and she smiled. The poor girl was way too predictable.

After a moment, though, Alya furrowed her eyebrows. “That can’t be why, because he didn’t talk to her. He just said her miraculous was gonna time out and she needed to get going.” 

Lila hummed, cocking an eyebrow. That was weird. Even though Ladybug was a superhero, Felix didn’t usually get involved in other people’s business. 

“Maybe he just didn’t want you to get an interview.” Lila then said, hiding a sly smile. 

Alya bristled and clenched her fists, drinking up Lila’s absurd idea. 

“Tch. of course he wouldn’t.” She glared at the floor. 

Conveniently, Felix walked past them just then, not even glancing their way. 

“Oh, there he is now. Why don’t I try to go talk to him?” Lila offered innocently, pushing back her growing irritation with the stubborn boy.

Alya scoffed, crossing her arms. “Don’t even bother. He’s not worth it.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings in class.” She batted her eyelashes, giving Felix a sympathetic gaze.

Alya frowned, shaking her head.

 “Alright, you can give it a shot if you think it will help, But I’m going to class.” the redhead sighed, walking off in the other direction. Perfect.

After checking for any “witnesses”, Lila slinked over towards Felix.

“Where’s Marinette? You’ve been her shadow for the past few weeks.” Lila taunted, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Felix didn’t acknowledge her, silently making his way to the library.

Lila glared at the stiff boy, thinking of what to say next.

“I heard you had a run in with Ladybug yesterday.”

Felix paused, brief but still. Lila smirked, pressing on the nerve.

“It makes me wonder what you were doing there, why you were so set on Alya not getting an interview. You didn’t even talk to Ladybug herself so I have to imagine there was some other reason for rejecting Alya’s advances.” Lila pulled a sly smile when Felix glanced in her direction. He was getting nervous. What secret was he hiding with Alya and Ladybug, she wondered.

“I bet you don’t want to see her succeed because she’s Marinette’s best friend, and you’re not, hm? Is the Ice King  jealous?”

Nothing. Felix became impassive again. If Lila didn’t know any better, she might even say he looked relieved. 

The girl clicked her tongue, trying to figure out which part she needed to backtrack onto. Unfortunately for her, the school bell rang just then, forcing her to go back to class.

Fine. She thought curtly. Guess I’ll have to settle for plan B.

~~~~~~~

Marinette practically skipped to class the next morning. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She didn’t have to hide being Ladybug anymore! 

Well, she didn’t have to hide being Ladybug from Felix anymore. Marinette would take what she could get, though.

“Glad to see you so happy, Mari.” Luka commented with a warm smile.

“Glad to be happy, Luka.” Marinette grinned in turn.

“May I ask what’s made you so cheerful this morning?” 

Marinette hummed. “Let’s just say, Lady Luck’s finally coming to pay me an overdue visit.”

Luka laughed at the metaphor, seeming satisfied with that answer.

“Think that luck is gonna leak into school?” He said lightheartedly.

“I’m hoping!” Marinette giggled.

She probably should have known better than to hope for the impossible.

 -

When Marinette entered the classroom, the screaming was already ringing through the halls outside. The entire class, aside from Felix, was huddled around a crying Lila, some attempting to comfort her while others glared and chewed out Felix. Felix himself was silently sitting in the back with book in hand, effectively ignoring the group as a whole. He only looked up when Lila called out her name.

“Marinette!” The girl blubbered. “Your friend, he- I was trying to ask him how you'd been doing since - since you've been so distant lately, but he..he..he said he didn’t want vermin like me near you! Or, or anyone for that matter! He said you were his- that he- that you only needed him.” A few more tears slipped down her cheeks, and Marinette vaguely spotted the eye drops Lila shoved into her purse.

“I tried to reason with him, but then he-” Lila choked back a sob. “He slapped me, Marinette!”

The class crowded closer, trying to provide the girl with comforting hugs and sweet words. Lila thanked them with a watery smile, hand pressed to her right cheek where Felix had supposedly slapped her.

“What did I tell you, Mari.” Alya growled, sending death glares to the indifferent blonde as she softly rubbed Lila’s back in support. “He’s nothing but trouble! A cold, heartless, obsessed monster!”

Marinette glanced up at Felix,wanting to know his opinion on this. Lila lies like she breaths, but she also over dramatizes the truth. Therefore, it wasn’t completely out of the question that Felix would call her vermin- or even slap her for that matter.

The blonde, however, simply looked her in the eyes for a moment, then shook his head. That was all Marinette needed to see. She smoothly slipped around her other classmates, heading for the stairs without a word.

“Marinette?” Nino frowned.

“What are you doing?” Alya shouted, even though Marinette was right next to her.

The ravenette coolly turned to face them, Her gaze flicking to Lila and briefly catching the triumphant, yet subtle smirk on the liar’s lips. 

“I’m going to sit with Felix. Class is about to start.” 

The class let out a few incredulous gasps and a few said “are you serious?”. Alya and Nino just stared, not really believing what they were hearing. Adrien cringed behind them all, a silent begging in his eyes for her to stop when she had the chance.

Marinette ignored him.

“How can you say that! Didn’t you hear what Lila just said?!” Alya was furious now, pulling away from Lila to clench her fists at her side.

Marinette raised an eyebrow, before turning her head slightly in Felix’s direction. 

“Felix, what happened?” Her tone was composed, almost distant, and eerily similar to Ladybug’s during an attack.

He hesitated at the sudden command, but quickly explained the situation. “Lila stopped me on the way to the library, asking about why I stopped Alya’s interview yesterday. She said I was jealous of Alya. I just ignored her until the bell rang and she left.” 

The class seemed to falter- just for a moment- looking back to Lila. Felix was brutal and harsh and cold, but he hadn’t told a single lie since he transferred there. He was a hard facts, no-nonsense person. Lying wouldn’t make any sense for Felix.

“So- what - you’re going to believe a stranger over your friends!” Alya fumed, discarding his words without a second thought. 

“Isn’t that what you did?” Marinette grumbled under her breath. Unfortunately, Alya heard her anyway.

She let out a laugh of disbelief. “Oh my gosh we are not having this conversation again.” 

“Guys, why don’t we just-” Adrien tried to defuse the situation, but it was as if Alya didn’t even hear him.

“You know what your problem is Marinette? You are so set that Lila is a terrible liar that you refuse to see the torture you’ve put her through these last two months. I’ve tried to help you, we all have, but you’re so dang stubborn and stuck up! You say Chloe is ridiculous?” 

Alya ignored the protest on Chloe’s part. 

“Well, guess what? You’re even worse than she is! You’re so selfish and self centered and if I weren’t so angry, I’d be heartbroken that you turned out to be such a cruel, pathetic bully.” She snarled, shaking with anger at this point. 

Marinette opened her mouth to snap back, but found she had nothing to say. What was the point of arguing about this? Alya obviously wasn’t listening to reason. And she had the gall to say that she was the one set in her opinions? As if. 

Marinette wasn’t angry- for which she was glad. The last thing they needed was another screaming match. -but she was extremely disappointed. In Alya. In everyone. Especially in Adrien, who claimed to be by her side despite that clearly not being the case. 

So, the ravenette simply sighed and shook her head, before walking up the steps and sitting in the back with Felix. He was the only person in her class that she could depend on at this point.

The class fell silent at the action, probably because they half-expected her to retaliate at this point. She always did. Even Alya’s anger had somewhat faded from the shock. 

Marinette didn’t pay them any attention, though, taking out her tablet and pulling up this morning’s due homework. 

“Alright, everyone, in your seats please!” Ms. Bustier suddenly ordered, causing the class to scatter to their assigned seats. Alya was the last to sit down, still staring at Marinette with a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Are you alright?” Felix whispered after a moment, leaning in so she could hear him but giving her enough space to feel comfortable. 

Marinette sighed. “I’m starting to be.” 

~~~~~~

Alya shifted in her seat to fix a glare on the infamous “Marinette group”. Luka and the others appeared to be comforting Marinette at the cafeteria table. Felix sat next to the ravenette, glowering right back at Alya.

“She’s such manipulator!” Alya huffed, wringing her hands through her hair in frustration. “Look at them! Giving her all of that undeserved sympathy while Lila’s the one that’s been suffering!” she added, gesturing to the brunette who was cheerfully chatting with Mylene and Rose. 

Adrien glanced towards Lila, not mentioning how happy she seemed despite “suffering” all this time. 

“I’ve known her since kindergarten.. How did I not see it?” Nino shook his head.

“M-maybe,” Adrien began cautiously, “Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding? You guys know Mari-”

“We thought we knew Mari.” Alya cut him off, turning her glare to him. 

“You saw what happened today, She’s a menace! Just like your cousin.” She added curtly, looking back to the group. 

Felix wasn’t glaring at her anymore, instead looking at Marinette with concern. She had her face buried in her hands with Luka and Aurore putting supportive hands on her shoulders. 

To be honest, it was odd seeing Felix show emotion for anything, let alone a person. It caused Alya to pause. To really, really study the blonde. 

Of course, she didn’t get to entertain the thought too much because a flick of purple caught her eye. Alya gasped.

It was an akuma, but it wasn’t heading for her, despite her anger. The akuma was flying towards-

“Marinette!” Wayhem gasped, standing up and pointing to the black butterfly. Students around their table began screaming and running for exits, Luka and the others tensed and took a step back, and Marinette..

Marinette just froze. She stared at the akuma in horror, yet acceptance, as if she had been expecting this for a while now.

Just before the akuma could touch Marinette’s earrings, however, Felix stepped protectively in front of her, holding up his book as a shield. To everyone’s mutual terror, the akuma merged with Felix’s book instead, creating a purple, butterfly shaped mask in front of his face. 

Alya didn’t know what happened next, all she remembered was seeing Marinette’s eyes widen and being yanked towards the exit by Nino.

~~~~~~~

Marinette tried not to think about Alya’s acidic outburst or Lila’s malicious smirk, but that was all Felix talked about during their lunch period. He was angry- understandeably so - and when the others heard what happened, they were infuriated as well. She held back the tears as they tried to comfort her. Marinette shouldn’t have needed comfort. None of this should have happened in the first place. Adrien should have stuck up for her. The class shouldn’t have believed Lila over her. After everything she’d done. After everything she’d sacrificed, they-

“Akuma!”

Marinette’s gaze snapped upwards. Sure enough, a black butterfly was heading straight for her. 

She needed to run. Ladybug wasn’t allowed to get akumatized.

Nevertheless, Marinette stayed put, watching the akuma grow closer. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be? She had already been nearly akumatized three different times now. Perhaps Marinette was meant to get akumatized. Maybe she could finally let out some of her anger and frustrations without being judged or at fault. Chat Noir would turn her back to normal, right? Felix knew she was Ladybug so he would be able to help out as well.

Yes, Maybe this was a good thing.

That thought was shattered in an instant, though, when Felix threw himself in front of her. He was protecting her. Again. Only this time as Marinette instead of Ladybug. 

Reality slapped Marinette in the face as Felix became shadowed in a purple glow, and her Ladybug instincts finally kicked in.

She shot to her feet, eyeing the boy warily. “Felix?”

At the name, Felix- or an akumatized version of Felix -looked up. He wore a blood red suit with his black, button up shirt and tie. His blonde- now turned pitch black -hair was slicked to the side, and his silver eyes had turned a dark, inky grey with flecks of bright red. 

“Marinette..” Felix breathed, immediately stepping towards her. 

Marinette took a slight step back, hesitating when Felix lightly cupped her cheeks. 

“Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be fine now. You won’t have to deal with those idiotic classmates of yours anymore.” His voice was so soft and sweet that Marinette wasn’t entirely sure she was talking to the same, stiff classmate she knew.

“But Felix, I don’t-”

“My name isn’t Felix.” He cut her off sharply, though the gentleness never left his eyes. “It’s Karma, now. I’ll be back. Stay here.”

Before Marinette could say anything else, he was off, running in the direction of her other classmates. She stood there dumbly, bringing her hands up to touch her earrings. Felix never tried to take them. Did that mean he was still somewhat conscious in all of this?

“Marinette, let’s go!” Tikki whispered from Marinette’s purse.

Marinette startled, absently nodding her head and starting for the bathroom.

~~~~~~~

Chat Noir leaped towards the school as fast as he could from the place he transformed.

Why couldn’t Marinette just let Lila be? He warned her that someone would get hurt if she kept prying. This is exactly the reason they needed to let Lila go in the first place!

The cat heroine sighed as he landed in front of the back entrance to the school. Now he was going to have to fight Marinette when she could have avoided being akumatized at all. 

The walls around the door fell to decay and crumbled within seconds, causing Chat Noir to pause and hold his breath. Anticipation clouded the air as footsteps approached him in the wreckage. He tensed, slipping into a fighting stance as he unhooked his staff. 

“Marinette, please, I don’t want to fight you.” He pleaded.

“Well, that’s rather fitting then, isn’t it?” a cold voice responded as a man in a blood red suit stepped out of the smoke. “Because I’m not Marinette.” 

Chat Noir blinked, his stance slacking a bit. “Then who-” 

He was cut off by a sudden paralyzation that swept over his body, causing his limbs to feel rigid and stiff. 

“Chat Noir,” The akuma began, taking out a black book from his suit coat and opening it, “You constantly push your feelings onto Ladybug despite her protests and leave her to fight for herself. As punishment, you will no longer have any feelings to push onto her.” he informed with an icy glare, slamming the book shut. 

As soon as the akuma did so, a sharp coldness flooded into Chat Noir’s chest. Emptiness, numbness. He thought he would be angry towards the accusation, or scared of what the akuma meant, or even worried for Marinette, but he wasn’t.

He didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel anything. The thought would have terrified him had it not been for the circumstances. 

“Felix, you have to stop this!” 

Chat Noir barely registered the red blur landing in front of him. 

Felix? He was the one that was akumatized? What about Marinette?

“I’ve already told you, it’s Karma now.” The akuma said coolly, though certainly not as cold as when he spoke to Chat noir.

Why was that?

“Marinette wouldn’t want this!” Ladybug tried to reason

“No,” Karma agreed, “She wouldn’t. Marinette’s too nice to condemn those who’ve hurt her. She’s too kind to be this cruel. So I will be selfish for her.”

Ladybug looked pained towards the answer, and even Karma seemed a bit upset that they were fighting. Why were the two reluctant? Why hadn’t Karma attacked her with her own karma yet?

Chat had a hunch he would be angry if he could feel anything.

“My Lady, we need to cleanse the akuma.” He stated dryly, taking out his staff and lunging for Karma.

The akuma’s eyes never left Ladybug’s as he disappeared into thin air. 

Chat Noir stumbled, whipping around to try and find where Felix went, but Ladybug was already flinging out of her yoyo.

“What are you doing!” Chat demanded, frowning towards his partner.

Ladybug flinched, looking back at him with worry and exasperation in her gaze. “We have to find him before he hurts anyone!”

Chat Noir faltered at the urgency in her tone. Despite the hollowness aching in his bones, he knew he should be worried as well. So he listened to her as he always did and followed his lady.

~~~~~~~

Kagami wasn’t one to run away from fights. She didn’t mind getting her hands dirty as long as her mother gave her permission. When she saw that butterfly coming for Marinette, though, she genuinely felt fear.

Marinette was kind, gentle, too good for this world. If she was getting akumatized? who knew what kind of nightmare she’d become. 

Of course, Luka and the others didn’t want to leave Mari, either, but they were forced out of the school by the panicked crowds and worried teachers. Soon, they were all running from the building along with Marinette’s classmates, including Lila. 

Kagami knew full well this was Lila’s doing, and she wanted nothing more than to slice her to pieces with her sword. Unfortunately, now was the time for running, not revenge.

Or so she thought.

The group came to a screeching halt when a man in a suit appeared in front of them, black book in hand.

“Who are you?” Alya blurted out.

“Felix..” Kagami whispered, turning to look at Luka.

The blue-haired boy was equally as terrified. Of course Felix would get akumatized. He was infuriated at the class, a strong negative emotion. He was also extremely protective towards Marinette, and he would never have left her alone during the chaos.

But that begged the question, where was Mari?

“Alya Cessaire,” the akuma began, ignoring her question and opening his book, “you turned your back on your friend in need and instead believed a liar’s words over her own.”

She’s not a liar! Marinette’s the one who’s lying! That’s what Kagami expected Alya to shout, but the journalist, for once, said nothing. 

Then Kagami noticed how stiff the red head was. Not moving, not talking, almost like she was.. Paralyzed.

“Since you refused to see the truth, I, Karma, give you the punishment to not be able to see anything at all.” 

The akuma slammed the book shut, and Alya screamed. 

Nino asked her what was wrong, grabbing her flailing arms. Alya looked up, revealing her brown eyes to be clouded over.

She was blind. Felix- no, the akuma- blinded her. 

“Dude, what did you do!” Nino shouted in a fury. He had a right to be upset, Kagami reasoned. It was his girlfriend after all.

Karma calmly turned to Nino, and opened his book, causing the DJ to freeze. “Nino Lahiffe, you were told the truth and didn’t listen. Therefore, your punishment is you will not be able to hear anything.” 

The akuma slammed the book shut again, and Nino looked around.

“Alya?” he asked, slightly too loud. Then he said it again, this time louder. 

Then again. And again, each time increasing his volume.

Deaf.

Kagami stared curiously at the book, starting to understand. It was obviously the akumatized object. Anytime Karma opened it, it paralyzed the victim, most likely portrayed their actions, and, when closed, delivered their punishments.

“Please, there’s no need for this! Can’t we all just be happy?” Lila cried, burying her face in her hands. 

Karma snapped his gaze to the girl, rage exploding across his features. Kagami took an unconscious step back, not expecting him to get so upset. He’d been cool and composed until now.

The akuma flipped open the book with a new found determination, glaring daggers at Lila.

“Lila Rossi,” Acid dripped from his tone, “you’ve spread lies and deceit and filth throughout the world without remorse. As punishment, you will not be able to speak.” 

Karma slammed the book, releasing Lila from paralysis. 

The brunette immediately straightened and let out a whimper, clamping her hands over her mouth. She then doubled over, as if about to throw up, and spit something out. 

Kagami squinted, leaning closer to get a better look. When she realized what it was, her blood ran cold.

It was Lila’s tongue.

~~~~~~~

Marinette tried to level her breathing as she ran towards the direction her classmates had gone during the akumatization. She’d convinced Chat that it was smarter to split up, to search for Fe- Karma -since they weren’t sure where he’d go.

She knew, though. She knew he’d attempt to get revenge on Lila and the others. She also knew if she was going to appeal to Felix in any way, she needed to do it as Marinette. Ladybug wouldn’t know what Marinette does, and Felix was thankfully keeping her identity a secret. That meant she had to talk to him in civilian form. It could be dangerous, but after his speech right before he ran off, she was confident he wouldn’t hurt her. 

Well, she was pretty sure.

Marinette felt the confidence slip when she saw him facing down the class, specifically Lila. 

She felt a full on chill run down her spine when the brunette spit out her tongue onto the ground. Marinette knew akumas could be a bit aggressive, but this was plain morbid. 

“F-felix?” Marinette swallowed, trying to hide the fear in her voice. It wasn’t him- it wasn’t Felix. She knew that! 

But it was still a threat. If not Felix, then Karma. 

The akuma glanced up, instantly relaxing at her presence. 

Then he tensed back up. 

“I told you to stay out of this.” he said solemnly.

“And I told you I didn’t want any of this!” Marinette retorted, gesturing vaguely to the other classmates.

Karma sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m doing this for you, Mari.” 

“No.” She responded sternly. “If you were really doing this for me, you would do what I wished! You’re only doing what you wish!” her gaze then softened, as she took a step forward. 

“M-mari?” Alya gasped, feeling around the air to try to find her. 

Marinette’s stomach sank when she saw Alya’s blindness. How many others was Felix willing to hurt?

“Felix, you have to stop this, please.” She begged, taking another step. 

Remorse reflected in Karma’s eyes. “I can’t. Not until they all get what they deserve. Lila, Hawk Moth, everyone who’s treated you unfairly.”

Marinette shook her head. “They will, Felix. I promise they’ll get what they need, just-” she sucked in a breath as she held out her hand. “Just give me the book.”

She saw him hesitate, but he inevitably pulled it out of her reach. “I can’t. You’re always in trouble and hurting because of the jerks in this class. You always try to see the good in others, putting their feelings ahead of your own.” He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “And I love you for it..” 

The declaration was soft enough that Marinette thought she might have imagined it, but the blush of embarrassment on his face proved otherwise. 

Before Marinette could respond, the akuma abruptly straightened. “That’s why I’ll do it for you.” 

It took a moment for Marinette to realize he was referring to his earlier statement about punishing the class, and her eyes widened. 

“No!” She cried, lunging for the book. 

Karma raised it higher into the air, getting ready to teleport, when a staff knocked the book out of his hand. 

“Not so fast!” Chat Noir shouted, landing a few feet behind them. 

Marinette looked on in relief, but Felix scrambled for the black book that had flown across the street. 

He can’t teleport without the book. Marinette noted as she darted after him. That was good. He had a weakness. 

Chat Noir followed the two, using his staff to trip Karma and get closer to the book. Miraculously, Marinette got to the book first, quickly tearing it in half before anything else could interrupt her. 

Karma let out a gasp, his entire form being covered in a purple glow. Then Felix reappeared, a very dazed and confused look coming to his face. 

“Felix!” Marinette sighed in relief, running over to him.

Felix blinked, looking up at her. “Marinette? What- where am I? What happened?” He clutched his head with furrowed eyebrows, clearly trying to remember how he’d gotten so far away from the school.

“It’s okay, Fe. you were akumatized, so you probably don’t remember what happened.” Marinette said softly, kneeling in front of him.

“Akumatized?” Felix frowned. “Where’s the akuma? Shouldn’t you be.. You know.” He gestured vaguely to her figure, silently referring to her Ladybug alter ego.

Marinette pulled a nervous smile. “Ah, well, probably, but you need-”

“It doesn’t matter what I need.” Felix cut her off. “If the akuma is still out there, I can wait.”

Marinette pursed her lips, knowing she couldn’t argue with the statement. Nevertheless, she tried. “But-”

“Marinette.” Felix stressed. 

Marinette huffed, standing up. 

“I’m coming back to check on you.” 

“I’ll be at the school.” Felix replied, standing up as well and brushing himself off.

With a final, weary glance, Marinette ran off to transform and capture the akuma.

Tag list: @unabashedbookworm @bluerosette23 @minightrose@kuroko26@im-here-for-the-content @angstyrastuff @clumsy-owl-4178 @fanboy7794@choaticneturcl @bigcheeseyboi @burntnugget-tae @ayuchan07@honorisfortheweak @knightrose15 @mjisntme@rhub4rb @simplythebestbug@wilhelmares@zebrabaker@dargeon-lissa @kristycocopop @alumneia @kaydenth3gayden @thornangelic727 @flirtshobi @whatamessofwords @book-r-the-best @naomi-from-paleontology

[paintedrecs]

I was going to name a different one, but: the scene between Owen and Demona at the beginning of "All Is Mended" chapter three. :-D

That’s 800 words, so you’re cheating. Also what other one were you gonna name hmmmm.

For this meme.

Excerpt from this fic. (Gargoyles, Owen Burnett/David Xanatos, 11k, Owen POV, canon compliant.) Discussion under the cut.

“I don’t understand you,” Demona said.

Owen watched her approach; he’d heard her glide down to the castle but hadn’t bothered to move from his seat on the edge of a wide stone wall, overlooking the bright lights of the city stretching out far below. She was an ally for the present, working with Xanatos on his latest attempt at immortality. That didn’t mean Owen trusted her.

“You’re not human,” Demona said, folding her wings as she perched beside him—graceful, and dangerous, but not someone he wasted effort fearing. “Yet you act like one. Why.”

“I made a promise,” Owen said. He could’ve left it there, but he swept a sidelong look at her, then added, dryly, “Perhaps you need the word defined.”

“Funny,” she said, in a tone so casually uncaring that he could tell he’d poked at a particularly tender spot, one she’d spent centuries ignoring.

“So I’ve been told,” he said.

Demona’s lips pulled back slightly as she spoke through her fangs. “That’s what I mean, Puck. Why do you persist in masquerading in this skin, when we both know who you are?”

“I’m Owen,” he replied, adjusting the glasses that had slipped a little down his nose. The frames didn’t fit right around his ears anymore; he should have the screws tightened, when he had the time.

“You’re pining,” she spat, as though she’d never heard a fouler word.

That, he hadn’t expected. He didn’t bother denying it; Demona was many things, but never a fool. “I don’t see what relevance that has to you,” he said. “You wish to gain immortality; I’m doing my part. Owen is perfectly capable of playing his role.”

“And Puck has powers Owen could never dream of.” Demona tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. It was unpleasant, but he let her eyes scrape over him. “When you were last in your true form, as Puck—” she began.

Owen let out a sudden, scoffing breath. “When you held me in chains and made me do your bidding.”

She shrugged, lightly. “You said something to me then. You told me that if I wished, you could make Goliath love me again. Was that true?”

“I bend the truth,” he said. “When the mood strikes me. I do not lie.”

“So it was possible.”

“Yes,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure where she was heading. “Titania’s mirror is beyond your reach now. Even if you had it in your grasp, you know full well I wouldn’t carry out the wish the way you wanted.”

“Because you’re a trickster,” she said, with annoyance that bordered on grudging respect. It was clear that she hadn’t often run into someone who could best her. “But my point, Puck, is that you have this power. You could make David Xanatos love you.”

Owen’s lip curled in disgust; he turned away from her.

“Don’t pretend you have a human’s misguided sense of honor,” Demona chided, human sounding like the darkest expletive she could harness. “You’ve done worse, over the centuries, as have I.”

He didn’t bother dignifying her with a response.

“Answer me, Puck,” she demanded, then, dripping with disdain, when he remained silent: “Owen.”

“You think ill of humans,” Owen said, each word precise, biting. “You blame them for all your errors, for the foul deeds only you were responsible for carrying out. You think yourself above them, and you assume that I, as someone who has lived far longer than you, who has seen worlds you cannot fathom, will treat humans with as little esteem.”

Demona rose to her feet, towering over him, her eyes flashing red in fury.

Owen cast her a look that carried the full weight of his contempt. “Yes, I have the power to do as you say, and far beyond that. What you don’t see—what I suspect you’ve never seen—is that forcing someone to bend to your will is meaningless. All it does is show how weak, how petty, you are.”

Demona hissed at him, but did not approach. She unfurled her wings, and as she dropped from the turret, she cast back her parting shot. “You should know, then, that Fox is pregnant.”

“I know,” he said, to the now-empty sky. He watched as she followed the currents across the city, well past the clock tower where her former love resided, no longer thinking of her.

Xanatos hadn’t told him yet, but Owen was familiar with the signs. He’d seen, too, the way Xanatos had grown more careful with her, how his hands would instinctively stray, now, to her waist, her still-flat belly, not yet swollen with life. How he looked at her, with a light in his eyes that would’ve burned one less worthy to cinders.

“I know,” he repeated quietly and, adjusting his glasses and briskly dusting off his suit, returned to his work.

Commentary! Oof we’ll see if this gets long. Character limits on twitter make it easier to be concise. And please please let the read more actually work this time, tumblr.

So this is actually one of my favorite parts of that fic.

In general, I reach an Avoidance Point with my own writing; I edit obsessively, post, edit the posted fic a little more, then panic and stop rereading it. If you don’t check your bank account, it’ll never be empty. If you don’t reread your fics after you’ve posted them, you’ll never find out that (a) they’re terrible (b) there are a dozen more areas that could use more editing.

Nevertheless, I’m still, I think, really proud of this one. This particular section isn’t something that’s terribly new for me, not like other parts of the fic that stretched me beyond my usual comfort levels, but it is an interaction between two characters I’d never written before.

I’m really pleased with Demona’s voice here. The way she spits out Owen’s name, the hatred she shows for anything human, her very dubious (and self-centered) morality, the hints of lingering heartbreak over Goliath, her deep confusion over Puck choosing to take on human form. It’s the worst curse she can imagine - and since this scene takes place after “The Mirror,” you’ve seen how horrified she is at seeing herself as a human, a “gift” Puck bestowed upon her so she won’t turn to stone during the day.

Demona pissed Puck off, so he gave her what she asked for, but at a price he knew she would absolutely despise.

But Puck loves being a human. He loves being Owen. It’s something Demona can’t ever understand, and here she’s trying to, as much as Demona ever tries to truly understand anything that doesn’t directly benefit her.

Why would Puck spend his days in a form where he doesn’t have ready access to his exceptional powers? Why would he allow himself to continue serving a human - when he broke away from her so quickly, so easily? Demona might occasionally work with Xanatos, but she doesn’t like or trust him, and she’d readily destroy him alongside the rest of humanity, after she’s gotten what she wants/needs from him.

Why would Puck fall in love with a human - something that’s become obvious even to Demona, from working alongside the two of them. Worse: why the hell won’t he do anything about it, when he clearly has the power to make Xanatos do whatever he wants?

These were all questions I wanted to pull out of the story, and Demona - as someone who actually knows who Owen truly is - was a natural choice to press hard for some answers.

I layered a bunch of stuff into this interaction, but here are three main concepts:

1. Love isn’t selfish.

I don’t think Puck would’ve actually cast a love spell on Goliath if Demona had asked - not without throwing in a few twists and tricks. But the fact remains that he could have, and that it would’ve been comparatively easy. Demona didn’t ask for and didn’t really want that, but she did love Goliath for a long time, as much as she’s capable of loving anyone, so that offer would stick with her.

And Demona...well, Demona already used one free-will-spell against Goliath, so it’s not like it’s an idea she’s entirely adverse to.

Owen, on the other hand, would never consider making Xanatos do something against his will. (This is, in fact, something he and Xanatos share - Xanatos’s immense caution against pushing Owen into something he might not want contributes to that stupidly long gap before they resolve their relationship.)

If Xanatos doesn’t love Owen, that’s his choice. Owen is heartbroken about it, and he’s out here on the rooftop indulging in some quiet reflection on how it feels for a human heart to shatter, but he’ll shake it off and go back inside before long. Demona’s an unwelcome intrusion, and he’s understandably sharp with her.

2. Puck is a trickster, not a villain.

I have a lot of thoughts about Xanatos, too. While it’s not entirely relevant to get too into depth with here, I do think that a huge part of Puck’s attachment and loyalty to Xanatos comes from the fact that Xanatos is fascinating - not dull and full of preachy speeches like Renard - without being actually evil.

Demona is interesting, sure - she’s lived a long and exciting life - but Puck would never, ever willingly serve her. She’s selfish. She’s cruel. She’s vindictive. Puck doesn’t want to destroy humanity; he likes humans. He likes Xanatos best, yes, but he enjoys being in this world with the rest of them.

In the City of Stone episode, Owen stands toe-to-toe with Elisa and says, “Mr. Xanatos is trying to fix things. What are you doing to help?”

And that, I think, is the crux of the relationship between Owen and Xanatos. Owen sees Xanatos’s delightful trickster spirit, and he also sees the good in him. They’d both upend a city but would be careful to put it back to rights if things went too far. Demona would gladly stand back and watch it burn to the ground.

Demona can only see reflections of her own cruelty now. She hates humanity because they’re the easiest target to blame for her own flaws. Owen sees humans’ complexities and loves them for it.

And because he isn’t truly human - because he’s a fae who’s wandered the earth as long as Demona has, and has lived longer, with a much wider perspective on the world and all of reality - he has no reason to listen to her petty whining. And she might actually, for the barest moment, listen to what he says to her.

Of course, she has to get in one last dig before flying away in her usual dramatic huff, but he already knows that, too. Demona can’t hurt him; Owen made his own choices, knowing the consequences. And, unlike Demona, he’s willing to live with those consequences without trying to reflect the blame elsewhere.

3. You can choose your own identity.

Demona has very rigid ideas about...well, about pretty much everything. Humans are bad. Gargoyles are good. (As long as they side with her.) Her human form is something that’s useful to her now, but she’ll never stop loathing it or wishing she could shake it off.

She thinks everyone sees the world the way she does, and she assumes that Puck is (a) not entirely happy being trapped as a human, chained to Xanatos by a contract, like she attempted with the mirror (b) “pretending” to be someone else when he’s wearing his Owen shape.

But what I wanted to show throughout this fic is that Puck is Owen. And that even a fae subject to Oberon’s Rule can choose his own identity, his own name, his own place in a life that he wants to lead.

At one point here, Owen refuses to respond to Demona until she calls him by his proper name. She spits it out, hating it, but he’s already told her once that’s who he is. He gave himself that name; it’s the one he wishes to use.

Owen was born into a specific life. This life - with Xanatos, as Owen Burnett, glasses and suits and clunky flip phones and all - is the one he’s chosen for himself. And he’ll do everything in his power to keep it.

[justanotherdeadgirlwalking]

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Five. 

Art doesn’t just happen. It’s a process. You need a muse, an inspiration, something that lights a spark in your brain. Inspiration is everywhere. I’m surrounded constantly by beautiful bodies, beautiful faces. Sometimes you walk down the street and see how perfectly someone’s shoulders meet their slender neck, and the image burns into your mind. You want to see it in front of you again, but you can’t because that would require stalking the person to find them, and that’s super fucking creepy. So, you settle for the next best thing, you draw it. You sketch it over and over again until you get it right, and suddenly that woman is in front of you again. I prefer to draw people, because then you never run out of ideas. Faces are so unique; each body is different. There’s billions of people in the world, each one just waiting to be captured; I never run out of ideas. Eyes are like two little galaxies right in the center of the asteroid that is your face.

Putting together a portfolio has been a lot harder than I’d expected. I thought I’d just through my favorite drawings in a folder and call it a day. The only problem is, I hate literally everything I have ever drawn. Mom has always told me that my drawing look like photographs. That’s complete bullshit because you can see fingerprint smudges, and you can tell that one eye is significantly better than the other, and the noses look like shit. I literally want to redo every piece.

I’m not being one of those people that says their work is shit because they’re fishing for compliments, I know they’re good. I’ve been featured in district art shows, and I’ve won awards. And I’m not trying to sound like a cocky asshole either. Art is just the one thing in my life I have complete and total control over, and trust me, I took control. I can choose how it looks, I can make it as perfect, or imperfect as I want it. I had to beg my parents for the best pencils and canvas to use. I figured, I didn’t take music lessons or dance lessons like Zoe did, you guys can buy me some quality supplies. They didn’t want to waste money on the stuff if I wasn’t going to use it. As a child I tried a lot of sports and hated them. When I was ten, I joined the swim team. I practiced every day, for hours. I even talked Zoe into training with me, I made her time me, and yell at me in an angry German accent when I wasn’t making time. Then, after probably hundreds of hours of training, I decided that I didn’t like swimming before I even had the chance to compete. I guess they didn’t want me to do the same thing with art. Mom finally took me to an art store, like a real art store, when I proved to her I was serious about it. It was like going to Disney world. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of was right there in front of me. There was a wall of colored pencils. There were pencils in every color I could think of, and then some, colors I never even seen before. I stood there in awe. It was a game changer to use real colored pencils, not Crayola’s. Larry was so mad, he didn’t understand how art supplies could be so expensive. Well, I don’t understand why someone would spend $100 on a dozen golf balls either, so I guess we’re even.

Since I couldn’t realistically redo every piece of art I’ve ever made, I decided I would just use every piece that my art teacher loved and draw one new piece. It seemed like a good compromise. Miss Schmitt was the only person I really trust with anything. She’s always pushed me to keep going, not to give up on a piece and see it through. She didn’t teach me how to draw, you can’t teach talent, but she always motivated me.

I really needed her motivation now. There was one person I really wanted to draw, but I seemed to have a mental block on what they looked like. Miss Schmitt told me to use a reference picture, but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was drawing. It would make me look psycho, and people finally stopped thinking I was a freak.  I couldn’t bring myself to draw his face, so I drew his body. I drew his New Balance sneakers and his mal fitting khakis. I spent hours trying to replicate the crease down the front of his pants just right. I even made a special trip to the art store to make sure I found the right shades of blue for his stupid stripped shirt. I got an off-white colored pencil so I could shade his cast just right. Evan’s arm may not be broken anymore, but when I think of him, I think of him in his cast, just after I signed it. When everything was still really real and made sense.

I’ve become obsessed with him. How could I not be, he was my one and only friend. Except, that wasn’t true, and he used me for a better life. I really wanted nothing to do with him, but at the same time I wanted to know everything about him. It didn’t help that he was always around.

There was a knock on my door. “Come in” I called, snapping my sketchbook shut. I looked up to see Evan in my room, behind him, Zoe was peering in, almost hiding. “What’s up” I asked them, annoyed. Evan stands there for a second, looking down and playing with his fingers. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Um, me and Zoe want to talk to you” he spits out in a nervous stutter. I motion for them to come in. Zoe comes in and sits on my bed, not looking at me. Evan stands still for another moment before pulling the door shut and sitting on the ground where he stood. Everyone is silent for a moment, avoiding eye contact. I cough loudly to end the awkwardness.

“What did you guys want to talk about?” I ask.

Its Zoe that answers, softly, her voice breaking, “I want answers,” she says. Well kid, that makes two of us. “Why did you try to kill yourself.”

I feel like I was kicked in the chest. I don’t really have an explanation as to why. I just did. It was impulsive, seemed like the right thing to do in the moment. I wasn’t suicidal, and I wasn’t depressed beyond my normal gloom and doom. I just did it because I felt like it. I wasn’t feeling helpless or worthless, just bored. Except, I can’t tell her that. “Connor?” she asks. I just stare at her, hoping she will drop it. She meets my gaze and raises an eyebrow. She looks so sad, so broken. I must have really hurt her.

“I don’t want to talk about it” I say.

She sighs and balls her fists and taps them against her legs. She didn’t like that answer. I get it. I’d want to know too, I guess. Except, there’s nothing to know. Except, I wasn’t as important to her as she is to me.

“In the emails you wrote to Evan,” she starts. Oh, great the fake emails, “you were doing so well. Please you don’t need to tell me everything, but I just want to know what happened”

“I said I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” I snap.

Evan coughs, bringing attention to himself. I forgot he was here for a second. He looks nervous, really nervous. I don’t blame him, I could blow up his whole life right now with the truth. “Maybe he needs more time Zoe” he says. I give him a dirty look.

Zoe slams her hand against the bed, “You’ve had months,” she yells, “How much more time do you need. How do you go from climbing trees with Evan to killing yourself in a park?”

“Zoe,” Evan says, “you remember what you read, you don’t want to trigger him.” Trigger me? Okay Evan, you just don’t want me to tell the truth. Evan stands and opens the door, motioning for Zoe to leave. She looks at me again, pleading me with her eyes, then gets up and leaves. Evan lingers for a moment, watching her walk down the hall to her room. He steps back in and slams the door.

“We need to talk f-for real,” He says.

“Oh, for sure” I say, standing up and covering the distance between us until I’m towering over him, “Let’s talk about how you’re taking advantage of my entire fucking family.”

He’s beet red. “I’m not” he says, looking at the floor.

“Hey buddy, we’re not friends, we never were friends, and we’re probably never going to be friends.” I say

“Wh-why not?” he whispers.

“News flash,” I yell, “the first and only time I ever talked to you was when I signed your cast remember? You lied to everyone, and you’re a shitty liar.”

Evan is silent, he’s staring at the ground and pulling at his fingers. I watch him as he scratches his neck, pulls his ear, shifts his weight. I’ve thought Evan and I were the same; neither of us had friends because we were outcasts so to speak. He was just socially awkward, whereas I was the school freak. But I could tell he felt the same stuff I felt. The same wish that someone would notice us, that we were both on the outside, always looking in. Maybe if things were different we would be friends. I tried reaching out to him, but he was too self-absorbed with his own issues to notice me. And now, I am somehow engulfed in his issues. He took my suicide and made it about him. He lied to my parents and Zoe and the whole world. Evan Hansen was a nobody, a barely in the background kind of guy, and now his basically an internet celebrity. And me? People still don’t care about me, but at least they’re nice to me now.

I think that’s why I’m so angry about the whole situation. He got what he always wanted, he got his dreams come true. He got a taste of a perfect life, so he did what he had to do. But it ends now. I hope it was fun and he had a blast while he dragged me along.

“Did you read the emails?” Evan finally asks. I read them. He wrote a story of a perfect friendship. Friends that quote their favorite bands and tells jokes nobody understands except us two, and there’s nothing that we can’t discus, like girls we wish would notice us but never do. He even included me encouraging him to go after my sister. The fucking creep.

“Dear Evan Hansen,” I say, “You either tell Zoe and my parents the truth, or I will.” I open my door and shove him out of my room, “Sincerely, me.

[sol1056]

three contagonists in one

another two-parter anon:

...while many people [note] Lotor's lack of a relationship with Keith, I find infinite wasted potential in what could've been an interesting arc with Shiro. Both leaders, explorers, abused by the empire, and --- this was stressed for some reason in the Kral Zera episode --- both being a special object of Sendak's hatred.

You just knocked right on one of the few truly fascinating aspects of S3-S6, and one VLD seems to have completely overlooked: Lotor’s positioning as a mirror contagonist.

There’s something you’ll find in a lot of the Gundam series that I haven’t seen too many other series do, and it’s become my favorite way to flesh out a cast. Although most Gundam series have a nominal protagonist, there’s usually a core group of pilots. Each will step into the main spot for a few episodes, and each has a secondary character who acts as their foil. This is their mirror contagonist. 

I first noticed the pattern in Gundam Wing, where it was most stark. Heero had Relena, whose innocence balanced his brutal backstory yet whose political savvy balanced his ignorance of the bigger picture. Duo had Hilde, who’d become a traditional soldier while Duo acted alone. Trowa had Cathy, whose compassion and extroversion matched his detachment and isolation; Quatre had Dorothy, whose ruthlessness and game-playing echoed Quatre’s darker side. And Wufei had Sally, who refused to mope, but grabbed the bull by the horns. Even the antagonists had mirror characters.

A mirror contagonist is also an impact character: they’re the only one the protagonist can’t ignore, even when no one else can get through. Done right, it’s an intriguing way to highlight a character’s internal conflict. But boy, do mirror contagonists take a lot of planning. 

First, they must have a goal of their own, or they’re just a plot device to artificially force the protagonist into plot-movement. Some walk-on just happens to say the right thing to make the hard-headed protagonist think twice? Gee, how convenient. Nope, the mirror character must have their own trajectory, or it won’t be believable that their words/actions could shove the protagonist’s trajectory onto a new course. 

Second, as a contagonist, their trajectory may run parallel to the protagonist’s, but it must differ in the details, whether means or ends. The contagonist is a makeshift ally (as much as they align with the protagonist), but there must also be conflict, and that’s where the quasi-antagonist role comes into play.  

Third, the contagonist personifies either the lie the protagonist believes, or the truth they must accept. Since that points back to the protagonist, you really have to nail down exactly what wound lives in the protagonist’s backstory, what their self-protective lie is, and what truth they need to recognize. Otherwise you end up with a mirror character who’s more like a broken funhouse than a solid reflection. 

Really, you’re creating a secondary character who is tailored to be the only one who can force the protagonist to face the truth. If a secondary character works as a mirror/impact for multiple protagonists in your story... your protagonists need some serious switching-up in their lies, their truths, or their goals. Or all three. 

And that brings me to Lotor. 

He’s a match with Allura, by virtue of his Altean obsession, and their respective parents. He’s also clearly set up as an impact character, with his words changing Allura’s trajectory like no other character manages. He also seeks peace, with similar means (a sentient mecha) but differing goals (taking over the empire rather than dismantling it). 

Although Keith and Lotor never actually meet except for two short scenes, Lotor’s also rife with parallels to Keith. Their respective backstories are shot through with implied neglect, abandonment, distrust, and isolation; Keith’s near-obsession with Lotor underscores that parallel, of like calling to like. 

And yeah, you’re right: there’s a third set of parallels with Shiro. In terms of leadership styles, they’re both inclusive of their teams, fond to a point but always with an edge of distance. They’re strategic thinkers, rather than tactical, and they tend to take the long-range view over short-term gains. And yes, it is rather odd that Sendak seems to have especial contempt for both of them.

This is actually where my original thesis -- that Lotor would make a great mirror contagonist -- falls apart. Because it makes no sense for him to be the mirror for three separate characters. As a contagonist, yes, but to mirror each of these? I mean, we’re supposed to see Allura, Keith, and Shiro as separate entities, so creating someone so well-rounded they can mirror all three...

Lotor is actually a protagonist. 

I’ve alluded to this before, and others have come right out and said it, but this also presents somewhat of a problem. First is that this is too late in the game to be introducing major repeating characters (let alone a seventh protagonist). He should’ve been introduced --- even in passing --- no later than S2. And he should’ve at least been mentioned in S1, so we were aware of the chance he’d enter the fray. 

The second (and larger) problem is that despite being characterized as fully as a protagonist, he swings in and out of being a plot device. Frankly, it’s like the story has no idea what to do with him; he takes up too much room. (Honestly, he would’ve been an amazing protagonist by himself, but I guess that’s too much of a complete reboot to flip the tables like that.)

In S3, Lotor isn’t aligned as a true antagonist; the resulting interactions end up more like protagonists from overlapping stories. Lotor needs a goal that either opposes the team (ie, attack vs defend the empire) or competes with it (both racing to capture the same comet). 

Instead, the team is focused on defeating the empire and Lotor is like, well, whatever. The entire reason they meet is because Lotor manipulates them for his own ends, but these aren’t ends that (at that point) seem to impact the team beyond annoying them. Putting Lotor front-and-center thereby shifts the story to him, which makes the sudden swerve away from him around S4 just as jarring as the original shift to him. 

By S5, Lotor hasn’t lost that layered characterization... and the story still isn’t sure how to balance him with the paladins. He shows flashes of being a true contagonist, in that his objectives are loosely parallel to the team’s, but their ends (overthrow Zarkon) are his means, not his ends (take command of the empire). 

This is where Lotor’s positioning as a quasi-protagonist reveals some major story problems: mainly, that the core team has never expressed what will happen after. The entire coalition storyline --- from the end of S2 to the end of S4 --- drops out of sight, and in the gap, Lotor’s goals become the team’s goals. That’s not a mirror contagonist; that’s a protagonist taking over the story. 

Only one scene ever veers close to doing what it should with a contagonist, or even a mirror: have a discussion. Instead, we get Lotor saying, “this is what we need to do,” the team argues yes or no (but not why), Shiro snaps at Lance, and the debate is over. 

That closed the door on Lotor ever being more than an exposition fairy and plot device. The purpose of a contagonist is to poke holes in the heroes’ plans. Shiro and Lotor (or, in the non-clone version, Keith and Lotor) should’ve gone head-to-head over the (expected) divergence in their respective goals. 

When the story doesn’t go there, it’s a sign the team has no end-goal. There’s nothing, at that point in S5, to indicate what any of the paladins consider criteria for success. What must happen, or be in place, for the team to say the war has ended and been won? Who knows; it’s never discussed or even implied.

Without a goal on the paladins’ part, Lotor has to be stepped back: no meeting with Keith, no exploration of the parallels with Shiro. He’s limited to a plot device that enables Allura’s power-up, provokes conflict for Lance, and provides a ready-made Next Step for the paladins. That is, ‘support Lotor in reforming the empire.’ Which actually just boils down to ‘become the empire’s lackey,’ including vrepit-sa’ing people. (Ugh.) 

This, I suspect, is also the reason Lotor had to be stripped of his generals before the story let him meet the paladins; the generals would’ve been four more contagonists (one for each paladin) and the story could barely handle Lotor. It wasn’t up to interrogating each paladin’s individual reasons for being in the story, especially when 3/5ths didn’t seem to have explicit goals. 

There’s no doubt Lotor was a compelling character, with damn good personal reasons for wanting his parents overthrown. He was far more interesting, too, when he had little inclination to rule, as this implied some larger scheme separate from simply gaining power. But that also made him an awkward character for contagonist or mirror purposes. Compared to his strong motivations, the paladins became cardboard in their own story: no goals, no tensions pulling at them (other than Lance’s jealousy), no outside pressures forcing them to act, no internal needs pushing them to choose.  

The very nature of Lotor’s personal vendetta revealed, in comparison, the paladins’ complete lack of personal motivation. For that reason, he had to be reduced first to an exposition fairy, then to a plot device, and then to a pawn tossed one way then the other and finally to a villain shrieking madly. Letting him retain the strength and depth of a protagonist only made clear how little the true protagonists filled that same role. 

I should add: Shiro is the one exception to this, as anon points out. Of the team, barring possibly Allura, Shiro is the only one with a personal connection to all three major antagonists (Sendak, Zarkon, Haggar), and the only one with a personal reason to make the empire pay. Contrasting Lotor and Shiro would’ve made sense, as respective leaders, and would’ve been a strong argument with no right answer and serious emotional beats.

The story veered away, I think, because that would’ve returned Shiro’s motivations to the forefront. By S5, I suspect the EPs were already trying to downgrade Shiro and minimize his personal stakes. With Lotor’s parallels to Shiro, the easiest way for the story to dismiss Shiro’s unanswered questions was to diminish the one character whose presence could raise those questions again.

[themutantunderground]

Let Your Heart Be Light Ch. 6

John is home on leave from the Marines and Clarice is home on winter break from grad school. While they used to date in high school, Clarice and John haven't been together in a long time... But it's Christmas time, and it seems like everything and everyone in their small, holiday-obsessed hometown is trying to get them back together. Modern Thunderblink AU!

AO3 | FF.net

"Stay still for five seconds, Riles."

Clarice glanced over at John, who was trying to wrangle a wriggly Riley into her winter gear. The kid was so tired she was actually in an energetic mood, so she was making things difficult by moving around and talking to anyone who walked by and trying to practice her Tiny Tim hobble. Clarice had to bite down on a smile as John tried to put Riley's hat on her and missed as she swooped under his arm and toward James, who was standing nearby.

"She's being so silly," Norah said. Unlike Riley, she was sitting on the edge of the stage, coat on and ready to go.

"No kidding," Clarice said, raising an eyebrow as James swiped up Riley and literally tossed her to John. Clarice sucked in a breath but quickly remembered this was just how they were and Riley liked being thrown around like that. She shouldn't be worried, it wasn't as if either of them would ever drop Riley. Still, her eyes followed the seven-year-old as John tossed her into the air twice, making her shriek with giggles.

He caught her and set her on the ground, rapidly plunking her hat down on her head and then holding her in place with his hands on her shoulders. "Calm down, kiddo."

"I can't help it, I gotta run," Riley said, trying to pull away but John had a firm hold on her. She sighed and slumped back against his legs, looking over at Clarice. "Claaarice, make him let go."

Clarice shook her head. "No can do." Not anymore, at least. She had a feeling that Riley sometimes forgot that Clarice and John weren't actually dating anymore. They weren't enemies or anything, they just weren't…things weren't the same. But they had dated some in high school and a year after that, and Riley probably just thought of them that way.

"Are we still going to drive by the lights?" Riley asked, craning her head back to look up at John. "You said maybe we could."

"I said if it wasn't too late, and it's already nine."

"It's like four hours past your bed time," James said, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Ali had already left with one of her other friends, so now he had time to spend with the rest of them. Fancy that.

Riley made a face. "Is not, I don't go to bed that early."

"Aunt Evelyn changed your bedtime," James said, "You go to bed at sunset now."

"Do not!"

"She told me, it's the truth. When the sun goes down, you go to bed, so it's way past your bedtime."

Riley made a wild attempt to push James, but she couldn't get away from John. "She did not tell you that!"

"Did so."

"Not!"

"So."

John sighed. "James…"

"Oh my gosh, you're both acting like preschoolers," Clarice said, rolling her eyes at James, who looked very pleased at aggravating Riley. "I think we could go past the lights on the way home, if that's okay with the driver?" She looked over at John and raised an eyebrow.

He nodded. "I think we could do that if someone would chill out just a little bit." He gently squeezed Riley's shoulders and she made a whiny noise. "Agreed?"

"Yeaaaah," Riley said, raising her shoulders and nodding.

John squeezed her shoulders again and then let her go so she could dash over to Norah. The two of them headed off down the theater aisle toward the back doors, James following after them so they wouldn't get into too much trouble. Clarice stuck her hands in her pockets and looked over at Kurt.

"Hey, we're heading out," she said, interrupting his conversation with one of the other actors, "You've got our numbers, right?"

"I think so, unless you changed them," Kurt said with a grin. "Which wouldn't do without telling me, of course?"

"Of course not," Clarice said, rolling her eyes. The fact that she had somehow kept the same phone number all these years was a bit of a miracle.

"You guys have a good night," Kurt said, giving a little wave, "Don't get into too much trouble."

"Because there's so much trouble to get into in Westchester," Clarice said, "We'll just go climb the water tower or something."

A half-smile darted across John's face as they walked up the aisle side by side, their elbows carefully not brushing. "You still remember that?"

Clarice smirked. "I moved away, I didn't have my memory wiped," she said, hoping it came across more as teasing than snarky. But judging by the quick flash of uncertainty that crossed John's face, it hadn't entirely worked. She quickly backtracked. "It's still one of my favorite memories."

John's eyebrow shot up. "We got arrested."

"But it was worth it."

That got a reluctant laugh out of him. "I had community service for two months!"

"You worked at the wildlife center, it wasn't like you hated it," she said, "Remember that hawk that tried to adopt you?"

"Terrence? Yeah, I think he still lives in the woods around here."

Clarice started pulling on her gloves, getting ready for the explosion of winter outside. There were at least a many old memories they had together, gathered from years spent as friends and then something more. She still remembered way back when she first met him, that shaggy-haired ten-year-old boy who didn't have a bike and always frowned. He had been sitting on his aunt's front porch, having gotten sent outside after breaking a lamp inside. Clarice and Marcos had ridden up on their bikes and Marcos had offered to steal his brother's bike for John and the rest was history.

"Hold on." John reached past her as they stepped up to the door, his fingers resting on the worn wood, keeping it closed. He looked down at her, his brown eyes full of sincerity, his gaze searching hers. "Are you really okay with this?"

"With the lights? Yeah, it's not a problem." She pulled her toboggan on her head and shrugged. "I wanted to see them anyways."

"That's not…no, I meant the play. The parts we have." He shifted, looking uncomfortable, and he sucked a breath in through his teeth. "The whole married thing."

A shiver went down Clarice's spine because once upon a time, this wouldn't have been a big deal. Actually, once upon a time, she would've assumed she would have been married to John Proudstar by this point. But that was her eighteen-year-old self, who hadn't known anything about the world except a tiny town and a little community. And she had been the one to break things off, thinking the distance would be too much, that it was too much when they were both young…

"It's just a play," she said, trying to be nonchalant, "It's not a big deal, right? And we're doing it for the kids."

"Right." John smiled, but she knew it was forced. Had she said something wrong? Had she…was that the wrong thing to say? Sometimes it was so easy to be around him, like no time had passed, and other times the tension was thick and awkward between them.

"Are you okay with it?" she asked.

"Yeah, no, it's fine. Except I'm going to completely ruin it," he said, making a face, "I'm not exactly an actor."

"I think you'll manage." Clarice reached up and grabbed his hood, flipping it up over his head. "Don't want your ears to get cold."

"Thanks," he said, his eyes lingering on hers. After a long moment, he shifted his hand and opened the door for her. She slipped out past him and was instantly grabbed by Riley and Norah. Riley bounced on the balls of her feet while Norah simply tugged Clarice down the path toward the truck.

"We have to go down Carter Street," Norah said, "It's sort of on the way, and they have the best lights this year."

"That's just 'cause our street isn't finished decorating yet," Riley said, "We'll beat 'em."

Clarice shook her head. "I wonder how much money this town shells out in electricity bills this time of year."

"Bazillions of dollars," Riley said in a serious tone, "Like kajillions."

"Wow, that's so much money," Clarice said with a grin.

Behind them, James must have said something that John disagreed with because John grabbed his younger brother and put him in a quick headlock. James was laughing, so it wasn't like it was serious fight. Besides, wrestling was sort of just a thing between them. Clarice had seen Riley try to join in before, and it was cute seeing two powerhouses being super careful yet still trying to make it seem like she was wrestling, too.

James fought back, but John had a good grip on him, and he couldn't get free. They scuffled a little while longer until John dropped James into a bush and caught up with the rest of them.

"So Carter Street," John said as if he hadn't missed a beat, "We could do that."

"And that road with the sleigh? The big one?" Riley grinned, mischief in her brown eyes.

John shook his head. "Just Carter Street." When Riley started to pout, he arched an eyebrow. "You do actually have a bedtime, remember."

She crossed her arms with a huff and marched ahead of the others. "Fine…"

Carter Street wound up being even more over the top than Clarice remembered. She pressed a hand to the window, an incredulous laugh escaping her, as they drove past a yard with an entire Santa Claus vs. Krampus scene out front. "That's just…so extra."

"Right?" James said, rolling his eyes, "Paul is actually proud of it. It's his dad's house, he's the football coach."

"Do the elves have a papier-mâché cannon?" Clarice asked.

"I think it's plastic," John said.

"It's wooden," James said.

Clarice sat back in her seat as they rolled slowly down the street, the girls in the backseat chattering away across James. Some things in Westchester never changed, like the Christmas light displays and knowing that practically everyone in the town knew each other. She looked over at John, who was grinning, the colorful lights casting a glow across his face. Their hands were both on the console but they were carefully not touching. Her favorite stations weren't saved on the radio. She wasn't wearing his jacket and he wasn't wearing her scarf.

Some things stayed the same. Others changed.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Bad Moon Rising 3: Earthquakes and Lightning

Fic: Earthquakes and Lightning (Ao3 link)

Fandom: Flash, DC's Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Barry Allen/Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, background mentions of Barry Allen/Iris West/Eddie Thawne, one-sided Eobard Thawne/Barry Allen Series: Bad Moon Rising

Summary: So it looks like Leonard Snart and Mick Rory, Central City supervillains (and one a werewolf, too), have made some...interesting changes in their relationship with each other. They're not just partners anymore; they're mates. Or, as wolves put it, pack.

Barry's a little curious about it.

He's definitely not jealous or anything.

A/N: Mature content. See Ao3 for warnings.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barry's just curious, okay?

He's certainly not jealous or anything, the way Caitlin likes to tease.

Certainly not.

That'd be absurd.

They’re supervillains. What does he have to be jealous about?

He's just -

Curious.

Snart's been different lately. That's all.

Ever since that evil sorceress.

See, Snart might be a supervillain, but he and Barry, they had a good arrangement going. After a couple of clashes, they’d agreed that there were some things that are just too much of a threat to the city for either of them to appreciate, and that meant that sometimes Snart and Rory would come by to help out Team Flash with the bad guy of the week. And when they were done, they’d meet up in Saints and Sinners, Snart’s favorite bar, a day later and break down what’d gone right and wrong in the battle. Snart insisted on it, supposedly to help them work out how best to work together without stepping on each other’s toes, but honestly Barry just thinks Snart just likes recreating the battle and talking about how they kicked ass.

This time, though, things had gone – differently.

For one thing, Snart had skipped the usual post-team-meet-up and let Rory reschedule it for him, which – if you knew anything about how much of a control freak Snart could be – was a bit weird. Barry hadn’t thought much of it, because if there’s anyone Snart will let do things for him, it’s definitely Rory.

And then Barry had had to reschedule the meet-up again, because of Grodd, and so it’d been a solid few days before they finally had a chance to actually meet.

And when they had –

Things were different.

Snart’d been sitting there in his favorite booth at Saints and Sinners, Rory at the bar ordering drinks, same as always. Except it wasn’t the same, not really.

There was something different.

Something different in the quality of Snart's smirk, more comfortable and relaxed than Barry's ever known him to be.

Something different in the way that Rory comes to stand by his side without a word when Barry walks in.

Something different in the way that Rory's insane moon-fueled fury has been tamed, the wolf and the man’s eternal struggle for self-control suddenly stopped, finished, and replaced with the surety and security that comes from belonging.

Now, Barry's not stupid.

He knows all about wolves, even new wolves like Rory. He knows very well what's happened, that Snart and Rory have made the shift from being partners to being pack, and probably mates alongside it - definitely mates alongside it, to judge by the hickies all up Snart's neck and the smugness of his smirk, the way he shifts in his chair like it's just the littlest bit uncomfortable, the way his legs are splayed open and he's slouching so as to barely conceal the fact that he's walking funny. Conceal, that’s a laugh; Snart’s displaying it, that pretense of concealment all but a neon sign saying ‘look to see’. And it’s not just that. It’s the way Rory’s centered on him at all times, sight and sound and scent all focused on Snart; the way Rory’s mouth quirks upwards in pleasure every time Snart shifts a little, displaying for all the world to see what the two of them have been up to.

So it’s not like it’s a mystery or anything. Barry knows what happened.

Barry's just curious, that's all.

After all, it’s new, isn’t it, and it’s Barry’s job to keep up with what’s new with his allies.

The Speed Force roils inside of him, whispering, and Barry calls upon it like an old friend. With that power inside of him, Barry looks at Snart and Rory with older eyes than he was born with and he can see all the little details that human eyes would have missed. He can see the binding of pack between them, a magical bond as strong as any. He can see the pledges of loyalty that have already been made to them in honor of their strength; he can even see the offers to join them that are not yet accepted, that are still being considered, a growing pack of wolves and non-wovles forming a magical web of connections that other supernaturals will be wise to fear. The pack that’s being nurtured here will be a strong one, he can see that, too; he can see the strength of it, the power, Snart’s intensity paired with Rory’s fierceness. Barry can even see the jealousy and envy radiating off the others standing in the bar, more of them than usual, drawn to see the new pack; he can see the way they stare at Snart, stare at Rory, he can see their desire to have what these two have formed, the others’ desire to take it away nearly as strong as their desire to give in and belong.

Technically, they're still in the competition phase, Snart and Rory are, with Snart nominally available to other wolves - and damn attractive to them too, Barry's certain, with his indomitable willpower, his innate strength, his insight and cleverness and the way he moves through the world, slow as an oncoming ice age but just unstoppable - but any idiot would be able to see that nothing and nobody will split these two up.

Snart owns Rory every bit as much as Rory owns Snart, and both of them savagely, viciously rejoicing in that ownership, that territoriality, that sense of belonging, of having fit in just the right puzzle piece to make everything make sense.

They fit together better than most established packs.

Yeah, this pack is going to be a powerhouse, Barry has no doubt. It's going to upturn Central City's established status quo. They could take over the whole place if they want to – and even if they don’t, they might anyway, just by sheer overwhelming charisma.

Barry's young enough to have never seen a new pack forming with his own eyes, instead of the genetic memory that the Speed Force offers him; it's fascinating, really, the way the magic wraps around them, inside and out, the supernatural power flowing between them like an open channel. The magic rebounds upon itself, traveling from one to the other, getting stronger every time, and they were already damn strong to start with even without the magic.

Barry wonders if Snart knows about the changes he'll go through, the physical ones and the magical ones, the changes - far more subtle than a full lycanthropic shift, of course, and nothing like what a bite would do to him - that will make him a true mate to the wolf he's chosen to partner.

Barry wonders if Snart thought those changes were a plus, when he made his decision, or if he didn't think of them at all - if he just gave everything of himself to his partner, body, heart, mind and soul, without asking a single question –

Barry wonders –

Damnit. Barry's not just curious.

He is jealous.

Not of Snart, not of Rory, but of both of them. He’s jealous, yes, he’s madly jealous, ravenously jealous. Jealous of them for having that connection with each other, a connection that is so much more than just familiarity with each other, so much more than just fitting in with each other, so much more of everything.

He’s jealous of that devouring encompassing hunger they have for each other, that overwhelming obsession that each must have with the other, as uncontrollable as an onrushing storm. Anything less than that wouldn't have made them pack. Anything less than that endless commitment wouldn't have made them mates.

It's not like the vampires, who can select a fledgling at will but at great personal cost. Vampires can make mistakes in the fledging process, and wolves can make the same mistake with their bites, but any wolf that chose a mate who was less than fully committed, less than fully obsessed, wouldn't get very far in forming their own pack. If the feeling wasn’t mutual, if the feeling wasn’t there, the chosen individual would be swallowed up by the lycanthropy, becoming a wolf in turn, subject to the same instincts, the same pull as their maker - the pull of the moon, of the pack - and the two of them would be forced to seek out another pack to sate their needs. An established pack, most likely; one that already knew what it was about but which would put a price on entry that the wolves would have no choice but to pay.

Not Snart and Rory, though.

They're everything to each other. Everything. Fight and fury, love and care, everything; the two of them are everything in the world the other needs, and they know it, too. It's that certainty, that bedrock foundation, that makes them pack. It’s what makes them capable of offering that certainty to others, inviting other wolves to rely upon that strength, of bearing new wolves themselves, of being the center of the intense magical hurricane that is a werewolf pack.

Okay, yes, Barry's jealous.

You bet he's jealous.

It’s not just that he wants one, wants the other, though he kind of does since they’re beautiful, both to his magical vision and to his regular one. It’s not just that.

He’s jealous of the connection they have.

Lightning spirits like Barry live lonely lives.

They're territorial, for one thing, but not in the way wolves are, where it's all about having a home to show off and defend, a den to rest their heads in, a safe spot from the world that must be defended. No, lightning spirits aren’t nearly as domestic as that – they draw their magic from the lightning, cold and harsh and utterly alien to life the way that mammals understand it, and the lightning that gives them their powers is the same thing that shapes their personality.

Unlike wolves, who guard their home with love, lightning spirits are happy enough to share their home with other supernaturals. They’re only territorial against other lightning spirits.

Lightning spirits hate each other.

Far too similar to ever like each other, it's as if they're magnetized against each other: two positives against each another or two negatives. They’re always repulsed by each other. They can never be together.

Eobard came from the future: he’d been obsessed with Barry, mad for him, for his legend, for his self. Learning the stories about Barry hadn’t been enough for him – he needed more. He wanted to befriend Barry, to call him his own; he wanted to be Barry. By sheer force of fanatical will and brilliance, he forced a transformation, pulled the force of the lightning within himself, becoming a speedster just like Barry so that he could run back through time itself and meet his hero.

It was only when they met in person that Eobard understood the folly of what he’d done.

By becoming a lightning spirit, he’d guaranteed that he could never make Barry his, that they would never be friends, that they would never be anything more than the most pitiless of enemies.

Eobard denied it, tried to deny it; he’d dubbed himself Reverse-Flash, trying by force of that terrible will to make himself the negative to Barry's positive. He’d thought that he could bind them together that way, make them enemies, yes, but the finest of enemies – the type of enemy that was less an enemy than an opposite, drawn so close together by the pull of magnetism between them, that they were sealed together forever in a grasp so close that nothing could ever pull them apart – but that's not how it works.

It's never how it works.

Lightning spirits aren't meant for the company of their own kind.

Barry can barely tolerate Wally, who he loves like his own brother if he had had one, and even then it's only because Wally's so young, so tender, a newborn fledge; it's Barry's job to help him take those first few stumbling steps into a world that moves too slow for them. The role that for Barry should have been Jay Garrick's, but that Eobard stole for himself, changing history to make himself Barry's mentor instead in the vain hope that he could deny what was the truth. He hoped to turn that initial closeness, that permissive first few steps, into something more permanent.

And if it didn’t work, either the mentorship and friendship that Eobard lusted for, or the epic rivalry and mutual hatred that he wished for, Eobard was left only with the hope that one day he could finally kill Barry and at last rest from his terrible obsession.

Barry killed Eobard instead, at the end. At terrible cost, it is true, but that was always how it was going to end.

Barry’s greatest secret, beyond all others, is how glad he was when Eobard died. Oh, Eobard had made him his enemy, killed his family and hurt his friends, and there was no lie and no secret about Barry’s pleasure in eliminating him for that reason; his friends would understand that joy, even if they secretly mourned the loss of the mentor they had once trusted.

But it wasn’t just that.

The relief, the sheer overwhelming relief, that he felt when Eobard was dead and gone, the feeling that Central City was Barry's and Barry's alone, no other lightning spirit was here in this place – it was the sweetest feeling of Barry's life.

Alone, alone at last!

It was better than birthdays, better than Christmas, better than first kisses, even better than earning his father's release from prison, and that’s why it’s a secret. Barry can’t tell everyone he loves that he would’ve traded all of them, all of their lives that he values so very highly, for the unmatchable high of knowing that his beloved Central City belongs to him and him alone.

Lightning spirits are meant for lonely lives.

Barry and Wally look at each through the corner of their eyes, sometimes, guilty glances, guilty because they know their time together is coming to an end - guilty because they can't bring themselves to tell Joe and Iris, who are so happy that they have each other.

Guilty because one of them will have to leave, or else one of them will have to die.

Probably at the other's hand.

Sometime soon, that buffer that lets Barry teach instead of oppose will wear off. Sometime soon, Wally and Jesse will stop making excuses why one of them has to live in a different universe and admit that their romance died the moment the lightning struck them. Sometime soon, Barry and Wally will be goaded into a terrible fight - speedster against speedster, lightning against lightning - and neither is sure what will hurt worse, their fists on each other's bodies or the effect of the inevitable betrayal on each other's souls.

Wally's been talking about going to Keystone University for his graduate studies.

Barry sincerely hopes that that'll be far enough away.

Iris doesn't know, of course.

Oh, Iris..!

Barry loves her so; the very first of his anchors, the strongest, the one who helps keep him grounded - and lightning spirits need people like that, anchors, people who keep them grounded.

People who are worth slowing down for.

God, if Barry could only give himself to Iris the way Snart gave himself to Rory, a perfect partnership, a pack, his life would be complete.

But lightning spirits lead lonely lives.

The Speed Force whispers from within Barry's bones, the genetic memory of all speedsters, the thunderstorm from which all lightning spirits are born, and Barry knows that his kind are different from the others.

He's no vampire, spreading his kind by bite; no selkie, to mate and bear young born with the caul that marks their heritage; no werewolf, that flexible species that can do either.

Lightning spirits birth themselves.

One day in the future, in the far future, when all of Barry's anchors are gone while he remains as young as the day he met them, he will fly free from this plane. He will run so fast that he will write with his body that most fundamental of Einstein's equations, turning the matter of his cells into energy, pure energy, the speed of light turning what was once a man into nothing more than a single spark, and he will travel through time as a bolt of lightning -

And that day, he will give the fullness of himself, not to another person, no, but to himself, pouring the full power of the Speed Force into the child he once was, becoming the strike of lightning from the sky that made him whole.

Time has always been the plaything of speedsters.

There was never any question of what Barry would become, of course; he heard the whisper of the Speed Force in his bones since he emerged from his mother's womb. He was always destined for that final meeting, that becoming, and nothing would have changed it. But for those first few precious years, he was very nearly human, slow and steady like the rest of them, able to make friends like the rest of them, and he didn't actually incarnate in his true form until that lightning came for him out of the sky.

Earlier than it ought have, he now knows, hurried along by Eobard's impatience and the Accelerator explosion that summoned forth the supernatural like a beacon in precisely the way it was specially designed to do.

Barry remembers being so frustrated as a child, running and running and running and never being fast enough to match his spirit. He remembers the secret shame he felt, because the first time he moved fast enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul was the moment his future self rescued him from Eobard's attacks, the night his mother died.

Barry has always been who he is, and will always be, and he will never have what Snart and Rory have.

Not with Iris, who's engaged to Eddie but who loves Barry still; not with Eddie, who grew through Iris' love to see Barry as more than just a friend or rival; not with Cisco or Caitlin, who stand by his side through thick and thin; not with Felicity, who likes him well enough but who loves an archer of particular ill luck; not with any of the supernaturals he's met since the Accelerator pulled them out of the darkness.

Eddie won't have children, lest Eobard return; they have all agreed upon that, even though Barry knows that their best intentions will likely go awry in ways they will never know of because the Speed Force will have all of its children whether they want it or not. Eddie and Iris are still determined to have children, though, and they're considering asking Barry for his assistance one day in the future, even knowing what little they know about his powers.

They haven’t asked him yet, they may not have even spoken of it to each other yet, but Barry already knows, because the Speed Force within his bones is already rejoicing in the knowledge that his children will be speedsters one day.

Not because of Barry, not really, since there's no genetic aspect to lightning spirits, but because the Speed Force would have it so.

Barry's not sure, yet, if he'll agree to the plan. The Speed Force can only control Barry's birth and death; it can't control his actions. He’s a speedster, after all; he plays with time – time does not play with him.

He does love Iris and Eddie, though. If they ask, if he does say yes, he'll warn them first.

God, he's so jealous of Snart and Rory.

He wants what they have.

He wants the way Snart relaxes when Rory puts a hand on his shoulder, offering safety and security without a word. He wants the way Rory looks at Snart, love as strong as fire and twice as consuming.

Doesn't hurt that they're both ridiculously attractive.

The first day he saw them and it clicked in his head, what they've been doing, the languid glow Snart had, the faintest hint of sex in the air, Rory practically puffed up with pride - fuck, Barry'd gone as red as a tomato. Redder. He'd gone hot all over, hard as a goddamn rock under the table, and he'd started spluttering and babbling like an idiot.

Rory inhaled, a deep breath, and smirked, staring right at Barry, and Barry was abruptly reminded of how keen werewolf sense are, how sharp, how good at identifying specific scents, specific emotions that come through those scents, and Barry’s face went even hotter with humiliation that somehow still only made his cock harder.

Rory’s smirk burned in Barry’s mind’s eye even as he forced his eyes down to the tabletop in a valiant but unsuccessful effort for calm, his hands knotted into fists in the booth next to him. Naturally, that’s when Rory slid into the booth next to Snart and, when Barry looked up, looped an easy arm over Snart's shoulders. A claiming arm.

A 'hell yeah I know you want this, but this is mine and you can't do shit all about it' arm.

Snart let him do it, too.

Barry straight up forgot just about everything he'd been saying or planning on saying.

Snart took pity on him and kept talking, but Rory just stared right at him the whole time with that smirk curving his lips.

Barry suffered, but oh, what wonderful suffering.

It’s all the worse because they’re both so gorgeous.

There’s Snart, with those sharp-as-glass eyes and those cheekbones, that expressive face, the curve of his jaw, the lines of his body, but even more than that the brightness of his mind, the quickness of his cleverness and wit - magicless, human, and still able enough to challenge a lightning spirit in full dominion over his own city. There’s not a single supernatural in the city that doesn’t want him, and Barry’s no exception.

But then there’s Rory, too; big and burly and strong, all muscle and sinew and scar, as tall as Barry even when he was only a human, taller still as a wolf, and twice as broad either way, wearing those goddamn suspenders like he's taken a step out of those fireman catalogs that Barry totally didn't hoard in his room as a confused but definitely bisexual teenager. He has an understated intelligence to him, understated not because he’s not cunning and sharp and skillful but because he stands purposefully in Snart’s shadow, letting his silver-tongued partner take the spotlight as he works behinds the scenes. There was more than one supernatural in Central City that sorely regretted letting some asshole wolf on a rampage bite him instead of bringing him into their own nests.

As Barry said, they’re gorgeous.

What’s worse, Barry's brain works on overdrive, ever since the Speed Force, and ever since he saw them in Saints and Sinners, not just together but together, it's been a non-stop flood of images of the two of them.

Of the two of them - together.

Snart, his eyes hooded and dark with lust, pressed up close against Rory, his sinful voice whispering in his ear.

Rory, panting and wild, slick with sweat, muscles clenching with effort, his heavy form moving steadily as he covers Snart’s body with his own.

Their hands, pressed together. Snart’s long clever fingers intertwined with Rory’s, or maybe gliding over skin with that characteristic little flicker of movement, the pickpocket’s practiced roll of the knuckle – and then Rory’s back arching in reaction to the sensation, muscles tensing and standing out. Snart following that line of muscle with his tongue.

Their bodies, moving together in that delicious synchronization that Barry’s already seen them do.

Snart enclosed by Rory’s heavy frame, made to look small only by comparison, his jeans pulled down to his knees, his modesty preserved by Rory’s body, the only sign of any action in the sweat dripping from his face, the flick of his eyes, vacant with lust, the way his jaw hangs loose and his breath coming hard, his fingers clenching the ground beneath him; that characteristic cool shattered as he gives in.

Rory above him, body clenching, a work of art in motion, a thickset Grecian statute with power of the beast within him; his head lolling back, his eyes alight with triumph, his teeth bared as warning to the world –

Barry can see it the other way, too: Snart above Rory; the larger man yielding himself, hairy legs spread as Snart kneels between them, pushes them up to his shoulders, his lips pulled back into a smirk that fades into concentration, all that brilliant mind focused on the body beneath him. Rory gasping, swallowing, his neck moving with the movement, frozen in place, yielding but never submitting.

The two of them pressed up close, some tight place, some corner, rutting against each other, mad about it, hands everywhere, bodies close, breaths coming fast.

Barry can’t stop thinking about it.

Barry’s going to lose his mind.

The Speed Force isn’t helping, either; that wonderful, terrible genetic memory that hisses in the back of Barry’s bubbling brain and gives him tips and tricks and all sorts of knowledge that he was born to but never experienced himself. It offers him flashes of memories from lives lived long before his own birth – wolves and their mates, in bygone eras, stories and legends and images.

God, the images.

Wolves tearing at each other’s throats to show off to their mates, monstrous and proud. Their mates standing tall, smiles and smirks curving their lips, watching with pleasure, with pride, sneering at anyone who would dare even think to encroach upon them, glorying in the violence and the blood before them. Wolves laughing, teeth shining in the light, their hands moving over their mates, settling on a swollen stomach – the finest wolves of the next generation of the pack. Those were always the finest of wolves, the ones not bitten but born to proper mates: those wer the leaders, the visionaries, the wonders who could change the world at their whim.

Wolves and their mates, together, unashamed.

Fucking in the streets, proudly displayed, laughing as others fled before them or knelt down in worship; retreating to the cave and caverns during the long, hot mating seasons, howls heard through the forests, through the streets, and even through the air, overheard by the lightning spirits of the past as they danced above the endless green waves of the woods.

Wolves in their human shapes, necks arched, heads lashing from side to side, human hands stroking tender flesh, blunt teeth bared with glee. Wolves, half-shifted, their teeth long and sharp, their claws curved, muscles bulging full and ripe with the change, forms stretched large, eyes yellow; their mates beneath them, rising up against them, no less equal for the difference in form. Wolves in full fur mounting mates, supple pink flesh hidden beneath fur, moaning and grunting and gasping and –

Barry wakes at night grinding into a pillow unconsciously shoved between his legs, hips moving, thrusting, flailing mindlessly until he has to go wash his sheets in the middle of the night.

Again.

Superspeed does not make the laundry dry noticeably faster.

Barry doesn’t know if he wants them, or if he wants to be them, or if he just wants to be between them.

All of the above, maybe?

Whatever it is, Barry wants it so bad it hurts.

Maybe that’s why.

Maybe that’s why he follows them. First with his eyes, Snart walking through the streets with his head held high and a smirk on his lips, confident in his ability to repel all comers; Rory swaggering home to his mate, knuckles bloody and shoulders straight.

Then in person.

Not too much! He’s not being creepy or anything. Honest! Barry knows his understanding of personal boundaries got – less – after the lightning struck him, when the wisdom of a thousand speedsters before and after settled into his bones, obsessive creeps the whole lot of them, but he’s pretty sure he’s still on the right side of the line away from stalker.

Mostly sure, anyway.

It’s just, you know, sometimes. Not too often. Once in a while, when he’s done with his rounds, he turns off the radios that lead him back to Cisco and Caitlin and he takes an extra spin around the city.

And, well, if those spins happen to take him down to Saint and Sinners, up through a web of safehouses, over that place on Birch that they’re increasingly less subtle about reconstructing as a home, places that they haunt with their steps, places they’ve put their name on and claimed as their own, well – it’s really not that weird.

It’s not.

It’s just, you know. Careful patrolling.

Besides, if he finds them and it turns out they’re not doing anything criminal, well, then he leaves, and there’s no harm, no foul, right?

That’s the way it goes most of the time. It’s pretty hard to commit crimes during the competition season, Barry guesses, what with the werewolves fighting over a chance to get a glimpse of Snart and him rejecting each and every one of them with a scoff and a scornful laugh, Rory fighting every day in his new mate’s honor with smirks curling on both their faces.

And that’s what Barry’s expecting to find, one evening late at night, when he’s shut off his radio and Cisco’s gone home, when Barry’s taking an extra round or two through the slums, thinking mostly about what he wants for dinner (thirty pizzas? a bathtub full of pasta? an entire side of beef?) and keeping an eye out for two familiar silhouettes just in case.

That’s not what he finds.

He hears Rory first, a low-voice grunt of “I ain’t waiting any longer”, and Barry veers off in the direction of it, an old abandoned hotel they’ve used before for meetings with other werewolves – they seem to be intent on recruiting into their pack early, which Barry approves of as a good stabilizing measure even while he knows it’ll only cause him trouble in the future. He thinks they’re planning on calling their pack the Rogues, and doesn’t that just stink of supervillain trouble.

Barry’s really just intending on checking in on them, a quick look to sear into his brain and keep him company late at night, the curve of Snart’s cheekbone or the arch of Rory’s collarbone.

Really.

They’re inside, though, so he speeds up just the slightest bit, makes his feet run light and silent, makes the world go blurry and soft enough for him to slip through the wooden walls and up a flight of stairs, through another wall until he’s peering into the room where he heard that voice, and then –

Barry stops.

Stops dead.

Rory is in the middle of the room, sprawled out in a comfortable looking armchair next to a side table. His head is rolled back onto the back of the chair, his eyes half-lidded and his expression calm. His soft-looking button-down shirt is fully unbuttoned and falling down at his sides, revealing his sturdy chest leading down to the soft roundness of his belly. His jeans are slung low, soft and tight around his thighs; his feet are bare and his toes knead into the lush carpet beneath.

His hands are at his waist, one dipped beneath his jeans, slowly moving in that instantly recognizable up and down movement, while the other one thumbs open the button on his jeans.

Barry swallows, his lips and throat suddenly dry as dust.

“Yeah,” Rory grunts, and he lifts his hips up in a little thrust, muscles straining under his jeans, and Barry should really get out of here now. There’s doing a quick check-in and then there’s full on invasion of privacy, and Barry’s pretty sure he’s officially crossed the line into creepy now.

He should go.

In – just a second.

Maybe a few seconds.

And then a few seconds more, because Rory’s dragging his zipper down centimeter by painful centimeter, and if Barry waits just a little longer, he’s going to get an eyeful and, lord, that’ll be more than enough to color a week’s worth of wet dreams.

He should really go.

“You stay right where you are,” Snart drawls, and Barry freezes again.

But no, Snart’s talking to Rory, not to Barry; he can’t see Barry, hidden as he is in the next room over – an old walk-in closet, by the looks of it, small and dusty. He can only see what’s happening because the door to the closet’s slightly ajar, but it’s dark in here and light out there; they won’t be able to spot him.

“Wasn’t planning on going nowhere,” Rory replies, the hand in his pants moving faster, and then he’s wiggling those too-tight jeans down his hips and fuck, Barry can see it; Rory’s cock curving up, red and wanting, his hand wrapped around it. “You gonna come lend me a hand?”

He laughs, amused at his own pun.

“We only have a little time before we need to meet with the Louvou pack’s envoys,” Snart says, and he sounds almost unaffected.

Almost.

He’s just a little breathier than normal, his voice dropped half an octave down, a little coarser, a little less calm, a little less composed.

Barry has to press his palm to try to calm his cock, which has most definitely taken an interest in the proceedings.

“All the more reason,” Rory growls, his lips curling into a smirk.

Snart walks across the room, coming into view. He’s dressed in that parka of his, blue with the fuzzy hood, but underneath he’s got on an oversized sweater, dark burgundy red, that looks like it’s probably Rory’s size. Probably is Rory’s, for that matter. Under that, Snart’s wearing black pants, loose sweatpants, and he’s barefoot, too.

Barry crouches down for a better angle.

“Is that so?” Snart drawls, pulling off the parka, tossing it off to the side as he goes, and somehow the get-up, all oversized and soft, makes him look younger, softer, but no one would look at that smirk and think of anything less than danger. “And why’s that?”

“You’re my mate,” Rory says, his eyes fixed on Snart. “Maybe I wanna remind ‘em of that fact.”

“Maybe you’re just horny,” Snart shoots back.

“Maybe,” Rory concedes, utterly shameless, spreading his legs so Snart – and, unknown to him, Barry – can get a better look at what’s between his legs. His cock is thick, fitting comfortably in his broad palm; his other hand he’s moved further down, cupping his heavy balls that Barry can see tightening up even from his vantage point. “Don’t see why we can’t solve both problems.”

Snart’s breath hitches, just a little, but then he’s back to being cool and unperturbed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, boss,” Rory says, his voice low and throaty. “Yeah, I’d like that. C’mon, boss. Gimme some love.”

Snart snorts at that. “You’re insatiable,” he says, but his voice doesn’t quite have the proper edge of real disdain. “I suppose I’ve made it my job to take care of you, though, haven’t I?”

Rory’s lips curl back, his teeth bared in a smile, his eyes bright with excitement. “That a yes?”

Snart sighs, all put-upon, the long-suffering mate with all of a wolf’s demands, but there’s a fission of excitement in his voice when he warns Rory, “We’ll be playing by my rules.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Rory says, widening his legs just a little bit more.

Snart stalks over to where Rory’s standing, the muscles in his back and legs shifting as he walks, the hints of liasons past still remembered, and Rory reaches out a hand to place on his hip, a soft touch from a man more accustomed to violence.

“I’m gonna let you fuck me,” Snart says, and Rory’s cock jumps at the promise in his voice. Barry’s, too – the pressure of the suit is starting to hurt. “But you move when I say, get me?”

“Got you,” Rory says, then hisses when Snart pushes down the sweatpants. “Oh, yeah, boss…”

Snart laughs, a low chuckle deep in his throat.

“Still can’t believe you let me plug you,” Rory says, his hands slipping down around to cup Snart’s ass, cut over with scars the way the rest of Snart’s legs are, and Barry’s so busy staring at them, lean and long like a soccer player, that he very nearly misses the meaning of that sentence, and when he does he very nearly bashes his head back into the wall behind him, just to keep from making any noise.

Because it’s true and it’s the hottest thing Barry’s ever thought of: Snart’s got a plug in him, thick rubber holding him open, and Rory’s thick fingers slide to down to prod at it and Snart grunts, deep in his chest, and fuck, Barry’s got the suit open now, his own cock hot in his hand.

And then Rory’s reaching into the drawer in the side table next to him and pulling out a tube of lube, slicking himself up, eager as anything, and then he’s pulling Snart forward, wet fingers slipping back behind him.

Snart lets his head roll back and he moans, long and low and satisfied, and Barry’s going to hear that sound in his dreams from now until eternity, he’s sure of it. It’s a matter of minutes before Snart is slinging a leg over Rory and sinking down onto him, inch by inch.

Barry’s hand is moving over his cock so fast that he might be causing sparks.

“Fuck, yeah, boss,” Rory groans. “Fuck, you’re so good – how are you still this tight –”

Barry’s biting his lip, his eyes fixed on them, and he’s forgotten that he ever planned to leave; he couldn’t leave now, not if you paid him, not for anything, not when his cock is so hard and they’re so goddamn beautiful.

Rory’s thrusting up into Snart, now, and Snart’s moving with him, rolling his hips in ways that make Rory whine, silent but for the grunts and the huffs of air that escape him when Rory puts it to him – good, long, hard thrusts that make his eyes go half-vacant with lust, just like Barry’d imagined in his dreams. One of Snart’s hands is braced against Rory’s shoulder, the other going down to thumb at Rory’s chest.

Rory growls when Snart’s fingers find his nipple, a bestial sound, and his eyes have taken on a distinct yellow cast.

That’s when Snart speaks. “No you don’t,” he says.

“What?” Rory asks. His face is red with exertion and slick with sweat already.

“No,” Snart says again, but he’s still moving, his hips still grinding down. “No wolf, today.”

“But -!”

“My rules,” Snart reminds him.

“But – boss –” Rory whines.

“My rules,” Snart says again, cold and merciless even as he’s grinding himself down on Rory’s thick cock and loving every minute of it. “We agreed.”

“I know, but –”

“I’ll let you mount me, later,” Snart says, casual as if he’s talking about the weather, but Rory’s struck dumb with lust and Barry’s not much better, mental images filling his brain. “I’ll let you go as wolf as you like, fangs and claws and eyes as yellow as a lightning strike; I’ll let you stretch out those muscles of yours, grow a head taller, let you toss me around like a rag doll for your pleasure – you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Rory pants. “Yeah – yeah –”

“Even let you tie me,” Snart says, and Rory’s hips jerk involuntarily at that, his head lolling back, and Barry’s fingers go so tight that he’s almost in pain from sheer crazy lust. “Let you put that knot of yours in me, fill me up, get you going till you’re just coming and coming, swelling me up, driving me crazy the whole time, make me come just from the feel of it –”

“Boss – please –”

“You can,” Snart says, sadistic and slow. “But only if you hold back now.”

“I can’t –”

“You can,” Snart says, and his voice is firm and commanding. “You can hold off.” And suddenly Barry sees where all that talk the wolves have about the importance of the will of the mate comes from, because he can’t imagine Rory defying Snart in this, in anything; and sure enough, Rory submits, groaning, and the way his fingers had been lengthening into claws is reversed, going back to blunt-tipped fingers; his eyes going back to brown.

“Well done,” Snart says, and Barry has to stuff a hand into his mouth to keep from keening the way that Rory is. God, the rush of it; Snart’s approval, Rory’s obedience, the strength, the power, the beauty of them – what Barry would do for that, those words said almost casually, that feeling of being mastered by someone who deserved the phrase.

Rory’s fingers are locked on Snart’s hips, hard enough to leave bruises, and he moves quicker, now, desperate. His face is twisted into a grimace as he tries so hard to be good, tries to keep from shifting despite wanting to so badly Barry can see the muscles on his face tensing for lack of it.

Barry’s with him every second, willing him onwards, willing Rory to succeed even as Barry clenches his teeth on one gloved hand, his other hand moving now in time with their thrusts, his muffled moans of pleasure hidden in the grunts and slick sounds of the two in the other room.

And through it all, Snart is cool and cold, a smirk curling his lips as he twists his hips and drives Rory higher and higher, drives him mad with lust. Snart’s fingers are quick and sure, playing with a nipple, stroking down Rory’s side; he presses his lips onto Rory’s neck, sucking loud hickies into his flesh, causing Rory to whimper and to whine and, finally, to break.

“Boss, please,” Rory begs. “Please, please – let me – please -”

“What do you want?” Snart asks, in control.

“I want to shift,” Rory says. “I want to come. Please.”

Snart runs his fingers up Rory’s neck. “Yeah?”

“Please –”

“You’ve been so good for me,” Snart purrs. “Not shifting, just like I told you to. So good.”

And there are tears at the corners of Rory’s eyes, the need driving him harder, trying so hard, trying –

“You can come now,” Snart says.

And then Rory’s there, there with a roar that has nothing human in there, a bellow of satisfaction even as his hips arch up, even as Snart grunts with it, and Barry’s there with him, his hand speeding up, moving faster than lightning until he’s coming only a few seconds later, his come dripping through his fingers and onto the dusty wooden floor of the closet.

Snart gets up, then, just as Rory melts back into the armchair, his whole body boneless, and Barry can see the pearly sheen in the inside of Snart’s thighs, can see Snart reach down and take himself in hand, bringing himself off hard and quick, the muscles of his ass clenching as he comes, spilling all over Rory’s bare chest.

Barry’s cock gives a valiant twitch at the sight of it, but even Barry’s amped up metabolism doesn’t stand a chance so soon after coming that hard.

And then the whole room is silent but for their harsh breaths, panting as they regain air and equilibrium.

Barry’s own chest is heaving, pulling in much-needed air into his suddenly empty lungs.

He cannot believe he just did that.

Fuck, what is wrong with him?

Yes, okay, that was definitely one of the hottest, most sexually charged experiences in his life.

But it was totally wrong and he should feel ashamed of himself. He's sure he will. Any second now.

He needs to leave.

Snart’s stepped away and pulled up his sweatpants again, suddenly back to being calm and collected and looking totally untouched, even though Barry knows his thighs are still slick and wet.

“We still have to meet the Louvou pack,” he says to Rory, who’s still sunk in a hazy afterglow, smug smiles curling both their lips. “Go put yourself together.”

And Snart turns to walk out.

“Oh,” he adds as he leaves, “and tell our guest that he’s welcome to have a pillow for his knees next time. Wooden floors hurt after a while.”

Wait.

What guest?

They can’t mean –

Barry abruptly notices that Rory’s looking straight at the closet where Barry’s hidden, and he’s breathing deep, through his nose, and suddenly Barry remembers those fine senses, those werewolf senses, the ones that identify scents, scents like sweat and come and excitement, not to mention hearing fine enough to hear a heartbeat, much less choked-off moans and grunt from less than ten feet away.

And then Rory smirks, that same smirk he’d had in Saints and Sinners, the one that made Barry burn with humiliation. Barry feels that same burn now, feels his face flush bright red, feels his cock start to go hard again with painful quickness, shame and humiliation twisting into lust –

Barry flees.

He’s never going to be able to look either of them in the face ever again.

Of course, that shame doesn’t keep him from jerking off the second he gets home, not even bothering to take off his stained suit. If anything, it makes it even better, imagining them holding it over his head, mocking him, teasing him, Rory wrapping his arms around Snart and laughing at Barry for wanting what he can’t have, Snart’s eyes on Barry with that cold amusement; fuck, with thoughts like that in his head, he doesn’t even manage to last a second by regular human conceptions, spilling on his suit again.

Barry goes to do laundry.

He tries not to think about it, tries to be good and moral and not a creep, but he can’t stop the thoughts from creeping into his head.

He can’t keep himself from wondering when the next time will be.

The next time he’ll be able to watch them again, strong and beautiful, but this time, he’ll be watching knowing that they know he’s there, knowing that Rory’s smirk is meant for him, his knowing look confirmed by every inhale, and Snart –

Snart’s voice, so commanding this time – maybe not so much next time. Maybe next time he’d be the one yielding, the one at mercy.

Maybe next time, Barry’s the one he’ll say did good. Was good. Good for him.

Good for them.

Fuck.

Barry’s hooked.

Yeah, Cisco’s just going to have to wait until the laundry’s done before getting his suit back.

Sorry, Cisco.

[chorusfm]

The Killers – Wonderful Wonderful

The Killers just can’t seem to catch a break. You’d think that penning one of the most iconic, ubiquitous pop songs of the millennium would win you some points. Same with putting out a debut album that almost single-handedly prolonged the life of rock radio for an extra year or two. By all accounts, Brandon Flowers and company are nice guys who work hard, put on an exceptional live show, and have a better track record of radio singles than any other rock band this side of the Foo Fighters. But The Killers have never been cool. They certainly never earned the stamp of approval from critics, who took the “No Fun Police” stance against the singles from Hot Fuss and then vowed to bury the band when Brandon Flowers had the audacity to suggest that 2006’s Sam’s Town would be “one of the best albums in the last 20 years.” Most music writers expected The Killers to be a flash in the pan, and they were graciously willing to help the band reach their inevitable demise. But a funny thing happened along the way: The Killers held on. As radio rock died, they kept writing hits. As the critical darling indie rock bands of the early 2000s slid toward mediocrity or obscurity or both, The Killers remained stubbornly present. Now, 13 years after Hot Fuss and five years after their last album, The Killers are back, and they are every bit as inescapable as they always have been. In the release week of September 22nd, which saw a massive deluge of new albums from acclaimed and up-and-coming artists, no one got as much press as The Killers. Part of it could be nostalgia. A once-colossal band coming back after five years away to survey the wreckage of rock ‘n’ roll? The “rock is dead” thinkpieces write themselves! Add the fact that The Killers seem to be splintering behind the scenes—both bassist Mark Stoermer and guitarist Dave Keuning have retired as touring members of the band—and it’s almost hard not to write about their new album. But The Killers still have a magnetism that, we can probably all agree, is very rare in a rock band these days. And the magnetism isn’t just about “Mr. Brightside” and how it still sounds good at festivals or sold-out Madison Square Garden shows. On the contrary, on Wonderful Wonderful, the band’s long-awaited fifth album, the magnetism is still there in the music, as well. The Killers have tried to market Wonderful Wonderful as a “return to form” after 2012’s Battle Born, an album they clearly do not like. (Counterpoint: Battle Born is the best Killers LP.) Interestingly, though, of the five albums in the band’s discography, Wonderful Wonderful sounds the least like a Killers record. Crucially, the once dominant roar of Dave Keuning’s guitar has been relegated to a background supporting role. Despite Keuning’s decision to stop touring, he was supposedly a part of the recording process for this album. You wouldn’t know it from listening to most of the songs, though, or from looking at the back cover, which inexplicably features just Brandon, Mark, and drummer Ronnie Vannucci, Jr. The last two tracks on the record, the spooky “The Calling” and the meditative “Have All the Songs Been Written?”, are the two where the guitar seems to take center stage, and Keuning doesn’t play on either of them. (The soulful guitarwork on the closing track was provided by Mark Knoplfer of Dire Straits fame, while Stoermer handled guitar on “The Calling.”) The benching of Keuning pulls some of The Killers’ identity away from this album. It’s not the only factor with that effect, either. Wonderful Wonderful also lacks a clear single, a first in The Killers catalog. Actual lead single “The Man,” with its Bowie-esque groove, is catchy enough, but is missing the anthemic punch that the band has always been so good at providing with singles. There is no “Mr. Brightside” or “All These Things That I’ve Done” on this album, no “When You Were Young” or “Read My Mind” or “Runaways.” The closest is “Run for Cover” a kinetic, synth-led rocker with plenty of zip and attitude (not to mention a timely “fake news” reference), but the hook isn’t as sharp as virtually anything on Battle Born, let alone side one of Hot Fuss. What Wonderful Wonderful lacks in poppy immediacy, though, it makes up for in intimacy. The Killers have never been known for hugely personal songwriting. The closest to personal they got was probably Sam’s Town, ostensibly a concept record about a young man Flower “breaking out of a two-star town” and chasing his dreams. They’ve always been a band that thrived on writing huge, sometimes ambiguous, and usually universally relatable songs. Wonderful Wonderful dispenses with that blueprint. The meat of the record was inspired by Brandon’s wife, who suffers from a condition known as Complex PTSD. Flowers recently revealed that he cancelled part of the tour for his last solo LP, 2015’s The Desired Effect, because his wife was having suicidal thoughts. That heavy subject matter forms the backbone for Wonderful Wonderful. Flowers navigates complicated webs of emotion in the album’s mid-section, which directly addresses his wife’s struggles and how they have impacted his role as a husband and a father. “Rut,” a radiant U2-esque power ballad, is written from her perspective, built around the lines “Don’t give up on me, ‘cause I’m just in a rut/I’m climbing, but the walls keep stacking up.” The next track, “Life to Come,” plays out as Flowers’ response. Where “Rut” closes with the desperate plea “Don’t you give up on me,” “Life to Come” plays like the renewal of a wedding vow. “I didn’t see this coming, I admit it/But if you think I’ll buckle, forget it/I told you that I’d be the one/I’ll be there in the life to come,” Flowers sings, before the rhythm section kicks in and he asks his bride to “have a little faith in me, girl/Just dropkick the shame.” On paper, that last line probably looks hokey. But Flowers’ unwavering earnestness has always been his greatest asset as a frontman, and it turns “Life to Come” into an incredibly moving affirmation of love and devotion. The same is true for the Brian Eno-influenced slowburn of “Some Kind of Love.” Flowers reportedly wrote the song after coming home from the Desired Effect tour to be with his wife. “Can’t do this alone/We need you at home/There’s so much to see/We know that you’re strong,” he sings at the end, accompanied by the three most important guests he’s ever brought on for an album: his children. It’s a beautiful, restrained moment that ranks among the most affecting in the entire Killers repertoire. While Flowers radiates strength and resilience on “Life to Come” and “Some Kind of Love,” some of the best moments on Wonderful Wonderful are where we see the doubt creep in. He’s not doubting his wife or his marriage: his commitment and faith on those fronts is sound. Instead, he’s doubting himself. On “Tyson vs. Douglas,” he recalls watching the eponymous 1990 boxing match, where Tyson suffered the first loss of his career at the hands of a 42-1 underdog. “When I saw him go down/Felt like somebody lied/I had to close my eyes/Just to stop the tears,” Flowers sings. It’s a song about realizing your heroes aren’t invincible or infallible, but it’s also more than that. When the bridge rolls around, Flowers’ thoughts shift from Tyson’s incredible loss to himself. “Feelin’ the slip again/I don’t wanna fall/You said it was nothing/But maybe you’re wrong.” He wants to be the hero for his wife and their kids, the big strong man who keeps them safe and never lets them down. But if the unbeatable Mike Tyson could get knocked out by someone who wasn’t even deemed a threat, how long until Brandon’s kids seem him fall, too? On “Have All the Songs Been Written?”, Flowers arrives at a moment where he feels like his number is up. “Have all the songs been written?/Have all your needs been met?/Have all these years been worth it?/Or am I the great regret?” Struggling with writer’s block while working on the songs for Wonderful Wonderful, Flowers turned to Bono for advice. Did he have anything left to say? Or had he written his last great song? “Have all the songs been written?” was the subject line of the email Flowers sent to the U2 frontman, who encouraged him to turn it into a song. Fittingly, the track that came from that advice moves gradually from self-doubt to assurance. On the bridge, Brandon’s voice trembles as he tries to reassure himself that the storm clouds surrounding his family will pass and things will be good again. “When the train returns to the rails/When the ship is back in the harbor/I will make you happy again/I can see it, I believe it.” He’s not ready for his Tyson vs. Douglas moment just yet. Back in June, when The Killers dropped “The Man” as the first single from Wonderful Wonderful, the song felt oddly tongue-in-cheek for the anthem-obsessed band. A send-up of the aggressive, ambitious masculinity that The Killers—especially Flowers—exhibited early on in their careers, “The Man” felt oddly out of tune with the times. In 2017, society is slowly deconstructing the old ideas of what it means to be a “Real Man.” Yet, here The Killers were, seemingly reinforcing those ideals. In context, though, “The Man” shines a light on the concept and arc of Wonderful Wonderful. Throughout these songs, Flowers realizes that all the macho masculinity in the world can neither help his wife fight her demons nor give their children the love and support they need. Instead, he makes himself vulnerable, being candid about his fears and frailties and being empathetic to his wife’s. The result is the most personal and intimate record in the Killers discography. Given all the inspiration from Flowers’ own life (as well as the reduced role for Dave Keuning), it’s also the Killers album that feels most like a solo LP. It’s hard to imagine much being different about Wonderful Wonderful if it was the third Brandon Flowers record instead of the fifth Killers record. Billing and branding aside, though, Wonderful Wonderful is a surprisingly deep and nuanced piece of work from a band not often recognized for being deep and nuanced. The critics still won’t get it, and certain fans will probably miss the rafter-shaking anthems, but after five years of waiting, it’s a pleasant surprise to get something new from The Killers at all—let alone something that feels so brave, so bold, and so unreservedly human. --- Please consider supporting us so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/review/the-killers-wonderful-wonderful-2/

[jenniferasberryus]

Why Sonic Is the Perfect Mascot for Gen Z

Ever since the film based on the Genesis’ Sonic games got regenerated for Gen Zs, it’s got me thinking: “Gen Z’s” sounds a lot like “Genesis.” But, beyond that, it’s got me thinking about the ever-improving system we have in place for marketing nostalgia to Millenials, while also trying to convince new clusters of Gen Z kids to embrace these characters and franchises as their own.

Marvel comics became the MCU, the Star Wars continue unabated, and everyone’s so aware that we’re living in recycled times that... that’s all I’m really going to say about it. What’s interesting to me is just how perfect Sonic the Hedgehog is as a vehicle for this kind of weaponized nostalgia, and how he’s served as a measure of our relationship to coolness for three generations now.

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Obviously, by casting Jim Carrey in a wacky role and re-doing the CG to make Sonic look more like his classic self, the filmmakers aren’t shying away from appealing to fond Millenial memories (you know, for money!). But Sonic remains primarily a kids’ movie, and thinking about the ways that today’s young people may relate to the blue blur made me realize that Sonic said a lot more about the Millennial generation than we realized - whether he intended to or not - and he sheds light on some of the things that connect us across time, no matter our generation...except for the Boomers, who I guess we all hate now? Is that the meme? Regardless, to understand why Sonic is the fuzzy multi-generational mirror that he is, we’re going to need...

A Bit of a History Lesson

To be clear, I’m considering a Baby Boomer someone born between 1950 and 1965, a Gen X-er someone born between ‘65 and ‘80, a Millenial someone born between ‘80 and ‘95 (prime Sonic age), and a Gen Z-er anyone born after 1995.

When Sonic was initially released in 1991, I was six years old, and “being cool” was super important both to myself and all of my peers (except for the kid who brought a gavel to school every day). What I think younger folks today might not understand is that this quest for coolness was not about authenticity, individuality, or any kind of meta-awareness of our identities. We weren’t “cool,” we were Cool™, and Coolness™ was defined by brands, something most of us didn’t grow up with the media-savvy to question. It was about being in a minority product vertical: skateboarding, black clothes, skitchin’, rap and/or punk rock on MTV, and unironically spelling the word “extreme” with a capital X.

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Speaking of irony, I’d argue that the ’90s were the decade where Detached Irony was born, grew up, got perfected as chronicled in the 1995 Alanis Morisette song “Ironic,” and, in a sense, died. Irony is a toy we make memes with nowadays, but it used to be what we used to identify ourselves as - we were misfits who were “over it,” and therefore cooler than you. You were Coke, we were Pepsi. Flash forward twenty years and I’d call myself more of a Blueberry Acai caffeine-free Diet Coke guy; my point being that identity issues have gotten more complex over the years. And Sonic has all of that wrapped up in his fur. Needles? His…hedgehog...texture.

The ’90s were a gaming landscape dominated by Mario: a fat, middle-aged human who focuses primarily on jumping. This made Sonic feel like pure, uncut, corporate-designed cool in a way that immediately juiced the X-centers of my brain. If you were a Sega kid, you felt indie, edgy, a little more Pitchfork than your Nintendo playmates. Sonic focused on going fast, his head had Liberty Spikes, and he was such a crude, rude, awesome dude that if you stopped playing for a few seconds he’d look right into camera and give you the stink eye for wasting his time.

Amazingly, none of that seemed corny to us at the time. Sonic’s Cool was genuine and accepted by his fans with a naivete born of the mono-media culture of the ’70s and ’80s, and which has been slowly decaying ever since Fonzie jumped the shark. These days it’s almost been completely dispelled as the internet and other technologies drive us to be more aware of the systems around us from a younger and younger age.

Considering that, it’s no coincidence that the 90’s saw the ascendance of grunge music, pop-punk, an explosion in goth culture, the advent of “The Gritty Reboot,” and popular films with nihilism as a central theme. As a culture, we became obsessed with the “fakeness” of all the sheeple around us — irony became a way to interact with the broader world, and a signature part of the Gen X and Millenial attitude. Suddenly we were only interested in bands that hadn’t “sold out” yet, and anyone who didn’t think everything sucked was probably a phony.

[ignvideo url="https://www.ign.com/videos/2015/10/14/history-of-awesome-1998"]

In that environment, Sonic’s cool started to taste a little Chemical Zone-ey, a little factory-produced. Although the fact that his transition to 3-D graphics was far less graceful than Mario’s was definitely a factor, as a pop-cultural icon Sonic had to shift gears, too. The first Sonic TV show, essentially a kid’s comedy, was canceled and replaced with a much more action-packed and serious take on the Battle for Mobius (if you didn’t know, Sonic’s from a planet called Mobius in the year 3235, but it’s best not to question it).

During the same period, Sonic stopped moving merch, and Sega announced their retirement from the console wars. Which finally brings us to Gen Z, the generation that’s proud to be themselves and frankly doesn’t give a f**k what you think about it.

Sonic & Gen Z (or... Zennials or… Whatever You/They Want to Call Your/Themselves)

These days, truly being yourself, unique, authentic… just you, is huge business. Youtube and Twitch are filled with child billionaires who lean into their personality quirks and are loved specifically for that reason. Also some racism. But the bigger point is, in the new normal, ironic detachment isn’t nearly as valuable. It’s actually cooler, these days, to be into something than to be over something. Young people feel more empowered to simply like what they like, which makes it an ideal time for Sonic to re-enter the fray.

[ignvideo url="https://www.ign.com/videos/2019/11/12/sonic-the-hedgehog-old-and-new-design-comparison"]

None of this is to say the movie will definitely do well (or even be good), but as a Sonic fan for life, it’s been interesting to watch him go from cool, to corporatized and “fake”, to “kinda corny and silly and… still fake, but that’s what’s funny about it.” The whole debacle with the initial CG Sonic reveal speaks to that...the filmmakers tried to make Sonic “realistic” and the internet said, “No you idiots, he’s a cartoon rascal that thinks he’s too cool for school, just let him be that!”

Gen Z is the first generation of humans to have grown up fully immersed in a digitally-enhanced society. Everyone is able to indulge their interests and hobbies much more thoroughly now, which has resulted in a galaxy of fragmented fan-bases and communal identities that make the “Are you a Sega person or a Nintendo person?” question seems quaint by comparison.

[ignvideo url="https://www.ign.com/videos/2019/03/01/why-are-there-no-good-video-game-movies"]

Nowadays, someone isn’t just a Nintendo or Sega player - they’re an anime cosplayer with an interest in tabletop gaming, or a maker of pixel-beats who crochets Star Wars scarves on Etsy in their spare time. The pop culture landscape is richer. Case in point: there were 130 more movies released in the US in 2018 than in 2017, and the number of scripted TV series’ have increased by 85% since 2011. In such a dynamic environment, generalizations are tough to make, but there is a lot of statistical data on Gen Z folks -- mostly marketing data about buying trends, because Capitalsim™ -- that I think bodes well for the possibility of a Sonic Renaissance.

Environmental Consciousness

Gen Z kids are more concerned about pollution, sustainability, and conservancy than any previous generation. Sonic the Hedgehog’s arch-nemesis is a boomer in a non-self-driving vehicle who’s here to automate all the flowers and animals and build a giant factory.

Fiscal Responsibility

Gen Z-ers are notoriously thrifty, more likely to work a series of freelance jobs or change careers frequently, and always looking for bargains or a place to live that they can actually afford. Sonic the Hedgehog hoards gold rings and emeralds and is in danger of being gentrified out of his neighborhood.

Cord-Cutters

Gen Z is the generation that “cut the cable,” and consumes most of their content on their mobiles, seeing screens as essentially interchangeable and TV as outdated. Sonic destroys hundreds of old-fashioned TVs every game and is mobility incarnate.

Data Protection

Gen Z places less emphasis on the importance of personal privacy. Sonic wears gloves and shoes but no pants.

Ethically-Sourced…Chili Dogs?

Gen Z is consuming far less meat than previous generations. Sonic loves chili dogs, which is a tube of several kinds of meat with ground-up meat on top. Okay, that one doesn’t work. Um...

Blue Hair

I’ve been seeing lots of kids with blue hair lately? What’s up with that?

Let’s see, how can I sound older than I already do? Oh! Bidets? No thank you! What’s all this fuss lately about bidets and bidet seat add-ons? I’ll stick to good old-fashioned American-made two-ply, thank you very much! Now, in my day, we had the Virtual Boy, and he was my best friend and oh my, the times we’d have…

[poilib element="accentDivider"]

Editor’s Note: Michael just kept typing out SNES titles until he got sleepy. We put a blanket over him to make sure he didn’t get cold.

What’s your take on Sonic these days? Corporate Shill or Moderately Funny In Sort of a Kitschy Way Corporate Shill? Let us know in the comments, or to really see how far the internet has fallen, check out what happens when you put the creepy old CG sonic’s teeth on other game characters.

from IGN Video Games https://www.ign.com/articles/2020/01/09/why-sonic-is-the-perfect-mascot-for-gen-z via IFTTT from The Fax Fox https://thefaxfox.blogspot.com/2020/01/why-sonic-is-perfect-mascot-for-gen-z.html

[a-is-for-anxiety-blog]

September 9th, 2017

12:03 am

So....I guess here I am, making a blog because I got inspired by a dumb facebook post. I’m not a fabulous writer and I cuss a lot. My sentences are choppy and probably won’t flow together very well, but I’m going to blog anyway cause I’ve got some shit to say. Let’s start with an unnecessarily long overview of my little life.

*IMPORTANT FUCKING INFORMATION* ((This kinda sorta maybe might be triggering so please be cautious))

I’m a 22 year old girl who is obsessed with cats and succulents. I’m bipolar, have high functioning anxiety and depression. Over the years I’ve fought and lost and fought and lost again to disorders I like to call dickheads. I started realizing I had hella issues when I got dumped at 15, during/after my parents were getting a divorce, and a week after having sex for the first time. ((Notice I didn’t say lost my virginity because I don’t like the stigma of virginity ‘loss’ but I digress, that’s for another day)) I can’t even tell you how it happened, at this point I don’t remember. But what I can tell you is that I was way way way WAY more than devastated. I was raised Catholic, so I thought that since I had now had sex with someone I definitely wasn’t going to marry, I was about as desirable as a flaming pile of Satan’s shit. I had no worth without my virginity. ((Eye roll to mars and back)) So starts the chapter of self hate and self harm in my life. We’ll call this Phase 1 - Self Harm

So throw in a few months of crying in the hallways..in class...in the choir room...in the bathroom...in the wherever. I honestly can’t tell you how long it took me to get over it. But it was a long, depressing, frustrating, stupid ass fucking road. I tried to find different escapes to make myself a little more sane. I started binge drinking and cutting. ((Newsflash; Not such a great combo. 0/10 would not recommend.)) At 16, I was slicing lines for every reason I was sad that day. Retracing them if I was sad about the same thing the day after, and the day after, and the day after. I was carving the words “Ugly” and “Fat” into my skin. I was so desperate to have a reason for my pain. So naturally, cutting was my answer. Drinking made it all go away. Lather, rinse, repeat. But I did find happiness in music and literature. That was my only positive outlet for about 3 years. Music and books became my obsession. I was transported to other worlds and became other people with other problems that weren’t my own, only to be dropped back on my fat ass when I finished a series. There were other boyfriends here and there. Some good. Some not so good. One pretty great one. But all in all I was literally fucking insane and drove them all away.

Let’s jump forward to my senior year. Phase 1.5 - Wow I’m a cunt

Let’s talk about how much of a big, rude ass, stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking, bitch I was. I talked shit about my friends for fun. I was a pathological liar. I was a self-hating, self-destructive, self-centered, B I T C H. Long story short I lost all like...7 of my closest friends to a bunch of ‘he said/ she said’ bullshit that I can’t even fucking remember ((Except for one. I’m trying to keep it pretty anonymous so I’ll call them my twin, my bro, my best friend, you know who you are. <3)) toward the end of the year and I fucking lost it. I don’t remember most of that summer.

Skip to my Freshman year of college. *sigh* Phase 2 - Rebellious Stupidity Sidenote: Eventually I got 2 out of the 7 friends back and we’re totes Bff’s again and they’re my heart and soul and I wouldn’t be half the person I am today without them. Ahem. Anyways. You know when you know you shouldn’t do something, but you kinda just have to anyway because it’s exciting to break the rules now and again? No? Anyone? Bueller? Anyways, I did the thing I wasn’t supposed to. I blindly convinced myself I was super in love when in reality I was in the most emotionally abusive relationship I’ve ever encountered. I know that now. But then, I seriously attached every ounce of my being into this piece of shit relationship. So when it ended..it was like I was 15 all over again. Except this time I REALLY fucking thought we would get married (( L O fucking L)). At this point I had been self harming through the whole relationship ((that alone should’ve been a red flag but I’m a fucking moron so)) so it just got worse and worse after the shit stain dumped my clinically insane depressed ass like a hot fucking potato....over the phone. 10 months of artificial happiness and love down the drain. Good fucking riddance. From then on, I was told that my sadness, my outbursts, my tantrums, my moods, and all my negative feelings were misplaced, out of touch, and completely unreasonable. I had a nice house, my own two rooms, a computer, a phone, and basically everything I ever asked for. I was still so fucking unhappy all the time. Nothing really kept me together long enough. And this time, I really fucking lost it. I dyed my hair twenty different colors. I was ugly crying every minute of every day. I attempted suicide. I started throwing up my meals. I wouldn’t eat. I’d eat too much. I never went outside. I never did anything. I was told my feelings weren’t valid and that I was being dramatic. Oh, and that “Crying does nothing but get your face wet.” which..is true. But a little word of advice to parents, don’t fucking tell your depressed ass, suicidal fucking daughter that her tears aren’t worth shit. It literally took me screaming at my dad saying “I want to fucking kill myself” for him to realize that I needed some fucking help. So I got it. Psychotherapy was my new outlet.

Tiny flash forward to the best month of my life. November of 2014. This we shall call Phase 3 - And he comes outta nowhere! But he only RKO’ed my heart. Enter Javi, the goofy ass fucking light of my life that I’m lucky enough to call my fiance. I don’t think he really knew what he was getting himself into, and he tried to get out about 6 months in, but clearly we didn’t let that happen. Now here we are almost 3 years in. If you know us, we fight....kinda a lot. We yell and argue about everything we see, hear, or touch. But we love each other way more than all of that shit. I can’t tell you how much Javi and I have been through. That would take a whole blog. But what I can tell you is that he’s been able to cope with my dickheads better than I have. So many nights of sobbing. So many anxiety attacks. So many broken promises. So many nights on the couch. So much anger. So much frustration. So much fucking everything. We’ve been through it all. He has absolutely saved my life in every way possible. Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s been hell. Worse than hell. I’ve been more anxious in the past year than the rest of my life. I’ve had more attacks and more break downs that I can count. But the difference now is that I have someone who loves me anyway. I have someone who is right next to me when I’m screaming and blacking out trying to punch myself in the face. I have someone come check on me when I’m quiet for too long. He knows my triggers and my relievers. He might cause an anxiety attack. He might save me from one. But he’s still there. Every single time. 

Now that I’ve given you an overview of my depressing ass past few years, let’s talk about where we go from here. I started typing this because I saw a post on facebook about anxiety, and I decided I had some shit to say on the subject. So from here on out I’ll be covering my own personal experiences with the dickheads that poison my life. This we’ll kinda use as our table of contents. A very short and broad table of contents with lots of little stories and lessons to be learned here and there. I’m not sure how often I’ll blog. But I hope you’ll be here to read them all.

In the meantime, be kind to yourself. You’re loved and you’re worth it.

Until next time, Sarahhmoonshoes