#he has to choose isolation. he has to choose the decay of his relationships. he has to choose loneliness. he has to choose the Archives

[fairiesthrum]

au where viserys and aemma had a son before rhaenyra [currently unnamed oc]. he is about 3 years old when viserys is chosen as king by the great council. growing up, he had a great relationship with rhaenyra. although incest was common with the targaryens and he was expected to marry rhaenyra when she came of age, he refused from the beginning, only seeing her as his little sister. although having an heir, the king and queen still try for more children because of their love for each other.

the young prince is asking questions constantly about his father being next in line for the throne. the prince is loved by all, respectful to the help, being well versed in the histories, a good student, artistic and musical ability, fluent in high valyrian, and was labeled the realm’s delight as a teenager—his only flaw being his soon-to-be-shared illness with his father, leprosy.

otto, once introducing his daughter into court, has intentions of alicent becoming queen through the prince. and of course, alicent has no say in this and has to listen to her father regardless of her happiness.

she’s heard the rumors of how great the prince is but still finds herself dreading life at court until she lays her sights on the beautiful prince with long straight locks, curly silver lashes, and valyrian purple eyes. the prince was charismatic, kind, and unlike any other and she couldn’t help falling for him as she got closer to him under the instruction of her father.

one day, the prince confesses his feelings for her in the gardens to which alicent breaks down crying, the guilt eating at her and she reveals that she only got close to him because of her father. he tells her that he doesn’t care and that he loves her either way. if anything, her father had brought them together.

from that day on, the prince had officially started to court alicent to otto’s approval. things were good until the prince’s illness had gotten worse [kind of like a king baldwin type situation]. the prince had started covering his face and isolating himself, taking the warmth he spread with him. his only wish before he died was to wed alicent but he died in his sleep before he was ever able to.

alicent was distraught and so were the rest of his family. otto was disappointed that his plans had been foiled but grieved as he helped raise the young prince and saw his ambition to become a good king firsthand.

the story goes on like normal, aemma dies during childbirth during the tournament and viserys has to find a new wife and produce a new heir. the king’s hand takes this opportunity to resume his scheme and gets alicent to visit the king. once viserys chooses alicent to wed, rhaenyra is even more mad at her father and alicent than originally. after all, her older brother had been completely besotted with alicent only for her to be married off to his own father after his and their mother’s recent death.

throughout alicent and viserys’s marriage, even more so after the king’s sickness had become worse, she couldn't help but see parts of the prince she loved in his decaying father.

let me know if you want a series abt this [this is unedited so i’ll probably come back and change the format and decorate stuff]

[sparky-is-spiders]

tell me about the Jon Isolation AU!

This ask carried me through microeconomics homework, econometrics lab, microeconomics class, econometrics class, AND worries about Big Future Assignments! So thank you very much <3

This is a fun one cause I actually have the first draft of the first part written!! It's basically a version of one of my favorite personal Jon plotlines where he moves into the Archives and has no social support system. Desperately in need of a rewrite to sand away the rough edges tho lmao.

Alright I won't lie: this AU was born when I was thinking about creating an Archivist, and why it wouldn't work if you just stuck someone in a room, made them read a bunch of statements, and then dropped 14 marks on them (because that would be much easier, faster, and more efficient than what happened in the podcast, but that's not what Elias did). And then I (world's most normal Jon enjoyer) thought about Elias doing that to Jon. And then, I (and I cannot stress this enough: world's MOST NORMAL Jon enjoyer) started thinking about. The most reasonable. Effective. Low-effort. Jon kidnapping plot. And then I wrote about 5k words. And then I left those to languish in the WIP folder, just like Elias leaving Jon to languish in the basement Archives.

In hindsight, it's also a spiritual precursor to my vampire JE fics. Like. Same basic setup.

Huh.

(Believe it or not I'm actually even more of a freak about Jon NOW.)

Just to be clear, warning for:

Unhealthy relationships (I mean it's JE lmao)

Dubcon captivity?? I guess?? Like Jon agrees but Elias manipulates the scenario and Jon is. Not super happy about the situation.

Anyway the plotline is: Gertrude is missing (how mysterious and worrying!) and Elias needs himself a "temporary" Archivist to take care of the Archives until either she returns or until it becomes clear that he needs an official replacement. Jon is a very hardworking institute employee with a dedication to research and a knack for organization (autism requires everything be Sorted). Elias (who only wants to help Jon realize his full potential and has no ulterior motives whatsoever) decides that to promote him to the position. For career development reasons!

Jon:

Wants to prove that they are an asset to the institute and that they are up for the task.

Is hoping they can maybe be promoted to Head Archivist? Like Elias implied might happen if they did a good job?

Maybe. Possibly. Potentially. Fancies Elias a tiny bit.

Would appreciate the opportunity to do his own research on the statements there without their supervisor asking why they're so invested in statements involving Lietners and spiders.

Hypothetically wants Elias to praise them and validate them and respect them and profess his undying love for them make them employee of the month.

So. Obviously. They agree.

The thing is, it's only temporary, and Elias doesn't want to disrupt the other departments too much, you see, and surely Jon can handle a little tidying all by themselves? And obviously Jon can't say no to that! Haven't they always sort of wanted to not have to deal with annoying coworkers constantly chattering and bothering them and demanding their attention? Haven't they always wanted to work by themselves and be responsible for their own tasks? And Elias makes it sound like such an inconvenience to hire additional hands. Besides, Gerturde managed just fine without. Surely they can do this by themselves. Surely it will be fine.

It goes from there. The Archives are, obviously, a much bigger disaster than Elias had let on. But Elias expects Jon to handle it and handle it they shall. They just need to work harder. Come in early. Stay late. Miss lunch, sometimes. Work while they eat. It will be fine. What would Elias think if they asked for help? If they essentially admitted that they couldn't live up to his expectations? And other people would disrupt their ability to work. Might ask questions about any areas of interest they try to focus on.

They come in earlier and earlier. They stay later and later. Elias stops by occasionally to congratulate them on what a good job they're doing. To commend them on their dedication. So they have to keep it up. Can't slack off. They had friends before, sort of. Tim and Sasha were nice to talk to occasionally. But now Jon doesn't work near them, can't talk to them as much. Doesn't have time to get drinks with them after work, doesn't have the energy to answer their increasingly sporadic texts. Jon doesn't speak to much of anyone these days. It's fine though. It's fine it's fine it's fine.

There's something about the quiet stillness of the Archives. The echoing silence of the rest of the institute in those few moments Jon spends there in those long, lonely halls (not lifeless, per se, but lonely). There's some deep ache inside of them. It feels almost hollow, but it feels like home, too.

Elias is there, sometimes. To tell Jon how proud he is, how well they're doing. He likes to show up in the moments when Jon's thinking about leaving, maybe to eat in the cafeteria, maybe to stop by Sasha's desk... but that's probably paranoia. How would he know?

Every night, it feels so difficult to leave. Every night, Jon worries that Gertrude will come back and take the job from them, that Elias will find a replacement, that they'll lose their Archives. It's ridiculous, they know it, but it doesn't change the impulse to stay as long as possible. To prove to Elias that this is where they belong. It is an itch deep in their soul.

They think someone might be going through their desk. Something is watching them. It doesn't feel safe, leaving the Archives unattended over night.

(The Archives need an Archivist. The vacuum needs to be filled, and there is a perfect candidate right here, visiting them every day. Of course Jon is feeling the pull.)

And then it's been months, and Gertrude just hasn't been found, and Jon's done such a very good job, and it would be much easier if Jon would just... continue what they were doing? And if they think the work might be too much they can always ask for assistants, of course.

The itching in their soul soothes when they sign the contract. They try not to think about it.

Aaaaand that's about it as far as detailed plot goes. I do have some ideas for later on that are less well defined?

On the angstier side of things:

Things get easier when Jon is made Archivist officially. He feels more comfortable leaving at night, but he still spends a lot of time there. So many secrets, so little time.

He's paranoid. He knows something is up, that he might be in danger, that he's being watched... he can't involve anyone else. Not if he can't trust them, not if they might be in danger too.

Some of it is also the wearing effect of isolation. It's very easy to see other people as a threat or disturbance or unknown variable if you spend so much time alone.

He's looking into Gertrude's disappearance too. What did she know? What happened to her? Is he in danger too?

He can't trust Elias. He knows it. And it's so stupid that he's still maybe in love with him, just a bit.

Months pass. Relationships have surely withered and atrophied from Jon's absence. He still spends some time at his flat, but it's the Archives that feel like home.

And then, one night, the shadows in his flat come alive. Reaching ink-slick hands out to grasp him and pull him in.

It follows him. Shadows reaching with a dozen hungry hands as he races for the institute. Out of walls, street posts, parked cars. One catches on his side, and the flesh tears like paper.

It was midnight when he left. It was almost daybreak when he arrived at the Archives. He knows he's safe as soon as he crosses the threshold.

From there, I'm not sure what happens next. Tempted to say Elias was there waiting for him (I think the formatting maybe implies more continuity than there is there, how much Jon knows by the time he has to leave his flat behind is... debatable). Maybe Elias comes in to visit him and pretends to be shocked and worried about all the very unexpected blood. Maybe Jon has to phone him, begging for help because he can't go to the hospital (he knows it'll come back, the next time he's left alone in the dark), and really, who else does he have that will believe him?

Elias stays with him, tends to his injuries, spends his nights in the Archives with Jon. It's Jon who begs to stay in the Archives. Who needs the safety. The surety. Maybe Elias suggests that he stay there forever. Maybe he doesn't have to.

On the much goofier side of things: I do have an idea of them (once Jon is healed) going to Ikea to pick out some furniture. I'm thinking maybe Jon would know about the Eye, just for some fun bickering over picking out furniture or assembling a dresser or whatever. Idk, I just really like the idea of JE making the Archives into a cozy little home for Jon, somewhere he can comfortably live forever <3.

Jon has a lot of complicated feelings about the Archives and living in them and being the Archivist. Maybe he even tries to leave and go back to living a normal life. Maybe the reaching shadows break that idea for him forever. Either way, one way or another, he will learn that there is no point and there is no freedom in trying.

Despite this AU's beginnings, I don't know if Elias is working towards some big ritual. Maybe he just wants a perfect Archivist to keep in his basement forever.

And. I mean. Can you really blame him??

Not sure if JE ever become like. Official Romantic Partners. But Jon is Elias' Archivist and Elias is Jon's Watcher and that's kind of the same thing, really.

(Maybe they can have some sort of binding ritual ceremony at some point. As a Treat.)

Okay that's. God this has been a bit of a ramble, huh? Anyway I hoped you enjoyed hearing about this AU. I did get excited to take another crack at it while writing this! At the same time, however, I recently saw a post about Love that annoyed me a bit and which has made me think about the Subway Monster AU (and how those two concepts are connected is a WHOLE other story lmao) so we'll see which I end up doing (the answer might be neither for a while. I have. Big Graduation Responsibility due Oct. 1st). But yeah anyway thank you again for the ask! It was fun rambling, and actually really nice to sit down and Think about my AU lol.

[ladysunamireads]

Concrete Solutions

concrete solutions (to slow our decay) by dnkichu

Izuku has spent his whole life theorizing what could be beyond the four walls of the box room (vault) that his dad keeps him locked in. If it weren't for those very walls caving in on him, he likely would've died without ever finding out.

At least the sun came out to wish him well in the next life.

WHUMPTOBER DAY TWELVE - what could go wrong? (cave in, rusty nail, "mayday, mayday!")

Words: 951, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of It Only Gets Much Worse - Whumptober 2022

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Hisashi (Mentioned), Sensei | All For One (mentioned), Yagi Toshinori | All Might (Mentioned)

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Death :(, Midoriya Hisashi & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All For One, Sensei | All For One & Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Additional Tags: Whumptober 2022, what could go wrong?, Cave-In, Child Death, I Made Myself Cry, Hurt Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Whump, Quirkless Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Does Not Have One for All Quirk, Sensei | All For One is Midoriya Hisashi, Sensei | All For One is Midoriya Izuku's Parent, Alternate Universe - Parent Sensei | All For One Keeps Midoriya Izuku Isolated | Vault Time, Sensei | All For One's Bad Parenting, bc i dont know if they teach this in villain school, but, its not good parenting to choose fighting all might over saving your dying child, parenting 101 by hisashi midoriya -3/10 do not recommend, no beta we die like izukus will to live this month

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42337677

[ravenwolf1132]

MSA THEORY - SHIROMORI AND MYSTERY

Ok, so we know that Shiromori, our favorite White Bonsai Tree Lady, had some sort of relationship with Mystery, our resident, all powerful, and currently possessed, Kitsune. Now I'm afraid I'm on mobile and don't know how to make the read more tab, so I'm just gonna tag this as mystery skulls spoilers and long post and pray to God I don't spoil anything that I haven't already. Aight? Aight.

I'm gonna come right out of the gate and say I think that Shiromorij was more or less Mystery's child. I mean the evidence adds up. The Flower he used to bring her to life, why she was looking for him and that she needed his blood to survive, then the evidence we see here.

Mystery defending her -

He's like "Yeah, I know what she's done but please don't kill her."

Her reaction to him choosing Vivi over Her-

"I'm sorry"

"You're sorry?! You left me for that samurai and now for her descendant?! YOU'RE CHOOSING HER OVER YOUR DAUGHTER?!?!"

Shiro's reaction to Mystery being hurt -

See? She's crying. She never wanted to kill Mystery.

Mystery's reaction to Vivi vibe checking her-

He looks sad/scared/shocked, some sort of word that describes all three of those at once. That's the face of a parent that just witnessed the gruesome death of their child.

Then her reaching out to him-

If this frame doesn't say, "save me, dad" then I don't know what does.

I think that Mystery brought Shiromori to life, raised her, and fed her on a diet of human souls and his own blood, of which she ultimately needed to survive. Then Vivi's ancestor, I don't remember her name so someone please tell me in the comments, came along. She was likely trying to slay the beast that has been killing other samurai and in a desperate attempt to save his own life, Mystery made a deal with the ice samurai to become her family's guardian in exchange for his life.

This forced Mystery to leave to Shiromori behind, weakened and likely having multiple tails lopped off, the forest was left to whither and decay. Shiromori, who somehow survived (I'm thinking that Kitsune blood works like unicorn blood in Harry Potter, only that it's incredibly potent and addictive), is now on the hunt for Mystery and probably has been for a while. Mystery likely grew afraid of facing her again which is why he hid himself as the family's dog.

Then this happens, imagine how these two must feel after all this time. Shiromori has gone insane from isolation and starvation after all this time and when she does finally find Mystery, she's mowed down by the descendant of the samurai who took her father from her in the first place. And Mystery, who is terrified of Shiromori, caves and tries to give her what she wants, maybe they could even reconcile while Vivi makes an escape. But then Vivi attacks Shiromori, probably misunderstanding, and a full blown anime fight goes down. Mystery defended his daughter, but because he's still the guardian of Vivi's family, he can't be with her. Shiromori take this as he's willingly choosing Vivi over her and attacks, ultimately injuring Mystery and Mystery is forced to watch as Shiromori, his daughter, is killed.

I'm filled with emotions...

...

Brb, I'm gonna go rewatch that and have my heart ripped to shreds again 😢

[larkawolfgirl]

Submersion in the Gloom (Ardynoct)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Relationship: Ardyn Izunia/Noctis Lucis Caelum Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ardyn Izunia

Summary:  It’s precarious, this thing between them. Not something anyone else would understand. Not something to be indulged except from within the secrecy of shadows and fevered dreams. Their time is limited, made even more so with this rouse, so whenever the opportunity arises, Noctis sheds a second skin, claws the other man as tight to him as he can, swallowing down as much as he can.

Read on ao3

Ardyn Lucis Caelum tastes of everything that defines him. Everything that should disgust him. Time, isolation, death, decay, madness.

Noctis has been bred to imbue light, life, and peace. To stand against this man. To be his downfall, his release. But even upbringing and a destiny injected by the gods cannot alter Noctis’ instinctual desires.

This taste does not disgust, far from it. He devours it much like a starving man, as if he has never tasted such fineries before. He licks at the other man’s mouth ravenously, never feeling sated, always wanting that much more.

It’s precarious, this thing between them. Not something anyone else would understand. Not something to be indulged except from within the secrecy of shadows and fevered dreams. Their time is limited, made even more so with this rouse, so whenever the opportunity arises, Noctis sheds a second skin, claws the other man as tight to him as he can, swallowing down as much as he can.

It’s intoxicating. The feel, the taste, the sensation. Knowing that the gods are furious. Knowing that they are two sides of a coin, two shadows now mingling together into one ugly mass. Because as much as Noctis is to be the light, this is never about spreading that light but drowning in the gloom. He loves it, this abandon, this defiance, this freedom .

Ardyn cackles, a dangerous, prickly, sound. Ardyn was the first, the failure, and yet he is what Noctis craves more than anything. He does not understand it and cares not to dwell on the matter, only cradling the man’s head to his neck where the man bites a hickey. It will leave a mark, but Noctis doesn’t care. Not like anyone would guess it’s creator.

What Noctis does dwell on, sometimes, on those rare nights when sleep does not come immediately, is what Ardyn’s side of this is. Their relationship is purely carnal, not one where speaking is needed. What does the other man feel from this? Does he find amusement that the gods’ second choice so easily fell into temptation? Smug that their second willingly chooses to submerge himself in what they cursed the first with? Ardyn is a mystery, allusive. His actions rough and sporadic, but his gaze as lustful as it is spiteful, touches as desperate as they are gratifying.

His father must be turning in his grave, but Noctis doesn’t have time to even think that thought as he shudders in what must be the greatest ecstasy in existence. The pleasure, the thrill, the moment when everything even his own sense of identity evaporates. But it only lasts so long before he rises back up to the surface and out of the all-consuming shadows.

Then he remembers where they are. Remembers that the guys are up on the pier above. Imagines the dull, lengthy lecture on propriety and duty Ignis would make him sit through. Sees the revulsion on Gladio’s face, the disappointment on Prompto’s.

He knows this is temporary. Even this cannot help him fend off the inevitability that he will kill this man. But he will continue for as long as he can because he knows Bahamut will not leave him to the same fate. He has no one else to choose now that he’s led his father to the slaughter.

So Noctis redresses, wipes the sand off himself, and gives Ardyn the look he always does. The look that says come find me. A look full of promise and flirtation. And Ardyn returns it with a crooked smirk that sends gooseflesh over his back.

Noctis Lucis Caelum will not fight his fate, but he will not just simply walk toward his demise. He will live in the light that he is meant to be in, but the shadows, the wicked shadows will continue to be his respite. He's too addicted to stop anymore.

[josefavomjaaga]

These are excerpts from »Mein Verhältnis zum Herzog von Reichstadt« by Ritter Anton Prokesch von Osten. This gentleman, fifteen years older than Franz von Reichstadt and apparently a bit of an adventurer but with excellent diplomatic skills, had made a name for himself in fighting for the unification of Greece and in the Levante, services for which he had recently been knighted. He had also, already in his youth, written several books full of appraisal for Napoleon, one about the battle of Waterloo. Recently returned to Austria, he was staying in Graz in June 1830, when he first made the acquaintance of the Duke of Reichstadt:

At that time the court also went there and on the 22nd I had the honour of being called to the imperial table. I sat opposite the Empress and had the Duke of Reichstadt, who sat opposite the Emperor, at my side. […]

Okay, let’s just stop here already for a second. So, at this official court event Franz sits

at the family table

and vis-à-vis his grandfather the Emperor (a place of honour).

This does not sound like isolation or mistreatment to me. In a letter to Austrian politician Gentz Prokesch even mentions that the evening before, when the emperor and his family appeared at the theater, the Duke of Reichstadt had been greeted by some with shouts of »Vivat Napoleon«. And this, as Prokesch states, »quite innocently«, i.e., without giving it much thought. Apparently nobody bothered about political implications.

During the imperial dinner that Prokesch was invited to, he did not have much occasion to chat with Franz, for once because arch-duke Johann talked too much, but also because Franz definitely held back at this public occasion and was not very approachable. He did shake Prokesch’s hand however, when Prokesch took his leave, and told him that he had known him for a long time already (i.e., that he had read his books).

On the morning after this day, Count Moritz Dietrichstein, who had been entrusted with the Duke's education, and a man who had been well-disposed towards me from the time when I had been carried by the favour of the House of Prince Schwarzenberg, came to me in order to renew the complaint he had already levelled at me yesterday, namely that, although I had been in the same city with the Duke for a week, I had neglected him. He invited me to go straight to him.

So, let’s recapitulate: The evil obusive reactionary instructor himself calls upon a known admirer of Napoleon in order to get him to make the acquaintance of his student.

I followed him with pleasure. When I entered, the Duke, a different man in his bearing from the day before, met me with all the swiftness of youth and with an expression full of confidence and warmth. Repeating the words of yesterday, he said: "I have known you and loved you for a long time. You have defended my father's honour at a time when all was racing to scorn him. I have read your Battle of Waterloo and, in order to absorb every line in it, I have translated it twice into other languages, into French and Italian." I answered what the desire to captivate the handsome young man, so unique in the world, made me say. Count Dietrichstein first brought the conversation to Greece. Full of best wishes for this country now called to its own life, I had already expressed the opinion yesterday, after the imperial dinner, that despite the evils arising from war, lawlessness, factionalism and misgovernment, Greece would quickly blossom into a happy future if a European prince was given to it as king and if it were not governed with diplomatic half-measures. To the Archduke Johann, to Count Moritz [i.e. Dietrichstein], to the principal of the Archduchess Marie Luise, to Colonel von Werklein, I had, at a moment when the Duke was otherwise engaged, suggested that the Greek throne, which had lacked a claimant since the rejection of the Prince of Coburg, could be given to no one more worthy than the son of Napoleon, and to my surprise this suggestion had met with applause. Even the Empress, who had come to us during this conversation, did not seem averse to it. [...]

Now Count Dietrichstein turned the conversation onto Napoleon.

Again: It is Dietrichstein himself who brings in the alleged hot potato. And apparently, Franz has no fear to talk about the topic in his governor’s presence:

The Duke spoke in great excitement. - The warmest admiration for his father, the most passionate attachment was in the Duke's every word. But he dwelt chiefly on the latter's military talents. To train himself as a general according to this pattern was something he was passionate about down to his fingertips. We discussed several of his manoeuvres, for example that of Austerlitz. I was amazed at the Prince's strategic judgement and the firmness of his expression. Among all the officers and generals present in Graz at that time, there was certainly not one with such a sharp military eye and so resolute a disposition towards the commander. He came back to my Battle of Waterloo, but also to my "Memories from the Life of Field Marshal Prince Karl zu Schwarzenberg". The Duke discussed these with a tact that surprised me. He then complained about his loneliness and burst into the words: "Stay with me! Make the sacrifice of your future, stay with me! We, we would understand each other!" He spoke this with a warmth that penetrated my heart. Then he continued: "If it is my destiny to become a Prince Eugene for Austria, I ask myself how to train myself for this role? I have to choose a man who can introduce me to the higher demands and tasks of war; I have and see no such man in my surroundings." Count Dietrichstein witnessed this statement and seemed to find it natural and approve of it.

Dietrichstein then leaves the two to themselves for a while, and Franz noticeably opens up even more and talks about his present situation at court and his plans for the future.

"[...] If it is my doom never to return to France, I am serious about my desire to become another Prince Eugene for Austria. I love my grandfather - I am a piece of his house and will gladly draw the sword for Austria against anyone but France." He laid down these words like a confession in my soul, and so I took them.

A bit later, Prokesch repeats how close the relationship between Reichstadt and his grandfather was:

[...] He loved his grandfather with the love of a child, for from the day he was brought to Vienna he had found in him the tenderness of a father. At that time he was given a playground in the emperor's rooms - did not leave his side for half a day, ate with him when the emperor ate alone, shared his stays in the country with him and grew up with him like a branch grafted onto a foreign trunk. He told me this, but added: that he would not forget for a moment who he was born and where his father was decaying. […]

Again – this does not sound like »isolation« to me.

Out of interest to those who are familiar with the books by Aubry and Castelot: How do they treat these informations? I understand Prokesch is generally accepted as one of Reichstadt's true friends? Or is there reason to question the truth of his statements?

I guess what I'm trying to say is: Let's be fair and hear both sides before jumping to conclusions. Just because Dietrichstein was – by modern standards – a horrible pedagogue does not mean he was automatically wrong in his assessment of Franz’s character traits. Proksch actually seems to confirm some of it. Just because »l’Aiglon« had a tragic fate does not mean he was automatically a saint.

[plushpinkfox]

an attack on rophie

so i posted this in the last ever after forum in response to all the rophie/raphie shippers and i think it’s actually a really funny post and i encourage you to please use it to combat any rophie shippers you see wandering the sge fandom :) i’m already on the hitlist of a bunch of rophie shippers on the website and i assume it’s in part because of this post. i did not edit this so it’s got some website references to forums but other than that please enjoy!

“hey y'all! it's my first post in the last ever after forum and i'm seeing a LOT of raphie shippers so i thought i'd give my opinion on this ship before i do my big "reviewing sge ships" post on the one true king forum. let's give everyone a reminder of what rafal looks like! in the last ever after, he is described as a lean boy with "hairless white skin, snug black breeches, his thick spiked hair the color of snow, his tight veined arms, his glacier-blue eyes" who doesn't look a day more than sixteen. cute, right? oh wait, that's actually NOT what rafal looks like. let's go to the back of the book, shall we? page 635! here we are: "He began to change. His face shriveled like rancid fruit; his thick white hair sloughed off in clumps over his mottled skull; his spine hunched with sickening crackles, jerking his body into ugly contortions. Liver spots rashed across decaying skin, his blue eyes clouding toxic gray, his muscled limbs shrinking to bony sticks. with each second, he grew older and older, thousands of years old, screams of rage tearing from inside of him, smoke spitting through his mummifying skin, until the School Master was unmasked at last, a naked corpse of blackened, hateful flesh." wow. that doesn't sound very handsome, right? not only is rafal THOUSANDS OF YEARS OLD (sophie is about... sixteen here? wonderful age difference), but he is literally not human. he is a mummified ugly evil spirit. not very fun for shipping, which is why i'm guessing people choose to describe the hot form instead of his true evil ugly form. if you're willing to ignore the "naked corpse of blackened, hateful flesh" part, maybe we can look at some other parts of the "wonderful" raphie relationship. gaslighting sophie into believing that agatha wants to kill her? check! (see pages 441-442 of the last ever after, where rafal convinces sophie that agatha has used her wish-granting ability to make sure tedros stayed in love with agatha instead of sophie) encouraging her to kill her other friends? check! (see pages 449-451 of the last ever after, where rafal has captured her friends after convincing her that the world is against her, and letting her make the decision to kill them even though he knows he is manipulating her. manipulating her into ending the balance between good and evil, putting the entire woods in danger? check! (see THE ENTIRETY OF THE LAST EVER AFTER) //content warning for //a*b*u*s*e// below this line!!!// if that's not enough to convince you yet, then let's go to the website "https://au.reachout.com/articles/signs-of-an-abusive-relationship" and go through some of the signs there. i'm not going to respond to all of them because there's SO MANY but i will choose a select few that should get my point across. 1. "They check on you all the time to see where you are, what you're doing and who you're with. They try to control where you go and who you see, and get angry if you don't do what they say." well, rafal does both of these things! he makes sophie a teacher so everyone can keep an eye on her, and he literally made a schedule for her so he'd know where she is at all times. 2. "They accuse you of being unfaithful or of flirting. They isolate you from family and friends, often by behaving rudely to them." rafal states on page 235 that sophie needs to kill tedros and agatha "or he'll know whose side she's really on". sounds like he's accusing her of being unfaithful (i know in the context of the article unfaithful means cheating but i'm using it in the way it applies). and i think threatening to kill them is definitely behaving rudely. 3. "They threaten to use violence against you, your family, friends or a pet." again, he's threatened to kill agatha and tedros/threatened her so she will kill them. pretty *horrible* to me!! 4. "They push, shove, hit or grab you." let's see! on page 231, rafal grabs sophie's hand so she'll show him her finger without her permission. that meets the criteria! 5. "They harm you, your pets or your family members." here i can use an example OTHER than rafal trying to kill tedros and agatha. remember when he allowed lady lesso to get stabbed? or dangled the coven over the brig? or allowed nicholas to get killed in the chaos of battle? those all sound like harmful things to me! not only is raphie super gross and downright pedophilic, but it's an //a*b*u*s*i*v*e// relationship as well! so that's why i don't ship raphie, folks. look out for my "reviewing sge ships" post coming soon on the otk forum >:)”

[stillness-in-green]

Shigaraki, the League and “Redemption”

(In this post: 1700 words about how much I feel like stories/meta in which Shigaraki is rescued or redeemed miss the entire point of Shigaraki.)

It's a big open question how much of Shigaraki's backstory was engineered by All For One.  We're not even sure if AFO is the villain who killed Nana's husband, the event that kicked off the entire downward spiral of the Shimura family, much less what degree of involvement he had in Tenko's manifestation of Decay.  There's a tremendous amount of well-thought-out, interesting meta and fic about what will happen when Shigaraki finds out the truth, whether he can or should still be redeemed as he currently stands, or how Tenko might have been saved from ever becoming Shigaraki to begin with.  While I have read and enjoyed quite a lot of those theories and stories, I still find myself bothered by the prevalence of that line of thought because it ignores the fact that hero society stands condemned regardless.  

Whether or not AFO gave Tenko the Decay quirk knowing what would happen, whether he found out about Tenko the night of the accident or never lost track of Kotaro from the very beginning, in truth, none of that matters to the narrative of the League on the whole.  Nothing about Shigaraki's past has any bearing on the pasts of the other members. Trying to decide how to "save" Shigaraki avoids the fact that he is the leader of the League of Villains and their pain still stands regardless of their leader's history. 

You cannot act as though saving Shigaraki--with All Might, Inko, Izuku, Eraserhead, anyone--would redeem hero society, because Shigaraki is not hero society's only victim. He's not even its most straightforward one!  The condemnation he articulates of the world he lives in can't be addressed by him realizing he was manipulated by AFO all along or getting a good therapist in prison, because the world he lives in has failed a good many more people than just him. 

Let's break it down.  

The League Members

Twice fell through the cracks because of a lack of social support after his parents were killed in a villain attack.  He was just a teenager back then--what arrangements were made about where he was going to live?  If he was old enough that foster care/being placed in a group home wasn't a good option, did he instead have a stipend from the government?  Where was the social worker who should have been overseeing his case?  Where was his homeroom teacher when he dropped out of school?  What support should have been available when he wound up homeless on the streets?  Heroes stop villains and are rewarded both socially and monetarily for doing so, but the much more difficult and involved work of dealing with the fallout from those battles is clearly undervalued, badly so, in comparison.  Hero society, which prioritizes glamorized reaction over everyday prevention, failed Bubaigawara Jin.

Spinner had the wrong kind of face.  X-Men-style mutant discrimination left him isolated and alienated, shunned by the inhabitants of his backwater hometown because of his animal-type quirk.  To say nothing about the threat of violent hate crimes implied by the existence of a KKK analogue!  But it goes further than just the bigotry of his neighbors--Spinner's quirk was also unremarkable, meaning that, in a society that prizes flashy and offense-based quirks in its heroes, Spinner would have had few if any role models.  Given how many heroes there are, it seems strange to consider that there isn't a single straightforward heteromorph for Spinner to idolize, but given how strongly he latches onto first Stain's warped ideals and later Shigaraki's nihilistic grandeur, Spinner is clearly a young man desperate for a role model--if a hero that fit the bill existed, he wouldn't be a villain today.  So he's failed directly by his community for their bigotry and indirectly by society for the way it told him, in a thousand ways big and small, that Iguchi Shuuichi was not a person worth valuing.

Toga had the wrong kind of quirk.  It's true that, more than anyone else in the League, she feels like a character who would always have struggled with mental stability, even with the best help imaginable--but she didn't get the best help imaginable, did she?  She got parents who called her a freak, who berated a child barely into grade school about how unnatural and awful the desires she was born with were.  She was put into a quirk counselling program that apparently only caused her to feel more detached from society.  If Curious' characterization of quirk counselling is at all accurate, it seems to focus not on how to manage one's unusual or difficult quirk in healthy or productive ways, but rather on stressing what society considers "normal," on teaching its participants how to force themselves into that mold.  Hero society wants people with different needs to learn how to function like "normal" people; it is unwilling to look for ways to accommodate such people on a societal level.  Toga Himiko was failed by a society that demonized and othered her for a trait that she did not choose and innate desires that she never asked to experience.

And then, most prominently of all*, there's Dabi.  We all know where the big Dabi backstory mystery is going, and his is the most open condemnation of hero society of them all.  Dabi was raised on a heady cocktail, parental abuse mixed liberally with unquestioned acceptance of the fundamental importance of having a powerful quirk.  Whatever else can be said of Endeavor's path to redemption, the old Enji is emblematic of everything wrong with hero society: the fundamental devaluing of those without power, the fervent strain to push oneself past one's limits over and over and over again, regardless of the consequences to your health or your relationships, the practice of raising children to glorify a dangerous profession that fights the symptoms of societal ills rather than the root causes.  The ugly secrets hidden in the Todoroki house are the ugly secrets hidden within hero society's ideals, and because he embodies those ideals so thoroughly, of course Endeavor is lionized and well-paid by a society that never had to see Todoroki Touya's scars.

Mirror of Reality

All of these issues map to things in real life, and I don't only mean in a vague, universal sense--I mean they reflect on specific and observable Japanese problems. Read up on koseki family registries and consider how the dogged insistence on maintaining them impacted the Shimura family, tracked down by a monster.  Look into societal bias against orphans and imagine how it shaped peoples' reactions to teenaged Jin and his alleged 'scary face.'  Read up on how Japan approaches mental and physical disabilities, on what it regularly does to homeless camps, on what responses get trotted out when someone comes forward with a story about closeted abuse.  The League embodies these issues in indirect, sometimes fantastical ways, but they're not what I would call subtle, either; there's a reason the generally poor, disenfranchised League members are contrasted with powerful, urbane criminals like All for One, callous manipulators like Overhaul, and entrenched pillars of society like Re-Destro.  

Hero AUs are a fun thought exercise and all, but the League exists to call out and typify very real problems in heroic society and, by metaphorical extension, modern day Japanese society as well.  Hero society studiously looks away from its victims.  It doesn't want to see them and it thinks even trying to talk about them is disruptive and distasteful.  There's no indication in-universe that there's even a movement trying to change this state of affairs.  Certainly there are a great many things that could have changed to spare the BNHA world Shigaraki Tomura, but none of those quick, easy solutions would have saved Twice or Toga, Spinner or Dabi.  The League of Villains is the punishment, the overdue reckoning that their country will have to face for its myriad failures--for letting its social safety nets grow ragged, for failing to stamp out quirk-based prejudice, for allowing its heroes to operate with so little oversight.  For growing so complacent that not one person had the moral wherewithal to extend a hand to a bloodied, lost, suffering child.  

Shigaraki, Past and Future

One of the most heartbreaking and yet awe-inspiring aspects of Shigaraki's characterization in his Deika City flashback is that he was thoughtful and compassionate enough to reach out to other kids who were being excluded and teased by the rest of his peer group.  The League is foreshadowed for him even as a child, because even back then, he was a kid suffering repression and repudiation and so had empathy for others in similar straits.  Young Tenko is the person who would have reached out a hand to the scary but obviously needy Tenko wandering the streets; Tomura, despite everything All For One did to him, still retains that core of fellow-feeling that invites other outcasts to play with him.

"Saving" Shigaraki without addressing the societal flaws that created the people gathered under his banner negates the entire point he and the League exist to raise. I think readers will be forced to confront those flaws alongside Midoriya and the rest of his classmates, who the story has made a point to keep mostly isolated and on a steady PLUS ULTRA diet of all the same rhetoric that leads to consequences like the League to begin with.  I only wish more of the fandom--hero and villain fandom alike--was on the same page and writing their fic and meta accordingly.

Footnotes and Etc.

*The only characters in the League whose backstories we don't have much window on are Mr. Compress and Magne, both of whom are framed as seeing society as repressive.  Magne openly says as much to Overhaul; Mr. C intimates it to the 1-A kids during the training camp attack.  I'm inclined to hold off on commenting on them very thoroughly, though, because in neither case do we know exactly what drove them to crime in the first place. That's not a huge problem for Sako--if anyone on that team is into flamboyant villainy for the sheer joy of it, it's him--but I would definitely want to know more specifics about Magne's personal history before I correlate her experience as a trans woman with her portrayal as a violent, even lethal, criminal.  That would get right into the problematic elements of portraying all these societal outcasts as villains, people who undoubtedly have a point, but have taken to terrorism to illustrate it.  It's very possible that, for all that the League maps to real problems in Japan, we're still going to get a very mealy-mouthed, "But it's still wrong to lash out when you could protest nonviolently and work with your oppressors to seek a peaceful solution," moral from all this.

P.S.  None of the above meta even takes into account the multiple non-League characters whose stories illustrate various failings of hero society--Gentle Criminal, Hawks, Shinsou, even Midoriya himself, as those endless reams of Villain!Deku AUs are ever hasty to expound upon.  Vigilantes touches on the idea of "hero" and "villain" categorizations as being almost entirely political in their inception, as is also hinted at with historical characters like Destro.  Seriously, the mountain of problems with hero culture just looms higher with every passing arc!  

P.P.S.  I absolutely do not mean to imply with this meta that Japan suffers uniquely from any of the problems discussed above.  Other countries obviously have their own difficulties with homelessness, accessibility of care, victim blaming, and so forth.  Horikoshi is writing in and about his own culture, though, and stripping Shigaraki of his villainous circumstances in the interest of making him happier and/or more palatable strikes me as being kind of culture-blind in a way that it’s very easy for Western fans to unthinkingly slip into.  Just some food for thought.

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

[linkspooky]

No Freedom in Destruction

In the latest chapter we see Shigaraki Tomura, a character that is supposedly free and liberated not depicted in triumph but rather naked and alone clinging still to one of the severed hands that All for One gave him. 

At the idea of accomplishing his goal soon, Shigaraki does not look happy or sad, just mealncholic. He is empty staring at the hand in isolation, in front of an all white background. There are several hints in the aftermath of the villain arc that despite Shigaraki’s claims to have overcome anything, Shigaraki is someone still not free from his past. He is also someone who cannot find freedom no matter how much he destroys, because that is still what All for One wanted for him and nto Shigaraki’s own desires. 

1. The Cycle of Abuse 

Shigaraki cannot be free to develop into his own person, because he is still very much caught in the cycle of reacting to his own abuse. The reason he cannot develop a solid goal beyond destruction of everything, is because his destruction is a lashing out meant to vent his emotinos, because Shigaraki has no other healthy outlet for the way he accumulates stress. 

 Horikoshi is clearly exploring the cycle of abuse, and the effects of long term abuse in regards to Shigaraki’s character. It’s not just there to provide a sympathetic backstory of him, it informs about him as a person.  Horikoshi clearly understands cycles of stress and lashing out, because he literally made that Re-Destro’s entire ability, to slowly accumulate stress and turn it into strength to destroy whatever is around him. Both Re-Destro and Shigaraki’s quirks are effected directly by their emotions and their mental states, and stress for Shigaraki literally translates into destruction for his decay quirk. 

Let’s define the cycle of abuse in simplified terms to provide a working definition to this meta. Abuse comes about because characters are unable to handle their stress in a healthy way, and therefore they use other people as an outlet for their stress. The primary cause is an inability to process emotions, like sadness, anger, any kind of negative emotions like a healthy developed adult on your own. 

Not only will abusers be affected by this cycle, but victims will as well. Because the root cause is not being able to process your own emotion. If you are stuck in an environment where you can never healthily express emotions, and no one is there to show you how to find healthy expressions of emotions, the way you handle your emotions is inevitably going to be warped. Especially when one of the biggest factors of abuse, isolation comes into play because you have no outside environment to provide you with an alternative. 

To compare this to Shigaraki’s backstory, Tenko exists in an environment isolated from his family where his own emotions are denied. 

This is due to his father who cannot handle the stress of his own mother abandoning him, and has clearly unresolved wounds that he chooses to take out on his own son rather than confronting it. We see Koutarou’s tensions building, an incident where he explodes. Then after that Koutarou calms down because his emotions have been vented, but Koutarou does not address the root issue and Tenko is left completely alone. 

In that environment, not only does Shigaraki receive no meaningful comfort or resolution for his feelings when he is the one being hurt, as most often when these incidents happen the family sides with Koutarou. His only model on how to healthily handle his anger is Koutarou, who himself cannot handle those emotions. 

Shigaraki grew up in an unhealthy environment that stunted his ability to handle his emotions. The way he processes them now is inevitably shaped by this cycle. Shigaraki did not grow up to become an abuser himself (literally, notice the way that Shigaraki treats every single person he has power over now, he has a healthy relationship of equals between every member of the league and talks to them all as people). However, the way he processes his emotions inevitably reflects his abusers because this is how he has been taught to handle his feelings. 

From the point that he is recovered by All for One, Shigaraki is actively enouraged never to handle his emotions in a healthy way. He is told to hold onto stress and let it accumulate. That he should feel stress, anger, sadness all the time, let it explode, and then reset and keep feeling this way. 

Shigaraki describes a constant, itch that persistently bothers him no matter what he does. This itch that he is plagued by is clearly a psychological wound due to being in a negative, highyl stressful environment, but Shigaraki himself does not see it that way because he has never existed in a healthy environment. He has no idea what it feels like, so he cannot make the connection that the itch he feels is a result of his own broken and damaged emotions. 

Here is the thing about the second phase the incident or the explosion. The ugly truth about human psychology is that people lash out because lashing out feels good. It’s venting. Acting on those emotions clears those emotions up. By temporarily indulging in violence, Shigaraki is able to clear away the extreme amounts of stress that piles up for him. 

However, while venting clears the emotions away it is not a permanent solution to the problem. This is why even though he acts on his urge to lash out, that lashing out never makes the itch permanently go away for Tomura. 

Shigaraki himself in his narration even acknowledges that he thought the itch might have gone away, if somebody else had comforted him, rather than him having to continually lash out to make it go away. If he had healed instead of staying scarred and picking at that wound forever.

It’s at this point we get to All for One’s manipulation. Rather than attributing Shigaraki’s itch as basic human psychology, and a response to the trauma he’s suffered, All for One instead insists part fo what Shigaraki’s survivors guilt already tells him that he wanted to destroy, and that he wanted to destroy his family all along. He pushes the idea on Shigaraki that he is some inhuman thing with backwards psychology that longs for destruction, and that the itch comes as a result of him holding himself back. 

Except we have seen several times that the itch is a response to stress, and that even when he vents and destroys as All for One tells him to do the itch always comes back. That’s because venting does not solve the problem, and strength will inevitably accumulate again. 

All for One’s plan is to always keep him in a stressed out state, so he will never hold back, and also never develop into anything other than what All for One wants for him to be, which is just a pure destructive force. Shigaraki is meant to lash out, and lash out, until there is nothing left. 

So, here we are in Shigaraki’s cycle. He is constantly made to feel sick and horrible about himself, and because of that he vents to clear his feelings. Afterwards he feels a moment of relief and thinks that his venting is the only thing that cures his feelings, only to let them accumulate again because he cannot handle those emotions in any healthy way. He is literally scratching and picking at a wound until it gets infected. 

And this is what it renders Shigaraki into. Someone who hates everything, someone who gets no enjoyment out of life, someone who believes his pain will never end no matter what he accomplishes. 

Shigaraki wants to destroy everything, because he just wants those feelings to go away. He thinks if he destroys everything, that will somehow amount to relief. It’s the same logic of committing suicide because you can no longer handle living. It’s not the result of Shigaraki being some unknowable and unreasonable being that thirsts only for destruction. It’s Shigaraki wanting a release, an escape, and being so desperate he would do anything to make these feelings go away. 

2. Shigaraki Freeing Himself in My Villain Academia

So with all of that in mind, you can read Shigaraki’s actions in the most recent arc not as liberating himself, but rather once again venting his own stress through violence and losing control. 

At the start of this arc, Shigaraki is called once again to prove himself to All for One. He spends an entire month fighting with gigantomachia in the woods, barely taking care of himself, and not eating or sleeping. Not only that but immediately afterwards without giving him a break the league is threatened, and one of his members is kidnapped. He goes from one impossible battle to the other, and Shigaraki’s response is the same as always, because that is how he copes. 

If something is in his way, if something is hurting him, he just destroys it. That’s what All for One raised him to do. We see during the battle against the MLA Shigaraki shows extreme signs of his mental health deteriorating. His perception of reality degrades, he starts dissociating from his body. When we see Shigaraki’s perspective in the story, it’s shown trauma is something that hs rendered him severely mentally ill. 

Not only that but Shigaraki’s mental state is tied directly to his quirk, he starts losing control of his quirk and it’s power increases at the same time that he’s experiencing this breakdown. 

Shigaraki then is beaten within an inch of his life by Rikiya and has several trauma flashbacks in the middle of the fight. This is where he’s basically at his lowest point. At which point Shigaraki reaffirms All for One’s narrative, and says that he himself has no plans for the future. That’s the point, it’s incredibly unhealthy for him to think this way, it’s not liberating at all he’s repeating bad and unhealthy habits. He’s doing what all for one has repeatedly told him will free him. His heart has not become lighter, it’s only becoming more and more heavy. Not only that but when talking about how he doesn’t need a future Shigaraki sounds downright suicidal no longer caring whether he lives of dies. 

We see him symbolically break the hands around him, only for him  to reutrn to wearing the hand again after the incident. This is because, the hands are symbolic for Shigaraki not having control over his own life and being in the grips of others. 

Shigaraki believes he has shaken off the trauma of what happened to his original family by lashing out, but he’s still underneath the hand of All for One, his father figure and the one who taught him that lashing out will free him. Until Shigaraki escapes from All for One he is incapable of being truly free.

Shigaraki’s desire for liberation is the genuine thing. He may have only falsely liberated himself in the My Villain Academia arc, but that does not mean the freedom that Shigaraki was fighting for was wrong to begin with. He has felt trapped his whole life and continually fights back against what traps him. It’s that desire that should push him to reject what All for One told him freedom was, and instead come to define what freedom means for himself. 

Only when Shigaraki is able to feel for himself, decide for himself what he wants, and free to define himself as an indvidual will he truly be free. That is what freedom entails for this character, Shigaraki being his own person, instead of just existing in reaction to the abuse he has endured his entire life. 

[onlyonewoman]

Eleven very problematic heartbeats

My Juice/Tully altenate ending AU is among the top 100 SoA fics on AO3 in terms of kudos, without any category (sexuality, warnings, content rating etc) weeded out.  If this sounds like bragging then yeah, of course it is to some extent, but mostly it says more about how plenty of people are able to read stuff that’s: - Non canon - Uncomfortable - Morally challenging - Problematic and toxic without loosing the moral compass! After that stupid shit happened when someone in the SoA fandom decided I was a threat to the fandom, toxic and shaming self-shippers (which I don’t, I just don’t understand the concept wich is a whole different thing than shaming) and also shipping a rapist with his victim without any context added to exactly HOW this fucked up ship set sails at all, I am so greatful for all the people who gave my story and chance and tell me how: - They KNOW how absolutely horrifying this idea would be IRL but still love it in this imaginary bubble. - They feel challenged by my portrait of Tully and pulled between the realisation of his awful actions and my background history for them. - They WANT to hate him and KNOW they should, but can’t, because that’s how we learn empathy. My story doesn’t excuse or defend rapists, it only declares them humans and no monsters.  My story is an AU where so much of the roots come not just from the prison stuff in SoA, but from Oz and where I deliberately try to dig into how we see a rape as more unforgivable than a murder and how we, as an audience of shows like SoA, slowly get dragged into the main characters moral compass (or lack there of) and how it completely clashes with everything a reasonable human being would think and do, yet we still root for them. Eleven Heartbeats is NOT a defence of rapists or a clear case of Stockholm Syndrome, but an exploration of what we’re willing to do to: 1. Survive when we’re not supposed to. 2. Hold on to a company we can’t choose when we’ve been sentenced to isolation. 3. Look the shame and self-hatred in the eye and let go of toxic pride in order to tell ourselves that being alive and find some happiness even at the bottom, is a natural instinct and not something we do or do not deserve. It’s a moral greyscale where Juice and Tully both are forced to live with their crimes and both have the choice of die as they lived (like Jax) or keep on living without regret (like Happy) or try and scrape out the good crumbles of them that remain and let go of the toxic fucking “honor code” that says death is the only way to pay for grave sins.  We let Kurt Sutter drag us through 7 fucking seasons of more and more moral decay and we loved the sociopaths and psychopaths he let us close enough to get to know on the safe distance from the screen. It means a lot to me with the support and comments and kudos on Eleven Heartbeats, since you lovely readers seem to understand so well how this isn’t a defence of rapists or a “bad guy turning good with love” or a black and white Stockholm Syndrome case. Neither is it a Tully/Juice canon shipping story because clearly there was no such thing as consent between them in canon. And why do I have the bad taste of bragging with my statistics for this? Well, because I want to encourage people who write highly problematic ships that as long as you KNOW what you’re writing and don’t seriously PROMOTE abuse by pretending it’s a form of a healthy love (yeah, E.L. James, I’m looking at you!) it’s completely valid and okay to step into the grey zone and play around.  Eleven Heartbeats is NOT a story about saving “the bad guy” with love. It’s not a “he didn’t know any better” story, it’s not a “you can change him with love” story or an “it wasn’t really rape” and I really love how my readers always keep that in mind, not forgetting about or forgiving Tully’s transgressions, but also not dehumanizing him for them. I’m so happy that this story that some people actually made “we should erase this from the Internet” posts about (yeah, they wanted it to be fucking ERASED), keeps getting more readers, kudos and new people commenting and sharing their thoughts - and of course I can’t stress enough how absolutely crucial the support from the readers giving this a go from the very beginning has been! All the love to you and remember: exploring emotions in fics is normal and healthy and a great outlet for thoughts and ideas we don’t dare to share openly. It doesn’t mean we endorse them all, doesn’t mean we’re loosing our moral compass or our capability of separating fiction from reality. It doesn’t mean we’re promoting rapists and their victims in Stockholm Syndrome situations, but that we challenge our comfort zone while being completely clear on where the fic stops and reality begins.  Thank you, every single one reading, subscribing, leaving kudos and commenting - and now also TRANSLATING!!! - Eleven Heartbeats. You make this journey to one of pure joy, despite the grave and dark content. And of course, all the gratitude in the world to the one who inspired this story: @ineedthesons and her increadible The Comforter series. Eleven Heartbeats wouldn’t exist without that. Also, thank you @theruneofkenaz for your support and don’t miss her amazing Wait for me story and thank you dearest GirlWhoLovesMonsters for the support and equally awesome Hell Has A New Name story. And if you’re in a toxic relationship or suffer from PTSD or something else due to trauma like those described in this story, remember that your life is not a fanfic and that fanfics like this aren’t some creative excuses for an abusive partner - or parent or friend or sibling or whatever - but just a fan fic with roots in what I hope we all realise is a world that we’d shun if it hadn’t been fiction: Sons Of Anarchy.

[mostloquacious-moved]

STUDY:  R.

— BASICS.

IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE?  He is quite tall!! He stands at 6′3″. ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT?  Yeah, his height is a convenience. Finding pants that fit is a bitch though. WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE?  Dark, curly, and thick. He lets it grow out on top and tries to keep the sides a little shorter. If he doesn’t maintain it though it gets pretty fluffy. DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING?  Other than keeping his sides short, not particularly. His hair his curly and kinky so he doesn’t even wash it terribly often.  DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK?  He cares to an extent. R likes to look nice but he doesn’t spend an extended amount of time dolling himself up whenever he wakes up. 

— PREFERENCES.

INDOORS OR OUTDOORS?  Outdoors are preferable but things are...unpredictable out there. But he would definitely rather be out there. He gets cabin fever sitting inside all day. RAIN OR SUNSHINE?  Sunshine. Alas, he lives in Seattle. But that does make the sunny days all that more special. FOREST OR BEACH?  The beach. He spent a lot of time in the forests surrounding his home as a youth, and then a lot of time in the forest during his death. The woods trigger a very feral feeling in him. He doesn’t mind the forest, but he enjoys the openness of the beach and watching the waves crash up against rocks. PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS?  Gems. They’re a spark of beauty and wonder in this decaying world. Also, cool rocks. FLOWERS OR PERFUMES?  Flowers. PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE?  Personality. He doesn’t have the energy for negativity, now matter how beautiful the person is. BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD?  While R certainly detests crowds, he doesn’t love being alone, either ( though he does need to be alone at the end of the day to process and recount the day ). A group of your closest friends. But if he had to choose, he would rather be laone. ORDER OR ANARCHY?  Anarchy. It gets shit done and creates change in the world. Stick it to the man.  PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES?  Painful truths. SCIENCE OR MAGIC?  Magic, because we threw science out the window when zombies started roaming the earth and they couldn’t find an explanation for why. PEACE OR CONFLICT?  Peace.  NIGHT OR DAY?  Night. Things are too busy and loud during the day. He likes the quiet of night time. DUSK OR DAWN?  Dusk. That final burst of light before the world falls dark and silent. WARMTH OR COLD?  Warmth.  MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS?  A few close friends. R gets too overwhelmed with too many people, and those close, intimate friendships are important to him. READING OR PLAYING A GAME?  Playing a game if only for the fact that R is hella dyslexic and can’t read, though he loves it when someone reads aloud to him.

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS?  Smoking. He has a horrible sleep schedule and sub par eating habits. R is a very secretive individual and has the tendency to withdraw / isolate when he’s having a bad brain time. HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM? For as much loss as R has had in his life, he hasn’t lost anyone particularly close to him, because he wasn’t close to anyone before his death. His mother was killed when he was 16 and if you asked R, he would say he was close to her, but if you unpacked their relationship, you would find they really weren’t close at all. WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS?  His children speaking for the first time. Pulling their names from the depths of their memories. Joan breaking her syllable streak. He has a handful of fond memories from his old life--climbing around war machines on a military base in Missoula, floating down the river with his friends, spending hours in the forest climbing trees. Everything regarding Julie. Most things regarding Marcus. IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL?  Yes. Killing is very instinctual to him, unfortunately. He doesn’t have many guilty feelings about it, either. He hates what he did before he died. He mostly forgives himself for what he did when he was dead. Nowadays, he only fights back out of defense and if he has to break a skull to keep himself or a loved one safe, so be it. WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN?  Like most things about R, it’s quiet. He isolates. He cries, but it’s silent. He doesn’t shake ( except for his hands ), there are no chest heaving sobs, it’s just him sitting against a wall with red eyes and tears staining his cheeks. Depending on the situation, he might disappear for a while. Run away and wait this crisis out somewhere far away from everyone else. His psychosis exacerbates during these breakdowns as well. IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE?  Oh, certainly!! Name Julie, Marcus, and Nora. He would like to trust more people but he does not. WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE?  R is soft!! He is so soft!! He’s not a very verbally affectionate person but he is a very physically affectionate person. Hand holding, idle touches and kisses, long hugs, cuddling--he loves that stuff. He’s incredibly attentive. You might not think he’s paying attention but he is. He’s a lot more relaxed as well. Not always on edge.

TAGGED BY: @infinitelydiverse thank u, dude. TAGGING: YOU THERE!!

[amypca]

PHOT202: Working From Home.

Due to the likelihood that the lockdown will last longer than predicted, I have chosen to base my chosen theme of “Rise and Fall Of Paignton” at home where I will redefine the creative approach of photography.

As I have previously looked at magnum photography artists, it is the first place I wanted to start looking for home based work that could give inspiration into my learning. I found the title “Home” that has become a quest for several photographers to document their surroundings in relation to what it means to them. Although I am choosing to document a place I cannot visit right now, I can use metaphorical meaning to bend the narrative to my will.

So to prepare for this here are some artists who have chosen to work as a creative photographer in their homes - 

On My Doorstep

SIAN BONNEL

Using everyday items of food, Sian Bonnell reconstructs the home environment. Fried-egg bathroom mats, pasta tablecloths and sliced meat floor-tiles abound, whilst other foodstuffs take on new character – a plate of mash and peas becomes the distant landscape of some undiscovered continent; and carrots, parsnips and bananas become surreal candles in a candelabra of the absurd.

As Sian Bonnell says: “I am intrigued by the absurd. Life and the reality of our lives is steeped in absurdity so although my images may look surreal, to me they are more a kind of absurd reality.”

ANDRE KERTESZ

Perched inside his apartment 12 stories above Washington Square Park, Andre Kertesz beheld a cityscape of trees, rooftops and snow-covered paths. Caught between distance and intimacy, his images revealed with affection and longing a Hungarian émigré who was an outsider in his adopted land.

“There is a kind of psychological component to it,” Robert Gurbo, his estate’s curator, told Lens in 2015, “where he is clearly looking to see what they have to see, what he has never had.”

WILLAM EGGESTSON

William Eggleston is one of the most influential photographers of the latter half of the 20th century. His portraits and landscapes of the American South reframed the history of the medium and its relationship to color photography. “I had the attitude that I would work with this present-day material and do the best I could to describe it with photography,” Eggleston explained. “Not intending to make any particular comment about whether it was good or bad or whether I liked it or not. It was just there, and I was interested in it.”

NIGAL SAFRAN - DADS OFFICE

Dad’s Office by Nigel Shafran is a set of rather bleak photographs taken between 1996 and 1998, of the contents of the abandoned rooms from which his father had once worked.

WASHING UP – NIGEL SAFRAN

This series is one of several that Shafran has undertaken, using mundane subjects that we usually see, but don’t See, in everyday life, such as Supermarket Checkouts (2005), Compost (2008-9), and Building Supplies (2004-5). He enjoys bringing these activities and places into focus, so that we can view them with new eyes.

Washing Up is a series of images of his kitchen, after the washing up has been finished, but the pots and pans have not yet been put away. The images are supplemented by short explanatory notes, which detail the food in the meal concerned, and perhaps who was at the meal. On the face of it, one image alone says little about what Shafran wanted to show us; it is the journey through different days, meals and light that reveals the detail of his life so tellingly.

 MARTIN PARR

At first glance, his photographs seem exaggerated or even grotesque. The motifs he chooses are strange, the colours are garish and the perspectives are unusual. Parr’s term for the overwhelming power of published images is “propaganda”. He counters this propaganda with his own chosen weapons: criticism, seduction and humour. As a result, his photographs are original and entertaining, accessible and understandable. But at the same time they show us in a penetrating way how we live, how we present ourselves to others, and what we value.

Leisure, consumption and communication are the concepts that this British photographer has been researching for several decades now on his worldwide travels. In the process, he examines national characteristics and international phenomena to find out how valid they are as symbols that will help future generations to understand our cultural peculiarities. Parr enables us to see things that have seemed familiar to us in a completely new way. In this way he creates his own image of society, which allows us to combine an analysis of the visible signs of globalisation with unusual visual experiences. In his photos, Parr juxtaposes specific images with universal ones without resolving the contradictions. Individual characteristics are accepted and eccentricities are treasured.

JEM SOUTHAM

Jem Southam, born in Bristol in 1950, is one of the UK's leading photographers. He is renowned for his series of colour landscape photographs, beginning in the 1970s and continuing until the present. His trademark is the patient observation of changes at a single location over many months or years.

Southam's subjects are predominately situated in the South West of England where he lives and works. He observes the balance between nature and man's intervention and traces cycles of decay and renewal. His work combines topographical observation with other references: personal, cultural, political, scientific, literary and psychological. Southam's working method combines the predetermined and the intuitive. Seen together, his series suggest the forging of pathways towards visual and intellectual resolution.

ANDREW NODOLOSKI

In 1996 Andrew Nadolski began photographing the unique landscape of Porth Nanven, a remote beach on the west Cornwall coast. What began as an intensely personal set of pictures has grown to that of major exhibited work keenly sought by collectors.

Published for the first time in book form, together with a fascinating essay by Dr Richard Scrivener of the British Geological Survey and a passionate foreword by Tim Smit, the work takes on an extra dimension.

Here we see the interaction of land and sea that so fascinates Nadolski, not as isolated images but sequenced as a visual poem.

The End of the Land is a powerful body of work that extends the boundaries of the photographed landscape and begins to question our understanding of humanity’s place in the universe and indeed, our perception of time itself.

[missstormcaller]

CAN’T FEAR YOUR OWN WORLD Vol. II Part 13 Full Translation

This is 1/4 of part 13 on the app

Chapter 12

Fullbringer.

Those who were born amid a connection between man and Hollow that has lasted since ancient times, those who were born out of the cracks.

As for why they came into being, excluding some among the Shinigami, there are few who know the truth.

To the Fullbringers themselves, just as the very concept defied logic, its significance was also incomprehensible; 'power' was bestowed to them from a reality which they had no say in, one in which their 'parents were attacked by Hollows'. There are also those who consider these powers convenient, and thus they choose to indulge in it. However, in the end it is mere borrowed plumes. Those who simply continue to use their powers as they desire without even understanding the significance behind the extraordinary abilities that were bestowed upon them, eventually bring about their own demise. Those who choose not to wallow in greed also possess power that no others had, naturally this caused them to drift away from the world, and as a result, the individuals who ended up remaining hidden from society were in the majority. to go into specifics, the unique inherent ability that is born by distorting the nature of an object they hold a particular attachment to through the power of Fullbring, that is surely something given by gods —— or perhaps it can even be described as the stuff of the gods in itself; rather than being an exaggerated notion, one might be able to say it partially rearranges the foundation on which the 'world's mode of existence' is built. As if saying it was one of their privileges to be able to raise an objection against a system of a world decided by others. An attachment to something in one's vicinity. In other words, the innate abilities belonging to Fullbringers, is the very source which causes them to grow alienated from the world, and at the same time, it is also the chain that keeps these isolated individuals tethered to it. Then what of those who hold no attachment?

Those who were unable to harbour the slightest fragment of sentiment towards the world, towards the various items among their personal effects, and ultimately, even towards their own life; Fullbringers who have refused to establish a connection, have feelings of love or even hatred, what kind of situation do they eventually arrive at as a result?

Michibane Aura was one answer to that question.

She is an extremely rare case, a Fullbringer of two consecutive generations. It appears that her father was a Fullbringer by nature, and her mother an ordinary human being. A chance meeting between her Fullbringer father and her ordinary human mother, a realisation of their hopes. Joined in marriage by a love that endured hardships different to that of ordinary people, the two were bound by fate. —— However, her mother, a mere human, came to be attacked by a Hollow. Her Fullbringer father beat the Hollow back by making full use of his powers, but by that point Aura's mother had obtained a serious injury. They were able to safely deliver their unborn child —— but in return, her wounds were so severe that she ended up losing her life.

Could it not be down to the fact that he was a Fullbringer, the fact that the foetus was tainted with his blood, which ultimately attracted the Hollow? The father who considered as much, continued endlessly to seek out a way to eradicate this power from within himself, even after Aura was born. He isn't the only one who would have to carry on like this. After all, he feared that Aura too would be rejected by the world. Then, ten-odd years later. Towards an Aura who had quickly grown, her father raises his voice after giving a look of great joy. —— "Rejoice, for both I and Aura may be freed from this curse."

—— "There's a Substitute Shinigami who goes by the name of Ginjō Kūgo, he's gathering comrades."

—— "I'm not sure what sort of thing a Substitute Shinigami is supposed to be, but that man, he's a credible fellow."

—— "Because he says, he will absorb the Hollow powers out of our bodies for us."

—— "First, I shall test to see whether or not it's safe. And supposing there were no problems with my findings…"

—— "Aura, then you can live a normal life." As she listened to those words which comprised of hope, jubilation, and the slightest fragment of anxiety, Aura tried to wrap her head around it. —— 'Normal', I wonder what that is. —— Why? —— Aren't Hollow powers, the source of the Fullbring that father taught me? —— Why must we hand it over to somebody else? —— Do we have to eliminate it? —— Then, once we've done such a thing, I'll have nothing whatsoever. —— To live a normal life, what does it mean? —— Does this mean, the current me is not considered 'normal'? Father. Aura who had been confined to a basement by the hands of her father, suddenly contemplated such things.

Aura's father may have been broken by his wife's death. Even though he had confined his own daughter to the basement of their home, he by no means restored to violence, nor did it mean that he neglected her upbringing. As far as her father was concerned, she was something that must be protected, she was all that was left of his beloved wife, that is to say, she was also his very reason of being. He had to protect her. From the Hollows, from the prying eyes of the human race, from the world itself which considered them heretics. For Aura who was brought up within a fish tank-like room at the basement level of their mansion, her world was limited to this confined space and her father alone. If it would only bring her sorrow to learn of the world, her father would make sure not to grant her even a single book. Not to speak of a television, he didn't even inform her of the vast expanse of space which lies beyond her room, she was merely taught such things as basic reading, writing and physical laws, and given training on Fullbring techniques in order to protect herself from Hollows. Her world was complete with that alone. A world that would never be encumbered, and relative to that, neither is it one that would ever expand. A tasteless and odourless world. A world without colour.

A world void of freedom.

A world where one is unable to even discern what difference there was between hope and despair. Her father's cooking was just about the only thing that roused her emotions. Though she had memories of his delicious home cooking, her father had headed towards the location of the man known as Ginjō before it could form a foundation of her Fullbring as the 'attachment'.—— And he never returned again. Even Aura with her limited knowledge is quick to understand that some kind of abnormality had occurred. Nevertheless, she was not able to judge for herself what to do in such an event. Hunger, it is said to be one of the most painful sufferings among the agonies a human being can experience. For Aura who was at least made to eat her meals at her own convenience despite being confined, this first taste of pain was enough to splinter her immature psyche. Even so, that she was not completely broken, was it the result of the Fullbring training which she had been initiated into by her father? Or perhaps, a benefit from the 'factor' that has been present within her as a Fullbringer from the very beginning? Either way, she succeeded in overcoming the situation before the point of no return. When her sense of hunger reached its limit, she raised her hands to the walls of her water tank-like room, drew out its soul using her Fullbringer powers, set it to work, and then —— In the next instant, those walls that confined her —— the tempered glass of her tank is reduced to sand entirely, disappearing from her presence.

With staggered movements, the young girl she was stepped out from the basement and towards the 'outside world'. Remaining oblivious to even the fact that this was still part of the mansion known as her 'inner world', she completely destroys the locks on the doors which were applied sevenfold, and continues walking. The 'world' she had grasped with her own hands for the first time, took the form of a portion of ingredients located inside the kitchen. Having realised that it was something her father puts into the food he would prepare for her, she gave into instinct and devoured it greedily —— the taste of decay immediately resulted in her spitting it out. Ironically, the only part of the 'world' that offered her attachment, ended up being rejected by own body. If it were not for that process, she may have been awakened to her own innate abilities which took 'food' as her attachment and then lived out the rest of her life as an 'ordinary' Fullbringer. Perhaps she would have encountered the man named Ginjō Kugō, perhaps she would have battled Kurosaki Ichigo, or maybe it would have brought about a distinct salvation. However, things didn't work out that way. In her world, something that entertained enough attachment to maintain a connection, never made an appearance. Alternatively, though it was a skewed relationship, it may have been the case that her very father was the link that served as an attachment for her —— and yet, even he disappeared from Aura's world.

Collapsing upon reaching the 'outside' in the true sense of the word, she was lucky to be discovered by a passer-by and was thus given protection by the police as a result. When they found signs of her confinement in her crumbling home, for a short while, the public were in an uproar over the perverseness of the father who imprisoned his own daughter, but soon after, even that uproar died down, and the girl known as Aura was completely forgotten from this world. Perhaps feeling that the girl would be unable to go by a surname belonging to the sort of father who would confine his own daughter; at the hands of the relatives on her mother's side that took her into the care of the Michibane family, she was to live her life after that as "Michibane Aura."

A time span of several more years had passed since then —— she was being integrated into general social life. To say she ‘was integrated’ is probably not entirely accurate. Completely effacing her very being, she continued to pass the time like weeds growing by the roadside. Her physical appearance was very beautiful, naturally it was no surprise that she attracted the eyes of both men and women without discrimination, yet even considering the idea that she hadn't drawn the attention, perhaps it might also be her Fullbring that exerted some kind of influence on her surroundings. It's not like it was her intention to hide from the world. However, given that she was unable to harbour any interest whatsoever towards the world, it's only natural that she would remain placid in that kind of way. Regarding her father whom she had nothing but trust for, the people around her would relentlessly slander him saying "he's a wicked person" and "forget about such a man." If she considers it from the angle of her knowledge of life as a member of society which she later acquired, then admittedly her father could probably be regarded as depraved. Aura had come to notice that as she matured, but now that things have come to pass, it made no difference to her. As far as she was concerned, the real world was inside the confined space of that glass tank, but without any attachment being born there —— even in this 'new world' which should have been stimulating, its entirety can only be seen as an extension of that glass tank.

Upon stretching her interpretation of the world, to her, there was no such thing as 'an existence with an attachment' that was enough to force her 'Fullbring' to develop —— Nevertheless, when Aura herself is asked about this matter, what she had was one sole answer.

"What is important to me… is the very Fullbring that I learned from my father. This saved my life. I was able to survive because of it. Nothing else is needed. I may be indifferent about my father. However, the Fullbring I learned from him, it's my everything." And the 'architect of the question' who had heard that answer, spoke whilst nodding approvingly. "I see, yes I see, so this is how you've grown up huh? How very amusing." She immediately understood that the man who had flashed a sinister smile, is 'something' different to the people around her. 'It' suddenly appeared before her one day. It could not be seen by anyone other than herself. It was a being akin to the white monsters that would attack her from time to time. The man, clad in strangely outdated garments, opens his mouth to speak whilst watching her closely as if in assessment. "You're able to hunt down even Huge Hollows at your age? Moreover, it's highly intriguing that you're using nothing but the basic techniques of a Fullbringer." So saying, the man kicked at the remnants of the white monsters that had been dealt with by Aura just a moment ago and now lay strewn around their feet. "…Who are you? You're not a human are you?" "Oh, me? Where are my manners. I am what you people would call a 'god'. I am what's known as a 'Shinigami'. Have you never heard of our existence from your father?" —— Shinigami. What is recollected in her mind, is not not the absolute being who governs death which occasionally appears in the likes of books that she had read on the 'outside'… but rather, the words her father had left with her in the end.

—— "A Substitute Shinigami who goes by the name of Ginjō, he's gathering comrades."

"…Ginjō?" In response to Aura's murmur, the man who claimed to be a Shinigami laughed in delight. "Hahahaha! I didn't see that coming! What a pity, what a great pity indeed! I guess it would be ideal if that were the case though. Both for you, and for Ginjō Kugō himself." "Who… are you?" Confronted by Aura who, without even a tinge of emotion, raised this question carried in words that only entertained uncertainty, the man blithely contorted his lips even further whilst stating his own name. "My name is Tokinada. Tsunayashiro Tokinada." "Tokinada…?" "Are lowly humans always this rude? You should address me with 'sama'. That's 'Tokinada sama' to you. At present I'm still under house arrest, but the Human World is so very fascinating these days, I have a tendency to sneak out against my better judgement.… Well, that's fine proof that the lot from the head house take no notice of the likes of me." Faced with the man before her eyes who gave an answer to a question she hadn't asked, and on top of that, continues to speak of matters she couldn't quite comprehend the meaning of, Aura tilted her head in confusion, but then —— The matter he spoke of in the next instant, resulted in forcibly drawing her interest. "Ah, that's right, you want to know who I am, rather than my name and circumstances." Just as the friendly smile had emerged on his face, he easily let slip the truth. "It's an uncomplicated matter really. I am a descendant of the family who ordered the killing of your father." "…Huh?" Aura's countenance which was like a deadpan mask, is now thrown into immense disarray for the first time. As if to say that he also found her reaction amusing, the 'Shinigami' who introduced himself as Tokinada, assembles more words. "Your father, his whereabouts is supposedly unknown… but in fact, he's already dead. It won't hurt to thank me for saving you the time and effort to go searching for him you know? If you wish to bawl your eyes out, that would be amusing in its own way. If you wish to revile me as the enemy of your father and kill me in an act of revenge, I'd still consider that fun. Kidō against Fullbring, shall we see which one will come out on top in a contest of skill?" "…I don't understand what you're getting at. My father, your saying he was killed by your family? Why?" "Hn? Oh, the reason? The reason huh. If I could answer you with 'there is no such reason' then it might be possible to belittle your father's memory even more, however I suppose I may as well answer you honestly." Tokinada slowly walked around Aura, at the same time he observes a fluctuation of her Reiatsu. Although he could see her confusion, he could not sense any feelings of unrest caused by emotions like anger or sorrow. As he examined her carefully with eyes that appeared as if they were gazing at a rare species, Tokinada uttered the answer to her question. "It's retrieval. What should be 'property' that originally belongs to us, was fused with the souls of people like your father, and yourself." "……?" "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter does it? What's the most important thing now? What of the detestable family of adversaries, who robbed you of the world inside that confined glass tank that was oh-so precious to you, who now stands before your very eyes?" Hearing those words, Aura's eyes begin to narrow. "You even know about… my past?" "Yes, but of course. Because I have been watching. I suppose the factor lay hidden on your mother's side too. That it would be passed down for two consecutive generations, and what's more, to be a Fullbringer at the same time, this is an extremely rare case. Naturally, you were observed. So, what will you do? Do you accept my challenge of a duel? Obviously I will put up a resistance." "…. There's no need. To be honest, I'm not interested." Watching Aura as she readily shook her head, Tokinada laughs. "Hahaha, that's right, yes I thought as much, you probably don't have that kind of disposition. In the past, when I tested a man who abandoned himself to sentiment, quite the opposite of you, I employed a more elaborate act. Yes, the way that man glared at me with his unseeing eyes, even thinking back on it now, it's intoxicating.… Though, the concept of intoxication itself seems to be nonexistent to you in the first place." After talking about someone who was not present at the scene right now, Tokinada remarked as if treating Aura with contempt. Remaining void of both indignation and fear towards this, Aura poses a question regarding her own fate in an unfazed manner. "Do you intend to kill me too?" "Yes, eventually. Depending on the situation, I may even spare you." "Eventually…?" Towards the man who had declared that her own execution looms ahead, she harboured no emotion whatsoever as before, at the same time, Aura could hardly fathom the other party's intentions and is thus bewildered. Or perhaps, that very bewilderment is the closest element to what constitutes an emotion permitted to Aura. Tokinada reveals his own objectives to her in all sincerity. -- -- As if to announce that he looked forward to how she would receive it, and whatever ending it would lead to. "The 'factor' that dwells within you; rather than retrieving it as components, it's more interesting to put it into operation through a single unit, besides it looks like you would come in handy as a game piece under my control." "I would be… your game piece? What for?" "You have no attachment to this world, correct? That being the case, we should repaint the world anew. If we forge a new world, then maybe you will come to find something you can harbour an attachment to along with it?" Whether or not he was simply talking at random with those words, Aura who at the time was unfamiliar with the world, was unable to understand. Like the snake who enticed the first of mankind, Tokinada gradually ensnares his victim with the thread that are his words. "The heart and left arm ended up returning to that Quincy lot… but what exists within you is also rather unique. I want to turn you into my game piece at all costs. I shall give you something you desire. As long as it's within my power to do so of course." "…Right now, there is no such thing that I desire." "Then, someday its time will come but until then you should give it some consideration. Also, if you are to become my game piece, when it comes to the way you treat others at least, you should do a little better. It doesn't matter if you have to force a smile. Your faint smile, I dare say it's likely to beguile both men and women alike." Disregarding the words of Tokinada who spoke of an unsettling matter, she continued with her questions as if keeping after him. "What is it that dwells within me?" In response to that query, the man grins widely as he reveals a certain truth to Aura. .

.

. "An organ referred to as the 'Saketsu' (*Binding Chain)… which belongs to a being called the Soul King."

[cy-fi-theansweris42]

My Thoughts During: TMNT (2007)

So I haven’t watched this movie in a good long while, so let’s see if it’s as good as I remember it being! (Also I think the last time I watched it was when I was like…15? 16? My taste in movies has improved significantly since then. Also, I apologize for the excessive lols.)

·       RIP Shredder, I wonder if this takes place after a certain series and that shows what happened to him.

·       Nothing good ever comes from stars aligning, does it?

·       Y’Aotl, craving the sweet release of death since 1007 BCE

·       “I just remembered I left the stove on” lol, never noticed that

·       “I’m not afraid of a ghost” How about a teenage mutant ninja turtle?

·       RIP that dude, I can’t believe Leo just murdered him.

·       Good LORD April is skinny, I’m concerned (I know it’s an art style but still)

·       Oh poor Donnie, working tech support, you poor child

·       “No I’m not playing hard to get, I’m telling you it’s not that kind of phone line!” Oh, poor freaking Donnie, lol.

·       Lol, just put on a turtle head, everyone thinks it’s a costume, perfect Mikey

·       Lol, Raph being edgy, I forgot about his Nightwatcher costume, I guess that’s one way to avoid people discovering he’s a turtle

·       How does one become a better leader by isolating themselves? Like, it might be a thing that I just don’t know about, but still

·       “Why skate a halfpipe when you can skate a sewer pipe?” Sanitation for one (that whole scene honestly looks awesome though)

·       “Those glory days are over” Wow, they’re teenagers and they’ve already finished the best days of their lives, poor turtles

·       So Leo mentioned Donnie being the one to keep things together and Splinter lectured Donnie on being there for his family, so was Donnie supposed to take over as leader while Leo was gone? IDK why but I always thought of Raph as the second in command (of course I don’t know a lot about TMNT, especially the stuff before 2007).

·       You know, I just realized how deep the whole “this home has become like an empty shell” line is. From my understanding, the shell of a turtle is basically like their spine and ribs on the outside forming a protective barrier, and all the squishy internal organs are inside. After the turtle dies and all the squishy stuff decays away, you’ll be left with an empty shell. A reminder that there was once life there, but now it’s just…empty. Freaking deep.

·       “I was born careful” Proceeds to break something, lol

·       “Friends you choose, but never your family” Freaking foreshadowing his relationship with his siblings (if they’re biologically related IDK) and the parallels with the turtles sibling relationships, stuff that went right over 11 year old me’s head.

·       “If you’re here to kill me could you make it fast?” Lol, mood

·       Why are all the monsters converging on New York? Is it because of the stars? I’m guessing it’s because of the stars.

·       RIP this poor guy getting beat up by Raph again, lol

·       OMG, Casey is literally just wearing a hockey mask, please wear some protective gear

·       “I should have stayed in law school”, lol

·       “What is it, some kind of performance art? I don’t get it.” LOL, there’s so many little lines in this that I never noticed before

·       “I don’t ever care about Leo anymore” Lol, fake news Raph.

·       Raph, PLEASE don’t fall asleep on roof ledges, that’s terrifying

·       …I have no idea how that little pendant can bring stone that was once a person to life, but oh well

·       LOL, Mikey whispering “dude” in his sleep, freaking adorable

·       Aww, Splinter’s got pictures of his sons on his wall

·       “I have nightmares about birthday parties.” Poor Mikey, protect him from the evil children.

·       Jealous of Donnie’s casual bo skills

·       How on earth has no one figured out that Raph is the Nightwatcher?

·       “You never said anything about monsters.” *points sword* “Ooooohhh” Lol

·       Lol, they are TERRIBLE at acting casual

·       Raph: *angrily eats cereal*

·       LOL, Splinter was watching Gilmore Girls???

·       You have to love just how different and individual they make each monster look

·       “What is it?” “The roof…you know what the roof is don’t you?” Lol, me too

·       I am terrified for Casey when he goes out. Someone, please buy this guy some protective gear.

·       “You do know I only have a wooden bat, right?” And who’s fault is that???

·       “And I thought Girl Scouts were pushy!” Trust me, they are

·       *only takes pulse* “Well his vital signs seem to be ok” Donnie, please, it’s a little early for a diagnosis, you only know his heartrate.

·       “It can’t be!” She says while in a room with four mutated turtle teenagers trained as ninjas by their rat father

·       Another dimension? Would it happen to be Dimension X?

·       Ah yes, the familiar Raph and Leo arguments, classic

·       Also, Casey’s expression when Raph is yelling about the whole “following the rule book thing”, he looks so confused, like he’s thinking “Dude, you haven’t been following that rule book either, why you going off on Leo about that?”

·       “So it’s like Hailey’s Comet, only monsters come out of it.” People always underestimate Mikey, it’s their mistake

·       Lol, the entire Raph vs. Little Monster fight. I love it

·       I’m honestly surprised the ribbons on those little dagger things Leo throws are blue, lol

·       Lol, the fact that Leo just starts lecturing this random guy and the fact that Raph is just like “he’s lecturing me!”

·       Lol, sassy Leo, you got to love it when Leo just starts taunting his opponents.

·       The whole argument between Raph and Leo is so emotional, like every little thing that’s built up from over the years, from Leo being gone longer than expected, and him suddenly returning just comes to a head. I love it while at the same time screaming at them to stop fighting

·       You know, something’s got to be said about how when Leo thinks he’s fighting some random stranger, he beats Raph, but when he knows he’s fighting his brother, he loses.

·       That moment when Raph realizes he let his anger get the better of him and nearly really hurts his brother, plus the Leo’s look of barely recognizing his brother, leading to him running off. What a freaking emotional moment. When Raph runs off you can hear him breathing heavy, like he’s struggling to breathe. He’s terrified of what he could do.

·       Also, RIP Leo’s swords

·       Poor Raph, he’s blaming himself and probably hating himself for what happened to Leo

·       Once Leo is captured, Raph steps up as leader, so why didn’t that happen when Leo went away for training? IDK

·       Somebody FINALLY got Casey some armor, bless

·       I love the fight outside of Winters Tower

·       “That would be the swirling vortex to another world, I presume.” Sassy Donatello, got to love him

·       Raph being gentle with Leo because he still regrets what happened and really does love his brothers even if he can’t always show it

·       “Winters!” “Looks more like fall” I THINK I KNOW WHERE MY LOVE OF PUNS CAME FROM, LOL

·       Also, Donnie’s reaction to Mikey’s pun is hilarious, that’s like how my siblings were when I started making puns all the time. (We’re not going to talk about how they forgot to make Donnie’s mouth move when he was talking to Mikey then, lol)

·       “I hate to see brothers fight like this.” LOOKS AT RAPH AND LEO (but mostly Raph) DONNIE JUST CASUALLY CALLING HIS BROTHERS OUT

·       Donnie slamming his staff on a guy’s toes and then saying temper temper, give me more sassy Donnie please

·       Leo arming up with a case full of swords, lol

·       “The thing about you immortal stone guys is that you’re immortal and…made out of stone…I sound like Mikey.” Lol

·       Lol, Splinter’s having fun fighting

·       Karai and random foot soldier #27 just being done with April and Casey’s arguing

·       Karai foreshadowing Shredder’s return (and then another movie is never made, lol)

·       Lol, Winters’ laughter about finally being able to die is me at the end of finals week

·       Winters just fading into dust (and then causing Mikey to start sneezing, lol)

·       So many references on that wall that Splinter has

·       Yep, still love this movie

[schadenfreudefreude-blog]

This is what youth and adolescence feels like

There are beautiful, wonderful, tender memories from childhood I could put in this story; my childhood loves and my pleasant life in gentle, loving surroundings filled with light. But I am interested here only in the steps I have taken in my life to arrive at myself. I will leave in the glowing distance all the lovely oases, blessed isles, and paradises whose magic I experienced; I have no desire to set foot in them again.

And so, for as long as I stay with my girlhood years, I will speak of only the things that felt new, that pushed me onward, broke me loose.

Then came the years when I had to recognize once again the primal attraction within me, one that had to cower and hide in the permitted world of light. Like everyone else, I too experienced my slowly awakening sexual feelings as an enemy and a destroyer, as something forbidden, as temptation and sin. The great mystery of puberty, which I was desperately curious to solve and which gave rise to dreams, lust, and fear, did not fit at all in the sheltered bliss of my peaceful childhood world. So I did what everyone does: I led the double life of a child who is no longer a child. My conscious life was lived in the familiar space of what was allowed, and denied the world rising like a new dawn to me. At the same time though, my life was lived in dreams, urges, longings of subterranean kind across which my consciousness built ever more anxious and fearful bridges as the childhood world within me fell apart. Like almost all parents, mine did nothing to help the life forces awakening within me, which were never spoken about when I turned thirteen and I got the first guy who courted me and I ghosted because I'm so afraid and innocent and then while I was one of the cheerleaders of the cheerleading squad, there's this musician volleyball player Senior Captain guy who became my first boyfriend for six months and broke up with me in Yahoo Messenger because we were in a long distance relationship and I'm not fulfilling the girlfriend duties enough or maybe he found someone else in Manila. After that, I only involved myself to feel attraction through having crushes and I never had a boyfriend after that year and in my college years. My mother strictly taught me when I was fourteen to only give it to the man I'll marry in the future; my future husband should be the first one to get it. And until now, I still obeyed it and I'm still choosing to wait for the right time and the right person. My parents only tried, endlessly and untiringly, to help me in my hopeless efforts to deny reality and stay in a child's world that grew more and more false and unreal everyday. I do not know if parents can do anything else, and I am not criticizing mine in particular. It was up to me to finish growing up and find my own way; I did it badly, like most well-raised children.

Everyone passes through these difficulties. For the average person, this is the moment when the demands of his life come into the starkest conflict with his environment, when he has to fight the hardest to make his way farther along his path. Many people experience the death and rebirth that is the destiny of us all only this once, as childhood rots from within and slowly disintegrates, as everything we have grown to love abandons us, and we suddenly feel the solitude and deathly cold of the universe around us. And very many people remain stuck at this hurdle their whole life long, desperately hanging on to the irretrievable past and clinging to the dream of a paradise lost, the worst and most deadly of all dreams.

The sensations and mental images with which the end of childhood proclaimed itself in me are not worth telling here. The important thing was that the dark world, the other world, was back. At the same time, the other world outside me was gaining more and more power over me, too.

When vacation was over before college, I went to Baguio. Both my parents came with me and entrusted me with all possible care to a condominium dormitory. They would have frozen with horror had they known the kind of life they were letting me wander into.

The question was still whether I would, with time, turn into a good daughter and useful citizen, or whether my nature was pushing me onto other paths. My last attempt to be happy under the shadow of the parental house and its spirit had lasted a long time, for a while it had almost succeeded, but now it had finally and completely failed.

The strangest emptiness and isolation I had come to feel for the first time the summer before my sophomore year in college (and oh, how well I got to know it later; this emptiness, this thin air!) did not pass away quickly. I found it oddly easy to leave home, I was a little ashamed of not being sadder, in fact; my mother expressed her worries, but I couldn't. I was amazed at myself. I had always been a sensitive child who expressed her feelings; a good girl, when it came down to it. Now I had completely changed. I acted with total indifference toward the outside world and spent days at a time attending only to myself, listening to the dark, underground currents rushing and roaring inside me. I had shot up very quickly in the past six months and looked miserable, skinny, and immature. Everything girly boyishly lovable about me disappeared; I was well aware that it was impossible to love me as I was, and I did not love myself either. I missed myself who loves writing much of the time and there I was memorizing the periodic table and formulas, solving Physics and Chemistry problems for my pre-med course.

So, when I shifted to Communications from Pharmacy in the next semester, I was neither liked nor respected because I was a new face in the Humanities department. They would say hi to me and asked me if I'm Chinese or Korean. I have no friends at all. No one knows me. Boys teased me and then left me alone, having decided I was a weird, distant, unpleasant sort. I took pleasure in this identity and even exaggerated it, grumbling my way into a solitude that looked like a feminst superiority and contempt on the outside while secretly I suffered constant fits of depression and despair. At school I got by for a while on what I had already studied back home, the class was a bit behind me where we had been because I love writing and journalism when I was in high school because I was the news editor of our school paper in my senior year and I was part of the editorial staff for 4 years in high school, and I got into the habit of viewing the other students my age with a certain contempt, as children. It went on like that for a year. Nothing changed on my first few visits home, and I was always glad to go back to school.

Then it was early November of year 2014. Whatever the weather, I would take little intellectual walks, which often gave me a kind of pleasure that was full of melancholy, scorn for the world, and contempt for myself as well. That was how I felt one evening as I strolled through the city of Baguio in the damp, misty twilight. The wide avenue of public park was completely deserted, and inviting; as I walked down the lane, thickly covered with fallen leaves with a dark, voluptous desire. It smelled wet and bitter; distant trees loomed up eerily out of the mist, tall and shadowy.

I stopped at the end of the road, not knowing what to do next. I stared down at the dark vegetal mass and greedily breathed in the wet smell of death and decay, which something inside me responded to and welcomed. Oh, how insipid the taste of life was!

Someone approached down a side path, his coat billowing in the wind. I wanted to keep walking, but he called my name.

"Hello, Lianne. Huy, Lianne!"

He came up to me. It was Lance, the first guy I seriously liked when we were living in my first condominium dormitory when I was first year in college. He is now a physicist and he studied in UP Baguio. I confessed to him that I like him when I was 16 and we were both cool about it and we are good friends after that. I always enjoyed seeing him and had nothing against him except that he always treated me like a baby.

"And what brings you here?" he called out affably, in the tone that bigger kids liked to take when condescended to talk one of us. "Writing a poem, I bet."

"Never occured to me," I snapped back.

He laughed out loud and walked next to me, chatting. I had completely forgotten what that felt like.

"Don't think I wouldn't understand Lianne. I know how it is, when you're taking a walk like this in the evening mist, with 6PM thoughts, you want to write poems, I know. Poems about dying nature, of course, and the lost youth it's a symbol of."

"I'm not that sentimental. How dare you!" I defended myself.

"Alright, nevermind. Alam mo kapag ganito ang weather it's good to find a nice quiet place with a glass of wine or something along those lines. Sama ka saken? Come with me. I happen to be all alone. Or ayaw mo? Ayaw kita mapariwala if may plano ka maging good model student."

Soon we were sitting in a small pub at the edge of the city, drinking a dubious wine and clinking out our glasses together. I didn't like it very much at first, but still it was something new. Soon though, not used to drinking wine, I started talking my head off. It was as though a window had opened inside me, and the world was shining in; how long, how terribly long it had been since I'd said anything I really felt! I started to give my imagination a free rein, and before I knew it I was telling Lance the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible.

Lance listened with delight. Finally, someone to whom I have something to give! Someone who could make deep talks with me. He clapped me on my shoulder, he called me a deep one fellow and my heart swelled with pleasure: I could finally let myself go, indulge in the need to talk and communicate that had been pent up so long, and feel acknowledged by someone older than me, like I was worth something. When he called me brilliant and smart, what he said sank into my soul like sweet, strong wine. The world shone in new colors, thoughts came to me from a hundred mischievous sources, wit and fire blazed up within me. We talked about our teachers, our schools, our classmates, and it seemed to me we understood each other splendidly. We talked about the Greeks, paganism, and Lance insisted on turning the conversation into confessions of amorous adventures. Here I had nothing to contribute. I had not had any adventures, not worth telling. And what I had felt, built up by my imagination, burned within me but the wine did not free it or enable me to talk about it. Lance knew a lot more about girls than I did, and I listened passionately to his fairy-tale stories. What I learned was unbelievable: things I had never thought possible entered ordinary reality and seemed obvious, normal. These girls in his stories have already acquired quite a store of an experience. Among other things, that girls always want nothing but chivalry and attention, which is fine as far as that goes but not the real thing. You could get farther with women. They were much more reasonable.

I remember the night very clearly. When the two of us started home late, past the dully burning gas lamps in the cool wet night, I was drunk for the first time. It did not feel pleasant. It was excruciating. But still, there was something about it: sweet excitement, rebellion, spirited life. Lance took good care of me, even while gripping about what a total beginner I was, and he brought me home, half carrying me, and managed to smuggle us into the dorm through an open hall elevator.

But after a short dead sleep, I woke up to a headache, sobriety, and terrible sadness. I sat up in bed, still wearing my shirt from the day before, with my other clothes and shoes lying around the floor and stinking of smoke and vomit. Between headache, nausea, and unspeakable thirst, an image rose up in my soul that I had not seen for a long time: I saw my parents' house, my hometown, Father and Mother, my siblings, the garden; I saw my quiet, comfortable bedroom, the school, and the market square, all of it flooded with bright light, radiant, all of it wonderful, godly, and pure, and I now knew everything, had still belonged to me the day before, just a few hours ago, had been waiting for my return, but now, only in this moment, it had sunk forever under the waves, was cursed, was no longer mine. It had thrown me out and now looked upon me with disgust! Everything I had so profoundly loved, everything back to the most distant, golden garden of my childhood that my parents had given me, every bless, every Christmas, every bright, pious Sunday mornings at home, every flower in the garden, it was all laid to waste, I had trampled it under my feet. So that's how I looked in the inside! I, who went around despising the world, proud in spirit. I was a pig, like scum, drunk and filthy, disgusting and low, a wild animal taken unawares and overpowered by hideous urges. I, who had come from the garden where everything was purity and radiance and blessed tenderness, who have loved poetry and Bach music, now looked like that inside. I could still hear my laugh ringing in my ears, drunk and out of control, bursting out in idiotic stops and starts and it filled me with rage and disgust. That was me!

Despite everything, it was almost pleasurable to suffer these torments. I had crept around blind and numb for so long, my heart cowering poor and miserable in the corner, that even this self-hatred, this horror, this whole horrible feeling in my soul was welcome! At least I felt something! The embers still flickered with some kind of fire, a heart still beat in there! I was confused to feel something like liberation and springtime in the middle of all my misery.

Meanwhile, to the other side, things went downhill with me in a hurry. My first binge was soon only a first to many. There are a lot of drinking and running wild went on as I meet more friends who asked me to go out. I once belonged to the dark world. At the same time I felt miserable. I was living in a self-destructive riot. I can still recall how tears came to my eyes once when I left a bar on Sunday afternoon and saw children playing in the street, bright and happy, with freshly combed hair, in their Sunday clothes. And the whole time that I was entertaining and often shocking my friends with my monstrous cynicism at the dirty tables of cramped pubs between puddles of beer, in my heart of hearts I still respected what they were mocking. On the inside I kneeled in tears before my soul, before my past and my parents, before God.

I never felt truly one with my companions. I was still lonely when I was with them, and that's why I suffered so. And I never went along with my buddies to see boys. I was alone and full of burning longing for love. A hopeless longing even while I talked like a hardened libertine. No more was more fragile, more full of shame, than I was. I was anxiously ashamed of the warm, shy moods I so often felt, the tender thoughts of love and care that so often came over me.

I cannot summarize in brief about what I learned from my adolescence stage. The most important thing I learned from it was another step on the path to myself. I'm now young adult. I was an unusual young woman around twenty-two years old, precarious in a hundred ways but very far behind and helpless in hundred ways. When I compared myself to the other people my age, I sometimes felt young and full of curiosity. There were times when people see me gifted and creative. They admire how I write and how I sketch and paint. During college, I was eaten up with worries and self-hatred about how hopelessly isolated I was from other people, how cut off from life. They are all dating but I'm closed.

After college, I lived again at my hometown with my family. This new environment gave me courage and taught me to keep my self-respect. The way people always found something valuable in my words, my dreams, my thoughts and imaginings, always took them seriously and discussed them in earnest, became exemplary for me.

I like music because it's outside morality. I can't keep comparing myself to other people. I sometimes feel like I don't belong, I blame myself for following a different path than most other people. I have to unlearn that and I did. Stare into the fire, look at the clouds, and when ideas and intuitions came to me and the voices of my soul start to speak, I trust them and I don't worry about anything.