#he's also never going to use his power to exploit a man beneath him in station and power which is something crozier himself does

[maedhrus]

#imo he's nothing like crozier at all tbh. bc crozier starts giving up the moment things start getting worse#he straight up stops caring. or at the very least avoiding his sense of care and responsibility through drink#making the worst calls ever bc he's angry all the time#when he goes fully alcoholic that's him avoiding his responsibility.#for everyone on those two ships. that's the entire point. it takes blanky losing a leg for crozier to think wait actually#i should be giving a fuck. bc that's my job!#and sure then he goes all redemption saviour arc but too bad! damage already been done by that point.#you know who carries on with a million burdens on his shoulders while crozier is off drinking himself into a stupour? edward.#every time i think abt it i get mad on edward's behalf like what do you MEAN you're still this loyal to a man who did all of that.#to you personally and to all the men on the expedition. how is there still any hope in you.#when people r like 'wow edward isn't suited to command he could not be a captain he's so anxious' i don't like that#he is anxious bc he wants to keep EVERYONE alive against all odds. and he never gives up even when he's scared out of his mind#and constantly abused by a direct supervisor whose condition he has to keep a secret from everyone else#idk this is a personal opinion but sometimes i feel like at the end on the shales when crozier is like 'no we need to bring everyone home'#i still feel like a big part of that is him looking for redemption. that he leans into this saviour complex#bc he feels extreme guilt over what he did. and bc he knows what his own rash decisions have led to re: feelings amongst the crew#nd when things go wrong he still takes that out on other people (like edward). which im not saying no one else out there is making mistakes#bc well they are. but personally! personally. i am a little tired of the way crozier is so often#painted as this flawless human being once they're out there on the shales. and im like actually he is still being a person#with conflicting emotions and being unfair sometimes and not always capable of assessing ur own mistakes#he's just as full of trauma as everyone else. (via @abrahamvanhelsings)

Matthew McNulty on Edward Little

Q:  At what point do you think Little begins to give up hope/worry about survival? A: I think Little's probably one of the most hopeful out of them all, simply because he has clung on to his humanity. I don't think he's compromised his morals up to this point, despite everything that's happened. So, I would say that he's still hopeful. He still thinks that humanity will prevail in this dark, dark world. There's definitely still a chunk of positivity in him.

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

title: Weakness is For Fools (PT 1)

author: sciencebecameouraddiction

fandom: hazbin hotel

rating: PG

genre: Angst with a happy end

pairing: Alastor x Reader (Use of Y/N)

warnings: Alastor is not with it on this, unhinged, confused and a bit of back story sprinkled in. Rosie is also not having any of Alastor’s shit. Alastor may be OOC

summary: Alastor had never felt this before, and he swore he would never have a weakness.

PART 2 →

╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗

Weakness. Weakness was not something that Alastor entertained for a second. Weakness could be exploited, turned against you, and weaponized for other’s success. And when you’re at the top of the heap staring down at the other power hungry people you smashed on your way to the top, weakness was not something that could be afforded. A luxury that even he could not partake in. Would not partake in.

The idea that he was not allowed to have any weakness was something that made him violently angry, if he was honest. It was a reminder that there were those who could; comfortably, without worry, or threat to themself. Like Lucifer, who everyone in hell knew that Charlie was his one weakness. Could she be touched though? No. A benefit of being the King of Hell, Alastor mused.

This reminded Alastor of the one thing he hated to be reminded of. His powerlessness. For a full century he had made it his mission to ensure that he was powerful, that he could handle anything that came his way and that most were beneath him. It soothed him when he came into hell and took down overlord after overlord. Made him giddy that the power he felt in life over life and death, could be felt even after he died. To a greater degree. The powerless, worthless and weak Alastor, who watched his mother endure abuse, hatred and foul words, was dead and before his corpse stood the reigning victor. Better in every way. He would never let anyone know of the Alastor he buried.

Which is why the sudden emergence of weakness in his core, shook the very foundation he stood on. He didn’t realize it’s existence, until one day you were talking to him and he realized he was actually listening and genuinely smiling at you. His mind went into overdrive, tuning you out and trying to understand when this had happened. When these foreign feelings appeared. He couldn’t trace it back to any point in time, but realized he had felt them for at least the past two months. He quickly got up, even though you were still speaking, mid-sentence even, and left without a word. Your gaze bewildered as he rounded the corner, Charlie calling after him but everyone inevitably leaving him alone.

He paced his radio tower that night, as he could not quiet his mind. Trying to pinpoint what the feeling was, and why it so violently rattled in his chest, now demanding its presence to be known since he acknowledged it. This feeling… the only thing close he could compare was to how he felt about his dear mother, wanting to protect her and care for her, in a way that a man should. At least, for his time. He didn’t even know what he was feeling exactly. Was it love? He shot that idea away quickly. He had never been in love, never wanted anything to do with that. He did know this feeling had to leave though. Days passed and no one had seen or heard from Alastor. Charlie even contacted Rosie hoping he had gone to Cannibal Town, but when Rosie reported back she hadn’t seen Alastor in a while, everyone at the hotel got even more concerned.

Until Alastor casually strode through the front door, humming like he hadn’t been missing for a week.

“Alastor! Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” Charlie came over to check on him, giving him a once over, seeing nothing seemingly out of place.

“Oh ho! I’m quite fine my dear! Quite fine! What is this ruckus going on down here though?” Alastor asked as the patrons all looked around confused on how Alastor acted like nothing happened.

“Alastor, you were gone for nearly a week.” Charlie trails off. “You told no where you were. We were worried.”

“Yeah, you literally left in the middle of our conversation.” You explain, a little wounded about the current circumstances. You become absolutely devastated as the next events unfold.

Alastor’s head snaps to you and your eyes widen at him like he’s become a deranged dog. He growls at you and stalks towards you. “What makes you think that any conversation with you could be so riveting that i would willingly engage?”

Tears spring to your eyes as Alastor’s words cut into you like a million different knives. “What?” Your voice sounding small as you heard Angel and Charlie gasp. “You-You can’t mean that.” You say, reaching towards him like you had done a thousand times, only to be greeted with your hand being slapped away as Alastor then wiped it on the front of his jacket. Like he was disgusted with you. Husk growled behind you.

“Can’t mean it? Why I mean everything I say, my dear!” For the first time, him calling you ‘dear’ made your skin crawl.

“Honestly, this is the most eager I’ve ever been to be tell the truth.” Alastor sneered at you. He then quickly started towards you backing you into the bar. “You think I like you? Want you to follow me around like a lost pet?” Alastor laughs. “You’re mistaken. I’ve tolerated your presence and I’m through with tolerating you.”

You can barely see through the tears pouring down your cheeks as Husk comes around the bar and draws you into him, turning you away so you weren’t looking at Alastor.

“What the fuck, Alastor?” Vaggie asks, stepping toward the bar, looking at Alastor like a cornered animal lashing out.

“Yeah, well you don’t deserve to even speak to her Alastor.” Angel says coming to stand in front of Husk and you as a barrier. “And she’s the only one who’s been toleratin’ your ass.”

“Oh, how lovely the bar keep and the porn star come to your rescue?” Alastor laughs. “And you still don’t have a backbone to rebuttal yourself. What a weak, pathetic little pet you are.” He laughs again, like he was getting a real kick out of this. Angel became even more angry and started growing in size as Husk tried to pull him down. Charlie watched, shell shocked and looking betrayed, absolutely speechless.

“Angel, do not!” Vaggie warned, coming over. She was shoved back by Angel.

“Don’t. He’s gotten away with shit like this for too long.” Angel ground out, glaring at the Radio Demon.

Husk stood behind Angel, trying to get him to back down, explaining he wouldn’t be able to help.

“I don’t need ya help, I just wanna lay one good punch on ‘im.” Angel started forward, his demonic form taking over even more. Alastor responded in kind, as the infamous Radio Demon made an appearance, the inky black tentacles lifted him off the ground. You finally walk around and rest your hand on Angel’s thigh, the highest place you could reach. Angel looked down at you, tears still running down your face and Angel quickly shifted to his normal self, looking at you in concern. You shift your gaze to Alastor and his demon form, not flinching or even looking in disgust. You just looked disappointed and sad, his eyes widening a bit at that realization.

“I should have listened. To those who told me not to trust you. Not to let you close. For the “Radio Demon only brings destruction and chaos and delights in it every time”.” You quoted while nodding. “You may not even be listening to me now, but you owe me at least this Alastor.” You said as he slowly set his feet on the ground and the disgusted look he had before settled on his face looking at you.

“I owe you nothing.” Alastor said eariliy quiet.

“Then go, because I can assure you the words I say now are the last you’ll ever hear from me.” You say motioning to the staircase. Alastor makes no move to leave and you chuckle, not a drop of humor in it.

“I’m not sure what has you thinking that this is the best course of action. But pushing away those who care about you only ends with you being alone, truly alone. With no fall back plan, no help with shit when it goes sideways, nothing. You think you’re stronger for having no connections, but it makes you the weakest overlord there is. Carmilla is stronger than you. Rosie is stronger than you. The Vees are stronger than you.” You say stepping towards him as Angel tries to grab your hand to stop you. You rip your hand from his grasp and go up to Alastor.

“All I see, and all I’ve seen, is a scared little boy who never had the power to do what it took to protect those he loved while living, so you resorted to finding power over others anyway you could while cutting that side off you like a tumor. This,” You gesture to him, his smile, his proper clothes, the air of confidence yet nonchalance, “Is fake. You’re weak. You lack control and worse, you’re sloppy. And I’m done playing house.” You snarl back at him, watching everyone’s eyes widen. Alastor says nothing as you leave to your room, not allowing yourself to cry until your door is shut.

╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝

PART 2 →

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Adam B. Coleman

Published: Sep 18, 2023

The real measure of an individual’s character isn’t what he portrays to the public but how he treats people in private.

Truly righteous people treat others with respect and dignity when there is no one else around and no social credit to be earned for doing the right thing.

This distinction matters — especially for people who’ve made a career lecturing others on the appropriate way to treat people, especially those perceived as having less power in society.

But when no one was looking and nothing was to be gained, it seems Ibram X. Kendi used his power and privilege as the director of a think tank to exploit and mistreat the people who worked under him as if they were people who are beneath him.

Amid confirmation of layoffs being made at Boston University’s Center for Antiracist Research, former and current faculty have spoken out about Kendi’s mismanagement, “exploitation” and enrichment.

“There are a number of ways it got to this point, it started very early on when the university decided to create a center that rested in the hands of one human being, an individual given millions of dollars and so much authority,” stated Spencer Piston, a BU political science professor. 

A Former assistant director of narrative at the center and a BU associate professor of sociology and African American and black diaspora studies, Saida Grundy, also described a lack of structure, leading to her working additional hours that were unreasonable, especially for the pay she was receiving.

“It became very clear after I started that this was exploitative and other faculty experienced the same and worse,” Grundy lamented.

With tens of millions of dollars flowing in from major donors shortly after the center’s founding in 2020 from Twitter founder Jack Dorsey, the Rockefeller Foundation and biotech company Vertex, Grundy also saw the missed opportunity to directly help black students at Boston University. 

“Those donations could have been going to benefit black students.”

Grundy is correct that much of the donation money could have been utilized in objectively more helpful ways to serve the people Kendi claimed to be advocating for. But the line between rhetoric and action was a line that Kendi never had any intentions of crossing.

Kendi used the dogma of antiracism to project a new moral standard at a time when many Americans momentarily questioned their behavior and culpability.

As he demanded that everyone should check their privilege and feel socially accountable for the exploitation of people, he was simultaneously exploiting the emotions of a nation to solidify his nobility status among the upper class in academia.

Kendi’s boutique moral philosophy on historical events and human interaction has only made him notable among the upper class.

Those elites declare racial enlightenment over the naïve majority who prefer to treat people like they’d want to be treated.

The antiracism think tank operated more like an antiracism piggybank with only one man listed as its financial beneficiary.

Kendi’s interests have become clearer as time has gone on: His “research center” was for the benefit of one black person, not black people.

Remember the $90 million windfall Patrisse Cullors and the Black Lives Matter organization scored and their frivolous spending habits with donation money, buying mansions and funneling cash to board and family members?

Activist Shaun King has also repeatedly been accused of raising money for recipients and causes that never saw it.

This is a similarly disappointing realization after tens of millions of dollars have been placed in the hands of an advocate who has shown little regard to produce a return for his bold aspirations.

Kendi had systemic control over his own research center yet used his position to take advantage of the people whom he was leading and continued to reap the academic clout that legitimizes his profiting in over $32,000 a speech.

Kendi suggests that people should become more race-conscious to be better anti-racists, but I believe it’s more important to be elitist-conscious.

We need to be aware of the behavioral patterns and condescending rhetoric of the people who think they know better than us about everything.

If we were all good anti-elitists, we’d ignore the utopian rhetoric of social progressives and anti-racists and focus on their behavior.

This readjustment would help us quickly realize that race is a tool to distract us from noticing they are getting rich from dividing us into categories of human characteristics.

The only remedy to moral elitism is moral anti-elitism: This is how we have an anti-elitist society.

Adam B. Coleman is the author of “Black Victim to Black Victor” and founder of Wrong Speak Publishing. Follow him on Substack: adambcoleman.substack.com.

==

It was never about doing anything useful. It was always akin to buying indulgences from the Catholic Church.

[xtruss]

The Twisted World of Warren Jeffs: Former FLDS Members Speak Out

Exclusive Interviews With Ex-FLDS Members Offer New Picture of Covert Community.

— By Grace Handy | February 27, 2024

When polygamy was outlawed by the Mormon Church in 1890, splinter groups formed, including the Fundamentalist Latter-Day Saints, or FLDS, in which members could practice polygamy – or "plural marriage" – discreetly, without persecution.

The FLDS was able to flourish in a remote enclave nestled along the border of Utah and Arizona near Zion National Park in a community called Short Creek.

In the FLDS community, the most important person is the prophet, and members believe that God communicates directly through him. Among the core beliefs of the community is that the more wives a man has, the closer he gets to salvation.

Warren Jeffs watches his attorneys during a motion hearing before his trial, Sept. 13, 2007, in St. George, Utah. Douglas C. Pizac/AFP via Getty Images

From 1986 to 2002, Rulon Jeffs Served as FLDS Prophet and President.

As Rulon Jeffs' health declined, his son Warren Jeffs slowly took control of the FLDS community. Rulon Jeffs died in 2002, and Warren Jeffs succeeded him as prophet.

FLDS members were used to taking direction from Warren Jeffs but, over time, his orders became more restrictive – and, to some, alarming.

Jeffs banned television, movies, popular music, and fictional books. He also executed strict mandates on behavior, dress, and language. Women were told to "keep sweet," suppress emotions and feelings, obey their husbands, and above all, obey Jeffs — the all-knowing prophet.

Briell Decker, Jeffs' 65th wife, told ABC, "'Keep Sweet' meant you could have no emotions except for sweetness. That was the only emotion allowed."

Former FLDS prophet Rulon Jeffs pictured with many young FLDS members. Courtesy of Charlene Jeffs

ABC's new special, "Truth and Lies: The Doomsday Prophet," streaming now on Hulu, features exclusive, never-before-seen interviews with FLDS members filmed inside the community.

Beneath what appeared to be an attempt to present an ideal community of content and obedient followers, Jeffs allegedly used his power to pursue twisted exploits.

ABC sat down with Jeffs' daughter, Rachel Blackmore, who alleged her father sexually abused her for years during childhood. "When your parent does something like that, it feels shameful on you, too. And then it kept happening," Blackmore told ABC.

While Jeffs accumulated brides, some of them young teens, underage marriages were common in the broader community.

At the age of 14, Elissa Wall was married off to her 19-year-old first cousin. Wall said she had no choice but to go through with the marriage, which was officiated by Jeffs.

Short Creek today – a small community on the Utah-Arizona border near Zion National Park. ABC News

Ruth Stubbs, another member of the FLDS community, was married off when she was 16. Her husband, Rodney Holm, was 32. He was a police officer in Short Creek and was already married to two other women. Holm was arrested for bigamy and unlawful sexual conduct with a minor and spent a year in prison.

Warren Jeffs with seventeen of his wives. Courtesy of Rachel Blackmore

Warren Jeffs' alleged involvement in facilitating marriages between underage girls and adult men led to him being placed on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted list in May 2006. Criminal charges had been brought against him in Utah and Arizona.

Jeffs eventually fled Short Creek and went on the lam, hiding out in various cities around the United States per his journals – or "priesthood records" – that were later presented at his trial. While on the run, Jeffs had a compound built in Eldorado, Texas – where he would send hand-picked followers, telling them they were being called to Zion, or "heaven on earth." Jeffs named the compound the YFZ Ranch (or "Yearning for Zion" Ranch).

"People were slowly disappearing [from Short Creek] at that time," said Charlene Jeffs, a former FLDS member who was then married to Warren Jeffs' brother, Lyle. Several of Charlene's children, Ammon, Susie, and Thomas, were called to Zion, she said.

"It was supposed to be an honor to have them called forth. But all it was, was heartache," said Charlene Jeffs, who was exiled from the FLDS community in 2012.

Rachel Blackmore with her father, Warren Jeffs. Blackmore alleges Jeffs sexually abused her during childhood, starting when she was eight years old. Courtesy of Rachel Blackmore with permission

In August 2006, Jeffs' journey on the run came to a halt when his car was pulled over for a routine traffic violation outside of Las Vegas. Then, court proceedings began.

Wall testified against Jeffs in 2007. Wall told ABC it was an empowering experience: "I was forced to face him. I was forced to get on the stand, face him, and say 'you did this' ... I was no longer just an innocent little girl who just did everything out of fear. I had a voice and it was starting to become heard."

Jeffs was found guilty of accomplice to rape for facilitating Wall's underage marriage. He was sentenced to 10 years in prison. The charges would be overturned on appeal in 2010, and Jeffs was never retried. However, by that point, other evidence against Jeffs was found at the YFZ Ranch after law enforcement raided the ranch, leading to new charges.

The temple entrance at the YFZ Ranch in Eldorado, Texas. FLDS members worked day and night for months building the structure. Courtesy of Angela Goodwin

"[Officers] saw scrapbooks and letters supporting the fact that these girls were being married off at a very young age and were having babies," said Angela Goodwin, a district attorney in Texas.

During the raid, officers found horrific evidence incriminating Jeffs – including an audio recording of him having sexual relations with a 12-year-old. Officials also discovered a pregnant 15-year-old at the ranch who was carrying Jeffs' child.

Former FLDS members allege Jeffs still runs the church from behind bars in Palestine, Texas, and releases revelations that his devout followers adhere to. One revelation from the summer of 2022 has been particularly concerning to former members, especially those with family members still in the religion.

"The revelations say that within five years, the children will be translated to heaven. But the problem is … you have to die first," Roger Hoole, a private attorney involved in many FLDS cases, told ABC.

Amid current concerns about Jeffs' revelations, Short Creek is moving on – and perhaps nothing is more indicative of the vast progress in the community than the election of Donia Jessop as mayor of Hildale, on the Utah border of Short Creek.

Jessop is the first female mayor and first former FLDS member elected to office. Jessop has implemented modernization in the community – for example, she is working with the United Effort Plan to completely transform the former FLDS meetinghouse.

"We want to recreate a place, a community building, where we can come together and celebrate in the things that we've always loved, the programs, the dance, the arts. We want to create a safe haven for the people," Mayor Jessop told ABC.

Former FLDS member and current mayor of Hildale, Donia Jessop. Jessop’s election as mayor in 2018 signified a major shift in the community. ABC News

Another major development in the community was the creation of the Short Creek Dream Center, a place of refuge for people transitioning out of the FLDS – and anyone fleeing oppressive or abusive environments.

The Dream Center, symbolically, was the former home of Warren Jeffs. Briell Decker, one of Jeffs' former wives, was granted the 28,000-square-foot home after escaping the FLDS – and she helped create the Dream Center.

The exterior of the Short Creek Dream Center, former home of Warren Jeffs. The Dream Center is now a safe haven for local people in need. ABC News

Decker, who experienced so much pain and trauma in her early life, says she is proud to now help others at the center.

"I feel like I'm safe. I feel like more lives are being touched than I could have ever possibly imagined," Decker told ABC.

Wall, now an activist and author, moved back to Short Creek several years ago and noticed an emotional shift in the community.

"The most important change that I think Short Creek has undergone in the last decade is healing. As people returned and came back, bringing all of their experiences, for them they were coming home," Wall said.

As veteran journalist Mike Watkiss tells ABC, "This is a story about a culture, a community, that has chronically oppressed women. The women are the victims, and the women have been the forces and instruments of change."

[blzzrdstryr]

Yanderes caring for a sick darling hcs - Mondstadt boys edition

Starring: Albedo, Diluc, Kaeya, Venti

[Mondstadt girls edition]

[Liyue boys edition]

Albedo:

As a renowned alchemist, Albedo is very proficient in all alchemical fields, including bio alchemy.

Subsequently, he is also very knowledgeable in the inner workings of the human body, and understands the biological mechanism behind most illnesses and how to prevent them.

Alchemist takes a lot of preventive measures, keeping you on a healthy diet and having you exercise daily. He also begrudgingly lets you out on the walks, with his supervision and far away from any civilisation of course.

He also has a keen eye for changes in your body and he will realize you caught something before you even sense it.

In that case he'll just slip some medicine into your food and you'll get better even before sickness progresses further.

All in all, Albedo is great at keeping you healthy, as your physical well-being is a very high priority to him.

However, the alchemist can become so consumed by his studies that even you temporarily fade into the background.

It’s a very short window of time, but if you manage to get significantly ill, he will blame himself to Hell and back.

You won’t know of his self-loathing though, as Albedo isn't expressive enough, wearing a facade of calmness even if everything beneath it boils and burns

He will quickly find a cure, and do everything to help you feel better as his mind starts to wander into darker places.

Albedo possesses a wide array of knowledge and he knows various cases when simple colds lead to some awful complications that sometimes have cost lives.

Logically he knows it's highly unlikely that you will get that bad, especially under his care, yet the anxious thought remains, nagging at him.

Your illness will be as stressful to him as it is to you. Alchemist's brain will conjure thousands of unfortunate possibilities that could harm you and cut your life short.

Once you recover, Albedo will sigh in relief and rethink his measures regarding your health - he can't let something like this happen again.

Maybe he should start slipping some prophylactic drugs into your food.

Diluc:

Ragnvindr heir is fiercely protective of you, eager to shield your being from any harm possible, including sickness and injury.

Just like Albedo he also takes preventive measures - diet, exercise, monthly check ups, even very short and very supervised walks on the winery territory.

Diluc is a big worrier, he almost always feels low level anxiety especially if it's something regarding your well-being.

He even thought of buying a manor - Dawn Winery, despite its impressive size, is still too small for an inner garden or a courtyard and with a new estate you could walk among greens and get your dose of fresh air without actually going outside, and the possibility of your escape will be lower too.

Diluc also derives some sort of pleasure from caring to you - it’s an act of both love and ownership to him. He will never admit of the latter though, as his feelings regarding your kidnapping are very confused and conflicted - Ragnvindr lies to himself, saying that it was for your protection only. Admitting that he feels possessive of you is admitting that he yearned not only for your safety.

Despite that, Diluc still has to part with you from time to time - he is a busy man having to juggle winery business, patrol Mondstadt streets as Darknight hero and fight against Fatui and Abyss at the same time. He will entrust you in the hands of Adelinde and a couple of other maids who went through a harsh vetting process, ordering them to keep an eye on your health at all times.

He will be more concerned about your sickness than you are, spending ridiculous amounts of mora on physicians and medicine.

The doctor can diagnose with a simple cold, yet Diluc will ask another for a check up just to be sure - who knows maybe the first one has made a mistake, maybe even the second one also misinterpreted your symptoms. Same goes for the treatments, as he has no faith in them either.

He will fret over you like a worried mother hen, but because of Diluc’s usual awkwardness he will fail at displaying his concern, so you will be stuck with even gloomier Diluc looming over you.

He will spend so much time near you he might catch the illness himself.

Diluc will start thinking about buying a manor more often.

Kaeya:

Kaeya isn’t the best at caretaking.

He won’t even believe you at first, thinking that it may be some kind of ploy to fool him and escape. He would absolutely do that if he was in your situation.

Cavalry captain will give you a knowing look every time you cough, sneeze or complain about soreness and fatigue. Who could’ve known that he would rub off onto you?

He will believe you once you develop more severe symptoms, like fever or unstoppable cough, that leaves you shaking and in tears.

Kaeya will jokingly apologize for his lack of trust, but he will be panicking beneath the mocking smile.

A lot of people have abandoned him in the past, and he will view your ailment as you trying to leave him too by dying.

A rational part of him knows that it’s not true, it’s not your fault that you got sick and death is definitely not a way out for you.

He will also reassess the way he views you - despite being talented at interpersonal communication playing on your heartstring and manipulating you into what he wants Kaeya isn’t the best at understanding himself.

Before he thought little of you - you’re a toy, a scapegoat, a stress relief, nothing that holds any significance and cannot be replaced, yet the prospect of losing you puts the whole situation into new light. In less than a day you are mentally elevated from the mere plaything, to someone important, someone irreplaceable.

He won't change the general way he acts around you though, as he thinks of emotional vulnerability and openness as a major weakness to exploit, still being that teasing and infuriating bastard you came to know him as.

Yet sometimes Kaeya will allow himself small moments - things that usually wouldn’t matter so much - a chaste kiss placed on the top of your head, his hand tracing yours, fingers intertwined together. He will also be a tiny bit more lenient when you misbehave.

Unlike Diluc or Albedo, Kaeya lacks funds or knowledge to treat you right away - he can’t bribe multiple doctors into keeping their mouth shut and his knowledge of biology is surface level at best.

He will still try regardless, giving you the same medicine he buys in the rare times he gets sick.It’s a win or lose situation, as his treatment may both worsen and better your health.

Venti:

Venti is acutely aware of your mortality and fragility, memories of thousands of thousands deaths resurfacing everytime he sees you approaching even the hint of danger.

As a result, he is very protective of you, no matter how carefree and childish he may act, as his teal eyes carefully oversee everything you do.

Nevertheless, the sickness, the ailment - this particular aspect of human vulnerability slips his mind - Barbatos, despite his peaceful demeanor, is someone who lived through a lifetime of turmoil - the overthrow of Decarabian’s despotic rule, earth shattering Archon war, Vennessa’s rebellion against corrupt Lawrences.

He always feared that your life would be ended by the stray arrow or a swift sword, not an illness.

Venti will cure you right away using his powers - with gnosis or not, he is still a mighty deity, even if years of absence left him weakened.

Although you’re perfectly fine and healthy now, the bard will still fret over you, scared of your passing.

Expect to have him hovering and being extra clingy for the next few weeks - archon’s life is long and lonely, full of losses and passing, no wonder that he wants to protect you from the whole world.

[dreadwulf]

2: The Black Mountains

Post-Apocalyptic Modern AU. Chapter 1 is here.

The last thing his right eye ever saw was Brienne. 

In that eye she is shouting. Of course he couldn’t hear her at the time over the jeers of the Bloody Mummers tying him to the table. Their laughter had been right up against his ears and the sound of it drowned out everything else in that abandoned mall. The image is soundless: her mouth is just open, her throat pushing out a word that looks like No. Her blue eyes are also open wide, both frightened and angry, a righteous fury that came to him as a surprise, at the time.

She is a still image that resides in the abandoned nerves to that empty eye socket. If he cares to, he can still see her there, superimposed over everything.

She hovers over The Spider’s right shoulder just now. Still saying No.  

He tries to focus on the Spider’s face instead. Varys raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow on his immaculate bald head.

“You can’t shoot anymore. Not like before, not with one eye. You know this.”

“I don’t mean to shoot.” Jaime shows his palms. “I have two hands still. I need a weapon I won’t have to aim.”

Varys measures this statement. He is a man who deals in knowledge more than goods, but he has an armed guard, and a collection of interesting weapons. Both for his own protection, and for use in acquiring the most valuable intel.

“In that case,” the Spider presses a button on the trailer wall. To one of the bikers, a large man with a burnt face who looks in the door in response to his call, he instructs, “bring me the Widow’s Wail.”

The same scarred man reappears with a comically oversized weapon in his hands. Turns out Widow’s Wail is an axe. It is a huge, two-handed, double-bladed axe and when the burnt biker hands it to Jaime his hands dip with the weight.

Axes, Brienne used to tell him, are the best weapon for killing Others. You don’t need to reload an axe. It can’t jam, doesn’t recoil. Simple and effective. 

Messy though, he had said back. He had always preferred his rifle -- clean and fast, one shot and done, and hopefully at a distance. The Others would fall down like carnival targets, one after another, and his favorite jacket would remain spotless. But after they took his eye, he had needed a new weapon, and his jacket was long-ruined by then. 

This is messy work, she had replied.

Now, he lifts the weapon, turns it one way and another. Both edges gleam in the fluorescent light. This axe has been sharpened recently. It is spotless. This weapon has never seen battle.

“It’s new,” Varys fills in immediately, “but it was designed to kill Others. Old valyrian steel, made the old way. We haven’t yet had opportunity to test it, but it will strike true.”

Jaime doesn’t ask how Varys would be able to make a valyrian steel weapon. Knowing how is what he does. 

The Spider watches him curiously. “Are we square then, Slayer?”

“Almost.” He sits again, crosses the long weapon over his lap with both fists grasping it tightly. “Where did it happen?”

“In the North. What exactly happened is unclear even to me, but we know for certain she had traveled north with a small gang. There are reports of her at Winterfell, and then she went with Snow and a small band of Starks beyond the Black Mountains. They returned without her.”

Jaime nods shortly. “Winterfell, then the wilds.”

The Spider frowns. He is perhaps a little perplexed by this conversation, or by Jaime himself. He likes to think he knows people, knows how they will react. But recent years have made a different man of Jaime Lannister. The fall of King’s Landing, his father’s death, the business with Cersei -- after all that, the arrogant and impetuous adventurer of his younger days is long gone. He is a ghost of himself, and the Spider doesn’t know what this ghost will do. He doesn’t like that.

He sits up a little bit straighter on his couch.  “Then it isn’t our local outbreak you intend to fight? I expected you would be nearby. Kill some Others, burn off some steam, and incidentally clear out some of the infestation in the Riverlands, which would be convenient for me. But you aren’t doing that, are you? You mean to follow her? To what purpose?”

Jaime’s eye flickers briefly right. “Hunting.”

“It will be pointless to mount a rescue mission, I assure you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

Their eyes meet for a moment. Jaime isn’t about to elaborate on his intentions, and Varys is visibly frustrated. His silky tones shorten, revealing something sharp beneath. 

“I ought to stop you. You have brought order to the Westerlands, and you’re starting to bring it here too. Alliances, patrols for the roads. Your brother, clever as he is, did not do that. If you abandon these lands, it may all fall apart.”

Jaime feels a flicker of guilt for that, but it is quickly doused by everything else happening inside him. No, this is important. Maybe the most important thing he has ever done.

He shrugs stiffly. “If it falls apart without me, it was too fragile to last.” 

“You’ll need more than an axe and your motorbike to make that journey. You have favors to trade, certainly,” Varys cuts him off before he can argue, “but not that many. The scouting party went beyond the Black Mountains, across them, into the far North. There are few enough waystations on the way to Winterfell, and everything North of Winterfell belongs to the Others. There will be no shelters for you along the way, no refuges, no refueling.”

Jaime is unconcerned. “If she made it there, then I can too.”

“The Blue Angel had a party of supporters, specialists. She would have been outfitted with the best supplies and equipment. She was welcomed everywhere she went, and at the peak of her powers. No offense, Slayer, but you are past your prime, and your powers lately end at the borders of Lannister territory.”

He smiles thinly as he stands. “I didn’t know you cared, Spider. Thanks for the weapon. We’re square.”

Jaime takes the axe outside, and stands staring up at the moon, while the bikers retrieve his motorbike.

Anytime he looks at the moon, anytime there is a moon, he thinks of her. Remembers how they had looked on it together, during those long nights on the road, even though they had parted years ago now. Her on to glory, him back to the arms of his family. They delivered the girls to Winterfell, and he left her to the Kingsroad. It was her territory after that, what once had been his. She had earned it in sweat and tears and blood. She tended it well without him. He had gloried in tales of her exploits.

Whenever he looks at the moon, he has always wondered if she is looking too. Wherever she is.

He thinks he will not be able to look at the moon anymore.

When he turns his head, Varys stands on the steps of his trailer, his bald head gleaming against the fluorescent light. Jaime has never seen him outside his trailer. It’s confusing, a little like seeing a penguin in the jungle.

“The Others of the Black Mountains are different,” The Spider warns him. “Worse.” 

When his bike comes rolling back with two of the Spider’s bikers, it comes with a few more gifts. Two metal spheres, one the size of a softball and the other the size of a chestnut.

Grenades, obviously Old World. Gods know where Varys got them from, certainly they aren’t made this way anymore. What they’re calling grenades now will mostly just make noise. But these two could probably blow a hole in a tank. He packs them onto his bike carefully.

Any old-world weapon would be priceless now, Jaime knows. Varys would not overpay a debt.

He squints up at the Spider, who makes a silky shadow in the doorway against his light. “And the cost?”  

The Spider smiles -- he can’t see it, on a shadow, but he can hear it in his voice. “If you come back, tell me what you saw. I hear very little of the Black Mountains and none of it first-hand.”

Jaime can promise that easily enough. He knows he won’t be coming back.

He walks his bike in silence about a mile up the road before waking the engines and roaring away.

He rides the motorbike until the last of his carefully hoarded gasoline is run out, rides right through the next day and into the night. Gets more miles out of it than he would have gotten with his creaky armored car, and certainly faster. 

Along the way he sees no other travelers. Five years ago there would have been at least a few others, some other vehicles, perhaps spaced out and alone, perhaps all in a big caravan for safety. But there is not much fuel left anymore. And North is not a direction people go in now.

It was how he had met her, actually. On a road much like this one.  He had been on a different motorbike and she had been driving a sedan. Obviously following him, less obvious why. He made it a chase - weaving between the stopped traffic, blasting around the walkers and cyclists and parades of cars going nowhere. She had somehow kept up with him, pushing her poor little car to its limits. Eventually he decided whoever it was had earned his attention for at least a few minutes, and he pulled over on the road to watch the tallest, ugliest woman he had ever seen unfold herself out of her car. 

She kept his attention considerably longer than a few minutes. .

Of course, he could enjoy a chase back then - you could still count on petrol, could siphon it out of most any vehicle you encountered along the way. The cars along the road here are bone dry by now, haven’t moved in years, and the electronics, trunk supplies, and even promising upholstery have been stripped out of them long ago. The cars pass by now in muted streaks of blue and red, dulled by layers of paint-stripping weather damage and snow. 

When his bike sputters to a stop, he leaves it right out on the highway. Packs his equipment onto his back. Then he begins to walk.

Without the headlights of his bike, it’s quite dark. No streetlights, of course. He has a torch in his bag, but he’s saving that battery as long as he can. Anyway, the moon is out, and once his eyes are adjusted he sees well enough. The trees encroaching on the interstate have not quite overtaken the shoulder, and the glow of moon and stars light up the cracked concrete in front of him, and glitter in the frost.

His boots echo his footfalls up and down the highway. First the gritty sound of gravel, and then the crunch of ice, and then the quieter scrunch of snow. 

There are no other sounds to hear out here -- no bird cries, no insects. They aren’t sure if the animals are dead, hiding, or run away, but no one sees them anymore. Means he doesn’t have to worry about being eaten by bears, at least.

The last bear he has seen was that time with Brienne, actually. It might have been the last bear, period. He hasn’t heard of any other ones since. That would be a shame, if that had been the last bear, and they’d killed it. He hadn’t wanted to. He can’t take it personally, the bear trying to eat them. He was only hungry, and they were all very hungry that winter. 

He didn’t know he would be fleeing the last bear in Westeros with her, when he met Brienne on the road. He only knew she was capable, and she was following him, and anyone out in the wilds could be dangerous. Out here other people were either foolishly overconfident, robbers, or competition. 

Brienne proved to be the last type, possibly also the first. She was after the Stark bounty, same as him. She had a personal stake. He could keep the money, she said. He had a lot more experience and knew where he was going, but she could be an ally. She could help.

He had laughed in her face, more or less. Said she was free to make the bounty herself, but he traveled alone. Newbies tended to die almost immediately, and he hadn’t stayed alive this long by babysitting foolish college students. He would locate the missing Stark girls and deliver them home. But if she wanted to return them herself she’d have to beat him there. 

A few weeks later they had wound up with one Stark girl apiece -- him with Sansa and her best girlfriend Jayne, her with Arya and her mate Gendry -- and again she had proposed an alliance for the trip up to Winterfell. No one had made it to Winterfell since the disaster, but their chances were better together, she said.

His better idea was that he could take the two valuable girls to Winterfell and she could take the two spares and go back to King’s Landing where it was safe, or jump in a lake for all he cared. But that conversation had been interrupted by the Bloody Mummers, and after that… things were very different after that.

Jaime slows to a stop with this remembrance, digs in his bag for his water bottle and takes a long pull. He’s tiring faster than he expected. He has tried to keep himself in fighting shape the last few years, but he hasn’t made a journey like this in a long time.

You’ve grown soft, he thinks, but inside his head it sounds like Brienne’s gentle ribbing. The tone she had taken after she stopped insulting him for real.

I’m refined, he answers back, slinging his pack over his shoulder and walking again. Answers between breaths, like he’s actually speaking. I’m a diplomat these days, remember? 

Will you try to negotiate with the Others then? She laughs in his ear. What will you trade them, wine? Broken electronics? The only economy they know is violence, and we trade them blows. 

He smiles to himself, despite everything. Young lady, it’s a good thing you didn’t come back to King’s Landing with me. You would have knocked out the Small Council within a day, and we’d both have been out on our asses.

And King’s Landing would have better off with us in the street than you in that office. We might have saved it. Old man, whatever have you done without me?

Jaime stops a moment, breathing hard, looking up at the moon.

I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ve been doing, where the time went. It all blurred together without you.

He has been having these conversations for years now. It isn’t exactly imagination. More prediction. He knows exactly what she would say in every instance. What she would think of the people he meets, the places he goes. He hears her critiques of his private practice sessions, when he tries to stay in shape for the inevitable invasion. Her quiet, private commentary. Her icy rejoinders to his jokes. They come to him like a reply. Like she has heard him gods-know-how-many miles away, and answered him back. 

It’s painful now, hearing her voice. He doesn’t know why it would be different - alive or dead, he is only talking to himself after all. Perhaps it is only more obviously futile this way, knowing she is gone. 

He was never going to see her again, he knows that. The things she does, they were always eventually going to get her killed. Hells, he told her that himself more than once. 

Even now it still isn’t entirely real to him. It doesn’t seem possible. But the Spider knows things, and if he knows them they aren’t just rumors. It’s true. It’s sinking in. Brienne is gone. 

She doesn’t walk the same world as him anymore. He will hear no more tales of her adventures, and smile privately at the things nobody else knows of her. He will not wonder if it snows where she is, or if the sun shines. Whether she ever thinks of him, the way he does of her. They traveled together only a year, but she carved a place for herself in him, in the slow and brutal way water carves a cliffside. He has kept her there all this time. Now in that space there is emptiness, a brutal, sucking vacuum that might just pull him apart if he stops moving long enough.

So he starts walking again. Keeps walking, on and on, without rest, for as long as he can stand it.

Here and there one of the Others comes onto the road ahead of him. They wander on and off aimlessly, looking lost. At a distance they look nearly alive, so long as they aren’t missing any limbs, and only the directionless of their movements give them away. As you get closer you can see their clothing is wrong -- it’s not enough clothes for the weather, or their clothes are torn, bits are missing. Maybe the clothes are rotting right off their bodies, if they’re been out long enough. Closer still and you can see the blueish tinge to the skin that the Others are famous for, the thin layer of frost that covers them head to toe. At ten feet or so you can make out the ice blue eyes that glow like cat’s eyes in the light. But by then they’ve seen you, and they move much faster than you think they can. Best not to get that close. Best to stay well away, and let them turn and wander in another direction out of sight. 

As always, one wonders what they’re looking for. Where they’re going.

Some of them will wander away before he catches up, and he pays them no mind. If he is quiet, and they didn’t take notice of him, it is easier to let them pass by. Fighting can be loud, and that sort of noise could bring more of them running.

But eventually one is too slow. They can be damaged, and those stumbling steps can be frustratingly deliberate at times. This one is fairly tall, and drags its foot in the snow. On the highway, it reminds him of an elderly driver occupying the fast lane at a crawl. Even as he slows his pace, he gets closer and closer, and the dead thing shows no signs of changing direction.

Eventually he can wait no longer. He will have to overtake the creature. At least he hasn’t seen any other Others nearby. This Other shows no sign of noticing him. Jaime slowly draws the axe off his back, and makes six rapid, long strides in the thing’s direction, winding up for a massive crossways swing.

Varys didn’t lie; the axe cuts true. One good blow across the back is enough to bring it down, and he remembers where to strike. Sever the spinal cord, destroy the brain, or burn them, that destroys them. The axe is so sharp it cuts the thing nearly in half. There is a quick, sharp sound of impact and the thud of a body hitting the ground, and then silence. 

They don’t scream, the others. They don’t make noises of any kind. Maybe because they don’t breathe anymore; who knows. He pulls the axe out of the thing’s bulk and wipes it in the snow. 

The first Other to fall to him in five years that he didn’t hit with his car. It feels good. It doesn’t relieve the great sucking void he has inside him but it does feel good.

He shoulders the axe and keeps walking. After that, he strikes down one of them every few hours, until the sun comes up, and then he huddles on the embankment, dozing, for most of the morning. It’s not so cold he’ll freeze - not yet, anyway - and there aren’t so many Others around that he can’t risk it.

He’s lucky, for the most part. There aren’t any big clusters of Others out here. Those tend to form up around settlements and cities, or lingering around empty houses. Not out here in the open space, where there aren’t travelers anymore. 

He passes the next night in a car, after crawling in a broken window. It’s not especially safer, but it is more comfortable than the ground. He sprawls across the backseat and thinks about the red wood-paneled station wagon he had found buried in a parking lot and managed to start. He and Brienne drove that car all the way to Harrenhall, the now five children sleeping in the back. The seat was so wide even Brienne could lay down in it, and she was inches taller than him. 

This car is blue, and he has to bend his knees and curl up to fit on the seat.

Keep watch for me, Angel, he tells her, before he drifts off.

Days of steady walking pass this way, with fitful bursts of sleep. 

The Black Mountains are looming in the far distance when he nears Winterfell. So tall he can see them all these miles away, staining the low edge of the horizon like a shadow. 

Jaime keeps his eyes on the ground mostly. He’s only been here once, and it wasn’t an enjoyable visit. It was a destination, and it meant the end of a long journey. He’s never much liked those. Endings. He tries to get those over with. If he can help it, he’d rather turn around and begin again right away, try to get back to the middle.

Wintertown is relatively intact, patrolled by fur-clad soldiers with shotguns. The town has grown since he was here last. The streets have people on them now, much more than in Lannisport or anywhere in the Riverlands. No cars, but regular people, old folks and even children, strolling about. He has to stop and stare at that for awhile. Pedestrians. It’s been a long time.

Perhaps things are better in the North? Maybe they are safer than they were. But Wintertown is small, and easily guarded, and in the shadow of the old Winterfell fortress these people know they can flee within its walls and be safe, should the Others attack again. That’s more reassurance than most places have. 

For a little while he walks up and down those streets, just another window-shopper. The buildings are mostly refitted as residences, but on the sidewalks people sell goods out of carts, or spread out on the sidewalk. Wanderers come through and trade the trinkets they’ve found. There aren’t prices. Most likely they will take food, and medicine, and more practical items, in trade. He didn’t bring anything like that, unfortunately. But there isn’t anything he needs here.

At the end of a long boulevard Jaime finds himself before the gates of Winterfell, and he pauses.

This was where he had parted from her. Right here.

He grimaces past that memory. He was an ass about it, of course. Tried to sneak away. She caught him. There was a confrontation. Things were said. 

Things? Brienne-in-his-mind prods him indignantly. Have you forgotten already?

I remember every word. He sighs. Unfortunately.

The gates to Winterfell stand open for now. Probably so that Wintertown can run inside, if someone rings the alarm. Jaime passes through and takes the gravel path to the old castle. It’s a sturdy thing, for being several hundred years old. Solid and undecayed. Sure, they have to replace the wood every few decades, but the stone is thick and unbroken. There are walls behind walls, like any medieval keep, and courtyards and gates separating them. Guards stand atop the fortifications with guns, and they watch him approaching. Wary, but welcoming. Anyone not undead is allowed to pass through, at least to the midden.

The kids are here at Winterfell, probably. Somewhere. Many of them stayed, he has heard. The Starks for sure, and maybe some of the other strays he and Brienne had picked up along the way. Any of the running kids in Wintertown could have been Apple, that baby that Willow and Sansa had fawned over. He would be five, six years old now. That is, if he were alive. 

He doesn’t want to see any of them if he can help it. Best not to go inside the Great Keep then. He goes to the Great Hall instead. The velvet ropes are all taken down. It was a tourist trap for a lot of years, before its fortifications became unexpectedly useful again. Used to be you could get a feast inside, with cosplayers and a jester and a bard, and then you could get back in your car and drive away home. 

Bit different now. The fires are still roaring, but put to more practical use. Broken furniture surrounds the great fireplaces where they have been stripping the upholstery and feeding the fire. Laundry is strung up before them, and boils in great kettles. Nearer to mealtime the laundry will be replaced with soup and stew. The fireplaces in the living quarters had been stripped out long ago, replaced with appliances that no longer work. They have to do nearly everything in the great hall now, and gather in smaller rooms. 

The head washerwoman takes his message back to the living quarters and Jaime sits down to wait. There is an armchair that is strikingly comfortable for as old as it looks, upholstered in a velvety material. It might be some kind of antique, something with a PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign on it back when this was a museum. There isn’t much use for antiques anymore. He sits in the chair.

He sits back and stares at nothing for a time. He might have fallen asleep, because the girls appear as if by magic, just as he remembers them but taller and leaner, their chubby faces hollowed by early adulthood. 

Sansa is quite tall, for a Stark anyway. She looks like her mother otherwise; red-haired, high-cheekboned, very pretty. Her sister looks like their father, sturdy and strong-jawed, Northern. They stare at him owlishly, and he wonders what he looks like to them. He is not nearly so changed -- grew a beard, added some lines around his eyes -- but they were children when they saw him last, and they are not children now. He has to look up to see them.

“You came for Brienne,” Arya says abruptly -- as usual she realizes the obvious first and doesn’t hesitate to speak it aloud. 

Jaime nods. There isn’t much more to say than that.

“We had a memorial,” Sansa hovers over him awkwardly, looking unsure. “All of Winterfell came, much of Wintertown as well. We would have waited if we had known you would come.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” He says it more sharply than he intends.

Arya snaps back. “You’ve been gone a long time, and not a single letter. What else could we think?”

Sansa stops her with a hand to her shoulder. She was always an empathetic child. “You’re welcome here now. Can I get you anything?”

“Your brother. If he’s here.” His eyes drift to Widow’s Wail, where it sits on the floor beside him. “I’ve heard he was there when it happened. I need to hear it from him.”

Sansa leans forward and touches his hands, briefly. “We can take you to him.”

He can only nod. 

He follows the girls through the old fortress into a more modern living area. Home, most like. The Starks have all congregated here, the ones left.

Jon Snow he has never met before. The girls’ half-brother. Lord Snow of Winterfell, now. He stands straight and stiff, trying to look older than he is. He has a warm parka on over his polar fleece, something puffy and filled with down. It’s hard to be serious in a puffy coat without coming off at least faintly ridiculous, but the young man manages it somehow. 

“She was a great help to my family,” Jon says, and shakes his hand vigorously. “A great fighter, the bravest of all of us, and the kindest too. Every one of us here at Winterfell thought very highly of her.”

“And your mission?” Jaime shuts down the reminiscence quickly. He does not want to remember Brienne here. Certainly not with the Starks.

Jon hangs his head. “It wasn’t a complete waste. But it wasn’t quite what we wanted, either.”

He gestures to a sofa. Jaime sits on the edge of it, unwilling to relax. This is rather too much civilization for him right now. Jon sits down expansively on an easy chair, and runs a hand through wild black hair. 

“We were hoping to find something that would explain where the Others come from. We thought the Black Mountains might have the answer, the mountains and the land beyond. It’s hard to find much on the Mountains though -- only one road is passable, everywhere else is ice and deep snow. Beyond the Mountains there is a place they’re calling Craster’s Keep. We knew something was very wrong there. We should have stayed away.” Jon shakes his head, so serious. 

Jaime waits.

“We suspected they were colluding with the Others somehow. The ones on the Mountain. The old man… it was terrible. What he was doing. We had to put a stop to it. Brienne followed one of the men to their meeting place, where the Others come down the Mountain. She never came back.”

That is rather less definitive than Jaime wants to hear. 

“That’s all? Did you search?” he asks sharply.

Jon looks defensive at first, but softens quickly. “I assure you, if there was anything to find, we would have found it. We were very fond of her. There were signs of a battle, and several Others fallen there. But of her there was no sign. There was no body.” Jon looks reluctant to continue. “We did find this.”

Hesitantly, he holds out the wrapped bundle to Jaime. He knows it immediately. Takes it like he took the grenades, carefully and reluctantly.

His hands unwrap the thing before he can think twice, to show himself what he already knows. It’s Brienne’s titanium bat. Bloodstained, dirty, with a single chip in it near the tip. 

They had nicknamed it Oathkeeper, way back then. It was more like a mythical sword than a bat. Titanium bats weren’t even allowed in baseball, in any league. They hit the ball so hard it was dangerous to the other players. They probably shouldn’t have been made in the first place, and they stopped making them decades before the Others came and their true usefulness became apparent. 

Jaime holds the bat. Brienne had carried this thing for so long. He puts his fingers where she would have put hers, the way a player held it  to hit a ball. He can see the mark of her fingers there, slowly rubbed into the metal across the years. 

Jon is still talking. “These Others are different. Our Others will kill and turn. But these... We suspect that they consume the bodies instead of raising them. I think there was nothing remaining to find.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Jaime stands.

“If you will insist…” Jon rises as well, solemn. “My friend Sam stayed behind there. If you reach Craster’s Keep, ask for Sam. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”

*****************  

He passes a night there, lying awake in a bed. 

They gave him her room. A quiet, out-of-the-way guest bedroom with little in the way of modern amenities. It has a homey feeling, just the same. It feels like her.

She left some things there; little knick-knacks. She liked to pick up small things, put them in her pockets. Her coat had loads of pockets hidden everywhere. By the end of the day she would have lots of little treasures. You could turn her upside down and shake her and all sorts of shiny treats would come rolling out. Figurines, stones, tiny toys. They’re arranged all around the room, on the windowsill, on the dresser. Probably if he went through her clothes he would find more things still hidden away in her pockets. The coat, though, that wouldn’t be there in the closet, he knows without looking. She would have it with her, wherever she has gone.

Jaime leaves her things alone. It’s enough to know they’re there, waiting for her. 

Brienne slept in this bed. This is the only home she had, so far as he knows. She stayed here after he left, here at Winterfell. She would have rested here -- she was still a little sick. It had been a few weeks, at least, before she went back to the Kingsroad. After that she came back here between adventures, making the long, dangerous journey there and back again. In the dead of winter she would rest here at least a month, from what he could tell, every year.

He should have stayed with her. 

She never asked him. Not out loud. But he knows, deep down, he would have been welcome. He knew it then, too. But he had left her at Winterfell and gone back. Back to the arms of his family who needed him more than she ever would. Back to his father and his expectations, to his siblings who needed his protection. The job was over, and he went back to where he belonged. 

Not a day has gone by that he doesn’t regret it. 

************************

In the morning he is lacing his new boots in the great hall, a gift from Jon. They are a little large, but warm, and useful for maneuvering on ice. He suspects they had once belonged to Ned Stark; certainly none of the Stark boys have feet this big.

Jon has also given him a down parka like his own. Such a thing would fetch a lot in trade these days, but he insists Jaime take it. “This is the least I can do, for bringing my brother and sisters home.” 

Jaime promises to return it, though he can see that Jon does not expect to see him at Winterfell again. Neither of them do.

His pack has been refilled with food, bandages, antiseptic, and an icepick. Arya had thrust the bag at him wordlessly and turned on her heel and left and he does not see her again. How much and how little people change from when they are small; he can still see the dark-eyed child in the woman she is becoming. It makes him feel positively ancient.

Sansa accompanies him to the gates of Winterfell, gliding elegantly over the snow in her warm winter coat. She chatters as much as she always did, though it was never to him before. She used to keep her distance from him, as she had from most men. She misses Brienne, he realizes, looking at her. She must have been like an older sister, or an aunt, or...

He never did lay eyes on Rickon, did he? He is probably running wild somewhere, running with the wolves. He doesn’t ask, though he suspects Sansa would like him to. Nor does he ask about Willow, or Gendry, or any of the others. He has too much to carry already.

“You’re different,” Sansa tells him, nearing the gates.

“You’re older,” he says. “You see me better.”

“Maybe.” The auburn beauty frowns. “Do you think she’s still alive out there?”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to see the concern on her face, not if it’s for him.

“Do you think Brienne would want you to do this? Go after her like this?”

No. “That won’t stop me.” 

“She would want you to go on with your life.”

“I don’t care.” He can’t quite look at Sansa. He couldn’t look at Arya either. They remind him of too much. 

“Why did you never come back? She waited for you. She was still waiting.”

He shuts his eyes against her. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t. Not now.”

Sansa sniffles, and her voice trembles. “I’m so sorry. You were both so good to us. I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and tries to put her arms around him, but he’s already walking away.

He’s going through the gates of Winterfell, straight down the boulevard of Wintertown.

He doesn’t stop. He turns to the Black Mountains, and keeps walking.

[yeojaa]

finders keep hers.

reads part two and three.  a drabble about idiots in love because it is literally my favourite trope in the world and also, who can resist a fuck boy!jk and a won't-tell-him!best friend?  c'mon!  also, big thanks to @hobi-gif​ for being the best beta reader i could ever ask for.  xoxo

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  rating.  ... explicit.  tags.  smut with idiots!  big fucking idiots who do dumb things!  but yeah, unprotected sex (please wrap the willy and don’t be silly), a lil bit of dirty talk, some angst if you squint at the right times.  wc.  2.2k.

“Baby.”  It comes out whiny and breathless, a world away from the usual confidence that spills off of his tongue.  He’s half delirious, grip imprinting itself into the yielding flesh of your thighs.  Each noise he makes sounds like it’s about to fully form before dropping off, stolen by some bliss that seems to reside back behind his eyelids.  It splits and breaks over and over, murmurs of your name and affection and whatever else he can think of in the moment.

You love when he’s like this.  Love that you can bring him to this - a man on his knees (or, more literally, on his back).

“Hm?”  Laughter crawls off your tongue, slinking into the heavy air and dripping into the spaces between you, like the sweat that creeps down your neck and beads at his temples. You punctuate the question with a deliberate roll of your hips, single hand splayed out across the delightfully firm expanse of his chest. 

The noise he makes is sinful - almost beguiling enough for you to stop the slow torture - but you think better of it when he meets your motion with one of his own.  It’s disjointed, far less measured than yours, and driven by a need he can barely articulate.

“Use your words, Kookie.”  

His childhood nickname shouldn’t sound the way it does - like fucking in powder rooms and secluded cabanas.  It should spring forward light and airy, more childhood friendship than unbridled twenty-something year old lust.  

You don’t think he minds, though.  He certainly doesn’t look like he minds.  

“Baby, please.”  He moans it so prettily - like he’s begging for all the stars in the sky - that you want to give it to him.  Want to, but won’t, because that’s not how this goes and you know he’ll thank you for it later.  He always does.

“Please what, Bunny ?”  You’re really teasing now.  You wonder if he’ll hold it against you when he’s back to his senses. 

Back to being Jeon Jungkook, the man with everything. 

“You’re being mean.”  How he manages to huff it when he’s hardly lucid, you’re not sure.  You have to applaud him - reward him - so you do, dragging your fluttering walls off his cock, and all but dropping yourself back upon it.  It’s the first inch you’ve given all afternoon - the first taste of anything other than slow and steady wins the race. 

The grip on your hips borders on painful, the neatly trimmed edges of his nails digging into the pliant tanned skin.  Your own fingers readjust, tweaking his nipple in the way you know he loves, and he nearly flinches away before leaning heavily into your touch, entire chest heaving.

“Fuck me,”  he whines, again, in that voice.  You snicker above him, soothing the red assault lines you’ve left across his torso with sweet brushes of your fingertips and the occasional graze of your lips.

“I am, honey.”

You know he tries to hold in the pent-up energy that radiates through his entire body, buzzing from his toes all the way up his spine.  He bucks beneath you, seeking more, more, more like the greedy brat he is.  

“Nuh uh,”  you repeat, like a scolding school teacher.  “You take what I give - or I’m going home.”

The threat is very real - you’ve done it before - and he immediately stills, eyes flashing wide and earnest up at you.  His thumb rubs soothing circles across your hip bone - right where he’d dug his fingers in only moments earlier.  

“I’m sorry,”  he croaks and you know he means it.  You can hear it in the way he can hardly speak.  He tries again, softer now, with his charm turned up to eleven, tongue swiping over the spit-slicked edge of his bottom lip.  “Please, angel?”  

One hand is halfway up your side, moving with purpose until he finds the sensitive edge of your ribs, touch trailing over where he can feel each individual bone.  He repeats the motion once, twice, before pressing the broad palm of his hand over your right shoulder blade, splaying digits across your back.  You both know how easy it would be for him to drag you chest-to-chest, but he refrains - just looks up at you with those big doe eyes of his.

“Give me what I want, princess.”  He’s pulling out all the stops - dressing you in every pet name imaginable.  “I’ll make it worth your while - make that pretty pussy all messy for me.”

You don’t miss how he’s slowly grinding into you, the friction against your aching clit buzzing in the back of your mind as he whispers his sweet nothings.  

“I don’t know, Bunny.”  You’re playing a very specific role now.  The role of aloof prey-turned-hunter, not a care in the world in sight.  It doesn’t matter that maybe - just maybe, it’s all a very carefully practiced facade.  It’s what he - and you - both need.

Each time you don’t flat out deny him, he’s emboldened.  He ruts his hips into you a little more firmly, fucks himself into you with a little more intention.  You hardly even notice the coil of his hand until the heat from his palm is searing through the delicate skin of your neck, his fingers pressing into the sensitive spot beneath your ear. 

You want to rebuff him a bit longer but Jungkook knows all of your weaknesses and exploits them like a power hungry tyrant.  “I don’t hear a ‘no’ , baby.”  

Not like you can say much of anything when he’s got his hand around your throat.  He knows that just as well as you.  

“Tell me you want this, too.”  He doesn’t need the affirmation but he craves it from you - demandsit by dropping his other hand from your waist to the apex of your thighs.  He repeats himself as he swirls his thumb over your clit, circling it with the lightest of pressure.

His grip on your neck even relents enough to allow an answer to slip past your lips.  In his mind, he’s being very, very lenient. 

You do your best to refrain.  Frankly, you think you do better than most women would.  But there’s still only so much you can take and a sharp, tantalizing pinch to your most sensitive bundle of nerves is not one of them. 

It sparks an inferno through you, heat devouring every ounce of sensibility.  

“Okay, okay!”  You’re matching him in tone, petulence tearing off your tongue.  “I give.”  

He grins - that slow, cat-ate-the-canary thing that demands attention and steals hearts.  The same smile he’s carried his entire life, buck-toothed and adorable.  “That’s right, baby.  I always win.”  Triumph colours his words and you almost roll your eyes;  he stops you with an abrupt repositioning, your sweat-slicked frame pushed off him in a single fluid motion.  You feel like a ragdoll. 

You don’t have time to reprimand him before he’s got you, crowded against your back with his face buried against your nape and his cock brushing through your folds.  Your knees are kicked apart, spread obscenely around him.  His favourite position, you think, though he’d claim otherwise. 

“Jungkook!”  You snarl, growing impatient with how he teases you, forearm caged right beneath your breasts and the other resting against the mattress. 

For all his bitching and complaining, he’s being a real big asshole now.

“What - no more Bunny?”  The words roll hotly into your ear, followed by the sharp edge of enamel as he nips at the delicate cartilage and tongues right below your lobe at the spot that makes you keen.  He’s mocking you, dragging the swollen head of his cock against your clit over and over but never giving you more - never taking you in the way he’d begged to do.

“If you don’t smarten up right now—”  It’s a hiss that leaves no room for argument.  “—get the hell off me.”

Maybe it’s sixteen years of friendship or maybe it’s how hot you sound when you’re pissed off.  Either way, it’s the last straw and he’s burying himself to the hilt, filling you up so well that you can’t help the way you moan, lewd like a well-paid pornstar.  

“Better?”  He huffs, somehow, in between his hard unrelenting thrusts that bounce you across his thousand thread count sheets.  

His lips find a spot right between your neck and shoulder and he mouths greedily over it, saliva soothing the roses that bloom beneath his teeth.  He does this every time - marking you in ways you can’t stop, placing a glaring neon sign that reads JEON JUNGKOOK . 

“Stop talking.”  Not that you don’t love his voice - not that you don’t love him, deep down - but because you can’t focus.  You’re far too tightly strung from your earlier activities and your insides feel like they’re melting, molten lava seeping through your system each time he presses back into you.

You can feel every ridge and vein, anchored with nowhere to go by his weight.  It’s absurd how he stretches and fills you - like you can feel him all the way in your throat.  It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Don’t get mouthy,”  he returns, playful as ever.  A small part of you wonders how he looks - if he’s got that stupid grin on his face - but you know you can’t turn.  He’s calling all the shoots now, just like he loves to do.  “C’mere, angel.”  You’re up and back in the next instant;  he’s holding you flush against his chest with ease, hips hardly missing a beat as he pulls you upright.  

Damn him and his strength.

The sound you make when his cock drags against that particular spot inside you is almost laughable.  “Kook .”  His name is hardly that - more of a garbled plea.  You briefly wonder if you look as stupid as you suddenly sound.  

Satisfaction practically rolls off him in waves, suffocating you just as his right hand does, the left darting to focus on your clit.  “That’s right.”  He’s saccharine sweet, nipping and nibbling at your pulse as he feels it jump beneath his tongue.

You’ve done this enough times that he knows you’re close and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t, too.

“Come on, baby.  Let go - I know you want to.”  You can’t stop yourself when he’s whispering so nicely, coaxing you into a state of euphoria with his hand and his cock and his goddamn good-for-nothing mouth.  You’re mewling nonsense, meeting his every movement like your life depends on it.  You’re so close, tittering on the edge of an impossibly dark abyss;  you think you might cry.  

Then all at once, with a particularly rough snap of his hips and just a bit more pressure on your clit, white hot heat sears through you.  It starts in your core and pulls through your limbs, dissolving your bones into nothingness as you reach your long-awaited high.  

Tears are spilling over before you can register it, wetness heavy in your throat and the line of your lashes. 

“That’s right.  Cream all over this cock, baby.  Good girl.”  Jungkook never ceases his quiet words of encouragement or how he rocks against you, your name rolling off his tongue like a balm to soothe the burns he’s left behind.  

Even while he’s chasing his own release, he never forgets about you, humming reassurances into your curtain of dark hair.

You try to return the favour - it’s an almost impossible feat - when his hips stutter and he loses his rhythm.  Fisted into the sheets, your hand finds his, thin fingers coiling around knuckles that strain white beneath permanent ink.  

“Kook.  Kook.  Please cum for me.”  

You’re begging him in a way he can’t resist and he spills inside of you then, filling you so well you can feel it slick down your thighs as he rides out his high.  

When he’s spent and satisfied, he breaks away and tosses himself at your side, rolling onto his back.  He sounds like he’s run a marathon when he speaks, out of breath and giddy.  “God - you’re so good for me.”  He says it almost like he means it as more than it is - more than a casual fuck on a Friday night.

You’re up before he has a chance to pull you to him, picking up your discarded clothes as you move towards his bathroom.    

“You’re leaving?”  Why he sounds so surprised, you’re not sure but you’re grateful for the closed door and the inability to see his face.  You can only imagine how it looks, framed by his just-fucked mess of hair and bathed in the afternoon light.  

You emerge from the bathroom fully clothed, strands of your own swept into a haphazard braid that hides the mosaic he’d painted with his mouth.  You’re careful not to meet his stare as you retrieve your bag from his immaculately kept desk, sliding it over your shoulder.  “I have a report I need to submit tonight.”

“You can do it here.”  He’s not wrong - you’d done most of your university coursework in his living room. 

But that was then and this is now and it’s hard enough sleeping with your best friend without feelings getting in the way so you shake your head and laugh, nonchalant as you can manage.  “You have coffee with that girl from Wednesday at 8 AM and I’m definitely not in the mood for an early morning tomorrow.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head - the proverbial gun he’s about to use to riddle your reasoning with holes - and raise a hand to silence him before he can begin.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”  Then you’re gone, half your heart in your chest and the other in the hands of your stupid, oblivious best friend.

[tyrantisterror]

The ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest 3-D: Entry Roundup

You’ve been patiently waiting for the results of the ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest 3-D, and now... you have to wait a bit longer, but at least you’ve got an entry roundup with lots of sketches and a good bit of feedback for all the entrants!  My goal is to get the finalists illustrated in a week or two, and after that, the grand prize winner will be announced.  But, for now, the official entry roundup!  After the cut:

I should note that while I sketched these in the order they were submitted, my scanner saved the documents with random names, so they’re a bit jumbled.  You know, just in case you’re like me and would get confused noticing that it’s almost in chronological order but with some entries jumbled around.

@bugcthulhu’s Obsideban was designed as a counterpart to Rohobaron - the Black King to Rohobaron’s Red King, if you will.  Or, well, Black Queen in this case, as Obsideban also takes her personality from the “delinquent girl” archetype in Japanese media.  Bug’s designs always ooze personality, and I had a lot of fun translating this big, gnarly retrosaur into my own style.

@toothlessloveshiccup‘s Argonox is the first - but far from the last - monster in this breakdown that brings in a bit of fantasy influence to ATOM’s roster.  A golden-fleeced ram with a vicious streak, this sheep is both treasure and dragon at once.  And while it wasn’t written in the monster’s profile, given the Yamaneon-rich nature of its wool, Argonox might be able to replicate the healing power of the golden fleece too!  A very fun mammalian kaiju and excellent entry.

@highly-radioactive-nerd submitted Gunmetal Jeeves, a robot butler who can gigantomax temporarily create a holographic/hard light version of himself to fight kaiju.  That detail was a late revision added to the entry before the contest’s deadline, made after the creator realized that ATOM allows for some truly ludicrous bullshit, which is something everyone should exploit when making entries for this in my opinion.  Also, this is a robot butler who can size shift.  Revel in its awesome absurdity!

Ultranerd submitted Rajasaurus, a dimetrodon-like synapsid kaiju with electric powers.  His origin specifies that the electric powers are a result of the volatile nature of the Yamaneon deposits he mutated under, which is an interesting idea.  That’s another theme that cropped up a lot in this contest’s entries, actually - people really wanted to play with what Yamaneon can do.

Case in point, @polygonfighter’s Yamaneolith takes the Monolith Monsters homage at the heart of Yamaneon even more apparent.  I like the implication that there is a second mineral-based lifeform at the root of this Yamaneon cluster’s anomalous behavior - a parasite, perhaps?  It brings up some interesting possibilities.

@ariccio50 submitted Kukulkuzana, and damn is this a cool spin on the body plan of my martians.  I made a few changes here and there (splitting its tail into two is probably the biggest one), but tried to keep true to the original design, because holy hell is it gorgeous.  The idea that this is a mountain-dwelling creature is really intriguing to me, as it looks like a sea creature, but at the same time, that flexible and low-slung build WOULD work pretty well in mountains, and it’s just the right mix of plausible weirdness that makes for a fun alien design.

@akitymh submitted Aramzados, a Venusian monster that’s basically an organic hot rod car.  I like the idea of organic machinery being the gimmick for Venusian kaiju, and Aramzado’s does it subtly enough to not feel like that gimmick is the sole thing going for it.  I especially love this monster’s stange, apparently mouth-less blade-beaked face.

@virovac submitted Rurzar and Zar Rider, a Beyonder kaiju and mecha (respecitvely) that were both modified and repurposed by humans reverse engineering Beyonder technology to make, like, a motorcycle-saurus essentially.  It is a delightfully absurd concept, and a very, very detailed one (13 pages of description).  There’s a dark undercurrent beneath the sillyness, though, as this pair show that humanity might still be following the same path as the Beyonders before them.

@dinosaurana brings us Krangor, a humanoid monstrosity of living kelp!  The goal here was to create a Jack Kirby-esque monster dude, complete with the gibberish name and all.  He’s also made out of kelp, which feels very classic 1950′s monster-y despite me not being able to think of any monsters that were explicitly made of kelp.  I love him.

@kiryuthechimera submitted Genkakurah, a psychic retrosaur with some draconic features.  Though his substantial powerset is probably the biggest distinguishing feature of this kaiju (given that most ATOM kaiju pretty much have the same standard powers), what really draws me to him is that reptilian pseudo-beard.  It’s just a fun detail!

@glarnboudin submits Tiratola, and see, there’s that fantasy influence again!  Even more explicitly dragon-y than Kraydi, Tiratola still manages to toe the line between sci-fi and fantasy enough to fit ATOM as is while still cementing its ties to my own slice of fantasy fiction.  Man it’s good I’m doing a Midgaheim book next, huh?

@dragonzzilla submitted Scuttlebutt/Argonautilus, a hermit crab kaiju who lives in/with a hollowed out mecha.  That’s a twist I can’t recall ever hearing before, and the idea of a kaiju and a mecha having an equal partnership that doesn’t involve one being grafted to the other is really intriguing to me.  A very unique concept!

@evolutionsvoid submitted Fleagor, an enormous flea who has no idea what to do with itself now that there’s no creature large enough for it to parasitize.  I love that concept - it takes the core idea of the giant bug kaiju archetype (i.e. unsettling the audience by showing how terrifying small, “insignificant” creatures would be if our sizes were reversed) and really turns it on its head.  The name also plays on the Universal Monsters, who were a huge part of 1950′s pop culture thanks to their movies being re-released in that era, so all and all this one is very on brand for ATOM!

@skarmorysilver submitted Lilacorn, another entry that plays up that Midgaheim/ATOM connection.  Reinterpreting the mythological unicorn as an Cenozoic wooly rhinoceros-inspired monster gives it a very unique look, both in ATOM and in the general world of unicorns, and she has a bad-girl with a heart of gold personality to boot!

dracosaurus-rex submitted Florasaura, a two-headed plant/retrosaur hybrid monster.  I love me some plant monsters, I love me some retrosaurs, and I love me some rhyming the word “flora” with other words that contain similar vowell sounds, so this one has me written all over it!

@downtofragglerock submitted Sauroguana, a delightfully odd flying retrosaur.  There’s a great deal of charm to the original illustration that this sketch doesn’t quite capture - it’s a deceptively simple design with a lot of personality in it, and with those unique leg-wings it really doesn’t need a whole lot of frills to stand out.

Draxi submitted Brakan, an unimpressive burrowing retrosaur kaiju whose mastery of illusions allows it to convince other kaiju it’s actually a big, super-powerful badass that’s the ultimate fighter in the universe.  It’s a delightful parody of the concept of a fan self-insert god-mode character, with a really fun story built into it to boot!

@quinnred submitted O.N.I.A.C., a mysterious cocooned kaiju whose chrysalis has been turned into an organic computer of sorts by the people studying it, and seems to possess a fairly advanced intelligence for a kaiju.  It’s a really bizarre and ominous idea, with built in intrigue given how vague its nature is.  Is it just a kaijufied butterfly/moth who got stuck mid transformation?  A relative of the Mothmanuds?  Something else, perhaps equally alien?  Good story potential here.

shadyserpent submitted Vespilitor, a bat/retrosaur hybrid made by the nefarious Spooks Organization.  A mercurial prankster whose tendency to stir up trouble never crosses the line into maliciousness, he’s the kind of monster who would make a great foil to a lot of ATOM’s cast.  I’d especially like to see him in a prank off with Ahuul - it’d be like Bugs Bunny fighting Daffy Duck, but on a kaiju scale.

@multiversefan submitted the Yamaneon King, a nomadic kaiju whose refusal to settle down causes problems as he stirs up trouble at kaiju sanctuaries all over the globe by showing up unannounced and stirring up the locals.  He was basically designed to be a monster that the kaiju sanctuary initiative would struggle to deal with, which is a good idea for a post-ATOM Volume 2 story conflict.

Sir K submitted Jadeera, a kirin kaiju that can actually forcibly convert most of its body to Yamaneon to enter a dormant, statue-like state in a loose homage to King Shisa.  Though the fantasy elements are far more present than I usually prefer for ATOM kaiju, I think it should be noted they’re pushed that far for a purpose - a theme in Jadeera’s entry, which continues where its creator left off with their submission to the previous ATOM create a kaiju contest (Yokaigon), is that the world of kaiju is more complicated and challenging than many are willing to accept, which is a theme in ATOM itself.  Yokaigon’s more supernatural/occult powers are based on the ghost parascience of my setting, which ATOM has delved into a bit (Pathogen being the big example), so it’s not as out of left field as some might think.

@cerothenull​ brings us our final entry (unless some got lost thanks to tumblr’s shitty tagging system), the flying spider Naeranti.  She’s a kaiju spider who uses silk to make complicate hot-air balloons, more or less, and that’s just delightful.  ATOM could always use more spider-monsters, and with a really unique gimmick backing up a wonderfully distinct look, Naeranti is sure to stand out among her fellow giant arachnids.

Well, that’s the roundup!  In a week (or two, depending on how much my hand cramps) we’ll have the five finalists, and sometime after that, the grand prize winner!

[peigslayers]

alright lads i have written spn fic about the family of deanna campbell, path dependency, kansas coal mining and generational misery. also dean mirrors because that’s what this whole industry runs on. it was heavily inspired by this insane post by tumblr-user @uhuraha. you can also find it under the cut

blood and bone is the price of coal

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out. 

The Winchester and Campbell names have long pedigrees. Two families whose history goes back as long as humans have records. In fact, their traditions are as old as angels can remember. The Winchesters. Men of Letters. Generations upon generations of knowledge of the arcane passed from mouth to pen to typewriter. The Campbells. Hunters. Parents, siblings, and cousins standing shoulder to shoulder in the endless bloody fight against the monsters under the bed.

Deanna Campbell née Foster had no such pedigree.

See, her family had a somewhat different history than that of the Campbells or the Winchesters. Deanna was the first of her family to be drawn into the shadowy world of the supernatural. Her death at the hands of a demon was not the result of centuries of angelic influence on her family line. That cooling body on the kitchen tiles was not preordained by fate. A fluke. A woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and as a result crossed paths with a demon. There really could have been any woman sitting at that kitchen table with Dean Winchester in 1973 and the apocalypse would have gone ahead.

Because the Foster family business was not hunting things or saving people. It was coal mining. Generations of men lining up to take their place in the cavernous tunnels. Hauling their shovels and pickaxes far below the surface to obtain the precious black stone hiding under Kansas soil.

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

Jacob Foster was one such miner who toiled below the packed earth almost a century before an angel placed Dean Winchester in the perfect place to witness the damnation of his family to a life of misery and revenge.

It’s hard to determine the exact relationship between Jacob and Deanna. He was not a cosmically important man. As a result, there aren’t many records of his life that survived.  He could have been her grand-uncle or maybe some distant cousin. It doesn’t really matter in the end because either way he worked in the coal mines like everyone else in the family. Like his father before him.

Jacob’s life was a small one. His family had been poor as long as he’d known them. A family life that might have sounded familiar to hundreds around the country. An exploited, overworked drunk of a father and a mother wasting away at the kitchen counter, bent over with exhaustion.

The wages from his father’s long hours were barely enough to cover the food on the table and yet still most of it found its way into the pockets of the men who owned the local taverns and bars. His mother did her best with what she was given.

She put as much food on the table as she could with the means available to her. Not once did she confront Jacob’s father about the money he spent on drink nor did she ask for a larger cut of his paycheck for use on groceries.

Sometimes Jacob felt that her fear had more of a presence in the house than she did.

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

Dean’s life shrank the night his mother burned alive on the ceiling. His childhood shaped itself to fit inside broken, dirty apartments and cheap motel rooms. The overpowering stench of a man blackout drunk on bourbon and beer became more familiar to him than that of home cooked meals.

He did his best with the scraps of approval he was given and never asked for more.

His father was grieving, overworked, and doing his best and what could Dean do but take what he could get.

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

The lack of records makes it hard to be precise about what age Jacob was when he first went down under the shifting earth to search for precious black fuel in the pits. The family stories are confused on this point. Historians agree that the youngest boys in that particular mine were thirteen years old. But Deanna’s aunt always insisted that Jacob’s mother was fearful for her child’s safety and so she wheedled a year or two of reprieve from his father.

But regardless of his mother’s concern there was no other job open to her son and so - some time before his sixteenth birthday - Jacob’s father put a shovel in his hand and placed a cap on his head and walked him down the dirt tracks to the mine

In another life maybe Jacob could have been something else.

Maybe if his father was a butcher, he could have studied book-keeping and gone to work in an airy office rather than a dark airless hole in the ground. If the miner’s union was stronger in those days, maybe his father could have earned money enough to get his son into trade. But instead, the mine-owners underpaid their workers with little organised protest against them and Jacob worked where he was always destined to. Carefully extracting the bedrock of industrial expansion. Digging up coal that would keep other homes warm.

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

John Winchester first put a gun in his eldest son’s hand at six years old, brought him down to the woods and had him fire at cans. He looked his little boy in the eyes and handed him the tools to the trade that his mother had sacrificed so much to keep him out of.

Before he turned 16, Dean wasn’t allowed on any other hunts other than salt ‘n burns. But it was fitting in a way. Dean Winchester, grandson to Deanna Campbell née Foster, digging his shovel into hard-packed earth. The bruises on his face warmed up by the crackling flames in the open grave, earned while protecting someone else’s home.

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out.

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

In his early years down in the shafts of a Kansas coal mine, Jacob was careful to save as much from his paychecks as he could. He handed this money over to his mother as she wrung her hands over the kitchen counter.

But every year the hours got longer, the pit got deeper and his paychecks grew slimmer. The siren call of the bourbon behind the barman’s back grew ever stronger.

Can we grow beyond our parents? Every tool that Jacob had was handed to him by his father. His leather workman’s boots, his dusty cap, the shovel he used to break his own back. And his father’s oldest and deepest friend, the whiskey he drank to numb himself to the grinding misery and exploitation that defined his life.

Path dependency means that the past matters. Every option that lies before us was predetermined by choices made long before their consequences would be felt. Once a man enters the mines, can his sons ever dig their way out?

By his twentieth birthday Jacob was leaving all of his paycheck on the barman’s lowest shelf.

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

The hunting life is founded on revenge.

Supernatural forces cut a life short, and husbands, wives, mothers, brothers, and daughters dive headfirst into miserable, bitter, and transitory lives where their only options are dying young or dying alone.

In 1983, John Winchester’s marriage and home went up in smoke and the ground shifted beneath him. He packed his car with a hunter’s basics, - a shovel, some shotguns, whiskey - and dragged his family down into the mine.

Dean Winchester only ever got out of the life once. After his brother threw himself into the pit.

But it’s hard to live on the surface when you know what lurks underneath and every tool Dean had, he got from his father.

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

The rules of Jacob’s mine stated that no more than five pounds of black powder explosive could be taken into the mines by a miner at one time. But inspections were rare, and miners rarely took time to remember the rules by hour six in the pits.

The explosion that killed Jacob and his father also took out three of his cousins, five 13-year-old runners and a group of newly arrived Italian immigrants to the town who barely spoke a word of English. The local undertaker was put to hard work in the following days. 43 closed pine coffins lowered slowly underground. Maybe in another life Jacob could have been a painter, a baker, a steel mill worker.

Instead, he died as he lived. Smothered by coal dust.

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

Dean Winchester looked heaven, fate and God in the eyes and told them all to go fuck themselves. He taught an angel free will, cancelled the apocalypse and stripped the cosmic author of all of his power.

Dean Winchester died choking on blood in a barn in Kansas hunting a monster that his father failed to kill. He couldn’t dig his way out.

[mintjamsblog]

Different anon here, but another lurker! Do you have any headcanons about Omega Tommy and Alpha Alfie?

Hi different anon! I'm slowly getting through my inbox, sorry for the delay. Well ... where to start? I do have thoughts on omega Tommy but they aren't fully developed in a verse (and I do feel a particular need to work out the whole world in which they might exist). But, as a starter, and so as not to chicken out of another a/b/o ask, here are my starters for ten...

TOMMY

1) Tommy gets off on being an omega. It's an added complication, of course, but he's used to having the cards stacked against him; it only makes him fight harder. He's already a poor, gypsy, Irish, Catholic ... it's just one more tick in the disadvantaged box. Besides, no one's ever looking to be attacked from below, from the realms that they deem beneath them.

2) He uses his omega status to his advantage. Flirts like a whore when it helps his cause, uses his scent to swing a deal, plays on the bigoted assumptions of his opponents. If people choose to underestimate him based on his status then that is their weakness, their problem. He will use his superior emotional intelligence to outsmart his opponents, whether aloof self-satisfied Betas (inclined to rely upon their assumed superiority and rationality, freer as they are from the whims of the body and the heart) or the more unpredictable Alphas (prone to volatility and impulsive behaviours that Tommy delights in exploiting).

3) He doesn't go out of his way to hide his status. He definitely takes suppressants, knows that he's prone to recklessness if the right (or should that be wrong?) Alpha comes along. It's happened before, he's been blinded —by an Alpha named Grace — so now he takes more care. He prefers to control his hormones rather than let them control him. He never suppresses them fully though, he likes to keep the emotional edge his status gives him; thrives on the power of his scent. In business and pleasure he makes sure no one ever mistakes him for an Alpha or Beta.

ALFIE

1) There are those in polite society who look down on alphas and omegas. Alfie has never given a flying fuck about being polite; he is out and proud, a bear of a man in every sense and more than happy to growl when looked at the wrong fuckin' way. The passion for which Alpha's are famed, and which has led to the downfall of more than a few of his kind, is only a problem (far as Alfie can see) when combined with a dullness of mind. Alfie has many, many faults, but dullness of mind ain't one.

2) He has the Alpha's natural instinct to protect (goes hand in hand with the omega's instinct to nurture) which makes him a great leader of men. Served him well in the army and has served him better since. Sure, his employees are terrified of him, but they also know he has their backs. If anyone messes with Alfie's boys they'll end up torn to shreds. That reputation breeds fear. Breeds loyalty. Both are good for business.

3) The day that sharp-eyed omega, Thomas Shelby, walked into Alfie's office half-battered to shit, is the day Alfie understood why some Alphas seek chemical assistance. He'd always thought himself above such things. Not that it ain't common, of course, but mainly for omegas, who conceal their status with drugs (which frankly does Alfie a favour, makes the world a little less exciting, it's true, but also a little less likely to go up in flames). But this omega weren't hiding anything, was he? Not his status, not his physical weakness, not the dismal stench of iron and scorched tar that hung around him like an invitation to Alfie's least cerebral instincts. The result was terrifying, sent Alfie way off kilter and straight for the gun in his drawer. As soon as he'd got Shelby off the premises he sent Ollie to the worst sort of chemist for one of them nasal sprays that block the ability to smell. Couldn't taste his mother's bread for a month, but at least he made it through the next meeting without sinking his teeth into Tommy.

(And no, I have no plans to write an Omegaverse, but I do enjoy bouncing ABO ideas around with @still-the-seventh so if you want to add to this love, please do!!)

[blissfulnightrain]

SoKai Week Day 1: One Heart

My first submission for @sokaiweek​! I’m so so excited to share all the stuff I’ve been working on for the OTP ahhh

I’ve done artwork for every day of this week, but for some prompts, I also got my ass kind of in-gear and did some writing! And today is one of those days. So, without further ado:

One Heart

Word Count: 1472 words

The thin, glassy magic barrier was the singular thing that separated Kairi from the columns of fire that erupted all around and below her. It doubled as her only protection from the onslaught of Xehanort’s attacks, slashes of his keyblades and dark magic raining down all around her in a chaotic storm that threatened to overwhelm her senses. She had to keep reminding herself to stay sharp and alert, that this wasn’t just training anymore.

This was real.

Still, all the focus in the worlds wasn’t going to win this battle alone. What openings she was able to exploit earlier were no longer feasible options, Xehanort quickly learning her fighting style well enough to adapt and defend her attacks, leaving her with very few opportunities to take advantage of. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised, nor did she have the time to be - any energy she put towards lamenting for not having trained harder or longer was a waste. She couldn’t stay on the defensive forever. Somehow, someway, she was going to have to break through. But how?

Another barrage of Xehanort’s keyblades was incoming, and she wasn’t sure how much more her barrier could withstand. Bracing herself, she counted down the seconds to her most opportune chance.

Two of his keyblades planted themselves to her right.

Three behind her.

Several more to her left.

And then there was Xehanort, diving down like a hawk descending towards its prey. His golden eyes were locked onto her, glinting sinisterly through the cracks in his mask. The closer they got to her, the less time she had to act - she would need to do so quickly.

A loud crack erupted when the barrier finally shattered, its glittery shards flying in every direction.  Xehanort reeled back ever so slightly, bracing himself for what moves he already foresaw. The little girl’s strikes were an easily deflected drizzle, each one of them easily guarded by the robustness of his armor, by the practiced ease he was still able to counterattack with. It wasn’t long before he was able to overpower her once more, and Kairi was back on the defensive.

Fire and lava erupted from the ground below her, and meteors rained down from the cataclysmic sky as Xehanort himself continued to target her. What shaky confidence she had at the beginning of this battle was quickly waning to complete dissolution. Despite all the countless, grueling hours of training she’d undergone, there was just no way she would be able to do this on her own.

“Kairi!” a voice called out through the smoke, ember, and ashes. She recognized it instantly, and how could she not? It was one that existed in almost every remaining memory of her childhood, her mundane classes at school, and the one she imagined every time she wrote a letter during her training days. It was the voice of the person who was there with her now, in the flesh, at this very moment.

She could do this. Together, with him.

Perhaps...

***

“Welp, time to turn in,” Lea - no, Axel, concluded with a yawn, stretching a lanky arm over his head. “Catch ya in the morning, Kairi, old man.” Kairi returned the bid good night with a giggle, very aware of the exasperated sigh the “old man” let out.

“You would think the boy would have learned some manners by now,” Merlin muttered under his breath. 

“Axel is Axel,” Kairi chuckled, though there was an air of matter-of-factness in her statement. Though things had started off awkward between the two of them, Axel had quickly grown on her. He’d become almost like another big brother, the way Riku was. A small smile lifted her lips as her mind shifted to memories of him from earlier in the day when he’d come to drop off the garbs from Merlin and the Fairies. As always, not far behind her reminiscence of Riku were thoughts of a certain other someone.

“Unfortunately it would appear so.” Merlin shook his head before turning his bespectacled gaze back to focus on her. “Though I can’t say I’d advise you to follow most of his examples, I do think retiring for the night would do you some good as well, dear.” 

“Right,” she responded, nodding in agreement. It had been another long, arduous day of brutal sparring and training in the forest, after all. Though time flowed differently here, rest and recovery between sessions were still a necessity. She spun on her heels, feeling blades of damp grass beneath the soles of her sneakers. The sound of chirping crickets and rustling leaves would be accompanying her on her way back, along with thoughts of Sora, out there somewhere among the stars that were scattered across the dark sky above her.

She’d only taken a few steps before she stopped in her tracks.

“Is something the matter?” Merlin asked as she turned back around to face him.

“Actually, Master Merlin, I did have a question about something,” she admitted. 

“And what might that be?”

“I was just thinking about Riku, and Sora,” she admitted, sheepishly tucking a tuft of her auburn hair behind her ear. “Back when we were in The World that Never Was...well, it was the first time all of us had been together in a year. I’d only just gotten my keyblade, so Sora and Riku did most of the fighting. But even though they hadn’t fought together in so long, it was still like they were completely in sync.” Her gaze fell to her thumbs, twiddling together by her chest. “When the time comes, and I have to fight side by side with them...well, is there some sort of skill that I need to learn, to be able to…” Not get in their way? To keep up with them? To somehow help elevate their combat - no, she was getting ahead of herself.

Though her thoughts were unverbalized, there was a knowing look in the dark eyes behind Merlin’s half-moon shaped spectacles.

“The keyblade is a very special weapon, Kairi,” he began, his hand firm on her shoulder, the dangling fabric of his sleeve tickling the tiny hairs on her arm. “The fact that you are able to wield one is a testament to the strength of your heart, and your heart alone. There are many ways that that strength might manifest itself further during times of ire, like the special attacks and synchronization you saw between your friends.”

“And how exactly do I learn to “manifest” that kind of power?”

“There is no way to learn it,” Merlin said gently, chuckling when he noted the bewilderment in her indigo eyes. “If your connection to people, or that one special person, is strong enough, then it will manifest itself on its own.”

“If the connection is strong enough,” Kairi parrotted, her gaze back up towards the night sky.

***

“Sora!” Kairi yelled back, leaping up off the ground and into the air. Stardust trailed behind her, her hair flying wildly in all directions as she glided through the mayhem, the sound of his voice calling her name her Polaris. Though she had to change directions in her path more than once, the welcomed sight of clouds, stars, and Sora’s outstretched hands soon greeted her. The shackles of her self-doubt came undone the moment her fingers intertwined with his, and that was when it happened.

A flash of blinding light encompassed them, and a sudden warmth pulsed through every fiber of her being. It bubbled in her chest and came to a boil when she felt something erupt through her back.

“Light!” Kairi and Sora both cried out, realizing what was happening. Their fingers were still intertwined with one hand as they both turned to face their enemy.

Decades of battles, of magic, of knowledge, and behind his armor Xehanort was still taken aback by the sight he beheld. The two children hovered above him, each having sprouted a brilliant, crystalline wing. Wispy feathers scattered about the arena as they both stared down on him, ready to make their next move.

Words weren’t needed as Sora and Kairi dove together, hand in hand, the momentum of wind and light carrying them. If Xehanort reacted at all, whatever effort he put in was futile. A cry of agony escaped him as he was flung backward, the attack not only connecting but overwhelming him. 

Still in sync, Sora and Kairi somersaulted in the air, light, feathers, and memories cascading down all around them. As it dissipated, Xehanort revealed himself, standing his ground and back on his feet once more. But the fear, the second-guessing, the self-deprecation that was in Kairi’s heart was gone as she looked back briefly at Sora, the gentleness in his sky blue eyes telling her what she already knew.

They could do it. Together.

[fangirlings-things]

Animals

Fandom: Vikings

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless x female reader

Warnings: sex

Based on the song Animals, by Maroon 5

→ Words in bold are part of the song

Summary: after hearing unpleasant news, Ivar decides to pay her a visit

A/N: I had to repost this, because I had a few problems with my account. So here it is, a crazy idea that I hope you guys like so please, let me know what your thoughts are xx💕

─━━━━━━⊱❉⊰━━━━━━─

“So, you’re getting married”

Turning around, you saw Ivar by the open door of your house. The expression on his face was serious as it was on the times he argued with his brothers, a situation you had seen many times before.

“I am” your voice came out as barely a whisper, and your eyes fell to the ground as you spoke. You could not face him and talk about marrying someone else. It did not feel right.

Ivar did not say anything. His eyes also focusing on the ground beneath yourselves as he clenched his jaw in clear discomfort for the matter discussed. He crawled inside, stopping only to shut the door and leave you two alone, away from all the people of Kattegat who were walking through the streets. After it was done, he made his way to your bed and sat on the edge of it, you both still not facing each other.

“Who is he?” he then asked, and you knew that heading of the conversation could turn dangerous very quickly, so you stayed quiet. He noticed your hesitation and chuckled darkly. “You know I can find out even if you do not tell me”

“I would prefer if you would not” you said with a sight, your arms crossed over your chest as you stood a few steps away from the bed. The weight of the words you were saying made you force yourself to stare into his bright eyes again, like you usually did. Before, anyway. “It is better for the both of us if you leave me and my soon to be husband alone, Ivar”

“Oh, so you want me to leave you alone with him?” the ferocity of his tone was so familiar that you were not even startled by it. That was the fierce Ivar you knew and you admitted, it was the one you loved.

“Ivar” you closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then opened then again and found his intense gaze still upon your face. “You know why I am doing this. Moving on”

“No, you see, I don’t” his look was sharp, filled with accusation. “Because I thought you loved me. You said you loved me. Then you stop seeing me without any warning, ignore me completely and now is going to get married to some man” he interrupted himself for a moment, looked down at his boneless legs and then his face lit up like he had just realized something that had been under his nose all along. “Is it because I’m a cripple? Because I can not satisfy you and he can?”

“You know that is not true” your voice cut air like a blade, fierce and decisive. He averted his eyes from yours in shame of having suggested such thing and you sighted. “I am doing this because it is the best for the both of us, Ivar. Your mother hates me. She would never allow me to marry you and we would just suffer”

“I do not care about what my mother thinks” the firmness in his voice melted your heart, and you instantly remembered all the reasons why you loved him so much. “If you want me, I’ll be with you”

“It is not that simple” you stated, and it was his turn to sight.

“Come here, (Y/N)”

And there it was. The tone he used that made your legs go weak and your whole body to be set on fire. Many times before, just hearing him say things on that tone had made you come without even a touch. Because that was how much power Ivar had over you. And if you did not love him so much, you would probably be scared to be so devoted to a single person. You worshiped him, that was the truth.

You walked towards the bed in slow steps, each one seeming easier than the previous. As you came closer to him, all the rest seemed to disappear and there was just him. Him and you. Nothing else mattered.

“As much as it does not please me to see you married to another man, I know you are right. My mother is not fond of you and all the family issues that your marriage would bring us is too much” he touched your legs from upon the dress you wore, and his touch made you tremble even if it was not directly to your skin. “So very well, marry the man. But I will not just give you to him like some spoil from a exploit” his hands kept going up, and he squeezed your thighs with enough force to make you close your eyes and bite your lower lip.

“Ivar…” his name came out in a mumble, because you were already a mess. And he was the one to be blamed for it.

You gasped when he suddenly grabbed your waist and using all his strength, dropped you on the bed laying on your back. He was upon you in seconds, his hands on either sides of your head. The vision of him above you was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

“You and him, you can pretend it’s meant to be” he planted kissed on your neck and brought his mouth close to your ear. His hot breath made chills run through your spine. “But you can’t stay away from me”

“I can try” you said, but the words did not sound truthful not even to yourself. You knew that you would not be able to stay away. Never had been able to before and now, it would not be different.

Ivar chuckled and then leaned by your side, supporting himself in one of his elbows. His free hand ran down your body and he clenched at your dress and brought it up, until it was on your waist, the cloth over your belly.

“Maybe you think that you can hide” his fingers touched your wetness and he licked his lips in anticipation. His touch almost made you jump, because of how good it felt. Just a brush of his fingertip on you had made your wetness even stronger, and you had no doubt your fluids were all over the furs. Two of his fingers, started to make circled movements on your clitoris.  “But you will not succeed, love. I can smell your scent from miles, and I will find you anywhere” he stopped his movements and you were about to fight because of it, but before you could he entered your body with two of his fingers. They got in easily, and you instantly whimpered for him to move them. “I will hunt you down, (Y/N)” he moved his fingers in and out in a slow rhythm. “And then, when I find you, I will eat you alive" he licked his lips again at the sexual thought that came with those words. "Just like animals do. That is a promise”

He increased the pace on his fingers and you were a moaning mess, not caring about who if anyone outside could hear you. All the people of Kattegat could be standing outside your door in that moment, listening to what you two were doing there and still, you would not care. The things Ivar made you feel were unique and yours. They belonged to you.

You were about to come, when he suddenly took his fingers out of your body and left you feeling empty. “Ivar, please”

His breath hissed. He loved to her you begging for him.

Ivar opened his pants and took his time at taking them off. You smiled, thinking about how comfortable with his body he was around you.

It had taken a long time in the beginning, for him to trust you and not feel ashamed of his deformity. But now, after so long, he did not care if you saw him for who he really was. The suggestion he had made before about you discarding him because he was a cripple, that had been jealousy speaking. Deep down, he knew you would never do that.

His body got over yours again and when you felt his length touch your bare leg, your breath hissed and you gasped for air as if you had been under water for too long. He had just pulled you out and as he slowly entered your body, you felt overwhelmed. Consumed by him.

“Ivar” you moaned his name, and his pace instantly got faster.

You placed your legs around his waist, to bring him as closer and deeper as you could. He kept his hands beside your head and as he moved in and out of you, he watched your face and how you loved that. How you loved him.

“Just like animals, (Y/N)” the teasing and desire on his voice was too much to handle. His pace got even faster and the bed started to grind under your bodies. The power and force of his trusts made your eyes roll in pleasure. “Just like animals”

[annaraebananawriter]

Somewhere Only We Know

Yellow everyone! I am finally back after a while with another Oneshot. Sorry it took me a bit. School has been rough, as you can tell. This is one that I thought of quite randomly and worked on for a few weeks. It involves a couple characters i have not written for before, which is always exciting.

Also, before you start reading, two things to note: first, is that the some I’m using is Somewhere Only We Know by Keane, but I specifically imagined it with a cover of the song by Lilly Allen, which you can find here! 

And second, is that @maggicsorceress has a oneshot with the same song and even the same pairing, or at least the first one listed. Of course, it is far better than this one is, but that’s simply because I don’t have the poetic skills they do. Their oneshot is beautiful, and you can find it here. I really recommend you read it after this one.

Besides that, happy reading!

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically Aftertale, Errortale and Reapertale

Characters: Error, Geno (Who belong to CQ) and Reaper (Who belongs to Ren)

Pairings: AfterDeath and DestructiveDeath

Warnings: Language, I think that’s it. Let me know.

Word Count: 4218

~oOo~

I walked across an empty land

~oOo~

As the god of death, Reaper was often alone.

He could touch no mortal because they would die at his touch, making him or his brother reap them. This has been a fact of his life from a very young age, only a few centuries old. He wasn’t to talk to mortals, never come into contact with them. They were beneath him. They didn’t deserve to see such an important figure like himself. 

He still remembered the first time a mortal died by his touch. He had been hysterical. He didn’t know that it was normal for him, that it was going to be his curse to bear. At the time, he had thought he had done something wrong. Like any other kid who made a mistake, he panicked and didn’t tell his creator what he had done until he was cornered by the man himself.

��Reaper,” Creator had said, voice betraying nothing of what his mood was. It was always like that. Calm. To Reaper, unnerving. “I see you betrayed my orders.” It wasn’t a question, but a fact.

Reaper wanted to hide. To disappear and never face the consequences for what he did. But that was wrong. That would be digging himself a bigger hole, and therefore a bigger punishment. Creator was law. You always went by his word, for he knew all was always right, no matter what you did. So, Reaper pushed away his fear and straightened, looking his creator in the eye, no emotion present, just as he knew the older liked.

“I did.”

He didn’t say sorry either. Father didn’t like that.

In response, his creator did something Reaper never knew possible. His mouth curved into a smile. Reaper stared, eyes wide. He wondered if this was some weird punishment for his betrayal. If it was, it just took number one as his least favourite.

Creator sighed and gestured for the younger to follow him as he started walking. Reaper followed without a second thought. “I suppose I should have told you sooner,” Creator said, not looking at him. “so that you didn’t accidentally do something like this.”

Reaper blinked. His curiosity outweighed his distrust. “Tell me what?”

And so, his creator began the explanation of why death’s power was so extreme, why it should be fear by all.

It was this discussion that sprouted the seeds that would grow into the dislike he felt for his existence and job. He would feel disgust every time he reaped someone’s soul. The feeling of his powers shifting and expanding as he did his job made him shiver. But he managed it. It was fine, in the long run. At least it was him and not his brother, who got the better part of the job.

His brother got the gentle souls. The good ones.

Reaper got the bad ones. The sinful ones.

It was this way for millennia. Doing his job, acting as the obedient soldier his creator loved him to be. All while keeping his personal business a secret. He visited Life as much as he could, which he knew she appreciated.

It was…manageable, if quiet, boring.

Until he discovered the Save Screen in the AU of Aftertale.

~oOo~

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand

~oOo~

The blackness was intriguing to Reaper. He had never seen a place so desolate before. Even when he entered the realm of magic, there were colours and stars all over the place. But this place? There was nothing. At least, until he reached what he assumed was the middle.

A patch of glass highlighted with a light that had no source.

Two floating buttons: CONTINUE or RESET.

His curiosity increased. It was like nothing he had seen before. He had seen many snowy forests, heard echo flowers saying the same thing over and over, felt the heat of the CORE all too many times…but he had never seen this. The inner workings of the world. A place he had believed to never exist.

The Save Screen.

“Who the hell are you?!”

The voice startled him and he turned, looking down at the origin. A small skeleton monster, with white clothing and a torn red scarf. He was drawn to the monster’s eye. A patch of white boxes covered it, the other formed into a glare that the god thought looked…not threatening. Maybe cute, but not threatening.

Reaper blinked. He smiled.

He decided he liked this monster.

He was gonna keep him.

“Why,” Reaper started, lazily floating forward into the monster’s face to look him in the eye. “I’m a thief.” He winked. “And I’m here to steal your heart.”

The monster blinked, slowly.

Reaper stayed smirking.

Then the monster punched him.

~oOo~

I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river and it made me complete

~oOo~

Geno was adorable.

Whenever Reaper teased him, flirted with him, or talked dirty with him, a blush would rise up and consume his cheeks and he would tense up like a cat, usually telling the god to shut up. But the god didn’t care. He knew the other liked it. He saw the smiles and amusement dancing in his eye when he tried to hide it. It made him feel smug that, no matter how much he denied it, the mortal liked having the god around.

But that wasn’t the best part.

Geno didn’t die at his touch.

Neither knew why, but the mortal just…didn’t. Maybe the glitched around his eye worsened a tad bit, but that was the significant effect. Nothing else. It baffled Reaper and confused Geno. They just decided to accept the gift for what it was.

Reaper loved it. He exploited it as much as he could, relishing in the times when Geno got fed up and punched or slapped him and he didn’t dust away, leaving the god alone. He liked the feeling of picking the other up whenever he wanted to and the other would struggle before he saw the god’s grin and then settle down, grumbling as if he was truly angry.

(He wasn’t. He was just acting like the cat he was.)

The years of this relationship were the best of the god’s life. He found that he was the happiest he ever was. His face always held a grin. His brother had asked what made him so happy, on the rare days that he was now home. Not wanting to put Geno’s life in jeopardy, he lied and made up some random excuse. Not that his brother believed him. But he stopped asking.

When Reaper realized that he had fallen in love with the mortal, he had panicked. This went against one of the main laws in place: never speak to a mortal; never befriend one. Well, he had certainly done more than speak and befriend one. He didn’t know what to do.

So, he went to the person who gave him the best advice.

His brother.

After a lecture on lying, his brother had told him to simply confess. If it didn’t go well, it didn’t go well. It didn’t matter. The two of them would probably remain friends, with as close a bond that they had. The advice gave him confidence. Reaper decided to confess right away. There was no use delaying the inevitable.

But when he got to the Save Screen, it was empty.

~oOo~

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting tired and I need someone to rely on

~oOo~

Reaper was devastated.

He searched through all of the AUs over and over again, but he found no trace of the one he loved. He refused to give up. Geno had to be here, somewhere. The mortal couldn’t just…up and leave, could he?

His brother had to find him and force him back home, as he had been neglecting his duties. He was put on watch by the king, to make sure he wouldn’t run off again.

He hated it.

He tried to focus on his job because he understood that he shouldn’t be turning a blind eye to his job, but he just couldn’t. No matter what he did, something would remind of Geno and he would get angry and sad again. The mortal never left his thoughts.

He wanted him back.

He was…lonely without him.

He didn’t like being lonely.

~oOo~

I came across a fallen tree

~oOo~

Error, the destroyer, was someone Reaper didn’t interact with.

He heard rumours about the other and had seen him work from a distance, but he had never gone up and talked to the other. He was still hung up on the disappearance of Geno, even though it had been years since the last time he saw him. But when he saw the destroyer, for some reason, the curiosity that had drawn him to Geno was drawing him to Error.

If he was honest, it frightened him. Also infuriated him. Geno was the only person who had made him so happy and he had left. And here was Error, someone he had never talked to, who so ruthlessly murdered countless innocents every day, who he felt the same initial attraction to. Was the destroyer trying to replace the mortal? How dare he!

But he wouldn’t know why until he talked with the other, no matter how much he didn’t want to. It would all be cleared up. He wanted it to be cleared up. He just…didn’t want to talk to him. That’s when he thought of something that would act as a compromise, that would let him see why Error was so special without him talking to the other.

He stalked the destroyer.

…

…what?

…

In hindsight, Reaper would think later, when he was dangling from some blue strings in the Anti-Void (a place that reminded him like the Save Screen, but made him feeling unease unlike the other did), stalking someone who destroyed AUs in a snap and heard voices probably wasn’t the best idea.

Since Error wasn’t around at the moment, he looked around the place, eyeing the dolls distrustfully.

“Okay, who the hell are you and why are you stalking me?!”

The glitchy voice made Reaper blink and look down. The destroyer stood there, tense. He was glaring at the god. Something about the way he did so seemed…familiar to him, in a painful way.

(“Who the hell are you?!”

“Why, I’m a thief. And I’m here to steal your heart.”)

The god shook the past away.

He glared right back at the destroyer.

Then he noticed it.

There in the destroyer’s eyes. A look that told the god he was trying to cover something up, something that looked like…pain? But why? It wasn’t like he knew Reaper…unless…a thought formed in his head, one that seemed impossible.

~oOo~

I felt the branches of it looking at me

~oOo~

“Are you going to answer me?” Error snapped, crossing his arms defensively.

Reaper tilted his head, looking the other over thoughtfully. He needed to test this thought, to have the proof in front of him before he believed it. “Can I see your soul?”

The destroyer blinked. It took him a minute to process it. Reaper could tell when he did because a blush appeared across him checks, the blue and yellow gradient perfect. “What!” The answer resembled a squeak.

“I said, can I see your soul?”

“No, I know what you said—”

“Then why did you say ‘what’?”

“Because it’s an inappropriate thing to ask!”

Reaper raised an eyebrow.

“Shut it!” Error said, bush increasing. “I’m not showing you my soul.”

Reaper sighed. So, it’s the hard way, is it? “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Error blinked, confused. “What—”

The destroyer yelped and scrambled back a few steps as Reaper summoned his scythe and ripped himself free of his strings. The god approached the destroyer calmly and the other prepared to fight. Before he could make a move, the god thrust his scythe under his chin, the blade resting just shy of his throat.

The destroyer froze.

By the magic of the scythe, his soul was summoned forth and Reaper stared at it, no emotion present. Well then…

The destroyer’s soul was just a sliver of a piece, like it had been ripped from its owner.

It looked just like Geno’s.

The thought made Reaper’s mask break. Why did Error have Geno’s soul? The only explanation would be that somehow his love had turned into the glitch before him, who looked like a wild animal that had been cornered. The god didn’t want to believe it…but the proof was too strong.

He looked up into the destroyer’s eyes.

The truth was written there, too. Underneath the angry front he put on, there was a panic and pain that Reaper longed to take away. He didn’t want to see his love feeling any of that. The worry he had been reserving for when he found Geno overflowed and made tears gather in his eyes.

He saw Error’s eyes widen and he knew the other had seen the tears.

The god of death retracted his scythe and reached forward. “Gen—”

In a blink, he was sent through a portal and into a random AU, away from Geno Error.

~oOo~

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?

~oOo~

Reaper tried to talk to the destroyer many times after that.

He never succeeded.

The pain of having someone he loved always running away from him was almost too much to bear. But he kept trying. He promised himself that he would make his way through to the other. Make him realize how much he loved him, no matter what name he went by or what he looked like.

He wasn’t going to let him go this time.

Never again.

~oOo~

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old and I need something to rely on.

~oOo~

Reaper watched as Error fought Ink.

He had a plan this time and just had to wait for the right moment to use it.

He winced at every hit that landed on the destroyer and felt pride every time his love had an attack hit the other. One particular hit made him twitch with worry, fighting the urge to interfere and hold Error in his arms, making sure he was okay and stayed okay.

But if he did that, he would probably be kicked out of a job, which would just be bad for everyone.

So, he waited.

Eventually, Ink retreated, leaving Error alone in the AU. The destroyer stayed for a minute to catch his breath and Reaper watched, preparing to go over and interrupt him once the time was right.

The destroyer stood and turned, raising a hand to open a portal.

Reaper’s hand twitched on his scythe and he shot forwards.

Now.

~oOo~

And if you have a minute why don’t we go

Talk about it somewhere only we know?

~oOo~

Just before the destroyer left, Reaper grabbed his hand and pulled the other towards him and through his own portal.

Once they landed, Error pushed the other away, which Reaper allowed. He watched with a smile starting as his love gazed around to find out where they were. He watched as he froze at the sight of the dark void and two glowing buttons in the air.

CONTINUE or RESET.

~oOo~

This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know?

Somewhere only we know?

~oOo~

The Save Screen. Aftertale.

Their place, a place only they knew.

The destroyer tensed. “Why did you bring me here.” It wasn’t really a question with the way he said it so stiffly. So…scared.

“Well,” Reaper started, ignoring the hurt he felt from making the other scared. “I figured that if you won’t speak to me regularly, as normal people would, I had to kidnap you.” He tilted his head, smiling even if the other wasn’t looking. “I had to bring you to a place you can’t refuse.”

He could see the way the other struggled with himself. Should he drop the act or continue playing as if he didn’t know where he was? Reaper saw how the other really wanted to go with the second option, keeping this place in the past, forgotten. He didn’t want anything to do with this place anymore.

Reaper knew that. And he decided that, if Error chose that option, he would respect that. He would put Geno in the past and try to be friends with Error. If he was still refused, then he would leave the other alone. It didn’t matter how he felt on the topic.

Error wasn’t Geno anymore, not entirely, and he had to accept that.

But to his surprise, Error went with the first one.

~oOo~

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

~oOo~

“I never liked it here.” Error whispered, making Reaper freeze for a minute. “I still don’t.”

He blinked at the other, close to openly gaping at him. Then he shook himself and straightened, playing with his scythe in hopes to calm himself. “I’m sorry.” He really was, too. “This was the only way you would listen to me.”

That actually got a little laugh out of the other, who turned to face Reaper. “I suppose. But now that you caught me, can we leave this place?”

Their eyes met; one pair full of hope and the other full of pain.

Reaper tilted his head again. He echoed Error’s words. “I suppose.” He paused and reached up to rub his chin. “Well, that is if you promise not to run away from me. Again.” He gave a grin.

Error looked at him without amusement.

“What? It’s a perfectly reasonable request.”

“I make no promises.”

“Aw. Then I guess we’re staying here.”

“No, we’re not.”

“You’re not promising.”

“We’re still leaving.”

Reaper only laughed and Error turned and opened a portal.

They left for Outertale.

~oOo~

I’m getting old and I need someone to rely on

~oOo~

They continued bantering as they walked. It felt natural, like a piece of the puzzle clicked back into place and now everything went more smoothly. They stopped for a minute to rest, looking up at the stars.

Reaper looked over to Error.

The destroyer looked magical, sitting there and staring at the stars with a smile and eyes full of awe. He was glad that the pain so prominent in his eyes had gone away, for now. What was left was someone who deserved everything, able to sit with peace of mind that everything was alright. He deserved to be alright, to be loved. His glitches had even calmed significantly, only one or two remaining. Besides that, the mostly black bones glowed elegantly in the lighting.

He looked perfect.

Reaper smiled and an itch grew in the back of his throat. He longed to say the words he had been holding in for so long, but he wasn’t sure if it was time. They had only just reconciled. He didn’t want to ruin things before they started to get better.

But then Error turned to him with a questioning smile, looking even more beautiful that he couldn’t build up a block in time, so the words came blurting through:

“I love you.”

~oOo~

So tell me when you’re gonna let me in

~oOo~

They both froze.

Error blinked for a minute, the surprise openly shown on his face.

Reaper internally panicked. He was so screwed! Why did he do that? He had just found his love again after years of searching—years of haven given up—and now he just threw it all away. But he couldn’t just say he was kidding, too. That would just make him a jerk.

He had to calm down and explain himself. Make sure that Error understood that he wasn’t messing around, that he truly loved the other no matter what he looked like or how he acted. The fact was that he loved the destroyer.

That was it.

Reaper cleared his throat and continued. “I have for years. I was going to tell you, but then you disappeared. And now I’ve found you again. So…

“I love you, Error. And I mean that. It isn’t just something to make you feel better. It’s not some leftover feelings from Geno. I mean, I don’t even care that he’s gone! Well, I care, you know, because I loved him—like I love you! But my point is, that if you want to move on from being him, then I get that. I accept that, and I would say I moved on from him a long time ago. I just didn’t realize it because I didn’t know he had turned into you.”

Reaper inhaled shakily and swallowed. His vision had become a bit blurred from tears that had appeared with how nervous he was. Error was silent. The god of death concluded his confession in a whisper. “I love you, whatever that may be. Whether Geno or Error. I love you. Nothing in the world can change that.”

He stopped and held his breath.

Error was still silent.

“You’re an idiot.”

Reaper blinked, vision still blurred. “What?” He winced at the shakiness of his voice.

Error shook his head and laughed lightly, something soft hidden in it. “I said, you’re an idiot.” His expression changed, becoming something sad. “Why would you love me? I mean…I get loving Geno. He was normal and nice and…a monster with unfortunate circumstances. But me? I’m a monster. I’ve killed thousands of people, more than half of them innocent. I hear voices in my head and fight people on a regular basis.” He laughed again, this time in a self-deprecating kind of way. “How can you love someone like that?”

Reaper tilted his head. It seemed, to him, that Error believed he was unworthy of love just because of something he couldn’t control. By being the destroyer, he had to kill people. There’s no way around it. And just by looking at the pain in the other’s eyes, he could see that it wasn’t something he was actively choosing to do.

So, if he was doing something he didn’t want to do, why would that make him unworthy of love? In the god’s opinion, that just made him more loveable. It told him that he was a good person at the core. It was one trait that he still shared with Geno. They both were doing things they didn’t really want to do, just had or thought they had no choice in the matter.

However, just because Reaper saw it that way, did not mean Error did.

And that was something he had to change.

~oOo~

I’m getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

~oOo~

Reaper laughed, making Error jump. “And you think that one of the gods of death hasn’t killed people?” He smiled more coldly than he intended. “It’s part of my job. I reap souls. In order to do that, I need to make sure they’re dead. That’s where my curse comes into play.” He held up a hand. “Whenever I touch someone, they instantly die. Same goes with plants. Anything living, really. I touch them and they die.”

He looked over at the destroyer. “But not you. You never dusted when I touched you. I’m still not even sure why. But that doesn’t matter.” He put his hand down. “The point is, I’ve killed people as well. You’re not special.”

Error blinked twice. “But—”

“They were innocent? I know. But that’s not your fault. It’s part of your job. You destroy AU’s, doesn’t matter if they’re designed to be good or bad. Your job isn’t about that; it’s about making room. Without you, the AU’s would crash into each other and collapse, in turn killing the entire multiverse.” Reaper smiled. “In a way, you’re protecting the multiverse instead of destroying it. Aren’t you?”

Error looked at him. “I don’t understand how you can think that way.”

“Give it a few weeks. It’ll grow on you.”

He snorted. “I doubt that. Idiocy isn’t contagious.”

“After all that, I’m still an idiot?”

“Oh, definitely.”

~oOo~

And if you have a minute why don’t we go

Talk about it somewhere only we know?

~oOo~

When they parted ways for the evening, Error stopped Reaper as he turned to leave.

Before the god could do anything, the destroyer leaned up and kissed his cheek. It was like time froze for a minute. Reaper almost didn’t believe what was happening was even real, but the warmth on his cheek was too pleasant to ignore. All he could do in turn was blink and gape when the other pulled back, a light blush on his face.

“I may not understand how you think now,” Error said, “but I think I might like to try to, if that’s alright?”

The god of impure deaths blinked and smiled, said smile full of love and affection for the destroyer in front of him. “I’d love that.”

~oOo~

‘Cause this could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know?

Somewhere only we know?

[hitchell-mope]

ABC headcanons part 2. Doug Greenman

WARNING!!!! THIS POST CONTAINS NSFT MATERIAL

His relationship with Evie will be included with this seeing as it makes no sense to me to not include it if you know what I mean

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after the act). Doug is very attentive after the act. He’s got a mini fridge stocked with water and snacks. And thanks to some inner house tweaks they’ve got a self cleaning “macrame room” made specifically for their sessions so they don’t need to worry about cleaning up the bed. At least not often.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s). Doug takes great pride in his hands. They’re very skilled and very fast. And he loves Evie’s smile. Especially when he’s the cause of it.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically). He’s not a fan. He’s doesn’t like the mess. But fortunately the macrame room takes care of it if there’s any unforeseen messes

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs). The macrame room is their own secret. Though thanks to Jay it’s more of an open secret. But the contents of the room is still under wraps. So it still counts

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?). Very experienced. Between research and the many times he’s had the actual act itself Doug is very adapt in all areas of intimate affection

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying). Doug likes to stand up straight and hold Evie up. As in. Standing up straight and holding her up in the middle of the room. It’s Evie’s favourite position too

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc). Oooh. Doug is very serious in the heat of the moment. Very focused on what he’s doing. Evie finds it to be incredibly attractive.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.). Beneath the suits and the bow ties and the ardent professionalism. Doug is a true wild man. He’s only ever shaved his face. The rest he allows to grow freely. Just like all dwarves

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…). Doug is definitely a romantic. Despite their exploits being enough to make even the most coarse person on earth blush and faint he tries to make the experience as romantic as possible. And he’s always successful.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon). He’s not adverse to it. And he’s had a lot of personal experience. But he prefers the a actual act to the solo act by.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks). They both like it when Doug shows off his impressive strength. Hence their favourite position. He likes calling Evie “princess”, “my queen”, “your majesty and “your highness”. And he likes it when Evie refers to him by a certain paternal honorific.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do). Their “macrame room”. It’s private, soundproofed and fully equipped for all their needs.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going). The aforementioned honorific. Teaching Evie how to build a cars. Certain dance routines. Massages.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs). There’s no way on heaven, earth or hell that he will do it on a magic carpet in flight mode. The royal jet is more than enough. And he doesn’t like being called royal titles. It just doesn’t appeal to him

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc). Doug is a giver. And a very generous and skilled one at that. He’s also big on receiving as well. Evie’s just as talented as he is

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc). He likes to go slow and powerful. He only goes fast towards the end of the session

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc). If they absolutely have to then Doug is fine with a quick one. But he and Evie both prefer longer sessions

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc). Yes. Hence the macrame room. And the cloning machine set to Doug’s DNA. And the invisibility spray Evie made so she could surprise his at the office. And the little green pills they made to enhance their experiences with each other. Etc etc. Each and every new addition to the room, including the room itself, was and experiment and a risk that paid off beautifully

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…). Doug can last up to four hours nonstop. Wether it’s continuous or split up into rounds is up to how he’s feeling. But it’s never less than two rounds a session. For her part Evie is very good at keeping up

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?). Yes. All situated in the macrame room. All used on Evie. Except for the cloning machine. That’s used on Doug for Evie’s benefit.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease). He mostly uses teasing as payback for Evie teasing him. So if she sends him a selfie when he’s in a meeting. He sends her a very loud video with a caption saying something along the lines of “not tonight” when she’s sending out the to bed delivered. Don’t give out what you can’t take.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make). Doug mostly grunts and growls. Evie screams in enjoyment. Doug gets louder as he reaches the end. Evie tends to cuss in German

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice). He’s the one to suggest they start recording their exploits on film. Evie was very enthusiastic about that suggestion

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words). His smart trousers hide some very heavy duty equipment. That he and Evie both know how to handle. He may not be royalty but he is definitely king sized

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?). He hides it better then most bit he’s always ready for it when Evie asks. And that happens to be once a day minimum.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards). He only falls asleep after he’s cleaned up and made sure that Evie’s alright. So around 5-10 minutes. More if they need to tidy up the macrame room

[morgana-ren]

A Little Respect (Shigaraki x Reader)

Summary:  Life is hard for a outlaw down on their luck. Especially hard when you're cold, starving, and desperate. As fate would have it, the League of Villains just might take you in. If you can survive their temperamental leader, that is.

Rating: This particular chapter is E for everyone but Shig is rated R for Real Fuckin’ Rude. Mild cursing and sexual innuendo from Dabi. Will advance in rating as the chapters come out.

A03 mirror if you prefer to read it there

Sorry guys, it’s not the Filthy Smut™ I promised earlier but I got an idea at like 3am and wanted to get it out. 

Tomura Shigaraki does not like you.

Wait, that’s an understatement.

Tomura Shigaraki does not like you at all. It might even be fair to say he hates you.

From the moment he first saw you, he was decidedly unimpressed. Beady, vermillion eyes narrowing in irritation, lip twitching almost indiscernibly behind the shadow of his hand-mask. He’d only looked you over for a brief moment before casting down his judgement, deeming you unworthy of his attention.

It didn’t matter to him that you had taken time out of your day to be here. Seems a bit ungrateful, if you were honest. After all, he was the one looking for new recruits, not you. That was why you were standing awkwardly in the middle of this dingy bar that smelled like cheap liquor and ashes, prostrating yourself before this man-child in hopes of a job. Yeah, you’d seen him on TV and heard of his exploits, but nothing could quite capture the sheer arrogance of the real thing.

He had turned his nose up at you so easily, ripping his focus from you without a second thought. When he spoke, he didn’t even bother addressing you. You were a waste of his time. He instead turned to Giran who stood nearby, sucking down his cigarette as if the acrid smoke filling the bar didn’t add unnecessary drama to the already tense atmosphere.

“Where do you find this trash?” Shigaraki waved you off, mind already made up that you were nothing but a nuisance. “This NPC is really bottom of the barrel.”

His uneven, scratchy voice only served to spike your agitation. Admittedly, you were a proud one on occasion, but this was outright ridiculous. This low budget comic-book-villain-reject looking fuck was calling you trash? Now that was funny.

Giran had moved to speak up on your behalf, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You’d always had a hot temper and an even bigger mouth. It had gotten you into trouble quite a bit, and it was probably responsible for the current financial predicament and various bruises you found yourself saddled with now. Despite that, you had a really hard time controlling the venomous thoughts that came out of you. Sometimes, it just tumbled out before you could consider stopping it.

“What’s with all the hands? Compensating for something? Or is it just a fetish?”

Giran flinched as the words left your lips, mouth closed in a grimace as he exhaled the smoke from the most recent inhale through his nose. You knew you were making his job difficult, but this second-rate walking lotion commercial had already made up his mind, right? You didn’t feel you had much to lose.

Shigaraki visibly stiffened, fist clenching into itself as he held his thumb out to the side. You’d made him mad. What a bitch.

“Rude and bratty with no manners. I’m starting to think you just dumpster dive and bring whatever you find at the bottom to me.”

Even though his tone was sharp and held an edge that hadn’t been there previously, he still refused to look at you, even as he flared at your disrespect. Your antics hadn’t been entirely unappreciated, however. There had been a slight chuckle from the figure standing beside him. A man with charred skin and striking blue eyes with wild black hair was looking you over, eyes glimmering with amusement.

“I like her.”

“You would. You’re just as annoying as she is. But at least you can be useful on occasion.” Tomura scoffed, visibly irritated now as he tapped a long, pale finger on the wooden surface of the bar.

“I really think you ought to give her a chance, Shigaraki. I honestly believe she could be beneficial to your organization.” Giran gestured to you, maintaining a nonchalant smile. You knew he got paid either way, but he did consider himself a professional. He’d work his magic until this breathing temperamental tantrum decided he’d had enough, and then it would be back out on the streets for you.

“We don’t need another loser in our party.” Shigaraki crossed his arms over each other, pointer fingers carefully hovering above the fabric of his black shirt. You knew what he could do, what those fingers were capable of. One grip on your bare flesh and calling you fish food would be generous.

You found it unfair that kind of power had been given to such an impudent dick.

Giran motioned for you to step forward. “Go on, show him.”

You rolled your eyes but obliged, moving into the forefront of the room. You felt like a dancing monkey, but if it would put money in your pocket and food in your mouth, you’d play along. Even if it meant kneeling for one of the biggest jerkoffs the underworld had to offer.

You closed your eyes, focusing for a moment before releasing a breath and bringing your hands together. Light began to shimmer in front of you, swirls of color blending, stitching and intertwining. Bright flashes of blues, reds, and yellows formed a pattern and came together, slowly taking form. Seconds later, a perfect recreation of All Might was standing directly in front of the bar, mimicking his stereotypical pose. The mirage turned its head to the toward the villainous duo seated nearby, legendary smile gleaming in the dim bar lights. It raised an arm, giving a thumbs up.

“I am here!”

The voice was so loud and lifelike that Shigaraki recoiled, looking absolutely feral. His eyes shot open, widened in a mixture of confusion and rage. He had lurched himself half-way out of his chair, posed to lunge at the imposter before him, hands at the ready and poised to attack. “What is this shit?”

A small smile cracked on your face. You focused again, summoning another illusion from the air, this one comprised of mainly blacks, whites, and reds. It wasn’t long before a flawless imitation of Shigaraki himself appeared behind the illusory hero, creeping up behind it, hand outstretched and reaching. It made eye contact with the authentic Shigaraki, grin spreading past the boundaries of the decomposing hand placed over his face.

“Not anymore you’re not.”

The duplicate’s hand made contact with the All Might mimicry, all five fingers pressed against the blade of its shoulder. As the spindly fingers dug in, All Might’s uniform and skin began to decay, spreading and unweaving the flesh and muscle until bare bone was visible beneath as the body began to decompose rapidly. Tendons snapped and plasma leaked to the floor, sending the usually impervious hero to the floor in a whimpering, grimy mess.  Soon enough, All Might’s likeness was nothing but a whimpering pile of dying, ashy viscera beneath fabricated Shigaraki’s red sneakers.

Eventually the illusion faded, and not one person spoke. It took effort for you to hold back a triumphant sneer. Your little production had been no Hamlet, but it garnered the desired result no less. The real Shigaraki was paralyzed in place, eyes still glued to the spot on the floor where the fake All Might had perished, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

And he was right, he couldn’t.

Real All Might was still out there, traipsing around and being a massive pain in someone’s ass, but Giran had hinted to you that something like this might get Shigaraki’s dick hard. His hatred of All Might was all encompassing and exploiting it might give you a fighting chance. Apparently, he had been right. You had a feeling that if you let him, Shigaraki would just keep staring in disbelief until someone actively shook him from his stupor.

“I couldn’t get your voice quite right but it’s the best I could do on short notice. I’ve never met you before today.”

You were the first to break the silence, since everyone else with the exception of Giran was dumbfounded. Might as well get the ball rolling. Either you were in or you weren’t, and if you weren’t, you had a corner store to rob before it got too late.

Achingly slow, Shigaraki turned his head back to you. You couldn’t quite get a read on him, not with that giant hand on his face, but judging by the fact that his hands were shaking, and he looked murderous, the prognosis didn’t look too good.

“What is it?” He hissed, copper eyes narrowing on you. “Your quirk. What the hell is it?”

“Illusion. Tricks of light and sound. Basically, I can mess with light and sound waves temporarily to create whatever vision I desire.” It sounded way cooler than you explained it like that. “I can’t do it on a large scale, and I have to understand the exact representation and mannerisms of whatever it is I’m creating if I want it to be accurate, hence your voice. Also, they’re incorporeal. I can’t create a physical form.”

Shigaraki was staring at you blankly. You’re losing them. Play it up.

“Other than that, I can create whatever I want. As long as it’s not too exhausting, I can hold it for a while too. As you can see, there’s not a whole lot else I can really do with it since the visions can’t actually touch or be touched, but it’s great as a distraction.” You shrugged, letting your shoulders slump as you realized just how ridiculous this entire situation really was. “I figured maybe you could use it for subterfuge or something.”

“Doll, you have got no imagination at all.” The blistered one spoke up again, simpering mischievously. “I can think of plenty- “

“Shut up!” Shigaraki growled, flexing his hands by his sides and clearly not in the mood for either one of you. His invasive stare was studying you again, eyes resting a little too long on your face to make you comfortable. You wanted to make another smart-ass remark, but Giran smelled that a mile away like a dumb-shit detecting bloodhound and opted to speak first to keep you from ruining your chances.

“So? What do you say?” He leaned over, smashing the butt of his cigarette into a nearby ash tray, waving away the excess smoke that rose. “You think that’ll be helpful?”

You could see deep frown lines and the shadow of a scowl on Shigaraki’s face. He didn’t answer immediately, choosing to glare you down instead. You weren’t sure you wanted to be a part of the League anymore, anyway. Not if it meant working under this broody, angsty little-

“She can stay.” He turned, storming out the doors without sparing you a second glance. “But if she gets on my nerves, I’ll dust her.”

Well, a job is a job, even if your new boss is the world’s biggest blowhole. If it meant a warm place to sleep and clothes on your back, you’d take it.

“Guess we’ll be working together. See you around, doll face.” The scarred guy gave a slight indifferent wave in your direction before heading out through the exit. You weren’t quite sure how to feel at the moment. It wasn’t exactly the definition of a warm welcome, but then again, you were working with a criminal organization that was currently at the top of Japan’s most wanted list. You couldn’t really expect a hug and a welcome tour.

Giran, on the other hand, seemed ecstatic. He slapped you on the back, grinning wide and no doubt pleased at the bonus commission he’d be ringing in. “See? I think that went great!”

“That was great to you?” Your brows furrowed in confusion. That had to have been one of the single most awkward experiences of your life. The infamous Shigaraki had the charismatic presence of a flaming pile of dog shit.

“Definitely. He didn’t even try to kill you.”

Your mouth dropped. “That’s a thing that happened? That’s a fuckin’ thing that happened and you didn’t tell me?”

“Oh yeah. The last two I brought his way didn’t sit well with him either. About 2 minutes into the meeting and he tried to kill them both. Would have been a real mess if it hadn’t been for Kurogiri stepping in.”

You rolled your eyes, huffing out an exaggerated breath. “Thanks, man. A warning would have been nice. I know he’s temperamental and all, but it would have been good to get a little bit of notice if I had to get my affairs in order.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad. He’s an alright guy. A little rough around the edges but he’ll grow on you. Just try to keep that mouth of yours in check?” He smiled nervously, reaching in his pocket for another cigarette.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s worked out so well for me in the past.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ve can do it. Just do your job and stay out of his way if you can.” He flicked his lighter, inhaling the smoke deeply before turning to you again. “The last people I introduced to the League worked out well for him, and while he talks a lot, they seem to get on just fine. I know Shigaraki can be difficult, but maybe you’ll find some comfort in the others.”

“They’re villains, Giran. How amicable can they really be?”

He laughed, giving a small shrug. “I don’t know. You’re technically a villain, and you seem fine to me.”

You opened your mouth to speak but stopped short when you realized you didn’t exactly have a retaliation to that. “Fair.”

“Come on, let’s get your stuff and get you settled in here. No sense in keeping anyone waiting.”

“Your paycheck, you mean.” You side-eyed him, following him out through the bar doors.

“Yes.”

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Do you mean the characterization where the character relived all of Peter Parker’s memories at the end of ASM #700 and was trying his best (from his point of view) to be a hero and NOT a villain? It’s almost like an important, life changing/character-changing moment like that happened in between those two scenes. But go figure. :-D

@danslott-blog

I’m writing this because I wouldn’t have space in the original post. This is to be considered a direct reply to the above poster.

You know, I can’t be 100% certain if you are the real Dan Slott or a sycophantic fan of his. Your blog page…

…leads me to believe you are in fact the real Dan Slott. 

Thing is I saw this comment last night but I didn’t check out your blog until this morning. Nevertheless, last night my first instinct was to presume you to be the real Dan Slott.

The fact that my mind immediately jumped to that possibility, the fact that I can’t rule it out and the further supportive evidence of your blog, speaks volumes.

It speaks volumes about the person Dan Slott whether or not you are the genuine article or not. Because your actions so thoroughly fall in line with his behaviour.

And it is damning. As are your words. Let’s unpack them.*

So, did I mean Otto’s characterization? That’s what you were getting at. That my original post was in reference to Otto’s characterization between ASM #700 and Superior #2?

No.

I did not.

At all.

I was referring to Mary Jane’s  characterization. I elaborate upon the topic in this post.

Tl:dr: MJ was eager to sleep with ‘Peter’ in the former issue but not in the latter.

That should have been utterly obvious  to anyone observing the post because I was presenting events from 2 issues and saying they didn’t line up. Obviously  the purpose was for the readers of my post to play spot the difference.

The similarities were Otto’s desire to have sex with Mary Jane. The difference was with MJ.

As of this writing, twelve other people grasped that obvious intent Dan.

Why on Earth do they have superior reading comprehension skills than a professional writer  for the largest comic book company in America? Surely that should be a basic requirement of the job?

Not that I’m surprised. It is exemplary of the vast majority of your pathetic, reductive and damaging  work on this franchise.

But let’s dive deeper.

You claim that Otto reliving Peter’s memories in ASM #700 (after the scene in the OP) changed him hence he was different in Superior #2.

But he’s not.

In ASM #700 he tried to exploit Mary Jane’s misconception that he was Peter Parker (and her pre-existing feelings for him) to have sex with her.

In Superior #2 he was still  trying to exploit Mary Jane’s misconception that he was Peter Parker (and her pre-existing feelings for him) to have sex with her.

So he hasn’t changed. At all.

But for the sake of argument, let’s pretend you are right. In Superior #2 (because he relieved Peter’s memories) he was trying to be a better person from his point of view.

So you are saying from his point of view   raping Mary Jane by deception constituted trying to be a hero and not a villain?**

If Otto experienced Peter’s memories then that would logically entail his upbringing and morality. Meaning Otto would in fact know that what he’s trying to do with MJ is unethical. Or he’d appreciate that he’s not the real Peter Parker and it’d be a disservice to the real man who’s legacy he’s trying to uphold to sleep with the woman he loves. Or he’d know who MJ was and appreciate she deserved better than to be deceived.

But no. He was horny and was going to satisfy himself  no matter what. Hence later in the issue after he experiences Peter’s memories of ‘being’ with MJ he says he’s ready to move on and starts eyeing up other women, including Sajani.

Furthermore, even without Peter’s memories Otto would never have attempted to sleep with Mary Jane for two big reasons.

The first is that she is frankly not his type.

Prior to Superior, the women Otto held affections for (romantically or otherwise) were either scientifically gifted (Mary-Alice, Carolyn), admirers of his brilliance (Stunner, Carolyn, Mary-Alice) or unconditionally kind towards him (Aunt May).

You know…kind of like his own mother was!

MJ is not scientifically gifted. MJ did not admire Otto’s genius. As far as he knew she didn’t even admire Peter’s genius and even the times she has canonically it has been in a different way to the ladies in Otto’s life. MJ was never singing Peter’s praises for being so clever for inventing this or that, she was never borderline fangirling over his intellect. She also wasn’t unconditionally kind like Aunt May was, her kindness manifested in a starkly different way. She wasn’t taking Otto, Peter or a stranger home for a cup of tea or a nice meal.

Since Otto wanted to sleep with her before  he was exposed to all of Peter’s memories, the only rationale reason for his interest was the superficial. She was an attractive young woman and Otto wanted her body.

Which would be weird  right because I seem to recall you and your buddy Christos Gage saying Otto didn’t care about looks in his romantic partners?

This brings me to my second reason.

Otto is evil but he’s not Purple Man/Doctor Light levels of evil. He wouldn’t do something as debase as that, he’d view it as beneath him. In his own warped way he holds a certain respect for women. Hence he genuinely cared for Aunt May, Stunner, Carolyn Trainer, Mary-Alice and of course his mother.

But let’s say I’m wrong. Let’s say Superior #2 was covering totally virgin territory for the character that had never been touched upon before. As in there had never been a word written about Otto’s love life, attitudes to women, attitudes to sex, etc.

That being the case, you established as hard canon that Doctor Octopus, the villain of the pg-13 movie Spider-Man 2, antagonist in dozens of Spider-Man cartoons for children and video games for kids and teens, is an attempted rapist!

As in if MJ hadn’t turned him down all those times his attempts would’ve been successful and he’d just be an actual  rapist.

You took a beloved, fun character (who was unique for having a somewhat humanitarian side to himself) and made him utterly irredeemable. You had him attempt an act of evil that the readers know (within the context of the genre conventions) is one of the, if not the actual, worst things a villain can do.

Good job buddy.

Oh, and needless to say, you totally and utterly failed to take Mary Jane’s point of view into account; as you did in response to my OP.

You never considered how you were using the main female character of the franchise who is beloved  within the fandom and generating cheap, gratuitous tension by threatening to rape her.

In conclusion Dan Slott, you were never ever qualified for the job as Spider-Man’s lead writer. You never ever deserved the role because of how you lied and cheated your way into Marvel, disrespected the works of your predecessors and disrespected the characters you were in charge of.

You had good ideas half the time but your writing craftsmanship skills on the title were woefully lacking hence you could only competently execute them 1/8th of the time. When combined with the raw damage you wrought to the characters and narrative you are without question the single worst on-going writer of Spider-Man in history.

I’m sure you are pleased with that record considering it was blatantly obvious you were far more invested in cultivating an eventual legacy for your self on the character than you were actually serving the characters and organically developing them.

Author of ASM #600, 700 and 800

The only Spider-Man writer to have written 3 centennial issues in a row.

The guy who has written 1 in 5 issues of Amazing Spider-Man.

Oh, and also the worst on-going writer of Spider-Man in history.

Wow.

What an achievement.

Now, why don’t you stop searching for your own name or works online and do something more practical with your time.

Like learning how to write.

*Oh and btw, I’m writing this presuming you are the real Dan Slott.

Also I’m going to try my best not to swear but that is where my politeness ends. This isn’t CBR Dan, Mister Mets (nor any other moderator) is around to censor or ban anyone to protect you.

**And yes, having sex with MJ when she didn’t know he was really Doc Ock is objectively  a form of rape. Here is literally the first sentence  about rape on Wikipedia, with emphasis by me:

“Rape is a type of sexual assault usually involving sexual intercourse or other forms of sexual penetration carried out against a person without that person's consent.”

Contrary to what your buddies Fred van Lente or Stephen Wacker might have told you, force is not a requisite.

No consent = rape.

Had MJ had sex with Otto she’d have been giving Peter her consent not Otto. Therefore Otto would have been raping her. This was acknowledged in fact in a Dead pool comic book from 1998!

Courtesy of one of your Brand New Day peers, Joe Kelly, Deadpool v1 #12 saw Wade have sex with Siryn, whom he had feelings for.

However, in the next issue ‘Siryn’ reveals she was actually Typhoid Mary in disguise, a woman who’d endeavored to bring out Wade’s darkside against his wishes.

Wade’s dialogue and body language clearly convey how he feels sickened and violated by the experience. When he asks Mary why  she did this to him she replies it was simply because she could. Whilst Wade is on the ground feeling vulnerable she stands up, leans over and licks him!

The scene when taken in context is brutally unsubtle. Typhoid used trickery to exploit Wade. She put herself in a position of power and abused that power to dominate Wade, to remove his agency.

That is literally all rape boils down to. Not sex but power. The scene, especially the last panel hammers that point home.

But just in case  you still didn’t get it the very next page depicts Wade vomiting and saying he needs a shower.

This is a common reaction from victims of sexual assault, at least in media. The ‘I need a shower’ moment is practically a trope.

Why did a 1998 Deadpool story  have a clearer understanding of the topic being played with than a 2013 Spider-Man story…that was allegedly for children no less!

P.S. You know Tom DeFalco had Peter Parker wrestle with his emotions in the wake of the ‘Death of Jean DeWolff’ story arc way back in ASM #275.

You might say that witnessing such violence and examining his own actions with perspective was a life changing experience for him.

With that in mind, how about you explain to me why Peter experiencing death, deletion, abuse of his life and body, losing a whole year of his life and then returning to it totally changed doesn’t  count as a life/character changing experience?

Because you sure as hell didn’t write him reacting with the pain, the sadness, the anguish that he (or any normal human being) would’ve had after he came back. Nope. Just back to cracking jokes I guess.

Do you like…not know how human beings work?

That’s a rhetorical question because I know the answer.