#how to destroy enemy through mantra

[moondirti]

animalic (2)

← chapter 1 // series masterlist

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: a game of cat and mouse warnings: enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, guns, death, blood, angst, no use of y/n (reader is referred to as ‘wraith’) notes: remember when i said part 2 would take a while? i lied. the next chapter is fun as all hell so i wanted to churn this one out as build up. teehee i hope yall like it regardless

He let you go. 

He let you go. 

No matter how Miguel tries to vindicate it, he rounds back to the same conclusion. You weren’t subtle, regardless of what you’d have yourself believe; he’d seen the calculations glaze over your eyes the instant he pinned you to the wall. He knew what was coming, how your heavy breathing was a cover for the clicks of his watch – of which he heard regardless – and your squirming a diversion from the movement of your busy fingers. He had a goddamn plan too, a fail safe in case you decided to attack instead of listening to reason. 

(One he’d settled on for the duration of your lost consciousness, for knowledge that you would.)

So, there is no dismissing it. You’re obnoxious and lack precision, and he could have had you halfway back home by now, which isn’t the case – because he let you go.  

The frigid air of his office thrums with irritation, weighing down on his shoulders until they collapse inwards, his hands coming up to rub the weariness off his expression. HQ has been unsettlingly quiet as of late – occupied by only a fraction of its regular population – and the peace worries him. History betrays its status as the precursor to havoc; lulls in the past have fooled him into believing his mission was drawing to a close, only for another anomaly, another mess, to spin that naivety on its head. 

You were one such instance. A year ago, you’d popped up on an Earth that wasn’t your own, and didn’t leave until you’d drawn all that you could from it. It’s an empty husk now, lacking land to propagate its agriculture. Thousands – millions – dead, from the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

Parasite. A fucking parasite who just won’t quit. 

The mantra surges through him, festering from the base of his gut to the cap of his tongue. It bursts out with a roar right then, the sudden violence finding monitors thrown across the room, smashed to bits of orange light and static. It does nothing to sate him, though, the heady anger filtering out like molasses. His back hunches as he draws in thin breaths. He doesn’t count, nor does he attempt to. Instead, he looks for his only real decompressor. 

The video of Gabriella flickers at him from a distant floor, the transparent tablet wrecked with four distinct claw marks. He exhales, pulling it back to the platform with an extended web. 

“Boss,” 

His mija smiles toothily down at his digital self, winding her small palms in his hair for balance as he carries her. He recalls helping with hers, tying it back into shabby ponytails the mornings before a big game. How she wouldn’t let anyone fix it afterwards, not until her elastic slipped off the ends and her bangs hindered her playing. And she’d run to him, whenever, to get it fixed again. 

“Boss.” 

Her jokes resonate still, echoing laughter from when she’d poke fun at how bad he’d gotten at it, amused by the sudden decline in ability. To Miguel, it was one more reminder that the life he led wasn’t his own. 

“Oh Miguel!” 

So much for calming down.

“Lyla.” He looks up at the virtual assistant, her corporeal character a little fuzzy around the edges. She chooses to ignore his dissociative episode, rather projecting a map of the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse, a point off centre highlighted in red. His heart skips. Placing the tablet down on his desk, he takes a step closer to survey the pin.

“Managed to track the Wraith down using the day pass you’d given her. Currently stationed on Earth-15, no signs of jumping anytime soon.” 

Parasitic, and stupid enough to forgo destroying a potential tracking device.

Lyla snickers, seemingly able to read the sneer pulling at his cheeks. 

“Seems like she’s afraid of glitching more so than she is you, Boss.” 

His glare snaps to meet her heart shaped sunglasses. 

“Funny.” His assistant shrugs at his admonishment. “Pull up the anomaly cam.” 

A second later, your figure blinks into sight. 

You’re crouched atop a tiled floor, the grout darkened to near-black with grime. In front of you lies a sparse spread of medical supplies; gauze, scissors, and miniature packets of disinfectant wipes. Miguel can’t help but wonder what you think you’re doing, treating your wounds in a bathroom as unsanitary as the one that cramps you. Graffiti littered walls, nests of used paper towels in every corner. You spring up to wash your hands after undoing the old bandages that hugged your forearm, but all that comes out is an inconsistent splutter of grey water. 

His chest twinges, a tug of intrinsic sympathy playing against him. It worsens at the sight of your injury, the consequences of his talons’ assault on you, the puncture points brimming yellow and blackening closer to their middles. He can’t tell whether it’s gotten any better, whether you were good and had it treated by a professional, or made the common mistake of relying too much on your enhanced healing. 

“Gave her a harsh gig there. You always that rough?” 

“When I need to be.” Miguel murmurs, skimming over the conspicuous innuendo.

“Right. Until it comes to finishing the job, that is.” And, despite the offence taken to Lyla’s jest, he can hardly disagree. Newfound resolve hardens within him, sympathy fleeting at its failure to deter him. 

“Set coordinates for Earth-15.” He rumbles, gesturing to his wrist as he walks away. The assistant does as she’s told, shrinking back to an icon on his watch. While waiting for the portal to configure, Miguel cocks his head, taking one last look at your oblivious form. 

“I won't let her get away this time.” 

“Put the money in the fucking bag or she gets it!”

Of all the spider-people you’ve met, you don’t believe any have been the hostage in an armed robbery situation. You imagine that they’d come in at the last minute, valiantly swinging through the window, accentuating their arrival in a shower of shattered glass. They’d demand the money be remitted, and all’s well that ends well. But – of course – there’s got to be a first for everything; your record just so happens to be the lamest of the bunch. 

The masked man presses the gun further into your temple, bursting capillaries until the spot starts to ache with a raw tenderness. His body wraps around you, other arm waving wildly outwards, extending a plastic bag to the poor soul behind the register. You take a great gulp of air, staring at the buzzing fluorescents above, and pray. 

Lord, now would be a really good time to phase out. 

“P-Please, leave her be.” The owner throws a potful of crumpled fives into the bag, as if to punctuate her plea. The man is dismissive in face, urging her for more, shaking the receptacle with comedic insistence. You purse your lips, blinking up at the ceiling once more. 

Or make this more exciting, at the very least. 

“And you!” You’re jolted out of being a passive observer, rattled when the man diverts his attention to you. His gun thrusts harder against your forming bruise, adding to the list of damages sustained in the past week alone. You peer at him from the corner of your eye. His roll incredulously, pointing to the bill in your grip. “The twenty!” 

“Is that a real gun?” 

“Wha– Of course it’s a real fucking gun! Put the money–” 

“In the bag. I know.” 

His hold on you slackens, expectant. By contrast, you ball your fist and punch him square in the nose. The hit sends him reeling farther than it should for the amount of space you had in winding back, the feat prompting a deluge of pride to wash over you. It’s bolstered when he drops the spoils in the process, toppling into a rack of chips and cup noodles that consequently cushion his fall. 

Your first save. 

Filled with bravado, you snatch and pass over the bag to the cashier. 

“Here you go, ma’am.” 

But she doesn’t look at you. Rather, her stare remains trained on the man you’d just disabled. Nerves maturating, you join her line of vision, only to be met with the barrel end of his weapon. You catch the vicious conclusion in the way his hand trembles, veins protruding from the pale skin, supplying courage to the finger hovering right over the trigger. You process it all, aware of the ways it can end, at how fast it can sour.  

Before you can so much as act on it, he shoots. 

Your skin prickles. 

You’ve heard stories of people who don’t realise when a bullet strikes them. Their bodies take time to catch up to the pain, cells stuck in paralytic shock, stimulus signals held somewhere between the existential and a will to delay the inevitable. You think you understand what they mean, your mind dragging in a rare bout of silence. Things slow, for a perennial moment, and you wonder how fast the blood loss will kill you.

You can do nothing but follow the man, who scrambles to a stand, letting him take the money – with whatever else – and watching as he runs out onto the street. 

And even still, the pain hasn’t caught up to you. 

Looking down, the case starts piecing itself together. No blood sticks to your shirt, the fabric still as pristine as it had been upon purchase. You check your arms, then your legs, then reach up to smooth over your head. Nothing. You’re okay.

The relief is short-lived when the morbid sound of gurgling meets your ears. Slowly, you turn, bracing for what you knew you’d find.  

The scene unfolds with a distressing intensity as crimson liquid blooms from the cashier’s throat. The torrent is never-ending, every gush of ichor bringing forth a new momentum, splattering its macabre scene over the register. Her eyes gloss over with an unshed panel of tears, and she looks to you for help. 

She looks to you. 

(You don’t admit it to yourself, but it’s the novelty of that fact that pushes you into action.) 

With a swift leap over the counter, you intercept her mid-fall, carefully cradling her weight as you guide her down to the ground. Scanning your surroundings, you search for a means to call for help. A rotary phone catches your recognition, situated a ways off by the back exit. Despite the inconvenient placement, it stands as your sole option at this stage.

In a split second decision, you sling your backpack off, hastily rummaging through its contents. You find solace in your hoodie, gathering its folds to tightly bunch it up, converting it into a makeshift compress.  Knowing she lacks the strength to apply pressure to the wound, you move to wrap it around her neck, hopeful that it’s tight enough to stem the bleeding while leaving enough room for air. 

Urgency fuelling your every step, you leave her side for a fleeting moment, dashing over to call an ambulance. Your medical knowledge only extends so far, and some selfish part of you itches to pass on the responsibility to someone more competent. It’s an impulse that derives from an innate acceptance, that resoundingly insightful voice in your head telling you it's too late. That she’s already dead, had been from the moment the bullet – that was meant for you – missed. 

Perhaps your help isn’t really helpful at all, then. Perhaps it’s your attempt to wash your hands of the sin. You think back to the grey water in the bathroom, how exasperated you had been at your inability to stay clean. 

(You don’t think you’ll ever rid yourself of this.) 

“911, what’s your emergency?” The question crackles through the receiver.

The bell by the entrance jingles, the chime accompanied by heavy footsteps. You press yourself against the wall, the concept of the robber returning filling you with such dread that you feel your stomach tighten and congeal. It’s a heavy lump, icy cold and slippery, and it seems to weigh a hundred pounds.

“Hello?” The operator says. 

But if it was the man, then he'd have to have changed into a navy and red suit. Somehow, your terror worsens. 

“Hijo de la chingada…” The whisper is barely legible, but the deep baritone is discernible enough to validate the assumption pulled from your brief glimpse. You’d recognise him anywhere. 

Shrinking in on yourself, you cup your palm over your mouth. “Hello,” 

“Ma’am? Can you describe your emergency?” 

“There was an armed robbery at the convenience off sixth and Third. Someone’s hurt.” You hardly register the words as they escape you, eyeing Miguel when he crouches over the lady. You’re propelled back to the conclusion of your last meeting; how his claws tore into you, how his persistence didn't falter until you pressed yourself onto him. 

That kiss. 

He runs a finger over your hoodie-turned-compress, wavering, like he can’t quite place where he’d seen it before. 

Or, maybe he can, for he spins to meet your wide-eyed stare. 

You drop the phone, bolting out the back door, charged on a paroxysm of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated panic.

chapter 3 →

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[imekitty]

Danny finds his clone in the Fenton Works lab.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22

-----

It couldn't be true—

It couldn't be true—

It couldn't it couldn't it couldn't be—

Danny denied it over and over like a mantra, a broken record stuck in a painful loop as he flew home as fast as he could.

Because he didn't want to believe any of it. Vlad had to be lying. His parents wouldn't do that to him. His mom wouldn't do that to him.

But all the clues, the scattered bits and pieces that were at first perplexing and nonsensical were now falling into place.

Don't you know what they've done to us? To you?

His ultimate enemy's words had no meaning for him before but now they all rushed back into his head making such terrifying sense.

And then a second ultimate enemy, a number tattooed on his upper arm just like all the dead clones in that graveyard.

I was created to be used and then destroyed. To live a short time before she killed me.

She. She.

He did not want to believe that she could be his mother.

It had to be a lie. He would go home and down into the lab and there would be no clone there. He was sure of it.

He wanted to be sure of it.

Danny phased through the walls of Fenton Works and maintained his ghost form as he searched for his parents. He found them upstairs in their room with the door shut, their voices muffled as they spoke about something. Danny stood outside a moment before floating away, past Jazz's door and down the stairs, down to the basement. Taking the long way instead of just phasing through the floor because he was stalling, afraid of what he might find once he reached the lab.

The lab was dark. Danny switched on a light and went down the stairs, one step at a time, slowly, slowly, holding his breath.

God, he didn't want to keep going. He wanted to go back up to his room and hide under his covers.

But he gripped the stair rail and continued his descent, down into whatever hell was waiting for him.

He froze when he saw what was belted to the main examination table.

No, not what. Who was on the table.

Unmoving. Sleeping. Or perhaps unconscious.

Danny approached the table to get a better look, but even from a distance, he recognized that thick dark hair, the point of that nose, the curve of that neck, the jut of those eyebrows.

He had seen them in photographs. In mirrors. Every day for over sixteen years.

"Oh, my God," he breathed out, not even realizing he had been holding his breath.

He braced himself against the table, leaning and hanging his head, on the edge of hyperventilating. Gathering courage, he looked up again and studied the clone. On his back with his arms down by his sides, dressed in a hospital gown, wrists and ankles strapped to the table with anti-ghost belts pulled tight. No cuts or incisions, no signs of trauma. It appeared the experimentation had not yet begun for this clone.

A flash of memory. The second incarnation of his ultimate enemy pulled down his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of the number 26.

Danny shakily lifted the right sleeve of the clone's hospital gown. The number 26 was tattooed in black on the clone's upper arm.

One day you will see me again. I won't look like this, but you'll know it's me when you see this number. And then you'll understand.

Yes. Danny understood now. The past version of his second dark enemy looked very different indeed.

A small metal side table stood nearby, holding tools and a clipboard. Danny picked up the clipboard and leafed through the sheets of paper clipped to it. Notes written in his mother's handwriting, details and instructions for what was to be done with Clone 26.

Flay the skin away from the arm in one piece if possible so it can be restitched on, will see how quickly and how well it is able to reattach and heal—

Danny dropped the clipboard, which clattered back onto the metal side table. He covered his mouth and turned back to look at the sleeping clone, so peaceful and unaware of the horrors planned for him. No white hair, no ghostly complexion. His skin was warm and pink with blood, his lashes dark on his closed eyes.

His mother was planning on destroying him knowing full well he was her son.

She wasn't even going to pretend he was just a ghost.

Danny stood there. Motionless. Staring. Hell stared back at him.

An involuntary shudder jarred the return of his senses. His parents were probably going to come down soon.

He made a decision in just a split second and knew he had to act quickly. No time to think or consider his options.

He loosened each belt holding the clone to the table and lifted him, one arm supporting his back, the other beneath his knees. The clone did not wake as Danny jumped into the air and phased through the ceiling, up and up to his bedroom. He laid the clone on his bed and pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of his dresser drawers. He removed the hospital gown and redressed the clone in his own clothes, stepping back when he was done, watching as the clone continued sleeping supine on his bed, on top of the covers.

God, the clone really did look exactly like him.

He heard shuffling noises from his parents' bedroom down the hall. Still holding the clone's hospital gown in his hands, he dropped through the floor, all the way back down into the basement lab. He changed into his human form and quickly stripped out of his clothes, phasing all of them off and tossing them out of sight. He then slipped on the hospital gown, shivering in the frigid, sterile lab air.

He imagined all of the clones that had been here. That had died here.

Such a frightening place to wake up in.

He climbed onto the lab table and placed the four belt restraints around his wrists and ankles, loose enough that he could easily slip out of them. He then lay back on the cold metal surface and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to control the erratic tremors seizing his whole body.

Then he waited. And listened.

His heart began racing when he heard the basement door open.

Part 24

[mamuzzy-creates-stuff]

Kousetsu and Souza are so pretty in the new series, it's illegal.

I take the opportunity to share some of my HC about him~

+ If the residents of the Citadel thought Souza was problematic and hard to get along with, they have yet to meet with Kousetsu.

+ Just like Souza he is very polite in his speech, never raises his voice and addresses people with respect but his cold and polite mannerism shouldn't deceive you: He has fire under the ice. Fire that feeds his compassion toward all the living, it feeds the love for his brothers and it feeds his deep desire to protect and create instead of causing harm and destroy.

More under the cut!

+ This also makes him a stubborn one: After he learned what is expected of him, he gave the Saniwa an ultimatum: They either realese him from these eathly bounds, or he makes sure he will do it himself. Only the pleading of his brothers stopped his protest with starvation.

+ At first he resufed to partake in any mission that required harming others, and that means the enemy too. His stubborness once lead to a catastrophic failure one time, being a first time captain, and someone got seriously injured under his care. This harsh lesson was needed for him finally able to baptize his blade in the blood of the enemies.

+ Yamabushi Kunihiro was the first sword who welcomed him into their ranks. And it was him, who reminded Kousetsu that he should look around and find the things he can hold onto and find enjoyment during all this suffering. "Life is suffering", the phrase echoed in Kousetsu's thought and he tried to find comfort in this mantra. Humans are destined to put through various suffering and they can't do anything about it. He has to accept it he has a human form now, he was given a mission he despises. Accept and not having other choice, but get along with it. It doesn't mean he won't sulk about it every other day.

+ Because of his strong beliefs, Kousetsu has trouble getting along well with swords who are enthusiastic about fights. This makes him really conflicted about Yamabushi Kunihiro, the first sword who welcomed him into the Citadel. How can someone so kind be enthusiastic about fighting and harming others in a fight? Their friendship is surely an odd one. Besides, Yamabushi won't stop until he make this sulky, broody sword have a laugh with him.

+ Kousetu eventually found a way to enjoy the capabalities of the human body: doing physical labor like working in the fields, taking care of the garden, doing kitchen duty, taking care of animals, and he finds joy in creating beautiful ornaments, poetry, meditation and eventually friendly sparring too.

+ He is vegetarian. While doesn't kill the domesticated animals for their meat (he doesn't have to stomach for it anyway), unfortunately for him, he is a good shooter with the bow, and becauce everyone is relying on the meat, he won't be selfish and refusing to provide for the residents of the citadel. Kasen learned to accept that Kousetsu's pickyness is not a personal attack against him or his culinary abilities and always make sure Kousetsu gets a vegetarian version of the dishes he prepares.

+ Just like his brother Souza, he is not a morning person and usually welcomes the new day with a painful sigh and cracking joints.

[skxrbrand]

PREV / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐒 - 𝐈𝐈

"You cannot mean it."

Idonea strained. She struggled in the mighty paw she had found herself caged in. Beneath the voice of the woman warbled the god in truth who had taken possession of her body, creating a dissonance of tones-- one feminine and one deeply masculine. Both both were certainly angry, panicked, biting and fighting the beast holding them. Khade only glanced down at himself, trapped in that pathetic mortal shell, in annoyance.

"𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓, 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍-𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅." The Red God responded with a rumble. He put his other paw overtop of her, completely muffling her angry protestations. "𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆." Khade flicked his ears, twitched his whiskers, and shifted his eyes as if he could see the to-and-fro of the battle from deep beneath the cobbles. The dark, spacious under-chamber he had called his cathedral had been emptied of supplicants. They had all taken up blades and axes, spears and shields, and joined the City in it's defense against the Khornates. They had been eager to spill the blood of the enemy, from the newest acolyte to the most senior and mutated of the Red Cults.

Bloodshed. Copious amounts of death. Enough that Idonea could've manifested should he let her sup of it. Certainly, it would spell the doom of all of them: The Two Bloodthirsters and even the Mighty GoreQueen herself. Khade's lip twitched. GoreQueen. He would have never expected his brother to look at another being and not see a skull-to-be-taken.

Let me drink of this slaughter! Let me grow and swell and we can take this city together! We can destroy all of Khorne's wrenched spawn!

Idonea had needled into his mind, but it availed her not. He had woven magics into his very hands to keep her from doing just that and had shook his great head.

"𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄, 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒. 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐓? 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋…𝐇𝐈𝐌?"

Khade's skin twitched in the manner of large, anticipatory feline. Yes, he had looked into the tales of his sister-through-bonds. Valkia. The Queen of Skulls, Keeper of Khorne's Heart and magnet for his eyes. And she was here. Kharneth was too. He could feel the heat of his brother's gaze in the air, leeching through the stone, snapping in the air all around him. Good. Let the Blood God see how strong and vital he had become!

The battle had shifted, power swinging towards Khorne's brazen warriors and away from the defenders of Myrmidens. Khade shifted his weight, and his horns, just so, bunching the muscles in his legs.

And then, he launched himself.

---

" You fought well, Neophyte. Perhaps a sliver of Khorne's fury burns within you yet." Va'rrick hissed, speaking around the blood coating his teeth and tongue. Much of it was hers, but not a little of it was his own-- it was hard to tell the soupy, black mess apart. He had her held aloft by the throat, near-spent. Exhaustion was creeping up on him as well, wrought by the battle and by the insidious wrongness housed in her very talons.

For her part, Sābon was little more than a rabid animal, one making a ruin of whatever flesh she could grab, in this case the arm holding her. The battle had taken them from the battlements to the ground, through several builds, and back up the tallest and grandest of the City's towers. Among the corpses, Sābon spied her champions-- Kruall and Thyrr had foolishly tried to assist her, thinking they could make any difference against the red abomination locked in a deathmatch with her. For this stupidity, they had paid with their lives.

Va'rrick's fist tightened. Sābon choked on her own blood. " You will make a fine skull for the throne." The Bloodthirster chuckled, holding his prize to be high for all the lesser daemons to see. And then he roared the Skulltaker's Mantra, "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

And his guttural proclamation was answered in kind, Bloodletters pausing in their butchery to chant in equally harsh tones and tongues, "Skulls for the Skull Throne! Skulls for the Skull throne! All Glory to Khorne!" As if summoned by the clamor, he could feel his Lord's eyes on his back and held his prize to the swirling, bloody sky.

But then the chanting had stopped. It had been stopped and abruptly, a louder and altogether more destructive force drowning out the fervor of the Blood Daemons. The ground itself seem to explode outward and a massive figure lurched from the Heart of Myrmidens with a mind-shredding roar. Red forms once caught in the throes of bloody celebration had been strew about as if tossed by a massive hand. The creature pulled itself through in it's wretched entirely, crimson hooves grinding to dust.

A shadow fell over Va'rrick, massive and bright vermillion, a cold hatred more chilling the depths of the arctic washing over him and extinguishing his fury in an instant. The face was felid and foreign, but furious and familiar all in one. It was Khorne, just as much as it wasn't, and that fact alone drove Va'rrick to drop his weapon and even his prey, both clattering to the ground as the Storm Rage seemed to stumble with the depth of his own terror.

The Red God reached out. The Bloodthirster didn't move. Couldn't move. It seized it's hand around Va'rrick's armored form, then lifted him up ponderously before it's cerulean gaze. All around, the Bloodletters, Blood Knights, Khornate servants of the warp and womb alike, looked on and watched as the Storming One, the Deluge of Rage, was crushed in the hand of the God-Creature like an overripe fruit. With one flex of it's muscular digits, Va'rrick was no more, and his gore dripped between the Felid Deity's fingers into a gory mess upon the ground.

Only then did the Daemons lose heart, even with their Queen still watching and fighting. They began to waver, their grip on this reality overcome by sheer fear. Glyphs on his horns and feathers, and whiskers glowing with the foul magics of Unmaking, the essence of the Red God rippled outward. Only the GoreQueen and her remaining Bloodthirster did not shudder and perish then and there and to them, the Red God looked with glittering eyes. To her he reached, arm outstretched, claws outstretched, still slick with Va'rrick's blood and flesh.

And then he heard it, as he suspected he might. The Roar. The Furious Wrath of the Blood God, a scream almost, of challenge and incense. And to his brother, he answered with his own challenge and his own rage. A second roar, this one louder than the first, and woven into the concussive sound was his hellish breed of magics. Daemons melted. They lost form, but they did not return to the Aether, instead their bodies slipping into the very ground. The stones, the soil-- all was red before Khade's power, suffused by corruption. Mortals died and buildings rung to the two deities, crumbling before the combined fury of the Blood God and the Unmaker.

But even through the noise, even if he hadn't heard it, Khade knew reprisal was coming. Khorne would not entertain such a threat without a direct response and the reply was as direct as could be. A sword, which could have only been thrown by the Blood God's own hand, screamed through the heavens. It tore at the very seams of reality, aimed for the upstart Godling that had angered Kharneth so. But Khade was quick, and more importantly, he had predicted this.

The Blade of Khorne slammed into the City's Heart where the Red God had been moments before with an explosion of sound to dwarf even Khade's roar. The earth split and cracked and bunched up around it, waves sent through the ground and turning whatever buildings remained into mere piles of rubble. Daemons, mortals-- all who tread the land were obliterated. All but Khade, who had slipped the attack and endured the aftershocks. He eyed the blade and reached out his talons, wrapping a hand around the pommel of the godly weapon.

And it cried out and fought him, for it was consecrated to Khorne and not this usurper, but Khade's will was more than iron or steel. He was firstborn, prime, apex, Unmaker, and the fell runes Kharneth had set into the weapon to ensure none would wield it but him were swiftly undone. Khade pulled the weapon from it's crossguard-deep tomb in the earth; a blade from Khorne's own forge, by the Blood God's own hand. His now, for his fell and evil purposes.

And with this victory, with this plunder, he left the city, blade in one bloody hand and Red Sage in the other.

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

So I decided to actually go through and point out the flaws of the logic of the post I saw regarding Hero and how it foreshadows James’s fall because I just have a mighty need to discuss it. 

I still am not positive how we’re supposed to perceive any part of the song as a threat to the person it is being sung to. The post never elaborates on this point so I just really have no clue what exactly they think makes the song a “threat”. Their is a  section of the song I though maybe it was referring to:

Portrayed as cruel and heartless, 

I am might I am power, I'm due process, I will smite

Our enemies destroy Mettle I'll deploy

But to me the lyrics are more of a threat to anyone who would cause harm not to the person being sung to. Again it’s hard to really argue with their argument as we don’t get much more then “Trust me I said so” so I am just kind of having to guess here for that particular part. But that section is what I would call the most “threatening” portion that feels very obviously directed towards Salem in his mind and the unseen threat to the listener. 

Their is also an oh so convenient skipping over of what I find to be the most powerful part of the song: I would die Without regret, I'd offer up my life With zero reservations I would fly Into the sun, if that would keep our dream alive

Deliver you from harm Shelter in my arms The fear will surely fade Know right now the plan I made will guide us home We'll survive this storm

It is also important to note that this section is where the song start off in Gravity. The very first words of Hero most people heard where “I would die” we see James fighting Watts and a song that is James’s song declaring his willingness to die if it meant keeping people safe. Those are the first words we see from the song meant to be a gateway into James’s mind, a willingness to die for the dream, and an assurance that he will keep you safe and that somehow they will make it through the darkness and find the light again. Somehow you have convinced yourself that that is somehow a threat and mimicking the villains? 

I- I have no words. You literally acknowledge this section is the damn chorus, the section of the song that is supposed to repeat and are now trying to insist it is an obsessive mantra. Trying to argue the chorus is an obsessive mantra makes no damn sense at all. It’s taking something that is in most songs and trying to make it into something it is not. Here is how the chorus is defined: Chorus. The chorus is the big payoff and climax of the song. It's also where the verse and pre-chorus have been reduced to a simple repeated sentiment.

So in this case, the climax, the payoff and sentiment the song wants you to walk away with can be broken down to Ironwoods strong desire to protect people, a willingness to put himself in extreme danger and suffer extreme harm to do so, and an assurance to hang in their a little longer. Which reads as they initially correctly pointed out, a comforting gesture meant to reassure the listener that no matter how bad or scary things seem, they will survive, they will make it through and be okay. That’s not an obsessive mantra, it’s an assurance, a promise. 

This is truly a gross misreading of the text in volume 7 it’s actually infuriating. It wasn’t about just “Keeping Atlas afloat” Salem, the person hellbent on ending the world whom he just discovered is immortal was heading straight for Atlas and they had no plan to deal with her. He was traumatized and triggered and terrified what happened to Beacon would happen to Atlas and knew she wanted to end the world. Yes, he was going to leave behind those trapped on Mantel but them dying? Is still Salem’s fault. She is the one killing people. She is the one who is willing to do anything to get what she wants and what she wants is to end the world and Atlas is currently housing literally half if the items she needs to do that. Trying to make sure she doesn’t get those items isn’t him focusing on just trying to keep Atlas afloat its about trying to keep the whole damn world from dying. 

Yes,, James does some horrific things in volume 8, I won’t pretend that is not the case, the issue is it happens far to quickly and in a way that is not only extremely out of character but also is extremely ableist and harmful. But reassuring someone who reasonably would be terrified and unsure if they can survive the storm that they will make it is not an obsessive craze to “protect”. No one accuses the mains of being obsessed with being Heroes, people just say they are trying to protect people. So trying to twist James into some man obsessed with Atlas just really doesn’t work especially given the lyrics of the song. 

This section is an odd one because that line is literally a callback to a comment James  made back in volume 2 towards Ozpin asking him if he thinks his children can win a war and Ozpin sadly saying he hopes they won’t. It was an ideological conflict wherein James has faith in his Atlesian Knights taking over the battlefield, Ozpin seems to be more content with the status quo. James recognizes how dangerous being a hunter is and sees a lot of people dying from it and thinks they need a new way of dealing with the Grimm that minimized people on the battlefield. We also did see in volume 2 James is willing to listen to other people and follow their plans instead. James wanted to send his army to investigate Mount Glenn, Ozpin wanted to send team RWBY and James follows his lead and lets him send team RWBY which leads to a complete disaster. The WF just moves their plan forward and invades Vale and sends everyone into a panic and leads to a lot of destruction of the city. But also, this section is kind of trying to be miseading, “I’ve made my plan” is the ending of the verse that goes:

What if it's true as they say That I don't have a heart That I'm more a machine than a man? What would that change Would it matter at all? I've made my plan

The I’ve made my plan section is referencing back to the section where James is wondering, am I a monster? Am I just being heartless and cruel? Before disregarding the fear and reminding himself more then anything that he has a plan, he knows what he’s doing and regardless of what people say that won’t change his course of action because he believes it can keep people safe. 

I actually sat down and listened to Sacrifice for this post and I just am not seeing what they are implying here in Sacrifice. With how many people I’ve seen say it I imagine their is something that is just not clicking lolz and I’d love to hear other peoples thoughts on this. The only thing that maybe would work is this little section here:

What if all the plans you made

Where not worth the price they paid

That section I can kind of see, in Hero it mentions having a plan and Sacrifice questions if the plan is worth the price which again, I do think Volume 7 introduced a trolley problem which both sides had a high price, one that should not have to be paid but one Salem was going to take no matter what any party did and the decision came down to more what was the least awful price to pay which is not an easy question to answer nor a rabbit hole I intend on exploring in this post.

Back to the point I really really do not understand how they could walk away from Hero thinking James is mimicking Salem, the person responsible for his severe trauma. The song has brief mentions about how emotions can get in the way of doing what needs to be done which in some ways is true. Emotions can cloud peoples judgement and keep them from seeing clearly. You can’t completely ignore your emotions like James toys with in volume 7 but that scene always read to me as a traumatized person trying to emotionally work through everything that happened and kind of wishing he didn’t have to feel all of those complicated feelings he’s dealing with which....I honestly get. I imagine most of us have things in our lives that cause us pain, things we wish we didn’t have to feel and wish we could make go away. That doesn’t make us, or James, like the villains for feeling those things.

The whole “Casting doubt on RWBY + JNRO thing is a continuing problem within the FNDM. They simultaneously insist we can’t be too critical of them because “they’re just kids” while also trying to insist they are the only ones who can save the world and we shouldn’t doubt them because they aren’t kids. The narrative can’t seem to make up its mind on what it’s trying to say about them in regards to whether they are adults who can be trusted to handle these things or if they’re just uwu sad kids and its oh so sad they have to fight. We cannot have it both ways, either they are kids who shouldn’t have to fight a war, or they are adults who can make their own choices. The arc we see James go on is one wherein he does see the students as kids who shouldn’t have to be fighting this war but also recognizes they have to and seeing how RWBY has grown and all that they have endured and recognizes they can handle the heavy responsibility of being huntress’s when he gives them their licenses. The line is just a callback to volume 2 and you my dude are reading way to much into it lolz. (also I hate to break it to you but the rabbit hole is not that deep. CRWBY just is constantly throwing spaghetti at the wall and praying something sticks and the FNDM is falling for it.)

The point being, it is so frustrating seeing people not taking Hero, a song which James declares he is willing to die to save people, is willing to suffer extreme pain and harm to stop Salem followed by him willingly searing the flesh off of his own arm to stop Watts, and say it shows he is a villain.

We can see here how much pain he is in as he is doing this. He has to stop and he grabs his arm in pain because it hurts so much and understandably so. It’s agonizing but he tries. 

Some people think here he’s even starting to go into shock from the shear agony of what he is trying to do, but he does it anyways. He pushes through the unbearable pain because he knows what will happen if he doesn’t. His song is called Hero because in this moment, he was being a true hero in a scene that none of the mains have come even close to matching. Hero is about a man fighting to try and keep the world from ending and reassuring the people looking up to him that they can do it, they just have to hold on. 

[writer-of-various]

Ghost/Rudy – Fire

Beginning of Hurt/Comfort or Hurt/No Comfort week!!! Send in those angsty prompts!

How did this happen? They were so careful, so cautious, they checked every room and cleared every corner. How did they not hear the footsteps of one enemy soldier, the reloading of a SMG. Rudy wants to blame it on the ticking of a bomb that was nearing the deadline, Ghost wants to blame it on the stressful situation they were in. Civilians, enemies, terrorists, ticking bombs, snipers and helicopters and being separated from the others. Too much in only under an hour.

The round of the SMG goes off, and Rudy fortunately manages to disarm the enemy and kill him. Ghost took damage, his vest destroyed and about three bullets pierced through, surface level. One bullet lodged in his left calf, he fell from the attack and Rudy couldn't help. He had to disarm the bomb, they had 30 seconds. He listened to Ghost's grunts, fingers moving quick but still it was too late. It happened all so fast.

The explosion left their ears ringing, vision blacking out as the building they were in collapsed under the force. The ground shook and Rudy tried moving to protect Ghost but a light fell and knocked him out momentarily. When he awoke, Ghost was pinned down by a large wall of debris and Rudy knows he has a mild concussion; his vision blurred as he tries removing the debris on top of him. He does it though, crawling over to Ghost and trying to lift the large object off of him, his adrenaline wearing thin.

"Dammit" He whimpers, looking at Ghost and taking off his hoodie. He bunches it up and places it under Ghost's head, the man mumbling incoherently as he tries grabbing Rudy's arms. Rudy lets him, flinching when he hears yelling, the language Arabic, speaking too fast and low for him to understand. There was a shuffling sound before footsteps put distance between them and the couple. Heat suddenly fills the air, and Rudy catches the glimpse of dancing flames, taunting him and spinning closer. He's frozen, staring at the bright flames that would engulf him and Ghost any moment.

"R-rud....get out" Ghost coughs out, groaning as the pressure of the object crushed his body. Rudy is shaking, eyes wide and he's remembering Hassan, the house, the fire and pain from being hit so hard and left for dead. Alejandro came back for him, but can Rudy save Ghost? He has to, he isn't leaving until his lover is safe and away from harm's way.

He looks back down at Ghost and shakes his head, continuing his futile attempts of removing the debris. Smoked filled the air and it attacked his lungs, corrupting the fresh air he had stored and constricting his airway. He coughs, eyes stinging with tears as he strains his muscles, praying to whatever is out there that Ghost is going to make it. For the fire to take him and not Ghost, his Simon, the lieutenant who has more to live and fight for.

"Ru-rudy! Baby, look a-at me" Ghost orders weakly and Rudy stops, staring at his boyfriend with sad eyes. Ghost caresses his arm, eyes dull and dark and Rudy whimpers, screaming no like a mantra. He doesn't care that specks of ash are falling on him as the ceiling is consumed by the fire, as prices of rubble hit him– he just focuses on Ghost. He would die alongside Ghost, he would die protecting Ghost.

The roar of the fire mocked him, saving him for last as it consumed everything around him. Rudy feels his body give out, blood running cold and his hands growing numb but he continues his efforts to save Ghost. The wall manages to lift a few inches and Rudy is struggling to stand, to throw it off. The fire cackles, flames dancing as it bites into the wall, edging closer to him, arms length away and Rudy panics. He sobs, continuing to push until the wall slams back, the fire spreading to the floor and Rudy quickly grabs Ghost. He drags the man from the ankles, screaming for the others, screaming for anyone. If enemies appear, he'll trade his life for Ghost's, he would do anything to make sure he faces the barrel of a gun and not Ghost.

"Hold on, cariño, h-hold on" Rudy whispers, his brain wailing alarms and signals, his adrenaline increasing and suddenly his body is feverishly hot with energy as he drags Ghost outside the burning building. He stops when they reach the porch and picks Ghost up with surprising strength, stumbling down the plaza and wincing as the bright lights of abandoned emergency vehicles. He falls, making sure he's Ghost's cushion as he sucks in the air, his lungs burning and he knows he has to be dying. Everything hurt, his whole body was consumed by the fire but Ghost made it out, he saved Ghost.

"Rudy..." Ghost murmurs, forcing his eyes to open and his head to tilt so he can see his beloved. Panic eats at him as Rudy stares up at the night sky, his chest not raising and he looks so peaceful, so innocent and calm. "R-rudy, Ru-rudy! Rudy!"

Ghost is screaming, throat stinging and there's a coppery taste in his mouth, but he doesn't stop screaming his lover's name. Not when medics show up, not when he watches Rudy lifted and put into the back of an ambulance. Not when he's inspected and also put into an ambulance, not when Price begs him to calm down and claims that Rudy is okay. Rudy isn't okay, he wasn't moving, wasn't breathing! Why couldn't they understand? Rudy needed help, they weren't helping him!

He doesn't remember anything other than the feeling of a needle piercing through the skin of his wrist and his body growing tired despite the waves of adrenaline. His vision blacks out, and he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

____

When Ghost wakes up, he's on a hospital bed and hooked up. His left leg is in a cast and numbed of pain, his whole body felt tired and heavy. He tried sitting up, grunting at the sharp pain in his lower back. The door opens and Price looks up from the coffees he's carrying, whispering loudly to someone behind him.

"You bloody idiot, quit playing with the straws!" "Soap, stop!" "Ha!" Soap and Alejandro walk in behind Price, the taller man complaining as Soap poked him with a straw. Price looks over to the bed, smiling when he sees Ghost staring at them with mild amusement.

"Simon, how are you kid?" He asks, walking over as the two perk up once seeing Ghost awake.

"I feel like shit." Is all Ghost mumbles, looking at Alejandro expectantly and the colonel seems to curl into himself, frowning as he averts his gaze. Price and Soap notice this, sharing worried looks and Ghost pushes through the pain and sits up, glaring at the three. "Where's Rudy?"

"He's okay, he is–" "WHERE IS HE?" Ghost growls, already ripping off the IVs in his arms and Price quickly stops him while Soap presses the button beside the bed to call for a nurse. Ghost pushes Price away, struggling to get out of the bed and Alejandro rushes over, pressing his hands against Ghost's chest.

"Hermano, Rudy is a floor above, he's under watch. He's...not okay, he inhaled too much smoke and has a major concussion, as well as a broken ankle and sprained wrist. He kept going under, one of his ribs fractured and nearly penetrated his left lung. He had three surgeries, and is in a mild coma." Alejandro explains, voice dejected and Ghost freezes at each word. His Rudy, his only love, almost died because of him. Rudy did so much to protect him, selfless and resilient, and Ghost was the one awake and breathing normally.

"Can I see him?" He whispers, voice hoarse suddenly but he doesn't care about his reputation at the moment.

Price shakes his head, a heavy frown tracing his lips as he helps Ghost get back into his bed. "I'm sorry, son, but no one is really allowed to see him now. He has guards outside his door, and the best damn doctor and nurses to help him. He's going to make it, okay?"

Ghost nods, his mind in a turmoil as a part of him wants to believe Price, wants to believe Rudy would make it out fine. But his life experiences, the losses and defeats, the guilt and depression and anger– he knows better to hold false hope. He lets himself become empty, staring at nothing as the three men around him try conversing, trying to get him out of his head.

His Rudy...his beautiful Rodolfo.

[soapssuds]

chant the same old mantra

gojo x wife!reader pt. 3

i just wanna be loved. stop destroying what is left of your heart by constantly thinking about things that have broken you.

pt.1 , pt. 2

taglist

@acornwinter @shokosbunny @tw0fvced @thesunxwentblack @roscpctals99 @mononlogue @meg3mis @lailamatepeque @iamrgo @crookedtimetravelheart @jsprien213 @avaliniko @mischeif-maker @theepitomeofswag @akio-ayashi @saihar4s @dann-acalle @yozora7154 @spookysoowpprince @iluv-ace

some say "no blogs found" when i try to tag them

The moment that Ijichi got off the phone you had immediately punched him right in the gut, “idiot! Why did you call Gojo?! I have everything under control!”

Which was the truth, sure at first the situation did start to get out of handle, but by gritting your teeth and using all the strength you had left you took out the enemy the second that Ijichi got off the phone.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And now he’s coming here. Do you realize how mad he will be once he realizes that he came here for nothing-?!”

“I wouldn’t say it was for nothing,” Gojo said.

His sudden voice and appearance made you groan both inwardly and outwardly as you turned to look at him. His body seeming to materialize out of thin air.

He… teleported himself here?

“Gojo.”

Ijichi looked between you both and had instantly felt the tension, so he politely excused himself as he went to go get the car, and once he was gone you crossed your arms over your chest.

“I thought I said not to come for me?”

“You did, but I chose not to listen.”

You saw how he pulled his blindfold off, slowly as if to see your reaction. You gave him no indication to caring.

“As per usual. You never seem to listen. At least not to me.”

“Y/n, I-“

You stopped him, “you know, maybe this is a good time to finally talk things out. Honestly, it has all been weighing on my mind recently, and then Megumi talked to me…,” you trailed off before looking at Gojo. And you really looked at him.

Despite being older now, he still looked like his old self. Strong, worried over his teammates, and unbelievably cocky. But you also saw the memories that came with it. The unspoken words od I love you that gradually turned to hate just because he was forced to marry you.

You wondered, silently, that if he wasn’t forced, then would your relationship have been normal?

Would you both have gone through an ordinary relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend before he eventually pops the question one lazy afternoon when you’re both sitting on the couch watching a Digimon rerun.

What wishful thinking.

“Gojo. This isn’t working out. Not anymore.”

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, anything, but in the end, he was at a loss for words. It wasn’t until he saw you turn to walk away that he stopped you.

“So what now?”

It wasn’t a question you were expecting Gojo to ask you. He didn’t seem like the type to care. At least, not now anyway.

“Divorce?”

The word slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it. A mere suggestion in hopes that he agrees.

“No can do.”

You frowned at his dismissal as you finally turned back to him, “and why not?”

“Our family agreement, remember? In order for us to get a divorce, you have to have a kid with me.”

You thought back to the arrangement meeting, to the wedding, to how he hadn’t made a move to touch you at all. You thought back to the agreement. How could you possibly forget?

Well, then again, it was easy too when Gojo made you want to forget…

“Fine, we can adopt-“

“Has to be ours, wifey.”

You pursed your lips at that, your anger slowly starting to take root.

“Whatever, so once that happens, you’ll let me go?”

He watched you intently as you spoke those words. Let you go, huh? He felt like he never had you to begin with. All because of his own doing no less.

“Sure, anything you want…”

You watched him carefully before sighing, “fine then, I guess I’ll see you back at the estate?”

“Our estate.”

“Not for long,” you said simply before hearing the honk of horn only to see Ijichi pull up with the car, “now, are you coming, or are you going to teleport again?”

Gojo was surprised that you even asked, but he smiled nonetheless and agreed to join you in the backseat. He didn’t expect anything like this to happen today.

But now he had a new goal to work towards, and that was to not give you a baby.

[narrowroadblog]

Is Christianity Exclusive?

Is Christianity exclusive? Short answer yes…..and no. Let’s talk about the “no” part first. Christianity welcomes everyone. You need not come from a family of Christian believers nor live in a particular part of the world. Your skin color or any other attribute of who you are does not matter. Jesus welcomes all as John clarified in John 3:16. In this aspect, Christianity is not exclusive. However, Christianity is exclusive when it comes to the truth. Consider this verse in the Gospel of John: John 14:6 (ESV) 6 Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Exclusivity in a Postmodern World If you are a Christian and read this verse, you would hopefully come away believing that there is one single way to God, and that is through accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. However, in a recent Pew Forum study, 57% of self-professing Christians believe there is more than one way to heaven, despite the verse above that undoubtedly is in their Bible as well. How could this be? Unfortunately, the religious landscape has changed dramatically over the past couple of decades and quite a few pew sitters today have adopted a postmodern view that is built around tolerance and relativism. These individuals and church leaders do not want to offend anyone and build their message around acceptance and universalism. The message from the pulpit becomes a watered-down feel-good message instead of proclaiming the truth of God’s Word. After all, we do not want to seem out of harmony with the world, do we? We might lose some members of our church…… In our postmodern world, being too harsh and judgmental is an affront to society. Those who say Christianity is the only way to salvation feel it is not fair or it’s too arrogant to make such a claim. Relativism, the belief that truth is merely the opinion of an individual and can be different for others, is the mantra of today. Truth is Exclusive However, truth by its nature is exclusive. When one says they have the truth, they are also saying all other contradictory claims are false. This is the basic tenet of the Law of Non-Contradiction. Either A is true and B is false or vice versa, but not both. For example, both Christianity and Islam claim exclusivity to the truth. Only one of these claims is true. Given that the population of non-Christians in the world is at approximately 70%, Matthew 7:13-14 seems extremely prophetic: 13 “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. 14 For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” If you hold fast to believing the Bible is God’s Word and that Jesus Christ is the only way, then you must stand against the majority of the world. We cannot and must not alter this message to appease the sensitivity of the postmodernists. This also means we should not remain silent when asked to defend our faith. Silence can easily be perceived as acceptance. I think many of us have a fear of losing friendships if we take a stand, and thus take the easy way out by simply tolerating the individual, which in essence, affirms their belief. Nowhere in Scripture does it say we are to be tolerant to a message in contrast to the claims of Christ. We are to love our enemies (Matthew 5:44), but not a message that clearly is against Scripture. Judgment on our part, however, is reserved only for a fellow believer, and not for the rest of the world (1 Corinthians 5:12). Christianity is being attacked from all directions today, just as it always has been. While we focus much concern on the external forces trying to destroy the church of Christ, we must not overlook the internal efforts within our own congregation that attempt to alter the Word of God so that it fits in today’s postmodern world. This can be particularly devastating, especially in a church that does not practice biblical discipline. John MacArthur said this, “We need to regain our confidence in the power of God's truth. And we need to proclaim boldly that Christ is the only true hope for the people of this world. That may not be what people want to hear in this pseudo-tolerant age of postmodernism. But it is true nonetheless. And precisely because it is true and the gospel of Christ is the only hope for a lost world, it is all the more urgent that we rise above all the voices of confusion in the world and say so.” Here is a great article for further study. Shop now Read the full article

[hypersonicjd]

I honestly couldn’t have put it better myself. This is incredibly well thought out and when I read: Sonic is already peak, I felt that SO much.  THAT is why I love Sonic. He’s already what he was meant to be, just a chill guy that you meet one day, he changes your life forever and he dips to another adventure. Funny enough, Sonic has a few similarities to Nights in terms of their main principals and ideals.

Nights is a character who happens to appear in the life of a boy and a girl who have begun to struggle with mental situations, both of them being related to anxiety and starting to develop nightmares. He happens to help them through those dreams to finally face the last enemy (even needing the help of the kids at one point) only to then leave the kids be and face their fears, thanks to their newfound peace, understanding and hope that Nights brought them.

Sonic is a character who happens to appear in the life of many characters that are going through rough patches (Blaze carrying her burdern as the guardian of the sol emeralds and the princess of her world, Shadow having been brainwashed and influenced to destroy all of humanity for a corrupted promise, Knuckles having been tricked by Eggman, Silver struggling with his moratility and being deceived by an evil force to do a horrible act) and thanks to his way of living life and how he treats other people, he’s able to change them by his actions and his mantra.

“I’m just a guy that loves adventure, I’m Sonic The Hedgehog!” That’s all there is to it and I absolutely love the simplicity, yet depth that it is able to carry. I will always despise IDW for having ruined all of that with Sonic having some sort of moraility. Not every character needs to go through an arc, not every needs to change to make an impact in their world and ours. 

It still hurts to see people beginning to generalize Sonic into a mold because ���it’s easier to understand” and “why don’t you want a character to change and grow and become better!?” Because they WERE ALREADY PEAK. 

Thank you for your post. It really means a lot.

My opinion on IDW being canon to Sonic

I watched a video by GamesCage on the topic, who I've been watching a long while on YT before subscribing to him recently on Twitch, and it reminded me of my own thoughts on the matter as well!

But first some preemptive notes because I am entering Sonic discoursespace:

This is just some guy's opinion about a little blue dude! That's it! If you hate it or me personally because of it, I refer you to this image:

I won't ever go into using insulting or uncivil language. But because this is an opinion essay and I got opinions up the wazoo, I'm also not trying to word things in some neutral, disinterested way to appeal to all audiences here

That being said, game-story-wise, we don't fuck with meta-era shit here. I Do Not See It

I'm all for chats and discussions about the topic, agreement or disagreement alike in response to this essay—things just ought to stay civil and respectful. Think of WWSD (What Would Sonic Do?) and the image above

Sonic's morality and what IDW misunderstands of it

Though I respect what the IDW team does (I fondly remember following Evan Stanley's Ghosts of the Future on Deviantart back in the day), I don't prefer their characterisation of Sonic, and that alone is enough to have me a little chagrined as to IDW's integration into the games' canon. I think it's because, ultimately, it detracts from what makes Sonic's character—specifically his morality—unique and appealing to me. Though he isn't nearly as anti-hero in nature as characters like Shadow, Sonic still has moral tendencies that are atypical for characters that occupy the hero role as he's been avowed to have in the games, e.g. being labelled Team Hero with Tails and Knuckles multiple times

To give some sense of signposting, here are the headings of this essay:

Sonic distinctive moral thinking - The games' simple, reactive Sonic - IDW's merciful, principles-first Sonic: on freedom and oppression - Sonic's self-centred in a way, though, right? The mascot problem - "What's your idea then, genius?" – the reader reading this - Why keep things static - Examples of peak Sonic Conclusion

Sonic's distinctive moral thinking

To contextualise my judgement of Sonic as distinctive in his moral thinking, I think there is a tendency in Western media to give heroic characters very merciful streaks. Think Superman or Batman—codes of never killing or always offering mercy, often with backstory or informed moral reasoning behind it. While these streaks are understandable, they appear often and thus don't ring as special or particularly unique to me. Sonic has always been interesting to me because he explicitly does not entertain such clear moral principles. His attitudes embodied in his SA2 theme "It Doesn't Matter," Sonic Unleashed, or the Storybook Series (Black Knight being my favourite), show that he just does what he thinks is right and shows no qualms using considerable force (lethal in the case of Black Knight) if he has to against those he thinks are doing wrong—even against people who he would be friends with, like Merlina. He does not barter or reason; he takes action, moves before he thinks, and follows his heart

The games' simple, reactive Sonic

From my interpretation of Sonic regarding mercy, examples from the games show how he isn't interested in rehabilitating or looking for threats to neutralise like some Miguel O'Hedgehog. These tendencies become most apparent when his friends are involved. A standout example is when Amy protects E-102 Gamma from Sonic, convincing Sonic that he isn't like the other badniks. Another, more indirect example is Gemerl, where Sonic fights and subdues him from causing more harm but Tails is the one who reprograms and rehabilitates Gemerl, who lives happily with Cream and Vanilla with his more peaceful disposition. Sonic doesn't go out of his way to help Gemerl post-defeat, but he doesn't doubt or attack him further after his integration either

At heart, I find Sonic to be a reactive, not proactive, hero. He won't go out of his way to check if the day needs saving—he's not a dutiful guardian doing patrol like Knuckles or a principled fighter for an organisation like Shadow—but if Sonic sees someone in need, he won't just pass them by. And I find Sonic's moral judgements to be simple, instinctual, and self-centred in the most literal sense. They come from his bias towards his friends' judgement and what he believes to be right, regardless of how others may judge his actions. I've only mentioned some examples, but they highlight to me that Sonic is neither healer nor hunter. His main priority isn't rehabilitating or reasoning with his foes—he will do what he feels he needs to do, even if that means destroying something or someone for good. But, as Amy for E-102 and Tails and Cream for Gemerl show, he won't go out of his way to make sure threats are dealt with through violence if his friends vouch for them.

IDW's merciful, principles-first Sonic: on freedom and oppression

In IDW, the topic of him showing so much mercy and espousing freedom as an ideal he thinks everyone, even his enemies, deserves makes him much more merciful and deliberate in his mercy than I like him to be. I want to discuss this by briefly expanding on oppression and freedom, a topic that comes up in Surge and Sonic's fight and Surge angrily questions why Sonic wouldn't just end her. Sonic essentially answers it's because he values freedom for all, including his enemies', because he can exercise his freedom to stop them. It's representative of why I think some fans take issue with Sonic's characterisation because it warps how much Sonic might believably value freedom versus oppression on two flops: on philosophical concepts and characterisation.

IDW's concept flop, to me, shows a fundamental misunderstanding on the nature of oppression and freedom, assuming some inherent ranking of freedom above oppression. The two are different things: freedom is a kind of instrument, a means of doing things, a concept that has no content in and of itself. In other words, you have the freedom to do X; having freedom is only meaningful insofar as it enables to do what you want. Oppression, however, is not an instrument in the same way; it makes far less sense to say 'you have the oppression to do X' or 'you are oppressed to do X' like you could for 'freedom' and 'free'. Freedom, precisely because it is an instrument, enables far more flexibility—both good, evil, and neutral acts can arise from it. Oppression is a state of being with an inherently negative core, predicated on suffering and the oppressed being harmed.

Quick and messy take from me on this: freedom for all and oppression for some is worse(!) than freedom for some and oppression for none. But here's something that has a source, leading to the characterisation flop: according to Sonic Adventure's DX Director's Cut manual, the only thing Sonic hates is oppression (for, presumably, anyone). Honestly, you don't even need a game manual to tell you that. I think IDW writers make the mistake of assuming the inverse to be true of Sonic as well: that the thing he loves most is freedom (for, presumably, anyone).

Oppression being the only thing Sonic hates does not mean freedom is the only thing Sonic loves.

It may be notoriously slippery to insist on consistency in the Sonic franchise (or maybe franchises, plural), but this philosophical gloss on freedom and oppression starts to explain why IDW's characterisation strikes me as inherently contradictory to Sonic's preexisting values. Namely, it shows how IDW commits a false equivalence between the two and assigns it to Sonic. Sure, Sonic likes freedom, but that's different to showing mercy and second chances. IDW ends up conflating the two. As a result, IDW has Sonic care more about the principle of freedom than about the feelings and suffering he knows he or his loved ones have gone through. Put another way, it makes little to no sense why Sonic would prioritise freedom for all, even his enemies, when he has been shown to much more consistently put the most weight on what his friends feel and what he himself thinks. IDW does little to no detectable work establishing why Sonic would have such priorities either

Also, not a real argument—just taking things to the extreme in a throwaway thought—but could you imagine Sonic in the beginning of Unleashed actually considering Eggman's pleas saying he's changed and telling Eggman he...values his freedom? Like. c'mon

Sonic's self-centred in a way, though, right?

How about that self-centred angle, though? Sonic's way of thinking is highly independent—he will do what he thinks is right, first and foremost. It would be easy to claim that IDW's characterisation is just a mindset Sonic just holds in the comics, and that alone passes muster; his brand of ethical egoism admittedly does a lot as writerly cover to justify nigh anything about him. Looks like a hedgehog, smells like a hedgehog; chances are it's our hedgehog, right?

I disagree. One: if IDW is considered canon and yet is just so different to what's appealing about Sonic in the games, then the decision to make IDW Sonic canon, to be frank, kinda sucks. That ain't my Sonic—that's some Marvelised-DC version of him trying to moralise that I don't find compelling, distinctive, or endearing.

Two: even if you try to adopt the angle that upholding freedom for all would just be what Sonic believes to be right, it would still be the same as saying Sonic cares more about philosophical ideals than what he sees right in front of him. He's famously poked fun at Knuckles for being gullible before—why is Sonic himself showing that same gullibility and benefit of the doubt towards hostile enemies or those who have notably wrought so much damage to the lives of those he loves?

The trouble is that IDW builds no meaningful narrative foundations on top of which to stake this claim on Sonic's mindset when the games exist. Like, I don't even privilege the games just because they've been around first and for longer (even though, hey, that is true)—he's just cooler in them. Sonic is no philosopher; he's repeatedly shown it's genuinely not that deep when it comes to his moral thinking in the games. All it is is that he has a good heart. As a result, it comes off as a considerable mischaracterisation to show his enemies mercy mostly in the name of freedom or hope for their change (i.e. lofty ideals) compared to something actionable he can do (i.e. kick their ass and break their tech so they don't hurt anyone he cares about again).

The mascot problem

GamesCage mentions a worthwhile point which he calls the mascot problem. Sonic, as a mascot for Sega, has certain narrative lines he cannot cross or change for good. Like with Mario, there is a clear status quo to maintain; for one, Eggman cannot ever truly be vanquished. However, unlike Mario (with the one exception of Super Mario Galaxy), Sonic routinely has narratives that he and his friends undergo. There has to be this delicate balance that Sonic Team, IDW, and anyone writing for Sonic must contend with as a result. You have to write stories—events and plot where characters grow and change and are affected—but maintain the status quo where many fundamental things cannot change

In other words: how do you explain that Sonic never gets rid of Eggman or his other enemies because he, as a company mascot, cannot ever do so?

IDW does this one way by assigning Sonic an inadvertent little philosopher's cap, which I've already opined is a mischaracterisation. It also just generates another kind of untenable narrative problem that's even harder to reconcile: how do you justify that Sonic, hero with a heart of gold, just lets his enemies keep on going for freedom's sake? Arguably, all that does is dress up the mascot problem but with worse consequences—it makes Sonic less likable. It casts him as someone who essentially ends up condoning his enemies' actions, which has already led readers to question his judgement and whether they would even want to root for a character like that when you have an alternative and contradicting blueprint that the games have already provided for him. Like, my boy embodies direct action and IDW turns it into direct-ish-but-hey-do-what-you-want-who-am-I-to-judge action. Dress it up however you want; it's a nerf on who he is

"What's your idea then, genius?" – the reader reading this

In my eyes, what could work for the mascot problem is falling back on the static nature of the characters that have already been long established. The basic formula is there: Eggman is tricksy, proactive, and two steps ahead, but Sonic is always good-hearted enough, reactive enough, and fast enough to catch up by the end.

Elaborating on that formula, you have enough of Sonic's existing characteristics to justify why bad things keep happening despite his presence. He's not like Iron Man, who takes it upon himself to leverage his resources and power to look out for the world when no one's really asked him to. Again, Sonic is a reactive hero; he's not a ruthless hunter and he likes his peace and quiet as well as his adventure. He'll do what he can to fight what's right in front of him but may miss the bigger picture or potential traps by going in too fast. That happened in the beginning of Sonic Unleashed and it made sense. Even in Black Knight, you had him try to whale on King Arthur armed with just a decreasing number of chilli dogs. In an extended or episodic storytelling format, this allows other characters to shine—Tails's powers of analysis, Amy's ability to connect with others emotionally, Knuckles' sense of duty—by contributing to plans and helping Sonic because he has persistent, character-defining flaws. Highlighting his non-proactive and chill nature allows for arcs with more breathing room, too, where the characters aren't going up against some world-ending force or they all hang out. On that front, I'd say IDW has done well giving other characters that spotlight

Briefly touching upon Eggman's characterisation and how that might address the mascot problem, his tried-and-true tendencies should be relied upon, too. He is incredibly intelligent but also a massive narcissist—it makes sense that he has his own sense of short-sightedness where he prioritises and secures his own well-being above all else and underestimates the importance or wrath of godly and natural entities he frequently exploits and disrespects. Because of how strong and distinctive Eggman's brand of narcissism and villainy is, it is honestly fitting that he will never change; that alone explains how often he will cause trouble and will never fully succeed. And that also justifies why Sonic will always be the one to fight him. Both have their imperfections and flaws and that has them in a deadlock.

Why keep things static?

Now, this might bring up the question of static-ness. It might seem like an odd solution to mascot problem to just lean into it. Surely, there has to be greater justification or some potential for change for things to stay interesting, appealing, and compelling for Sonic and his stories.

In response, here's my hot take: ya don't need any of that.

Here's a longer version of my hot take: in any given narrative, Sonic is at his best when he does not grow or change. Sonic is already peak. Others may flounder and oscillate, but he remains steadfast with his heart of gold. He is a pillar of strength. He is static. Think of him in the Sonic Adventure games, characters and humans' reactions to him in Sonic X, the knights of the round table's reactions to him in Black Knight, Chip himself remarking that Sonic has such a good heart that not even the powers of a fucking dark primordial god infecting and transforming him can change who he is on the inside in Unleashed. When unstoppable forces come about, lo and behold, he is the immovable object they meet!

Sonic always stays on the move—that's how you can justify all the amazing, different, wild stories he'll go through, because he is an adventurer at heart. You don't need to humanise a character and subject them to point-A-to-point-B arcs to make them enduring, beloved characters. Just because that's a common format for characters and stories and comics to take nowadays doesn't mean that it's a good fit for Sonic. He's never been one to do something just because everyone else is doing it anyway. I, no joke, think Sonic should be treated like a mythical folklore figure, never-changing and transforming the lives of those he meets before breezing on by—and what figures are more enduring in our consciousness than those of mythology?

And, to refer to IDW, there isn't any need to wax philosophical on top of that. Like I've repeatedly said so far, Sonic is no philosopher (and saying this as someone who did philosophy for undergrad, thank fuck for that). Leave the philosophising and podcast soundbites and video essays to the fans—in fact, I'd even wager the simplicity of Sonic's premise and character, or, hell, even the dissatisfaction that can come from that, is why his fandom even thrives (but that's definitely a separate topic).

Examples of peak Sonic

I forget which interview this was, but Sonic's characterisation was inspired off of Bill Clinton (aged like milk I know; this was before his scandal with Lewinsky), from the idea that actions speak louder than words for him. Obviously, Sonic does get in his quips with his friends and enemies alike, but he's not supposed to be Marvel superhero about it and isn't actually a massive braggart. Even the first episode of Sonic X shows his confidence and demeanour so well—he doesn't need to moralise or talk your ear off for you to know he'll fuck you up. And that's just so much cooler than what IDW accomplishes with their version of Sonic

Like, consider my beloved Murder of StH, which the IDW team had a considerable hand in! Sonic—while recognising that the train is more advanced than other badniks, exhibiting personhood and consciousness—still has the sole objective of destroying the train. Everyone shines and, granted, the format has it so that Sonic doesn't really appear till the end, but he's characterised pitch-perfectly there, instilling so much hope and forward momentum not only in his gameplay but in the heart of the player. Honestly, his late contribution arguably echoes Sonic X, where he often disappears or does his own thing, too

Even in a game or storytelling format where he should be front and centre, you could even explore some big themes with Sonic precisely because of his mental and emotional fortitude! The Storybook Series are so stellar in this regard—you got Sonic helping out Shahra, domestic abuse victim, on dealing with sadness, and him helping Merlina with existentialism and death of all the fucking things. And he doesn't flap his lips about it; he shows it through his actions. He's the protagonist but not in a traditional sense—he's the support and passing through and being unfathomably fuckin cool about it. Any lessons he ends up teaching you is not because he's out to teach you—it's because he's just living his own way and, wouldn't you know it, you just happened to be around for the ride

Conclusion

I'm not excited about IDW Sonic being considered canon because he comes off as an overeager philosopher's take on him when game Sonic is fuckin goated with the sauce. Though the story ideas and arcs in IDW seem cool, Sonic is the heart of the series, and if he's off, then the whole thing ends up a little wonky for my tastes.

To be clear, I don't have issues with different iterations of Sonic as some blanket rule—if the writers do the work to establish why and in what ways Sonic in a particular story is different, then that's just plain fun. Movie Sonic, Sonic Prime, and Sonic Boom are all examples of that. But, above all, the kind of Sonic I adore (and there are in fact many kinds) is the one who you meet and your life is irrevocably changed for the better as he hangs out for a while but never for long. In pivotal moments in the comics, IDW Sonic misses the mark on that for me

Though Sonic Team are making clear moves to integrate all the iterations of Sonic as canon regardless. I do wonder if that, as a move in itself, is the meta-narrative equivalent of Sonic Team changing game-mechanic tacks every game after '06 and Unleashed—a well-intentioned but misguided way to try to appease everyone which I've always thought is the most anti-Sonic thing you can do, but that's just the mascot problem in corporate as opposed to story form.

I was fine with Sonic Twitter just saying 'Everything is canon' as a non-starter – I'll just see how they do what they're intending to do and if I don't like it, then I always got an AO3 account handy

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[sweetesttorture]

Silent Angel

(Fred Weasley x Clairvoyant!Reader)

Masterlist

Tags: Fred lives AU, post battle of Hogwarts AU, Shy!Reader, clairvoyant!reader, American!reader, dark!fred weasley, trigger warnings, whump, angst, so much angst, soulmates, childhood friends to strangers to enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, smut in later chapters, original villains, Adventures in America! AU, reader is an onion and she has LAYERS

Summary:

It wasn't supposed to be this way. You weren't supposed to even exist -- yet, you made a choice, and you were not going to let Fred Weasley die.

Every action has a consequence, you of all people knowing that Fate demands that everything you change demands an equivalent exchange. You've lived like a ghost, silent, watchful, risking life and limb for a boy you met once in the woods when you were nine.

Every action has a consequence. Will your heart be able to accept the unshakeable turn of Fate or will you fight against the tide?

Or. . . will you fall victim to the past you've tried to outrun in your pursuit of happiness?

A world without Voldemort is ready for peace — but in the cracks of its foundations, a new evil is ready to finally blossom … with you as its centerpiece.

———

Chapter 2

Where to Start

(5.9k words)

———

“W. . . Ere. . . Where . . . s . . . She . . ?” 

It was the first words that slipped from Fred’s mouth when he awoke, snapping up and swallowing down his surroundings hungrily. He gasped for breath, chest heaving as his senses came back to him in bits and pieces. The air, heavy with the scent of smoke and iron, filtered into his nose along with the fine particles of dust floating in the air. Every muscle and bone in his body screamed at his every movement; he was vaguely aware of the tourniquet around his left calf. 

Eyes. Lips. Nose. 

When she laughed, it was like tinkling starlight — exactly how he had . . . dreamt. 

Fred laid atop a blanket protecting him from filthy marble floors, his family – George, Ron, Ginny, Bill, his mum, Dad, even Percy – surrounding him with glistening eyes and gasps of delight at his awakening. 

The Great Hall, or more accurately what remained of it, rushed with the aftershocks that came at the end of battle. Bodies – running, searching, lying underneath stained tarpaulin, mourning, grieving, laughing, rejoicing – weaved through the rubble of boulders and destroyed grand tables. It was blissful chaos, knowing that a decades-long war had finally come to a conclusion. 

“Where . . . Where . . .  is she?” Fred repeated, eyes darting between the faces. His senses were still disoriented, vision still frayed and blurred, but the urgency surging through his blood thrummed with an instinctual need to find–

“ Who ? What’s wrong, Freddie?” Molly cupped her son’s cheeks, forcing his crazed eyes on her own. George gently helped his brother sit up straighter, a sturdy hand on his back. 

“H-Her– the girl —” 

“The girl that saved him – us ,” Percy interjected with his signature cool tone. His jaw tensed as he turned away, not meeting Fred’s eyes. “He’s talking about. . . her .” 

“Oh– oh . . . “ Molly nodded, suddenly wrapping her arms around her son’s head and stroking him like a babe. “Hush, don’t worry about that for now–” 

“Where is she? Mum, Percy, where is she ?” Fred was like a broken record, this one mantra the only thing his mind could keenly focus on as he tried to stand. His legs were practically jelly, body screaming and jerking unnaturally as his family tried to protest and keep him resting. But Fred was Fred – and he was standing, eyes still searching for that girl who saved him. 

“Freddie, take it easy, you got a nasty hit to the head,” George soothed. “Mum’s right, just take it slow–”

“Percy, Percy – where– did you see – where – where –” Fred was relentless, pouring every inch of his trembling strength into steadying his breath and muscles, nothing calming him as he turned to the elder Weasley. “Percy. . . please .”

Percy’s stare was hard, obviously weighing something behind the tense sternness that usually adorned his face – but this time it seemed genuine, something truly pressing upon his conscience and worn ethics. 

Molly shook her head as she turned toward her older son, softly pleading, “Percy. . .”

“Take him,” Bill’s face was equally grim but resolved, holding Percy’s shoulder assuredly. 

“He shouldn’t— not now ,” Molly still shook her head. “He just woke up for Merlin’s sake–” 

“Mum,” Ginny grabbed her mother’s hand, calming her with gentle strokes of her thumb against her palm. Her voice was grounded, firm, the strongest sounding out of all of them. “He needs to see. Better now than later.” 

Percy grabbed one side of Fred’s shoulder as he gestured for George to take the other, the two Weasley’s hoisting their brother between them. “You good to walk?” 

“ Yeah , yeah– just–” Fred hissed as he tested his left leg – shit, definitely broken – bracing himself on his brothers. “Take it slow, yeah?” 

“We’ll be gentle with you Freddie,” George teased, which earned a tired, half-baked smile from all the Weasleys – yet, that undercurrent of dread lingered, Fred’s stomach knotting with what they could possibly be afraid of. 

Unless – 

“C’mon, she’s–” Percy swallowed, Fred feeling the way his brother’s hand trembled ever so slightly. “She’s this way.” 

True to their word, they helped Fred along at a snail’s pace, taking a breather every third step or so to stave off nausea from taking him back under. Fred refused to close his eyes again, would hate himself if he lost any more waking moments to his weakness, to his frailty; he bit his lip until it bled, doing anything to keep his eyes open and his mind awake. He felt the rest of his family trailing a length behind them, like they were ready to swoop in if Fred fell at any moment. 

He took in both the familiar and unfamiliar faces that lined the great hall. Groups of huddled students cried and laughed as they embraced each other. Professors and Madame Pomfrey tended to the wounded as house-elves apparated in and out, bringing in wave after wave of food, medicine, and other supplies. It was lively yet grim at the same time. A contradiction. Even grouchy old Filch was extra peppy as he began the fruitless endeavor of sweeping the rubble. 

But it was the faces of the first years that made his heart truly sink. First years – just eleven-year-olds  – whose faces had hallowed over the torture of the past year. Where rosy cheeks should be, sunken eyes and darkened shadows took their place. Fred made a mental note to have a 99.9% off sale back at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes after things got cleaned up. Maybe even just a whole day of giveaways. Fuck it – what about a drive to clean up good ol’ Hogwarts too? 

They neared the section of the hall concealed by darkness, sobs and cries beginning to permeate the air clearly like rain. Sections of tarpaulin and canvas lay side by side on the floor, lumpy masses hidden beneath stained sheets. Fred fought the urge to hurl. 

Breathe, in and out.  Fred focused on the excruciating pain in his leg that exploded like fireworks every time he even tried to bend his knee, the acute sting of all the cuts and bruises littered his body. Most of all, he focused on the memories – the girl – that had saved him and his brother’s life. 

That face. Those eyes. Those. . . lips . 

“Who is she?” George leaned imperceptibly closer, his voice hushed enough so Percy wouldn’t hear. 

Fred shook his head, still wondering if the girl was real at all. If it was some sick joke his mind was playing on him – but it couldn’t be, not when Percy was there to see her in the flesh as well. 

And her blood. The blood  which had soaked his clothes to his skin, the cloth material sticking and still damp as his freckled skin moved against it. 

Blood. Her chest, it was — 

“It. . .  it was her .” 

“What?” the twin craned his good ear closer. 

“ Her. ” 

George’s confusion lasted only a minute before his brow widened in disbelief. 

“You don’t mean–” 

Fred nodded. 

“That’s impossible ,” George struggled to keep his voice low. 

“I know, I know . But it was her ,” he nodded, swallowing. “The girl – from those . . . dreams .” 

“You’re joking,” George huffed incredulously. “Tell me that you are joking, Freddie, c’mon.” 

But Fred wasn’t able to form a reply as the stench of death and decay became unbearable, filling his nostrils like a hot, wet rag suffocated his nostrils. He tensed his jaw, keeping the bile from clawing its way up his throat. 

He was suddenly back beneath the rubble, blood — that girl’s blood — splattered on his face, dripping from her mouth in unnatural streams —

I’m gonna hurl. I’m gonna fuckin’ hurl. 

“Don’t tell me that she’s dead,” Fred’s eyelids trembled with the weight of unshed grief and pain, the timbre of his words tumbling out of his mouth like dead leaves. “Don’t tell me she’s dead. Anything but that. Please, George, don’t— don’t tell me that she . . . died .” 

‘Don’t cry.’ 

Those were her last words. 

‘Please, don’t cry.’ 

His brother was about to reply – that is until Percy let out a confused, blunt expletive.

“. . . What the fuck ?” 

They had stopped in front of a sheet at the very corner of an array of covered bodies as if it was the first one laid to rest. But there was nobody occupying it. 

There were only a couple of rumpled blankets, still glistening red. 

Percy unlatched himself from Fred as he crouched down and pawed at the cloth, as if the person lying there had simply shrunken and gotten lost in the materials. 

“This doesn’t make sense– I put her right here. . .  !” the elder Weasley hissed while searching. He finally gave up, yelling over his shoulder in his learned commanding Ministry voice, “ Madame Pomfrey! ” 

The old witch came over quickly, the elder Weasley and the rest of his family starting a shouting match with the physician. It attracted a crowd, more professors and students and even elves starting to put in their two galleons on what had happened to the body that was lying there. 

I put her right there! Percy would shout. 

I have no record or name of anyone having ever been there! Pomfrey would retort with equal ire. 

A body can’t just disappear! My family saw me put her here!  

Well, obviously you made some mistake, didn’t you?

Arguments from his mum, Dad, Percy, of course, at the helm of the argument as Madame Pomfrey and other aides insisted that whoever was there was obviously not counted as one of the casualties. Both the Weasley’s and Pomfrey and her team began to set out a search for a missing girl – she had a piece of scaffolding through her heart for Godrick's sake, she couldn’t have gotten very far Percy insisted – leaving the Weasley twins alone, hovering next to the vacated bloodied sheets. 

From their endless bickering, Fred only gleaned one thing. 

That girl is alive. 

“If she’s who you say she is, Fred,” George scoffed with a humorless laugh. “Then I think she really was your ‘ guardian angel .’”

Fred didn’t bother to nod. 

—---

To explain, Fred would have to start at the beginning. 

It was ten years ago– Fred and George both being only nine at the time – that the Weasley’s took a trip to the American Pacific Northwest, deep into the mysterious Redwood Forest. Percy was raving about starting his first year at Hogwarts while Bill and Charlie basically babysat their younger siblings; Ron was a snotty little seven-year-old, and Ginny, still the adored baby, at six. 

At first, Fred and George anguished at the thought of having a holiday stuck in some “ hick part of America.”

“This is a learning experience, Weasleys! We’re going to experience life like those brave muggle American settlers! Isn’t that exciting?”

Fred didn’t bother to correct the historical inaccuracies in that sentiment, but both he and George eventually relented. Of course, they snuck a few (not so legal) fireworks and mischievous toys in their trunks just in case. 

It was the first time Fred had traveled by the Floo network; he remembers it clearly. They were standing by a portkey, a tin pail, in some random part of the woods near the Burrow – then, all of sudden, they’re whizzing through the air like a tornado, one with air and clouds and rain. 

And when his feet touched the ground, Fred wasn’t sure if he’d ever found a place more . . . enchanting in his entire life. 

The Redwood Forest, ominous in its sheer age and even more intimidating with trees that stretched to the heavens, held dark corners and crevices where both muggle and magical creatures roamed and frolicked. 

George was fascinated, sure, but apprehensive. He wondered what lurked in those shadowy canopies but didn’t care too much to actually find out. 

But Fred? 

Fred was ecstatic .

So, when night fell and the Weasley family had gotten ready for bed in their cozy collapsable cabin, Fred seized the chance to explore what the night had to offer. He forced George out of bed, pulling his twin along with him into the mystery of the nighttime Redwoods. 

Then–

Fred!

It was so dark, and Fred was so excited and so reckless . He had run ahead of his brother, expecting the trees to open into a clearing but was met with the sheer drop of a cliff. It was too late, the nine-year-old already airborne, his twin screaming his name from the rocky ledge. 

Fred doesn’t remember how long he fell nor the impact. He remembers nothing but blacking out, George yelling his name from the cliffside as he blubbered like a baby – and then waking up in the blinding light of noon. 

Fred? Frederick? Oh my, darling Freddie, are you alright?

Son, Son? What in Godrick’s name happened to you? Merlin – look at you. .  .

George went crazy looking for you. Where the hell did you go? 

He had awoken in a heap of fallen leaves and pine needles, a cushion of forest bedding keeping him dry and warm, the faces of his family encircling his slowly returning consciousness. His mum was crying. And his dad. Percy, too, even if he tried to hide them. And, of course, George was the worst of them all, not letting go of Fred’s hand until they were safe and sound back at their own Burrow in England. 

Ten days. Fred had gone missing in the Redwood Forest for ten days.

The Weasley’s had scoured every single inch of the forest, bringing in local MACUSA officers to aid in the effort; but every overturned stone revealed nothing other than more rotting plants and indignant creepy crawlies. Fred was lucky – if their search had continued to the eleventh day, the Weasley’s would have been forced to file an official missing person’s report with both the Ministry and MACUSA. Merlin knows what a mess that would’ve been.

Fred was completely unharmed, seemed healthily fed, his constitution as strong as ever. Not even a sniffle. All that seemed amiss were his feet, laden in a thick layer of soil and dirt. 

His shoes had gone missing. 

The Weasley family and MACUSA were all baffled as to how a small child survived from a fall that high or on his own for so long – Arthur simply reasoned that “Weasleys are built differently! As strong as giants in spirit, you see! .” 

They pulled at his memories with charms and spells and all kinds of incantations but Fred could remember absolutely nothing. They went so far as to even get him checked out by the finest magical physicians (that the Weasley could afford), yet even they found nothing wrong with him. 

“As long as he’s healthy, he’ll be fine.” 

So, the Weasley family left it at that. And so did Fred. The trip became a memory that became a distant tale, one told in jokes and passing. 

“Fred probably turned into a werewolf and hunted down every predator in that forest!” Charlie teased at the following Christmas, earning a round of laughter amongst the table. 

Everything was fine. Fred’s life proceeded like how anyone would tell it – full of elaborate pranks, laughter, and one too many jokes at others’ expenses. He and George became notorious troublemakers around Hogwarts, only fueling the redhead’s already massive ego. Quidditch, games, and dreams of a joke shop of his and George’s own filled his days.  

And the girls. 

Fred learned early on that chicks dug bad boys. Knew it all too well when girls practically threw themselves at him once his confidence settled on his broad shoulders, his hardened build from years of Quidditch turning that impish smile into charismatic seduction. George was known for his brain, but Fred was known for his body. 

The Weasley twins: infamous rabble-rousers. The people you called for a good time. But for a good time. . . Well, Fred was generously decorated in that department, 

Everything was fine. Spectacular, even. 

That is, until it wasn’t . 

His sixth year. The Triwizard Tournament. By all means, what was supposed to be a blood-pumping, rip-roaring festivity became an international tragedy with Cedric Diggory’s death.

“He’s back! Voldemort is back!” Harry clutched Diggory’s lifeless body like a lifeline, both his and Cedric’s blood splattered on his uniform. 

That’s when the nightmares started. 

War. Death. Voldemort. 

He would wake up screaming, icy sweat running down his back. Night after night after night after night . George and Lee practically dragged him to the medical wing when his wailing rang ceaselessly while they tried to sleep. But Pomfrey would only admit him for the night, giving him a tonic to knock him into a catatonic slumber, and send him on his way in the morning. Fred tried anything to get his mind off of it – pouring himself into increasingly grandiose pranks, concrete ideas of business, and carnal recreations in the filthiest of places. But it was like taping up a hole in a sinking ship. Useless. 

Protect George. Ron. Ginny. Lee. Mum. Dad. I have to protect them. I have to protect them. I have to. 

And that’s when it started, 

He started dreaming of you . 

Fred was running across the quidditch pitch, each tower engulfed in flames as dementors terrorized the trapped spectators up above. No broom, no wand, no George — powerless . He spied his family screaming for help in one tower, his friends and lovers in another, begging for Fred to save them. Then, plumes of black smoke began to funnel into the stands. Deatheaters cast curse after curse, killing and hexing until the stands went silent. And I had let them die. 

“It’s not real.” 

A voice. Mellow and smooth, clear but . . . echoing. Like a voice through a stretching tunnel.

“This isn’t real.” 

From the flames, a ghostly figure emerged, untouched, unburned. 

A girl. 

“You need to wake up, Fred. Wake up. ” 

And he did. 

And so he did for every single following night after that – for he no longer woke up with hoarse screaming and sweat on his brow. Fred awoke with peace and rest because that girl – you – always appeared and made him remember that it wasn’t real, it was only a dream, and that the real world was waiting for him when he reopened his eyes. 

“She’s kinda like a guardian angel then, ey?” George remarked after Fred had told him— and only him— about the girl he kept seeing in his dreams. “Sorta like your own good luck charm. Wish I had me one of those, ‘ya lucky bastard!” 

Over time, he learned to recognize her features. The hair that flowed like a halo about her. The mouth that spoke soothing words of comfort, resonant and strong. The eyes that were clear, focused, undeterred by fear or horror. 

You . 

Fred tried looking for you among Hogwarts, if you were some girl he passed in the halls whose face stuck with him for whatever reason. But he found no one that matched your looks or your presence— Fred figured that you must’ve been some manifestation of his mind, a mental shield. 

His nightmares, once monsters, simply became chores which became nuisances which became anticipation – because before Fred could even stop it, he went to sleep hoping he’d see you again. With you, his protector, having his back, Fred’s daring returned to him in gusto. 

And then–

The scent of crisp pine. Rich earthen soil. The foggy mist kissed his face with chilly drops of freshwater. Creatures lurking amongst ancient rings of untouched trees.

Redwoods.

Fred was nine again, running through the thickets of branches and monstrous wooden logs as the night sky danced above him. His bare feet welcomed the soft impact of earth and grass with every step, the night air fresh with midnight dew and maple as he gulped down greedy breaths. 

And he wasn’t alone.

“Hurry up!”

You were right by his side, looking about the same age as him. Your cheeks were flushed rosy with laughter, hair flying behind you like the streaks of an unstoppable comet. You were so fast , like you were born to run through brambles and pines; Fred’s blood pumped in exhilaration as he tried to keep up with you.  

Your voices, howling with mirth, mingled with the calls of other creatures in the night. Fred wasn’t scared— you were there after all. 

“Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you. Promise!”  

The forest was these two kids’ oyster, the full moon high above the only onlooker that watched them sprint like wild animals through her forest. 

And when he glanced, he recognized his lost too-small hand-me-down Weasley shoes fitting perfectly on your feet. 

—--

3 Months Later. . . 

“Thank you and see you again soon!” 

George called out to the group of giggling children that exited his and his brother’s buzzing shop, the sounds of sparklers, bubbles, errant horns, and sirens filling the multi-storied shop. 

With summer’s end and a new Hogwarts’ school year just over the horizon, the once again lively Diagon Alley was thrumming with the buzz of people aching to get some back-to-school shopping done. The same was true for the corner lot of Number 93, where Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was having another fundraiser sale for the sake of Hogwarts’ relief and rebuilding funds. 

“Excuse me?” A tiny voice belonging to an equally puny child reached from behind the cashier’s counter, his eyes barely able to see over the ledge. His tiny fist held up a sleeve of Canary Cremes. “Will these really turn me into a bird?” 

“Absolutely–”

“You bet,” Fred had suddenly appeared by the boy’s side, sliding up to the counter with a charismatic flair. “Of course, it’s not permanent. But you can fly and squawk and peck just like a bird for a few minutes. Nothing to make your mum and dad too worried, ay?” 

“ Wicked ,” the boy’s face broke into a toothy grin, running off to probably find his parents and beg for their galleons. 

“Glad to see you up so bright and early, Freddie,” George quipped, playfully nudging his twin’s arm. “Thought I’d have to wrestle you out at noon again.” 

But his brother wouldn’t meet his eyes, George recognizing that hollow polite expression as Fred greeted passing customers. 

“Couldn’t sleep that well,” Fred tried to casually laugh, leaving his brother at the till and going over to fix some stuffed toys on a nearby shelf. 

“Don’t tell me you stayed up all night again,” George followed, his voice dropping the fake semblance of optimism he put on in the hopes his brother might actually reciprocate it. 

“I clocked in on time today,” Fred ignored him, continuing to sort through the disorganized toys with a blank smile. The one he put on for the sake of customers and professionalism. 

“That’s not the point.” 

Though the Battle of Hogwarts had left scars and wounds on all the survivors, it was like the battle had taken a larger bite out of Fred’s soul. Their signature brightly colored suits hung awkwardly on his thinned form, contrasting unnaturally with his now pallid skin. Even that trademark fiery red Weasley hair had dulled, beginning to darken, turning into a more burnished shade of auburn. No one else has seemed to notice though— aside from George, of course.

“Listen, mate, I love that you’re here, really,” George gripped his brother’s shoulder, forcing the man to turn to him. He gazed into those empty brown eyes earnestly. “But you need to get some sleep. I’ll be fine down here–”

“The rush–”

“I’ll be fine ,” George smiled, hoping it reached his eyes. “I can just get someone else around here to help me. But you should be in bed–”

“ Don’t coddle me—”

“Freddie, c’mon, don’t be a big baby about this–”

“Just – just listen to me–”

But every protestation was met with indifference, George already leading his brother toward the stairs that led up to their shared loft at the top of the building. 

“Just get some shut-eye, and everything’ll be fine–” 

“ No !” 

The outburst startled some nearby customers, George quickly apologizing and waving them along. He pulled his brother into a more secluded corner of the store, Fred’s vacant eyes and heaving breaths doing nothing to help his trembling hands which hung limply at his sides. 

“Fred, breathe ,” George cupped his twin’s face, pushing out big huffs of air so Fred could easily synchronize. “That’s it. In– and out . Good.” 

“I can – ‘t – I . . . I – can’t —” Fred stuttered, his eyes still wild and unfocused. 

“Yes, you can, Freddie. Just breathe with me, it’s alright,” George held his twin’s hands firmly in his own, making sure that Fred’s fingers felt the plains of his palms. Customers were starting to stare but he paid them no mind. “You are in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Number 49 Diagon Alley. You just came down from the flat. Mum, Dad, and Ron and Ginny and Harry and Lee and everyone – they’re all okay. Safe. Ron and ‘Mione just sent us a letter from America yesterday. They said that we’d – you would love Vegas,” George chuckled, making a weak smile slowly lift his twin’s cheeks. “You are safe. You are. . .  safe .” 

George slowly enunciated that last word, watching as how the syllable made Fred’s shoulders roll back and relax, the quaking in his muscles abating to a manageable shiver. 

Before Fred could say another word, George apparated the both of them back in their flat on the third floor. To his disappointment, Fred’s relief at being back alone in the safety and comfort of their loft eased the twisting of his stomach. 

Like always, their loft mirrored the Burrow — controlled chaos and disarray at every corner, loose leaves of parchment and notebooks paper detailing half-finished jokes and toy ideas. At the center table of their living room, precariously high stacks of paper shadowed the room. Fred’s work — it was all he did in his spare time anymore. 

“George, I should be down there with you,” Fred broke from his brother’s grasp, bracing his arms on their kitchen counter. “I can’t stay up here anymore. I can’t. ”

A beast of silence passed. 

“… Is it those nightmares again?” 

Of the girl? 

Fred nodded solemnly, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“They’re getting worse— changing ,” he shut his eyes as if that could stop the memories from flooding in.

Blood. A spear of rubble through her heart. Blood dripping onto my face, iron spreading on my tongue.

“They getting worse?”

“Yes, kind of, it’s— it’s hard to explain,” Fred breathed through his words, feigning strength. “They’re not just memories of the battle or the war or of anything Voldemort did anymore. It’s her, and it’s not just me watching her die—“

“She’s still listed as a ‘missing Jane Doe’—“

“It’s not just about watching her die, ” Fred grit his teeth. “It’s — It’s me. Me. She’s not there to save me from Rockwood, Percy doesn’t get to me in time, and I– I’m crushed by all that rubble. Or if it’s not me it’s Percy, or it’s you, or Ginny, or Ron— Over and over and over again.” 

“But you’re not there,” George soothed a warm hand against his brother’s back. “You’re here and you’re safe. We all are.” 

“I know, I know . . .” the elder twin shook his head dejectedly. “I don’t know – I don’t know why I feel this way. You’re right. You’re right . Voldemort is gone, Harry killed him, and everyone is alright. Safe. Damnit –” he laughed scornfully. “It’s like Sixth year all over again.” 

George didn’t know how to respond to that, eyes sliding over the medicine cabinet beside their sink that held bottles of prescribed anxiety medication for his brother. Some unopened, some empty. 

The brothers just let the silence stew over them as they each wondered what to say next. 

Tap - Tap - Tap 

“That Barney’s owl?” George mused as Fred unlatched the kitchen’s window, letting in a medium-sized screech owl. It held a simple scream envelope in its beak, handing it to Fred and then quickly flying away. “What’s it say?” 

Fred opened it eagerly but deflated just as fast. 

“. . . Nothing,” Fred refolded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope. “Hogwarts is still rebuilding so it’s hard to piece anything together between what’s new and destroyed. No sign of her from here–” he tossed the letter into the trashbin. “--To fucking Scotland.” 

“Maybe she’s out of country?” 

Fred scoffed. “I can’t afford an international PI, Georgie.” 

The younger Weasley clapped his brother’s shoulder encouragingly. “She’s gonna turn up somewhere . I can feel it.” 

“Yeah,” the elder twin managed a smile. “Yeah, me too.” 

—--

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. 

“. . . Shit.” 

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

Above the hearth, a chirping cuckoo clock rang out the hour. 

Fred awoke on his couch groggily, slowly sitting up from the pile of paper strewn about him. His temples throbbed, body groaning in fatigue; a half-empty bottle of Fire Whiskey sat open at the center table in front of him. 

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

Night had already fallen outside the loft’s windows, the streetlights of Diagon Alley dimly illuminating their darkened flat. George had left him to sleep earlier in the afternoon.  

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

The clock above the mantle read twilight. That’s strange. George usually came up by ten at the latest. 

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

Despite it being the weekend before the start of Hogwarts term, the nightlife streets of Diagon Alley were silent as a mouse. The shop below, similarly, sounded equally still beneath the loft’s creaky floorboards. Not even the reassuring pop or bang of settling toys and tricks.

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

“George?” 

Fred’s call went unanswered as he apparated into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the low murmuring whir of bubbles of nearby potions displayed at the window the only reply. The till was unmanned, the front door still unlocked and swung open wide for welcoming customers. Yet, the streets were absolutely abandoned outside. A few errant flyers fluttered past. 

“You left the door unlocked, ‘ya stupid git!” Fred called out, going to lock the entrance. But his fingers stuttered at the sight of the doorknob – the jam was shattered, the bronze surface smeared in a rusty dried smear. 

Fred’s stomach twisted. 

His head whirled every which way as he sought for any more red stains, footprints, any signs of a struggle; yet, other than the doorknob, the shop seemed to have simply been abandoned. 

“George? Where are you? George ?” but he knew his cries were useless. He was gone. 

Then, footsteps. Loud and hurried, echoing furiously against the cobblestones of the alleyway. 

“George?” Fred hastily unbolted the entrance doorway and ran outside, hoping to be greeted with his twin’s face. “S’that you?” 

But he was suddenly breathless, all air knocked from his chest at the face he saw coming to a rough stop ten feet down the alley. 

You . 

“You’re–” your eyes were wide, brows furled and high, expression disbelieving. Sweat gleamed on your forehead, cheeks flushed rosy.

A memory flashed across his mind. 

Running. A girl. Redwoods. Laughter. Running.

“—You’re . . . okay ,” For a moment, he saw the way your shoulders relaxed and an almost-there smile attempted to appear, but you quickly squared your jaw with a tick of your eye. “But I saw–” 

Fred recognized the hypnotic resonance of your voice, those gorgeous, breathtaking eyes that swallowed starlight and gold dust like vortexes in space. The light from Weasleys’ Whizard Weazes shone in soft golden squares on your face, making your already angelic features look positively ethereal . 

Fred curled his fist painfully tight, making sure his nails bit into his palm. Nothing happened. 

“No . . . no fucking way,” he breathed, feet dumbly glued to the spot and gawking at you as if you had just fallen from the sky. Maybe she did? “Where did you–”

“No, no , I saw you–” you shook your head, not sparing the tall redhead another glance as you stormed past him and entered his shop. Your words came out quick and jumbled as you paced about the store, “I saw the – no – I saw them take you– but, you’re here , then–?” 

“You’re real ,” Fred followed you like a lost lamb, still not believing his own eyes. In your wake, he smelled the faint scent of fresh grass and earth, floral and refreshing and sharp. “You-you're alive – but how —” 

You didn’t pay him any mind, your eyes finally spotting that smear of dried blood on the door. You stooped down, scrutinizing it quickly, then pulled out your wand. 

“ Revellio .” 

Fred didn’t dare interrupt your unyielding focus as gold particles began to sputter to life and glide through the air. From the door, the particles dragged through the entrance to the till painting the scene of what had happened. 

Three strangers: two men in thick coats and hats, and a woman leading them in similar attire. George, welcoming them with the trademark Weasley twin grin, was met with brutality; the three strangers grappled him, wands flying out and hurling hexes at each other. George put up a good fight, nixing one of the men’s faces; yet, their number overpowered the talented wizard, tying him up and hauling some sort of bag over his head. The witch cleaned up the mess, fixing up the place as if they were never there; but as they left, the injured one’s bloodied handprint on the doorframe was forgotten. 

The particles began to dissipate, a final trail leading to something under the counter; Fred jumped over, snatching whatever it was pointing to.

“A postcard,” Fred held the cheap card stock in his fingers. On one face, he recognized the colorful picture as Las Vegas, USA, and in flowery calligraphy over its idyllic skyline ‘ Greetings from Sin City!’ Fred had barely enough time to flip it around before you had soundlessly snuck up and snatched it from his hands. 

You didn’t read it aloud, your eyes scanning the single line of writing —over and over again— that he had been just able to catch. 

Noon. 9/1. Medusa Royale. Empire Suite. Or, he takes your place.  

“Who were those people? Why’d they take my brother?” the questions fell like a jittery waterfall from his lips. “Why’d they take him? Are they going to hurt him? Hey—! ”

You completely ignored him, eyes emptying as you placed the postcard in your back pocket and briskly walked out the door. 

“ Hey!! ” Fred followed after you, not letting you out of his sight as you swerved through Diagon Alley. The streets really did seem abandoned, all the other shops similarly lit but devoid of life. Where the hell is everyone? 

“Don’t follow me.”

Fred almost flinched at the harsh steel of your tone, your gait still unrelenting. The hangover fog had cleared from him enough to keep pace albeit with some labored effort. 

“Some strangers kidnapped my brother, and you expect me to not follow the girl that seems connected to the bastards that took him?”

“I’m going to get your brother back,” your voice softened infinitesimally, pace slowing a step. “. . . I promise.”

I promise. 

The words rang like church bells in Fred’s ears, familiar and echoing and calling to him. 

“ Stop, ” he managed to catch your wrist, his fingers engulfing your hand. He ignored the way the unnatural chill of your skin, tried to ignore the electricity that trailed up his fingertips and arms at the single touch. The force made you stop and whirl around to finally face him. 

His eyes bore into yours, begging for answers to questions he didn’t yet know himself.

“Who are you?”

You held his eyes for a moment — just a moment — once more taking on that soul-crushing depth , but you covered it up with that harsh statuesque expression of coldness. 

“ Don’t touch me,” you spat like acid, pulling out of his grip like his hand burned you. 

The world suddenly went slow-mo. 

Fred saw the way your fingers felt for your wand, could somehow sense the silent incantation forming in your head. He clocked the tick of your eye; a tell he recognized in animals rearing to flee.

You apparated—

Oh, no you don’t—!

—But in the last wisps of your form, Fred threw himself at your figure and apparated with you. 

——

TAGLIST:

@them-cute-boys

(Comment if you’d like to be added xoxo)

[trekkingthroughthestargate]

Well if you want to know all about the Tenth Doctor, you have to start back a regeneration and learn a little bit about the Ninth Doctor. There's a reason "Don't skip Nine" has been a mantra of Tenth Doctor fans for over a decade.

Because the Ninth Doctor is the first regeneration after the Time War.

And there is no way I can truly communicate to you the gravitas of what the Time War is. You would have to learn it through watching the excellent performances of the surviving Doctors.

But the Time War was so vast, so horrific, so universe-consuming, that The Doctor had no choice but to commit genocide of his own people. It was either the Time Lords (and their enemies, the Daleks) or the Universe, and so he was forced to make an impossible choice, and in so doing condemned himself to a life of solitude, of regret, and of grief.

Under the cut because it is Very Very long. Also, there are massive spoilers for… everything.

And this is where Nine comes in. Fresh from the Time War, so filled with bitterness and self-loathing that he can hardly find it within himself to even find value in other people. He has enough of a moral code to try to help people because it's the right thing to do, but he has so much blood on his hands that no amount of doing good is going to fix that. It's the uselessness of saving a single ant after personally burning the entire colony. What's the point?

And this is when Rose Tyler enters the story. She's ordinary... so beautifully, wonderfully, ordinary. She was raised by a single mother after her father was killed in a traffic accident when she was a baby. She's not rich, she's got very few prospects and about as much ambition to match. She works in a shop, and that's the most remarkable thing about her.

Until her entire world explodes, literally, around her. But The Doctor grabs her hands and whispers "run", dragging her away from the monsters and the exploding shop, and changing her life forever.

But just as much as he changes her life, she changes his.

This ordinary, unremarkable, prospect-less nineteen year old girl, looks this ancient being straight in the eye and shows him how much value there is left in the world. She stands between him and the last Dalek in existence, that ancient enemy that caused the Time War and won't let him kill it - won't let him commit a second genocide. She hammers a chink in his armor and allows a light to gleam through, and through her stabilizing influence he begins to see the value in the universe again.

And he lets her in... Oh, he lets her in. "I could save the world but lose Rose", he says once, to another beautifully unremarkable woman named Harriet Jones just before the three of them save the world together. Because with Rose's help he is able to see the value in even a completely unremarkable human. Rose helps him in all the ways he didn't even know he wanted help.

And it almost destroys Rose, and it does destroy him.

To save his life, she looks into the time vortex, and it consumes her and transforms her into the Bad Wolf, the goddess who creates herself. She saves him - saves the world - and its killing her... killing the human vessel of the Bad Wolf. So he takes the power into himself. For the love of this nineteen year old girl, for the hope she brought him, for the stabilizing influence she has been for him, he takes the power into himself and then releases it, sacrificing his own life for hers.

And that is what Ten was born from.

The Time War still haunts him, but he was not born of bloodshed and fire and ruin and genocide and grief. He was born of love. The love of this extraordinarily common human for him, and his love for her. And he shines with that love, burning more fiercely and more human than any Doctor before or since ever has.

He continues traveling with Rose, fully restored to her humanity once again, but their hubris is going to be their undoing. After becoming a god together and surviving, her fully herself, and him changing his face to suit her better, they take utter delight in everything around them. She stands by as he dismantles Britain's Golden Age by disposing of Prime Minister Harriet Jones with six words, simply because he did not agree with one single decision made in a crisis. And that one decision was proven to be correct, and his action resulted in catastrophic consequences for himself, his friends, and all of humanity.

And in this time, traveling with Rose, The Doctor meets one of his old companions... Sarah Jane Smith. His best friend, who he had been forced to leave behind so many years ago. And she returned to him during this regeneration, reminding him that pain and loss are as important as happiness or love. That you cannot wipe out the pain and loss because they define you as a person just as much as happiness does. And she's right... she is so right. Sarah Jane Smith is always right. She doesn't come with him, even though he asks her to, but she helps stabilize him still further. Because she knew him before the Time War, and she still loves the man he became after it. And if she still loves him... knowing both the Before and the After, perhaps he can move forward with both the pain and the joy.

The Doctor and Rose Tyler... they face horrors with a laugh, he stares down the devil himself with manic faith in her that is more than rewarded. They dance together through time and space, to parallel worlds where Rose's father is still alive, saving people, restoring worlds, facing monsters, and doing it all with a glee that frightens people. And so they inspire their own undoing, as Torchwood is built by a frightened Queen Victoria who looked at their glee in the face of monsters and knew that there are many types of beings the world needs saved from.

And so The Doctor and Rose Tyler are ripped apart. Because in trying to learn about the monsters, in trying to control the monsters, in taking everything alien for itself, Torchwood's hubris became too great for it, and the monsters broke containment and invaded earth. But oh, The Doctor and Rose Tyler... they laugh in the face of these enemies. They laugh at the walking corpses of enslaved humans, walking around in their armored suits, unable to even scream in pain. They laugh at the genocidal monsters, whose only goal is to exterminate everything that is not like them.

They stop laughing when the Doctor finds a way to defeat them, when they realize that to do so Rose needs to go to a parallel world for her own safety. A world that must then be locked off. Keeping them apart forever.

And Rose absolutely refuses. She's never going to leave The Doctor. She is going to travel with him forever, even if it means saying goodbye to her mother as she too must go to the parallel universe for safety. And The Doctor tries... he tries to sacrifice his heart so that Rose will be safe. But Rose has a mind of her own and will not allow it.

So the two of them work together again, trapping the monsters between dimensions, laughing all the while.

Until something goes wrong.

And Rose falls, while The Doctor watches in horror, unable to save her. Rose falls between the dimensions, into hell, into nothingness, and at the last moment is saved by her parallel universe father. She's alive, but trapped in a parallel world.

And as a final cruel trick of the universe, while he's able to burn up a sun to give her one last goodbye, they are separated with the most important words left completely unsaid.

"I love you," she tells him.

"If it's my last chance to say it… Rose Tyler-" and the walls of the universe snap down between them.

And The Doctor is alone, defeated by his own hubris, bereft of his stabilizing influence, hardly better than he was fresh from the Time War.

And oh... it shows.

Because within hours of losing Rose, within hours of losing the reminder of his own humanity, of his own goodness, within hours of losing his stabilizing influence... he once again commits genocide.

He has to. He doesn't really have a choice. The choice is destroy a sentient species long thought extinct, or allow them to devour the world. And he stands there, consumed by his darkness, watching as the mother of this species screams and cries and mourns for her children as he pitilessly drowns them. He stands there, surrounding by fire and flood water, not caring if he lives or dies.

"Doctor! You can stop now!"

Donna Noble, whose path he accidentally crossed in the hours between this second genocide and the loss of Rose. Donna Noble, who has spent the past year being manipulated by monsters, toyed with by monsters, and now at the crux of everything... was nearly killed by the monsters.

But she's not looking at the monsters. She's looking at The Doctor, and she's terrified.

Donna Noble doesn't let that stop her, though. She was given a mouth and she's going to use it. So she yells at him to stop. She saves The Doctor from his hubris, from his darkness, and from a death that would have snatched him away and left the world without its greatest protector all by reminding him that he can stop. He does not have to die for his sins, he does not have to stand by and watch as his enemies die, screaming and cursing his name.

He can do what he must, but he can also Stop.

And stop he does.

But when he asks Donna to come with him she refuses. He's terrifying, and right now she just can't deal with that. Not after a year of being the plaything of the monsters, even if she only found out about it after the fact.

But she tells him that he needs someone, even if it can't be her. And when he denies it she tells him he's wrong because "sometimes you need somebody to stop you."

And he doesn't have an answer to that, because Donna Noble, like Sarah Jane Smith, is always right.

So he travels on, and he meets Martha Jones, medical student. And Martha Jones is wonderful. She is everything he used to be, everything he wishes he still was, and everything he can no longer be. She is a healer, she is brilliant, she always sees the smartest path to take, and she has the empathy to see the people along the way.

And she loves him. Oh she loves this adventurer who takes her out amongst the stars, shows her the wonders of history, and makes her life one exciting moment after another. But he just lost Rose, and is unintentionally cruel to her.

He needs her, oh he needs her like a plant needs light. He needs her to stave off his loneliness. He needs her to make him share his thoughts and his feelings - things that he had tamped down and tried to ignore. He needs her to care for him, so she does.

But then the Family of Blood comes, and The Doctor... this oh-so-human Doctor... the most human the Time Lord has been before or since is forced to hide by actually becoming a human. By wiping his mind of everything he is and was, change his very biology, and become a human. All to be kind. All so that the Family will die peacefully. All so that he will not have to destroy him.

And Martha stands by his side. Taking care of The Doctor who has no idea who he is. Living in 1913, a time when she is devalued by the color of her skin and her gender, and she still takes care of him. She watches as he falls in love with someone who isn't her, and still she takes care of him.

But then the Family finds him, and Martha has to tell this human the truth, tell him that they need the Time Lord back. And she is accused of being his executioner. And still, she stands by his side as this human makes his own decision, and decides to sacrifice his life and lose his love to bring back the Time Lord so that he can stop the monsters.

And Ten? He goes cold. He doesn't kill them, because that would be too kind. Instead he traps them to live forever in their own various personal hells. They wanted to live forever, so The Doctor made sure that they did.

The Doctor is so grateful to Martha, but still cannot return her love.

"He was braver than you," Joan, the woman his human self fell in love with tells The Doctor. "You chose to change, and he chose to die."

And The Doctor doesn't have an answer to that. He had changed knowing that he would eventually change back. But his human self... he had died, knowing that a different man would saunter away over his grave. But he did it to save the lives of people in this tiny, insignificant town.

And then The Doctor and Martha come to the end of the universe. And an age-old enemy of The Doctor is found. A Time Lord, protected from the genocide of his people because he had done exactly what The Doctor did when hiding from the Family of Blood. He turned himself human, and locked his memories away.

But the coming of The Doctor and Martha awakens him, and he restores himself to a Time Lord; restores himself to The Master. The Master, with the four knocks constantly pounding in his head, driving him to insanity. The Master, who hates The Doctor as much as he loves him. The Master leaves The Doctor, Martha, and their third companion Jack Harkness to die at the end of the universe, stealing the TARDIS on his way out.

So The Doctor does the only thing he can, and as The Master escapes with his TARDIS he locks it. It is locked and can only go from where they are to where it is going and back. No where else, no when else. And then he follows it, using Jack's time travel device.

And here we see still more the result of The Doctor's hubris. For in destroying the Golden Age of Britain, in bringing down Harriet Jones, he opened the door for the Master to take over. And take over he has. He has infiltrated the government, manipulated the world, hypnotized people through those ever present four knocks in his head, controlling them and their actions, and is about to destroy everything.

The Doctor, Martha, and Jack try to stop it. But they fail. The Master abuses and imprisons The Doctor and Jack, and all Martha can do is escape while she can - while she's deemed unimportant - because somebody has to save the world, and The Doctor can't.

And then came the year that never was. A year where whole countries burned at a word from The Master. Where Martha's entire family was imprisoned right alongside The Doctor, sharing in his torture.

And still, Martha Jones travels the world, hunted down, the lone survivor as country after country is burned in her wake, because she is going to save the world. She is going to give The Doctor the power to save the world, and undo the horrors and suffering.

And she succeeds. Martha Jones saves the world, and The Doctor is able to undo the year of suffering. And The Doctor forgives The Master. Forgives him for the suffering, for the trauma, for the imprisonment, for the pain. Only for it to be thrown in the face as The Master dies and refuses to regenerate, leaving The Doctor alone once again: the last of the Time Lords.

And Martha, her family, The Doctor, Jack... they all remember that year of suffering. Martha's family have suffered a year of torture, and now they're the crazy ones because they're only ones to remember it, because it never actually happened. They suffered... all because of The Doctor's hubris.

So Martha leaves The Doctor. Her family needs her, and she cannot allow The Doctor's darkness to infect her. And she cannot keep loving and waiting for someone who can't love her back, who won't value her the way she deserves. She was forced to become a soldier, but she needs to remain herself. She needs to remain a doctor. She needs to remain a healer.

But she offers him a lifeline to her. She gives him her phone, and tells him that when she calls, she expects to see him.

The Doctor is alone again. And now he is burdened by the further weight of destroying Martha's entire life and her family's lives. She made him better, and he destroyed her. And somehow, she forgave him for it. She is gone, but only because she has a different priority, not because she hates him. Not because what he has done is unforgiveable. Not because she doesn't want to see him again, or because she doesn't have faith in him.

And that is when Donna Noble re-enters his life, and she sees the difference Martha made. She sees that Martha has helped teach him to stop before destruction is complete, before it's too late. She doesn't know yet that Martha is the one who had to be destroyed for him to learn that lesson, although she will eventually be told.

And this time Donna travels with The Doctor. And almost immediately, The Doctor is once again faced with an impossible choice. He can, by his own hand, kill 20,000 people, be the reason they burn. Or he can watch the entire planet burn instead.

He struggles against it, but he must do what he must do. So Donna takes his hands and doesn't let him do it alone. The Doctor doesn't burn thousands of people single-handedly. He does it hand in hand with Donna, who is so human, so kind, and so desperate to save somebody.

And The Doctor leaves, trying to run away from the burning, from the screams, from the site of him once again being forced into an impossible choice. Trying to run away as his hands drip with even more blood.

And Donna stops him.

She can't stop the circumstances of the choice he had to make, but she can stop him from running. She can lessen the blood on his hands, as she tells him to go back and save somebody. He doesn't have to save everybody... sometimes he can't. But saving someone has to be enough.

And The Doctor, so blinded by the thousands of people burning at his own hand, hadn't even seen that. But he saves somebody, and his gentle descent into insanity is slowed. It's not stopped entirely... but it is slowed. All because of Donna.

And they keep traveling together. He meets with Martha again, saves the world with her one more time, and a part of him is healed as she is rebuilding her life again. She is stronger than him, better than him, because when faced with destruction she rebuilds.

And that slow descent into insanity is slowed just a little bit more.

But then time keeps moving, and the universe seems to want nothing more than to pile more and more loss on him.

Events transpire and he gets a daughter (fully grown, not a child), and he struggles against letting her in. He looks at her and sees all his children, his grandchildren... the family that he used to have and who he let burn, and he can't let her into his hearts. But Donna is at his side and tells him that letting her in will help heal him.

And so he does. His brilliant, beautiful, wonderful daughter... he lets her into his hearts... just in time for her to get shot in one of hers. Shot by a man who was aiming for The Doctor. And while she's like The Doctor... it's not enough. Or perhaps she was too much like him, as she stepped in between someone she loves and the bullet of a madman. But whatever the reason, she can't regenerate, and she dies in The Doctor's arms.

And if he had waited... oh if he had just waited a few hours longer, then a part of him might have healed. If he had just waited he would have seen his daughter restored to life.

But he didn't wait, and the descent into madness quickened... just a bit.

And then came the day that he learned that Rose was returning... that she had come back with a warning about the end of the universe. She’s returning because the walls of the universe are collapsing, even the ones between parallel worlds that should not be able to open anymore. Her return is heralding the stars going out and everything coming to an end. And then the earth was stolen, right out of its orbit, and The Doctor was completely helpless, unable to even find it, much less save it.

So his former companions... Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Jack Harkness, Sarah Jane Smith, Harriet Jones... they all came together and send out a signal so that The Doctor could find them. And Harriet Jones gave her life, bravely, willingly, all for the sake of humanity. All to call back the man who had taken her down with six words, because he was their only hope.

And The Doctor was able to save the universe, but at unimaginable loss. The monsters revealed his very soul to him, showing that every single person he touches either becomes a weapon or dies. Harriet Jones gave her life, and everybody else gathered together threatening to destroy the earth in order to stop the monsters. The very thing he had done to end the Time War. They were willing to burn their entire planet, and all he can do is watch as he sees how he infected those he loves with his own darkness.

He destroys the people he loves, and he cannot even deny the truth of it.

And in the end, he loses them all again. He is reunited with Rose, only to lose her again. Martha, Jack, Sarah Jane... they all have their own lives. They have all managed to rebuild themselves after his influence. He cannot ask them to come with him, and they couldn't come if he had.

But before parting ways with them all, for one shining, brilliant, beautiful moment, the TARDIS is filled with laughter and friends and family as they all fly back home. "You have the biggest family in the universe" Sarah Jane tells him. And she's right of course. Sarah Jane is always right. She was always right all those years ago when she traveled with him before the Time War was even started, and she's always right now.

That's the problem.

He has the biggest family in the universe, and he has hurt all of them.

Because Donna... oh Donna Noble. The most important woman in the world. The woman who thinks she is useless, who has no self-confidence, who refused to see just how brilliant she was... Donna was the key to saving the universe. She became one with The Doctor, taking on his brilliant mind. The DoctorDonna... that's who saved the universe.

And it burns her.

Worse than when Rose looked into the time vortex back before Nine regenerated into Ten. Because Donna wasn't just a vessel... she became The Doctor. But she was still only human, and her human body couldn't sustain it.

To save her life, The Doctor had to wipe her mind. The woman who kept him from descending into madness, the woman who stopped him when he needed stopped, the woman who stood by his side when he had to make an impossible choice, the most important woman in the universe... and that part of her had to die. By his own hand. And if she ever remembered him, her mind would once again burn and she would die... so he can't even rebuild their friendship from nothing. She can never remember him. And so he wipes her mind as she begs him to stop, preferring to die than forget him.

But he can't do it... he can't let her die. All he can do is remove himself completely from the very last thing keeping the shreds of his sanity intact and let her go.

And he goes completely mad.

He's not a raving lunatic, not yet. But there is nobody left to keep hold of those last shreds of sanity. There is just him, his overwhelming loneliness, and the agony of his grief.

But he keeps traveling, because that's all he can do. He has nothing left to live for, and it shows. People ask to come with him and he refuses, because he cannot lose anybody else. Because traveling with him destroys the people he loves. Better to burn alone than to set fire to anybody else. So he travels, now haunted by a brand new prophecy that "something is returning", and that his death will be heralded when "he will knock four times". But in his madness, he can just ignore that for now.

But then came the day of another impossible choice. Then came the day he met Captain Adelaide Brook. Then came the day that the laws of the universe commanded that he let her die.

Just one person... so that the future can happen.

And finally... finally he snaps completely. He rants and raves like a madman, fighting maniacally to save her even though she knows that her death is a fixed point in time and must happen. He finally screams out that he is not the survivor the Time War... he's the winner. He proclaims himself the Time Lord Victorious, and laughs at the "little people" he used to save, because now he has saved somebody important. Now he has saved somebody whose death the future depends on. Now he controls the future, and nobody can stop him.

Except Adelaide does. She sees his madness and stops his insane jaunt through the universe, shaping it as he will, in the only way she can. She preserves the future by taking her own life, and it stops The Doctor cold.

He had taken lives before. Watched people die before. Watched people sacrifice their lives for him before.

He had never manipulated somebody into taking their own.

And now his death is fast approaching, the haunting prophesy echoing in his ears, made all the more horrible by what he has just done. His death is chasing him down, perhaps in recompense for this fresh blood on his hands... fresh blood that is somehow the worst of it all.

And so he runs. He runs from his own hubris, his own insanity, his own approaching death.

But he cannot run forever, and finally he is called back to earth because he is needed. Because Wilfred Mott - Donna's grandfather, and the only person in the world who believed in her before The Doctor - needs him. And because The Master, with the four knocks pounding inside his head, is back; and an ominous something is returning. The four knocks in The Master's head... the portent of The Doctor's doom. "He will knock four times" and then The Doctor will die.

The world is ending, and The Doctor wants so badly to run away, to preserve his own life, but he can't. The Time Lord Victorious would have. The Time Lord Victorious would have run and shaped the future how he wanted it.

But The Doctor just watched Adelaide Brook take her own life, and he is forcibly reminded of just how important one single person can be. He can't stand by and watch.

So he stays as The Master unlocks the Time Lords from hell, causing the fire and destruction of the Time War to descend onto earth. Something is returning, the prophesy had said, and it's The Time Lords, burning and screaming and insane, ready to destroy the universe.

And The Doctor stops it. With Wilfred behind him, watching through a glass-walled room that he had entered to save another nobody... another small person... The Doctor stops the return of the Time Lords.

And at the last moment, with those four knocks still echoing in his head, The Master stands at The Doctor's side, and instead of killing him he helps him push the Time Lords back into the Time War, locking them back into an event that they cannot escape from. Locking them into their own fiery destruction.

The Master had knocked four times, and instead of killing The Doctor he had instead chosen to stand by his side!

And The Doctor is alive!

"I'm alive!"

The Doctor celebrates! His body is broken, but he can heal. Broken bones can mend, cuts can fade away, because he is alive!

"I'm still alive!"

And then from behind him, he hears four soft, gentle, knocks on a glass door.

Wilfred Mott. An old soldier whose greatest pride came from the fact that he had never killed a man during the war. Donna's grandfather who believed in her when nobody else would. An old man... not remotely important. No worlds would end if he died, no future would change.

And he's trapped.

Trapped in a room that will flood with lethal amounts of radiation. Trapped in a room that he can only escape from if The Doctor steps into the adjoining room and takes the full power of the radiation into himself. The only way to save Wilfred is for The Doctor to die.

And he has an emotional breakdown.

Because this body... it's only lived for about 6 years. There is so much more he wanted to do, so much more he could do. Even with the suffering, the madness, the loneliness... he doesn't want to die. And he doesn't have to die!

Wilfred isn't important! He's an old man, with only a few years left to live. The Doctor doesn't have to die to save him! And finally, there is one last struggle between The Doctor and the Time Lord Victorious. The man born of love, the friend to Rose and Martha, Sarah Jane and Jack, Donna and Wilfred fighting the insane man who has nothing left to lose. And The Time Lord Victorious struggles to win. Wilfred isn't important, Wilfred's death won't cause anything except for the tears of his human family, who in the grand scheme of the tale of time and space won't last long either. But The Doctor? He could spend thousands of years, all across space and time, doing such important things.

In the end, the choice is simple. Either Ten dies, or The Doctor dies and is replaced by the Time Lord Victorious. And Ten can't let that happen, so he goes into the adjoining room and takes on the 500,000 rads of nuclear radiation into himself, screaming in agony, curling up into the fetal position when the pain becomes too much to bear, which happens horrifyingly quickly.

And then it's finally over. The radiation has vented completely, and The Doctor gets to his feet.

The regeneration process has started.

And still he fights it.

He takes Wilfred back home, promising he will see him one more time. And then he travels to say goodbye to every one of his companions... to say goodbye to the family that he is leaving behind. Sarah Jane, Martha, Jack, Donna, taking care that she doesn't see him, Wilfred one last time, and so many more.

He finds the granddaughter of Joan, the woman he fell in love with when he became human, needing to know if she had been happy in the end. Joan had been happy, the granddaughter tells him... but when she asks The Doctor if he had been happy too, all he can manage is a sad, quavering, smile. "He was braver than you," Joan had told him about his human counterpart. Now he too was dying, knowing that a different man would saunter away over his grave, all to save the life of one, tiny, insignificant man. He had become as brave as his human counterpart had been. It was a small comfort, but in the end... it was still something.

And then finally, at the very end, he travels back in time to a few months before he met Rose Tyler. He can't let her see him... can't risk their future together. But he can at least see her one last time.

Then finally, stumbling with pain and exhaustion, collapsing to the ground as he so desperately fights off the regeneration energy, he makes his way back to the TARDIS.

The man with the biggest family in the universe... and he's completely alone.

But the Universe at long last takes pity on him, in his final moments of life, singing him softly to his sleep.

He takes the TARDIS up into the stars for the last time, and finally... offers one last plea to the universe. "I don't want to go."

But the universe, even as it takes pity on him, cannot grant him life when his body is already dying.

He was born from love, and now he has died for love of the least important person in the world. His love, grief, pain, loneliness, insanity, and pain are all about to be nothing but the distant memory as a new man saunters away, trampling over his grave, as he dies.

There is no comfort for him, only the song of the Universe as it sings him to his sleep while he begs to stay.

Well if you want us to rant about the Tenth Doctor you have to give us a starting point 😂

Do you know anything about his relationships? His character arc? His defeats and accomplishments? His adventures? Or are we starting from scratch?

I know close to nothing lol

I know he goes to space or something at some point because he wears a space suit, there’s something to do with a planet that starts with a G that was referenced in Good Omens that people apparently figured out how to write in said planet’s language, and I know he’s apparently a total dork (/pos) from some funny moments clips

sorry I legitimately know nothing I don’t even think I watched the season he was in lol

[gofancyninjaworld]

@bohemian-suho asked in reply to 'Morality Pets' the following question that doesn't fit in a neat paragraph:

Could you expand and how she did it and what changed in him? Because I saw it kind of the other way around. I was so proud of her fighting alongside him and working as a team with him.

Ho, this is a pretty big question. For sure, no interaction is ever one way. However, I don't yet know if Tatsumaki has learned a thing. Yes, when she was in a dire pinch, Genos came through for her wonderfully and she found working with him good. However, once she's healed and feeling herself again, it is an open question whether she decides that she'll moderate her mantra of absolute self-reliance or if she'll write this incident off as a once-in-a-lifetime exception, or even if... she'll consider herself to have been humiliated by his interference. People are like that, particularly when their most cherished beliefs are challenged. When you do that, you rarely get a friend who thanks you for setting them straight. You get an enemy who blames you for causing them distress. So I'm waiting to see.

Genos though, I do know has learned from supporting Tatsumaki. He's confronted and made progress on two important philosophical questions that have troubled him. Philosophical makes it sound academic, but they concern core issues of how he's to best conduct himself.

The first is who needs help. Heroes help those who can't so the direction of travel is allegedly clear -- help flows from the strong to the weak, so the stronger you are, the less help you need/deserve/get. In the WC, Genos has not challenged that belief in the slightest, when he scornfully tells Flashy Flash that he has nothing to offer Saitama:

When he sets out to follow after Tatsumaki and help her, we see him consider that question explicitly, remembering Saitama coming through for Mumen Rider. The answer to who needs help is anybody, regardless of capability. Which is a radical change to the sense of noblesse oblige that prevails unexamined.

The second is another that's troubled him for a long long while. Where the balance of destroying enemies versus protecting others lies. Genos has been as strict a utilitarian as Metal Knight is, with the difference that he's willing to lay down in front of the trolley himself if need be. The cold logic of the matter is that if there's any innocent people to kill to stop a terrible threat from killing many more people, heroes are the right people to kill. Because they're the people who are prepared to die for others. He acknowledges explicitly that killing heroes would have once been no big deal for him if the outcome was that a monster as terrible as Black Sperm didn't escape.

So what changed the calculus? Tatsumaki. By working so closely with her, she ceases to be a hero in the abstract, or even just a person. She’s the person he’s flown in the teeth of one of the most terrifying monsters ever to give her space to work. She’s the person he’s plunged down a mile to summon help for, then clambered back up to guard her when she could no longer protect herself. She’s the person he’s carried in his arms, giving his back to every obstacle and blow so as to keep safe. Furthermore, he’s seen and empathises with Fubuki’s fear for her sister’s well-being and that impels him to try that much harder for Tatsumaki. And she's a person who really, really doesn't want to die.

So when push came to shove, the question wasn't 'are you going to kill a dozen heroes to save millions of lives?' It was: 'are you going to kill Tatsumaki? Is that your idea of justice? REALLY?' It's at that point that he gets on top of her to shield her from being stamped to death, to protect her come what may. It might not have worked out as well as it did in the end, but no matter: Genos has decided that his path to justice and strength does not lie in strategically sacrificing others.

The issue of what, if anything, he owed to stronger people has been vaguely knocking around in Genos's head since he promised to be there for Saitama if the latter ever found himself cornered. Tatsumaki forced it into focus and made him make a positive decision on the issue. The issue of destroy vs protect is one he's been able to avoid looking at hard to date and utilitarianism looks nice until it means betraying a scared, badly injured woman who has put her trust in you. The nice thing about Genos is that he's stubborn as anybody else, but when he sees the error of his ways, he's prepared to change. He doesn't waste time hanging onto things that no longer serve a purpose.

So in short, I don't yet know what Tatsumaki will be taking from this interaction, but I do know what Genos has so far.

Edit: Just for completeness, how did the webcomic handle the issue of whether to take heroes with him? By having it always be unthinkable for Genos, so there's no moral debate to be had and nothing to learn.

[siswritesyanderes]

please please give us some yandere eleventh doctor content. the thirst is REAL

(Here's part of a commission I did- since the person who commissioned it said it was okay if I posted it here -in which reader is already being kidnapped by Ten and then Ten regenerates into Eleven; I skipped some parts, for easy readability’s sake. Also I edited out the reader's name.)

...

You thought you had gotten a pretty good handle on your… companion. (You referred to him as your companion, because it was what he called you sometimes, and it was either that or something serious, like captor, or silly, like alien friend.)

You knew that he was an alien, hundreds of years old, with two hearts and a time-traveling police box that was bigger on the inside.

You knew that he didn’t want to take you back home, and that asking him to do so either resulted in some deflection about some canyon in some other solar system that you had to see– some distraction –or (occasionally, if you were too persistent) a flat, “No, don’t do that.” His eyes suddenly pained, behind the rectangular glasses. His jaw suddenly tight.

“Why not?” you had challenged once.

But his gaze remained too sharp to meet. “Just don’t. Don’t do that.”

(You knew that they called him “the Oncoming Storm”.)

You knew that he didn’t like to be stern. He didn’t like to see signs that you were wary of him. It made him guilty, and when he was guilty, his anger rose to meet his guilt. Anger at himself. Never directed at you, but still frightening to behold.

You knew that he was fiercely protective. Usually he showed this simply by getting you out of dangerous situations before they even arose; many times, you’d been sitting beside him at some quiet alien pub or gala, and then something in his eyes had sharpened suddenly, catching on some sight that you couldn’t notice for the life of you, and he’d suddenly take your hand and drag you back toward the TARDIS, chanting, “Nope. No, no, no, no, not with you, never.” But then other times, when he couldn’t get you out before the danger, he would destroy the threat so unfeelingly, so dead-eyed… a kind of fury that betrayed his age and his inhumanity like nothing else did.

You knew that he was always at his softest when his anger passed. When he was done punishing some enemy or loudly berating himself, that was when he’d just hold you, a white-knuckled grip with his eyes shut tight. Sometimes murmuring apologies over and over, a mantra, a lifeline. It didn’t matter what you said, during those times, whether you said that you forgave him or begged him to let you go. He was too deep in his own shame to hear forgiveness or conviction.

You knew that he had an endless appetite for beauty and wonder. It was why he was always taking you to new places, always finding new things to gape at in delighted awe. And it was why he sometimes sat in silence and just stared at you, his dark eyes seeming to teem with fascination and a hunger as insatiable as that of a wildfire. It was like… On the inside, he was burning, and he needed a constant supply of… of whatever stimulus it was he was getting from you, to keep the flames bearable. To smother them with this planet, and that constellation, and you, you, you, you…

(He seemed to divide his time evenly between looking at the wonders of the universe, and looking at your reaction to said wonders. His gaze flicked back to you every other second, like a compass’s needle always finding the north pole. You were never unobserved.)

You knew that he grew agitated if you looked at him for too long a time, as if he became guilty with too much of your attention– he would turn away, or start jabbering, or, once, kiss you hard on the lips –but if you didn’t look at him enough, you got a similar result– the restlessness, that is. You had to learn, eventually, how much he wanted to be looked at. He wanted enough of your attention that he felt special, but not so much of it that he felt guilty. It was a difficult balance, but through experience, you were managing it. Look, look, look. Now look away. And you learned to recognize the early signs that he needed more or less attention.

You were getting good at it.

You were getting good at being his companion, despite the fact that you didn’t want to be.

And despite the fact that it involved so much cardio.

Now, the Doctor was sprinting down the corridor so fast that the tail end of his trenchcoat had taken flight, and though your hand was linked to his, you found yourself stumbling over your feet.

You hadn’t even seen the threat from which you were both running, which made the desperation of the Doctor’s movements all the more frightening. As far as you knew, nothing was even giving chase, and yet the Doctor was pouring in speed as if a horrible beast was right on your heels.

The pair of you came to the end of the corridor, and you gasped, for it was empty.

“But the TARDIS was just-“

“She still is,” the Doctor interrupted. “It’s an illusion; they want us to think we’re cornered.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Close your eyes. Close them, and reach for the door.”

You did as he said. And you were sure that you hadn’t seen the TARDIS in the place where the pair of you had left it, but nevertheless, when you reached for the spot where the door was supposed to be, you were able to open it.

“Keep them closed,” the Doctor urged. He stood very close behind you, as if blocking the unseen foe from reaching you. “The illusion depends on your eyes deceiving you; don’t open your eyes until I tell you it’s safe. If you do, the TARDIS will vanish from around you. You won’t even be able to touch it.”

(There was often some rule: don’t open your eyes, or don’t close them, or don’t touch, or don’t let go. You had learned to just obey, rather than ask questions. People tended to die when there were rules; the creatures with rules were the scariest, you thought.)

You kept your eyes closed as you entered the TARDIS.

But you could hear something behind you. Some…chattering, like a million insects.

“What’s that sound?” you asked.

“Closing your eyes allows you to reach past the illusion.” His voice was grim-sounding. “Now you can hear the creatures that have been following us.”

A chill shot down your spine. You were advancing into the TARDIS, now; you were back to back with the Doctor, who must have been facing the pursuers. He walked backwards to keep close to you.

It seemed like this was just another threat the two of you had avoided, in your travels through time in space, until it… wasn’t.

You weren’t sure what happened; you had kept your eyes closed. But suddenly you heard the Doctor let out a pained cry.

“Oh, that’s not good,” he babbled. “That is not good.”

“What happened?” you asked.

But he only said, “Keep them closed. Keep moving.”

You walked forward until you heard the TARDIS door close behind the Doctor, at which point he said:

“Alright. You can open your eyes now.” His breathing was labored.

You opened your eyes, and the TARDIS was visible, but something was wrong; the Doctor was clutching his trenchcoat tightly around himself, as if to conceal a wound.

“Doctor, what…?”

“They carry a severe neurotoxin. Darling, could you run and pull the middle lever on the upper right hand… Actually, don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t leave me.” To punctuate his own verbal u-turn, he gripped your hands.

[Skip ahead; he’s dying now]

“I want to stay with you! I don’t…I don’t want…” A shout ripped its way out of him, and he staggered away as an unfathomable sort of energy seemed to fill the space.

There was a bright pillar of yellow light encasing him.

And then…

Then, he was just… different.

He was standing in the same spot, but his face was different. His body was different. He seemed to know it immediately, for he grabbed at the mirror attached to the TARDIS controls and eyed his own face for several seconds.

“Ohhh,” he murmured. “Not bad at all. No, I reckon I can work with this. Ears, right. The hair, though…”

His nonchalance, after such a tearful departure (and “departure” wasn’t even the word, was it?) was already jarring, but then he turned to you, and his face brightened so drastically, it was as if a light switch had been flipped.

“Oi!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Darling!” He ran to you with his arms outstretched, stumbling on the way like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. 

You couldn’t help yourself; you retreated a step before you could manage your own response. You expected him to have some reaction to your recoil. He always did. Or… he had always used to. But the new him seemed not to pay your reflexive flinch any mind. He kept stumbling towards you until he was close enough to touch. Then he placed his hands on your shoulders (sinking some of his weight on you, likely due to his newfound lack of balance) and just beamed at you.

“Alright there?” he asked. “Hope I didn’t scare you with the theatrics.”

“You changed,” was your obvious observation.

“Regenerated. I told you about regenerating.”

“But… you’re different now.” You were still stating the obvious, but your mouth simply couldn’t keep up with your brain, which was racing with the implications. “You’re a different person.”

“Still not a ginger, though; that’s a bit disappointing.”

“So… if you’re different now… can you take me home? I mean, you’re not the same…” You trailed off as soon as his expression started to change.

“Oh, shush,” he said, exasperated in a lighthearted way. He removed his hands from your shoulders, standing up straight. You searched him for the pained reaction his previous self had led you to expect, but it wasn’t there. He looked offended, but only as offended as a friend would if you told them their hat looked funny. He put his hands on his hips. “I regenerate into an entirely different body right in front of you, and the first thing you can think about is getting back to that blue marble? Honestly.”

He ran to the TARDIS controls and started working at the buttons and levers. The way he moved was so similar, and yet so different. He still had such easy familiarity with the machine, and such high energy, but his movements were lighter, looser. Almost floppy. No agitation in his speed or fierceness in his smile.

He was more alien this way.

Before, you had seen the truth, the pain, but now it was impossible to tell where his mind was.

“Oi!” he called out, for the second time. “Are you paying attention? I’m being awfully clever over here! You see these lighty-uppy bits? Yeah, they’re not supposed to be doing that…”

You began to learn new things about your companion.

And to unlearn the old things.

The intervals of attention you’d been perfecting, for the old Doctor, were the first things to be thrown out the window; the new Doctor wanted all of your attention, as often as possible. It seemed that he viewed any second you weren’t looking at him as a second wasted.

Interestingly, he did not watch you as much as his former self (“Ten” he called him, on rare occasions when he referred to his past self with anything but first person pronouns) had. Sometimes, he could be distracted by things he found “brilliant” or “cool”. But when he looked at you again (And he always, eventually, looked at you again.), he always expected your eyes to still be on him. Otherwise, he would chide you to pay attention, always in that lightly affronted tone. Never serious. Or never seeming so.

Twice, when his attention was elsewhere, you experimented with wandering away. You could never have done it with Ten, who had kept you so close and watched you so raptly, but with the new Doctor, in those moments of distraction (watching some unfamiliar performance or ritual) when you wondered if he had forgotten you were even there, you had managed to put some distance between you. 

The first time, it was only a few paces, just to test that you could do it without him noticing. He hadn’t stopped you, hadn’t stopped looking at the alien dancers, but when the time did come for him to look your way again, he looked straight at you; he hadn’t looked first at the spot you’d vacated. He hadn’t been confused. Which meant that he was keeping track of your movements even when he wasn’t looking your way. Valuable to know.

“Did you see that?” he asked you, giddily shuffling over and grabbing your hand to bring you closer again. “Their species can translate color into music! Think of it- every image a string of notes, every sequence of images an entire song! Right now, they’re dancing to music created by transcribing the movement of a shooting star, but any member of their species could transcribe the movements they’re making now and create a whole new dance around it...”

The second time, you moved farther away, and changed directions so that even his peripheral vision couldn’t tell him where you’d moved to. Or so you’d thought, but once again, when it came time for him to look your way, he found you immediately, as if he’d known where you were at every point, and he none-too-gently traversed the crowded space (at times climbing over aliens in his eagerness, and making impressive time, doing so) to reach you.

“How did you find me so quickly?” you asked. (You had also started to follow his cue in leaving subtlety aside.)

“You think I’d have you roaming around if I didn’t know how to find you?” he asked, as if it were the most obvious thing. “That’s how you lose people.” He let his words hang in the air for a bit. Then he put on his goofy smile again and dragged you off to “come see” something “brilliant”.

You learned that he had incredible spatial awareness, and that he was paying attention even when it seemed he wasn’t paying attention.

The new Doctor was more cheerful. He was friendlier. When he kissed you, the kiss was not desperate, but enthusiastic, and as often on the forehead as the lips. If he felt any shame at all over keeping you trapped, he did not show it, and it certainly never drove him to deliriously babble apologies. There was almost no flaw in his childlike façade. On a day-to-day basis, he was easier to live with, in some ways.

In other ways, he was much more difficult. As his nonhumanity had become more obvious, he started to forget things. In his haste to show you the universe, he sometimes forgot that you needed to eat more often than he did, and sleep longer. Ten had never forgotten; Ten had made a point of ensuring that you ate almost every time food was available.

“Doctor, I’m hungry.”

“You’re what? Oh, right!” He took a handful of loose jam-filled biscuits out of his pocket (When and why had he obtained those?) and dropped them into your hand. “Will that do, for now? I can get us to a feast on Delphon, once the triple solar eclipse is over. Remind me!”

His attentiveness had changed, and his need for attention had changed. His protectiveness, however, had not changed.

Well, maybe it had worsened, for he gave no sign that it tormented him to punish what threatened you. In fact, given how he allowed you to wander off, there were more opportunities, now, for you to come close to harm’s way.

The harm never actually touched you, though; he knew where you were at all times.

Given the Peter Pan-ish way he went through life most of the time, it was startling to see the smile fall away and yield to a look of what you would almost call boredom, as he eyed the thing that had nearly killed you.

“If I were feeling sporting, I’d give you a head start,” he said in a low voice to one such creature. “But you came very close to harming someone of critical importance to me, so no such luck.”

When Ten had destroyed the dangerous things, he’d been the Oncoming Storm, but with this new Doctor…

“Mercy,” the creature implored.

“Not today,” the Doctor said, through a mirthless little smile.

I think the storm has come, you thought.

[opaleyedprince]

teehee dishonored oc essay post

alright so he was left on the steps of an abbey in whitecliff methinks - or at leas that’s what he was told. naturally the overseers took him in out of the goodness of their hearts and definitely for no other reason. alecto was a quiet but obedient child and took to the overseers’ positive reinforcement regarding their order and texts.

wanting his guardians’ approval, alecto learned to read and write, and before he reached his teens he could recite the litany from memory. above all else, he wanted to be good and pure and holy - just like the overseers who were raising him. said overseers did their best to instill in their charge a hatred of the outsider, making sure he knew all the signs of corruption and would be able to spot a follower of their enemy.

alecto had always known he was different from the others. he heard whispers sometimes, mutterings from the sewers - but their only inhabitants were wordless weepers and rats, and so he did his best to ignore it. he would wake often from nightmares, vivid and yet slipping through his fingers like smoke. it was nothing, he would tell himself. he was good. he was pure like his brothers, and he would join them in the order one day.

as he grew, alecto learned to hide his sensitivity to anti-outsider devices well. because he was raised in the abbey, he was able to travel around the isles and see much of the world. he did not flinch at purging prayers, and soon grew accustomed to the draining haze caused by the music boxes often played in the abbey. they could not harm him, he repeated in a mantra, for he was good.

the overseers would often confiscate articles of hearsay or witchcraft, and alecto was taught how to destroy such things in the proper manner. most of it was rubbish or nonsense, but eventually alecto came in contact with artifacts of the outsider. bone charms, runes, and the shrines they sometimes found all fascinated him to no end. but he approached the artifacts with a discerning eye, only keeping those that sung the sweetest to him. all others he destroyed without hesitation, with special rage aimed at the shrines.

after all, no shrine could possibly be good enough for /him/.

the hatred that had been fostered in alecto over the years by the overseers had indeed blossomed and grown, though not in the way that they had hoped for. instead, it flowered into a twisted obsession with driving the black-eyed outsider out of the shadows. not for the rest of the abbey, no, but for alecto and alecto alone.

as the years passed, alecto often attempted to build his own shrine, hoping against hope that it would draw the outsider’s attention. he had vivid dreams of the void, but to him that is all they seemed to be. he scoured texts, forbidden and not, for any information on those who had been chosen by the void’s god, and attempted to replicate their circumstances. his calls once more went unanswered.

now an adult, brother alecto is outwardly the most devoted servant of the abbey. but beneath his veneer of selflessness and goodness, he thinks of the other overseers as beneath him. they can never hope to achieve what he has achieved - or what he /will/ achieve.

spurned by something he’d never known and yet still desperate, alecto seeks a way to bind himself irreparably to the void, so that he may echo back its sweet call; the same call he has been chasing since he was a mere boy.

alecto’s stature is noticeably slimmer than the other overseers. he keeps his bright red curls tied back and tucked away beneath his overseer garb, hidden except for when he finds himself prowling the sewers or backstreets in search of relics or a particularly chatty rat. his eyes are sea-green and often dulled, though if you look closely enough when he is preaching “against” the outsider you might notice them shining with a barely-restrained passion.

[drwcn]

《 Without Envy 》 storyboard 10 - concubine/sleeper agent!wwx & prince!lwj

Other snippets and storyboards can be found on [Master List]

Exactly 851 days - 2 years, 4 months and 11 days - after Wei Wuxian arrived at Gusu and began his mission as a sleeper agent, he was activated.

That chilly morning, he walked into the pastry shop - a front maintained by a decade-long Wen spy - a walk he'd done hundred of times on hundreds of mornings since he arrived. He breezed past the packaging counter, skipped through the faded cotton drapes, and rounded behind the back staircase to the room where Xue Yang always waited for him. Only this time, it was not just his candy-obsessed, murder-happy shidi, but a face he hadn't seen in many, many months. "...Shifu?" Wen Zhuliu's visit meant the end of his carefree days. It's time. That night, Wei Wuxian did not look at either Lan Wangji or Jiang Yanli when he bid "dianxia" and "Jiang-zhuzi" good night. He pretended to retire to bed early, after washing himself of his servant's exterior and donning his robes of night-black. He laid in the dark, waiting for time to pass, and reminded himself of his true purpose. He was never meant to care about these people; love these people. Jiang Yanli was not his doting foster sister; Lan Wangji was not his beloved wangye. I am Wei Wuxian of the great Qishan Wen. Nevernight is my home. I am a spy. Gusu is my enemy. Wei Wuxian kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, and his heartbeat slow. In the lonely quiet, he waited, and waited, and waited. Until the candlelight around the princely manor dimmed to nothing, until the night grew still and the moon shone bright and high in the dark, dark sky. Reaching under the floorboard beneath his bed, Wei Wuxian retrieved his life-long companion from its hiding place and released it from its sheath. "Hello, old friend." He whispered, stroking the blade edge. Suibian's steel glistened with cold malevolence in the stark, pale moonlight.

It would be another year before WWX's identity is discovered. During that time, he lived a double life. In the day, he was Lan Wangji's precious Wei Ying, and at night, he was the blade in Wen Ruohan's hand, stealing, killing and destroying on command. His assignments were not always murder; sometimes it required him to break into secure facilities and obtain copies of certain documents. He was never alone on these jobs; there was always someone convalescing with him from within. Slowly, he began to realize just how deep Wen Ruohan's spy network had infiltrated Gusu's foundation. In a way, it excited him, to know that the posturing and pretending would soon be over, that in the near future a quick war would sweep across the land and unite the two nations. In another way, it frightened him to the bones.

Wei Wuxian killed 37 individuals within the span of a year, 37 men and women of different ranks, status and stations. He did not always know why these people needed to die; in fact, he often didn't and preferred it that way. If he didn't know the motive, then he couldn't argue against the reason, and thus could go on believing that what Wen Ruohan did was ultimately for the betterment of everyone. The men of Gusu were weak - Wei Wuxian was always told - they were not fit to rule. The people of Gusu would be better served under a united empire. He repeated this statement to himself before every job, but over time, the mantra on his tongue began to lose its flavour.

In the meantime however, Lan Wangji and Jiang Yanli quickly formed a strong plan on how they wanted to live out the rest of their lives. Lan Wangji never quite enjoyed laying with women, but Jiang Yanli had just enough wickedness behind her demure exterior that things were... well, interesting. In any case, it was not long before she came to him all smiles and whispered the good news over luncheon .

"Truly?" Lan Wangji set down his chopsticks. "Hm uhm." Jiang Yanli dapped her mouth delicately. "Now, perhaps it's a good time to discuss how dianxia should go about winning A-Xian's affection. He's under the impression you've cast him aside on taishi's orders and has been giving him the cold shoulder." "I wasn't." Lan Wangji defended himself, distressed and slightly offended. "It's just, huangshu's been watching me like a hawk. I was afraid any further attempt to be closer to him would give my uncle reason to remove him from my household entirely." Jiang Yanli was sympathetic. "The summer hunt is in two week's time, and afterwards, since bixia always likes to finish the night on the river with fireworks, perhaps...." She let the sentence dangle, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Lan Wangji felt hope.

Unfortunately, a little hiccup happened before the hunt could take place. Jin Ziyan falsely believed that Wei Wuxian had fallen out of favour with Lan Wangji and was itching to show him his place. Poor Mo Xuanyu was caught in the middle. Jin Ziyan knew Wei Wuxian was an audacious one, but not so stupid that he could be easily goaded into committing a grave offence. Thus, Jin Ziyan planned to cause an incident in the garden whereby poor Mo Xuanyu would unwittingly "offend" him, and he would publicly announce a punishment that was harsher than necessary. He made sure that Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian were near by, as they usually took a mid-afternoon stroll after lunch. True to his predictions, Wei Wuxian could not stop himself for interfering on Mo Xuanyu's behalf. Then in their altercation, Jin Ziyan would fall into the pond, making it seem as though Wei Wuxian was the one who shoved him out of anger. Oh but a lowly servant shoving Hanguang-wang's deputy consort into the pond??! He was as good as dead. What's more, everything happened on the same afternoon that Lan Qiren was scheduled to visit Lan Wangji to discuss matters of court. If it was only Lan Wangji, Jin Ziyan knew Wei Wuxian would suffer little consequence, but taishi tolerated no insubordination or churlish behaviour of any kind.

Lan Qiren was incensed, livid, but he was not hasty to deal the punishment. Instead he turned to his nephew and asked, whilst fully knowing the answer, "Wangji, your household follows the regulations that govern all princely manors, does it not?" "It does, huangshu." "Then tell me what is the punishment reserved for a servant for daring to lay hands on a deputy consort and to cause physical harm to said consort?" "It....I - huangshu -" "What is the rule?" Lan Wangji knew very well that the punishment was death for any servant, maid or eunuch who dared to harm any member of the harem. But Wei Ying, his Wei Ying... "Wei Ying is very precious to Yanli and to Yunmeng-hou. As well..." Lan Wangji hesitated. "Yanli is with child again. It is still very early so we thought it best not to announce it lest we have a repeat of last time. It would not do to upset her at this time." Lan Qiren was extremely dissatisfied with his answer, but conceded for Jiang Yanli's sake. "I'm glad, Wangji, that you've found your way back to your proper companions. This Wei Wuxian clearly has been spoiled to the point of impropriety. His actions today are utterly unacceptable and cannot be allowed to go unpunished or else others would surely follow his example. Guards!" "Detain Wei Wuxian. Have him strung up on a post in the servants' courtyard and give him fifty lashes. No food nor drink. Sun or rain, he is not to be let down until dusk tomorrow." "Huangshu!" Lan Wangji's head buzzed, as though someone had struck him squarely in the temple. His chest felt tight, and his heart ached where it rebelled inside him. "Please -" "He has his life. That is mercy enough."

Wei Wuxian was stripped down to his trousers only and tied up to a post, his hands bound together above him and his bare feet never finding purchase on the ground no matter how he struggled. This fucking suck ass. Jin Ziyan you're a dead man. When all fifty lashes were dealt, even the guards were sweating through their robes. They left him dangling there in the blistering summer heat. A young maid dared to try and sneak him some water but was thwarted by an older momo. "What do you think you're doing, lassie? Did you not hear taishi, no food or drink until dusk tomorrow. Do you want lashes too? Go on! Go!" It rained hard all through the night, only easing up at dawn, but the aftermath of the storm left the air muggy and humid. Combined with the heat, it felt as though he was being steamed alive like a wheat bun. At some point during the second day, Wei Wuxian finally lost consciousness. He was not aware when Lan Wangji barged into the courtyard against Lan Qiren's explicit orders and cut him free.

Really tho, i just want this scene to happen (╹ڡ╹ ) "I'm sorry." Wei Wuxian blinked at Lan Wangji's hunched figure sitting at his bedside. "Whatever for? You saved me, dianxia." Lan Wangji, "But it was my attention that put you in such a position in the first place. Huangshu was looking for a reason to punish you since that day he saw us in my study." Wei Wuxian, "dianxia..." "I find you... lovely, Wei Ying," confessed Lan Wangji with a heavy sigh. His ears burned red not only with the embarrassment of a youth in love but with shame. "I wish for your company, even when you have no desire to be part of my harem. Now I know my mistake. I should have respected the boundaries. I should've known my attention on you would incite jealousy from the others, and as a servant, you have no means of protecting yourself. This is entirely my fault." Wei Wuxian's heart fluttered despite himself. He quickly shook his head. "No dianxia, please don't blame yourself -" Lan Wangji, "perhaps I should send you back to Jiang-fu; I'm sure Jiang-xiao-gongzi would be delighted to have your company back. You would be safe there." Jiang Wanyin had come to visit his sister the very next day after Wei Wuxian was sentenced to whipping. He was one of the most accomplishment young men of his generation, anticipated to be a great general. Nie Mingjue had thought highly of him and had expected great things from this youth. Though perhaps what the late feng-jun found truly commendable was Jiang Wanyin's complete lack of pretense and his short-fuse temper. That is to say, he did not hesitate to get in Lan Wangji's face. His sister would have chastised him, had she not been so preoccupied by her tears. Wei Wuxian, "Jiang...Jiang Cheng was here?" "He was, and he was very upset about your condition. He left many fine medicine and ointments for you." Lan Wangji sighed again. "I shall speak with Yanli. If she is amenable, then I shall make arrangements for you to go back to Jiang-fu. You would not have to put up with me any longer." Lan Wangji stood up. Wei Wuxian grasped his sleeve immediately. In that moment, he could not tell if his panic was derived from his worry that he would not be able to complete his assignment if Lan Wangji were to send him away or if he simply did not wish to part with the prince. "Dianxia - I - I don't want to leave. I - it's true I had once rejected you, but...would you think less of me if I said your attention … hasn't been unwanted for a while, that I have come to enjoy them." At Lan Wangji's widened eyes, Wei Wuxian continued quickly. "You need not give me anything, no elevation, no rank. I don't care about any of that. I am a man, I have no ability to give you children. Nor do I have any family who would benefit from your continued favour of me. I am an orphan, dianxia, I have no place to go. I just....don't send me away. Please let me stay! I'm not afraid of Jin Ziyan, or taishi, or anything!" Lan Wangji sat back down. His hand trembled when he laid it on top of Wei Wuxian's. "Wei Ying...?" Wei Wuxian smiled, still radiant despite his pale complexion. "Dianxia -" "Lan Zhan. No more dianxia, I only want to hear you call me by my name." Wei Wuxian flushed pink. The blush was real, as was the pleased little smile he tried to hide. "Lan Zhan, Wei Ying is yours, if you still want him." The worst part of that was that he meant it. Just the mere thought of being held by Lan Wangji, of being kissed by him, of... so many other wonderful possibilities, made Wei Wuxian want to hide his flaming face into his pillow. Lan Wangji smiled. Quietly, he lifted Wei Wuxian's hand and pressed a kiss to the inner side of his wrist. "Rest, I will be right here." Wei Wuxian felt his treacherous little heart soar: oh no … oh no no no no ….. (Xue Yang's voice in narration: and it was in this moment, that Wei Wuxian knew, he fucked up.) The cruellest thing Wei Wuxian ever did was give Lan Wangji hope knowing that one day he would take it all away.