#i know its deliberately supposed to be like that to remind us of the suffering in the world etc

[tobacconist]

that statue the pope has behind him in his audience room really is so bizarre and creepy...

[yeniasworld]

I am in pain, but it’s not the kind of pain that anyone can easily see or understand. It’s not the physical kind—it runs much deeper than that. It’s the kind of pain that comes from a place in your soul, from a realization that your life is no longer your own.

There’s a burden in knowing that you’ve been chosen for something bigger than yourself, something beyond what you ever asked for. I never set out to become what I am now. I didn’t ask to be turned from an ordinary, regular person into someone on the brink of greatness, someone standing at the threshold of becoming a star. Yet, here I am, on that path, and it’s a crown that feels impossibly heavy.

People say that age is just a number, and that it’s never too late to chase your dreams, but this journey feels different. The gifts I’ve been given—these talents, these opportunities—feel more like a responsibility than a blessing. There is no denying that they are extraordinary, but the process of receiving them has been nothing short of torment. The suffering I’ve endured, the pain I’ve gone through to reach this point, makes me question whether I’m lucky to be chosen or cursed.

I’ve been violated. Hurt. Abused. This transition, this shift into something greater, has been brutal. There were moments when I regretted it all, moments when I wished I could go back to being a normal person with a normal life. I never wanted to be thrust into this spotlight, to have my life altered so dramatically that I don’t even recognize myself anymore. And yet, I know that I am on the cusp of something huge, something monumental.

Just yesterday, an elderly African man followed me through a train station, making his disdain for me clear. As he led a younger woman across the platform, he stopped in front of me, just close enough to be heard. He told her that people like me were an abomination, referencing some horrific event in Africa where people like me were being chased down and killed. He said it as if I didn’t have the right to exist, as if my life held no value. His tone was deliberate—he wanted me to hear every word, to feel the weight of his hate.

It reminded me of the way African people were dehumanized by Europeans for hundreds of years. They were seen as less than human, and that belief fueled centuries of oppression, violence, and death. Now, I’m experiencing something similar, but this time, it’s not about race—it’s about identity. It’s about the way I exist in this world, the way I navigate through it as a queer person. It feels like I’m fighting a battle for my right to exist, to be seen as human, just like everyone else.

And that battle has been relentless. From the outside, people see a person on the verge of greatness, someone whose talents are ready to be unleashed onto the world. But they don’t see the scars I carry, both mentally and emotionally. My mind has been manipulated, stretched to its limits, in order to shape me into this “genius” artist that I’m supposed to become. And while I understand that this process may be for some greater good, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been used, like my own existence has been reduced to a tool for others’ ambitions.

There are days when I wonder how anyone becomes a genius without going mad in the process. How do you take someone who was once just an ordinary human being and turn them into something more without breaking them in the process? The transition is messy, chaotic, and painful, and I’ve felt myself losing grip on reality more than once. My thoughts scatter, my emotions run wild, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to go insane.

But there’s something else I know now, something that has come with the end of this transition period. I feel like the worst of it is behind me, and now comes the part where I begin to rebuild. I’m in the process of restoring myself, piecing together the parts of me that were shattered over the past year. But no amount of restoration can erase what I’ve been through. No apology, no act of forgiveness will ever be enough to make up for the suffering I’ve endured. Not from the gods, not from my ancestors, and not from anyone who played a role in this.

I curse them for what they’ve done to me. I curse them for forcing me onto this path, for taking away the simplicity of my life and turning me into something I never wanted to be. I was never meant to be normal, and that’s something I’ve come to accept, but that doesn’t mean I forgive the universe for it. I have always known, deep down, that I was destined for something greater. Even as a child, I felt like I was meant to be a star, but I didn’t know the cost.

I’ve spent 28 years of my life suffering, navigating through pain and hardship, only to find myself here, on the edge of something vast and terrifying. And now that I’m here, there’s no turning back. The talents I’ve been given come with a heavy price, but I know I’m capable of rising to the challenge. The world will soon see what I’m capable of, but that doesn’t mean the journey will get any easier.

Human nature is complicated. People love to admire greatness, but they also love to tear it down. I’ve seen it in the eyes of those around me—admiration mixed with jealousy, support mixed with envy. It’s a dangerous balance, especially when you add being part of the LGBTQ+ community on top of it. Even those within my own community may turn on me, trying to claim a piece of what I’ve fought so hard to achieve.

But I’m ready. If I’m to take control of my destiny, then I must fully step into this new version of myself. I have to take charge of my life and protect myself from those who seek to harm me, intentionally or not. I’ve come too far to let anyone stand in my way now. Even the gods, the ones who pushed me into this transformation, can no longer control me. I am in charge of my own fate now, and I refuse to let anyone or anything dictate my future.

So to those who have caused me pain, to those who have sought to break me down, know this: karma is coming for you. The universe has a way of balancing itself, and all the ill intentions sent my way will be returned to you in full. I no longer seek forgiveness. I’ve spent my entire life being forgiving, being patient, but that time is over. Now, I choose myself, fully and unapologetically.

This is my story, my journey, and I will not be defined by the pain I’ve endured. Instead, I will use it to fuel my rise. The world may not be ready for what I’m about to become, but that’s not my concern. I will shine, and I will not apologize for it. This is who I am, and I am finally ready to embrace it.

[short-wooloo]

I saw someone saying this episode was showing how Luke repeating Jedi dogma would result in kylo

OK first, we know very little about kylo's training, real canon (movies or shows) or eu (comics, novels, video games, etc)

Secondly, what "dogma"?

Well, typically when people say stuff about how the Jedi are "dogmatic" they mean when the Jedi say attachments are dangerous, that attachments can cloud judgment, that they lead to the dark side, that the dark side is evil and dangerous, that it corrupts those who use it, and through them brings ruin and suffering to all, that's what people say the Jedi are being dogmatic about...

And the Jedi are completely right about those things

The Jedi are not just declaring such as positions of authority and refusing to see any other way

They say this because they know from experience

It's is all true, as seen by ALL OF STAR WARS

Having attachments and refusing to let go leads to people doing terrible things to avoid letting go (see anakin skywalker) and the dark side is truly evil, it is not just another way of viewing/using the Force, it is the Force's antithesis, a malicious, twisted, corrupted, and perverted mirror of the Force, spreading its darkness and making those who use it into its own image, there is no good ethical way to use the dark side, because every time you use it, your soul is twisted and darkened

I've noticed that people have this idea that "forbidden knowledge = the man trying to keep people down" when it comes to the dark side, that the Jedi are hoarding knowledge to keep themselves in power and/or keep others weaker than themselves

It partially seems to be inspired by the real world, but Star Wars is not the real world, and the knowledge which the Jedi restrict access to is typically dangerous dark side shit that has a habit of corrupting and turning people evil

With that explanation out of the way, people really seem to think that the reason Luke "tried" to kill kyle was that he was following Jedi religious dogma, that kyle was an uwu sad boy being punished by mean jerk Luke just for being curious about the dark side

As we have already established, the dark side is not a toy or some kind of other way of the Force, it is evil and brings nothing but misery, so someone delving into the dark side is a major red flag,

Dogma didn't make Luke seriously contemplate killing kyle, it was a genuine real concern that he had a new Vader on his hands

Oh, and I'd argue that thinking about killing kyle is actually Luke forgetting the Jedi teachings, not falling into a dogma of "dark side is evil and must be destroyed", because in that moment, Luke allowed his fears to control him (it kinda reminds me a lot of his freakout when Vader threatened to turn Leia to the dark side), and as a Jedi you are supposed to be in control of your feelings (especially fear and anger) lest they control you

And also, here's another thing I notice that people always forget (deliberately ignore) kinda like with the whole "Yoda burned the Kedi texts" thing

Luke did not actually try to kill kyle

He thought about, seriously considered it, very nearly did it, but ultimately stopped himself, and was ashamed of himself for even considering it

Luke only tries to kill kyle in Kyle's biased retelling that he was using to try and get Rey on his side

[butwhatifidothis]

So. Took a look into that fic @nilsh13 is going through the comments of. Dunno if I’ll actually go through the entire thing - 300k words is certainly a lot of words to read through, especially with it still updating, but I’ve read through/am reading through longer ones - but I jumped to the latest chapter to get a feel for where the fic’s at now.

I’m not halfway through the chapter and I have Words To Say lmao, under the cut

This is going to be as serious a critique about the sections I’ve selected as possible - I want to be clear why I think what is being written is not of high quality, pointing out specifically what I have wrong with it. 

Here are some snippets of the fic (boldened), and following those snippets are my thoughts on them:

“My actions have caused immense turmoil, pitting friend against friend, mother against daughter, and brother against sister*,” muttered Edelgard, desperately trying to drive any hint of self-pity (emphasis mine) from her voice. “My best friend has been disowned by her family, Hubert and Ferdinand’s fathers are dead or imprisoned, and the woman I love is now deemed a heretic by the Church that once offered her shelter. The weight of my decisions seems to pull down all who are caught in the shadow of the Imperial crown.” The Flame Emperor gave Professor Hanneman a wan smile. “Whatever imagined slights you believe you have committed against me, they pale in comparison to the carnage my own words and deeds have unleashed.” 

""I made my choice, the only choice I could make, and dragged this continent down to hell with me. It makes me a poor ruler, and an even baser person, but that was the path I knew I must take."" 

“"It is funny you use the word ‘choice’, Miss Edelgard. When I resigned my title to study at Garreg Mach, I lost marriage prospects, became penniless outside of a small stipend…I even renounced the opportunity to have a family.” Hanneman smiled, his whole body suffused with melancholy. “Really, how could I dare to dream of bringing a daughter into a world this senseless and cruel, knowing that someday, she too, could be hurt in such a way? I…I would not survive it.” The man’s body shook. “I sacrificed those things, things I desperately wanted, because the chance to allow my sister to rest in peace was more important. And I would make that choice again, despite all that it has cost me. You are much the same.”"

"“But your sacrifices were your own,” protested the Emperor of Adrestia. “Thousands bleed for the choices that I have made, and sacrifice themselves for the cause that I have placed before them. There is a profound difference-“"

"“We are both wise enough to know a painful truth,” said the scholar with a melancholy smile. “No matter how grave the sins, no matter how many innocents suffer…there will be countless individuals who will defend the law not because it is just, or righteous, but because it is the law. They will permit a hundred Abysses, and a thousand women to be raped, and a million dead children, as long as such actions do not disturb their order.” He placed a hand on Edelgard’s shoulder. “To stand against such moral rot, knowing that the world will despise and vilify you for it, is the truest sign of not only a just ruler, but a good woman.”"

"The academic’s words blazed with the passion of both a scholar and a man who had watched his world crumble to ash. A man who had been forced to live in the remnants of a life forever altered by the cruelty of both society and of humanity. And yet he had fought, the only way he could, to make the world better. It gave the Flame Emperor new resolve."

"“I…” He turned and looked away. “I believe in you, Miss Edelgard. When I see you, and your determination, your spirit, your bravery in choosing not what is easy, but what is right…it reminds me of her.” Fingers clenched around his locket. “I will fight for you, in the way I should have fought for my sister, long ago. My strength is meagre, and my courage more meagre still. However, all of it is yours.”" 

The author writes Edelgard as one trying to give pity onto herself for her actions, despite how negatively they affect her, due to the immense ramifications those actions have had on those both around her and those under her care. This is the appropriate response to someone who has done as morally dubious an action as starting and spearheading a war that has led to the deaths and suffering of countless innocent people, some of whom were undoubtedly already going through immense suffering without war compounding itself onto their already existing pain. She - rightfully - points as, as a negative towards herself, that she has forced thousands of people to sacrifice their lives, livelihoods, friends, family, homes, etc. in order to continue with her war. Edelgard's canonical self-justification - that she had no other choice to do this - is properly utilized, and further characterization is given to her when she herself recognizes that performing such horrendous actions on the people under her care makes her a poor ruler and terrible person. This is, in truth, a decent set-up for her to go onto a possible path of redemption or self-realization.

However, that progress is forcibly stopped and reverted by Hanneman justifying her actions and recontextualizing them in a morally good light. In fact, the entire story does this, as characters act wildly out of character in order for Edelgard to be seen as good in comparison to them. Focusing on the quoted lines, however, Hanneman relating him giving up nobility and going into momentary poverty - whether true to canon or not - to Edelgard's war actively paints her actions as something that she had a right to be making, which she does not, as they force others to make sacrifices for her cause. When she herself rightfully points this discrepancy out, Hanneman excuses her actions by pointing to another - supposed - source of turmoil and essentially saying "You are more right than x, therefore your y actions are not only better, but objectively good, and make you a good person." He says nothing of the inherent injustice of taking away the choice of the people to live as they want and fight for who they want as well as deliberately taking away any semblance of safety from them, and makes objective statements about Edelgard's moral righteousness despite her taking actions that would, by definition, make her moral righteousness a subjective matter at minimum.

Hanneman is projecting the image of his sister and his own personal sense of justice onto Edelgard, and thus sees her as just as much a victim of the war and society as everyone else. Edelgard is a young woman who has gone through trauma due to Crests, as was his sister, and he himself (in this story, though not within the quoted lines) wanted to beat the man who abused his sister to death, and so he sees Edelgard using violence as a means to achieve justice as not only not questionable, but morally good and brave, as he felt he was not brave enough to enact "justice" onto the man that caused his sister's death. Instead of this being settled, focused on, or even mentioned, despite its obvious nature due to deliberate connections Hanneman himself makes, it is used as a means to showcase that Hanneman is a, for lack of a better term, "expert" on what he is saying when speaking to Edelgard. He knows what it's like to want to force change, he has by-proxy experienced the apparent injustice of the Church - not human society, not his family's decision to allow his sister to be married off, not the man who caused her death's decision to discard her, but strictly the Church and only the Church - and so he can "rightfully" justify and excuse Edelgard's morally questionable actions and paint them in a solely positive light, with no nuance or gray whatsoever.

Edelgard, in the first quote, attempts to say her actions without a tone of self-pity, and yet the narrative itself pities Edelgard. She should be allowed to feel bad about her actions - not because they are causing unfathomable suffering on people who were underserving, but because they’re just hard decisions that she was good and brave to make and maybe she can feel a little bad for herself for making them. She shouldn't feel responsible for choosing to start the war - in fact, did she really have a choice, or did everyone else in society force her to? She shouldn't question whether she's a good person or not, because she simply is - no debate, no question. She is - “justly” - standing up against "moral rot"; that she does so with even more moral rot is irrelevant, because, according to the story, it is not as rotten as that she's up against, therefore it is no longer rotten in the first place. War has been completely justified, as it is now not the last resort of desperation that could only ever be morally grey at its absolute best, but an objectively morally white decision of an objectively morally white person who is facing an objectively morally black opponent.

The actions of other characters attempt to paint Edelgard as someone closer to the former, but I will - maybe - eventually go over how those characters are extremely mischaracterized in order to prop Edelgard as their moral superior. 

[saturnity]

Telling Tenya Iida to take care of himself. Tenya Iida x Gender Neutral, Best Friend Reader.

(authors note: this is my first full length fic in...a while. motivation hit me like a brick and I decided I'd churn something out! this fic is dedicated to a few special friends: @classreptenyaiida, for the interactions I've had with him, @yarozu for being such a great fan and supporter!! @lostcoves for being my first friend on this platform and for being so so kind to me, @uwu-iwanttodie because god I know you're a sucker for tenya just like i am, and @tryingmyves for sticking around and being a wonderful person!! there's also one more special person this fic is dedicated to but I don't know their tumblr url and if they wish to be named LOL // but yes anyway, enjoy! i hope you like this, feel free to send me any feedback, rts and follows appreciated!!!)

warnings: none! all fluff. good for everyone.

Tenya Iida and (f/n l/n). The both of you were inseparable, friends since childhood, in the same class throughout elementary and middle school. You were overjoyed to hear that you’d be in the same class with him again in UA, brimming with excitement to be able to stick by his side for longer. Of course, you had a crush on him ever since you could remember...but you were really too scared, terrified, really, to confess to him- in fear of ruining your 15 years of friendship.

Out of all people, you were the person who knew how determined Tenya was to not only reach, but exceed his goals and aspirations. You knew how much he wanted to satisfy the people around him and meet their expectations. You didn’t exactly understand why he did it, but you knew how driven he was, and how he’d do anything within the law and the rules to get there. And he rarely failed. Tenya was a great inspiration in your life, encouraging you to do better, while growing together. In a way, he influenced you to work hard, train harder and to do your hardest. The both of you became a force to be reckoned with; your parents and Tenya’s parents realised this, and hoped you’d do great things as heroes in the future, allowing you to spend weekends and holidays together.

Throughout your first term, Tenya enthusiastically took up the role as representative of Class 1-A with pride. He’d come to you for feedback for his ideas, always asking your opinion before proceeding, and you’d be his biggest cheerleader. You improved ideas he delivered, making sure small details were tweaked, and ensured logistics ran smoothly. Whenever Tenya needed help, you were the first he’d go to. Tenya presumed the role of a figure of strength within Class 1-A, readily assisting people in need, hosting study groups after school, and going the extra mile to make sure everyone was...more or less, in line. His work towards being a ‘good hero’ started here, and it wouldn’t stop until his last breath. As an Iida, he worked daily to strengthen his reputation as a helpful, strong figure...no, a reputation as a hero.

But inside, you knew Tenya was tired. He was slowly burning himself out. He didn’t need a savior, but he needed someone to shake him awake. There were days where you’d find Tenya a little less awake than usual, even though he seemed to have the same amount of energy as every other day. You’d catch him zoning out after school days ended, maybe he’d drop from his chopsticks once more than normal at lunch, and sometimes he’d even forget to bring certain things to school. Your best friend definitely wasn’t sleeping or resting enough.

You did your best to make sure Tenya was taking care of himself. Sometimes, you would gently remind him to drink more water, or to get more sleep. Other times, you’d deliberately book ‘study sessions’ with him, only to do the exact opposite- taking him to a cafe for a ‘change of environment’, introducing him to several new drinks and cakes, much to his dismay. Or maybe you’d eat lunch on one of the school rooftops, and allow him to take a nap afterwards on your shoulder while you ran your fingers through his coarse, navy hair. Perhaps you’d relax at your house, a movie would be playing on the TV, and while he’d feverishly insist on studying or doing something more ‘productive’, you’d gently but stubbornly insist that he rest. As the days passed, Tenya placed his focus on his ambitions, and your opportunities to ensure his leisure decreased.

One night, you wondered why Tenya pushed himself so hard. Was it because he was a people pleaser? There were definitely times where he would be almost too eager to help others. Or was it because he decided to shoulder his world of responsibility alone? Maybe it was because he was constantly surrounded by good examples of what a hero should be, that he held the burden of his family name, that he was expected to be the next best thing for the hero community...or maybe it was all of the above. Tenya had been working tirelessly for this; yet he didn’t know when or how to take care of himself and to forget to be selfless. He was always running to help others, always thinking in the position of others, or whatever would be better for the future. You didn’t remember the last time he did something for himself. Regardless, you decided that you’d definitely work a little harder to make sure your best friend would care for himself. After all, everyone needed someone else to lean on, right?

You shook your head. “No. I’m serious. You need to rest. Or at least take it easy this weekend.”

Finally, one Friday afternoon, you saw Tenya yawn in class for the first time. He looked close to falling asleep, in fact, you could say he was positively exhausted. His eyelids fluttered downward, their weight becoming heavier and heavier with each blink. Inside, he was praying he wouldn’t get picked on to answer a question- he just wasn’t really following the class material anymore. Or worse, he hoped Mr. Aizawa wouldn’t assign group work- it’d mean he would have to actively interact with other people, which he didn’t have the energy for. Thankfully, the bell rang, and the gray, bleary-eyed teacher dismissed his class, unfurling his sleeping bag and escaping the room to get a nap himself. You walked up to Tenya’s desk and playfully smacked his arm, shocking him a little more awake. He adjusted his glasses and looked up to you.

“Heeey. Someone’s looking tired.”

“I suppose I didn’t sleep quite enough last night, (y/n).” Tenya grinned. To the normal eye, it would seem like one of the class rep’s normal, signature smiles, but to you, there was a fatigued weakness shielded behind its sunny exterior.

You arched an eyebrow. “You’ve said that every day for the last month and a half.”

“I know, I know. There’s so much work I need to get to, in fact, I should return to my dorm soon to st-” Tenya had finished gathering his things and prepared to leave the classroom, until your hand reached out onto one of his broad shoulders and pressed him back down onto his seat.

“No you fucking don’t.” You folded your arms, a frown plastered to your face.

Tenya scowled. “Please, (y/n), can we joke around later? I have to get th-”

“Look, if you’re aiming to be a successful hero in the future, you might as well take your own advice that you give so often to others and rest. You always tell us to make sure we get enough sleep, and you’re not even doing it yourself. If you’re tired or sick, you won’t be able to perform as well as you want to, right? And you always want to be at your best, don’t you, Ten?”

“But-” Tenya protested. He had so much work to do, so much to get to.

“Tenya Iida. In our 15 years of friendship, I’ve never seen you this fucking tired. We’re only in our first year. Are you going to keep doing this throughout school? Or what, the rest of your life? For the love of god, cut yourself some slack.” You almost yelled out in protest, in disgust of seeing your best friend suffer in silence.

Tenya stared at you in shock. You’ve never spoken to him like this before, or at least, it was rare. Usually you played more of a supportive role by his side, and when you were more assertive, you were never this pushy. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he heard you shout. The remaining members of Class 1-A who hadn’t yet left the room stared at the both of you in a similar amount of surprise as your bespectacled classmate did. After sighing, you decided to use reason that Tenya would buy into, desperately hoping he would do as you said.

“Then it’s settled. We’re gonna take it easy this weekend, okay? And don’t apologise for making me worry. It’s my job to look out for you, you know. And we haven’t napped together in a while too. I kinda miss that.” You brought Tenya into a hug.

Tenya sighed. You were right. He couldn’t hide that he was tired. And honestly, it was exhausting having to troop through each class with the meager 4-5 hours of shut-eye he was getting. It was a battle that he knew he was losing. He surrendered to your suggestion.

“I...uh...suppose you’re right. Sorry for making you worry.” Right after Tenya had finished that sentence, he yawned. There was really no hiding his tiredness now.

“Hey...(y/n)? Thank you. I appreciate you doing this.” Tenya smiled, as he reciprocated your warmth.

[cuddlepilefics]

Migraine

Fandom: GOT7

Sickie: Mark

Caregiver: Jackson & Jinyoung

Prompt: @sicktember

No one’s POV.:

Being the quietest member certainly had its perks, Mark realized when he woke up feeling off. He didn’t know what exactly was wrong, so he didn’t want to worry his friends. Throughout breakfast, the oldest had been quiet but nobody thought much of it, as he was always quiet. What Mark didn’t know was that his roommate had noticed. Jackson knew the older very well, as you do after living together for years. He could tell his hyung wasn’t feeling himself, though he couldn’t tell exactly what was wrong or what had given it away. It was more like a gut-feeling, that something wasn’t right. Jackson was relieved that they’d spend the entire day at the studio because he couldn’t imagine Mark would be up for dancing today. They’d have a lot of recording to do, which wasn’t too stressful and consisted mainly of revising lyrics and waiting for their turn to record. Maybe the oldest could take a nap until he had to record and would be fine with just a little more rest. Going back to their room to get ready to head out, Jackson got only more worried. It was his hyung’s clothing choice that stuck out to Jackson like a red flag. Mark had that extremely old and washed-out hoodie, which he had brought from the US when he first came to Korea to train. By now, it was far from fashionable and served more as a comfort item, which the rapper usually wore when he didn’t feel well or was home-sick. Him putting it on now, confirmed the younger’s suspicions.

“Hyung, are you feeling alright?”, Jackson asked, barely stopping the older from leaving their shared room. Mark turned around and looked at him confused, muttering: “Sure, why?” – "You’re wearing that hoodie. You always wear it when you don’t feel good”, Jackson pointed out. Glancing down his outfit, the oldest realized that his dongsaeng was right. He just hadn’t expected anyone to pick up on it. Shrugging, he replied: “I feel a bit off, maybe didn’t sleep enough.” Jackson nodded, not fully buying it but following his hyung to the living room anyway. They waited for everyone else to finish up and then headed out together. During their drive to the studio, Mark started to question himself. Jackson’s comment had sparked his worry. He hadn’t put on that hoodie deliberately, it had just happened on top of already feeling weird. What was going on with him? Being so deep in thought, he didn’t even notice how they pulled up in front of the company building. “Are you coming, hyung?”, Jaebeom’s voice startled him from his thoughts and Mark nodded quickly, wincing when the fast movement caused his head to ache. He quickly climbed out of the vehicle, stumbling a bit before he was able to get his footing. Watching him stumble, Jackson linked their arms and walked him up to their studio. The older couldn’t help but be flustered. He felt fine, right? He didn’t need help to walk.

Jackson was the first one to record with Jaebeom as the producer, so Mark sat with the rest of the members, revising his lyrics and warming up his voice. The headache he had gotten from nodding his head to fast earlier was still lingering, so he decided his voice was warmed up enough and quietly sat there, reading over his lyrics. Or rather, pretending to read over his lyrics as they were blurring together in front of his eyes. The rapper winced, massaging his temples. Maybe that was why he had been feeling off. He carefully reached for his water bottle and took a few sips before going back to revising. The headache only increased the longer he looked at the small-print, so he closed his eyes for a few seconds, quickly opening them again as he felt the room spinning. It took Mark a while to put the pieces together. Every now and again, he suffered from migraines and this felt like the beginning of one. The odd feeling this morning, the ache from moving too fast and the dizziness. It all made sense now. From this point on, Mark knew it would only get worse as the day progressed but what could he do about it? They had deadlines for their new album and he didn’t want to hold them back. He had to record now because they had a too tight schedule to postpone his recording. Anxiously glancing towards the recording booth, the rapper made up his mind. As soon as Jackson would be done, he’d convince the others to let him record next. He should get it over with as soon as possible before getting too useless and miserable later.

Mark tried to speak up when Jackson exited the recording booth but for some reason, he felt frozen in his spot. Jinyoung went in to record next as the oldest sat motionlessly in his seat. “You okay?”, Jackson mouthed, sitting down next to him and nudging his shoulder to get his attention. The older nodded before realizing his mistake and scrunching his face up in pain at the movement. Jackson obviously didn’t believe him after that, pulling out his phone to text Mark that he looked awful and was acting far from okay. Knowing he couldn’t look at his bright phone screen, Mark leaned closer to his dongsaeng and whispered barely audible: “’m developing a migraine.” He could see shock and understanding flash across the younger’s face within a split second before Jackson replied as quietly: “How bad is it yet and when did it start?” – “Started when I got out of the car and it’s not too bad yet. My head hurts but it’s bearable and my stomach’s starting to churn a bit”, Mark answered truthfully, aware that the younger would immediately assume the worst if he didn’t. "Do you want some water and do you have your medicine with you?”, Jackson worried. Closing his eyes, the oldest hummed: “Already had lots of water, my meds are at home.” He knew that he was supposed to take his medication with him for situations like this but somehow, he had forgotten and didn’t find the energy to scold himself for it now. He kept his eyes closed, as Jackson wordlessly started to massage his neck, helping him to relax.

When Jinyoung exited the recording booth, Jackson was quick to speak up, announcing that Mark was going next. He had taken care of the older on similar occasions before and was well aware that his hyung would only be getting worse from, especially without his migraine medication. Mark shot him a grateful smile before forcing himself up from the couch. He swayed dangerously for a moment before making his way into the recording booth on wobbly legs. His vision blurred as the rapper stood behind the mic. Just standing on his own two feet had made the pain a lot worse, the pounding being all Mark could focus on. He knew he couldn’t put anymore pressure on his head if he didn’t want it to explode but reached for the headphones anyway. His hands shook as he put them on painfully slow. He had torn them off again in barely half the time he had needed to put them on, crying in pain as he fell to his knees. His head spun and his stomach churned. At first, he didn’t even notice the hand on his back, which later turned out to belong to Jackson, who had barged into the booth the second Mark had cried out. He had kept a closer eye on his hyung ever since he admitted to suffering from another migraine.

The members felt helpless as their oldest cried in pain on the floor of the recording booth. Jackson held him, soothingly rubbing his back, but was unable to provide enough comfort. By the way Mark clutched his head, they knew he had a migraine, having witnessed it a couple of times over the course of their career, so Jinyoung turned off the lights and quietly approached the pair with a bottle of water. “Hyung, do you think you can stomach some water?”, he asked carefully. The older replied tensely: “I-I need to be sick.” Quickly scooping him up, Jackson tried to get to the bathroom as fast as possible without jostling his sick hyung too much. Mark had already turned a few shades paler by the time they made it there and relied on the younger’s support to keep himself upright in front of the toilet. His stomach lurched, causing him to pitch forward, and he was grateful for Jackson’s strong arm steadying him. The younger couldn’t help but feel his heart break at his hyung’s pained groans in between the heaves. It didn’t help that Mark had barely eaten anything during breakfast, so after all the water was out, he struggled to bring anything up. He was surprised his head was still in one piece as it felt like exploding over and over again from the strain. After what felt like an eternity, the heaves slowly tapered and Mark weakly slumped back against Jackson’s chest, who tightened his hold on the older. The younger gently brushed his hyung’s sweaty hair out of his eyes before reaching for some toilet paper to clean him up.

“Are you ready to go home now?”, Jackson asked quietly. He only knew that Mark was still awake because his face was contorted in pain. Tearing up, the older whimpered: “I-I can’t go home. We have deadlines.” – “Hyung, you won’t be able to record like this anyway. You look like a corpse and I’m afraid you might become one if you don’t rest soon”, Jackson retorted, “I finished already, I can take you home. Doesn’t your bed sound really tempting, right now?” – “It does”, Mark had to admit hoarsely. Still shaky on his legs, he allowed his dongsaeng to pull him to his feet and onto his back. Trying to keep his steps light, Jackson carried him back to the studio, so they could inform the others about leaving. “I’ll come with you, I’m done already too”, Jinyoung announced, collecting their belongings while Jaebeom called them a driver. Mark kept his eyes closed through all of it, reminding himself that gritting his teeth would only make the pain worse. Suddenly there was a gently hand on his head, stroking his hair, and he heard Jaebeom’s voice close to his ear. “Get some rest and don’t worry about our deadlines, I’ll reschedule the recording for you”, the leader hummed softly. Mark replied with a sleepy: “Thanks.” Then he felt Jackson move and Jinyoung instructed: “Keep your eyes closed, we’re almost outside and it’s rather sunny.” It wasn’t like Mark had any motivation to open his eyes anyway, so he let his dongsaeng’s take him to the car. Jinyoung got in first and helped Mark find his seat too. While he buckled the oldest’s seatbelt, Jackson got in on the other side, buckling himself up too before adjusting the air conditioning.

They spent the ride in silence with Mark resting on Jinyoung’s shoulder and Jackson holding his hand for emotional support. The older was so out of it that he didn’t pay any attention to the other two distributing tasks as they pulled up in front of their dorm building. Jinyoung unbuckled their seatbelts before going ahead to the dorm to let the other two in and Jackson helped the dizzy Mark out of the vehicle and onto his back again. They made their way to the dorm much slower than their dongsaeng, who took off Mark’s shoes while Jackson struggled out of his. He then carried the oldest straight to their room and lowered him on his bed. “Shorts or sweatpants?”, he hummed, opening his hyung’s closet. Peeling himself out of his jeans, Mark muttered: “Shorts please.” He changed with some difficulties before laying down and pulling his pillow over his head. While Jackson closed the blinds, Jinyoung came in with a bucket, some water and his hyung’s migraine medication. “Hyung, can you sit up for a moment? I’ve got your meds”, the vocalist whispered, gently removing the pillow. Before even trying to sit up, the older warned: “I-I might need to be sick again.” – “That’s okay, I brought a bucket but try to keep the pills in as long as possible”, Jinyoung assured, helping his hyung to sit up. Mark downed the pills with only a few small sips of water, afraid they’d come right back up. Jackson had ventured into the kitchen and collected two icepacks, while his dongsaeng helped Mark get under the blanket properly. “Wait”, he hummed lowly, returning to their room, “Lay your head on my lap.” Sitting down against the wall close to the headboard, Jackson settled the older’s head on his thigh and gently slipped one icepack under his neck before placing the other on his forehead. “Alright, you can go to sleep now, hyung”, the younger rapper smiled, playing with Mark’s hair. Jinyoung sat down on Jackson’s bed, whispering: “I hope you feel better when you wake up.”

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Re: Star Wars prequel novelizations - the Revenge of the Sith book is genuinely one of the best things I have ever read and changed my life.

THANK YOU, anon, for reminding me about the Revenge of the Sith novelization.  I just reread it, and my crops are watered, my skin is clear, and — I cannot overstate this — I actually remember why I love Star Wars.  That love has been for too long stolen by The Fandom Menace sucking the life out of those movies to invent a new definition of suffering while digesting them slowly over a thousand years.

Revenge of the Sith by Matthew Stover is one of the greatest works of adventure fiction I have ever read, and it continues to inspire the way I write action sequences and character conflicts.  It does so damn much to transform a movie that is, to be honest, just okay.  There are a couple of big additions from the novel that make the whole Skywalker saga richer, and there are about five hundred little tweaks that deepen the lore in a way that shows that Stover loves Star Wars to the core.

First big addition: having Obi-Wan tell Padmé that he’s in love with Anakin. This is great because yay, queer representation!  But within the specific context of RotS, it also sets up the super-important contrast between Obi-Wan and Anakin.  Obi-Wan, Stover’s novel makes clear, is the quiet and unassuming embodiment of everything a Jedi is supposed to be: he’s selfless, loving, hard-working, and incredibly skilled with the Force.  Obi-Wan falls in love with Anakin, realizes that Anakin doesn’t love him back in that way, and... lives with it.  He spends time with Anakin, supports Anakin, enjoys Anakin’s company, and doesn’t act like the world will end if Anakin isn’t his.

Anakin loves Obi-Wan, in a siblinglike way, and he loves Padmé.  But he’s got a nasty habit of expressing that love through possession and control, through going behind Padmé’s back to “fix” her life without her permission.  Anakin falls in love with Padmé and immediately concludes that he cannot possibly live like this: they must begin a secret relationship, and he must both marry her and remain a Jedi.  Later he destroys the Jedi and eventually Padmé herself because he sees himself as having no way out of that dilemma.

And all the while, Obi-Wan is there in the background.  Also in love with someone with whom he cannot have a relationship, and just… dealing with it like an adult.  Because millions of people are in love with people who don’t love them back, and that’s just how it is sometimes.  It’s selfish to obsess over “having” their love at all costs.  For Anakin, that obsession with saving Obi-Wan and Padmé eventually leads to him killing them both.

When Yoda tells Anakin that he must deal with his fear of losing Padmé through letting go, Anakin takes this to mean “let her die.”  But what Yoda means is not “let her die,” but rather “love her the way Obi-Wan loves you: quietly, selflessly, and with a willingness to do what’s best for her, whether or not that means you get to have her.”  And Anakin never understands that, because Anakin’s view of the world is so intensely egocentric.

Second big addition: updating the Force to explain the Dark Side. Revenge of the Sith, even more so than any other Star Wars, is all about the contrast between the Dark Side and the Light Side.  Here, Stover’s contribution is brilliant; he makes the Dark Side egocentric and the Light allocentric.

Terminology! “Egocentric” in psych refers to the perspective that focuses on how the world affects you and how you affect the world.  At the extreme, egocentric thinking can be believing that a baby is crying in a deliberate effort to annoy you, or that every person in a crowded cafeteria will remember what shirt you wore when you ate there a week ago.  “Allocentric” refers to the perspective that the self is one of several disparate elements buffered around by the world.  At the extreme, allocentric thinking can be failing to realize that others are reacting to your presence, or viewing your own life as one thing you can give to help others.

Stover doesn’t use those terms, but he does describe how Dooku “drew power into his innermost being until the Force itself existed only to serve his will” (p. 64).  Later, Obi-Wan “gave himself to the living Force… the Force moved him, let him collapse as though he’d suddenly fainted, then it brought his lightsaber from his belt to his hand” (p. 285).  Dooku ultimately loses his fight against Anakin because he focuses on how everyone is responding to him, and misses that Anakin and Palpatine are beginning to build an alternate alliance right under his nose.  Obi-Wan ultimately wins his fight against Anakin because he allows the Force to shove him around, and sets aside his concern with both his own life and that of his best friend while fighting for the greater goal of peace.

Not only that, but Obi-Wan’s understanding of the Force moves beyond that of most Jedi.  He compares “the will of the Force” to “the will of gravity,” in essence stating that simply because it is beyond human comprehension doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own rules.  One can be a Jedi without needing to understand the Force in the same way one can be a pilot without needing to be a physicist.  In RotS, we see that his refrain of “search your feelings” is a way of calling on a Force user to be mindful enough to accept realities that are already evident, if one can only allow oneself to have that knowledge.

Stover also uses these competing perspectives — allocentric and egocentric — to explain why the Jedi Order falls.  The tight control the Order exerts over the Jedi moves them away from the will of the Force and toward the will of the Council.  Its insularity creates a sense of superiority, which is the reason so many Jedi fail to see their clone troopers as threats until it’s too late. Stover tweaks the Jedi Purge scene to emphasize that the only reason Obi-Wan and Yoda survive is because of their selflessness.  Obi-Wan takes the time to befriend his alien mount, repeatedly confirming her well-being, and then she shields him with her body when his troopers open fire.  Yoda respects the Wookie command and puts himself in a position to assist rather than lead the resistance movement on Kashyyyk, meaning that when a fight breaks out between him and his troopers the Wookies don’t hesitate to side with him.  Yoda and Obi-Wan are the only two Jedi who truly give themselves to the service of others, and thus they are the only two to survive the Purge.

...and the million little favors this book does for the movie.

During the opening battle, having Obi-Wan tell Anakin to “use the Force” to fly a narrow trench and having Anakin roll his eyes at such an obvious suggestion.  It’s a callback to A New Hope, but one that drives home how much more the Force is integrated in the lives of Old Republic Jedi than it is in the lives of Imperial kids like Luke.

Fixing the minor continuity error from Episode III to Episode IV — why would Admiral Motti dismiss Vader as following outdated superstitions if there were millions of Jedi within his lifetime? — by explicitly stating that the Sith are considered a dead culture.  Ergo, Vader’s “ancient religion” isn’t the Force in general; it’s specifically the Sith creed.

Making Palpatine scarier and more seductive than he is in the movie.  Stover’s rhetoric about killing even the Jedi children is frighteningly rational and coherent, and he uses it to give Palpatine some stomach-churning speeches while corrupting Anakin.

Using the novel format for all it’s worth.  Stover skims over the physical-comedy elevator sequence in favor of having Dooku and Palpatine discussing their plans for the war.  He only tells us about Anakin’s conversation with Yoda after the fact, in scattered flashes as a panicking Anakin runs through the halls of the Jedi temple.  He gives us intense focus on Anakin’s mindset while trying to land the broken halves of Invisible Hand, less on what the ship itself is doing.  He cuts away from Anakin and Obi-Wan’s final battle, toward R2D2 and C3PO as they struggle to drag a dying Padmé into her ship out of a desperation to find some small way to help her.

Revealing that Palpatine spends the entire story trying to kill Obi-Wan.  This gets hinted at in the movie, but Stover includes several moments throughout Palpatine’s “rescue” from Dooku when Palpatine sets Obi-Wan up to die, and mentions like eight other attempts on Obi-Wan’s life as orchestrated by Palpatine.  It’s a great character addition, that Palpatine assumes he cannot get Anakin to fall unless he first eliminates Obi-Wan.

Expanding Padmé’s role in the movie (set dressing, and later refrigerator filling) by having her secretly organize and launch the Rebel Alliance right under Vader and Palpatine’s noses.

Those are just examples of how Stover clearly knows the Force, gets the Force, and strives to make the Force more internally coherent.  How he sometimes translates, sometimes preserves, and always improves the pacing and tone of the film.

I haven’t even touched on the FUCKING AMAZEBALLS imagery or introspection in the book yet, but this post is getting wicked long, so I’ll go ahead and leave it here for now.  Point is, all y’all should go out immediately and get a copy from your library and/or used bookstore, because Nonny is right and it’ll change your life.

[plainlo-inthemorning]

A Loki TVA / Lokane fic that snatched a tempad. Rating T.

Previously: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (of 6)

Shine a Light, part 4

This time around, he feels but the faintest glimmer of surprise as he steps out of the doorway and onto a busy sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan.

A few people stop dead in their tracks when the door materializes out of thin air, but the throng of commuters headed to and from Central Station is so dense, Loki’s appearance goes mainly unnoticed.

Dull resignation washes over him.

The tempad is officially broken. Its coordinates locked onto this little planet where, in his own timeline, he has known nothing but defeat.

Without bothering to look for a newsstand, he reasons there’s a strong probability it’s the year 2014. It would seem the damn gadget is slowly counting backwards, while refusing to take him anywhere else in the universe.

Above his head, a billboard flashing on the side of a high-rise building confirms his suspicions.

Incredibly though, the tempad still not out of “juice”. The battery life seems to be making a mockery of his failed attempts to direct the itinerary.

Taking a step out of the moving sea of people, Loki sees little in way of construction sites along the street.

On his timeline, this would have been two years after his attack on the city with Thanos’ army, but if that ‘highlight’ of Loki’s less than acclaimed villainous career took place in this reality as well, the mortals have effectively tidied up after him.

He tries not think of the countless faces frozen in terror that had looked up at him.

Of the lives lost because of his crazed ambition to prove himself - and to destroy something of Thor’s.

Almost if Loki had been transformed back into the chronically jealous five-year-old child who once stole his golden, annoyingly joyful, perfect brother’s favorite model toy - a grey wolf made of clay - and deliberately let it roll down the steps of the throne when their father (his NON-father) had been away.

The toy had broken into pieces and Thor had been inconsolable. Gripped by immediate remorse despite his initial intent, Loki had tried to fix it with his budging magic powers. Only for the wolf to melt to a sticky puddle on the stone floor.

Thor had wailed so loudly, a passing servant had thought him seriously injured and called for their mother, and Loki had been made to apologize, his usually pale cheeks burning scarlet. Then he had been grounded for the remains of the day.

The humiliation had stung, and so had the regret that his magic had failed him.

Not for the first time, the anger had turned, unwarranted (Loki knew then too), towards his brother.

From then on, it had just gotten slowly worse and worse and more malicious right up until that horrible moment of rage no more than a few days ago (a week?), when Loki had driven one of his daggers into Thor’s side on top of the Stark tower.

And twisted it.

The mix of bottomless sadness and shock in his brother’s blue eyes had cut through Loki’s heart with such force he might as well have sunk the blade of his other weapon into his own chest.

But instead of abandoning his pathetic scramble for power and hold Thor, instead of attempting to heal the wound with his magic that has become so formidable in adulthood, Loki had let the poison drown the remains of his sanity.

Of course, shortly afterward, the green monstrosity had effortlessly and repeatedly smashed him into the concrete floor of Stark’s living-quarters until Loki had thought he heard every bone in his supposedly immortal (right!) body break and his skull crack open.

To the outside, it had surely been a suitably entertaining show of retribution, but as he had lain there in the crater of rubble, unable to utter a moan, it was as if all the anger had been knocked out of him.

The link to Thanos’ ungodly servant had been severed and Loki had felt more like himself than he had in a long, long time.

When Thor, looking grimmer than ever, had dragged him to his feet in front of the ragtag band of ‘heroes’ and cuffed him, Loki had found himself strangely elated, on the verge of giddy.

His legs had been so shaky from the beating that Thor had had to hold him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall, and Loki had felt the heat of his brother’s huge hand penetrate the many layers of his own armour.

For a few delirious seconds, Loki had wanted nothing more than to lean against his brother’s strong frame and just close his eyes.

Instead, he had started cracking jokes until Thor had slapped the muzzle on him, as if he were some dog (that gesture had embarrassed him more than anything that had gone before). Unable to keep up his sarcastic commentary as they rode the elevator down, Loki had fleetingly wondered if he was suffering from a psychosis or actual brain damage.

Now, standing on the street so close to where it happened, the memory oozes fresh guilt.

But he redeemed himself.

In his mind, Loki goes through the TVA reel once more to remind himself of the images of his brother later in life, smiling at him.

Right before the end came.

If he is to spend the rest of eternity on Midgard - or at least until the multiverse crumbles - he will try to find solace in the good his future self managed to accomplish.

For Thor and, in another, brighter reality, for her.

The riddle of her part in his life now remains unsolved, but as hard as Loki tries to release the ghost wrapped in his arms, it merely squeezes itself closer to his chest.

He could try to find her here, on this timeline.

She will be with Thor, that much is certain, but since the reel of Loki’s fate had shown him only his own path, he knows not whether Thor and Jane shared a life on Midgard, or somewhere else, up until the brothers reunited (for lack of a better word) on Asgard.

What would Loki even say to her?

That, while at the bureau that controls all space and time, he saw her face on a roll of film of his supposed life, and now he aches for her more than anything? That on an alternate timeline a few hours ago, she kissed him?

Thor would not approve of that exchange.

Also, with Loki’s luck, Thor might be a frog in this reality.

He could still try to use the tempad to transport him to Svartalfheim and his own life’s story, seeing as he is now only year from where he feels so strongly he must go.

But finding the proper timeline is like shooting an arrow into the endless vastness of space and hoping it’ll hit the right comet.

He realizes that now.

An arrow.

Somehow, somewhere, on two timelines no less, variants of him had …

Loki’s head jerks up.

The tower.

It’s a desperate idea at best, but from the (very) little Loki knows of his character, Stark’s superior technical skills go hand in hand with an endlessly hungry, inquisitive mind. And pride.

Much like Loki, Stark is a man who needs to be the smartest man in the room. And like Loki, he probably is, most of time (in fact… no. Don’t go there).

Maybe Stark will listen.

Perhaps he can even help make sense of the tempad if Loki can somehow win his trust and appeal to his curiosity and (he winces a little) heroism.

Was it not Loki’s actions who had helped Stark “realize his best potential”, as his TVA file put it?

He spots the imposing structure further up the street, noticing the huge “A” at the top (is that new?), and sets off towards it at a brisk pace, darting in and out of the crowds on the packed sidewalk.

Here goes nothing.

As he reaches the large glass doors he briefly experiences a dizzying deja-vu, when suddenly a man’s voice calls out to him.

A frighteningly familiar, agitated voice.

… With a particular brand of anger bubbling underneath, that Loki had hoped he’d never have to witness up close ever again.

//

“What the hell are you doing here??”

His dark, curly hair has a few more streaks of silver. The checkered shirt is slightly crumbled, the glasses a bit askew. He clutches an armful of papers to his chest.

And he’s wearing a furious expression although, thank the Norns, a mortal complexion.

For now.

“Didn’t Tony explicitly tell you not to come here?! Are you that intent on causing everyone to lose their shit again?!”

Worry is all over Doctor Banner’s screwed up face.

“Seriously, Loki, is this funny to you? Clint is actually in the building right now and, in case Tony didn’t already inform you, he’s made it very clear that he’s quitting the team if you were to stroll through the front door!”

The Avenger has started shaking, his eyes wild (too wild).

This is heading in the wrong direction fast.

Mustering all the calm in the world despite his racing pulse and the nauseating sounds of bones breaking echoing in his head, Loki puts on his most courteous and, he dearly hopes, un-cocky charming smile.

“Bruce, please relax. I assure you, I’m not here to cause trouble. Not for you or anyone else.”

“Right, you just happened to be in town and wanted to stop by for coffee? Loki, this …”

Loki gently interrupts him.

“I merely came here to have a conversation with S- … Tony. Perhaps you could let him know I’m here? I promise you, I will not set foot inside. In fact - “

Loki adopts the form of one of the security guards he can see pacing inside the foyer.

“… I’m not even here.”

Bruce jumps a little and clutches his papers even tighter.

“Oh god, I hate when you do that, man. If you think showing off that trick makes anyone any less nervous around you…”

“Doctor Banner - Bruce. I have something …”

Loki searches for the words, quickly trying to decide on how much to reveal to the man-beast who’s now looking at him with urgent expectancy.

He sighs and bets it all.

“Okay. Bruce, what I’m going to say will sound mad.”

The man scoffs.

“Coming from you, I’d expect nothing less.”

Bruce shakes his head and looks to the sky in exasperation.

“Please - please - don’t tell me you’ve gone and changed your mind about the whole not conquering Earth business. Really, Loki, none of us understand how transforming you into ‘an asset’ became Tony’s pet project over this past year, or why Fury went along with it. But I’m sure both are going to be pretty damn disappointed if their new alien BFF decides to embrace his inner psycho again.”

Loki almost chuckles. It’s all too ridiculous.

“I won’t … embrace my inner ‘psycho’, I swear.”

“Then what?”

The God of Mischief draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Or rather, the security guard’s nose.

Then he surrenders to the absurdity of the situation.

“Bruce, I kindly beg of you, is Tony here? Or … (is there hope?) Thor?”

Bruce still looks at him with deep disdain, but his immediate anger seems to have subsided.

“No, Tony’s out of town. Took Pepper somewhere on holiday. They’re not to be disturbed for at least a week. Her words. And Thor … I should think you of all people know perfectly well why he’s not likely to hang around at the time being. Jeez, you guys and your endless family soap opera … I can’t even.”

Naturally, the universe again blankly refuses to extend any hands to Loki and his doomed quest. Sadly, once again, he is not surprised.

Wait - what?

“What do you mean, ‘soap opera’?”

Bruce looks like he’s about to throw his hands over his head and all the papers with them.

“Oh, come on! What is this?! You want approval? Confirmation of your little victory? Doesn’t the very lovely embodiment of that currently walk around in your apartment or wherever it is you live now? Loki, I’m done here. You have to leave. Bye.”

To hell with Stark – Loki wants to grab Bruce by his shirt collar and shake the little man till he explains what in all of Yggdrasil he’s talking about.

But he cannot afford to tempt the beast. Quite literally.

“Then … can you and I go somewhere to talk? Bruce, you’re a man of science. This is science … related.”

Loki feigns a smile.

Bruce sizes him up. No doubt considering whether to let the other guy continue the conversation.

Then his shoulders drop.

“Okay. Okay. For a creepy megalomaniac, you somehow tend to end up with some very cool people defending your case. Just know that those people are absolutely the only reason, you and I are still talking. Ugh, I’m too nice … “

Bruce casts a glance over his shoulder into the foyer, appearing to consider their options, when a man exits the glass doors – and shuffles up to them.

“Bruce! How nice to see you. You look well.”

The old man (those eyes …) grins warmly and pats Bruce on the back, then looks from him to Loki and back again.

“Everything alright out here? Is there a security issue?”

Bruce composes himself and smiles back.

“Hi, Lee, good to see you too. All fine. Earl here was just updating me on, eh, the new security procedures.”

He shoots Loki a stern look.

“Ah, yes”, Loki nods seriously. “Doctor Banner had some trouble operating the intricate open and close mechanism of the doors. The elevator doors, especially.”

He can’t help himself. It’s somehow both immensely tragic and life-affirming.

“Oh?” The old man raises an eyebrow (he looks … but he’s not quite …something is off).

“Will I have to get a new security card? I rarely come in these days, but in case …”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Lee. Because, because … like you say, you’re hardly ever here, so …”

Still smiling awkwardly, Bruce waves a dismissive hand, almost dropping the stack of papers (the man’s a terrible liar, Loki thinks).

“Speaking of”, Banner continues, “you must be enjoying retirement up there, huh, Lee? Must be nice to live by the sea. Good … air quality?”

Loki sighs inwardly.

The dog sniffing at his ankles looks up at him.

He stares down at the round, fluffy thing as if seeing it for the first time.

Which he is and he isn’t.

The old man is saying something to Bruce about the countryside, when he notices the dog wagging its tail at Loki’s feet.

“Oh, he likes you. You’re lucky, he normally doesn’t care for strangers. No, you don’t, do you Fenris”, the man coos.

Under coats of thick white fur, the animal looks eagerly from owner to Loki.

“Okay, well, I’ll be off,” the old man says, finally. “Come see me sometime, Bruce. My neighbor actually just put his house on the market, in case you’re looking for a weekend retreat…”

He nods at Bruce, then at Loki who barely notices. The dog whines unhappily at being dragged away.

It’s the same timeline.

Of course, it is. The tempad has locked itself on a sequence.

But why the different locations …?

“Yes, thank you, Lee. Take care now. Earl, shall we?” Bruce signals to Loki to follow him round the side of the building.

“We can continue our discussion about the security issue in the garage”.

//

“So, let’s hear it. Tell me what you came to say, so I can tell you why it’s a catastrophically bad idea.”

Bruce sits himself across the small table from Loki and dumps the stack of papers in front of him. The top sheet is covered in coffee mug rings.

They are in an anonymous, windowless office somewhere below the vast tower parking lot and numerous in-house repair shops.

The place is a gigantic maze and Loki has just shut himself in a tiny room with the very monster that turned him into ragdoll. The deep slash on his forehead has only just healed.

He does not fear many beings in the universe, but the mild-mannered doctor’s alter ego makes the hit list with the worst of them.

Ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up (why did this seem like a good idea?), Loki drops his disguise and takes a seat on the cheap plastic chair. Not much of that flashy Stark glamour down here.

“Okay.” Loki takes out the tempad and puts it in the middle of the table.

He is not quite sure where to start, so he decides to begin with the purely technical aspect.

Bruce might appreciate being given a few ‘scientific’ details before any mentions of giant smoke monsters and alligators.

In fact, the fewer magical creatures and castles in the sky, the better.

“This is called a tempad. It’s a device that makes it possible to travel anywhere in time. You type in your destination, and a doorway opens. I did not make it myself. It was, er, given to me by a large and very powerful organization … in space.”

Bruce is leaning forward to get a better look at the tempad but makes no attempt to reach for it.

As he’s says nothing, Loki continues.

“This is where it gets, uh, weird, but try to believe me when I tell you, I’m not the Loki you know. I’m from another, similar timeline and -“

“Stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just stop, Loki.”

Bruce is leaning back on his chair again. He looks tired.

“I don’t know if you’re supremely bored of domestic bliss already, or just being your supremely annoying self, but I won’t engage. You’re not Loki but a time-traveler from space? Yeah, it’s -“

“No, Bruce, I am Loki. Trust me, I know this seems -“

“Trust? You wanna talk about trust again?” Bruce takes out his phone.

“Okay, we can do that.”

He taps a few buttons, then holds the phone to his ear.

“What are you doing?” Loki’s voice has a sharper edge to it than he intended.

The Avenger stares him down.

“Oh, I’m just calling someone. This guy I have in my contacts under God of Lies”.

Please, no …

Briefly, Loki considers whether another variant of him – the one he encountered at the house by the ocean, most likely – would actually be of more help.

Or if he, the variant, would try to kill him.

It was one thing reasoning with and trying not to get killed by Loki variants who at least understood the concept of variants, but how would he have reacted upon being confronted with a twin before the TVA?

No, not a twin … Because this variant has her.

None of the variants in the Void – the grown-up, human ones – had mentioned versions of her.

Either this variant has successfully taken out every Minute Man ever sent by the TVA to arrest him (in which case, Loki concedes, he may be the superior Loki), or this whole timeline has only just blossomed at the opening of the multiverse.

Why else would he, who apparently also gave his phone number to Bruce Banner, get to live a life so vastly different from the typical arc of a misguided Jotun prince?

Loki feels light-headed.

On one hand, he wants to know everything there is to know about his double, on the other, he fears what and who he might find.

You don’t belong here. Find your own timeline. No more Lokis.

Focus. Explain.

He raises his one hand in a placating gesture.

“Give me a little time to try and explain this, Bruce, and then, then … You can call whoever. Call everyone! But please just -“

“Oh, what do you know,” Bruce puts his phone down, “there’s no answer. What a surprise.”

He crosses his arms.

Loki inhales and tries again, speaking as evenly and as calmly as he can while his frustration mounts:

“There is no way of telling you all or any of this without it sounding utterly ludicrous, so you’ll have to hear me out. Five minutes uninterrupted from now, okay? Yes, we’re talking time travel, but compared to what’s really at stake, even time travel is a pretty basic technicality. Also, I promise you, in a few years’ time from now, the concept of time travel won’t seem all that laughable to you and Stark in particular. Provided this reality exists in a few years’ time seeing as -“

Bruce sighs dramatically.

“Yes, okay, so”, Loki continues, “Two years ago, I attacked New York, right?”

“If you’re about to roll out some outlandish excuse – another one! – I don’t care to hear it.”

The other man is narrowing his eyes as a fresh look of undistilled loathing creeps into his features.

So it did happen on this timeline as well.

“No, it’s not that. Or, I mean, let’s save that. When you captured me, in my timeline, I escaped from the lobby with the Infinity stone. I know it seems impossible from your end of events but - “

“Impossible?”

Bruce gives him a strange look Loki can’t quite interpret.

“Yes, S… Tony dropped the briefcase with the Infinity stone, and I picked it up and -“

Bruce pushes his chair back. The plastic scrapes loudly against the stone tiles of the floor.

“Loki, I can’t. I thought I had the patience to at least indulge you but turns out I don’t. I can’t tell if you’re losing your mind, but either way, you’ll have to take it – this, whatever it is ��� up with Tony instead when he gets back. Maybe bring that sweet lab partner of yours along if you’re going to talk time travel. With her field of expertise, I’m sure - “

“WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!”

Without thinking, Loki slams both his hands into the table. Papers go flying and Bruce staggers backwards.

Horror dawns as Loki realizes his error, but it’s already too late.

Bruce doubles over in spasms and a deep, much too deep, growling sound escapes his lips. He grips his head with his shaking hands as if trying to contain the explosion within, and Loki feels his own brain go numb with panic as one of those hands triples in size and a sickly green hue rapidly spreads.

There is no way out.

Bruce is blocking the door and soon his bulk will be taking up the entire room. He falls to his knees, arms thrashing wildly and his shirt ripping across his back. The table sails over Loki’s head, one of the chairs lodges itself in the soundproofed ceiling, causing the panels of fluorescent light to flicker madly.

Are there no security cameras?!

There are screams, but they no longer sound human.

Loki has nowhere to hide.

He has to gather his magic around him, but terror is completely scattering his focus, cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

It is a matter of seconds before the transformation will be complete and the monster attempts to tear him limb from limb. With no heroes to stop it.

Cold.

He has only consciously reached for it once before, but now the thought barely registers before ice rushes through him as if by instinct. Bruce is not the only one with an abomination lurking under the surface.

He doesn’t have the casket of his birth father, but he has strength.

There is no time to consider if it’s enough or nothing at all. No time for crippling self-loathing or shame.

In front of him, the Hulk lifts its crazed, bloodshot eyes to meet his.

The green creature cannot stand upright in the office, and the first fist goes through the ceiling with the force of a wrecking ball. The next lashes out at Loki, who dodges it just as his own skin turns a deep, brilliant blue.

Little black ridges and markings rise on his arms and face and though his sight doesn’t falter, he feels the instant his eyes go from green to bright red. The fabric of his clothes chafes his new skin and waves of adrenaline surge through his body. Multiple foreign senses come alive and drown his fear.

But he has not a breath to spare to get used to his true form before the Hulk shoves him against the wall so hard, the bricks shift against his side as if they were made of a child’s building blocks.

The impact makes him gasp for air, yet the pain … the pain he can manage.

He just has to last long enough get out of here. And the cold is crystalizing his focus to let the magic flow easily, powerfully through his hands.

His blue hands.

If he had used this when …

Loki pushes himself off the wall (out of it) and almost collides with the Hulk (there’s no space left to maneuver in) who, instead of smashing its way out, seems hell-bent on squashing the only living thing in its line of sight first.

Loki swiftly crouches down on one knee, puts his palms together and, faster than the blink of a brilliant crimson eye, conjures a rotating orb of ice and chaos energy that explodes in a blinding flash of white light as he hurls it square into the monster’s chest.

The Hulk falls back, breaking through the wall to the parking lot on the other side and crashing into a row of cars, while a sheath of ice spreads from its chest and up its neck. The being that is not Bruce howls and claws at its skin, but the smooth ice thickens and as it reaches the head of the beast, it slides right into its eye sockets – and momentarily blinds it.

It will probably only last seconds but it’s all Loki needs while the Hulk shakes its head furiously.

He makes to flee when he spots the tempad on the cracked floor.

He can’t leave it.

As Loki dives for the gadget, the Hulk simultaneously knocks itself in the face with both fists, splintering the ice into a rain of tiny spikes. With a roar to match the sound of a spaceship engine taking off, the creature lunges.

Loki’s fingers close around the tempad.

He feels a buzz.

The door appears in front of him.

He doesn’t stop to think before throwing himself through it.

The Hulk punches into empty air.

Part 5

[borat123]

Analysis Pro NH Anti NS

Naruto Manga Part 2

Part 7

Naruto has transformed into the Six-Tails with the worst emotions he ever felt after witnessing Hinata getting stabbed by Pain. The seal reactivates as he grumbles in anger and is seen looking at Hinata before doing his next move. (Hinata is the ONLY reason he even transformed in the first place, as he didn’t transform when the old frog died in front of his eyes or when he heard that Kakashi died. This is also confirmed in chapter 490).

He takes the seal in his fist and crushes it before he goes to attack Pain. But notice how he isn’t charging right at him, but he moves to the side instead.

He circled away from her body so that she wouldn’t be caught in the attack.

He then looks at her (more clearly now) and is seen getting more enraged and then fires a tailed beast bomb at Pain.

He outright bitch-slapped Sakura when he was only in four tailed mode and with a stronger seal, but here we can see load and clear that Naruto deliberately didn’t attack Hinata’s body, he actually tries to protect her and is also seen getting vividly more angry as he looks at her body. BUT HE HAD SIX TAILS AND NO SEAL AT ALL. Its true love, no one has ever given him this amount of control when transformed let alone six f*cking tails of it. And this brings me to another topic.

This is Naruto’s reaction to seeing Sakura being in danger of death. ”What are we supposed to do?”. If Naruto ”loved” her he wouldn’t hesitate and say what are ”we” supposed to do, if he ”loved” her he would have activated kyuubi’s chakra out off pure anger and had no hesitation in attacking Gaara. But that’s not the case at all. His fear of Gaara is clearly superior over his concern for Sakura. When Gaara threatened to crush Sakura he hesitated and then screamed ”DAMMIT” before attacking Gaara and then being pathetically defeated.

It was SASUKE who had to TELL HIM to rescue her and then do his speech about his precious comrades before he finally decided to fight for real. So another person had to tell him to rescue someone he ”loved” because he was to much of a coward to do it himself. If Sasuke hadn’t been there Naruto would have either ran away abandoning Sakura or he would have been killed along with Sakura. If this doesn’t prove that Naruto only had a pointless, shallow ”crush” on her i dont know what does.

This right here proves that Naruto wouldn’t transform for Sakura, also if he did care about her as much as the NaruSaku’s like to say then why didn’t he activate kyuubi’s chakra like he did when Sasuke was in great danger on the Great Naruto Bridge? He was more angry towards Neji after his provocations since he immediatly charged at him when it concerned Hinata, but here he hesitated and forced himself to attack Gaara. He had a certain protective instinct when it concerned Hinata (which is also confirmed as stated above with the six-tails) but he had absolutely zero instincts at all for Sakura. Also which stabbing made him react with SIX-TAILS and with the worst emotions he ever felt, and which made him barely react at all? The point of this is to debunk claims that Naruto would transform for Sakura.

This panel here also confirms that Naruto only transformed because of Hinata. Shikamaru also says ”that triggered it, huh”. He didn’t seem too suprised, makes you wonder if he saw something going on between them of panel perhaps?

Naruto doesn’t know what to do anymore. He doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t have an answer for anything. He wants an answer on how to face all this hate. The Nine Tailed Demon Fox tells him to destroy everything that causes him suffering. Naruto was about to go on a rampage and destroy everything that made him suffer, well except Hinata who he could avoid hurting even when possesed by a demon full of hate.

Naruto had transformed into eight tails. He almost completly resembeled the Kyuubi now, only missing the fur. Naruto is seen walking towards the seal. Naruto had reached such a level of HATRED that he willingly lets himself go. He hates Pain so much that he’s willing to destroy himself just to kill Pain. Remember how the Uchiha clan are said to be driven by love and how that turns into hate and gives them more power. Pain has just talked about how love leads to hate and suffering. Hinata declared her love to Naruto, and seeing her get stabbed made him sync up with the Nine Tailed Demon Fox, a being filled with immense hatred. Is there really any doubt that he loved her? Just as Hinata was ready to sacrifice herself out of love, Naruto was willing to sacrife himself too.

Because of how the seal is designed, Naruto is rescued from the Fox by his Father and he returns to normal after their talk. Naruto is informed by Katsuyu that he had caused all the destruction around them after he had transformed. Naruto’s first thought and worry is about Hinata (reminding us why he even transformed like that in the first place). He clutches his shirt near his heart while saying ”did i destroy Hinata or any of the other villagers”. Hinata is the only one he lists by name and everyone else is just the ”villagers”. When he finds out that she’s alive he clutches his shirt tighter around his heart. He clearly cares about her a whole lot. I wonder if Naruto would have turned evil if she turned out to be dead. Considering that he was about to transform into a walking ball of hatred after her ”death” it wouldn’t seem to far fetched would it?

Naruto cries tears of relief and thanks God that she’s alive and that she wasn’t hurt in the rampage. Naruto clutching his shirt near the area of his heart shows that she had a special place in his heart. Hinata is also seen simultaneously thinking about him too and also thanking God that he’s alright. Nice pararell Kishi.

That will be all for now, here are the other parts if you wanna read them.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Part 8

[haliyam]

No matter what

eren x historia; yeager bro moments (or zeke wishes lol)

Summary: The time has come for Marley to choose its new Warriors, and Eren has a decision to make. (Also, "some things never change.") Warriors AU for erehisu day.

AO3 link if you prefer to read there

--

Happy erehisu day! I saw this amazing erehisu art by beforelightsout on twitter where Eren and Historia are Warrior candidates + Eren became a shifter. Since it's erehisu day and everyone has come out with such wonderful stuff, I wanted to contribute somehow and write something for that AU. I've been dying of work and a covid scare so I was running on the fumes of my love for this ship and everyone else's stuff and also VIBES while writing this in the last hour, so, it's barely edited, if it even makes sense. Sorry in advance. I hope you enjoy though! 

Also, for this AU (or really for the fic to work lol), my headcanon is that the war keeping the previous Warriors dragged on, so Reiner's generation don't get selected until they're this age (Historia and Eren are 17). As for Zeke... idk. Maybe Mr. Ksaver had more time too. Anyway who cares about Zeke here!!! (me I still do)

No matter what

“You know this counts as cheating.”

Eren shoots Zeke a look. They’re standing at the courtyard in HQ, watching the younger candidates wheeze through their training while Magath and his assistant instructors bark orders in the background. Days before selection, and with Zeke already holding the Beast Titan and Colt preparing to inherit, their generation doesn’t need to be put through their paces as often anymore—or maybe Commander Bruning is just letting them off the hook for the week.

They both doubt that. 

Up ahead, Falco trips over an unseen pebble, and Zeke sighs. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he says, out of misplaced brotherly affection. Eren appreciates it, but that’s not what he needs right now. “You already have the armband.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I know,” Zeke raises his hands in surrender, but the playful gesture doesn’t take away the scrutiny in his gaze. For all his levity, he doesn’t once glance away. Eren knows he’s seeing their father in him, trying to decide whether that’s a positive or a negative. 

“So?”

Zeke scratches the back of his ear. “You already know you’re in the running for the Attack Titan and the Armored Titan. Porco and Reiner are on your heels for the Armor. As for the Attack Titan…”

Zeke tilts his head in a shrug. Eren exhales, and then nods. “Thanks.”

His brother peers at him, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks what?”

Eren is grateful, reassured, but not that grateful. “What am I, ten? I’m not calling you big bro.”

Zeke lets out a long-suffering sigh this time, the kind he uses to guilt trip the others into helping him with paperwork at his age. “You used to be such a cute kid.” He’s quick enough to reach over and ruffle Eren’s hair, and then withdraw before he can smack his hand away. “Now you’re all grown up.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but claps a hand to his brother’s arm in earnest. “Thanks, Zeke.”

The man gives him a thumbs up, and Eren belatedly catches a sliver of gold pass one of the windows behind the courtyard ahead of the other girls. His feet take him forward before he can bid his brother goodbye.

“Go on,” Zeke says, right as Eren catches himself almost sheepishly. He goes to her without another thought.

--

There’s no big to-do when it comes to the selection process. Apart from their generation of candidates, there’s only Zeke, standing to the side with the other instructors who assist the captain, while Magath and Commander Bruning themselves stand together, as imposing as the day they first met.

Maybe a little less now that they’ve earned their stripes, training for a decade with the extension of the war in the South, but Eren can feel the pressure of this moment bearing down on him. 

The others have been chosen. They stand at the other side of the room, putting on their most dignified expressions and trying to contain their shock at their commander’s question. 

“There remain two Titans, Eren Yeager,” said Commander Bruning seconds, maybe a minute ago. Eren’s mind is still reeling. “Which of them, in your estimation, best suits you?”

“Me, sir?” he had asked dumbly in response. Bruning had only nodded.

It isn’t supposed to happen like this. From the group ready to receive their red armbands, he feels Marcel’s eyes burning into his side. Marcel, who was pulled aside by Magath and Bruning earlier today. Eren expected the same treatment—not this. Is this a test? 

Porco and Reiner stand to his left, behind him because he’s stepped forward, and he feels hazel daggers ready to strike at his back. He doesn’t care about them right now. It’s the blue to his right that envelops his all. The air is replete with Historia’s expectation, drowning out all the others in the room. He feels weightless in it, a drop in the ocean that is her existence to him. 

Eren knows he could be more. If he gives the right answer, she might just see him as more.

But Historia isn’t the ocean to these people. She’s a tool, or she could be, and he cannot let that happen. Eren remembers the ground under his feet and peers into the commander’s eyes.

“If I may, sir, I believe Braun has always had the most endurance among the candidates,” he says clearly, just like he’s rehearsed with Marcel. He tries not to imagine the way Historia’s stomach drops. “Nowadays he takes Leonhart’s hits like they’re almost nothing. And for myself—I’ve come to specialize in close quarters combat. The Attack Titan would suit me best.”

Reiner sighs in relief not far from him. Porco and Historia are utterly silent. He can’t even hear them breathing.

Bruning and Magath seem not to notice. They only exchange glances, and if they think anything of Eren answering more than what was asked of him, they say nothing. 

After a few nods, Bruning turns toward them with pride. “It’s as we thought. I see no reason why we should delay for pointless suspense or further deliberation.” With a small motion of the commander’s hand, Reiner steps forward. “Congratulations, Yeager. Braun. You have earned the honor of becoming the new sword and shield of our great motherland Marley.”

--

The room erupts with excitement as soon as the Marleyans are surely gone from the hallway. Eren is already headed for the door when Porco tries to grab him by the shoulder.

“Eren, what the hell? You know this asshole isn’t better than me!”

Reiner sneers at him from behind before Eren can even shrug him off. “Apparently the brass knew different, Pock. Don’t take it out on Eren—he only affirmed what they were already thinking.”

Porco growls, turning on Reiner instead, which means it’s going to be one of those afternoons. Eren is happy to turn back for the door—he feels bright blue trained on him now, and it’s all he can do not to scamper for the exit.

Clutching the cigarette pack in his uniform pocket, he manages to get as far as two floors down before Historia catches up. She’s been calling out to him since she gave chase.

“Hey!” she yells. He was stupid to head for their usual spot. There’s a corridor in this building that’s gone unused for a while that they found, once, when it was their turn for cleaning duty. It’s been theirs since then, and one of the windows has the best view of the city right outside the internment zone’s walls—and the zone entrance itself. So they don’t forget what they’re supposed to do. 

“Eren!”

She’s starting to lose her breath, unable to match his longer strides. His footsteps start to slow, right as they reach that window. He turns around when hers stop too.

Hands still in his pockets, he stares down at her. “What is it?”

Historia glares at him, dignified even as she tries to catch her breath. “What the hell are you doing?”

Eren fishes out the cigarette pack from his pocket and shows her. It’s really Zeke’s, but he figured he’d need it after today. He isn’t wrong. 

She scoffs. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I’m going to be a shifter,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much now, right?”

Historia shakes her head, smart enough to ignore the diversion. “Eren, what the hell was that? I thought… I thought we understood each other.” Always to the point. “I thought you and I would become Warriors together. Change things from the inside and convince the others to do the same.”

The truth of her confusion, her frustration and growing anger pulls at him. She’s everything she didn’t used to be, back when she was still playing the perfect little Warrior who unnerved him so much. It’s exactly why he needs to keep a straight face. 

“Ah… yeah. Sorry about that,” he murmurs, his tone completely level, fingers pinching at the cigarette pack in his fist. “I just gave it some thought, and… I think Reiner would be better as the Armor, not me. So—that left me as the Attack Titan.”

The pain in her eyes is almost too much for him. If only they were cold, just like she’d been the moment he saw her true self for the first time. That way he could crystallize himself in them and shatter instead of having to face her like this. But she hasn’t been cold for a long while, and the warmth in her gaze even after his betrayal does him in. 

“You’re lying,” she realizes the moment his gaze flickers away from hers. Eren curses himself for it. “You once said you could always tell when I was being fake. You think, after everything we’ve been through, that I wouldn’t know it with you either?”

Eren bites his tongue and forces himself to meet those eyes again. He reminds himself why he did it. It’s all that keeps his hands steady as he carelessly flicks the cigarette pack open and reaches for a stick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Historia swipes her hand at his, knocking the pack from his grasp. It hits the ground with a pathetic smack. “Don’t lie to me, Eren!” she says, pleads even when she’s angry, because they’re friends, aren’t they? If only that were all she is. “You know I deserve more than that. Why are you doing this!? We were going to become Warriors together. We were supposed to have thirteen years together!”

She’s free to vent her frustrations in the hallway like they always have with each other, voice shaky and shakier still as the grief escapes her. By the time she mentions that number, Historia is on the verge of tears, but she blinks them away with the fury that remains. How unlike him, who wants to fold more than anything, feeling like the slightest breeze, the slightest word from her can knock him over. He can only stare at the ground as he swallows down the emotion rising in his throat, and that’s when he realizes it. She’s right, like she always is. He can’t stand lying to her. 

The prospect of having to utter his next words terrifies him more than the idea of paradise. But he manages it, because she deserves to know the truth.

“You know why,” he says, trembling only at the last word. Shamefully, face red with self-disgust, he lifts his eyes to hers, fearing the worst. 

She catches his meaning. Of course she does—she knows him best. He expects her to leap at him, punch him, anything that will make the guilt of his selfishness ebb even just a little, but she only stands there. Shocked, and then her cheeks flush in only the most beautiful way. He already knows he’ll never forget how the light from the windows illuminates her face like this.

But then her brows furrow, shoulders raising angrily, and she stomps her foot on the ground. “Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” she snaps. “Should I say thank you for making this decision without me? What about what I wanted?”

“No!” Eren stammers, hands up in submission as if that will placate her. “Of course not! I didn’t do this for your gratitude!” 

“Then why did you do it?” Her voice is still raised, but her tone is resigned. Historia knows that even if she gets the answer, Marley’s decision is set in stone.

That’s the thought Eren takes comfort in. The tears that dampen his eyes are tears of relief, no matter his shame, no matter his remorse. And here he thought he’d grown out of this when he turned sixteen. 

Pressing his lips into his teeth in an attempt to maintain his composure, Eren lets his gaze drop again. “I want you to live,” he admits, so quietly she almost misses it. “I want you to grow up and have a family like you wished you could, if you weren’t pushed into this when we were children. Get married, have children you’re free to love the way…”

He trails off. The last thing he wants to do is mention her mother. He knows she understands when she doesn’t press him to finish.

“I want you to grow old,” he continues. “Live past thirty. Get to fifty, seventy… Then you can be as grumpy as you want to be without anyone saying it doesn’t suit you. I want you to be happy.”

A slight hiccup leaves his throat, one Historia misses only because she does the same. Eren swallows it down, but his nose is already stuffy. When he looks at her again, he’s the most serious he has ever been, and it’s no performance. He reaches for her hands. 

“I’m not prepared to sacrifice your life for our cause,” he confesses. Eren imagines he could bear never to look out that window and see the walls torn down, the way they’ve dreamt together for the past few years, if it means she will live to see it herself long after he’s gone. He’s not articulate enough to say it, his ears and his throat so full with everything he wants to tell her in this moment that he’s speechless. How can he be otherwise, when she’s looking at him like that? All he can blurt out is, “I’m sorry.”

A silence brews between them. Eren wonders if it’s time to step away, to leave her to her thoughts. Maybe he can still beg for forgiveness later.

He loosens his grip on her hands, meaning to wipe his eyes, and that’s when she seizes his. “You stupid crybaby,” she murmurs quietly, fondly, “do you really think I’d be happy knowing you sacrificed yourself for me? Why do you think I promised you that we’d complete our mission within the next thirteen years?”

Eren can only look dumbfounded. 

“I wanted to spend them with you, you idiot,” she gives him, even as her voice quivers with the same desperate longing he’s felt ache in his chest for as long as he can remember now. “I would have been happier spending thirteen years with you, fighting together, than sitting out the fight and living the rest of my life without you. Isn’t that what we agreed on? To work toward what we promised? Together? What did you think I meant by that?”

Eren opens his mouth, body drained of the cool facade he’s found solace in the last few weeks since he came to terms with his greed.

“Historia,” he breathes. Remembers to. “You—?”

She’s had enough of him, he can tell by the look on her face—but he’s wrong again, because Historia grabs him by the collar and pulls him down to her, meeting his mouth with hers in a bid to help him see the truth. His fingers find her face on instinct, lips parting as they kiss so he can partake of her further. 

A moment, a hum from her and something stirring deep inside him, and Historia pulls away as if in punishment. She’s flush again, glaring until those blue eyes soften at his stupid expression. 

“Get it yet?” she asks.

His thumbs slide across her cheek, a small grin pulling at his mouth. She really is the ocean, Eren thinks, and dives in again, drinking of those soft lips, drowning in the scent of her hair, the feeling of her hands sliding down his chest. She’s everything.

What feels like both a moment and an eon passes as they stand there, him bent down as he kisses her, her tiptoed to grant it to him, until they eventually part. Only a little, because they can’t bear the distance just yet. Just so their foreheads are pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” Eren murmurs, before he’s lost in her again. “I didn’t know.”

Historia’s lashes flutter as she blinks away her own tears. This doesn’t change the consequences of the decision he’s made on his own, but she knows she can’t give him up, either. When she opens her eyes, she’s more resolute than he’s ever felt in his life. “There has to be a way,” she tells him. “Go to Paradis. Retake the Founding Titan… and come back. Then we’ll do as we promised.”

“Change the curse,” he replies, like they’ve planned, looking out at the stars from his roof in the zone. “Free our people.”

Historia nods. “No matter what.”

“No matter what,” he agrees. 

She smiles, and he can’t help that the way her lips purse when she tries to stifle it moves him. Eren draws closer—

“There you are!”

—and nearly stumbles as he and Historia untangle their limbs from one another, practically standing at attention when they hear his brother’s voice and Marcel’s surprised ah.

Unfortunately, not even the most perfect posture can erase the affection still blooming in their cheeks, or the slight swell of their lips resulting from that affection. Or the smiles they just can’t help for one another.

Zeke squints. Also unfortunately, nothing gets past this asshole. “Oh, so it finally happened?”

Marcel glances between the two of them, coming closer. “Seriously?”

Zeke snorts, palm open to the new Jaw. “Pay up, Galliard.”

Marcel scoffs. “Come on. Is it really fair if you had inside information?”

“Are you kidding? My baby brother tells me squat.”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean I guess I understand that…”

Historia lets out a very audible sigh. “Can we help you?”

Marcel meets Eren’s gaze, gratitude and apology in his smile, while Zeke tries on his new Warchief role for size. He clears his throat.

“Now that Porco and Reiner have settled down, Bruning and Magath want to see us again. Discuss our steps going forward, run tests on the new Warriors… The works. Time to go.”

Marcel sighs. “Talk about eager.”

“All right,” Eren says, finally, because he prefers serious Zeke to his annoying brother right now. He feels vulnerable enough, and he doesn’t care to be that way in front of these two. Or anyone else but her, really. “Lead the way.”

Zeke and Marcel turn to leave, starting to argue the terms of their wager as they disappear around the corner.

Historia and Eren look to each other. A shy smile finds its way to his face as he offers her his hand. 

“By the way, Eren,” Zeke pokes his head into the corridor again, finger waving at the mess of sticks on the floor, “you owe me a new pack of cigarettes. And clean that up.”

Eren groans. “Shut up!”

“But that was my favorite brand! The things I do for love,” his brother whines, to Marcel’s quiet chuckling, and finally they leave for good. 

“Sorry about that,” Eren mutters. Not that Historia hasn’t seen him like this before.

She only laughs as she accepts his hand. When she shakes her head, smiling as she pulls him forward, he feels like they might actually do it. That they might be able to find a way past those thirteen years.

And even if they don’t, he can’t feel regret. As long as they’ve managed to accomplish their mission… No, as long as he can ensure that Historia lives on, he’ll pay any price.

No matter what.

//

I'll take any opportunity to give Marcel more screentime. Well, I actually debated with myself whether it would be Marcel or Bertholdt in the last scene, but Marcel made more sense so that Zeke could whine about being an older brother to someone who could relate. (And yes, Marcel and Eren made a deal to have Reiner become the Armor. I’M SORRY REINER)

Writing Eren's parts made me realize how much I'm in love with Historia??? Like I've always loved her but I guess I realized I'm IN love with her XD Also my hc is Eren here likes to think he's the strong one protecting them both or he at least likes to project that image to the others, but really he takes his cues from Historia who is much stronger emotionally and mentally imo. Idk, I just think she's the boss in this relationship (though of course they are able to be vulnerable with one another which is the biggest thing for me).

Anyway. Thank you for reading! Happy erehisu day!

P.S. I forgot to mention that 'Commander Bruning' in my hc is the guy who tells Magath that it's a good idea to use child soldiers as their Warriors. I imagine he was in charge of a certain number of Eldian soldiers, including the Warrior program, while Magath was the 'captain' who directly managed the kids until his and Bruning's eventual promotions when they were able to conquer nations with such success.

[cupcakemolotov]

When Blood Calls for Blood

Hmm. This was supposed to be a mafia story for the AU Season that @klaroline-event is putting on, and instead descended into the depths of blood magic and werewolves, and some horror. Your guess is as good as mine as how that happened. Anyway. Hopefully this still works for Crime week. People ARE murdered.

Here you go. You can read it on A03 if you prefer.

Warnings: Blood Magic, Werewolves, Necromancy, death, some gore but not a lot, discussion about sex but no actual smut in this.

                                                           -

The brandy in her glass was excellent, but she hadn’t expected anything else. Klaus had come a long way from the boy next door with skinned knees and paint smeared fingers. That it’d been nearly a decade since she’d seen him hadn’t changed nearly as much as she’d have liked. Same tumbled curls, same dimples, same charm that lingered like a second skin over the sharper, harder parts of his smile. But now, his thinness had filled out into lean strength and he’d grown into the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw. 

Caroline hadn’t expected to like the look of him as much as she did after all this time. Had hoped some distance would dull the want that had once lingered between them. She also hadn’t anticipated the way his gaze could still trace against her skin with the same intensity of a touch, but now with a new, markedly adult male appreciation that hinted at all sorts of fun things. Dangerous things, thoughts she’d pushed away much easier with the naivete of a teenager than she was finding herself able to do as a grown woman. 

Klaus had never been easy to ignore.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?” She asked once he’d leaned a hip against the desk next to him when she’d chosen not to sit. She didn’t know this man as well as she once had and she wasn’t prepared to be that vulnerable. Not yet. “We both know what you sent Elijah to tell me you wanted. I want to know why you think I should go along with it.”

A hint of a smile curved his lips. There was a strange sort of affection in his gaze which surprised her, in this childhood home of his, this house of horrors that had birthed monsters. She wished Enzo was there, to tell them if there were ghosts. If the rotting bones of Mikael beneath their feet still suffered.

“I’ve missed your directness, love. Most people are too afraid of me to try it.” His lashes lowered for a heartbeat, and his voice deepened. “And far too terrified to offer such blatant disapproval.”

Caroline gave him an unconcerned look. “I agreed  to this meeting because we were once friends. Not because I bought into the spiel that Elijah was selling. I walked away from this kind of life, and I had very good reasons to do so. You know that.”

A flash of something wolf-yellow glimmered faintly at the edges of his gaze, but she didn’t flinch. Klaus was dangerous. So very, very dangerous. Here, in Mystic Falls where they’d both spent their childhoods, it was almost possible to forget the lessons Chicago and New York had already learned. But Caroline had learned to deal with Klaus and his caustic mix of power and temper years earlier. A little of the wolf wasn’t enough to warn her off. 

Though it did intrigue her. Before, his control had been something held together by tenterhooks, his rage palpable. She had wondered if he’d buried it deep in his bones, left it to fester in muscle and marrow, but that glimmer told her he’d made a different choice. 

She was glad.

“Blood calls to blood, love.” There was something in his voice, a note that was sharp and apologetic both. “And you are Bill Forbes daughter.”

Caroline wrinkled her nose at the reminder. “I’m going to need more brandy if that's the angle you're taking. Thankfully, he only provided half my genetics, and none of my looks.”

The hard line of his shoulders eased, her words answering some unspoken question. “I know.”

Her expression sharpened. She did not like that he was able to read her so well. “If you’re not going to get to the point, I will leave.”

His laugh was soft, and unexpected. And it did nothing to lessen her mad. Reaching up, he briefly rubbed his neck and when his gaze returned to hers. The blue was gone, awash with gold and wolf. Inexplicably, her own tension gave, if just a little. She might no longer know the man, but she understood the wolf. 

“Elijah says you are well informed of my ongoings.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if that’s hard. A werewolf with the bad taste to be born to a witch, and who the poor manners of eating other witches is not, exactly, an unknown creature in the local gossip. Mystic Falls does so love it’s little horrors. It’s not like it’s hard to figure out where you’re going or where you’ve been.”

His dimples creased his cheeks. “That’s true. And yet, here you are.”

The implied threat was said teasingly. Caroline deliberately took a sip of her brandy. “If your wolf had wanted me dead, it would have made the attempt that when I was thirteen and tossed you three pine trees to save Enzo. If the man had wanted me dead, Elijah would never have sworn a binding saying this meeting was done in truce.” Her smile was sharp. “At least not knowingly. My magic is not kind when it comes to broken vows, and he hates me.”

His gaze narrowed at the blunt reminder, but his voice held no hint of anger. Just a hunting triumph. “I found Rebekah.”

And everything snapped into place. Setting her glass down, she stared at him. “And Elijah couldn't have led with that?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t…” Caroline stared at him for a long moment before tossing back her drink and moving towards one of the chairs. Ten years. It’d been ten years, and she understood everything those words meant. “Fine. I’ll bite. What is going on?”

To her surprise, he chose the chair next to her. His gaze holding hers, he deliberately tipped his knee lightly against her own. “Rebekah is in New Orleans.”

Her brows furrowed and her words were honest as she tried to ignore the feel of him against her. That sparking challenge in his eyes. “But you looked there years ago.”

That slow, thoughtful smile curled on his face again and she wished she hadn’t finished the brandy. “You have been tracking me.”

Caroline sighed and for the first time, looked away. She did not want to speak of the need to know he was still alive, to trust that he’d find some kind of reason after the death of his step-father. The wolf could have easily poisoned the man with its hate as the man could have destroyed the wolf with its rage.

“My father… the things he did.” Her words died and she shrugged. “I miss her too.”

They were survivors, her and Klaus. Enzo and Rebekah, though they were missing. Witchborn and powerful, they were the last remnants of bloodlines and blood feuds that should have never existed. Klaus, with his wolf and his rage. Enzo, with his affinity for the dead and his wicked sense of humor. Rebekah, the living embodiment of her mother’s hopes and wishes, but without the same darkness. And she? She was her father’s daughter, for all the Liz Forbes had done her best to temper it. 

“Then you’ll help me.”

And that blatant satisfaction, the roughness of his wolf in his voice warned her that he thought he had won. She let her gaze return Klaus’ face, and the force of temper clashed against his. She did not like being boxed in. He needed to remember that. “Will I? What I owed you was a blood debt and that was paid in full. What my family did to yours was terrible, but what Esther did to my mother was also terrible. There are no debts between us, not anymore.”

Enzo might argue that point, but her wiley best friend had been missing nearly as long as Rebekah. 

“You’ll help me,” Klaus repeated, unbothered by her irritation. Her temper, the surge of power that came with it, had always bothered him as little as his wolf had unnerved her. “And in turn, I will help you.”

“And what,” Caroline drawled, “do I need your help with? I’m perfectly capable of burying bodies on my own these days.” She wiggled her manicured fingers. “I don’t even have to break a nail to do it.”

That flicker of affection again, tempered by determination. He reached for an envelope that sat on the edge of his desk and handed it to her. “I’d have helped you regardless, but this might make things more comfortable between us.”

She snorted even as she opened the envelope to pull out a single sheet. “Things have never been particularly comfortable between us at all.”

Caroline ignored the deeply satisfied noise he made and looked at the picture. Enzo’s face, battered, bruised, stared up at her and she went motionless at the tangle of anger and fear that swept through her. “How…”

She’d looked. 

“It took finding Rebekah.” A bitterness in his voice she understood. “And once I did, I knew where to look. The scattered pieces of our past are not easy things, love.”

Mute with rage, she glanced back at him. 

“When the Witch Council attempted to end the feud between our families, they were not prepared for the realities of what that would mean.” His teeth gleamed behind his lips. “They were ill prepared for our families' hate, I imagine our cooperation never occurred to them.”

Caroline snorted. They should have been prepared for all of it. Feuding witches were no small thing. Though in her more charitable moments, she allowed that some things just could not have been foreseen. Not the fallout from Ester’s affair, not Bill’s jealousy, not Mikael’s malice. 

Rebekah should have been safe. They should have all been safe. None of them had been. 

“They should have done better.”

His smile held teeth. “Yes.”

It had been her and Enzo, who had held Mikael with their magic while Klaus had shifted to wolf to rip his step-father apart. Enzo, who had commanded the dead man to dig his own grave in the study Mikael had been so fond of. Later, Klaus had opened a bottle of expensive bourbon and they had gotten drunk listening to the sound of a shovel moving dirt.

It had taken hours to repair the foundation with magic.

Mystic Fall was full of so many nightmares. 

Her gaze returned to the picture in her hands. And something turned cold and brittle in her chest. “That is the symbol of St. Augustine.”

“Yes.”

She stood then and paced toward the window. When she spoke, her words trembled with magic. Behind her, the desk shuddered. She hadn’t been this close to losing her temper since the day she walked into her home to find it smelling of blood and her mother’s death. Had found what she had been meant to see. 

 “The Augustine Society belongs to the Witch Council.” Her fists clenched. “And have Enzo.”

She knew the Augustine Society. The horrors the Witch Council offered them. She knew, because her father had also belonged to that society before blood madness had taken him. And they had possibly the greatest necromancer of her generation, trapped. 

Fingertips brushed lightly down the bare nap of her neck. The touch was possessive, careful. An old trick, to anchor her. It made it no less personal. “So it is.”

Caroline closed her eyes. She hadn’t heard him move. “What did my father do, that you cannot claim your sister?”

“It’s a blood bind. I cannot break it.”

“No,” she murmured, letting the soft touches of his fingertips focus her. “You wouldn’t be able too.”

“But you can.” His words were lethal in their softness, coaxing in their delivery. “You're more powerful.”

“Flattery,” she said. Then she sighed. “But you’re not wrong. Still, the witches of New Orleans will never allow me into their city.”

They’d never allow Liz Forbes' daughter in their heart of power. The thought brought a faint smile to her lips. So strange, for a city to fear her mother’s blood.

Strange, but not unwise.

“I didn’t plan on asking permission.”

She turned to face him then, letting the window at her spine hold her weight and studied his face. Such arrogance, but not unwarranted. A full coven might face the nightmare he gave shape too with his bones, but perhaps not. Klaus had cut quite a swath through the witch families in the US. 

His mother’s perfect monster. 

“A blood bind will not be easy to break, not after so many years since it was cast.” She considered what it meant, how far gone her father had been in his madness. “I will likely need a sacrifice, and that is a magic I have sworn not to use lightly.”

“You won’t fall to the same madness.” The assurance in his voice was so, so arrogant. “I will not allow it.”

Caroline gave a bark of laughter. “You cannot know that, cannot expect to dictate such a thing.”

“But I can,” he disagreed. “I’ve seen your magic, Caroline. I’ve witnessed the price of it, the horror of it, and justice of it. Esther’s death was not easy. I know what you are.”

“Ester deserved more,” she said. “But we work with what we have. And I am no longer, sixteen, Klaus. What anchored me as a teenager will not work for the adult.”

Then it’d had been enough to cling to his wolf. To bury her face and hands in the thick pelt of his fur while she rode out the drowning horror, the unrelenting ecstasy of her magic, to let the sensation of fur on skin be the distraction from the siren call of endless power. The blood she wore on her skin.

She’d always liked his wolf. 

Blood magic was dangerous. And witches who practiced it always, always lost themselves. Caroline’s father had been no exception. She would likely not be either. Thankfully, she wasn’t just her father’s daughter. 

“And what,” Klaus asked lightly, eyes deepening to the blue of the man, something as dark as the working of her magic coloring his voice. “Do you need?”

Her nails dug into her palms and she lifted her chin. “What are you offering?”

Klaus’ head lowered until his nose nearly brushed hers, his mouth tantalizing close to hers. “Anything you want.”

Her teeth sank briefly into her lip and she sighed. “We both know how my father chose to feed his need and how well that worked for him.”

Satisfaction and a want so blatant and greedy on his face, she struggled to suck in her next breath. “Steven knew what he was doing when he agreed to join your father’s bed. He was aware of the risks. So am I.”

Her voice shook only a little when she spoke. “Rebekah’s temper is no small thing, Klaus. If she wakes up to me fucking her brother, I don’t think she’s going to be pleased.” 

His hand lifted to curve along her jaw, thumb brushing tantalizing across her lips. “Elijah can secure Bekah, once she is free.”

And Elijah would just love that. “So you are planning on telling him you found her.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Both he and Kol will be needed for this. Even if only a mirage, we must show the world where our loyalties lie.”

Caroline winced. “They still haven’t forgiven you for not kiling me, then.”

When Elijah had appeared at her home to request her presence for this meeting, she’d almost hoped. 

“As they are not strong enough to oppose me, their opinions of your magic do not matter.” His jaw tightened. “From either side of your family.”

“Klaus…” She caught his hand. “They are not wrong. Blood magic is an abomination, not counting what my mother left me with her death. Killing me would likely make the world a better place.” 

His eyes flared with his wolf, and his words were near violent with intensity. “I disagree. Am I too, not an abomination? You protested quite viciously when my mother attempted to do just that.”

His voice sounded the same as it always had, when he spoke of her murdering his mother. Delighted satisfaction with a hint of growl.

Caroline rolled her lip tightly between her teeth. This was what her mother had never understood. What Esther had miscalculated. This tugging in her chest, as she thought about a world without Klaus. The way he dared her with his eyes and his worlds to repeat herself, to suggest he would allow the world to exist without her. The thing that had left her walking away from him, uncertain what lengths she could allow herself to go to preserve it. 

The boy who had painted her flowers and the man who understood the depth of what she could become, what she feared. 

But he’d found Rebekah. Enzo.

“You understand that if I agree to this, it won’t end with rescuing Rebekah and Enzo,” she said slowly. Likely wouldn’t end with her willing to walk away from him a second time, and the bloody future that promised. “I’m not that forgiving. If the Augustine Society was part of this, if they supported my father? Enzo will want them dead and so will I.”

“Oh, sweetheart, as if I’d object.” His mouth curved. “But why stop there? Not when we both know the Witch Council had to be involved.”

So much destruction. So much blood. Carefully, she reached up with her free hand and traced the shape of his mouth while he went carefully motionless. “It would be helpful, if the sacrifice had a tie to Bekah.”

His lips pursed against her fingers for a moment before he moved just enough to respond. “The Salvatore’s are in New Orleans.”

And that terrible anger, that thirst she’d managed to choke into behaving for ten years unfurled in her chest. “What a coincidence.”

And Klaus, whose monster knew her own, just smiled. “Isn’t it just?”

“How are you planning on explaining my presence in New Orleans?”

Mischief, sudden and startling, crossed his face. “The witches can hardly object to my bringing a date to Mardi Grais. The same as I have done for the past four years, in fact.”

Caroline blinked, and tried not to think about the twist of jealousy in her gut. “I am not pretending to be in a relationship with you.”

“Who said anything about pretending?” His eyes laughed at her but his words were serious. “Shouldn’t you take a man to dinner before post ritual sex?”

She glowered at him, just to be contrary. “No.”

He shrugged, unperturbed.“We’re still sharing a room.”

She choked on a sudden laugh, at how easy and playful he made this. As they weren’t courting madness and the wrath of the council as they freed their family. As if everything was just a matter of them going out and conquering their enemies with his teeth and their magic. 

Simple, really. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Caroline questioned. “This… this will change everything.”

Klaus lowered his head, pressing his forehead to hers and smiled, dimples bracketing a smile made of sin and blood lust that struck her in her chest. The smile of a predator well satisfied.

“Yes, I think it will.”

[capriccio-con-espressione]

Sweet Treat

Genre: Smut

Warning: Sub!Xiaojun, Dom!Reader, Femdom, Temperature play, Food play, Nipple play, Bondage, Edging (for quite a long time lol), (Slight) Spanking, PIV (protected), Handjob, Toys used, Wet and sticky sweets

Word Count: 2395

A/N:

1. This is to celebrate WayV's comeback🎉🎆🎖️🎇🎊🏅🌟 Tho I have already postponed it for too long

2. Xiaojun's surgical mask looks like a damn collar here so I just can't stop my wild imaginations to own him. Goodbye.

3. Schoolwork is fucking killing me asdjfhkjdkhfhjsdkn so this does not guarantee regular updates I am sorry sweeties for keeping you waiting for so long :( 

4. I know this is an old pic, but it is what inspired me to picture him in a lacy black collar :P and it also showed how fucking long I have postponed this fic

5. Anyways Xiaojun is delicious af I love him, and he distracts me from the current catastrophe I am in rn so enjoy this

  The fresh scent of pastry filled the air of your apartment, its sweetness seemingly undertoning a leisurable afternoon tea time, yet your mind is on something else. 

  You take a sip of your freshly brewed black tea, feeling the aroma and warmth coating the inner sides of your mouth, while relishing the sight of the sinful image on the bed. Xiaojun's hands are secured to either side of the bedpost, with his neck adorned in an elegant lacy black collar, back leaning against the headboard, eyes glossy with desperation as the vibrating ring is doing sins to his still fully clothed erection.

  "Pathetic." You remark with a smirk, before drinking a mouthful of the warm liquid again.

Urgent babbles of plead and your title began to roll off Xiaojun's tongue like a mantra, demanding release. You simper seductively while approaching him, dipping your fingers in the glass of iced water settled on the bedside drawer long enough before climbing on the bed to straddle him.

  You exhale a warm gust of air on his exposed cleavage before trailing it with your icy fingers, then shove them under the black fabric to tease his left nipple. As Xiaojun tenses up against the cold sensation, you unbutton more of his shirt and force it open even wider, starting to flick his right nipple with your still hot tongue, and watch the ethereal blonde crumble against the contrasting stimulation with gleeful contentment.

  “You taste so good little cupcake…” You coo as you suck the sensitive bud between your hot damp lips, moaning on it as your cold fingertips tweak the other, causing him to let out delicious whimpers. “Fuck, keep making sounds like that and I’m going to devour you…”

  Xiaojun bites his plump lips to stifle the erotic noises in response, failing to notice he only looks extra alluring doing so. “Such a tease…” You cradle his cheek with your hand, admiring the artwork lovingly, then reach for the glass on the drawer again.

  "This is a little reminder that you shouldn't be fucking with my mind or I will fucking torture you…" You smirk as you slide a small ice cube on his clavicle area, then go up to his neck, lightly tracing it circumferentially in search of the most sensitive spots, eventually tucking the freezing cuboid under his collar after locating one.

  “You like this, hmm? Getting all wet and wrecked...” You deliberately breathed near the cube, causing more liquid to trickle down Xiaojun’s neck, which feels like tendrils of electricity twining around and gradually taking over his body to him. “Do you want this nasty little thing to get in between us, or you want my mouth on you instead?”

  “Please Miss...use your mouth…” The bitter cold temperature on his skin along with the teasingly slow vibrations on his cock both make him crave your touch, or anything directly from you even more.

  “As expected, “ You pull on the collar to remove the ice underneath, making sure to make the lacy fabric slap against him upon release. “but not quite…” You chuckle as you glide the melting substance down his chest, watching him whimper and attempt to steer his torso away from the torment, but to no avail because of the restraints.

  "Ooh looks like my poor baby is suffering...let me warm you up a little…" You mock while trailing your tongue down his previously cooled down regions, as you wickedly work the cube around his areola, triumph overflowing inside you as Xiaojun lets out incoherent breathy moans with his eyes closed, then a much louder one erupts from him as you suddenly suck hard on his flesh as you press the devilish thing right on the most sensitive bud.

  "So easily fucked out, aren't you?" You seductively whisper and nip at his earlobe. "Can't even handle a bit teasing...how am I supposed to enjoy my little dessert if you mess yourself up too soon?" You begin to ruthlessly torture his other nipple with the residue of the cube.

  "Ahhh...please Miss I've been good! Please stop teasing me...please…"

  "Why should I rush? That's not the way how you savor gourmet desserts baby boy…"

  "No, please...just do it already...please Miss I want you…"

  “Hmm... I’m not sure what you mean by that. You have to ditch the euphemism and tell me directly what you want little thing…”

  Xiaojun blushes, both from arousal and embarrassment. “I want your mouth or...that sweet warm cavern ...on me...my…”

  “On which part of you? Hmm?” You darkly chuckle as you grind on him, pretending not to know what he actually means.

  “Ahhh.. my... cock! Please, it hurts so much without you. Please fuck me already…”

  “Really? I thought you want me to touch you tease you feel you up…” You taunt as you switch up the vibrations to the medium setting, making the poor boy gasp and jolt underneath you.

  “No-ahh! You can do whatever you want...just don’t tease me anymore…mmfff”

  “Whatever, huh? Be careful what you wish for my little plaything…” You turn the ring to the highest setting before completely open up his shirt, kissing and licking down his happy trail as you tug the waistbands of both his trousers and boxers, allowing some cool air to get in contact with his bare throbbing length, rendering him into a whimpering squirming mess.

  "Awww looks like my slutty sweetie is impatient to get ravished. But you know, the crust must be tasted first before getting to the filling inside…"

  Your lips linger at his pelvic region, blinking up at him and smirking provocatively with fingers still fondling and groping his clothed neediness despite Xiaojun's pleads. The feeling that how his undergarments are held up open, so teasingly close to some release, yet still denied by you, is driving Xiaojun insane.

  "Please Miss I’m really begging you...mmm...my pathetic cock wants your direct touch…"

  "That's my good boy who knows his place." You sit up, satisfied with his self-degradation, caressing his abdomen as you finally remove his trousers, revealing the white briefs with black bolded "All You Can Eat" printed on the crotch area that you gave him as a gift. One more sinful thing added to the image is the way how his pre-cum has stained the thin briefs to make it slightly transparent, his twitching cock visible underneath.

  "Fuck…" You groan as you wrap your lips around his shaft, before pushing the clothing to the side, making his reddish leaking cock spring free under relentless vibrations.

   “So beautiful and delicious…" You hum between sensual glossal movements around his pulsating heat. "If this is what I get for not eating the marshmallow too soon, I will definitely wait until this sweetness brew into its full bloom every time…" You brush messily along his shaft with slightly parted lips, making sure to taste every part of him as he erotically squirms and whimpers underneath, voice laced with some gratification now that he's finally allowed some light release.

  Xiaojun's blissful moment of relief doesn't last long as it's soon interrupted by a ding echoing in your room. You shoot him a suggestive glance warning him to stay in his place, before getting up to retrieve the nectarous addition to your play.

  You soon return to him with a white chocolate molten lava cake, before pressing a spoon into the exterior while smirking at how his stare is fixed on the buttery liquid oozing out of the collapsing cake.

  "Let's add some sweet dressing to this delicate confection, shall we?" You hum while ridding him of all undergarments, before tilting the platter, allowing the cream to trickle down from his clavicle all the way down to pubic region, the resemblance of its color to something sinful is almost too titillating for you to handle.

  "I can promise that your body is gonna be stained with your own cum exactly like this." You dab the tip of your tongue on a droplet of the melted chocolate on his chest. "But it's after I finish this enticing meal…"

  "Please don't take too long…"

  "Aww this is not for you to decide, pretty boy." You condescendingly reply as you turn off the vibrating ring. "Stay still and obediently let me eat you up at my own pace, and I might consider granting you release sooner."

  You hover your body over him, sensually twirling your tongue on all the spots you know that would drive him crazy from your experience, while lapping, nipping on the sweetness and tasting the texture of his skin.

  You feel your throat go dry because of your burning desires as well as the sticky substance you just consumed. “Get a taste of yourself.” You hum while sloppily twirling your tongue with his, feeling his eager wetness wrapped against you as his head pressed harder toward you, signaling for more contact. Noticing this, you slowly envelop your hand around his throbbing length, jerking it up and down smoothly and sensually, earning teary whines from him in response.

  Soon Xiaojun’s frustration became evident as his hips bucked desperately against you. “Hot and bothered and all mine, how cute.” You slapped the side of his bottom as a warning for him to stay still though you loved the sinful sight so much. “No use trying to seduce me like that,” You got off from his body to prepare for subsequent bliss that drove your mind slightly hazy even just by thinking about it. “this would only get you punished even harder…”

  “Punish me then, Miss...take all that is yours…” Xiaojun’s dick twitched from the sight of you opening the wrapper of the condom, legs parted even wider.

  “Really? I thought you so hate to be controlled…but look at you now acting like a little slut at the mere thought of me fucking you hmm?”

  “I am not-ahh!” Xiaojun’s retort was interrupted by another sharp slap across his bottom.

  “Stop faking because all you seem to enjoy now is to live as my personal favorite snack supply.” You triumphantly glared at him while pressing sloppy kisses against his chocolate-stained skin, all the way from his neck to pelvis while sheathing and lubricating his sensitive flesh, tongue relentlessly flicking around the base of his cock.

  “Please Mistress… I can’t hold it in anymore...please fuck me already pleeaaase…” You know this plead is for real because being the collected person Xiaojun usually is, he must be nearing his edge to beg so blatantly like this, but you were enjoying his suffering too much to give him the release he craved.

  “Poor boy...but I would like to add more seasoning before I finally devour you.” You smirk as you pour spoonfuls of the white chocolate residue on his body again, savoring the arousing sight before proceeding to undress and position yourself on his cock, watching him tremble and gasp under every contact between you.

  You steadily began to bounce on him, leaning down to press wet kisses on his lips and whisper more nasty compliments to him just to make him blush even more, his gorgeous features forming an epitome of orgasmic bliss as you pick up your pace. He looked so ethereal and fairylike, that incited the devilish desire burning inside you to ruin and corrupt. You want you to be the single center of his attention, the only thing that matters to him at this very moment. You want you to be the last and only thing he sees before he gets completely engulfed and submerged under the pleasure you are giving him.

  “I just can’t get enough of you, sweet boy.” You softly coo as you press even closer to him, lapping up some sweet fluids before intruding his mouth with your tongue, your fingers tangled in his hair, as you savored the way how he rocked his hips and moaned against you, as well as the loud snaps and squelching noises of your hips slamming against each other.

  You then coo how much of a good boy he is as you untie him, and the way he quickly wrapped you into a tight embrace as soon as he was freed made your heart flutter. Soaking your fingers with the sauce on his body, you insert them into his mouth as he sucked on them eagerly from time to time in between sensual sloppy kisses. You lost track of how much time your lips and tongues were entwined, the sweet texture of chocolate lubricating and heating up the passion among you, gradually pushing you both to climax.

  You then slowly rode him out of his orgasm, relishing the enticing afterglow as your heartbeat gradually dropped back to its normal pace. After burying your face into the crook of his neck to catch your breath, you intended to get up to clear away the mess, yet Xiaojun’s embrace hindered you from going anywhere.

  “What?” You chided playfully.

  “Miss I am so exhausted because of you...you were so cruel…”

  “Only I get to decide when you could cum, sweetie.” You simpered while ruffling his hair with your other hand cradling his cheek. “You are just so beautiful eyes glossy and totally messed up, I can’t help but torture you until-”

  “Stop!” Xiaojun slapped your arm while rolling away from you giggling.

  “Hmm be in denial like this, next time I shall get some whipped cream on this cherry core-” You began as you reached for his nipple.

  “Ahhhh no!” Xiaojun exclaimed as he smacked your devilish hand away.

  “But you do enjoy being my personal snack for me to devour, don’t you baby?” You lowered your voice with your hot breath near his earlobe, then giggled as he blushed crimson red once again.

  Xiaojun was totally clinging on you as you finally managed to drag him to the shower room, streams of warm water massaging both of your sore erogenous core as another current of amorous electricity washed over you, as he became noticeably hard again.

  "I thought you said you were exhausted?" You narrowed your eyes mischievously, as he just sheepishly avoided your gaze while biting on his lip.

  “Round two?” You gently run your hand up and down along his torso, noticing his ever so slight nod.

  “This time, I will be much softer on you, my sweet little treat.”

[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Dog of the Military- Chapter 6

So to be honest, I just intended this to be some good old humor and relief of Ed sleep talking while he's drugged up. But in reality, it turned out a little bit darker. And I'm perfectly okay with that lol. What’s this? A button to donate to my caffeine habit? Here ya go... 

Chapter 6- Nightmares

"Nuugh..." Roy looked over as the lump of blankets that was Edward Elric shifted on his bed. Roy had finished his calls- back to Central, alerting Hawkeye that he'd found Fullmetal and intended to bring him home tomorrow. To Hughes, asking just what hell he could wreck on someone who unjustly imprisoned and tortured a state alchemist. And to General Gruman himself, to report Colonel Bank's misconduct and begin the proceeding for an official court martial.

Now, it was nearly midnight and he was up to his elbows in paperwork for all of the above reasons.

Still, he couldn't really be mad at Ed, since it wasn't like the boy had asked to be held captive by that bastard.

Roy was loathe to admit it, but Ed looked much more childlike when he was asleep. It was almost... cute. Almost.

"Alfonz..." Ed slurred, twisting around on the bed.

Roy pursed his lips, frowning. The doctor had promised Ed would rest through the night, but he certainly didn't sound asleep.

"M-mom!"

Ed's voice rose an octave, and Roy frowned. He was about to say something, try and convince the boy to roll over and go back to sleep. Ed was silent for one moment, two... maybe he'd already fallen back asleep.

"Don't do it! Don't! I said stop dammit!"

Ed vaulted out of bed, stumbling like a drunk and barely managing to catch himself on the nightstand and stay upright.

Roy quickly got to his feet, intent on putting the boy back into bed, but Ed saw him and wove his was over to him, grabbing onto his coat and looking up at him with terrified eyes.

"T-the hands. So many tiny, black hands. L-let him go! I told them to let him go, but they wouldn't, and Alphonse- gone!" It was something in the tea, Roy realized. The laudanum the doctor gave Ed might've acted as a painkiller, but he also was no longer lucid, and apparently having a night terror of some sort.

Ed looked at him with wide, teary eyes. His pupils were smaller than usual, Roy noted- it just made his golden eyes look bigger.

"Don't do it. Don't activate the array." he pleaded, a tear finding its way down his cheek.

"Edward." the boy looked like he was going to fall over any minute, and Roy placed both hands on the boy's shoulders, trying to steady him.

"We didn't know what we were doing!" Ed burst out.

Roy had heard rumors about what happened when one committed the ultimate taboo. Alchemists who saw things- stories of black hands that dragged people to a strange place, one not meant to be touched by humans.

Not knowing what else to do, Roy pulled Ed into a rather awkward hug, pressing the small blond head to his chest.

"Edward. Shh, Ed, it's alright. I know. You were just a kid, you didn't know what you were doing..."

Ed was trembling like a leaf in his grasp, and Roy looked down to see the boy looking up at him with those impossibly large eyes, pupils dilated from the medicine.

Ed reached up, grabbing a fistful of Roy's coat. "D-dun ever do it." he muttered. "Pure white. All of it. So much noise and I couldn't scream. And that... thing- he took my leg. He didn't have a face... just teeth." Ed paused, looking into the distance but not really seeing anything.

He swallowed thickly. "All white." his voice was barely above a whisper, and it had a sing-song quality to it. "No color. I hated it there. Bit my own arm until there was blood just so there was color..."

Ed's body seemed to decide to give into the pull of sleep, and he sagged heavily against Roy, who gathered the teen into his arms and deposited him back onto the bed.

Ed still hadn't let go of Roy's coat.

"Don't ever do it." Ed whispered, looking at him desperately.

"I won't, Ed. I won't." Roy assured him. Ed didn't look much more at peace, and Roy found himself sitting on the bed beside the boy, carding a gloved hand through his bangs.

"I know you probably feel quite odd right now, Fullmetal. That's okay. The doctor gave you some medicine- I think it's given you some vivid dreams..."

"It's real." Ed insisted, reaching up to grab Roy's hand and holding it in both his own, as though he were afraid Roy would disappear if he let go.

Ed looked so... lost, Roy couldn't bring himself to pull away.

"Yes, it is real, Ed, but you're not there anymore. You're here, with me, in the inn, remember?"

Ed blinked drowsily.

"Let me get you some water..." Roy stood, gently disentangling his hand from Ed's hold and grabbing the mug off the beside table, moving to the bathroom and filling it at the tap.

He moved back beside the bed, handing the mug to Ed, who looked impossibly pleased as he took it the mug and held it in his hands. "Thank you."

Ed sat there for a solid minute, grinning at the mug in his hands as though it were the best thing in the world.

Roy chuckled. "You're supposed to drink it, Ed."

Ed blinked at him before doing as he was told, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a large sip, smacking his lips.

"It's delicious." he declared, looking into the distance.

"I'm glad the tap water here is to your liking, Fullmetal." Roy was having a very, very hard time keeping the amusement from his expression. He chuckled.

Ed looked up at him with those golden eyes. His large pupils and golden irises gave him a cat-like look. "Why are you laughing? What's funny?" Ed gave him an easygoing smile and wiggled beneath the blankets. "I wanna know the joke!"

Roy paused. There really wasn't a joke- except that the Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People and dog of the military was a 13 year old boy who acted like an adorable child when dosed with launadum.

Still, Roy couldn't miss the opportunity to mess with the kid. He smirked. "Alright. I know a really good knock knock joke, but you have to start it."

"Knock Knock!" Ed said eagerly.

"Who's there?" Mustang said with deliberate pleasure.

Ed's face went from excited to the prospect of the joke to confused, since he didn't know what to say to continue the joke, before his expression was alight again when he realized that was the joke. He laughed a little. "A-alright. You got me with that one."

"Did I now?" Roy feigned innocence.

"Yeah. But it's my turn. Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"I eat mop." Ed said with certainty and intensity.

Roy paused, frowning. He didn't see where this joke was going. Maybe it was some drugged out thing that only made sense in Ed's head?

Ed looked as though he was about to burst with excitement, he was practically vibrating on the bed waiting.

"...I eat mop who?"

Ed looked as though he was about to piss himself from laughter just as Roy got the joke.

"Y-y-you just said..." Ed trailed off, unable to stop laughing. "Y-you s-sah-said..."

Roy sighed, though he couldn't help the smile on his face. "Very clever, Fullmetal."

"Y-you said you... eat poo!" Ed was doubled over laughing now, clutching his stomach.

"Easy there, Fullmetal." Roy reached out to rub the boy's back. Ed couldn't help but laugh, but he was breathing harder and Roy could see the pain creeping onto his expression.

It took a minute for Ed to fully calm down and stop laughing, and by then a tear or two had trickled down his cheek.

"Gah, it hurts..."

"I know. Just relax. It'll fade if you take a few breaths." Roy kept rubbing gentle circle's on the boy's back through his shirt, being careful to mind the areas he knew were injured.

Once Ed had settled down, he laid back against the pillow. The kid looked pretty spent.

"Anything else hurting, Ed?"

Ed shook his head, eyes half closed.

"Alright, Fullmetal. Get some rest..." he moved to stand and go back to his paperwork.

"Wait! Don't go. I'll miss you." Ed looked up at him sadly. "Stay... a little longer? Please?"

Maybe it was because it was such a childish request. To not be left alone. Or maybe it was because the boy was out of it on painkillers. Or maybe because it was the first time he could remember Edward had used the word please when talking to him. But he sighed, taking a deep breath and pulling his desk chair over to sit beside the kid's bed. "Alright, Ed, I'll stay for a little while."

"Yay." Ed's voice was nearly a whisper. He really was almost asleep. Within ten minutes, the kid was out.

Roy found himself watching the boy's expression for a few moments- Ed was resting easy again, features relaxed, lips slightly parted- the boy really was just a child. And, as the cuts and scratches on the boy's face reminded him, he'd taken a pretty horrific beating from the sounds of the doctor's report. Why hadn't Ed just given up the information? It would've saved him so much pain...

"Rest up, Edward." he reached over, tucking the blankets further around the boy's chin before he stood up, and with some difficulty, dragged his chair back over to the hotel room desk. Somehow paperwork seemed much less fun after sharing knock-knock jokes with his drugged up alchemist.

Roy stopped the pen mid-stoke, turning to look at the sleeping boy on the bed. He couldn't make out much, but Ed was still fast asleep. Still, since when had the boy become his alchemist?

Roy stopped to think. Ed had always been under his command, he was new, rash, impulsive, but... It'd been after the Shou Tucker Incident, he realized.

He'd gotten a call late at night from Hughes- Ed and Al had just been told they could no longer stay and study with Shou Tucker after Ed had tried accessing the man's research in Central. The boys had gone to stay the night at Hughes.

"I just got a call. They want me team to deploy to the Tucker Estate. Something bad had happened. And..."

"What is it, Hughes?"

"Ed and Al aren't in their rooms."

"I'll be there in five minutes."

He'd ridden with Hughes to the Tucker estate- his eyes eagerly scanning the road, the yard, everywhere. He'd busted into the room filled to the brim with chimeras- abused, suffering beasts in pain. The investigations personnel on the scene looked up, surprised, at his entrance.

All Roy could see was the rather large spatter of blood on the floor.

"Where's my alchemist?" he asked the nearest officer.

She frowned. "Shou Tucker has already been taken into custody, Sir..."

"Not Shou. My alchemist, the Fulletmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric... He should have a seven foot tall suit of armor with him."

The woman frowned. "No one was here when we got here but Tucker, Sir."

He'd found Edward in the alley later that night. Sobbing his heart out over a dead chimera he couldn't save. And selfishly, as he and Hawkeye sat in the car and watched over the boys in the distance, Roy had been relieved. Horrible things had happened. But at least his alchemist- his Ed- was okay.

That was probably the moment Ed had become 'his alchemist'. It was as close to it as he could remember, the first time he'd said it out loud, anyways. But he'd probably been calling the boy that longer in his head.

Ed wiggled around a little under the blankets, and Roy sighed.

Ed. Leave it that boy to worm his way into his heart.

[deans-haunted-baby]

The Ones Left Behind

Alrighty time for some truth bombs. I’ve had almost a week to absorb the end of Supernatural and season 15 as a whole. And I think this is the moment where I need to throw in my two cents. For all intents and purposes I won’t go in-depth into 15x20 seeing as that conversation will just open up a whole other can of worms and I don’t need that headache. I have my reasons for being less than indifferent with how the Winchesters’ story concluded. So I won’t go there.

Instead I’ll be focusing all my energies on the unsatisfying conclusions of 4 particular characters. Two of which were main cast members (one that was on the show 12 years and one 4 years) while the other two (played by the same dude) were brought back after a decade long hiatus for a much-anticipated comeback only to be wasted and mangled unfairly by Dabb and his hack horde of a writing staff. Call this a follow up to my last post. If I sound bitter I am because these people don’t have a single clue on how to helm these characters, their relationships or their storylines 😠 Nor do they deserve them.

And yes I’m well aware of Kevin Tran, Rowena, Ketch and several others who got the shaft on this show. Those could be future posts for another time.

But I cannot stress this enough; ADAM MILLIGAN, JACK KLINE, MICHAEL AND CASTIEL ALL DESERVED FUCKING BETTER. There is no arguing these facts, none whatsoever. Not one of these characters deserved that exit to be the final chapter in their story. I won’t do an entire analysis of each character’s arc and role in the show as I’ve already done that in my rant about 15x19. But I will highlight how much season 15 royally screwed over these characters and tossed them aside like trash; as if none of them were ever part of/contributed anything to Sam and Dean’s history/world building of Supernatural’s universe.

*WARNING* This is going to get heated.

Before I dive into the heart of these issues I want to state this is not a “shipping post”. I don’t ship anyone on Supernatural, hopefully this blog has been pretty self-explanatory. So I have no arguments/opinions in those areas. I’ve been a fan of this series for 15 years because of the characters, the familial bonds and relationships formed between characters throughout its run. And I’m well-aware that the Winchesters are the lead protagonists of the show, no need to remind me. These are purely my own thoughts based what I’ve obtained from show canon. Let me just say I can’t get over just how much these writers contradicted and ignored what they put forth in the journeys of these four individuals. its a real headscratcher.

You mean to tell me that after TWELVE DAMN YEARS of Castiel being a rebellious warrior angel, searching for his own identity and meaning in life; making that promise to Kelly Kline about raising Jack as his own/risking his life for him. After sacrificing himself for his son a year ago, acknowledging he was satisfied with his role as a father which restored his faith; that it was all because of/for Dean Winchester? 

You mean to tell me that after Michael, THE PRINCE OF HEAVEN and PROTECTOR OF HUMANITY, was locked away in a cage with a human whom he emotionally bonded with for thousands of years (10 years our time); who was abandoned, betrayed and manipulated by his neglectful/abusive father. After choosing free will and aligning himself with TFW for humanity’s sake, just sided with the Earth’s destruction because his little brother called him names? 

You mean to tell me that Jack, A THREE YEAR OLD CHILD, who’s barely just beginning his life and spent his entire duration on the show wanting to be normal and not wanting to be special. Connecting and being integrated with humans; a child who’s biggest fear was outliving everyone he ever loved. Is suddenly ready to walk away from his family, his home and his teddy bear; to give up being a kid forever and run the universe?

You mean to tell me that Adam, SUPERNATURAL’S MOST INNOCENT CHARACTER and FORGOTTEN THIRD-WINCHESTER BROTHER, after being eaten by ghouls; pulled away from his mother out of Heaven, manipulated by angels, trapped in Hell for thousands of years because Sam and Dean left him there to rot. After coming back and helping his neglectful siblings save the world only to be ripped away from his best friend and THE ONLY OTHER PERSON who gave a damn about him; is sentenced to a life of loneliness, homelessness and turmoil until he dies and ends up in Hell where he’ll mostly be tortured and turned into a demon?

NO. I DO NOT AND WILL NEVER ACCEPT THIS BULLSHIT! 

Season 15 not only manages to contradict itself where these characters are concerned (while assassinating them before the final curtain). But the writers deliberately discarded them before giving us that *sarcasm inserted* epic solo-Winchester conclusion. Regardless of how you feel about Adam, Castiel, Jack or Michael, ALL OF THESE CHARACTERS are connected Sam and Dean’s story and part of Supernatural. And when you throw them away like they mean nothing, you’re essentially throwing away a part of the show’s history. You’re ignoring 15 years worth of story building. 

As I said I’m not going to go into 15x20 for reasons, it doesn’t offend me as much as what was done before that finale. Because I think those other show exits really affect 15x20 even worse than people realize. You want to know why, I’ll explain.

Lets start off with Castiel and Jack, OH BOY! We know where they end up; running Heaven and the Earth together which is all fine and dandy. I love my Dadstiel father/son duo being an endgame family unit. But here in lies the problem, we never saw it. Not even a cameo. And technically their onscreen storyline ends at 15x18 and 15x19 which is an ugly, anti-climatic bookend to an incredibly deep relationship that had 4 years of development. First you have Castiel who completely forgets why he made that deal with the Empty to begin with. HIS FUCKING SON. Not to mention it wasn’t about true happiness it was about giving himself permission to be happy; there is a difference. And then you have Jack wandering around next episode, vacuuming up power cause suddenly he’s a machine now, acting like he doesn’t give a shit over losing his dad to an entity HE’S BEEN DREADING ABOUT FOR A FUCKING YEAR. 

Towards the end of season 15 I noticed neither of these characters were acting like themselves. Their motivations, their personalities and strong ties to one another had mysteriously dissolved. Castiel became less concerned about the danger his son was facing after 15x15 (what the hell was that in 15x17?) and more about speaking when spoken to by either Sam or Dean. Does he know how Dean truly feels about Jack; proclaiming the child is “not family”? I doubt the in-character version of him would let Jack leave with Dean after that insult. Castiel’s not even worried whether or not his son is alive or safe before he makes the big confession later. And for some reason Jack (who’d become heavily suicidal) was more concerned with clinging to the Winchesters, willing to die for them, instead focusing on himself and the one person who’s shown him nothing but unconditional love and given him strength since birth. Both of these characters are canonically depressed and suffer from low self-esteem that was never resolved which makes me furious. 

When Chuck killed Jack at the end of season 14, this devastated Castiel in the first half of season 15. He actually got to grieve that loss throughout the episodes and deal with his anger over it, allowing the audience to anticipate the day they’d be reunited one last time. This part of Castiel’s S15 arc also ironically mirrors Jack’s S13 arc of mourning Castiel’s death until resurrecting him. And when this son finally returned to his father, who got to rescue him, it was such a poignant moment between the two. It was a cathartic payoff after witnessing Castiel in so much pain over Jack. There was so much building up between that Dadstiel reunion in 15x11 and the Empty’s pact in 14x08; this was suppose to be a tragic yet pivotal plot-point in both Jack and Castiel’s stories. And with SPN wrapping up we all expected something BIG. Yet somehow the writers retconned the whole thing by making it all about Dean, which is such a gross disservice to these characters and 4 years of storytelling.

For instance, since 15x18 was Castiel’s exit episode, why wasn’t he allowed to hug his son or Sam goodbye one last time? Why didn’t he have more of a focal role instead of standing around majority of the episode with barely any dialogue as so much precious air time was wasted on frivolous things? Why didn’t he get one last badass fight scene with someone like Death instead of being choked out and tossed around like a powerless mortal? Why did the group need to be split up to begin with when it served no purpose either than that *ugh* moment? Why wasn’t Jack allowed to call Castiel “dad” once before the show ended? He deserved to hear his son address him as dad!

AND WHY THE HELL COULDN’T JACK FEEL CASTIEL’S DEATH THE MOMENT IT HAPPENED? 

The show already established to the audience the significant cosmic bond these two characters shared since before Jack was even born. It was so powerful it boosted Castiel’s grace. Jack could remember who Castiel was from the womb and that he’d protected his mother. Not to mention HE FUCKING RESURRECTED CASTIEL OUT OF THE EMPTY ONCE WITHOUT GOD’S POWER. You’re telling me Jack couldn’t feel his dad being taken away forever despite how far apart they were? No, he’d feel it in his heart. Had we’d been given a scene like that at the end of 15x18 (something of substance) with actual grief shown in 15x19 maybe the episode would’ve faired better for them. 

That said it wasn’t, because Jack was treated the exact same way in his final exit. Hardly any lines and just a bunch of scenes of him standing/walking around until that pathetic reveal at the lake. HE DOESN’T EVEN GET TO INTERACT WITH JAKE ABEL’S MICHAEL/ADAM which would’ve been a great follow-up to the AU!Michael storyline in seasons 13 and 14. I swear these directors didn’t give Alex and Misha any motivation during their last three episodes and it’s evident in their hollow performances. But why would they when the scripts are basically telling their characters to quickly fuck off so the brothers can have their final outing. Jack doesn’t even behave like himself after he becomes the new God. His personality is apathetic, cold, alien, stiff and way too mature for the 3 year old child so closely connected to his family/the human world. In that moment I saw Alex Calvert not Jack Kline. It’s bad enough he doesn’t get a meaningful farewell but again Castiel, HIS DAD, is a complete afterthought to this kid 🥶

And that’s what we’re left with. Forever. A frigid, hollow ending to one of Supernatural’s most healthy, touching, family dynamics. It makes you wonder what was even the point. I can’t even fully enjoy the fact that its canon Jack and Castiel are together fixing Heaven because of what the show presented onscreen as their last hurrah. It’s not sitting right and it makes 15x20 even less appealing to me.

Moving onto Michael and Adam. Get ready for this. I could rant forever about how dirty my boys were done by this show. How they were discarded in the SPN series finale recap etc. just as they were FOR THE LAST TEN FUCKING YEARS. Was there even a plan going on here or was this just everyone making things up as it went? Their ending is the most unsatisfying and cruel thing because its INCOMPLETE. There is no real closure or resolution with them thanks to the monstrosity that was 15x19. AND NO ONE CARES ENOUGH ABOUT THEM TO GIVE A SHIT. 

Much as I’ve enjoyed this show for many years, it NEVER deserved Jake Abel, his talent or his time. I keep seeing so many anti posts about Dean Winchester’s final fate in Supernatural and all I can think about is “try being an Adam Milligan fan for the last decade”.  I’ve had to watch this boy go through hell with nothing to show for it either than years of memes. ridicule and the show’s mockery in forgetting him. Actually he’s the ONLY CHARACTER in this series you’re encouraged not to remember 😡 Also quick question: why give us this really interesting and healthy relationship between an archangel and its vessel if nothing was ever going to become of it? 

At this point I don’t know why Adam or the idea of him was even introduced way back in season 4 let alone revisited in season 5. Because the only thing I see when I look at this character now is SAD WASTED POTENTIAL. Storylines never explored. Relationships that never got off the ground. Backstory we never got to see (like for instance his past with John Winchester and his time in the cage). A character’s birthright (Men of Letters) that was never actualized. AND the unexplained factor that Adam could look directly at Michael’s true form without his eyes burning out (making him a special case). And the thing is he could’ve been a really great character, both him and Michael. They could’ve easily reached popular status just like Castiel given the chance since Jake is a freaking acting-powerhouse. We were given a taste in 15x08 just how awesome these characters could be and how they could’ve contributed so much to the story and its core group. But unfortunately it wasn’t meant to be.

Michael will never redeem himself after years of scrutiny and being made out to be some kind of unhinged monster. This show constantly enjoyed pounding into our brains how fearsome Michael was. Warned us via Lucifer (LUCIFER, PEOPLE!) that he wasn’t rational, compassionate and didn’t care about anything except war, death and destruction. And that he was incapable of feelings and emotions. This is how Supernatural saw Heaven’s Prince and guardian of the Earth. Christ, they actually did a two-year storyline about an evil Michael from the AU world who enjoyed torturing and killing while trying to destroy the universe. I want to know WHAT THE HELL THIS SHOW’S WRITERS HAD AGINST THESE CHARACTERS? Why they felt the need to bring back Jake Abel, AFTER A DECADE OF FANS WANTING THIS, if it was simply to piss all over his characters one last time before the show wrapped. This is absolutely unprofessional and childish; the fact that Jake is taking this bullshit in stride makes it all the more shameful 😡

We could’ve learned so much more about Michael’s past and his present relationship with Adam. These characters didn’t need to sit in the cage for a decade they could’ve easily been incorporated back into the show as far as season 8 or 10! And been an asset to the Darkness storyline in season 11.There were characters and storylines introduced that served no purpose. Why did we need to keep seeing characters like Charlie Bradbury or (as much as I like him) Crowley or Garth (love him too) or Lucifer or Abaddon or the Wayward sisters? I would’ve much preferred having Adam and Michael around and got to know them instead; especially after 15x08. I would’ve wanted to see what their dynamic with TFW could’ve become had they been long-time allies. Did John ever tell Mary about Adam’s existence? I’d like to see what her reaction would’ve been like had the Winchesters remembered him during that damn 300th episode. I guess that’s another loose end untied.

But because of what Supernatural did to these two characters, it forever taints Sam and Dean. I don’t think Dabb or purist fans realize this. But when new viewers come into this show about two brothers preaching important things like “saving people”, “family first” or “family don’t end in blood” they’re going to see how badly the main protagonists treated their innocent half brother. How Castiel and Jack were treated. They’re going to see the heroes of the story abandoning this kid in Hell forever with no intention of EVER rescuing him. And that’s why their final appearance leaves such a bad taste going into 15x20. Cause as much as Dabb and co didn’t give a shit about Adam and Michael they also didn’t give a rat’s ass about protecting Sam and Dean’s integrity. That’ll be a stain they can’t undo. 

So through all of it, we’re stuck with the abomination that is 15x19 aka the eye-soar to an unfinished/unpolished story of two horribly disregarded characters. Michael gets the pleasure of being character assassinated right before he’s stupidly killed off instead of going out a hero or becoming the next God (as it was his birthright and the setup was there in the narrative). And Adam gets killed off-screen, OUT OF HIS OWN DAMN BODY, then brought back by Jack only to live a miserable, isolated existence since his brothers have nothing to do with him (the dog and car are more important); his best friend is dead, he has no job or money or a fucking home and he’s legally dead! Really what is there left for him besides the brutal fate awaiting in Hell when he dies?  

SERIOUSLY THEY COULDN’T GIVE US ONE SCENE WHERE THE WINCHESTERS CHECKED IN ON ADAM TO MAKE SURE HE WAS SAFE?! 🤬 His last scene pretty much sums up this shit for what it is. Tragic. I feel like crying for this poor sweet boy.

Congratulations Dabb, BL and co for giving us these much deserved broken story arcs of characters you destroyed and made OOC before leaving the airways. You did your show’s protagonists justice by doing this *sarcasm inserted* after 15 years of being onscreen. I doubt these idiotic decisions are going to age well in the long run. They certainly don’t look good on the Winchesters. Anyway that’s my hot take for the day. 

ALL THESE ACTORS AND THEIR CHARACTERS DESERVED BETTER.

[sodone-withlife]

this time

here is yet another introspective dark angst fic torturing Hotch, but you will be glad to know that he doesn't die in this one (what a change from my last two fics lmao). this was written while trying to scratch the writing itch that’s not letting me adequately study for APs and while listening to one-hour loops of Freaks by Surf Curse and Billie Eilish’s cover of The End of the World.

the theme was inspired by the first song mentioned- Freaks by Surf Curse. the same deal applies to this—little to no proofreading was done, all mistakes are mine.

warnings: alcohol, suicidal ideation, implied/mentioned child abuse, canonical character death

word count: 1.9k words

I haven’t seen him take a break in months, not even after Morgan stepped up. Just look at him, he obviously hasn’t slept for a while, I don’t know how the hell he hasn’t collapsed yet.

How is he supposed to take down Foyet if he’s not even able to take care of himself?

How could he sleep when he knew his subconscious would conjure up images of Haley’s cold, bloodied, motionless body, of her unseeing eyes that managed to be accusing, even in death?

How could he sleep when he knew he would be stuck in a never-ending loop of finding his son’s tiny body that he imagined would be even tinier in death, of dreaming about hearing Jack’s agonized screams as Foyet tore into him with the same knife that had nearly killed his father months earlier?

Alcohol.

His father’s vice, and the one he swore, when he was old enough to understand what was happening, that he would never add to his already long list.

But ever since the early morning night he returned to his apartment after spending hours upon hours dealing with the bureaucratic nightmare that was the Turner pig farm case, all of the promises and vows he had made over the years, to himself and to his family, had dissolved and disappeared like dust in the wind.

I swear I’ll make the world safer for you and Jack.

Garcia had been so fearfully confident in the Marshals Service, wanting reassurance in her belief that Foyet would be caught.

But Hotch knew the profile like the back of his hand, and his answer left his lips with easy confidence even as an oppressing feeling of dread came over him.

That was the start.

Foyet’s voice remained in his head, a vicious devil casting doubt on his every word and his every decision, giving voice to his worst fears and darkest impulses that he had long hoped to suppress.

I swear I’ll protect you and Jack for the rest of my days

Then Foyet was waiting in his apartment, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row and one of the worst crime scenes he’s come across in all of his years of prosecution and in the bureau. That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world, he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness for an agonizing length of time before he finally succumbed to unconsciousness

The smell of antiseptic was an unwelcome greeting, and it wasn’t long before he was reminded once again why his mind’s tendency to be strangely clear, even under hospital-grade antiseptic, with its sharp grasp on memory was a curse.

He sank deeper into the bed, all the air suddenly gone from his lungs as he stared at the red streak of his own blood he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

I swear I’ll never become my father, drowning in alcohol and breaking promises as easily as he made them.

The picture that was left behind wasn’t a warning, but a promise.

Somehow, Hotch knew that Foyet was throwing the promise he had made to Haley and Jack back in his face.

He had promised to protect them, but they were being targeted by a prolific, sadistic serial killer. They were forced to go into the system, and he doesn’t even know where they are, so how can he protect them at all?

Alcohol.

His father’s vice, and one that he ended up adding to his already long list.

The only way he could sleep through a night without waking up paralyzed from the nightmares, from Foyet’s voice taunting him like a parasite finding its home in the dark recesses of his mind.

But his apartment suffered for it, as did his sober mind every morning as he was faced with the evidence of just who he was like when he was intoxicated.

—broken glasses small spills from shaking hands papers thrown askew waking up with a gun at his side and a pounding headache and urges to snap at anyone and everyone and to hit something just like his fathe—

His promises were broken so easily, and so he feared perhaps the only promise that had been occupying his headspace since he last saw his family would follow suit.

We will catch him, and you'll come back, and I promise that I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you

So he avoided sleep as best he could, if only to lessen the all-encompassing dread that fell over him when his subconscious started torturing him with the imagined images of his worst fears.

Headaches, the aching emptiness that had always been and only grew over the past months, the cold numbness that he walked with, they were nothing compared to being too conscious of just how out-of-control everything had become in less than a year.

They were nothing compared to teetering on the edge of the pit of despair that threatened to swallow him whole with every reminder of the clock that was ticking intensely, of each grain of sand that was falling through the hourglass.

They were nothing compared to anticipating the time bomb ready to go off at any moment as he moved through his days, tightly strung and dreading a break in the case that would end up being found too late.

I promise.

...

The clock struck twelve—

the last grain of sand fell—

and the bomb exploded—

taking Haley and much of his heart with it.

But Foyet lived on in his mind, even as his beaten body—beaten by his hands, skull caving in under his fists and warm blood splattering over his face, grief and rage reducing him to his darkest urges that remained more present than they have ever been—was cremated and his ashes sent to unknown places.

Then Jack moved in with him, and his son was living in the apartment in which he had been stabbed nine times.

He gave his statement to Strauss and the other higher-ups, and he was cleared of the same crime that the same higher-ups had pressured him to punish Elle for, even despite her acquittal.

Oh, Elle.

Pulled in from Seattle with high ambitions, only to be crushed by this job… and by me.

Too much like me.

He took his time off, helping Jack settle in and having Jessica over as he made funeral arrangements, a burden he forced himself to take on in order to remind himself of the costs of his hubris.

Then the funeral was over, justified grievances from Haley’s family aired, Jack visiting the Brooks family for the weekend, and the team in Nashville for a case.

And all he wanted to do was sleep, because all of a sudden, his nightmares were gone and he was seeing what his life could have been like—

If he had remained in prosecution to become the youngest DA in county history.

If he had remained in the Seattle office and kept his ambition in check.

If Gideon hadn’t sent him to Boston to help with the Reaper case.

If the case hadn’t stuck with him like it had, hadn’t occupied a special place in his mind for years.

If Boston hadn’t ended the way it had, and Gideon was still unit chief.

If he had put in to transfer to the White Collar division earlier.

If he was less of an addict to the chase, to the danger, the adrenaline pumping through his veins with every case—

—and he was seeing that his life could have been so much better.

Just days ago, sleep was his torture, and wakefulness his refuge.

He was living alone with the demons in his mind, so the alcohol was in the cart out in the open and his firearms no less than a few feet away at all times.

But now, wakefulness was his torture, and the depths of sleep his newfound refuge.

A child was now living in his apartment, so the alcohol was shoved into the back of a cupboard and his firearms locked inside the biometric gun safe high up on a shelf.

—intact glasses in the sink hands remaining steady papers neatly organized and case files hidden from Jack’s innocent eyes mind clear and feeling the weight of his service weapon in his bloodstained hands disjointed thoughts coalescing into one—

The stone bench under the weeping willow in front of Haley’s gravestone was cold to the touch, and the stillness of the late evening was only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves as squirrels and birds moved about. Slowly, he shifted on the bench so that he was lying on his back and staring at the moon through the leaves.

The gun in the hip holster pressed into his side and the one on his ankle kept his left leg still as he let it hang over the side. He remained as alert as ever, twitching with every rustle but resisting the urge to get up and look around.

It was a startlingly clear evening even though it had stormed just the day before, and slowly, unwittingly, old memories from years ago came back into his mind and mixed with the false, happy images his traitorous mind had conjured up in his sleep.

And even though they weren’t as clear in wakefulness as they had been in sleep, he was filled with a deep, aching longing for the times that have never been, for the happiness that had died with Haley, and for the love that had only lingered because of Jack.

Never had the service weapons he wore daily been such a source of temptation, not even in his darkest days after he swore to never taint with the legacy of what he might be able to use it to do and before Foyet happened.

But you know just how much worth your promises actually have.

Remember what happened in just the last nine months?

He turned his head to look through the near-darkness at Haley’s gravestone, looking to her for guidance.

The temptation only grew stronger, and the storm in his mind picked up the pace.

Is death not just a permanent sleep?

Would they find him like he found Haley, lying on his back and looking completely at peace? If it weren’t for the blood that would be pooling around his head saying otherwise, might they believe that he was just sleeping?

Wouldn’t it be nice to sleep, to remain in your head with only peaceful dreams to keep you company?

An hour went by, and slowly, a few raindrops started making it through the leaves to fall on his face. He forced himself up before the storm that was moving in from the east grew to be as strong as the one in his mind.

Soon, he was back in the apartment, his weapons locked in the safe, alcohol still stashed in the back of a cupboard, and the bed was feeling too big and too empty.

Exhaustion sunk deep in his bones, and just as the wind and rain outside picked up, the storm in his mind died down.

There was no fight against the sleep that was slowly claiming him, and he slipped into the dreams that felt like the familiar, comforting warmth of her smile.

I dream of you almost every night.

Hopefully, I won’t wake up this time.

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 62 – After the Battle

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

The cadence from the machine was as steady as it could be. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Frankenstein’s heart was just as steady, its beat placid like the surface of water.

In reality, at least from Frankenstein’s standing point, for each pulse his blood was being drained away by a droplet. 

He felt as if the entire room, beyond the spot he was marking with his legs, was already flooded with the red from his body. 

Which he should have expected since his entrance to Lunark’s room. 

The day after the destructive arrival of his body occupied by the Dark Spear to Lukedonia, Lunark was hospitalized in the Lukedonian ward, having yet to wake up. 

It had been merely hours since the battle was officially closed, so it was too soon to see her waking up. 

Frankenstein knew that; after all, she was against none other than the Dark Spear that had unchained itself from his command. 

The Dark Spear that had absorbed Crombel and pieces of Crombel’s Blood Stone. 

No one would deny that it was a life-threatening opponent, even for Lunark. 

Not to mention she suffered a wound from Dark Spear, deliberately meant to kill her. 

A wound that sent Frankenstein’s sanity to the nether world when he finally regained his senses. 

A wound that was more critical than it should have been, for Lunark did not care about anything other than getting Frankenstein back, paying no attention to her own survival. 

Lunark may be top-tiered among the current werewolf warriors, but it is not time yet for her to wake up. 

Frankenstein knew and understood and accepted it in his head. 

However, his heart refused to comply. 

The cardiac monitor that was linked to her was signaling how she was at least stabilized, but Frankenstein felt he would die unless she provides a hint herself that she will be fine. 

Which is why he could not leave her, when she was not the only patient in the chamber. 

He had been receiving multiple suggestions and offers for breaks, if not treatment, from the hospital’s doctors and medical staff, Central Knights, and even few of the heads of clans. 

And of course, he would not heed them at all. 

Or he would answer he will not be staying long, to go ahead and stay transfixed as soon as he was left alone.

‘Looks like the story about me has spread to all corners of Lukedonia.’

Thought Frankenstein as he reckoned the next visitor. 

“I anticipated you to be here. I am glad I did not waste my time walking into your own room.” 

“...Please forgive me. I was supposed to keep better vigilance upon myself. The damage I caused upon your land is of no small...” 

Though what happened was as far as it could be from his intention, knowing that he had caused lot of trouble – in fact, heaps of trouble – Frankenstein willingly bowed to Lascrea. 

In the meantime, he was plotting whatever excuse he could yield to thwart yet another trial to send him to bed. 

Alas, this time he was told incorrect. 

“This is for you.” 

Frankenstein blinked in puzzlement upon locking his eyes on the phone Lascrea handed. 

‘Oh. Right. Tao said he prepared a phone and a couple applications for her in extension of the QuadraNet project.’ 

He was questioning the timing of Lascrea’s presentation of her phone when something caught his eyes. 

The screen was not the sort he identified, but the interface told him it was an application with a vocal chat activated, ongoing.

And there is only one soul that is connected to Lascrea’s phone. 

That moment Frankenstein could feel his throat strangling itself. 

However, he knew who was waiting on the other side of the phone; not even the end of the world can serve as a reason for him to turn it down. 

Thus he took Lascrea’s phone, his heart heavy like never before in the most recent times. 

“...Yes, master?” 

<Frankenstein. You do not sound well.> 

“...Forgive me, master.” 

<Forgive you...? For what?> 

Frankenstein’s eardrums shriveled. 

He could list in his mind more than a handful of things he should be begging forgiveness for, but for some reason he could not name any of them. 

Raizel changed the topic, his previous question obviously meant to be rhetoric. 

<Lascrea relayed the news. You were brought to Lukedonia, your body lost to Dark Spear, until Lunark arrived for your redemption following a blood-spilling battle. Because of which Lunark has met another battle, this time her conscious as a captive.> 

Frankenstein could tell Raizel was being gracious to him on the smallest scale he could afford. 

He may have put the cause behind Lunark’s blackout as an aftermath from her battle, but he would know the truth. 

After all, Lascrea was one of the witnesses for Lunark’s wound, and she would have had enough knowledge to testify for Raizel how she ended up suffering the wound. 

He would know that what forced her into blackout is not the aftermath of the battle; it is the one who was engaged in the battle. 

<Are you all right?> 

<...I’m fine, sir. Lukedonia boasts medical skills good enough to...> 

<My question was posed for more than your body.> 

And he knew how Frankenstein’s vessels and heart were being pulled apart every second with guilt. 

He knew how Frankenstein’s nightmare came true – his hand lost the reins he had placed upon Dark Spear, waiting for a chance to prevail from within. 

He knew because of which he is feeling for himself hatred like never before. 

Frankenstein could still remember the moment when the dam finally started to break down. And when he woke up once it was all over. 

Upon his return from the werewolf realm – rather, not long after he had finally recharged himself with wolfsbane tonic, the substance that should have kept him insomniac, he felt how a venom called sleep yanked his head with an invisible lasso towards the thick, unbreakable swamp of slumber. 

He panicked, a rare occasion for him, realizing something had gone horribly wrong, but he was already swept away by the rapid current of sleep.

Without any rope or boat to save him, he fell deeper and deeper into sleep. 

After who-knows-for-how-long, he was beckoned by a thin sensation from somewhere beyond his conscious as if something had shattered. 

Now that he had thought about it, he was surely fast asleep back then, but he could swear he felt something shatter. 

Promptly, his eyelids shot open as if under electrocution, exactly in the manner of a person miraculously dragged back by the AED from the brink of embarking on Charon’s boat. 

Furiously panting from the bottommost of his lungs, he waved his head in circumspection of his surroundings. 

He knew all too well what he would unleash once he is asleep, and as he feared his perimeter was nothing short from the definition of cataclysm. 

And he needed not to check how he was doing. 

He noticed how the soil and dirt he was thrown upon was of Lukedonian origin, and he wondered how he ended up here until his face grew cold, for he got aware a tad late of an unfamiliar weight upon his body. 

He could not see the face of the one lying upside down upon his torso, but he could make out a flock of hair scattered about where his hugger’s head should be. 

And he did not need to try at all to recognize the color, length, and curves of the hair. 

Immediately his heart froze up, turned much colder than his face. 

Soon enough he discovered a black hole rooted deep into her back, partially hidden by her hair, which filled him from head to toes with ice. 

He could not recall what befell right after. 

He ripped her off his body and ran with no direction or sense to coordinate him, to shriek dozen times and plead as twice as much, to ultimately reach here. 

<Know I it was not your will to hurt her. She would not blame you.> 

“...No. She wouldn’t.” 

<But you would.> 

Frankenstein’s throat grew strained at Raizel’s remark. 

Just as he said, Frankenstein felt highly inclined to wrench off his own head if he could. 

He wanted to drive his nails into his chest to pry out his heart. 

He could not remember the last time when his heart was jeopardized every minute by miserable, violent impulse concerning what did not happen to be Raizel. 

He could not stop thinking that he might make his impulse come to reality if Lunark is to never again open her eyes. 

Lascrea tightened her lips, having never seen such a slick, flawless man speechless for once. 

That was when she was reminded that she did not have much history with Lunark. 

She did have a light clash against her and the 3rd Elder, on the day she visited Raizel to fill his life with the half of her Ragnarok. 

After that, she ran into Lunark when she made her way to the werewolf realm with Kei and Rosaria, when Lunark brought Frankenstein, Muzaka, and Raizel, for them to ultimately reap away Maduke’s life. 

Apart from those occasions, she could not even get to hear Lunark’s name. 

So Lascrea was clueless why Frankenstein would have such a conversation with Raizel with Lunark unconscious before him. 

After all, she was looking at none other than Frankenstein, which made it more challenging for her to determine the exact relation that he and Lunark would share. 

With everything pushed to the side, however, she equally prayed that this werewolf warrior who was making THE Frankenstein spill out his guilt to open her eyes. 

Partially because she had something she had to check with Lunark.

And she could see she was not the only one. 

<It seems your heart as of now is not available for an uninterrupted, untainted reflection. For now best would it be for us to wait for Lunark to rise again. Wish I to hear that she awakens.> 

“...Of course. I believe we have a discussion ahead of us.”

That was when Frankenstein and Lascrea sharpened their eyes with pregnant glare. 

But the latter soon redirected the spotlight to something more important than the business they had with Lunark. 

“Have no concern, Frankenstein. Cadis Etrama di Raizel. I shall help our guest and savior to rise again with body as good as new, even if it takes all of Lukedonia’s art in medicine.” 

<...My gratitude, Lascrea.> 

Lascrea’s phone chimed with a brief word of appreciation. 

Poised were Raizel’s words, but Lascrea could detect softness as light but certain as moonlight, and her cheeks flushed like ripe tomatoes for a second. 

Thankfully for her, Frankenstein was too caught in his own complicated mind to notice her blush and failed to print it in his head with his eyes. 

He thereby unintentionally kept the noble lord’s dignity safe and asked, “Speaking of which, how is everything going at Korea?” 

(next chapter)

Now it’s time to wrap up things that follow the battle one by one, including the relationship between Frankenstein and Lunark. Also, I’ll be highlighting all the events that have yet to be explored in this fic (especially the events mentioned in the early chapters). Which means even though the highlight of this fic is over, I still have lots of work to do. Nevertheless, I shall do my best! :D