#ideally with any of my comics you should feel at least a Little bit of cringe while reading it

[stoppingo1k]

been sitting on these pages for a long while, but im still very proud of the mood setup. looking back at it, im not super happy with how the overall story progression is written so i figure itd be better to spend the energy working on other things at the moment

[understandingbimbos]

If you are specifically only interested in bimbofication as transformation AND bimbos as a cultural figure, I feel like that’s a difficult perspective to reconcile. Because there are hardly any bimbofication-transformations in mass media. Popular bimbo (or bimbo-ish) figures are almost always just “like that,” the bimboism is essential to their personality and always has been. Hot girl makeover narratives are a popular genre but they usually go to pains to make it clear that the subject’s personality/sense of self is mostly unchanged.

Anyways I think your writing is really interesting and articulate and hope you keep going. Do you have a sense of your target audience? I feel like your work probably doesn’t appeal to most people in the fetish because it’s nuanced and critical, which is a good thing, but hard if you want more people to read/engage with your stuff. Good luck!

I want the book to be open to and palatable to outsiders as a source of information, but I don't have specific or concrete audience besides that. I would like my approach to the subject matter to be somewhere between Dworkin and Scott McCloud.

And... yes, you do not see bimbofication in the mainstream. The closest I've seen any film come to it is Nightmare Sisters from 1988 and Repligator from 1998, and calling either of those mainstream is being very generous. I think there's also a bit part in Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama. And the comic adaptation of Dragon's Lair has Daphne getting dumber while she's trapped in her bubble, there's no growth but she already has a sexy/curvaceous body.

Then there's those two episodes of Sabrina, the one where she gets stuck looking like a walking pinup, and one where her evil doppelganger curses her to become stupid and boy crazy. There's that infamous scene from Leprechaun 3 with Stretch. One sort of indirect one that sticks with me, and I think I've mentioned this before, is what happens to Lorraine in Back to the Future 2. When Marty goes back to the bad present that Biff fucked up and his mom now an alcoholic trophy wife in a glitzy dress and big fake implants, but I don't know if that stuck with anyone else.

Lastly, I've seen others cite the animated explanation sequence in The Stepford Wives (2004) and Foxy Loxy's transformation in Chicken Little (2005). I don't think I've posted anything from any of these movies, and I really probably should.

I'm also not sure if this is something I've actually posted or just thought about but it struck me quite recently that bimbofication is really just an inverse of the Galatea myth, as in Pygmalion, as in My Fair Lady, as in Born Yesterday, Pretty Woman. Where you have in these narratives low-class women and sometimes straight up actual bimbos being reformed and becoming proper ladies, bimbofication is the exact opposite. You don't see it because it is a narrative tragedy, nearly horror, nowhere near romantic, a proper lady becoming a common whore...

(Which reminds me, I forgot the best "mainstream" "bimbofication" sequence, Halle Berry in Movie 43, remind me to post this later)

Anyway, like I was saying, a nightmare. But when we consider it in the context of Pygmalion, ancient myth, the very idea of bimbofication becomes a lot less insane. Pyggie took to crafting Galatea because he saw women practicing prostitution and begin to detest "the faults beyond measure which nature has given to women". It only stands to reason that there have been at least some people throughout human history, way before any of us were around, before bimbos, before bimbofication, that felt the exact opposite -- people who detested not whores but the stuffy or virtuous woman. People who's ideal Galatea would be no pure and innocent but wanton and shameless. And when George Bernard Shaw adapted and modernized this story in 1913, I'm sure that idea wormed its way into the head of even more people, even though we may never know. Someone had to read or watch the story of Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins and dream of the opposite, respectable lady to stupid bitch.

(Which reminds me... I forgot The Twilight Zone Episode, Number 12 Looks Just Like You. I have a post drafted on my other blog referencing that you might see soon. Maybe. Maybe not.)

I guess that's all to say, you are absolutely correct that there is no real basis for bimbofication in popular media. The seeds have existed here and there for a long time but that doesn't mean any of it was a direct or intentional influence. I think I made a forum post asking bimbofication authors about it and their frame of reference seemed to be entirely underground science-fiction and other erotica writers.

And who's to say who inspired by the bimbofication BDSM people, or how far back that goes? Or the artists who draw transformation sequences? Who drew the first bimbo TF sequence? Did the idea just come to them? That's kind of the thing.

Respectable lady to stupid bitch slut, no matter how niche this fetish is, is NOT a novel concept by any means. For those of who are into bimbofication as a revenge fantasy, its pretty much basic misogyny, no different than Pygmalion's, just in a different direction.

[katsettee]

Greetings! I love your art so dang much!! May I ask your headcanons on the LU boy’s ages?

Totally don’t feel pressured, just curious <3

Have a dandy day!

~🦋🤠

Thank you! I have been thinking really hard about this for a while but I think I have my answer.

This is all purely headcanon and how funny I think it would be for their dynamics and relationships.

The ages themselves are kind of fuzzy, but age order in my mind from oldest to youngest goes:

Time(ofc), Twi, Sky, Warriors, Hyrule, Legend, Four, Wild, and finally Wind.

In my mind, Time and Sky have experienced the most time between their last adventure and the crossover, Time obviously because he is just a whole ass adult married man now and Sky because I would like to think he has gained some responsibility and has started the establishment of Hyrule. I would put Time at mid 30s and Sky mid 20s.

I see Twi as significantly older than the others but with little desire to take charge, seeing as he has no experience in leadership to any capacity, but is the ultimate big brother in late 20s. I also see him as being much older than the others during his adventure.

Wars is also older during his adventure, like dude is a captain in the military, he’s been mature enough for long enough to get to where he is. This is where I get fuzzy with ages, but I would put Wars at 24/23.

This is where my headcanons really get the best of me, but I’m obsessed with the idea of Hyrule being older than Legend. I am all about the “Legend feels guilt for the state of Hyrule’s world” and “Hyrule looks up to The Hero of Legend” ideas but what I really love is complex emotions and Hyrule looking towards Legend, the hero that he can only hope to be, and realizing that its never been more than a broken child forced to think like a survivor. I view Legend as just barely pushing adulthood at 18/19 and Hyrule being 21/22. Their dynamic as two people who could only conjure the ideal image of the other (Legend saving his world for the ideal future and realizing it all falls to ruin anyways + Hyrule trying to do anything in order to live up to the “legendary” previous hero) and being ultimately disappointed by the other is fascinating to me, but I like to think they value each other without the title of hero eventually and are quite close because of that connection.

I’m going to be honest I know the least about Four, seeing as I have yet to really invest much time with his games and character, so I’m just going along with him being a comfy 18 for no particular reason. So sorry to all the Four fans but I would like to hear other people’s ideas.

Again here’s some very biased headcanons, but I like to think Wild quite literally JUST defeated Calamity Ganon and is still at that (1)17 age that we see in the game. I love the LU comic but the Wild I like to include in my works is very much an immature teen, not the angsty sad man. My preference of Wild portrayal is HEAVILY influenced by critbit and it will always be that way tbh. Additionally, Wild and Twi being the most “sibling” siblings in the group just appeals to me and putting them at a similar age gap to myself and my own siblings is just funny to me.

Finally you have the kid brother Wind, who I have such a hard time assigning an age to. His age gap is significant enough that he is much different from Wild, but I would also like to think that some time has passed since his adventure. I would like to put him at the 16 year old range, but if I’m being honest it should probably be more towards the 13-14 range- so I will probably change my portrayal of him a bit to reflect that in any upcoming content.

I am super on the fence about this and since these are fictional and very undefined characters I am mostly fine with sliding the ages up and down for enjoyment, but I suppose this is my personal view on what I think is in line with the content that I personally create. I probably will not even follow this super accurately if I’m being perfectly honest.

Thank you for the ask!

[artisticmenace]

PROSHIPPERS DNI I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!!

Other DNIs below.

im approachable and you should talk to me. cue hypnosis. on or off anon. you can literally never talk to me again if you wanted. this is the internet and idk who you are or where you live ok.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello, dear friends and accociates. Welcome to the normal info section.

hiii. I'm tabs. I'm suuuper gay(asexual panromantic). I'm also an artist. Any scorn or prejudice will be promptly ignored. Criticism will be looked over as long as its constructive.

profile picture forever and always by me. unless this message changes in which im not using my own art as a pfp anymore.

fun facts:

im not a stoner but a lot of people think i am

i <3 maximalism and i want to be cecil palmer

in an ideal world i would be a clown

Status:

dude i AM the stress ball

About me:

I have a bunch of OCs, and I'm writing so many (unfinished)books... Yeah, that's right. I like to suffer and die creatively TWICE!! I can not be helped. I'm just goofy like that sometimes. I hate most non canon ships for fandoms im in, but I'll probably just go "ew" and leave you alone(depends on the ship, really). I haven't been tested for autism or ADHD but enough things line up, so I'm like 80% sure. The 20% is self-doubt. I like to dress fancy, and my general look is deep woods cottagecore that has recently drank from the lake of maximalism. You won't see pictures of me, probably, because my room is NOT clean. Sometimes, I vent on here, but that's because I am the only demographic this blog needs. I love you, too, but your feelings are only being considered a little bit. I use tone tags every now and then if I feel I would be misunderstood. On that note, I am more likely to ignore or ask for clarification if you say something rancid or silly than get on your ass about it.

Those Days:

I'm gonna be making a comic called Those Days about a small town old gay couple, Scott and Rodney, telling their life's story. They've been friends since their sophomore year in high school, and they've seen a lot. Scott was a punk, to say the least.

For the actual comic, you'll need to thosedayscomic, the blog I made for the comic.

^^ I'm currently working on the first issue. I do have lots of art of them though.

Tags for my comic:

those days, those days comic. also any character names first and last.

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Current Fixations:

Camp Here and There (Waiting for S2)

Welcome to Night Vale (all caught up)

The Magnus Archives (help)

The Magnus Protocol (screaming)

Good Omens (wkealt. wbotpfalt.)

Malevolent (ep 21. kayne and kellin are my wives)

What's Currently Crippling:

good omens is going to kill me. i will never be able to think of anything else what the hell

Also:

I love interaction! I will always discuss my interests, and l o r e when asked. In other words, PLEASE TALK TO ME !!!

If you want to use my art for your pfp go ahead, just credit me.

Don't repost my art. Please and thankies.

i use ibispaintx btw and i watch the ads for my brushes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Art Requests/Asks: Open!!

Art Trades: Open!!

DMs: Open(as long as you arent a creep or an asshole obviously)

(cant do commissions because the world hates me but dont be shy to trade me. not particular on what i get back as long as i made someone happy. cause it feels amazing to see something i did made someone happy)

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DNI LIST because I'm a little hater:

proshippers (what the fuck. what the actual fuck. fictional or not.)

active members of the hazbin/helluva fandom(if i am reminded of that shitshow when you interact with my page UTAFSHBDBDBDJNSJAGAHAOSHHAGA)

racists, sexists, homophobes, transphobes, etc

pro-israel.

18+ blogs (a whole minor)

those problematic "sexualities" (ex. super straight, MAP, zoosexual)(also RCTA what the fuck)

people who fake disabilities/mental illness

people who actively misuse words that describe mental illnesses even though they are well informed about that sort of thing

those fucking people who ruin pretty houses and antique furniture and old clothing. fuck you.

people who write smut about canonically sex repulsed asexual characters(jonathan sims) and just people who decide they dgaf about anything like that. bi-erasure, aro-erasure. anything erasure. i hope youre having a terrible day.

sydelijah shippers get out.

(this one is unserious) people who dont deadname twitter

PRO HOA YOU DONT EVEN BELONG ON TUMBLR FUCK YOU I HOPE MY FUTURE SOMEWHAT UNATTAINABLE MAXIMALIST HOME PISSES ON YOUR BABY

people who are mean to me. i havent had any yet but just in case. if you disagree with my take, thats ok bc you arent the demographic for my blog. I AM!!!! /silly srs

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Here's my sick tags:

artisticmenace - anything that is a post by me

menaceartisticity - art and art related things

themenaceuseswords- text posts. i say shit sometimes.

themenacerants - my new tag for when i lose my shit

menaceencouragement - words of solace and encouragement from me

menacepoetry - poetry/songs yeah. probably sad stuff cause im miserable sometimes

menacescrawling - writing. oh buddy boy.

menacemusicality - im a choir kid what do you want from me

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you, I love you.

going to collect these things because why not

credits, top to bottom:

butterscotch-goat

cowboyinternist (2)

[your-local-grubdog]

Pikmin Fandom Monthly - March 2023

Welcome to the March edition of Pikmin Fandom Monthly! For anyone new here, this is just a little monthly series where on the first day of each month, I share neat fan projects from the pikmin fandom made in the previous month! Today's is a day late and shorter than ideal unfortunately; I had some technical hiccups this past month that resulted in most of my saved posts being lost :( so I spent yesterday trying to find some more to make up for my lost notes. This time, I was able to get some feedback as well so I got some suggestions here not from me!

On that note, please feel free to leave suggestions in the comments about what April 2023 works should be included in the next edition! Any creative pikmin fan work is welcome, so long as it was made during this April.

Just like last time, this was cross-posted to the Pikmin Park community on dream width!

Now, lets get onto the art! Fanart and One-Panel Comics

First up is a very cute drawing of a hairy bulborb staring up at the stars by Louivi on Tumblr! It's such a soft and pretty peice with an almost dreamy feel to it, I love it!

Piper on Tumblr drew this ADORABLE art of the pikmin with Oatchi and oh my god I love this so much, Oatchi's eyes are so big and cute and I adore this so much!!!

Pikmin OCs need more love! So here's a really cute doodle of two different yellow pikmin OCs by Spr1ngPeach! I don't know much about either character, but the drawing is very cute. I like it a lot!Pikmin are chaotic little beasts. Feral toddlers, if you will. So clearly, we should arm them all with knives (/sar). In all seriousness though, ikol-art on tumblr drew this adorable little red pikmin with a very large knife. I love it so much, it's great.

Pizza pikmin? Pizza pikmin! By extremelylost360 on tumblr. What more need I say? It's pizza pikmin!

This one is a bit different! Most art here is 2D, but this is an entire 3D render of the Forest of Hope by kinpraw on Twitter! I love the style, it looks like something out of a stop motion movie.

Cece on twitter drew us some more Oatchi cuteness, showing him with an adorable little ice pikmin on his back! The icemin's face is precious - you can say it's melting my heart! ... yeah okay I'll see myself out for that one -

But not before sharing this cute project! Heronin on Twitter is adding to a huge doodle page every day until pikmin 4 comes out! Here's the update for March 31st! I'll see about featuring it every month as an update, but I'll certainly share the final product come July! 

Hey!Pikmin also deserves some love, no? Well I say it does! And this fireflap bulborb was drawn by Taylor C on Twitter! I just really like the soft lines and warm colors. Other Works Firstly, we have this mixed media sculpture (mostly clay) of some pikmin growing in a pot by Tete's DIY! The link is to a video, so you can see how they made it as well! Last but certainly not least is Bikmin 269, a rom-hack of the second game (link is to the trailer). Honestly, I don't know much about it! It was recommended to me by a trusted friend, and I've yet to had the time to play it for myself. Most I can say is to check it out - and know that the creators say that it is best enjoyed as blind as possible!And with that, these are the April works that I wanted to feature (and that I was able to find again after the tech stuff -w- ). I'll hopefully see you at the start of May with April's works, assuming that my finals don't eat me alive! Seriously, though, while I'll try to get it out May 1st don't be surprised if it's delayed by a whole week on account of finals season! ^^;

[soul-dwelling]

Its funny, im like 60 chapters in and fire force seems like a little fun series but yeah the worst part is the fanservice or better said how it seems to ruin all female charachters, and not even in a "against my morals way" but that they all just are either boring talking about wanting to be better at cooking and doing nothing in fights for the most part or are just weird fetish things like "haha I wanna step on you Im a dominatrix fetish thing, this is funny and not anoying or creepy for sure!"

As I've said before, it is weird how I enjoyed Fire Force when it was its own thing, before that stupid "Assault is attracted to Tamaki" crap and "we got meta going into the final arc to make this tie into another series" crap.

I talk a bit here (https://soul-dwelling.tumblr.com/post/715175622123683840) about how I once made a thread showing the variety of girls and women in Fire Force--and how that variety shows that, no, they aren't boring or just trying to get better at tasks traditionally associated with girls and women and aren't in the fights.

For all the (deserved) crap I give Ohkubo about how he handled Tamaki and fanservice, he had so much potential in Fire Force with the variety of girls and women in this one series--and it just falls apart, because for all that variety, he can't stop himself from reducing Tamaki to fanservice incarnate, distracting from what else works in the series. It is seeing a decent or even good story--and not being able to enjoy it because one point sticks out too much, that shows something unappealing in an author's seeming philosophy.

(And given how he has characters speaking directly at the reader about how they should see Tamaki, it is hard not to see this as his own philosophy.)

The problem is when the story gives up on those ideas, about the variety of girls and women in this story. Look at where Lisa's arc goes in Fire Force, and how, at least for me, unsatisfying it wraps up: no last confrontation with Giovanni, repeating the same gag of Shinra groping her, ending her story with just her and Maki hanging out. It feels like a missed opportunity to comment in a meaningful way how someone like Lisa didn't want to be part of this fight--but also not letting her show that, even if she didn't want to be in this fight, she's sure as hell going to end it.

When you have Tamaki cooking--just for a naked apron gag that doesn't fit (and no, even when you learn why Tamaki ends up in these situations, it doesn't fit and doesn't fix this).

When you have Iris, Maki, and Tamaki worried they will get fat from Takehisa's cooking, that should just be a moment of being a concern for anyone--but (as with that one My Hero Academia: Team Up Missions chapter) there is this unfair association with body image being a problem for girls and women, as if this is not a concern for people of all genders and ages, and it doesn't feel like it was treated as "this sucks, let's not do this to girls and women," it's treated as a stereotypical gag. It almost makes me wish Akitaru jumped in and said the same thing, given his fitness-minded attitude, so that you show this isn't just a girls' or women's concern, this is a concern just about any person has.

You have Maki as a brawler, and I appreciate how her story is also centered around being someone wanting to be beautiful and lovey-dovey and a romantic--and also a fit muscular fighter who can kick ass. But we stage at least two of those discussions in the showers, because fanservice. It doesn't come across as progressive; it's the Joss Whedon problem of taking feminist ideals and still putting them into terms to appeal to the male gaze: "Look how independent she is and how good she is in a fight! This turns me on, and is the only reason this is valid."

Hibana at least has a complex personality, so the dominatrix stuff gets pulled back--which has at least three problems.

First, this is again reducing BDSM content to just a joke. And maybe this comic isn't the place to explore its validity and how it works with acknowledgement of consent, but for a series that (by the final arc) acts like it wants to talk about how repressed people are sexually, it sure as hell enjoys reducing sex to a joke or a kink to be shamed. (I don't want to ignore that consent isn't exactly clear in any of this, either: we're presenting her subordinates forced into being her chair and so on, and that comes across as sexual harassment by a boss and a military commander, not consent by these subordinates.)

Second, some of Hibana's pseudo-dominatrix aspects get pulled back just as she is changing her alignment to the "good guys," again taking this complex sexual desire stuff and reducing it to a black-and-white moral binary: "look, Hibana is now good because we pulled back on her dominatrix aspects." Ohkubo does realize ethical people and morally upstanding people do enjoy sex that can be considered "naughty" and "bad," right?

Finally, we substitute Hibana's dominatrix aesthetic with her being shy around (underage) Shinra because she's now attracted to her. We have moved from her being comfortable with herself in her own body, albeit with the continued work of living with trauma, to someone who is awkward around Shinra. We substitute dominatrix with her hitting on a minor. This is not progress, this is worse.

[nishiannoya]

Fuck. Tsukishima knew this was going to happen sooner or later. You two have been...dating?? for the last 2 months. Despite it being a little awkward and unclear, it's been surprisingly nice. Both of you try to play it cool, perhaps even a little shy at times and unsure about what you two should be doing with your time spent together. But he's found that spending time with you is rather enjoyable, so of course something would happen sooner or later to disrupt that. It was inevitable, the thing he had been dreading since the start of whatever you two wanna call yourselves.

"I had a shitty day."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Fuck. No. That's not what he's supposed to say. He at least has the decency to turn his head and clear his throat in embarrassment. However, you snort at his bluntness, expecting no less of an instinctive response from him. Dropping your bag on his coffee table, you flop down on the couch next to him, knee just barely touching his.

"I mean, I'm not good at the whole comforting people thing," he tells you and rubs the base of his neck. Tsuki knows what he should say, but doesn't want to sound disingenuous.

"But Tadashi says you give the best advice and hugs," you say impishly, giving the tall blond a shit-eating smile. You lean on him just a bit and he tenses at the contact.

"I have never hugged Yamaguchi in my life and I'm going to kick him next time I see him," he hisses with a scowl.

"Ouch, family name and an outright lie."

He narrows his eyes behind his frames, holding his stubborn glare at you before letting out a huff.

"Maybe once, but I like him," he mutters, darting his eyes to the side sheepishly.

"And you don't like me?" You question with a comical grimace. If you took any offense at all, he'd never be able to tell.

"Sometimes?"

Double fuck. He sees your eyes go wide in disbelief and immediately regrets not thinking before letting his usual prickly sarcasm out. This is precisely why he was dreading this moment.

"HA!" You bark, overtaken by giggles.

It takes a few seconds for him to process that you're not even the slightest bit upset, though he can't let himself feel any relief. His heart races, face feeling a little warm at the realization that you get him, that he doesn't have to worry about being the perfect partner because you're perfect for him.

"You really do suck at comforting people," you tease, wiping the tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes. "But I'll take only being disliked by you sometimes. Means I'm doing better than most people in your life, am I right?"

Yeah, you really are perfect.

"Idiot, I don't dislike you," he mumbles, though you hear him loud and clear. You would make fun of him for the borderline love confession, but now it's your turn to have your heart do funny things in your chest.

"Sorry you had a rough day," he says and throws an arm around you, pulling you closer to let your head fall against his shoulder. He knows he isn't the ideal partner, but he can start to make the effort. "That sucks."

"Thanks, Kei," you hum. To you, he's plenty perfect. "You've made it a little bit better."

[xiao-cafe]

money sense — zhongli oneshot

pairing: zhongli x gn!reader tags: fluff, established crush on zhongli and everyone knows except him, a little bit of crack, ambiguous ending but it’s not sad summary: funds are running low so aether dumps zhongli at your door one day and asks you to teach the man how to haggle. wc: 1.3k 

It was a little past three in the afternoon when Aether arrived at your door with Paimon, screeching incessantly. Startled by the sudden intrusion, you emerged from your workroom to see a familiar trio by your door. 

Your heart skips a beat when your gaze lands on Zhongli, standing beside Aether while engaging Paimon in what could only be described as a one-sided argument. You take a few seconds to calm yourself down whilst also finding amusement in the trio’s predicament.

Before you could even raise a hand in greeting, you get interrupted by Paimon.

“We have no money left!” Paimon cried, clutching dramatically at her little head. “Y/N! Please teach this guy how to haggle, you’re the only one we know who’s the best at getting discounts!” Clinging onto you, the guide points an accusatory finger at Zhongli, with an angry pout on her face.

Aether nodded along furiously, crossing his arms as he sighed heavily while looking at Zhongli who seemed to not be the least bit bothered by their lack of Mora. Certainly, being an ex-god, the man had his quirks. 

One that was simply unacceptable for a group of travellers. 

Lack of money sense.

“Please Y/N, we’ve seen you haggle at the harbour and getting nearly half off,” Aether said earnestly, admiration shining in his eyes. It took you less than a second to remember what he was talking about. No doubt, he was referring to the time you spent almost an hour at Xigu Antiques, bargaining as if your life depended on it. 

Unsure of whether you should be embarrassed or flattered you simply put both your hands up in surrender while ignoring the subtle rise of blush on your cheeks when you meet Zhongli’s strong gaze. The man nods his head at you in greeting and you hastily nod back, hoping that you didn’t look too eager when you did so. 

“I’m flattered, but are you guys sure you’d want me to teach him how to haggle?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from Zhongli’s face as you spoke directly to Aether. 

“Please.” Aether and Paimon say simultaneously, in all seriousness. It was almost comical, the way Aether and his guide were absolutely in sync for once.

“I agree, I believe haggling is part and parcel of Liyue Harbor’s culture and learning such a skill would certainly become a benefit.” Zhongli’s deep voice resonated easily in your small home.

You realised that your guests had been politely standing by the entrance, save for Paimon who was always quick to break a few rules. Heat rose to your face as you gestured for them to come in.

“P-please come right in! I’ll make some tea right now!” You stumbled across your words, embarrassed that you had forgotten your manners. As you were about to make your way to the kitchen and make tea, a warm gloved hand lands on your forearm, holding you in place.

“It’s fine, Y/N. It was our fault for intruding upon you.” Zhongli assured, his sweet half-smile causing your heart to race. 

You nod meekly, not trusting yourself to speak without stuttering. You rubbed at your skin where Zhongli had touched, feeling the goosebumps that emerged.

“Then I guess we’ll leave him to you then, Y/N!” Paimon announced gleefully. The little guide floats towards your face and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“Good luck!” Paimon whispers, winking secretively.

Rather than luck, you wished you’d have a stronger heart.

“I believe these tomatoes are of the highest quality. Fresh and grown with care, these tomatoes are suitable for Y/N’s diet. Farming is a skill honed with years of experience as such I will buy all your tomatoes.” 

You wanted nothing more than to knock yourself unconscious with the nearest pillar.

It had been an hour since you began your shopping trip with Zhongli for groceries. It was supposed to be a simple lesson, teaching him how to pick which store to buy from and how to obtain a discount from the store. 

Yet, Zhongli and his infinite knowledge were attempting to burn a hole through your wallet. 

“Stop!” You throw the vendor an apologetic smile and drag Zhongli away by the arm. 

“Zhongli... We’re supposed to be buying only what we need, and obtaining a discount.” You explained once more, hoping he’d understand. “I understand you hold great respect for excellent farmers but this,” You gesture to your wallet, “Has only 500 Mora.”

You hear a snicker behind your back and immediately lower your head, shoving your wallet back into your pockets.

Zhongli was quiet for a moment as he stared at you intensely. You were beginning to wonder if you had something on your face. 

“I see... It was my mistake. I’ve only been seeing things in the perspective of a seller’s ideal customer. Please continue to teach me how to haggle, I am certain I will do better this time around.” He said, “So, please continue the lesson... Y/N Sensei.” Chuckling to himself, you watch Zhongli head back to the store with your face bright red and your mind short-circuiting from the witnessing Zhongli’s laugh.

An inexplicable warmth bloomed in your chest as you jogged to catch up to Zhongli.

“Pardon me, but I’d like to buy 5 tomatoes,” Zhongli said, glancing over to you. You nodded and smiled back at him, encouraging him to continue. 

“That’d be 600 Mora.” 

Boring your gaze onto Zhongli’s side profile, you could only hope that he had learned from his previous mistake. 

“My partner here only has 500 Mora, would it be alright if you’d lower the price for them please?” 

You smack your face into your hands, sinking to the floor. The mention of yourself being Zhongli’s partner barely made it through your mind as the barely-contained giggles from the vendor filled your ears.

“I-I’m sure... I can make ah... ha... an exception t-today.” The vendor managed to get out. 

“Y/N, he agreed to the discount,” Zhongli stated, satisfaction practically rolling off of him in waves.

Through the gaps of your fingers, you see Zhongli turn and pause. Possibly because you were crouched on the floor and he had no idea what he had just done.

“Do you not have 500 Mora? I thought you-”

Unable to take it any longer, you stand up quickly and hand the money over, receiving your bag of tomatoes in exchange. 

“Thank you...” You mumbled to the vendor, red-faced, holding on tightly to your bag of tomatoes. 

“My pleasure! I wish both of you happiness!” The vendor grinned.

Before you could protest, Zhongli had intercepted. 

“Thank you for your kind words.” He replied, graciously accepting the handshake offered by the vendor. Shaking your head in disbelief, you chuckled to yourself as a form of comfort and took upon the chance to gaze upon Zhongli unabashedly while he was distracted.

As the hustle and bustle of Liyue Harbor reached its evening peak, the setting sun cast a warm glow against the city, illuminating everything within reach, golden. 

Yet, your focus was only on him. 

Everything about him ensnared your senses and forced you to only look at him. 

His dark hair that faded to ombre at the tips shone a bright gold in wisps and his eyes that seemed to hold an abundance of intellect and mysteries only made you fall for him more.

You let out an appreciative sigh, unaware that Zhongli’s conversation with the vendor had long since ended.

“Y/N?”

You blinked a few times, snapping out of your trance.

“I think we’ll end today’s lesson here.” You hastily respond, giving Zhongli a warm smile. “You did well.”

“Naturally. I was taught by the best.” He replied smoothly. “Though, I think I much prefer to call you partner rather than Sensei... I guess imitating Childe wasn’t for me.” He muttered, resting his chin between his pointer finger and thumb. 

You could only laugh as he fell into deep thought. 

Surely, one day you’d have the confidence to let him know about your feelings.

“Then I’ll head home first, Zhongli.”

“Of course, goodbye Y/N.”

As you waved goodbye to him, you could only think about the next time you’d see him again.

end.

This is my first genshin impact fic and it’s for geo daddy who still refuses to come home. anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one-shot and feel free to raid my inbox lol i’m looking for mutuals on here :3c

[cozy-the-overlord]

Happiness

Summary: A daughter of Thanos, Eija had grown accustomed to the isolated nature of life on the Sanctuary. Only when her father orders her to keep watch over an injured prisoner does she begin to realize how lonely it is.

Written for @lucywrites02′s Lucywrites19 Writing Challenge on prompt #6

Word Count: 4,078

Pairing: Loki (Marvel) x OFC

A/N: Lucy: *puts together a list of really nice, sweet, loving prompts that would make for some wonderful, fluffy fics* 

Me: And I took that personally

Honestly, this turned into more of a separate challenge for me to see if I could take a fluffy prompt and write an angst bomb. I can say I’m both pleased and thoroughly ashamed of myself.

Happy Birthday, Lucy! I hope you don’t hate me too much after this one ...

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture (it’s not super graphic, but it’s definitely there), blood/injury, character death

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian @imnotrevealingmyname

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

“Are you happy, child?”

It wasn’t the type of thing Eija had expected the hulking warrior to ask a street urchin like her, especially not after catching her wrist in his pocket. Really, she should have known better than to try to steal from someone so clearly capable of crushing her skull within his fist, but his golden armor had glistened so temptingly in the sunlight and besides, she had never been caught before …

When he caught her wrist and yanked her in front of him, Eija was sure that this was the end. The penalty for stealing was steep to begin with, but stealing from a noble (and certainly this man must have been a noble) could lose you your head. But he said nothing of punishment. Instead, he curled his purple lips into a smile and asked her that question.

“Are you happy, child?”

No one had ever asked her that before. No one ever really asked her anything—the most Eija ever got were the curses spat at her on the street, on the luckless days when pickpocketing had brought her nothing and she was forced to beg for sustenance. No one cared enough to ask after her.

No, she told the warrior-noble, no, she wasn’t happy. She was hungry and tired and cold, and she didn’t have money to buy food.

The towering creature laughed, caressing the brilliant hilt that hung at his waist. “I thought not. Come,” he said, stepping forward and motioning her to follow. “I have something for you to eat on my ship.”

…

Eija tugged at the laces on her boot. She had tied and untied them three times already, but she could think of nothing else to do in this tiny room, so she went in for the fourth. Besides her, the Jotun sagged against his braces in the metal chair, his labored breathing the only sound to break the stillness. He didn’t look very Jotun. Lord Thanos had explained that it was some kind of enchantment—the AllFather had magicked away his blue skin when he was a baby to make him look more Asgardian. Eija didn’t really understand the reasoning behind such an action, but she didn’t need to. Her job was simply to make sure he survived the night.

It was a frustrating assignment. Eija wasn’t a healer—she had no idea what she was supposed to do if death came knocking for the prisoner. Unfortunately, she wasn’t exactly an assassin either, and so unlike the rest of her adoptive siblings her role on the Sanctuary wasn’t considered to be of critical importance.

So here she was. Babysitting.

The Jotun groaned. It was a soft noise, but it was enough to rip Eija’s attention away from her shoes. He shifted against his restraints, but there was no force behind the movements.

“Hey,” she called. “Are you awake?” She shouldn’t have been talking to the prisoner. Somehow, she knew Lord Thanos wouldn’t like it if he were to find out. Still, the metallic room housed a lonely existence, and Eija was desperate for any kind of distraction.

Although the prisoner didn’t exactly seem to be the ideal conversation partner. He flinched at the sound of her voice, his feeble movement falling still as abruptly as it began. Perhaps she should have gone back to her laces, but Eija was intrigued. She left her stool to stand before the Jotun, peering down at him through his shackles.

“Are you awake?” she asked again. He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his head hanging limply against his shoulders, as if he hadn’t just been rustling about. The thought of some grand Jotun (Asgardian?) prince trying to trick her by playing dead was so comical that Eija had to bite back her laugh.

“Hey,” she said instead, trying to add some of that Black Order sharpness to her voice as she tapped his arm. “Knock it off. I know you’re awake.”

He looked up at her then, his movement slow and labored. It almost made her wince, just looking at the way he struggled to open his bloodshot eyes. Lord Thanos had allowed Proxima charge of the Jotun today, and she had clearly made the most of it—his face was so swollen that she never would have recognized the man Corvus had pulled out of the depths of space only a week ago.

“What do you want?” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. He was making a valiant effort to control his breathing, but Eija knew the look of fear when she saw it. She had seen it in the faces of almost everyone who found themselves in the presence of Lord Thanos and his children, although those faces were never focused on her. This must have been the first time she was the cause of such terror.

It was an odd feeling. Eija wasn’t sure she liked it.

She shrugged, dropping the serious tone. “I just wanted to talk to someone. It gets very dull in here.”

The prisoner only stared at her.

No, not the ideal conversation partner at all.

Eija sighed. It seemed she’d be returning to her shoelaces in short time after all.

“Can you tell me your name at least?” she asked. No one had mentioned it yet, and Eija had been afraid to inquire. Lord Thanos hadn’t been particularly happy when he gave her this assignment—his anger had been more directed at Proxima, for nearly killing the prisoner, but Eija didn’t want to give him a reason to turn on her. She wasn’t often the target of the Mad Titan’s fury, but the few times she was were enough of a lesson for a lifetime.

But the Jotun made no response. “Is this a trick?” he asked finally.

“No. I’m just curious.” A strand of black hair had fallen into his eye. Eija was tempted to brush it away, but she held herself back. “I’ll tell you my name, if it makes you feel better,” she offered.

She waited a moment for him to give some kind of answer. He didn’t.

“Eija,” she said. “My name’s Eija.”

He inhaled. “Did he send you to kill me?”

The question caught her off guard, although perhaps it was fair. “What? No, no I’m just— no,” she stuttered. “I don’t … kill people.”

He eyed her, unconvinced. “Why are you here, then?”

“To make sure you don’t die,” she said. “They were worried, you know.” Proxima had been quite proud of herself. Eija had overheard her bragging to some of the others earlier in the day about how she had the little prince calling out for his mother by the end. They had been laughing about it, how quickly he had succumbed to childish instincts, but the thought intrigued Eija.

She had never known her mother. Before Lord Thanos had found her, she had had no one but herself, scrounging up what food she could from what she stole on the street. She never cried for anyone, no matter how frightened she was. She had no one to cry for.

She wondered what it was like.

“Are you truly not going to tell me your name?” she asked. It was a bit disappointing. She had hoped he’d be at least a little more interesting than this.

He swallowed slowly, painfully. Whereas before it seemed he was afraid to take his eyes off of her, now he seemed unable to meet her gaze.

“Loki,” he finally whispered.

“Loki,” Eija repeated. The name made her smile, although she wasn’t quite sure why it would. “It’s nice to meet you, Loki.”

She asked him more questions as the night went on—questions about his home, his family, his childhood memories. At first, he wouldn’t answer any of them. He’d just stare at her blankly as she posed her queries or whip his head away as if he couldn’t stand to be faced with the words.

So, she changed tactics. She told him about growing up on Knowhere, before Thanos found her, about how when she was not yet six years of age the man she had known as her father dumped her on the side of the road and flew away into permanent obscurity, and about how she taught herself how to reach into another’s pocket and pull out exactly what she was looking for by practicing on the other unsuspecting urchins who lived alongside her on the street. It was strange, to relieve those stories before an audience. Because he was an audience, like it or not. He was listening to every word she said, even more so, she suspected, than he wanted to let on.

When she left that morning, after Corvus came to take over for the day, her throat was so dry she could barely speak. It was a nice kind of dry, though. The Black Order never demanded her voice anyways, so it wasn’t a noticeable inconvenience.

It was worth it.

“You again,” Loki muttered when she slipped into the cell the following evening. “Eija.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “You remembered my name!”

“You talked a lot.” He blinked sleepily. “You had a nice voice.”

Eija stopped. She wasn’t certain she heard him incorrectly. “What?”

He yawned. “You had a nice voice.”

She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. It was quite possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her, as ridiculous as it seemed. Eija doubted her siblings could even recognize the sound of her voice—if they did, it would have been to scold her for stepping so far out of line, certainly not to pay her a compliment.

“If you’d like,” she said eagerly, pulling the stool across the room so she could sit next to him. “I can tell you more stories?”

It became the part of the day Eija looked forward to most—the moments where she could talk for hours about anything she wanted, without the ever-present fear of her siblings’ mockery or the Mad Titan’s chastening. It felt … safe, in a way that she hadn’t felt safe before. Warm. She always felt so alone on this ship, wasting away whilst awaiting orders. There were points where even her own thoughts seemed to abandon her to the darkness.

But not here. Not with Loki.

He seemed to enjoy it as well. Of course, she held no illusions that he was quite literally a captive audience, but he listened. He remembered the things she said to him. On good days, he’d even ask her questions, add in thoughts and stories of his own.

“You said you don’t kill people,” he asked suddenly, on one such visit. “Did you mean that?”

Eija shifted uncomfortably. This had always been an awkward subject. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not an assassin. I don’t have the training.”

“What do you do here, then?”

She inhaled. “Steal things.”

“Steal things?” he repeated. “What kind of things?”

Eija shrugged. “Anything he wants,” she said. “Weapons, passkeys, precious gems—whatever.” She remembered that day, when Lord Thanos had taken her from the streets to his ship, what he had said as she devoured the soup his servant placed in front of her.

“I have more trained killers than I know what to do with,” he told her. “But perhaps I could use a sneak thief.”

Eija had agreed to everything he said— it wasn’t as if she was in any position to refuse him, and besides, anything had to be better than sleeping in a trash bin. And so, she became the Titan’s personal retriever, sneaking her way across the galaxy and returning with the treasures he coveted in her pockets. Her methods were straight and to the point. She was in and out before anyone even noticed her presence, and, unlike her adopted siblings, there wasn’t a trail of bodies left in her wake.

“But if your role is to steal things,” Loki asked. “Then what are you doing with me?”

Eija didn’t answer right away. Thanos had not ordered her to continue her night watch over the Jotun prisoner. He hadn’t said that she couldn’t, but she was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be pleased to find that she had. What was she doing here?

“I just like to talk to somebody, I guess,” she said. “Besides, somebody has to make sure you make it through the night.”

Although it became exceedingly clear with each passing day that such a task may be outside of her abilities. One night, she could hear his hacking all the way down the hall, rattling the walls as she rushed to his side. She found him sagging limply against his shackles, soaked in blood and sweat and goodness knows what else as he choked on his own breath.

Eija didn’t know what to do—she could only wipe the blood from his face and hold the bottle of water to his lips.

“What does he want from me?” he croaked, once he could finally speak. There were tears running down the creases of his face, although whether that was from emotion or pain Eija couldn’t be sure. “Why is he doing this to me?”

For once, she said nothing. She had no answer for him.

She tried asking Gamora once. It was no secret that the Zehoberei was Lord Thanos’ favorite—if he were to tell anyone his intentions for the prisoner, it would be her.

But the assassin gave her nothing. “He has a use in mind,” she said. “Don’t question him.”

“But,” Eija hesitated. “If that’s the case, why is he hurting him?” She gulped. “If he has a use for him, shouldn’t he be … using him?”

Gamora glared at her. “If he’s not strong enough to survive this, he’s not strong enough to do Thanos’ bidding.” Her tone lowered in warning. “Remember your place.”

Eija did remember her place. She was reminded of it with every passing moment—leashed to her lord’s beck and call, every day walking that delicate tightrope of anticipating his wishes without asserting herself too far in his eyes, living in fear of the day when the bottom finally fell through and he decided to unsheathe the blade at his waist.

Was this his plan for Loki as well? Torture him to death’s edge until it pleased him to make him yet another glorified slave? She thought of Loki, shackled to his chair, heaving and coughing up blood, sentenced to wither away until Thanos found use for him … for what? The mere crime of existence?

And here she was, letting it happen, watching as Thanos sucked the life out of him, simply using him as a receptacle to her own selfish need for attention.

She was just as awful.

But there was nothing she could do about it. Was there?

Unless …

The thought started as a hypothetical. Isn’t that how all treason began? A tiny what-if, buried under one’s daily worries? The hangers of the Sanctuary were hardly well-guarded. There was little reason to guard them, after all—few on this vessel had cause to sneak off of it, and those who did hadn’t the opportunity. And with the current position they had been holding the last few days, only a small way from the Krylor jump point, which could then take you down through one of the major galactical traffic-ways …

Stealing a ship would be almost too easy.

It wouldn’t work, she told herself as she stood amongst her siblings in Thanos’ court. The ship was one thing, the passenger was something else entirely. Loki’s chains were specifically designed by the Mad Titan to stifle the magic of that whom they held. They were the very definition of unbreakable. And the key—Thanos kept it on his person at all times, hooked to his belt alongside his blades. Any scheme was doomed to fail.

But sometimes, opportunities present themselves.

“And where are you going, child?”

Eija jumped out of her skin when she turned the corner and nearly collided with the lord himself. It took her a moment to find her voice.

“To watch over the prisoner, as you ordered, sir.”

He frowned. “That was weeks ago. You’re not still doing that now?”

She bit her tongue, so hard it hurt. “W-with all due respect sir, you never told me to stop.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. Such action is no longer necessary.”

“Yes sir.” She nodded. “Apologies, sir.”

Eija stood there shaking long after he had continued down the hall. Her heart felt as if it might pound its way out of her chest. He had to have noticed. In a moment, he’d come storming back up the corridor, grab her by her neck, and crush her skull against the wall.

But he never did.

It was just Eija, alone in the hallway, clutching the golden key between her trembling fingers.

There was little time. Her theft could only go overlooked for so long. She didn’t have the chance to question herself as she rushed to Loki’s cell—any moment spent in doubt was a moment wasted.

Loki seemed to be unconscious when she first arrived at his side, but he popped up with a start the moment she reached for his chains.

“What—" he gasped, eyes wild. “What’s happening?”

The key clicked in the lock. He heaved a breath, falling forward as the shackles fell open.

“You’re going home.” Eija’s mind was racing at a mile a minute. They couldn’t steal a Q-ship—it was too big; they’d would be noticed immediately … “Can you fly a pod?” she asked.

He gulped. “Possibly?”

“Good enough.” She pulled him to his feet. It was at this moment she became aware of the fact that she had only every seen him seated. Loki was tall. Much, much taller than her, and when he sagged against her it took all of her strength to keep him from tumbling to the metallic floor. For a moment she feared that he was too weak to even stand on his own and nearly panicked, because oh goodness how was she supposed to carry him all the way to the hanger—

But he managed to stabilize himself, gripping her shoulder so tightly that she lost feeling in it, but standing on his own. Slowly, she was able to walk him into the hallway.

The hanger was only a few floors above them, but the elevator ride felt like an eternity.

Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop …

If it stopped before they reached their destination, they were both dead.

Besides her, Loki’s breathing was labored. He hadn’t said anything since she had come to get him.

She squeezed his forearm, hoping he couldn’t feel how she was trembling like a leaf. “You alright?”

He nodded weakly. “I assume you have a plan?”

“The pods are lined on the far wall of the hanger.” She inhaled. “When the door opens, we run like mad and get you on one. And then you take off for the jump point, and don’t stop until you’ve hit traffic.”

Loki turned to her, brow furrowed. “What about you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yes. Surely you’ll not stay here?”

Eija gulped. There wasn’t time to think about that now.

The elevator doors clicked open to reveal a thicket of barbed shadows and twisted metal. The hanger was lifeless and barren this time of night, lit only by the glow of the cosmos streaming in through the glass. They made their way in perfect silence, the only sound being the pounding of her heartbeat behind her eardrums. Every dark shape seemed like a waiting figure. Now, it was Eija that clung to him too tightly, terrified that at any moment someone would jump out and rip him from her grasp. By the time they reached their destination, they were both wildly out of breath.

The pods were small, thin one-man transports. Calling them ships was really being too generous. They weren’t really meant for long term travel, but they could work for a few jumps—long enough to get to civilized airspace, which was all he needed. She helped Loki into the compartment, careful to keep him from hitting his head on the low ceiling. This damn ship had caused him enough pain already.

He sighed, leaning against the seat in one short moment of rest before turning back to her. “You still haven’t said what you plan to do.”

Eija hesitated. What could she plan to do? She had nothing waiting for her beyond this ship. As with all of his children, Thanos held a piece of her that he would never relinquish, no matter how far she flew.

“I’ll stay here,” she murmured. “For now, at least. They might pick up on something if too much is out of place.”

“But—"

“Please,” Eija hissed. “You remember what I said, right? Take the Krylor jump, and just keep towards Xandar.” She inhaled so deeply it hurt, trying to bury the aching dread building in her chest. “Stay with the crowds whenever you can—he won’t bother with you if it means he has to go through heavy populations.”

Loki nodded, but she wasn’t certain he was listening. There was a sadness behind his eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. He squeezed her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips in the lightest of kisses.

“Thank you, Eija,” he whispered. “May fate be kind to you.”

…

The alarm went off some hours later, when morning dawned upon an empty cell. They came for her only minutes after. Eija hadn’t been certain of what she would do—would she scream when they broke down her door? Cry for help? Fight for her life? But as the Black Order filed into her room with their weapons drawn, Eija felt only an overwhelming calm. It was good that they were here. The longer they spent with her, the more of a chance Loki had of getting away.

She went with her adoptive siblings willingly.

They took her to the same tiny room where this had all begun, shackled her to the same chair she had watched over so diligently. Eija barely registered it.

Surely, Loki was hundreds of star systems away from here now.

Surely he was safe.

When the pain did come, it filled every fiber of her being, burning through her body as if she were nothing but dry kindling. Her vision bled white. Her screams ripped her throat raw.

They asked no questions. She was relieved for that at least, because her every coherent thought shattered to pieces long before it could reach her lips.

She understood now why Loki had cried for his mother. She would have too, had she a mother to cry for. Instead, she just cried.

Eija wasn’t certain how much time had passed before he arrived. It could have been hours, it could have been months, but at some point when she dragged her aching head to look up she found Lord Thanos staring down at her, the stony weight of disappointment heavy on his features.

Gamora stood next to him. She spared a glance at her former sister, softer, sadder, almost sympathetic, before she turned back to her father.

“Sir, the Jotun is out of tracking range. There’s nothing we can do at this point.”

Out of range.

Eija thought of Loki, raven hair streaming in the breeze behind him as he pulled himself out of the craft, safe on some green, luscious, faraway planet that the Black Order could never reach. She smiled, blood dripping from her lips.

Thanos’ expression remained immovable.

“Well, child,” he finally said, looking down at her as he caressed the glinting hilt at his waist. “Look upon this mess. See what you have done. Are you happy now?” He reached out with his other hand, tipping her chin up towards him with a single finger, as if the mere thought of touching her disgusted him. “You look happy.”

Eija felt a laugh tickle her throat. It came out as more of a cough, blood and bile staining her tongue. Still, she could not bring herself to stop smiling.

“I am happy, sir.”

It was true. A beautiful warmth flooded her aching chest. She laughed again, closing her eyes and letting the feeling wash over her.

She was still laughing when the blade severed her throat. 

[seokiloquy]

Game Cartridges - Kenma Kozume

Au: Regular/Gaming

Requested

Tags/Warnings:  GN! Reader, short and fluffy, Time Skip spoilers

Word Count: 2.1k+

"Lev, are you almost done?"

A deep raspy voice echoed into the gym, loud and authoritative, startling the volleyball players. Once all eyes turned your way, you laughed, letting your natural voice still the silent atmosphere. Your hand smacked the metal door as you hunched over, gasping for air between each series of laughs. 

Lev, who had just landed from a spike, opened his mouth in a loud cheer at the sight of your slumped form in the door. “(Y/N)!”

You straightened your spine, sighing as you watched Lev’s nose get caught on the mesh net as he tried to limbo under it. He looked like a pig for a moment, before the bottom of the net snapped and Lev ungracefully fell on his face.

“Ow.”

As he laid flatly on the gym floor, Kuroo —who you managed to identify based on Lev’s description (though you did expect a comical beak to be attached to his muzzle)— walked over, thumbs playing with the waistband of his shorts. Before he started to talk, you leaned over, looking behind him to see a partially blond boy dig the toe of his shoe into your tall friend’s side. Kozume Kenma.

The rooster in front of you started to speak. “You sure gave us all a shock. Thought you were a janitor coming to kick us out,” he chuckled, lifting a hand off his hip to scratch the back of his head.

“Ya sorry, Lev just finds that voice creepy so I use it every now and then to scare him.”

Kuroo sidestepped as his hand moved to gesture you inside. “So, you’re a voice actor?”

“That’s the plan at least.” You bowed and walked to the bench that was pressed against the wall, a small bag swinging over your shoulder. The old man, Nekomata, gave you a wrinkly grin as you sat next to him, watching your hands as you pulled out a DS from your small bag.

Kuroo smiled, snapping his head to the clock before looking over his teammates.“Nekomata, should we start cleaning up?”

The couch hummed thoughtfully, turning his attention away from you and onto the team captain. “We still have a half-hour before our practice is officially over. How about we do 3 vs 3, to, ah, 7 points?” He then turned his attention to Lev, who was rubbing his nose as he got to his feet. “Pair up evenly for the beginning, the odd player out will be keeping track of scores and rotate into the next team. Got it?”

Lev raised his hand. “Can you explain the rotation again?”

You looked up from your handheld console to give your friend a deadpan look. Nekomata laughed before answering, “The odd player will take out a player of the next team and so on to keep teams fresh. Got it?”

The Silver hair boy hummed, standing to his full height. “Got it.”

As players dispersed randomly, not selecting any teammates, in particular, to play with, you were vaguely aware of the new bodies that came to sit alongside you on the bench. Instead of looking up to whichever boy had chosen to take the spot next to you, you kept your head down as you played on your DS.

“Ah.” Quiet

“Um.” Again.

Sighing you turned your head on a swivel to the blond boy who sat next to you. His head was downcast but through the dyed strands, you could see his eyes flicker from his fidgeting fingers to the device in your hands. His eyes shot up to meet yours before quickly turning away.

You wore a kind smirk. “Need something?”

Kozume turned his head slowly, pointing to your small bag that was laid open, exposing the variety of games you owned. In a calm voice, “You have lots of games, why are you playing Nintendogs?”

You laughed looking back down at your small virtual pet. “Well, a lot of those I haven’t started yet, Lev gave them to me yesterday as a gift. And well, I’m only going to be waiting for about 30 minutes for you guys to finish before we leave, so I don’t really want to start something new.”

You heard the clicking of the plastic game cartridges as Kozume riffled through them. He pulled out one, a Pokemon game you had yet to touch. “Play this.”

“But my dogs.” 

“They aren’t real. Play this, it’s fun.”

Nekoma called for the teams to switch. Kozume stood up but waited for you to take the game out of his hand before he left for the court.

You sighed, pulling Nintendogs out of the DS and putting the Pokemon game in, Pearl, apparently. 

“Your name is (Y/N), right?”

“(L/N) (Y/N), ya.”

Kozume hummed, before stepping onto the court, letting a sweaty Lev fall into the spot he had previously occupied.

Another day, another practice and you were back to sitting next to Nekomata, waiting. Occasionally, you looked up from your DS to see the two setters toss a ball up for the players to hit, watching as the players ducked under the net to collect their balls. 

Once their final water break came around, Kozume, who had been eyeing your DS since you sat down, shuffled to sit beside you. “Ah, use the water attack.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, head tilting as you showed him your progress.

“Hmm, gym battles are mostly element-based, you want to use mostly water attacks for this one.”

Nodding, you clicked the option Kozume had so helpfully pointed out. “I know nothing about how to play this.” The battle ended, giving you a pretty badge, to which you realized there were more empty slots to fill. “Damn it.” You turned to see partially bleached blond chugging back his water. “Kozume, could you help me with the other gyms?”

“Kenma is fine. And I could, but you’d probably have to be here for that, you have to find the other gyms after all.”

The wince you wore caught his attention. Hissing you dropped your hands into your lap, still holding the sides of your plastic game. “I’m not sure how possible that would be. My luck is just running out isn’t it.” He kept watching, half-listening to Nekomata as he explained the cooldown drill before practice ended. You pulled out your little red flip phone from the side pocket of your back. “Put in your email. I’ll message you and give you my contact.”

Taking the device from your hand he quickly typed out his address before dropping it unceremoniously into your bag and running onto the court with his teammates. You smiled at the sight of his hair bouncing before your smile dropped and your head lowered to look back down at the game in your lap. The colours on the screen seemed a bit dimmer.

Where did the Pokemon go?

Kenma had quickly become your go-to Pokemon consultant. Always there in your time of need.

Which one?

He responded quickly, which helped.

Uh, one of the three ones? I was trying to catch it but it’s not there anymore. I tried dropping revival items and stuff but it’s not there.

(Y/N) did you kill it?

….Maybe?

Reload the game.

I’ve done that.

Did you save after you defeated it?

Messages with Kenma typically surrounded classes and videogames, more so the latter. With that though, came a sense of consistency with messages outside of active school hours and giving your mind a constant timeline to follow throughout the chaos that surrounded you.

Ya, I had to save my progress.

It took a minute for him to respond, but you could feel the sorrow radiating off him through the screen.

You’re going to need to restart the game if you want to continue.

Shit. Well then, got any other recommended games? Ideally RPGs.

Plenty.

After many practices with your presence sitting silently against the wall, Kenma was surprised when the end of practice came around, and you were nowhere in sight. Kenma pushed the rolling basket of volleyballs up next to Lev as they gathered up all the equipment.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” he asked, crouching down to pick up a stray ball.

Lev lowered his chin to see the setter clearly. He hummed, “Ah, I think it was called, New York?”

Kenma paused, dropping the volleyball into the basket with cold hands. “What?”

“They moved to the USA. I don’t think that they’re going to be there forever though. But Mr. (L/N) got a job there from what I remember. They were staying with my family before they moved.”

Kenma’s nose scrunched. “Why did I have to make friends with someone who was moving away? You’re terrible, Lev.” He gripped the blue fabric of the basket a bit tighter and began pushing it into the storage closet, grumbling.

“What did I do?”

After practice, Kenma quickly got to his phone, typing away as he walked home alongside Kuroo.

Your response, despite being in a different time zone, was quick.

IM SO SORRY I TOTALLY FORGOT!!! I just liked talking to you and it slipped my mind whenever you were around

Kenma sighed, washing away the anxious feeling in his chest. 

Another email came through.

I’m only going to be here for a couple years, then I’m going to come back. Messages may be slow because of time and all, but I’ll always respond.

You didn’t lie that day. You were always quick to send a message back, but over time those messages stopped coming and you didn’t have the heart to send anything in return.

You’d ponder on it occasionally, hoping that all it was, was forgetfulness, or a changed contact. But after a couple years, it was easier not to think about it, and go on with life and pursuing your passion.

“Stop spamming the chat guys, please,” Kenma grumbled, wincing at the repetitive notifications that rang in his ear. Turning to look at the live responses, he paused the stream of messages to read over a few. “You’ll stop once I start playing? Fine, fine. Let me get it booted up.”

As he pulled up the Japan-made open-world RPG that had been released for Beta earlier that week, the chat went into a flurry of excitement, with various images and repetitive cheers rolling by.

Kenma turned to face his main screen as The main intro to the game played with a flurry of colour. The chat increased in speed as the two-player options appeared on screen, ready to be selected. When his mouth moved over one of the characters they moved, reciting a line.

“Oh they’re voices are nice.”

The chat exploded again.

(Y/N)

(Y/N)’s voice is great!

They do both of the MCs voices

All the talent 

Selecting the male character, Kenma listened to the boyish tone, furrowing his boy as he caught sight of the name being repeated over and over again in the chat.

“(Y/N)? That sounds familiar, are they in an anime?”

The chat responded with a list. 

Tilting his head, Kenma pulled out his phone as the game began to load, talking out loud for the viewers of his stream.

“(Y/N). that sounds familiar.” He entered the search for the game’s voice cast. Immediately seeing a familiar portrait at the top of the list.

The chat quickly caught on to Kenma’s look of surprise and started spamming again.

“(Y/N)?! Ah! I know them! It’s been years!”

Ignoring the chat and fully loaded game for a moment, Kenma smiled at the image of an older you on his phone screen. Putting down his phone and sitting straighter, he looked at the camera that was focused on his face.

“Hmm, this makes me want to play Pokemon. Maybe later. Time to start this.”

I was going to write a full-length fic with this au but…. You know how it goes.

Short and fluffy cause I have to get back into the groove of writing after 2 months. Ahaha. I finished all of One Piece this week (when I wrote this), 966(now 971) episodes thus far and all the movies. Makes me want to write for it. Maybe If Kiwi watches it I will. 

….If I do, it’ll probably go on Ao3… but if you’re reading this and want me to…. Let me know… I’m tempted.

Kiwi. Watch One Piece so you can edit One Piece fanfiction that I’ll probably never write…. Unless. - Bacon

Maybeeee I can still edit without watching it thoughhhh. I’d edit whatever you’d me too - Kiwi

Unless!- Bacon

Posted: 25/04/2021

[agent-murica]

Red vs Blue Fan Migration Survey Results

So here's the collected results for the survey I posted last week! The overall sample size for this survey was 181 submissions! All answers are anonymous no worries, in case anyone was worried about that! All the information will be under the cut! Survey results link posted in the end.

This was the least surprising result on the survey, since I expected it to be around half and half. The rest of the 21.5% was the other option where a lot of people elaborated that they were so-so in regards to their activity to the fandom, as seen by a couple examples above.

This one too was not surprising either! It's a part of fandom culture to constantly shift to newer fandoms and medias the more you indulge in them, as a lot of people who answered yes to this, also said they were an active part of the Red vs Blue fandom still!

Now, this was the big question that I thought would be a toss-up. There were a couple of surprising answers to this, as to when people stopped watching. I figured it would be a split between Shisno and Zero since, with Shisno taking more of the lead since quite a bit of people left after the announcement of RvB0 instead of RvB18. The one person who said they stopped watching during The Blood Gulch Chronicles did hurt my heart though.

For this question there was such a wide range of answers, but I saw a LOT of reoccurring ones. Those would include, in no particular order: MCYT (DreamSMP), Podcasts (The Magnus Archives, Dungeons and Daddies, etc.), Star Wars and Star Trek, Marvel and DC comics, some other form of Rooster Teeth entertainment, and quite a bit of people who answered with Red vs Blue and Halo!

Of course, there were tons of people who didn't have any of those listed, but these were the most common appearing ones. (I actually saw a few answers with the fandoms I'm currently into myself, haha).

Now, this result was one that I was looking to pay attention towards as it was one of my main purposes of conducting this survey. I did think that Yes on similarities would have the majority vote and was the reason why I had the elaboration question coming next. 11% decided once more that they were so-so in regards to this question, and also a lot of people who really didn't want to think that deeply about it (which is totally valid)!

This question, was the main highlight for this survey. I loved seeing what people had to say, and seeing their reasoning for why they like Red vs Blue and why they like their new shows too. The most common similarities?

Found family, sci-fi elements, humor surrounding a bunch of loveable jackass idiots, and as one response said perfectly, "surprise punches to the feels at Mach 5."

This question had many answers that it would be a little difficult to screenshot for, but there was a healthy balance between people who create all kinds of fan content and those who are just content to sit back and relax and enjoy what everyone has to offer. But I loved seeing some of the specifics that people put in the other spot as well.

For this question, I really wanted to see how Red vs Blue might have impacted fan creation. I'm not surprised that No won out here, especially since a lot of people don't make content as indicated by the previous question. The 12.8% who answered was a delight to see in specifics what they might have been doing or planning (a couple of people actually answered that they were in the middle of doing crossover work, so neat!)

And finally, the last question. I loved seeing so many people so passionately talk about their love for their newer shows, the things they love or hate about it, and also those who had some really funny responses. A lot would recommend the show, not so much the fandom, some couldn't tell since it all depends on the person, and a lot would say that no, what they're into isn't quite what a Red vs Blue fan might be into.

So, what does this survey say? Well, this was a really wonderful experiment I wanted to carry out. I really wanted to see if there was something that united Red vs Blue fans on what we enjoyed about the series and what we might enjoy in series going forward. And you know what? I was right. So many fans agreed on the ideals that Red vs Blue was based around- 181 people is a lot! Especially for a fandom that's been a little inactive lately (I've been around since s13, and few others can attest to the decline I should think), I certainly never thought I'd get so many submissions, so even this fandom can surprise me still.

But you know what? Even with a declining activity in the fandom, so many people agreed on one thing. One thing that's the whole reason why Red vs Blue has even stuck around for so long. And as one submission wrote it simply:

If you're interested in seeing the full submission forms, reminder that once again these are completely anonymous, you can check out the excel spreadsheet that google forms created for me (after I figured out that I didn't have to do it all by hand, smh). There you can see fans passionately talk about their newest interests and whether they would recommend them or not.

[maxwell-grant]

Charlie Chan. Who is fascinating, because he was created explictly to be an anti-Yellow Peril character. Unlike most Chinese characters of the time, he's both intelligent, physically capable, and unambiguously heroic. In the novels, he's simultaneously proud of being Chinese AND proud of being an American citizen. He gives orders and instructions to white people, and the narrative treats this as perfectly normal and acceptable. There's a bit in the first book, when an attempt to trap the..(1/2)

(cont'd)There's a bit in the first book where an attempt to trap the protagonist fails, because a message supposedly from Charlie clearly isn't because Charlie's English isn't broken, it's like poetry. Etc. The movies made him more stereotypical, & played by white actors in yellowface, but still, he's a heroic Chinese man, who is as capable and patriotic as any white man. Nowadays, he's thought of as racist caricature. Which he is, but still, it makes one think.

I'm not nearly as acquainted with Charlie Chan as you are (and I definitely suspected he was less racist in the original books because that's nearly always the norm when it comes to pulp characters) but yeah, that "Which he is" is forever going to be the most unfortunate and saddest part of it all when it comes to Charlie Chan. For all the virtues that can be bestowed on Charlie Chan, for everything great that the character had going for him and inspired, the fact that the least offensive image of the character I could find to put here for illustration's sake is from the Hanna-Barbera cartoon kinda exemplifies the big elephant in the room when it comes to Charlie.

Charlie Chan is a great example of two things: One is the way progress is never a fixed quantity and often what was progressive and forward-thinking in it's time can become something outdated and backwards and downright offensive given enough time, and the 2nd is my constant stressing that this is all the more incentive to reclaim the pulps and either highlight or fix aspects of them, instead of dismissing every aspect of them based on the preconception that everything about it's history is unforgivably bigoted and must be handled with the nuance of a sledgehammer.

I stress time and time again the need to highlight and understand the prejudices that went into pulps, because either ignoring them or wielding them as a weapon to attack them does no favors to anyone. The pulps weren't exceptionally bigoted - look at literally any medium in it's time period and you'll find bigotry and prejudice and hatred - and they were exceptional in the number of POC heroes and heroines. Pulps were a medium of experimentation and cheap entertainment that gave way to much, much more varied kinds of protagonists than were permitted in films, serials, novels, comics and radio serials of the day. Imagine if no one was allowed to bring up and discuss superheroes without mentioning the Superman Slap-a-Jap posters or the Captain Marvel story so horrifingly racist it was recounted by an American ambassador after it deeply offended a friend's son and a major influence on the 1950s anti-comic trials. "Pulp fiction had deeply, unforgivingly racist depictions that deserve intense scrutiny and cannot be ignored" and "Pulp fiction was significantly ahead of every other medium at the time in regards to authors and editors striving to publish stories about heroic POCs, this cannot be dismissed and is something that needs to be perpetuated" are not exclusive facts. "A product of it's time" is not an excuse and never was, but it's a fact nevertheless.

Every time someone speaks favorably of Charlie Chan in any capacity, they have to start with a long preface of everything positive that the character had going for him. Yes, he's a deliberate subversion of the Yellow Peril, he's a heroic protagonist, he's plump and good-natured and humorous but far from a joke, he's friendly and pleasant and well-educated and wise, he's a good dad and family man and a terrifically sharp detective who's so good at his job he gets called to solve crimes all over the world, and none of these traits are apparent to people who have to google the character and repeteadly see a white man in awful make-up into every single image of the character, who watch the movies and cringe at the broken English. It's hardly relevant in the face of all the Asian-American critics who acknowledge the character's virtues but rightfully point out that this fortune-cookie spouting caricature, acting subservient to whites and whose virtues are based around his proximity to a white American ideal, doesn't represent them and they shouldn't pretend it does.

Which isn't to say that to like Charlie Chan is "wrong", a lot of East Asians love Charlie and the character's obviously got fans in Asian Americans. It's a complicated subject and I obviously cannot begin to vouch in a subject so heavily based around perceptions I cannot experience. And I deeply detest the idea of speaking for others on their particular experiences on this kind of matter, which is something Americans do a lot everytime they talk about representation in media.

So instead, I'm going to tackle this on a roundabout manner by going on an unrelated tangent to bring up an example of representation that isn't quite representative of what it's supposed to be, has a lot of issues that have been dissected by critics among the people it was supposed to represent, and none of that stopped the character from being popular and beloved and from being claimed anyway. And it's a Brazilian fighting game character, which means it's completely within my ballpark.

Yeah, obviously Blanka doesn't look like anyone who lives in Brazil (whatever resemblance he bears to redheaded jungle protectors of Brazilian folklore is purely accidental). Obviously neither Jimmy nor Blanka are Brazilian names or even exist in the Portuguese lexicon. Obviously there are issues in Street Fighter's approach to representation across the board, sure, and I'd actually say Laura is much worse than Blanka in that regard (again, my opinion, obviously not universal), but the fact remains that Blanka is and has always been pretty controversial. Obviously there's Brazilians who took offense to Blanka and they weren't wrong to do so, and I obviously do not speak for everyone here, that goes without saying.

Obviously the idea that Brazil's major representative in a global cast of characters, the first big name Brazilian character in videogames, is going to be a freakish jungle monster who roars and bites faces has problems, as is the fact that all the others get to be regular people representing fighting styles from their countries while Blanka doesn't. None of the Brazilian SF characters represent Capoeira, which is kinda shitty to be honest. And there's a whole stereotype of Brazil as a backwards land of beasts and savages that Blanka's creation played into. There's no shortage of ground to criticize Blanka's representation and Ono actually apologized in an interview once, but then he learned one teensy little thing:

Street Fighter is very popular on Brazil. Would you like to leave a message to the fans from there?

"Ono: Yes, I'm aware. At the time of Street Fighter II a lot of the arcade machines produced went there, so I knew we had lots of fans there. A message to Brazilians, well, I'd like to apologize. I know Blanka's a weird character and I don't want any Brazilian to feel uncomfortable with that.

When Blanka was conceived, we knew there were forests in Brazil, and so we thought he could look like that. I was actually kinda nervous knowing I'd meet Brazilian journalists. Still, this is the first Street Fighter in ten years, so we'd like all fans to play, including Brazilians, which are many.

Thanks. Well, but you should know that Brazilians love Blanka

"Ono: Ah, good! I was scared of getting beat up if I ever went to São Paulo! (laughs)"

(That's from a 2012 tv special called The Greatest Brazilian of All Time where over a million viewers voted to elect whoever they wanted, and Blanka was going to win. He was polling ahead of Aryton Senna and PELÉ, fucking Pelé, yes this happened. He wasn't even disqualified for being a cartoon character, it was an open poll, he was disqualified due to canon stating he had been born in Thailand, which I think may have been retconned since then. Again, A MILLION BRAZILLIANS voted for this contest, and Blanka was going to win.)

Blanka is great and sweet and lovable, he made the best out of the incredible shitty hands fate dealt him and became a cool and strong green man who shoots lightning and flies, a self-taught warrior who rides whales and planes to fighting tournaments, and he loves his mom and friends and kicks ass and after he's done he dances in joy and gives the kids of his village piggyback rides, and Brazil loves him. He doesn't represent any existing person or fighting style, he's rooted in a negative stereotype and incorrect assumptions, he's not even really Brazilian, and he's our boy and nobody can take him away from us.

No criticism of Blanka, no matter how in-depth or even right it is, is ever going to affect that, because regardless of what was wrong or misguided and offensive about him, we claimed him and loved him so throughly that Capcom kept playing up Brazilian representation in every subsequent game post Alpha, and because of Blanka's impact and reception in such a big game, Brazilian characters have become a staple of fighting games, and that's how we got much more diverse representatives in those games. Fighting games have more Brazilian representation than LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE on media not produced here. It started as BAD representation, with way less thought put into it than Charlie Chan, and it still mattered to a lot of Brazilians who reclaimed it and made it better than it was ever intended to be, and as a response to it, it gradually became better. 

Progress is not a fixed quantity, it's an uphill battle, and it's not unwinnable. Everything's gotta start somewhere.

The Good Asian is a ongoing comic that I think does the best job I've seen yet of handling an Asian American detective protagonist, which is not really a high bar in the first place, and more to the point, The Good Asian illustrates the 2nd part: the reclaiming. The Good Asian deals a lot with the realities that a 1930s Asian-American detective would run into, the strained circumstances and relationships between said character and the world around him, because it's born from an author who took a look at Charlie Chan and Mr Moto and the like and recognized the potential in those stories that could not be fulfilled in it's time period by the people writing said stories. 

The Good Asian pays little reverence to Charlie Chan, but it acknowledges that it cannot exist without Charlie Chan, and it reclaims the Charlie Chan premise at the hands of someone more adequately equipped to tell a gripping story that goes places none of Charlie's contemporaries would ever go. Regardless of how good or bad of representation Charlie Chan was, Charlie Chan mattered and was beloved and inspired a better example for others to improve on or rebel against.

I desperately wish that I could google Charlie Chan without having to look at a guy in yellowface, and the ONLY way that's going to happen is if the character ever gets meaningfully brought back and reclaimed for good by people who can meaningfully tackle the character and present him as he should have always been presented.

And then, I imagine it would be a lot easier to show people on how swell Charlie really is. A true, positive role model and hero, who no longer has to look like a gross cartoon to be able to exist at all. Who can finally be what he was always meant to be, and always was deep down.

[inkstaineddove]

Man as Mirror

Ships: PruAus if you wish; background PruHun and FraAus

Characters: Roderich, Gilbert; mentioned Erzsi + Francis

Summary: Arriving home early from Paris, Roderich encounters a shirtless Gilbert in his kitchen, leading them to have a conversation Roderich could've gone without.

Vienna, 1774.

Once his carriage safely rolled to a stop, Austria stepped out of it and stretched. While even he could not deny the beauty of Paris, nothing pleased the heart quite like home. Servants rushed about him, ushering in his extensive luggage. Sidestepping away from them, he gazed up at the early-morning sky and allowed himself the luxury of taking it all in. The fading purple of night, the sun shyly poking its face out through his hedges, and the birds singing their daily hymns. Truly, there was nowhere quite like home.

Feeling sufficiently uplifted, he entered the home and mindlessly made his way up the stairs. He froze once his hand hovered above the doorknob to his bedroom. He had been burned once before doing this and while, thankfully, all other parties had been asleep, the event had caused him enough mental anguish to power him through another three decades. Still, the desire to change out of his travel clothes was nigh impossible to dismiss. Leaning an ear against the door, his decision was made for him when he heard something like a moan come from Erzsébet. Changing could wait.

All remnants of his good mood dissipated as he silently grumbled to himself about their guest. While it certainly came as no surprise – Erzsébet did this every time he was out of town and, honestly, Roderich had grown to expect it – but hearing them was different. Sure, he was no fool and they made no effort to pretend but having indisputable proof of their trysts was another. Roderich was cursed to have found a spouse and enemy full of cunning. He noted that, if the two of them ever put their powers to good use, he’d have to compliment them for it. For now, while he was their target, any appreciation was out of the question.

He felt his body yearning for caffeine and knew what the next item on his agenda must be. Still lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard at the sight of a bare-chested Gilbert standing over the kitchen counter. It was comical, really, watching such a brutish man delicately pour cream into two dainty mugs, mentally measuring out the right amounts. Roderich stood back and watched the whole performance in domesticity, studying the man before him as he never had before. The way his back and shoulder muscles shifted with each movement; how he never slouched even when it would be far more comfortable to; how the whole time, he never stopped humming marches to himself.

This scene felt too intimate and Roderich understood that he was not its intended audience. What he needed most from his rival now was hostility and not misguided fantasies of marital bliss. He cleared his throat and stepped into Gilbert’s line of sight. “For me? How sweet of you.” He snatched the mug closest to him and added in his usual five spoonsful of sugar. He held up a finger when he felt Gilbert gearing up to protest. “She’s still asleep. Besides, no one likes waking up to cold coffee. It sets such a tone for the day.”

They settled into a tense silence, neither one wanting to acknowledge the other. It was childish, Roderich understood, but failing to will the other out of his existence was better than devolving into petty insults or a physical altercation. And, if he ignored all rational thoughts, he didn’t even care. When around each other, what else were they but ancient children? There was no reason for them to speak, why invent one?

“Paris again? How many times have you been there over the last three months?” There almost appeared to be a hint of affectionate teasing in Gilbert’s words.

Roderich turned to face him and was surprised to find Gilbert already observing him with mild interest. What a strange morning, one he wished he could find some escape in by returning to bed but felt certain would provide him with no real escape. If anything, the pair would wake him up and demand he leave his own damn bed for another room, that’s how selfish they were. Against his will, he felt himself noticing the strength in Gilbert’s body, all broad shoulders and muscle, the physique of the ideal warrior. All suddenly clicked on why Roderich always found himself flat on his ass whenever they’d begin to trade blows. His arrogance had blinded him to the fact that imperial power mattered little when they weren’t trying to kill each other on the battlefield. With biceps like that, his only chance to get the upper hand would be a swift kick to the groin, which even at his worst he was too principled to resort to.

He was brought back to reality when Gilbert began snapping his fingers in his face. “Jesus, has anyone ever told you how creepy that staring thing you do is? Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes.” He straightened up and shivered. “Commission a portrait, it’ll last longer.”

“Please, don’t be so crass. This,” Roderich flippantly pointed to Gilbert’s outfit, “is already enough. If I imagined you in any less, I’d be ill for at least a month.”

Gilbert smirked as he took a sip. “Funny, most people have the opposite reaction.” He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, how much more stalling can you do? What’s kept you in Paris so much? I don’t recall most treaties taking that much time to…hammer out.” He bit his lip, trying to suppress his snickering.

“It’s rude to talk work at breakfast.” Austria couldn’t be bothered to mask his irritation. Things such as ‘politeness’ and ‘civility’ always seemed to go to waste on Prussia. “And, if you’re fishing for what’s in our agreement, you’ll have no such luck from me. You’re wasting your time.”

“You think I give a damn about what’s on a fucking piece of paper? As if I’d be wasting my time on that. I don’t know who blabs more for the right price, your officials or France’s.” Gilbert’s demeanor was too casual. “Most of the time, we don’t have to go to those damn meetings anyways. We’re little more than decorations, the bureaucrats have everything written before they even breathe a word to us. We know that, they know that. There are always ulterior motives for our little business trips. Whenever I come here, I tell my current minder I’ll be off doing a diplomatic something-or-other in Vienna for a week, don’t wait up.  They buy it even though they know the real reason I come to this shrine of gaudy antiques.”

“Your point, Gilbert?”

“My point is that you’re no different. Sure, you tell everyone that you’re renegotiating this or that little detail and maybe your officials believe it. And you tell it to Erzsi, and she believes it since it’s easier than thinking the husband she loathes so much is just as miserable as her. And maybe you believe it too because you have to lie to yourself first to lie to everyone else. But you can’t fool me.”

The whole time he spoke, Roderich was staring down into the contents of his mug. When all was quiet between them was when he finally looked up, laughing. “You must be desperate if you’re begging to get a morsel of gossip on me from me.”

Gilbert scoffed. “I’m not fishing for gossip. If I was, I would’ve gone through your letters while you were gone. And, before you ask, I’ve never done that. Not for lack of trying, I’m just not good at picking locks.”

The vein behind Roderich’s left eye began pulsating. He rubbed his temple gingerly, wincing. “I think I prefer it when you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Why the annoying younger brother schtick?”

“Maybe I’m making up for lost time.” For added emphasis, Gilbert made sure to loudly schlurp down a sip. Roderich’s wince at such a noise caused him to snort some coffee out his nose. Wiping it away, he grinned. “Or maybe I just want you to stop thinking you’re any better than me. Get you when you’re unguarded.”

“There’s a glaring hole in your plan. You’ve forgotten that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable around you, no matter what time of day it is.” He mockingly shook his head, tutting. “I understand that, for now, we’re officially getting along just fine, but don’t mistake that for camaraderie. The first chance either of us gets, we’ll be back to stabbing each other in the back for sport. It’s who we are.”

“Well, aren’t you a pessimist.”

“Hardly. I simply know our natures too well,” Roderich sighed, growing weary at this line of conversation. “So, if this is only temporary, why should I feign tolerance towards you? Quite honestly, you’re not important enough to me for that sort of performance. Even if you were, you would see right through it. No, my energy is better spent on nobler pursuits.”

Gilbert had set his mug down, now drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not asking for friendship; I’m asking for honesty.” He rolled his eyes with the temperament of a teenager. “Whatever. You got me sidetracked. It’s pointless anyways; you’re too delusional.”

“Excuse me?” That was quite the accusation from an unusual source. “At this point, you may as well come right out and say it.”

“If you insist,” Gilbert’s tone lilted up, songlike and jeering. “What you won’t admit is what I started this whole conversation with. All these trips to Paris, they’re not about work or diplomacy or any of your other shitty excuses. I know and you know that the only purpose is to blow a load in Francis’ ass and get away from your miserable life.”

Roderich set his mug down gently. There was no need for it to spill, to make a mess all over the clean marble. “For a moment, I’m going to ignore the vulgar insinuation you’ve made about my relationship with Francis.” He looked up, not breaking eye contact with Gilbert. “You know nothing about my life and my contentment with it. I understand that you are a deeply unhappy and wretched creature and why shouldn’t you be? There is nothing for you to go home and boast about, no shining accomplishments of yours not bathed in the blood of an innocent people, but do not project your misery onto me. For all your crowing to the contrary, we have never been, nor will we ever be, the same.”

Gilbert scoffed. “And everything you’ve ever done, there was only glory to be found there? All the princes you absorbed into your own lands, they were willing? The Bohemians, the Hungarians, they love your rulers? Are you pretending that only Russia and I invaded Poland because I remember seeing you at the table, carving out portions for yourself.”

“I’m not so naïve to believe I haven’t picked up the sword before. And, if necessary, I would again. You’d be wise to remember that.” Roderich straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “But I’ve achieved just as much without force as with. The home we’re currently standing is a monument to such.”

“Please. It’s a monument to other people’s power and what it can get you. We don’t impact change, we just ride the waves of it,” Gilbert sneered. “This house is a prison for all who come in it. A golden cage is still a cage, Roderich, even for the largest bird.”

Roderich sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Mixing your metaphors doesn’t make you sound wiser, I’ve told you this before.” Needing caffeine for his growing headache, he took a sip. “I assume you’re including yourself among the captives.”

“To a degree. I can leave whenever I want – as you love to point out, I do have my own house – but where would one of us be without the other two? We are the protagonists of our own tragedy.”

“I sincerely regret that old king of yours got you into theater. Next you’ll be telling me how all the world’s a stage and we are but merely players.” When Gilbert opened his mouth to comment on that, Roderich held up his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for your Shakespearean theories!” He rubbed the bridge between his nose, his prior weariness intensifying. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why must I parade my discontent as you and Erzsébet do? If you make your life’s purpose revenge against an unjust world – there you go! I admit it’s unjust! – you are sure to become more miserable than ever before. Perhaps you should learn that before it destroys you like one of your dear tragedies.”

“It matters because you act like you’re superior to us in every way when, really, you’re no different. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” Gilbert’s voice softened with something akin to regret.

Something in his tone of voice, in his posturing, lit a fire within Roderich. His eyes hardened and he pressed his lips into a scowl. “Understanding is what you want? If it’ll get the defiling power of your pity off me, then so be it! I am better than you in every conceivable way. If I am to you but a mirror, peer close and you’ll realize it too. Where you feel trapped by the circumstances life has thrown us in, with a life that can never truly be our own, I’ve taken what you’ve failed to grasp. While you were slaughtering pagan Easterners in your little bog, I was here, accumulating wealth and power you’ve only fantasized about. I am the seat of an empire that you only have access to through Brandenburg.

“But those are meaningless things, aren’t they? Because here’s what really matters to you – the only thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen how you stare; I know that look – I’ve got what a childhood spent pining among the monks prevented you from getting. Did you ever mention it to them? How young love made that vow of celibacy torturous? How close did you come to breaking it? How many Hail Mary’s did they make you perform for every impure thought? Do you wonder what they’d think of you now, going through all this because you’re in love with your brother’s wife? Phrased just so, they would burn you at the stake again. Ah, but the hellfire is familiar, isn’t it?” Roderich glanced at the clock hanging behind Gilbert’s shoulder. “Erzsébet should be waking now. Go play domestic and bring my wife some coffee.”

Roderich forced himself away from Gilbert, who was left crestfallen with his wide eyes and gaping mouth. He had said enough, gloating would be overkill. He entered his study and locked the door. If there would be consequences for his monologue, let them come later.

The day was still new. Roderich stared out the window. Despite checking the clock, his adrenaline had made him forget the time. He approximated it was no more than nine. He began pouring himself a glass of brandy, but stopped, preferring to drink from the bottle. He gazed around the vast emptiness of the room beyond its sole occupant. He raised the bottle for a toast:

“To the prison of my own making. There is no place quite like home.”

[m4st4rd]

i would die for you, clint barton (clint barton x oc)

a/n: HI I’M BACK with a stupid little drabble. the talented @obwjam has reignited my love for comics!clint barton so i wrote a fic of him and an oc. i haven’t proofread it and the ending super sucks but i still managed to churn out about 1900 words so enjoy!!!

i’ll proofread/edit in the morning lol

brig is nb; they/them pronouns pls 

They’re scared, and Clint gets it. He’d be scared, too, if there was some weird giant searching for him. He’s no stranger to the feeling of fear. But when he’s the one causing it, it feels terrible. 

   Brooklyn is in shambles. A new supervillain group tests their weapons on a bank in Bushwick, the Avengers are on the case, a city block is engulfed in chaos and violence. And Clint Barton is searching for a 3-inch-tall person who’s hiding in the alleyway of a Dunkin Donuts.

   He sighs and kneels down, peering under the dumpster. Huddled in the dark is the shaking borrower, who stares back with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. They look like crap: covered in dried blood and dirt, their clothes torn and ratty. But the little guy is stubborn as hell, and hurls a pebble in his direction. They miss by a long shot. He would’ve laughed if the city wasn’t on fire.

   “C’mon out, bud,” he says. A faint boom! rattles the world behind him. “It’s not safe under there. Are you lookin’ to be caught? A rat, an alley cat… God forbid, there might be a human who ain’t as nice as I am.” With a nervous glance behind him, he sees Kate dart past, notching an arrow and letting it fly. “Not to mention that the city’s comin’ apart.”

   They shout something back, and Clint can barely piece together the words leave and alone. It’s not helpful, though, that they’re so small and covered in shadow. And the fact that he can see their teary eyes in the dark is not helping his conscience. Another explosion shakes the earth, and the borrower lets out a wail that he does hear. 

   They’re both getting frantic. He softens his face, puts a pleading look into his eyes. “Please,” he calls. “I can keep you safe.” 

   The borrower doesn’t get to respond. A scream rips through the air, and he’s made up his mind. He jumps to his feet and drags the dumpster back, only getting a glimpse of the sheer terror on their tiny face before he scoops them up in a fist and tucks them into a jacket pocket. It’s not ideal, but if it means they won’t be crushed or eaten, he’ll take it. 

   They’re writhing, and he ignores it. The feeling of them shaking against his chest forms a pit in his stomach. They’re scared, but at least they’re safe.

   The rest of the battle zips by like a blur. Clint spends it shielding the borrower, dodging rubble, and praying to whatever gods present for this little guy to not be so terrified of him. Their shaking has stopped for now, but they’re stiff as a board and flinching with every move he makes. When the fight dies down, he’s left nursing a wound on his shoulder and cupping his hand around his pocket. He’s gotta get out of there, and fast.

   His free hand finds his comms, and he sends a quick farewell message to Kate. She responds quick, familiar beeps filling his ears: Get home safe. See you soon, Hawkeye.

   The message brings a smile to his face, but it disappears when he remembers his job. His day isn’t over yet. 

   He runs his way home. 

   The apartment greets him with blinding fluorescents and a mess on his coffee table. Things that are normally hangover-induced nuisances are now pushed to the far corners of his mind as he limps to his counter. 

   His fingers dive into his pocket, and he does his best to be gentle, but with the little guy swerving away from his hand, he ends up tangled around their limbs, pulling them out in a quivering heap. They’re a pitiful sight; their tiny face is tear-stained, and once they lock eyes, the poor kid flinches back into their protective huddle. 

   They’re speaking, and fast. That much he knows. Their voice is buzzing away. But he can’t understand anything that's coming out. He gets the gist of what they might be saying: there’s a pleading look in their eyes, and their lip is quivering. He doesn’t like this feeling.

   “Hey,” he whispers, cupping his hands closer around the tiny body. “Hey. Look at me.” He nudges their shoulder. They’re practically humming with anxiety. “C’mon, calm down, buddy. You’re okay.” 

   They aren’t making any progress like this. Clint lowers his hands to the countertop and the borrower stumbles off, clutching their chest and scrubbing the tears from their eyes. “Look,” he says softly. “Not touching you anymore, see? You’re fine. You’re okay.”

   He watches with a pang in his heart as they cry for a bit, hugging their knees to their chest, and takes the time to look them over. Their hair is dark and matted, their clothes patchy, their face young, but thin and gaunt. This isn’t the same stubborn little guy he’d met an hour ago; this is someone who is absolutely-fucking-terrified of him. He can barely deal with crying people at his own height; he can’t even begin to comfort someone who’s three inches tall.

   Reasoning sets in as they clear their eyes of the last of their tears. Even if he was well-intentioned, he did sorta… take them. Grab them up and stick them in a pocket. If some giant had done that to him, he’d be pretty scared, too. 

   “Do you understand me?” he tries. The tiny head snaps up, and the kid babbles something that vaguely sounds like sorry and don’t hurt. “No, no, I promise I’m not gonna hurt you… Fuck. I was — I was just tryna keep you safe!” It’s hard to read lips on such a small face, but he gets the gist of it, and it hurts like hell.

   This isn’t working out so great. “Let’s start over, okay? I’m Clint. Clint Barton. And I — I can’t hear you all that well.” 

   That gets them to shut up. The fear disappears from their face, replaced by sheer bewilderment.  (Yeah. As if they’re the one that should be surprised.) They scrub their eyes and stare at him in awe, and Clint can’t help but chuckle. “Weird, I know. But we can figure somethin’ out, alright? You okay to talk? Or just… shake your head, yes or no.” 

   That gets a timid nod. “Great. Good. Not hurt, are you?” A shake. “Thank God for that.” Now we’re getting somewhere. But Clint needs to ask them questions, and he needs to get answers. How is he supposed to talk to someone smaller than his finger?

   His mind is racing. Sign language! It’s a long shot, but just maybe he can get through to them.

   “Do you understand this?” His hands move slow, just in case. But it doesn’t go the way he’s hoping. The borrower shrieks and falls back, and they’re both back to square one. “No, hey, wait! It’s okay!” He signs while he speaks, and the kid watches every move he makes with terrified eyes. “Look — it’s a language! My name is Clint. C-L-I-N-T.” Each letter is deliberate, and with each second, the little guy uncurls from their protective ball. “Now that I’ve told you my name, will you tell me yours?”

   They both fall silent. He holds his breath and watches the tiny face with a furrowed brow. It’s small, almost impossible to see, but there’s a hint of hope in their eyes. He’s so overcome with joy that he doesn’t notice them open their mouth.

   “...ig.”

   He freezes. “Sorry, what?”

   They wither back. “Brig,” they say, louder this time. Their voice is muffled and nervous, but it’s there. And Clint can’t stop himself from smiling. 

   “Brig,” he repeats. “That’s B-R-I-G. See?” He grins. They’re still cautious, but they watch his hands with curious eyes as he signs their name. “It’s nice to meet you, Brig.”

   Good! This is good. Clint can see them coming out of their shell, little by little. They look unsure, but their hands twitch in time with his. “There’s so much you can say with just your hands! This is hello, and this is goodbye. Yes, no, please and thank you— I can teach you, if you want!”

   The magic is gone, and Brig snaps back into their defensive huddle. “T-teach me?” they squeak. “But… would mean…” They glance around the kitchen, eyes widening as they take in the sight. They’re so small compared to everything else. “What about… home?”

   He’s overstepped his boundaries. He kneels to get closer to their level. They reel back, a gesture that goes unnoticed in his concern. “Was that where you live?” he asks. “Near where the fight was?”

   They’re quick to nod. “Left… a bit,” they say. “Rats.” The last syllable is loud, clear, and bitter. “Got caught… the fight.” Brig shrugs, looking nervous and embarrassed. “And by you.”

   Clint frowns. A place like that is dangerous for someone of their size, but he’s in no place to argue. “Is there anyone you stay with? Any family or friends you can go back to?”

   Now they’re silent. His heart plummets when they grimace and look away, a sadness creeping into their eyes. Realization crashes over him when they shake their head.

   He hadn’t thought of that. 

   “You don’t have to stay,” he says gently. Guilt lingers in his chest as he leans back, too, suddenly self conscious about his hands. “I-I can get you back home if you need me too — I can’t imagine it’s all that safe, but if that’s what you want…” The borrower is tense, and Clint is cursing himself for being so hopeful. 

   Finally, after a minute of mulling it over, he gives a resigned sigh. “Damage Control is cleaning the place up,” he tells them. “They should be done in a week or two, okay? You can stay with me, but when they’re done… I’ll bring you back.” Every word hurts more than the last. “Only if you want to. How’s that sound?”

   The kitchen falls silent. Clint’s heart is beating fast, and he bites his tongue as conflicting emotions flicker across the tiny face. “I-I can bring you back now, if you like,” he stammers. “Ya don’t have to stay. A-and you don’t have to tell me exactly where you live, but I can just drop you off and you can be on your way and we’ll b —”

   “I’ll stay.” 

   This time, the little voice comes out strong. “You — you will?” he says.

   They nod shyly in response, and he can piece together what they say next: “Just… back… my feet.” Just until I’m back on my feet. 

   He can live with that.

   Clint’s heart swells with triumph. He can’t remember the last time he was this happy. There’s no explaining why he feels this way. “O-Okay. Awesome. Welcome home, Brig.”

   He glances back at the mess in his apartment, then to the mess of his clothes, too. They’re both covered in dust and blood, but neither care about it as Clint laughs. “We should probably get cleaned up first, though. What do you say?”

   He’s smiling. And for the first time all day, Brig is smiling, too.

   They’ve got a lot of work to do.

[coldshrugs]

this side of paradise, part one: r.i.p. me

characters: alma greene, rebecca word count: 1.1k rating: general part 2 | part 3 | part 4

“So…” Alma says with the sort of breezy detachment that, coming from her, can only be feigned. She pulls two mugs off the metal rack in her tiny kitchen: the first is covered in a pristine white glaze, sporting a slim handle meant for a sophisticated hand, and reserved exclusively for visits from her mother; the second is a well-loved novelty mug with a chip in the rim and cracked black glaze, roughly drawn flowers surround a tombstone graphic that reads ‘R.I.P. ME’ —Alma’s favorite. “I’ve been thinking.”

She pours and passes Rebecca a cup of coffee, making a point to ignore the wary glance thrown her way as her mom spoons a bit of sugar into the mug.

“Mhm,” Rebecca hums, worry pinching at that line between her brows. Alma wonders if it’s always been there, gone ignored from idealization, and brought to light by so many recent disillusions.

Alma sips her own coffee, stalling the inevitable. This is a topic she’s wanted to raise for a while but the timing’s never right. It’s not right today either but at least they’re alone. I’m not asking for permission, she tells herself, just a little guidance.

“I think it’s time we talk about the possibility of me turning.”

“Turning.” It’s not a question, but the incredulous way it drops from her mouth is anything but confident.

“Into a vampire.”

Rebecca takes a long drink of her coffee. The silence between them prickles uncomfortably, but teenage summers spent working at the uptown boutique taught Alma that silence sells. She leans forward and waits for Rebecca’s move.

Rebecca’s knuckles whiten around the delicate handle of her mug and, for a moment, Alma fears she’ll snap it off.

“Alma, sweetie, that’s… It’s not a good idea. You can’t possibly—”

“No, no. I can.” She rises from her too-casual slouch, fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “And I think I should. I’m going to tell you why, and then you can tell me how.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes, a calculating look that Alma’s only seen her use at work. She doesn’t enjoy feeling like work.

“Did he put this in your head? Or—or is it because you think this will help you learn more about your dad?”

Alma scoffs and meets Rebecca’s icy gaze with a blazing glare of her own. Eyes she loves in the face of a woman she barely recognizes anymore. “I haven’t talked to Mason about it yet, or any of the others for that matter.”

Alma lets that hang for a moment and doesn’t mention Rook. She doesn’t want Rebecca to know she’s right about one thing, wants instead for her to squirm in the bitterness of her incorrect assumption.

“I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

Rebecca sits up straight in the barstool with crossed arms, that professional armor up against her own daughter, and Alma knows exactly how they got here. They were close, unimaginably close despite all the time she was away. Multiple calls every week, in-jokes, surprise lunch dates, every single holiday and school function. Rebecca was there as much as she could be and Alma stretched her understanding a little more every year. They made it work.

Alma used to pine for the weekends Rebecca could be home without interruption. Stopping by Haley’s (back when it was her father’s place) for waffles and hot chocolate before a trip to the city for new comic books and maybe a movie at the nice theater. Sitting with her back to the sofa as her mom, with the deep scent of vanilla radiating from her, trimmed or braided Alma’s hair, syndicated Star Trek episodes playing on the living room tv and she’d never felt so safe.

But she never feels safe anymore, and that’s the point. That’s the problem.

“Listen,” she starts, pulling the mass of her curls back from her face. It’s too hot in here. She didn’t mean to get angry. “I just… I can’t live like this anymore, being prey for every creature I meet because my blood’s basically supernatural Redbull—”

“Alma, please—”

“I’m serious! I’m tired, mom.” And she sighs with the weight of it, a fear she hates admitting but one that eats at her. “I love this work, I do. I’m incredibly grateful you let me in, even if it was by necessity. But I’m a target, even with Bravo’s protection. If there’s even a chance this could solve that? I want to take that chance.”

Rebecca pries open the tight line of her lips. “Vampirism won’t kill you. Their physiology may be different from humans, but their veins still circulate blood just like ours do—we don’t know that it’d negate your mutation, or if the venom would even be accepted by your system.”

Hm. Alma hadn’t thought about what would happen if it didn’t take. With the amount of shit she’s been through because of this mutation, it’s a risk she’s willing to make regardless. “I think I’d still like to try. Even if the mutation sticks around, I’d be able to protect myself in ways I can’t now.”

Rebecca tilts her head, hand on her chin, and Alma can almost see the breakneck speed at which she filters through the best and worst outcomes, a quality she’s always admired. She can’t help looking up to her, even now. Finally, Rebecca stands from her stool.

“Where are you going?” Alma heads around the counter to cut her off.

Rebecca sweeps her into a tight hug and Alma’s back on the living room floor, the scent of vanilla behind her, all around her, and Rebecca there encouraging her to think and question and embrace weirdness. Back when those rituals were enough, before she really met her hero.

“I’ll consult with the techs that did your blood work, see what advice they have. If you’re considering this, we should be as informed as possible, hm?”

The smile Rebecca offers as she turns toward the door is not a happy one, but Alma considers this a success.

“And Alma,” she says, opening the door just a crack, “do talk to Bravo about this. What to expect, what they think, what forever is like. You can’t come back from this decision.”

She marches out of the apartment with a heavy finality. Alma sinks back on the counter and scoops up her coffee. She figures this was the hard part. Talking to her team—her friends—should be a breeze after Rebecca’s hard-won, if begrudging, acceptance.

At least that’s what she’ll tell herself for now.

[gamer-of-action44d]

All this fan art and fanfics of “Secret Trio”. Bah. Let me tell you about the cartoon trio you SHOULD be making fan art of.

I present to you...

THE MILLENNIUM TRIO

Whenever anyone even mentions superhero cartoons, these three are always the first that comes to mind (aside from ones based on comic books). And for good reason. Each one has relatable and likable characters with amazing action sequences. Everyone grew up watching at least one of these shows.

But nostalgia is not the only driving force behind this concept. I believe the characters and worlds are just a natural fit together.

But nostalgia is not the only driving force behind this concept. I believe the characters and worlds are just a natural fit together.

Kim would obviously be the most experienced of the three. She doesn't have supernatural powers like the other two so she makes up for it with pure skill and capability. Whenever the three are on a mission, she's always front and center, taking charge, and coming up with the plan. She's the pseudo leader and the absolute last one to lose her cool. That isn't to say she's perfect. As we all saw in her cartoon, she could get angry and overwhelmed and sometimes bothered by problems that weren't really there. That's where Danny and Ben would come into play, they'd be the upbeat levity and emotional support in her life that she sorely needs with her overpacked schedule. Whatever small flaws she may have, are covered by her friends just like how she covers theirs.

Danny would be the solid middle ground. He doesn't want his powers or any of the adventures that come with them but he just can't stop himself from saving people. "I mean we're teenagers, we shouldn't have to do any of this!" says Danny as he straps himself into the chopper Wade sent over, after asking zero questions and literally no one asking him to come along. He was absolutely helpless at first, trying to manage his double life, but after Kim showed him the ropes of being a superhero he got more into it and even started enjoying himself a little. Now Danny does take things a bit more seriously than others but a lot of people forgot that he could be quite immature sometimes. His immaturity and sassy attitude would play really well of Kim's personality, actually, kind of similar to the dynamic Kim had with Ron. That being said, there DOES NOT have to be a romance. There could, but they could just be close platonic friends. Whenever Danny feels like he's about to collapse from too much pressure, Kim would be there to help him through it while he would be there for her when she needs moral support.

And last but not least is Ben Tennyson. Easily the youngest of the three but also the one with the most potential. Ben could be his usual bratty self when he firsts meet Kim and Danny after Kim is hired to babysit him but after he sees her and Danny in action he changes his tune to "YOU GUYS ARE SO AWESOME!!! Hey, I got superpowers too! We should totally team up!" Danny and Kim are against the idea at first, obviously thinking it'd just be going too far to bring a TEN-YEAR-OLD into battle. But they realize pretty soon that it didn't matter what they thought with Ben constantly throwing himself into danger, so they figured they might as well keep an eye on him. Kim takes a similar role to Grandpa Max, teaching Ben all the important lessons and ideals that a superhero should have. Danny, meanwhile, finds something of a little brother figure in Ben, someone who looks up to Danny and is full of energy. And for those who are a fan of angst, when Ben inevitably has an emotional breakdown after a traumatizing event makes it abundantly clear that saving lives is a much more serious and taxing path than his superhero fantasies led him to believe, Kim and Danny can comfort and empathize with him. Showing Ben how young and scared they are so Ben can realize he's not alone.

God, so many ideas for the dynamic are rushing through my head. I so badly wish that I didn't suck at drawing so that I could make fan art and comics. If you have any interest in this idea, please spread the word! Reblog, repost it, put it on Reddit or Twitter! Or you can make fan art. I got plenty of ideas for jokes and interactions so feel free to ask me for ideas.

Let's get the #Millenium Trio trending!