#if they do they could easily become disposable under the right circumstances

[t-u-i-t-c]

chapter xlii

[srhunt]

Haunted Mansion’s Biggest Issue (to me)

I was very excited to finally see Haunted Mansion this year. I had given up hope on ever seeing this new adaption in the 13 years since Guillermo Del Toro announced it with barely any news in between.

And I did very much enjoy it, it’s at least better than the 2003 film, which is all I wanted it to be.

However, there is one thing that stopped me from loving this movie, and that’s how they handled my favorite happy haunt, the Hatbox Ghost.

Now, design wise, he looks great. He’s intimidating, he’s creepy, all around they nailed it. Not thrilled that he’s played by Jared Leto, but thankfully he’s barely noticeable.

Where my issue begins is when they learn the Hatbox Ghost’s living name, Alistair Crump.

I’m not opposed with giving Hattie an actual name, mind you, and I do appreciate the nod to original Haunted Mansion Imagineer, Rolly Crump (though it’s kinda backhanded to name the villain of the movie after him). But from the moment they learn his name, he stops being the Hatbox Ghost and becomes Alistair Crump. Let me explain what I mean.

Alistair Crump was the child of a wealthy family. He was kicked out of his home by his father after crying too hard at his mother’s funeral. Cut off from his family, Crump had to climb his way back up from nothing. Meanwhile, he studied the dark arts. After his father died under mysterious circumstances, Crump gained control over his family estate. He’d throw lavish parties, inviting the people who turned his father against him. At these parties, he would murder the people he believed played a part in his father’s abandonment of him. Crump would bury the bodies under the house. This continued until his staff discovered his secret and turned against him, decapitating him and burying his remains in the same place he disposed of his victims.

Did you notice something was missing in this story?

Something very important to the Hatbox Ghost?

Like…a hatbox?

Yea, there’s no mention of a hatbox in his backstory.

This issue becomes even more glaring when the protagonists need to find an item that belonged to him in order to banish him.

You’re probably thinking it’s a hatbox, right?

No, it’s his top hat.

The top hat that’s still on his decapitated head.

Oh, is his head inside a hatbox?

No, it’s in the dirt under his old mansion.

Most of the time, ghosts are depicted with items important to them in life. Constance Hatchaway has her pearls and her hatchet, Madame Leota manifests in her crystal ball. And it’s not just the Haunted Mansion that does this, look at Thirteen Ghosts from 2001.

Each ghost has an in-depth backstory that can be found on the DVD’s bonus features, and each backstory explains how they died and why they were selected to fill a specific role in the Black Zodiac. They look the way they do because it reflects their past lives and their deaths.

So why does Alistair Crump carry a hatbox as a ghost if he had no ties to it in life?

This issue drives me nuts because it easily could’ve been fixed. Maybe when Alistair was kicked out of the house, he was only given a hatbox to carry what little he could, or maybe his staff hid his head inside a hatbox.

Crump only has the hatbox so he can do the gag with his head. That’s it. His titular hatbox holds no importance to him. He easily could’ve been swapped with any other ghost in the Mansion and nothing would feel out of place.

The hatbox is so unimportant to Crump that towards the end of the movie, he doesn’t even have it anymore. After we learn his backstory, he’s never seen with the hatbox again.

Even this new Funko Pop figure doesn’t have his hatbox but then labels him, “Hatbox Ghost.”

To me, Alistair Crump and the Hatbox Ghost are two different characters. Crump may look like Hattie, but he is not the Hatbox Ghost. Which is the biggest disappointment of this film to me.

Hattie is such a fascinating and mysterious character in the mansion. He has a backstory that’s never really explored. His role varies from story to story. Why is he in the attic with Constance? Was he one of Constance’s grooms? Why does he have that hatbox? Why did he disappear for so long in the context of the Mansion’s story? Where did he go and why did he come back? Was he a victim? A coconspirator that got betrayed? There were so many ways they could’ve taken his story and they picked probably the weakest one.

It does make me wonder what Guillermo Del Toro’s original vision for Hattie was. But alas, we may never know.

Maybe in another 20 years we’ll get a different take on the Mansion and Hattie.

[wafflebloggies]

5. a certain slant of light

back - next Mark said nothing.

His body was curled up against the far wall of the little cell, all hunched up and folded in on himself like the shell of a long-dead spider. His face was hidden in the shadow of his knees and his hands were loosely locked in each other. As Antonio took a step forwards, the dust puffed and crunched under his feet, gritty and thick.

“How’re you doing?”

No response. Antonio hadn’t really expected one. Under the circumstances it would have been about as reasonable to expect a reaction from an owl pellet. He paused, then ducked into the narrow cell and settled in alongside Mark against the wall, tucking himself in comfortably criss-cross-applesauce on the grimy floor. There wasn’t really room, but Mark’s personal space had never been among Antonio’s top-priority considerations. Rather the opposite, if anything.

“Let me just scootch in here… there we go. Oh, before I forget- Mrs. Hernandez sends her best, she’s doing good, she said we could come over for dinner anytime. Which... yeah, I know, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Silence.

Antonio coughed. He shifted his backpack- Mark’s backpack, to be more accurate- onto the floor in front of him, unzipped it slowly.

“The channel’s doing so good, Mark,” he said, softly, as he rummaged inside. “Your script for the Sonic video was perfect. I wish I could show you, but…” He pulled out Mark’s phone, waved it in a vague explanatory spiral. “No signal.”

A little more dust drifted down. Mark’s hair was thick with it, the shoulders of his dirty greyish sweater, his hunched back. His arms where they showed, his hands, were dead-pale, not so much white as the colour of standing water, flat and stagnant.

So much had been taken from him, for the spore, for the Muse, for Mother, for the new him that wore his face, what was left had less substance than a worn-out rag, a single-cell battery drained to the very last flicker. The glow- the infection, if you wanted to be clinical about it- had very little left to feed on, very little left to claim. What remained did not require supervision, or even attention, as it waited here for disposal. The very short history of a digested host was everywhere in the big low room, the muffled silence and the empty cells, the heaps of grey dust with their strange, faint, frail shapes lost somewhere underneath.

Mother didn’t like to throw away things that belonged to her, even things that weren’t useful any more. She liked to keep them, poked away somewhere or the other, here in the dark.

The canning jar made a bright clinking sound as Antonio pulled it out of Mark’s rucksack and set it in his lap. He unscrewed the scratchy lid and tipped a couple of small things into his palm.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” he said. He reached out, took Mark’s wrist, pulled until the crabbed fingers detangled and came loose. Mark’s free arm slid to his side in the dust with a soft heavy sound, and the one in Antonio’s grip came easily, unfolding with a creaky stiffness, cold and clammy to the touch.

“This won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”

Antonio would have had to have been blind to have much difficulty finding a vein in Mark’s arm. Coaxing the blood to flow was harder, because although Mark’s veins were too dark and smudgy and stood out like a tangled roadmap in his ashen skin, his blood was sluggish and heavy and refused to easily fill up the syringe, with a stubbornness so classically Mark that Antonio could have laughed if he’d felt anything about any of this was funny.

He didn’t. He found that he couldn’t. As he filled the little glass tube with Mark’s blood he couldn’t help feeling that the clawing thing in his chest was becoming more and more restless, poking long sharp tendrils even further out than before, jabbing at his insides. He found that he had to concentrate to keep his fingers still and steady, his hands moving tidily, withdrawing the syringe from the crook of Mark’s arm and capping the evacuated tube when it was full, tucking it carefully back into the canning jar in a baggie of cushioning gauze. Even freshly-drawn, the vial had no warmth to it. Mark had none left to give.

And that was it. And it was over. And he had carried out his instructions to the letter, he had done exactly as the Muse asked, he had been Good and Mother would be pleased. The ghastly itchy feeling that there was something not-right between him and the new Mark, between him and the Muse; he knew that it would all go away if he passed this simple test. If it even was a test, it could only be as simple as just doing what he was told. After all, what else was Antonio for?

He let go of Mark’s arm. Like an old door on a stiff-closing hinge, Mark’s hands crept up and laced together again in a slow, mechanical action, locking limply around his knees.

Antonio felt pulled two ways, yet again, a terrifying sensation completely at odds with his usual way of navigating- well, everything. There shouldn’t ever be two ideas in his head at once. There should only ever be one. There shouldn’t be two opposing forces- the one that he knew he should listen to above everything, the golden-bright thread of the Muse tugging him away in that strong endless current, and the other, ugly and tangled, tissue-weak, that wanted…

He shifted slightly closer to Mark’s shoulder. Side by side- Mark on the right, Antonio to his left, just like normal- with Mark about as responsive as the wall behind him and Antonio supplying all the enthusiasm, all it needed was a webcam and a script and it was basically a new Cynical Critics video. There was a horrible kind of neatness to the idea.

Antonio thought about how it had felt to make the new video, with the new Mark right there with him, matching his energy, just as bright and focused and eager to get it done as he was, how he had expected it to feel and how- desperately empty- he felt now, about the prospect of doing it again, and again, and again.

“Hey...”

He put out a hand and pushed a little of Mark’s hair gently back from his forehead, brushing away the grey dust. There was a nasty scrape on Mark’s temple, a souvenir from some very, very brief final struggle. Like his torn and missing nails and the new puncture in the crook of his arm, the injury was grey, bloodless, colourless.

“It was all worth it, Mark. Trust me, I know it wasn’t easy for you… but it’s all over now. You don’t have to fight any more, you don’t have to worry about anything. Mother forgives you, even though you didn’t plant the spore.” He patted the canning jar in his lap. “See? She’s even letting you help her right now. I’m… I’m so…”

He couldn’t say it. He tried a couple of times, but it was like the bug had gotten its nasty spiny limbs all the way up into his throat, stopping his tongue. He struggled for a little bit, then closed his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, the word escaping on a resigned, exasperated breath. “Alright… okay.”

He moved, surprisingly quickly, shifting from relaxed and cross-legged to kneeling over Mark’s curled shape, feeling for the crook of his arm where the needle had bitten in. He spread his palm over the near-invisible puncture wound and tried to feel, see with his real eyes even in the crowded dazzling heart of Mother’s domain, the overbright golden glow of Mark’s motionless body and the tiny, muted dissonance of hue hiding right at the centre of it, the tired white-blue-fizzle, a battered shred of a thing that had given up fighting and now just lay buried deep under the voracious glow, waiting to be consumed. He could barely make it out, wouldn’t have seen it at all if he hadn’t known what he was looking for. But he had seen it plenty of times before, when it was stronger and brighter and filled Mark’s body, had used it as an easy locus the few times Mark had been silly enough to try and hide from him, and he recognized it now.

Antonio was vaguely aware that a part of his mind- a pretty large part, that wasn’t used to being out of control- was screaming in panic. You didn’t keep secrets, you didn’t talk to Jared, and you definitely, definitely, didn’t do… this.

The pulling feeling in his hand, in his fingers, was much quicker and steadier under his own power than the spore’s feeble efforts had been. Antonio was a lot stronger, and had much more practice, and as he concentrated he reached out his other hand on instinct and placed it firmly, palm open, over the cut on Mark’s forehead. This seemed to help, like closing a circuit, and he focused harder, his real eyes open just the smallest fraction, drawing the glow from Mark’s unresisting body as if drawing poison from a bite. Not too much- only just enough- and before long he let out a measured breath and let go, sitting back on his heels.

Antonio touched his own face- it was a quick, instinctive motion that was forming itself into a little bit of a habit by this point- and thumbed away a thin trickle of black goop that was threading down from his nose, over his lip. His palms were laced with black, every tiny capillary crawling with it like the scorched and sooty traces of a lightning-strike, but they faded quickly as he flexed his hands, cleared his throat.

“Mark?”

At first, it seemed as if nothing was different. The still figure might as well have been carved from stone, might have been curled up against the wall for years like a statue in a derelict storeroom, colourless and motionless. The first tiny changes were painfully slow, painfully slight. The twitch of a finger, strands of hair fluttering in time with the faint, hitching, struggling sound of a real breath. Antonio waited patiently, and at last the thin shoulders drew up and Mark lifted his head.

His eyes were clouded and unfocused and he looked at and a hundred miles through Antonio as if he was a ghost, and in his haggard face slow-dawning fear and love and incredulous relief mingled and made him look quite strange to Antonio, who had never seen Mark looking happy to see him before.

Mark tried to speak a couple of times before he made any noise. His voice when he finally found it was cracked and trembling and somehow far-away, like the sound of a worn old record creeping in from a distant room.

“… Anthony...?”

Antonio laughed. “No, Mark, you silly goose, it’s me!”

Mark blinked. His eyes cleared a little, widened a little, and as they focused properly on Antonio’s face the bleary, dreaming gladness in them fell swiftly away to an expression much, much more familiar to Antonio, one that certainly proved that Mark recognized him, a wary mixture of horror and disgust.

Antonio felt something, right then, which he couldn’t easily attribute to the weird bug in his chest, because bugs didn’t usually carry knives. A deep, stabbing, sinking pain, the sharpest he’d felt yet, gripped his insides and settled in as if it never planned to let go. His big grin felt like it was pulling on something tender up around the sides of his jaw, and he doubled down on it hard, nailing it into place. There was a kind of heat in his face and his forehead and hands which he would usually have associated with Mark-being-Difficult, but Mark hadn’t even done anything yet, other than look at him and make a short shrinking movement which stopped abruptly when his spine bumped into the wall behind him.

“There you go. Now you remember, right?”

“Get… away… from me,” croaked Mark.

He was shivering now, hunching forward, driving his dirty palms into his face, against his gritted teeth. Antonio reached out, but Mark swatted blindly at the movement and slapped his hand away. A maimed fly could have struck harder, but the intent, the complete rejection of any help whatsoever, couldn’t have been clearer if it had been written up in neon on the crumbling walls.

Antonio sat back, slowly. He was getting tired. Tired of feeling tangled up and out of sorts in his own body, tired of doing the right things and not feeling right about them, tired of doing the wrong things and finding out that they felt wrong too. He felt like he’d been grasping in the dark for something he didn’t know the name or the shape of, something slipping away faster the harder he tried, and this- all of this- seemed to be pushing against him, shoving him back into the current and towards what he knew best.

His insides felt hot, but his voice came out happy-peppy, bright, and just a little too cheerful.

“Come on, Mark, I just thought it’d be cool if we could just fit in a little catch-up, y’know? We’ve both got our own stuff going on, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still hang, right? I- I- look, I missed you, Mark! You’re my best friend!”

“Go… to hell,” said Mark, shakily but quite clearly, without looking up.

For a little while, Antonio didn’t say anything. He just sighed, and after a pause he got deliberately to his feet, brushing dust and grime from the knees of his black pants. The jar clinked quietly as he shifted Mark’s backpack onto his shoulder.

“Fine,” he said, at last. “Have it your own way.”

[mrsgiovanna]

The Rescue (Don Giorno x Fem! reader)

More self indulgence, not my best 😩, a bit angsty in the beginning but... ❤️💭

TW: Part 5 spoilers, references to major character death

It’s believed that the pivotal events of your life flash before your eyes like an old movie reel just before you’re about to die… what occupied your vision first though, was an extremely distraught Giorno running towards you. It was strange seeing his usually stoic face contorted in such grief. Your heart stung, although you weren’t sure if it was from your physical injuries or your emotional anguish.

It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, in and out, observe and leave if there were no threats to Giorno’s new rule, or dispose of any threats if they aimed to disturb the peace. So when you hadn’t returned after a few hours Giorno was concerned. He was reluctant to send you on your own, however, after much pestering, he was reminded that there were few he trusted as much as you. He had faith in your abilities, after all, you fought Diavolo right beside him, and your stand ability was perfect for missions such as this…

There it was again, that suffocating, ominous feeling that seethed in his gut and forced the bile into the back of his throat. Clutching the arrow desperately, he summons his stand and furiously rushes out to go find you. The scene that had greeted Giorno had him frozen in panic for a moment. For the first time, he didn’t have a plan, he couldn’t read the situation and he had no idea on how to save you. What he did know was that, regardless of the circumstances failure was not an option.

As he ran toward you, GER had materialized in all their golden glory… suddenly the noose of panic around his neck had loosened, and he saw a way forward. Swallowing his rage by clenching his jaw shut, Giorno encased you in cage of beautiful vines, ensuring any further attacks on you would rebound towards the enemy.

In your weakened state, you tried to alert Giorno to the enemy that attacked you. A stand user who was concealing his presence had managed to best you, so it was only logical to warn the Don of this threat too... but you didn’t need to as he saw through their ruse.

“Typical Gio, always light-years ahead of everyone else,” you mused, unsure if you had vocalized those thoughts or not. Your eyelids felt like they were weighted by lead, and a sickly squelching sound filled your ears as you tried to push yourself off your back with a badly battered elbow. The effort expended was too much, your consciousness finally faded as you limply fell back.

There it was again… the reel, only this time, there was someone watching beside you. Someone familiar, warm… someone who exuded kindness.

“Piccolina…” there was only one person in the world who called you that. Your head whipped around with breakneck speed, to meet the beautiful sapphire orbs staring at you. You turned around completely and tried to touch Bruno but your hand just phased through his.

“It seems like you’re stuck between realms piccolina, you need to try your hardest to go back to your body,” his voice was gentle and it was clear he was very concerned, as much as he would have loved to have you stay there, there was so much waiting for you on the other side, dreams that needed to be realized, a young man who so desperately loved you.

You were utterly and completely conflicted. On the one hand you just wanted some peace, you knew that you were expendable, and people would move on as they inevitably do. On the other hand, you felt a strong sense of duty to those who had survived, you had to prove your worth and make everything count… had you even done enough yet? Images from your past flashed in front of you, some filled you with sorrow, depicting your most painful memories, others with joy, showing you all the things… and the people you hold dear.

“You must go back now,” Bruno repeated, “before its too late, Giorno needs you,”

“I’m easily replaced, I’m not even that strong… I want to stay here with you! Everything hurts there… physically, emotionally… I’m just so tired.”

Your words hung as if frozen in midair.

It hurt Bruno to see you in such anguish, but as much as he wanted to reach out and comfort you, he couldn’t. All he could do was draw your attention to the scene playing out before you, it seems like you were at the end of your reel, and all you could see before you was a desolate, disheveled looking Giorno, trying with every fiber of his being to revive you. You couldn’t explain how you felt seeing Giorno in that state, but you knew you couldn’t allow it to continue under any circumstance. With a final smile of encouragement from Bruno, you decided to go back, a searing pain took over your body and your senses were going berserk, you felt as if you were both hyperaware and about to pass out all at the same time, until finally you opened your eyes.

When your eyes finally focused, Giorno sighed out of relief seeing the life slowly tugging at your beautiful features once more.

“You look like hell, Don”, you quipped with a lilt of humor to your voice, trying to lighten the tense mood. Your remark was met by a grimace.

“I only look like this because of you, how could you be so reckless? Don’t you realize the gravity of your actions? Do you even spare a thought for the people who care about you? I thought I lost you,”

Giorno’s voice was a whisper as he uttered the last few words, your heart clenched.

“Gio, I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to worry about me. ”

“How can I not worry about you cara, I love you!” The words rolled off his tongue before he could even think about what he was saying. The change in his expression displayed his steeled resolve. “You heard me, I really do love you, we can discuss this later on though, for now, let’s go home and get you cleaned up, so be a good girl for me, okay?”

“I guess I’m really the one who looks like hell, no?” you said nodding sheepishly, painfully aware of the blood and other debris clinging onto your hair and clothes.

None of that seemed to faze Giorno as he picked you up effortlessly and carried you to the car. Looking up at him, felt like you were actually seeing him for the first time, you don’t know when he had become so mature and self assured.

The drive home was a quiet one, left to your own musings to try and organize your thoughts. You were certain you had had a bizarre dream, but you just couldn’t remember no matter how much you tried.

That you had managed to convince Giorno that you were strong enough to clean yourself up was a feat in itself. When you finally got out, Giorno was waiting for you, wanting to check you for any other injuries that may have escaped him. Unsure of how to handle this new side to him, you silently obeyed, not wanting to challenge him unnecessarily.

Taking the jagged ends of your hair in his fingers with a frown, he made a mental note to get someone to fix that for you. The same hand that was examining your hair had found its way to your chin, tilting your face up to allow his lips to easily connect with yours. You melt into the kiss as if being pulled in by a magnetic force, it felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if the negative spaces of the contours of his body were there to accommodate the contours of yours, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle.

All too soon, the magical kiss had ended, leaving you both yearning for more.

“You’re exhausted bella, come, you should rest,”

“As are you Giogio, won’t you stay here with me?”

Giorno contemplated the mountain of work that awaited him in his study, especially after the today’s events, but your beautiful, innocent expression was all the convincing he needed to stay with you.

“Of course bella, it’s been a long day,” and with that, you both settled into bed, leaning into each other as if it was what you were both created to do.

[phis-corner]

demon’s daughter

I decided to re-open the taglist for this fic because I am sometimes a pushover, so now you can either ask or comment to be on the fic’s taglist or the permanent taglist! 

Additionally, I have no consistent update schedule. My first draft is written by hand- I always like to stay two chapters ahead, so I posted this chapter when I finished copying chapter 5 into a Google Doc and proofreading.

Also, fun fact: I hate chocolate. My senses just do not like it at all. I also have a very sensitive tongue and can taste the barest hint of spiciness in foods, which also means I have zero spice tolerance whatsoever. As a Chinese-American with family in Sichuan, this means I get force-fed a lot of extremely spicy foods anyway.

Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 [Chapter 3] Chapter 4

“Why are you letting them stay? He tried to kill Dick!” Timothy points at Damian, who glowers at him from across the cave as Alfred stitches Richard’s cuts.

Marinette sighs. “Akhi was not trying to murder Richard. If you paid more attention, you would notice that all of Richard’s wounds are carefully placed in non-lethal areas meant to slow him down instead of severely injuring him.”

Batman does not say a word. He hasn’t spoken since Richard called him to verify their claims.

“They were raised as assassins, Timmy. It’s normal that they’d feel threatened a lot, and act accordingly. They’re family now. Give them a chance.” Richard replies, and Marinette blinks. She did not expect to have Richard defend them so easily.

“Pardon me,” She pipes up. “But ‘they’ are currently present.”

“Right. Sorry.” Richard has the sense to look guilty. Timothy just glares.

Damian squeezes her hand three times, their signal for I would like to leave. Marinette sighs as she exits the Batcave. Being accepted into the family is… a work in progress.

.o0o.

Slade is put into Blackgate not long after with the information Ubu gave after being interrogated by the Bats. Damian and Marinette were not allowed to go. 

Too young, Richard had said. They had interpreted that as You cannot be trusted to keep him alive. He did make the right call though. Damian would have tried extremely hard had he gotten the chance.

Of course, the League did dispose of him not long after anyway, but it was the thought that counted.

Damian and Marinette spent their days in the Manor sparring, reading, or practicing their instruments. Richard, who seemed determined to bond with them, bought them both new sketchbooks, for Damian’s drawings and Marinette’s designs. She had discovered an affinity for clothing design while undercover on a mission, and had been designing ever since.

Cass (she insisted that they call her that instead of Cassandra,) was always happy to spar when asked, and although nobody ever defeated her, it was a welcomed challenge to fight someone who knew your every move, sometimes even before you did. Damian grudgingly admits she is a worthy sister, which makes Marinette smile and Cass beam.

Jason had his own home and only visited every once in a while, and Timothy was rarely seen. It didn’t help that Damian continued to make snarky comments whenever they did see him, but if Timothy was scarce, Father was practically nonexistent.

Since they came to the Manor, their father has said a total of two words to the both of them, and that was just their names when he exited his study as they passed by.

Marinette is determined to make her new family work, and so when she finds Timothy completely by accident, typing away on a laptop in one of the less-used rooms in the Manor, she takes a chance.

“You do know we are not trying to replace you, right?” She asks softly, sitting down in an armchair and deliberately not making eye contact with him. 

Timothy snorts. “But is that not what you’re doing? Bruce chose to take in everyone else. I had to blackmail him into letting me be Robin. And then the biological kids show up, born and raised like fucking royalty, so who would care about Tim Drake? The little kid whose parents didn’t even want him and his neighbor only adopted him because he knew his most well-kept secret.”

“We have more in common than you think.” Marinette says quietly.

“Yeah, right.” Timothy laughs bitterly. “The Princess of the League-”

“I wasn’t.” Marinette interrupts.

“Huh? But-”

“I wasn’t the Princess.” Marinette keeps her voice calm with considerable effort. “As soon as I was born, Ra’s gave me over to Lady Shiva. He declared me unworthy because I was a girl, and I was raised as the lowest-ranked assassin. I may have been Shiva’s protege, but that just meant she went even harder on me. I did not know even my last name until after my first death when I was five. I did not properly meet my brother until last year. Ra’s decided that I could be acknowledged, but maintained his stance on feminine inferiority.”

She chuckles hollowly. “You fear being replaced by your father figure’s biological children, Timothy. But your fear is unwarranted. Bruce Wayne chose to adopt you, because he is a good man with copious amounts of generosity. However, it evidently does not extend to his biological children. Talia dumped us at Batman’s feet and left without another word, without looking back. And Father? We may have been a complete surprise, but he has said two words in total to us since that first night- our names. You need not worry, Timothy. You shall not be replaced.”

Marinette stands, her message conveyed, and pauses in the doorway of the room. 

“Have a good afternoon, Timothy.”

The next day, Marinette and Damian watch on live television as their father is killed by Darkseid.

.o0o.

The funeral for Batman is somber. Everyone cries except for Marinette and Damian.

She thinks they should be crying, but Marinette simply didn’t know her father well enough to really mourn him. Damian squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back. The twins stand, faces carefully blank, shoulders straight and unmoving, like rocks in an ocean of tears.

Crime in Gotham runs rampant when they think Batman is gone, and so Richard becomes Batman out of necessity- and chooses her twin brother as his Robin.

Nobody else sees how it crushes Timothy, because Cass has left for Hong Kong, abandoning Batgirl and making her own identity as Black Bat. Jason is holed up in a safehouse somewhere, Richard and Damian are in their own little world as they prepare for their first patrol together, and Alfred needs time to mourn too.

So she finds herself knocking on the door to Timothy’s room, one hand holding a plate of sandwiches and a freshly brewed coffee because he hasn’t left his room since the funeral. Marinette quietly enters upon his muffled “Come in” and sets the plate down next to Timothy, whose eyes are red-rimmed and have even larger bags than normal, and yet he continues to work.

“I… noticed you have not come out to eat, so I brought some food and fresh coffee. Black.” She adds, after a moment of hesitation.

“Thanks.” Timothy mumbles, immediately going for the coffee. “Why are you doing this?”

Marinette shrugs. “Everyone else was caught up in their own situation and had issues to work through too. I am relatively unaffected by the circumstances and therefore my observation skills have not declined.” She says simply. “You should also eat. I will not stop you from drinking the coffee, but you cannot work on an empty stomach, either.”

He begrudgingly eats a sandwich, still typing away at his laptop all the while. Marinette notes the tension in his frame.

“Would you like to talk about it? I have read that venting is significantly better for one’s mental health than keeping it bottled up.” She offers.

Timothy suddenly slams the laptop shut, hard, but Marinette doesn’t flinch. The reaction was trained out of her a long time ago. 

“It’s not- it’s- my entire life, I’ve been trying to prove myself. Robin was- Robin was special. I wasn’t the first Robin, but it was a reminder that I was worth something to someone, that I could do good and be useful. And then Bruce dies, Dick becomes Batman, and he just names Damian as his Robin like my opinion on the matter meant nothing, booting me out of the position, without any semblance of an explanation and-” He breaks off into sobs.

The sight of somebody crying makes Marinette more than a little awkward, because what is she doing? She doesn’t know how to comfort a crying person, but she does know that Timothy was touch-starved as a child. However, she isn’t the most touchy-feely person on the planet either, so she just settles for rubbing his back as he lets it all out.

Once he’s run out of tears, she silently hands him the tissue box she plucked from his desk. 

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you are not worthless.” Marinette says sternly. “Nobody is worthless, and you are far from being anywhere near so. You are the cleverest and most intelligent of us all, a capable, quick-thinking strategist, and you have detective skills that rivaled Father’s. I believe Richard chose Damian as Robin because Robin is always supposed to be Batman’s sidekick. He is always taken under Batman’s wing because there are things he hasn’t learned, that Batman can teach him. Richard sees you as an equal, and therefore cannot keep you as his Robin because you have graduated the mantle. It is time you created a new identity and moved on. Do you have anything in mind?”

Timothy sniffs once. “Thank you. I really needed that. And as for the ideas,” He reaches over and pulls out a sketchbook, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ve got a few.”

.o0o.

They brainstorm ideas for almost three hours before Timothy falls asleep. Marinette easily carries his light frame to his bed and drapes a blanket over his shoulders before quietly exiting his room.

Thankfully, she managed to convince Timothy that the cowl was a terrible idea. Marinette returns to her own room for her sketchbook. Batman and Robin will have each other’s backs. But Red Hood works alone, leaving Red Robin with nobody to watch his back.

Timothy is Marinette’s brother too, and everyone else is headed into the field anyway. She, like Damian, also had the phrase ‘justice, not vengeance’ drilled into her head, and Richard had made sure to remind them daily to aim for non-lethal spots. Not that she planned on taking a life ever again anyway.

Marinette flips open her sketchbook to a bookmarked page and smiles. It seems that Starling would be making an appearance very soon.

.o0o.

It is almost time for Richard and Damian’s first patrol as Batman and Robin. Marinette heads downstairs to wish them well, but freezes at the sight of her twin in Timothy’s old suit.

“This is unacceptable!” She screeches, hurrying forward and looking pleadingly at Richard. “You cannot let akhi out into Gotham looking like a traffic light!”

Richard frowns, as does Damian. “But you never had a problem with Tim wearing it.”

“Tt. Timothy had little to no prior experience in combat before being trained as Robin. Damian has been trained to utilize the shadows in combat since birth. Wearing those bright colors will make him stand out and put him at a disadvantage.” Marinette tuts, already scribbling out a new design in her sketchbook.

“Then what do you suggest, ukhti?” Damian asks.

“I have a design in mind. The colors will stay, but the yellow and green will have to be significantly darker, and the red should be dulled as well. Sadly, you will have to wear that monstrosity tonight, but I can have the suit finished in time for patrol tomorrow, as will mine and Timothy’s new suits.” She replies, not glancing up from her book.

“What do you mean, Marinette?” Richard questions, and Marinette feels a tiny twinge of annoyance at how he handled telling Timothy about Robin.

“I mean that Timothy and I have crafted new identities as well. You did not expect him to just stop fighting crime, or for me to just sit at home while everyone else carried out Father’s mission, did you?”

Damian nods, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It will be nice to see you in the field too, ukhti.”

“What will your names be?” Richard prods curiously.

“I will not tell you just yet.” Marinette smirks. She shows her twin the finished design. “Does this look alright, akhi?”

“It looks wonderful, ukhti.” Damian replies. “Thank you.”

She sniffs. “Well, somebody had to fix the lack of fashion sense in this household eventually.”

.o0o.

Everyone else in the family may use capes, but Marinette decided that Richard’s Nightwing suit was by far the best because of its lack of one. Capes were long, heavy, a waste of fabric, and overall useless.

The Starling suit was primarily black, with a dark emerald mask covering the lower half of her face (because why carry a gas mask and rebreather when it can be built in?) with gloves and boots in the same color. A single silver star with curved sides was splayed on her chest, and a dark green utility belt rested on her waist. Her steel war fans had holsters strapped to her thighs.

All in all, the suit was built for the shadows. Marinette had learned to master slipping through the dark, unseen, and Gotham was the perfect place to utilize that. Starling would be nothing more than a ghost, a legend, if she had her way. After all, the less citizens knew, the less likely the information would hit the underworld, and that way, the vigilantes wouldn’t have all their cards out in the open.

Damian looks much better in his new suit as well, and Timothy is also grinning when he steps out of the male’s changing room. (A/N: the new 52 suit. I’m not letting him out of the Cave with that ugly cowl, or the traffic light costume with an extra R. Don’t even get me started on the Drake one.)

Richard, cowl still down, smiles as bright as the sun itself. “Good to see you, Robin. Tim, Marinette, can I ask your names?”

Timothy fastens his domino. “Red Robin.”

Marinette pulls her face mask up and curtsies with perfect posture. “Starling. I wish to work in the shadows, if that is alright.”

Richard puts on the cowl and becomes Batman. “You guys all look amazing.” He grins, and it is unsettling to see Batman smile. Oracle logs into the comms from the Clocktower.

“You all ready?”

They split the city in half. Red Robin and Starling take the North while Batman & Robin will cover the South. 

Starling trails Red Robin from afar, leaping from building to building and only using her grappling hook when the distance is too great to close by foot. They stop four muggings and two attempted assaults, all without Starling being spotted. The criminals think they hit their head on the alley walls or each other instead of her fist from behind.

It’s almost three in the morning when Batman calls it quits and they return to the Cave, changing out of their suits and showering. They are somehow all unharmed, so Alfred sends them up to bed.

Damian and Marinette brush their teeth before climbing into bed and flipping off the lights.

“Tonight was actually quite enjoyable.” Marinette remarks. “It is a nice feeling, to know that you are helping people.”

Damian hums sleepily. “It is good to know that we are continuing Father’s legacy.”

Marinette smiles. “Yes, I suppose so.” She burrows deeper into her blankets. “Sleep well, akhi.”

“The same goes for you, ukhti.”

For once, Marinette doesn’t have a nightmare.

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[xenteaart]

Apocalypse Chronicles

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck in the apocalypse certainly has its ups and downs, and this is somewhat of a dairy with little glimpses into the life you two had.

Warnings: mentions of vomit

Note: This is sort of a part 2 to this fic. Also you can check out my other fics on this Commission AU right here!

Hopefully, this is a rollercoaster.

Day 548.

You and Five were currently on your way… somewhere. You rarely had any particular destination in mind, if you were being honest. Mainly, you were just moving from one place to another, seeking shelter and looking for food and other essentials such as clothes, medical supplies and many other things, most of which were really hard to come by.

It’s been a very long day, and a fairly hard one as well because the weather seemed to get harsher with each passing mile and moving one foot in front of the other was beginning to feel like an impossible task. So, since all of your focus and concentration went into walking, naturally, you’d stopped listening to what Five was saying about thirty minutes ago. Funnily enough, it took him that long to notice you completely zoning out and ignoring his passionate ranting.

“Hey! Have you been listening?” he asked bitterly, mostly just annoyed by the fact he’d been wasting his breath.

You quickly snapped out of your daze and blinked a few times.

“Charming.” Five added as he rolled his eyes. It was this very moment when you realized something and couldn’t help but smile widely, and he raised one eyebrow in confusion as to what could be making you so happy right now.

“Your voice is starting to crack,” you pointed out. He clearly didn’t expect you to say that, and it caught him completely off guard, making him forget he was mad at you mere seconds ago.

“My boy is turning into a man!” you exclaimed; tenderness, pride and just a tiny bit of sarcasm radiating from your voice. Five shook his head and scoffed at your observation as he was trying to conceal his embarrassment; rather unsuccessfully, you must say.

Getting stuck with a slightly older girl and going through puberty was, in his opinion, beyond humiliating.

You wrapped your arm around his shoulder and squeezed it lightly, pulling him closer as the sound of your joyful giggling was filling the air.

“Can’t wait till you start getting facial hair too,” you teased him and immediately felt his elbow kick your ribcage, the impact too mild to leave a bruise but certainly sudden enough to make you go “ouch!”

Day 1325.

“Five Hargreeves, you may wanna propose to me right now,” you screamed from a distance as you were still rummaging through the ruins of what used to be a grocery store. Oh, you knew he was going to love this.

After spending almost 4 years by Five’s side, you’ve come to know an impressive amount of facts about him, most of which were mundane and in the grand scheme of things, he would say, insignificant. But you didn’t see them as such and kept them all in mind, waiting for the right moment, and today was your lucky day.

“What?” he yelled back, a little confused by your assumption that seemingly came out of nowhere. Not that he didn’t like your company but marriage wasn’t on his to-do list quite yet.

As you awkwardly climbed over the debris, obviously carrying something in your hands but trying to hide it underneath your ill-fitted parka, you said, “Close your eyes.”

Five seemed hesitant, so you insisted.

“Come on, I know you don’t like surprises but it’s the nice kind, I promise.”

He finally complied and exhaled loudly as a means of communicating his growing impatience. You promptly pulled out a coffee pack from under your clothes, swept the dust off its surface in one quick motion and handed it over to Five.

“Look.”

“No way,” he opened his mouth, sincerely shocked you had managed to find something whole and completely untouched. And it happened to be coffee.

“I think I deserve at least a kiss on the cheek, wouldn't you say?” you grinned at how fast Five’s expression turned from grumpy and tired to excited and grateful.

In no time his tight grip found your waist, and he effortlessly spun you around, making you squeak in surprise as you clawed into his shoulders for support instinctively. His movements were smooth and confident as if you were light as a feather or rather weighed nothing at all, and you caught yourself really enjoying the warmth of his hands on your skin.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” Five replied with a sigh as he put you down carefully, his tone suddenly losing its playfulness and blossoming with something a titch more unexpected, and if you had to put a name on it, “affection” would be the most fitting.

Fortunately, the smudges of dirt on your skin were doing a very good job at hiding just how red your cheeks turned at the comment.

Day 1557.

“God, do you ever shut up?” Five snarled irritably, interrupting you mid-sentence, and your jaw dropped in shock. You could have sworn it felt exactly what getting stabbed in the stomach would feel like.

You were a very short-tempered individual and in any other context you would have snapped back, making some scathing comment and walking away with your chin up. This time - not a single word left your mouth as you were paralyzed by Five’s unfiltered hostility. You felt your eyes burn and immediately turned away to wipe away the tear rolling down your cheek, too proud to let him see how much it hurt.

In your defence, you weren’t much of a talker before the apocalypse but it didn’t take you long to find out that being locked up in your own head in a deathly quiet world was not a good way to spend your days. So you kept talking, for both Five’s and your own sanity. It made things feel less real, however paradoxical it may sound. But, more importantly, it was a gesture of care.

You spent the rest of the day without saying a word, and, to your disappointment, Five wasn’t willing to break the silence either. Not talking, however, didn’t mean not looking after each other, and you, of course, made him dinner while he organized a safe place for you both to spend the night.

Since there was never a roof over your heads, you tended to sleep very close to each other, exchanging body heat to keep each other warm. At first, it was only a safety precaution but the habit slowly transformed into something more meaningful, somewhat of a necessity to know and feel that the other was still alive and breathing, still there, safe and sound.

As the two of you were lying in your improvised bed, which was essentially just a few layers of blankets on the hard and unfriendly concrete, you felt Five’s hot breath against the back of your neck as he cuddled you from behind. The big spoon.

“I deeply regret saying that,” Five whispered and sighed in frustration at his own self. He knew he royally fucked up.

“Please, don’t ever stop talking. I need it and I need you, okay?” he uttered so quietly that it was almost inaudible but you caught every word.

You clenched your teeth.

“Okay.”

Day 1866.

Birthdays were never a happy event in the apocalypse and you only kept track of them in order to know your own age.

Every birthday was nothing but another reminder of how much time you’ve spent trapped in this nightmare, and there was truly nothing either of you wished to celebrate.

However, this time you decided to make an exception. Five was turning eighteen and, despite the fact that your circumstances were far from perfect, it was a big day nevertheless.

To say you had limited resources would be saying nothing at all. No cake, no candles, no decorations, no anything to create an environment for having fun, and the only thing at your disposal was your contagious enthusiasm. It wasn’t much but it was surely something.

“Wakey-wakey, sleeping beauty,” you whispered into Five’s ear as you tapped on his shoulder, gently breaking him out of his sleep. He murmured something incoherent and placed his hand over his eyes, trying to escape the bright and intrusive daylight.

“Come on, I’ve made you a birthday breakfast,” which wasn’t at all different from any other breakfast but you believed a sprinkle of love that you so thoughtfully added was definitely going to make it taste a bit less like wet cardboard.

“We have plans for today,” you stated proudly as you were waiting for Five to get up. He glanced at you suspiciously, and you were quick to reassure him.

“You can do your clever math things till evening but after that we’re celebrating. There are two bottles of wine that you didn’t know about, and we’re going to drink them and dance. But not ball dance, properly drunk dance. No sadness allowed. Instructions clear?”

Five nodded, feeling a weary yet content and cheerful smile touch the corners of his lips.

Maybe, it wasn’t going to be a shit day, after all.

Day 2587.

“Come on, don’t you dare die on me, you idiot,” Five hissed after pressing his lips against your forehead and coming to a disturbing conclusion that your fever was only getting worse.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you laughed weakly as you looked up at him, and in less than a second a violent wave of nausea washed over your body and swallowed you whole, leaving you with very little chances to escape the overwhelming feeling. You’d been throwing up non-stop the entire day, and the severe dehydration you were suffering was becoming a genuine concern.

The two of you didn’t have the luxury of medicine, and most days you were doing just fine. This time, however, sleeping it off didn’t seem to be doing it for you, and Five was beginning to panic.

“Don’t say that,” Five said coldly, and you winced at the sudden change of mood, almost offended that he wasn’t trying to distract you from your mysterious illness with humor.

“I’m just worried about you,” he clarified as he noticed a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

It was absolutely killing him to see you like that - in pain, sick and exhausted, and he simply couldn’t afford to have “sad” on the list as well.

If there was one thing that Five despised more than anything else in this world, it would be helplessness, and now, as he was facing the invisible enemy that was threatening to take you away, he was feeling exactly that. Helpless. Useless.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through another urge to vomit, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth loudly, but the agonizing sensation didn’t seem to have any compassion or mercy for you.

“Okay, I can’t hold it back any longer,” you warned, and Five nodded in silent understanding.

He’d been sitting by your side and holding your hair all day, thoughtfully keeping it away from your face while you were restlessly puking your guts out, and, as you were doing so, not a single muscle on his face cringed in disgust. The only thing that was truly bothering him about this marathon of vomiting was how soon you were going to recover from it.

Thankfully, your immune system was strong enough to get you back on your feet without any external assistance, and you began to get better eventually. But even during your weeks of sickness there wasn’t a single day when you didn’t feel loved and cared for, and the precious moments of Five holding your hand during your feverish nightmares were going to be imprinted on your mind forever.

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Green Gold

Summary: 

"The one Levi had picked out was of a minimalist design. The color in particular though was what stood out. At first glance, it looked like a typical gold or yellow. As Levi took a closer look from different angles under a light source, he couldn’t help but notice the way it glowed a bright green and was quick to fall back to a simple yellow. It did it too consistently though that Levi was sure it was not just a trick of the light."

Levi scrambles for a last minute Christmas present and Hange copes with being eight months pregnant.

Same verse as Rough Day, Sugar Rush and Household Planning.

Link to cross-postings: AO3

Notes: I know it isn't Christmas yet but I decided to drop some Levihan Christmas Fluff a little early. I wish you all a happy holiday!

When a new jewelry shop opened in a space adjacent to his favorite tea shop in Paradis, Levi was quick to notice it.

It never did catch his interest though. The hard life he had lived for roughly 40 years had him completely nonchalant at most significant developments. The opening of some ordinary jewelry shop was not at all a significant development that called any attention from the battle hardened soldier, even if it did attract a crowd for the first two months.

That was until Mr. Spasky the tea shop owner brought it up over a round of tea tasting. Levi had seen him exchange a few words with the jewelry shop owner before he would welcome Levi into his shop.  He had guessed that they had become fast friends through the excitement of their tones and the detail they looked too comfortable giving each other. The friendship between those two was something he had brushed away too easily though. Levi was too preoccupied by a cranky pregnant Hange and his own household projects to consider much of anything else.

One day, Mr. Spasky brought up one unfamiliar question which got Levi particularly confused.

“So what kind of engagement ring did you buy your woman?"

"Engagement ring? Woman?" Levi frowned in confusion. “I have a woman?”

“It’s the season of giving so maybe it would be a good time…” The shopkeeper winked.

Levi’s thoughts were elsewhere. Partner. That was the word. By the expression and the tone on Mr. Spasky’s face, Levi could at least tell, they had the traditional woman in mind. Of course they would, they’ve never met Hange.

Hange was definitely pregnant and had been glaringly pregnant for the past few months already. Was she being the traditional woman about it? Definitely not.

Levi only had to be reminded of why he even felt the need to correct Mr. Spasky when he got home from his quick trip to the tea shop that day to find Hange as usual, coping with her six month leave in a very unconventional manner.

It had been two months since he had emailed that letter to the queen and requested for a leave for Hange. And with how Hange looked, hunched up on a microscope with a broken rock next to the table, Levi could tell that she was still far from the acceptance stage.

In fact, she had been constantly scrambling for something to do since she had been put in a leave of absence in the first place. She was probably penultimate month of pregnancy according to the doctor and she was still fighting for control of her life.

The first week into the leave she would take long walks, long enough for Levi to feel the need to circle the perimeter of the block where their apartment was, only to end up pacing by the entrance of the house not wanting to relax until she got home. Even when she did arrive home, Levi found himself only getting more stressed by her little souvenirs.

She was like a cat. The big difference lay in the fact that while cats brought home dead rats and game, Hange would bring home different types of leaves, roots and other plant parts and leave them on the table next to the microscope she had set up on her desk.

“Shouldn’t you be doing other things?” Levi had asked as he watched Hange set up the microscope in their room in the wee hours of morning, when he was about to sleep.

“What other things? I’m on leave right?” Hange had too much venom on the word leave that Levi had to look away and remind himself that it was Historia after all who made the final say. So it’s her fault not mine. He would reassure himself, conveniently forgetting the fact that he did draft the letter. He didn’t reply to Hange’s implicit accusation, instead deciding to hide under the covers of his bed and stay there unmoving, even when it did take him an extra three hours to fall asleep.

By the second week, Levi could barely get a wink at night, too busy wondering what risk lay in a pregnant person studying such strange substances. Levi started to follow her surreptitiously as she went about the town, only to see that she had been getting them from a nearby public garden.

It wasn’t strange at all to see Hange digging through plants, roots and flowers. She had expressed her passion for botany on top of titans too many times to count.

But she’s pregnant. And that’s unsanitary as fuck. Hange being unsanitary as fuck wasn’t anything new though. Levi had known her long enough to accept it.

The circumstances then were different. For a while, Levi considered telling her off. He found himself in a state of panic a second later though completely forgetting that intention, as he realized that it wasn’t just unsanitary. A few inches away, a dog decided to pee on that same soil which Hange was digging through. Somehow that view was what helped him put three and two together to get five. Hange was desperately studying whatever green and brown she could find. And it was mixing with dog shit, cat shit and whatever else made their home in that little bush.  

Levi did not need to consult a doctor to know that it was potentially dangerous for a pregnant woman. He rushed back home, went to Hange’s desk and disposed of all the samples into a bag and threw it out into the dumpster before she could get home.

For the first time, Levi was grateful that Hange did go on such long walks. That gave Levi at least enough time to create a backstory for the sudden cleanliness of her desk and her missing samples. In a state of panic though and faced with the obstacle of limited time, Levi had come up with another idea, an idiotic one, completely unbelievable that it had little chance of working.

Levi was desperate though. Although he did have the reflexes on the battlefield to take down an enemy bent on killing him, scrambling to find a cover up story for a very pregnant and very unpredictable Hange Zoe was another story.

At that rate though, Hange must have been as crazy, desperate and idiotic as him a result of the pregnancy hormones and the stress of being in almost total isolation in a smaller part of town with little to no responsilities. Hange came home to see rocks lined up, in the stead of her previous samples, and continued on her mini research as if nothing had changed.  

They were less alarming test subjects at least. Levi had made sure to wash them thoroughly beforehand. They did not stink as much as the plants. And they had at least caught Hange’s interest enough that she did not ask too much about the missing plant samples, having brushed off the white lie of a bird stealing them.

Overtime, Levi eventually realized she never did believe the lie. She was too sharp for that. In fact, the reason she had accepted such a blatant lie in the first place was because the rocks on the table had turned out to be a more interesting subject. The hammers and nails became an ubiquitous part of her work desk. The meticulous side of Levi was also starting to begrudgingly notice the scratches on the table from the scrape of rock on wood.

From a coping mechanism of studying plants and greens, Hange had shifted to studying rocks. And as Levi started to realize over dinner, rocks were an incredibly boring topic, so boring that he almost missed hearing about photosynthesis and the difference of a xylem and a phloem.

Apparently, there were so many different types of rocks and the ones he had randomly picked out in the garden could have been igneous, hinting to the possibility of volcanic or seismic activity around the area. How she had gotten that from a bunch of random rocks, Levi did not know. She started talking about extracting metals from ores. And she had started to name the rocks too apparently: Gabbro, limestone, basalt. Hearing those names echo in his head, only made Levi miss the plants.

He started to particularly miss the plants a little more when the streets started to line with them, and the main square near their place was fitted with a large tree in the center, decorated with lights and bright balls. A surprising addition to his everyday view on the way to the tea shop.

Christmas. He never really did get used to it. A tradition brought from Marley apparently. With Hange's new obsession with rocks, the large tree in the middle of the square seemed almost nostalgic.

"So it looks like the Christmas tree can amaze even the most serious men," A voice said behind him.

The Christmas Tree was placed in the middle of the square where the tea shop was also conveniently located. And from his good view of the Christmas Tree in the middle, Levi was also a good few feet away from the shop. He only had to look behind him to see Mr. Spassky, having a smoke at the entrance.

That thoughtless comment was enough to make Levi look away from the tree faster than he had wanted to. He entered the tea shop with a Mr. Spassky trailing behind and the tea had helped him cope. By that point, he had almost completely forgotten the Christmas Tree in the middle of the square.

Like always, Mr. Spasky would place a cup of black tea and make conversation. “So what did you get her?”

It was Hange who had pointed out years ago that his birthday was on the same day as Christmas day. For Levi, it was a surprise since he had built a habit through the years of never giving days enough importance to analyze them beyond what was available at face value. At that moment, when the shopkeeper noted that Christmas Eve was that night, Levi could only spit out the tea. It was his birthday. It was almost Christmas. And he had spent too much time and energy keeping Hange sane to have even noticed.

Mr. Spassky was a great salesman and a great marketer. Levi at that moment was at the mercy of his complex emotions constantly flitting from the guilt of disposing of Hange’s samples to his overall exhausted state to the state of panic which would stop by for a visit every few hours, when he would ask the question of  what Hange could be doing back home at that exact moment.

If Levi had been any sharper that day, he probably would have figured it out as quickly as he had figured out the food campaigns of King Fritz years ago that Christmas was merely a seasonal marketing campaign to get people to buy more and that new tradition on giving engagement rings was a piece of all year long marketing tactic to keep the jewelry business alive.

At his most vulnerable though, Levi had become prey to those propaganda and the nagging feelings of guilt, only spread through him, getting stronger with every point they made. He and Hange had been living together for more than a year, Hell she was pregnant with their first child already.

And I never bothered to get her an engagement ring or a Christmas present?   For the first time since it opened, Levi was finally starting to see the value and novelty in that quaint jewelry shop next to the tea shop.

As Mr. Spassky guided him through the doors of the jewelry shop, Levi was quick to notice the different rings on display. What caught Levi’s eye in particular was the display case on the side of the room that sold shiny colored metals, similar to a cavern under a church Levi had visited so many years ago. On the walls were pictures and detailed drawings of couples exchanging rings, only highlighting the tradition Levi had noticed among other couples he had witnessed.

Is there really commitment if there’s no ring?

Is it really love if you don’t buy them anything for Christmas?

Every good romance starts with a ring.

Blatant propaganda. Yet strong and relevant enough for Levi to put enough thought into picking out a ring.

The one Levi had picked out was of a minimalist design. The color in particular though was what stood out. At first glance, it looked like a typical gold or yellow. As Levi took a closer look from different angles under a light source, he couldn’t help but notice the way it glowed a bright green and was quick to fall back to a simple yellow. It did it too consistently though that Levi was sure it was not just a trick of the light.

Green Gold. That was what it was called according to the shopkeeper as he held it up to the late much better than what Levi had done. From the different angles, Levi could see the gleam of gold and the tinge of green.

Levi did not need the confirmation of the color to decide to buy it. Maybe it was the characteristic cloak they would wear from so many years ago which made it such an obvious choice. Maybe it was the homesickness that came and went from living and fighting in an almost all green landscape almost their whole lives then being forced to move somewhere within the city that had pushed him to that. Maybe it was a combination of all that, only supplemented by the nostalgia that came with missing Hange’s obsession with trees.

It probably was the fact that the color green had been so ubiquitous the past two decades of his life. Seeing it as a faint yet beautiful glow had awakened emotions of sentimentality for a life he had lived long before.  

As Levi took in the scenery of the urban jungle which they had been living in for the past few years and the stark contrast to the green they had been fighting in for many more years, maybe he did start to understand her obsession with green. In fact, he did realize with his own impulse purchase, he was a tad fixated with the color green too.

He gripped his small gift bag a little tighter as he arrived at the entrance of the apartment they shared.

“Hange, Merry Christmas.” Levi was completely comfortable with Hange and he was completely aware of that. Yet, for that moment he needed to rehearse it, having occupied himself with whether to say Merry Christmas before or after handing her the present.

Hange returned the greeting with her own questioning look, which could have maybe even been judgmental. For some reason, that had made Levi blush. He looked away as soon as he gave it and went straight to the kitchen to cram the Christmas Eve dinner he had forgotten about.

He allowed himself a last look, only to see a smile creep up Hange’s lips as she opened the gift box. Levi found himself smiling in return, even if he knew she wouldn’t notice it with his back to her. It had been weeks since he had seen such excitement in those eyes as she smiled, that same excitement and enthusiasm he had seen as she recounted to him every development in Paradis. As he was cutting the tomatoes for their meal that night, he couldn’t help but think that that smile gave him the same sense of nostalgia as the color green.

Maybe she felt it too?

“It looks like I was right… I knew they’d put titanium here. It shouldn’t be this hard if there wasn’t any.”

Levi placed the newly cooked pasta on their dining table. Hange was on the living room table, with a lamp at full brightness, hunched over like she was working on something. Just like always, Hange was scratching the table below with a new stone

A shiny new stone…. “Is that the gift I bought you?” Levi asked.

“Yeah…”

There must have been a hint of accusation or anger in Levi’s voice. The face Hange had was reminiscent  to what one would see when a dog is caught chewing on something they aren’t supposed to. With the realization that what they had done is wrong, most dogs would usually chew faster. Hange had done the human equivalent, or more specifically, the pregnant Hange equivalent of breaking into it faster.

“It’s a ring Hange. You’re supposed to be wearing it!”

“But is it really important that I wear it? Isn’t it more important that we find out the secrets of how they make this?” It was an argument which could have convinced any other scientist. Levi was far from what could have been a good target audience.  

“Give me that!” Levi found himself wrestling or at least trying to wrestle someone while avoiding the baby bump which was taking up more than 50% of her waistline at that moment.

“It’s your gift to me Levi! To me! Let me use it like I want to!”

Hange made a good point. That good point and the prospect of wrestling someone who was eight months pregnant with his first child was what got Levi surrendering and just sitting on the sofa within minutes just listening to one of her lectures.

Hange once again scratched the sharp side of the already broken ring on the table then bit it, inadvertently causing Levi more pain for multiple reasons. “See, gold wouldn’t make a scratch like this. This is why it isn’t necessarily pure gold despite what’s written here,” Hange explained as she slid the flier closer to him. “ I’m guessing they used titanium here, similar to the metal they used for our blades and the ODM gear. Maybe even copper or iron?

“So it was a fake,” Levi said bitterly. It was the mention of such cheap metals making its way into such a beautiful object with such a unique shine to it. He felt like an idiot for actually believing it was something pure.”

“This is actually a good thing because if they did make something out of pure gold, it would scratch pretty fast. In fact, the other metals make it so that it lasts longer.”

“That was supposed to be a Christmas Gift,” Levi said, completely ignoring Hange’s explanation.

“It was a great Christmas gift. I’ve never seen this shade of gold in my life.” Hange said.

“Yeah, it was supposed to be an engagement gift too.” Levi managed to add before the blood rushed through his face, leaving him unable to speak for a few seconds.

“Engagement?”

“Mr. Spassky said that most people give a ring to someone when they want to spend the rest of their lives with them.” Levi did not know how he had managed to get that out.

“And you’re falling for that propaganda now? Levi, we’ve been living together for the past two years. We’ve done things. I’m pregnant with our first kid. We don’t need a piece of metal to prove anything.”

At that moment, Levi remembered his own mother who had raised him. She’s done things. She was pregnant with someone’s kid. Yet he had never met his father.

Then what do we have to prove it? Levi didn’t need to ask her. He felt it in how quickly the exasperation of a minute ago gradually morphed into a playful feeling that tickled his chest and the sudden urge to grab her from behind and feel her tummy. He felt it a second later as she put her hands on his and gripped his hands a little tighter. Just the way he had wanted it.

Hange lay back down on the sofa next to him and gave him one of the softest smiles. She started to yawn and lay her head on his. She had fallen asleep next to him multiple times before. At that moment, he appreciated it a little more. As battle hardened soldiers, they would have only ever fallen asleep next to someone they completely trusted. Then and there, pregnant and tired, Hange was at her most vulnerable.

Then what do we have to prove it? The fact that they knew each other inside and out. The commitment to make it work. Their trust in the other to do the same.

At that moment, they were both at their most vulnerable.

“Now that I think about it... I haven’t been able to buy you a birthday christmas present,” Hange said, her voice only getting softer as she buried her face into his shoulder. “Maybe if you let me go shopping downtown I would.”

“You know what would be the best Christmas birthday gift? You not accidentally killing our kid.”

[7-wonders]

The Thrill of the Chase

Summary: Your path once again crosses with Michael’s, this time under much more dire circumstances. Life and death, specifically yours, has suddenly never been more prevalent in your mind.

Word Count: 2602

A/N: Hey y’all, this takes place after Lost In the Shadows! We’ve been talking a lot of True Blood on here lately, and when I wrote this sort of situation with Eric Northman, somebody said they could imagine this with Michael. Hence, this new work. I hope you enjoy, and please remember that likes, comments, and reblogs are what makes my world go round.

In the weeks since you had discovered that vampires are not just a myth written about in romantic novels and scary stories, and that your boss, Michael Langdon, was the first vampire and the Antichrist, life had been quieter than you were expecting. After luring Michael to your lab and forcing him to tell you about vampires, you had thought that he was going to make you go missing or force you to swear that you would remain silent. To your surprise, however, he gave you space. You had seen him multiple times since the incident had occurred, but every time he kept his distance, choosing to greet you with a simple smile before moving on to whatever a vampire CEO needs to do. 

Maybe this is some predatory habit of vampires, where they bait their prey before backing off and driving them mad with anticipation before striking. If it is, you would rather Michael get whatever he’s planning over with. This wait, whether it be for something or nothing, is starting to affect your work.

Speaking of work, it’s then that you shake yourself out of your thoughts and realize nearly an hour has passed since the typical work day ends. You sigh, running a hand through your hair and looking disdainfully at the paperwork that still litters your desk. Some days, being head of R&D has its perks. Others, when you have to sift through hundreds of funding requests from developers just as idiotic as Jeff and Mutt, make you want to walk out and never come back. You doubt you’d find a job with health insurance as good as Kineros’s, though.

Deciding that a walk to clear your head will do you some good, you stand and relish in the popping noise that your shoulders make when you stretch. The building’s your favorite when it’s almost completely empty, the comforting silence a perfect work environment. Greeting one of the custodians as she mops the hall in the direction away from your lab/office, you decide to walk downstairs to give her uninterrupted time to clean without you getting in the way. 

Eventually, and like always, you end up down at the main lab that Jeff and Mutt inhabit. You’ve made it a habit to come and check that everything is turned off and put back where it’s supposed to be, not trusting two men constantly high on cocaine to properly dispose of used chemicals and turn off the power source to loose wires. After getting on them numerous times about proper lab etiquette, they’ve actually become quite vigilant. Tonight, however, you can already see a bunsen burner that looks like it’s still on. While concerning, it’s not a disastrous situation. It’s not, at least, until you turn the light on and notice the ethanol-soaked rag right next to the open gas source.

That’s when the explosion happens.

It’s a perfect storm, with a combustible chemical having had plenty of time to oxidize next to a natural gas source. The heat emanating from the fluorescent lights that you turn on act as the catalyst, and you only have time to cover your eyes as the light from the rapidly-expanding flame warns you milliseconds before the explosion reaches your ears. The sheer force of velocity is enough to throw you across the room, with the all-glass interior proving no match as every surface shatters. Everything is happening so fast, yet it seems as though it’s in slow motion, an out of body experience in which you’re a passive observer watching what’s happening to you. Maybe you are having an out of body experience, since the bouncing of your head against the wall is something that you’re pretty sure knocks you out.

It’s unclear how much time has passed when you hear a voice calling your name. Long enough that the flames have started smoldering under the water of the fire alarms. You blink rapidly, trying to get your eyes to focus again. Finally, Michael Langdon comes into view. If you weren’t in a state of shock, you’d be mildly upset that of course the vampire whom you threatened last week is the one to come upon you in a state of mortal peril. Since you are dealing with a bit of shock, you can only stare at him in disbelief.

“(Y/N), can you hear me?” You nod. “What happened?”

“Cokeheads...chemicals...bunsen burner…” Damn, that sounded way more eloquent in your head. Your inability to string together a full sentence means a concussion is almost certain.

“Those fucking imbeciles,” Michael says lowly, eyes scanning you to catalogue the extent of your injuries. His eyes are dark red with veins extending to his cheeks, startling you just as much as the previous time you saw this side of him. What startles you even more is just how easily he bites into his own wrist to let blood flow, holding it out to you expectantly.

“No, I don’t wanna be a vampire.” You try to move away from Michael, but you’re in too much pain for even that.

Although your words come out slurred and confused, Michael still understands you. “You won’t, I promise. It’s a very specific ritual, and there’s not even a chance of you becoming a vampire from this. Please, just take my blood and let me heal you.”

Later, you’ll wonder if Michael had done some sort of vampire mind trick on you. That’s the only way you can justify taking his blood with so little hesitation. Regardless of the reasons why, the earnesty in his voice tells you that he’s being truthful.

Michael leans over you, slipping a hand around the back of your neck to help you up as you lower your mouth to the open wound on his wrist. While you grimace at the metallic taste when Michael’s blood first pools in your mouth, the taste changes to something much more pleasant. It’s like a new cocktail that you get at a bar; you’re not too sure of whether or not you like it, but you know that it tastes good.

By the time you notice that your head feels clearer, Michael’s deemed that you’re fully healed. To your muted horror, you realize that you don’t want to pull away, but Michael gently forces you off of him. His inquisitive eyes look you over once more, and he uses his thumb to wipe stray blood off of your lips.

“You healed me. Why?” Your head is reeling with how fast events have been moving in the span of just a few minutes, yet the one clear question you have is why Michael healed you when he could have just as easily killed you.

“Why not?”

“Well...because…”

“Are you feeling better?” Michael decides to take pity on your bewilderment, switching the subject. 

“Oh!” Now that he mentions it, you do feel better. You can think in full sentences now, and the dull ache in your head has disappeared. While you hadn’t seen any cuts on your body, the thin lines of blood left behind on your arms prove that there were wounds from the broken glass. “I am, actually.”

“You sound surprised. Did you not think that it would work?”

Laughing sheepishly, you shrug. “I mean, not really.”

You look around, just now seeing the destruction around you. “You think Jeff and Mutt have insurance that covers gross negligence?”

“Oh, they’ll be paying for this out of their own pockets. They’re lucky that I won’t have them criminally charged for any of this.” Sirens sound in the distance, and Michael pulls you up from out of the rubble. “Come, the authorities will be here soon.”

“Wait!” Michael allows you to pull him to a stop. “What do I even tell the police? I’m sure there’s security footage of me getting knocked out.”

“Conveniently, the cameras were knocked out due to the explosion.” Michael winks at you before disappearing like he was never at the scene, leaving you to stand among the carnage as authorities swarm what was once a laboratory.

//

It’s light out when you wake up after your whirlwind night, which is what you first recognize as odd. When you arrived home last night, you don’t remember falling asleep. The next thing that can be categorized as odd is the tall, blond vampiric Antichrist standing in the middle of your bedroom. You scramble up on the bed with a surprised gasp, pulling your blankets up to your chin and staring at Michael’s smirking face.

“What--how are you here? I never invited you in.”

“A common misconception about vampires.” Michael slowly approaches the bed, his languid movements reminding you of the predator that he is.

“But what about the fact that it’s light out? Shouldn’t you be a pile of ash right now?”

“I am not the final word of vampire lore.” He kind of is, and you would retort with that, if it weren’t for the way he crawls towards you. “Your heart is beating very fast.”

“That’s because I’m not sure if you’re gonna eat me.”

“Potentially, but not in the way that you’re thinking.” If Michael couldn’t hear your heart beating before, he surely can now, especially once he leans in and kisses you.

You’ve been kissed before, enough times that you would consider yourself pretty knowledgeable about the subject. If you know a bit about kissing, then Michael Langdon is an expert on it. He manages to be sensual, yet rough at the same time, a fang nicking your bottom lip and making you shudder in surprise. Just as quickly as the droplet of blood can bead up to the surface, Michael’s licked it away, moaning at the taste of your blood.

“I don’t know how I’ve managed to go so long between tasting you,” Michael mutters against your skin, using his skill to quickly remove the shirt that you had been sleeping in.

You’re not self-conscious at Michael seeing you topless, which is unusual for you. Maybe it’s just because he knows how to treat a person right, but it’s impossible to even have those thoughts when the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen is currently kissing his way down your abdomen. Michael’s fingers ghost over the top of your pants, and you thread your fingers through his hair in response. Then, there’s a loud knock on the door.

Sitting up in bed, you’re disoriented when you realize that it’s not light out, and you don’t have a gorgeous blond vampire on top of you. Somebody knocks on the door again, and you realize that must be what woke you up from your extremely vivid, extremely wonderful dream.

“I’m coming,” you say in the loudest voice you can muster, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders to combat the cold air that the open door will let in. “Michael!”

Either this is the weirdest inception-like dream you’ve ever had, or the man you were just having a sex dream about is standing at your door. “Hello, (Y/N). I hope you won’t be too upset that I woke you at this hour.”

“Uh, you’re fine.” You open the door wider to allow Michael to enter, but he just continues to stand in the same spot. “Do I...have to invite you in? Like, is that a real thing with vampires?”

���No, I just prefer to be polite and not barge into somebody’s home without their permission.” You smirk. Of course that myth would come from the overly-polite Antichrist.

“Come in, Michael.”

“Thank you.” He steps in, quickly appraising the entryway of your apartment with the detached air of someone who’s been in homes much grander than this (he probably has; you’ve seen a couple of portraits of the French court at Versailles with a blond lord who looks suspiciously like Michael). “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“That would be a question I have.”

“Well, I realized that I had forgotten to mention something about taking vampire blood when injured.”

“And you couldn’t wait until the next time that you saw me to tell me this? Wait, how did you even find my address?”

“I’m the CEO, I have everybody’s records.”

“So, what did you have to tell me?”

“I’m assuming, since you were asleep, that you had a pretty...imaginative dream about me?”

The blood drains from your face. “How did you know about that?”

“I was so wrapped up in saving you, and the commotion that followed, that I didn’t get to tell you that a human drinking a vampire’s blood bonds them to that vampire.”

“What does that mean?” you ask incredulously.

“What it means,” Michael explains patiently, “is that certain things are going to happen to you now that you have a vampire’s blood in your system. Your senses will be enhanced, you’ll have heightened strength…”

“And the dreams?”

“As I said before, drinking a vampire’s blood bonds a human to that vampire. Until my blood is out of your system, I’ll be able to sense if you’re in trouble and your emotions. It can also give you erotic dreams about the vampire whose blood you’ve consumed.”

You groan, dismay evident on your face. “Great, that’s just--fantastic. So when does it stop?”

“A couple of months? Blood doesn’t cycle through the body very fast.”

“You’re kidding me,” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t see what’s funny about this.”

“My entire life since I’ve met you has been fucking hilarious! And now I’m apparently bonded to you because you just happened to cross my path when I was mortally wounded.”

Michael glowers at you. “I didn’t have to save your life, you know.”

“Yet you did, all the while knowing what would happen when I took your blood.” You want to say all the things you’re thinking of, like how you still would have survived out of sheer hatred for him even if you did have to wait for the ambulance to arrive (which they had, clearing you after you had explained to the very confused EMTs that you hadn’t been in the lab when the explosion happened, just right outside of it; they had accepted your lie, albeit dubiously upon seeing the devastation that wrecked the first floor of Kineros), but all you can think about are his goddamn beautiful lips and how badly you want to kiss them. “Fuck, I can’t even focus on being mad at you because of the urge to kiss your stupidly perfect face!”

The anger Michael was previously feeling evaporates as he fights the upward quirk that his lips threaten to take. “We certainly can kiss, if that’s what you’d like.”

“It’s not what I’d like! It’s that stupid bond you were talking about.”

“Maybe just once will help to quell any future urges you may have?” 

You’re not sure if you want to smack the cocky grin off his face or jump on him, so you settle for pointing to the front door. “Out.”

“Alright, but just remember that the offer still stands.” He produces a business card between his long, ringed fingers, and you snatch it out of his hand while still glaring at him. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

You slam the door behind him, leaning against it to help your shaky knees. Michael’s laughter is still on the air long after he’s left, and you sigh as you wonder how on earth you’re going to get to sleep...especially when you realize that you won’t be able to take care of your little problem without Michael knowing. That laughter suddenly seems a lot louder now.

//

Baby tag list bc I’m lazy: @moonanonwriting​ @lvngdvns​ @wroteclassicaly​ @sojournmichael​ @chibi-lioness​ @ccodyfern​ @trelaney​ @xavierplympton​ @dyns33​ @michaelsapostle​ @ajokeformur-ray​

[zhonglishrine]

Can i have a oneshot for gogol comforting his crying s/o?

Pairing: Nikolai Gogol x Reader Word Counts: 2.3k Note: Hello anon! Please forgive me for taking a long time to do your request! Since it was the first request on my blog, I thought I wanted to make it special. But I was stuck with writer’s block. So I used my old work before and re-edit it instead so it will be slightly different to match with the request! I’m sorry and I hope you will enjoy it and special big thanks to @soukokuwu​ for helping me proofread this one! Really, thank you so muchhhh <3!!!

It was empty.

In this dark cold continent, there was nothing but void and darkness inside. You either existed or your mind was playing a trick on you. It felt like a grand illusion - that nothing was real. What you were searching for was not there. Nothing you did would ever make you feel complete in any sense. There was always this feeling that haunted you, always reminding you of how miserable and disgusting you were. Gnawed and woven to your very soul like wild ivy tendrils wrapping around your empty heart and kept whispering down to the deepest recesses of your mind.

You were a monster.

You were a demon.

You were a human with no heart.

You were no different than a dead soul.

Then, why were you still alive?

For what purpose were you even here?

You shut your eyes tightly. You wanted to scream and block every deafening sound that suffocated you in this insufferable world. It exacerbated and tightened in your chest the more you struggled. Had it not been your sanity that kept you sane, you would already be consumed by madness. But would it be better if you just let yourself loose? Let it take over and become nothing but a shell of a living monster? Would it be better just to let what remains of you and burn it into a fire of anguish and let it turn to ash? Let it destroy you with the spite and hatred you harbor towards everything?

You were desperate to reach for something.

Anything.

And that was when he came along, when you were at a loss, as though he knew.

"Would you like to join the Decay of Angels?" He had said, with eyes as vacant as yours, but his hypnotizing violet eyes beneath that moonlight was much deeper and darker. It feels like you would lose yourself and drown in it if you were to stare any longer. Yet without exchanging any further words, he seemed to understand the unspoken pain that has festered through your being at that very moment. You looked exactly like a lost child that desperately needed guidance, that needed to cling onto something.

"...What will I get if I join you?"

"You will be free. From your sins."

That was what he had offered. His soothing, saintly voice was like a remedy that could mend your broken soul that needed salvation, which had been beyond redemption at that point. You had nothing to lose and thus accepted his invitation back then, with a little hope thinking something might change. But after so many years, it still remained the same. You were still the same old you. No matter how much you wanted to pretend, you could never fake a smile and pretend to be happy. It felt like it would be hypocritical- like it would only make you lose sight of yourself even more.

Then, what is it that you were searching for, actually?

Why were you still here?

A soft sigh escaped your chapped lips as you stared long at the night sky above. The stars twinkled, a million light-years away from the orbit. Yet you still reached out your hand, as if attempting to pick one and keep it in your pocket in a futile endeavor.

"A beautiful night, isn't it?" a familiar voice chirped, interrupting your time alone. You were never one that liked the companionship of others, but even so, no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, he'd just pester you even more and pop out randomly, much to your distaste. He was the last member of the Decay of Angels that you would want to interact with.

"Why are you here?"

"Aww, don't be so cold with me~! I merely passed by and just wanted to say hello to you~" Gogol winked and gave you a finger gun, as though his intentions weren't obvious.

"Bother someone else."

"Ah, are you upset that I'm not Dos?" He smirked as he guessed that.

You felt that he could easily read right through you and you didn’t like it - the feeling of being exposed. Fyodor was a man of mystery, a puzzle that you couldn't solve. You thought of him as someone who understood you and despite the terror associated with his name, he was still someone that you respected profoundly. Not out of fear, but maybe, admiration. But you hated that Gogol was right. You wished you were talking to Fyodor instead of the clown, and Gogol had gotten it right on the nose. And yet here you two were, with different circumstances that bring you two to join the association, even with different goals.

"Shut up. Just leave me alone, will you?"

"Aw... but no one wants to play with me. Even Sigma is busy. But you have been doing nothing but stargazing~ Don't you get tired doing that every night? If it were me, I'd die of boredom!" He flailed his arms in an attempt to get your attention. You cursed under your breath. This clown was too energetic for you to handle.

"None of your business what I do." You replied back to him crudely. But he took a seat beside you anyway, sitting by the edge of the building and swinging his legs back and forth with those comical pointy shoes of his. For someone his age, he acted rather childishly. Though, maybe that's just one of his antics as a clown. But he was the epitome of someone you could never understand. Since you can ever be two-faced like he is.

Gogol hummed. "You always come here, why is that?"

"I told you; it's none of your business."

"Aw. Here I thought that we were friends~" Gogol made it sound like he was hurt by your words.

You ruefully snorted at that, "Funny hearing that coming from you." Did he think you were that naive? Naive enough to think that you two were friends in this organization that was solely established with terrorists that can backstab you at any given moment?

"Is it not right? You've been with us for years, yet you seem so distant. Just like the stars." He remarked while spreading out his left arm to the sky.

"Is that so?" You looked up at it again, attempting to count the innumerable stars, albeit knowing how futile it was.

"Say... why did you join the Decay of Angels?" You posed the question to him, though you weren’t really curious. You just needed something to fill the awkward silence.

"Why, indeed. If I must answer that, why don't you tell me your reason first?"

Reason. You were still unsure about it yet. Why? You had killed so many just for that answer alone but the book that was your mind still drew a blank. Nothing was written on it yet. Was it because you were drawn to Fyodor's words at that time? Had he lured you in with nothing but empty promises?

"Perhaps… I was searching for the meaning of my existence." You curtly answered, but your mind still pondered on it.

"Then, have you found it?" Gogol asked, evincing interest to know as he turned to look at you sideways. There was something between you, something that somehow made you feel connected to him. Both of you were pawns that would soon be disposed of once you have served your purpose. It didn’t scare you, though. You would do what you had to, even if that meant dying in the end. The only thing you were scared of is regret - of not finding what you were searching for in the first place.

"...I don't know. Maybe not yet. Maybe I never will." You said, feigning nonchalance. "Then, what about you?" Now it was your turn to look into his molten gold eye, the one scarred with a vertical cut. Was there a story behind it? You wonder inwardly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask Gogol about it. In the Decay of Angels, every member came from a different background and it was unknown what they did before. If you asked him he might tell, either in a jesting manner or make it overly complicated, like another riddle you had to solve.

"I search for my freedom. Just like a bird that soars the skies without being bound by anything," he replied with a wistful tone and his expression softened, "I am seeking for a perfect freedom, like that."

"Freedom, huh..." You repeated, "you're one strange guy." Indeed, he was. Nikolai Gogol was an enigma himself, just as Fyodor was. As though he was standing between the bridge of psychosis and rationality that he wants to get rid of. You failed at understanding his essence, but you could empathize with his pursuit.

"Funny hearing that coming from you~" He retorted with your earlier words. "But birds and stars, are they not so different?"

"How so? They are two different entities, to start with."

"Because both are up far in the sky, seemingly unreachable for a mortal like us. Even so, we still gaze at them longingly, wishing upon the star, wishing to fly, wishing to escape from this warm, wet hell."

You couldn’t refute that. Technically, he wasn’t wrong.

"Then, have you found it?"

Gogol looked at you again, his eye reflecting every little light in the world that you see. He softened his countenance as if he actually understood what lay within your heart that you tried to conceal.

"Maybe I do. Now that I met you."

Within the span of a second that felt like an eternity, your heart thumped loudly in your ribcage, like he took your breath away at that moment with his gaze alone.

No...

Don't fall for it.

Don't fall for it again.

It would be the same. He would just be like the others. He too, would leave once he saw what was inside - that which was hiding and cloaking you in the darkness, that which enshrouded and imprisoned you inside.

And just like he said, you were exactly like the stars.

You were in front of him, and yet you felt so distant and too far away to reach.

"...It's nice talking to you. But I must take my leave now..." You wanted to withdraw yourself before you started to harbor hope and belief in someone again. Before you fell for it again, only to be tripped afterward. Only to be deceived, left broken, and uncared for years.

But he held you back by your wrist.

"Won't you stay a little while longer, my dove? A star will one day perish, and I would feel so lonely if you are truly gone." His voice somehow pulls the strings of your heart. But you know better than to fall for him.

"Wouldn't it be better? You don't know who I am..." You tried to break free, yet he was stubborn, he didn’t want to let you go. "I am not what you think I am... I'm just another monster who has no heart. You shouldn't get close to me..." Your eyes were already starting to well up with hot tears. The stinging pain in your chest throbbed, each passing second with him made you feel suffocated, as though causing you to drown in your own misery. Inevitable it was that you would bring him down with you as well.

"...Or else, you would destroy yourself too," you warned him,

"You’re either human or you are not, either you are a monster with no heart or not, what difference does it make?" He questioned you back, "Be whatever you want to be. It's your freedom, it’s your life, it’s your call."

"It's easy for you to say that... I'm not like you."

"Then tell me, what do you wish for every time you look at the stars? Have you no will for yourself? Have you not wished to break free from your cage as well?"

"I..." Stumped with his questions, you gazed into his eye once again, tears blurring your vision. Everything that was pent up inside you until this moment felt like it was crumbling, disintegrating into dust. Like waves crashing against the sand, such brittle was your resolution now when faced with his raw, naked, and pure emotions when he took off his clown mask.

"I want to... I just want to escape from this place... from my demons..." You said with a trembling, shaky voice, all the remaining strength in you threatening to leave the more you looked into his eyes. What kind of pain does he hide behind them? Why did it hurt you as much as well? As ironic as it sounded, in this moment, he looked more human than you were.

"Then, I will be the one that frees you from it now, my dove. Go, fly to the stars as you wish." He said and held you near, and contrary to his words that coached you to be free, he actually looked like he never wanted to let you go, yet you felt strangely safe and found warmth in his arms. You felt like you were finally being liberated from that which imprisoned you in that bottomless darkness. Even if what you see is just a glimpse of light. Then, that should be enough rather than nothing at all.

"You are beautiful when you soar free that way."

Two humans. Two monsters. Two beating broken hearts.

Under that starry night that illuminated the sky with constellations, it's like your fate entwined and mirrored each other on how almost tragically similar it was, with the demons that were trapped inside the both of you, seeking solace in each other's existence to remind you that you two were still human beings that just wished to be free.

[earthendandinbetween]

When your queen sells your goddamn soul lol. (set in the pp1 timeline.)

The tone of the zigoton territory had grown tense--- Well, it had already been tense. That. That wasn’t quite the right word to describe the feeling in the air as Queen Kharma had gathered troops around herself to speak. Unsettling, perhaps. She was clearly out of her mind at this point, paranoid and exhausted from the unending movement of the patapons.

She had become irrational at one point, conspiring with a demon and promising to sell her own soul for power to stop the patapons march. All to protect her tribe from certain doom, should they reach their goal. He could understand the sentiment, getting stronger and remain undefeated. But to sell one’s soul…

It didn’t matter much, there wasn’t much anyone could do to convince the queen otherwise. The general knew he certainly couldn’t say much. He was not one taken very seriously, usually only accepted as extra muscle and not much else. That was fine by him, he had gone into training for a reason, they were right to rely on him for such.

There was a strange empty feeling he couldn’t shake still, gathering just in-front of the lower ranking soldiers that had been called. The only other...living general, Spiderton, was off at the other side of the meeting, flanking the slightly more unruly newly trained zigotons to keep them inline. Kharma glared down, seemingly impatient at the slow arrival of all called.

It had to be important. The general had a sinking suspicion he knew what the queen had to say. That her soul was no more, and that the patapons will now be defeated. They would of course. With power like that? He almost envied it. ...Almost. Remaining in good graces with the real deities of zigoton legend was still more honorable and reliable, even if he didn’t always seem like one to believe in such.

“I see you’ve all made it,” The queen’s voice was low, tone sharper than it had usually been in the past, stress had really taken over, “Spiderton, I’m to assume you’ve gotten your...Trainees under control.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” Kharma continued her speech, tone growing colder with each word, “As we all know, those filthy, no good patapons have disposed of General Gong. Their march means the end of us all, and it cannot come to fruition under any circumstance. There is no price too high to pay to prevent this.”

“Yes, of course Queen Kharma,” Spiderton cut in softly, “We will do what we must. But, I must ask, why isn’t the rest of the tribe with us? This is an awfully small gathering for something you stated was of utmost importance-”

“Quiet.” There was a twitch in the moth queen’s wing, “Stay in your place, General Spiderton. I will explain as I need to.”

Beetleton snuck a smug ‘grin’ in the kibaton’s direction as he was chastised. Served him right for always being so fickle about information, even if--- and he always hated to admit this--- the other general was right. This was a very specifically small gathering, unheard of for the likes of this tribe.

And of course, was the statement of the demise of General Gong. Unfortunate, surely. He hadn’t known him well, but the other was always very wise sounding. Full of strange advice and the like. But, when you are too weak to protect your tribe, death was the only fair price to pay.

In the tateton’s own words that he could recall ‘death is a path all warriors will face’. Beetleton couldn’t help but feel a smug pride. The only thing to take him would be age, not a pathetic spat with another tribe. He would do better.

“This was my last straw,” Came the voice of the zigoton queen once more, “My last natural line of defense, broken and strewn aside by those patapons. Though extreme, I have sealed the deal with the demon known as Gorl.”

There were a few mutters, shocked gasps, questions of why. This surely in the end wouldn’t end well for the queen. He saw it as an interesting, if not utterly ridiculous sacrifice for the sake of her people.

He would not do the same actions if he were incharge. No, the dekaton would simply train harder, work better, find more deadly and effective routes. They were a few eyeballs roaming the forests whom had not known proper training for years.

No, this was simply all a mistake. Luck on their parts, but nothing more. They would be snuffed out shortly.

“I know, it seems unbelievable,” Queen Kharma silenced the small crowd, “To sell one’s soul for the sake of her people. But, Master Gorl had promised such power to me, though he is merely a servant to the underworld.  I knew I had to play this smart, get the most out of it all, and have a deal struck with the true overlord.”

Something very suddenly did not feel right from the way she had spoken. He was very aware he was not the only one noticing an oddity to the way this gathering had gone as a few soldiers exchanged nervous glances between one another.

“Not only have I been granted power,” Kharma ‘grinned’, “I have gained an ally in Gorl himself to assist us in battle! A true undefeatable plan, something to assure those eyeballs will never roam again in any lifetime.”

“Q...Queen Kharma,” Spiderton interjected again, a shiver present in his tone and body, “Gaining the allyship of a demon is--- Dangerous. An incredibly difficult deal to strike unless you have enough to trade--- How did you---”

“Spiderton, you are no fool,” The zigoton queen approached closer to the group, “And I am sure you are fully aware of what I had to trade to Gorl.”

“Kharma you didn’t-”

“Silence!” Her tone was loud, gruff enough to quiet down all of the fear stricken murmurs among the troops, “Gorl demanded strong souls. It is a warrior’s right to serve their queen, to protect their tribe at all costs. I have chosen all of you and for good reason.”

He wasn’t hearing this right. He couldn’t be.

Certainly this was a cruel joke.

“Now, not to worry,” The moth flitted back, attempting to offer some kind of calming resolution to the horror she just unleashed onto the unsuspecting group, “As your leader, you can trust me to make choices that are only for the good of all. I promise this will work out, and our tribe will thank us. The world even, when it does not end from those cursed creatures.”

It was an eerie silence that followed. One of shock. Beetleton held his tongue forcefully. With Kharma this out of her brain, any attempt of reason or disagreement could only make it worse.

Hah. As if that was even possible.

“We are going to make preparations for battle soon,” The tone was ever shifting, from cold and angry, to suddenly incredibly cheerful. It was uncomfortable, “I want you all at the front lines. I will be staying with Gorl for reinforcements, should we need such. He and his kind have granted us all such a great gift of power, do not waste it. Do not make what I have done go in vain.”

With a turn of her heel, the moth moved further among the desert fortresses marking their homelands, her last words being a quick ‘Dismissed’. That was all.

No sorrow, no apologies for being so rash. Nothing. Like none of these soldiers mattered a lick to her. Just free souls to exploit. Free shields. She had never shown him much respect, but to disrespect the other soldiers? It was unheard of. Demon trickery, of course, yet he still held contempt for her as well.

He felt ill. The dekaton always admired the thought of growing stronger, to be one who would never fall in battle. But to lose one’s soul as the cost of such strength.

Was that truly all this tribe saw out of him? Not a fellow soldier, not a fellow zigoton. A fighter and nothing more. Easily disposed of in this way.

With a tighter grip on his dreamweaver, the beetle begun to take heavy, uneven steps towards the training grounds. So be it. If that’s all they wanted, that’s all he would be.

He would make sure all would understand how foolish it would be to cross him. Force his so called queen to remember how lucky she is that he is on her side and not on the opposing.

He could easily drift into the part that was so demanded of him. He didn’t care, it was clearly all he had.

So be it, then.

[dabistits]

To talk about Twice and villainy is to talk about class and criminality (IV)

(Masterlist)

cw: references the dehumanization of “terrorists,” like, irl

The trash of society

“Disposability” is a framework that interrogates the way human lives are valued. Arising from observations about material disposability in the rapid industrialization of post-’45 and the increasing hold of mass-production and consumerism, “disposability” eventually expanded to an investigation of the human cost of this modern landscape. Theorists raised the question of how the disposability of human lives could be understood in tandem with the disposability of material goods, linking together issues of class, poverty, migration, imperialism, race, production, and consumerism. In essence, disposability as a framework investigates how human lives come to be rendered as disposable—and thus, like waste, byproducts of a lifestyle of endless growth.

This concern is one that receives frequent exploration in fiction that delves into the framework of humans-as-waste; for example, the sci fi dystopian short story Folding Beijing follows a waste worker in his efforts to fund the education of his adoptive daughter, who he found abandoned outside his waste-processing station. Although the conditions in BNHA aren’t nearly as grim, there are nevertheless clear connections drawn between its villainous characters and the concept of humans-as-waste, to the point where villains refer to themselves or are referred to by others as “trash.” Quirks may have effected a massive social upheaval, but that didn’t do away with, only shifted, the specifics of the idea that there are people who are deserving and people who are not, innocent people and criminals.

Throughout the series, we see characters mistreated while a society of deserving innocents looks on. There was little concern from the public when Izuku was mocked and bullied for his Quirklessness, when Rei was sold into a marriage for the benefit of a wealthy and abusive pro hero, when five-year-old Tenko wandered the streets alone, and when Jin was left to fend for himself as a teenager. Under the framework of disposability, they might as well have been rendered “waste,” as Zygmunt Bauman writes: “[t]he story we grow in and with has no interest in waste[...],” instead

“[w]e dispose of leftovers in the most radical and effective way: we make them invisible by not looking and unthinkable by not thinking. They worry us only when the routine elementary defences are broken and the precautions fail—when the comfortable, soporific insularity of our Lebenswelt which they were supposed to protect is in danger.” [source]

It is, interestingly, a bigger-picture version of the charges Shigaraki Tomura directs against the world of BNHA: like Bauman says, the innocent civilians are oblivious, recognizing neither the fragility of their peace nor the artificiality of it as it is maintained by heroes, unwilling to acknowledge the "leftovers”—the people who weren’t saved—until they return as villains and that very peace is threatened.

As for the leftovers themselves, they feel their alienation acutely. According to Bauman, to be “redundant” in a productivity-driven economy is to “share semantic space with ‘rejects’, wastrels’, ‘garbage’, ‘refuse’—with waste.” He outlines the conditions of redundancy thusly, describing it as a kind of “social homelessness”:

“To be redundant means[... t]he others do not need you; they can do as well, and better, without you. There is no self-evident reason for your being around and no obvious justification for your claim to the right to stay around. To be redundant means to have been disposed of because of being disposable[...]”

The experience of this kind of disposability is evident in BNHA, as class and exploitation seem to be highly correlated with social isolation. The members of the Shie Hassaikai were used and abandoned, and bonded strongly to one another after joining Overhaul. Jin’s experience of “social homelessness” shows him walking alone through empty city streets, before he ends up talking to his own clone below an overpass. Jin, too, finds companionship in joining a group, the League of Villains, but fears of disposability and further isolation plague his thoughts. Whether or not he genuinely believes League of Villains would abandon him, Jin feels the need to continue justifying his place among them. The societal bleeds into the personal; Jin’s disposability to society, best represented by his interactions with law enforcement and with his employer, also becomes an anxiety in his interpersonal relationships. Horikoshi’s decision to characterize Jin in such a way makes it impossible to ignore the larger issues that created him; namely, class issues that reflect real-world concerns.

As Jin sits below the overpass, talking to his clone, he asks whether he went wrong somewhere. The other Jin responds that it must have been “being born without an ounce of luck.” Bauman comments on unluckiness thusly:

“In Samuel Butler’s Erewhon it was ‘ill luck of any kind, or even ill treatment at the hands of others’ that was ‘considered an offence against society, inasmuch as it [made] people uncomfortable to hear of it.’ ‘Loss of fortune, therefore’ was ‘punished hardly less severely than physical delinquency’.” [source]

These observations are perfectly applicable to the characters we’ve met. It’s often the “unlucky” who get treated the worst: Izuku was bullied relentlessly for his “unlucky” Quirklessness, and Rei wound up trading her “unlucky” marriage for an institutionalization of ten years. Jin was fired from his job after an “unlucky” accident, fell into a life of crime, and is finally killed by the same hero who offered him a second chance. When Dabi probes Tokoyami Fumikage in an attempt to make him contend with Jin’s “ill treatment” at Hawks’ hands, Tokoyami dismisses it and justifies Jin’s execution, undoubtedly because it would be uncomfortable, possibly even world-shattering, to acknowledge Dabi’s charge. The fact that these people have been unlucky, or have even been actively mistreated or failed by others, turns the public’s gaze away in an attempt to escape the discomfort elicited by these embodiments of society’s waste. For the “redundant” to remind society of its human cost—or even to remind the non-redundant of the small gap of bad luck that separates them—they become objects of revulsion, to be forgotten or discarded as quickly as possible. Rendered “invisible” and “unthinkable” as leftovers, they become “ontologically non-existent.” [source]

Some of the anxiety towards the “redundant” is precisely because the framework of “becoming waste” is permeable. This permeability accounts for the possibility of transforming from citizen to disposable human; perhaps, then, when “all it takes is one bad day,” the line which separates citizen from villain is just as permeable. In the framework of hero society, it may be argued that villains are not simply redundant waste, but the trash whose alienation hero society relies on in a highly visible way. "The disposable, the waste as objects and humans, inhabit a place of exclusion from society which provides not only an unrecognized space of reinforcement for society itself, but also the fuel and the labor for maintaining the status quo.” [source] In BNHA’s terms, not only are villains excluded from a deserving, innocent society, they are also the fuel for maintaining it by embodying its opposite—the guilty and undeserving—their exclusion constantly reinforced through the public spectacle of their arrests and the public idolization of heroes. Villains are no longer simply inert leftovers that can be easily ignored, as Bauman described; villains have broken past hero society’s elementary defenses, and threaten the Lebenswelt of deserving innocents. While their visibility transforms villains back into an acknowledgeable existence, the very act of breaching their invisibility renders them a kind of waste that must be permanently disposed of.

A livable life?

Heroes do not kill. This is stated in 251 by the death-seeking Ending, who, despite his best efforts, is spared an unceremonious execution at the hands of a hero, who the readers know is a domestic abuser. The deathless resolution to Ending’s conflict, then, further compounds the horror of chapter 266, when Jin is eliminated with extreme prejudice by Hawks, who admires the aforementioned hero. The irony is shocking and bitter as readers witness the violation of one of heroism’s fundamental tenets, broken no less for the elimination of one of the series’ most sympathetic villains, after Hawks himself concedes that Jin is “a good person.” It may be said that heroes do not have carte blanche to kill, but neither is it an inviolable principle, and of course a no-kill mandate says nothing about the ways villains have been injured or tortured at the hands of heroes. While arguments can be made about the imminent risk of certain occasions, the issue remains that it’s often the most vulnerable people who pay the highest price for maintaining a nebulous definition of societal “safety” (a “safety” which always seemed to exclude certain people), a concept that is primarily defined by the state and the policing class. Furthermore, the willingness of a hero to kill in defense of hero society begs the question: who may be killed without consequence, and under what circumstances?

In her collection of essays addressing responses to terrorism, Precarious Life, Judith Butler writes:

“Certain lives will be highly protected, and the abrogation of their claims to sanctity will be sufficient to mobilize the forces of war. Other lives will not find such fast and furious support and will not even qualify as "grievable."”

The notion of a “safe” society hinges on the protection of those sanctified lives, at the expense of vulnerable lives deemed “disposable” through poverty, homelessness, or criminality. A threat against the deserving innocents or the murder of a hero unites every other hero and every citizen in public mourning, and then in opposition against murderous villains—there is no such mobilization for the suffering of Quirkless kids, abused women, or orphaned, destitute teenagers. The threats against their well-beings are considered part-and-parcel to their world—normal, unavoidable, and indeed not violence at all. Certainly, a murdered villain will not find such unanimous grief nor anger mobilized in the wake his death, not even directed toward changing the isolated, impoverished conditions which made villainy an appealing choice in the first place. Jin’s death is privately witnessed and privately mourned, only by those who comprised his ibasho. It’s through these uneven displays of grief that Butler questions: “what counts as a livable life and a grievable death?”

Butler argues that certain lives are removed from the bounds of “normative” humanity, and thus “grievability.” Violence against vulnerable lives is dismissed or legitimized by the state through their dehumanization: in the world of BNHA, villains are “presented [...] as so many faces of evil” and treated as mere vessels of a killing instinct.

“Are they pure killing machines? If they are pure killing machines, then they are not humans [...]. They are something less than human, and yet somehow they assume a human form. They represent, as it were, an equivocation of the human, which forms the basis for some of the skepticism about the applicability of legal entitlements and protections.”

This kind of dehumanization is, of course, explained through the claim that certain people are “dangerous,” a designation which (as Butler points out) is determined by none other than the state itself.

“A certain level of dangerousness takes a human outside the bounds of law[... T]he state posits what is dangerous, and in so positing it, establishes the conditions for its own preemption and usurpation of the law[...]”

Perhaps, then, if villains are something other-than-human, something so dedicated to violence that they can be stopped only through death, no "sanctity,” and no law, is violated if they are killed.

The ability of the state to designate certain people as “dangerous” is linked to another political strategy: defining the difference between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” violence. Butler explains:

“The use of the term, "terrorism," thus works to delegitimate certain forms of violence committed by non-state-centered political entities at the same time that it sanctions a violent response by established states. [...] In this sense, the framework for conceptualizing global violence is such that "terrorism" becomes the name to describe the violence of the illegitimate, whereas legal war becomes the prerogative of those who can assume international recognition as legitimate states.” [source]

In the world of BNHA, clearly such a discernment exists between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” violence. Although certain readers have been quick to draw the “terrorism” analogy, the series itself tends to differentiate between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” violence not through charges of terrorism, but through the designation of “hero” and “villain.” Legitimate violence is wielded by heroes in defense of the state, in defense of property, and against villains, whereas illegitimate violence is wielded by villains against the state, against property, and against heroes. This difference between “hero” and “villain” is, in actuality, insubstantial as far as the question of morality, as even labeled villains such as Gentle Criminal behave within a palatable frame of ethics, while some career heroes are just as capable as villains of taking and ruining lives; nevertheless, the state has a vested interest in strongly promoting the idea of this divide—of legitimate, heroic violence as moral, justified, and legal, and illegitimate, villainous violence as immoral, unjustified, and unlawful. In this way, the state can engage in “legal war” with very little questioning or dissent from its populace, and it further delegitimizes the violence of its opponents. The violence of heroes is justified, and therefore they have an understandable human rationale; on the contrary, the violence of villains is unjustified, it is attributed to their innate violence, which is incomprehensible and inhuman.

“The fact that these prisoners are seen as pure vessels of violence [...] suggests that they do not become violent for the same kinds of reason that other politicized beings do, that their violence is somehow constitutive, groundless, and infinite, if not innate. If this violence is terrorism rather than violence, it is conceived as an action with no political goal, or cannot be read politically. It emerges, as they say, from fanatics, extremists, who do not espouse a point of view, but rather exist outside of "reason," and do not have a part in the human community.” [source]

No one personifies this better than Tomura himself. He is named the “Symbol of Terror” by AFO, and is undoubtedly viewed as such by the heroes and civilians of BNHA. It has been repeatedly emphasized that to everyone but the League of Villains, Tomura is not so much a human as he is the embodiment of thoughtless destruction. Tomura is referred to as a monster, as someone unshackled to humanity, as an “it,” as something that cannot be reasoned with. This is an idea that Horikoshi himself seems to play into somewhat, because although Tomura voices certain critiques of the hero system, he nevertheless seems to remain rather apolitical in who or what he decides to target. It’s Jin, then, who lends a political voice to the villains by criticizing pro heroes from his very first narrated chapter, but even a clear articulation of his grievances gets him no understanding reaction from the hero in front of whom he raises these charges.

While the fictional heroes may see villains as nothing more than vessels of violence, it can be argued that Horikoshi himself went through an extensive effort to depict the rationale and humanity of the villains. As I’ve stated before, Jin is very clearly connected to the real-world struggles of certain Japanese citizens, making him real and relatable in ways other characters may not be. At the same time, the rationale and humanity that Horikoshi recognizes are things that heroes like Hawks can’t grasp: as someone who idolized a hero as a child, and who was, for better or worse, enveloped by the hero system, he does not question the legitimacy of the hero system. Hawks understands only unluckiness in Jin’s circumstances, and shows little awareness of the fact that Jin was failed by the very society Hawks defends, that his suffering was both enforced by the legal system and by his boss, and ignored by institutions supposedly designed to help. Jin, of course, is not so obtuse—he reiterates his awareness that he is one of those disposable, ungrievable lives that heroes don’t save, and he is ultimately proven right—when Hawks’ offer of rehabilitation is rejected, he instead moves to kill. Jin, and other villains, are so thoroughly dehumanized, likened to killing machines, that it doesn’t occur to any hero that they can possibly be reasoned with. 

Could there have been any other conclusion? I don’t believe so—not without a significant shift in thinking from heroes. For many of the villains, there’s very little to gain from rejoining the society that they were ejected from. Bauman writes that, for “disposable” humans:

“Unwelcome, tolerated at best, cast firmly on the receiving side of socially recommended or tolerated action, treated in the best of cases as an object of benevolence, charity and pity (challenged, to rub salt into the wound, as undeserved), but not of brotherly help, charged with indolence and suspected of iniquitous intentions and criminal intentions, [they have] few reasons to treat ‘society’ as a home to which one owes loyalty and concern.”

It should come as no surprise, then, that Jin rejects Hawks’ offer of a “socially tolerated” rehabilitation into the society that both caused and ignored his suffering, which he has no reason to believe wouldn’t outcast him again for another slip-up. Of course, he instead chose the place he was understood, where his mistakes were met with patience, where he wasn’t forced to justify his presence, where his sense of belonging felt stable. The people he called his ibasho were a home, a place he was allowed an ontological existence—the very inverse of that old, disposable life.

Conclusion

Bubaigawara Jin should be read as class commentary. The various obstacles in his story are all too reflective of the systemic issues of real-world Japan, concisely highlighting the shortcomings and common abuses of the alternative care system, the justice system, and the workplace. It’s also highly likely that Horikoshi himself is aware of economic inequalities on some level, which seems to reflect in the obvious and less-obvious ways he addresses class in BNHA. I think this probable intentionality is important, as it can lend itself to our speculation on the series’ messages and themes. Importantly, if Jin’s story is a commentary about the real-world trials of economic marginalization, then surely this also applies to the way he is treated by heroes and by wider society. Beyond simple evaluations of “X did this, which forced Y to respond,” certain narrative choices may be better understood as a pattern of illustrating disposability, of the way this fictional society creates “human waste,” and to relate them to real-world patterns of which lives are considered worth saving.

I somewhat downplayed the real-world inspirations for Bauman and Butler’s texts, because I believe those are true and serious topics about capitalism and war that should be discussed on their own merits, unrelated to a fictional series; however, they also perfectly show how certain beliefs in the real world are transferrable to BNHA’s world. Because these beliefs are transferrable, readers’ reactions to certain narratives in fiction are rooted in certain truths we believe about the real world as well. For example, it would pointless to call the League of Villains “terrorists” as a condemnation, unless someone believes that the charge of “terrorism” in itself tells us anything meaningful about morality. As Butler has explained, and as real life shows (e.g. through the designation of black radical groups like the Black Panthers or antifascist groups as terrorist organizations), the term “terrorism” alone holds no inherent moral implication. Imagining that the label of “terrorist” can meaningfully convey anything about morality, and that "being a terrorist” removes a person from the boundaries of “normative humanity” (and thus due legal process in-universe, and reader sympathy out-of-universe) reflects an ignorance about certain real-world political processes.

Injustice in the world doesn’t only take the form of obvious oppression and violence; manipulation is also involved. There is a vested interest by the ruling class in guiding the ways people think and perceive reality, teaching us what we deserve and don’t deserve, what prices are acceptable and unacceptable to pay for human life. These lessons must be rejected from the outset, leaving rules and definitions open for interpretation. What qualifies as violence? Is violence more than a physical act of harm? Is it violence to isolate “unproductive” members of society? Is it violence to deny them food and shelter? Is it then violence to cage and execute them when they do not non-violently accept their subjugation? What forms of violence are unacceptable and why? Where does violence really begin?

Dismantling oppression can only be achieved by questioning its very foundations and the language used to justify it; fiction, by enveloping us into a new reality—a new world with new rules—should make this questioning easier if we’re willing to divest ourselves of certain beliefs fed to us by those in power. BNHA, as imperfect as it is, certainly tries to raise some of these questions about the designations of “heroes” and “villains,” about the deserving and undeserving, about who is saved and who gets left behind. I would go further, and argue that to invest legitimacy into the hero system is to invest legitimacy into everything that perpetuates it: the poverty, the violence, the disposability of those judged “villainous,” and the idea that agents of the state are uniquely positioned to enact legitimate violence. Confronting crime means eliminating the need for it and the conditions that give rise to it, and only then, not a moment before, will the problem of villains largely cease to exist.

[josefavomjaaga]

Helfert, Joachim Murat, Chapter 2, Part 4

(Sorry, just a short piece today as I've been somewhat distracted. But hey, guess who is mentioned: Pépé!)

**

The King had also recently become irritated with Austria on learning that she had transferred decisions on the claims of ex-Queen Maria Luisa of Etruria and on the succession to the throne of Savoy from his hands to those of England, Russia and Prussia; "this proves," Gallo said to Count Mier in the second half of December, "that Austria no longer adheres to the principle which she herself has expressed: that she does not wish to allow any other power to interfere in the affairs of Italy. Must this not make the King uneasy?" In the question of the Marches, Metternich and Consalvi pressed the Duke of Campochiaro until the latter, in the best opinion of making his master more favourably disposed to the sentiments of these two powers, came to the concession that the Neapolitan troops should withdraw from the Marches, provided the Pope would commit himself to the strictest neutrality between Joachim and Ferdinand. But the king refused. "How could Campochiaro make such a promise," he exclaimed in conversation with Count Mier, "when he had the strictest mandate to make the recognition of me as king a conditio sine qua non for the evacuation?! The Pope may easily promise that he will observe strictest neutrality between me and King Ferdinand, but he will not keep it. He promised me in Bologna, and then again in Cesena, to send me an envoy and to accept one from me as soon as he arrived in Rome. Did he do it? On the contrary, he has conspired with my enemies to my downfall, he has allowed himself to be drawn completely into Ferdinand's interest. Does he want to postpone my recognition until after the end of the Congress? Once I have the recognition of the Congress, I will not stand for his recognition, which will then be a given. Let him do it now, I will be grateful to him for it and then he will also get his stamps out. I hear he wants to banish me for occupying territories which, as he thinks, are the property of the church ? My Lord Count, he would have to start with you; for you occupy the Legations just as I occupy the Marches." [Footnote 1]

Footnote 1: Mier to the 20th of December. Some time later, Lucian Buonaparte wrote to his sister that he would come to Naples on behalf of the Pope in order to reach an agreement about the Marches; but he was given to understand that he was not to interfere in matters that did not concern him.

**

To the Vienna Congress, as to the world in general, Joachim understandably wanted to spread the opinion that no one was better suited for the throne of Naples, that no one was more popular than he with all classes of the population, and this gave rise to a flood of addresses which arrived in Naples from all parts of the country, mostly ordered, often literally prescribed, and there found their way into the capital newspapers and with them to Vienna, to be used by Cariati and Campochiaro as evidence in favour of the king. But there were also more independent manifestations among them, and an address from a part of the Neapolitan nobility was particularly noticeable at court because in it, with barely concealed allusion to Sicily, the demand for constitutional institutions was expressed. Even if the king did not find himself in a position to comply with this demand for the moment, he was perhaps not entirely displeased with this manifestation because it touched on a matter that could win him numerous and widespread sympathies.

For he was more than ever anxious to make himself popular and, in contrast to the measured or defensive attitude of the old cabinets, to win public opinion in his favour. The only thing that got in the way of his efforts were his country's carbonari, about whose secret activities new signs were constantly appearing. Of course, as we know, the more educated associates often had constitutional desires in mind, and these would have challenged the king just as little as the ideas of Italian unification, which also enjoyed great support in these circles. But the evil for him lay in the pronounced old-royal sympathies and tendencies by which the great mass of the Carbonari allowed themselves to be dominated; and even of those in frock coats many placed their hopes in the return of the Bourbons, because they attributed to the Crown Prince Franz a preference for constitutional institutions. For the sake of those wishes and ideas, the sect had zealous supporters even in Joachim's immediate surroundings. Maghella, who had been freed by the capture of Paris from the distrustful bonds in which Napoleon's police had held him since his recall from Naples in 1811, one does not know for what reason, and who was now once more in King Joachim's confidence, was considered a friend of the Carbonari, and the same was the case with several of the national generals. But the king could not be dissuaded from his suspicions. "You want me to show mercy to the Carbonari," he said one day to Guglielmo Pepe, "people who in their assemblies at Lanciano declare me a tyrant?" At his meeting with Pius VII at the foot of the last campaign, Joachim had asked him to condemn such a dangerous sect also from the ecclesiastical point of view; the Pope had answered evasively: "this had already been done in the earlier bulls against secret societies". When he returned to Rome, however, a new edict appeared, signed by the pro-state secretary Cardinal Pacca, against the Freemasons and other such associations and cooperatives; only the Carbonari were not expressly mentioned, and the King of Naples therefore saw himself dependent solely on his own decrees and courts, which diligently performed their duties. One of the sect's headquarters was now the Abruzzi, where the military commissions passed one death sentence after another.

In the capital, hardly anything was noticeable about these bloody events. At the royal court, things were cheerful and glamorous, even if the expense had been somewhat reduced compared to earlier times. Entertainments and cercles, hunts and carousels alternated with military spectacles on the Field of Mars and attracted onlookers from all over the world, among whom, as always, the English played the leading role and received the greatest attention.The London Cabinet was troubled by the naivety of some of the sons of Albion who, like Lord Sligo, marvelled at the King of Naples as one of the greatest men of his time, assured him of the sympathy of their countrymen, wrote home that England had no more loyal friend than he, and so on. Things were brought to a head in this direction by the Princess Caroline of Wales, who was met by the King in person at Aversa on 8 November and brought to the capital in his carriage, he on the left and she on the right, where she declined however to stay in the royal palace. But she paid visits to the queen and received those of Caroline, appeared at the festivities of the court and hosted such in her palace, and was not in the least disturbed by the fact that her government had no envoy or diplomatic agent, not even a certified consul in Naples. The king, his fame and bravery, were the perpetual object of her homage. Among the living images that were sometimes performed at her house, one evening one saw the bust of Joachim crowned with laurels under a palm tree; two ladies of the Neapolitan aristocracy presented Hebe and Fama, while the princess, as Parthenope, inscribed Murat's name in the Book of Immortality. At last the extravagant lady fell quite seriously in love with the handsome Gascon, did not exert the least compulsion to let him notice it on every occasion and in every conceivable way, and, when she did not see her passion reciprocated, threw her hatred on the queen, whom she sought to divide with her husband; in short, she behaved in such a way that all the world took offence at her conduct, most of all the English, who made loud comments about her.

If Joachim remained impervious to Princess Caroline's displays of affection, he found himself all the more seduced by the political flattery with which she pricked his ears and which he believed to be confirmed by various other quarters. In the London Parliament many voices of opposition, especially Lord Oxford and General Wilson, had risen in his favour, and now he imagined that his recognition by the British was as much as settled, so that he had no further need of Austria. An English doctor, Griffith by name, presented himself to the King as a close acquaintance of a friend of the Prince-Regent, offered to help him in London and elicited political secrets of the most delicate kind from the gullible man.

The fires of war blazed anew in Joachim's veins and external circumstances helped to stoke them. He was now almost at war with his territorial neighbour the Pope. In the first days of February 1815, he showed Count Mier the letter of one of his generals commanding in the Marches, which spoke of an unusual accumulation of papal military, of the formation of volunteer armies in the border regions: "everything pointed to an imminent invasion and he requested instructions and supplies of troops from the king". Murat complied with the last request by reinforcing the border cordon against the Roman by the Velite regiment of the Guard, 9 February. Postal traffic between the two neighbouring states was disrupted and soon ceased altogether, so that Naples had to think of opening a new line through the Abruzzi via Ancona and Bologna for the dispatch of letters to the north. Bad news also came from France: in Franche-Comté Dauphiné Provence an army force of 30,000 men was assembled, which seemed to have no other goal than Naples. Murat took this as a pretext for getting ready to march and sent word to Vienna that he intended to lead an army of 80,000 men against the French border, for which purpose he would be allowed to march through central and upper Italy, his troops would keep to strict discipline and pay everything in due time. However, Emperor Francis was far from agreeing to such a far-reaching request. Austria, he told the Neapolitan plenipotentiary, could not allow the peace of the peninsula to be disturbed by such a military development and would also inform the Cabinet of Versailles of this negative answer (25 and 26 February). At the same time, orders were given in Vienna to reinforce the troops in Lombardy and in the Venetian region in order to counter any hostile undertakings planned by the other side.

[End of Chapter 2. The Hundred Days are coming.]

[mego42]

so, you’re kind of a weirdo about the blanket me scene in 1x09, what’s up with that?

@foxmagpie​ made the foolish mistake of asking me to breakdown why I like the Blanket Me scene in 1x09 so much (much more politely than my version above, for the record) so now I’m going to foist my ramble on all of you so it doesn’t die in the bowels of tumblr’s wonky messages non-archive. sorry/not sorry

Listen, I know I’m a touch, mmmm, unhinged? for the scene, but I really do think it does a lot of truly excellent unspoken storytelling, both through the character work in the scene itself, but also on structural level through its placement in the ep and if you want to come on the journey with me it’s under the cut.

Okay, breaking down the chain of events:

Getting pulled over in the truck was, I think, very clearly the first time Beth had ever truly felt the weight of the potential consequences of what she was doing and the fact that she could very easily, through a total freak accident (which is what i thiiiiiink is the significance of her getting pulled over for no plates outside of the loyalty test? idk, that whole bit is a touch murky) end up leaving her kids without their mother. 

Immediately after that, she goes to see Rio who, whether she consciously realized it or not, I think made her feel some degree of protected, or at least grounded, in the crime world. He was a steadying and somewhat familiar force while she waded into crime, and I think she relied on that more than she probably realized or wanted to admit. He was a threat, sure, but one that I think she felt she understood and could manage.

But then he breaks up with her. He pulls the rug out from under her which, combined with her earlier reality check and the confirmation of poor Eddie’s fate, leaves Beth feeling extremely unmoored, disposable and deeply vulnerable. It kicks her control issues and her desperate instinct to act when she feels threatened into high gear and she takes a detour into a little fugue state on Ruby’s couch while it all kind of settles in and comes to the conclusion that Rio is officially A Threat. 

(A conclusion I don’t know if she necessarily would have stuck to so hard if it weren’t for the chain of events that lead up to it, but a poorly times series of communication issues leading to catastrophe is kind of Their Thing)

Still with me? I’m not breaking any new ground here, but it’s all context for what makes the Blanket Me scene land so hard for me (aside from the fact that the song is a gorgeous whatever the heart-wrenching version of a bop is, which is nearly enough, tbh).

So now we arrive at the blanket me scene. Beth—reeling from a horrifying glimpse at a future where she’s not around to take care of her kids, and finding out the thing she’d sort of maybe kind of been thinking of as a safety line was actually a snake (and still confusingly hot? but that’s just...not for dealing with right now)—tries to exert control over her abruptly, once again topsy-turvy and absolutely terrifying circumstances through a drunken maniacal midnight crafting of a ridiculously overstuffed calendar. 

Now, I know sometimes people dismiss the significance of the lyrical content overlaying what’s on screen (which is fair! as with everything, it’s v easy to go overboard) but the end of the day someone specifically chose what part of the song to use, so there’s generally something about it that drives that choice (and sometimes it really is idk I just think it’s dope for sure). How much you read into it is up to you, but here’s the part that’s playing over that scene:

shame on you / shame on me / I blindly blame you / when truly / you're my guardian / I'm your sail / a boat in your harbor / gone under, capsized and sinking / blanket me, blanket me, blanket me, blanket me, blanket me

I always kind of absorbed that as the duality of Beth: she wants to shield and protect her family, but she's also the one dragging them/herself under. Either way, the end result is she’s created her bedazzled last will and testament and the next day gathers her troops and declares war on her perceived enemy. 

Was he actually her enemy at that point? Personally I am inclined to say not really. I think if Beth had sat on her hands and dealt with the loss of his attention (another key factor, I think, but that’s a Whole Other Post and one I am 99% sure I have seen several versions of floating around already) he would’ve left her alone, but see the point about about timing and communication and repeat.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Beth's in full circle the wagons, shoot anything that moves mode and by breaking up with her, Rio has stepped away from the campfire and become one of the scary moving shapes in the darkness.

And to wrap it up, on an episode structure note, I really love how the blanket me scene ties in so many of the previous threads but it’s also a sort of intermission moment that gives all of it a chance to breathe and sets it up so the closing scene hits like a hammer.

IT DOES SO MANY LEVELS OF HEAVY LIFTING OKAY?

Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk. BYE.

[ragnaofazure]

Reasons Why.

(BGM)

It was time to pay a visit to someone he really wished to see. The man had not felt the excitement to have a rendezvous with another person in quite a while, he was outright... Eager. After all, he rarely met with anyone directly anymore. A smile stretched across his face, it was refreshing, he was picturing the whole event...

Ah. To be able to experience this set of emotions put some spring to his step. Given his status in the world, anyone found to have connections with him was as good as getting marked, due to that, he gave up hope to form any sort of lasting connections unless it was possible for the other party to remain safe and unseen with anyone else. It was a true price to pay for everything he has done, an unrestorable status in society, unsurprisingly.

Alas, that was but the price to pay for his path, and he knew it well from the beginning. He continued increasing his pace over the outskirts of the city, getting ever so closer to the big mansion, where he was meant to go to his meeting.

About ten minutes later on top of the half an hour of on foot travel, it finally came into view... And that is when he started to run... And then broke into full sprint, faster than any human should go, aiming for that front gate. That grin on his face becoming wider.

(BGM)

Right over the walls, they were already rushing to give him the warm welcome he was expecting, a hail of bullets that were missing the target by an extremely long shot due to the speed he was moving at. It was literal seconds before he shoulder tackled the robust gate and busted it right open with little effort. As it went flying off the thick hinges, all the way to the big fountain not too long a distance from it right behind, smashing it apart considerably. And before the two thugs that went to welcome him ahead of time could do anything, aside from the couple waiting at the main entrance...

They did not see him leap at their higher elevation on the steps on each opposite sides of the gate. One got skewered by huge weapon before pulling out, the other earned a huge diagonal gash from shoulder to hip, both deep and serious injuries that caused immediate collapses.

After watching them fall to the floor in fatal agony with almost simultaneous thuds, should immediate help not be brought to at least one of them, the other two were witnesses and nothing more to the effortless short and brutal work they made of their fellow cohorts. Shaking hands pointed firearms at him, he was unimpressed as he shook the initial scarlet fluid staining the blade, as soon as he was within arm's reach of the two, he had a simple question as he sighed.

 "Where is he? You all knew I was coming." He looked smug, as if he had just done nothing wrong whatsoever, “And don't even think about lying, no matter if I respect the loyalty that you could have to the piece of garbage, make it easier on yourselves." Giving a chance, it then came.

'He ran away hours ago!' 'The best, most honking office all the way back!'

‘What are you doing?! Traitor!!' 'Screw him! We're all dying anyway!'

"Only one."

Ragna interrupted, kicking the liar down and through the double door with inhuman force before stomping on his chest, cracking noises echoing before impaling his weapon right between his ribcage, finding the heart after small, painful torture. Turning back to face the one that helped and flashed an honest smile again in a full easy mood change.

"Run now. I'm not chasing, better not see your face ever again if you don't turn a new leaf." Allowing escape, he then turned to the mansion standing before him. Echoes and fear of the spared life fading to the distance...

"The Grim Reaper is here! I suggest only the most loyal to the prick step up! The rest? One chance to start escaping!" Making his callout, he waited at the fancy foyer, right in the center after waltzing in.

"..." And sure enough, some devotees sprang up, jumping over the railing of a second story, armed with japanese swords, pipes, chains, more fierarms... The whole classic variety of criminals. "I hope that's not all of you at once..." And right as he was speaking? One of them took the first swing as he was turning around, addressing them, managing a clean cut from the back of his ear down to the carotid artery, causing his blood to begin flowing and making him grin.

...Yet Ragna still stood. And seconds after?

His wounds began closing like nothing. Collective fear took place before he cracked his neck. "...I should have expected one of you assholes was going to try the cheap shot." He slammed the tip of the huge blade on the floor, metal loudly echoing against carpeted tile.

"Come at me then! All of you in whatever manner you want! You're all that brave and loyal?! Willing to die for nothing?! Huh?! Show it to me!" Calling them out, he waited for the next swing, which was a sickle, aimed straight at his chest, which was immediately deflected, he then took it in hand... And crushed it in half. After letting that sink in, "My turn..." He whispered at the shocked thug, raising a fist then smashing it against their face, the rattling sound as he sent the poor bastard packing resounded as he slammed against the wall with decent impact.

Stretching his hand and wrist, he turned to the baffled rest once more, "Next. All at once. Again, if you don't value your life, keep tossing it. You had your chance to be spared." Throwing out the confident taunt and warning, he then waited for the swarm to congregate around him... Which came out swinging. A hail of bullets, many sharp and blunt weapons swung at him, he obviously could not block all of them, yet... No matter the cut or where, it closed almost instantly, even one landed in his eye. And while that was annoying? It was restoring.

A pipe smashed his head? Cracking the skull? Shook it off, everything within rearranging. It was a small massacre of about twenty men or more surrounding him as they were dropping dead, or being blown away... A loud, violent ranbat of one man being surrounded to the very end.

(BGM)

Soon enough, it all was calm as he momentarily caught his breath, lifeless or gravely injured men sprawled at his feet, few more decided to try and attack, so he could only assume everyone in the back came forth. Those were all of them. A bloodbath. There was no other way to call that.

"I ultimately respect your devotion... But it could have been much better placed." He slowly returned his sword to it’s resting place behind him. After a couple of minutes with his head lowered... It was time to find who he came to see. A tour of what was now a ghost house.

Making it through many a kind of hallways, rooms, all the regal household until he was kicking one last door that stood out. Velvet red, gold around the frame, egotistical initial... This was it. And sure enough, there he was. Sitting like it was nothing.

(BGM)

“You didn't run? Facing this like a man?" Immediately, he asked as he slowly waltzed in. The man he was after was the head of a real bad mafia, adhered to no standards. No exception to colaterals, no real grace periods... No mercy even to children, the little ones were outright trafficked or used as bargaining chips. All of this? It was a recipe to absolutely piss off the big bad considered as Ragna, and it was why he was excited all along. To kill him as deserved in his book.

‘You would have tracked me down easily, no matter how far I ran.'

"Heh, I see any big wig has the head right on he shoulders enough." Fake compliment, but still, outrun him? Very few get away. But he was grinning, this bastard was... grinning? To what he narrowed his eyes in immediate reaction, there was literally no reason to be happy about this.

"...What's funny? Proud of the little dirty legacy you're leaving behind? A goddamn pile of unnecessary corpses, and that's due to innocents and those who were never involved, you lack any standards unlike most other leaders, a bad kind of iron fist."

Fist balled in anger as he retold everything, a quiet, clear anger that could burn so much...

'And where do you get off talking to me about morals? Grim Reaper? Your body count is above the goddamn four digits... And that's an estimate.'

‘You figured: “Oh, I'm no longer bad but I don't want to get jailed! I'll just pluck every other bad that will only keep appearing in this world!” ...Give the act a break. Even you know you would make a much better life committing to the underworld all over again.'

"..." No words, which caused the fellow criminal to laugh, it was true... But there were reasons why he didn't. He reaffirmed his gaze, a piercing glare, unbreakable... "There's a difference." He responded, "I know how this whole world works... And you are true evil."

"Your kind normally has standards. They know who is supposed to get what they deserve under any circumstance, you? You don't care. You are greedy, you tossed all your men at me as if they were disposeable, most likely forced because they don't know better." Scoffing, he continued on.

"The only reason you grew was due you having no limits, no matter what, and that... That's exactly why I hate." And what circled back to his reasons. "Evil is unremoveable, after all... I am here. But you? That goes beyond it."

The comment caused the fat cat in suit to grimace, 'That still doesn't make you or anything around you better, you are still the most hated man in the world, the chain of command that comes clean up takes your credit. They outright know your MO.'

“And?" He immedaitely interrupted, “To what he was surprised, "I don't care." Then confused, "I don't give a shit how many times your particular kind reappears either... I'll root you out, our grime and stain will always exist, but you? You have no place in this world..."

“You are not remotely human. And that is what makes us different... You threw that away and became a real monster, and you know what? I GODDAMN exactly knows what it is like!!" It was then he was tightly gripping him by that white, fancy suit, rage coursing his body...

"Evil is necessary, but not you, and if I can cull it to make the right one remain? That's all I need. I don't need thanks, glory, forgiveness... None of that. I only want to do what's right." 

 'You are out of your mind...' Shaking his head, laughed in disbelief, unable to comprehend how could someone just do and accept that... Such selfless, thankless life while treated like scum of the world beyond even his kind...

"...And you lost yours. Just like any heart." It was the moment weapon was raised, pressed against his chest... "...Yet you still can bleed. But not enough to make up for it all." Those being his words, the fear became apparent in his face at long last.

A solid, swift impalement, right in the chest, squeals filling the air. And this time? He could not resist the desire to twist the blade for good measure this time too. Until he stopped moving for good, he never pulled the weapon out...

After the deed was done, he sprawled the corpse on his fancy wood desk, perfect to be discovered by said authorities that would be sure to arrive within hours. Taking deep breaths, he would begin relaxing as the last spill of fresh blood dripped off the weapon.

(BGM)

Looking out the big window to his side, the day was beautiful outside in contrast to the fatality fest that was this whole development. And this was far from the first time as implied.

"...I can't ever go back, but this is all the good I can do. I am the big evil. And I erase what I think should not exist." Repeating that, he finally returned his blade to the resting position behind him. As he looked at the vast sky, opening the window,  gentle breeze blowing from the ocean nearby despite his still messy state from the massacre...

"The monster who kills monsters, one said that one time... I don't care what they call me. I don't care if it's thankless." Determined voice spoke out loud to no one but himself.

"If you want to do what you believe is right, stick to it, don't expect happiness, gratitude, nothing... It is why I will continue calming the raging waves of the vast ocean known as evil... For I am the pushing force from it to begin with."

"Until then... That is also what I can do to counterweight not only what I've done, but what I am." The hint of sadness was heavy, but one of acceptance, he was not truly lost... But determined. Unbroken. The evil itself to keep it's balance.

That was who he was. That is why he chose to destroy other evils he deemed too much worse than himself in terms of morals and threats to life.

All evil began and ended with him, he was the one to judge the evil...

Until his last day.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: The Zombie Outbreak Response Unit

AU-gust Day Five: Post-Apocalypse AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Rumbelle

Rated: T

Summary: Caught up in the middle of an unexpected zombie apocalypse, Belle is rescued by an elite if unusual team: the Zombie Outbreak Response Unit. She quickly becomes close to their leader, the enigmatic Mr Gold.

Note: This is more ‘during-apocalypse’ than ‘post-apocalypse’ but enjoy nonetheless!

===

The Zombie Outbreak Response Unit

When Belle had first seen the advert in the local paper, she had not thought anything of it. She had assumed that someone had put it there for a dare or a prank, and she had left it alone.

When it appeared there again for the second week running, she took notice of it, clipping it out and storing it in her purse. She wasn’t sure why, because she still had no idea why she would ever use the service that was being advertised, but something about its persistence made her wonder. Better safe than sorry, after all.

Now, three weeks later, with the ad having appeared in every edition of the paper since, she knew exactly why she had kept it and exactly why it was there in the first place.

There had been reports on the news of strange occurrences for the past few days, but nothing weird could ever happen in a town as quiet and sleepy as Storybrooke, right? Mad, apocalyptic nightmares like, for example, zombie outbreaks, always started in big cities where they could spread quickly and easily.

Well, that was what Belle had thought until she had woken up this morning and started going about her daily life to realise that the rest of the town had been turned into the flesh-craving undead, and a crowd of them was now converging on the library that she lived above.

Never had she been so happy to have clipped out a newspaper ad on a hunch, as she sat huddled in her flat, looking at the barricaded door and listening to the moaning of the horde that was making its way ever closer, clutching at her phone in one hand and the cricket bat that her mother had insisted on her keeping under her bed in the other. The ad was on the table beside her, and it was with shaking fingers that she dialled the number. It couldn’t be a hoax or a prank, not when she really needed it.

In the event of being caught in a zombie apocalypse, call your local ZOMBIE OUTBREAK RESPONSE UNIT immediately. Our highly trained professionals are on call 24 hours a day to assist you.

The call was answered on the first ring.

“Zombie Outbreak Response Unit for Storybrooke and environs. My name is Emma. Are you in immediate danger from zombies?”

For a moment, Belle was completely struck dumb, amazed that it had worked.

“Hello, are you in immediate danger?”

“No,” she said eventually. “No, I’m barricaded in my apartment.”

“Ok. How many people in the property?”

“Just me.”

“Do you suffer from any medical conditions?”

“No.” Just overwhelming fear.

“We’re sending a team to your location. I’ll stay on the phone with you until they arrive. How easy is it for you to exit your property?”

“Well, I’ve got zombies coming up the front steps and up the fire escape… I guess I could jump out of the window.”

“No jumping will be required although we will probably get you out that way. Can you describe the zombies, are they fast or slow moving? Do they have the power of speech?”

The questions continued in this vein for a little while until Belle heard the rumbling of a large vehicle coming up the main street and Emma instructed her to open a window if it was safe to do so.

Opening her bedroom window, Belle had to gawp at the sight of a heavily armoured black van inching its way down the street, very slowly mowing down zombies as it went. At last it parked up below her, and a team of what appeared to be riot police in full SWAT gear jumped out of the back, setting up a defensive perimeter as one of their number extended a ladder up to Belle’s window and began to climb up.

“Hi!” The voice was female and remarkably chirpy considering the circumstances. “You must be Belle. I’m Ruby. Let’s get you out of here.”

Still shaking with fear and adrenaline, Belle let Ruby help her down the ladder and bundle her into the back of the van with the rest of her colleagues. For a very frightening few moments, Belle wondered if they were in fact government agents who, trying to cover up the fact that there had been a zombie outbreak in her town, were about to kill her and dispose of the evidence. Rationally, they probably would have just let her be eaten by zombies. Or firebombed the entire town with her still in it.

“Do you work for the government?” she hedged to Ruby.

“God no.” Ruby shook her head so vehemently that Belle thought her goggles would fly off. “No, we very much do not work for the government. They are absolutely not interested in saving people from zombie outbreaks. I’m so glad that you called us. We’d picked up some chatter that Storybrooke had been hit and we hoped that there were some survivors, and that they’d seen the ad and would call us before…”

A huge explosion rocked the van.

“…before the government did that,” Ruby finished.

Belle just sat in mute horror. There were no windows in the back of the van, but she knew that her theory about the town being firebombed to wipe out the evidence of the outbreak had just come terribly true.

There were several questions that Belle wanted to ask, ‘where are we going?’ being chief among them, but she couldn’t make her mouth form around the words. The masked figure sitting on the other side of her patted her shoulder awkwardly. It would probably have been less awkward had he not been armed to the teeth with more anti-zombie implements than Belle could name.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s always a shock when it happens. We’ve all been through it.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence, and when the van stopped and the doors opened again, Belle found herself in the middle of what appeared to be a disused aircraft hangar, filled with crates stamped ZORU in large letters. She pinched herself, but it was definitely not a dream. She had just been saved from the zombie apocalypse by what appeared to be a private army.

“What… How…” She looked around her new surroundings in disbelief.

“We’ll explain everything later,” Ruby said. “There are a few things you have to do first though.”

The few things turned out to be a decontamination shower and a full medical exam from a cheerful little nurse in heavy-duty hazmat gear named Astrid, who took off her helmet and gave her a huge hug after proclaiming her not to be infected. Having been sourced some clothes that were not a hospital gown, Belle emerged from the medical room into the Zombie Outbreak Response Unit headquarters.

“Hi!”

She jumped out of her skin at the voice, turning to see a tall woman with bright red streaks in her hair.

“It’s Ruby,” she said, holding out a hand. “Now that we’re not in quite such life-threatening circumstances, I think introductions are in order.” She sighed. “It’s quite rare for us to find survivors. Hardly anyone takes our adverts seriously and I can’t say I blame them. Zombies aren’t exactly an everyday occurrence for most people and since the government just blows them all up every time, no one really knows the danger.”

Ruby led her down a corridor into what was obviously the nerve centre of the unit. They were evidently a rather small outfit, but they were meticulously fitted out. A large table was set up in the centre of the room, and there was a control desk with several screens and phone at one end, manned by a young blonde woman in earphones.

“Everyone, this is Belle, Belle, this is, well… everyone.”

Belle looked around the table. The five others she assumed were the rest of the team who had rescued her with Ruby. The blonde at the control desk waved distractedly over her shoulder, that must be Emma who’d taken her call. Astrid rushed into the room and took a seat beside the older man at the head of the table. He had greying hair and dark eyes, and a cane rested on the arm of his chair.

“Mulan, Neal, Jeff, David and Mary Margaret. You’ve met Astrid, you’ve spoken to Emma, and this is Mr Gold, the mastermind of the entire operation.”

The older man held out a hand, which Belle shook before taking the vacant seat that Ruby waved her into. “Welcome to the Unit, Belle. We may only be small, but we do what we can.”

Emma took off her headphones and turned in her wheelie chair; Belle could immediately see why she was the one handling the phones as she rubbed her very pregnant tummy.

“All the government channels are reporting no survivors, we’re in the clear.”

“I have to ask,” Belle began, “what happens to me now?”

“Well, you’ve got a choice,” Gold said. “We can arrange for you to travel to a safe colony for survivors that’s been set up in Seattle, or you can stay here and become part of the unit.”

“We need as much help as we can get.” Jeff was the one to speak, and Belle recognised his voice as the man who’d spoken to her in the van. “It’s up to you, of course.”

“You’re welcome to stay for a few days whilst you make your mind up.” Astrid smiled. “I love it when we have visitors. I need to bake! This is a situation that calls for cupcakes.”

Jeff shook his head with a sigh of mock despair. “Only Astrid could be concerned with frosting and sprinkles in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, but that’s what we love about her.”

Belle didn’t pay much attention to the banter as the unit debriefed from their excursion to rescue her. She couldn’t exactly go back to the life that she’d led before; it was a smoking ruin in the middle of the Maine coastline. Getting as far away as possible sounded like a very inviting prospect, and she couldn’t deny that Seattle was certainly very far away. On the other hand, she couldn’t help wanting to know more about the people whom providence had thrown her in with here.

It took her a moment to realise that the talk had stopped, and everyone was filing out of the room.

“Come on, Belle.” Ruby was standing by the door, waiting for her. “I’ll give you the tour.”

There wasn’t a lot to be seen on the tour, really. The place was a large converted barn, the main area housing the van and all the myriad zombie fighting equipment, and the rest of the building partitioned off into living space.

“You’ll be bunking with Astrid whilst you make your decision,” Ruby explained, showing her into a small room with two beds. One half of the room was a riot of pink and stuffed animals and twinkling fairy lights, and it made Belle smile to see it. Even though it wasn’t her style at all, it was good to see that there was fun and life and personality in the otherwise purely functional building.

All the same, Belle was still having trouble believing that all this was happening and that the zombie apocalypse was underway, much less that she was in the headquarters of the only people who cared about rescuing their fellow humans from said apocalypse, and indeed, she was having a bit of trouble believing that such people even existed in the first place.

“How did this place even come to be?” she asked, once they were back in the main living area. Neal and Emma were there too, and it was clear that they were together. It was nice to see love blooming in adversity.

“Well, you’d have to ask Gold what possessed him to start prepping for the zombie apocalypse. He’s the one who got it off the ground, well, him and Neal. Father-son zombie hunter team.”

“I honestly never thought I’d see the day when Dad’s zombie apocalypse obsession paid off,” Neal said, “but I’m very glad that it did.”

“Anyway,” Ruby continued, “he spent years slowly building up an arsenal and now we’re here today. Apart from Gold, Neal, and Emma, we all came here in the same way as you did – we sensibly called the helpline number and got ourselves rescued.”

“Oh.” It saddened Belle to think that so many of them had lost everything.

“It’s ok.” Ruby patted her shoulder as if she could tell what Belle was thinking. “It’s not all bleak. My granny got out with me; she’s in the safe zone now with Jeff’s daughter and Mulan’s uncle. Sometimes we manage to save quite a few households. There are scientists working in Seattle looking at the causes and triggers and identifying all the different strains of zombie-ism. We’re getting more informed and better at fighting them every day, and we’re all certain that there’s a cure out there somewhere.” She paused. “I know it feels wrong to be positive about it all, and you’re probably feeling about as far from positive as possible right now considering that your home just went up in smoke, but I promise that there is light at the end of the tunnel.”

Belle was very grateful for Ruby’s hug.

X

Two days later, Belle made the decision to stay.

She was in the control room when it happened. Gold had been telling her the next chapter in the tale of what made him start the response unit. He’d been happy to tell her when she had asked, but it was a long story, and he was having to give it in instalments in amongst all of his strategic planning and his many phone calls with the leaders of the other units around the country. They hadn’t even got to the part of the story which involved the ZORU branching out into different states yet.

Neal was at the monitoring desk this time, and everything had been nice and quiet until an alarm started going off on one of his screens.

“We’ve got a new cluster. Newport this time.”

Belle went over and peered over his shoulder at the scrolling lines of government and web chatter as Gold settled into the seat beside him and began typing. Everything was talking about a zombie outbreak in Newport. Belle didn’t want to think about how they had access to all this information, but she couldn’t deny that she was glad they did.

“Everyone stand by, we have a new active cluster.” Neal’s voice echoed through the PA system around the building and Belle heard running footsteps as the others raced to their stations. Neal left Gold in charge of the comms as he went to get ready himself.

“We won’t go out unless we get a call,” Gold explained as he continued to monitor the situation. “There’s no point in sending the team out into danger unless we know that there’s a possibility we can save someone.”

It was then that the bright red telephone on the desk began to ring with shrill urgency.

“Zombie Outbreak Response Unit for Storybrooke and environs, my name is Aiden, are you in immediate danger from zombies?”

Belle could only watch in stunned and fearful silence as Gold guided the caller through the same questions that Emma had asked her, at the same time despatching the team and pulling up all kinds of metrics on the computer. On one screen, she could see several camera shots from the van and the team’s body armour as they pounded down the roads towards Newport. Her heart was beating painfully in her mouth at the thought of the danger that they were willingly putting themselves in, and she could only imagine what it must be like for Gold, knowing that his son was going into the fray.

He glanced sideways at her. She had so much admiration for the way he could stay so calm on the phone with the caller, and she had a hugely newfound admiration for Emma, knowing that she had been in just the same nerve-wracking position whilst taking Belle’s own call and watching her boyfriend heading out to save her.

“Ok, we’re here, we can see the survivors.” Neal’s voice came over the internal comms and Gold acknowledged.

“Ok, if you look out of the window you should see the team,” he said to the caller. “Can you confirm to me that you can see them?” He listened to the muffled voice on the other end. “Ok, you’re in safe hands now, I’ll leave you with the team.”

The call ended and Gold could give his full attention to the control screens. Belle watched the camera footage with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. There were more survivors this time, and Jeff and Ruby were shepherding them towards working vehicles whilst the others covered the exits. She screamed as David was caught by a pair of walkers, his camera going offline.

“David!” Gold was half in and half out of his seat, fingers clutching his cane with white knuckles. “David, report!”

“I’m ok!” David sounded winded, and then Emma saw him getting to his feet on Mary Margaret’s video feed as she ran to help him. “I’m ok, I took them out, but my camera’s shot.”

Gold sank back into his chair with a sigh of relief, but Belle couldn’t release the tension thrumming through her veins until everyone was safely back in the van and they were driving away from the town with the survivors in convoy. Once they were en route, she chanced to take another look at Gold. He was leaning back in his chair, looking satisfied with a job well done, but just as exhausted with fear as she felt.

“Do you get scared when they go out?” she asked.

“Every single time.” He paused. “It does help, having someone else here.”

Belle smiled, her heartrate finally beginning to return to normal, and Gold smiled back. There was something a little shy in the expression, and she had to wonder.

Once the survivors had been brought back to the base and undergone due process, it was decided that they would head straight out to the Seattle safe zone. Three households had been saved, too many people for them to house in the unit headquarters, and there was a general air of jubilation around the place that they had managed to rescue eight people in one go.

Jefferson, who was heading out to Seattle to see his daughter anyway, was going to act as an escort for the long drive, and he came over to Belle.

“If you want to go to Seattle, this is probably the best time to come,” he said.

Belle looked around at the rest of the group who were wishing the survivors well on their way. David and Mary Margaret, Emma and Neal, Mulan and Ruby. Astrid bouncing up and down and around.

And Gold, standing alone, a little apart from the rest, happy at having been able to help save lives and needing no gratitude for it. He caught her eye, tilting his head as if to question. Are you going?

Belle shook her head.

“Thank you, Jeff, but I think I’ll stick around. You’ll need someone to man the phones when Emma goes on maternity leave, after all.”

Jefferson gave her a hug.

“Stay safe,” he whispered to her. “And for what it’s worth, I reckon you’re definitely in with a chance there.”

They both looked over at Gold, who turned away with an embarrassed cough. Belle couldn’t help but laugh.

“Take care of them, Jeff,” she said. “And of yourself, of course. And say hi to Grace for me. Well, she has no idea who I am, so maybe not. You know what I mean.”

“Of course.” He bowed low before going to take his seat in the convoy of cars that would be heading out west. Everyone gathered to wave them off, and Belle found herself going over to Gold at the back of the group.

“So, you’re staying then?”

Belle nodded. “If you’ll have me.”

Gold smiled. “Absolutely. I’m certain that you’ll fit right in. Welcome to the Zombie Outbreak Response Unit, Belle.”

“I still can’t get used to the fact that it exists, let alone the fact that it’s needed.” Belle sighed. It was going to be a strange new life, but one in which, hopefully, she could make a difference to the world. And perhaps to one person in particular.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Gold said. “I know we haven’t known each other all that long, but I would miss you if you were to leave.”

“I would miss you, too. After all, you still haven’t told me the rest of the unit’s history yet. I couldn’t miss that.”

Gold looked at the rest of the team gathered in the hangar. “We could always resume the tale now if you want. Get away from this lot of rabble rousers.”

Belle laughed at the description. Considering how few of them there were, they were making an inordinate amount of noise. She didn’t mind at all, and she knew that Gold didn’t either. In these times, every little victory ought to be celebrated, and this was more than a little victory.

Still, it would be nice to have some time with Gold without a crisis looming over their heads.

“I’d like that,” she said, and she took his arm when he offered it to her, leading her out of the hangar and into the main living area, settling on the sofa.

He didn’t begin to speak, and for a long time, they both just looked at each other. Belle worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Would it be too forward to just go for it? They’d only known each other for a couple of days, like Gold had said, but Belle knew that there was something there, and there had been something there from practically the first moment that they had spoken to each other properly, and Gold had begun to tell his tale.

She took the plunge, leaning in closer and feeling a huge inward sigh of relief when Gold did the same, meeting her halfway in a soft, tentative kiss.

Belle broke away, looking into his eyes, and on finding only encouragement there, she went back in for another kiss. Gold’s hands came up to cup her face, and she smiled against his mouth.

“I’m so glad that you didn’t go,” Gold breathed once they finally broke apart again. “Thank you for staying.”

Belle pecked her lips to his again. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

Maybe it was a little too soon and they were moving a little too fast, but the times they were living in were dangerous, and they had to make the most of all the opportunities they had, just like all the causes for celebration. This was not a time for holding back. This was a time for living.

[swordlesbean]

there’s more than one reason adora and glimmer’s relationship fractures, but shadow weaver is a huge part of it, though she ultimately plays a much more passive role compared to how she actively fucked up adora and catra’s relationship. the tension between adora and glimmer in regards to shadow weaver really comes to a head in 4x07, and i’ve highlighted the particularly yikes-worthy moments here. 

basically, glimmer makes some questionable choices regarding shadow weaver that don’t take into consideration adora’s history with her, and adora has a reasonably unhappy reaction to it, and then glimmer responds to adora’s reaction in a way that is frankly terrible and makes the situation more tense. 

and we could just say “what the fuck, glimmer? not okay!” and move on, but hey, that’s not what i do! so let’s take a moment (or many moments because brief and concise is also not what i do) to consider how we got to this point from both glimmer and adora’s perspectives. 

so glimmer. glimmer is grieving her mother and is overwhelmed by her new responsibility. the war has taken a turn for the worst, the horde is gaining ground, and she feels like she’s failing and not doing enough to protect everyone. usually she could rely on her friends for comfort and support, but she’s feeling isolated from them because their whole dynamic has changed now that she’s queen, and she feels like they (particularly adora) don’t trust her judgement or think she’s capable.

enter shadow weaver. glimmer’s always been insecure about her powers because of having to recharge them, but now shadow weaver’s helped her become more powerful than she’s ever been. she’s also able to learn the kind of magic her father knew from a person that taught him, which makes her feel closer to him. but most importantly, shadow weaver appears to recognize her authority and power and treats her like the queen, advising but still letting glimmer be the one to make the final decision, unlike adora and bow who keep challenging her and are trying to keep her out of the action to protect her. nonetheless, glimmer never actually trusts shadow weaver, just uses her knowledge and advice when it’s to her advantage, and she doesn’t understand why her friends can’t recognize this and just trust her on how she’s handling the situation.

but it’s not as straightforward as that, because shadow weaver isn’t just some random asshole. she’s the asshole that raised and mistreated adora, and glimmer knows it. she may not know detailed specifics about adora’s abuse (or catra’s for that matter) because adora most likely hasn’t discussed it in depth, but glimmer has still seen enough to get it. she saw how adora was in a constant state of panic in mystacor at just the thought of shadow weaver’s presence. she witnessed how shadow weaver strapped adora down and tried to wipe her memories in an incredibly painful way (which glimmer just managed to prevent). that was enough to make her hate shadow weaver. she was very protective of adora when shadow weaver turned up in bright moon, and she only agreed to work with shadow weaver grudgingly in order to rescue adora.

but now her circumstances have changed so much, and she’s got all this responsibility, and shadow weaver is seeming kind of reasonable, and it’s just so easy to be frustrated with adora. because adora keeps questioning her judgement about shadow weaver instead of just trusting her and her ability to take care of herself. because adora is the face of everyone being over-protective of her in a way that is very much like how her mom was, but it feels more stifling than ever because she’s the queen now, yet she’s still being treated like she’s less than capable, and it feels like she has less control of her life than ever. because she’s angry at her mom for being gone, but it doesn’t feel right to blame her, so she directs that anger at adora instead. because adora was there and didn’t stop it despite having all the power of the mighty she-ra at her disposal. because the scared and sad little kid part of glimmer that just desperately wants her mom to hold her is whispering, “it’s not fair, it should’ve been adora instead.“ (which... adora agrees, but that’s a whole other topic of discussion!)

everything that’s going on in glimmer’s life makes it easier for her to disregard adora’s feelings and concerns, even though she knows enough about shadow weaver that she should be able to recognize why it bothers adora so much. and if she was in a better state of mind, she almost definitely would understand and would be more considerate, but she’s not there right now. and yeah, glimmer’s behavior is mostly due to her being so caught up in her own grief and stress and insecurities that there’s no room left to really think about how adora feels. but maybe there’s also a part of her unconsciously trying to punish adora for what happened with angella. and we might also consider: purposeful pettiness. glimmer’s got a real mean streak that creeps out when she’s under pressure, and adora keeps butting heads with her, so at least a little of her lack of consideration for adora’s feelings is probably down to spite. which is... not great, but also makes sense. 

speaking of adora, let’s talk about her perspective. big picture, she isn’t totally blameless in the breakdown of her relationship with glimmer. she’s not adept at communication and expressing her feelings, and her own insecurity-driven behavior (over-protectiveness, need to control situations) inadvertently taps into glimmer’s self-doubts and pushes her further away. however, in this particular situation, i think adora’s reaction is not only understandable but very much justified. her friend is doing her dirty. 

shadow weaver controlled and manipulated and abused adora all her life and made her watch as catra was abused too. she’s only recently come to understand how she was mistreated and is still in the early stages of working through the damage, and then suddenly the abuser she’s just escaped is living with her in a place she’s come to think of as safe, and there’s no way to completely avoid interaction. adora tried to set boundaries in s3, but in their first encounter in s4, shadow weaver makes it clear she’s still intent on fucking with adora’s head when she attempts to make adora doubt her friendship with glimmer.

shadow weaver just being in bright moon is enough to put adora on edge and make her uncomfortable, but it goes further than that, because then she finds out glimmer is learning magic and taking advice from shadow weaver, which sets off all kind of alarm bells. adora is intimately familiar with shadow weaver’s manipulative brand of mentorship, as well as her brand of dangerous magic. in adora’s mind, the only kind of magic shadow weaver could ever possibly teach is dark magic, because that’s all she’s ever seen shadow weaver use, and it’s how she’s seen shadow weaver threaten and hurt people. and adora knows shadow weaver will end up hurting glimmer somehow, because that’s what shadow weaver does, especially when she’s taken an interest in you, like she did with adora, like she’s doing with glimmer now. but glimmer tells adora she doesn’t have to trust shadow weaver, she just has to trust glimmer.

and adora does trust glimmer, usually, but how can she trust glimmer with shadow weaver? glimmer doesn’t know shadow weaver like adora does. glimmer doesn’t know her skillful manipulations, the heaviness of her cloying false affection or her terrifying ominous threats. doesn’t know how easily she can slip into your head and make you question your reality or crush you under the weight of her expectations. doesn’t know the way she can make you feel like the most important person in the world and cut you down to worthless pieces in the same breath. doesn’t know how she can force you to watch as she hurts the people you love but somehow trick you into carrying all the responsibility and blame and guilt for it.

and it doesn’t help that glimmer keeps giving adora very good reasons not to trust her when it comes to shadow weaver. because glimmer threatens a horde soldier with magic in a really intense way that is reminiscent of shadow weaver. because glimmer just laughs when shadow weaver makes a gaslighting comment about adora being paranoid. because shadow weaver is suddenly wandering around bright moon freely without guards and it’s under glimmer’s order and glimmer never thought to mention it to adora. and whenever adora brings up shadow weaver, glimmer gets annoyed, brushes her off, says they’re wasting time and she needs to let it go. and even though they’re only meant to be acting, glimmer sounds serious when she says adora’s just mad she’s not shadow weaver’s favorite anymore, and that reminds her of when catra said she enjoyed being shadow weaver’s favorite, and why can’t either of them just understand how shadow weaver has always made her feel bad?

but adora is adora, and it can’t be about how she feels, it has to be about what she can do, which is stop shadow weaver from causing more harm. it’s not about how shadow weaver has hurt her, it’s what shadow weaver has “done to us,” the collective. after all, shadow weaver’s already hurt glimmer once by holding her captive and torturing her, so adora keeps framing her concerns in regards to how shadow weaver might hurt glimmer again and how adora is just trying to protect her. and yes, it’s true that adora is absolutely concerned about glimmer getting hurt, because she loves glimmer, and she’s already been forced to watch as one best friend was irreparably damaged by shadow weaver, but this time she has the power to stop it from happening, if glimmer would just listen to her.��

but then it’s not just about protecting other people from shadow weaver, it’s also about adora instinctively trying to protect herself. because adora’s gut feeling towards shadow weaver developed before there was glimmer and likely even before there was catra, and that’s the feeling adora is reacting to the most. that feeling being fear. shadow weaver has been making adora afraid for as long as adora’s been alive.

and if adora was capable of communicating that fear, if she was able to be more direct about how shadow weaver has harmed her instead of a general “us” or instead of future possibilities about how glimmer might be hurt, maybe she would’ve had more luck getting through to glimmer and easing the tension between them. maybe then glimmer would’ve been reminded what adora’s experienced at shadow weaver’s hands and would’ve understood adora’s reaction wasn’t about about adora not trusting her or thinking she’s incapable, but about adora feeling scared and unsafe because her abuser is once again living in her space and giving seemingly well-received guidance to someone that’s supposed to be on her side, someone that’s been her best friend and primary support system in her new life. but adora hasn’t learned how to talk about stuff like that yet, because adora hasn’t learned how to be considerate of herself and her feelings and her needs.

anyway, that’s a lot of words, so i’m going to wrap it up with a familiar refrain: GET THESE KIDS INTO THERAPY.