#in an entirely preventable way. imagine knowing that some day you would have to sacrifice your own child to save your world.

[bramblestar334]

ough listening to hayloft 1 and 2 and thinking about leo and paige again

[gotham-daydreams]

Honestly, in a situation like not [] where they aren't willing to physically hurt the reader but psychologically mess with them? It's fucked but at the same time I have too good of an imagination. When it comes to neglect there's so many aspects of it that could happen and even if I'm pissed I could keep my mouth shut to the point I feel numb.

I mean they can't change you or break you if you just stay in your own head after all? Lil stories in your head to keep you busy, unholy amount of hours spent sleeping. I don't care if I waste away if it means not having to deal with people who won't even listen or admit that it's gonna take time to undo trauma and won't take the proper steps to undo it.

They take things up a notch and limit food or start doing things that prevent you from sleeping? Do it, at least the hat man will be a better friend. Can't break what's not there, the batfam always has this mindset that so long as they get their way that they would do what's necessary but that's entirely because they are all too selfish to actually really respect how you feel. And no amount of bugging me or yelling at me or trying to get a rise out of me will change the fact I can just slip into my mind and ignore it all.

The only way I'd ever stop being in my head and not even wasting time on them is if they actually tried to be genuine in fixing things and admit they fucked up and are doing it out of guilt. Either put down your pride or stay with a reader who will gladly stay tucked away in the crevice of their brain in an imaginary field of flowers with whatever lil character they make to enjoy the time in their head <3

Anyways I love your series and can't wait for more!! Please take care and hydrate!!!

I do agree! Especially in this scenario where they’re way more unwilling to physically hurt the reader, because... well, they want to hear your music! Like a little songbird, just tucked away from the public eye, just for them to hear you sing...

It'll definitely get on their nerves, and some will probably crumble under the pressure - but those that don't aren't actually the ones you should be worried about. I mean, of course they'll try to do everything else they can, and at that point - its a contest of willpower and to see who can outlast the other (and spoiler, most of them will definitely lose), but some are definitely more stubborn than others. After all, their 'love' is spawned out of guilt, obligation, and a messy mix of things that's turned into this ugly beast of a thing they see as love - if you aren't willing to take it, then that's fine, but you definitely aren't getting anything until you do.

Though, again, at some point the time and treatment definitely begins to effect them too. And that’s... not good, especially when some of them are known for their resolve, will, and general ability to withstand so much crap despite not even being superhuman (even if in all honesty, compared to the average guy, they may as well be). Them being insane does not help with that fact.

They'll begin to consider things they wouldn't have even thought of before out of sheer desperation and need. They'll think about it, plan it out a little, and before they even know it - they're losing hours of sleep trying to find ways to actually execute it. Hell - some may even act impulsively, and just flat out do it without giving it a second thought. Because they can't. They can't think. They can't sleep. Not without you - not after another month, another week, another day, another hour, another second without you.

They need it. Need you. Need your warmth, your presence - to feel like they're doing something right, even when its so wrong. Even if they've left you damaged beyond repair, some still want to feel like they can fix you, put you back together... and what better way to feed that delusion then to hold you in their arms? To do all of these things with you... even if you're not mentally there?

At that point, they'd sacrifice never being able to hear your music from you to get that. To have that fabricated connection. They'd give up that one thing that's been keeping them from harming you physically, and go all out.

[Which... descriptions of losing limbs, and general gore under the cut, it's not pretty but not super detailed either? Yes, it's towards the reader. Yes the reader is awake. There is no cut away, but some dancing around using some phrases repeatedly. Consider yourself warned and advised. Even if it's just descriptions - the family isn't playing nice.]

Maybe they'd start small... just a leg, maybe two, not even a foot- your legs from the knee down are going indefinitely. Maybe even the whole thing if certain people do it impulsively, and aren't thinking - aside from the fact that they need you close, but they just have to get these things out of the way. To lessen your struggle, to reassure themselves you won't run, of course - after all, you can't run if they just... take away that option, right? It's for the best, they'd tell themselves, they need to do this. They have to. You gave them no other choice- and now... now they had to make a tough choice. They have to do this.

If it's done impulsively, it's messy. I guess not having a lot of experience cutting off limbs or disabling someone isn't going to make things easier, who knew, am I right? Taking lives (for some of them), and beating people up is one thing, but cutting off arms and legs? It's weird to think about until you're the one doing it, and in a frenzy no less.

Some of the more impulsive ones you really have to look out for, because if they do it then it is painful, and that is no exaggeration. As much as they're thinking about you, they also aren't at the same time - at least not you in the present as they're doing the removal. You'll pass out from pain, or just the visceral sight right before you witness your leg getting torn off. Real messy stuff. It's not subtle at all, they barely hide it - if they even try to allow you that luxury. If anything, you see too much of it. Either way, you're out like a light, and left with whatever you saw as nothing is left to the imagination. Unless your fucked up mind makes it worse, to which- a lot is left to the imagination as that nightmare of a scene is messed with and mixed in your head like a toddler left in the kitchen.

Of course, the family will take care of the messy outcome, and get you to another room and everything (after all, they have one too many spar ones), but, well, that won't change the reality of the situation, will it? Hell, get one of the more rough ones pissed off or just do something one of the more impulsive ones doesn't like, and you'll lose your arms, and depends on who does it - you'll lose them just as you lost your legs, and you'll get to watch... before you pass out, of course.

Maybe they'll get you things to help, like robotic limbs and such, though its not that great and doesn't make things easier. Not even a little. They'll be able to control everything you do, essentially, down to what you can even touch or interact with.

You'll feel more trapped then you ever have before, as even your body, every limb attached to your torso is theirs. Theirs to control. To mess with, and just like before, they'll take it away if you do something that makes them upset.

They'll leave you more than just defenseless.

[thelunarfairy]

Hola 💗 I really love your content 😍 that's why I come and go all the time, I come to ask you something else and my point of view :)

The truth is that I have always believed that Nene is going to die in the end because there are many things that point to that, if it happens I think it will be one of the strongest things that we will see in the manga, AidaIro is dramatic and crude, Nene is the most human character, that is why she is considered less important but her importance is really extremely great, she is one of the pillars of the story, so seeing her die she will be very strong.

Especially how everyone who knows her will take it, she wins the affection of people easily, she has interacted with the most misunderstood teenagers, she saw the pains, desires and regrets of the specters, they have liked her, Hanako is in love with her, you could say that she is a friend of Mitsuba, she was a friend of Sumire, Shijima-San supports her along with Tsuchigomori, even Yako, a constantly furious being, likes being with her and Tsukasa approve her, I asked me how she will get along with the mysteries No.1

But hey, you can see the importance, I wondered how she will die and how it will affect the characters and the story?

Oh, Thank you sweet 💗💗 >.<

Yashiro is the protagonist and it's no surprise. She is the most important piece in the story. Without her, Hanako would remain alone, Tsukasa would not return, the seals would not be removed, lives would not be saved, Kou would not know Mitsuba, because if there is no Tsukasa, there is no Mitsuba. The fate of the twins would not have been changed.

It suggests that the twins were waiting for her arrival to begin their goal, and of course, these goals have consequences, whether good or bad. In any case, the twins could only move forward with her. Tsukasa didn't kidnap her for nothing, he needs her too.

Yashiro was narratively constructed to seem weak and useless, a little girl who was naive and got involved with the supernatural, but that's not what it's about. She is one of the key players, and if you analyze everything she did, it had a consequence. She prevented Kou from exorcising Hanako, he started to want to better understand supernaturals.

Hanako is no longer as cold as before, I could mention all the changes in his behavior but I would spend the whole day. She saved Aoi several times (even without Aoi knowing), she showed Sumire what freedom was (when she took her from that village) wow, if I'm going to say everything this post will be just for that hahaha.

Nene's death is destined, so there is no way to save her unless specific methods are used to do so. They can use Tsuchigomori or the god. In both cases a sacrifice is necessary. In the case of Tsuchigomori he would sacrifice himself, and in God's case, they would need to remove all the seals.

There is a third alternative, going back in time. In the latter, there are some possibilities for her to be kept alive, either by stopping her time, or going back in time to change something, or in the last resort, going to the future to prevent her from going through the event that will bring about her death. .

Apparently, Hanako is thinking about the possibility of using the time to their advantage.

About what her death would be like, I have a theory about it, if you want to see it, take a look at this post here.

I'm going to summarize the post I mentioned above, basically they need to remove all the seals, after these seals are removed something will happen (the last cursed seal will break) imagining that the cursed seal is Hanako's, which is the only one that has a seal and isn't a yorishiro, so we assume Hanako is going to transform into something dangerous.

Yashiro manages to purify, and you see that when she does this to Tsukasa, he "melts" a little. On other occasions, such as in the mokke of the dead chapter, she purifies all the students at once.

So I imagine that she will try to save Hanako, but he, who has no control over himself, will end up killing her in the process (like he did with Tsukasa), she will manage to save him, but when he realizes what he did , will ask Kou to exorcise him.

I explain better in the post I mentioned.

The second hypothesis is that it is used as a sacrifice to the God, to grant a wish. Although the Kannagis don't actually die, they are trapped in the house/abyss. Yashiro actually dies, so I wonder if this hypothesis is so valid.

We saw how her body became lifeless and there were no signs that her soul would be present at the place, or the fact that she didn't remember anything after Mirai advanced her time, that is, she won't be trapped anywhere like the kannagis stay. Tsukasa was also sacrificed, but he remains in the house, meaning Yashiro actually dies, there is no return for her.

The ways that Hanako found to save her included locking her in a safe place, where nothing bad could happen to her, that is, while she was there, no supernatural would attack her or there would be no way to get her out of there to use her as a sacrifice. She also wouldn't risk her life trying to save Hanako, because she would be with Amane from the PP arc.

He made a wish to God and asked for her life span to increase, that is, he changed her destiny when he made her live longer than was intended. So even if she was in danger, she wouldn't die. Remembering that Hanako removed her from the supernatural world, Aoi's sacrifice closed all the doors, meaning she wouldn't be there if Hanako transformed and attacked her.

We're still going to see more of his attempts to save her, and I believe that in this current arc we will too.

Nene's death will mainly affect Hanako, and if Hanako loses control… That will be problematic.....

I hope you liked it, thanks for the ask! ♡

[guardianofrivendell]

Uh, so I'mma request something because I really like your writing and want more of your wonderful Aragorn fics in my life. So, I was thinking some headcannons about what it would be like to date/be in a relationship with Aragorn before, during and/or after the fellowship? Thanks man, and take as long as you need!💕

A/N: I am STRUGGLING with sleepover requests, my own series (PS and DAKT) and some new stuff so I turned to my stack of ‘normal’ requests to try and write something different. Et voilà!

@katethewriter I took a lot longer than I should have with these and I’m so sorry! I’m leaning more towards the Hobbit era lately (I’m really turning into a Dwarf simp here), and I’m neglecting the fellowship members. Unforgivable! 

I interpreted this as how your relationship would develop while on the quest to destroy the ring and you’re not actually together at the start of it. Also maybe slightly OOC Aragorn. 

A/N 2: It has some nsfw hints (not much), I couldn’t help myself and it’s very unlike Aragorn I think but I’m not sorry. Also this turned out really long, I am sorry for that. 

A/N 3: Just like my other headcanons, this doesn’t make much sense so best to simply ignore this. I really don’t know what this is... :) 

Being In a Relationship With Aragorn On The Quest Would Go Like This:

Aragorn had met you in some seedy pub 

Not his first choice to take shelter from the weather but after days and days of endless rain and trudging through mud it was almost nice to be there

at least he was able to dry his clothes and have a warm meal 

he was surprised to see someone like you there 

surprised but concerned too 

for your wellbeing that is 

every single person in that bar had his eyes on you the minute you moved

Aragorn had too but for entirely different reasons

at least that’s what he told himself

so the minute one of those drunk lads laid a hand on you he was on his feet

knight in shining armor ranger clothes

before he got to you, you had floored and knocked out your assailant, threatening the others they would suffer the same fate if they tried something similar

Aragorn stood frozen in place, completely mesmerized by you

and maybe a tad bit aroused too

the life of a ranger is very lonely after all

you winked at him and left the bar shortly after

Aragorn couldn’t get you out of his head 

but what were the odds he would ever run into you again

he even returned to that godawful place a few times

a guy can hope right

you can imagine his surprise when he saw you in Rivendell

attending the secret council

he was jaw on the floor surprised

he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you

on the outside he was the cool ranger of the north, bringer of Hobbits, inventor of the Sexy But Still Rough Around The Edges Stare™

while on the inside he was  f r e a k i n g  o u t 

because there you were, finally within reach 

but then Frodo had to sacrifice himself 

and Aragorn could not not go with him 

he absolutely lost it when you volunteered as well

there was no way you were going to put your life on the line like that

you scoffed at his remark

wait did he said that out loud?

“I can handle myself just fine.”

Oh he knew that

Flashes of the bar fight filled his mind

it filled something else too 😏

so Aragorn had set himself a second goal  

besides getting Frodo and the ring to Mordor he now vowed to keep you safe as well

and to make you his by the time you would arrive at Mordor

but we all know how smooth that will go do we 

the first few days and weeks it went reasonably well 

you have to read that as ‘he didn’t embarass himself in front of you’

because there was no progress at all on any other front

you seemed to prefer the company of the Hobbits over him or any other member of the fellowship

he tried to make conversation with you every time you walked near him 

A+ for effort

when the Crebain flew over his instinct was to make sure Frodo (and Sam because those two were attached at the hip) was out of sight

after that he searched for you, but Legolas had already pulled you under the bushes with him

surely the feeling in his stomach was the fault of the Lembas bread

because Aragorn doesn’t get jealous

but then the same thing happened in Moria

you weren’t a fan of the dark and claustrophobic mines so he let you walk up front with Gandalf and Frodo near the light of Gandalf’s staff 

with him right behind you of course 

when the Orcs and Troll attacked, he tried to stay near you 

keep an extra eye out for you, driving the Orcs away who were trying to get to you

it was you together with Legolas who defeated the troll, high fiving each other over a job well done

okay fine maybe Aragorn did get jealous this time

like he had done his best to protect you but did you notice?

then when Gandalf fell you surprisingly turned to him for comfort

leaving Legolas, Gimli and Boromir to comfort the Hobbits

take that Leaf Boi

even though it felt really good to hold you, he knew you couldn’t stay there

so he ordered everyone to get going, taking the lead

and then Lothlorien happened

a forest that was both magical and romantic

perfect setting for a love confession right

when he finally got you alone he chickened out at the last moment

because OF cOUrsE

luckily for him you did not

you almost knocked him over in your attempt to kiss him  

he eagerly reciprocated the kiss though

no complaints there

but he also explained that even though he wanted this, the quest and Frodo had to come first

which you respected and understood, but you were also willing to test his resolve 👀

you didn’t tell the others 

but they didn’t need an explanation, it’s not like you two were subtle

he held your hand whenever he could 

Gimli couldn’t help but commenting on it, Aragorn explaining it was to prevent you from falling or tripping

“Lad, you’re sitting down in a boat...”

cue roaring laughter and flushed cheeks on Aragorn

although the fellowship supported your relationship they couldn’t help but tease Aragorn relentlessly

lots of sneaky forehead kisses

during the rest of the quest Aragorn did his best to keep you out of harm’s way 

to your own frustration of course, you weren’t helpless or as fragile as he made you seem

you fought alongside Boromir when Uglúk shot him 

they took Merry and Pippin and dragged you away from Boromir’s body

the one time Aragorn wasn’t at your side and you got kidnapped

you weren’t going to hear the end of this 

needless to say Aragorn was indeed beside himself with worry 

he couldn’t get a break 

first Frodo gone, then Boromir shot and now it seemed he failed his promise to himself

enter brooding Aragorn

but he knew you were brave and could take care of yourself - you had repeated that countless times - so he was sure he was going to find you 

AND HE DID

after three days of running with a dartling Elf and a wheezing Dwarf they bumped into Éomer and his horse gang

before he could ask Éomer if he saw you or the Hobbits, one of his riders jumped off their horse and made a beeline for him 

Legolas notched an arrow and Gimli raised his axe but you simply shoved them aside and threw your arms around Aragorn

relieved kisses 

the hug lasted several minutes until Legolas cleared his throat

oh right... audience

you shared a horse with Aragorn on the way to Edoras

while with King Théoden Aragorn kept an arm around your waist or a hand on the small of your back the entire time

as if he had to make sure you were still there

Éowyn who?

The Battle of Helm’s Deep was torture for Aragorn

he wanted to stay with you but you both knew you would be too distracted by each other 

it took him a while to find you after the battle was won 

few years of his life were lost in panic

but of course you were alright, already helping with the wounded

now it was his turn to sweep you off your feet

quite literally too 

as the quest progressed, it became clear to Aragorn that he had to take up his rightful place as the King of Gondor when the time came 

so during the victory feast after Helm’s Deep he took you outside for a walk

cue comments and whistling from Gimli 

but Aragorn only wanted to talk to you 

to make sure you knew what you were getting yourself into if you stayed with him 

were you ready to be the spouse of a King?

of course he made it seem as if he was going to ditch you 

because that man is angst embodied 

everything to keep you safe right?

luckily as soon as it was clear that no, he wasn’t going to ditch you and yes, this was kind of a hastily thrown together proposal in a way, you kissed him saying that as long as you were at his side you were ready for anything

as long as you were together

Aragorn taglist: @katethewriter @lovemusic26alwaysblog @sokkasdarling @snailcoveredcottage

Permanent taglist: @roosliefje @kata1803 @entishramblings @artsywaterlily @sleepy-daydream-in-a-rose @marvelschriss @kumqu4t @myrin1234 @dark-angel-is-back @the-fandoms-georgie @lathalea @xxbyimm @sokkasdarling @katethewriter @aredhel-of-gondolin @leethology @elvish-sky @moony-artnstuff @emmapotato8 @kirenia15 @vicmackeybullshxt @moarfandomtrash

[morganaspendragonss]

“Why are you wearing my sweater?” “Because it smells like you.” With Carlos’ the one wearing the sweater!

holly's august extravaganza day 19: whatever here that's left of me (is yours)

thank you!

34. “Why are you wearing my sweater?” “Because it smells like you.” (from the fluff section of this list)

ao3 | 1.4k | hurt/comfort, post 2.12, supportive tk, softness

The morning after the fire, it’s TK who wakes up first, and for once it makes perfect sense. Carlos had barely been able to sleep, and though it hadn’t exactly been a picnic for TK either, he’s not the one going through the grief of losing years of his life all at once. Not to the extent that Carlos is, anyway.

TK sighs and rolls his head to look at Carlos’s sleeping face. He runs his thumb softly over the crease on his brow, wishing the simple motion could smooth it away and make everything okay again. Make it so last night never happened, and this is just a normal morning in their own bed, in their own house.

He tries to pretend for a little while, but the illusion is shattered all too quickly by a soft knocking at the bedroom door. Carefully, TK removes Carlos’s arm from where it is loosely slung over his hips and gets out of bed, checking to make sure he hasn’t disturbed him before padding across the room.

He keeps the door only cracked open to prevent too much light from getting into the room. His dad is on the other side, smiling sadly, a large box in his hands and several bags at his feet. TK braces himself for a joke; his dad has always been the type to fall back on humour in difficult situations, but he finds himself pleasantly surprised.

“I meant to give these to you guys last night,” he says, lifting the box slightly, “but things were so crazy that… Anyway. You left some clothes here when you moved out, so I figured you might want them.”

“Thanks, Dad.” TK takes the box from him, glancing down into it. There’s not much—a couple of hoodies, some screwed up t-shirts and button ups, a pair of sweats—but it’s all he has, and more than Carlos does. He sighs softly, then turns back into the bedroom and places the box down by the wardrobe. Carlos is still asleep when he glances at him, and all TK wants to do is curl up beside him again.

But when he goes to close the door, he instead finds himself with an arm full of bags.

“Those are from the crew,” he dad explains. “Paul stopped by with them earlier; he said to tell you that if there was anything you two needed, they all want to help out.”

TK nods. He’d thought the crew might do something like this, though that doesn’t make him any less grateful.

His dad shuffles awkwardly, clearly finding the silence uncomfortable. “Mateo wanted to contribute too, but we told him not to. You know, because—”

“Because he’s only just replaced his own clothes, I know.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again, and TK loves his dad, but he can’t deal with this right now. Guilt lies thick in the air, somehow worse than last night, but TK is in no mood to address it now. Maybe later, when they’ve had time to think about it all, but right now he’s too tired. Besides, there’s no way he’s getting into what he’s sure will become an argument when Carlos is sleeping just feet away.

TK takes a step back. “Carlos is still asleep,” he says. “So I’m just gonna…” He tips his head back, gesturing into the bedroom, and his dad understands, also moving back.

“Right, of course. I, uh, I have my follow-up appointment at the hospital today, but I’ll see you guys later. Maybe then we can talk?”

“Sure.”

Without waiting for an answer, TK gently shuts the door and turns to place the bags on top of the box. Carlos stirs when he climbs back in bed, his eyelids cracking open.

“Did something happen?” he mumbles, trying to push himself upright.

TK shushes him. “It was just my dad dropping some clothes off for us,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Carlos drops back off within seconds, TK watching the steady rhythm of his chest and listening to his soft breaths. He reaches out and lightly runs his fingers through Carlos’s hair, pushing back a few stray curls. It’s almost like any other morning, so TK closes his eyes and pretends for a little while longer.

*

TK would have been happy to stay in bed with Carlos all day, but eventually the grumbling of his stomach becomes too insistent to ignore. He heaves himself up once more and selects a shirt at random from the box of his old stuff, wrinkling his nose when he sees what it is. He’d left this one behind on purpose, the print too much for him to care what happened to the shirt. The same goes for most of the clothes in the box, but it’s not like he’s spoiled for choice, so it’ll have to do.

There’s a pair of jeans his size in one of the bags, so TK bundles everything up and trudges to the bathroom. He’s been running into fires his entire working life; he’s perfected the art of getting rid of unwanted smells, but this time is different. This time, no matter how many times he washes himself, the smoke and grime still feels like it’s sticking to his skin, a permanent cloud around him.

TK blames his dad’s shampoos, because it’s easier than admitting he’s imagining it.

Once he’s showered and dressed, he heads to the kitchen to make breakfast. Carlos joins him not ten minutes later, still looking exhausted, though he attempts a wan smile when their eyes meet. TK returns it and kisses him on the cheek, passing him a cup of coffee.

He studies his boyfriend as they stand in silence, his heart breaking at what he sees. Carlos is a big guy, but right now he’s never looked smaller, shoulders hunched and his eyes darting around the kitchen, as if taking it all in. They’ve hung out here together before, especially right after TK got shot, but it must feel different now, knowing there’s nowhere else for them to go.

Knowing that, technically, this is now their home.

Carlos sets his mug on the counter and scrubs his hands down his face, then puls at his sleeves like he’s trying to stretch them to fit. Which… Wait.

“Are you…” TK leans closer, peering at the hoodie Carlos is wearing, and—yep. “Why are you wearing my hoodie?”

Carlos flushes and tugs at the neckline—another demonstration of how uncomfortable it must be for him to wear it. The height difference between them is miniscule, but sizing is another matter entirely; TK’s hoodie is obviously pulled tight across Carlos’s chest and it doesn’t sit right on his body, too small for his build.

“Babe,” TK starts worriedly, “was there nothing in your size from the crew? You should have said something. We can fix this, you don’t need to be uncomfortable.”

There’s a beat, and then Carlos, studiously avoiding TK’s gaze, clears his throat. “It smells like you.”

TK blinks. “What?”

“I’m wearing it because it smells like you. I don’t— The only clothes I have left of mine smell of the fire, but this is yours and… I don’t know, I guess it makes me feel safe?” He laughs nervously, pulling at the hem as though he’s going to take the hoodie off. “Pretty stupid, right?”

TK puts a hand out and stops him. “No,” he says softly. He honestly has no idea how that hoodie smells even remotely like him after a month abandoned here, but if it makes Carlos feel safe, then who is TK to argue? “Not stupid at all. You should keep it.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “You don’t care that I’m probably stretching it?”

“Why would I?” TK asks. “I left it here for a reason, Carlos. Plus, I’d sacrifice a thousand hoodies if I knew it would make you feel safe; one is nothing.”

It’s far from the most romantic thing TK’s ever said, but the way Carlos hugs him makes it feel like it. He presses kiss after kiss to Carlos’s cheek and the shell of his ear, comforting him like he tried to do last night.

“Besides,” he whispers after a moment, “this just means it’ll be big enough for when I inevitably steal it back from you.”

And, for the first time since the fire, Carlos laughs—really, truly laughs. The sound is muffled against TK’s shoulder, but it’s so goddamn beautiful, and TK would do anything to hear it again.

Even if that involves giving up every hoodie he owns.

[libermachinae]

Night Shift

Also on AO3! Summary: Prowl and Jetfire analyze leads on a Decepticon smuggling operation, working together late into the night trying to find the missing connections. A sleep deprived slip of the tongue leads Prowl to revisiting old choices. Word Count: 2146

---

Prowl didn’t keep track of his chronometer this late in the night. Morning was inevitable, and he knew he could rely on a burst of messages from Orion to let him know when it had arrived. As such, he had no idea what hour it was when Jetfire broke through the productive silence.

“How did you come up with these predictions?” Jetfire asked. Worst of all, he was speaking with his mouth full, apparently too incensed by Prowl’s logic train to be bothered with common decency. “Every gun you’ve pulled in has been running on fumes; I’ve had to scrape the insides of the barrels just to figure out what they’re fueled on.”

The impressive thing about Jetfire was that even as a voice over the comms, he sounded like the biggest bot in the room. It wasn’t just that his voice was deep; Orion, who wasn’t that much taller than Prowl, had a voice you could feel through the floor panels. It was something about the way Jetfire talked, deliberate and straightforward, rarely stuttering even when caught off-guard. It was refreshing.

“I’ve outlined the logic process in my report. I won’t be repeating it,” Prowl said, scrolling back through his files.

“What are they teaching in the enforcer academy that reports don’t need to communicate anything?” Jetfire grumbled

It would be a reasonable estimate to say they spent 50% of these near nightly calls complaining about their targets, their coworkers, and the administration, and another 40% about each other. Prowl sat through them strictly as a matter of convenience, being a faster mode of communication than the intermittent data bursts preferred by the sanctioned enforcer agencies.

Having someone at the other end of the line also assisted the rust sticks and nucleon microcubes in staving off recharge protocols.

“It’s as I explained to Tumbler: it communicates everything I intended it to.” Ideally, very little to anyone who couldn’t have worked it out themselves. That way, the important information stayed with those who could actually use it, and the rest—

“Who’s Tumbler?”

Prowl lost his train of thought as the rest of his processor caught up to what the .5% he reserved for conversation had said. He froze, rust stick halfway to his mouth.

“No one,” he said.

“Okay.” Jetfire drew out the word. “Did he buy that line?”

No, of course not. Tumbler was always relentless about that sort of thing. His curiosity and drive could have lent to the makings of a detective or captain if he’d dedicated them more often to investigations and less on critiquing Prowl.

“He was young and failed to grasp the necessity of efficiency in our line of work.” Prowl had tried to be patient, but he’d been young too, and Tumbler was the first partner he’d had who would listen to him. Even if it was just to argue that Prowl’s opaque writing was the cause of their inefficiency.

“Hmph.”

Jetfire liked to intersperse their conversations with meaningless noises, and although Prowl needed more samples before he was certain of his explanation, he believed they meant Jetfire didn’t agree with something he’d said but was ending the discussion prematurely. It was illogical, leaving a matter unsettled for which a solution existed, but normally Prowl’s priority queues were ordered such that work came before ideological disagreements.

“What?” he asked, finally setting down the rust stick.

“You’re normally terrible with names,” Jetfire said without hesitation. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bot would have to be like to leave that much of an impression on you.”

“He was talented,” Prowl admitted.

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” Prowl straightened his back and flared his sensory panels, ready to move on. “It was not a practical partnership. Being together diminished our respective abilities and prevented us from fulfilling our responsibilities. It was for the betterment—”

“Hey, hold on, Prowl,” Jetfire said, his rolling voice enough to draw Prowl up short. “I know that you—but, you know what that sounds like, right?”

Prowl frowned, immediately recognizing Jetfire’s social theory tone.

“Pragmatism,” he said. “We can’t have everything we want in an ordered society. I—we did what Cybertron needed of us.”

“By disposing of a part of yourself?”

Tumbler hadn’t liked that explanation either.

“We weren’t conjunx.” And for very good reason. There were more important things in life than feelings or fleeting commitments, and it was idealists like Jetfire who—

“Just because it didn’t have a name doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”

Prowl’s thoughts stumbled. He hadn’t expected Jetfire to say that, not because it was out of character but because he was right. That was the exact sentiment Prowl had tried to put to words maybe half a dozen times and now it was being turned on him like a spotlight.

“There are things that should never be sacrificed,” Jetfire went on. Prowl felt his silhouette thrown into sharp relief. “Things we’re worse off for letting go of.” He paused. “A while ago, I was made an offer: instant entry to the academies. No exams, no fees. Everything I’d ever wanted. In return, though, I would’ve had to give up my wings. My… sponsor, I guess, knew I had the processor for science, just not the frame. They asked for me to give up one part of myself to let the rest go free.”

Prowl shook his helm, leaning away from the speaker. Jetfire’s tone was the same one he occasionally used with Bumblebee. With Prowl, he was hard edges and warning lights. They weren’t this for each other. They didn’t do this.

“You were nearly the victim of a scam,” he said, searching blindly for familiar ground.

“I’m sure it seems that way,” Jetfire said, unperturbed. “Do you get it, though? Giving up any one piece would’ve meant tacit agreement with the Functionists, that I wasn’t fit to do my work in any form but what they prescribed. Even if I’d told myself it was for Cybertron, it really would’ve been a sacrifice in their honor, and nothing would ever be worth that.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely obtuse. He understood what Jetfire was saying, but he couldn’t afford to hear it, not with everything he had already done and the plans he had yet to set in motion. Maybe Jetfire had found a way to live that allowed him to maintain his idealistic commitments, but most mechanisms weren’t so lucky. Everyone had to give up something.

“And now you’re here, working on behalf of the Senate,” Prowl said, just to prove that point.

Jetfire made his noise again.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. Annoyed or frustrated: the usual feelings they brought out in each other. “Waste of time. Forget I said anything.”

Prowl wouldn’t, but he also wasn’t going to give Jetfire an excuse to keep pontificating.

It would have been a waste of their time, anyhow, because however sincere Jetfire was in his admission, Prowl had never understood the hypocrisy of bots who would claim to reject Functionism while maintaining an almost fanatical devotion to their frames. In some intangible sense, maybe he did enjoy the opportunity to go for a long drive, but he couldn’t imagine himself grieving his tires for their own sake. He tried to compare it to what he had felt when Tumbler had said going to Kaon was a selfish, pretentious idea and immediately recoiled.

“Results are exactly what I told you,” Jetfire said. Prowl realized he hadn’t gotten any work done in the last several kliks. “Not nearly the concentration of materials to support your theory the Decepticons have contacts in Uraya, and a few that will probably trace back to Kaon, like everything else.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Prowl said, standing. He didn’t often get this badly distracted, and it was easy to pin it on the state of his desk: used energon cubes and wrappers from the cheap snacks he kept fueled on littered the spaces he should have been using for case notes and displays. When was the last time he’d cleaned?

“Really?” Jetfire asked. “The data’s pretty clear.”

“Humor me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Neither said goodbye before they hung up: another of their customs.

Prowl cleared the mess into the trash. Exhaustion was nibbling at his processor like a corrosive. Another couple shots would get him through his morning meetings, and then a regular midday fueling would carry him over until he could recharge properly in the evening. Before that, though, the day had to begin, an event he discovered was closer than he’d expected when he stepped outside and saw the horizon just tilting toward the pale blue of an oncoming dawn.

The air was gentle, the pleasant cool that foreshadowed a blistering day. Jetfire was a dot over the Rodion skyline. Prowl glanced up at the few stars that could punch through the light pollution and was reminded, suddenly, of the time he and Tumbler had discussed getting a little patch of metal out on the Tungsten Moors. The barren sparkfields had felt nonetheless fertile with possibilities, and they had gotten hung up on whether it would be more practical to live in a house with two stories or just one. It had been a fantasy, nothing more; even on their joint income, it would have taken millions of years to save up. But there had been something, if not fulfilling, thrilling about it, making plans that didn’t hinge on work or promotions.

He wondered if Tumbler remembered that conversation.

Jetfire’s slow approach gave Prowl time to dwell while keeping an idle optic on his teammate. There was nothing spectacular about Jetfire’s flying: Prowl had worked with and chased down fliers who were faster, more maneuverable, and flashier in every way. But there was something resolute and sure about the way Jetfire coasted, a steadiness that Prowl would have appreciated sooner if he’d noticed it, his thoughts of Tumbler and past mistakes and pointless sacrifice sliding away as he watched Jetfire’s flight.

Jetfire’s flying was beautiful, in its own way. Its understatement reminded Prowl of his own assembly line colors, but with an underlying confidence that left Prowl feeling inadequate. Though technically strong, his power was limited to what he could siphon off Orion and their other high-level contacts. He’d experienced a taste of the real thing under Sentinel, but that had been an especially tenuous connection, liable to snap had he ever tugged too hard. Jetfire’s power was all his own. Not overwhelming, not enough to make the changes Cybertron needed. Incomparable, really, to what Prowl had wielded. But it radiated from the tips of his wings to the burn of his thrusters, self-realized, without reservation or concession.

Prowl’s tac net pinged him with the results for a problem he hadn’t realized he’d plugged in: 50% Prowl should have been strong enough to find another way, 50% choosing Tumbler would have made him stronger.

A perfect 50-50 meant his systems were badly in need of defrag. He cleared the cache and set his tac net to reboot, shaking his helm to dispel the resulting vertigo as Jetfire landed on the steps below him. Prowl waited patiently for him to complete his mode switch, taking two steps back so they would be at optic level with each other.

“Pleasant flight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Jetfire said with a smugness that allowed Prowl to scoff as he motioned for the datapad.

Jetfire handed it over. Prowl knew he was being watched as he powered it on and reviewed its contents, but he took his time, using Jetfire’s results to run through a few warm up calculations as his tac net came back online.

“You didn’t check for copper fluoride,” he commented.

“No,” Jetfire said slowly, “because it wasn’t one of the compounds we were investigating.”

“Run the tests again.” Prowl tried to return the datapad, but Jetfire refused to take it. “The chances we would find evidence of materials native to the Urayan region were always slim to none. However, the old blackmarket pipeline between Kaon and Yuss ran directly underneath the city. Does that make more sense?”

Prowl saw the moment Jetfire finally saw the case as he did, a knotted web of deceptions meant to dissuade even the most seasoned detective from untangling its core. Jetfire took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it, though the hard look in his optics did not waver.

“Could’ve said that from the beginning,” Jetfire griped.

Prowl didn’t bother to respond. What was done was done. Talking so much about the past was a waste of time neither of them could afford, because for all that it might have mattered, nothing they said could change any of it. All they had was the future, and the possibility of starting each day stronger than they had the one before.

[astro-rain]

delicate; b.barnes

chapter fourteen - “pinky promise”

delicate masterlist

word count: 2.1k

synopsis: bucky and the reader reconvene after the events of the previous night, figuring out what they need to do from there. pinky promises are endearing but they don’t prevent the effects of distressed regret & emotional frustration.

pairings: bucky barnes x fem!reader

She awoke with wet regret staining her cheeks. She remembered falling asleep with shame, liquid guilt seeping out of her eyes. Slowly and silently weeping herself to sleep while drunk. What a colossal fucking mistake she made. She felt terrible, and she could only imagine how Bucky felt. She needed to apologize. Immediately.

She found that her shoes were still on when she got out of bed.

"Oh, Christ," she huffed at her messiness.

Regardless, she grabbed a jacket for protection from the chilly Wakandan morning air before rushing to the door, determined to find Bucky as soon as possible and apologize profusely for the previous night.

She opened the door but before she could dash out, she smacked directly into what felt like hard wood. Wait, no. The "hard wood" was a chest, and that chest belonged to a person... it was Bucky. Damn it.

"Sorry!" the two exclaimed simultaneously.

They both backed up.

"Y/N..."

"Bucky."

"Can we talk?"

"Yes. Please."

They awkwardly made their way into the room, eventually sitting side by side on the end of her bed. The air was quiet and void of their usual content and lighthearted atmosphere. Both of them sat staring straight forward.

"Bucky, I... I am so sorry about last night. I know being drunk isn't an excuse for being unprofessional, but I really have no other explanation as to why I'd ever do something so inappropriate. I feel awful and I can't imagine how uncomfortable I've made you. I will completely understand if you don't want to work with me anymore. I can talk to Shuri or T'Challa and we can find someone else to take my place if—"

"Woah," he turned to her, slightly alarmed. "Slow down, slow down. Who said anything about replacing you?"

"Well, I just thought after...last night, you'd rather have someone else work with you. It probably wouldn't be wise to continue treatment with me after certain... professional boundaries have been damaged."

"I'm not working with anyone else."

She looked at him bewildered, but he looked dead serious.

Y/N shook her head. "I—"

"Look, I'm not a therapist and I don't know the criteria of your 'professional boundaries'... But you were drunk. It happens. I don't think any less of you because you had a little too much. Believe me, I've been there."

"I know, but it's not necessarily the drinking that was the problem. It was... my actions."

"Right. And I don't think leaning a couple inches is really grounds for leaving Wakanda."

It was more than just "leaning a couple inches," and she knew that. She was humiliated by her drunken errors, but it was seductively dizzying to be that close to him. In the moment, she relished in every second, every atom of hers that was touching him. However, it was the afterthought that was the problem, the realization of what she had done and how wrong it was.

"Bucky..."

"I'm not working with anyone else."

"I'm not the only good therapist, you know."

"But you're my therapist. I don't want a new one."

"And I don't want to disrupt your progress, but there's no way I can keep treating you after last night."

"Why not? What's gonna happen if you do? Nothing."

"It's not that simple."

"Nobody was here. No one knows but us. There's no way you can get into trouble."

"It's not entirely about getting in trouble. It's about the nature of our relationship and how that change can impact how effectively and ethically I can treat you."

He was quiet for a minute, thinking.

He shook his head, looking down at his feet. "We can work something out..."

"I don't think so, Buck..."

"So you're just gonna leave then?"

"I think that's what needs to happen."

He turned his head to her, making deliberate eye contact.

"Y/N, please."

"All I wanna do is do right by you, and I can't do that after I've compromised our relationship."

"But you didn't compromise—"

"Bucky," she exasperated, "Can you please try to understand?"

"Can you please try not to be so hasty about things? Our relationship is fine. You don't need to leave."

Stubborn. He was being stubborn. But, all she could see was strong will and passion. That was the problem. All his faults morphed into aptitudes when they filtered through her perception.

"I really care about you, Buck. I just want you to have access to the help you need, and as much as I hate to say it, I don't know if I can be that help anymore."

"Can't we just try?"

"Try what?"

"Just... hear me out. We can continue the sessions as if nothing happened, and if everything is fine, then great, but if not, then you can go."

Is that what it would take for him to be okay with her leaving? Is that what it would take to make her departure less of a complete upheaval? There was no way this would work, she thought. But what were the lengths to which she would go to make the transition smoother? Was she willing to make sacrifices to help ease his hardships? She reflected for a minute.

For him, she would. For him, she considered, she'd do most anything.

"Okay," she said after brief contemplation. "We can try. But you have to keep in mind, the entire time, that I still might have to leave in the end."

He smiled, sincerity almost suffocating her. "Thank you."

"Promise me you won't be disappointed if I end up having to leave."

"You want a pinky, blood oath, or spit shake?" he asked, jokingly.

"Bucky," Y/N deadpanned.

"Well, it's not like we need to promise, because you won't have to leave... 'cause everything will be fine."

God, she hoped so.

"Promise me anyway. Just in case."

"Fine. I promise. You have my word."

She held out her hand to him, pinky finger raised high.

"Make it official."

"You know I was kidding?" he asked.

"I know. But you brought it up, so now you're payin' the price," she smiled, feeling herself momentarily slipping back into their dynamic. "Officially promise me with your pinky, James."

In acquiescence, he lifted his hand up to hers, pinky extended, and wrapped their fingers together. As it turned out, her hand had desires of its own and begged for additional contact. It yearned to smooth over the skin of Bucky's hand and press their palms together. Her hand wanted to intertwine the rest of their fingers and hold on ever so tightly. It wanted to hold on and never leave Wakanda, never leave his side.

As it also turned out, the hand is not the mind. These were surely not Y/N thoughts. Definitely not... Desires were kept repressed and no actions were taken. Sorry hand.

Their fingers stayed connected for just a few brief seconds of silence. Not nearly long enough for it to be awkward or for them to get second thoughts about the integrity of their agreement. Their fingers disconnected.

"So..." Bucky started, "are things gonna be weird now? With us?"

"They don't have to be, but I guess it depends."

"On what?"

"I don't know. Whether you're upset with me over what happened - which you have every right to be."

"Upset with you? No! Not at all. It seems like you're more upset than I ever was."

"I'm only upset because of what I did!"

"Well, I'm only upset because you're upset, so... stop being upset."

"I-..." she sighed. "Okay. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. Are we good?"

"You don't have anything to be sorry for..."

"Just say we're good."

She let out a nervous laugh.

"Fine, we're good. I'm just surprised at how you're so cool with this."

"Well, friends bounce back quick, right?"

Her demeanor changed. The mood sunk.

"Bucky..."

"No, no. Don't sit there and tell me that now we aren't friends. You just pinky swore with me," he said with a meek smile, attempting to lift her mood back up. "C'mon, that counts for something."

She looked down at her hands, suddenly missing the skin-to-skin contact. "I just think it might be better to be more professional and less... personal."

"Better for who exactly? 'Cause I know it wouldn't be for me."

She turned her head to look at him, face earnest and contrite. He only looked confused and a little mentally disheveled.

"I want to make this new... plan thing work. If you don't want me to have to leave, we have to reinstate some sort of boundaries, Buck."

"So boundaries means throwing away being friends?"

"I'm not throwing it away. I want to make sure we can be successful, and to be successful we have to be a little more..." she took a breath in, hating how much she kept bringing up this word, "professional. We gotta have more good days than bad, you know?"

A few beats of silence passed them by. Bucky's expression softened to a dangerous level of sincerity.

"I think you are my good days..."

Y/N tore her gaze away. She couldn't do this. She wished he wouldn't say such gentle things; she was trying so hard. The tension in her heart began to frustrate her. And it was because of him. She wished her emotions weren't always so escalated in his proximity.

"How long were you outside for?" she changed the subject.

"All night."

"What?!"

"Just kidding. Only for a couple minutes. Why are you changing the subject?"

"I'm not."

"You really are. And you're uneasy."

Trying to deny feelings was harder when someone else called them out.

"Stop trying to analyze me."

"M'not analyzing. I'm just reading you."

Reading her?

"Reading me?"

"Yeah. You were looking at me, but now you turned away. You're bouncing your leg but otherwise you're completely still, tense, like you are when you're nervous. You're also turned away from me... kinda like you don't wanna be near me."

Yeah, because her heart felt like it was going to burst.

She stood up, walking away from him and his infuriating correctness. How dare he know her like that? Anger bubbled in her stomach. She faced him, arms crossed over her chest, as if shielding herself from his prying efforts to understand her personality. How dare he decipher her.

"Really?" she huffed, amped up nervousness morphing into irritation. "You barely slept last night, and it's not just noticeable because of the bags under your eyes. You do this thing when you're tired - you blink really slowly and then rub your eyes. It's subtle. How's that for reading? Oh, and you're more uncomfortable about having one arm than you let on. When you sit next to me, you always make sure to sit so that your arm is on my side. In fact, you're so bad at tolerating uncomfortable that you refuse to even think about getting a new therapist - even though it's the right thing to do - because you don't want to deal with the change."

She took a breath after expelling her vexation. Bucky stared at her with wide eyes, never before hearing her angry, much less at him.

"That's not why..." he all but whispered.

"You know I can tell when you're lying, right?"

"Apparently not," he rolled his eyes. "And I thought we made a deal."

"I think you should leave."

He looked up at her. "Y/N.."

She turned away from him, deciding she couldn't handle looking him in the eyes.

Glancing at the door, she muttered, "I'll see you at our next session."

"But— I thought..."

"A deal's a deal. I'll see you, Bucky."

The room was eerily silent until Bucky decided to move. She could feel his eyes on her, searching for something, anything out of her. Perhaps she was hasty, but there was no room for second thoughts, second emotions. She completely steeled herself. Feeling around him was just... a lot. A lot to deal with. Maybe too much.

"Okay," he said, voice quiet. "I'll see you... I guess."

With that, he left. He left her in an empty room with empty feelings and an empty hand. She looked down at that hand, the very same one that wrapped its finger around his in the lighthearted simplicity of a juvenile gesture. Joy with Bucky was like that - simple. Being happy was effortless with him. Yet, it was so troublesome to be displeased with him. She could sense another distressed night sleep coming her way.

delicate taglist: @bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @nickkie1129 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lauxrens @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @quxxnxfhxll @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf @cc13723things @buckys1thiccbih @maravderofthephoenix

[theworldinclines]

Title: any old tuesday Pairing: Pang/Wave Ao3 link Excerpt: He doesn’t want to wonder the malintentions behind someone’s kindness the way he used to; he doesn’t want to constantly worry that he’ll be left without warning. Like a wise — and infuriating — boy had said a while ago, the other shoe doesn’t even exist, and waiting for it to drop only serves as a waste of Wave’s time. He knows that, theoretically. And up until two weeks ago, Wave had had a real grip on that as his reality.

     Wave’s parents die on a Tuesday.

     He’s got his English notebook open for the quiet-work portion of the class as he follows the assignment, to print any passage from Charlotte’s Web by hand. Nothing had spoken to Wave in particular; the book was rather bittersweet and at this point, because he has to, he’s chosen a page at random to copy down lest he run out of time.

These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, then the snows of winter… 

     He takes his time because even if the quote doesn’t necessarily mean much to him, he can at least be sure that his handwriting is neat. The headmaster appears in the doorway, beckoning their teacher toward her, but Wave doesn’t spare them much attention as he goes on with his careful work.

     …the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours —

     “Wasuthorn.”

     He’s asked to speak with the headmaster in her office, and the walk there is strange for a reason he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant a scolding; for him to have somehow gotten in trouble when there’s only an hour left of the school-day would be unbelievably irritating.

     His hands flex with nerves as he tries to keep in mind that he’s really only ever minded his business and done his best in class. Unless someone’s made up a story about him, or there’s been some sort of rumour, Wave can’t imagine what he might’ve done.

     His certainty falters when their arrival at the office shows Wave’s grandparents already waiting there.

     Wave can’t help questioning, “Did I do something?” as Headmaster Weerawatnodom ushers him inside. His grandmother’s flushed cheeks give her a look of perpetual discomfort, the buttons of his grandfather’s overshirt have one done incorrectly, like he had been in a rush. “Are you okay?” he asks them.

     They’re perfectly fine, they assure him. Wave is whisked away to his grandparents’ house in a flurry of confusion as they refuse to tell him exactly what’s going on until he is planted on their familiar sofa.

     As it turns out, his grandparents are fine, but Teep and Wipha Worachotmethee aren’t. Wave’s parents had been shot that morning in their duty as officers, Wave is told. The fact is spoken in such a tone that implies even a 12 year old mind should understand that this sort of death is more meaningful or less of a complete waste than another. He’s a smart boy and in a way he does understand, but that doesn’t prevent him from shutting down.

     His interest in class dwindles to half, if that, of what it had been, and if it weren’t for his natural intelligence he would likely be out of luck. What little luck he retains is drained when his grandparents pull him from school into another, public instead of private and therefore more affordable for their lifestyle. Wave didn’t dare ask them to reconsider, not when they’d already sold their own house to move into Wave’s. His parents’ will had made such a request so that Wave, should he lose them, wouldn’t be uprooted from the house he’d grown up in.

     With that sacrifice on his guardians’ end, Wave does what he can to stay out of the way and as quiet as possible. However, the change in schools does nothing to help Wave’s attentiveness in class, and his new teacher is judgmental and prickly, completely infuriated by what she takes as Wave’s disregard for her teaching. His parents only passed a year ago — 11 months and three days — and he’d transferred here less than four months ago. Did she never get the memo that maybe Wave’s inattention in maths doesn’t stem from rudeness, but from simply struggling to function as normal in a world he doesn’t see his place in at all, let alone something so dreadfully easy as maths?

     He’s made to transfer for a second time after the Incident occurs. The woman responsible is fired from her position but Wave can’t possibly stay at this school, where the rumours about him have spread like a forest fire. It doesn’t matter that they’re all total falsehoods; if anything, the lack of clarity around the subject spurs their need to fill the gaps. So he moves again.

     More than ever, Wave hides in his bedroom, and when he’s alone he often can’t help thinking of how the grandparents he’d known for so many years had seemingly died with his parents. He wasn’t their grandson anymore — he was the burden they’d had to sell their own years-loved home for, he was the troublemaking child whose every move was suddenly their responsibility for a lifetime instead of the occasional weekend visit. Wave came to recognise stress and disinterest toward him in place of where had once been hands helping him to stir pots and arms lifting him onto a bicycle.

     He’s resentful, is what it comes down to. Still, after so long, he’s resentful, even though he knows it isn’t fair to them. But with so much of Wave’s recent life reminding him again and again just how unfair things actually are, he found it difficult to tamper that resentment. Why had losing his parents meant losing his grandma and grandpa too? Why did he have to hide away in his bedroom to avoid the fact that neither of them could really look at him anymore? They’re disjointed, a caricature of anything resembling a family, his grandparents at one end of the house and Wave tucked away in the other.

     As though his final year of high school isn’t hard enough, his grandfather dies the week before the semester is set to end.

     He knows how he’s supposed to feel, but it’s been nearly a fortnight since the elder’s passing and the feeling itself has remained elusive to Wave. His grandmother hasn’t cried so much as she’s been quiet, quieter than ever. After the death of his parents, her quiet had become something more resigned than calming, and he’d grown used to that too. She’s again in shift, and allowing her space to grieve is nothing new to Wave. Unwilling to be seen or heard, he’d spent years doing what he could to remain separate from nearly everyone, and up to becoming Gifted he had been content to remain so. Maybe content isn’t the word; it’s more likely that he’d been resigned as well.

     With his grandfather’s passing, Wave thinks of the ways in which his grandparents had had a fair hand in cultivating his negative thoughts, even if they hadn’t been aware of it, and he just… can’t find it in himself to cry.

     In the absence of tears arrives an all too familiar voice in his head, sounding remarkably similar to his grandfather, to inform Wave that the reason he hasn’t cried is because he’s self-centered, that Wave’s care for the world starts and ends with himself. In a correlated sense, those who claim to care for Wave don’t, when it comes down to it, because how could anyone care for someone so self-obsessed?

     Wave knows that can’t be true, because how could it possibly be? But outward logic does nothing to help, and his final semester of high school’s arguably sour end finds Wave in a similar state to a friendless, bitter self he thought he’d left by the wayside ages prior. If not completely discarded, he’d maybe hoped that that part of who he’d been was buried deep enough down to never resurface, but like that incessant voice, Wave can’t seem to shake him.

     He doesn’t want to wonder the malintentions behind someone’s kindness the way he used to; he doesn’t want to constantly worry that he’ll be left without warning. Like a wise — and infuriating — boy had said a while ago, the other shoe doesn’t even exist, and waiting for it to drop only serves as a waste of Wave’s time. He knows that, theoretically. And up until two weeks ago, Wave had had a real grip on that as his reality.

     He’s been staring at his black laptop screen for the past hour. The battery bit the dust a while ago but he hadn’t had it in him to grab the charger from the floor. There’s an incredible tightness to his chest and he also feels like his head is wrapped in fish netting, so although he’s likely conscious, in no way would he bet his life on it.

     Wave can’t sit here anymore. He walks right down the stairs and onto the street, stopping only a few steps off their property. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. He would go to the rooftop but the school is closed to students for holiday — besides which, he’s no longer a student, and that’s an entirely separate headache for another time. He just goes on walking, paying no attention to wherever it is his brain is leading his feet. It doesn’t matter anyway, really.

     He trudges onto a grassy path and however long later comes to a stop in front of his parents’ grave-markers. Their photos smile up at Wave from their place right beside his grandfather’s.

     He hadn’t looked at the newest addition to their family plot, hadn’t even lifted his eyes from the ground when he’d come with his grandmother. But there it is, a shot of him and his grandparents, Wave kept snugly between them as though he belongs, some fantasy world where neither of them had slapped Wave to bruising for lying or made him feel like an outsider in his own home. A sweeping nausea hits Wave and he turns around, unable to look anymore.

     He presses his forehead and hands onto a nearby tree to steady himself, the bark digging hard into his skin. He knows he’s crying when he pushes weakly off the tree to rub at his tired eyes, only to have the palms of his hands sting from the tears. He shakes his head and sets off for somewhere else.

     It’d been another hour of wandering around until he had to accept that walking all over the city can’t change the final destination. The surprise comes when he sees a certain someone with their back to the wall by Wave’s house, eyes on the sky. He’d even brought his dog, for whatever reason. Wave removes his glasses to wipe them down, quietly and ineffectually preparing himself for whatever this is going to be.

     Even with Wave trying to be noiseless, Pang’s attention falls to Wave within seconds of his approach. Wave would ask what he’s doing here, but he doesn’t have to. They’d promised months passed that they would always reply to one another’s messages, even if that message was two or three words, so that the other wouldn’t worry. But Wave’s not responded to Pang in a week, his negative spiral not allowing him room to honour their agreement. He’d even silenced his phone because he knew that hearing his phone beep with any message from Pang would have cracked him, and Wave hadn’t wanted to allow that.

     He knows the system is especially for situations like this, when either isn’t able to communicate like usual, but now that Pang is standing here looking all concerned, Wave has to wonder if they might need to entertain a Plan B.

     Wave doesn’t want to see Pang though. Actually, he does. It’s just that the idea of facing him after six days of radio silence leaves a heavy anxiety in Wave’s gut that he doesn’t want to face right now. He isn’t sure that he’ll be able to handle the sympathy in his eyes, or how he’ll be extra careful in dealing with Wave. Always Wave with FRAGILE stamped across his forehead in blocky red ink.

     He doesn’t try to walk past Pang. He just stands there some distance away, useless, while Pang holds tight to Dip’s leash to keep him close.

     “It’s past midnight,” is the first thing Pang says. Wave gives a slow, meaningless nod. “You left your window open so I tossed a rock through, but… you didn’t answer.”

     “What’s up?” Wave manages. It’s vastly inadequate a question, all things considered.

     “I wanted to see you,” because he’s always been forthright and transparent when it comes to Wave.

     “Well, you’ve seen me,” Wave says, because he’s notoriously dismissive and unable to let himself be vulnerable.

     This mood Wave has found himself in is one that they’ve seen less and less, but if Pang is taken aback, he doesn’t allow it to colour his words.

     “Ohm invited us to some karaoke thing tonight but I said we have plans already,” he says. Wave shifts where he stands and Pang is quick to assure him, “It was just an excuse to get us out of Claire’s typical solo and double encore.”

     Wave sits on the ground. He’s tired and remaining on his feet feels pointless right now. Pang follows suit without hesitation, still talking as he rubs Dip’s head.

     “I had to say I forgot Dip’s after-dinner walk just to get out of the house. Mae thinks he’s taking an extra long bathroom break. Not sure how much time I can buy with that one before she wants to call up the vet. And then Prae wanted to come so I had to promise a whole cake or whatever it is from that French bakery just to shut her up. I can’t even pronounce the name but of course the six-year-old has the menu memorised — ”

     “Are you done?” Wave interjects. “It’s one in the morning, Pang.”

     Pang nods slowly. He releases Dip’s leash and Dip scampers over to Wave, leftover excitement at seeing him for the first time in a week coming back fast. Reflexively, Wave runs a hand down Dip’s head to his back and the dog wags his tail. Prae loves that bakery. She’d become obsessed with France after a school lesson and already asks when their family can visit the country. Prae’s the one who’d convinced her parents to get Dip, so Wave has no doubt she’ll wear them down into Paris. She always includes him in that too, like they couldn’t possibly go on holiday if Wave isn’t going with them.

     It’s dark enough that Wave doesn’t bother wiping at his damp cheeks. He’s a pretty quiet crier, so he just sits it out, Dip in his lap and Pang across the way.

     “I’m sorry,” Wave murmurs after some time.

     “I know. You were caught up again? With the bad thoughts?”

     “I haven’t… I’m not doing well,” Wave says. There’s so much more he needs to say, but the words won’t come out. As it is, he’s speaking through partially gritted teeth.

     His grandpa is gone, and the best memory of him is from before Wave had turned 13. His grandma is a living ghost, his parents are long dead. It’s all too easy for Wave to think that he has absolutely no one left to care whether he’s here at all.

     It’s taken two weeks to cry at his grandfather’s passing and half the tears aren’t even for him. The remaining can be attributed to so many miscellaneous bits and pieces that Wave can’t begin to think about them, at least today. He just focuses on how soft Dip’s ears are.

     “Since the funeral?”

     “Mm.” Wave inhales. “I hear him, and the usual — and before I know it — ” Wave doesn’t go on.

     “Will I sound like an asshole if I say you’ve been doing so good?” Pang asks a few moments later. “I thought — I hoped since it wasn’t happening as often, it might’ve meant — ”

     “I know,” Wave says quietly. An afterthought, though he means it, “You’re not an asshole.”

     “Wave, I… I love you, you know? I just love you and I — God, I hate how mean your brain is to you. Like, you’re supposed to be on the same team and it’s…” 

     “Yeah,” Wave scoffs, “you’d think so.” He sighs a little and shakes his head, eyes on the dark sky. “You came all the way here because I can’t answer a LINE.”

     “It doesn’t matter,” Pang says immediately. “You should know by now I’d run cross-country to meet you; a couple blocks’ walk is nothing. And you are a pain in the ass, but I like that.” They both cringe and Pang says, “So that didn’t come out — ”

     “Let it go.”

     “Letting it go.”

     Wave gets to his feet and adds, “I cried.”

     “Yeah.”

     “I mean, I didn’t… cry at the funeral.” Pang knows this, as he’d been there too. “And I hadn’t up until earlier, and here, just now. Is that… Do you think that’s, like… weird?”

     “Why would it be weird?” Because of course everything is that simple with Pang. “I didn’t cry when my parents told me my grandma died, and I lost it at her funeral. Cried the whole time and looked like a baby in front of my entire family. Brains are weird.”

     Pang takes the hand that goes to relinquish Dip’s leash, giving Wave time to decline the hug, but Wave lets Pang hold him close instead. He always feels like precious cargo in Pang’s arms, but rather than feeling humiliated as he’d feared, Wave feels embarrassed but touched by Pang’s sweet disposition. How he’s still constantly surprised after years of living around it, Wave doesn’t know.

     “Are you alright to go back in on your own?” Pang asks.

     “It’s whatever,” because there really isn’t much else to say.

     “We’re going to have our own place, you know.”

     “Huh?”

     “When we’re at uni,” Pang clarifies. “Like, I just think about how we’ll have a dorm-room to share, the two of us. And then we can get an apartment, if we want to.”

     It isn’t shocking to hear that Pang has ideas for their future, seeing as they’ve spoken about it, but the same as it always does to hear it said aloud warms a place inside Wave, the furnace Pang started up when they met.

     “I’ll be there when you need me and I won’t let you be lonely,” Pang goes on. “You can tell me to fuck off when you have to though; I won’t be mad.”

     “I won’t tell you to fuck off,” Wave says, even if he very well might.

     “Maybe we can have a precaution for whenever you can’t answer messages,” Pang says. “You were too stressed this time to message me but not messaging me added to the stress. We’ll come up with something to help.”

     Wave nods a little against him. Satisfied, Pang gently ruffles Wave’s hair as they pull apart.

     “I’ll get going,” he says. “Mae’s probably got the vet on hold by now. But I’ll call you.”

     “Mm.”

     “Sleep, okay? At least 10 hours.”

     Wave rolls his eyes but nods. “Yeah, sure. You too.” Pang grins and tugs Dip along on the street with a hand raised in goodbye.

     In bed that night, Wave takes his phone off silent. He catches the most recent messages from Pang, before Wave had been responding, but he tries not to look at them and focuses on the present.

let’s take Prae to the bakery tomorrow.

she already loves you more than me, stop this! but i love you more than *anyone so i get it

ugh gn love you

i love you too

     He’ll be fine, even when he inevitably falls apart again. He’ll be fine.

     God, if only he could bet on it.

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

and here I am squeaking in juuuuust under the wire with a ficlet for @lokibingo, written for the square “Very bold of you to assume that you know anything about me.”

this is a promise with a catch (Loki & Sylvie, 952 words, start of episode 6) Rating: general Warnings: minor references to Bad Stuff With Thanos, references to canonical character deaths Summary: In the Citadel at the End of Time, Loki considers the offer from Miss Minutes and He Who Remains. He can't not. The words thrum over and over again in his mind: You can kill Thanos, so simply and easily, as if the suggestion alone doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

“It’s crazy,” Miss Minutes says, which is quite possibly the most honest thing Loki’s ever heard her say, “but he could make it work. All of it. Everything. Exactly the way you’ve always wanted. And you can have it all, together.”

You have no idea what we want, Loki almost says—a reflex, and not an entirely accurate one. Of course she knows enough to get close, because the TVA does too, even if they don’t fully understand.

“It’s fiction,” Sylvie says firmly. She doesn’t seem very tempted, and Loki can’t blame her. Miss Minutes has no truly attractive offer for her, after all—she would have to make the conscious choice to overwrite all her memories with false ones, even assuming they could do it well enough and seamlessly enough that she wouldn’t doubt her new memories later. She would still know, in the moment she agreed, that she was choosing a pretty lie.

The offer to Loki, on the other hand…

He thinks about it. He can’t not. His mind has always been like this, flicking through possibilities, playing out scenarios, weighing his options even when he knows some of them are unacceptable (although his definition of “unacceptable” has gone back and forth quite a bit, lately). And in this case of course he is tempted, because—

The words thrum over and over again in his mind: You can kill Thanos, so simply and easily, as if the suggestion alone doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. Forget the Avengers; self-righteous as they are, they were never his true enemies, which Miss Minutes would recognize if she took two seconds to look past some of the assumptions in his TVA files. If he could actually end Thanos, somehow, with or without the Infinity Gauntlet—take a little bit of revenge, yes, but more importantly stop the Titan from hurting or killing anyone ever again—

He could save everyone. He could return to Asgard a hero—even Midgard might forgive him, if he could prove Thanos had sent him. With the Gauntlet he could fix most of the problems ravaging their planet, and then they might well call him a hero too. He could protect Asgard from the Dark Elves—from everything, probably. Save his mother. Save his father, maybe, if that part isn’t an inevitable consequence of Odin’s age, and even then Loki would have those years, to do what he could to…have a family again. He could prevent Ragnarok, even, if the TVA allowed it—and why wouldn’t they, if they were really willing to change the Sacred Timeline for him in the first place? He couldn’t prove what Thanos meant to do with the Infinity Stones, maybe, so the universe’s inhabitants might not know that he’d saved fully half their number—but he would know, he would be responsible for preventing death on a truly cosmic scale, and that would matter.

And Sylvie, even if she couldn’t bring herself to accept a lifetime of happy memories while knowing they were fake—she could live, if he convinced her to agree to the rest of it. Stop running, stop hiding, go back to Asgard, have the next best thing to her own family back again.

He could save everyone.

…except, of course, that isn’t the bargain, not really. The reward is an illusion, even if the TVA’s ruler somehow keeps every single promise, even if that promise involves allowing them to forget the TVA’s existence. Loki would have to make his decision, fully knowing in that moment that he was making himself complicit in the continued existence of the organization that strips free will from everyone in the universe and regularly destroys numberless lives to do it. He could tell himself it was better than the alternative and he might even be right, if their claims about devastating multiversal war are true. He is a prince, after all (and, very briefly, a king), one who grew up understanding the value of pragmatism. He is still practical enough, he thinks, to choose the lesser evil, if better options really do not exist.

But he doesn’t know. He has nothing except propaganda and a temptation from the same (deeply unsettling) source—and giving in to the temptation would make him little better than Thanos, with all his lies to himself that the destruction of half the universe was necessary to save the half left behind.

Well. Maybe more than a little. Even in his relatively short time on Sanctuary, Loki came to know Thanos well enough to be confident that the Titan’s motivations were no more than self-serving lies to hide even from himself the truth that he wanted the universe to suffer, that it made him feel powerful to cause pain.

(For just a second he imagines Mobius interrogating Thanos and wants to laugh, even though it isn’t really funny. It’s been that kind of day. Or week, or year, or…whatever.)

If the threat of multiversal war is real, if the constant sacrifice of variants and everyone unlucky enough to be in their vicinity truly prevents more suffering than it causes—even then, it is still an evil thing to choose. And if he chooses it now without that certain knowledge, knowing that he is sacrificing countless variants of, quite possibly, everyone who has ever existed and choosing to do so purely for the sake of his own happiness and that of the people he loves—

Better than Thanos, yes. But not by much. Not by enough to live with it.

He exhales. “We write our own destiny now.”

“Oh, sure you do,” Miss Minutes says. “Good luck with that.”

Norns, he hopes he’s right this time.

[vampiremeerkat]

This is not a request just a question: Have you ever thought of doing art on the Disney version of hades & persephone? I know in the hercules show they never had her show up (and from what I read they were going to change her to being hades & demeter's daughter, and they were in a custody battle). I guess they had a hard time trying to work her in. Though I'm sure you could've made the story of the two work, evil guys & sweet gals is something you're good at writing.

I have not, I don't think I've ever drawn Hercules fanart. Maybe a few sketches attempting Meg back in early high school. Why make Persephone his daughter. There are multiple Greek characters argued to be his offspring, they could've gone with any of them. Though Hades wished to marry one of the incest children of his incestuously conceived brother, because triple incest is even cooler, I wouldn't deviate too much from Persephone's initial role as his love interest. I think their monogamous relationship, especially in contrast with how that whore Zeus lived his life, is the one element that drives people to put the two names together in the first place. But well, daughter or wife, scrapping Persephone was for the best. Hercules is about Hercules, not Hades and his family life. Anyway, you're probably not even asking me how I'd make it work in the original movie, rather as a stand-alone story. Not that you explicitly asked anything at all. I'd cut Persephone off from Zeus and his sister wife, and make her a mortal woman, one described to be flawless and pure of heart and mind. The kind of person any god would love to have as a sacrifice. Having that said, her soul is unknowingly sold to Hades by her father to save his deathly ill wife. While minding her own business, she's suddenly dragged into the underworld and told the news. Having learned from Meg, Hades no longer sees the benefit of keeping feeble, grieving humans around as servants and contemplates kicking her down the soul pit right away, but the differences between Persephone and Meg are quickly picked up on. Unlike Meg, Persephone hasn't given him one resentful look, and her silent defeatist mentality has him take pity on the foo'. And she's hypotizingly beautiful, that helps, why not. Anyway, Hades "cheers her up" by letting her be his replacement Meg, opposed to an immobilized spirit in a gooey lake, but he finds himself increasingly unwilling to give her chores -mainly those that are bound to humiliate her or risk her safety. She's too honest and not bold enough, you can't send her to swoon a giant centaur. The fact Hades even cares is the dilemma; he never had to contemplate whether something was inappropriate with the headstrong Meg, though he excuses his reluctance as not wanting the jobs to be half-assed. He feels charmed by Persephone's patience and tolerance for him, which is more than what anyone's ever graced him with. She shows understanding for his discontentedness and feels for the way he's being treated by humans and gods, since no one likes death, after all. One of her biggest compliments to him would be the fact how comedic and animated he is for a god of death, which would make the underworld a surprisingly fun place if he'd allow the dead to fade away whilst experiencing the same joy he brings her. Hades is perplexed to learn he brought her joy this entire time, since he was set on being her intimidating boss. Throughout the story, Hades still has his eyes on Hercules, who's claimed -and has continued to be- the one thing that prevents a successful future for him. The oracles give him a new, vague prediction that introduces the existence of a star, which has to keep on shining if he wants the guarantee he'll receive a gratifying life. Hades keeps his sights on the night time sky in order to protect this supposedly fragile star when it shows up. Meanwhile, Persephone's mother is looking for a way to find and save her daughter, which ironically worsens her health. She dies during her strenuous journey, and when her soul enters the underworld, Hades recognizes her and has to make the decision whether to spare this woman a second time, or to admit her time ran out months ago. While he's thinking it over, Persephone shows up, but doesn't make her presence known. Hades sends the soul back to the land of the living, and the spying Persephone becomes instantly smitten by him over it. She never tells him she watched him do this, though, and there isn't much else she says or does to express her changed feelings, since she was already being nice to him and doesn't know how to take the next step. As for the main conflict.. I guess it would be the other gods learning Hades has a human girl for a slave, since he proudly "shows her off" by having her wait for him outside the borders of whatever divine area he's visiting. Perhaps he mentions her as well, but then it was believed he was talking about a goddess. Hercules feels most offended and plans to save Persephone, and since Hades already has beef with him, sees no problem in trying to kill him for barging into his domain again. He sends everything he has Hercules' way, but he perseveres. When Hercules makes it clear to have come for Persephone, Hades calls him a womanizer, because yo, and contemplates using her as a bargaining chip/trap. This would involve killing Persephone in order to kill him. Hercules expresses willingness to take dangerous risks if it entails saving a life, making it appealing for Hades to go through with it, but he can't, because Persephone is his girl. Hercules sees his chance and beats him to a pulp, but Persephone intervenes and exclaims not to be in danger. He's a bit skeptical over her acceptance of the villain, but chooses to believe her and withdraws. Hades learns she's the prophesied star he needed to spare, or some sappy shait. As for the ending, it's made clear it's not healthy for mortal beings to live in the underworld, so she and Hades agree to do (mostly) scheduled visitations. He fires her from being his servant and she reunites with her mother and remorseful father. I'll give the original mythology a little twist; where Spring and Summer-like days are the moments she's staying with Hades, while colder days signal her return home, caused by Hades' stage 3 depression. Not that it matters much, I suppose, Hades should be able to visit her as well, but I imagine the man is busy.

[rpd-rookie]

Five Stages of Fatherhood - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Summary: Fatherhood can be wonderful but for Leon Kennedy, fatherhood is scary and he is not ready for it at all. How is he going to process your unexpected news?

Author’s note: I wanted to release this one-shot for Father's Day but it was far from being finished. But here it is. I was mainly inspired by the recent posts I saw on Tumblr. I hope I did Leon justice and that you'll love this story as much as I loved writing it. Don’t forget to like/reblog and give me your impression.

Tags: Angst; Fatherhood ; Depression; Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism ;Anxiety; Language 

Also Available on AO3

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

           They say those are the five stages of grief. Five stages you must overcome to be at peace with yourself. Five stages you must experience, however hard and painful they are, to find the strength to pull yourself back together and keep on living.       Leon knew those five stages all too well. He had experienced them more times than he could count through all those years fighting since the Raccoon City incident. They had paved his life, making him wonder why and if he would ever see an end to it all one day.   But what he didn’t know is that he was about to experience them again. But in a new unexpected way he would have never imagined.

1.    Denial

           I’m pregnant. Three simple words that made his simple life suddenly not so simple anymore, repeating and echoing in his head, making him feel like his whole world was suddenly crumbling around him, over him, burying him under rubbles of fear and uncertainty.       I’m pregnant. He didn’t just hear that. This was a dream, a hallucination due to sleep deprivation or a silly joke. It had to be. Because it couldn’t be real. This couldn’t happen to him. There was no way he had gotten you pregnant. Yes, you were fooling him. Right? … Right? He had a brief forced laugh, anxiety eating him up slowly. “Please tell me you’re joking.”             Pinned to his desk chair, he stared at you waiting for a silly answer or an amused grin. He obviously got neither of them and so he immediately froze, watching you frowning at him with a look that was way too grave and serious to his taste. “Do you really think I would joke about something like this?” Why not? Anything would be better than those three words being the truth. “How can that be so absurd to you that I might be pregnant?” Pregnant? He felt suddenly dizzy. No fucking way.

Mouth slightly opened, confused and petrified blue eyes fixed upon you, and a marble immobility. That’s all that remained of Leon as he searched for something to say, something to think, something to reassure himself with, something to tell him that this conversation, this moment, was not happening right now. 

Pregnant? Really? “I didn’t get you pregnant.” You stared at him in shock as he relentlessly shook his head. “I couldn’t. It’s not possible. I…” He cut himself off when he saw you looking away, huge tears suddenly flooding your usually joyful (colour) eyes.  

Clearly, that wasn’t the reaction you expected from him. But that’s all his brain could process at the moment, the only thing it could find to keep him afloat, to prevent him from drowning in panic. “There must be some sort of mistake. I can’t be a father. This is not happening.”         Leon was freaking out. He couldn’t deny it. The pounding of his heart in his chest was enough evidence. But years fighting BOWs had taught him not to show any ounce of panic even in the worst situations. So, mechanically, no emotion filtered through in voice, making it almost cold. Actually, it sounded so heartless it rooted you on the spot, unaware of what was going on right now in your boyfriend’s head and unable to understand that his weird reaction was just his reason trying to calm him down and help find a quick way-out before reaching an inevitable end. That inevitable end being Fatherhood.          

“What are you saying?” You dared ask, your face suddenly pale because of the terrible things he implied.   “I don’t want to be a father, Y/N.” He declared looking at you right in the eye. “I don’t want whatever you think is inside your womb right now.” You slumped in your chair, feeling speechless and shocked but most of all, insulted. Did he just call your child a ‘whatever’ and insinuated it wasn’t even there? Was he really denying everything? Saying you were wrong? “Take another test. I’m sure this must be some sort of mistake.”           You stared at him, bewildered and fighting to prevent your tears from falling as shock was slowly yet surely turning into sorrow and anger.    

2.    Anger

“There’s no mistake, Leon. A gynaecologist confirmed it. I’m three months pregnant! Fuck, do you really think I denied this pregnancy on purpose?” There was a sudden knot in your throat, strangling all your words. Leon shrugged. “Honestly, Y/N, I don’t get how someone cannot realize they’re pregnant.”             “Simple. Imagine your boyfriend almost dying in a bombing attack in DC, then pushing you out when you try to help him. Then one day, after an entire month watching him falling deeper and deeper into depression despite all your efforts to bring him comfort, you realise that he left without telling you where he’s going. After asking a few people, you learn that he’s decided to take some ‘vacation’ but you know all too well that this vacation of his is just him drowning himself in alcohol in some lousy hotel.” You spouted angrily, feeling all your hormones boiling inside of you. “And I guess you can also add his four weeks of radio silence and the worry you felt when you learn that he who you loved so freaking much was almost killed again in another bio-terrorist attack, this time in New York. I guess that’s a pretty good way to make you deny a pregnancy!”   “Oh, so this is my fault?!” He asked, almost shouting, thinking your were accusing him when in fact you were just accusing the horrible stress and the worry you had felt for the last ten weeks or so. “I’m the alcoholic bastard who knocked you up and you’re the poor lost innocent girl? That’s what you’re saying?”     “Do you even realise how hurtful you are? Do you really think that is what I want to hear right now?” You tried to block a sob, in vain and Leon sighed in exasperation as he briefly rolled his eyes. He won’t have your crocodile tears right now. “Don’t force me on a guilt trip, Y/N. Please.” He said, frozen stoicism making his features as strong and cold as marble. “Weren’t you on the pill, by the way?” He frowned, and a tear rolled down your cheek. You wiped it quickly. “You forgot it?”      

You tried to answer but you knew that the second you would talk it would unleash Leon’s anger and you were not ready to bear it. “For fuck’s sake, Y/N.” Leon gritted his teeth and glared while you instinctively braced yourselves, hands holding tightly at the armrest of your chair. “You only had one thing to think about! One!” He growled, a scolding finger pointed at your face. “Take a fucking pill!” “I may have forgotten once” You whispered almost inaudibly. “Oh, you forgot?” He scoffed before slamming his hand against the wooden desk as he brutally stood up making you jump in your chair. “And then she blames me for my depression. Fantastic.” You frowned. That’s not what you had meant. “Leon…”     “You’re as responsible as I am, Y/N. You may have not realised you were pregnant because of what I did but you are the one forgot to take a fucking pill. And, how could you forget? How could you screw my life, both our lives, like that?” Leon screamed as he walked in circles in his office, like a lion in a cage, except that he was lost. He was lost in fear, panic and anger. And he had no control over them. Hard to bear for someone usually so grounded. And that what was pissed him off the most in this situation. Not the news of your pregnancy but lack of control.      

“Do you really think I want to be a father at the moment? Or ever? Do you really think our lives or this world are fit to welcome a kid right now?” His voice trembled, powerful emotions finally getting the better of him. A child of his could not be born in such an unsafe dark world. A child could not be part of his messed up cataclysmic life. Family was not made for him. He couldn’t be the devoted agent he was, save the world from awful monsters and have a normal life waiting for him at home. Leon had come to that conclusion years ago. And he even had accepted it long before meeting you.   “No. But it’s there now. So please, let’s figure out what to do.” You begged, understanding his fear and yet still trying to reason with him.     “What do you want to figure out, Y/N? I told you I didn’t want to be a father. And I thought I made that pretty clear when we had the baby conversation at the beginning of our relationship.”       Crystal clear. No living together, no marriage, no children. So were the terms of your relationship. A sacrifice he had asked you to make if you truly wanted to be with him. And you had made it out of love for him. But there was someone else, someone else you loved as deeply as you loved Leon if not more.

“So what do I do?” You asked, lost, using the pronoun ‘I’ because you truly felt on your own right now. “Fuck, I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t fucking know.”

3.    Bargaining

           But you eventually made a choice, one Leon never saw coming. And all he got was a letter; a simple piece of paper to explain the sacrifice you had decided to make. A letter not even truly addressed to him that made him realise that words could indeed hurt more than actions because, had he had the choice, he would have taken a thousand knives in the heart over those hundreds painful tearstained words.

                       “My dear baby,

           As I write this to you, you’re barely the size of a peach, taking a small place in my womb but already a big one in my heart in a way I never thought humanly possible. If someone had told me that one day I would love someone that intensely, that unconditionally to a point I would sacrifice everything for them, even my own life, I would have laughed to their face. But here you are, not even born and yet making me take a decision I never believed I would take. Giving up on the man I love.                    Yes, it’s going to be just the two of us from now on. Mother and child building a life together. Not the perfect family portrait but it will be ours and it will be full of love and tenderness. And I hope you’ll like it despite its flaws.                   I wish I had given you a dad but fate decided otherwise. He decided otherwise. But please, don’t hate him for that. Your dad is an incredible man. A man I love and will always love. A man that will always be a part of me whatever I do. A man that offered me the chance to be a mother. But he is not ready to make a room for you in his heart the way I did.                  I guess he would have under other circumstances but you don’t need to know them just yet. What you need to know is that your dad is a hero and that heroes sacrifice themselves. Always. Remember him that way. As a selfless man who chose the safety of the world – the world you live in - over his own happiness, because he’s done too much good for you or me to hate him.                        But don’t worry, my baby. While Daddy is making the world a safer place, I am here to make it a loving one.

           I love you,

           Your mum.”

That letter stayed on his coffee table for days, lying there for him to read again and again, next to a bottle of fine old whisky Leon would empty one glass after another, one regret after another, begging God –even though he did not believed in him – to bring you back to him.

There’s nothing worse than regrets, nothing worse than sitting alone with yourself and wait for sorrow to finally drown you, nothing worse than being lost in a maze of ‘what if’ and ‘if only’ and knowing that you cannot change anything.

What if he had made an effort? What if he had reacted otherwise and not like an ass? What if he had told you he loved you? What if he had said it would be okay? What if he had simply accepted this baby? How is life would be right now?

And he imagined it. He imagined himself at home with you in his arms, hand over your belly, feeling his child kicking and rolling under his palm. He imagined your smile, your soft giggles. Your happiness. And it crushed him. It crushed him because he wasn’t able to imagine anything else. He could not imagine the dark world he knew all too well. He could not imagine the fear or the pain he always thought he would feel in this situation.

And with regrets came guilt.

If only he had made and effort. If only he had reacted otherwise and not like an ass. If only he had told you he loved you. If only he had said it would be okay. If only he had accepted your baby. His life would be so much better right now.

4.    Depression

But you were gone and with you all his hopes of future happiness. You had taken everything from him, leaving him alone, in the dark and purposeless, wandering in his fancy apartment with a new bottle of liquor each evening.

Leon knew depression. But this depression, the one he was experiencing right now, was the worst he had ever experienced. Because if you were gone, it was not because of a bullet, it was not because of a bomb or a BOW. It was because of him. It was entirely his fault. And he couldn’t even change it.

You would not see him, not even talk to him, despite all the messages left on your voicemail or the letters in which he apologized and begged you to come back, telling you if was ready to change and that he was ready to welcome this baby if it meant you'd be together again. And it destroyed him.

He became a mess and he eventually did what he did best. He left, finding refuge in an isolated part of America, a lost cottage in the mountains to drink his sorrow away in peace, somewhere where no one would judge him or find him.

He was wrong about the last part. As one day, after weeks and weeks of radio silence and isolation, an old friend came to knock at his door to kick his ass back to where he belonged. Guess there was no escaping Claire Redfield.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? The Leon I know would never sit there powerlessly and accept his fate that easily.” Leon would have sent anyone packing after a sentence like that one. But Claire wasn’t just anyone. He listened to her. “You want Y/N back? Then quit your bullshit, Leon, and go find her.” “She doesn’t want to talk to me, Claire.” She scoffed, taking his glass of whisky away from him and throwing the liquid away. “So what? You’re gonna stay here for the rest of your miserable life, drinking and crying, and concede defeat? That doesn’t sound like you.” He accepted her scolding, admitting she was right but he had lost the strength to fight.       “I know it’s hard, Leon. I do.” Her tone was suddenly so soft and comforting. “I know what it is to lose someone you love as deeply as you love Y/N. But you can still fix it.”   “How? She pushed me out of her life. She even moved out. She doesn’t want me anymore.” Claire sighed. “How naïve you are. She loves you. She wants you back. She really does but she doesn’t want you to accept this baby just because you feel like you don’t have a choice. She wants you to want it, truly want it.”

There was a silence, a moment of introspection in which Leon felt the fear and the anxiety rushing in his veins again, knotting his stomach tightly. “I’m not ready, Claire. I’m scared.” Tears misted up his tired blue eyes. “ I know. And it’s normal. But there’s a girl in a hospital out there who’s about to give birth to your child and she needs you, now more than ever.”

5.    Acceptance

           His head was dizzy, his hands were clammy and his legs were trembling. As Leon was following the nurse in the neonatology wing of the maternity hospital, dressed in a hospital uniform, he wondered if it was the smell of disinfectant or the fright he was feeling growing inside of him that was making him want to puke right now. Perhaps a little bit of both.     “It’s this way.” The nurse opened a door and waved him to join her by a small incubator in the middle of the room, a sweet smile on her face.

But Leon froze, completely petrified. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. All he could do was watching at his five pounds of fear sleeping few steps away from him. “Someone’s here to see you, little angel. It’s your daddy.”         Daddy? The word made Leon tremble and small tears appear in his eyes, tears that instantly grew bigger when the small creature finally moved its tiny arms. “Many fathers are afraid when they come here. But I assure you there’s nothing to fear. Your baby is fragile but you won’t hurt her, I promise.” Leon’s blue eyes met briefly the nurse before fixing themselves upon the face of the little thing lying in the incubator. “A daughter?”  He had a daughter? He was the father of a little girl? This tiny angel in a pink beanie right there?   He approached her, instinctively, wanting so badly to see her from up close. She was so beautiful and yet so tiny.

“Would you like to hold her?” Leon nodded, without thinking twice about it and the nurse made him sit down and remove the top of his hospital uniform, informing him that it would be better for his daughter to feel his skin since it was warmer and more reassuring than any fabric.    

That first contact felt weird but Leon was certain of one thing, he had never hold anything so minuscule, light and fragile in his entire life. It scared him for a second, afraid she would break, but the instinct to protect her was stronger than anything else. “I’ll leave you two alone. If you need anything I’m not far.” Leon didn’t notice the nurse leave, mesmerized by that piece of him nestled in his arms right against his naked chest, watching her with wonder and awe, barely believing that he had made this … that you both had made this. “You’re so perfect.” He whispered as he dared caress her soft tender rosy cheek. His skin felt so rough against hers that she grimaced slightly. “So pure.”

Her hands were so little, just like her feet. Leon touched her fingers, still impressed by their size and shivered when they suddenly grabbed his index. “Wow, how strong you are, little princess.” He grinned, looking at her weak grip until he felt a pair of eyes staring at him.

They were dark and blue, soft innocent baby eyes scrutinizing him with astonishment, discovering his face and bonding with him in ways Leon had never thought possible. He could see the world in those blue eyes just as much as his daughter was discovering the world through his.   And he could feel love, strong and unconditional, a love he would never be able to feel for anyone else, he was sure of it. A fatherly love. One that would make him move mountains just for the sake of protecting his child. One that would make him give up his life for hers. How beautiful yet how scary.

And he cried tears of joy and guilt, happy to have her in his life and yet sorry that he hadn’t be there for her sorry. He had missed too much. First echography, first move, first kick, first cry. All that because of fear and stubbornness. And he felt awful because of it.          

A hand pressed gently on his shoulder. Leon turned around to see you standing next to him, a tired smile on your face. “Y/N”  You knelt by his side, softly caressing the head of your daughter who had fallen asleep in the strong arms of her father. “I’m sorry... I am so sorry. I should have been there for you.”             “ You’re here now. And that’s all that matters.”

Yes, he was here and he would remain here, by his daughter’s side and by yours, until his last breath. For first steps, first words, first birthday, first drawing, first day at school, first love, first heartbreak. He would forever be here for her and make the world a safer place for her. He had finally found a reason to keep fighting. And it was five pounds of pure love.    

Little (baby’s name) Claire Kennedy.

Making his life brighter despite five stages of fatherhood he would willingly go through again if it meant he could hold her in his arms forever.  

[miss-tc-nova]

A Way Into the Future - Luxu

Alright, we’ve got the green light kiddos! So, without further ado, here’s my piece for the Shattered Fates - Foretller Zine. Enjoy!

Music Inspiration: I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead - Set It Off

~~~~~

              Footsteps echo off the stone walls of the underpass beneath the Outer Gardens. One set—much faster than the other—struggles, moving unsteadily and with a lot of panic. It’s no wonder considering the owner of said steps took quite a beating. He put up a decent fight, but poor Braig had no hope of prevailing against his tormentor: a legend, a man of time, a Master—Luxu.

              Ruthless yellow lights barely have the power to illuminate the tunnels, but the young man doesn’t need to see to know the man hunting him is not far behind.

              As the black coat stalks persistently closer, his prey stumbles down the path, unaware that he’s being driven straight into a trap—doing everything that the stalker had intended to a T. Luxu has spent many years refining a variety of skills, both combative and strategic; coercing his victims into his snare is child’s play. Decades of thought have gone into formulating the criteria for his perfect vessel and, unfortunately for the young man, he matches every point perfectly. 

              Unbeknownst to the Radiant Garden native, Luxu had scouted his playground days prior to this encounter and had collapsed the only escape that gave his victim any prospect. His hope is effectively crushed at the sight of the clogged tunnel. 

              Eyes wide with pure terror, he turns back to Luxu. The sharpshooter has a quick draw, even in fear, but it proves just as useless as it had before. Barely any thought is spent on the barrier that prevents the bullets from reaching their mark.

              “I already told you resisting me was useless,” Luxu drawls. “All this fear and pain could’ve been avoided if you had just done as I asked. But I guess it’s only fair to assume any self-respecting warrior worth his salt would struggle.”

              Backed against the debris, the kid quivers. To his merit, he maintains his aim, despite how utterly doomed he is. 

              “What do you want with me?!”

              Luxu pauses his approach. “Hmm, let’s see—that brand new job you just took at the castle is a good start.”

              “A job? You want my job? I-I can talk to my boss! Just let me talk to Ansem!”

              “I hate to tell you, kid, but I need more than your job. I need your entire existence. Or more specifically, I need your body.” The boy’s petrified face goes pale. “My scapegoat has finally arrived; things are about to get very interesting and your life perfectly fits all my needs. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop struggling; I’d like to avoid injuring that body any more than necessary.” 

              As he closes the gap and the boy cowers beneath him, Luxu recalls how he came to be here, stealing the bodies of young men. 

~~~~~

              “Master, what is this?” the young man asks, looking over the paper and not entirely sure he’s read it correctly. 

              As he has many times before, Luxu stands in the Master’s study. The room is filled with books, vials, and plenty of objects of which Luxu couldn’t even guess the purpose of. The only thing he can be sure of is that none of it is as it seems, and that broad statement brings with it its own sense of security. It has always been filled with wonders and the Master seems to introduce him to a new one each time he visits. This time is no exception. 

              The eccentric man folds his arms. “What do you think it is?”

              His voice catches in his mouth. He’s read it over once, twice, but surely, he must be mistaken. “This sounds like a method for taking over someone’s body.”

              “Bingo! You are correct, sir!” the Master praises, waving his hands animatedly. 

              “WHAT?!” In his exclamation, young Luxu throws the paper in the air. 

              His master snatches the fluttering paper. “Don’t lose it! I only have one copy of that!”

              “Okay, one, why don’t you make another copy? And two, why do you know how to possess someone’s body?!”

              “Oh, I don’t know how; this is all just theory. I wrote it this morning.”

              His master never fails to perplex him. “And you think I need it why?”

              “Because you’re only human,” the Master of Masters replies. “That body of yours will become old and decrepit and weaken over time but your job will be far from done. So, you need some way to continue living and persist into the future.”

              The Master may be a strange man, but it’s no secret that he enjoys pulling emotions from his pupils—his favorite being shock. Luxu has made a point to accept his master’s eccentricity and all it entails, having come to see the unpredictability as predictable. It’s been a long time since the Master has been able to truly flabbergast the young man. 

              Luxu’s arms wave in disbelief. “And you think body snatching is the way to do that?!”

              Matching the animated gestures, the Master retorts, “Well do you have any other bright ideas?!”

              Luxu glances away. “Couldn’t you figure out immortality or something else?”

              The Master holds his arms up in an X. “Absolutely not. Immortality is far more complicated and we just don’t have time for that. So, this is your only hope of completing your task.” Again, the paper is pushed into Luxu’s hands. As the student stares at the page, the Master’s tone turns serious. “Remember, while the others have very important roles, everything hinges on the success of yours. If you don’t see this through, the Book of Prophecies won’t be written and things will fall in ruins.” His tone drops even more, almost as if he’s threatening his pupil. “And all those people you care about will die for nothing.” 

              Those words strike the young man. Aced, Ira, Invi, Gula, and Ava—they’re family. Even if they sometimes bicker and disagree, Luxu grew up with them. He already disliked the idea of them fighting, possibly to their destruction, but they’re all fighting for the light’s survival. If he doesn’t do his job, they’ll lose their guidance and their struggles will be meaningless—his family will die in vain. 

              But taking someone else’s body and losing his own: it’s unthinkably horrifying. He’d never considered that his body could be disposable; that something so undeniably “Luxu” could just be swapped out as easily as his coat. These thoughts become too much to deal with in this moment, so he decides not to. Still, he can’t simply throw away a key aspect of his master’s orders, so the paper is carefully folded and tucked into his jacket to address later. 

              “Thank you for your guidance, Master,” Luxu murmurs. 

              Back to his light-hearted self, the Master of Masters slings an arm around Luxu’s shoulders. “That’s more like it. Now, let me show you why you’re going to need that paper.”

~~~~~

              Spasms wrack every gasp he takes. They come not from his chase of the now-unconscious man at his feet, but from the seriousness of what he must do next. 

              Staring down at his very first victim, he feels a heavy guilt in his chest. Based on what’s written, he can only assume the original heart will be ejected and either become a Heartless or ascend to Kingdom Hearts. This man had no say in the matter; he was hunted down like a dog and endured only terror and pain in his final moments. He’s still young and could’ve had a full life ahead of him filled with happiness and adventure. He had potential but Luxu deemed him a lamb for slaughter. 

              Luxu shakes his head; he can’t have these sorts of distractions dragging him down. 

              The old parchment slips from his pocket, a perfect cross forever creased into its aged surface. Instructions written in black still read perfectly clear despite time’s efforts. He’s read and reread the page thousands of times, each time going through the shock of what exactly is being asked of him: ice shoots through his veins while his skin scorches, a suffocating grasp squeezes at his throat, and a violent churn nearly upheaves his stomach. The possibility of failure reels in his mind, threatening to evolve into a full-blown panic attack. He spent his whole life as himself—as Luxu—but now, for the sake of light itself, he must discard that. Just thinking about looking in a mirror and not recognizing the face looking back reminds him of his nightmares. Supposedly, his heart will retain his memories, but he still worries over exactly how much of himself he’ll get to keep; after all, sacrifices for such sins must be made. 

              The tremors in his chest have spread, shaking the page in his gasp. A deep breath does nothing to soothe his fears but allows him to regain focus. He reminds himself that this is for the existence of everything—for the people he loves. It doesn’t matter if he’s scared, it doesn’t matter if he loses himself, it doesn’t matter if the people who matter don’t recognize him, he has no choice.  

              Sighing, he lets the paper float to the ground, letting his eyes linger on the victim at his feet. He can’t let himself dwell on anything lest his mind trail back to his fear. He gets started.

              Clearing his head, he rests both hands against his chest. The suggested mental imagery serves him well while his heart begins to compress. He remembers the most important parts of himself—the things about himself he values—and imagines placing them in a box. His personality, skills, and knowledge are added inside. Memories follow suit; all the good, the bad, and the in-between are stowed away as important, for they have shaped the person he’s become. The young man takes great care in packing all of himself away. 

              As these things fade from his conscious mind—all bound to his heart for transfer—the darkness stalking at the edges of his mind begins encroaching on his thoughts like wolves prepared to devour him. Luxu’s natural instincts react in fear, causing the man to tremble and his physical heart to pound in his ears. Just like the darkness, a chill creeps along his quaking limbs, his control over them waning. With every bit of himself that he stows away for his next life, the little rationality that must stay behind cowers in terror. He would simply do away with all his senses, but he knows that some of his consciousness must stay to facilitate the move. He must suffer this fear and lose part of his mind to succeed. 

              The body to be left behind is nearly shut down. His throat closes, no longer able to draw air into his spasming lungs. He has no idea if he’s doing anything right or if he’s even ready, but the innate fear of death has him in a panic. He has to go now. 

              Eyes snap open, nothing but bright light consuming his vision. This is it; this is where he discards everything he is. This is the point of no return. With the dread as potent as ever, his consciousness fades as he sends the light on its way. 

              Instantly, Luxu becomes aware of the intense, stinging pain. Every nerve is like a needle, searing at his heart. He would absolutely be screaming if he could but, as it currently stands, he has no access to any vocal cords, let alone a mouth. 

              A firm pressure resists his heart, struggling against him. The way it reverberates is reminiscent of his own screams. This is his victim, desperately fighting to keep control. Their panic gives them strength, allowing them to push against Luxu to the point he feels his grip slipping. A desperate alarm shoots through him, fueling his struggle.

              As it turns out, Luxu’s fear is stronger than that of the man he’s possessing. 

              Resistance suddenly stops. Slowly, the presence of the other heart begins to fade, allowing Luxu’s heart to fill the hole left behind. The pain begins to ebb at an unbearably slow rate, but there is solace in the fact that it is fading. 

              His consciousness begins unfurling within his brain as he lies on the ground gasping. Comprehension begins weaving through the unpacking, bringing attention to what exactly just happened. He hadn’t been prepared for resistance; he didn’t know he could still lose after disarming his target. There was no warning for that. If Luxu’s heart had lost the struggle, he would’ve been expunged, become a heartless, and failed his task; he would have failed his loved ones. And this is only his first time. 

              It takes an eternity for the agony to fade enough and allow him to assess the body. It’s all still sensitive, like a limb falling asleep and waking back up, only far more intense. Nevertheless, he manages to open his eyes. Even they feel the stinging, giving him blurry vision. Nerves feel like fire as he struggles to raise a hand. The trembling extremities are different: the skin tone is a shade off, fingers are slightly longer, and there’s no sign of a mole he used to have on his wrist. It’s strange to feel and control the hand of a stranger. 

              It takes some time for all the nerves to properly connect. Small repetitions get the muscles moving as they should, and after a few hours, he is able to stand. Weak legs hold him up while he tries to regain his bearings. Palms press against his eyes, struggling to get rid of that remnant sting. 

              When his hands drop, he finds nothing. The expelled heart is gone and so is the body he left behind. There is no going back. 

              The old paper flutters, threatening to fly away. However, this is only the first of many stolen bodies and he will need those instructions to repeat the move in the future.

              Reaching down, he scoops up the paper. The action nearly topples him. Despite his careful decision for this particular individual, he couldn’t find someone exactly like himself. There are still differences that will take some getting used to, driving home one very important, horrendous fact. 

              He is no longer Luxu.

                             He is no longer Luxu.

                                            He is no longer himself. 

              The reality finally kicks him in the gut, bringing him back to the ground where a foreign scream tears from his mouth. 

~~~~~

              “You’re crazy! Stay away from me!”

              The cry drags the man back from age-old memories. Braig is the latest of his numerous casualties. 

              Luxu could’ve stopped long ago, given up his master’s orders and spared so many ignorant hearts—innocent people didn’t have to die for this. However, sacrifices must be made for sins, and Luxu’s been paying his due. With every bit of himself left behind, the rest naturally tries to fill in that hole, but it’s not the same. The new pieces become influenced by the suffering and bitterness Luxu endures with each move, filling him with more and more darkness. That’s not to say darkness is a bad thing, but it fuels the apathy born from repeated trauma.

              Luxu’s views on humanity have deteriorated; each passerby could die at his feet and he would simply step over them. Those chosen as new vessels hold some interest, but he no longer has any qualms putting them down. Only the people he started this journey for mean anything to him now; they are the only light left in his unrecognizable life. They would likely look down on him with disappointment, scold and abhor him, but he would burn every world in existence for their fates. But the end is near. The scapegoat has finally shown himself and soon Luxu will be free of this burden—his family will return to him. No matter what wrath he may incur from them, the relief of the end is just too tempting to spare this last victim.

              Luxu shrugs. “You might be right about that; repeatedly losing part of your mind does that to a guy. Unfortunately for you, there’s nothing more dangerous than an insane person with a goal. You were simply the poor soul that caught my eye this time.”

              “N-No! Please!”

              Having done this so many times, Luxu doesn’t even need the instructions, so he burnt them long ago. His mind already begins to pack away the things he wishes to carry forward and the chill starts in his fingers. 

              “Sorry, but everything I’ve dedicated my life to hangs in the balance. Neither of us have a choice here. But don’t worry—this isn’t my first time and I’ll ensure it’s as painless as possible.”

              As he strides closer, the man scrambles closer to the wall. Fear shines brightly in his eyes, but it doesn’t faze a man who’s seen it so many times before—who’s endured it so many times before.  

              “Take a deep breath, Braig. It’ll all be over soon.”

[elliewritessometimes]

IT’S @mattieswheelers BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH

beCAUSE of this, myself and @notsomightymightytiger decided to steal tea leaf’s time travelling mattie au and create a whole entire fic with their ideas and also a design that @ari-is-anxious did a while back!! hope you enjoy aaaaaaa <3333 aLSO stabbies try and spot as many starboard references as you can heheheh 

this can be read on ao3 here if you prefer the format :)

tw: swearing, murder (it’s minor and resolved tho jsgh), religion (nicco my love read with care), blood, i really hope i haven’t missed anything please do let me know if i missed anything

-

Mattie had always been able to time travel. For as long as she could remember, her walk-in wardrobe had been lined with silver metal and held no clothes at all. As a child, this made it all the more exciting, though as she grew older and actually started to want to own clothes, it became a little inconvenient. She supposed all great inventions came with some kind of sacrifice.

Her uncle had made the time machine as a gift when Mattie was born. Her parents, like any basic adults, assumed the wardrobe-sized box was simply a toy and had taken no interest in it. Mattie, from the age of about three when her curiosity had really set in, was the one who discovered that the machine was in fact a working portal and not just a children’s toy. Since then, she had been happily travelling time and space during the darkest hours of night.

(You may have entirely valid concerns about a three year old having full access to time travel - luckily, not just for Mattie’s safety but also that of the entire human race, her uncle had set what were effectively child locks on a lot of the controls. These were diminished the day that Mattie turned thirteen. Uncle Calvin had always been a little weird, but he certainly wasn’t heartless.)

-

Usually, Mattie’s time travel didn’t affect her life. Sure, it made for some pretty awkward conversations as Mattie spurted some knowledge which could never have been explained through a textbook, but those could often be blamed on watching too much Horrible Histories as a child (“Mattie, I swear to God, you’re so bageling British, and yet you’ve never been there, I don’t understand.” “Horrible Histories is a masterpiece! You’re just jealous that you’re too American to have seen it.” “Actual asshole of a child.” “Farrah-!”).

It was going well until Mattie’s freshman year at Giles Corey. And then three of her fellow highschoolers were murdered. And suddenly Mattie had a way to prevent that from happening.

In some stroke of luck, she passed out at the sleepover and didn’t find out about the murders until she was sitting in the back of a cop car, driving to her house to pick up her things. She remembered thinking how weird it was that she wasn’t being taken straight to the station, but brushed that away in favour of ‘going into her wardrobe to change out of her bloody clothes’.

The time machine was cold like it always was and that forced her out of her muddled state quickly enough. She thought back to the victims. Chess. Farrah. Clark. Snapping on her goggles, she pressed a button, whirled backwards through time and space, and appeared at the gate to Riley’s neighbour’s house.

She really wished that she had actually changed her outfit - the damp blood turned cold with the breeze and sent shivers up her spine. The smell perhaps or just her sudden appearance startled the neighbour’s dogs into a frenzy. A figure, Chess, unharmed and merely confused instead of terrified, stood up from Riley’s bench, calling into the darkness. Mattie’s breath caught in her throat. The second figure, knife glinting in the dim streetlight, slipped out of the back door. Their red hair shone in the reflection of the knife with a sick kind of beauty.

Mattie could have stopped them there, taken the knife from the assailant’s grasp, prevented the tragedy of the evening. But she didn’t. She just watched.

Three minutes later, after arriving back in her present time and pressing yet another button on the wall of her closet, she watched the same scene unfold in the bathroom with a much younger victim. Twenty minutes after that, the third attack. This one was different though, an accident.

Still a little desperate and overly conscious of the police officer standing guard outside of her bedroom, she reappeared in her wardrobe, putting on a jumper before turning back time a little further. She appeared in a gymnastics centre as a girl around Mattie’s age did wolf turns on a beam. A coach entered the scene from the sidelines as the girl stopped spinning, her distinctive plait falling still against her back. Something in Mattie ached at the sight of Chess so lively and innocent, willing to give up her life for her dream of succeeding in her sport. As the two wandered into a side room, picking up water with a smile, Mattie edged forwards, collecting soft gym mats as she went. Within minutes, the area surrounding the beam had been double layered with cushioning, and Mattie could only pray that her plan would work. She’d seen enough YouTube videos to know what happened next.

Chess emerged again with her coach, hopping back up onto the beam with practiced ease. Again, Mattie was forced to just watch as she went down into her wolf turn, then rose up, did a split leap across at least half of the beam, and jumped into a twist to land on the floor. It was a messy landing, the gymnast’s ankle caving in on itself, knee twisting unnaturally in the air, before coming down hard onto her side. But, unlike in the previous videos, there wasn’t a resounding crack, only a weak cry of pain as Chess stumbled back to her feet.

Mattie grinned despite herself as snippets of conversation drifted her way.

“-not broken, don’t worry-”

“The Olympics seem out of the picture…”

“Get her a drink to numb the pain! Yes, limeade’s perfect-!”

Mattie arrived in her room again with a whole plethora of new information just inserted into her mind like it had been there all along. There was no longer and never had been a police officer outside her door. Her shirt was clean, her head undamaged. Chess didn’t go to the Olympics, but still did gymnastics in her spare time as her knee made a full and quick recovery. Farrah wasn’t dropped. Riley, in some weird twist of fate, went to the same therapist as Mattie. Life was… good for the Giles Corey Tigers.

Across town, the sleepover was still going ahead as normal. From what weird memories she just gained, Mattie knew that the team was at a rocky patch, their personalities still clashing in any iteration of the evening. But, with some relief, she knew that it would never in this timeline be bad enough for murder to even be considered as an answer. Her phone buzzed. The lies came easily as she covered up her mysterious disappearance from the sleepover she should currently be at.

Reese (school): Where are you???

Mattieeeee: I went home :( not feeling good

Reese (school): :((( that sucks

Mattieeeee: Ikr. I think it was the ice cream.

Reese (school): I told the others

Reese (school): They all say get well soon apart from Kate and Cairo who actually agreed on something for once haha

Mattieeeee: What did they say skjghdjh

Reese (school): “Tolerate the lactose, Wheeler.”

-

In her short-but-actually-quite-long-given-all-the-time-travel life, Mattie had witnessed a number of key historic events (and had caused about 85% by some small accident, but that’s a story for another time). The one which ended up unveiling her secret to someone in her actual life occurred overnight one February. Or maybe July. Depends. Time is weird.

She stepped into a small room, luckily through the doorway and not awkwardly through the window, as done many times before. A man sat hunched over a desk by the window, dressed in brown and using a pen-but-not-really-a-pen to craft a page of writing. From Mattie’s extensive historical knowledge, it could have been anywhere from 1000 BC to the 16th century.

“Hello, excuse me,” she began, “But I’m a little lost.”

The man startled, his not-really-pen skidding across the page and leaving a trail of thick ink in its wake as he blinked at her in the doorway. “Who are you?” He seemed perplexed as to how a young girl was standing there, in the opening to his room, in clothing not of any time now or before.

Something that Mattie had realised after travelling not only to different times, but also to a vast number of different settings around the world, was that somehow, she was never stumped by a language barrier. Instead she was always able to fluently converse with those she met in what appeared to her as American English. It was really weird; she tried not to think about it too much or it made her head hurt. She’d also learnt that it was best not to explain her full situation to her companions, becoming accustomed to pulling the classic ‘I’m not here, you’re just dreaming’ excuse. So that was exactly the tactic she applied here. “A dream figure. You don’t need to be afraid.”

The man narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the paper and then back up to Mattie’s face. “That’s a good line.” He scribbled her words down onto a scrap piece of papyrus. “Maybe I can use that later.”

Mattie grinned, sensing her chance to fuck up history just a little bit. “What are you writing?”

“How the world came to be,” the man explained. “God.”

“Ah, of course. The Bible, huh?”

“Pardon?” The scribe locked eyes with Mattie for the first time, confusion etched clearly on his face. She shook her head in response, having learnt that it was hopeless trying to explain events of the future to people who could never even begin to imagine the future that she came from. Seemingly satisfied, the man continued. “As the vision you are, I wonder if you’ve been sent to answer my queries.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“I’m struggling for a name. Not for the book itself, but just for this chapter.”

Mattie smiled as wisely as she could. “What do you have so far?”

“‘Generational Crisis’. The chapter describes how our world came to be - the creation of natural elements, the first humans, the beginnings of emotion. ‘Generational’ as it shall be carried on for generations, and ‘crisis’ as it’s a huge event, a crisis for the higher powers.”

Mattie choked. Her mind imagined a world where the entry chapter to the Bible was named as so, and it was a world of chaos and highly differing language choices. “That is very wise, sir. I have one suggestion: how about shortening it? Make it snappier, more catchy. I’m thinking…” She paused, feigning deep thought, “‘Genesis.’”

The man gasped, scrawling her word down at the top of the papyrus. “Genius! Thank you, child. I should write your name in my finished book, to show my gratitude for your kindness.”

“Mattie, sir, Mattie Wheeler. It’s been lovely to meet you and see your studies.” Over the centuries, Mattie had learnt to leave those she met with some kind of reassurance as the humane aspect of her hobby. “Before I go, I may be a dream spirit, but I can assure you that the work you have done right now shall be greatly appreciated for thousands of years to come.”

“You really are a wonder, perhaps a child sent from the power above.”

Unthinking, she snorted, replying, “Oh, boy, you are not ready to hear about Jesus.”

“Jesus? You mean my sister’s husband? I do hear some curious rumours about the man…”

Mattie hid her laugh behind a hand. Of course, this was hundreds of years before Jesus Christ came to be thought of. “I know, right? Jesus? More like JeSUS.” The scribe didn’t reply, mind clearly tired of its confusion and instead turning back to something it knew well. He picked up his writing patterns again. Mattie turned away, back to the doorway. “I will leave you to your writing again. Sleep well.” Leaving a small vial of dissolved sleeping pills on the desk, she stepped out of the door.

-

The only class that Mattie knew she would see Eva in was Religion. They didn’t actually share the class, but Mattie’s Religion teacher was Eva’s form tutor and the older girl often used the classroom as a quieter study area for her free period. Not that Mattie would call a class of thirty sophomores particularly peaceful, but apparently she hadn’t heard the noise of the senior study area, you genuinely don’t understand, last week Jacob Thomas tried to make toast using the sun on a desk and then, bam, the entire of senior year are creating chants about sun bread, it was so weird, Mattie, I transferred to a school of crackheads.

After her travel to the 7th century AD, Mattie sparked a sudden interest in her Religion classes. Eva, being the older sister that she was, watched closely as the sophomore stayed behind after class to search the Bible for something in particular.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing!” Mattie didn’t look up from fervently turning the pages.

“Well, that’s a fucking lie.” Eva perched on the side of a desk, sliding across to snatch the book out of the younger girl’s hands. “Why the hell are you looking at what is essentially the movie credits for the Bible???”

Eva watched as Mattie bit her lip, eyes darting around the empty classroom. She thought for a long moment, visibly debating points in her head, before leaning over the top of the book to run her finger down a list of names. About a third of the way down the page, she stopped. Eva’s eyes followed her finger as it drew a circle around a certain name. Matte Wheyler  

“See. I was looking for that.”

Eva didn’t say anything for a while. Mattie waited with baited breath as Eva’s brain tried to make sense of what they saw. “Mattie Wheeler, what the bagel.” It didn’t bother to even be a question.

“It’s a really long story.” Mattie slumped onto the desk as well. “Hey, did you know that ‘Genesis’ would have originally been called ‘Generational Crisis’ if it wasn’t for me?”

After a glance at both of their timetables, they decided that their next lessons (biology and latin respectively) were worth missing. Instead, they stayed seated on a desk in the Religion classroom, as Mattie explained in detail how her name came to be in the Bible. It was refreshing to finally spill her secret after fifteen years of complete silence, and Mattie wondered vaguely in the back of her mind if one day Eva might be able to share in her time travelling adventures. That might take a little more explaining though, because Eva sure did have a lot of questions.

“So, you don’t change anything?”

“Not anything major. Like, I can’t stop Hitler or anything, that would change too big an event. Little things, however, like names and stuff, it’s fun to mess around with. Ever wondered why the Italian city, Pisa, has its name? I delivered pizza to the guys who were kind of like the government at the time of its naming. Hence, the Leaning Tower of Pizza.”

Eva cackled. “Wait, what?! God, dude, that’s nuts. What the fuck.”

“What can I say, all I really want in life is a little bit of chaos and also mozzarella sticks.”

-

Mattieeeee sent a photo.

evanescence: is that??? abraham lincoln????

Mattieeeee: Abraham Lincoln was an otter.

evanescence: how so?

Mattieeeee: Point one: look at him.

Mattieeeee: Point two: no seriously. Look at him.

evanescence: oh my god

evanescence: i cannot believe you have a literal selfie with abraham lincoln that’s fucking wild

Mattieeeee: Perks of the job :D

evanescence: literally hire me i want a selfie with cleopatra

-

farrah o’satanic ritual: yall i got out of the shower like an hour ago and i still haven’t changed

Imposter: What can I say, bath robes are in fashion rn

farrah o’satanic ritual: ive told you before clark stop pretending you know how to dress

Mattieeeee: Farrah did you not die in the shower?

katherine: ????mattie???????

farrah o’satanic ritual: no?? i didn’t

SmileyRiley: dang it

katherine: riLEY-

caicrow: riley i thought we’d moved on from murder

Imposter: Plot twist: Mattie was the murderer all along

katherine: CLARK-

Mattieeeee: oops-

-

It wasn't meant to happen, she swore up and down it was a mistake. A true and honest accident. And it kinda was? I mean Mattie hadn’t intended for the scaffolding on the new tower being constructed in Pisa to wobble, she’d already fucked up Pisa once in her career, but… Well, that's what she got for letting loose Giles and Corey (her occasional time travelling companions, who also happened to be cats) in the middle of a Italian city in 1252. She could have sworn the catnip was safely concealed in one of the pockets inside her jacket (which was filled with all sorts of trinkets from her travels in the space-time continuum), yet somehow the two had still gotten into it. She guessed that's what she got for not hydrating-feel-greating and eating-to-defeating.

An old citizen eyed her suspiciously, taking in her struggle with the two cats. Or maybe she was just more focused on Mattie’s goggles - she doubted anyone in 13th century Pisa had seen such a bold fashion statement before. The tower continued to lean in the background.

Finally, Giles and Corey settled down, each in a pocket of her trench coat. Mattie breathed a sigh of relief, which only got halfway out of her before she was sucking it back in as the old lady from across the street began to approach her.

“Young lady.”

Mattie smiled sheepishly. “Hello, ma’am. Is everything alright?”

The lady looked mildly amused. “I couldn’t help but notice your two cats going mysteriously close to the tower before it started collapsing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. My cats are very well behaved.” Giles gave a resounding yelp at exactly the wrong time. A hiss from Corey echoed from the opposite pocket.

“Well,” the lady grinned, “If that’s the case, why don’t you leave the animals with me? You seem fairly preoccupied with the tower - perhaps you can try and assist its reconstruction?” She held out a hand.

Mattie thought for a moment and then handed across the two cats. “Thank you ever so much, ma’am. I’ll try and be quick.” The woman nodded and Mattie sped across the square to the drastically swaying tower.

When she arrived back at the woman’s table, there was a second lady in animated conversation with her. As Mattie approached, she stood up to take her leave, pressing a kiss to the first lady’s hair as she left. Something was definitely fruity there.

“All fixed!”

“I’m glad.” The woman nudged the cats back to their owner, looking intensely over Mattie’s shoulder to the stabilised tower. “It certainly looks sturdier.”

“I should hope so.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes,” she said, staring pointedly at an area on the structure, “I think about crabs.”

“Oh?” Mattie tilted her head. “Do you?”

“Yes. And often when I think about crabs, I think that they shouldn��t be in Pisa, and they most definitely should not be crawling over the tower.”

Mattie gasped and followed her gaze, muttering curses under her breath. “I didn’t realise I’d brought a whole crab with me! I thought I’d taken the sea life off the rocks!”

The woman chuckled. “You seem to be a strange character. Child, where on Earth did you find not only rocks large enough to support a tower, but also a live crab in Pisa?”

Accepting her fate, Mattie decided to tell the truth. “They’re from Egypt.” At the woman’s questioning look, she expanded, “I’m a traveller of sorts.”

“Oh. Well, child, you’re a gift of a traveller. Brightened my day. Italy these days is far too serious. Maybe we should put more crabs on the leaning tower, huh?”

Tucking her cats back into their respective pockets, Mattie allowed herself to laugh. “Maybe we should.” With a nod and a smile, she wandered off, eagerly awaiting her portal.

-

“Why were you in Egypt anyway?” Eva asked as Mattie recounted yet another of her time-travel-gone-wrong experiences.

“Library of Alexandria.”

“Oh, yeah, because that explains so much.”

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes. “It was 48 BC, Caesar was burning shit, this random Roman dude set fire to the library.” She pulled a book out of her backpack. “I saved this and stashed away a few of the slabs of rock. And apparently a crab.”

Eva took the book in awe. “Jesus Christ… This thing is, like, thousands of years old…”

“I know, right? Weird.” She watched as Eva flicked through the pages, tracing her finger over certain words or illustrations. “But it was such a beautiful library, I couldn’t let it just burn. So, I retaliated. Burnt the house of the soldier who set the original flame.”

“Mattie!”

She shrugged. “Setting someone’s house on fire is a survival skill.”

“Oh my God.”

“I would have done something more dramatic, but I had to get home. I had a cake which would need to come out of the oven.”

Eva laughed, the sound echoing around the empty classroom. They were skiving class again, this time PE, the one class they had which coincidentally fell at the same time for both year groups. “How are you so normal in school, but so badass when you time travel?”

“I dunno. All I can say is that cake and spite are my only motivators.”

“You’re like a superhero. ‘Time Travelling Mattie: The Only One Who Can Lead A Dual Life Successfully’!!!”

Mattie blushed, shrugging. She definitely needed to take Eva with her one day. A superhero duo. “Okay, that name needs some work. How about: ‘Sanchez And Wheeler, The Ultimate Time Travelling Duo’?”

“I think I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?”

Eva nodded, shaking her hand like they were signing a business contract. “Yeah.”

[mimosaeyes]

This is a dream, then. A fantasy conjured by the last firing of his synapses in the moment before death. Martin silently thanks his subconscious for it. He’s never had faith the way his mother did, but if there is a heaven for him, he’s quite sure it would have Jon in it.

Post-200. Jon and Martin wake up somewhere else. 2.2k, fix-it but not really.

In case this turns out to be the last fic I finish in this fandom, I want to especially thank my beta @emberidzae for introducing me to TMA. Or, at least, for talking about it enough in my general proximity that eventually I got curious.

Someone is cradling Martin’s head on their lap, and running their fingers through his hair. Jon, he thinks absently. He’d know him anywhere, even by such tiny details as the shape of his calluses where he grips a pen, and the texture of his burn-scarred skin.

But that can’t be right. Jon is dead. He’d killed him in the Panopticon, hands shaking until the instant before the knife had plunged in. The only way he could force himself to do it was to make it as quick and painless as possible. He couldn’t falter and draw out Jon’s suffering, not when it was already such a torment to hear him groan and scream as the building began to crumble around them. Or to see the look in his eyes, the utter trust and love warring against the Beholding’s hold on him.

This is a dream, then. A fantasy conjured by the last firing of his synapses in the moment before death. Martin silently thanks his subconscious for it. He’s never had faith the way his mother did, but if there is a heaven for him, he’s quite sure it would have Jon in it.

He breathes, even and steady like he’s trying to fall more deeply asleep. If these are his last seconds of awareness, he wants to spend them just like this.

Then he hears Jon quietly ask, “Are you awake?”

Martin opens his eyes. Jon is peering down at him, his expression tender and tentative. In the weak sunlight, he looks washed out, his features rendered nearly in greyscale. There’s no trace of the bright red from when Martin had lifted a bloody hand to cup his face. The only indication of everything that’s happened is a faint mistiness about Jon’s eyes.

Furrowing his brow, Martin reaches up and touches his cheek. It’s wet; he leaves behind a fine dusting of black sand that has stuck to his fingers. “Are you crying?” he murmurs, almost confused. Surely, if this is all in his imagination, he’d have made Jon happy.

Jon surprises him with a soft laugh. “Tears of relief, Martin. Look around.”

Reluctantly, still half-convinced none of this is really happening, Martin rolls to one side and sits up. Jon scoots over a little for him, even though there’s plenty of space. The shore is completely deserted apart from them, and silent but for the gently lapping water.

“Is this...?”

At Martin’s questioning look, a smile slowly spreads across Jon’s face. It’s a complicated one, balanced between joy and disbelief, sadness and resignation. “Somewhere else,” he affirms.

“But I—” Martin stares at Jon. There’s no blood on him, no wound; only a tell-tale rip in his shirt where the knife had gone in. “I killed you.”

“I told you to,” Jon objects. His hands come up as if to touch Martin, who rocks back on his haunches.

“I killed you,” he repeats, this time in a whisper.

Jon watches him for a moment. His shoulders lift in a helpless sort of shrug. “Or maybe,” he says, “you killed everything that wasn’t me. Everything tethering them there.”

Martin can feel tears welling up in his eyes. He’s shaking his head slowly, but he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he can deny the physical fact of Jon, here with him, miraculously unharmed and apparently, entirely human. It’s not like he wants to, either. He just hadn’t been expecting to wake up again — in a world he may have helped to doom, next to a boyfriend he was supposed to have died with.

It’s a lot to process.

A single sob escapes Martin, and at once Jon is hushing him, almost vaulting forward in his rush to pull him into a hug. They meet awkwardly halfway, in a tangle of clumsy limbs and warmth. 

With Jon’s arms around him, Martin lets himself just cry for a while.

It feels long overdue. The back of Martin’s throat has felt tight and strained since the moment he woke up to find Jon gone. He’d rushed to find Georgie, Melanie, and Basira, and then he’d rushed up the countless flights of stairs in the Panopticon, not daring to stop and catch his breath for fear he’d be too late. He was, anyway, and the moment Jon had turned around to face him, voice crackling with static and eyes illuminated as if from within, it had all come crashing over Martin: Jon had left him behind after all. He’d broken his promise, been so willing to die in some perverse kind of atonement that he hadn’t even waited to say goodbye.

Martin hardly dares to believe he’s here now, rubbing soothing circles over his back and murmuring, “It’s okay. Shh. I’ve got you.”

It takes some time, but eventually Martin subsides. The trembling stops and his breathing slows. Mildly embarrassed, he pulls back from the embrace. “Don’t ever,” he says wetly, poking Jon in the chest, “do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Jon says softly. He waits until Martin has settled back on the sand, then takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. 

For a while, they both stare out at the water, the way the seafoam stands out against the dark beach.

“Any idea where this is?” Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head. “I think Iceland has black sand beaches, but... you know. That’s back in our reality.”

Martin lets out a long breath. “It worked, then.” His voice is muted with weariness. “We saved the world.”

“And doomed every other one.” Without letting go of Martin’s hand, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them.

“Not everything is your fault, Jon. We all agreed on the plan.” 

He waits, but Jon gives no sign of having even heard the words. He watches him for a long moment, biting his lip. Then he clambers to his feet and pulls on their linked hands. “Come on.”

Jon blinks up at him. “Where are we going?”

“On a walk,” Martin tells him.

The beach looks the same in either direction, and a steep wall of volcanic rock prevents them from going farther inland. Undaunted, Martin starts off towards the left. Jon follows, possibly from force of habit. They’d gone on many such walks together, in the halcyon days at the safehouse before the world ended. 

Normally, Martin would point things out as they passed them by — good cows being a bonus, of course — but this place seems eerily devoid of life. There aren’t even any seashells or bits of driftwood. The air is still. The fog sits in heavy reams.

He’s just wondering if he should bring it up when Jon abruptly starts talking. He’d given one last statement, he admits, up in the Panopticon before Martin arrived. Becoming the pupil of the Eye had given him answers, at long last, about how the entities came to be. 

Jon’s train of thought is uncertain, and he frowns a lot as he rambles. Sometimes he stops and gazes out across the water, the look in his eyes vacant. It’s probably just a side effect of his being ripped away from the Ceaseless Watcher, Martin tells himself. Probably.

“We created monsters,” Jon says at last, “and then I set them loose on the whole universe.” He stops walking and hunches his shoulders. “What does that make me?”

Martin closes his eyes for a moment. “Jonathan Sims, you are not a monster.”

Beside him, Jon’s breathing goes shaky. “But I told you—”

“That I wouldn’t want to see what was left of you?” Martin interrupts. He hasn’t forgotten the desperate look on Jon’s face in that moment, when he’d first refused to leave him. “I’m looking at you right now, Jon, and you know what I see?”

Illogically, he’s almost angry at him; that’s how frustrated he is that the man he loves cannot seem to stop blaming himself for everything. “I see someone who has given everything to make things right. Who chose kindness, even though he’d been marked and manipulated. Even though he kept getting kidnapped and hunted and hurt and — and used.”

Jon is staring at him now, wide-eyed. Martin thinks about the way he’d looked in what he thought were their last moments together. Beautiful and beatific. He touches two fingers to Jon’s chin, tilting it up. “It’s not monstrous to protect the people you love,” he says. “It’s human.”

With his free hand, Jon swipes at a tear that’s running down his cheek.

“Okay?” Martin presses, but gently.

Jon sniffs. “Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “that your pep talks can be rather aggressive?”

He’s deflecting, but Martin decides to let him get away with it. He’s pushed hard enough for now. In any case, he thinks his words have hit home, at least to some extent. There’s still guilt in Jon’s eyes, but although it runs deep, Martin thinks it looks a little less sharp.

Pulling back and turning to resume their walk, he says, “They have to be, to get through your thick head.”

A corner of Jon’s lips quirks up. “That sounds like something Basira would say.”

“Is she alright, do you think? And Georgie and Melanie?”

Jon waves a hand. “I’m sure they’re fine. They’re probably putting the world back together already.”

“Probably make it better,” Martin muses. He sighs. “They’ll have their work cut out for them.”

A beat. “And what about us?” Jon asks quietly. “What do we do now?”

They fall silent, each contemplating the question. 

If they’ve ended up in the same world as the entities, Martin figures, at some point they’ll probably have to start seeking out organisations like the Magnus Institute, working out who the next Archivist is. And if they somehow stop the apocalypse from happening, it’ll only be for a while. There will always be another attempt to foil. 

By some miracle, they’ve made it here. Maybe they’ll be able to build a life together, and enjoy it for a while. But mostly, the future Martin sees stretching ahead of them is just full of more danger and guilt and sacrifice. 

Jon must be thinking along the same lines, because he sighs and says, “Do you know what this reminds me of? It’s like I thought the play was over, but it turns out it’s only the intermission.”

“What did you want it to be?”

For the space of several breaths, Jon is silent. “A good epilogue,” he says at last. “I’d like to think we deserve that much.”

Martin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. There isn’t really anything he can say to that, so instead he gives Jon a little nudge, and keeps walking.

When he next looks up, his eye snags on a shape on the shoreline ahead of them. It’s the first thing they’ve come across since they woke up here and started walking. In tacit agreement, they both wander over to get a closer look. 

It’s a small boat, complete with a set of oars. The wood has only the faintest suggestion of brown. It’s been bleached to a light grey, though how long that would have taken, Martin can’t guess. 

He clears his throat. “Is anything about all this just a little bit on the nose to you?”

“What?” Jon asks, still peering at the boat. Then: “Oh.”

This looks more like an ocean than a river, Styx or otherwise, but Martin can’t deny that there’s something ethereal about this place. Interstitial. Plus, there’s the otherwise inexplicable fact that Jon’s wound is gone. Honestly, he should have put it together sooner.

He notices Jon watching him then, his head canted and his expression fond. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jon says. “You’re just... taking the possibility that you’re dead very well.”

“So are you,” Martin points out.

Jon shrugs. “I’ve had time to get used to the idea. Besides, you’re here.”

His smile, at that moment, is a brittle thing. Martin finds he has to look away from it.

They never seem to get enough time, do they? The cottage in Scotland. That week at Upton House. And now this. Part of Martin is tempted to try and stay here, in this final pocket of respite. He knows that’s irrational, though. 

Maybe this is just a very dramatic-looking beach, and they’ll feel very silly when they wash ashore. Or maybe they’re right. Maybe they’ll get in that boat and... pass on, head towards the light — any one of the phrases people have invented to give shape to the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.

Either way, Martin realises, they have to find out. And at least they’ll find out together. Subconsciously, he tightens his grip on Jon’s hand.

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks softly.

Martin looks at him for a long moment. “I did want to take you rowing.” Such light words for the weight of what they imply.

“Where you go,” Jon says, “I go.”

Martin smiles. “That’s the deal.”

It takes them a while to get a rhythm going after they push off from the shore. Martin rows, and after a while, to his mild delight, Jon starts singing a sea shanty under his breath, keeping time to the beat of the oars. 

And as the shore disappears behind the fog, Martin is surprised to find that colours start to filter back into the world. Pinks and yellows, the likes of which the sky above his head hasn’t contained in so long.

He looks at Jon, who looks back at him and nods. 

They meet the sunrise. They leave the world behind.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[feathersandblue]

Dean Winchester, Character Death, and Frodo’s Return to the Shire

This will be a LOOONG post that has been stuck in my head for a while in bits and pieces - about Dean’s death, what it was and what it wasn’t, and incidentally, the Lord of the Rings has found its way in here too.

It’s pretty clear that Dabb always meant for Dean to die.

And while I strongly disagree with that, on so many levels, I think it might have been more palatable if framed in a different way, and so I’ve been trying to figure out what the ending might have looked like in a world that wasn’t quite as shitty as ours. Still shitty, but marginally less so.

Dean is notoriously bad at letting bad things happen if he can prevent them. I find it difficult to believe that Dean would ever quit hunting entirely, and for as long as he kept hunting, the danger of dying would always be present. It’s not unrealistic at all for him to die on a routine hunt. Life is unpredictable; life as a hunter, even more so. I understand that the writers might want to make that point. And it might have been valid if – and that’s the real problem – Dean’s death hadn’t otherwise been devoid of meaning.

The thing about character death – any sort of character death – is that it needs to have purpose.

And there are different ways that it can have purpose, but it depends on what sort of character we’re talking about.

Minor, often unnamed characters – the redshirts in every narrative – die to illustrate injustice or to highlight evil. Their death is a catalyst or a consequence of the events as they unfold, part of the conflict the heros have to solve. An army led into battle by a tyrant. Refugees in a camp dying of malnutrition. Murder victims of a serial killer. In all these cases, death fuels the plot but has little meaning beyond that.

There are minor characters whose death both fuels the plot and gives the hero a more personal motive to act. Supernatural is full of these. Mary and Jessica burning at the ceiling; Charlie dumped in a bathtub. Minor characters can have their own arcs, but ultimately their deaths are only important for the impact they have on the main characters.

The death of a protagonist is markedly different. Protagonists need to have agency even in death to maintain their status.

Their death has to be the reflection of their character development up to that point but it also has to tell us something about them that we did not already know – show us how they make a final decision or draw a final conclusion that marks the end of an inner conflict – which is what all storytelling is about. Character death has to serve a purpose to have meaning, and for a protagonist, the purpose must be personal.

And If it fails to do that, then that’s either a sign that we’re no longer dealing with a protagonist, or that something weng very, very wrong in the writers’ room. There is no inherent value in tragedy. In storytelling, tragedy is justified when it achieves something, otherwise, it’s just capriciousness.

Buffy’s death at the end of season 5 of BTVS is a classic example for the death of a protagonist. Harry’s decision to go and face Voldemort in the forbidden forest, even though it doesn’t ultimately kill him, is another. When Sam jumps into the abyss in Swan Song, that is his heroic sacrifice, but if he’d permanently died in season 2, that would have been bizarre and nonsensical because it was entirely beyond his control – it did not reflect his decisions, gave him no agency, and reduced him from a protagonist to a side character. In that moment, his death was something that happened to Dean. It worked because his death didn’t stick – he regained his agency after resurrection. But as an ending to his hero’s journey, it would have been singularly unsatisfying.

Dean is our protagonist, and he has been for 15 seasons. What does his death tell us about him that we didn’t know – what decisions did he make, what inner struggle got resolved, what meaning did his death have for him, personally, and then, in extension, for us?

The problem is that the finale, as is so often the case in Supernatural, tells two stories at once.

Whe the episode starts, it appears that Dean moves on with his life just fine, a well-adjusted model citizen. He’s ready to get a job, seems to be moderately happy. He even has dog. The decision to keep hunting is his, and death just accidentally happens, which of course is not unrealistic in his line of work. On the forefront, his death is brought about by the fact that he exercises free will. It tells us that he is a hunter and will always be one, that he keeps protecting people because that’s just who he is.

None of that, however, is new. It is just more of the same. All of Dean’s decisions in the finale tell us nothing about him that we did not already know. He’s trying to move on from the death of the people closest to him, as he’s always done. He chooses the hamster wheel, as he has always done. He follows in his father’s footsteps, as he has always done.

As he gets impaled, he has no choices left to make. There is no agency in his death, no inner struggle. His death furthers neither his character development nor the plot. That Dean simply accepts his death is as unsurprising as the fact that his final moments are spent reassuring Sam and telling him that he has to keep fighting.

The conclusion? Dean ceases to be a protagonist.

He dies not as the hero of his story. His death just happens to him.

After Sam and Dean had presumably freed themselves from the constraints of Chuck’s narrative, the final episode should have emphasized their agency, their freedom of choice, through change. But in the end, it only led them both to making the same choices as always, the unsurprising ones. And even the choices that did indicate a change (like Dean’s job application) were not shown to bear fruits.

What meaning does free will have when it doesn’t change the outcome? All the finale does is tell a bleak story about humanity and how we are incapable of making meaningful, consequential changes in our lives.

It’s almost like Lucifer is talking to us all the way from the Endverse of 5.04: “Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up – here.”

Devastating as that is, there is another interpretation of the finale that is arguably worse, a different reading strongly suggested by both text and subtext.

Dean, as mentioned before, is trying to move on with his life but ultimately fails. The situation is different from the way he behaved when he lost Cas and Mary in season 13 where he was outright suicidal – his desperation is more quiet but also more profound. He seems determined to honor Cas’ and Jack’s sacrifice. But determination is not enough. Dean only goes through the motions, and it shows. He clings to the dog in the morning; the dog sticks to him closely throughout the day as dogs tend to do when they feel that their owner is in distress, almost like a therapy dog. His room looks messy, he makes an attempt to fix it but then abandons it as it requires too muh effort. Ultimately, he can’t be bothered. There are alcohol bottles standing around, a sign that he’s drinking, though not as heavily as in the past. All the while, he sems very laid-back, presumably relaxed and at peace and coping well with the loss but also weirdly detached.

When Sam mentions Cas and Jack at the pie festival, he says, “Yeah, I’m thinking about them too. You know that pain’s not going to go away. Right? But if we don’t keep living, then all that … sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.”

He feels an obligation. And he’s trying. It’s just not working very well.

He barely reacts when Sams pies him in the face.

When impaled on the rebar, Dean actively prevents Sam from calling for help. He tells Sam not to bring him back. And in the end, he asks Sam to tell him it’s okay to go. Which isn’t something he would do if he was simply dying – it strongly indicates that he wants to be allowed to die.

Prompting the conclusion that Dean is giving up on life the first opportunity he gets, not even knowing whether he’ll end up in heaven.

In this reading, Dean does have a little bit of agency. He makes a decision, sort of. His death marks the resolution of an inner struggle: He gives up.

He dies as a protagonist.

In the worst way possible.

In all honesty, I can’t decide which interpretation I hate more.

But what could the writers have done differently, if Dean was meant to die all along?

Back when the SPN finale had freshly aired, I was describing it like this:

Imagine that the One Ring is destroyed. But Merry died in the battle and Pippin went missing and was never found again. Frodo and Sam return to the Shire; Pippin and Merry are mentioned once in passing. Upon their arrival, Frodo is attacked by Wormtongue and slowly bleeds out over the span of thirty pages. Sam marries someone else than Rosie; Rosie is never mentioned again. Somehow, both Frodo and Sam are teleported to Valinor, where we are told that the real fun begins.

At the time, I only used this as an example to illustrate what a mess the finale had been. But in the weeks that have passed since, then, I’ve started thinking about the LOTR comparison some more, and it got me thinking about Dean’s death in a different way.

And it has everything to do with the difference between running from and walking toward.

As mentioned before, it’s not unrealistic that Dean would die on a random hunt. Would the Dean Winchester we know ever stop hunting? Maybe. We might want him to. Then again, would be still be Dean Winchester if he did? We know that Dean can’t help but feel responsible. He is someone who is incapable of staying hands-off.

Dean, as we see him in the finale, is trying to honor Cas’s and Jack’s memory by living, although he’s not very good at it – not outright suicidal but worn-out. Exhausted. And still he makes the decisions to keep hunting because he can do nothing else.

When Frodo and Sam returned to the Shire in LOTR, they had earned their happy ending. But Frodo, who had carried such a heavy burden that he was permanently altered by it, could no longer find happiness in Middleearth, and ultimately decided to depart for Valinor along with Gandalf and Bilbo with the promise of later being reunited with Sam. The journey had changed both of them, but it had changed Frodo to a greater degree, his responsibility had been greater, the weight on his shoulders heavier.

And I started to wonder whether the intention had initially been to show Dean in much the same state – and to frame his death as a decision to move on, the same way that LOTR has Frodo move on to the West.

Imagine the following: Cas is pulled into the Empty. His happiness and love change the Empty; he merges with it or otherwise changes it so that it’s now a more demon-friendly environment. Everyone there is at peace. Cas, in whatever form, moves on to Heaven – or maybe his soul does as it’s now mostly human.

Dean goes on a hunt and dies. Jack, or some other entity, shows up where you would expect the curiously absent reaper in order to give him a choice. Learning that Cas is in Heaven, and knowing that he will never be able to stop hunting if he remains on earth, Dean makes the conscious decision to move on. For the first time, Dean prioritizes his own happiness over his perceived duty. His death is no longer suicide by proxy, and neither is its sole purpose to illustrate the inherent meaningless of free will by turning him into a hamster-by-choice. Instead, it becomes a decision because he’s given back agency. He resolves an inner conflict and there’s even a final bit of character development as he breaks the chain of mutual co-dependency that ties him to Sam and allows himself to be with Cas. He remains a protagonist throughout the end.

And because he acknowledges his love for Cas and decides to be with him, he no longer just runs from, he walks toward.

The parallels to The Lord of the Rings get even more obvious when you take Sam into the equation because much like Samwise, Sam remains on earth in order to have a life that, for him, still holds meaning and the chance of happiness – whereas Dean can no longer be happy on earth as long as Cas isn’t there.

To be completely clear: I’d still think that such an ending would suck because it puts too much emphasis on an afterlife, and it would still send the message that characters like Dean could only find peace in death, and unless some adjustments were made to Sam’s arc as well, the ending would still suck for him.

But seeing as SPN plays in a universe where an afterlife exists, I could probably learn to live with Dean’s death if it had any sort of meaning, for him, besides dying and waiting for Sam to arrive, if it allowed for that final bit of character development. If he got to choose.

While I’ll never be able to see the finale that we actually got as anything but a complete atrocity.

[moiraineswife]

Jasnah Meta - The Importance of Context

AKA: PLEASE stop saying that Jasnah is pro-genocide when she is. Not. At all. In any way. Shape or form. Whatsoever. 

TL;DR: Nowhere, at any point, in four ginormous books of text, does Jasnah ever say ‘you know what’s great? Genocide.’ She never even implies. It she never even actually, seriously, suggests it. Please stop saying she does as though it’s canon I lose 12 years of my life every time it’s mentioned. 

AND NOW FOR THE LONG VERSION BECAUSE Y’ALL KNOW I CAN’T LEAVE IT AT THAT!!!!! 

PLEASE NOTE! THERE WILL BE SOME MINOR RHYTHM OF WAR SPOILERS IN HERE. PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYEBALLS IF THIS IS A DISTRESSING CONCEPT TO YOU.

So first things first, let us discuss The Scene Itself: 

“Yes. The answer is obvious. We need to find the Heralds.”

Kaladin nodded in agreement.

“Then,” Jasnah added, “we need to kill them.”

“What?” Kaladin demanded. “Woman, are you insane?”

“The Stormfather laid it out,” Jasnah said, unperturbed. “The Heralds made a pact. When they died, their souls traveled to Damnation and trapped the spirits of the Voidbringers, preventing them from returning.”

“Yeah. Then the Heralds were tortured until they broke.”

“The Stormfather said their pact was weakened, but did not say it was destroyed,” Jasnah said. “I suggest that we at least see if one of them is willing to return to Damnation. Perhaps they can still prevent the spirits of the enemy from being reborn. It’s either that, or we completely exterminate the parshmen so that the enemy has no hosts.” She met Kaladin’s eyes. “In the face of such an atrocity, I would consider the sacrifice of one or more Heralds to be a small price.”

“Storms!” Kaladin said, standing up straight. “Have you no sympathy?”

“I have plenty, bridgeman. Fortunately, I temper it with logic. Perhaps you should consider acquiring some at a future date.”

So the only time Jasnah actually brings up this concept it’s to, hyperbolically, point out that asking the Heralds to return to Braize and trap the Fused may not be the worst idea.

She’s not actually suggesting this as a valid or legitimate tactic. It’s to contrast the plan Kaladin just called her ‘insane’ for suggesting (I bet that’s gonna hurt a million times more than it already does in 900 years when we get Jasnah’s book and backstory but hey. Back on topic) and point out that, in the face of the apocalypse, this is the kind of level they have to think on. 

I’ve already talked about the nuances of this scene at length here, so I’ll just do a quick summary: Jasnah is not as composed about any of this internally as she makes out to be - even what she suggests with the Heralds. 

When we see her alone with Ivory, reading Taln’s repeated mantra, Ivory notes that she’s troubled. The words (and where he was/how he was being treated when they were recorded) is enough to trigger a twenty year old flashback in her. 

This scene is one of the clearest moments (along with the Kharbranth thug scene, I suspect) where Jasnah’s outward projection of her internal feelings and thoughts least matches up with reality.

In spite of the inflammatory remark that sparks this all off,  she doesn’t want to assassinate any Heralds. She quite clearly says she wants to “see if one of them is WILLING to return to Damnation.” She wants to have a conversation with them, understand the Oathpact, and see if any of them would consent to buying them some time. She is not suggesting they knife one of the Heralds in a back alley. That’s Moash’s job.

This is supported by what she does in canon. Jasnah is actually the one who recognises Taln and Ash and, somehow, manages to persuade them to join her at Urithiru and help. She treats them with nothing but dignity and respect in her scenes with them in Rhythm of War, and tries to find out more about the Oathpact and their options - as she said she wanted to do.

But since Jasnah is a Kholin, which means the ‘D’ in her DNA stands for DRAMA, she doesn’t say that, instead she says: “let us find the Heralds and kill them.” (I love her so much y’all. Ahem. Anyway).

But there’s method to this madness, too. Please click the ‘keep reading’ button to discover why! (have to turn my own posts into clickbait bc they’re so long I have to put in a cut to spare ur dashboards). 

Jasnah likes to push people. She likes to force them to think, and consider all angles of a problem, and come to terms with their own thoughts and opinions. This is one of the things that frustrates Shallan about Jasnah in TWOK: 

Shallan caught a victorious glimmer in her eye. She wasn’t necessarily advocating ideas because she believed them; she just wanted to push Shallan. It was infuriating. How was Shallan to know what Jasnah really thought if she adopted conflicting points of view like this?

-TWOK 36

Jasnah doesn’t want to brutally murder the Heralds and force them to return to their maddening idea of hell. But in phrasing it as she does, she can get an insight into Kaladin. Despite the fact we know him very well at this point, this is, this is the first time Jasnah has interacted with him on-screen, and only the second time she’s met him ever. 

“That Windrunner. What do you think of him, Shallan? I find him much as I imagined his order, but I have only met him once. It has all come so quickly. After years of struggling in the shadows, everything coming to light—and despite my years of study—I understand so very little.”

Oathbringer, 33

Jasnah in that scene is deliberately being as exaggerated, ruthless, cold, and harsh as she can get away with. She’s trying to push Kaladin. She wants to bait responses from him, to get an idea of what kind of man he is, and what he stands for. She focuses entirely on him on that scene, and the reactions we as readers get see that as well. 

“If you wish, Captain,” Jasnah snapped, “I can get you some mink kits to cuddle while the adults plan. None of us want to talk about this, but that does not make it any less inevitable.”

“I’d love that,” Kaladin responded. “In turn, I’ll get you some eels to cuddle. You’ll feel right at home.”

Jasnah, curiously, smiled.

 Jasnah likes to be pushed as well. She likes to have people push back with her, and stand up for themselves, assert themselves, make their arguments. She all but encourages Dalinar to publicly do so in RoW. 

Socially, in spite of Kaladin’s rank or status as a Windrunner, it’s probably 100% Not Acceptable to ask an Alethi princess if she wants a basket full of eels to cuddle because she is one, effectively. But Jasnah’s unphased - and even pleased - by Kal’s response. She likes that she’s seeing this from him, that he’s unguarded, and passionate, and more than willing to go toe-to-toe with her, which few people are.

Also, because I foresee potential problems in this meta that I would like to nip in the bud right now, I don’t think that Jasnah is doing this to play with people? That’s not really in her nature or who she is. There’s a purpose to everything she does, and there’s a purpose to her doing this, too.

With Shallan it was to encourage her to think for herself and form her own thoughts and opinions. Just before in that scene, Shallan asked why Jasnah couldn’t just tell her what to think and what was the right philosophy to have in life. Jasnah replied it was something she had to discover for herself - and that’s how she approaches all of their studies. 

Jasnah never teaches Shallan what to think, or even what happened, despite that being the meat of her study. Instead, she teaches Shallan how to think, how to study, how to learn, how to critically reason, and how to form and argue her own thoughts and conclusions. 

With Kal, I think it’s a quick and brutal way of quickly getting to grips with a new, very important, element in what’s going on in her world. Remember, too, that one of Jasnah’s most obvious aims, aside from protecting the world, is protecting her family. And Kaladin is very close to everyone that she loves and holds most dear, while she knows nothing about him. 

However, something else that’s important to note, which, for me anyway, RoW all but confirmed: Jasnah has low cognitive empathy.

She’d come to realize, early in her youth, that she didn’t approach relationships the same way everyone else seemed to. Her partners in the past had always complained that she was too cold, so academic. That had frustrated her. How was she to learn what others felt if she couldn’t ask them?

Chapter 99 really was an absolute fucking gift, I mean really. Asexuality AND low empathy, all in one go. What a delight.

This little snippet can be read as her being asexual, potentially, but I actually think it reads more heavily and obviously about her being neurodivergent? And specially low cognitive empathy. Brandon says that, to him, Jasnah is not autistic spectrum, but you just keep giving me more evidence to say she is buddy!! Anyway. Diagnostic debates aside. 

I would guess some of y’all don’t know what the heck I mean by ‘cognitive empathy’ (I didn’t before I researched all of this a couple of years ago). 

There are two types of empathy, in strict psychology terms (and then there’s the colloquial way we use it to just mean ‘a good person with feelings’ which drives me BANANAS but that’s a rant for another day): 

Affective empathy - which basically means ‘this person around me is happy/sad/excited, I am also now feeling that way. Because emotion is infectious like a cold! How thrilling’. 

Cognitive empathy - is the ability a person has to pick up on/know what others are feeling without having to be told. Using tone/body language/facial expression etc etc. It’s something I, and a lot of other autistic people, are bad at. 

So is Jasnah! 

Her previous partners disliked her probably verbally vibe checking them every other week to find out where they were at. Jasnah was frustrated because how the heck else is she meant to know wtf?? What an absolute mood this woman is. Anyway. 

This revelation/confirmation makes a LOT of Jasnah scenes make a lot more sense. Including: chapter 64, and her insistence, to the point of it almost being illogical, that she fight without her Surgebinding to try and get as clear a picutre of what her soldiers are facing as she can. Jasnah starts off that chapter by saying she’s never actually been in a war before, and states throughout that she wasn’t prepared for what it was actually like. 

Her low empathy means that, without a personal context/experience to relate to and draw emotional experience from, she struggles to understand exactly what her troops are going through. 

Obviously she knows that ‘war is bad, battles are scary and not fun’. But she has no way of emotionally relating/truly understanding what they’re feeling. This is one of the reasons I think it’s so important to her, despite Ivory’s chiding, to do it that way so that she can understand. 

Similar thing is happening here with Kaladin. Jasnah struggles to instinctively Get Vibes from people, so she goes about things in a very scholarly way. 

She does research and makes notes (see: her little folio on the highprinces (which, by the way, misses out on several important aspects of them Shallan picks up on pretty quickly by the power of Intuition), she asks questions - and she sets up scenarios that push people into blatant emotion so she can observe and get an idea of what makes them tick. 

TL;DR TAKE TWO: Jasnah does not want to murder all of the Singers. Jasnah never says she wants to. Jasnah only uses it as a ‘see, asking the Heralds to go back to Damnation isn’t actually that bad now is it?’ hyperbolic counterpoint after Kaladin asked her if she was insane. Jasnah is not actually what she pretends to be in that scene. She is but a hapless gay who cannot detect emotions so she has to conduct her Vibe Checks differently from other people. She is highly valid in every way and i stan her.