#it’s erased part of my own history and the muse fandom’s history

[1-ufo]

/slaps forehead/ nothing in the tags regarding the gig boner pics I did see which is why that one escaped flagging too. It all makes sense now

Anything that was remotely horny on main from back in the day was wiped out by nothing more than an ai machine.

And these people have long abandoned their blogs why would they have even tried to appeal any of it

[tsarisfanfiction]

Eclipse: Chapter 24

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades Another long chapter ahead! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter... hopefully it doesn't get too confusing in places. I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one!  If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 23

APOLLO XXIV

The silver titan Trapped within his buried cell Trouble comes hunting

The titan didn’t move, but his eyes flickered from where they had been regarding – searching – Apollo to focus directly on Hades.

“I am both,” he said.  His voice was lower than Apollo expected – not the gravelly tones of Alcyoneus, but a voice that would no doubt join the bass section of a choir.  “Bob and Iapetus.”  He didn’t move from where he sat.  “They are different stages of my existence but I will not erase either from who I am, now that the choice is mine.”

That… Apollo could understand that, to some extent.  Zeus had not stripped his memories, the way Iapetus had been dunked in the Lethe, but he had taken away everything else, forced him to be Lester while he fought to still be Apollo.

He was both now, too.  Lester-Apollo, Screech-Bling had titled him, the same way mortals had once named him Phoebus Apollon, and many others beside.  Lester was another part of him, part of his history but part of his growth, of who he was now, for all that he still preferred and used Apollo as his name.

Even Hades inclined his head minutely in what Apollo assumed was a gesture of at the least comprehension, if not understanding, although he otherwise stood tall.  His uncle was wary, he realised – Apollo had no personal history with the titan, but his uncle had once fought against him, and no doubt knew him well from the battles.

There was a lot to learn about your opponent in a war.

“Which stage are you in now?” the older god asked, and the titan made a noise that could almost be resigned amusement.

“Nico taught me much about demigods, humanity, and kindness,” he said, “and it appears that once learnt, those things tend to stick.  I am Bob, now, Hades, and I do not think I will ever use the name Iapetus again, but do not mistake that for the amnesiac, bumbling janitor who swept your halls.  I have not discarded the title of Titan of the West, nor the Piercer.”

“Bob the Piercer, Titan of the West,” Apollo mused, sounding out the name.  “I understand.”

Those sharp silver eyes snapped back to him.  “Leto’s son, if I’m not mistaken.  Phoebus, as I recall.”

It was a light feeling, to be called his mother’s son, rather than his father’s.  Apollo nodded.  “Phoebus Apollo,” he clarified, and was surprised at a look of near-approval in Bob’s eyes.

“I can see Phoebe in you,” he said.  Apollo had barely heard his maternal grandmother’s name in millennia, outside of his own epithet.  It was rare enough that his titaness mother was mentioned in modern times.  The titan looked between the pair of them.  “What brings the two of you to visit me?  Missing your janitor, Hades?”

“Nico.”  The demigod’s name was heavy in the miasma of the prison, sitting between the three of them with no mere insignificance.  Bob’s eyes widened a fraction.  “My son.”

“You, a god, came down here on the request of a demigod?” Bob asked, clearly surprised.  Apollo understood that, too – gods did not do things because demigods asked them to.  It just didn’t happen.

“No,” Hades said.  “I came down here because my foolish son intended to come back himself.”

“What?” Bob demanded, half-rising from where he sat in the first open display of emotion beyond guarded curiosity.  “No.  Nico, Percy, Annabeth… none of them must come back!  The Pit… he would obliterate them from existence!”

“In that, at least, we are in agreement,” Hades told him, voice clipped short.  “I have explicitly forbidden my son from ever attempting to return here, but for you, it appears he had no qualms about attempting to disobey me.”

“Nico…” Bob sighed, shaking his head in something lightly despairing.  Apollo knew that feeling all too well.  “So you are here to, what, eliminate me so that Nico has no reason to try?”  Apollo found himself pinned by silver eyes again.  “And this does not explain Phoebus’ presence.  Phoebe bequeathed you Delphi, did she not?”

Bob was clearly not someone to be underestimated.  “One of my sons would not let Nico come alone,” Apollo told him, not responding to the veiled suspicion that there was a prophecy involved.  Sometimes, prophecies were best left unshared, although he was well aware that the clear omission no doubt told Bob that there was one.  From the look the titan gave him, he didn’t think that was a good enough reason by itself, but Apollo didn’t elaborate; for one thing, he didn’t know if Nico was out to the titan, and while Bob was of an era much like the gods where such things as same sex attraction and relationships were normal and nothing to get agitated about, that did not mean that coming out did not mean something far heavier in modern mortal’s eyes.

Hades, thankfully, showed a similar degree of tact by not elaborating on his behalf.  “We came here,” he began, starting to inspect the wall separating them from the titan, “because the demigods’ intention was to get you out, and if we do not, they will.”

“Out of this prison, or out?” Bob demanded.  Neither Hades nor Apollo answered, and he frowned.  “I won’t say no to leaving this place,” he said, “but I find it difficult to believe that two Olympian gods want me free.”

He had a point – Apollo was acutely aware that they couldn’t necessarily trust the titan to not attempt something similar to Kronos, but he was also aware that Nico, and Will by extension, would not be satisfied until they knew Bob was no longer in trouble in Tartarus.

“Consider this thanks for keeping Nico alive during his time down here,” Hades replied, rather dryly.

Bob assessed him with clear suspicion.  “You put a demigod’s life on par with a titan’s?”

Hades put a stubborn hand on the brass material separating the two of them.  “My sole and last living son’s life,” he corrected, an admittance Apollo had never expected to hear him say, especially to a titan.  “Although should you betray him, or me, I will not hesitate to send you straight back here.”

Finally, a slow grin spread across the titan’s face.  “That, I can believe,” Bob said, standing up straight at last.  “Very well, Hades, Phoebus.  Get me out of here and I will not betray Nico’s trust… nor either of you unless you betray me first.  Does that sound fair?”

Apollo glanced over at Hades, and was slightly surprised to see his uncle glance back at him; he had expected the exchange to be primarily led by the older god.  So far through what could only be called negotiations, he had not anticipated his opinion being sought, and yet Hades’ glance could only be described as in askance.

Usually, an agreement as potentially devastating if broken as the one Bob proposed was sworn on the Styx, but Styx had been specifically appointed the keeper of godly oaths, and while that trickled through to bind their children through their heritage, it did not backtrack through lineage to the titans – and even if it did, as far as Apollo knew, Iapetus had had no godly descendants himself.  Nymphs, yes, and even mortals if his lineage was traced far enough, but no gods.

It was an exercise in – and a test of – trust.  He and Hades could be bound to the Styx, if pressed, but Bob would not be, and binding themselves thus when the titan could break the agreement without consequence was in no way a good idea.

That being said, Apollo sensed no lie in the titan’s intentions.  There was no tang of deception hanging between them, nor had he seen any glimpses of potential futures where Bob turned on them.  That was not to say it would not happen – Apollo’s glimpses of futures were sporadic at best, and the Fates often withheld vital personal moments from him (such as his third time mortal, or before that the slaughter of his children on Williamsburg Bridge, for all that he’d seen other parts of the Battle of Manhattan long before it came to pass, and glimpses of New Rome burning as the undead spilled across its streets – something he wished he’d remembered seeing when mortal, facing down the possibility of Tarquin) – but one way or another, the lack was significant.

He nodded back at Hades.  The known risks of not helping Bob escape far outweighed the known risks of helping – only one decision did not invite their kind-hearted sons to seek Bob out themselves, something that neither he nor Hades wanted, and Bob seemed likewise dismayed at the prospect of.  They were odds he was willing to take.

“Very well,” Hades agreed, looking directly at the imprisoned titan.  “Those terms are acceptable.”  He placed a hand once again on the wall between them, and began to shimmer the purple darkness of his essence, now streaked through with a light Apollo had not seen until Alcyoneus.  “Apollo.”  The order was clear, and Apollo stepped forwards, pressing his own hand to the brass structure.  His own essence reached out cautiously, feeling the threatening tendrils of Tartarus rebelling against his existence.

The lighter streaks of Hades’ essence called to his, and Apollo carefully let his own answer, reaching out and intertwining gently with his uncle’s.  It wasn’t quite mindreading, but it immediately gave him the sense of what Hades was doing, the way his power wasn’t assaulting the blockage directly but instead seeking the seams surrounding it and prying them open with far more finesse than a brute force attack could ever achieve.

One god’s raw power wasn’t enough to get through the prison walls – of course it wasn’t, otherwise more powerful inmates including the titans would have been able to break out whenever they chose – but with two combined, the brass began to buckle under the combined assault.

Apollo pushed harder, prying at the stress fractures that were beginning to open under the onslaught of two Olympians at near full power and widening them, delving as far in as he dared with his uncle by his side as they found the weakest point and wrenched it apart.

With a spark that turned into a boom, exploding outwards and punching through Apollo’s exposed essence viciously enough to leave him winded, the brass gave way, a gaping yawn in the material wide enough for Bob to push his way out, which was exactly what the titan did.

“Thank you,” he said.  Apollo gave him a small grin as he pulled himself back together again, seeing Hades similarly regathering the tendrils of his essence and standing tall.

“No problem,” he replied.  “Now how about we leave?”

Beneath their feet, the prison moved, shaking like an earthquake.  The walls of the prison were sturdy, too sturdy to be brought down by simply moving earth, but there could be no way the timing was a coincidence.

“Come.”  Hades gripped his forearm tightly, and extended a hand towards Bob, fixing him with an expectant look.  The titan hesitated, clearly and admittedly understandably not fully trusting Hades’ motives, and the god clicked his tongue impatiently.  “Unless you want to sneak past the guard yourself-”

Apollo’s consciousness was suddenly yanked in half, sudden and harsh enough that the part of it that remained in Tartarus missed the rest of Hades’ argument why Bob should concede to shadow travel.  He knew the feeling of being in two places simultaneously instantly, and he also knew what seeing elsewhere and potentially elsewhen felt like, but he had hardly been prepared for it at that moment, when the rush of darkness and power and fear screamed that if they didn’t leave immediately something was about to go very wrong.

The sight of his two sons mollified him somewhat – how could it not, for all that the timing of this vision was absolutely terrible.  Will looked better; far more awake and aware, although he was still sitting shoulder to shoulder with Nico on the floor by the bed.  Nico, by contrast, looked more tired, as though he’d been using some of his powers since Apollo had last seen them.

Asclepius, much to his concerned surprise, was in conversation with none other than Thanatos, whose dark presence in Nico’s bedroom was wholly unexpected.  The demigods appeared to be more or less ignoring the gods, with Will’s periodic glances up – a little wary, but Apollo couldn’t blame him when part of being a healer was keeping Death at bay, for all that it was truly in the hands of the Fates – the only real acknowledgement of their presence.

It was a peaceful scene, a sharp contrast to the sharp disagreement his Tartarus-inhabiting consciousness was hearing between a god and a titan who seemed to prefer the idea of fighting his way out to letting Hades take him anywhere through the shadows, although Apollo could admit Bob had a point and that the possibility of Hades losing control of shadow travel if Tartarus decided to intervene wasn’t zero – not that Hades was willing to admit as such.  However, like his uncle, Apollo would also still rather take the shadow travel risk than fight Kampê.

Up in the Underworld, Thanatos tensed, his large wings flaring out and almost taking up the entire room.  Will ducked, startled, as the iridescent black feathers narrowly missed the top of his head, but Nico stayed stock still, eyes narrowed as though something was suddenly bothering him.  Asclepius was surveying the god of death with some degree of alarm – a feeling Apollo had to admit he was sharing.

“What’s wrong?” Will was the one to ask it, looking at his boyfriend with occasional concerned glances at the wings brushing the air above his head.  “Is something-?”

“Something’s… not right,” Nico murmured, his voice shaking slightly.  “I don’t-  This feels like-”

“Lord Thanatos?” Asclepius ventured, drawing Apollo’s attention back towards the gods in the room.  “What happened?”

The Chthonic god shook his head, hand twitching.  Immediately, the large scythe materialised, taller than Will, who understandably skittered a little further away from the god, although not so far he was out of contact with Nico, who seemed to be gaining more and more comprehension – and fear – by the moment.  It looked a wicked weapon, Stygian Iron for the reaping of reluctant souls, and in Thanatos’ grip it was clearly a familiar weapon, for all that Apollo had rarely seen it used for more than brushing souls.

“I…” he began, before his dark eyes fixed Asclepius firmly.  “Protect the demigods.”

“From what?” Will demanded, one arm winding tightly around Nico’s shoulders as the son of Hades trembled.  “What’s going on?”

For all his earlier unease around the god of death, Apollo’s demigod son didn’t falter as Thanatos turned to face him, his wings barely missing the demigods with the action.

“Nico,” the god said.  “He will not reach this far.”

“I know,” the quivering teen said.  “I know.  But…”

“What’s going on?” Will demanded.  Apollo dearly wanted to know that, too – the Underworld was supposed to be safe, what was scaring Thanatos?  The god of death was clearly frightened, but there was very little that death would fear.

In Tartarus, the ground quivered again, and Apollo ducked as a whip cracked, its tip smashing into the side of the corridor.  Hades let go of his forearm, growling curses in languages long forgotten by mortals as his sword leapt into his hand, and beside him, a long, silver spear materialised into Bob’s hand.

“She would never have let us escape, shadows or not,” the titan said, and Kampê cackled.

“Escape, Iapetus?  Godlings?  Escape doesn’t exist.”

“I have to go,” Thanatos said.  “He has stirred.  He is angry.”  There was a tightness to his face, fear so blatant Apollo could see that even Will could parse it as blue eyes widened.

“He..?  Is that..?”

Apollo raised his bow, a whole brace of arrows nocked, and let them fly.  Kampê was like Python, her body ever-changing, but the transformations appeared limited to her waist.  The rest of her body seemed to be more or less stable in appearance, although no less dangerous for it as she charged forwards, her whip slashing half of the arrows out of the air before they could make contact.

“Nice try, godling,” she rasped, snakes hissing derisively at him.  Apollo stamped down the queasiness that facing down aggressive snakes provoked and ducked down as the whip once again lashed past him.  Black armour over the robes of the damned stepped in front of him, as Hades gripped his sword with two hands and brought it down.

“Not the Lord above,” Thanatos told Will.  “You are safe, here.”  Will didn’t look convinced, not that Apollo could blame him.

“Then…  Who?”

“I must go,” the god said.  “Remain as you were.  Nico, if you could get word to the Lady Artemis-”

Apollo jolted in shock and failed to dodge the next lash of Kampê’s whip, which bit into his shoulder deeply, drawing a flood of ichor.

“Focus!” Hades snapped at him, which Apollo dearly wished he could do, but the Fates hadn’t freed him from the vision and he stumbled again.  Artemis had nothing to do with any of this – and how was Nico contacting her from the Underworld?

“I’ll try,” Nico replied, resting his head on Will’s shoulder, who was looking increasingly upset at being left out of the loop.  Asclepius didn’t look much more informed.

“Lord Thanatos, where are you going?  What is happening?”

“It would seem that I must go,” the Chthonic god said, before disappearing in a swirl of shadows and darkness.  “Tartarus rises.”

Will’s panicked yelp of “what?” was the last thing Apollo heard before the vision faded and his consciousness fully reconciled in Tartarus, and it resonated clearly through his essence.

What, indeed.

His back was to the remains of the wall that had shut Bob in.  In front of him, darkness and silver blazed as Hades and Bob pushed back at Kampê.  Ichor flowed down his arm, and Apollo covered it with a hand, willing his form back together again so he could once more use his bow.

The ground beneath them continued to quake, but it was a long, steady rumble rather than an unpredictable creation of Poseidon’s.  This shouldn’t be enough to be felt in the Underworld, surely?  Even if Thanatos was attuned enough to sense Tartarus’ shift in moods, Nico shouldn’t be able to sense a disruption like this.  That would be well beyond a demigod’s abilities, even one who had met Tartarus.

The – badly timed – vision left Apollo with more questions than answers, which wasn’t unusual but was thoroughly inconvenient when it had occurred simultaneously with the start of a battle in an enclosed space and a new ally that neither he nor Hades knew how to fight alongside.  Thanatos was right; the demigods should be safe inside the Underworld, but that didn’t stop the what if beginning to niggle in the back of Apollo’s mind – which certainly wasn’t useful when he was supposed to be fighting.

Shoulder re-sealed enough to use, Apollo willed more arrows into existence, ready nocked to fire, and at the moment his uncle disappeared from view, the Helm activating, he drew back and released.  Bob lunged forwards with his spear the moment the arrows passed him, and ichor splashed onto brass flooring and walls as the missiles this time found their marks.

Kampê laughed, seemingly unconcerned by her new status as a pincushion, and Apollo shrank rapidly as her scorpion tail arched over her back and dove down towards him, dodging to the side before the venomous stinger collided with the brass of the wall behind where he’d been stood.  It bubbled and hissed where it connected, large dollops of venom splashing down and forcing Apollo to dodge further away.

He had heard the stories of what that venom could do, and had no wish to be paralysed for any length of time.

A gash opened up in the tail, near the stinger, and Kampê flicked it around irritably as her whip wrapped around Bob’s spear and pulled.  The titan resisted for a moment, digging his heels in as best he could, before surrendering his weapon.  It thrust past the monster, Kampê far too intelligent to impale herself upon a captured weapon, but that didn’t stop Bob from charging forwards with his bare hands, grasping at one of the heads that had spouted from her waist and yanking it out from the roiling mess of transformations.

That earned him a furious yell, and suddenly there were two scimitars in her hands, glowing a sickly green and flashing out in slashes the mortal eye would never be able to follow.  Apollo fired an arrow at one of them, the momentum pushing it back a fraction, while the second stopped with the unmistakable clang of metal against metal, despite the fact that there was nothing to be seen.

Bob took the split second it afforded him to duck down and summon his spear back into his hand, spinning it like a staff and pushing Kampê back a step.  She was forced to step up, reminding Apollo that they were at the base of twelve steps.

Archers were not supposed to take the low ground.  They could, if they had to, but when the high ground was right there and being held by their opponent instead… it was inconvenient.

Apollo couldn’t see where Hades was, although the periodic opening of new ichor-dripping wounds in Kampê’s carapace and flesh with no visible cause was a sure indication that his uncle was in close combat with the monster.  Bob was a vibrant sight of flashing silver, tinted green by the glow of Kampê’s weapons but bright nonetheless.  Neither of them seemed to be making any significant progress against her, although they seemed to be holding their ground well enough – the Helm made Hades intangible, and what few specks of gold fell from the otherwise silver titan didn’t appear to bother Bob in the slightest – and Apollo knew he had to find a way to tip the balance.

He darted to one side as the stinger of her tail lashed down again, haphazard in a way that suggested her target was the invisible, mostly indetectable Hades rather than Apollo himself, then dodged back the other way, shrinking down enough to be hopefully negligible in Kampê’s attention compared to the two melee fighters facing her.  Then he ran.

Were he still Lester, he would still have done exactly the same thing, but with a mortal constitution and reflexes it inevitably would have gone far worse.  Apollo zig-zagged around her legs as they started to stamp, the monster realising where he’d gone but unable to pin him down at his current size, and was forced to leap over more than one sudden injection of venom as her stinger awkwardly caught the ground.

It was, he thought idly as he ducked and dodged, likely similar to the scene John had envisaged as he wrote Samwise attempting to evade Shelob’s own many legs and stinger.  If nothing else, it was highly reminiscent of Peter Jackson’s cinematic interpretation.

Apollo had never really wanted to play the role of Samwise – Legolas, on the other hand…

He threw himself into a forward roll, momentum and the godly ability to defy at least some logic allowing him to roll up the steps and past Kampê’s monstrous derriere, to say nothing of the vicious stinger which promptly tried to spear him, and came to a stop only once he was at the top of the steps, down on one knee with several arrows nocked as he returned to a more battle-worthy size.

Then, he let the arrows fly.

Kampê snarled, but while she no doubt could ordinarily turn in the corridor to pursue him, Hades and Bob kept her front end occupied with invisible slashes and vicious thrusts, leaving the monster now sandwiched between two fronts.  On the down side, that left Apollo with her tail to contend with as it lashed out behind her, and he was forced to back away further as she began to slowly retreat from the onslaught of Hades and Bob, clearly for reasons that had nothing to do with escape and everything to do with continually getting her tail in range of striking Apollo.

Apollo had no intentions of being struck by her tail.  Unfortunately, despite its various cuts from Hades’ attacks, it still appeared to be fully functional and showed no signs of weakening its attacks.  Perhaps Ares would be able to sever the limb in a single stroke, but Apollo was not Ares (nor did he have any desire to be), and no amount of arrows, even fired by a god of archery, were going to detach it from the rest of the body – and certainly not before Kampê managed to land a hit with it.

So he was going to have to get creative.

During her invasion to Camp Half Blood, she had been crushed to death, Apollo recalled hearing – he had not been there, had not seen it, had not been able to do anything to help the demigods in that battle, and more than one demigod had paid the price, Lee chief among them.  Given the strength it had taken for he and Hades to pry open enough of the prison that Bob could leave his cell, it seemed foolish to even try and collapse the brass ceiling.  Kampê would need to be fully distracted, and it would take likely all three of them to do the collapsing in the first place.  No, that wouldn’t work.

He dodged the stinger again, and caught sight of one of the scimitars nicking Bob, who let out a bark of pain, stumbling back a single step.  The invisible force that was Hades stopped the next swing of the sword, buying the titan time to re-seal his wound and stagger upright again, traces of agony showing in the twisted lines of his face.

Poison, Apollo realised, firing off another handful of arrows.  Most were deflected by either the stinger or a scimitar, but two got through to bury in her back, to her furious hiss.

Kampê took another step backwards, forcing Apollo to edge further away again.  She was almost to the top of the steps, now, and Apollo’s height advantage was lessening rapidly – although so, too, was Kampê’s higher ground advantage over Hades and Bob, so Apollo couldn’t be too upset about the overall effect.

Besides, the sight of her poison had given him an idea.

It was something that would have killed any mortal, even a demigod, if it had made contact, yet while it had clearly hurt Bob considerably, it hadn’t completely incapacitated him.  Perhaps it would’ve been a different story had he been facing the monster alone, but with numbers on their side, they could cover for the other as necessary, buying recovery time (they being mostly Hades and his intangibility; Apollo wasn’t certain why the Helm was finally working against Kampê when neither Orion or Alcyoneus had been unduly bothered by it, but he was certainly not complaining).

It was too much to hope for that Kampê would be vulnerable to her own venoms and poisons – anyone who used such weaponry had either an innate resistance to them, or one built up over time, and Kampê was old enough that even if the former didn’t hold true, the latter certainly would.  Apollo wasn’t going to waste his time trying to get her to nick herself with her own aggression.

That did not, however, mean he hadn’t had what he hoped was a stroke of genius.

He retreated further, buying himself some space away from the stinger, and willed an arrow into existence.  It appeared, identical to the rest of his quiver, but Apollo didn’t immediately nock it to the string.  Instead, he began to chant, keeping his voice low so that Kampê hopefully wouldn’t be able to hear over the sounds of her scimitars ringing against Hades’ sword and Bob’s spear, or her own clawed feet skittering across the smooth, loud brass surface beneath them.

The last time he had attempted this, he had been a desperate mortal with no way of knowing what he was summoning – if, indeed, he could summon anything at all – and a newly-discovered agitated talking arrow trying to pretend it knew more than it did about enchanting arrows.  He almost faltered at the thought of the Arrow of Dodona, and how it had gone from an irritating nuisance to a loyal friend and confidant, before sacrificing itself to help fell Kampê’s own brother, but pushed on.

If plaguey, plaguey, plaguey slipped into the closing stanza of the chant then, well, so be it.

Plagues and illnesses were devastating forces of nature.  Apollo’s duty was to keep them under control, by allocating when and where they occurred – much to the ongoing disgust of the nosoi, who wanted to rampage unchecked – and he knew all the strains of disease that could infect mortals intimately well.  How could he not?

He also knew how devastating the right one could be – or wrong, depending on perspective. Mama Kokohad been furious with him when the Conquistadores invaded South American in the fifteen hundreds, by the Gregorian reckoning and the strain of smallpox that Apollo had been tickling the Spanish with for centuries made the jump from a society that was used to it to one that had never been exposed to anything of the sort before.  Ares had been, too, although his reasoning had been less to do with the population decimation and more to do with how it had weakened the Andean peoples so far that they could hardly fight back.

Even Apollo had been horrified at how viciously it had decimated the various peoples of South America and wiped so much of their civilisation from existence in only a few short years, and he had inflicted many deadly plagues upon the European civilisations across the millennia.

Monsters did not get illnesses the same way mortals did.  Nor did gods, nor any immortals.  Their constitutions were too fundamentally different for that.

But if an animated colossus could catch a hay fever conjured by a pathetic mortal version of himself, then Apollo saw no reason why Kampê could not catch something rather more debilitating crafted by the god of plague at near full strength.

Unlike most of his domains, plague had not wavered at all in the depths of Tartarus.  It did not need the sunlight to grow, did not stem from lightness and love, but rather the darkness of the damp shadows where the light dared not touch.

The Pit fit the requirements perfectly, and where Apollo had noticed effort in maintaining his light, in healing, in music and even materialising his own arrows, it was a lack of effort he noticed as a sickly green haze began to envelop the golden arrow.  The very worst things mortals could imagine in a disease bloomed and entwined effortlessly around the arrowhead, sinking in until the metal itself took on a sickly sheen, no longer shining as brightly as its fellows.

Apollo did not know if it would affect Kampê, but he knew he had to try.

The miasma given off by the arrow did not quite rival the general miasma of Tartarus, but it was pungent in its own way, offensive to olfactory systems in a fashion that would have had Lester’s eyes streaming with tears and nose running with a disgusting flow of mucus.  It had no such effect on Apollo, but he was still conscious that this thing he had created from and with the dank, disease-provoking aura of Tartarus was not something he wanted to accidentally inflict upon himself, and kept it carefully pointed away from his form as he finally nocked it.

Kampê’s stinger smashed into the wall next to him, and Apollo leaped up, landing on her scorpion tail lightly before running down the segmented limb – now far more like Legolas than Samwise.  She thrashed and did her best to turn, but Hades and Bob continued to hamper her, keeping both her vicious scimitars away from Apollo’s advance along her scaled back.

The snakes hissed at him, lashing out from her scalp as her waist deformed, melting and bubbling together until a single, large serpent erupted from what would have been the small of her back if she had the anatomy of a human, heading straight for Apollo.

“Bob!” Hades’ disembodied voice barked, all the warning either Apollo or the titan got before the serpent head with long, no doubt paralytically venomous fangs separated from the rest of its hastily created body, rolling harmlessly down Kampê’s flank to land on the brass floor.  In his periphery, Apollo caught sight of silver flashing faster as Bob engaged both of Kampê’s scimitars at once, the reach of his spear enough to keep both her hands occupied.

Hades flickered into view beside Apollo, his deep black sword dripping with ichor and venom combined.

“Will that work?” he demanded.  He didn’t ask what it was, but given he had more than once amused himself by startling Apollo into inflicting a pandemic on the wrong city, there was no way he didn’t recognise a plague arrow.

Apollo shot him a grin.  “Only one way to find out.”

He leapt forwards, over the writhing mass that was Kampê’s waist, and found purchase on her powerful back muscles, feet morphing into satyr hooves to better find balance on the near-vertical surface.  Behind and below him, he heard the swing of a sword and the tell-tale sound of several unpleasant things being decapitated.

Kampê writhed, shaking her body from side to side as much as she could whilst still fending off Bob’s attacks – or more accurately, trying and failing to disengage with the titan so that she could turn all of her offensive strength onto Apollo.  Her serpentine hair lashed out at him, but Apollo forced himself to stay still, keeping his balance despite her best efforts through a combination of satyr hooves, the beautiful skill of a horseback archer to adapt to movements beneath their body, and pure godly intent.

He had done something similar four and a half millennia ago, perched on the back of a writhing, ever-transforming creature with a single arrow nocked and the knowledge that if this didn’t work, things were going to go very, very badly wrong.

It hadn’t worked back then, and Python had very, very nearly destroyed him before the resulting fight was finally over.  With that nugget of unwelcome memory in the back of his mind, Apollo set his sights on the nape of Kampê’s neck, and fired.

Chapter 25>>

[hela-avenger]

poison & wine- part 16

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1591

Summary: Prince Loki of Asgard is in need of a date to take back home. That’s where you come in with a task of your own to make the whole trip with an insufferable prince worth it. Too bad that things don’t always go as planned and you end up giving more than you can take. Fake-Dating AU.

A/N:  If you’ll like to be tagged please reach out to me!  

poison & wine masterlist

Your eyes flutter open just to find the stars on the ceiling long gone. The light of the Asgardian sunrise had cast the darkness of the room away and you wonder how early you have to wake in order to witness it in person. You make a mental note to ask the girls but are disrupted by the sound of your stomach growling. 

Loki and you had unknowingly gone to bed early and had skipped dinner. It hadn’t been your intention but you were starving now and hoped the girls would be coming by soon with breakfast. 

Recalling Loki, you look over at his side of the bed to surprisingly find him still there. He seemed to still be asleep so you try to be as quiet as can be as you start to step out of the bed.

You manage to pull the bed cover away on your own making you suspicious of foul play the night prior. As you turn back to fix it, you find yourself staring at Loki’s bare back. You dropped the cover where it was and couldn’t help but stare. 

The entirety of his back was mangled with an array of scars. Some long and jagged, others short and straight. There was a variety and you wondered how he could have survived any of them. 

You had your history of scars. 

None on you but to the people around you. 

You recall your time as an army nurse. The mangled bodies you saw on a daily basis. New and old scars that scattered around the men fighting for their loved ones back at home. You knew what could cause them and how they could heal. You knew which ones would fade away with time and which ones would remain a reminder forever. 

Loki’s back was scattered with the worst ones you’ve ever seen. Especially as you recalled that his body was meant to be able to withstand much more than a mortal body ever could. Whoever did this to him must have been very strong and the pain… You can’t even imagine the level of pain he must have felt. 

None of the scars look like they healed with care. The way his skin was discolored beyond the wound made you aware that he must have been left to deal with them on his own. Wounded, tortured, perhaps left to die. 

Someone hurt him. Someone hurt him very badly. 

Your hand itches to run your hand across his back. An ill attempt to heal something just by the pure will of it. You know it’s impossible but you wish to at least try. 

So you do... or at least you try to before you’re interrupted by Loki’s groan. He hums as he turns onto his back to stretch, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“What are you doing?” Loki asks. 

You pull your hand back and try to erase the last minute away from your mind. 

“Trying to see if you were alive,” you manage to lie. “You are awfully still when asleep. It looks like you’re dead.” 

Loki stares in response. His eyes narrow down at you trying to gauge if your words were true or not. Though in the end, it didn’t matter as he shook his head and sat up. His back faces you again but the scars you had seen had disappeared. His back was bare from any of it. 

You blink and then you blink again but Loki’s back remains scar-free.

Part of you wonders if it had all been a figment of your imagination, but like the bed cover and the stars glowing in the ceiling, you knew this cover up had something to do with the use of seidr. You just didn’t know why. 

A timid knock on the door disrupts your thoughts and you are quick to shift your attention elsewhere. You reach for your robe and tug it on just as Loki stands up from the bed and reaches your side. 

“Come in,” he bellows as he swings an arm around your waist and pulls you to him. You catch yourself on his chest and you have to refrain from following your instincts which were telling you to push him away. Instead, you let your hands remain where they are as the doors begin to open. “Good morning, girls.” 

“Good morning, your majesty.” 

“Start on breakfast without me,” Loki states as he pulls away from you. “I’ll be in the library doing some light reading.” 

He winks at you and turns to your handmaidens who are trying their hardest to stare at his face. Loki only grins and snaps his fingers to dress himself alleviating the tension in the room. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and eat?” you ask, capturing his attention once more. 

He turns to look at you in question and you don’t understand why you’re even offering to spend more time with him. The silence stretches out a second too long but Loki immediately fixes it by simply smiling down at you. 

“Missing me already, pet?” he asks. 

You couldn’t help but genuinely laugh at the question. 

“You know I always do,” you manage to respond sweetly. “It’s why I keep coming back to you.” 

Loki's smile manages to grow wider before he presses a kiss on your forehead. You let out your breath when the touch of his lips on your skin disappears. His hold on your face doesn’t leave as he tilts your head up so that you may look at him. 

His eyes flutter to your lips and a spike of anxiety runs through your spine at the thought of him kissing you again. 

He doesn’t. 

“I won’t be away for too long,” Loki states as he releases you. “I’ll be back to share lunch with you.”

Without another word, Loki makes his way out of your room leaving you at the care of your handmaidens.  

Loki flipped through the travel archives with exasperated boredom. He hadn’t realized how many outings were cataloged from the past century. He knew that Thor and he had taken advantage of traveling to other realms with any excuse at all. Loki was growing to regret it as each visit was written down. 

There were pages upon pages concerning Thor and his travels that Loki was having a hard time trying to narrow down other royal members who had left Asgard for whatever purpose necessary. It became more complicated as visits to Midgard were non-existent. 

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack except Loki didn’t know what the needle looked like. 

“Trouble?” 

Loki looks up from the catalog to find his mother staring down at him with an amused smile. He glances around momentarily to make sure they were alone and nods. 

“I can’t seem to find any trace of recent travel to Midgard,” Loki sighs out. “There’s too many transcriptions that it’s taking longer for me to get through them all.” 

“Hmm,” Frigga hums as she takes the book from Loki and looks through it. “Well, perhaps you should be looking through something more recent. The girl is a bit younger than this, isn’t she?” 

“I’ve started around the year of her birth but nothing appears,” Loki sighs out as he pulls the first book he started with from the stack. “So I assumed that perhaps her father arrived earlier.” 

“And you found nothing?” 

“Nothing,” Loki sighs out. “And I doubt anyone could have traveled down and stayed for longer than a century. Odin would never allow such a long visit.” 

Frigga scowls and sets the book down. 

“Well then that’s quite a problem, isn’t it?” 

Loki watches as her mother begins to pace.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her. 

“Either her father traveled through other means...” Frigga states.

“That’s impossible seeing as Midgard has travel records that indicate the Bifrost was used.”  

“Which then leaves us with another troublesome predicament,” Frigga sighs out unhappily. 

“Which is?” 

“That your father sent him down secretly.” 

“Why would Odin do such a thing?” Loki asks confused. 

“I don’t know,” Frigga shrugs. “It could have been a short banishment like your brother or perhaps another reason altogether. Either way, those records would be sealed with your father having sole access.” 

Loki lets out a heavy sigh unsure of what he was meant to do now. 

“This has become too complicated.” 

“It sure has,” Frigga agrees as she takes the seat next to him. “But for her sake, we must continue our search.” 

“How?” Loki asks. “By asking Odin?” 

“Yes, that’s…”

“No,” Loki interrupts her. “He’ll immediately want an explanation and what am I to tell him?”

“The truth, Loki.” 

“Absolutely not,” Loki exclaims. 

“Why not?” Frigga asks him. “For her safety? Or because you abhor the idea of telling the truth to your father?” 

“He’s not my father!” 

Frigga remains silent, her lips pressed together tightly. She waits for Loki to calm down watching his deep breaths return to a normal pace. He realizes his overreaction and turns to face her apologetically.

“I do not need to rely on that man more than I already have to,” Loki states. “I will find Y/N’s father and keep her safe on my own.” 

Frigga lets out a sigh knowing there was no way to convince him otherwise. 

“Then so be it,” Frigga resigns. “But whatever shall you do now?” 

Loki didn’t have an answer to her question. His only hope relied on you and so that was the only path he could take at the moment.

poison & wine tag: @damalseer​ @just-the-hiddles​ @jessiejunebug​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @smollest-soybean​ @assassinoftheworld​ @readerbandit​ @doyoufeelikeayounggod​ @strangemcuvlogs​ @ha-tep​ @i-dont-know-eiither​ @gene-king​ @day-dreaming-fox​ @bn-studies​ @is-it-madness​ @sigyn-njorddottir​ @devilbat​ @victor-criss-bish​ @skinny-macncheese​ @musicconversedance​ @baby-bunnyxn​ @fandoms-allovertheplace​ @marvelloonie​ @jinxjinxednova​ @queenmuahaha​

Loki Tag: @unicorniorosacomefrutillas​ @thesilentbluesparrow​ @oddly-drawn-muse​ @josiehosiedaninja​ @hp-hogwartsexpress​ @sadwaywardkid​ @wolf-lover74​

All Works Tag: @jmb959​ @astudyoftimeywimeystuff​ @hellocookiecutter​ @steve-rogers-personal-hell​ @buckybarnesyard​ @not-zari-tak

[camerinhell]

[Hazbin Hotel Meta] Alastor’s Ethnicity + An Aside on Human!Alastor

Meta time, lovelies~

(reblogs appreciated! ;w; )

So I've seen Al's ethnicity as a subject of discussion on and off between Twitter and Tumblr, and it’s been coming up more frequently. Being the type of individual that I am, I'd like to chime in with some collected thoughts and theory (of which I hope influences further depictions of Human!Alastor, as currently, he is being whitewashed. I don’t mean this to be explicitly aggressive at all, but I’m being straight up). PLEASE attempt to refrain from knee-jerk reactions or going on the defensive; the latter-most part of this post is meant to raise awareness/start level-headed and respectable discussion. We’re all individuals here fully capable of civil discussion, and with, what I’d like to believe, best intentions at heart :)

ALRIGHT, SO:

To begin, we know for a definitive fact that Al isn't wholly white. VivziePop stated this on 'Vivzie Streem- WHATS IN THE BOX -#7' @ 0:09:48, saying that Alastor is actually mixed (as a mixed ethnicity person myself, I gotta say this was pretty exciting to hear!); this was also listed and cited/sourced via Alastor’s Fandom wiki. Beyond this however, she didn't go into any more detail.

Being that Al was born in New Orleans, and looking at the census data for Louisiana from the very late 1890s through about 1900 or so (imo, the most likely years Al was born. I don’t see him being over 35 years of age), the state was nearly split 50/50 white persons and Black persons (of African descent or otherwise; as the Black ethnic group comprises of more than just people of African ancestry). Urban areas (i.e. New Orleans, his city of birth) leaned more white, but still had a sizable Black population (approx. 1/3 of urban populace from the very late 1890s to ~32% in 1900).

Screenshot below for quick reference [1900], can download and zoom (will include link to full census report via comment).

With this information at hand, it’s easy, entirely reasonable and incredibly likely that Al is half white and half Black. Now, this may very well be the case (and I’d be just as excited if it is), but after a day or so thinking and musing on this theory/likelihood, I came to refine it further. Here, we talk about Alastor having Creole identification.

Now while being Creole (born in Louisiana, which Alastor canonically is) doesn’t inherently denote any certain racial denomination mixed or otherwise, it is not uncommon (to the point of being quite common) to indeed have mixed ethnic  heritage. Creoles commonly hail from European (French and/or Spanish, and then later including Irish, Italian and German) ancestry along with Black (Caribbean and/or African) lineage, though it is not particularly rare either to also/instead have Native American, Dominican, or Cuban blood, as well.

It’s again, reasonably likely, that Alastor is more mixed race than simply biracial, given Louisiana’s lengthy and complex (and sad) history from colonial times throughout the 1900s. However, what I am confident in saying, long as VivziePop aims to be historically accurate and just, Al is almost certainly some mix of Black and European at the very least.

This...makes me smile.  It really does.

The Status of Human!Alastor

As an Afro-Latinx person myself with close European ancestry (great grandfather and great grandmother on my mother’s side hailed from Ireland and Naples, respectively), it’s beyond cool and validating to see mixed PoC representation especially when it comes to peoples’ and regions that had a lot going on colonization/immigration-wise. The stories of mixed-race people are interesting and fraught with their own complex struggles, especially the further back in time you go. This does lead me back to a frustrating point I made earlier though: depictions of Human!Alastor being whitewashed.

With all the white characters and white-passing PoC characters we have in media already...which is most of them, it’s just...disappointing and (to me) well, as I said, frustrating to see folks just straight up ignore non-white-passing skin and/or features...again. I’m mixed and while definitely clockable as such, am not white-passing; and I think for many PoC of any racial/ethnic makeup, it feels good and is beyond appreciated to see yourself represented.

Now, obviously, this doesn’t apply to people who were not aware of Alastor being mixed, but to folks who did know, and decided to further erase PoC as per usual MO for society, that’s an ‘Oof’ feeling moment...

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Again, this isn’t meant to be aggressive at all, I just mean to 1) meta, of course, but also 2) air some grievances/disappointment. I love, like ADORE this community with all my heart and it has been a blessing to my mental health and creativity, but like everyone else, I have thoughts!  And as I’ve happily seen be the case for the most part in this fandom, we can make discussion without getting aggressive or vitriolic ;w;/  (Now if someone comes for you unprovoked and tries to start something off some nonsense, I’m all for being the one to finish it. Don’t ever take any toxic bs from folks, you handle that how you see fit. My 2 cents).

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THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING ALL OF THIS AND I APPRECIATE YOUR TIME! I truly hope you enjoyed it and can walk away with some cool thoughts to chew on and, hopefully, a new way or two to approach how you view/create content for a character/s. I do these write-ups and metas not only to get my creative juices flowing, but to also get myself thinking critically, and to get others thinking more critically, too~ If they can bring anything at all positive to the community or get healthy discussion going, I feel more than fulfilled. Thanks again for stopping by!

[chorusnihili]

I'd love to hear more about the development of your Gaster! :D

BACKSTORY ASK MEME 1. How did you first come up with your muse’s backstory, if you did at all? Continued from here Also asked by @alagaster 

So I left off with the question of just how Gaster's soul ended up in pieces.

I’m actually going to detour at the moment and say that it was around that point that I had decided to make the blog.  I had a vague beginning and an ending, and usually that’s not enough for me to want to start, but I was excited, I had a lot of fun, so I went for it.

Honestly, one of the first things I need to have before I even think of making a blog is a good url.  Urls are super important to me, and generally, whether or not I think of a good one is a key factor in whether or not I actually make the blog.

But in this case, I was too eager to start and I actually just threw together chorusnihil so I could get started on the pages.  The thought process remained the same--the chorus is from Greek plays, the group of characters that narrate the actions occurring in the play.  nihil is Latin for nothing--and I later changed it to nihili, which is Genitive, to roughly make the “chorus of nothing” or “nothing’s chorus,” a reference to the fact that the guy wiped himself out of history, and so there’s no protagonist to narrate.  This was supposed to be a temporary URL, but I got attached to it, for reasons I’ll get to later.  

(And really, isn’t a roleplay blog a modern chorus in it’s own way?)

Also there’s the phonetic pun-- CORE-us, anyone?

So I threw together a lot of the basic bios.  Most of the stat pages are really bland, most of the guts of the story comes from the hidden details, most of which were added on later.  

Something that came up around this point was Gaster’s relationship to Asgore.  A lot of fanon pictures them as really close.  A lot of fanon also portrays Gaster as Gaster as desperately wanting to retake the surface, which...as mentioned previously, my Gaster just, wasn’t into.  

So it sort of put Gaster in between Asgore and Toriel--he wasn’t happy about the decision to go to war with humanity, but he wasn’t going to abandon everyone, even if he did become really reclusive.  

I thought about the idea of the human souls, and I knew that Gaster would immediately hate the idea of working with them.  And that was convenient, too, since it allowed me to further separate Gaster and Alphys’s work.  At first, it was just a heavy disagreement.  The idea that Gaster killed Asgore accidentally came a great deal later, but it honestly served to be a rather critical piece of the story. 

The design of the DT Extractor and Sans and Papyrus were also very vague concepts at this point. 

Revisiting the idea of his fall.  We know from the canon dialogue that he fell into his own invention and that he was scatted across space and time.  

The CORE is the common culprit and it was what I had chosen, too.  But how?  How could an energy source... do that? 

So the idea occurred to me that maybe--maybe that was exactly as it was designed to do.  After all, even in the real world, we have power plants that operate by ripping apart molecules.  So... magic.  Why not magic?  A machine that derives power out of ripping apart magical energy.

And monsters are made out of magical energy.  

Falling into that sounds like a very grisly fate, indeed.      

The idea of how he got erased from reality isn’t one I really have solidified.  G has a couple of theories, and I’m willing to roll with either of them, but, really?  I’m not super interested in making a hard reason for it.  Namely to adapt to other versions of fanon other muns might have. 

Essentially, the theories say that the CORE destroying him released so much energy that it tore a hole in the Determination that pushes the timeline forward, thus allowing the Void to enter and merge with his soul.  

From there, either, 

A., his Determination very briefly was larger than that of the Timeline, and he himself invoked a Reset, but given that he was outside of the timeline at the moment, it was corrupted and only erased certain parts rather than fully resetting.   I think that this was the original theory that I used in the original RP.  

B., the Void acted as a corrective force trying to correct the hole in the timeline.  In doing so, it erased Gaster from the reality, thus replacing the existing timeline with a new one in which certain things never happened.  

C., something involving the power of Rewrite that Gaster has from the duality of Determination and Void.

D., something else entirely.  

And so we had the scattered Unbound Gaster. 

Which, funfact, the name Unbound Gaster for the form was supposed to be temporary, as well.  It’s a reference to Unbound Hoopa for Pokemon.  (Which is why Provoked Form Gaster isn’t called Unbound Form!)

Within the original RP that I developed most of this lore, Refused Gaster didn’t exist.  In fact, that roleplay ended with Gaster’s permanent death--and being permanently forgotten to the world.  A choice he intentionally made because the damage he did to the timeline by falling into the CORE was still present and only getting worse, and the only way to fix it was to allow his Soul to come together and pass on properly, thus allowing the damage to mend.

It was sad.  I cried.  I got emotional.  

I got attached to a traumatic asshole character I literally had for four days.  

Somewhere in here, I began to think about the origins of Gaster.  Like, way way way in the past.  Some people have Gaster being actively involved in the war, but it didn’t work for my portrayal, of having him be so afraid of humans and the surface.  So for it to work out, I had him really young for the war, really young when everyone got driven underground.  

I killed off his parents because ......

Frankly I didn’t want to design them :|

There’s a lot of varying opinions and interpretations about skeleton monsters, and it’s a section of the fandom I’ve decided to stray away from for now.  

But I didn’t want the loss to be traumatic.  Gaster’s been through a lot already, and I have personal vendettas against characters who solely consist of trauma after trauma.  

So I decided to make the loss very distant--he’s aware he probably had parents, or maybe he came to be some other way--but he doesn’t remember them, there’s no tragic “my parents were killed in front of me,” it’s simply something he didn’t have, and something he never needed given the nature of monsters to be kind and caring.  

...

But it felt like it was missing something.

So I started to toy around with this idea of a mentor, one who played the role of a father-figure, one who would plant the seeds to give Gaster the appreciation of science and knowledge.  Someone who could take this lost and terrified boy and start to turn him into the intelligent and steady doctor we end up with.  

Then came the problem of how he and this mentor would actually meet; Gaster’s scar proved to be a convenient excuse, plus it gave me a backstory for that, as well.  A few humans attacked him and delivered the injury, and Gaster’s mentor found the wounded boy and took care of him.  

The mentor is meant to be a vague entity, and you can view this in action in this memory.  (Only partially because I didn’t want to name them.)  Unfortunately, as per the nature of characters created post hoc, their fate was already sealed.  I made the choice to cut their influence on Gaster’s life short.  

(If they were around longer, who knows?  Maybe they could have prevented some of the stupider things Gaster has done.  Maybe they could have changed fate.  But...  as we’ll get to, everything happened exactly as it had to.)  

Again, I made it a very distant loss.  It’s a rather simple conclusion that not every monster would be happy vacating the surface--Gaster’s mentor had lived there their entire life.  It was their home, they were not leaving, even upon threat of death.  And so it was a bittersweet parting, but one with closure, and Gaster said his farewells and departed to the Underground.  

Honestly, what I find really shocking about this character is just how intensely he wants to do good.  I mean, I’m no stranger to good characters, but few of my characters push it as far as Gaster does, and how quickly that feeling came to me, considering he started in the original roleplay as a ruthless asshole bastard more than willing to fuck over and torture a bunch of children just for a chance at being whole again.  

Most of Gaster’s early life in the Underground found in this post was written on the spot as I wrote that post, so it came really late.  

I still find it hilarious that he used to work in therapy.  You’re well aware you need therapy you fucking bastard.  Quit denying it.  

So, revisiting the idea of Gaster and Asgore.  I do like the idea of them being close, and Gaster even calls Asgore his best friend.  The declaration of war put a huge strain on the relationship.  

I originally thought about the idea of him accidentally killing Asgore for shits n giggles.  At my heart I am indeed an angst gremlin, so I was just thinking about what an alternate timeline where that happened might be like.  After all, Gaster’s angry, Asgore’s full of guilt, with the way monster magic works, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to think that it could happen.  

But the more I thought about it, the more it fit eerily well.  The guilt gave Gaster a reason to create Sans (and later Papyrus) as part of his belief in Karma (creating a life to replace the life he took) and to look into Alphys’s research into Determination enough to create the blueprints for the DT Extractor; both of these things were things that I couldn’t otherwise really fit into his storyline.  

And finally...

His declining mental state and despair over the concept of the DT Extractor was what led to him being distracted enough to make such a critical mistake and fall into the CORE.  

And given that the timeline changes when he falls, I realized that...  I could have this happen, and the current timeline be unaffected.  

Now, given that I said that I wanted to avoid more trauma in Gaster’s life, this decision might seem contradictory.  But, it also served a very important point--Asgore returning to life, that mistake being fixed upon his fall gave Gaster something to hold onto.  Something that made his fate not as awful as it otherwise would have been.  A small piece of solace in hell.  

Plus, Gaster’s guilt at the incident caused him to resign as Royal Scientist, further allowing him and Alphys to have their separate stories. 

And pretty much everything snapped together at that point.  Really, strangely well.  I joked before on this blog if I’m really the one writing it.

If Gaster had not killed Asgore, he would have never created Sans and Papyrus, he would have never created the DT Extractor blueprints; if he did not create the blueprints, he would have never been distracted enough to fall into the CORE, if he never fell into the CORE, the blueprints would have never ended up with Alphys, she could have never created Flowey, and if Flowey was never created, he could have never used the souls to break the barrier and the True Pacifist ending would have never come to pass.  

It all happened exactly as it had to.

It feels oddly poetic, given the way Undertale works.  

In some ways, it’s cruel.  Gaster regularly struggles with the idea that for his people to be happy, he had to literally be wiped out of existence.  But in other ways, it’s a comfort--for at least he knows that his suffering wasn’t for nothing.  That there was a purpose--that even if he had to be erased, he played a vital role in ensuring his people found victory. 

Oh.  One final note...  In finalizing this story, you may notice that Gaster follows a classic pattern.  We have a hero, who’s mostly good, but through his own flaws makes a tragic mistake and seals his own grim fate.

It’s called a tragedy and they’re common in Greek plays.

What was that about a chorus again?

I think that’s just about every important point I could cover.  That being said, if you couldn’t tell, this is a very fascinating topic to me, so if you have any further questions or need any clarifications, feel free to send them in.  

[mobius-prime]

260. Sonic the Hedgehog #191

Metal and Mettle (Part 1)

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Josh Ray

A few days after Scourge and the Suppression Squad have taken control of Freedom HQ, Miles alerts Scourge to an interesting and unexpected visitor - namely, Metal Sonic, through whom Eggman is speaking and watching.

Yeah, don't underestimate a fellow evildoer, Scourge. Meanwhile in New Mobotropolis, Sonic and Knuckles stand before the Council of Acorn to try to get permission to take the base back. Unfortunately for them, the council votes four to two to leave it for the time being, as they don't see Scourge as that big of a threat, and want to focus on taking New Megaopolis from Eggman before going after smaller holdings. Sonic, of course, does not take this well, and tries to talk to Knuckles about it once they exit the building.

Oh, Knuckles. You have to stop angsting about this, my dude. Sonic leaves the city on his own, musing as he races back to Freedom HQ about how despite their recent successes in battle, and many gains against Eggman and his forces, he can't help a strange feeling that overall they're losing ground. He hopes that kicking Scourge out of the base will cheer him up, but is brought up short by the sight of Scourge and Metal Sonic battling it out on the grass outside. Miles stands nearby watching, and not-so-subtly tests Scourge's leadership by asking if he wants help against Metal, as surely the others helping him would only be an insult since he conquered his planet on his own. Sonic, uninterested in any of the politics, merely barrels in to help, offering Scourge a truce to take Metal out, but Scourge angrily refuses, and both he and Metal turn on Sonic to attack. Meanwhile, Julie-Su finds Knuckles brooding on a bench in the park, and when she presses to know what's bothering him he snaps, yelling that he can't trust himself or anyone else, as no matter what he does, someone always ends up hurt, and he can't bear to face the few remaining members of his family. Julie-Su reaches for him, looking at first like she's going to comfort him, but then…

I mean, all things considered, Julie-Su, you make a fantastic point. Your family's loss has been largely glossed over until now - I don't think she was even given a single panel before now to mourn the deaths of her foster parents, despite how delighted she was to rediscover them before - and as you point out, it's not like Knuckles is suffering alone. Back at Freedom HQ, the fight continues, with Eggman telling Metal to hang in there as he's putting the "finishing touches" on some backup. Sonic and Scourge briefly wind up fighting each other without Metal's interference, during which Sonic criticizes Scourge for taking his advice to better himself to a brutal, negative extreme. Scourge merely mocks Sonic's restraint, pointing out how much more powerful he is as a king than as a hero.

Ooh, dramatic parallels to their prior talk! I love it! Metal interrupts before Sonic can respond, and as the fight continues once more we move this time to Angel Island, where Knuckles is having a talk with Archimedes while Charmy sits nearby.

So something that needs to be pointed out is that inexplicably, this is Archimedes' last appearance in the comic, ever. Unlike all the other characters who have disappeared from the comic, there's no reason given - no genocide, no dimensional portal to swallow him up, no deaths or sudden decisions to leave and find himself on another continent, nothing. He just… never shows up again. It's disappointing, as y'all know how much I like Archimedes, but again I really do think this stems from Ian's weird, irritating habit of erasing a lot of Kenders' contributions to this world. I know that he's trying to make the comic's world more like the games, and that in the games, Knuckles is the last echidna and isn't embroiled in all these politics, but dammit, there's nothing wrong with comic Knuckles being so different from game Knuckles! Personality-wise, he's still similar, still recognizable, it's just his circumstances that are different. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be blaming Ian for all of this - for all I know, Sega themselves ordered him to get rid of all of this stuff. I dunno, man, I'm just some random fan with a blog. Speaking of controversial decisions by Ian, though, it's nice to see him doing his best to treat Charmy's brain damage with respect here. He certainly acts more childlike than he once did, but he's doing his best, and isn't a punchline, still actively participating in missions and helping Knuckles sort his own problems out.

Anyway, Knuckles, encouraged by his mentor's words, uses his warp ring to head back to the city, where he and Julie-Su give a curt apology to each other with an agreement to sort things out more fully later, when he's had more time to work through his emotional distress. They consider heading to Freedom HQ to help Sonic, but Knuckles believes that Sonic can most likely handle the situation on his own. Of course, we know better - Sonic might be able to take on Scourge or Metal individually, but both at once is a real challenge. He kicks Metal aside, only to be startled by the sight of another robot coming to join the fray - a robot that looks exactly like Scourge. Wow, Eggman, you really didn't waste any time on that one, huh? How many Metal Sonics do you think he has lying around in his base just ready for a paint job and a new assignment?

Though there's another story in this issue, we won't be covering it. Why? Well, it's the first real installment of "In Another Time, In Another Place"! I've mentioned it before, but it's basically what Ian decided to do when it was clear he couldn't keep putting in half-adaptions of random games anymore, but still needed to do tie-ins for newly-released games. With the pattern we've been taking with these tie-ins lately, you'd think this one would be for Sonic '06, but nope! For whatever reason, Sonic '06 goes completely unacknowledged within the comic verse (at least for now), with the sole exception of Shadow joining up with GUN. However, as I've mentioned before, Ian did state somewhere along the way that Sonic '06 did in fact happen somewhere during the course of the comic's plotline - it's just that due to the very nature of the game's story, the events of the plot are entirely reset and erased from the timeline at the end, meaning an adaption doesn't even have to take place, as technically, even though those events did happen, they also… didn't.

But all that aside, the tie-in in today's issue is actually for the little-remembered DS title, Sonic Chronicles: The Dark Brotherhood, which was an RPG developed by Bioware of all companies (and yes, they did include one of their trademark Bioware romance sidequests, though it's probably of little interest to anyone who doesn't ship Sonamy). While again, we're not covering it due to it being non-canon, it's an important thing to note regardless. For one, these In Another Time, In Another Place installments became pretty commonplace throughout the comic as new games were released, but perhaps more importantly, this was the game that apparently really got under Kenders' skin. The problem is that after all he'd done to develop the world of the echidnas and all the political and military factions thereof, this game's plot ended up heavily centering around a band of echidnas in dark armor emerging from a parallel dimension where time moves more slowly, with an intent to take the Master Emerald and use it to cement their place of power in the real world once more, though one female echidna realizes the error of her people's ways and abandons her army to side with Knuckles against her megalomaniacal and powerful male leader. Gee, sound familiar? While I don't believe that Bioware or Sega actually copied Kenders' ideas outright - the way I've described it makes it sound similar, but there's a ton of differences in the plot and presentation that definitely indicate they're two different ideas by different people - Kenders certainly seems to think it's a rip-off, and this was from what I understand at the core of all his problems with Sega that led to his eventual lawsuit that forced the reboot of the comic. It sucks, too, because even aside from losing all the years of history in the preboot, the plot of Sonic Chronicles was actually quite fascinating and it ended on a cliffhanger, which will never, ever be resolved because Sega doesn't even want to touch that can of worms after everything that happened. I think the game has actually been quietly stricken from canon, too, because the cliffhanger literally involved Eggman having taken over the world while everyone was away, and there's just no way to solve something like that offscreen. Just a bad time all around, folks. As they say in the fandom - thanks, Ken Penders. Still, though, we have quite a ways to go before we hit the preboot's end, so let's forget about the negative stuff and keep trucking on.

[malignedaffairs]

Artist Interview

Some time ago I was asked to answer some questions for a Russian community that collects interviews from various fanartists - what a lovely idea! Here’s the Russian translation along with lots of other interesting interviews. Under the cut is the English version.

On the artist

Nickname: Fifi

Date of birth: December 11th

What city are you from? Berlin

What genre in music do you prefer? Are there any favorite bands/singers? Dark electro, industrial, gothic, EBM, new wave, with a little side of metal and rock’n’roll. My favourite band is Rammstein.

The book that made the most impression and why? There’s nothing life-changing, but I have a ritual of reading before bedtime and some books have been great companions, mostly because they are gripping as hell or because they build up a huge world to blissfully get lost in. I really enjoyed In Cold Blood, The Swarm, Out, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Fifth Woman, Into Thin Air, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the Harry Potter series, Lord of the Rings and ASOIAF.

What are your hobbies besides artistic creativity? Video games, reading up/watching documentaries on things like history, nature, the psychology connected to criminal cases or the obscure niche interest du jour, tasting and trying to cook food from around the world, spending time with close friends and family, planning trips and travelling, board games, being outside in nature, doting on my cat.

What movies (TV series) do you like to watch? Is there something you revise (recommend)? I prefer short thriller/mystery/horror series like Zone Blanche, The Sinner, La Forêt, Penny Dreadful, period dramas like Moon Lovers or The Tudors, movies/series that are funny and thoughtful like Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Intouchables and Better Call Saul, Tarantino movies, oh and movies/series about food!

Favorite anime? Mushishi, Hellsing Ultimate, Samurai Champloo, Kuroko no Basuke, Dragonball Z

Favorite manga? Vagabond, Blade of the Immortal, Naruto, Dragonball, Rookies, Shokugeki no Soma

Favorite pictures, installations? Romanticism paintings, they’re so atmospheric. And traditional artwork from indigenous cultures.

Is there something that you would have trouble parting with? (Some thing, for example) There are things like my old diaries or my hard drive full of photos and drawings, but in general I’m more attached to places than to things.

What are your future plans? Getting better at my job, falling in love, lots of drawings.

On the art

What was the beginning of your passion? Discovering how crayons work as a toddler, I guess.

Do you think the academic base is obligatory and should everyone go through universities to be good masters? I think a profound education can totally polish your technical skills, so the benefits can be great. But art is very individual, and you don’t need university for expressing yourself creatively. When I graduated from high school I thought about studying to become a professional artist, but decided on keeping it a leisure activity for me to unwind and express myself without any pressure.

How long have you been drawing? I’ve been drawing from early childhood.

Tell us about the process of drawing. Where do you start, how do you finish? How much time is spent on drawing? When I’m super lazy, I just use one layer. I start with a rough sketch and refine it by just adding cleaner lines on top and erasing the messy parts. When I’m less lazy I do a rough sketch and a second layer of clean lines on top. During the process I often adjust proportions by cutting, warping and relocating parts of the content. For a comic I first think of a rough plot and draft the dialogue, then make a rough storyboard with page thumbnails. I usually only plan around three pages at a time, never the whole thing in one go. Colouring is another beast entirely. No system there whatsoever, I just put colours on there and hope for the best. Usually a drawing takes me at least two hours, comic pages take up to eight hours. I mostly use the same three brushes all the time.

How did your nickname appear? Fifi-la-fumeuse is a random thing I found in a book about curiosities I bought in Paris a long time ago. It’s basically a vintage doll that was used for educating students about the dangers of smoking during pregnancy. I liked how creepy it looked and the name sounds nice and a little similar to my real name, so I’ve kept it ever since. Malignedaffairs is an allusion to the “forbidden” nature of Itasasu, which was my OTP when I started my blog back in 2012/13. Nowadays I’m finding the name rather corny, but it’s what most people associate with my art, so I’m just keeping it.

What inspires you? Everyday life, my feelings, media, exchanging ideas with people within the fandom.

How do you feel about criticism? Do you criticize other artists? I’m not here for the criticism. My first and foremost goals in posting art on the internet are expressing my feelings, getting in touch with like-minded people and having fun, not necessarily improving my artwork or meeting any achievement goals. I’m grateful for constructive criticism if I respect and trust the person who gives it. I only give criticism if invited to do so.

Do you have your own characters? Or maybe the whole universe? Tell a little about it. No, I don’t have any OCs at all.

How did you come to the Naruto fandom? What kind of heroes do you draw and why them? My ex bf was a big fan of Naruto and always tried to get me into it, but I found it boring and childish. After we broke up though, I felt really lost and started to watch Naruto as a way to feel a little closer to him, and before I knew it I was super into the plot and the characters and then Itachi appeared and the story of the Uchiha brothers struck a very deep chord with me. I’m very much into beautiful, tragic, brilliant but troubled characters who are sweet cinnamon rolls inside, and Itachi and Shisui are like the posterboys for this concept. I feel like they’re the perfect muses for me to give some kind of shape to my ideals of love and mutual respect.

Do you agree with the opinion that national self-perception, as an intellectual factor, is present in the creative process? You’re always influenced by the social environment, the battles and the values you grew up with, and some of that can be determined by your nationality. Themes like identity, society, communication, politics and ideologies are often expressed in art, and if that’s the case you can’t and probably don’t even aim to separate it from national self-perception. I think it’s more present in original art than in fanart though.

What topics worry you and most often are reflected in your work? Belonging, mutual love, loss, sex.

Do you consider drawing to be your recognition in life? Do you plan to continue to devote yourself to this business? It’s an important part of my life and I’m going to do it as long as it feels right, but I won’t pressure myself.

What advice do you have for novice artists? Expect your drawings to look ugly in the beginning and draw all the ugly pictures anyway. Draw whatever attracts you, however silly it may seem. “Art block” means you should lower the pressure on yourself and allow yourself to draw something ugly, silly or uncreative, or even take a break from drawing. Art is not about achievement but about expression. Don’t take it personally when no one seems to appreciate your art right away. Instead actively seek out like-minded people in online communities or in real life, get engaged and show your art to them. Also: flip that canvas!

[ladyimaginarium]

SMASH THAT HEART BUTTON if you are interested in exploring a potential romantic or intimate relationship between my muse(s) and your muse(s)! The majority of my characters have a very long history. Friendships are as equally pleasant, so even should your character not become romantically or intimately involved with said muses, there’s a chance that they may be his/her/their friend. The majority of them also has no preference specifically, like race, gender, etc. Doesn’t really matter. I HIGHLY appreciate if not only canon characters, but original characters and crossover characters from other fandoms are welcome, too! Keep in mind that shipping with the majority of my muses don’t necessarily have to be tied down to their canon universe either, it could be in another verse as well, like an alternate universe or a crossover. There are many possibilities.

We don’t have to have interacted before but I do want us to be friends and for us to have talked. However, we must have enough interaction for me to get a feel for any of my muse’s feelings towards your muse(s) before shipping should be discussed (unless if this has already been stated in canon and even then it’d be appreciated if it was plotted). I prefer to ship chemistry over anything else. Please keep in mind that the majority of my muses are NOT an easy person to ship with considering their traumatic experiences. Note that I am multiship and therefore, it’s not considered “cheating” because these characters, unless stated otherwise, will have a separate verse, and none of these, unless if they’re canonically in a relationship with any of them, affect their current default storylines. Do not, and I repeat DO NOT force a ship on me. If you want to ship with me, talk to me, but don’t assume I will ship with your character just because you want to. If I do not give my clear consent to ship with you and your muse, or even have a one sided ship, then do not force any of my muses into a ship with yours.

On the matter of shipping, I’m hesitant to ship with another person who ships with the same character as my own - but this doesn’t make this impossible due to me really, really adoring our ship. I’m sorry but it makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable and I don’t need the extra stress.

I’m not going to bother with a million poorly slapped together ships for the sake of the muses involved “being cute” together. Ships will need to be plotted, yes, even canon ships. My muses are not going to like yours without special circumstances and an extra push from me. I’m genuinely tired of having to hold up a ship myself.

It’s very unlikely that I’ll be roleplaying toxic ships or sexual abuse unless if it’s a part of a muse’s canonical plotline and backstory, I’d have to get really comfortable with the mun first. I will not be shipping any of my muses with anyone above or below their age groups unless if there’s some sort of plot involved or if it’s something that said muse is into. 

I want realistic relationships for my muses – people who challenge their beliefs and character. Specifically, I like ships that contribute to my their character development and my partner’s muse’s development, too, and not just for the sake of “looking cute together”. However, depending on the muse, this might be closing eventually because I don’t want too many inactive ships and if a ship is inactive after two months without talking or interactions unless if there’s a hiatus going on or my partners are severely busy, I’ll cross it off because I’m genuinely tired of holding up a one sided ship where I’m the one doing everything. As far as failed and temporary relationships go though, most of my muses wouldn’t let them leave without a good bit of drama and sore feelings first. Keep in mind that I won’t, for example, erase LGBTQIA2+ characters’ sexualities ( i.e James being homosexual, Minerva being a lesbian, Clementine being bisexual, etc. ) so I won’t ship James with a female or a female aligned muse, just like I wouldn’t ship Minerva with a male or a male aligned muse either so please look at their orientations before discussing romantic ships for them. On a final note, some muses of mine just won’t be romantically shipped with at all, due to them being taken, a muse is in a single ship, the muse is aromantic ( feels little to no romantic attraction ), are lithromantic ( muses who do not want their romantic feelings to be reciprocated ), quoiromantic ( muses who disidentify with the concept of romance and finds it make little sense), because the muse is too elderly or the muse is too young. Please respect this.

For reference’s sake, HERE is a list of all my muses that I currently have. Although, I must warn you that not every biography is complete / haven’t been posted yet but you can find the muses with bios HERE.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

The following are the current ships I have with other muns. The rest from my previous blogs are DROPPED due to either inactivity, lack of threads, lack of communications, or the ship never went anywhere in actual interactions. This was very hard for me to do but it was necessary for the sake of my blog.

Louis / Clementine : @morefinesse || CLOSED TO OTHER DUPLICATES AS OF RIGHT NOW.

Violet / Clementine : @backwardstars || CLOSED TO OTHER DUPLICATES AS OF RIGHT NOW.

Marlon / Clementine : @dcadrct || CLOSED TO OTHER DUPLICATES AS OF RIGHT NOW.

Sophie / Clementine : @stillgcod || SHIP EXCLUSIVE.

Mitch / Clementine : @backwardstars || OPEN TO ONE MORE SLOT ; SELECTIVE.

Doug / Clementine : @paulklee-guild || SHIP EXCLUSIVE.

Hikaku / Toka : @aperennialflame || SINGLE SHIP.

Delico / Alex : @forgevalor || DEVELOPING.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Love Meter!

Pain: “I loved you once. You were a good friend, maybe more, but for whatever reason, you turned on me. I can’t think about you without falling into fits of pain and anger.” Loathe: “You did something horrible to me, AJ, a friend, or a love of mine. Get lost.” Anger: “Don’t you fucking dare bring yourself around me. I don’t like you. We’ve met and it went wrong. You’ve did something to a friend of mine or myself.” Dislike: “We’ve met, it didn’t go well. I’ll stay away from you if you do the same for me.” Negative: “I’ve heard some not so nice things about you. Haven’t met you.”

Interest: “You’re cute and attractive, but nothing more. I have no intention of showing my heart to you.”

Uncertain: “I don’t quite know what we have here.”

Indifferent: “I’ve heard of you, we’ve never met, probably never will.” Pending: “No roleplays have happened where we meet, it’s planned, though.” Acquaintance: “We’ve met and I know your name.”

Friend: “We’re on good terms and we know a decent amount about each other.”

Good Friend: “We’re on really good terms. We know a lot about each other and I enjoy your company.” Great Friend: “I care a lot for you and I want to try and be there for you. We know each other really well. Your company is appreciated.” Best Friend: “I’ll be there for you. I love your company. Please don’t go. I adore you.” *

Attraction: “You fascinate me. I would adore to get to see you when I can. I believe there is something between us.” * Love: “I love you. We’re not necessarily married, but I love you still. You mean a great deal to me and I never want to find myself without you.” * Married: “I have my friends, and those I love, then there’s you. Adoration, appreciation, bliss.” * * “We can… enjoy each other.”

I will reach out to you for a bit of plotting once you have liked this post! Thank you for reading!

[kingslained-blog]

RULES

DISCLAIMER -- This blog features heavily triggering subjects such as war, gore, sex, incest & abuse. This being said and with the culture that Tumblr has created, I will not be role-playing with anyone under the age of eighteen and even if you are above eighteen I will be highly selective with whom I write with. Why? I do not subscribe to the culture that tumblr has created for itself nor for the role-play community. If you can’t handle that then x out. I force no one to write with me or read my content.  Mun (myself) & Muse (Jaime) are not the same person and while I may not agree with choices he has made, his character has made them and I will stand by writing them. I am FULLY aware that my name as well as his character has controversy to it. 

I claim no ownership over my FC/Jaime Lannister/ASoIaF/GoT but I claim ownership over my own headcanons that become unique to my interpretation of Jaime Lannister.

JAIME LANNISTER -- Ah, my precious son. Just call me Joanna Lannister (just kidding). I have read all through the books and I am caught up on Game of Thrones. I love his character dearly. He’s interesting. If we’re interacting now I will throw him at you in whatever time period you are comfortable with and if your muse is northern I will throw him in the north where I want him to be, because Jaime fucking Lannister keeping one of his vows is so important to me and I want that bitch to ride north. 

ADULT CONTENT & MINORS -- Like above. IF you are under eighteen and or have the mentality of a child I will not be role-playing with you as it’s not worth it to me. There are plenty of other Jaime’s and other amazing characters within GoT that you can interact with. Do not lie about your age. Do not do anything. If you follow me it’s at your own discretion and I am not your parent and not responsible for what you see on my blog. While I ask you not to even follow me as I will not be following you back, it’s rather pointless. 

Adult Content? Well it is Game of Thrones and you either win or you die. There is sex, violence, language and every other warning label you can slap on the TV Show & Book. (which begs the question as to why children are even writing in this part of the fandom).  He is a complicated character with a long and gross history, which is absolutely fascinating. If you cannot handle his character being written and being written in character do not follow. 

Triggers? Everything is marked with trigger: *insert trigger*, so if there is something and we are writing together please make me aware as I have no triggers. 

PRIVATE/EXCLUSIVE/MUTUALS ONLY -- I am Private & Highly Selective. I am also mutual’s only. I stated my reasons earlier for being Highly Selective. If your blog has no writing and is just a social-justice crusade/witch hunt then we aren’t going to be writing. There is a vast difference between taking action from let’s say an internet predator then crying over what someone wrote because it offended your sensibilities. There is a block button for that. 

SHIPPING -- I love writing Jaime & Cersei. Their dynamic is so interesting and it’s something that’s hard to comprehend. Especially where we were last left with them in S7. This is also one of his primary relationships in his life and I will never erase what Cersei means to him. She is his other half. That being said I am open for exploring other options. I love to ship, but it must be well written and for a good reason. I do plan on basing him always heading towards the north and he will keep his oath to Lady Catelyn Stark and become an Oathkeeper by keeping Sansa Stark/Arya Stark safe so if someone is Northern it will also work in that context. 

WRITTEN CONTEXT -- How funny that we’ve been given this beautifully made book and world and that is still not enough for us. The things written are written in context for the time period. Medieval period. Therefore if he talks about Whore’s it’s about the whore profession back then. If he talks about religion then it’s in the context of the book. Writing out deaths of characters is not always enjoyable, so I’m not sure where everyone gets the idea that writing out horrible things is enjoyable and everyone is a sick bastard like Ramsay Bolton and grinning behind their computer. Jaime having to listen to the mad king rape his wife, if it’s described it’s serving a purpose not because it’s enjoyable. It’s not even for just shock value. If you cannot handle reading the books or the tv series you cannot write in this fandom. 

THE MUN -- Hey I’m Kenna. I’m almost 24. I used to write in the Game of Thrones fandom as YoungRcse/Rcsemaiden and I loved Margaery. One day I would love to bring her back but since I’ve written Raoul de Chagny in the Phantom of the Opera fandom I’ve found myself connecting far more with male characters. It’s been a challenge that I’ve loved rising to the occasion of. I also write Billy Hargrove on Kingfckr as well as my oc’s for stranger things on Bratfckr. I enjoy writing controversial and well written characters. They aren’t black and white and it helps to try and get into their head. 

THE ONLY RULE THAT REALLY MATTERS -- Don’t be a dick. 

[bughead-fic-request]

I would like to thank @leaalda for making these amazing banners.

This is an effort to spread the word about all fan fiction writers in our little fandom. If you would like to be featured or nominate a writer, please contact me. Please reblog this post if you can and check out some of @believe-that-you-can-my-friend work!

1. First things first, if someone wanted to read your stories where can they find them.

My tumblr account is believe-that-you-can-my-friend and anyone can find my masterlist by clicking on the menu button (the three parallel lines at the top of my sidebar) and then choosing “My Bughead Stories”. You can also find me on AO3.

2. Tell us a little about yourself.

I’m Vera, I’m from Greece and I’m currently on the 23rd decade of my life. I’m a Classical Studies graduate and I’m considering doing a Master’s too. I’m a major foodie, a fashion and style enthusiast, an avid dancer and an old school rock lover. A quite sarcastic human being trying to make it in this world with the attitude of your average clown-friend.

3. What do you never leave home without?

Probably my phone, as true to our 21st century standards. Plus, my headphones and my sunglasses.

4. Are you an early bird or a night owl?

I’m a night owl for sure. I hate early mornings and I love sleep but I also can never go to bed before 2 or 3 am.

5. If you could live in any fictional world which one would you choose and why?

I would want to live in the Pokémon world or the Harry Potter universe but during the Marauders era. Witty and utterly smitten James Potter, rebel with a cause Sirius Black, the First Wizarding War, this is a true fantasy right there that I’ll never ever outgrow.

6. Who is the most famous person you’ve ever met?

There are a lot of Greek people that you guys, obviously, won’t know. Not many international celebrities in my resume, I’m afraid. But I briefly chatted and took a picture with Jim Chapman from YouTube while I was visiting London two years ago.

7. What are some of your favorite movies/TV?

I enjoy a lot of different movie genres but I guess an old Hollywood one, some good old Hitchcock or anything drama are my typical choices most times. Out of the top of my head, definitely Gone with The Wind, Casablanca, Pulp Fiction, The Breakfast Club and such. As for TV shows, Lost is always first in my heart. Current favorites would be Sense8, Stranger Things, Westworld, Riverdale.

8. What are some of your favorite bands/musicians?

That’s a question that would take me pages to answer. Long story short, I’m a cultural chaos regarding music. I listen to almost everything, my Spotify has a tone of personal playlists and my vinyl collection is reaching a terrifying extend. My favorite genre is definitely classic rock but I also really love alternative rock, indie rock, and rock ‘n’ roll. On an average day, I’m usually blasting something along the lines of The 1975, then Pink Floyd, then Frank Sinatra, then Tchaikovsky, then Kanye West, then The Killers and so on and it’s a miracle that I still manage to stay a somewhat sane person.  

9. Favorite Books?

Anything Jane Austen, Bronte Sisters or Dostoyevsky can get me going. But for the level of angst and devotion and truly wicked love my favorite one is Wuthering Heights.  

10. Favorite Food?

Chicken curry with rice. I also really love shrimps.

11. Biggest pet peeve?

Probably people that chew very loudly. Or ignorant and uneducated people, not in the academic sense of the word, but ill-mannered and rude.

12. What did you want to be when you were little? What do you want to be now?

For many years I wanted to be an architect. This plan though sunk because my sketching skills are equivalent of a two year old. So, I ended up studying the Classics (basically the study of the Greco-Roman world, particularly of its languages and literature, but also including philosophy, history, and archaeology.) This field and area of studies is something I very much enjoy and value but I don’t really see it as my lifetime job. What fascinates me and makes me passionate about is Journalism so I’m thinking about extending my studies in the journalistic field as well. And then of course there is writing; the ultimate dream.

13. What are your biggest fears? Do you have any strange fears?

I’m scared of wasps, only because I’m allergic to a lot of things and, seriously, I don’t wanna push my luck. Another one would be my odd phobia of getting nauseous and being sick. For some weird reason I associate vomiting with death. Other strange fears, no, nothing comes to mind. As for more fundamental ones, it’s the fear of ending up alone; loneliness is something that scares me deeply. Also, disappointing my inner perfectionist by being average or not good enough at any aspect of my life.

14. When you are on your deathbed what would be the one you’d regret not doing?

Live more. I have a very composed and rational mentality, I always think first and then act and generally I’m more of an observer than a doer. I regret, for example, not being a crazier teenager or a more reckless college student or generally a little bit more “loose”. Hopefully, my introverted self will stop watching stoically life passing her by and take more chances by the time I reach that final moment, haha.  

Okay… let’s talk about your writing!

15. Which is your favorite of the fics you've written for the Bughead fandom?

Where The Wild Roses Grow – Angst is the air I breathe, enough said.

16. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?

Up until now I used to write only Bughead prompts and one-shots so, plot wise, I can’t think of any of them causing me too much headache. I could say Fruit Punch Lips & Leather Jacket Dreams, only because of the length of the chapters and the hurricane of ideas I had in my mind. Right now I’m trying my hand at my first multi-chaptered fic for the Bughead fandom and I can definitely say that it is proving to be quite the task in terms of planning and prioritizing.

17. How do you come up with the ideas for you fic(s)? Do you people watch? Listen to music? Get inspired by TV/movies?

For me, it’s mostly TV and movies. I always make parallels between plotlines and couples so a lot of ideas do come from stuff that I have seen on the big screen or during a marathon of an old show. But they also come from everyday life, I mean I could be discussing something with my best friend or doing groceries or driving and something along the way would strike me and demand from me to write it on paper.

18. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?

I really really wanted (and still want, to be honest) to write a Dancing With The Stars Bughead fic. I know it’s crazy and totally random but the idea had stuck in my head while I was watching some dancing videos on YouTube and instantly I had everything planned; the roles, the plot, the dancing sessions, the choreographies, the drama, everything. I gave up on the idea merely because it’s quite difficult to portray such show on paper and I was afraid that the scenes in my head would turn out totally different if I attempted to write them, so I’ll treasure this story in my heart and think fondly about it whenever I listen to a song I had picked for a Bughead dance-off. But you never know; maybe my muse will be more confident about helping me give life to this idea in the future.

19. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

I wouldn’t say it’s my least favorite but I don’t feel very confident about Heliophilia, the second chapter of Fruit Punch Lips & Leather Jacket Dreams. There are a lot of things that I like in the chapter obviously, but I find the beginning a tad cheesy and then at the part with Betty’s and Jughead’s date I believe that I just ramble on and on with no purpose whatsoever. I was very inspiration-deprived while working on that chapter so, to me at least, it feels like not my best work.

20. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

Jughead raised as a Serpent in my latest fic. I like the dynamic the gang element gives to his character and I really wanted to explore it in my own little universe. It just adds another layer to his personality and diverse characters are always the most fun to work with. Also, #GirlNextDoor was very fun to write. Being in Jughead’s shoes as an accomplished writer and envisioning future Bughead in their own adult apartment had me overwhelmed with lovely feelings.

21. Favorite character to write?

Jughead, for sure. Maybe because I relate more to his quite nature or maybe it’s the fact that I appreciate the writer in him and his old soul, which are again qualities that I have too as a person. He has so much potential as a character, so many layers to peel off. Yeah, Jughead Jones is a delight for me to write.

22. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you've written?

I don’t think I have something specific in mind. If I go back and read any of my stories, I always find something that I feel pretty confident about, either that’s a sentence or a whole paragraph. I guess that’s why it takes me so long to update; I always check and double-check and reread and erase and add until I feel positive that what I’m putting out is something I’m quite satisfied to present to all of you. That and the fact that me, a Victor Hugo wannabe, doesn’t know the usage and the importance of a full stop!

23. Best comment/review you’ve ever received?

Every single one. Literally. The fact that somebody takes the time to write even a single “great work” means the world. Yes, the long, commentary-like reviews are always an extra delight; every author would agree on that, because, we love receiving feedback that shows the emotion and the reaction our words brought to each reader. It’s very direct and on-point. But even just a thumb’s up or an incoherent array of vowels can literally make my day!

24. How do you handle bad reviews or comments?

I’m one of the fortunate ones that never got any bad reviews or hate comments. I hope it stays that way because, on a good day, my confidence as a writer (and as a person in general) is beneath zero! But constructive criticism is always welcomed and wanted.

25. If you could change anything in any of your stories, what would it be?

The occasional typos! They drive me nuts, I hate them and I hate myself for them. Also, I’d like to remind myself to put a damn full stop every once in a while, not only a plethora of commas in insanely long sentences!

26. What is your favorite story you’ve ever written? Any fandom?

I was very into Spaleb (Spencer and Caleb from Pretty Little Liars) for as much as it lasted and, amongst a few other stories, I’ve written an one-shot titled The First Cup of Coffee about the four times Spencer gets the first cup of coffee in the morning and a fifth that she realizes she wants Caleb to have that privilege. Basically, it’s five snapshots of their life together and the growth of their relationship through the years and I really enjoyed writing it and generally envisioning a future about that couple. I also had a great time writing about Klaus and Caroline from The Vampire Diaries. But none of my previous fanfiction experiences amounts to the utter excitement and joy writing for Bughead fills me with.

27. What are you reading right now? Both fan fiction and general fiction?

Fanfiction wise, I need a lot of catching up to do. I have so many fics that I either want to continue or start reading and so little time but I’m getting there. It’s personal at this point! As for general fiction, I’m reading Uncle Vanya by Chekhov and some various poetry.

28. Do you have an advice for writers that want to get into this fandom but might be scared?

Just write. Open a plain document and write. Write whatever you have in that brilliant head of yours, write what you would read if you were about to search between genres and plotlines. Don’t think about note numbers or people’s reaction; just write what your heart desires and your muse urges you too. If you enjoy what you write then, trust me, everyone is going to enjoy it too. Don’t doubt yourself and don’t try to change your style or adjust to any norms you might consider as successful. Writing is personal, a kind of identity, and it’s unique and mesmerizing so proudly present your own identity to the world. Also, be sure to support your fellow writers. We are all a team here, a group of people that enjoy the same passion, and love and recognition is always a must. So applaud your fellow Buggies and applaud yourself for everything that you put out in this fandom, either that is a 40k fic or just a fifty-word paragraph. What you write matters and it might change somebody’s day. So share it and never second-guess yourself.

[indigo-streaks-in-her-hair]

sketches [ cm x r ]

fandom : Dear Evan Hansen

by : Victoire

pairing : Connor Murphy x Reader

summary : In which you are a gifted artist & Connor just so happens to be your unsuspecting muse.

word count : 4,519

warnings : Swearing

a / n : Here we are! I’m beyond excited to be sharing my first fic with you. I’ve recently gotten into DEH & really explored the characters as people, so I do hope the way I write Connor is enough for you! I had my ups & downs while writing this, but the result did prove successful.

Oh, & make sure to see if you can catch a hidden If I Could Tell Her reference in the fic! *winky face* I would love you for the rest of my days if you all could leave a like or maybe reblog! Feedback & constructive criticism are always welcome.

Biting your lip in concentration, your eyes carefully studied the sharp but somehow soft lines of his face. He was sitting diagonally in front of you, with a perfect view of his profile.

Why would you be drawing the infamous Connor Murphy in the middle of a calculus class, you ask? Honestly, you didn’t even have a valid reason except for the fact that he was absolutely beautiful.

His was a unique kind of beauty, dark & harsh & in all ways mysterious, but at the same time there was a sort of lightness to it, fragile & delicate.

It puzzled you sometimes, but you were still drawn to the enigma that happened to be Connor Murphy.

As your pencil scribbled quietly on the paper of your sketchbook, Connor dropped his own. You watched intently as he bent to pick it up, strands of his light brown hair falling into his eyes.

He quickly tucked wisps of it behind his ears, turning back to his previous position. He must’ve felt your burning gaze on him, because he quirked his head in your direction, his clear blue eyes landing on you. A part of his right eye, aside from being blue, was a rich chocolate brown.

You immediately cast your gaze down at your binder, open, but with none of the notes written down. You felt your cheeks flush. Without a sound, you quietly snuck your sketchbook back into your desk.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could’ve swore Connor cocked his brow just in the slightest. He faced back forward, drumming his pencil against the desktop. You were sure he was aware of you now.

Silently cursing yourself, you hopelessly propped your elbow on your desk, your head cocked to the side as the teacher’s words came in one ear & left out the other.

If Connor Murphy kept being this beautiful, you were 100% sure you were going to fail high school.

“Y/N this has to be ‘Connor Murphy sketchbook #3’ by now,” Alana flipped through countless pages filled with drawings of him.

“This is only the second one, Lana,” you stabbed at your salad, ending the life of a poor cherry tomato.

“He almost caught me today, & I was utterly horrified.” You let your fork drop out of your fingers & sighed. “I’d be dead if he ever found out I’ve been sketching him since the beginning of the year.”

“Well, you would sound like a creepy stalker-”

“Thanks a lot, Alana.”

“But,” she emphasized, “these drawings are really really good, Y/N. You really capture something about Connor that others can’t see.”

You couldn’t help but shoot your friend a small smile. “I’m glad you like them.” As if on cue, you see the doors to the cafeteria open.

Connor walked in, his hair tousled as always, & his bag slung across his chest. Sure, he was tall & looked lanky at a first glance, but under the fabric of his shirt, you could make out evidence of the slightest bit of muscle in his arms & torso.

Alana noticed you staring. “Please stop gaping at him like he’s Zac Efron or something, for god’s sake,” She playfully slapped your arm, reeling you back into reality.

You shut your mouth, your eyes cleared of their daze. “Right, yeah. Sorry.” You bit your lip, trying not to glance up at him as he walked past you & Alana.

“I will, um,” you struggled, “throw away my salad.” You cast your friend a look as you got up & picked up your lunch tray.

“I have history next. I guess I’ll see you after school?” You asked her. Alana nodded, a small smirk on her face.

“Oh god, please don’t give me that look,” you said to her as you began to walk away, slinging your backpack over your shoulders.

“IT’S THE LOOK PEOPLE GIVE WHEN YOU WASTE PERFECTLY GOOD ARUGULA, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but crack a smile. Turning, you shot her a salute before dumping your food in the trash & heading to your next class.

That night, Jared called you. At a very late time, to say the least.

You groaned as you hit the green ‘accept’ button. “What the fuck could you possibly want at three in the goddamn morning, Jared Kleinman?”

Jared chuckled over the line. “Welp, I can’t sleep. Actually, no. I have a project to do but I’m too much of a lazy ass to complete it so here I am calling you.”

“Can’t you just bother Evan instead of me?” you rubbed groggily at your eyes, yawning. “I’m serious, do you have a death wish or something? I’m way too tired to beat you up, but I will eventually.

“Come on, Y/N. I’m bored. Talk to me.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll just talk to you. Ooo, about those sketches of Connor-”

You sat bolt upright in your bed. “How the hell do you know about those?”

“Someone found a few tucked inside a desk today. Eventually, they made their way to Connor.”

You felt your heart stop.

“Oh my god-”

“But don’t worry, nobody knows it was you. Just Alana & I.”

No one was there, but you imagined the eyes of everyone at school on you as you blushed in embarrassment.

What would Connor say? What would he think of you? What if he found out? What would everyone say?

You were so close to being busted.

“Jared, I swear, if Connor ever finds out, I will be publicly shunned.” You ran a hand through your hair, tugging slightly at the strands. “Jesus Christ, what am I going-”

“Hey hey hey, don’t freak out. You are a pretty good artist by the way-”

“Not helping, Kleinman.”

“Um, your interpretation of the tall, dark, & brooding Mr. Sexy Murphy is very detailed-”

“That doesn’t help either.”

“You know what-”

“Ok. I’m going to back to sleep & going to try to impossibly ignore what you have just told me while it nags in the back of my mind like a parasite. Good night, Jared.”

You hung up the phone & let out an even bigger groan than the one you let or earlier. “Shit.” You muttered to yourself.

You fell back, stuffing your pillow in your face. You let out a loud groan-ish scream, absolutely dreading school the next morning.

“I’m ruined. Demolished. Destroyed. I will die.” You panicked at your locker with Evan, Jared, & Alana.

“If he finds out anything, he will hate me for the rest of my days.” You sighed, letting your back hit your locker door shut.

You held your English books in your hand, your palms sweaty.

“D-Don’t think of it as the end of the world, Y/N,” Evan nudged you with his cast, offering you one of his sweet smiles. “It’s not the worst that could happen.”

“Yeah, & besides-” Alana began,

“-he’s walking this way right now & looking at you,” Jared cut her off, glancing anxiously at someone coming down the hallway.

You didn’t have any time to react, because Connor Murphy came right past you, his eyes lingering on you for a few hopeless seconds before focusing in front of him.

“Oh my god, I think he knows.” you breathed out once he was gone.

And so, in the days that followed the discovery of the Connor sketches, you observed that he would look at you more often than ever before.

He’d sit near you in class & steal glances at you every now & then, his eyes on you for longer than what seemed normal.

If you weren’t covered in shame, you would kind of like the attention you were getting.

But under these circumstances, this was probably the worst that could happen.

You had held off any sort of drawing for at least two weeks, & that itch to pick up a pencil was bothering you like crazy.

So, one day, you managed to snatch a seat at the back of the classroom. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but it turns out he was only a few minutes late. 

The only spot available was one in the front row, one that was far away from you.

As soon as class started, you pulled out your sketchbook, drawing silently.

You kept it concealed under your textbook.

Your pencil sketched lines & bases, the shadows of his cheekbones & the curls of his hair falling into his face.

His eyes were your favorite part to draw, they seemed infinite, like you could get hopelessly lost inside them.

They reminded you on the ocean, seemingly bottomless & hauntingly beautiful, just like him.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you were trying desperately to get his jawline just right. If you erased some of the dark shadow you had-

“Miss Y/LN, may I ask why you are drawing in my class when you should be paying attention to the lecture?”

The sound of your teacher’s sharp voice made you jump. Your head snapped up, meeting the stares of everyone in the class, including Connor.

Your pencil dropped to the floor.

“I’m sorry, I was- I was just sketching something for art class.” You shut your sketchbook, your cheeks flushing pink.

You bent down to pick up your pencil.

“You better be sorry. One more time, & I’ll see you in detention, young lady.”

You nodded in understanding, the teacher turning back to the board.

Everyone turned around, the tension still thick in the air. You tried to ignore everything, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

When you opened them, Connor’s eyes were there, gazing at you with curiosity & interest.

You stared back.

It turns out you were right. You really could get lost in those eyes of his.

Alana had a meeting with one of her teachers during lunch, so you had to sit alone.

Once again, you poked tirelessly at your salad, taking the lives of a few more cherry tomatoes.

You had a book in your hand, reading to try to pass time.

You were trying your hardest not to sneak a glance Connor’s way; he was sitting just a few tables in front of you.

You ate in silence, looking up every now & then out of pure fear that he’d simply march up to you & call you out right in front of everyone.

You had such a hopeless crush on him that you didn’t even think it mattered anymore.

You gazed up as one of the school’s football players entered the cafeteria.

Jason was quarterback & just so happened to be a huge dick. He held a football in his hand like he always did, & you lowkey judged the guy for carrying one around everywhere.

But in his other hand was the exact thing you had been terrified of for weeks now.

He was holding your sketches. Your sketches of Connor Murphy.

You dropped your book, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, your pulse racing.

You couldn’t do anything but watch as Jason strutted his way over to Connor, sitting alone.

Fortunately for you, your sketches had gained some popularity. Everyone in school was dying to find out who was that much of dork to see something beautiful in that creepy kid Connor Murphy.

You bit the inside of your cheek as Connor finally noticed Jason standing in front of him, shooting the football player a small glare.

Moving fast, you retrieved your book & stuck your head in it, shoving your tray of food away from you.

The next time you looked up, Connor was there with the pages in his hands, a look of confusion on his face. His face softened as you saw his eyes scan over your drawings.

You were frozen.

Jason stood with his arms crossed, chuckling. He playfully slapped Connor’s back before walking away to his next class.

Connor’s brows furrowed in interest as he shifted the papers in his hands. You couldn’t begin to interpret the look on his face.

He would study each one for about five minutes, & you could tell he was puzzled at the fact that someone out there was drawing every single expression on his face.

You had to stare at him now. You couldn’t peel your eyes off the way he was looking at your sketches. If he ever-

And just like that day in calculus class, his eyes somehow found yours throughout the infinite crowd of students in the cafeteria.

They pierced yours with a sort of glint, as if he knew that all those sheets of paper were your doing.

You blinked suddenly, turning away from him & clamping your book shut. You slung your bag over your shoulder, picking up your lunch tray with it.

As quickly as you possibly could, you stormed out of the cafeteria, dumping your lunch tray.

Maybe you could afford to be ten minutes early to chemistry. Just anything to get that beautiful stare off of you.

Connor watched you as you rushed off, his eyes trailing to the sheets of paper in his hands.

These drawings were beautiful.

Beautiful couldn’t even seem to describe them as he noticed every detail that he failed to recognize.

But somehow you had.

The wispy curls of his hair & the slight dip in the bridge of his nose, the angled sharpness of his cheekbones & the curve of his mouth.

There had to be a possibility that Y/N had drawn these.

They were, evidently, the art teacher’s favorite student. They’d won multiple awards for their art, even.

Connor didn’t know what to say. He had never seen himself in the way they interpreted him.

It was like they drew his vulnerability, the boy under the dark & rough exterior.

Y/N drew the boy beneath the heated glares & the harsh persona. They drew the Connor underneath all the ugly parts; at least that’s how it was to him.

Somehow, Y/N Y/L/N  had drawn the real Connor Murphy.

And the corners of his lips curved into the smallest of smiles at the thought.

Shutting your locker with a loud slam, you made some of the other people around you jump.

Muttering a small “sorry”, you pushed past the crowds of students trying to get to class, your mind clouded.

Everything in your head was Connor, Connor, Connor. Sketches, sketches, sketches. I am fucked, I am fucked, I am fucked.

Anxiety played a horrible part in your life, & even the littlest things could set you on edge & make you worry even when you knew you shouldn’t.

They made your hands shake & your chest ache like hell.

You scolded yourself for being careless with those sheets of paper; you knew you had a habit of leaving things behind.

And if the entire school found out, you’d definitely be shunned.

And if Connor found out, you were sure he’d be creeped out & never notice your existence again.

With all these horrible results playing in your head, you completely zoned out, & were shot back into reality once you walked right into something hard, your books & binder crashing to the floor, papers spilling almost everywhere.

You cursed. “Shit, I’m so sor-” you muttered as you bent to retrieve your things, your hands flying everywhere before people could step on them.

“It’s fine.”

Before he could even get down to help you, you already knew it was him.

That husky, but somehow velvety voice of his echoed through your ears with a thrum.

You looked up, & were eye level with the one & only Connor Murphy. You were lost all over again.

What lasted a few mere seconds felt like minutes to the both of you. He was looking at you, trying to find something.

Without knowing why, you broke away from his gaze, moving to shuffle your papers in order. He helped you, getting on his knees & handing you over some chemistry homework.

“Um, thanks.” As you took them, your fingertips brushed his ever so slightly, & you felt a zing of electricity zap its way to your chest.

You got up slowly, shifting the weight of the backpack on your shoulders. Connor did the same, adjusting the strap on his messenger bag.

“Anytime.” he seemed to shrug, running a hand through his messy hair. You smiled shyly in response, turning to make your way to the class you were already late for.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” You heard him call after you.

Did he really just say that to you? You turned back, fiddling with the straps of your backpack.

“I, uh,” you stuttered, balancing on your heels, suddenly nervous. But then again, when were you not around him?

“Um, yeah.” You shot Connor another attempt at a smile. “I’ll see you around, Connor.” You raised your hand in a small wave, swallowing your anxiousness.

You turned & took a deep breath before making your way to class.

Jesus Christ, he really did just say that to you.

Connor swore once you were out of sight, cursing his social awkwardness. He didn’t want you to feel anxious around him, he really didn’t.

If anything, he wanted to get to know you. But you were probably onto him for knowing about him knowing about your sketches.

God, it was all so complicated.

For once in his sad & seemingly imperfect life, he liked someone. He wanted someone, & that someone was you.

His fascination with you started when you both entered high school in the same grade. He thought you were subtle, if that ever was a good quality. Connor liked the way you smiled & laughed & bit your lip whenever you tried to conceal your infectious grins.

He thought you were perfect, unlike him. He was always that creepy kid in the corner, with his messy hair & dark clothes. You were bright & radiated light, you spoke through your art in ways no one could.

Most of all, he thought you were real. You weren’t like most girls at your age, you were quieter & spent your time with a few close friends. You weren’t fake. You weren’t a wannabe.

You were perfectly content with being Y/N.

Y/N, who showed up to last year’s prom in beat up converse & spent the whole night alone with nothing but their pens & a sketchbook.

Y/N, who drew a mustache on the substitute teacher with a sharpie in junior year while he was sleeping.

Y/N, who in freshmen year received their first art award, beating out several seniors & a sophomore.

And Y/N, who had managed to fascinate Connor within the course of four whole years of high school. They were always quiet in class, their pencil scribbling either the notes on the board or spilling out their creativity onto paper.

Reaching into his back pocket, Connor pulled out the sketches he had folded up. From what he had seen; from seeing the way Y/N saw him, he was sure that sometimes the quietest people have the loudest minds.

You stuffed numerous textbooks into your locker, sighing as you tried to straighten them up in such a messy space. You stayed after school for an hour for tutoring. Apparently your grades in history were starting to drop, but so was your state of mind.

Brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, you took a deep breath before shutting your locker. You thought the hallways had to be empty by now, save one person.

You jumped once you saw him there, right next to you, as if waiting for something. Your mouth couldn’t form words until the both of you spoke.

“Y/N.”

“Connor.”

You bit your lip as he looked at you; of course you had to be much shorter than him. His tall, lanky frame stood before you, & he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

He reached into his messenger bag, slipping out the inevitable.

Your sketches.

You could feel yourself gulp & your cheeks flush red.

“Someone gave these to me a few weeks ago. I was wondering if they were yours.” He said to you, his voice surprisingly soft. The look on his face was sympathetic, but understanding at the same time. He unfolded the sheets of paper, revealing multiple different views of his face.

One was a profile portrait, & you remember how hard you worked to get the angles of his jawline soft but sharp. Another was a front-facing one; you had drawn him with strands of his curly hair falling into his face, his lips slightly pursed.

That was the only sketch you managed to color, working with oil pastels until you got the blue in his eyes just right. Balancing the blue with the rich brown in his right eye also proved to be a challenge.

The sketches were slightly crumpled, evidence of them probably being passed around. The whole school had probably already seen all of these, which only made the flush on your cheeks darken.

“I,” you couldn’t make yourself say the words. You could feel your heart pounding, like it would explode out of your chest any second. Connor’s gaze never left you, even for a moment.

“Yeah, they’re mine.” You finally said, not wanting to look him in the eye. It would all be too much. “I’m really sorry if you think I’m strange or weird, or if I’m obse-” You started to go off, listing everything negative that Connor probably thought of you, feeling your gut twist.

But not before he stopped you.

“No, no, no. Not at all.” You stared up at him in disbelief. Connor noticed the look on your face, speaking again to expand on his statement. “I mean, I don’t think you’re weird. These sketches are…” He stopped for a moment, as if debating on what to say next.

You did nothing but listen, hoping he wouldn’t think you a fool.

“They’re just…” He looked at the sheets of paper in his hand, his eyes skimming over every detail. “They’re so good. Amazing, actually.”

You couldn’t help but furrow your brows in confusion. “But I, I just thought…”

“That I’d be mad?”

You looked up at him & nodded. “I thought you’d hate me, & that’s the least thing I’d ever want from you, & I’m sorry If I…” You trailed off, not even noticing you were backing away from him slowly.

“I’m sorry if me drawing you is uncomfortable or anything, because I can stop & leave you alone & we can pretend none of this shit ever happened-”

“Y/N.”

Suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders, your name being spoken with such clarity that you couldn’t even begin to describe. His eyes were closer than ever before, & you could see the flecks of green in the blue of his eyes & the rich gold & amber mixed with the chocolate brown color you adored so much.

Curls fell into his face, framing his cheekbones like a curtain frames a stage. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, the feeling of his hands gripping your shoulders something new altogether.

“I’ve never seen anything like what you draw. It’s remarkable, actually. I’ve just, I’ve never seen myself like, like the way you see me.” He let go of your shoulders, stepping back, & gesturing to the sketches in his hands. He handed them over to you, & once again, your fingertips brushed, sending current after current of electricity through you.

You stood breathless with your sketches in your hands. “When people think of me, they think dark & gloomy,” Connor stuffed his hands into his pockets, “they don’t think of me looking like, looking like an angel…” He shot you a shy smile.

You felt heat radiate to your cheeks. “Connor, I-”

“You draw me, Y/N. The real me. The one that all these losers fail to look for.” He gestured around the halls with his arms. He took a breath & sighed, bringing his arms to his sides.

“I have no fucking clue how you do it, but…” He looked at you, his eyes skimming over your face for any sign of emotion. “I just hope to god I’m not making you feel weird with all these compliments, I’m sorry…” He gazed down at his feet, toying with a strap on his bag.

“I like you, Connor.”

You spat it out in the midst of it all, not being able to keep it inside any longer. This was the reason why you drew him every day, 24/7. You couldn’t contain it.

His head snapped up at your words, his eyes immediately searching yours for a reason, an answer, or something.

“I draw you because I think you’re beautiful & perfect without a single flaw, & because there’s nobody else in this goddamn hellhole who’s like you, or acts like you, or mutters stupid protests against school in calculus class like you do. There’s never gonna be another Connor Murphy who tramples over the school hierarchy in those same lace up boots every day, & I can’t help but capture every single-”

And before you could finish, his lips were on yours.

You felt his hands on your face, the softness, yet roughness, of the way he had crashed into you, the pads of his thumbs brushing your cheeks. He surged forward like a wave in a vast ocean, overcoming you like a tsunami.

He had loomed over you, the curve of his mouth slanting to meet yours with a violent crash, & you tilted your head up to meet this wave head on. His lips were warm & soft against yours, moving with a rhythm, much like a current in the water.

You were kissing Connor Murphy.

His fingers tangled themselves into the strands of your hair, deepening your kiss. You were hopelessly drowning in him, your breath being stolen away every time his lips captured yours, pulling you deeper down from the surface.

You were being dragged away, but you didn’t care.

Before it could reach a climax, you pulled away from him, resurfacing with your heart still beating. His hands were still on your skin, his breathing ragged.

“Connor,” You whispered, breathless. “That was-”

“I’ve been wanting to do that since freshmen year.”

You chuckled at his words, your eyes meeting the ocean blue of his own. He let his hands drop, although he remained close to you.

“You’re remarkable.” You muttered, moving to tuck away a curl of hair that had fallen into his face. “I hate it.” There was a playful glint in your eye.

Connor simply smiled, the widest you had ever seen. “No,” he counteracted, “You & your sketches are remarkable.” Shyly, he took your hand.

“And I love it.”

[terresdebrumestories]

Worth it after all

FANDOM: Glee SERIES: - RATING: Teen and Up WORDCOUNT: 1 019 words PAIRING(S): Klaine CHARACTER(S): Kurt Hummel, Burt Hummel, Blaine Anderson GENRE: Musings. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Quick mention of death/funerals at the start. SUMMARY: Kurt’s relationship with coffee. Or life, depending on how you look at it. DEDICATION(S): My past self, maybe? NOTE(S): Rewrite of Coffee History, one of my oldest fics on AO3, written as a celebration of my 300th work published on the Archive! Not all of them are complete and not all of them are very good, but I’m proud of myself for managing to put all of that out and for the progress I’ve made in the six years I’ve been posting there. Merry holidays to me and, hopefully, a nice blast from the past for the rest of you ;)

Kurt’s most vivid takeaway from his mother’s funeral is the phantom scratch of the cheap, ill-fitted suit his father had to borrow from a taller cousin. That, and the painful blueness of the sky. The rest fades faster than you’d think, swallowed by the black hole in his heart. In future years, if he tries heard, he’ll reconstruct a crowd of black-sleeved hands and a haze of murmurs; the bizarre impression that someone was about to yell ‘April’s fools!’ and end the nightmare.

He loses his mother’s smile to the decade following her death, the sound of her voice to John Farnham’s Angels played too many times over his tears. The smell of her vanishes, too, swallowed by the bitter aroma of a black coffee going cold on the kitchen table while his father stared into nothing.

***

A year after the funeral, almost to the day, Kurt walks into the kitchen and finds his father nursing a mug of cold coffee, eyes lost in days gone past. Kurt hoists himself on his father’s lap and scrunches his nose at the sugarless, cream-free scent of the coffee mug. The drink, when Kurt takes a sip, is too strong and burns at his tongue in more ways than one. His faces crumples in disgusted confusion again, eyes squeezed shut until he realizes wiping at his tongue with his pajama sleeve won’t help with the taste and he protests:

“It’s icky! Why don’t you add sugar?”

“Your mom used to say you can’t really appreciate life until you’ve tried the real taste of it.”

Kurt twists to steal a glance at his father, his eyes still lost in a time he barely remembers, and frowns.

“I don’t get it,” he admits.

His father sighs.

“Yeah. Neither do I, son.”

The coffee goes down the drain.

***

Two weeks into high school, Kurt comes home shivering with cold as red slushy seeps through his shirt. He rushes through his evening routine and locks himself in his room much earlier than usual so he can consume his shame alone. He gets two fitful, scattered hours of sleep that night, and opens his eyes on the dreadful knowledge he won’t make it through the day without some kind of boost.

There’s so much cream, sugar and biscuit crumbs in his very first coffee it’s almost breakfast.

***

The very concept of having cream with coffee as his favored drink is deeply at odds with Kurt’s notions of a healthy life, but he can’t quite make himself shake the habit. High school is a long string of slushies and assignments, cruel words tenuous friendships, harsh sneers and a burning desire to be as flamboyant as he can manage. Sleep, in these conditions, is hard to come by, but coffee still tastes terrible. In this domain, as in many others, Kurt does what he must in order to get through the day.

Covering up woks fine with the bullying. It works fine when Mercedes destroys his car. It works fine while his father lays motionless in a hospital bed. It fails miserably after his ill-fated attempt to redecorate his and Finn’s basement, but then there are limits even to self-deception.

***

There’s not enough whipped cream in the entire world to erase the taste of Karofsky’s lips from his own.

***

Dalton Academy should be a black coffee kind of place. There’s no one to hide from here, nothing to fear. Uniformity is made into safety. It surrounds him, embraces him, suffocates him, the abstract shape of him squeezed into the sharp crease of a conformism he always felt too big for.

Dalton Academy should be a black coffee kind of place, but Kurt drowns himself in cream and sugar, and tells himself it’s a habit more than a need.

***

The coffee Kurt orders after he’s elected prom queen is pretty much a heart attack in a cup. He would lecture his father in a thousand different ways if he even thought of taking a sniff from it but, just this one, Kurt allows himself the hypocrisy. Prom queen, in itself, isn’t even that bad a title. In a different place, with different people, he’d be proud of it. Here in McKinley, it was only ever meant to hurt him, and it did a fine job of it.

On the other side of the table, Blaine looks at him with worried eyes and asks what he can do to help. Kurt almost, almost says he’s fine. That’s what he would have done before, after all. Pretend he was fine and avoid talking about the incident until he managed to push it out of his mind entirely. It worked well enough so far, and it would work again, but...that would mean forgetting Blaine, too. Oh, Kurt can forget the dance if he wants to. He can put the crown, the stifling silence, the cruel looks right out of his mind. It’s just that if he did, he’d never remember the reason for Blaine’s smile and their hands entwined, heart filling with enough joy to leave no place for even the shadow of bigotry.

None of it was perfect. Not in the way Kurt used to dream of, at any rate. No cheering crowd, no comfortable anonymity. Somehow though, the terrible parts of the evening make Blaine’s presence all the brighter, as if the bitter irony of that night was only ever meant to underline how sweet Kurt’s boyfriend was. Kurt nearly snorts to himself at his own thoughts, but it doesn’t change the truth of them. There’s no way he wants to forget Blaine, even if he looks a little ridiculous with his brow furrowed in confusion.

“It’s nothing,” he promises after a brief but heartfelt kiss. “I think I just understood a thing my mom used to say.”

Kurt dumps seven dollars worth of cream in the trash and orders himself a black coffee. It’s still bitter but, after years of searching, he finally finds the rich aromas people kept making a fuss about, and what do you know.

It is worth it after all.

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[viduamor-moved]

do u have any headcanons abt natasha's religion? i'm always interested how marvel chara muns tie in their muse's religion w/ the myth based nature of the marvel universe, and with natasha's cultural background it's especially interesting! xoxo

OF  LOVE  /  OF  DEATH.     thank you  SO MUCH  for sending this in !!!      & in fact,     i do !!     i’ve been meaning to write about it for … more than a year,   honestly but just never got around to it.      but that’s changing   ————     SHORT  ANSWER  :   I  SEE  NATASHA  AS  AGNOSTIC,      with a tendency towards belief in some kind of higher power.     whether that be  GOD  or  FATE,      she has yet to decide.

but i’m sure you’re here for the long answer.      IT’S  IMPORTANT  TO  REMEMBER  THAT  SOVIET  RUSSIA  WAS  MILITANTLY  ATHEIST.     the government seized land & property that was owned by the orthodox church,     persecuted & publicly ridiculed or arrested religious followers,     & did all that it could to erase orthodoxy  ( or even pagan superstitions that were both separate from or intwined with orthodox beliefs   —–   this marriage between superstition & christian orthodoxy was one of the biggest contributing factors to pre - soviet russia’s rich culture )  from the face of russia.     natasha was born about six years after the soviet union was established,      & was raised by a soviet soldier for the first ten years of her life before she was put into a soviet orphanage / training facility for about three years   ( after which she returned to ivan’s care ).      needless to say,     natasha grew up without religion.     & whatever tidbits of religion she did encounter were heavily implied to be foolish little habits,      or archaic beliefs that nostalgic laymen who were useless to the soviet stubbornly clung to.     but that would be an oversimplification,     i think.     there were still people who had not yet reached their middle age when nat was reaching her adolescence,      who were born before the bolshevik revolution,      who still held to orthodoxy or tradition in some way,      who found it hard to let go no matter how much they tried to in public.     in reading  DEATHLESS  by catherynne m valente,      i found a small passage that i think perfectly sums up these people born before the revolution,     still holding to their traditions:

IVAN  HISSED  THROUGH  HIS  TEETH  &  MADE  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS.      IT  WAS  A  BAD  HABIT,     CROSSING  YOURSELF,     BUT  LIKE  BITING  FINGERNAILS,      HARD  TO  BREAK.       catherynne valente   -   deathless,     chapter 14.

no matter what the people soviet or the government did,     they could never truly erase religion from russia.     still,     they tried their best,      & their best meant a generation born into the USSR that found itself to be atheist.      NATASHA  WAS  AMONG  THEM.     in her prime,     she became a member of russia’s  ELITE,      married to the premiere test pilot,      previously trained under  THE  WINTER  SOLDIER  himself,      becoming the  BLACK  WIDOW in the early  1960′s.      the concept of  ‘ GOD ‘  was never on her mind.      the only  higher power  she looked to was  THE  STATE,     MOTHER  RUSSIA,     &  THE  PEOPLE  SHE  SERVED.      but that changed when she defected in the late 60′s.

it is nothing less than understandable that once natasha defected from the USSR to the west,     she underwent a major shift in thinking.     she doubted her identity,     she doubted her homeland,     she doubted everything they made her believe,     & when she finished doubting,     she started  BELIEVING.

I  GAVE  UP  ONE  COUNTRY  FOR  ANOTHER.      ONE  COUNTRY  FOR  AN  IDEAL.     I  DIDN’T  THINK  OF  IT  THAT  WAY  AT  THE  TIME.      CALL  ME  CRAZY.     BUT  I  JUST  WANTED  TO  BE  FREE.        natasha romanova,     name of the rose (2010),     #1

& free she became.     free to love,     free to choose,     free to  THINK  &  BELIEVE  in what she wanted,      how she wanted.      the atheism she was raised with,      she looked upon the same way as everything else the soviets tried to make her believe.     she looked at herself critically,      & she made herself someone new.      but in terms of direct beliefs,      natasha did not rethink them immediately.      i’d say it was a slow process,      via exposure rather than searching.

during the 60′s - 70′s,      america was still a very protestant / evangelical nation,     & belief in God was pretty commonplace,      & natasha definitely picked up on this.      her first real,     substantial interaction with a devout believer was  MATT MURDOCK,      her on/off boyfriend for nearly a decade,      her fwb ever since,      who as we all know is fundamentally catholic.      though never addressed on - panel in the 70′s daredevil run,     i’d say that natasha was shifting from atheism to agnosticism during their relationship.       however,     religiously,     things got a little more complicated when natasha began a relationship with  HERCULES.      yes,     that hercules.      ancient greek god,     heracles,     son of zeus,     figure of myth.      of course,     we cannot forget that natasha also had a teammate in  THOR  when she joined the avengers.       as someone who was not exposed to the concept of a god for the first thirty or so years of her life,      this was no doubt somewhat of a shock,      even if she never showed it.      assimilating into a nation that believed freely,      being close to a devout catholic,     knowing two separate gods from two separate pagan religions   …   it threw her for a loop.      but it also opened up a whole new world for her in terms of how people actually view their religions.

as a christian myself,     God is a being that is so intrinsic to my life    ——    i literally do not know how i could live without Him.      & i think that through the people she was around,     especially matthew,      natasha saw this.       & through interacting with hercules & thor,      natasha realized that all these ancient beliefs,     these religions,      could have some truth in them since their deities actually  EXISTED.      but still,     there remains a distinction between how natasha views pagan religions whose figures she personally knows,     & how she views a God that she cannot see.     she knows hercules exists,     she knows thor exists.     she has been to mount olympus & conversed with the pantheon,      she has seen odin,      fought alongside brunnhilde,      against loki   ——–   she knows without a doubt that these deities exist.     but she does not pray to them,      she does not devote her life to them,      she merely acknowledges that they are there.      & frankly,      if we’re just talking about hercules,      she’d much rather tell him what to do in a team setting,    & sleep with him,     than offer him prayers & supplication.

but if there were a God that natasha would believe in,      if there were a God that would define natasha’s agnosticism,      it would be the abrahamic God.      she knows the pagan gods exist,      but from what she sees of them,       their power is limited.     they fight,     they make the worst of humans,      & are far too hot headed & proud for her taste.       what she has heard of the abrahamic God,     however,     is that he is good,    merciful,    perhaps omnipotent,      & grants salvation even to those who do not deserve it.      AS  SOMEONE  WHO  HAS  DONE  SO  MUCH  WRONG  IN  HER  LIFE,      is steeped in sin,     kills like it is nothing,      & hides so many secrets within her heart,      this God,     this concept of a higher power is one that is attractive to her.      but for a person this complex,      it’s not that simple.      as someone described above,      she is also a person who has  SEEN  so much evil in this world.     she has seen men fight,     millions of people die in war & of starvation,      & it is extremely difficult for her to reconcile such a world with a creator that lets it fester like it does.      but she also believes that without a higher power,      without anything watching over the world,     she & everyone else is practically screwed.      in terms of her own belief & how it applies to her,      she also can’t quite  …  wrap her head around sin,      & how her own sins can be forgiven.     in  MARVEL  KNIGHTS  vol. 1,     natasha visits a church & goes to confession.     the first time in a very long time,     she admits,     & what she says is quite telling.

BEGIN  WITH  THE  LEAST  OF  YOUR  SINS.AREN’T  ALL  SINS  EQUAL ?      DOESN’T  EACH  ONE  OF  THEM  CONDEMN  US  TO  THE  SAME  FATE ?     IS  THERE  REALLY  A  DEGREE  TO  SIN,     FATHER ?      AM  I  EXCUSED  BECAUSE  THE  SINS  I  COMMITTED  WERE  IN  THE  CAUSE  OF  GOOD ?      CAN  HE  SEE  THAT  THE  DEED  IS  SOMETIMES  ISOLATED  FROM  THE  SOUL ?      DOES  GOD  SOMETIMES  LOOK  AWAY ?        natasha romanova,     marvel knights vol. 1,    #1

these are not the words of a woman who does not entertain the belief in a higher power.     NOR  are these the words of a woman who believes with clarity that this higher power can be defined.     & at the end of the day,      though she may mull over what she believes about God when she drifts to sleep,      she does not have the time nor energy to devote herself to a higher power,      especially when her life is already given to helping people herself.

though she does not yet know where she stands,      she does have a high respect for those who do practice religion,     or even just for the concept of a God.      & it has seemed to me that she thinks it is a concept that  SHOULD  be respected,     & untouched by those who would seek to taint it.      there are two instances that come to mind  ( both from black widow vol. 5 ),      the first when natasha is fighting against a man who calls himself  the  HAMMER  OF  GOD.      natasha thinks this is ridiculous,      insane,     & tells him that she thinks that somehow,    God cannot hear his prayers over his machine gun.     the other instance is when the  ‘ translator ‘  of  CHAOS / the PROPHET,    is offering natasha a part in their new movement to rid the world of evil,     through means that natasha does not support.      she ridicules him by saying that he cannot pretend to be jesus,     that he does not have the right to be the final arbiter of good nor to take away people’s will.      both of these instances are never explained in terms of natasha’s beliefs,     & i think are left there to be interpreted as one wishes,     but to me in context of natasha’s entire history,      they are indicators of a leaning towards belief,      of an acknowledgment of a God,     a higher power,     but nothing further.

ALL  OF  THAT  SAID,     i return to my short answer:     natasha considers herself agnostic,     & perhaps with a side of deism that she can’t quite put a finger on.     to me,    she is definitely  NOT  atheist,     which is what fanon / fandom so loves to pigeonhole her as.     but it’s not that simple,     & there’s ample evidence sprinkled across her canon that says otherwise,     much of which i probably haven’t even touched on here.     i hope this answers your question,     & i’m sorry if this was messy or complicated   ——-   there’s just so much to consider.      religion is never something easy,     because it isn’t just a set of frivolous beliefs,     it’s a way of life.     this is no different for natasha.     & since she herself is so complex,     so multi - faceted,     it only makes sense that her own beliefs are the same.

[hiatustory]

We are proud to present the hard work of all the awesome writers who responded to our first challenge! Below is a masterlist with all of this month's submissions, for everyone's enjoyment.

We hope you had as much fun as we did this month! 

Look out for May's challenge announcement, coming out very soon!

Alternative First Meeting Submissions Masterlist:

Falling for each other by @rinny-uck Words: 380, G Summary: It was crowded, the platform was full of the drunk, tired, and strange. It was 11:45, the tube was closing soon and the last train was about to make its way through the station. Sherlock Holmes sat on one of the benches, stuck between a woman drunk texting her significant other and the platform pillar.

Divinest Sense by @chriscalledmesweetie Words: 25,000, E Summary: John has been sectioned — deemed to be a danger to himself and others — and is facing six months in an experimental psychiatric treatment facility. After his recent drug overdose, Sherlock is being shipped off by his brother to live amongst the mad, as though this will somehow improve his mental health. What will happen when these two damaged men meet under the least auspicious of circumstances?

A Strange Meeting by @heartbreakholmes Words: 2,090, G Summary: In a world where each person is born with their soulmate's name inscribed upon their wrist, John Watson, tattoo artist, often finds himself covering them up for people. However, it seems cruel that one rather beautiful customer has not found his other half, yet still wants the word erased from his skin.

The New Man by @mama-orion Words: 6,400, T Summary: A new delivery man shows up with Sherlock’s takeaway one night, piquing his interest enormously. Over the course of several deliveries, they discover more about the other’s unique abilities and their mutual respect and intrigue grow. After they save a young couple from a hate-fueled attack, their own connection deepens. (Sweet, lightly silly, some tension that's quickly resolved.)

Ask by @maybe-strawberry-blue Words: 4,266, T Summary: Sherlock Holmes works alone at Hudson Florals, arranging bouquet after bouquet for boring, predictable people. There’s only one customer who ever catches his eye: John Watson. John woos Sherlock using the language of flowers.

The Right Way by @currently-in-my-mind-palace Words: 2,224, T Summary: John is shot. Somewhere in Afghanistan. When he wakes up, he’s in a hospital room in London. He’s not alone. In the bed besides him lies a comatose man …

Rainbow Skates by @tali-zora Words: 1,234, T Summary: John attends the London Pride Parade with Harry and Clara for the first time and meets the man of his dreams. On roller skates.

What’s in a Name? by @madamfandom-101 Words: 3,248, T Summary: John just wanted a drink after a long day at work, the last thing he wanted or needed was to break up a fight between a group of drunk men.

Diagnosis: murder by @johnlockismyreligion Words: 2,338, T Summary: John works in the A&E of an hospital; every night a junkie comes up in the waiting room, looking him intently, then goes away, and the doctor is determined to find out who he is.

Hero Pose™  by @tali-zora & @musing-out-loud Words 3,933, T Summary: After being discharged from the Super Soldier™ program due to injury John decides to combat his depressive boring life by fighting London’s first Supervillain; Loony Desperado. Appearances may not be all they appear, is Desperado the true villain in this tale?

Our Stories by @hollyberrypie Words: 2,072, T, Locked Summary: Sherlock and John meet for the first time in their university library, purely by chance! Or perhaps there’s something larger at play…

They Met at St Bart's by @londonlock Words: 532, T Summary:  In an alternative first meeting, Sherlock accepts the heart of an army doctor.

Afghanistan or Iraq? by @the-hopeless-existentialist Words: 3,407, T Summary:  John returns from Afghanistan broken and traumatised and Sherlock is struggling against his boredom and addiction. The pair meet in unlikely circumstances.

Learning the true language of love by @imnova Words: 9,122, M Summary:  Unilock. Sherlock is in a relationship with Jim, who abuses him (obviously). John is Mary's boyfriend, and tired of her lording her superior knowledge of languages over him. When they meet on a language-learning app, a happy end is guaranteed.

Best places to hide a body by @mirjamiarty Words: 4,911, T Summary: "The first time Sherlock saw him, the man was walking back and forth Montague street with a cane, clearly looking for something." A story in which John's therapist introduced him another hobby, instead of blogging.

Human Interest by @pipmer Words: 7,657, T Summary: Sherlock and John don’t meet at Barts on January 29th. Instead, they run into each other several months later -- at Mike Stamford’s wedding. The rest, as they say, is history.

Dessert Storm by @platinumdream  Words: 1,859 , T Summary: The rain was a slight drizzle on that day, spring-driven clouds weeping at the edges between swaths of uncharacteristic blue. Blooming green, verdant, telling tales of sky and soil, it was the only type of rain that could be happy instead of dreary, really, and it would make good environs for a short story.’John is in London after being discharged from the army. He has his pension, part-time work at a florist’s and has been assigned to his secondary job, writer, until he can take up locum doctor work again. Things are looking up. Really.

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[clonerightsagenda]

I quit writing Homestuck meta a long time ago, but I guess the pre-4/13 fervor is infectious, because this popped into my head and wouldn’t go away. So here’s some musings on Homestuck, the ending, and its portrayal (or rather, erasure) of character identity and agency.  

Let’s rewind back several years and a few subsubacts, to the meteor and battleship crews’ not so triumphant arrival in the combined session. Two of the kids’ number have been mind-controlled and forced to work for the Empress. Two have been thrown in prison. One has been banished to the outer reaches of space. The rest have been divvied up and placed on various Lands, given different tasks to be completed for the Empress. Even in beating SBURB and winning the game they have no escape, because she intends to rule the new universe they create… until it spawns Lord English and is destroyed.

Things look bleak. And things look even bleaker when Game Over rolls around, and most of the cast gets exterminated. But wait! John Egbert, Heir of Breath and leader of the Beta session, has gotten his hands on a miraculous artifact supposedly useful as a weapon against Lord English. He now has the ability to travel throughout time and space and to change things that usually cannot be changed. While his friends get wiped out, he fights the “tyrannous author” figure who has been telling their story wrong and wins. Surely with his newfound abilities, he will set things right and lead them to freedom.

Except.  Not really.

Oh sure, John “saves the day”. He uses his retcon abilities to create a new timeline where everyone lives and wins the game. But is it a victory? And did everyone really live?

I’m going to argue that the ending of Homestuck is a tragedy where characters’ identities are frequently ignored or overwritten in order to serve the utilitarian aims of the narrative (and Skaia). I do not make this argument believing Hussie intended it. I think the dip in quality and coherency at the end of Homestuck was the product of an author who was tired of his project, had lost track of a bunch of plot points and characters, and just wanted to be finished. But I do think its treatment of identity is drastically different from the rest of the work and sends some disturbing messages about how “happy” that ending really is.

Alternate Selves

Dave and Davesprite. Vriska and (Vriska). Pre- and post-scratch. Bro, Dirk, Hal. Throughout the comic, we’re shown that alternate selves are different people. They may begin as the same when they split apart, but in not too long, their personalities diverge as part of lived experience. Bro is not Dirk is not Hal. They have certain base characteristics and sometimes experiences in common, but they are different people. Most members of the fandom would agree that it’s silly to suggest that they aren’t.

And yet the ending of Homestuck asks us to accept something very similar. The Game Over iterations of characters are wiped out, and a new set takes their place. While earlier parts of the comic train readers to view the loss of any one iteration as significant and the introduction of a new iteration as something different (Rose’s grief over losing her mother cannot be completely abated by the introduction of Roxy; Rose’s mother is still dead. And I suspect the fandom would not have been pleased if Dave had died forever and Davesprite had been anointed sole Dave survivor.) this asks them to do the opposite. Oh, sure, the characters you’ve been following for years are dead and never coming back. But here’s a new set!

Even more eerily, the characters themselves go along with it. Rose, who saw a version of Roxy die in front of her, is perfectly content to greet a new version. GO!Roxy’s arrival absolves Jane of the guilt of killing her best friend, and apparently the other Alphas aren’t at all perturbed that the Roxy joining them has a different set of memories. (I’m not sure anyone even tells Dirk, who was out in space for all of this.) John, who has a history of looking down on alternate selves (his entire fraught relationship with Davesprite versus the “real” Dave, his proclamation of friendship with “past Terezi”) apparently has no problem meeting up with a version of his sister who has no memories of the three years he spent with another version of her, and neither does she. The GO! survivors slot right into the retcon kids’ lives to fill some available gaps, even though earlier they would have been considered separate people by the story, not replacements.

Characterization

I’m not going to get into how nearly everyone’s character arc and development got dropped (or expound on why ‘real people don’t have arcs’ is nonsense) beyond that the majority of characters get sidelined, used as means to an end, and/or objectified, which also impedes their agency and identity. That’s another post. But what I will focus on is how one character who gets brought to the front of the stage exemplifies the destruction of identity for the sake of utility that this ending seems to prioritize. That character is Vriska Serket.

Now, Vriska is a lightning rod of fandom de88. But identity and the negotiation, suppression, or recreation of it has always been a big thing for her. Vriska emulates Mindfang and adopts many of her nastier behaviors on Alternia in order to survive their violent culture and her dangerous lusus. This is the explanation for a lot of her actions, but it doesn’t excuse them. Throughout the story, she frequently teeters on the edge of realizing and accepting that her behavior is wrong (GO!Vriska gets closest, although she never quite makes it). Retcon!Vriska, though, has had that spark of self-awareness snuffed. Puffed up with self-importance over having reality literally rewritten to save her life, she’s cruel for the sake of cruelty and forces everyone else to go along with her power gamer strategy regardless of whether it’s a good choice. When she encounters GO!Vriska, who we can presume is closer to what Vriska might have been without all these toxic influences, she lashes out at her and seems disgusted by who she has become (her more authentic self?). GO!Vriska then wanders off, encounters Terezi, and vanishes from the story entirely. Retcon!Vriska is the one who “defeats” (?) Lord English before vanishing as well. She is sold as the missing ingredient that leads to a victorious timeline – the version of Vriska who has rejected and lost her true identity under a warped façade, turning into the monster she always fronted as. Inspiring.

The Dreaming Dead

(EDIT) Since we just talked about Vriska, let’s talk about her pawns. The dreaming dead get jerked around a lot throughout the story, but the first time Vriska and Aranea steal their minds, it’s supposed to be messed up. The image of Scorpio signs hovering over their blank expressions is eerie, and John (the hero) points out it’s ethically dubious. Later, Sollux bails because the whole thing makes him “feel dirty”. The first time dreamers die at English’s hand, it’s portrayed as horrific both through the presentation in Caliborn: Enter itself and Dave talking later about how after witnessing “the screaming and the killing” he’s had a hard time sleeping. We even recognize some of the dreamers - the version of John killed hails from Davesprite’s timeline, and we even followed his time with Vriska briefly. These ghosts have identities. We know them.

In Collide, though, dreamers are dispatched in droves without fanfare. They’re simply a distraction Vriska uses until she can get English with the weapon (although why she needed a diversion I’m not sure, since she doesn’t exactly try to sneak up on him). They change hands between ‘leaders’ without ever having voices of their own, and their deaths have no impact. It’s just visual noise. The dead only matter to the extent that they can serve main characters’ aims and the narrative. 

Ultimate Selves

In the last handful of pages of the comic, Hussie introduces the concept of “ultimate selves” through Davepeta. Apparently combo sprites can remember all iterations of themselves (although they don’t particularly act like it, but whatever). From this perspective, they find differences of selves meaningless, and inform Jade that every self is important because they help create your ‘ultimate self’, which is a compilation of all selves into a sort of Platonic ideal. This means, they tell poor Jade, that she didn’t really miss out on three years with her friends! Her ultimate self had a great time. Why this is supposed to be a consolation to this Jade, who had a shitty time, I am not sure.

Again, this flies against the established differences between selves that earlier Homestuck prizes. Alt selves have different identities. They’re different people. Claiming the boundaries between them are meaningless erases that. The concept of an ultimate self makes sense from a reader’s perspective. We get to see all the different paths the characters go down. We get to look at different selves and use that information to inform our reading of the character or our grasp of some of their inherent qualities. But that doesn’t apply to the characters themselves. It’s cold comfort telling this Jade that another version of her didn’t suffer alone for three years. She did. If this were leading up to some massive memory merge between timelines then I might acknowledge it held water, but as it is… it reads like the attempts of an author to justify a bad decision.

We have whatever Terezi did in Remem8er (a beautiful flash, but no one can quite determine what it meant) but we don’t know whether she actually accomplished retrieving any memories because she never gets to talk about it. (The flash also implies that every death spawns a ghost, which is directly contrary to previously established game mechanics so I won’t really get into it, but that does further complicate the whole identity thing we have going on here.) And I’m not sure I buy Davepeta’s pep talk at face value, as I’ll expand on in the next section.  

Sprites Squared

Oh boy. If you’ve followed me much you know I hold a grudge against these entities for a whoooole bunch of reasons. But among other things, they’re an excellent example of lategame Homestuck’s identity destruction at work.

The combosprites take characters in pretty bad shape – struggling with depression and alcoholism (and Nepeta, but she seems mostly along for the ride. I mean, she doesn’t even get a Heart symbol as part of Dp’s outfit) – and perk them right up. Setting aside the fact that this is weirdly like the whole ‘smile away your problems’ shtick in Trickster mode, something even more sinister seems to be going on. Neither of them act all that much how you’d expect them to. Davepeta doesn’t talk much at all like either of their components besides surface level quirks and cat puns, imo. Jasprose, after Rose died lamenting that she didn’t tell Kanaya she loved her, rebounds at lightning speed. But let’s move right on over to the smoking gun, where Davepeta suggests dating Jasprose shouldn’t be off the table, even if some of their components are related. “The Dave part of me is saying no no no,” they say, “but that brain tantrum just cracks me up”.

This seems to imply that the components of the combosprites are in fact 1) separate 2) sentient and 3) not pleased. And were sprites ever true unions of personalities? We don’t see much of Erisol or Fefeta, but as soon as he’s distressed, ARquius’s two components start speaking separately, and based on Tavros’s comment that being Tavris wasn’t that bad versus Tavris screaming that they’re an abomination, that sounds like it was mostly Vriska talking.

So if Davepeta doesn’t sound much like either of their components, and at least one of those personalities is still independently yelling somewhere in their subconscious, who ARE they? I’m not sure, but I’d sure take their cheerful promotion of “ultimate selves” with a heaping pound or two of salt. (EDIT) Especially as I’ve argued elsewhere that it’s in Skaia’s best interests  to have a bunch of game victors complacent about the sacrifice of hordes of people for the Big Picture, and sprites are a mouthpiece for Skaia and the game. And even more so since the message of the combosprites’ “fixing” of their components’ emotional distress seems to be that the way to achieve happiness is to stop being you, much as the Game Over kids were only able to stop suffering by ceasing to exist at all.

Retconbound

Finally, let’s look at John’s finest moment, altering the timeline so that everyone lives. He’s Breath – communication, freedom, travel – given ultimate agency by the juju powers. But… he doesn’t get much agency. He’s following Terezi’s orders, written in blood (Blood, an aspect of bonds and binding). And he seems rather unconscious or uncaring of the effect he’s having. After picking up the ring, he drops by a set of meteor kids recently transported onto LOMAX and enjoys a touching reunion, saying hi and hugging them… and then teleports off to make that never happen. What was the point of that display of friendship? What even happened to that group of kids, in a timeline with no ring of life? We don’t know, and the narrative suggests we shouldn’t care, any more than John does as he blithely flies away. We’re racking up a bunch of characters and timelines who are merely there to serve the narrative’s latest whim or need, not because they’re important in themselves.

And here’s the kicker. That juju, that magic device that saves the day? It’s powered by four Beta kids’ souls trapped inside it for eternity. We don’t know what timeline they come from, or whether they ever escape. They are faceless, voiceless, identityless plot devices that give John the ability to do what he does. They’re the culmination of how this narrative treats its characters in the endgame – as tools to get to the last page. Skaia doesn’t care who walks through the door, as long as it has warm bodies to hatch the frog and keep its cycle going. Homestuck, it seems, doesn’t care which set of characters prevails as long as it can close the damn curtains at last.

And the thing is, you could have gone somewhere with this. After all, how many troll ghosts are in the bubbles? Thousands. We don’t follow their story and then watch them die, but a bunch of versions of those characters we know and care about died and festered in the furthest ring. There could have been a point made about how Skaia is happy to consign groups of children to the scrap bin if they don’t fulfill its aims, how horrifying the whole system is and how little regard it has for life. Current set of tools broken? Fixing them would take too long and they’re not useful now, so bin ‘em and start fresh. Someone has to win. Doesn’t matter who. A quote by Hussie occasionally makes the rounds talking about how many Marios die before the end of a game, but we only care about the one who wins. Maybe that’s what he was going for, but I think he missed the mark tonally. (EDIT) Not to mention that the story’s biggest villain is a Lord of Time who, besides losing most of his own identity beyond a love of destruction long ago, is all about forcing people onto the paths that serve him despite what might be better for them and who has a whole subplot where he actually attempts to rewrite their story with crappy, subpar imitations of every character. You could easily have made a connection there, but that would suggest the villain triumphed in the end. Elements of the final flash almost seem to point in that direction, but the story still tries to play things off as a victory.

Because in the end, I think the Homestuck ending sucked. Some people say it’s a psycheout and the Epilogue will have more, or reveal that it was written by Caliborn, or whatever. Guess we won’t know until it arrives. But as it all stands now, I think it sucked a lot. And I could write about the dropped character arcs or messed up plot points, but I honestly try not to talk too much about post retcon HS because it depresses me that something I was so fond of ended so terribly. I wouldn’t have been happy if it had ended as a blatant tragedy, but I could have at least respected it a little more. But this? It’s not just that many characters sidelined and ignored, that plenty of important plot points are ignored or forgotten, that some of the writing and pacing is just poorly done. After an entire comic’s worth of emphasizing the differences between iterations of individuals and the importance and value of those independent lives, characters are treated as interchangeable and expendable as long as they get the job done. Utilitarianism rules the day. That’s how to win the game, to get this hulking behemoth of a tale to limp to its final rest. And the story tries to play this as a happy ending, and that’s the worst bit of all.

[voocioo-blog]

(Diff anon) Slave owner blogs in general would be highly touchy / controversial on their own, so you're unlikely to find them or people who'd want to go down that route. But if I might make a friendly suggestion? You can always 'explore' his past in drabbles and such; or if you do find someone willing to explore such topics, maybe do so off-site / in IMs? Mainly for both of your personal safeties and such. I wish you luck though! Your headcanons of Facilier are fascinating and very interesting!

[ oh, you’d be surprised at what people would role play as. i mean, have you seen the hetalia fandom at all lately? i’m all for people role playing whatever they want to, considering it’s fiction and as long as it’s done respectively and accurately -- without any historical revisionism. but in hetalia there were country blogs every where that dug into deep, sensitive subjects because they didn’t want to erase something of their country’s history. and i feel like it’s important to touch on it so we remember it happened and try to realize that in reality, it’s bad and that we should fight any tyranny could repeat the bad parts of history.

and on your note about drabbles, i could, you’re right. considering that the disney fandom is probably a lot more strict and tight with the things people role play. but that’s why i put in my rules that his backstory is a personal theory, and it could get touchy. and i would do drabbles, and i would love to do them, but they’ve just never got that much praise in the past. a few notes here and there, sure, and i cherish them. and it was partly because i’ve been so indulged in small, tiny fandoms these past few years. maybe it’ll be different since disney is so fucking huge.

but you just get  SO INTO THREADS  if you know what i’m saying? you feel the emotion, your muse gets pumpin’, and you get ideas from threads and you can craft parts of a backstory from threads and it would be PHENOMENAL if i could have a historical thread like that. where he’s practicing voodoo when he’s still a slave back in the 1800′s? but, knowing the disney fandom, you’re right, i doubt it’s gonna happen. ]