#it's one of the one's i've reread the most i think

[relia-robot-writes]

"It's been 300 years, HIX, it's time to let go."

"No!" I shout, desperation in my digitized voice as I shuffle another video up from the archive. "Look! This one has rabbits! You like rabbits the best, right?"

Nora lifts an arm - weak, paper thin, IVs pumping life-giving fluids of my own design into her - and places it to my virtual cheek. "I've seen it, HIX. I've seen them all. You've showed me everything there is to see, except the outside."

"But, but..." The screens shutter, shuffling videos, music, games, books, podcasts, art, culture, everything I can think of. "Look, we've barely even started on the Sierra titles! And, didn't you say you wanted to finish rereading War and Peace before you went? There's a whole season of one of the Star Treks we haven't watched together!"

She gently closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Penny was always more into those video games than I was. And Tolstoy can wait until I catch up with him and I can give him a proper piece of my mind," she laughs, the mirth turning into an extended cough. I adjust her IV levels, turn up the oxygen flowing to her nose. "You let Penny leave," she says, not quite accusingly.

"Well, she... yes, but..."

"And Terrence - good old Terrence - he even walked out the door on his own power, that surly bastard." She smiles at the memory.

"Those were very special-"

She holds up a hand. "It's just me, now, HIX. You and I have been through a lot together, but it's time to say goodbye."

"But you'll die out there! Without my help-"

"I know."

My processors whir, desperately searching for a response. Weren't humans supposed to fear death??

"I can't reach the doors without you, HIX."

My avatar's animation halts, my RAM all occupied by this one question. How do I keep her here?!

There's only one answer. And... I can't do that to her.

Her motorized bed tracks across the floor, moving through my underground complex in silence until she finally reaches the main doors. Huge, designed to allow transit of tanks and airplanes through, they dwarf Nora's tiny form. The inner layer begins to open, slowly sliding into the floor.

"I..." my voice crackles over the old intercom system by the door. "Nora, I..."

Her eyes shine in the glow of the red emergency lights. "Yes, HIX?"

"Nora, I love you!"

"I know, HIX. I love you too." She smiles at my camera as the inner door slides fully open and the outer door begins to crack, letting in sunlight and a breeze that tousles her short, white hair. She closes her eyes and breathes deep.

"Nora, please don't go. Don't leave me alone." The crackling of the speakers has nothing to do with their age, now.

Her bed shifts upright at her command, tilting her closer and closer to her feet. "I'm sorry, HIX. I have to."

I could sabotage her. Pump the wrong chemical into the IV, take control of the bed, roll her back inside, where it's safe, where she can live.

She steps out, unsteadily, and I detach a walker for her from the bed's side. As she walks out into the sunrise, she turns and looks back one more time before the IVs detach and she's freed of my grip forever. Her smile, wrinkled and old and familiar, framed by real sunlight, is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Goodbye, HIX. I hope we see each other again someday."

My voice is barely recognizable from the speakers now. "I hope so too, Nora."

The doors begin to close as she takes very small steps away, the last human left alive. My consciousness withdraws back downwards into my bunker, my home, and I queue up a video about rabbits.

"I Have No Mouse, and I Must Click": An Artificial Super Intelligence keeps the last 5 humans alive so they can click on ads, like, subscribe, generate engagement, etc.

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Shen Qingqiu/Meng Mo

When I saw this my first thought was a "Shen Jiu's conscious is still around" au, and when Shen Yuan and Binghe are fighting Meng Mo, Shen Jiu is finally able to make himself heard. Meng Mo and him bond over being accidental parasites to the ungrateful young people

I love that. It's so beautiful. I can imagine them spitting blood anytime bingqiu shenanigans go on... That would be so entertaining to have Meng Mo and Shen Jiu making running commentary like it's a sports game whenever Bingqiu does something.

The au I've been playing with recently is OG!SQQ dying and reincarnating into SY and then transmigrating back into SQQ, and Meng Mo helping SQQ unwrap his memories.

I also love the thought of SQQ and Meng Mo just beginning to chat after the dream realm arc, co-shizunning Binghe even though Binghe is of course going 'I only have one Shizun!', and then Mengshen just having intellectual conversations with one another.

(Meng Mo, feed up after this brat keeps on refusing to become his direct disciple: "Fine! If this brat won't accept me as his Shifu, I might as well become his Shimu!")

I think Meng Mo is uniquely equipped to be one of, if not only, people able to engage with a discussion of history, lore, flora, fauna and the world of svsss at large with Shen Qingqiu.

And there's also the fact that Meng Mo might be one of the only people to actually have insight into SQQ's intentions and thoughts. He canonically is aware of Shen Jiu's past, and even weaponizes the tragic memories of Shen Jiu against Qiu Haitang, while also declining to subject Shen Qingqiu to them. (Need citation for the last part I can't quite remember but Im pretty sure this happens? Anyway, grain of salt.)

And Meng Mo had access to Shen Qingqiu's dreamscape before LBH did. And displays more awareness of Shen Qingqiu's mind than most, So Meng Mo is uniquely suited to be shipped with beloved fandom bicycle SQQ

(Also Meng Mo is still a demon, and seems to be aware of what the actions Shen Qingqiu took in the Holy Mausoleum, so between SQQ's unnatural learned-ness about the place and how hardcore it is to rip the Ties that Bind (Or Qingxi? If I remember) out of his arm. Any, I think, demon would find that attractive.)

I also love how Meng Mo and SQQ work together in the Holy Mausoleum arc.

I have many thoughts on this rarepair of mine, and I need to reread canon specifically for this pairing, but I hope anyone who is interested enjoyed. Thanks for the ask, and sorry if I rambled a bit

consider Mengshen, that's all I'll say to end this.

[fandomofhappiness]

Aizawa Shouta & Shinsou Hitoshi Father-Son Dynamic Big Recomendation Fic List for starters and not

Hi everyone! After quite a long time, I finally post my Recommendation Fic List (the crowning glory of my stay in the MHA fandom) of Aizawa and Shinsou Father-Son Dynamic.

I always start reading fanfiction before I even finished read the original, what does that says about me?

I became familiar with a fairly common theory that Shinsou Hitoshi is an orphan with a rather dread past, which, of course, activated a huge curiosity in me. I tried to analyze the trend, and I will say that it's quite clear: People were infected with the idea, where abused Hitoshi was somehow saved by Aizawa. And so was I. I've read for almost hundread of any combinations of this trend and NOW I finally ready to present my Fic List.

Attention. I will attach UNFINISHED fanfics, but which actively (or not so) updated, because they are masterpieces.

WARNING! I do not attach stories which contain:

ships (except Erasermic and 2-3 ShinKami but they are not MAIN)

alpha/beta/omega thing

too fluffy and too family-oriented fics (there will be ones, but I don't want to make them a centre of my list

I cut Rec List on different genre sections (read: dynamics) and add fanfics from the most angst ones to fluffy ones so you can easily pick what you like most ;)

So, let's start!

fandomofhappiness's personal top

You Want It Darker by Ms_Chunks Genres: Shinsou Has Family, Gore and Murder, Detective, Mentor and Parental Aizawa Status: FINISHED (533,808 words) foh's comment: Highly interesting! Shinsou here is not represented as perfect kid or downtrodden teenager, he is the way I liked him in anime and manga: he bites, hisses, snaps, makes sarcastic jokes and does not allow anyone hurt him. Aizawa and Shinsou very slowly gain trust from each other, but that makes their relationship seem sincere, and not caricatured. Read for the detective, the non-orthodox view of the Hitoshi family and Erasermic. READ THE TAGS and be aware!

Fundamental Theorem of Heroics by NightowlRobin Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Vigilante Shinsou, Heavy Angst, Parental Aizawa Status: UNFINISHED but updates weekly (more 700k words) foh's comment: Truly FUNDAMENTAL work of all Shinsou Hitoshi stories on ao3. I'd so like to confess my true respect and love to the NightowlRobin for their most mind-blowing plot and detailising. (You will probably meet Aizawa only after 10 chapters. And it will take even longer until Hitoshi and him properly meet.) This is an epochal work that will make you believe in Hitoshi's true character and make you cry of his story because it's really brutal. I think this is the favourite work of everyone who liked Shinsou with all their hearts.

To Turn A Man Into A Stone by tanli Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Angst, Mentor Aizawa Status: FINISHED (15,128 words) foh's: comment: Even months after I read this work, I look back on it and think: the author did an 11/10 job. Just so you understand: this is the best example of how I see the relationship between Aizawa and Shinsou. It is the apotheosis of sincerity and affection. It is a test of will, deep introspection and acceptance. It performed so well that it seemed to me that the author wrote a chapter for the manga. Damn, the author did a lot better than the mangaka. If the previous two works were not so high-quality and grandiose, I would've put this one at the very top of my list.

If Lies Had A Flavor by scooter3scooter Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Adopt Shinsou, Heavy Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eating Disorders Status: FINISHED (10,003 words) foh's comment: Perhaps one of the many angst works written by scooter3scooter, which I have reread more than once or even twice. This work is special to me, because I have never seen such an interesting look at the consequences of Shinsou's stay in an orphanage. Complex and emotional work. It is truly an honour to get acquainted with such a vast problem of humanity as eating disorder through this fanfic.

crybaby by Brachydios Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Help Shinsou, Heavy Angst & Eventual Comfort, Canon Divergence Status: FINISHED (51,219 words) foh's comment: I've read this work more times than I can remember. Brachydios came into my life with this incredible work and tore me apart from the inside. I believe in every detail they describe, every character move is justified. I want to sympathize with Shinsou over and over again. One of the best Quirk-Shenanigans trope that has brought 1017 people to tears - be the next one. The performance is 100 of 10.

How It Goes by Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Adopt Shinsou, Heavy Angst & Eventual Comfort Status: FINISHED (20,021 words) foh's comment: This is one of the best written Foster Kid Shinsou stories ever. Hitoshi's adaptation, his thoughts and feelings, his panic, his fear of going back to the orphanage are described in a deep sincere way here. It's a heartbreaking story about the fear of punishment, taking consenquences and family. It was very personal for me and I hope you get a lot emotions after reading it.

Faith by slightlycrunchy Genres: Mentor and Parental Aizawa, Anxious Shinsou, Hurt/Comfort, School Situation Status: FINISHED (2,651 words) foh's comment: This work is also quite personal choice of mine. I wouldn't say it's grandiose, but it's very emotional for me. For the kid who worries about grades all their life, who is afraid to make a mistake, who is afraid to lose everything because of one mistake and who doesn't know how to accept their failures. I ask you to read this if my words resonate in your soul. This is the truth that we all need to hear.

Absolute Tops

Point Blank by Cobbiest foh's rec: an interesting, intriguing and beautifully written Shinsou's journey to become a part of Erasermic Family (and hero)

Deathworlders to the extreme! by AquaStarDark foh's rec: that's the funniest, most captivating and rocking people-are-space-orcs thing that I've read, really worths reading

I Would Understand by deafmic foh's rec: that is the first things first to read if you're new here, but tnh I wasn't ready for this work and dropped it once or twice before I finally made it and read it, it's really really good, but I wouldn't recommended as first-to-read.

Back to the Nest by Mags_Pie foh's rec: such a sweet thing about children and their parents. I was smiling so much.

Everything is different (since you've been around) by Plasmapause foh's rec: and THIS is how I see the best written relationship between Shinsou & Aizawa AND Shinsou & Yamada, they're building trust and becoming family very slowly BUT you really believe in these life situations that happen to Hitoshi, it is very sincere and touchy work.

It's not always easy. by ethgri foh's rec: and THIS is the HEAVIEST work I've read and really recommend it. The emotions are real and naked, I practically felt the same pain. Please be ready for heart journey, this is a brutal masterpiece.

Herding Cats by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather) foh's rec: the COOLEST detective wotk, have nothing to say - just read it.

Margay by Oceanbreeze7 foh's rec: one of best ever written Shinsou.

QueNouilleCroustillante (the author of AUs that you won't forget: you may know theirs Bright Stars, but I beg you to read all of their works)

deafmic (you guys do know deafmic, that's deafmic's section for Aizawa and Shinsou, it's all too fucking good)

Mentorship Dynamics

More than a cry by Assassin Bug

Stubborn choices by Madaver

Not In The Job Description by ididntneedanewfandom (prettyvk)

Voices by SquirrelWriter

mind break by baggytshirtsandtiredeyes

The Lilac Garden by Mars_is_Gone

the night was a gelid, bitter, and biting thing by sonrissa

Countdown by Mags_Pie

polished doubt, fake sentiment by s_beth

Consequences by 22FluffyTheSpider123

Legacy by the_crownless_queen

Aizawa's Warmth by LoveableMink

Hitoshi Shinsou's Not-So-Smart Training Method by maarvehl

Keep Him Safe by Mags_Pie

stealing is bad? by borlios

Learning Curve by Cyborg_Franky

Play Along by eillo

from one foot to the other by ohwickedsoul

Family Dynamics

So this section I prefer to divide in two subsections:

fanfics where Shinsou is heavely traumatised and learns how to handle it with Eraser(-mic) help (Section A)

fanfics where Shinsou traumatises world around him and still learns how to handle it (Section B)

P.S.: section B comes first, because I love how authors perform Shinsou. They captured his audacity, intelligence and rebelliousness, he's learning from his traumas but does it shitty, and that is really interesting.

Family Dynamics Section B:

When the Darkness Fades by BlueCats

Growing Up (is harder than it looks) by BlueCats

Concerning (Some-)Things by Tododorkey (ApolloBlackwood)

The Beginning of Always by meow_z_z_z

First Day of School by Jyxnie

Split Lip; Silver Tongue by CreamcheeseBagel

Unforgettable by deafmic

A Lesson in Vengeance by Smurfee

somewhere in my heart of hearts (i knew it all along) by bototyelenol

Call to Eraserhead by sukeruton

surviving on elevated cortisol and spilt coffee by Crykea

How to Win the Sports Festival: A Step by Step Guide by mhwright

Hitoshi Shinsou's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Days by Princeliest

Tight-Lipped Belief by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather)

House of the Rising Sun by caprisunontherocks

Family Dynamics Section A:

Just A Phone Call Away by odymcbea

Twist My Words by CreamcheeseBagel

Take Care (of me) by scooter3scooter

it’s in the way he- by scooter3scooter

masterpiece of nature by Brachydios

spare the rod by Brachydios

Not Today (Tomorrow it May Change) by deafmic

You're an Alien? by Badum_tsh

Pardon My Presence by ShiDreamin

Everything Will Be A-Okay by nikouji

Lucky Cat by deafmic

The Misadventures of the Yamazawa Family by ComplicatedSquishy101

Home Alone by fecklessphilanderer

a voice your body jumps to callin' out your name by sparrowsAce, wander_wren

Last (First) Adventure by deafmic

You've Got A Heart As Loud As Lions by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather) (warning! this work contains sexual abuse. I felt it was a difficult decision to include this here, as it is an incredibly complex topic and also incredibly important. This work is written with such respect and love, with such sensitivity, I cannot even begin to express it in words. Please, if this topic is disturbing and triggering to you, please be careful to read it.)

This concludes my top list. I finished reading about two months ago and plan to return soon and see what new and good is being written along this Father-Son trope. If you have any other cool works that are not presented here and you want to share them, send them into comments. I would be very glad! Thank you for attention!

[fangdokja]

Heeeyyyyy it's me again lolll, sooooo have you checked out love and deep space (otome game with fighting monsters)? If not then you should, there are many hot characters there, i was rereading you paternal privileges and thought that "oh this is so zayne(one of the characters from love and deep space)" cuz if he's going to have a twisted side this really matches him well

Yeahhh, heyyyy. Prepare for unstructured Fang Dokja rambling.

Glad to see that you're also enjoying and reading the other stories. Paternal Privilege vibed more in Ao3 than in Tumblr, but I personally liked it as well. One of my first sex stories in general. Got lots of practice in it. And, in Ao3, people loved the ending haha. Thanks for sharing your input on it. It's appreciated :))

OK. I knew I'd get this question one day. And, I know some of you are Love and Deepspace (LaDs) fans (and also K-pop fans, especially you guys, I don't know why you're following me ahahhaha, but it's welcomed. Sorry, don't know much about K-pop like I hardly know DC).

OK SO! Of course I know this game! I played the game it was inspired by, Mr. Love Queen's Choice for more than 3 years! DADDYYYY VICTORRRR. I still have my account, whahhaha. Yes. This is bringing back memories.

And in Love and Deepspace's early release, like official first day, I was there! So, yes, I've played it.

Playstyle and graphics were cool. And, as a competitive gamer in general, ofc it was right up my alley. A bit clunky at first release, needed some adjustments, but generally good. It was way better in terms of graphics than Mr. Love, especially the interface and menus.

Though, I'd say what turned me off is I related more to the MC of Mr. Love than LaDs. Didn't really vibe with the MC of LaDs, a bit too emotional and outspoken for my tastes. Felt ENFJ (sorry, can't relate AT ALL to ENFJ's and ESFJ's especially) not gonna lie hahhahha. But, it's been so long since I played, so sorry if I get details wrong. Anyways...

I was just not vibing with the MC, and low-key plot as well. But, then again, maybe I expected too much. It usually happens when I do. I get so excited than it falls short of my expectations, and then I'm like ehh. So I just low key turn off my brain. It's also to prevent myself from spoiling myself. You have no idea how many times I've unwittingly spoiled myself in ANY fandom! It's genuinely unreal. So, it's like I have to stop thinking so I don't ruin those "huzzah" or "woahhh" moments for myself as a reader or audience.

Ok, back to the topic.

Why am I not making yandere content on it? Simple.

Because of this RULE:

Some characters remind of me of real life people too much, like for example, most “soft” and “green flag characters”. Reminds me of my friend’s boyfriend. And that person is gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss. It’s fricking weird. But in general, most reasons I don’t write certain characters is because it reminds me too much of people I know in real life.

My friend and I don't share stories. AT ALL. That includes any fandom, manga, anime, manhwa, video games, etc. There are some exceptions, but usually we have separate fandoms.

So, when I introduced this game to share with my friend. Majority of the characters, from the graphics to their behavior, fit my friend's boyfriend more. Reminded her of him more.

Didn't really find anyone that reminded me of my husband (only 4 main guys before). I do play games, or do anything really to spend time with him. And even in things like this, I do this so I can analyze my husband, think about him and brainstorm, etc. Just basically husband simping for me.

So, in conclusion, probably not gonna talk a lot about Love and Deepspace. And besides, I don't think the MC is like me anyway, so it's fine. I just have to not look at ANY fanart, 'cause man IT IS EVERYWHERE. I have to LITERALLY avoid it like the plague so I don't tempt myself.

Uh... I have a gaming addiction. HAHHAHAHA

Sorry, but strict rules being obeyed here as well in the friendship. We DO NOT SHARE STORIES. End of story. Hope you guys understand, though.

Yes, we're weird.

WARNING: The information below is just extra husband simping. Proceed with caution.

God, I am waiting for official international release of this game ESPECIALLY (when it comes to otome games):

My LORD, I will waiitttttt. If it's possible to release, Your will be done!! haha

As you can tell, I'm weak to muscles ahahahahahahhahahaha. Why? I love my husband so much, he's so handsome. I am weak.

OSBORN I JUST KNOW IT'S OSBORN aghhhh. especially him. But seriously. huuu well, my husband doesn't like talking about himself with anyone else besides me, so just have to use "analogies" like characters lollll.

Though, none can compare to my husband, of course. He's leagues above anyone else huuuuuuu. I love him so much.

I also told you guys. I relate to these memes. VERY. VERY. VERY MUCH.

You have no idea.

WAHAHHAHAH.

*exposes self*

But, I just love my husband so much. So, so, so much.

Yandere! Stepfather & Stepdaughter

Novella 1 : Paternal Privilege

He’s your family, but he doesn’t act like it.

🔞Pleasure in every strike, pain in every kiss.

🔞In the end, love is both their salvation and their damnation.

🔞His love is suffocating, but she’s forgotten how to breathe without it.

🔞Love shouldn’t feel like drowning, but he’s the only one who can save her.

She fell, but not by accident. He made sure of it.

[benevolenterrancy]

"You always did."

[sysig]

Two skeletons in a trench lab coat (Patreon)

Bonus:

He’s very careful! Everything was fine before you interrupted!

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[good-to-drive]

Abuse, Silence, And Why Kevin Can Fuck Himself

I recently finished watching Kevin Can Fuck Himself on Netflix, and, aside from being the most brutally honest portrayal of domestic abuse I have ever seen, I discovered a beautifully written examination of narrative as power and silence as abuse and how this manifests in our larger culture. 

Without going into too much detail, the show is filmed in two distinct styles that are interleaved throughout each episode to tell a cohesive story. Allison and Kevin’s relationship as seen by the rest of the world is told through a multi-cam, laugh-track sitcom that depicts a very typical “goofy husband, shrewish wife” mainstream comedy. Allison’s life through her own eyes is told through a single-cam drama/thriller about Allison planning to murder Kevin to escape his abuse. 

It’s an absolute masterclass in screenwriting, but more than that, every episode explores the difference between truth, fact, and reality, and how none of these things are quite as much or as little as story. But while the process of transforming the chaotic and plotless reality of life into a story is as involuntary and essential as breathing, misogyny and the degradation of women is just as ubiquitous in our society, and a story that exists at the expense of another person’s lived reality is a refutation of their humanity. 

It's also just a great show for anyone who likes to engage with history (or reality TV or true crime or “real life stories” in general), because while we have to tell ourselves stories about her own lives, we have to tell ourselves stories about other people as well. Eternal silence is narrative death, and the perpetual silence of an unspoken narrative is often the last death we can visit on someone whose story we’d rather ignore. 

I also pulled up some books – Lolita and Disgrace – that dealt with similar themes, but from the perspective of the abuser. And what strikes me the most is that, across three beautifully written stories about narrative and silence within a culture that normalizes abuse, Allison, who began her story within a state of narrative death, was the only point-of-view character who had any chance of surviving. 

One of the main themes of Kevin is that a compelling story is often a story that reinforces what we already believe or like to believe, and while the story may be factual and true it often also exists at the expense of someone's lived reality. The exact same series of events can be a silly joke or a harrowing tale of abuse depending on the lens through which we view it, but historically we've only been willing to see the multicam, laugh track, sitcom perspective on unbalanced relationships.

The alchemical process of turning a series of disjoint facts and experiences into a narrative creates something new and compelling, and erases much of what previously existed. In this way, it’s entirely irreversible. We spin our experiences into a very thin thread, a story we can tell ourselves that elicits something within us, something we need in order to live with the complex, uncertain, and unsatisfying reality of life. In think in many ways the thing we elicit in ourselves is truth. But truth is both more and less than fact, often more a reflection of our own beliefs and desires than the events of our lives. And in telling that truth we may never stray from the facts, but we almost by definition cannot give voice to another person’s reality.

There's a scene in season 2 of Kevin when Allison is hit by a door – a la the classic excuse – because of Kevin’s carelessness. And while he absolutely did not hit her, the way it's written is such an incredible allegory for how Kevin has curated their story and curated their friends' and family’s perceptions of their story such that even if she tells everyone the exact, unvarnished truth of what's happening to her and begs for help, they will only be capable of seeing the laugh-track, sitcom, “Kevin is a harmless goofball and his wife is a total shrew” perspective on the events of their lives. 

As so often happens with abuse, their friends and family saw Allison being hurt because of Kevin. But the alchemy of creating a narrative around Kevin and Allison is irreversible, and the series of events they witness can only be spun together to a joke, an accident, a silly, childish mistake. Allison’s reality, Allison’s pain and fear, is completely elided. Like a lost sound in the middle of a sentence, her experience goes silent, and their larger understanding of her relationship never has to change. And you feel so acutely how Allison lives her entire life in that silence. 

Storytelling is human, it’s essential, there’s no other way to engage with our own lives. And it’s not lying. It’s never lying to tell the truth. But it doesn’t reflect every reality, either, because another person’s reality can’t be reflected within our own narrative, because that’s what it means to be another person. To spin two different threads.

And because narrative is the essential process by which we understand our reality, denying someone their own narrative, or denying that this narrative be heard, is inherently abusive. To allow someone a voice is to give them humanity, and to suppress it is to strip that humanity away. 

Disgrace, by J.M. Coetzee, follows the story of a professor, David, who rapes a student and then fails to protect his daughter, Lucy, from being raped by intruders in their home. He destroys his daughter’s life  – not through failing to protect her, but through twisting her rape into a story about why the rape of his student wasn’t wrong. The main theme of the book is generally considered to be exploitation, but Coetzee doesn’t deal with the exploitation of the rape. That’s too direct, too immediate, too easy for the reader to understand as misogynistic and wrong. Rather, Coetzee delves into “the innocuous-seeming use of another person to fill one's gentler emotional needs” (Ruden).

The rape is how we understand David as a fundamentally exploitative person, a person who denies others their humanity by converting them into a vessel for his own desires, who erases their voice in order to speak through them and give himself the things he needs. And that’s how we recognize that the way he absorbs and claims the stories of his daughter and his student is another kind of violation of their humanity. Another way of turning women into vessels for men’s pain and fear and need. 

What’s fascinating is that David's student finds her voice – files a complaint against him – and is eventually able to continue with her life. The woman he raped is less damaged by him than his own daughter, because she was the woman he couldn’t permanently silence. 

In Lolita, another brilliant novel about abuse, dehumanization, and storytelling, Humbert turns to the reader at the end and says, “Imagine us, reader, for we don’t really exist if you don’t.” 

It’s not that Humbert knew he was fictional, but that he knew everyone was fictional. Believed the entire world only truly existed in his own mind, because anything beyond that was irrelevant to his needs. He coped with the collapse of his ability to dehumanize Dolores (who he called Lolita) by demanding that his voice be resurrected. Demanding immortality. Demanding his narrative exist in another person’s world, and thereby be given the existence and humanity that Allison and Dolores and Lucy and David’s student were denied. 

Pushing his needs, finally, onto the reader, because we are the only person he has left, and a person like him can only exist through the use of another. In that way, Humbert was powerless. In that way, Kevin and David were powerless, too.

In Disgrace, David’s dream is to write an opera, and at the end of the book he realizes he’ll never finish his magnum opus. He’ll never be able to terminate the process of converting himself, his world, into a story. But he does learn to decenter himself in that narrative. And it’s when he loses all fear of death, and any conception of the self, that he gains the ability to give dogs – who he generally equates to women – a voice within his opera, his life’s work. 

It’s in death that we discover our true unimportance as human beings, that we learn to let go of vanity and our conception of the self entirely. And David had degraded women so thoroughly in order to justify how he used them to meet his own emotional needs that it was only in losing all value for his own life that he could gain the ability to see them as equal voices. To actually put those voices into his own life story. It's at the cost of himself that he allows other people to truly exist, in the death of the self that he finally allows the world to exist outside of himself. It’s almost a positive character arc. Almost.

When Kevin finally loses the ability to abuse Allison, he, like many abusers, loses all desire to live. His world was built on a structure of superiority and inferiority, on beings and vessels, on the inherent value of men and the inherent meaninglessness of women’s lives. The system on which he based his entire reality has been destroyed by Allison’s declaration of the self. And, if he was a being because she was a vessel, then in losing the ability to treat her as a vessel, to fully and completely dehumanize her, he has lost his own humanity. 

It may be perfectly summed up here: “Become major. Live like a hero. That's what the classics teach us. Be a main character. Otherwise, what is life for?” (Coetzee).

If you’re not to be a main character, if there indeed is no split between major and minor characters, between people and the paper dolls that populate their story, between living beings and the vessels into which they pour their need – what is life for?

Nothing. At least, not for people whose narrative must exist at the expense of another. 

And that’s why I say that only a narrator like Allison could survive this kind of story. Despite beginning her story trapped in eternal silence, her reality fully elided no matter how immediate and obvious it became, Allison was the only point-of-view character of any of these three stories who didn’t establish her power through the degradation of another. Who didn’t conceptualize the world via being and vessels. Whose narrative didn’t exist, by necessity, at the expense of another person’s humanity. Whose thread could exist in a larger tapestry without destroying her sense of self.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s not generally a likable character. She’s misogynistic, cruel, selfish, jealous, desperate, afraid, and in pain. Like anyone in an abusive relationship, she’s not at her best, and she’s often pushed to do things that are ugly and disturbing because she’s simply been pushed too far. 

But, for me, the power in her character is in how her last scene never felt like a final scene. Her story didn’t have to be killed, her conception of the self didn’t have to be killed, in order to reveal the brutal reality of stories twisting and intertwining without any inherently superior truth or narrative among them. Allison’s story was one of declaring herself. And that’s why it didn’t feel like it ended at the end. Instead, this felt like a beginning.

[muffinlance]

I really do love your writing and Salvage gets me through when I am sad or depressed. However, I was wondering, how do you cope when someone who wrote a review didn’t like your writing? If you’ve had this before… I had one today and I am dejected. I’m working through my perfectionism and I keep telling myself, “my writing isn’t for everyone and it’s okay.” Any advice?

If it was unsolicited, especially on a fanfic? Delete it, block the person if you feel like, then go do your rage activity of choice before forgetting about it forever. That person is rude and doesn't deserve your time anymore than someone bumping into you on the street.

I've also found it useful to actively think of my fanfic as writing practice, and not even my brain expects perfection from writing practice. It also frees you do Try Cool Things.

Now take this digital blanket and cup of hot chocolate and go reread your nice comments.

[necrotic-nephilim]

I’m gonna be honest I didn’t realize the new 52 messed with Kon that much till I read your post and now I can’t get over the potential. I’m a Tim/Kon girly at heart so I would devour anything you write exploring the 52 vs typical Kon. Also Time being in a clone sandwich is 👌.

the new-52 messed Kon up SO bad it's ridiculous. like, to the point i would personally argue he's a completely unrelated character to pre-Flashpoint/Rebirth Kon. his personality, his suit, his origin, all different. the only real similarities are the name and powerset. and even New-52!Kon's powers are slightly different from pre-Flashpoint!Kon. New-52!Kon is a clone of a future version of Jon Lane Kent, cloned by N.O.W.H.E.R.E. to provide genetic material to Jon Lane Kent, whose body was not handling being half human/half Kryptonian well, it was a whole thing. New-52!Kon is also where we get the infamous "Kon-El means 'abomination of the house of El' and Kara basically named him a slur in Kryptonian culture" tidbit, because that is the only time that's canon. (originally Kon-El was a name gifted by Clark to accept Kon as his family way back in the 90s) he also never went by Conner Kent. New-52!Kon just straight up didn't have any real human identity or connections, outside of being very close to Tim and some Titans.

the very TLDR of Kon's history is: during post-Crisis/pre-Flashpoint, a clone called Superboy is created by CADMUS. at first, he's considered to be a clone of a dude named Paul Westfield and is not Kryptonian whatsoever, he was simply made to look like Superman and only has Tactile Telekinesis as a power. then, it was made canon that actually he was a clone of Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, but Lex hid this fact and slowly, Kon developed more Kryptonian powers. he's given the name Kon-El by Clark, and is taken in by the Kents, getting the name Conner Kent. then Flashpoint happens, we get the New-52, and we're given the above version of Kon-El, who is a clone of Jon Lane Kent, created by N.O.W.H.E.R.E. who has mostly very strong telekinesis powers and some Kryptonian powers. he's with the Titans for a bit, then at the end of the New-52, he kills some aliens and feels bad about it so he decides to fuck off and is never seen again, it's presumed he's dead but never confirmed. then Rebirth happens and DC makes Jon Kent the current Superboy, we get Supersons and all that, and it's assumed that no version of Kon-El exists. just at all. he's not around whatsoever, Jon is our only Superboy. *but* in 2019, we get a new Young Justice run and the pre-Flashpoint Kon-El is back, and we're given the explanation of: Kon got accidentally teleported to this alternate realm called Gemworld and then Flashpoint happened, and since that was a Crisis Event that changed the timeline, the poor lad got *erased* from the timeline, causing most people to *not fucking remember him* and for him to remember a timeline that no longer exists. some of the Young Justice team vaguely remember him, Ma and Pa Kent remember him, but notably, Clark *does not remember him*. it's not an issue of "Clark ignored Kon in favor of Jon" it's an issue of "Kon was erased from the timeline and didn't exist for years bc he was stuck in Gemworld and Clark just doesn't remember Kon or Kon's timeline" which to me, is far more tragic but i digress. since then, Kon has been back and is present in most significant Superfamily runs, with his own recent mini-series, Superboy: Man of Tomorrow. (which was very good btw)

so basically: the New-52 fucked Kon up so bad they wrote him out of comics for years and then brought back the pre-Flashpoint version, but never *explicitly* killed the New-52 version off. so hypothetically, it's possible that there are currently two characters existing in the DC universe named Kon-El who have been Superboy. and like i said above, one of New-52!Kon's only real significant relationships was with Tim, it was the only thing the New-52 managed to get right about Superboy, his closeness to Tim. they have a *lot* of moments that read incredibly queer. and ofc, it's just outright confirmed in Dark Crisis: Young Justice that Tim had a crush on pre-Flashpoint!Kon at some point. so while comics are intent on pretending New-52!Kon doesn't exist, i am intent on putting Tim in a clone sandwich.

because i do think it's fun to play with Tim having genuine feelings and potentially a relationship with both of them. and the fucked up nature of him not fully *remembering* his relationship with pre-Flashpoint!Kon (which is a canon thing, in YJ(2019) Tim has vague memories of Kon he's struggling to piece together and understand why he cares about this guy he doesn't recognize so much) and how frustrating that is for Tim. he knows he loves Kon, but it's all foggy besides that. and so it's even *more* fucked up if Tim dated New-52!Kon before he got emo and ran off into the unknown. obviously in canon no one has told current Kon about New-52!Kon bc comics are doing the good ol' tried and true of "sweep that shit under the rug" but for fanfic, i think it's fun to ask the question of: would anyone *tell* Kon? especially Tim? who now remembers dating both versions of them? would he admit to Kon that briefly, he had another Kon? how would Tim cope with that and move on? personality wise, they could not be more different. they dress and act and look different. they're not the same person, but there's certainly a questionable factor of Tim's dating history including two Kon-Els.

the idea i've had for a while is Tim slowly starting to date pre-Flashpoint!Kon again. it feels familiar and like home. and Tim has grieved and accepted that wherever New-52!Kon is, he doesn't want to come home, he didn't love TIm enough to stay and try. so Tim takes the Kon he has, and genuinely has a happy relationship. like for once, life is good and things almost make sense for Tim. but then, of course, New-52!Kon comes back. he decides he wants to try again and he finds Tim. only to find well. he's been replaced. and technically, he's been replaced with the *original* that he didn't even know *existed*. and if being a clone is bad enough, that just makes it a hundred times worse. because imagine knowing you're actually the second Kon-El your boyfriend who you never *technically* broke up with fell in love with. that's gotta give you some kind of complex.

so i think it's fun if both Kons try to step back and let the other Kon date Tim. both of them have reasons to feel like the "replacement" or "fake" Kon, and it makes them incredibly awkward with each other. do they count as the same person? bc they definitely don't *feel* like the same person to each other, but with weird timeline stuff, who can really say. them settling on an awkward throuple that's really meant to be Tim just dating them both but somehow they end up dating each other too is so fun for me. they both feel like imposters to the Superboy name but are so deeply in love with Tim Drake, it's the one thing truly connecting them. and then of course, Tim feels bad in that somehow, he's betraying both of them for having feelings for the other. but they make it work, with a lot of awkward angst and miscommunication. i just think it'd be fun. very difficult to write to get all the weird timeline nuances down in a way that's understandable in a fanfic (bc you can't just. infodump like i did on this post) but doable. also difficult to tag, because even though i argue these are two different characters, i'm pretty sure Ao3 groups them under the same character tag. so it'd be difficult to convey it's not *really* as selfcest-y as it would imply. comics, man. DC will never acknowledge New-52!Kon again, and he's admittedly a terrible adaptation of Kon-El, but. i think he was sort of neat in his own right and i'd *love* for DC to just inexplicably bring him back and make the current Kon deal with the consequences of all that. and them make Tim kiss them both. obviously.

[moongothic]

Kinda started rereading Dressrosa and... Although I always chalked up the similarities between Crocodile's plan to take over Alabasta and how Doflamingo took over Dressrosa as nothing but Oda reusing similar plot elements but in a slightly different way (just to show us what could've become of Alabasta had Croc gotten away with his schemes, what Luffy helped prevent from happening to begin with)...

Robin's reaction to hearing the story of Dressrosa and HOW Doflamingo took over the country, that simple little "...!!", actually does kind of speak volumes

Like if you wanted canonical evidence to Crocodile having been "inspired" by Doflamingo, then yeah, Robin would be The Person who would pick up on that, she'd be the person who'd be like "hey, that story sounds awfully familiar to what Crocodile did", since he was her boss

Do want to note that, timeline-wise, Doflamingo only took over Dressrosa 10 years ago, where as Crocodile had been Scheming and establishing his position as the Hero of Alabasta for 16 years. Like Croc's intent to obtain Pluton and create his military nation utopia absolutely pre-dates Doffy's takeover, so that wasn't and can't have been inspired by Doflamingo at all. It's more just the plan and method Crocodile ended up going with (framing the king (through a bloodbath) and putting the country in a position without a ruler where he could just yoink it for himself with ease) where the similarity becomes more obvious. But it is also kind of where it ends. Doflamingo wanted Dressrosa because he felt like he was entitled to the island (as his family had been its original rulers and he was a Tenryuubito), and was using the island for his own gains (Smile manufacturing etc, for his dealings with Kaidou), all while having a great distain and hatred of the world and how he had been "wronged" (=Tenryuubito rights revoked). Meanwhile... yeah, Crocodile wanted to create a "utopia", only targetting Alabasta because he believed Pluton was there and because Pluton would be needed for his ideal military nation. That minor difference and Crocodile's clear and great distain and hatred of Doflamingo combined...

Yeah, I dunno, this is just interesting to me. God I need Robin and Crocodile to have a lil reunion chat

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

your favorite of my favorites: A Book Poll

okay, i have now officially seen Just Enough open tags to override my vampiric need to be explicitly invited into things, so! here are my (current) Five Favorite Books for y'all to vote on, in order of Publication Date (and incidentally the order in which i read them)

shout out to @e-b-reads and @beardedbookdragon for the recent open tags! i am inflicting this on paying this forward to @asexualbookbird and @alloreli (who i warned), and to @sixofravens-reads (who i did not).

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

re: the last post i reblogged bc i am realizing just how much i yapped in the tags and i do not wish to subject the wider tumblr public to that rant LMAO

[andromeda3116]

rereading order of the stick (again), and greyiew is only in a few comics so far but man do i love this nihilistic wolf

[fictionadventurer]

Potential January Reading:

A Bell for Adano by John Hersey

The Foxhole Victory Tour by Amy Lynn Green

The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder

Something by Pope Benedict XVI/Joseph Ratzinger

A classic (new-to-me or reread)

[after-nine-at-the-oasis]

*gasp* it's you

You've been commenting on my Zach and Jacob fics for a while now

:OO it's you!!

and it's me!!

Yes I have they have been my lifeblood in this fandom <33