#it's the difference in life experience for me

[hcneymooners]

⋆ you pull my hair, you call me.

jinx x mermaid!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are a mermaid living in a hidden grotto of the undercity. one day, jinx wanders into your territory. or more accurately, the ruins of her old haunt.

cw: mermaid!reader, canon divergence!au, discussions of trauma, discussion of child loss, mental health issues, non-sexual intimacy, sfw, however, there are suggestive themes, age gap, girl you are literally thousands of years old.

notes: in these coming days, i hold on tightly to fantasies. they become stronger, more intricate. i feel it is my only way to survive. this is dedicated to @s-4pphics, the only person who makes me feel like a real life mermaid.

The water remembers everything. It's why you were born into it. Your mind is a steel trap, a lattice of love and loss.

Water does not coddle the memory, but it soothes. When your mother crawled into the reservoir to birth you, it did not coddle her naked body as it twisted and expelled you. It did nothing to lessen the sore peaks of her nipples as her breasts swelled and hardened with milk. But it soothed.

Your birth was similar to the experience of having birds flutter out of one’s chest. You came into the world with the rush of wind and at the peak of death, eyes big and your silence even larger. You were a beautiful baby with a delicately scaled face, and from the beginning your mother knew you were different.

She holds you, tells you her name—a name that means one thousand flowers. It fits her; you understand this even one minute fresh into your life. Your mother was one thousand flowers both blooming and decaying at once.

You were born in the winter, snow touching the tender skin of your forehead. It is also winter when your mother, a woman of a thousand flowers, dies.

Her body seems to flutter and pulse until it shudders into foam. The water soothes you as you sink. You stay on the ocean floor for what is close to forever. The years pass, but water remembers.

It remembers the screaming, the fire, the way the undercity shattered like a dropped mirror. The shards spun out and out. You never braved the world, then. You would come close to the surface, float backward and bent as you watched the sky smear into green gas and heat. The water—and therefore you—remember the taste of ash and gunpowder, the iron-rich flavor of blood and revenge.

But mostly, you remember her—that odd girl with chaos pumping inside of her like a second, third heart who came stumbling through the wreckage of her old workshop, trailing ghosts and grief like a burial shroud.

You've been watching her for days. Your kind has always been drawn to broken things, to the places where pain bleeds into water until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. She fascinates you with her paleness, with her long body that is painted and bared by the shoddy work of her pants and the cut of her top. You hide behind large chunks of driftwood, eye the swivel of her hips as she paces and turns. Her eyes are strange, too pale ghosts colored silvery blue. She closes them, opens, closes.

She is like a small bird, this woman. She carries destruction in her hands but cradles it like a wounded animal at times, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. The first time she breaks, it's like watching a star collapse.

She falls to her knees at the water's edge, her wail echoing off the mineral-crusted walls of what was once her sanctuary. Her hands tear and tug at her braids as if she could rip the memories right out of her skull, like plucking loose the weave of a tapestry. The water around you shivers with her anguish, and your body preens; it tells you that you cannot stay hidden any longer.

You rise from the depths like a dream, your hair carrying traces of phosphorescent algae that provide a lazy glow as it swirls around your face. Her eyes fix on you, fever-bright and wild, but she doesn't run. Maybe she thinks you're a hallucination. Maybe she's just too tired to be afraid. 

You understand this.

The silence lasts for a while. The two of you exist across from one another, your face settling on your hands as you inch forward. She has yet to notice the flutter of your tail, but it's only a matter of time. You can see the light refracting off of it into a million sparks of light, dancing across the ceiling as you near her.Her mouth parts and you feel your own hinge open. You are trying to remember, trying to make yourself just like her if only to assuage her fear. Your tongue unfurls, neat and a deep blue. She blinks in surprise, which allows you to speak first.

"I am [Name]," you say, and your voice is a gentle purr like someone has stumbled over the strings of a harp. You are learning, thinking of how humans relate to one another. You don't tell her your real name, your name birthed by ocean and the melt of your mother's scale in the middle of your tongue. You are a woman of a thousand white waves, because every woman in your family has a thousand of something. "This, here, is my home."

You reach out now, because you have seen this before. Her people hug and grasp at one another in welcoming. The woman jerks, falls with a sick crunch on one of those pale hips in an effort to get away from you. You are hurt, and alarmed, and retreat further into the water. Your hand is still clawed as if to hold hers.

"Get back," she warns, voice raw and hoarse. Her eyes repeat their pattern. Close, open. Open and close. You close yours to see what she sees. Your eyelids are thin, translucent. The world can still be seen. She is right in front of you. "I'll hurt you. I'm a curse; I hurt everything.”

You open your eyes now, reach for her anyway. Your scaled hands catch hers, gentling them away from her hair. You smooth the strands, like your sister would do to you when the poachers came.

"My kind cannot be cursed," you tell her. This close she can feel the vibration, the way that your voice carries echoes of tidal pools and deep-sea trenches. "We are older than magic, older than pain. A different kind of creature."

She laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. "Yeah? Well I bet you've never met anything like me before."

But you have. You've seen the way trauma can twist a soul, how it can make someone forget the shape of their own heart. You've watched your own kind waste away from grief and pollution, watched your bloodline dwindle to almost nothing. You recognize the look in her eyes—it's the same one you saw in your sister's before the toxic waste claimed her, before disease took your mother.

"Do not tell me what you think I know," you answer and she fidgets within your hold.

You are unsure of how to calm her, so you rummage deep inside of your long memory. You think of your mother. Now, you know. You pull her into the water with you, and she thrashes at first—all spinning limbs and desperate gasping. She is much like a fish at the end of a hook, you think. But you hold her, humming an ancient lullaby that vibrates through the water around you both.

Your singing voice, your Melody was always more unsightly than the others. So much higher and almost dissonant, like the cry of a whale during its migration. You mostly Sang alone, while others Sang together. But it winds around Jinx; maybe she is dissonant too. Slowly, so slowly, she stills.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scales catching the ethereal light. "And this is yours." Your hands trace her tattoos like star maps, feeling the stories written in ink and scar tissue. You pause at her stomach, feeling an old grief there. You cast your Melody again, and it falls like a net over the skin underneath your fingers.

"You had a child," you say softly, and she goes rigid in your arms.

"Yes.” She admits this truth as if it hurts her. “She was not—not mine.”

“What was her name?”

“Isha,” she chokes out. “She was... I was supposed to protect her." 

“Mmm,” you say. “She was yours. I can feel it. She was yours, and you lost her.” 

You adjust your embrace, thumb at her bottom lip to reveal her blunt teeth. You have no understanding that this is not normal, that this touching and holding and avid tenderness is not of their culture. This woman, this bloodless weeping woman gazes at you. 

“Your motherhood,” you murmur, “sits inside you like a stone. It is closed, like an oyster. You must name it to begin to release the pain.” 

You press down on her lip. 

“What is your name?”

“Jinx,” she whispers.

“Good,” you tell her. “So, you are Jinx. Jinx, mother of Isha.”

The words seem to break something loose in her, and suddenly she's crying—great, heaving sobs that shake her whole body. You hold her through it, letting her tears mix with the mineral-rich water of your grotto. Strange woman, you think. She is a strange, sweet thing.

Her stomach tenses and releases, over and over. You never once stop your Song.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

Days blur together after that. Time moves strangely here. The two of you are a jigsaw puzzle of connection, platonic or maybe familial. You do not ask, preferring to preserve what you have. 

Jinx is shy in the first few moments, a trait you suspect is unfamiliar to her. She builds herself a nest above the waterline: a chaos of stolen furniture and salvaged tech that somehow fits the space perfectly. You watch her work, fascinated by how her hands can create as easily as they dismantle. Sometimes she catches you staring and explains things to you—human concepts that make little sense but delight you anyway.

You measure progress not in days but in small victories: the first time Jinx falls asleep with her head in your lap, fingers curled trustingly around your scales. The morning she lets you rebraid her hair, your webbed fingers gentle against her scalp as you weave strands of luminescent crystal through the blue. The day she shows you how to make paper boats and sets them afloat with tiny lights inside, until the cavern ceiling reflects a mirror image of the stars she remembers from her brief childhood.

You offer up knowledge in return. You speak the thick language of old, born of trench sand and sulfur cracks. She loves when you sing, when your mouth unhinges to show your blue tongue and slightly jagged teeth. She wades into the grotto, standing in the shallow water that barely reaches her ankles, and closes her eyes. She sways as your Melody flows over her, shivering as if touched by cold.

You usually finish the performance by swimming to her, carefully holding her ankles between your extended claws and calling directly to her. This is your favorite—a secret you keep close. You adore how she gazes down at you, how her eyes trace the curve of your slick breasts and torso as you rise to meet her.

You climb until your noses brush, and then you laugh, a sound like the gentle puff of a flute. When you laugh, your gills seize and flex, and Jinx places a hand against them, tracing them until you crook your neck and trill. (That's her favorite.)

"[Name], you can't just walk around topless all the time," she tells you one day, trying not to laugh as you examine a shirt with obvious confusion. The fabric flutters strangely in her hands. "Humans are weird about bodies."

"But they're just bodies," you say, running a webbed hand over your scales. Again, her eyes follow. She closes her eyes, thinking of how your breasts are round and soft like the moon in her hand. You reach out, drawing her closer until she's touching you. "See? This is just flesh. The body is only a  house for our soul."

She grows quiet then, thoughtful in a way that makes her look younger. "Maybe that's why I'm so messed up. My house is... kind of a disaster zone."

You pull her close, letting your tail manifest and wrap around her legs. "Then we'll build you a new one. Piece by piece."

The trust comes in fragments, in stolen quiet moments. Some days she can't bear to be touched, and you give her space, watching from the depths as she paces and talks to ghosts you can't see. Other days she's almost peaceful, letting you massage her scalp or teaching you human games with cards that always seem to explode at exactly the wrong moment.

One night, the voices in her head were particularly loud. You hear it from beneath the water—you sleep closer to the surface since meeting her—and rise to find her jolting in her sleep. You don't think, only move, remembering to rid yourself of your tail only when it scrapes against a sheet of metal jutting from the sand.

You hum agitatedly, distressed by her furrowed brow and trembling body, then take her deeper into the grotto than she's ever been before. Here, crystal formations pulse with bioluminescence, casting rainbow shadows on walls that have never known sunlight. Schools of blind fish dart around you both, their scales glowing like fallen stars.

It takes her a while to wake, but you stay suspended and curled around her. You keep watch, eyeing the murky kelp forests that tease at your fins. There are other, older ways into this grotto that never bothered you before. But now, you're too aware of all the ways someone could reach the jinx resting in your arms.

You see bubbles snort from her nose as she begins to stir, and you move quickly to pluck a shell from the rainbow-dusted walls. The inside is sticky and suctions to her mouth, threading a tendril inside to loop around her lungs and better facilitate her breathing underwater. You don't understand why it works, but you've seen the surface swimmers use it before.

Jinx makes a horrible rasping noise before the shell's work settles in, and then breathing comes easier. The shell is now translucent and attenuated. She cups your side as she shifts in your hold, her unbraided hair thick around her face.

"This is beautiful," she whispers, and for once there's no edge to her voice, no great waiting catastrophe. You know she means you.

"Thank you," you respond, smiling with all your teeth. She smiles crookedly back.

"This was my mother's sanctuary," you tell her, leading her to a cave where ancient glyphs cover the walls. You see her back bend with the water's pressure, and you slow your pace. "There used to be many of me, my bloodline. But the surface world's poisons reached even here." You trace one of the symbols—a spiky, spherical rune that you think means 'confession'. This glyph is older than you, part of a complex language no surface dweller nor merfolk of this time has spoken in millennia. "Now there are only three of us left."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand finding yours in the glowing water. "Does it ever get easier? Being the only one who survived?"

You think of your sister's last days, of your mother's fading voice. "No," you answer honestly. "But it becomes... different. The pain changes shape, becomes something you can carry without breaking."

She leans into you at that, and you feel the tremors that always precede one of her episodes. But this time, she doesn't fight it. She lets you hold her as the chaos revisits her, trusts you to keep her head above water—in a manner of speaking—as she shakes apart and slowly, slowly comes back together.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

It doesn’t simply disappear. Jinx is one of the spirits’ favorite souls to torture and possess.

Most nights, the past continues to crawl up through the cracked floors of the grotto like a cadaver, its saccharine breath seeping into Jinx's dreams until she wakes screaming. And on most of these nights, you find her in her nest of blankets and broken things, her skin fever-hot and her eyes seeing horrors you cannot share.

But after you take her down, beneath the surface, it is different. Now, most nights, she comes to you.

The pattern is the same: you hear her bare feet on the stone before you see her, padding toward the water's edge like a sleepwalker. Her hair is almost always loose, falling around her face in a cascade that reminds you of the sharp stretch of evening sky across the Arctic Ocean. Then she reaches the pool's edge, but she doesn’t stop.

The water accepts her like a lover, closing over her head in a gentle baptism. You rise to meet her, your form shifting in the dipping waves. You cup the nape of her neck and insert the shell. Your skin takes on its natural sheen, scattered with scales that catch the light like opals. Your hair moves as if still underwater even when you break the surface, glistening tendrils floating around your face. Your eyes are all pupil and hold the depths of the ocean, ancient and knowing, utterly without fear. You reach for her, and, like in the beginning, she still tries to pull away; you simply shake your head.

"Your curse cannot touch me," you remind her, your voice like water over stones. "I am not of your world." Your hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that roll from the puffy cliff’s edge of her pale eyes. "I am of the deep places, the dark waters. We recognize our own, remember?"

Remember? You always ask her this. It’s all she ever does.

You rise fully from the water then, your form shifting like light through waves until you stand on human legs, naked and gleaming. You pull Jinx to her feet and begin to undress her with the innocent purpose of a child, unbound by human conventions of modesty or shame. She allows it, trembling—not from cold or fear, but from the overwhelming sensation of being touched without consequence, of being seen. She has yet to confess how much she needs this.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scaled hands tracing the bridge of her spine. You are reminding her. "And this is yours. We are both such difficult creatures."

"I don't understand you," she whispers, but her hands come up to trace the patterns of your scales, mapping the places where your skin shifts from human to something else entirely.

You catch her hand and press it flat against your chest, letting her feel the strange rhythm of your heart—beating in time with the tides.

"Fear is for those who have something to lose. My kind has already lost almost everything. What's left is..." You pause, searching for words in a language not made for shadowy creatures like you. "What's left is precious because it survived. I am surviving. You are surviving with me.”

Something shifts in her expression then, understanding blooming like oil across the top of a gulf. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch.

"Show me again," she breathes, begging. Her breath smells sweet, like candy under the tongue and behind the teeth. "Please."

You take her deeper into the grotto than before, past the engraved walls and into the true heart of your domain. Here, the water is almost desperately alive, swirling with colors that have no names in any human tongue. Your tail manifests fully, lashing out. You seem to be made of living jewels. You are a terrible, beautiful monster; your body twists like a snake as you duck and dive. Jinx watches, transfixed, as you dance through the water, showing her your true way of living.

You do what your kind does when in love. You Sing. You Pull her.

"I've been trying to fix my machines," she says when your last note fades. You are shaking. You have never Sung that hard before. Your Melody has undone you, and you swim weakly back to her. She touches your face, dusts your cheeks with her pruned fingertips. "To make lights that look like this." She gestures at the bioluminescent display around you. "But I keep fucking it up. Everything I touch turns to..."

"A mess," you finish for her. These thoughts are not new. "But a mess is not always born of destruction." You guide her hand through the water, watching the way the disturbed bioluminescence creates new patterns, new constellations. "Sometimes it's just change. It is new, without guidance. You are trying again, relearning. This is only necessary disorder."

She laughs, but it's softer than usual. "Is that what I am? Disordered?"

You pull her closer, letting your tail wrap around her legs as you float together in the heart of the sea. "You are what you choose to be. Here, in these waters, you don't have to be anything but yourself." You pull back so that you can see your hands as you sign to her, curl your fingers into the symbols she’s seen on the walls.

You have changed me. You mouth the words so that she truly understands. You sign it again, across her naked chest so that she can feel the drag of your claws and the pump of her blood in response.

"I don’t feel changed, and I don’t want to ruin you. What if I am still broken?" Her voice cracks on the last word.

"Then be broken here with me," you tell her, pressing your lips to her temple. "The water remembers everything, but it also cleanses. It changes. It heals."

She turns in your arms, and for once, her eyes are clear. No fever, no muddle—just Jinx, looking at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. Her hands find your face, thumbs tracing the almost invisible scales at your temples. You raise your hands, fingers contorting as you sign once more.

We have changed each other. It is a symptom of love.

Jinx says nothing, then she moves. You forget how agile she can be at times. With a few spritely movements, she is holding your waist and treading water. One hand comes up, cradling your face. There is a pause, and you glance at her, eyes wide with confusion and anticipation. This is new. She studies you, and you belatedly realize she is waiting for something. Permission, you think.

“Yes?” you ask. She smiles; it’s the right answer.

She slips out the shell, and you startle. This is dangerous, but she doesn’t care. She stops you.

Her hand nestles thoroughly in your hair, tilting your head until your flesh is exposed to her lips. Again and again, she presses her mouth to your neck. She suckles, nips, until your tail flicks. She is kissing you. You’ve never been kissed before—not like this.

Her teeth dig in, needling at the meat of your throat until it’s mottled and bruised. Then her lips come up to yours. At first, you breathe into her mouth to give her oxygen. Jinx pulls back, grips your jaw, and shakes you slightly. Then her lips return to yours, applying pressure until you open your mouth and allow her tongue in. She licks at your teeth, tracing the points as she holds you to her.

You feel lightheaded, disoriented. You feel good; you want more of her. After a long while, she breaks the contact. Her thumb settles at the base of your throat, slipping to the side to play with your gills. You trill sharply, and she laughs. You don’t want to say it, but you know—you want it to stay this way forever.

Jinx takes her shell from where she had placed it on her stomach. She allows it back into her throat, breathing in deeply. Then she lifts her hands and signs to you—clumsy but earnest.

Yes. You have changed me. It is a symptom of love.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

"I used to think I had to be loud," she tells you one night, floating on her back in the shallow parts of the grotto. Her hair fans out around her head like spilled ink, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, watching the way it parts around your hands. "Had to be crazy, had to be Jinx, because if I wasn't, then I'd have to be... her. The girl I was before. And she was weak. She got left behind."

You hum softly, the crystals below resonating in harmony. "Perhaps she wasn't weak," you suggest, tracing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. "Perhaps she was just unfinished, like a pearl before the ocean completes its formation."

She turns to look at you then, the emotion in her eyes making your heart beat in that strange double rhythm that only happens when she's near.

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks. "Finishing me?"

You shake your head, pulling her closer until she's cradled against your chest, her back to your front, both of you suspended in the gentle current. "No one can complete you but yourself. I'm just... holding the space for you to do it.”

She's quiet for so long you think she might have fallen asleep. Then: "I’m in love with you." Her voice is barely a whisper, as if the words might shatter the peace.

Instead of answering, you press your lips to her shoulder, right where a new tattoo is healing—a pattern of waves and crystals mirroring your own scales. You helped her design it, watching in fascination as she used her clever hands to create the automaton.

"For us," you tell her, "it is different. We don't fall in love the way humans do. There's less emphasis on choices. It’s more like... finding a current that matches your own, something that pulls you in the same direction for the rest of your life. I've been swimming in your current since the day you arrived. There’s a vibration you release, deep inside me. You set it off, again and again."

Your mouth works oddly around the word "belly." She smiles at your struggle, turning in your embrace to press her forehead to yours in the way she knows you love. Her hands find your face, and you press a kiss to her fingers, grazing your teeth over her thumb. She shivers, captures your mouth briefly, then tucks herself back against you. Drowsy, she begins to dream and you let her, drifting your body lazily along the stretch of water to rock her.

It is then that you hear them—footsteps on stone, careful and measured. You recognize them instantly: the heavy tread of the enforcer, the lighter step of her companion. They've been searching for months, following rumors of blue hair seen in the Undercity's depths.

Jinx doesn't hear them, not yet. She’s drifting in that peaceful place between wakefulness and sleep, her body trustingly pliant in your embrace. She’d had an episode before this—memories of fire leaving her shaking for hours. But now she's quiet, her breathing synced with the gentle lap of water against stone.

You sense her presence before you see her, a disturbance in the air that makes the algae pulse brighter. The Sister. Her presence feels much like Jinx’s but more weathered, carrying the weight of blood. It catches in your throat unpleasantly, making you want to cough. Her footsteps falter at the grotto's entrance. The other one—Caitlyn, you recall—steadies her with a touch, but neither makes a sound.

They stand frozen at the sight before them: Jinx floating in the ethereal water, her hair unbound and threaded with living light, her face peaceful in a way they've never seen. Your tail curls protectively around her legs beneath the surface, scales catching and reflecting the cavern's natural light until it seems like you're both in some unreachable heaven. You bare your teeth to shatter the fantasy.

The Sister’s sharp intake of breath echoes off the stone. Jinx stirs slightly, but you soothe her with a soft hum, reworking her lullaby until the water itself vibrates in harmony. Her fingers tighten briefly on your arms before relaxing again.

When you meet the Sister’s eyes over Jinx's shoulder, you see tears tracking silently down her face. There's recognition there, and grief, and something like hope. You see the moment she understands what you are—not just a creature of the deep but a guardian. Her sister’s keeper; her sister’s mate.

Caitlyn moves forward as if to speak, but Violet—yes, Violet—stops her with a gentle touch. They watch as you shift slightly, letting them see how Jinx's newest tattoos mirror your own patterns—not random splashes of pain and memory but flowing lines that speak of partnership, of flesh and form meant to slot into one another.

A soft noise escapes Violet’s throat, something between a sob and a laugh. Jinx stirs again, and this time you let your gaze drop deliberately to her face, your webbed hands smoothing over her shoulders in a gesture that couldn't be more clear: She is safe here. She is loved here.

You raise a hand, your eyes slipping into their true state to make your threat clear. You know the Piltover girl will understand; her home is the home of poachers. Safe, you sign. Then, Go.

The Sister nods once, tears still falling. Her hand finds Caitlyn's and squeezes hard. You watch understanding pass between them—the recognition that sometimes healing happens in strange places, that sometimes love wears unfamiliar, frightening faces.

They turn to leave, but at the last moment, Violet looks back. Her lips form words you can read even across the distance: Thank you. Only when their footsteps fade completely do you press a kiss to Jinx's temple, tasting the salt of tears that aren’t your own.

"Are they gone?" Jinx's voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep.

"Yes," you answer honestly, because you've never lied to her and won’t start now.

She turns in your embrace, pressing her face into your neck where your scales fade into skin. "I'm not ready," she whispers. "Not yet."

"You can stay here," you promise, letting your tail wrap more securely around her. "For as long as you need. But you will not lose me. I will not lose you.”

She lifts her head to look at you, and her eyes are like silver dollars. You mimic her blinking for what must be the millionth time. Open, close. Close and open. She smiles at this. You smile, hollowing your throat to coo, mimicking the call of a bird of paradise. She laughs now; you are pleased.

 "Tell me again," she murmurs. "About your promise."

Your tail flicks as you nod.

“I will never leave; I will only follow,” you begin. The words are heavy, sacred mating rites belonging solely to your tribe. “The water flows across the earth; it is immovable. It is the human that will fade, not the earth, not myself. We will both replenish. Where you go, I will be there—past death and beyond.

Jinx rises, cupping your face firmly, her touch restricting your movement.

“Promise?” she asks, her voice dipping low, laced with danger.

“I promise.”

She presses her lips to your neck, her teeth sinking in as always. You let out a high, trembling sound, your control slipping. Suddenly, you’re human, treading water. Jinx hooks an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as the water renders you weightless.

“I promise.”

You repeat it, over and over.

IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseI promiseI promise—

Jinx drags you from the grotto, positioning herself over you. Your words are still spilling out like a mantra.

“I know,” she murmurs.

Her warm, sugary lips cover yours, silencing you. She swallows you down.

© hcneymooners.

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[thyfleshc0nsumed]

how do you find public spaces to fuck (re:the rooftop + dyke)?

sincerely, horny lez

Good question, I will answer it in this response eventually, but first, you have to sit through me intellectually jerking myself off for a moment because I think it may provide some useful perspective.

Public sex has been part of my life for as long as I've been having physical sex at all. As an adolescent it was mostly out of necessity, but these days it's mostly out of convenience. The vast majority of the sex I've had in the last year or two has been public.

I think it's important to clarify that for me at least, public sex is not an act of exhibitionism. If there's any sort of philosophy behind it besides sheer utility, I'd say it's something like not allowing our society's mores and hangups around sex and privacy dictate the terms on how and where we (especially as gay people) engage with our sexuality.

I think there's this gut impulse many people have--including many gay people--around public sex, and I think it speaks to the reactionary view of human sexuality that is unfortunately the stock standard in these times. For many, the idea of people having sex in public gives them some sort of 'ick' that they can't seem to articulate.

Often discussions around public sex are framed like this: "if I walked in on people having sex, it would make me uncomfortable, I didn't consent to that, so people should not be having sex in public." It would be fairly reasonable to experience discomfort in this imagined scenario--in fact, I think most people probably would--and that discomfort isn't a problem. The problem is that the premise assumes a few crucial points, notably that 1. Walking in on public sex is a common occurrence and/or the desired outcome for those engaging in it 2. Discomfort is a form of harm 3. Exposure to (non-hegemonic) human sexuality is capable of causing some kind of nebulous psychic damage to the witness.

To the first point: in my decade or so of regular public sex, I can only think of one instance where I was actually walked in on. It was an alley off of a major road and probably only at around 1030p. I mention this because we absolutely would have chosen a different, more secluded location/time if we were doing anything other than fully clothed kink and maybe some kissing, because again, the goal for most is not exhibitionism; no one really wants to be walked in on, so we choose locations where it is less likely that we will be.

To the second point, I have little to say besides that it simply isn't. Discomfort is an everyday part of life and is something all people experience regularly without calls to stop every potential source of it. So what is it about this topic that makes people react this way?

This leads us to the third point: non-hegemonic modes of sexuality are treated as degenerative and caustic and therefore must be hidden (or eradicated) entirely from the public sphere. It is the classic double standard; think of things like the "Don't Say Gay" or "DADT" laws or more broadly the attempt to remove even the mention of the existence of gays from curriculum. Most of the people who fight for such measures likely don't take the same issue or action with a 48 foot billboard for the local strip club or with a heterosexual couple kissing on screen.

And while the spot that people place the line may differ greatly, this ire against public sex still draws from the same well of reaction against perceived degeneracy that the fascist draws from. If this is not self evidently a negative thing to you, I have little I can say to convince you.

Some may be thinking 'okay, even if it is not harmful or degenerate, why do public sex?' To me, it is just as strange that so many keep their sex lives confined to the home and I could posit the same question. Neither way of doing things is any more natural or unnatural than the other, one is just the societal default. If it would bring you joy, why not engage in public sex?

The world is large, and if you know where to look, there are countless spaces you can carve out and stake the pervert's claim to. Alleyways, parks, bathrooms, rooftops, and beaches are the first to come to mind for me. To answer your question directly, you find them by making them and taking them.

Time is a large factor here as well. A given spot in a park at 9p may not be suitable, but might be more so by 11p, and even more so by 1a. My experience is that the later it gets, more spots become viable with less heavy precautions.

Another factor is coverage. An open field is riskier than behind a tree. The middle of an alley is riskier than behind a dumpster. You want to limit the amount of vectors through which you could be exposing yourself. I value coverage from sight lines over seclusion.

Something else you want to think about is whether or not you are on private property. If you are, it's possible that there are security personnel sitting in a car somewhere nearby or a resident who notices you. At that point, the issue is not even the sex, it's the fact you're there at all.

Finally, you always have to be ready to dip. Be aware of your surroundings as best you can, listen for cars and people, don't get too caught up in the moment that you're blinded. You gotta be ready to pull your pants up and walk quickly away. I'd rather be safe than sorry. If something's not right, get outta there. If you can't, well, don't have your dick out at least.

Anyway, all that to say go out and have fun. Good luck and enjoy yourself. The world has room for you to fit yourself into.

[rhube]

It really does happen in sleep, actually - sleep has multiple functions, but this is a significant one - but you need it in your waking life. Partly because sleep alone is not enough, but also because if you stay wired all day you won't sleep deeply enough to access the parts of sleep that do this.

Like, literally, this is how EMDR works for processing trauma. It mimics the eye movements you get with REM sleep to help you process strong emotions. It was inspired by a scientist who noticed that after a walk, with her eyes looking about the place, she felt better. The exact experience you describe. Experiments with eye-following (and left and right noise stimulation) while thinking about a traumatic event then showed that bodily symptoms of trauma were eased. I'm literally experiencing this in therapy right now and it's amazingly powerful, helping me with things that other talking therapies just didn't help. It's your brain sorting aspects of the memory into the boxes they never got properly sorted into when you experienced the trauma, because you were traumatised, keeping them artificially present, triggering fight or flight for things that should not trigger that. Literally, that sorting process is an equivalent to defragging.

Like, you also need it for non-traumatic event sorting, but exactly what you're describing is what prompted this research. And with trauma processing it works much better with a trained therapist to guide you, provide a safe space, and help you cope with the feelings and corresponding bodily symptoms that come with the processing.

There's other stuff like generally being in nature helps - one part monkey-brain-likes-trees to one part so-much-more-shit-going-on-in-leafy-places-holy-shit-look-at-that-little-dude-go-wow-that-puts-things-into-perspective!

And you can get some of a similar effect from meditation - it's part of what's going on when you listen to different sounds or pay attention to certain parts of your body - and again, that's partly because meditation gives you a little of what's going on when you're asleep when you're awake.

It's true that sleep ALSO does other stuff, like clear excess stress hormones from your body and muscular repair and immune processes. People sometimes say 'we don't know why we sleep' and that's bollocks, there's no SINGLE reason why we sleep, but we know about a lot of the necessary things sleep does now, and there are probably more.

Too low-spoon to look up sources, but I'm saying this as someone who has studied the mind, prepared mental health resources (including specifically as part of an evidence-based campaign about sleep), and learnt more about sleep, meditation, and why being in nature helps as part of treatment for ME/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I know whereof I speak.

Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.

If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.

Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.

That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.

Give your brain a Daily Dose Of De-Frag.

[bueckersbitch]

Grace and Grit - paige bueckers x oc

chapter four: so high school

𐙚 grace and grit masterlist

𐙚 characters: hopkins!paige x oc

𐙚 warnings: none!

𐙚 word count: 2.4k

𐙚 authors note: here it is!! long awaited and i’m so sorry i haven’t put out a new chapter, life caught up to me unfortunately. anyway in this au larkin dance studio is in hopkins and jalen goes to school with paige. this is all fiction!!! enjoy <3

𐙚 taglist: @rosemariiaa @thaatdigitaldiary @pboogerswbb @sierrale8ne @lupinqs @xxloveralways14 @vamptizm @bueckersfive @lovegalor333 @d3arapril @mrsarnold @janaelalfysblunt

The consistent hum of Blaire’s alarm woke her from dreamland. Her last first day. One more year, then she wouldn’t have to step foot in her confining high school ever again.

Blaire brings her hands up to rub her eyes, trying to exude sleep from herself. After failed attempts to wake her up, defeated, Blaire gets up slowly, trudging her way over to her vanity. Sitting down in the pink padded chair. Her seventeen years of dance experience had trained her makeup skills, the requirement of knowing how to do a full face in less than ten minutes was something she had to learn how to do on her own. While her dance friends sat restless in front of their moms at the ripe age of eight, getting their makeup done and being gushed over, Blaire simply watched, longed, and yearned for that experience that was stripped away from her. But she was never one to complain, so she did it on her own, learning how to contour, winged eyeliner, and apply false lashes all by the time she was nine.

Blaire turned her vanity mirror light on, the soft white illuminating her puffy face. She reached for her skincare, the coolness of the serums and moisturizers working to depuff her face. Swiping on some concealer, bronzer, blush, and mascara, was all Blaire could bring herself to do. Shoving herself up from her vanity, she goes to brush her teeth, breakfast in the morning makes her sick. The fresh mint hit her teeth, a slow moment finally found after a rushed morning, but when her mind slowed, she could only think of one thing, well, one person, Paige.

She recalled that night in the ice cream shop, a small gesture, sure. But Blaire had never experienced someone so interested in her before. Everything was perfect, like everything Blaire had been waiting for in a girlfriend was presented to her in a beautiful, bubbly, blonde, package. Blaire tried to focus on the task at hand, she really did. But something about the thought of the way Paige’s eyes scrunched up when she smiled, and the way her cheeks showed a tinge of pink whenever she looked at Blaire, was enough for Blaire to lose track of time. Glancing at the clock, Blaire was now off schedule, running late by three minutes. She quickly spits into the sink, swishing mouthwash into her mouth before expelling that from her mouth as well.

Blaire stumbles on her rug, grabbing onto the door frame as she drives herself into her closet. Regaining her balance, she flicks the light on. Pink bow wallpaper adorns the four walls. She reaches for the outfit she had picked out last night, black flare leggings, a white tank top, a light grey shrug, and a black headband. Boring, maybe, but Blaire couldn’t really care less what people thought of her outfit.

Blaire slid on her shrug, the last piece of her outfit. Realizing she had a bit of down time before she had to leave, she wonders if she should peek at Paige’s socials, something she had been doing a bit too much recently. It’s almost as if her fingers have a mind of their own, skidding across the screen to pull up Paige’s profile before she could even finish her thought.

She studied her profile. In a way, it almost exactly mirrored Blaire’s. A different sport, of course. But the posts wishing her friends happy birthday, photos from past state championships, the trophy being held up to the sky, ones where her and her teammates are biting their medals. Blaire knew the feeling all too well. It was just an instagram profile, but the memories of Paige’s time in high school flood her phone. It was sweet, the way she looked so intimidating on the court, her taunts cracking the confidence of her opponents, all for her to really just be a normal girl going through high school.

—

It was the end of fifth period now, Blaire’s AP Chemistry class ending with her teacher wishing them a good rest of their first day. It was lunch period now, all of Blaire’s friends either had schedules that let them out early, or a different lunch period. Blaire scratched her scalp, a consistent throbbing settling into the rear of her head. Continual reviews of class syllabi meant her teachers repeating the same rules like a mantra, late work policies, honor code, extra credit assignments, and test outlines were all things Blaire had grown bored of. Sighing, she hops down from the stool, picking up her Larkin Dance Studio backpack, the thread at the straps fraying from being her companion the last three years. Blaire stilled, the air around her restricting her, but also allowing her a chance to breathe. She moves one ugg clad foot in front of the other, making her way to the door, annunciating a quick “Have a good day Mr. Stone.” with a smile, pushing the door handle and stepping out into the hallway.

It was overwhelming, really. Looking out into the hallway. Blaire had navigated these hallways more times than she could count, but something about the masses of people bumping into each other, clueless as to where they were going, hurdled her anxiety into overdrive. All she needed to do was walk herself to her car, where she would eat her lunch, after, she had two more periods. Almost to the finish line, the wiring of school could be erased from her mind when she stepped back into her studio, being able to regain her consciousness.

Blaire gripped her phone in her hands tightly, her earbuds in her ears as an attempt to drown out the surrounding noise. It was no use though, the shrieking of high pitched voices cut through her soft music like nails on a chalkboard. In the midst of all the chaos, Blaire swears she hears her name called out. Glancing around, she’s met with nothing but bodies of teenagers. Brushing it off, Blaire keeps moving, shuffling slowly towards the doors that lead out to the parking lot.

Blaire feels a tug at her shoulder, yanking her earbuds out from her ears, turning to see what the fuss was about. Instead, she’s met with the smile and scrunched eyes she had been musing about in the earliest hours of the day. Paige and Blaire’s schedules had matched up for one period so far, study hall. Now, it seems that they had lunch together too.”Blaire! Who are you sitting with at lunch?” A curious Paige asked, Jalen poking her arm, ushering her towards a clear path to the doors. “I was just planning on sitting in my car, all my friends have different lunches.” Blaire responded with. Before she could register what was happening, she felt the comforting warmth of Paige’s fingers wrapping around hers, subtly dragging her along with herself and Jalen, while saying, “S’You’re sitting with us in my car now.” Blaire couldn’t help the soft smile that wound up on her face, her cheeks heating up at the kind gesture by the girl, something that hadn’t happened since their study hall during third period.

The three of them walked together to Paige’s car, Jalen walking backwards in front of them to talk to the two girls. “Soooooo… You’re Blaire, right?” He started. Paige groaned, trying to shut him down with a, “Jalen, bro.” while her hand ran over her face. Blaire observed the two, she knew what it meant, Jalen, Paige’s best friend, knowing who she was. Blaire pushed the thoughts of her heart gushing to the back of her mind, trying to focus on not messing up first impressions.

“The one and only, and you’re Jalen?” Paige’s eyes peek from in between her fingers, widened at the fact Blaire wasn’t weirded out by the prodding. Blaire wasn’t weirded out, in fact, she was overjoyed by the fact she seemed important enough to Paige to be mentioned to her closest friend. The boy smiles, his hands in his pockets, “Sure am, hear you’re a dancer. You tryna do that in college?” Blaire nods, “God Willing, something about Juilliard is calling me, but it’s nice to know I have U of Minny and Ohio State as cushion if that plan falls through.” Jalen’s mouth drops open at that, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, “Damn, so you’re like, good good, then?” Paige smiles, wrapping an arm around Blaire, patting her head with the other, “Hey! I told you she was good. You doubting me is disrespectful.” The blonde says. Blaire shrugs, slightly surprised by the fact Jalen even knows how major of a deal both colleges are. “You could say that. How do you know about dance anyway?” Jalen responds without a beat, “I got sisters, they don’t dance but they like watching uda nationals.” Blaire smiles, it seemed being welcoming was something prominent found in Paige’s friends too.

As they got to Paige’s car, Jalen started to swing around to the passenger side, a routine perfected since Paige got her license. He whips his head around though, the blonde pointing at him saying, “Jalen, you’re sitting in the back.” Jalen’s face showed confusion, Blaire didn’t want to intrude, so she tugs at Paige’s shirt, “Hey, I can sit in the back, it’s okay.” She assured. Paige let out a laugh at that, an obvious fake one, “collecting” herself, she turns to Blaire, telling her, “You gotta be crazy, what kinda host would I be if I didn’t let you sit in the passenger seat?” Blaire scoffs, but under the front she put up, she liked the fact Paige was so persistent with her, really liked it. “Host? It’s your car.” Blaire said with a playful attitude. Paige cocks her head, “Whatever.” She says to the dark haired girl.

“Ooo, P’s got a crushhhh.” Jalen gets out, the two girls' eyes break away from each other, pulling to look at the boy waiting outside the back car door. “Seriously, stop.” Paige says, annoyed.

–

The loudspeaker starts up, it was eighth period, Paige sat clad in her Nike shirt and basketball shorts, Playing with the loose string that had managed to unravel from the hem of her shirt. Her calculus teacher was cut off by the announcement, “Good Afternoon Royals! I am overjoyed to welcome you all back to campus!...” Paige tuned out the voice of her principal, opting to look around at her classmates around her, all working on the pre-assessment for the class. Her eyes are drawn to the bulletin board, full of clubs and different volunteer opportunities. But one poster stands out, a specific dark haired girl that had been consuming her thoughts. Her teeth in a smile as the words around her talked about a dance gala, auctions being held at it to raise money for cancer research. Paige took a mental note of it, being snapped back to reality when she heard the euphony of backpack zippers, “Just like always, seniors will be dismissed first, if you’re a senior, you may make your way over to your car now!” Paige closed her eyes for a moment, the stress easing away from her as realization dawned upon her. She made it through the first day.

Pulling out her phone, she makes a new group chat with Blaire and Jalen, shooting a text about grabbing food at Panda Express, the Chinese food sounding awfully good to soothe the hunger that had settled into her stomach, she didn’t eat during her lunch period, wanting to talk Blaire’s ear off as much as possible in the allotted time.

–

Paige rushes towards the door, wanting to reach it before Blaire, stumbling over her excited feet, she yanks the door open, flashing a smile and wiggling her eyebrows at Blaire.

Jalen had gotten roped into helping his parents with stuff at home, but the two girls decided to grab food before Blaire’s practice anyway, the two of them both agreeing that Panda Express sounded too good to pass up.

Paige watches Blaire order, a simple bowl of white rice with some honey sesame chicken, and while she trains her ears on what Blaire was ordering, she couldn’t help but notice the small details about the girl beside her. How her nose moved slightly while she talked, her hands picking at the nail polish that slightly flooded over the sides, her legs crossed, and her eyes squinting to see the menu a little better. The truth is, Paige hadn’t felt this in a long time, her last relationship had lasted a while, but honestly the two of them had been done for a while, just not having the guts to call it quits, Paige was dragged through an emotional rollercoaster, but the familiarity of it comforted her enough to get her to stay. That was over now though, Paige felt grateful that it was, because the girl in front of her was so intriguing to her, she hadn’t known her for long, but she wanted to peel back all her layers.

Paige and Blaire slid into high stools, well, Blaire had slid onto her stool, and Paige had sat right next to her, scooching hers close enough for their legs to touch. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Blaire said, referring to when they were up at the register. Paige shoved her card into the reader before Blaire could pull out her wallet, murmuring a slick, “You don’t gotta pay when you’re with me ma.” Paige shovels her food into her mouth, swallowing and licking her lips, “Stop pretending like you don’t like it.” Blaire rolls her eyes at that.

Paige holds the trash can open, Blaire disposes her bowl and fork. “Sooooo… I know parties aren’t your thing, but you gotta come to senior bonfire. It’s tradition” Paige perks up as she says this, hoping that Blaire will cave in. “Paige, you know I don’t do well with those kinds of things, too much opportunity for things to go wrong.” Blaire reasons, Paige fakes a pout, “Oh c’monnnnn, if you worry too much about ‘what can go wrong’ you’ll miss out on experiences that’ll go right!” Blaire gives a puzzled look to the taller girl. “Okay, that didn’t really make sense, but you get what I mean.” Paige answers to Blaire’s questioning look, Paige is persistent, tugging on Blaire’s shrug sleeve while repeating the word “please” more than one should say in a lifetime. “OKAY! Fine, I’ll go, but you have to promise to stay with me. If something happens, I’ll never forgive you.” Blaire pointedly says. Paige’s hands shoot up in defense, silence between them before a notification sounds from Paige’s phone, “Deal.” The blonde says, smiling in triumph.

[carco5a]

i don’t think it’s like evil or anything but the baseline thing in fandom being placing the highest value on Relatability of a character and engaging through Projection is like truly alien to me. relating to a character is a perfectly pleasant experience i suppose but i like characters that are absolutely nothing like me. i think it’s good. i already know about me things that aren’t me are interesting. people are different from me in real life too. that’s also good. “they’re just like me fr” is like not a priority for me. ok.

[genderqueerdykes]

I think what people forget about trans men who pass easily (other than, yk, we're all individuals with different life experiences), is that a fair few of us also passed as male when we were identifying as female... and idk about anyone else but cisgender women were fucking awful to me about my gender presentation before I came out. like so many of them genuinely hate/are afraid of butch and gnc women. people would criticise my short hair, my body hair, how I dressed, if I was passionate about something they assumed I was angry, they told me I was intimidating. I was 12 the first time a woman confronted me about being in the wrong bathroom, I barely even knew what transgender was at that point and I certainly wasn't identifying as it yet. I mean, I went to an all girls school for 5 years and I passed as male even in a skirt for 4 of those years, so my negative experiences are uniquely skewed towards women/girls, but the point is we don't magically get cis male privilege because we pass as men.

thank you so much for sending this, i really appreciate it. i'm so sorry you went through this, this is horrible.

but you're right, you're extremely right. so many people react so poorly to butch and gnc women. i was also treated like shit because i looked so masculine after i hit puberty. butch women do not have it easy. i always roll my eyes when people sy that butches and trans men can wear flannels and mens jeans and mens clothes without ever facing issues for it, because that's a damn lie. women wearing men's clothes isn't as normalized as people think it is. you get harassed for it

like so many of them genuinely hate/are afraid of butch and gnc women. people would criticise my short hair, my body hair, how I dressed, if I was passionate about something they assumed I was angry, they told me I was intimidating.

i get this literally all the time. i get criticized for being "intimidating" and "mean" when i'm passionate about something all the time. men and mascs can't have a firm or excited tone of voice without being told we're scary or mean or whatever. if mascs and men aren't overwhelming positive and soft and gentle and coddling people instantly assume we're doing it on purpose to hurt them. i get so tired of people expecting me to coddle others because i'm masculine and a man and i'm "too scary" otherwise. i'm not being scary when i stand my ground. i'm not being "intimidating" when i stand up for myself. i don't have to make everything sugary sweet. i don't have to kiss peoples' asses. i'm sorry it for some reason is scary when confident, passionate men and mascs talk, but that doesn't mean we have to hate ourselves and shut up like you want us to.

i'm really sorry you've dealt with this, but thank you for sharing. this is really important for people to hear. we barely if ever benefit from patriarchy

[darthpseudonym]

I hear you -- but half the time they could have done it a different way that didn't require somebody to risk their life, and just decided not to because it was faster and cheaper to just make somebody have a hellish experience during filming.

Like, just to give a famous example, the R2-D2 costume was an awful experience for Kenny Baker where the power wire would twist around his neck as he rotated the dome, and people kept forgetting he was in there when they left for lunch (because he couldn't get out without help). They had radio-controlled versions of Artoo, but the RC was kinda janky at the time and Lucas decided he wanted a human touch, so -- easy, just shove a little person in there!

Sure, in some cases you do what you can with remotes and puppetry, but you just have to put a person in a weird position to get the performance (and today they can resort to CGI) -- but seems to me a lot of these productions had other options but decided to go with "risk somebody's life" because it was just more expedient.

I love practical effects as much as the next nerd, but sometimes I watch a making-of feature about a movie from the 1980s that's like "this rig could only be operated by a puppeteer with congenital dwarfism standing on their head, and they had to do each scene in one take because if they wore it for more than 25 minutes they had to call an ambulance", and I think, you know, maybe CGI has its place after all.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I'm writing my first fic, so are there any tips to write Harry so I don't Butcher his character, lol

Like, I can try and give advice, but writing is such a personal journey, and it can work very differently for every writer. Like, what works for me and helps me to stick to his character might not work for you.

What I can tell you is that the first HP fic I ever wrote had a Harry I will now consider OOC.

It's not the worst I've seen, but I know I'm better at it now than 4 years ago when I wrote that story because I know him better, and I became a better writer. But that first story has an OOC Harry, an OOC Voldemort, and, well, a lot of other characters are OOC there, too. I'm pretty sure Sirius is the only one I consider somewhat in-character in that story, lol.

I can explain what I do, which again might not work for you. The only way you'd know what does work for you is if you try different methods, experiment, and learn. Becouse if you know what you're doing and you're a good enough writer, there aren't a lot of rules you can't break or characterization you can't pull off. And to become a good writer there is no way other than writing. And reading. A lot.

You just gotta start writing and figure out what methods work for you to get the characters the way you envision them.

Also, please remember fanfic is supposed to be fun. I might be super picky about Harry's characterization, but I promise you there are a lot of readers who aren't and would be happy to read a good story even if Harry isn't characterized perfectly. As I said, I wrote some bad OOC fic in my life (40+ bad wips that would never see the light of day). These bad fics were necessary so I could get good. Becouse to get good, you need to start somewhere. So, as I said, write, don't be scared of making mistakes, figure out what works for you, and trial and error your way to victory.

That being said, this is my list of what I do to write any character consistently and in character, not just Harry, (and some writing advice in general, really):

1. Get the mannerism right

What I mean by that is that characters, like human beings, are capable of a lot under the right circumstances. When writing a fic a character isn't going to stay the same as in canon if their situation changes, so I find it more useful to think of how characters do/say things rather than what they do. Basically, any character can do anything and it would feel in character if the circumstances and how they go about it make sense.

For me, I know dialogue is one of my strengths as a writer, and I put effort into learning characters' dialects and speech patterns. Harry would use the word "bloke" and not "guy". He never uses "Bloody hell" or "Blimey". Harry's swears are often censored from the books, so I take it Harry says "fuck" or "sodding hell". When he thinks mid-sentence he says "er..." often. Harry, in general, doesn't speak as often as Ron or Hermione.

Ron, on the other hand, says "bloody hell" and "Blimey" often. He also says "mate" a lot. Hermione rarely shortens words. Often in the books, she would say "we are" rather than "we're" and is generally more formal in her speech. She also uses more words than both boys to get the same point across.

All these little patterns of speech add a lot to the characters feeling like themselves. The choice of words matters more than what they're actually saying, a lot of times. The what can be heavily influenced by the circumstances but the how should be familiar.

Let's take a reaction of surprise to the same good thing happening:

"Blimey, I can't believe it," said Ron, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Hermione said, smiling and turning to Ron and Harry, "You can see this too, right?"

"That's brilliant," said Harry, grinning at the sight of [thing].

So, these sorts of details just add a lot to characterization and I find that if you can pull the voice and mannerisms off, you can pull off almost any actions, and the character would feel in character as long as it's not outrageous.

2. "Character Bible"

I usually have a little "character bible" which is like 6-10 commandments of how the character needs to behave (key personality traits and behavior), and when I'm editing, I go back to it. What you choose to put in your "character bible" can change depending on what matters to you more as a writer. For Harry, my character bible is something like this:

Says more in his head than outside his head.

Snarks back when threatened, hot-headed when in emotional distress, doesn't say anything if it's a possibility (unless he likes who he's talking to).

Wit. Wit. Wit. (add witty remarks in narration or dialogue if the opportunity arises. Sarcastic humor is good for Harry's narration).

Very talented and smart, very low self-worth

Awkward, but no one but him knows this

"I won't!" (He does not do well with authority or direct orders. The quote is from GoF when he resists the imperious curse)

Trust issues galore (he doesn't really trust anybody besides Sirius. Only in HBP does he start to tell Ron and Hermione everything).

Selectively observant (Harry observes what he cares about. If he doesn't care, it might as well not have been there) and super judgmental in his narration.

Wants to be left alone and be content and safe.

3. Edit.

I'm sorry to say it, but reading through your own writing again and again and fixing it up every time helps so much. After I finish writing a chapter I take a break to go to bed and then come back the next day and reread the chapter with new eyes and correct everything that seems out of character, any phrasing that feels awkward, spelling and grammar errors if I notice them. But this first go-through immediately after is mostly for characterization, voice, and plot.

In general, during a first draft, your goal is to get it written, making it good is what editing is for. That's why my mantra during the process of writing the first draft is: "I'll fix it in post".

4. Let the character take the wheel

This is more specific to my own writing method, but, you know how there are method actors? So I'm a method writer. Sorta, I'm half-joking.

What I mean by this, is that I get to know a character by writing them (a lot) and then I don't really need to think about it. Like, I just write what feels right to the character. Like, whenever I'm unsure about a scene, I'd go: "Harry take the wheel" and just type what the character thinks, in my mind. It's kind of hard to explain, but it's sort of discovery writing in small limited doses, essentially. I sort of let the character take over for the scene. Like I'm not writing the story, just typing it. Kinda like demonic possession, just, not.

I know it's not really the characters and that I'm writing it, I just find this process hard to explain. When you write a character a lot and often, you can become capable of writing them naturally. Almost like breathing. Like writing your own narration, except, it isn't. But it takes effort to get to this point.

Again, this won't necessarily work for everyone, but it's what I found works for me.

5. Unsure? Open the books

The books exist and if you're unsure how Harry would react to something, just, check. I have an ebook version of GoF open when I'm writing my fic, which takes place in GoF. So, if I'm unsure how Harry would phrase something or react to something, I just check.

6. Get a Beta Reader

My best advice though, is to find a fandom friend to beta read for you, someone you trust to tell you if you're writing OOC and help you fix it (preferably they would also be a writer). Becouse sometimes you don't see it yourself after you just wrote it. My beta for my fic also helped me write my novel, and she knows me as a writer, I know her as a writer, and she knows what sort of things she needs to pay attention to in my writing and vice versa.

That first OOC fic I mentioned? I let her read it, and she told me that the pacing is crap and Harry is acting off (in nicer words, she was very polite about it, but that's what she meant). And that sort of feedback is invaluable for improving and I'm incredibly grateful to her.

Sometimes, you need to hear the truth, even when it's unpleasant, that's how growth happens.

(Now she practically never comments on characterization or pacing, improvement!)

7. Perfect is the enemy of good

I don't think my characterization of Harry is perfect. I don't think my writing is perfect. Whenever I go back to edit, I always find more stuff to fix. But there is a point where you gotta stop fixing it and just post it. Because you'll never know how it will go if you don't do it.

At some point, after all the editing, you just need to declare your work is "good enough" (having a beta really helps in telling when "good enough" is, especially at first, since most writers tend to be hyper-critical of their own work). You'll always reread your work and think "oh, I could've wrote this line better" or "oh, that sounds wrong" even after you post it (but so could the best authors to ever live, I'm sure. It's just how it is).

So, It won't be perfect, nothing ever will. But it can still be great and amazing and make someone's day, even if it isn't "perfect".

So, don't be scared to make mistakes or butch it up on your first attempt, you're human, you're learning, and you can improve. But that can only happen if you start writing because nothing teaches better than hands-on experience.

[growthhyp]

I am a man in my 50s. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but when the guy asked what I was looking for I jokingly said something to recapture my youth. He wasn't phased by that and he then gave me showed me a pair of shoes.

Recapture my Youth

You meandered through the garage sale, the early morning light casting shadows over the assortment of knick-knacks and dusty relics. In your fifties, you've seen your share of muscular men in your time, and this one was no different. His biceps bulged under a sleeveless shirt as he organized a table of sports equipment. You couldn't help but wonder if the path you chose long ago would've led you to look like him, but you quickly pushed the thought aside. Your life had been good – a loving wife who'd passed, two successful sons, a doctor and a lawyer. You had your share of battles, and retirement was your well-earned reward.

"What would you like to purchase?" the man's deep voice rumbled. You chuckled and replied, "Anything that will recapture my youth." It was a jest, a fleeting wish tossed into the air like a leaf in the autumn wind. But the muscular man's smile grew, and he looked at you with a knowing glint in his eye. "You know what? I can make that happen." The words hung there, improbable and tantalizing.

The shock on your face must've been comical, but he wasn't joking. He held out a pair of worn football cleats, their spikes glinting in the light. "These," he said, "Just wear them and lie down on the couch over there." The skepticism in your eyes was palpable, but curiosity had always been your constant companion. You took the cleats, feeling their weight and wondering if there was some kind of VR gear hidden in the garage.

In the living room, you sat down on the plush sofa, the football cleats in your hands feeling like a relic from another life. The muscular man nodded and said, "Whenever you're ready." You slipped them on, feeling a little silly. But as you leaned back and closed your eyes, you felt a strange tingling in your fingers, then a wave of warmth washing over your body. You didn't see the contraption you'd imagined, but you felt something shift within you.

The world around you grew hazy, and you felt yourself sinking into the couch. A gentle pressure, like the weight of a warm blanket, pushed you down, and you realized that you were indeed lying down. A brilliant white light filled your vision, so intense it was like staring into the sun, but without the pain. It grew, enveloping you in a cocoon of luminescence. You felt a moment of panic, unsure of what was happening, but it quickly dissipated, leaving you in a new reality.

As the light faded, you found yourself in a living room that was not your own, but somehow felt eerily familiar. The layout was different, the furniture untouched by time's hand, and yet it was as if you'd seen it all before. The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, and you heard the distant clang of metal on metal – the sound of pans being moved around. You looked down at your hands and saw that they were smaller, smoother, and unmarred by the decades of work and life experience. You were ten again, shrunk back to the size and mindset of a child.

Your mother, a stunningly beautiful woman with auburn hair and a warm smile, walked into the room. She was younger, her skin untouched by wrinkles, and she looked at you with the same love and concern she had when you were truly that age. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked, her eyes filled with genuine worry. You nodded, trying to process the sudden shift in reality. Your father, a towering figure of strength and discipline, followed closely behind. He was in his prime, his muscles still flexed from a career of playing football, a game he had mastered.

In the new timeline, you grew into a lean and muscular teenager, your body stretching to match your father's height. The football field became your playground, and the pep rallies echoed with chants of your name. You were the star of the high school team, the one everyone looked up to, both literally and figuratively. The muscular man's garage sale was a distant memory, replaced by the sweat and grind of early morning practices and the roar of the crowd on Friday nights. Your father's guidance was invaluable, his knowledge and experience sculpting not just your body, but also your strategy and passion for the game.

As you approached graduation, the college recruiters came knocking, their eyes gleaming at the prospect of having you on their team. The letters of interest turned into full-blown scholarship offers, each more enticing than the last. Your father, ever the proud coach, helped you navigate the sea of opportunities, pushing you to consider the schools that would not only challenge you on the field but also in the classroom. You chose one that reflected your newfound ambition, a place where you could grow both as a player and as a person.

In college, your body continued to transform under the meticulous regimen of workouts and diet that your father had ingrained in you. The gym became your second home, a sanctuary where you pushed your limits and honed your skills. The weight of the barbell above your chest grew heavier, but so did your resolve to become the best. Your muscles swelled and tightened, each rep and set a testament to the hours spent sweating and grunting in the pursuit of perfection. Your teammates looked up to you, not just for your strength, but for the dedication and discipline that you brought to the table.

As you slept on the sofa, your chest expanded with every breath you took, the fabric of your shirt stretching taut against the newfound muscle beneath. Your stomach, once a gentle slope of middle age, now rippled with the promise of a six-pack. Each abdominal muscle defined and strong, as if it had been chiseled from marble. Your back, once a canvas of experience, grew wide and powerful, a testament to the hours spent under the barbell's embrace. Your shoulders, once rounded from years of office work, turned into boulders that seemed to hold up the very roof of the garage. The veins in your arms popped out like a map of uncharted territory, tracing the new contours of your bulging biceps and triceps, shaped like the letter 'V' of victory, and your forearms thickened, becoming sturdy branches that could bend steel.

Your neck grew thick and powerful, a pillar of strength that could support the weight of your new identity. Your legs, once mere supports for your daily grind, transformed into the mighty trunks of an ancient tree. The muscles grew and swelled, each fiber pulsing with the vitality of youth. Your calves, once hidden under the layers of life's sedentary routine, now bulged like rocks that had been shaped by the relentless tides of time. And your feet, once confined to the comfort of retirement shoes, had grown into the very essence of athleticism, perfectly filling the football cleats as if they had been waiting for this moment all along. The transformation was palpable, your body reshaping before the muscular man's very eyes. He watched with a knowing smile, understanding that the magic of the cleats was more than mere nostalgia; it was a gateway to a different path, one of athletic prowess and potential.

The smell of the garage, a mix of oil and dust, was replaced in your mind by the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint aroma of sweat. The sound of the garage door opening and closing was drowned out by the cheers of the crowds at the college games. Each day, as you trained harder than ever before, you felt the burning in your lungs, the ache in your muscles, and the thrill of victory that came with every successful tackle. The summer sun kissed your skin, turning it a deep, rich bronze as you pushed through sprint after sprint, your legs moving with the grace of a gazelle and the power of a locomotive. Your lung capacity grew, allowing you to run further, faster, and longer than anyone else on the field. The other players looked at you with a mix of awe and envy, knowing that you had tapped into something extraordinary.

In the real world, the fabric of your t-shirt stretched and tore as your chest expanded. The pants that had once fit comfortably now strained against your growing thighs, the seams threatening to give way at any moment. The football cleats, once too large, now hugged your transformed feet like a second skin. And the bulge in your black briefs grew, a not-so-subtle reminder of the legacy of strength passed down from your father. The transformation was more than just physical; you felt the youthful exuberance bubbling up inside of you, the excitement of endless possibilities that came with being a college student. Your skin smoothed out, the lines of age retreating before the relentless march of time.

Your face, once etched with the stories of a life well-lived, now reflected the freshness of youth. The handsome features you inherited from your mother and father shone through, sculpted by the genetic lottery into a visage that could turn heads. Your cheekbones sharpened, your jawline grew more pronounced, and your eyes sparkled with the mischief of a young man. The wrinkles that had once been the map of your life's journey were erased, leaving only the promise of uncharted adventures ahead.

As the transformation reached its crescendo, your body grew taller, your legs stretching to accommodate the newfound inches. Your feet, now encased in the football cleats, bent at unnatural angles to support your heightened frame. The sensation was strange, but the pain was a distant memory, replaced by the invincibility of youth. With a final surge of power, you felt the sofa beneath you give way as you toppled over, landing on the garage floor with a thud that echoed through the space.

The muscular man, Jack, rushed over from the garage, his face a mix of surprise and amusement. "You okay there, buddy?" he inquired, his eyes glinting with curiosity. You sat up, grinning from ear to ear, and quipped, "Must've had too much fun at the party last night!" Your voice was different now, lighter, younger. You felt like a college student again, carefree and ready to tackle the world.

Jack chuckled and handed you your old clothes, which now looked like they belonged to a child. The fabric hung loosely on your new body, a stark contrast to the form-fitting muscles that rippled beneath. You looked at him, and in that moment, you realized that Jack was no stranger. In this new reality, you had met him at one of your high school games. He'd been in the stands, a tower of muscle and wisdom, and you had looked up to him as a mentor, a big brother who had taken you under his wing. His friendship had been a beacon of guidance and support as you navigated the complexities of adolescence and the pressures of athletic greatness.

The bond between you had grown stronger over the years. You had shared countless moments of triumph and defeat, of laughter and tears, all while pushing each other to be the best you could be. Jack had become your confidant, the one who knew your deepest secrets and fears. He'd seen you at your most vulnerable, and yet he had never judged you. Instead, he had offered his friendship and encouragement, showing you the path to greatness that lay before you.

[witheringslights]

Back on my Viktor and Jayce and their realisation of love train again but this scene is so important to me

And it's so important that it happens here for Viktor. I think one of Viktor's greatest fears is turning into Singed. When he meets him as a child, Singed points out how similar they are and Viktor wants to help him with Rio.

Viktor has a deep desire to help even for Rio who he doesn't fully understand

Him finding out what Singed did is heartbreaking for him, its a formative experience for him, as much as he want to push what he can do through science he fears he will go too far like Singed and end up causing pain.

When Viktor goes back to Singed and takes shimmer, you can see his hesitation, he's desperate. He's stepping on a path he doesn't want to be on but tells himself this will only effect himself. Instead it leads to Skye's death and Viktor gives up, he's made a mistake and become what he fears but he begs Jayce to make it right.

Jump forward to this, and Viktor's fear is still true but it's Jayce that's become Singed, a mad scientist so intent on keeping him alive that he doesn't care what the cost is. I think it's very likely that Viktor sees himself similar to Rio, a mutation, something that must be kept alive for progress irrelevant of it's suffering.

So he leaves, and Jayce disappears into the Arcane

Jump forward again to the commune, Viktor meets with Singed again and with a touch is able to understand. Viktor could never understand why Singed would do what he did to Rio but this changes everything, he did it for love. I think it's important Viktor sees Singed reading to his daughter, in a room he's decorated for her. His lab is dark and unwelcoming but this room is full of colour and clear love.

It's so similar to what Jayce did for Viktor and he realises it. Jayce brought him back and sat by his side due to love.

Immediately after seeing this Viktor follows up with "knowledge is a paradox, the more one understands the more one realises the vastness of his ignorance" and then he rubs the gear

And this gear... I love the gear because for me it represents Viktor's relationship with Jayce. Twice we have happy memories for Viktor with Jayce associated with gears, once with the gear he floats to him when they first crack hextech and the second when Viktor recalls the distinguished innovator competition and how he remembers Jayce notching gears on the way over. Gears represent his relationship with Jayce and this one is corrupted but here he's almost rubbing it away.

From the scene with Singed, Viktor gained new knowledge, Jayce loves him.

I think this is what leads to this conversation, Jayce was right, Viktor was done with him and Hextech but now he's welcoming him back into his life. He wants him to come to him, he's concerned that he seems different that he seems to have suffered in the Arcane

He doesn't believe it was Jayce that killed Salo, he thinks it was something working through him.

Despite this, he let's him into the commune with a weapon, a weapon that was the key that lead to their previous separation. He leads him right to him, he's so trusting of Jayce in this moment, he never expected what followed

The dropped gear represents the end of the relationship in Viktor's mind (but not in reality). I also think it's this action that leads Viktor in his next actions, “The doctor was right. It’s inescapable. Humanity. Our very essence. Our emotions. Rage. Compassion. Hate. Two sides of the same coin, inextricably bound.” Vitkor thought Jayce loved him and instead he killed him and ended his commune.

He tries to reach out once more to Jayce, perhaps thinking Jayce's previous actions where drive through his experiences with the Arcane, as with Salo. With this rejection, Viktor finally agrees to reject his humanity fully.

[cloversnstrawberries]

"eschatological hope" platonic!yandere!albert wesker & B.O.W!teen!reader [twoshot] [pt 1] ! !

masterlist !

description; You're one of many 'subjects' of a strange underground facility, one that sources their patients from survivor shelters outside of cities affected by outbreaks, specifically ones catered to children who are either orphaned or lost their parents amongst the chaos. One day, the emergency alarm begins blaring; the pre-recorded code said through the announcement system was unfamiliar.

You took it as a chance to run, to escape this hell-- it was the best opportunity you could ever ask for. Too bad it doesn't go you your way.

additional notes; hello! this definitely was just supposed to be a oneshot, but i lost hold on my self restraint and just want to really start off my resident evil writing with a bang . i really love this idea, and i'm a sucker for religious imagery and references, so :) but also, there's a scary lack of platonic!yan albert wesker... i plan to amend that in the coming weeks as i dive headfirst into this special interest on here. it's not going away. help.

also! reader is intended to be a younger teen, around ~14/15 in here, but can be interpreted as younger or older!

warnings; Child experimentation, body horror, betrayal, mentions of the apocalypse, canon-typical bloods, guts, gore, and violence, death of a child/mentioned deaths of children (not reader), child abuse, guns, general terror, non-consensual body modification (the scientists altered reader with a virus strain </3), not very yandere in this part, but oh boy will shit hit the fan in the second part, heavy religious symbolism and references (which will only get more obvious in the next part), slightly soft Albert Wesker, and there might be more that I missed! if so, please be sure to let me know!!

w/c; 7.7k (oh lord)

I was so close, you mournfully thought-- your cheek pressed to the cold tile, a guard's boot dug into the back of your skull as he put more and more pressure onto your cranium.

You were so close to make it out of here- out of here alive. You'd seen countless other... subjects, is all they saw you as; come and go from this strange, underground facility.

It always ended the same, whether or not they tried to escape.

You were a fool to think you were any different.

You'd made it the longest, survived the most tests. You were weak, muscles atrophied and dizzy from how small the portions of the meals they gave you were-- even if they could hardly be called that.

Scraps. They were just scraps, just enough to keep you alive; but just small enough to discourage this kind of stunt.

They keep you weak, keep you under their thumb until the time came to crush you down beneath it. You'd witnessed this many times-- you're not sure how many, no longer seeing a reason to keep track of the numbers.

Last you'd counted, it'd been at 38. 38 dead, either shot because they tried to escape, or...

Jamie had been a good friend to you, throughout this hell of an experience. In hushed whispers, they'd tell you stories of their life; they lived so differently from yourself, having hailed from sunny California.

You exchanged stories about the crazy weather phenomena you'd experienced, the snow storms that hit Arklay county mid-October a few years back, was traded for a story about how the highest temperature they'd suffered through was a whopping 131 degrees in the dead of summer.

But now, there was no Jamie.

There was only the thing left in their place, an awful amalgamation of... oh god, you can't even pick it apart. So many things-- eyes of a goat, five legs; two sprouting from their back like a dinosaurs spine, and one burst out of their shoulder.

Their face was near-unrecognizable, their voice no better off. You could hardly understand the words they were saying-- and they were words, you knew that much-- as they curled their hand, as crushed and mangled and deformed as it was, around your ankle.

You stood there, frozen with terror-- unknowing of what-- no, who, this was; until you caught sight of a chunk of long hair, once dyed a vibrant red atop light blonde hair-- all that was left was a faded red, their roots having grown in a good 2 or 3 inches, coming from what you assumed to the top of the thing's skull.

"Jamie?" You'd muttered, voice small and broken. You no longer tried to fight the hold on your leg, simply stared down in abject horror. You didn't notice the alarm begin to ring, nor the flashing red of the emergency lights-- the call of a code over the intercom, summoning all available personal to deal with a "Code 96".

It-- They, nodded; or it seemed like it, a jerk of what must've been their head. What came from the thing-- no, Jamie's mouth next, made your heart go from nearly beating out of your chest to terribly, deathly still, as you realize what they'd been trying to say the entire time.

"Kill... me..." they'd rasped, all semblance of their fiery but intelligent personality gone, replaced with a simple need to be put out of their misery.

You had no means to do so, but as you heard boots rushing down the echoing hallways-- making their way to the adolescent patient's barracks where they kept you all, you knew that they did.

You sunk to your knees, and you held your friend until the guards came in, one tasked with evacuating the other subjects; not wanting any to accidentally get hurt, because then that'd just be a waste of resources-- pulled you from your friend, who let out a horrifying sort of shriek.

Your hand outstretched, as they fumbled to reach out; unable to grab yours in time, you were pulled form the room just as rounds and rounds of gunshots sounded behind you. The door had barely been shut before it started, dents made in the dense metal scared you deeply-- but the bullets never did make it through the material.

Or because the experiments got to them first. The things they inject you all with, the tests and strange sets of tasks that hardly coincide with each other-- the things that somehow make nearly everyone turn into some sort of monster,

Some kept their mind, like Jamie had, and some didn’t.

You’d had an awful feeling that your time would come soon, when all the weird injections and ‘medicines’ and ‘treatments’ finally got to you.

In some ways, you’d accepted that. The fact that you’d probably never make it out, that you’d just be another lost subject. A waste of resources.

Not a living, breathing child that they stole away from a survivor’s shelter after an outbreak hit your city and you fled— and were able to do so, because you were all alone.

You had hopes and dreams— ones that would be splattered across the frigid tile floor any second now, along with your blood and brain matter.

Sometimes the guards were kind, they gave one shot right at the crown of your head— killing you instantly.

Sometimes they wanted to have a little ‘fun’ as they called it. Nobody but the guards found it fun, how they’d toy with the kids as they killed them— the scientists and ‘doctors’ found it wasteful of their time, a disgrace that they spent more time than necessary on terminating a subject.

The other kids, yourself included, found it horrifying. In the dark of night, when you all knew the cameras weren’t as heavily watched as before— the guards weren’t standing where they were supposed to in the patient barracks, you’d spread stories about how the staff were really the monsters.

You’d say that one has a second face hidden beneath her giant, fluffy blonde hair. The others kids said that one of the guards, a particularly cruel one which none of you knew the name of, secretly had a third eye— that’s why he never took off the guard gear, which most every other one did at some point, for one reason or another.

And as you lay here, feeling your nose shift as the pressure of the boot on your head increased, your face pressing harder and harder into the tile— you come to the dreadful realization that they’re going to have their ‘fun’ with you.

You hope they get in trouble with their superiors— really, you do. Because with the red emergency lights going, causing a terrible headache to form right behind your eyes— and the alarm blared, a pre-recorded voice calling over the intercom;

They shouldn’t be here, taking their sweet time with a patient that’d broken off from the rest. Honestly, you thought you could get away with it, in the chaos of them evacuating all patients; or, all patients worth saving.

Noticeably, the barracks that held the younger kids, all below 6, were not evacuated. If anything, they weren’t making any move to free the poor things— the door still locked, probably.

“You know,” The guard began to say, and you recognized that voice. Oh, oh God did you recognize it.

You thought he was nicest of the bunch— he always did his best to help you. In quiet, dark corners where the cameras wouldn’t reach, he’d give you a hug to hide the way he handed you some extra food.

Sometimes you’d smuggle it back to the barracks, to distribute among the most malnourished of you all. Sometimes he’d have you eat it right then and there, to make sure you got extra nutrients.

“So you can grow big and strong,” He’d say. That implied that’d you’d make it further than a year in this hellhole.

He’d even told you his name-- his first one, not his last one; the one he was supposed to only be known as, something he really wasn’t meant to do— he called you by your name as well, your real one, not the serial code you were assigned when you got here.

“Na-than—“ You stumbled out, letting out a cry of pain as he cruelly, oh-so-cruelly, put all of his weight on the foot currently crushing your skull.

He took it off within a few seconds, not wanting you to die so quickly. It’d be a mercy, considering what the other guards tend to do with the subjects they have their sick ‘fun’ with.

“Oh shut the hell up, you fucking brat.” He sounded so cruel. This— this couldn’t be Nathan, could it? No… they’re tricking you. He had to have been replaced, this was nothing like him—!

In a split second, you felt all encompassing relief; as he lifted his foot from the back of your head— but that relief was short-lived, as he crouched down beside you and wound his fingers through your hair,

He yanked your head up, and you made a valiant, but ultimately useless, attempt to stifle the yelp from the action.

When you did let that sound out— though, much smaller than it would’ve been had you not tried, he jostled your head around.

“I really thought you’d be the one to make it. The scientists worked really hard on your virus strain, you know that?” He said that as if it was your fault— your fault for what? You couldn’t really place your finger on.

Maybe… he’s blaming you because you’d given the scientists hope that they’d succeeded? If you had succeeded, would they have stopped the operations—

Or doubled the effort? You’re leaning more towards the latter.

“s’not my fault…” You mumbled, screwing your eyes shut. You swear that they had to have replaced all the lights with brighter, more agitating ones. It hurt to be anywhere when the lights were fully on— the blaring emergency light, bright red and spinning constantly— added another layer of it.

“Open your fucking eyes when i’m talking to you!” He yelled— oh, you’d never heard Nathan yell like that. This has to be an imposter; it had to be that the higher-ups found out how kind he was being and terminated him, one way or another.

This couldn’t be him.

Against your own wishes, but along with your better judgement— you peeled open your eyes, lips wobbling as you were forced to come face to face with both the lights, and—

The imposter had taken off his helmet, letting you have a full view of his face.

It was Nathan. No doubt about it.

“I’d say I actually liked you,” He snarled, leaning closer— your back creaking and bending as he pulled your upper half up, but your lower one stayed relatively flat on the floor. “But that’d be a lie.” There was a cruel smirk playing on the corner of his lips, nothing like the kind ones he’d always give you,

You wrenched out a sob, at which he jostled you a little more to get you to “Shut up!”

By that point, you were in absolutely no position not to follow his wishes, your life quite literally placed in the palm of his hands.

He leaned closer again, and you couldn’t help but let the tears rush down your face at the sting of hurt from his words— which only worsened as he continued on.

“The bonuses that my higher-ups gave me to act all buddy-buddy with you were pretty nice, though. I guess I have you to thank for that.”

Oh.

That… makes sense— why you two were never caught. Why he could get away with it, with stealing the food, with showing you his face, telling you his name, hugging you, comforting you—

It was all a ploy,

And for what? Maybe they thought that if the subjects had something to fight for, that they’d be more determined to make it out as a success?

That wasn’t true and you knew it— Jamie had things to fight for, but they still ended up with their mutated body looking more like swiss cheese by the end of it all.

Nathan-- no, the guard, as you refuse to associate this... monster with the man who had been so kind to you, even if, realistically, you knew they were one in the same.

That it was all just an act.

That doesn't mean you have to admit it to yourself, even if you accepted the fact in some capacity.

But... regardless, the guard, clicked his tongue, looking down upon you in a way that made you want to curl up and sob. "They thought you'd make it, you know? You were reacting so well to all the tests. The virus took hold..." You couldn't stop the confused little noise, clawing its way from the back of your throat.

Surprisingly, the guard didn't reprimand or hurt you for it. His smirk only grew to a sick, sick grin. Presumably because of the obvious show of confusion on your part,

"Oh? Did you not know? They were testing a new strain, I mean-- I'm surprised it took to you of all people!" The laugh that followed was mocking and devoid of any light. Any joy that wasn't founded in the sadistic nature of this guard. "It was modified from a strain made by a couple of traitors-- It was meant for the strongest. They just gave it to you to see where that threshold for 'strong' was!"

...Ah.

A virus? That's what this all was? You didn't know what they were putting into you all, none of the other patients had a clue about what was happening besides what was obvious. You really didn't know anything about it--

But that's it? They were putting viruses into all of you? That'd definitely explain why some ended up the way they did; some mindless, some wanting nothing but violence. The ones who didn't what such things always looked as if they did, like Jamie had.

You don't feel sick though, not how Jamie had been describing how they felt as they approached their death day, completely oblivious to what was happening-- a little more lethargic than usual, yes-- but not sick. You don't feel like your bones are about to snap, about to shift and move and rearrange themselves to turn you into a monster. You're sure you would've... felt it,

Before you could make another sound-- before the guard could continue his spiel, a new round of heavy gunfire broke out nearby-- a few turns down the long corridor, you think.

Then, screams-- so many, and.. and bones cracking, flesh ripping; it didn't sound like anyone was getting shot.

It sounded like their heads were being twisted and ripped from their neck. You witnessed that once, with a particularly violent, now-terminated, subject. That's how you recognized the awful sound as the flesh of the neck tried to follow the way their head was being turned, only to be ripped-- sinew snapping as their bodies were pushed pass the limits of human capabilties.

The alarms-- no one knew what it was about, the code they were putting through the intercoms wasn't one you recognized. It wasn't one any of you recognized-- the guards seemed... panicked, for once. Not for you all, not at all; but because they had to evacuate everyone before they could save themselves.

Something told you that this wasn't a regular sort of rampage, put on by a grotesque mimicry of one of your fellow captives.

One second, the guards fingers were twisted in your hair-- yanking you, making your neck strain painfully as he forced you to look him in the face,

And the next, your hair was released and your head lolled forward; smacking your forehead right against the tile, not enough time to brace yourself at all. You heard the guard yell out a string of curses, before he stumbled-- and you mean stumbled, up; all scary calm and malice gone.

Replaced by a primal fear and terror that you know all too well. It was a little funny, seeing the primary force behind that sort of emotion experiencing it firsthand for once.

You don't see a point in picking yourself up at first, expecting you end to be swift-- for whatever was causing the apparent massacre to come charging at you, uncaring as it twisted your neck violently; just as you're sure it'd done to all the guards a few turns ahead.

But it... a few moments pass by, and nothing of the sort happens. You don't hear anything coming for you-- no horrifying creature shambling toward you on all fours, or a mass of disgusting, pulsing and gory flesh sliding across the tile to attack you.

All you hear are calm, methodical steps coming your way. A scientist, maybe-- all the guards seemed to be in a state of panic, if that one had left you in such a rush; if they leave you alone, if they don't continue their 'fun', or pull you along to continue at another time,

Then you know something is terribly, awfully wrong.

You listened carefully to the click-click-click of heeled dress shoes against the tile floor, coming closer and closer. The scientists weren't as outwardly-cruel as the guards, didn't rough you and the others kid up like they did...

But that's not to say that they cared for you, for any of you. If what the guard said was true, that you had gotten the furthest with their experiments-- then maybe the scientist would pick you up and drag you back.

Or kill you, and study your corpse to see what made your body welcome whatever virus they'd forced onto you.

At that, you made an effort to rise from your spot on the ground. Your elbows gave out the first few times you tried, adrenaline still running through your system-- but you were shaken up, and it was always harder to get up from the floor than it was from a chair or bed.

You were so tired, frail and weak-- but still better off than most. You were one of the few that actually had a chance, and you couldn't just give that up. Even if there was nothing to fight for really, you still had to get out. You don't know why-- maybe it's just in the human nature to want to continue on despite it all.

To survive anything, no real reason behind it. Simply a primal part of you, left over from centuries past; one that not even the most disciplined could stamp down, you think.

When you did get purchase, able to push yourself up to sit on your folded legs-- biting the inside of your cheek to smother the strange sort of chirp that desperately wished to escape you.

That'd been happening recently-- producing strange noises like that of a bird, especially when in distress. You'd been able to cover them up with a cough, or stifle them either mostly or completely, but the more scared you were; the harder it became to hide them.

You managed, though-- the fear of being noticed by whoever those eerily calm, unbothered steps that was a stark contrast to the bloodbath they were certainly just waltzing right through.

One sitting, you did your best to rise from the position-- unable to get to enough leverage to rise just as you were without collapsing to the ground, you got one leg out from under yourself-- though not without great difficulty.

Just as you were about to heft yourself up into a kneeling position, sure that you'd be able to stand from there-- you heard the footsteps come to an abrupt stop; you hadn't noticed how close they were until they went silent.

Slowly, you raised your head. The dread and barely contained panic keeping you from focusing on the throbbing, world-ending headache that kicked up a notch as you looked straight on at the lights--

In front of you, down near the hallway; but not nearly far enough for your own liking, was a man you'd never seen before. Dressed in all black, he looked more like an FBI or undercover agent you'd see in a movie than anything.

Was he here to save you? You dazedly thought, but as you looked into the mans face-- his eyes hidden by simple black sunglasses, something told you that you had to run.

This man wasn't like the others-- his presence felt suffocating, like his existence alone could choke the life out from you.

Despite the headache, the aches and pain-- and the way that, deep down, you knew that you could never outrun this man... or whatever he was; that even if you were perfectly healthy, in the best shape possible, you never stood a chance, you still tried to run.

You stood abruptly, the pressure in your head becoming almost unbearable as black clouded your vision-- as disoriented and dizzy as you were, you're surprised you didn't fall right to the floor like a discarded ragdoll upon standing.

When your vision finally cleared, you met the mans gaze, and really got a look at him. The light casted behind him made him look like he had a halo-- a halo of red, like a sun delivering sailors an ill omen, bounced off of his perfectly gelled blond hair. His face was sharp, and he looked like he was in better shape than some of the guards here.

Upon closer inspection, he seemed to be wearing tactical gear-- and when you looked a little longer, realized that the strange spots of... something, wasn't a bad dye job of the fabric.

It was blood, mostly centralized to his black leather gloves, coagulated but still beading up-- one big glob fell to the floor, as the man simply stood there. Watching, waiting-- like a cat would to a mouse, staring it down and waiting for it to turn its back.

Cat's were stealth predators, more focused catching their prey off-guard rather than over powering it with sheer brute force. You're sure the man could do that-- and the reality of it all came crashing down.

He must be the one who killed the guards, the one that caused the one tormenting you to run for the hills like his life depended on it,

because it did, and yours did too.

He said nothing, as he stood there. He tilted his head, his face unreadable-- the glasses weren't helping. Slowly, as steadily as you could manage, you took a few steps back.

And then a few more, not daring to turn around until the very last minute. When he took a step forward, you turned and bolted down the hall.

You don't know where the exit is-- or, really the elevator. Or stairs-- anything to get you out from this underground hell. You stumbled as you ran, twisting and turning through the corridors; your lungs burning, head pounding and body aching--

But you never stopped running, and you wouldn't until you were safe, or you simply keeled over right then and there. You wouldn't stop running, wouldn't stop this fruitless fight until your very heart gave out--

Or you joined the number of casualties, head twisted off. You'd yet to see any bodies, any blood or gore-- or anyone else. Most of them were in the other side of the building, and you dashed toward the section with the labs and testing rooms.

There, you think you could find a weapon, or at the very least a weapon to brandish. A weapon that would do nothing, and you were well aware it would do nothing.

The man that had stood before you, the one that set off your fight-or-flight instincts like never before, couldn't have been human. He just couldn't have been. If he had been the ones to cause those terrible noises of sinew snapping and viscera splashing on the sterile, once white walls...

Then that was that, he wasn't human. You don't know what exactly he'd be, and you don't want to find out.

For one foolish, silly second-- you assumed you'd shook him off your proverbial tail. He hadn't chased after you, and even if you were malnourished and frail, you still could run fast in necessary. Could push yourself if it meant a chance for freedom, to see the sun again-- even if it'd be the last time.

it'd hurt, you think. The other patients would complain that the barracks lighting was becoming too dim, but to you-- it was always just bit too bright. What might've been bearable the day before, became uncomfortably bright the next. Not blinding like the corridor's lights were, though. And for that, you'd been thankful.

You weren't familiar with this facility-- you were aiming for the labs, but somehow wound up in going in a circle; now facing the other way, close to where you'd started.

Bodies-- all over the ground, mostly guards... a few scientists, their white coats weren't all stained-- some were a stark white against the viscera covering the hallway.

Ahead of you, the click-click-click of heeled dress shoes called your attention, and at the end of the hallway, stood the man.

It was as if he knew you'd wind up back here, like he knew how inexperienced you were in the layout of this place-- like he knew the layout himself. A smirk played at his lips, showcasing rather sharp canines. The kind that could easily tear flesh from bone with no issue.

Maybe... he was an angel of death, you surmised. It fit, it really did-- maybe that's why he made it through the hail of bullets the slain guards around you had sent his way. How he'd been able to kill them so quickly, without so much as a scratch on his person.

The need to run didn't fade, if anything it got worse-- maybe because you knew, wholly and entirely, that you can't run. Not really. If he wanted you dead, then it'd be so. He'd taken down so many trained guards, a measly, terrified child wouldn't be a problem at all.

All you can think of that could stop him, was morals. You don't think he has those-- with the sight surrounding you.

This time, when he stepped forward, you didn't make any move to take a step back. It was useless. this was all so useless. Why you? Why did it have to be you? The shelter hadn't been ideal, but it was better than this.

You sunk to the ground, tears welling in your eyes as you looked down-- trying to look away from the still-going emergency lights, the too-bright fluorescents that hung above were still on. The combination of the two made it feel like someone was tenderizing your brain with a sledgehammer constantly.

The clicks of his shoes aren't as sharp sometimes, when he steps in the puddles of blood-- they get closer, and closer... until he stands before you, only his shoes and part of his legs were visible to you.

You kept your head down, not wishing to look at your end. You want to die under the illusion that you ever had any choice in your life. That you chose your own end, and it was not brought upon you by this... angel of death.

And as you sat there, expecting the pain-- or simply a pinch before your entire world went black; shivering from both fear and the cold of the hallway, bile rising in your throat and your headache refusing to back down even a smidge; you imagine a world were you got to live a little longer.

Because, in your mind, you died the moment you entered this facility; it was a death sentence, and you should've been able to come to terms with that. It was stupid, you felt stupid for thinking you were any different to countless other kids that'd died in these halls-- some going down with a fight, others begging for their end;

"Look at me." A deep, almost... British, but not quite-- voice spoke, clear and concise. The man sounded... oddly human. You'd expected maybe a reverb of sorts, or the voice to crawl into the crevices of your brain and dig their claws in...

He was still scary, his voice sending a flash of terror through your body-- but in a way no different than the scientists were. It was a very human type of fear that his voice incited, the fear of somebody in a position of power above you.

Oh, how badly you wished to stay staring at the ground-- it was the lights, that was the problem. The man scared you, but you knew you should obey him. Maybe he'd give you a chance then.

Oddly enough, he seemed quite... patient, all things considered. he stood there for maybe a minute or so, before repeating himself. In the same tone, the same exact cadence and words.

"Look at me." He said, and something inexplicable-- something that felt rooted in your very soul, tugged at your mind. Telling you that he wouldn't be so kind if you made him ask again.

And you do, trying to keep your eyes open despite the pain that followed. Nausea rolled through you, both from the smell of blood and flesh-- it was sharp, much more noticeable then you think it should be; as if it's being held right in front of your nose-- and from how the headache worsened.

The smirk he had when he'd first spotted you had dropped, his face now a cold mask of... something. He really did look like an angel-- but the sorts found in older religious texts. neither good nor bad, simply carrying out God's will, who in of Themselves, was a contradiction.

The man reached out, and you couldn't help but jerk your head back-- he said nothing of it. In fact, you could've sworn the corners of his lips were giving way to a little smile, not just a smirk-- but it was gone before you could really register it;

But, he continued to reach out, and you stayed stock still, not wanting to test his patience again. You were already on thin ice, probably. For running from him, for making him repeat himself-- maybe he'd give you mercy, though? Because you were so young?

You weren't exactly a child, but you weren't an adult. Maybe... maybe he'd leave you be. He didn't seem to be hurting you, and when he curled his hand around your chin to push your head up just a bit more-- he was... gentle with it. In a way you hadn't experienced in so, so long from any adult.

Even Nathan hadn't been entirely soft with his movements, too used to being rough with it all; not knowing his strength, or the fragility of a subject who'd been here as long as you had.

You're surprised you were still able to run as much as you did.

The man hummed, turning your head just a tad to the left-- then gently guiding it to turn the other way. Like he was a museum curator appraising a priceless artifact.

When he turned your head to face him straight-on, you winced; the headache reaching an all time high, making you feel as if you were going to pass out form the pain at any given moment.

"Does the light bother you?" He asked, and you tried to nod-- but his grip, as gentle as it was, was all too firm. Not enough slack to complete the gesture. "Use your words." He said next, no irritation obvious in his tone.

But still, it set you on edge. How calm he was. People weren't calm like that-- but maybe angels were. That's what he had to be. He couldn't be human... he just couldn't be.

But... why would he ask that? It's not like the man cared for your well-being, right? it doesn't seem so, the question asked with an almost clinical sort of edge. Like the scientists had when they asked if there were any major concerns with your health, if you'd felt any negative side effects.

Not out of care for your person, but care for what you represented; a subject, something to test on to try and further whatever agenda or project they're assigned to.

"...Yes sir." You croaked out, shaking-- tacking on the honorific should help, yeah? The scientists always made you refer to them as such-- Sir or Ma'am, not accepting anything else. Not accepting no personal address either; that's how you get locked up in solitary for a few hours, to 'learn your lesson about disrespect'.

You were better at it than most, only being placed in solitary twice for the reason of 'disrespecting the scientists' with the lack of it.

The chuckle that followed terrified you, making your entire body lock up-- muscles pulled taut, ready to snap. Spine straight, much like a rabbit ready to bolt;

"Good to know you have manners. That'll make things easier." Your anxiety only worsened-- make what easier? What was he going to do, and how hell was your manners going the help that process?

Finally, he released your chin-- and not a moment too soon. You slumped, not from relief, but from the bone-deep exhaustion plaguing you after everything. Head lolling forward to try and avoid the bright light, you don't know how you're still even vaguely upright-- hell, how you're even still awake. You probably burned off more calories than you've collectively taken in since arriving here.

The world was spinning around you, and that notified you that you consciousness was probably something very, very short-lived. You're sure that, if you do pass out before he does whatever he does; you won't wake up again.

He says something, but the world if muffled around you-- blood rushing in your ears, making it sound like everything was underwater. You came to when he snapped his fingers in your face, it was a warning just as much as it was call for your attention.

You looked up-- or made the move to, only for him to place his hand atop your head, and gently direct you to keep your gaze down. "You'll damage your eyesight. Close them, if that helps any."

He framed it like he was offering it, offering advice-- you shut your eyes, seeing it as what it was. You had no choice in it. Whatever use he wanted you for, he didn't want your vision to be damaged for it.

You don't think the lights would damage your sight-- more just give a pounding migraine, but you do as he says regardless; he could very well just crush your skull in his hand, right then and there-- if he took down so many guards as you think he had.

For once, some higher being smiled upon you; and he moved his hand from your head, and while he was still as close as before, it was a massive weight lifted from your shoulders, not to have him making any direct contact anymore.

"I won't repeat myself again," He started off with, and you tried to show that you were listening-- he stayed quiet afterward, and you realized with a jolt, what he wanted. As soon as you realized, you aid-- almost robotically, "I understand, sir."

A few seconds passed, a heavy weight forming in your heart-- was that not what he wanted? You were tempted to open your eyes to try and see if you could get a read on his face, figure out what he was thinking; if he was about to kill you for some perceived slight.

...But would an angel do that? Even one who killed all these people? If you were still alive, then maybe he was ordered not to kill you. Or, more realistically, not specifically ordered to kill you.

Even if he wasn't an angel of death, if he was just some terrifying super-human or something of the like, he has to work under someone; right? He also said he's got a use for you.

You just hope that you picked up on the implications that he needed you alive for that use.

"Good." The man-- Angel?-- replied, as you hear fabric shifting-- the man moving, whether that be shifting on his feet or reaching into a pocket, you have no idea. "What's your serial code?"

"...I don't know it, sir." You shook-- you really didn't. Well, you didn't remember it off the top of your head, so maybe, if you explained yourself, he'd be more kind... "But if I hear it, then I'll know it's mine."

That can't be of much help. You might've just doomed yourself even worse, tacking on something like that- did he think you were wasting his time? Were you why he'd come here in the first place? That can't be it, you were never that important--

"Would you happen to be Subject 082202?" He asked-- and you recognized the number. Was he really after you? That's... that could go either one way or the either. Hope bloomed in your chest, before smothered by absolute despair.

What did he want with you?

You tried to respond, you really did-- but your voice failed you, wobbling and tried not to cry. You nodded, hoping he'd give you some leniency with it.

Surprisingly, he let it go. Didn't even comment on it-- when he spoke next, he sounded so... not happy, but--

Victorious, you think it'd be. Smug would be your next choice, the emotion in his voice was hard to pinpoint. It was barely there, but without anything else to witness or analyze-- you were stuck with trying to dissect his tone.

"Good, that's good." You heard him shift again-- the sound his shoes made against the tile suggested that he'd crouched down, and and his heavy leather coat shifted, but in what way you couldn't be sure--

More noises, ones that were meant to be quiet-- you weren't supposed to be able to pick on them, but you could. Maybe it was the fear of it all.

Then, his hand was back on your chin. Reflexively, you flinched; but he didn't reprimand you, if anything, his tone suggested that he... cared,

Maybe not for you-- probably for whatever you could do for him, but it was care regardless, and he told you "Stay still."

You did, and felt something place onto your face-- it felt like metal, warmed by a human's natural heat; it felt like a pair of glasses, the arms tucked above your ears, the metal bridge of it resting against your nose--

"Open your eyes, tell me if it's any better." The man said with a firmness that reminded you of the scientists-- or the guards. A strange mix between the two; maybe more like a cop, if you think about it hard enough. A sense of authority, firm but not demanding.

You do so-- the headache is still there, it'd gotten better when your eyes were closed. You find that, when you open your eyes, the world is a little dimmer; the headache doesn't spike as you'd expected due to it.

As you look up at the man, you realize that he doesn't have sunglasses on now-- giving you full view of his...

Yeah. The confirms it; he is absolutely not human. His eyes looked like a snakes, maybe more like a dragons; red with yellow around his slitted pupils-- instead of scaring you as it absolutely should,

It.. comforted you. Against your will, mind you-- a little bit of tension easing out of your form at the sight of them. You don't know why. It should terrify you, it should make you want to run for the hills, like he had when he first showed up--

With his eyes no longer obscured, and your headache a little dimmer, you think that you'd have a better chance at reading the emotions on his face--

He cleared his throat, bringing you back to the present-- to his question he'd had with his earlier command. You try not to test your luck, now able to give out a short, soft "Yes sir."

His hand released your chin again, and with all the energy left in you-- you tried your best not to have your head fall forward from exhaustion, from the loss of the support of his hand. he huffed, shifting a bit-- he was crouching, but no longer leaning in close, leaving you with a little bit of a personal bubble.

A sort of privilege you haven't been afforded in a long, long while. Nobody crowding in your space-- nobody poking and prodding. Just letting you exist. Simply letting you sit there, without anyone breathing down your neck-- unrestrained, able to leave (if you weren't so banged up-- and honest-to-god terrified of the man, but that's neither here nor there) if desired.

You notice now, that there is a suitcase set down by his side-- looking rather innocent. A simple brown leather one, no obvious tells of what could be inside. It looked like one of the head scientists own bag, one you always saw him carrying around. Not trusting to leave it in one place without him present, you'd guessed.

"You're the subject for the Ammit Strain, aren't you?" He asked-- he seemed to already be sure of himself, and it left you confused as to why he's asking you. Because you don't have a solid answer for him-- and that shouldn't have been expected of you to have one.

"Uhm... I-I'm not sure. I don't... know what that is." You half expect his calm, strangely patient, demeanor to change in the blink of an eye-- for his hand to shoot out and grab your neck, and twist until your world went dark. It was irrational (probably), because he said he needs you for something. Even if you don't know what it is, you're pretty sure he needs you alive for it--

it's still up in the air, though. So you don't rely on that assumption for comfort too much.

Instead of that, instead of any violent outburst or sudden shift in his approach-- he seemed to... smile a little at your response. it was small, barely noticeable unless you'd been staring at him for god knows how long--

and, oh boy, have you been staring at him. analyzing him, trying to make sense of it all. as you do, when you're stuck in a strange and scary situation such as this.

"That's alright." He leaned forward, hang outstretched-- it landed on your shoulder, in a strange... friendly sort of gesture. Like a teacher would do as they praise you for an A+ on an assignment. "I know you are."

Then why did you ask? a bold part of you made you want to say-- one you thought had been stomped down a long time ago. During your second stay in solitary, where they kept you in for 6 hours rather than the measly 45 minutes you'd been in there the first go-around.

You kept quiet, hoping that he'd give a bit of an explanation as to-- anything. But you know he probably won't, not without prompting; even then, he might be more inclined to telling you to shut up or dancing around the question then give a truthful answer-- or one at all, for that matter.

He didn't do anything of the sort, the conversation going dead as he stood-- He grabbed the briefcase from beside him, but didn't make any move to turn around.

As he looked down at you, you realized he probably wanted you to stand as well. Torn between telling him that you aren't sure you could do so, and staying quiet as to try and minimize any possible anger-- you simply sat there, unmoving. Terrified, feeling like you'd found yourself right in a damned-if-i-do, damned-if-i-don't sort of situation.

A few moments later, he seemed to realize what your silence, what your immobility signified. He walked around you, standing behind you-- and gave no warning as he leaned down and put his hands under your armpits-- pulling you that way, before maneuvering you in such a way where he could pick you up into a princess carry from there.

Out of pure reflex, you threw your arms above his shoulders-- scared of tumbling over and out of his hold. By the time you realize what you'd done, you were too scared-stiff you amend it.

He... didn't seem to mind it much, though.

The hand held underneath your knee carried the briefcase, the handle digging into your thin grey sweatpants just a tad-- not too uncomfortable, but not ideal. Like hell you were going to say anything about it, though.

As he began to walk, he suddenly asked "What's your name?"

Despite the fear, a slip in your judgement made you let out a little "huh?"

He huffed, his smile growing wider for just a second-- starting to resemble an actual one, before reverting back to the small, almost non-existent smirk he'd had before. "Your name. None of the documents said it, only referred to you as your serial number or the strain."

"Oh." This was so confusing-- he kept walking, letting you two lapse into silence; he wasn't rushing your answer, quite the opposite. He seemed to be letting you... take your time, even if it was such a simple and easy request.

Then, quietly, you said it. Almost as if you were afraid that the scientists or guards would hear, and punish you for it-- it was their way of isolating you from the outside world, telling you to forget who you were before you'd come here.

That you had no other name, nothing else to be called, besides Subject 082202.

The man heard you, though. He hummed in acknowledgement, and in a moment of reckless, almost moronic, bravery-- you ventured to ask,

"What's your name?"

Almost immediately, he answered with "Albert Wesker, but you'd do good not to use it." The name... was familiar, set off even more alarm bells than the man had before you learned of his name.

"...So just keep calling you sir?" What were you doing? Why were you doing this? How stupid were you, to push him like this--

"That's what was implied, isn't it?" He responded, the little edge painting his tone let you know that his patience must've been running thin. You shut up, smothering what you'd wanted to say--I was just making sure.

Something like that would definitely be categorized as disrespect-- to a normal person, and absolutely to the scientists-- which you'd defaulted to treating him as.

As he carried you, exhaustion having taken its toll on you-- your eyes slid shut, head falling forward and resting against his shoulder. Within a few seconds, you were out like a light.

[burr-ell]

I'm gonna be real, as a Southern white woman: the way some folks in the CR fandom have been talking about Southern white women and the South in general in relation to Imogen (and by extension Liliana) is weird, infantilizing, and distinctly indifferent to the actual voices and lived experiences of nonwhite people. It claims to be critical, but it has more interest in sympathy and pity and making excuses than anyone ever having to face realistic, justified consequences. Your pain is valid, but your white middle class experience—whether you're queer, a woman, neurodivergent, or some combination thereof—is not the central lens through which your favorite stories must be viewed lest the rest of us be misogynist lesbophobes. The fact that the litmus test for who is and isn't a true feminist activist is whether or not you endlessly coo and simper over the feelings of a skinny femme white woman (and have all the "correct" headcanons about her) does not give me confidence that any of you are interested in a perspective remotely different from your own—or indeed, actually doing any of the hard work necessary to help make things materially better for the South in real life.

[spiderb00]

REST IN ME

Anora x reader 

“After everything Ani has been through, the universe has finally given her the peace she has always wanted, you.” 

Genre – Fluff       Warnings – Just comfort, my poor girl has suffered enough 

Now playing – Stargazing, by The Neighbourhood 

Anora was awakened by the rays of sunlight that came in through the half-open curtain. It was only seven in the morning, she didn't want to wake up so early, but just not having to wake up with the noises of the train passing practically inside her old house, she was already happy.  

Turning over on the bed, she reached for you, despite the sun streaming in through the window, she was starting to get cold now that you were no longer there to warm her up. She picked up the phone on the bedside table, looking at the time and sighing, where had you gone so soon? 

Ani had known you a two and a half years ago now, you and she met after all the traumatic experience she went through with Vanya. It took a long time for her to trust you after everything that rich jerk did to her, but at some point, she just accepted that she was falling in love with you. At the beginning of your relationship, she was extremely suspicious, always thinking that everything you did for her was an exchange, something dirty that hovered in her mind.  

All of these thoughts stopped after you confronted her, telling her that you understood all the traumas and that you loved her, but you wouldn't continue in a relationship where she didn't feel totally comfortable with you. After that, everything changed, she told you everything, her wishes, her dreams, her achievements, the bad things and the good things. When you asked her if she missed something, the only thing she said was "It was nice to be a trophy wife for a few days." 

So it was done, you weren't as rich as Vanya, but you could give everything Ani wanted. You worked in the real estate business from a very young age, following in your father's footsteps, the older man had left many teachings for you before leaving, and you managed to make good use of everything.  

Ani is the woman of your life, you knew how hard that girl had worked practically her entire life, and you were more than happy to give her everything she wanted. A house in a posh neighborhood? it was hers. A car? it was hers. Expensive trips? she had. Marriage and children? You were working on it. 

In the midst of all this, Ani understood that there was a big difference about how Vanya treated her and how you treated her. She didn't want to make comparisons, but at one point, it was simply impossible to say that she had the same trophy wife experience with the two of you. Despite the expensive gifts and without doing any work, Ani understood that having sex and watching that spoiled idiot play video games was not very well the definition of a trophy wife. 

 You adored Ani, you would lick the floor she walked on if she asked you to, you were devoted to her. Money wasn't the only thing that made Ani look powerful, you made her look that way. Ani had one certainty with you, you were in love with her, you loved her above all, you would do anything for her. 

In the little things, all the little gestures and attitudes were what made Ani sure that you loved her deeply, the peace and tranquility of being loved that she had never received from anyone before, the calm and peace of knowing that you would solve any problem, as an adult.  

Going downstairs, Ani saw your dog lying in the living room, near the couch. Nico had been rescued by you in an alley, while you were going to visit Ani at her old house. You took him along with you to the date you and she would have that day, it was kind of a pretext for Ani to finally come and live with you. 

You and Ani were sitting on the towel, the little ball of fur lying on your girlfriend's lap, his little eyes closing with the caresses she made on his head.  

"Hey, if I knew you would steal my girlfriend's attention I wouldn't have brought you." You said, a whisper loud enough for Ani to hear and let a giggle escape, lightly pushing your shoulders.  

"Stop, it's not his fault that he's cuter than you." Hearing her words, you threw yourself back, your back resting on the thin fabric, which made you feel the grass beneath it.  

"Ouch, I'm dying! Please someone help me, this beautiful woman just stabbed my heart!" You said, a little too loud, making Ani turn towards you and cover your mouth, still giggling at your childish behavior. 

"Shut up, you idiot, do you want everyone to listen to your little drama?" Ani watched your eyes widen and then you tried to scream again.  

Your muffled words could be heard only by Ani, who still had her hand against your mouth, to prevent a scene. Seeing that you had finally finished with your little theater, she let you go, instantly seeing the big smile on your face.  

"You're so stupid." The brunette said, rolling her eyes as she tried to hide a laugh.  

"And you're very BORING!" You shouted the last part, taking Ani – by surprise – by the shoulders and making her lie down next to you. 

Unable to hide her laughter this time, the woman laughed out loud, making the little puppy jump between you and bark. With your attention focused on the little puppy, you supported your weight on one of your elbows, turning to your girlfriend and placing the puppy between the bodies of the two of you. 

 "So, do you have a name suggestion?" You asked, petting the puppy, who was now lying on his back, one of his paws moving when you scratched in the right place. 

"How about Nico?" The brunette said, something in the way she said it made you think she had been plotting this for a while.  

"I like it. But why Nico?" You asked, seeing if you could get something out of the beautiful brunette. 

 "It's just... A junction." Ani said, more shy than usual.  

"Work it out, baby." Her eyes were beautiful in the light of the sunset.  

"You know, my name is Ani, and people call you Conrad, I just thought, it might be kind of silly..." She looked away. 

Some people close to you called you Conrad, it was your father's last name, and you didn't mind carrying it around a little from time to time.  

"I loved it." You said, taking a strand of hair that fell in front of the brunette's face. You loved the little sparkles in her hair, it was so Anora.  "That's it, Nico. I loved it." You said, approaching and kissing Ani. 

Your lips glued to hers for a few seconds, before you pulled away to play with Nico, who was biting your shirt. If you looked twice, you would see the adoring look that Ani had for you. Anora had never said "I love you" to you, but at that moment, she was stuck, that's all she wanted to say. The fear of being scorned once again held him in her tongue, but it didn't take more than a week for her to say it out loud, jumping with happiness when you gave her the key to the apartment of the two of you. 

Petting the dog's ears - who was now grown up - Ani heard the door open, looking in the direction of the sound and seeing you enter with a multitude of bags in your hands.  

"Hey, are you awake?!" You said, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter and running to the couch to talk to your girlfriend. 

 Leaning in slightly, you kissed Ani's lips lovingly, sitting next to her and petting Nico before taking off your running shoes.  

"I can't sleep when you're not there to warm me up." The brunette said, pulling your compression shirt so that you leaned completely against the couch. 

"Where have you gone, baby? Why so many bags?" Ani asked, snuggling on your chest, when you finished taking off your shoes.  

"Well, I went for a run to the gym and then stopped by the supermarket to buy some ingredients for dinner with my parents." You said, kissing Ani's forehead, making the woman raise her head, your kisses going down to her nose and finally leaving a little seal on her lips. 

 Anora adored your parents, and your parents adored her. Ani was very happy when everything went well, she was very nervous before meeting your mother and stepfather. You had a good relationship with your mother's current husband, he took care of you from the age of fifteen until now, and you are grateful for everything he does for you, and if you were happy, Ani was happy. 

"I'm going to make your favorite." You said, kissing the woman's lips once more. God, you didn't want to let go of her ever again.  

"I love you." Ani's eyes looked directly at yours, you felt like you were in the clouds every time she looked at you like that.  

"I love you more." You joined your lips with hers, a calm kiss full of love. The hearts of both of you beating hard in your chest, the burning love and the flame that never went out creating more strength within you. Every moment like this was like a reminder to Anora, a message that she would never be alone again, that she had you forever. 

"I think we have to enjoy it a lot before we have company in the house." the woman said, her hands trying to take off your compression shirt. 

 "You don't even want to eat breakfast?" You asked, knowing the answer your future wife would give.  

"You're my breakfast." Ani said, kissing your neck and jaw, whimpering like a child when she couldn't take off your shirt as she wanted.  

"Anora, you're going to be the death of me." She smiled. Amazingly, she never felt bothered that you called her by her real name, sometimes even preferring it more than when you called her Ani. "Shower?"  

"Let's start the day, baby." 

Hi guys, how are you? I hope everyone is well.

 This is a little different from what I usually write around here, but I've been obsessed with Mikey since scream 5, so when I saw her in Anora my crush for her ignited again (she never went out).

I needed to write about her, I wanted to write something for Mikey too, in the same style, something fluff, but anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. 

Drink water, stay safe and go watch Anora!

xoxo, spider.

[digestive]

The whole scent thing might be a wire and cloth mother related psychological reason, you associate warmth and comfort with love whilst a lack of it dosent interest us, which can be part of the reason couple swap clothes in order to feel closer to each other and the scent we associate with them let's us remember them as well during those moments when we feel safe.

But regarding us acting like scientists, we live in a society where something we don't understand is plastered everywhere and is seen as natural, whereas we cannot quite grasp it and therefore our curiousity comes into play and that's when the mental lab coat might come out to play.

Personally I can't relate emotionally or experience wise cause they view romance and sex in such a different light, and personally both of these things were stuff I thought I 'had' to do later in life.

Which might be why now I want to understand them because like, people want this?? For real?? It's just such a different lifestyle.

But I mean, if we were talking about learning of a different culture, such as celtic or asian, it wouldn't be an issue cause these are people who live their lives differently and you would be curious how it differs from your own.

Alloallos for me is a similar thing. This is something that I cannot fathom and/or there is tons of shit I didn't even realise because its not my scene. Took me a while to realise that cherries are considered 'sexy' cause they're associated with sex and losing your virginity and allos use the stems to judge how well they kiss by tying a knot in it.

I still don't get it, probably wont ever get why they do all these things, but I know they do it as part of their own way enjoy their sexuality and romantic orientation.

So maybe the best way to stop feeling fucked up about being aroace is instead to see our experiences on a similar level to allos in a way that lets us know the reality of being alloallo or aroace and how we navigate our identities and the reasons for these behaviours.

Plus I like having that scientist in my brain becuase they help me remove the stigma I have for my sexuality and romantic orientation day by day by showing me the bigger picture and letting me conduct my own mind experiments and develop hypothesises for romance and sex in order to feel less alienated from the alloallos. And maybe that's the purpose of it.

Acting like a scientist can ground us and give us a dynamic where we feel more in control regarding these romantic and sexual behaviours we happen to see, and we don't have to feel negatively if we can follow a fiction narrative that gives us the autonomy to question things and make discoveries about stuff that confuses us.

It's a way to connect with others while allowing ourselves to have room to be okay with not fitting the mould.

this is really weird but part of my aroace experience is viewing allo people like a scientist would view a living specimen in an experiment

its like. they do something and i observe and note their behavior. i know this sounds super fucked up but here is something that happened today:

my sister was showing me her texts from her boyfriend and he was saying stuff like "if u want i can spray a shirt with my cologne to give to u" or "i'll give u my hoodie to wear"

and i just looked at her and said "people exchange clothes because they like each others scent? fascinating." and i felt like a freaking scientist observing a new species' behavior. i promise its not as weird as it sounds. im not uncomfortable with romance/sex (for other people), i just have no idea how it works.

im curious do any other aspecs have experiences like this? or is it just me?

[red-takami]

Hello red I hope you are doing good! I wanted to ask about your Navariah dr.

Whats it like there?? Can you tell us story-times or anything of the sort? It sounds magical and I would like to know more :)

-🪆

Sorry this took me so long to answer, it's been a weird couple of days. Anyway! I also got this question here 👇🏽 I'll be answering both.

What is it like in Navariah?

In Navariah, the continent is one absolute humongous landmass and is the only one on the planet. There are islands all around the borders and coastlines, some even sort of far from the landmass that belong to Navariah.

In Navariah, there are different breeds of humankind. Lizardis, Deer folk, Eleven's and a race that had gone extinct - the coal.

In Navariah, schooling and education is free. There you're allowed to use your Magic (Soul) for whatever you desire, and can turn that into anything. The place is so large that the difference in geography depends on where exactly you are in Navariah, you can experience, learn, and work with different things.

In Navariah, I am one of the two military commanders/generals, I work under the royals. There are 26 military squads that work in specific areas to keep Navariah running as smoothly as possible.

In Navariah, there are things that I couldn't have ever dreamt about before shifting there. The way Magic, Culture, and the history of Navariah is embedded into everything you'll ever encounter there is unlike anything I've seen. It grew on me of course, hence why I stayed for so long LMAO.

How has being in a different reality other than my Cr for so long, changed me?

Over the years I spent in Navariah, I went to school. I graduated. I gained knowledge of stuff that is taboo here. I fought. I met people. I experienced life in a completely different light than ever before. The literal chemistry of my brain, has changed due to my time spent in Navariah.

See it this way, imagine you spend your entire life in one country with specific things that were practically drilled into your mind since birth. You understand life on earth, in that country surrounded by that land and it's people/culture from a first person view, you know nothing else as personally as you know your home. Then, all of the sudden you make the split decision to drop everything. I mean everything, and leave to another country across the world where things are like white to black in comparison to your old home. You're forced to learn the basics of that land, you're forced to start from scratch as everyone else did there. You grow over time, you begin to understand and SEE things differently than you did before - you gain a specific perspective. That, is exactly what happened when I shifted to Navariah. It was bound to happen you guys, almost a whole decade? Of course I'd be different than before I shifted.

I find myself genuinely thinking about Navariah every single day since I shifted back. It's in everything I do, as if I had just gotten back from that (at first) foreign country and had HELLUVA time and still remember everything like it was a suupperrr long but very enjoyable and productive vacation.

Thank you all for reading this yap. Happy Shifting!

[raayllum]

King of What? :: a S7 Ezran Meta

Introduction

Because S7 in particular gave me even more Ezran feelings than usual, and I thought "What's more fun than methodically breaking them down and sorting them into categories?" so here we are. We'll be looking at a lot (but not all) of Ezran's s7 arc as well as some holdovers from previous seasons. There are also some motifs to keep in mind, such as the:

Phoenix motif

Need motif (+ him and Callum later)

Reflection Motif

that we will dive into more later once they're more relevant / we can put the pieces in place. For now, a little background meta key up because S7 breaks Ezran down and then systematically builds him back up while also, in some ways, doing a complete overhaul.

So let's talk about it?

Pillars of Identity: Who is Ezran?

TDP is a series obsessed with a lot of things, but if I'd have to wager what the second core idea of the series is beyond the Cycle of Violence, I'd probably put in on a theme of Identity, specifically questions such as, "how do I, as a person, exist within the Cycle (breaking it, perpetuating it, both)?" and "who has, or is, my grief turning me into?" as they are deeply interrelated. To answer those questions, that requires establishing who a character is in 'normal life,' or outside of grief and the cycle (ie. trauma) and who they are within it.

With that in mind, I think Ezran has about five approximate pillars for his identity, in roughly this order:

Harrow's son

The king

Callum's brother

Zym's friend

Rayla's friend

I don't think that other characters pillars would be that different (Rayla's primary would also likely be her three duty bound parents) as it does make sense; most children's primary influence in life, especially as they grow, start with their parents as role models even if they may eventually separate and take an opposite road (love you Soren). Where Ezran differs, I think, is that while I don't know if Rayla would consciously conceptualize herself as her parents' daughter as her primary pillar, I do think that Ezran — especially Ezran in arc 2 — is always orienting himself around "I am Harrow's son" (for better or for worse in terms of what that means).

This is also why I put Ezran's identity as king as his second pillar. In his childhood / pre-s3, I think his second pillar would've been his identity as Callum's (little) brother. However, we see him place returning to his kingdom above helping Callum (brother) and Rayla (friend) returning Zym (another friend) to Xadia. The loss of his father strips away the relative safety of body and mind that being a prince comparatively gave him, fundamentally altering his internalized and externalized sense(s) of responsibility and his choices accordingly. It's the loss of his father and the subsequent grief, yes, which Callum also experiences, but uniquely the mantle of the throne as well, which is what he highlights in 7x02:

This all started the day that assassin came to Katolis and killed him. Our king. Our father. I never asked for this. I wasn't ready to be a king. I'm just a kid. That day changed me forever.

So let's talk about being the king. Let's talk about

The Crown

Ezran's crown is one of the few objects in the series to have an episode titled after it (3x02) and the only one I can remember that continues to be a symbol we consistently come back to throughout (i.e. unlike 1x07's "The Dagger and the Wolf"). Despite returning to Katolis to be king and sitting on the throne itself throughout the episode, Ezran struggles with the crown. It is, to him, in some manner different than the throne, despite ostensibly representing the same thing. He has, effectively, already made the choice to be king, yet persists in his doubt and hesitation as he struggles to learn the balance.

Opeli, however, contributes to that distinction, noting specifically that "the crown is a heavy burden to bear" and that "no one blames you for being a child". Ezran's choice to fully commit to, and his acquiring of the kingship fully, is made synonymous with him putting on his father's crown for the first time. In a lot of ways, Ezran returning home to Katolis was him realizing he can't run away from growing up (2x09) in his own words, and therefore that putting on the crown is him committing to becoming someone new: this is Grown Up Ezran, or Growing Up Ezran, actively. He is, from this day on by choice, no longer just a child, but also — more so — a king.

AARAVOS: The whining child king, in over his head, and he knows it. (4x04) DOMINA: Who is this child? ZUBEIA: He is a king! (5x01) KARIM: I've never negotiated with a child before. CORVUS: He is a king. (6x07)

This also folds into how Ezran conceptualizes his father. Again, as children often do, he looks to his father for guidance with the things that Ezran is struggling to handle per his sense of responsiblity (teaching Zym how to fly in season 2): "I just wish Dad was here. He'd know what to do, you know?"

When Ezran returns home in season three, he does so with the direct consequence of his father's actions on his shoulders and wrapped around his brow, and with his letter in hand, and these changes likewise reflect a more nuanced understanding of his father:

All of you knew King Harrow as a great king. He was a warrior, a leader, and a champion. But I knew him as my Dad, who loved me and my brother and our mom, and sometimes told really bad jokes. [...] I didn't see everything he had to do as king, but I do know my father had to make some very hard decisions... I haven't been through the things that made my father the king he was. So I've decided that I don't have to be the king my father was. My father made choices to keep fighting battles that started hundreds of years before he was born. To punish children for crimes their parents committed. I don't want to be that kind of king.

This is, of course, a speech made in the context of actively rejecting war and of pardoning those who would otherwise be punished, both things that Harrow did engage in directly and deeply regretted in the letter Ezran currently holds. Ezran then walks the balance of simultaneously rejecting who his father was, and honouring who his father was and who he wanted to be. This is perhaps best exemplified in season 3 of Ezran, two episodes after rejecting his father's 'way', having a mirrored path across the courtyard set to "Last Sunset" in one of their most overt parallels, prepared to give up his life and freedom in hopes others will make better choices with the (hopefully) renewed agency they now have.

By the time we get to season 4, Ezran has changed greatly. He's more confident as king, the team's resident diplomat and negotiator, and a lot more active in general, though not without plenty of room to grow. 4x03 offers a cold dose of reality that the road to the future he wants is going to be harder to walk, but still confident that we can get there because, "We all want peace, and we all want love."

He also has a more complicated yet positive view of his father as king and of the world at large. He best expresses this, perhaps, the first time he removes his crown (which is a permanent part of his identity, and of his character design):

I am King Ezran of Katolis. As my gift [of sacrifice], I offer you my crown. It has no jewels and it isn't made of precious metal. It's made from the steel of my father's sword. My father was a strong king, and I wanted to carry that strength with me. But he also taught me that strength isn't always about weapons and war. This crown reminds me of that lesson.

Rather than just seeing Harrow as something to not be, Ezran has come around to wanting to carry his father closely with him. He's learned that "peace demands just as much strength as war" and also decided to embody Harrow's closing thoughts as a king: "I now believe that true strength is found in vulnerability, in forgiveness, in love." A dual strength for a dual king, symbolized by Ezran taking his father's sword and reshaping it into something new.

Ezran is a King of Love as Strength. He is king because he's literally Harrow's son and heir, but also emotionally — narratively — Harrow's son in terms of breaking the cycle and choosing love (similarly how Janai in S7 becomes known as a queen of mercy just like her previous royal role model, Aditi). Harrow's son by fact, and Harrow's son by choice in some ways:

EZRAN: History doesn't have to be a narrative of strength. Not if we don't want it to be. It can be a narrative of love. KARIM: These are childish dreams. EZRAN: Not dreams, choices. I am a king. And as a king, I choose love over strength.

So Ezran being king, to him, is synonymous with choosing love as strength. With making choices. With being Harrow's son (positive). He forgives Zubeia and Avizandum because of Zym. He forgives Rayla because "I'm sure she doesn't mean to make [Callum] feel that way". He provides an anchor, a pillar, for other people to build their identity around ("Don't you remember who you are?") as a reminder and a lever (hi Soren). He can honour and strive to be better than his father simultaneously. He can hold pain and love in his heart at the same time.

Until he can't.

King of what? King of ashes? [Of nothing?]

In seasons 4 and 5, we see Ezran remove his crown. Both are about sacrifices: he is prepared to offer his crown to Rex Igneous and to Finnegrin in order to help with their mission, asserting its sentimental value and importance to him: "You must bring Rex Igneous a worthy gift." / "It's not worthless. It's really important to me."

In season 7, he removes it just once. This is in admission to Callum that he "never asked for this". He was given the option of being king or not being king, but neither would've necessarily made him happy, and he made the best choice with the options he had... Options that he never asked for in the first place. The crown being a reminder to choose strength over love? He never asked to have to learn that lesson, either. It was a burden placed on him in making the best out of a bad situation, which is — unfortunately — an unavoidable part of life. But it can still be, or feel, unfair to him.

I think we see this aspect of Ezran struggling with what he wanted vs what was forced upon him in how he (and others) in 7x02 treat his high ranking position. We've seen first hand in 5x01 that Callum would overrule something like Rayla — and Runaan by extension — being arrested, but Ezran has the final say here as king. However, he does not directly highlight his own ranking. Merely, he reminds his brother of Callum's position:

Callum. High Mage. We need you at this council meeting.

And Rayla ("you're not my king, but you are my friend") reminds Ezran of his, because it is Ezran's status as king — the power, the trauma — that is driving them apart:

So, King Ezran. How determined are you to stop me?

Being king gives Ezran control over the people around him — Opeli, Soren, Corvus, Aanya, Callum — and over what happens. It gives him control. A sense of safety. And while these are understandable desires, they swing the wrong way in his anger.

So let's talk about who they swing towards!

Targets (Sol Regem, Runaan, Callum)

Ezran's anger has three direct targets in season 7, and as such, it's easy to see the way each stacks on top of the other.

The initial one is Sol Regem ("We need to find Sol Regem and destroy him"). This leads to finding an already dead dragon, which means in addition to having no one to blame, it means Ezran has no way to know or understand why Sol Regem attacked Katolis (beyond a hatred of humans). The destruction of the castle feels like losing his family all over again, in some ways, in addition to his childhood home.

Then lo and behold, the man responsible for killing his father walks right into it.

You! This is all your fault! Everything changed the day you came. You killed my father!

I think this line shows a few things. As king, Ezran was supposed to protect and be there for Katolis (2x09) while also working to break the cycle. That's what, by Ezran's measure, a good king would do. He's utterly failed at the former, and if he's a bad king, then he shouldn't be king. So whose fault is it that Ezran, a bad king, is on the throne? Logistically and emotionally, it's Runaan. It's not quite rational but it is reasonable for Ezran to look at every event in his life from the past two years spiralling out from his father's death, and culminating in Katolis' destruction.

However, despite Runaan becoming the next target of Ezran's anger, he's not actually the most consistent target of it throughout the season: Callum is.

After 7x02, Ezran doesn't breathe a single word of ire about Runaan for the rest of the series, even if he's still clearly angry months later in the 7x09 'epilogue'. Instead in 7x03, he's fixated on finding and dragging his brother back as punishment ("we can't let him get away with it!") for betrayal, which Ezran also takes personally and extends beyond himself: "Callum betrayed me. He betrayed all of Katolis."

The idea that a king represents his kingdom is an old one in terms of history, and considering that Runaan killed the king of Katolis, and Callum helped him escape, it's not that much of a reach. However, Ezran isn't even thinking that logically. If Ez was proposing hunting down the kingslayer and bringing him back to face justice, that'd be one thing. However, he only talks about holding Callum accountable, not even Rayla (who also betrayed him) or Runaan (the escaped prisoner).

His targets, quite literally, switched from Aanya having her arrow notched at Runaan and then to his brother, and Ezran's anger has subsequently followed.

Now, some of this is undoubtedly because of the three, Ezran is the closest to Callum. They had a childhood together and Callum was customarily always in his corner, if sometimes a bit scatterbrained/unreliable or angry. He, accordingly, expected Callum to be on his side, and barring that (stopping him from going after Rayla in the meeting) was prepared to enforce it. A lot of our emotional upset tends to come from "I expected you to understand/support me, and you don't" after all.

However, I think Ezran's emotional interplay is a bit more complicated. I think in 7x01, Ezran attaches to Callum as an extension of himself even as he self-isolates, such as sending Callum to go with Corvus "because we have to do something" in investigating Sol Regem, and for no real in-universe reason besides "Corvus offered to go, but I need to feel in control so I'm going to tell/order someone to go with him".

The other, bigger part of this is that Callum is the biggest hole in Ezran's reasoning.

EZRAN: He killed our father. Isn't that enough?

We know that part of Ezran's grief is that it forced him to be king and grow up quickly, something that Callum is adjacent to but can't relate to in the same way by virtue of not having the crown. But since the reasoning Ezran highlights is that 1) Runaan is a murderer (unlike the bulk of the people at his council table—oh wait) and 2) it's okay/right to punish him for killing their father... having his brother, who is also King Harrow's son (cue the identity pillar) disagree is a pretty big blow to it. They both loved their dad; he was their father, and they were both his sons. Callum is in the closest position imaginable to Ezran as anyone could be, emotionally, yet they have two completely different perspectives. It gives Ezran's reasoning much less ground to stand on, and he can't handle it. The fact that Callum's perspective (which was already a betrayal in its own way) then becomes action (which is what Ezran labels the betrayal), I think, is just the cherry on top.

Another thing that's worth noting, I think, is that neither Ezran or Callum are necessarily the ones who escalate things in 7x02; Aanya and Rayla are. Soren, Corvus, and the other guards are working under Ezran as his crownguard, but Aanya and Rayla are the rogue parties. Aanya isn't operating under Ezran's jurisdiction, but as his friend and ally. What this does mean, though, is that literally everyone at the Banther Lodge is on Ezran's side against Rayla and her weakened, injured father... except Callum, but as a mage, he's enough to tip the scales to take down the crownguard... and then use himself as a human shield.

One of the things about Ezran's anger and its targets in season 7 is that it does a very good job at illustrating exactly why the Cycle is so destructive to participate in, because yes, you may aim your anger at the people who 'deserve' it and are directly responsible—the acceptable, understandable Targets if you will—but you catch others in the crossfire. There is always collateral damage of people who didn't do a thing to you, whether that's the people who love them, or the people who are like them. (Insert Zubeia wanting to take revenge for the loss of her mate and child, claiming the lives of the assassins sent to take it, and then Lyrennus' pain at the loss of his child + Ethari's at the loss of his partner.) There is no clean way to kill your enemy in a manner that does no harm to anyone else (who is innocent).

Ezran's targets by proxy of wanting to deal with Sol Regem's destruction of Katolis are the dragons and Zym (more on them in a second, though, cause that deserves its own section). His targets by proxy of wanting to punish Runaan is causing deep pain to Rayla, even before she's taken any action against him, and then on a more literal sense his own brother. His targets by proxy of wanting to drag Callum back by force likely would've been Runaan, Rayla, potentially Ethari, or even Corvus or other crownguard in the fight.

Callum shielding Runaan (and Rayla by extension) force Ezran to confront this fact, at least a little. Does he value punishing Runaan (and Rayla, a girl who's saved him countless times, who was willing to lose a hand for him, who has otherwise always taken his side)—perpetuating the cycle—over his brother's life. And Ezran is angry enough that he good and truly considers it (although we could say perhaps he was waiting to see if Callum would move out of the way). But where Ezran was willing to hurt Rayla emotionally if it meant physically punishing Runaan, he is not willing to risk killing Callum to keep the assassin as a prisoner.

This is also, I think, the turning point for Aanya. She is Ezran's friend and was willing to follow his lead, and upon seeing the choice that Ezran made—sparing Callum over killing him and Runaan—she shifts gears. She and everyone else (who are deeply uncomfortable with Ezran's increasing rage, but unwilling to speak out against it) recognize that pursuing and punishing Callum will not actually making Ezran feel better. So she tries a different tactic.

EZRAN: We can't let him get away with it. Corvus, I need you to track them. CORVUS: [Gently corrects him] King Ezran, we already know where they're going. The Silvergrove. EZRAN: Right. And that's why I need you to track them. (7x03)

I also think Ezran taking 'being king' as such a core identity piece—Callum was Harrow's son too, but not in the way Ezran wanted/needed—lets Aanya reach him. She's also a child monarch, and reminding Ezran of this and that he and Callum can heal ("But I'll always be your brother" / "You're brothers") is something that Ezran deeply needed to hear from someone else, too.

AANYA: I know it hurts right now, Ezran. But you need to know that you and Callum are not broken. The both of you will heal one day. You're brothers. It's okay to be angry, and it's okay to be sad. But I think you should let this go, for now. You're the king of Katolis, and your people need you. EZRAN: You're right. I need to protect them.

EZRAN: But Katolis needs me. (4x03)

However, that doesn't mean Aanya's advice, nor how Ezran pursues that protection is faultless, so next, let's talk about

Dragons as Friends and Foes

Ezran has always been the dragon boy.

Back in 2021, I wrote a more long winded post that basically boiled down to—in a show where elf, human, and dragon relations are key—it was likely that Callum was always designed to be the human who engaged the most with the culturally elven side of things (primal magic, Rayla being his lancer), and Ezran (with his ability to talk to animals) was designed to handle the dragon-human side of things. Think how we see Callum's first meeting with Rayla, an elf, while Ezran is the one who discovers Zym as a dragon egg.

Although other characters (namely Rayllum in S3, and Soren in seasons 4-6) bond with dragons as well, this remained true throughout arc 2, wherein Ezran is the closest to Zym and Zubeia, the primary negotiator with the various archdragons, going on his 'big dragon missions' (5x01-5x03), etc.

Season seven, therefore, presents an interesting departure in Ezran's view of dragons. Previously, while they should've been enemies, he always saw them as friends and allies: being the first to run to and aid Pyrrah in 2x07, trying to commune with Zubeia to wake her up in 3x08, defending Avizandum in 4x08 on behalf of Zym, etc.

Sol Regem's attack changes all of that. As Ezran states:

But doesn't a home need to be safe? [...] Our ancestors spent generations building Katolis. I don't want to waste our time if it's all going to get knocked down. [...] We have to be ready. We have to be strong enough so that they won't even think about attacking us. Before we rebuild, we have to build our defenses.

In season 4 and 5, all Ezran wanted to do was work with the dragons. To work together with Zubeia to stop Aaravos; to call upon the dragons to help stop Claudia and Viren. Now, the dragons are a 'them'. Now there's an 'us'.

This isn't necessarily a 'wrong' way to think about it, though. An archdragon did attack and devastate Katolis, seemingly — to Ezran — for no apparent reason. To want to prevent that from happening is reasonable. Yes, Ezran is friends with dragons, but most friends aren't also born with the inherent capacity to utterly destroy your life as a built in feature.

At the same time, this new 'us vs them' mindset is challenged a few times in season 7. Although Ezran's assurances to Zym that "we're only building such powerful weapons so that we never have to use them" will not work out without consequences in arc 3, I'm sure, thus far we only see Ezran use them on another enemy he's willing to be increasingly violent with: Aaravos.

In 7x07, the Startouch elf offers up a double serving of manipulation — the bigger one being to join him and that he's humanity's ally, which Ezran steadfastly rejects, and the smaller one beneath regarding the Nova Blade (+ Callum), which Ezran 100% plays into. Both of these push Ezran further as a character.

The first avenue that Ezran rejects leads him to claim that:

I have allies already. The elves and dragons, fellow victims of your evil.

Even if the only elf he's currently working with is a recent addition is Terry, forcing Rayla and Runaan to go on the run in 7x02, and his draconic ally in Zym is deeply worried about Ezran and Aanya's project. But it shows that despite his coldness towards previous allies, Ezran still holds unity close and refuses to relinquish it entirely as an ideal.

Secondly, we have Ezran's choice to use the Nova Blade. This is both a departure and in line with his thoughts in 5x06:

CALLUM: We borrow this Nova Blade, wait for Aaravos to get out, and then just stab-stab, buh-bye bad guy. EZRAN: Wait, slow down. Shouldn't that be the last resort? If we can stop Aaravos from getting out at all, we can solve this without any violence.

On the one hand, Ezran in 7x08/09 is just following through with what he said here. If Aaravos was still trapped, they didn't need to resort to violence. Now that he's out, violence is accordingly on the table, just as Ezran said it would be. However, I think it still feels like a departure in some ways because of Ezran's repeated emphasis on strength and love over violence, and his choice (4x08, 5x06) to melt his father's sword down into a crown... only to now acquire a sword that isn't made for defense whatsoever, but for the express purpose of killing.

That said, more on the Nova Blade in a second.

For now, I want to return to the archdragons, and just do a little season track:

7x01: Ezran finds out an archdragon / former king of the dragons destroyed Katolis. Furious, he wants to destroy Sol Regem in turn, but cannot as the great dragon is already dead.

7x02: Ezran takes out his anger on Runaan, Zubeia's servant assassin.

7x03-7x05: Ezran goes with Aanya to learn how to build weapons that can stand a chance against dragons / archdragons, in spite of Zym's misgivings.

7x07: Despite Callum giving Ezran the mission to go retrieve Zubeia, Ez delegates it to his crownguard + Terry, choosing to remain in Katolis and converse with Aaravos instead to "keep [Aaravos] busy".

7x09: Ezran (and co.) are spared from sacrificing their lives and "everything we are" because of the archdragons, who all sacrifice themselves to stop Aaravos. Ezran holds Zym while his parents / Zubeia die, and then instructs a memorial to be created in the Valley of the Graves.

So, after a season of being angry at an archdragon, at seeing dragons as potential enemies... Ezran and everyone / everything he loves is saved by those very same creatures. Instead of destroyers who force him to sacrifice, they are saviours who choose to sacrifice on his behalf. This doesn't remove responsiblity from Ezran's shoulders per se—in many ways, a world without archdragons adds to it, as he states, "It's up to us now, Zym" (in a nice callback to 1x03)—but I do think it greatly contributes to his perspective in his closing scene this season.

One of the ways it does so is bringing back the gift motif from 4x08, not only in "worthy gifts of sacrifice" but in Ezran's realization that:

We offered gifts that meant a lot to us. But the truth is, they don't mean anything to you.

being directly contrasted in 7x09, with:

AARAVOS: And what will your sacrifices buy? A mere moment of peace before I return to a world without you? Without archdragons. Your deaths mean nothing.

EZRAN: They have given us a great gift. A chance to keep on living. Keep trying to be better.

The first time Ezran spoke of the dragons in 4x01, it was with excitement for Zubeia and Zym's visit to Katolis. He believed "it would change how people see dragons". He offered gifts of friendship and peace in the Valley of the Graves, only for the portrait to be defaced. By the end of season 7, Ezran's desire for people to see the dragons differently has come true, and his honouring of Zubeia is allowed to stand in a way that's far more permanent than a painting.

OPELI: It's the gift ceremony. I'm concerned that holding in the Valley of the Graves is insensitive. EZRAN: Wait, what? It's a sacred beautiful place. It's a place of peace. OPELI: Some people have come to me in confidence. They worry that honouring a dragon in a place that is a memorial to so many great humans, some of whom died at their hands, is offensive. (4x03)

EZRAN: Aaravos pushed us to to the brink. We were ready to sacrifice it all. Everything. You and me, Callum, Rayla... We almost gave up everything we are. But because of them, the archdragons, we didn't have to.

Now, I don't think this change at the end of the season will be enough necessarily for Ezran to halt Project Ruby Fire. I don't think it undoes the hard choices he's made or the things he's learned about himself. But I do think it asserts what he's aspiring towards, and helps direct himself to who he wants to be and how he's going to proceed going forward (Evrkynd, Runaan).

Speaking of which, let's finally talk about Runaan. Again.

A Phoenix

I've alluded to this this a bit before, but I think one of the main reasons Ezran chose to forgive Runaan was because of the archdragons' sacrifice. The dragons gave him a chance to keep living, to keep trying to be better—and Ezran then turns and gives that "great gift" in turn to Runaan. I don't know if I think that Ezran would've otherwise had Runaan executed, but forgiveness even more than just being spared is a much more active choice in a lot of ways, and not something that Ezran had to conflate, but chose to.

The other reason I think Ezran chose to forgive Runaan is because, as of the end of S7, he's been Runaan.

As an assassin, I had convinced myself that I was a kind of peacemaker. A twisted peacemaker, I suppose. I believed that my act of precision violence was preferable... necessary, even, to prevent far greater bloodshed.

[...] I was trained to accept that I was already dead, so that I might carry out my dark work without fear. But I am not dead. I am alive. I have a family I love. I have so much to lose, the very things I took from you.

"They have given us a great gift. A chance to keep on living."

Ezran now understands how someone can believe that to keep back chaos and death, you have to kill another person. To believe in your bones that someone has to die, even if that means your own destruction. That doesn't mean Runaan was right about Harrow, or that Ezran is necessarily wrong about Aaravos, but the journey to get there, the mindset, of how undeterred you are when you reach that place... Ezran's been there. He knows, now, in ways he didn't before.

He forgave Zubeia because everything was complicated: because he could relate to longing for his mother (Zym), to watching his father grieve his wife the same way Zubeia was grieving Avizandum, to wanting to protect his kingdom (Avizandum). To grieving family. Of a child who had lost things.

He forgives Runaan because he can understand being an assassin, and already dead, and realizing you almost lost / have forsaken your family along the way. Of violence testing you, and failing, and having to try again. To reforge yourself into something new—because the true heart you had before is gone, but that doesn't mean your heart is.

Ezran stands in front of the fireplace twice in season 7. The first is with Zym in 7x02 and where he has his initial disagreement with Callum. The second time is with Runaan in 7x09, a fire in his eyes. This evokes not only Ezran's fury and association with the dragons, but also the framing of Aaravos from earlier in the season.

Ezran once asked if he was now the king of ashes. 7x09 demands him to answer if he wants to keep being a King of Ashes. If he wants to continue feeding his anger and hate, if he wants to continue fuelling the fire of hatred and grief within him. And Ezran says no. He says yes to forgiveness, though this time, he does not know the way:

EZRAN: But it's not that simple or easy. [...] Somehow, we have to hold it all in our hearts at the same time. (4x03) CALLUM: But somehow, you got past that. You forgave her, because everything was complicated. (7x02) EZRAN: I'm going to forgive you. I don't know how, but I have to try. (7x09)

He is presented with a phoenix (Runaan, back from the grave) and chooses to become one himself, and welcome back in all the other pillars of identity that had been crumbling over the past season.

EZRAN: I think about the people I love who are counting on me to do the right thing. Not the strong thing, not the harsh thing. The right thing. Do you love your sister, Prince Karim? (6x07)

It's sort of fitting, then, that in choosing once again to be Harrow's son (positive), he's presented with a more literal bird phoenix in "Harrow's soul in is in Pip" then, too.

And the same rebirth goes for the world around him, too.

ASTRID: Everything burns when a star dies. (7x09)

OPELI: King Ezran... perhaps it is finally time to rebuild. EZRAN: No. It's time to build something new. [...] Our world faced its end. But we survived. And on the other side, we find ourselves at a new beginning. [...] There is no such thing as utopia. But with hard work and discipline, persistence and patience, we can build a better place.

The Crown, Again (reforge into something new)

So I've talked about the reflection motif, and I've talked now about the phoenix motif. There's still more I could touch on in regards to Ezran's whole thing with Aaravos and the Orphan Queen, the layers of Aaravos' manipulation, the theme of following in your predecessors' footsteps and the good and harm that can come of it, but that's probably a meta for another day. For now, I want to return to the Need motif we touched on earlier.

TDP is very interested in questioning what characters deem necessary. Thus far, this was mostly done through Aaravos ("Aaravos did what was necessary" / "we will do what must be done"), Claudia ("I did what I had to do" / "Maybe he's just doing what needs to be done" / Whatever it takes, however dangerous, however vile"), and Viren ("I tried to explain that I had only done what was necessary"). S7 starts to shift gears and push further at the main trio, questioning and picking apart some of their mindsets (which again, could be a meta on its own) in regards to what sort of violence they believe is necessary and why, only for none of it to actually have been so because of the Archdragons. A nice little meta-narrative reflection.

What I want to actually focus on here is Ezran's idea of need. This is usually couched within his place of being king, and loyalty to his kingdom, as we've seen previously ("But Katolis needs me" / "You are the king of Katolis, and your people need you").

EZRAN: I wish [Zym] could come with me too, but you need to go be with your mom. That's your home. Both of us need to go home. (2x09)

So Ezran believes that needs to be king because Katolis needs him. Great. What does Ezran need?

Season 7 gives various answers, according to himself:

"Callum. High Mage. We need you at this council meeting" (7x02)

"We can't let [Callum] get away with it. Corvus, I need you to track them" (7x03)

"I need to protect [my people]" (7x03)

"Destiny works in mysterious ways. The Novablade came to my ancestor, only to be lost for generations until we needed it" (7x09).

The other people in his life have other ideas, as discussed.

ZUBEIA: But Zym, you must go. Your brother Ezran needs you. (6x02)

AANYA: But you need to know that you and Callum are not broken. The both of you will heal one day. You're brothers.

CALLUM: Mom said it was okay to be angry, but I couldn't let the bad feelings stick. Because we were going to need each other. Because we're brothers. I still need you, Ezran.

Broken things can be mended. Crowns and swords can be reforged. People can be, too. As much as Ezran loves his council and his crownguard, he needs people who don't just see him as king. Callum is not his High Mage, but will always be his brother, and that's what's most important. He needs Callum and Rayla and Zym; he needs Aanya who can help keep him grounded. He needs his family because they help keep him who he is as much as he has for them in the past ("Don't you remember who you are?" in 4x07) now that it is up to them to maintain it, and the archdragons are gone.

And to be himself, Ezran needs to be:

Harrow's son with accordance to a Narrative of Love

The King of Katolis

Callum, Zym, and Rayla's brother

rising from the ashes and bringing others up with him, over and over again the way he always has. The way he always will.

Because not all cycles are bad, either.

Conclusion

As stated, there's more to Ezran's arc in S7: ideas of history and half-truths, of chains and Startouch elves, of home and memorials. Of what we carry against our will, what we choose to set down, and vice versa. What this meta was, then, was the first at likely two passes, focusing on Ezran's emotional state(s) throughout the season and his emotional processing. More structural and thematic based analyses of his character in S7 / across the show thus far will definitely folllow.

For now, though, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed a bit of a deeper dive!

All hail the king.