#its like claiming you made a piece you commissioned just because you told the actual artist what to make

[zapsoda]

i dont think the issue with ai art is that it simply exists, or that its made by scrambling preexisting works of art, the issue is that it does so without 99% of the artists' consent or even crediting them. its the equivalent of making a collage

[thepastisalreadywritten]

It was the first official account of Elizabeth I’s reign, one of the most valuable sources on early modern Britain, commissioned by her successor, King James I.

But, for 400 years, no one has been able to read passages on hundreds of pages of this manuscript because they had been so heavily revised and self-censored by their 17th-century author, apparently to avoid punishment for offending his patron.

Now state-of-the-art imaging technology has enabled the British Library to read hidden pages of William Camden’s Annals for the first time, “a significant finding in early modern historical scholarship.”

Those pages had been either over-written or concealed beneath pieces of paper stuck down so tightly that attempting to lift them would have ripped the pages and destroyed evidence.

Enhanced imaging technology, involving transmitted light, has revealed those texts, offering new insights into the queen and the political machinations of her court, to the excitement of scholars.

It casts new light on significant historical episodes such as Elizabeth’s excommunication by Pope Pius V and her nomination of James as her successor.

Julian Harrison, the British Library’s lead curator of medieval historical and literary manuscripts, told the Guardian that seeing unknown passages emerge for the first time was “heart-stopping.” He said:

“It’s really one of those moments where ‘now you can’t see anything, now you can,’ the absolute reversal of ‘now you see it, now you don’t.’

The imaging is revolutionary. We’ve never done anything quite like this before. It’s just incredible.”

Written in Latin, the Annals were based on first-hand evidence such as witness reports and official parliamentary records collected by Camden, who died in 1623.

Harrison said:

“We have 10 volumes of the handwritten manuscripts … [of which] literally several hundred pages … [have] passages which had been covered up.”

He added:

“Modern historians have commonly relied on Camden’s Annals as an impartial and supposedly accurate record.

This new research reveals that key sections were revised … It implies that Camden’s Annals were deliberately rewritten to present a version of Elizabeth’s reign that was more favourable to her successor.”

He noted, for example, its claim that Elizabeth I had named James VI of Scotland as her successor on her deathbed:

“Elizabeth never married and she died childless in 1603, to be succeeded on the English throne by Mary’s son, James VI of Scotland.

Analysis of the manuscript drafts shows that the deathbed scene was a fabricated addition that Camden did not intend originally to put into his history.

He presumably included it to appease James so that his succession looked more predetermined than it had actually been.

Elizabeth was too ill to speak in her final hours and no other historical evidence points to this deathbed scene being true.”

In 1570, Pope Pius V excommunicated Elizabeth.

Harrison said Camden originally said the pope was motivated to do so by “spiritual warfare,” only to replace it in the published version with the statement that Pius was creating “secret plots” against Elizabeth:

“By removing the previously inflammatory wording, Camden made the official record more neutral in tone.”

Historians will now want to pore over this material.

“There’s still more to be discovered,” Harrison said. “What’s going to be interesting is how modern interpretations of Elizabeth I, such an important historical figure, are potentially going to be changed.”

The researcher Helena Rutkowska has been working on the Annals as part of a collaborative doctoral award in a partnership between the University of Oxford, where she is a DPhil student, the British Library, and the Open University.

She spoke of the excitement of seeing original texts for the first time:

“It was incredible … We’ve been able to clearly see new information that no one has seen for 400 years.”

—

Camden's Annals has long been regarded as one of the most important, contemporary accounts of the reign of Queen Elizabeth I (7 September 1533 – 24 March 1603).

The work was originally requested by William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley KG PC (13 September 1520 – 4 August 1598), and was then completed by command of King James I of England and VI of Scotland (19 June 1566 – 27 March 1625).

William Camden (2 May 1551 – 9 November 1623), an antiquarian scholar and Clarenceux King of Arms, is credited with authorship of the work, but he was probably writing in collaboration with others, including Sir Robert Bruce Cotton, 1st Baronet (22 January 1570/71 – 6 May 1631), founder of the famous Cotton library.

The first three books, covering the period to 1587, were published in Latin in 1615, with the remainder of the work published after Camden had died, in 1625.

[babycharmander]

If you think you have never stolen artwork, read this post.

So, art theft. If you've been a follower of mine, you've heard my barely-coherent rants about this before, but I thought it might be more productive to make a more coherent post on the subject.

If you're wondering about the title of the post here, it's because I feel like a lot of people aren't really grasping what exactly art theft is, and a LOT of people, even well-meaning ones, do it without even realizing it.

"But wait," you say. "I would never STEAL from an artist!! I never claim it as my own!" And that's all fine and good, but you're missing something here.

To start things off, what IS art theft? (It's not what deviantART said it was several years back, I'll tell you that much. *cough*)

We all know what art is, so let's talk about theft. Dictionary.com defines "theft" as "the act of stealing; the wrongful taking and carrying away of the personal goods or property of another; larceny." Okay, makes sense, but what about that other word there, stealing? Dictionary.com defines "steal" as "to take (the property of another or others) without permission or right, especially secretly or by force."

From those definitions, we can go on to define art theft as, specifically, "taking art without permission or right." In the context of art, that typically involves reposting it (not reblogging--reblogging is different) or using it for other things.

And there, my friends, is the issue.

If something is taken or used without permission, it is stolen. Permission is the important thing here--if an artist says "oh yeah, you can go ahead and use this!" then it's not stolen. You have their permission. But if you DON'T have that, then it IS stolen. It IS theft.

"But I'm not claiming it as my own!" you say. But you don't have to claim it as your own--the act of taking it in and of itself is an act of theft.

"But I said 'credit to the artist!'" The "credit" thing is a whole other conversation, but here's the short of it: The entire point of credit is to direct people to the source of something. If you are not directly linking to where you got the art from, you are not giving credit. "Credit to the artist" is not actually credit of any kind whatsoever. (Also, Google and Pinterest are not sources.)

"But I DID link back to the artist!" Okay, now this is where it may get confusing, because you may think you're covered because you actually did give credit. Here's the problem: if you reposted it or used it without permission, regardless of whether you gave credit or not, it's still stealing.

I'm bolding this because it's a point that a lot of people get tripped up on. Let me explain it this way: If you went into your neighbor's house and took something of theirs without their permission, but you told people "oh yeah, I got this from [neighbor]'s house!" that that would still, of course, be stealing, and it's no different for art.

Another thing is that even when you credit, people don't always check the source. Very recently I found a case where someone had reposted a piece of artwork of mine to Pinterest that was deliberately made to look like it came from the source material (it wasn't meant to confuse anyone, though--the description of my original post made it very clear that it was fanart). The person who reposted had linked back to my original post. The problem? The comments had people asking if this was official, where it happened in the source material, etc. Despite the fact that the source was right there, no one thought to look at it.

Even if you link back to the source, if you did it without the artist's permission, it's still stealing, and still causes problems for us artists.

"But I just posted it to my Pinterest--" DO NOT DO THIS. DO NOT POST AN ARTIST'S WORK TO PINTEREST IF YOU DO NOT HAVE THEIR EXPLICIT PERMISSION TO DO SO.

"But this artist friend of mine says they're okay if I post their work to my Pinterest so long as I link back to them!" Good for your friend! But the fact that your friend is okay with it doesn't mean that all artists are okay with it. For me, personally, I am very not okay with my work being posted to Pinterest, and say as much on my art blog description and posts (which people tend to ignore).

The problem with Pinterest--and reposting art in general--is that we artists don't know when it happens unless we're told, or unless we find it ourselves. It causes us to lose control of our art. And because of this, our art can spiral further out of our control, because when our works get posted to Pinterest or other similar websites, people who have no grasp whatsoever on how art works will just take it as "free art" and then use it for whatever they want.

That's how a piece I spent 20+ hours on was used as a poster for a paid event, without my permission, and without any payment or credit to me.

If an artist has said nothing about Pinterest (or other similar image sharing sites), your default should be to assume that they don't want their artwork posted there.

"Well I didn't repost someone's art, but I did use it for my avatar/RPing icon/video/fic cover/photo edit--" That's still stealing. If you're using it without their permission for any reason, that is stealing. Not to mention, the artist may not be cool with what you're using their art for anyway. (Looking at you, people who use platonic art in your shipping videos.)

“I MEANT to ask them for permission, but I forgot!” This can ONLY happen if you used the artwork BEFORE you asked for permission. You can resolve this by asking for permission BEFORE you use it, rather than assuming the answer will be “yes” and using it before asking.

"But it took me a really long time to make that icon/video/cover/edit!!" How long do you think it took the original artist to draw their piece? It doesn't matter how much work you put into modifying someone else's art--if you're doing it without their permission, you're still stealing.

"But I couldn't find the original artist! I tried to find them, I really did, but I couldn't. Is it okay to use their art then?" No, because you still don't have permission, and by reposting it anyway, you’re continuing to make the artwork spiral out of their control.

"What if I found the artist, but they speak a different language from mine? I can't ask them for permission, so is it okay if I repost their art anyway?" NO!! DO NOT DO THIS!! If there is a language barrier, use Google translate or find someone to translate for you and get a hold of the artist that way to ask them for their permission. The language barrier is NEVER an excuse to steal artwork. There are plenty of non-English-speaking artists who have taken ALL OF THEIR ARTWORK OFFLINE because the art theft was completely out of control. (And this isn't just exclusive to English-speakers stealing art from people who don't speak their language. It happens artists who don't speak English stealing art from English-speakers, too, but as this post is written in English it doesn't do much good for me to rant about this here.) If you can’t ask their permission, do not use it!!

"But what about reblogging?! Isn't that the same as reposting?? Should we not reblog art at all then?" No, reblogging (or retweeting) is not the same as reposting. If you reblog art, you keep all the information that we attached to the art, including our blog name and the description attached to the art. Reblogging/retweeting actually helps us artists A LOT, so as long as you're reblogging from the original artist (and not someone who's reposting their art), by all means, reblog our art!

"What if I just want to share someone else's artwork on Discord or show it to a friend?" This one's a bit different and is not actually as problematic. If you want to share our work on Discord or whatever, just link directly to where we posted it. Please don't post the art itself, unless you're doing it alongside a link because Discord won't show a preview or something.

"What about a forum or a site like Reddit?" This one's a bit different, since due to the way Reddit functions, if you LINK to the art, you have to go directly to the artist's original page to view it. (At least, that’s what it’s like the last time I was active there.) In a way it's roughly the same as with Discord--be sure you're linking directly to the actual post rather than just uploading the art on its own--but I would also ask the artist if they're okay with it, because they may be a member of the subreddit or forum and want to post it themselves, or they might not want their work shared to specific communities. (Some communities have a function where a bot will repost the artwork to Imgur, and some artists don't want that done with their art.)

"What if I'm saving it to my computer/phone to look at later, or making it into my desktop/phone wallpaper?" IMO this is fine, since your computer/phone files aren't public, and neither is your wallpaper. It's only a problem when you post it to public places without our permission.

"What if it's art I commissioned?" Well... like... in that case, it's art you paid for, so unless the artist you commissioned laid out very specific terms for you, you should be good to use that art. Like, at most, the artist may ask you to credit them somewhere in your blog description if they drew your icon or something, or credit them in a fic description if you commissioned a fic illustration from them, or something to that effect. It's really something you should have already worked out with the artist beforehand, but for the most part you should probably be fine to use art you paid for however you like.

"What about art I requested?" This is a bit different from commissioned work. Just because the art was drawn at your request doesn't mean it's explicitly yours (unless it's like, a drawing of your original character or something). Some artists take requests more as suggestions, so the art they draw in response to a suggestion or request is still theirs. Treat this as you would any other artwork and ask the artist for permission first before you do anything with the artwork you requested from them.

“What about NFTs?” ... Okay this one I can’t really go over too much because I barely understand it in the first place, but NFTs are BAD for artists and are a form of art theft. Do not turn people’s art into NFTs. This is a crappy thing to do. (If you want more information on this one, you’ll have to look it up yourself. It’s a form of cryptocurrency and it’s confusing.)

“If you don’t want your art stolen you shouldn’t post it in the first place.” This is fascinating logic. Try applying it to something else and see how it holds up. “If you don’t want your merchandise stolen, you shouldn’t open a booth.” “If you don’t want to get poisoned you shouldn’t eat food.” “If you don’t want to get punched in the face, don’t walk outside.” Yes. Flawless logic. Truly.

"Why do you care so much, anyway?! I'm sharing your art because I like it! That's a compliment! Shouldn't you be happy?" Well, we're certainly glad you like our art, but the problem is... as I've said before, reposting our art causes us to lose our control over it. When we lose control of our art, that damages our livelihood. As I said before, other people have made money off of my artwork. As well, some artists lose jobs because when their potential employers check out their portfolio, they may find artwork that's been reposted everywhere online, so they cannot hire the artist because they believe they may have stolen the artwork in their own portfolio.

Your reposting an image you thought was cute to Facebook or Pinterest could cost an artist their job. Think about that.

So, tl;dr, keep this in mind: you need the artist's permission to repost or use their artwork. If you do not have it, it is stealing, even if you credit the artist.

I know this post is really harsh in places, but this is such an important thing for all artists, and there's so many misconceptions about art theft online. And I feel like one of the biggest problems is that when some people see posts on art theft, they ignore them, because they think they've never done it or would never do it, so that's why I worded this post the way I did. I'm not trying to hurt anyone--I just want people to understand what art theft is, how it affects us artists, and how you can avoid it. Thank you for reading.

[aconstantstateofbladerunner]

101 Open MHA Gen Prompts

I had a very long ask game where people gave me fake titles and I came up with fic ideas to go with them.  Multiple people asked to use some of them as prompts, and some of my friends have lately maligned the lack of gen prompts out there, so I decided to compile them all into a single post.  Almost all of these are gen, aka not shipping, but you can do what you want I’m not your boss.  Everything is free and open to use WITH CREDIT, so have fun with my word vomit.

1. In Dreams I Had the Sun - Being the number one hero isn’t all it’a cracked up to be, Toshinori realizes early on

2. The Chainlink Fence that Held the Ocean - In his new book post-retirement, All Might opens up about his regrets, struggles with mental health, and his issues with the hero system as a whole.  The backlash is swift and intense.

3. Welcome to the Loud Silence - After an injury, Izuku is rendered deaf.

4. Water Since Turned Red - After a villain attack nearly kills All Might, the beach where Izuku used to go to find comfort now feels tainted.

5. all scrap left untouched is bound together - A group hero students who failed the provincial license exam for the third time, effectively ending their careers before they start, get together to take revenge on UA’s first years who beat them out.

6. You’ve saved more more times than you know - Times All Might saved people without his powers, just by being a cool, nice dude.

7. No Amount of Tragedy Can Justify Your Actions - A dying All for One tries to justify his centuries of cruelty to an uncaring Toshinori.

8. To Leave a Cage Locked - One for All is conscious and has a will of its own, one that doesn’t always line up with Izuku’s wellbeing.

9. Okay, who let in the Kraken? - Izuku is the reincarnation of an ancient eldritch horror.

10. keep us alive up above - Izuku and Shigaraki get trapped together somewhere.  Izuku knows he needs the villain’s help to survive and escape, but the other would rather they both die.

11. The world will revolve around me neither less - The ebbs and flows of AFO’s influence over the years.

12. More Roulette, Not Russian - Kids get their quirks swapped.

13. Patron Saints - Toshinori teaches a class about pre-quirk superhero comic characters and their influence.

14. Don't Come Back - Touya Todoroki’s first few weeks after a severe injury resulted in his father abandoning him.

15. The Blessed and the Fool - Toshinori meets up with a few of his ua classmates after retiring.

16. Not Your Sacrifice - Some of the other kids have started adopting some of Izuku’s self sacrificing habits and the teachers are concerned.

17. Break in the Storm - Villains use a power outage as an opening to break into ua.

18. One Day Those Consequences Will Finally Catch Up - Even though the teachers don’t take her concerns seriously, Inko saves every piece of evidence regarding people hurting her son.

19. a garden in their eyes - Izuku meets a fan who got injured after trying to step into a villain fight, just like he did, and it makes him question some things.

20. what could have been, if not for you - After Inko divorces him, Hisashi’s goes to the press to say All Might stole his wife and son.

21. Promised Misery - All Might finds out the severity of Bakugou’s bullying, and warns him he’s on thin ice with him.

22. Fly Up Higher, Blossom Brighter - Izuku has to write a paper for middle school about being positive, intercut with all the bullshit he has to deal with.

23. Libre Me from Hell - One of Izuku’s new quirks is spiral related.

24. No One to Blame but Yourself - Izuku’s kindness doesn’t extend to murderers, tragic backstory or not.

25. At Its Finest - Izuku accidentally gets involved in a hero commission coverup.

26. A Rising Issue - Izuku starts developing more severe side effects of his injuries.  He’s convinced he’s under the influence of a quirk, while the adults thing he’s finally gone too far hurting himself.

27. What you are in the Dark - Izuku usually keeps most of his anger to himself until he can’t.

28. nowhere to go - Inko moves into UA after their home was destroyed.

29. Something Without - My theory about the 2 OFA vestiges that are blurred out is they don’t approve of izuku as a successor.  Izuku tries to figure out why. 

30. Walking with a Ghost - Toshinori joins the OFA dreams while he’s in a coma.  He gets to reunite with nana, and is more open to Izuku about his past and feelings.  Part of his starts to wonder if it’s worth waking up, since he will die and join the others eventually.

31. Death By Crying - Izuku is affected by a quirk that will suffocate him if he expresses any emotion.

32. Justice is Subjective - The hero commission gets to Shigaraki before AFO does.  

33. Undo / Underdog - Death loop fic.  Izuku keeps reliving the day he met all might after being killed by the sludge villain.  he has to find a way to break the loop and survive, but he gets s little weaker every time he restarts.

34. Like Wildfire - A rumor that Izuku is All Might’s bio son picks up steam, and the characters have to decide whether to deny it but risk suspicion or play along and add a new layer to the lies protecting one for all.

35. Once Upon A December - All Might and Inko actually met in the past trope.

36. Some Legends Are Told - All Might’s first interview post-retirement.

37. Will The Real Mentor Please Stand Up - Aizawa considers himself the better teacher, but a lot of the kids seem to like All Might more.

38. I don't want the cure, I want the POISON! - Inko is killed in a hit and run, and Izuku becomes desperate to find the killer.

39. I will kill my heart before I dance on stage for these bigots - Izuku is interviewed as a rising star of UA, and the interviewer brings in some of his old bullies because they claimed to be his friends from middle school.  Izuku does not play along.

40. Split Ends - A quirk gives Izuku brief visions of what would have happened if he made different decisions.

41. Dreamless Sleep - A One for All dream leaves Izuku with a cryptic half-warning, and he desperately experiments to try and figure out how to trigger the visions to get the rest of it.

42. toxic flowers and pretty blades - Young Inko escapes the constricting life of her cruel wealthy family by becoming a vigilante.

43. The Suns we Orbit - Some of the other teachers believe Izuku is too codependent on Toshinori, and separate them for a time.

44. Submerged - Similar to those buried alive fics only someone’s in a box at the bottom of the ocean.

45. Deprive - Izuku also loses his stomach to an injury, and struggles to adjust to the necessary lifestyle changes.

46. The ashes fall like snow - Post Kamino cleanup.

47. Home will always be here - Inko cares for Izuku after he’s sent home due to “trouble at work study” but he refuses to clarify what that means.

48. Playing Favorites - A look at several times where Izuku was punished, while Bakugou got off scot free.

49. Elusive Dreams - Some kind of training or issue forces the kids to stay away for several consecutive day, and they start losing it.

50. Fracture - Izuku struggles through physical therapy after a severe injury that leaves his hero career in question.

51. Starlight, Starbright - Space cadet au

52. Someone in Your Corner - Gran Torino looking after Nana, Toshi, and finally Izuku through the years.

53. I cast magic missile into the darkness - Generic “the gang plays d&d” fic.

54. One Month At A Time - Izuku breaks a limb, and has to let in heal naturally over the course of several months.

55. Head Above Water - Izuku runs out of his pain meds and can’t get access to more doses for a while, so he has to endure not only the pain, but the withdrawal symptoms.

56. Are you going to leave a path to trace - All Might uses a new strategy to try and get Izuku to be less self sacrificial: what about all the young kids who are going to look up to him?

57. The View from Halfway Down - Izuku realizes that a risky move has just landed him with a potentially life threatening injury, but the fight it still going.

58. The Dust Bites Back - A villain All Might defeated early in his career is back and out for revenge.

59. The Absence of your Worth - Nighteye thinks he’s put together a rock solid case for why izuku isn’t worthy of One for All.  All Might’s response is to ask if he has something against quirkless people.

60. Behind the Screens Nobody is Afraid - All Might explains some of the context of his most popular hero videos to Izuku.  They are much more tragic than the media has spun them in hindsight.

61. Under the Light of the Moon - Someone gets turned into a werewolf.  And I ain’t talking the wattpad piss shit.  I’m talking full-on back-breaking monstrous transformations into a bloodthirsty abomination set to Bad Moon Rising.

62. some dreams were made to be broken - Bakugou crosses a line and finally gets expelled.

63. You Say You're Into Closure - Izuku finally beats Bakugou in a one on one fight fair and square, but Bakugou is a sore loser.

64. Something or Someone Missing - AU’s memories of Izuku get wiped, but those closest to him can’t help but feel an absence.

65. Too Little Too Late - Izuku’s father returns to find he’s been replaced.

66. Collecting Dust - Inko goes through the stuff Izuku didn’t take to the dorms.

67. Where the souls of wanderers go - Toshi meets up with a retired hero support group.

68. Fragility of Trust - Suspected traitor au

69. no one answered - Izuku is trapped in a cell in a building that’s collapsing in slow motion due to a quirk.

70. Eye of the Storm - One of the other kids has a panic attack for the first time between public appearances.  izuku has never seen from from the outside.

71. To Whom It May Concern - The kids find a mysterious collection of letters from previous students hidden in the ceiling of the classroom.  Some are ominous, some are incomprehensible.  Aizawa has no answers.  They enthusiastically go to try and solve the mystery within, but that excitement quickly diminishes the more they find out.

72. Of Popsicles and Ponytails - All Might gets in a discussion with the other teachers about whether the Clark Kent glasses thing would actually work.  All Might bets them it does, so he goes around town with no disguise other than his hair being up, and no one bats an eye.

73. All Men are Not Born Equal - Word gets out to the public that izuku used to be quirkless.  Everyone finds out just how deep anti-quirkless sentiments run when some begin to question whether a quirkless kid should be at ua, regardless of whether or not he has a quirk now.

74. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies - Something about encountering death in person for the first time being the dividing line between child and adult.

75. Sins of the Father - All for One has had many children over the centuries, and has made numerous attempts to groom them into the ideal heir with several different methods.  None of them worked though.

76. Where The Dead Come To Rest - The kids come home after a long, grueling mission where they saw some shit, and are too tired to process what they went through.  They take off their gear for plain clothes, then sit in the common room in silence long into the night, not wanting to open themselves up but also not wanting to be alone.

77. Rivalry - Nighteye tries to pit Izuku and Mirio against one another.  It goes right over Mirio’s head, but Izuku becomes convinced the other boy is in on Nighteye’s plan to wear him down until he gives up One for All.

78. A Subtle Language - All Might and Nana never said out loud that they loved each other, but little things told them that they did.  All Might hopes to pass a similar love down to his own successor.  But Izuku is very different than himself as a kid, and he needs to learn a new subtle language of affection.

79. It’s Gone - One for All stops working one day.

80. A Sight For Sore Eyes - All Might looking after Izuku in the aftermath of the second movie.

81. Loose Lips (sink ships) - Bakugou blurts out something about One for All during a rage, so the rest of the class jump on him and Izuku for answers.

82. No Expectations - Word gets out that All Might is going to choose a successor.  None of the theories or speculation online resemble Izuku in the slightest.

83. Eden was Only a Garden - Izuku gets hit with a quirk that erases some of his most traumatic memories, but in doing so loses part of who he is.

84. Run it Down - With all Izuku’s new quirks and his incredible skill, some of the other students with similar powers (Iida, Sero, Uraraka) start to feel like izuku is upstaging them.  And it affects their friendship.

85. Fool's Gold - Bakugou grows even more jealous of Izuku having One for All, and his relationship with All Might.  He thinks that if he could just prove himself to be more worthy, All Might would change his mind and name him his successor.  But in reality, he ends up jeopardizing the relationship they already have.

86. somewhere down the road - The final deadline for Nighteye’s predictions passes, and All Might lives.  He debates telling Izuku, as even though it would be a weight off the boy’s mind, he doesn’t want to jinx it.  He will still die eventually after all.

87. Just For You - All Might has certain rules and boundaries for fan interactions that he completely ignores for Izuku.

88. if these walls could talk (their whispers would be maddening) - Montage of training accidents in a ‘cursed’ ua gym

89. If Only I Could... - Nighteye tells Mirio about One for All, including that he thinks he’s more deserving than Izuku and he plans to pressure him into giving it up.  Mirio struggles with the knowledge that his mentor, someone he respected more than anything, only saw him as a replacement for All Might, meanwhile watching Izuku strain under the pressure of that mentor’s impossible expectations.

90. This is a Test Designed to Provoke an Emotional Response - shameless Blade Runner AU

91. Once and for All - Retelling of the Superman story “What’s So Funny About Truth, Justice, and the American Way?” with All Might.  Some new heroes use much more aggressive and violent tactics against villains while also upstaging All Might.  That, and there general approval from the public cause All Might to question his moral code.

92. Sitting In The Rain - Tsuyu likes to just sit out in the rain sometimes.  Not do anything, just sit there.  Some friends decide to join her.

93. At Sundown - Mysterious creatures start attacking ua every night.  The gang works tirelessly during the day to find the cause and a solution, while defending their school and each other at night.

94. The 1000th time's the charm - Uraraka has been practicing a new move in secret but they just can’t get it right.  She wants it to be perfect before showing it off.  But one attempt gets her seriously hurt while training alone at night in one of the gyms, and she’s too hurt to get up to the phone to call for help.

95. Sunflower Seeds - All Might attempts to start a garden as a new hobby.

96. What It Means To Be Human - Sun god Toshi starts living among people.

97. Eyes on Me - All Might teaches Izuku some unarmed fighting moves to defend himself from bullies.

98. one remains - Izuku has developed all but one of the quirks he’s slated to, and he has no idea what it will be.  Anxiety ensues.

99. Come Back Home - Izuku vanishes from campus and everyone assumes he was kidnapped, but in reality he ran away to try and clear his head after a depressive spiral.  He goes by train as far away as he can until he comes to his senses and calls the others.

100. I Won - Izuku accidentally managed to kill Shigaraki during a skirmish, and while everyone around him praises his heroics, he struggles to deal with the fact that he killed someone.

101. Ivory Tower - All Might grapples with how much izuku suffered as a quirkless person, how he could have done more for quirkless rights in his time as a hero, and how now people may not care as much because he’s retired.

Reminder to credit me if you use any of these prompts, and a special thanks to everyone who submitted titles!

[noodlesfluff]

The Fire Nations Assassin - Zuko x fem!reader (pt.1)

SUMMARY: y/n has been raised as an assassin and has the opportunity to gain her freedom. What could go wrong? Well… turns out the person she was assigned to kill wasn’t the actual threat.

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

WARNINGS: death. Kinda gory not really but like 1 descriptive sentence about death I think? Swearing. Maybe a bit angsty? Not really. Abusive family relationship. Grammar, spelling and punctuation. 

A/N: Hiya friends this is my first atla fic! Hope you like it :)) There will most likely be more parts to this idk lolol.  Also! Second day in a row posting wow! We love procrastinating uni work. NEW EDIT: hi everyone! future chapters for this series WILL BE POSTED ON @noodlesfluffy​ !!!! This account will NOT be used for this series’ future chapters :)

also! italics = flashback 

part 2

20 minutes until midday.

This is it. You completed your final mission and you would be free at last. Finally. Zemin, your wonderful guardian and boss said that the prize for today's target would give you enough gold pieces that you can finally go home. Well, you didn’t have a home. Not anymore, but anywhere away from the Fire Nation? You will gladly take it with open arms. Honestly at first you were surprised, freedom at the age of 13 seems way to easy. You didn’t know a life other than constantly fighting for the gold pieces that would pay off your debt with Zemin for raising you…but all the other assassins in the nation are still paying off their debts with their trainers. Then again, you’re the most feared assassin in the Fire Nation, and highly sought after. Even if you haven’t been on the scene for as long the others, nor do they realise you’re literally a 13-year-old girl.

You suppose that made it easier when you entered the palace in your finest robes claiming you’re the niece of the Fire Lords general. Little did the guards know, you were about to kill said uncle.  

You hit another dead end.

“Fuck.” Why are there so many corridors? You know you can’t leave the way you came in, it’s too suspicious. The guards would know something is wrong. Why would you leave the palace before you got a chance to see the general, your “uncle”, before he wins his Agni Kai?

You’ve never had to enter the palace before today, nor did you ever have to really go near it. Zemin had given you a vague location of the exits, yet somehow failed to mention how stupidly big the palace was. That asshole. Normally the ones who are commissioning you to kill come from within the palace. You never know who they are, but what you do know is that you kill those who come too close to replacing them from their oh so treasured positions next to the Fire Lord. Nobel scum. Ironically, the ones you do kill are no better than them, hiding in the taverns in the middle of the night cheating on their wives. So why the hell did you have to visit the palace now.

10 minutes until midday.

This by far had to be the worst mission you have ever gone on. Turning yet another corner you try to navigate an exit leading to somewhere, anywhere out of this damned palace and as far away from the body. You knew this would’ve been a lot easier if you were given at least a day to snoop the exits but you only feel your fire rage inside you thinking about the argument you had with Zemin last night.

“What do you mean the target is in the palace?!”

Zemin being the kind and loving guardian he is, didn’t even bother to face you. “Look y/n. You have one shot to kill the general tomorrow. No later. If you miss your chance, you’re just going to have to keep doing the regular jobs. Just be grateful you have this opportunity. They specifically wanted you to do it anyway. You’re the cleanest in the game. You’re also the only one who manages to get away every time without using your bending. If I’m honest, that’s just a compliment to me.”

Scoffing you move towards him. “This is suicide! You can’t expect me to enter that palace and kill the general! I’ll get caught without time to prepare, I don’t even know what the inside of the palace is like!!”

He finally looks you in the eye, unphased. “It doesn’t matter what you want or what you know y/n. If you fail this mission, you might as well die with your freedom. There is an Agni Kai tomorrow at the palace, and it seems that whoever commissioned you to kill the general, hopes you can act as a safeguard for whoever is on the other side.”

Your heart skips a beat. “An Agni Kai?! You can’t possibly think I can get away with this! Everyone in the nation knows how binding they are. Even if I do manage to kill the general, they’ll hunt me down! I won’t make it out alive!”

Fire rages behind Zemin’s eyes, “You will make it. I have trained you for the past seven years of your life! You are the only one capable of completing this mission and you should know this! Trainers all around the nation have countless students who have died on missions you can complete in an hour. Do you know why?! Because they spread their knowledge too wide and too thin. If there is one thing my brother and I have in common its that who you pass your knowledge down to must be worthy. You are worthy Y/N. Now, sit. Lets eat, and I will give you the briefing for tomorrow. If there is one thing you must remember, it’s that you must kill the general and get out by midday, or else whoever is on the other side of that Agni Kai will most likely die. You are their only hope. I wasn’t told who it was but they must be inexperienced or stupid.”

As you stare at the painting of the general on the dining room table you know one thing is certain. They are inexperienced and stupid, especially since I’m about to die for this person.  

2 minutes until midday.

In a rushed panic you follow a random group of people walking into a public area. Maybe you can blend in the crowd and find an exit before they notice that one of the participants for the Agni Kai is lying on the floor of his office with a nice and wide slit to his throat.

You almost freeze as you walk through the threshold after the group before you. Remembering the area on the awful map Zemin showed you of the palace last night, you knew this is where the Agni Kai was being held. You wanted to puke. It was almost as if the spirits were laughing at you, payback for all the lives you’ve taken. Feeling too exposed, you stand as far to the side as possible, your eyes instinctively scanning the area for any threats, weapons, and most importantly, a fucking exit.

1 minute until midday.

There it is! On the other side of the room you see an exit. This is it. You did it. Making your way as quickly around the duelling area, you almost want to bring a smile to your face. Reaching it in literal record timing, just as you’re about to walk out the door, you notice the crowd goes quiet. That doesn’t seem right. Taking one last glance behind you, you see a Fire Nation flag fall onto the duelling ground.

Midday.

“No….” you think to yourself, “that can’t be!”

You killed the general. You knew you had, you stared at the painting long enough to know you killed the right one. You never make mistakes. Ever. So why was the Agni Kai still happening? As if the spirits wanted to laugh at you in the face, you saw the Fire Lord enter from the other side of the platform. Confused you glance to who he was going to face. Why would you be sent to kill someone who was going to face the Fire Lord? Surely, he could defend himself? Holding back a gasp, it all clicks in your head. You weren’t protecting the Fire Lord from the general, you were protecting a boy about your age on the other side of the platform.

Yet this still doesn’t make sense. Why would the Fire Lord give a boy, who a guard could easily take, the time of day?

To top it all off, the boy seems just a shocked as you. “Please father, I only had the Fire Nations interests at heart. I’m sorry I spoke out of turn!”

Unaffected by his son’s words, the Fire Lord continues to move towards him. “You will fight for your honour.”

As you watch the Fire Nation Prince kneel before his father on the floor, the thought of leaving completely escapes your mind. You knew this was beyond wrong. Even after killing so many, you knew that no innocent child should have to fight for their honour. Especially since you already knew how trivial something like honour was considering how fast you lost yours in order to survive. He shouldn’t have to lose his. Not like this.

“I meant no disrespect. I am your loyal son.”

He continues to walk towards his son. “Rise and fight Prince Zuko!”

The fire inside you rises, almost like it wants to burst out of the traditional top knot on your head. This shouldn’t be happening, you had killed the general to apparently protect the prince, and titles be damned, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk out of that stupid door.

As Zuko places his arms in front of him on the floor, you knew he had no chance. “I won’t fight you!”

Slowly, and almost subconsciously you walk towards the platform as Zemin’s words ring in the back of your mind “…kill the general and get out by midday, or else whoever is on the other side of that Agni Kai will most likely die.”

You almost wanted to let out a painful laugh because it seems you killed the general for no reason at this point.

“You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher!” Zuko’s tear sicken  face looked up to his father as if it’s his one last attempt, begging for mercy. You know it’s not enough.

“You are their only hope”

With your heart in your throat, almost feeling your body shake with fear, determination, and adrenaline all rolled into one, you leap onto the platform in front of the Prince’s body as the Fire Lord strikes. Feeling the unbearable heat of his fire on the left side of your body from your neck all the way down to your hip, you let out a scream. Soon enough, you hear Zuko’s join yours.

You want to collapse and cry all at the same time. Partially because of the pain, and partially because Zuko’s scream is the only indicator that you’re failing because he’s getting burnt too. Your mind spins as you feel yourself losing all sense of reality. Wishing the spirits would help you save a person’s life rather than taking one.

After what feels like a lifetime, it stops. Your body shaking as if its still on fire, you fall to your knees feeling paralysed. Your ears are ringing, yet you still hear a soft voice from behind you. “W-who are you?”

You sigh in relief. He’s going to be okay. Yet the moment of relief is gone as soon as it came. The Fire Lord’s voice suddenly controls the room once again. “Someone take away the traitor who dares interfere with the Agni Kai!”

Well fuck.

[oh-anime]

He Said Hes Fine

A/N: I FUCKIN DID IT !! I wrote a haikyuu fic! i have loved this manga and anime for eight years and i finally wrote for it. ALBEIT its the shittiest piece of fic ever written but i genuinely hope you enjoy, maybe rb and comment??

summary: he always says it, whats different now?

words: 1399

warnings: Angst, no happy ending, collapsing, ambulance

Ao3 Link

“Im fine! Toss me another one!” Hinata, sweating with his chest rising with every breath, calls out to Kageyama. So the raven haired setter does with pinpoint accuracy the ball reaches Hinata's red hands but the fire in his eyes only burns brighter. The ball reaches the other end of the court before anyone can even see it.  Cheers roar from Karasuno's exhausted team as they take the final and winning set. Hinata and Kageyama celebrate together with hands connecting with so much force. “Yeah!” Hinata shouts

“We get it, you're good at the game” Tsukishima comments standing next to Yamaguchi. He takes the water Yachie offers him before engaging back into conversation with Tadashi.

“Jealous Tsukki?” Kuroo asks as he approaches from the other side of the next, Kenma follows, trying to steady his breathing. Hinata snickers before giving a grin to his opponents. “That was pretty impressive Hinata” The nekoma player compliments before ushering for Kenma to follow him as they join their team

“See you later Shoyo” The opposing setter waves goodbye.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face” Kageyama spits hoping to break down the sunshine that blinds him. But nothing could, they did it, they beat Nekoma. And it counted, it counted for something. Hinata was on cloud nine. Not even Kageyama could effect him. “You did good Hinata”

Or maybe he could

“Whaaaaa?” He drags it out “An actual compliment? From-”

“You tell anyone and I never toss you another set” Kageyama shoves his hand over his teammates mouth.

“Tsk tsk, haven't you learned?” Tsuki approaches them “You're not the only person who can toss to Hinata..” The blonde looked to the defeated yet determined Inarizaki team watching from the sidelines “Not anymore...your majesty”

~~~

“Im fine! Let's go again!” Hinata claps, even their captain, Daichi was exhausted. But not the freak duo. Kageyama sighs but for some reason he couldn't say no, so with sweat practically constricting his view he tosses Hinata another ball watching with the same hidden amazement as it passes Nishinoya and scores them a point.

“Ok” Daichi manages as Kageyama and Hinata share in their cheer. “Good practice match everyone” He nods, feeling the silent gratitude from the other members of the team. “Kageyama, Hinata, since you two seem adamant on practicing you can clean up”. So with groans from the pair and laughter from Tsuki the rest of the team make their way home leaving the pair to close up.

“Do you ever get tired?” Kageyama wonders as they fold up the net. Hinata doesn't respond, in fact he stops in his tracks, his grip faltering a bit. “Oi, Hinata” Kageyama remind the small one of his presence

“Hm? Oh no! Never! Why get tired when this is everything I love!” And suddenly the odd aura was gone and the orange haired ball of energy was back. Kageyama shook off the odd feeling and finished cleaning up.

~~

“M fine” Hinata gives a lazy thumbs up from his desk. They were in the study hall for the last period of the day. Kageyama and Hinata had decided to meet Yamaguchi and Tsukki in their class for extra help.  

They had been doing their homework for at least thirty minutes before Kageyama noticed a slight falter and delay in Hinata's normal determined speed to finish his work. So naturally the boy questioned how he was doing. His response was soft, tired clearly but he still managed a smile.

It made Kageyama's face tingle, he knew his feelings had been surfacing but he buried them. They were for him, plus nothing would come of it. But still, that gentle smile, careful flutter of his eyelids...it was sweet and tugged at Kageyamas heart.

“Great, then finish your work” Tsukki dragged them back to reality. Hinata stuck out his tongue but ultimately set back to work. Once they had finished Tsukki and Yamaguchi wasted no time leaving the two to their own devices.

“Hungry” Was all that left Hinata's mouth, he stood with Kageyama following him making their way to the vending machine by the gym. “Whoever invented chips deserves a raise”

“Im sure they are rolling in money” Kageyama retorts poking the straw into his milk. “Wanna do some sets? Or are you too tired” he teases

“Im…” A yawn that could compete with a babys giggle in the cuteness scale “Fine”

So Kageyama spent the afternoon setting to an increasingly tired Hinata..but he just wouldnt let up.

~~~

“Im…” Bokuto waited for the response after his clear victory over his star pupil. Kageyama did too with his eyes still in shock after watching his perfect set...fail. “Fine” Hinata finished through a wavered voice.

“So we all agree? Hinata is clearly not fine?” Akaashi says receiving a nod from Bokuto, a small ‘yep’ from Kuroo and a thumbs up from a sideline Kenma too intently focused on his games.

“I am fine!” The orange haired fighter claims. “I missed a spike! big deal!” He throws his hands into the air in frustration. The training camp had been going well, a tough but educational experience.

Kageyama had his doubts when Bokuto and Kuroo invited the pair to a bit of after dark practice, concerned for Hinata's physical and mental being but of course his partner in-game was revving to go.

“Shoyo you should sleep” Kenma muttered, Kuroo pointed to show his agreement.

Don't call him that, Kageyama thought but he ultimately agreed.

“No fun! Any of you!” Hinata pouts, he sits on the cold gym wall, shivering at the chilled touch. Clearly he refused to go to sleep so this was their best bet at him getting any rest. Kageyama felt out of place in this group with Hinata out of commission but continued playing. He honed his other skills and had an interesting time serving to Bokuto and Kuroo but he found his mind focused on the stupid tangerine who refused to give it up.

~~~

“Im f-” He never finished it this time.

That's a first, Kageyama thought before turning around, his face morphing in horror. He watches as both Nishinoya and Daichi race to catch a collapsing Hinata, grabbing him before his head hit the ground.

“H-hinata” Kageyama could barely think. Everyone rushed to the fallen decoy, even Tsukki looked concerned but Kageyama was frozen. Or he was until Suga met his eyes, they told him one thing.

It was odd watching an ambulance pull up at their school. It was even more odd to watch Hinata be taken away. But the worst of the weirdness was having to tell Ukai and Takeda what was happening. Because he didn't know, and he hated that.

And he hated it even more because Hinata never faltered, he could read Kageyama like a book.

“You looked upset during the first period and it was your angry face number 3, so during lunch I went to the store and grabbed some milk!” Kageyama hadn't even registered Hinatas words before the boy skipped away leaving him with the beverage.

Everytime, no matter what, Hinata was there.

“Take a break, grab some ice from yachi and sit out. Observe what Kenma does ok? And make sure you get some water” Hinata said with the most even breath. Kageyama couldnt conjure words, his hands were numb and he couldn't even feel his head. But any outsider couldn't see that, the karasuno setter looked perfectly composed.

So how the hell did this tiny bouncing annoyance know?

Because he was there, and he cared.

“I knew and I saw for months..and I just ignored it” Kageyama balled his fists, he stormed away from the conversation ignoring the calls from his coaches.

~~~

“I dont just like you Tobio, I love you”

“I dont feel the same”

“Oh”

He regretted the words instantly

“Hinata-”

“Im fine” Hinata said, if you could even call the stoic boy that stood in front of him Shoyo Hinata anymore.

“Wait Hinata-”

“I said Im fine” He put a hand up before leaving the gym.

The gym typically felt full of life whether filled with his teammates or just littered with balls. No matter how many people were in it, it never felt empty, it breathed life and energy.

But in this moment

As Hinata left the gym with his quickly falling tears hitting the ground.

The gym had never felt more empty.

[leporellian]

I've seen some people say that The Magic Flute is racist/sexist but I've never seen it so I don't have any opinion on it? I'm just wondering how you feel about this claim

right so the magic flute is. it sure is a Realm And A Half.

the magic flute IS extremely sexist and racist. it is one of if not the most sexist pieces in the standard opera repertoire, and the racism in it is ALSO really bad. it’s just... bad! it’s really bad. 

(now, this is just Me Reading Into It, but i’m fairly certain this is because of the librettist, who was also the guy that commissioned it AND the guy who originated the role of papageno. dude in general sounds like he was a massive asshole if you want my opinion, and the piece was basically his vanity project. mozart’s own beliefs and prior works seem to contradict the magic flute’s message entirely but ofc mozart did compose the music, agree to the commission, was friends with the guy etc. so he obviously has plenty of blame for it as well. i only feel like that’s important to note because of how weirdly the magic flute just... clashes with everything else mozart did.)

now, for Some Reason, because the magic flute is bright and colorful and has -some- element of humor to it (and because it has something of an archetypal hero’s journey), literally like 90% of opera people end up with it being their first opera or something they enjoyed in childhood. your guess is as good as mine as to why this is the case. but this means that, for a lot of people, it’s associated with some kind of childhood- and often a bit of a ‘loss of innocence’ thing because everyone has the moment where they think about the opera for more than 5 seconds and realizes ‘wait this sucks actually’.

and there’s this idea that arises that... maybe instead of just pretending like The Problems Do Not Exist, because They Do They Are Right There... maybe we could all take it apart, burn it up, and reconstruct it into something new, into the thing we had maybe once thought it was when we were kids. and so many, many people have taken the magic flute and completely re-adapted it and constructed something from its ashes, into books, webcomics, new operas even. not in a ‘and now the problem is gone :)’ way but in a ‘we need to acknowledge the problems of this opera, and letting people analyze it and deconstruct it in a way that leads them to create something out of it is a healthy way to do so’ way.

in fact, it’s that web of adaptations and deconstruction/reconstructions that have, over time, become more meaningful than the original opera imo. the question has not become what the magic flute -is- but what it could be -in your hands-. like, you know how a lot of people often rewrite warrior cats, or make deconstructions of warrior cats that turn into their own story, and oftentimes these can be more meaningful than the plots of the original books? it’s along those lines, but instead of ‘can’ it’s ‘absolutely certainly’. the power of adaptation has always made me feel some kind of Way, and i feel like it’s most apparent with the magic flute. for here is this eternally crooked, eternally nasty little thing, and people have taken it and said ‘if this story is allowed to be told, then let me tear it apart and birth something anew’.

tbh... part of why i write ensemble (the comic i have that is based on the dearly-beloathed the magic flute) is because of this exact emotion. later on the themes in it... really kind of match how i feel about the magic flute as a whole? not to give too much away, but it becomes apparent that the ‘old systems’ present in the comic’s world simply do not work and are inherently unjust. (and in the process of this being clear it directly subverts pretty much EVERYTHING upheld in the original opera lmao.) and it becomes apparent that the only way to continue on is to tear down the old systems entirely and build something new in its place. and the beauty of it becomes this idea that you can take something terrible and deconstruct it- and build something from what cinders remain. 

letting people adapt the magic flute like that gives... agency, in a way. it tells the audience they have the power to tell the story they want to tell, and not whatever is onstage. idk how to explain it beyond that.

and that’s how i feel abt the magic flute. TLDR; original opera Bad but the adaptations of it are ironically more meaningful and usually way more satisfying storywise no lie. (with the exception of ensemble bc it sucks and i can’t write for shit lol).

[moiraineswife]

Worth - A Stormlight Fic

Back at it with my Jasnah/Wit crimes. Come. Feast on my content.

Title: Worth

Summary: Set pre Rhythm of War, probably fairly early on in Jasnah and Wit's foray into romantic territory (though tbh they're early on in RoW, so this is probably like...a month before or something). Anyway. Jasnah takes a moment to herself to Think Deep Thoughts about the world. Wit joins her and they Think Deep Thoughts together. 

Honestly it's just them vibing with each other for the whole fic because I get a serious kick out of that aspect of their dynamic and I really enjoy writing it. I don't know how else to sell this to you. I feel like at this point if you're here you're here for good. So enjoy.

Teaser:   "Jasnah was respected, certainly.

She might even be loved, by her family, whom she loved deeply in turn.

But she was rarely liked. And seldom wanted.

When the impenetrable tides of the Cosmere pushed someone towards her like Wit, though? Someone who not only seemed to actually like and want her, but also understand her? Well, then she was only human.

Human, and lonely. So lonely. Craving things others did not seem to believe she actually wanted."

Link: ao3

Commission Link: Have me write other cosmere characters

Sometimes, Jasnah forgot that the world was beautiful.

Academically, she knew that it was. She understood the quest of artists and poets to capture it, just as she sought to capture and unravel the mysteries of the past. Different types of scholarship, but both worthy, she now saw.

Yet practically, day-to-day, she did not often have the luxury of thinking about it.

So much of her life had been spent inside, enclosed by stone walls, buried in dusty books, surrounded by towering shelves, not mountains. The cold glow of spheres had replaced the warm kiss of the sun for her for so long now.

She had never resented her surroundings. They had made her feel contained, safe. The points by which she might have been approached, or attacked, could be easily identified, countered, and understood, when inside. It was a controlled environment, and that was the kind she preferred.

Strange, though, that close confines should make her feel protected now, considering…

Well, it did not do to dwell on that. Besides. It was the darkness that truly conjured up those particular Voidbringers.

She gave herself a little shake, refocusing on what unfolded before her, like a masterwork painting she had been included in. A single brushstroke in the centre of the piece, an afterthought, there merely to demonstrate how small humanity was in comparison to the expanse of nature.

Her chambers, by design, did not have a balcony. The danger it might allow in had not been worth risking for the sake of a pretty outlook and some fresh air. As a Radiant, she did not need to breathe, fresh air or otherwise. And if she needed something nice to look at while in her interior rooms, she’d ask Shallan for a sketch.

Still. It was pleasant to stand out here, for a moment.

The meeting she’d attended in Dalinar’s chambers had concluded, and the others had left almost at once to deal with other business about the tower.

This had left Jasnah to a rare moment of solitude and free time, when no-one expected her to be anywhere, so she had been free to simply be where she was.

In a rare impulse, she had taken the liberty of stepping out onto the balcony, and now she savoured this small gift she had afforded herself.

She missed the peace of being alone. Save Ivory, of course, but he was as much a part of her as her blood or bones, and did not count.

Urithiru was absolutely the place she needed to be. The goal of her long years of solitary research had been accomplished. It was time to move on to the next, and this tower was its natural staging ground.

Yet a part of her wished for those days. Solitude had been her blessing and her burden, back then, but now she only thought of it fondly.

She had been free, undisturbed by others and their needs, to do as she had wished to do. She had been unconstrained, unbound, save the pressures she had placed upon herself.

The burden of a dying world no-one else had noticed or heard screaming, as she had, had weighed upon her, and her alone. Like the Herald, Taln, for all those years, she had held the weight of Roshar and all those who lived upon it. Unknown. Unseen. Ignored.

Now that burden was shared. She had others that would listen to her, that could help. A good thing. For in bearing it alone, despite her torment, her pains, and her best efforts, she had failed. Again.

A part of her missed her peace, however. There was little of it to be found here.

She smiled wryly at herself, drumming her fingers on the balcony’s stone rail.

Wit would likely have had something to say had he been privy to her current musings. Something sarcastic, yet blended with enough insight to be profound all the same.

Satisfy a chull’s most basic wants and needs - food, water, shelter - and it would be content.

Satisfy a human’s most extravagant, outlandish and unnecessary wants and needs, and they would immediately discover new ones. Most likely contrary to the ones that had just been fulfilled.

Yes. he would like that idea. She tucked the thought away to share with him when he returned. He had been gone for a few weeks now, off doing whatever it was that he did. She did not begrudge him his travels. He had to do as he felt he must, and at her side was not always where he thought he was needed.

Though she did not chastise him, she did envy him, at times. What must it be like, to have the freedom to travel, not only across Vorin Roshar, but to other worlds.

He told her of it sometimes, at her urging. He would never say what he specifically was doing there, but she didn’t much care about that. She didn’t want the details of his adventures. She wanted to know of the places he had them. What other worlds looked like, felt like, what their history revealed of them, how they differed from Roshar, how and why culture had evolved there.

Some of their most stimulating talks involved these things. Jasnah had found herself dreaming, as she had as a girl, of fantastical places that felt so tangible, so real, yet out of reach.

Wit would return soon, she believed, and bring tales of other worlds. For now, she let herself simply watch her own as it turned around her.

Thick clouds swirled overhead, like blots of ink dropped into water, expanding and encompassing. They created a cavernous ceiling so far above, making her feel enclosed, but also free.

The vastness of it made her feel small. So small. So insignificant to this world she had tried to save. Likely it neither cared nor noticed. That gave her a strange sense of comfort. It was nice, for once, not to be seen, not to feel the weight of eyes and expectation upon her.

A wild songling flew past at her eye level,  sculpting the sky with its wings, trilling in warning of her presence to others she could not see.

Wind blew through the mountains around her, rising, and falling, and echoing in a song that seemed just for her.

Yes. This world was beautiful. This was what she fought for. These quiet moments. The spaces between the words of the history books. The moments no-one thought to write of, but which they lived for.

She had become so deeply entrenched in saving the world, lately, that she hadn’t taken enough time to appreciate precisely what she was saving. It was good to look out, now, to take a moment, to remember.

This was her world. If Odium wanted it, he would have to pry it from her bloody, clawing fingers. And she would not make it easy for him.

The door behind her opened, and Jasnah felt herself tense, alert. Ivory, on her collar, always keeping watch for her, murmured, “Wit. He comes to find you.”

She smiled, in spite of herself.

“Thank you,” she told Ivory, whose careful observation of the world around her, covering her blindspots, was the only reason she felt even a little safety these days.

Excitement rose in her at the thought that Wit had returned. A part of her, that quiet, cautious part that whispered always of what might hurt her, warned that her eagerness in this moment was more dangerous to her than any blade or poisoned bread had ever been.

She acknowledged that. She would be a fool not to. She was no sheltered child any longer, believing that if a person loved her, they would be incapable of ever hurting her.

Yet, for all she valued her solitude, loneliness was something else entirely.

She would be a liar if she claimed to not have felt lonely these past few years.

Jasnah did not need people. She had built a life for herself that all but ensured she would never need anyone else for any reason ever again.

But she could want them.

That feeling was rarely mutual, however.

Oh, Jasnah was respected, certainly. She was renowned as a scholar and well-regarded in many academic circles. She was sought after and coveted as a means of cosying up to political favour or power. She was needed now as a queen, a thinker, a Radiant.

She might even be loved, by her family, whom she loved deeply in turn.

But she was rarely liked. And seldom wanted.

Jasnah did not often dwell on that. She would not waste her precious time wallowing in self pity like a hog in crem. She had far better things to do with herself than that.

When the impenetrable tides of the Cosmere pushed someone towards her like Wit, though? Someone who not only seemed to actually like and want her, but also understand her? Well, then she was only human.

Human, and lonely. So lonely. Craving things others did not seem to believe she actually wanted.

At times she had felt like the last member of a dying species. Alien. Unable to properly fit with anyone around her, no matter how hard she tried.

Then Wit. Another who did not fit his world. Someone who saw her, and knew, they were of a rare kind. And by some stroke of luck they had found another like them. Two topaz spheres in a basin full of diamonds.

She felt it as he stepped up behind her, slow, footsteps deliberately loud so she knew that he was there. Then he put his arms around her, clasping his hands in front of her, holding her to him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“What makes you believe I’m thinking anything?” she replied, absently reaching up and carding her fingers through his neatly styled hair.

“When are you not?” he returned, smoothly, nuzzling at her neck. Not to entice, simply...For intimacy’s sake.

She had, incredibly, found herself missing his strange little physical displays of affection while he was gone. So she allowed this. He was always more prone to such bouts when he’d been away for a time.

“Mm, a point,” she allowed.

“Come then,” he said, breath pleasantly warm on her skin, “A clip for them?”

“A clip?” she repeated, frowning.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if he’d just remembered something. Likely which planet he was on. Literally. “A small metal coin. Not from around these parts,” he explained, confirming her hypothesis.

“And what would I do with a small metal coin that’s not from around here?” she asked, amused.

It had likely been nothing more than an honest slip on his part, a forgotten habit, but she always liked to see what she could tease from these little lapses.

“Oh I’m quite sure you’d think of something,” he said, lightly, “Perhaps even something somewhat clever, knowing you.”

“Indeed,” she said, “And what will you do with my thoughts, should I give them to you?”

“Torment them,” he said, promptly, “Twist them, and turn them, and then make them dance for your entertainment while wearing that lovely purple havah that suits you so well.”

She smiled.

“Come then,” he said, “Tell me what wondrous, profound, revelatory thoughts the great Jasnah Kholin has been thinking on upon this lonely balcony of Urithiru?”

She breathed in the crisp mountain air, and said, simply, “I think that this world is beautiful, Wit.”

Another man might have made some empty comment regarding her own beauty, which would have done nothing but put her off. Fortunately, Wit knew better.  

He only rested his head on her shoulder again and said, with uncharacteristic reverence, “Yes, it is.”

“Beautiful,” she repeated, “And worth saving.”

He perked up at that, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could imagine the expression on it as he planned to do with this thought exactly what he’d said he would.

“If the world were ugly,” he said, musing, “Would it then not be worth saving in your estimation, my dear? Very judgemental of you.”

“If I didn’t consider ugly things worth saving, I’d have allowed someone to assassinate you months ago, Wit,” she replied.

“How kind of you to forbid them,” he said lightly, not missing a beat, "It’s been attempted recently, then?” he added, with an indecent kind of interest.

“Yes. Three times.”

“Thrilling. A good assassination attempt every so often does wonders for one’s reflexes. Not to mention their sense of self-importance. After all, no-one ever tries to assassinate the unimportant,” he observed.

She might have noted how strange it was that someone was pleased to have been the subject of an assassination attempt. But this was Wit, and that was therefore expected behaviour from him. Not worthy of any special consideration.

Instead she drummed her fingers on the stone rail in front of her, considering.

“I’d permit the next one to slip through my defences to keep you on your toes,” she told him drily, “But I fear if your head becomes any more inflated than it already is, it may explode and ruin my new havah.”

Wit laughed loudly at that, and in so doing yielded their little verbal sparring match to her. A token of her victory.

He kissed her neck gently, and she could feel the smile on his lips as he did so. That made her feel warm.

“In any case,” she said, settling more completely against him, allowing him to hold her more firmly against him, their bodies melding more as she relaxed into it, “I don’t think a world is capable of being ugly, Wit.”

“That, my dear, very much depends,” he said lightly.

“On what?”

“On how you feel about sand,” he said, with a dramatic sigh.

“I feel that it’s coarse, stubborn, and irksome to find unexpectedly in your shoe,” she deadpanned in return, “Based on that I think we’d get on just fine, given that we seem very much alike.”

Wit huffed an amused laugh against her neck at that. “I assure you, I would be much happier to find you in my shoe than sand, Jasnah. Far more so were it my bed, in place of my shoe,” he added, his voice deepening as he said it.

She smiled faintly. She would not object to spending that time alone with him tonight after his absence. They always bonded more deeply afterwards, and she enjoyed the pleasurable distraction it provided. A nice reset for her mind.

“Later, perhaps,” she murmured softly, “If you earn your place there.”

“You wound me, Jasnah,” he said, allowing the mood of the conversation to flow smoothly back to light, neutral ground again, without the heat of loaded implications. “You know I always do my utmost to remain by your side as your Wit.”

“You have done satisfactorily in that area thus far, I will admit,” she allowed.

He did make a good Wit, and she had employed him on more than one occasion, to  the general devastation of his target.

“And in other areas?” he prompted, resting against her once more.

“Mm, I’m still considering.”

Wit smiled against her once more, then stretched up and kissed her temple as he said, “I think that you’re right, dear one.”

“I may require you to be more specific, Wit,” she said, smiling slightly, “As I’m often right.”

He chuckled, “Quite correct. In this case, I believe that you’re right in saying that a world cannot be ugly. Not in a way that makes it unworthy of saving, at any rate.”

“No,” she agreed, softly, “Especially since this world still has heart, left, Wit, and that alone is worth preserving.”

He hummed softly in affirmation, then said, “Do you know, Jasnah, I do believe that I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been three weeks, Wit,” she said drily, “You’ll notice you survived my absence.”

But she smiled, in spite of her words, and that warmth flared in her again.

She believed him when he said things like that. In truth, she believed him when he said most things. They may be convoluted or misleading, but they were not outright lies.

“And you?” he said, nuzzling at her like an axehound puppy under a blanket again, “Did you survive without your Wit?”

“Barely,” she deadpanned.

Then she softened, because she enjoyed this game between them, this playful back and forth that kept them both sharp and engaged, but she was discovering something deeper that existed beneath the surface of it. And she felt that worth noting, too.

Placing her hands on top of his, she said quietly, “I am glad to see you back, Wit,” her smile genuine. “Life tends to be more interesting when you’re around.”

“My dear,” he replied, in mock outrage, “This almost implies that I have a purpose in being here.”

“Further evidence that you don’t count as art, Wit,” she said lightly, smiling.

“ Further evidence?” he repeated.

“Didn’t we already discuss your beauty? More specifically its lack?” she replied, falling comfortably back into rhythm with him.

“Jasnah!” he exclaimed, “I worked very hard when sculpting this face to make it as aesthetically pleasing as possible!”

“To chasmfiends?”

He snorted.

“You are truly irresistible, dear,” he told her, tone half genuinely fond, half playfully wicked.

“Really?” she prompted, expecting the follow-through.

“As irresistible as a man lashed to a chull being pulled irresistibly along behind it as it rampages freely through the plains,” he said, completing the sequence of their dance.

“Chulls don’t rampage, Wit,” she said flatly.

“Well then pretend that they do. For the sake of art , Jasnah,” he returned.

She smiled, then glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes bright, twinkling. He didn’t seem offended or at all hurt by her jibes but-

“Did I take that too far then?” she asked, bluntly.

She liked that she could ask him those kinds of questions, with the knowledge that they would be taken with the sincerity she intended, and without judgement. A part of her still feared the answer.

“Not at all,” Wit replied.

Though his tone was still light and jovial, she felt herself relax again. That was the truth, for he did not tell those sorts of lies.

“I haven’t had such a pleasantly stimulating conversation since, well, since our last,” he added, and there seemed a genuine fondness in his words.

She smiled again, as he punctuated this last with a soft kiss, which she dipped back slightly to receive. Then he pulled her close, hands resting comfortably against her, chin on her shoulder once more, following her gaze out over the mountains.

They stood in silence for a while, enjoying one another’s warmth and company.

Then he punctured the moment like a stray arrow to the lung by commenting, conversationally, “Have you considered that were I an assassin, this would be an excellent position from which to stab you?”

Jasnah tensed. She did not flinch, she did not . He was joking. She knew that he was joking. He had told her, quite openly,  that he could not physically harm another living person. Curiously, she believed that.

She still reacted to his words as if they were an attempted strike at her.

Then she took a breath, and allowed her shardplate to manifest around her. It was always there, safeguarding her, protecting her, but it felt good to bring it into existence in this moment.

Wit laughed lightly, but the sound seemed to be lacking his usual humour.

She turned to face him at last, sliding out of his grip. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and cupped her face with his hand.

“Always prepared,” he said softly, “Always ready for the worst to happen at all times. I know that. I know your fears, and I should not have made light of them with a jest. I apologise.”

She nodded, allowing her plate to fade back into the cognitive realm again.

Choosing to ignore the latter part of his statement, and its implications, she said, “We’re at war, Wit. It’s only reasonable to be on your guard at all times.”

Wit smiled again, that knowing, almost sad look. His hand rested gently against her cheek and he said, “What a convenient excuse that must be for you, Jasnah.”

She turned away, out of his gentle caress. Yes. It was a convenient excuse. He was getting in too close, learning to read her too well, he-

No. She shut those feelings down and took a deep breath.

He was right, of course. It was hard to trust a world that had dealt so much pain to her. Hard to trust people when they always hurt you. Even the ones that loved you. Especially those. She couldn’t articulate that to him yet, however. She was unsure if she even wanted to.

Wit seemed to sense that, and he slid his fingers under her chin, gentle but firm, and coaxed her to look up at him again. “There will be a time you can relax, Jasnah. It seems impossible to conceive of it now, but you will feel safe again. Some day.”

She leaned forwards, pressing her forehead to his. How sweet that would be if it were true. How nice it would feel. She said nothing, because she did not believe, but did not want to undermine his sentiment.

“We will save it, Jasnah,” he murmured to her, “Your beautiful world.”

She smiled, “Then perhaps we might actually enjoy it,” she said, thinking back on her earlier musings.

Wit smiled, “No, my dear,” he said, and she withdrew, frowning slightly, to look at him, “Then I will show you new worlds for you to study and learn of and feast upon.”

She smiled at that, very broadly, for it was the first time he had so directly stated, without flowery implications or vague hints, that he would like her to accompany him.

“Even the ones covered in sand?” she asked, amused.  

“For you, Jasnah?” he said, eyes twinkling, “Why yes, we can even go to Taldain. If you insist.”

“I do, Wit,” she said, turning back to look out across the mountains, taking his arm and coaxing him to put it around her once more, enveloping her in his warmth.

Safety, even in the open.

“I wish to see it,” she said, closing her eyes and allowing herself a moment to imagine, “I wish to see them all.”

[belleoumoi]

je l'aime à mort, je l'ai ma mort

she heaved at every hack, the tune of march of the hoodlums muffling the sound of each chop. eyes blinked incessantly at the splatter of blood landing on her face, until there were more drops on it than the birthmarks she had and her stare became devoid of the horror it was filled with just moments ago. once the deed was done she's down on the floor, legs sprawled in exhaustion. it was a huge body she had to drag along. not to mention her expertise were guns and firearms, only today things took a turn for the worse. she had to improvise. a task it was indeed.

there was nothing gratifying about it. just another one to rack up her body count. but one thing she did enjoy from the job was the souvenirs. she took the liberty to secure one, thinking it was well within her rights to. like a little trophy for once again fulfilling a commission; a silly consolation, if anything. after all, to desensitize your conscience you had to ease into the bed of guilt. she did it constantly even beyond all these years. she was still uncomfortable by this trade. she will never not be. and what is it if not a very, very human thing to lie awake rolling every mistake you’ve ever made around inside you like marbles? and to make those mistakes in the first place? humans are mostly just mistakes and wishes and bones.

tonight, those mistakes and wishes and bones felt like crumbling. she had become more fragile as the years have gone and it all reflected in her work at present. it was all the resistance. being told that that resistance was directly proportional to love. being told that on the other side of that massive aversion was a tremendous love waiting for her; that the opposite of love wasn't hate but rather indifference. and if that isn't the most harmful piece of 'wisdom' she had ever heard, there's no telling what is.

she knew better and yet she found herself stuck. in the same ways, the same bad habits. in the same bar that she melted in and moved around as the smoke, forming curls in the gloom illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. the whiskey was pretty darn good, she would reason, and it was sacrilegious to be anywhere else than here: her place of salvation, intoxicated by spirits and the moments all the same.

it's a new face that snapped her out, a handsy one at that. it wasn't easy to catch her attention. this time it was something like coming back home from a full and burdened day in her shadowed life, shoulders hung and face low, ruffling through belongings looking for the house key. once it's found, it falls on the ground and becomes the last straw for the day. except in this scenario it was the pawn piece, the hunting trophy from today's kill, being dangled in front of her face. she's startled and frozen for a second, vigilant of the next move. and in the second that followed, she pretended not to be bothered as much as she was in actuality.

there was something about this 'intruder' that held her consciousness more than just the soul-elevator kind of laughter; like some enigmatic spell that scattered as if they were sequential words upon a page. she felt lightheaded wondering how this arrangement came to be, and how this unfamiliar face was led by the universe to say the right things and ask the right questions despite the initial attempt at pickpocketing during one of the worst hours of her life, no less. she was still alert, however—her alcohol tolerance saving her from fully freefalling further down the mind games. it was a few more drinks before she finally dismissed those meddling thoughts and claimed back her souvenir.

next thing you know she's walking up the steps of her house, but not alone. chaeyeon was no stranger to one-nighters but this person managed to break beyond that road gig. it kept happening until it was unbearable when it didn't.

sumin.

chaeyeon carved this name in the deepest parts of her mind. and in the coming months, she found herself full of regard for song sumin. the kind that she would talk to the flowers with.

her life was filled with bad habits and she had fallen into another one. it was only less daunting because it was an old one. it was a lull that felt endless and it manifested once again in everything that she did. even her social life. she would spend days cooped up in her condo, finding ways to work at home and excusing herself from gatherings, save for the really important ones. she would spend her nights hoping that her paramour was coming to rush back to her arms, even dying for the aroma of the night underneath the covers of her bed. for a sense of mutual rest, or for the right kind of play.

in a way it was self-preservation. she needed to know, for her own sake, if she felt the same, if this was something she wanted, if sumin will keep her, or if she'll want chaeyeon to keep her. she needed to know where she stood. it was addiction. it was unhealthy and she knew it. and it only lasted long enough before she could stop it from moving faster.

sumin had started to say no to her, a lot more than chaeyeon would have minded. her memory and attention to detail was a flaw. she wanted to know everything but she was being kept in the dark. this would send her spiraling into doubt and anxiety, wondering if it was something she had done. but she was good at convincing herself otherwise, and she was good at proving that too.

the signs were all laid out. chaeyeon felt it coming and it made her feel the most desperate she had ever been in her life. in a drunken stupor one night, sumin had joked about wanting to get rid of her brother. chaeyeon, being stern and resolute as she was, sensed that it was more than just a simple jest. she recalled this specifically and figured what exactly she needed to do to catch sumin's attention back, this time: a grand gesture to rig the feelings that she was sure were fading right under her nose.

memories harked back to the night of when they had first met. it was all so poetic. it was the same old book, only with notes on the pages marked and written down this time. song jaemin sat unconscious and tied to a chair from sumin's dining room. she had to make sure he was asleep, because torture was not the purpose. chaeyeon worked to give him a swift end, not so much a cry. and just like that, dispatched; never aware of his own end. but still, her methods felt akin to a crazed serial killer more than the assassin that she was. it was against her morals, but there were times to follow tradition, and times for change. she couldn't help but feel this was a tale at its start.

[katsukiboom]

Chained Heart || Bakugou x OC

Hello everybody! I’m back with one of the pieces I’ve been working on - the person who commissioned me (who wished to remain anonymous) lended me their awesome OC which I had the pleasure to name. I hope you guys like it and remember that commissions are always open! <3

Ko-Fi || Commissions

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“Another day, another good run.”

Chiaki Sato sat on her apartment’s balcony as she sipped on a peach juice box she had bought on the way home – of course, she’d tell her parents she’d stolen it along with the several other items she brought from a nearby 7-Eleven. Always making sure she went to different stores to avoid recognition from others, the teenager wondered just how much longer she’d have to go about trying to please people around her.

Of course, nothing in life comes without a little fun.

One of the few perks she could think about was staying out of the home for as long as she pleased, practicing her so-called arts on the tall walls of abandoned buildings or even playing pranks on unsuspecting citizens, such as misplacing grocery bags or sometimes going as far as to hide people’s bikes, all with the help of her chain-creating quirk. However, it always made her feel even just a little bit guilty regardless of the fact that no one ever got hurt because of her habits; it was the constant voice inside her head that told her that there would be a limit to all of that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to get there at all. She took the weariness that came after the constant usage as a form of ‘punishment’, turning to an iron-based diet to supplement what she lost every day.

As the afternoon sun shone upon her and warmed her skin, Chiaki inhaled slowly and felt the tiredness taking hold of her body despite it being early. “Damn, I must’ve been up there a bit too long,” she whispered to herself with a smile as she reached to her back to caress one of the chain scars, “it was a damn good graffiti if I do say so myself.” Her day replayed like a movie reel as she got up and walked back inside and towards the kitchen, crushing and throwing away the already empty box. Only when she got to a certain point of her memories she stopped in her tracks, a smile breaking out on her face that could only mean it was a good day – she had almost seen him.

He was a teenager like her but on the opposite side of society’s spectrum. While she was trying to look and act like a villain, the blond guy was an apprentice under Best Jeanist’s wing and seemed to have an awful, almost haughty attitude towards anything that could remotely seem wrong or against the rules and laws based on what she’d seen.

It was either that, or the guy just acted like that about everything.

But Chiaki didn’t truly care, since she had taken it to heart to mess with him as much as possible without getting caught in the process and it was just the funniest thing to her; whenever she knew he was in the area, she’d get to the nearest store and shoplift the littlest thing she could find so that the hero in training would show up with his mentor only to see the item had already been either paid for anonymously or returned to its place. Even some of her graffiti was directed towards him. She was thankful that only she knew who those were talking about – she made sure to stick around long enough to see him appear on the scene, and his face of anger always got a laugh out of her.

The truth, however, was that she envied him just a bit; there was a part of her that wanted nothing more than to just leave all that she knew behind and start over with a clear conscience, and most importantly, she wanted to know what it would be like to be on the other side of the page – on the heroes’ page. However, she kept those dreams to herself due to her own parents pressuring her to continue the family business, talking about what a great villain she’d be and how she’d succeed them eventually.

Letting out a short sigh, she warily made her way to her bedroom through the hallway of the rundown apartment they all called home.

-

It was early morning as she got out of bed, stretching her arms and legs as she sat up and glanced at the clock on her bedside table – it was already 9 am and the soft smell of coffee made its way inside the room through the slightly open door, making her stomach growl at the very thought of whatever breakfast was on the way. She quickly changed into her everyday clothes, went into the bathroom to brush her long brown hair into her signature ‘horned’ style, and then made her way to the kitchen; she could hear her parents chit chatting about things she most likely didn’t want to know, but Chiaki was sure they’d find a way to get her into it anyways.

“Well, look who’s already up!” her mother exclaimed as soon as she saw her. Aika Sato was a woman in her mid-forties that didn’t look a day over 30, but she always claimed it was all a product of her youthful mentality rather than something affecting her physical appearance. Sitting in front of her on the other side of the table was Daichi Sato, a stern-looking man that was responsible for the life of crime they were trying to live – he was the last member of a crime family older than heroic society itself so it only felt natural to him to continue now that there were even more resources to do so; her mother followed him along, her love stronger than any other thought or emotion. “Come darling,” Aika added, “I’ve prepared something nice for you to start the day off.”

“We’ve been talking,” said her father as Chiaki sat down between them, his eyes much softer than his voice. “And we think it’s time we introduce you to some of our friends that could teach you a thing or two; you will become so much stronger under their wing and will be able to go on your own to bigger missions as well.”

Chiaki’s eyes were glued on the small cup full of fresh raspberries that accompanied the usual rice and miso soup, along with the ginseng tea she used to take every day. “Oh, I… I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled, reaching out to take a piece of fruit and putting it in her mouth. The sweet juice tasted good and she tried to focus on that.

“I know, it seems like such a big responsibility,” Aika replied as she put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder with a big smile on her face, “but we’re sure you’re ready for something important. After all, you’re a very talented young lady and the world should know that as well, don’t you think so?”

She could only nod as images of her among some of the most powerful villains known to date, torturing people or going even further than that, filled her mind which in turn filled her heart with fear – unsure of how to get out of that situation, she finished her food as fast as she could, grabbed her bag and then said her goodbyes while rushing out of the house with the excuse of having to go to the public library to research for school.

The outside air felt more refreshing than ever, but her emotions felt stronger and it became hard to control once she had walked far enough, a few tears escaping from the corners of her eyes as she walked to the blind alleyway in which she used to hide whenever she felt overwhelmed. With her face buried on her hands, she leaned against a wall and finally let it all out with muffled sobs, the weight of the situation making her feel confused as to which was the right way to take.

She cried for a few minutes until she finally got up and wiped her face with the sleeves of her jacket, not really caring about the way she may have looked after that; reaching into her bag, she pulled out one of the few paint cans she had left before looking up and making two chains appear from her shoulder blades. She maneuvered until they grabbed onto the top of one of the short buildings to the sides of the alley. Carefully, she climbed the wall until she was high enough to start painting when she heard it.

A short muffled scream in a high pitched voice made her turn around and look down, the sight in front of her completely making her freeze – a woman faced to the ground with a gun held to her head by a man with his face covered by a ski mask and who seemed to be even more nervous than her. Both entered the alleyway quickly. “Give me everything, goddammit,” he said with a hurried tone yet his voice was loud. Chiaki was only able to look from her place, but when the woman looked up she couldn’t help but think of her own mother in a similar situation. “Give me everything or I’ll kill you.”

It only took a second of losing her focus for her moral compass to take control and soon a third chain came out of her side, made its way towards the thief and wrapped itself around him tight enough to incapacitate him. “Run, get help!” she yelled at the woman, who looked at her with what seemed to be gratitude in her expression mixed with panic and then ran off the scene. The man looked up at her with rage in his eyes before he tried to run as well, but nothing seemed to be working against her quirk. She looked at the man, proud of herself for doing the right thing but wondering what would happen when help did come. “Try to point that gun at me, fucker.”

Soon enough she heard quick steps coming from the street and then an old cop appeared, followed closely by a pro-hero she didn’t recognize and… oh my god, she thought as soon as she saw explodo-boy. The three of them looked up as they witnessed the scene, and Chiaki made sure to slowly descend from her place on the wall – unable to even look at the blond teen directly, she kept her gaze glued to the ground as her chains vanished once she was close enough to it.

“What are you doing here, young girl?” the pro-hero asked her as he came closer. “You don’t look like a regular civilian with that outfit.”

For once, Chiaki actually felt self-conscious about her choice of wardrobe. “It’s… just my clothes, sir,” she replied shyly, cursing at the fact that her first good deed was actually going to be the one that got her in trouble. The blond was behind him, staring at her with the usual angry look; he looked intimidating but cute, she thought for a split second. “I usually come here when I need to be alone, and I couldn’t just stay back while someone got attacked.”

Both heroes seemed mad, but when the cop called for the oldest one the man quickly turned around and walked away, leaving the two teens by themselves. “Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing up there,” the blond spat out with an almost venomous tone, and she could tell he was frowning underneath the mask that covered half his face. “You were the one that left all those ridiculous graffiti all over the damn place. What is stopping me from going and telling the cops, huh?”

“I-I’m not looking for trouble…”

“You are trouble,” he cut her off, “and you’re about to get what you deserve. You’re just another villain in training and this was just a cover-up for your stupid actions, I just know it.”

Those words were the last thing she had expected to hear from him, but they still felt like knives stabbing her on the back. “You know nothing about me,” she replied, the bubble of anger threatening to explode inside her any moment now. “You had it easy from the beginning, no pressures from anyone. You had it easy being on the other side, the good side, but when people expect too much from you, you break. Do you know what it’s like to want to do the right thing knowing you’ll disappoint everyone around you?” He remained expressionless as she ranted on, and that only served to fuel her anger a lot more. “If you’re going to be a hero yet you don’t care about anything, then maybe you’re the one who’s on the wrong side of the fence.”

“Well, it seems like you don’t know shit about me either,” he said in a whisper, coming closer to her until her back hit the wall. Her feelings mixed with embarrassment as her gaze fixed on the floor and she could feel her face getting redder. “But why should I talk with a petty villain like you? You’re not even an ant on my way.”

“Because…” she struggled to look for words to emotions she had never exactly spoken about, as it never came easy. “Because I do want to know what it’s like.” Finally letting her guard down, Chiaki looked straight into his eyes with determination. “I don’t want to be this, yet it’s all my environment seems to look forward to. I… I don’t know how to tell them I don’t want to be a bad person. I have no one to talk about this with.” She waited and looked for any sign of comprehension in his gaze, though nothing was clear. “How was it so easy for you? How did you get to be training with some of the best heroes in the country?”

The boy took a few steps away and looked back at the pro-hero, who was now helping the cop get the thief away to his car. “Shit,” he muttered before turning back to her, and for the first time since she knew him, he looked distressed as he clenched his fists. “I don’t know why I’d give advice to a shithead like you,” he started as he turned back to her, his expression returning into his usual angry one but he still sounded unsure of his own words. “But if you want something, you, uh, you should just go for it. You probably won’t be more than another extra… but you can try. Maybe you could… go to some damn school and not listen to whoever’s telling you to be a shitty villain. You want to be better than that, which already makes you… stronger than them.”

It almost made her laugh just how much he was struggling with words, seeing that he had always seemed so assertive, but she didn’t get any chance to reply. “Young man,” the pro-hero said as he appeared behind the blond, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him back just a little bit. “Go outside and wait for me; I’ll catch up in a minute.” Obeying not without letting out a little grunt he just turned around and walked towards the cop who was just now getting into his car, and Chiaki only looked at him with a goodbye stuck in her throat. “Now about you, missy,” the man said once they were alone. “We won’t say anything about you using your quirk without a permit since you helped us this time. However, you will have to turn your attitude around; we’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious activities and if we find out you were related to it, you won’t get out of it that easy.”

And with that he too walked away, leaving her with her thoughts for the first time in what had felt like hours. You want to be better than that, which already makes you stronger than them. The words the other teen had told her ran through her mind almost unconsciously, his voice loud and clear and soon becoming the only thing she heard. Chiaki looked up at the midday sun and with a smile appearing on her face, she picked up the half-empty paint spray can from the floor and threw it on one of the garbage cans around before walking out of the alley. Curious eyes from nearby stores were glued to her, but for the first time, she didn’t bother about it.

-

Holding onto the hems of her uniform jacket, the girl looked up at the huge main building of her new school while walking towards the steel gates and avoiding the other students gathered around her. Standing in front of the one thing that would help her achieve her dreams, it all felt beyond surreal. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she had gotten into the biggest hero school in Japan behind her parents’ back, and even though they had shunned her at first they had grown used to the idea of their daughter not following their steps; they never brought it up though and never asked how her things were going either, but she knew it would be hard for them to digest the news.

Her pace was calm but to her, it seemed like she was in a rush anyways, a small droplet of sweat rolling down her temple – despite it being the final days of summer, the day still felt way too warm yet she blamed it on the thick fabric of the clothes. Looking all around, she witnessed Eraserhead to the side of the door lazily greeting the arriving students and she smiled at the sight, but as their gazes met she instantly looked down, feeling her cheeks turn bright red.

Chiaki took a few more steps until she crashed onto somebody, making the person in front of her stumble back. “Oi, what’s your goddamn problem?” a familiar voice roared, and when she looked up she was met with angry red eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. She wouldn’t mistake him for anyone and was shocked that of all the people she could encounter on her very first day and in the very same school she was attending, it had to be him; it was like fate was playing tricks on her. “Watch where you’re going, you damn extra.”

“How long are you going to call everyone that, Bakubro?” the redhead that was with him let out a short laugh before turning to her – she was sure her cheeks were the same colour as his hair. She noticed they had the same eye colour and had to suppress the need to chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, he’s always like that…”

“I know,” she muttered without thinking, instantly regretting it.

“You know each other?”

The blond looked surprised but said nothing as he waited for her to speak. “I, uh… we… met last year though I don’t think he remembers,” she explained, “and he gave me advice on how to become a hero when I was in a bad place. It really helped me.” Both guys’ eyes opened wide at those words, the redhead wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder with a big smile on his face.

“Ooh Bakugou, seems like I was right about you being a softie after all!”

“Shut up, Kirishima,” the blond – Bakugou said with a growl, pushing him off him and turning his attention back to her with his brow furrowed. “I remember you now; you tried your worst to be a villain and now you’re here. You followed me here so I could congratulate you or something?”

His tone was harsh, but the soft pink on his cheeks spoke way louder than his words. Finally letting out a laugh, she replied, “Not really, this is just my first day. I hadn’t been able to say thank you for the kind words though, they really helped.” The bell rang across campus just as she finished her sentence and she bowed to the two before turning around, making her way to the main doors, unaware of the pair of eyes that were glued to her back.

“You know,” Kirishima said with one eyebrow raised and a mischievous smile on his lips, catching Bakugou’s attention back from the unknown girl – she had such a sweet perfume, but he’d never admit that even if his life depended on it. “You could at least have asked for her name, Bakubro.”

[peachbabypie]

Exchanging of Hearts — A Steampunk!Starker AU Patreon Commission for @starkravingspiders​ and a scene from their steampunk AU!Starker fic (that they’re currently writing) which they’ve graciously shared with me to share with you! It’s so sweet and pure and good — and then head over to their blog and tell them how amazing they are

Please support me on Patreon or Ko-fi

Peter wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up here.

When he ran into Tony a few days ago, nothing had gone how he thought it would.

Most people would have made sure he was okay and that his dress hadn’t ripped. That would have been it. Not Tony though. Instead, the beautiful man had practically kidnapped him for the rest of the day, including dragging him to his panel which Peter had no business being a part of. Tony, however, didn’t care. He had kept engaging Peter in some of the questions and surprisingly, it had worked.

Tony was amazing but he was also a billionaire with a lot of money he could use to play around with for tech.

Meanwhile, Peter’s mechanical creations were made via dumpster diving or thrift shops. Having him at the panel seemed to get Tony more involved in technical questions than he usually got at one of these Pop culture conventions. Of course, some people still only showed up for Tony Stark, owner of SI, even if he didn’t manage the company at all. However, a lot of people were there for the technical and costuming questions of steampunk.

The following morning, Peter woke up to Tony invading his hotel room under the guise of wanting to play with all his tech. Peter suspected he just wanted to lay claim to Peter before anyone else did but he didn't mind at all.

He kicked Tony out of the room and dressed himself carefully. He also grabbed a little piece of tech he’d actually made a long time ago but  had only gotten inspired to add something to it the day before. He had been following Tony’s Steampunk creations and poured over photos of him online for two years and the one thing he had noticed about Tony Stark? He always, for every single one of his outfits, wore a strange locket with a triangle on it in blue.

So, a year ago Peter had made a mechanical heart. It glowed the same gentle blue color and had sensors that would beat with the heartbeat of whoever wore it.

The night he met Tony though? He had been inspired and changed the design. He made a matching ring and synced the ring wearer's pulse with that of the mechanical heart.

Whoever wore the mechanical heart would feel Peter's own heartbeat and there was no one else he wanted to give his heart to than Tony Stark.

He stashed his creation in one of his little pouches but hadn’t gotten up the courage to give it to Tony.

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s got you off in the fields?” Tony’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.

Peter couldn’t stop the besotted smile that crossed his face when Tony’s arm went around his waist. He leaned into the other man and shrugged ever so slightly.

“Just thinking. I never really expected any of this and I’m still not sure if I should be up here on stage with you, Tony! These people are very serious about their judging rules.” He reached out and gently traced along one of the buttons that decorated Tony’s chest, a delicate T stamped into the cool metal.

“It’s fine, beautiful. Everyone knows you're here to keep me company because I’m easily distracted,” Tony murmured softly to him. He tightened his hold and brought Peter closer, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

Peter blushed darkly, it was amazing... He and Tony hadn’t even had a real official first kiss and already, their relationship felt deeper and more meaningful than anything in his whole life. They hadn’t even really talked about a relationship either but Peter knew there was something so deep and true blooming between them.

“Tony,” he admonished gently and shuddered a bit as Tony’s chuckle was felt more than heard from where he was pressed against the other man.

“Now, sweetheart, what kind of tech do you have in this little bag of yours? I saw a glowing bit of blue.” Tony asked gently, fingering the soft leather bag he had in his hand.

Peter bit his lip, eyes traveling to where the costume contestants were being told the route they would walk prior to getting to the stage and the judges. He was intimately aware of all the eyes resting on him and Tony. Also, this really wasn’t the place, but...

“Well, I wanted to give this to you, but I keep chickening out,” he said softly as he gently held the little pouch in his hands.

Should he?

He glanced up and saw that same soft look in Tony’s eyes that made something inside him melt. It also strengthened his resolve and without caring who was watching, Peter gently opened the bag and put his hand in, not yet pulling out the little mechanical heart.

Tony brushed a hand over the fringes of some of his hair that fell over his forehead, pushing them back into place.

“Something for me? You don’t need to be worried, love, I’d adore anything from you.” His voice was soft and gentle and Peter just wanted to listen to Tony talk to him forever.

Very gently, Peter pulled out the heart and turned his hand over. The little golden heart, glowing blue, rested in his palm. He could feel the beating pulse against his palm, a bit rushed because of his anxiety.

He designed it so that it could either be worn on a chain around Tony’s neck or have straps added to either side to be attached to Tony’s chest. He bit his lip nervously as Tony’s hand covered his gently. “Sweetheart?” Tony questioned softly, feeling the beating against his hand. Soft and quick, like a bird wanting to escape its confines. His hand was warm against Peter’s and Peter knew his cheeks were bright red.

“It’s… It’s my heart?” Peter said, almost like a question.

He was terrified of Tony’s reaction and suddenly wondered if he had read everything completely wrong. His eyes were burning as he met Tony’s eyes again and was surprised to find the older man was now staring at him in wonder.

He looked back down and was surprised to see Tony’s hand hovering over the little mechanical heart as if he was afraid to crush it, like it was something precious and alive. As if he was cupping an entire life in his hands. His blunt, scarred fingers rested on it gently as if feeling out the heartbeats.

“Peter, honey, is this your heartbeat in real time?” Tony’s voice was pitched so low and awed that Peter couldn’t help but blush again. He motioned to his ring.

“My ring is a sensor and transmits it to the heart. So when you wear it, you’re wearing my heart. Please take care of it?” He asked lightly, but his words held a heavy note to them.

Tony stared into his eyes and Peter waited anxiously for a moment before Tony took the heart with a tender hand.

“Sweetheart, this…” Tony sounded choked up and Peter was surprised that his eyes looked a bit damp. “I’ll treasure this until my last breath. I’ll... fuck... Pete, honey, I’ll keep it safe from anyone who wants to hurt it. I’ll treasure it more than my own heart.” Tony’s voice was thick but Peter could hear the echo of his own words in it. “I hope you don’t regret giving me your heart, precious.”

Peter shook his head, no hesitation, and smiled tenderly as Tony nuzzled into him and pressed another kiss to his hair. “Never, Tony. It’s safe with you, I can tell. I’ll never regret giving you my heart.”

“Well, now that our real life love story moment is over, maybe we can get our costume contest started?” A voice over the speakers brought them out of their soft moment and Peter’s face flushed darkly again at seeing the MC staring at them with a smile. There was a round of applause as Tony led Peter over to sit next to him at the judges' table, left hand still gently cupping the heart like a treasure.

Later, Peter would be helping Tony pack up his booth for the night and watched in shock as Tony stripped off his outer layers and then his shirt. Using some thick straps, he secured the heart right against his chest above his own heart. He promised Peter he’d carry it against his heart until he died.

After that, people got used to seeing a soothing blue light emitting from under Tony’s clothes, in and out of fancy dress wear. And Tony, himself? He never got over the feeling of Peter’s heart beating against his.

xx Gosh, wasn’t that just so fucking cute?

[gffa]

I’ve just seen the TCW Season 7 and I’m already pissed at that girl who accused the Jedi of starting the Clone Wars. Who does she think she is?

I KNOW THAT FEELING, but it’s entirely fitting with the state of the galaxy at this point, that they blame the Jedi as part of the problem, rather than understanding who they actually are and how little say they actually had.This is why Star Wars: Propaganda is one of my favorite books, that it’s such a great in-universe look at the bigger picture of everything that happened and it shows so much of how the Jedi’s PR problem shaped so much of what happened.In the lead-up to the Clone Wars:          “The Core Worlders became more enamored with the fleeting distractions of fame and fashion, transitory fascinations with sophistication that left little room for messages of faith or tradition that the Jedi exemplified. The lack of representation in the galactic mindshare undoubtedly fixed their future, as dark forces were on the rise that would poison the public sentiment toward the Jedi in the decades to come.”  (Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)The beginning of the Clone Wars:         “Dooku had a commanding voice that demanded attention. He also had the authority inherited from his previous role, a former Jedi Master of the Order. Once again, the Jedi Order’s eschewing of the galactic spotlight allowed another to reshape the image of the Jedi, and for nearly a decade, the most famous Jedi in the galaxy was one who advocated for the dissolution of the Republic.”  (Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)        “It was Chancellor Palpatine himself who recommended that images such as this poster not be used to bolster wartime support for the Republic, citing sympathy toward the Jedi discomfort. Very few examples exist of government-approved imagery that showcased the Jedi Knights in their capacity as military leaders.”  (Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)       “The ancient eight-spoked sigil of the Republic found new application on freshly minted Republic war machinery as well as on snapping flags and military banners. These were the soldiers risking all for the sanctity of the Republic and the cherished freedoms of democracy—so went the stirring messages, ballads, and holographic short subjects. Absent from these portrayals was any lingering focus on the Jedi Order.”  (Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)        “At the start of the Clone Wars, the Jedi were largely kept out of Republic propaganda, with the clone troopers becoming the face of patriotism during the conflict. This was the preference of the Order, which eschewed imagery of heroism or the romanticization of warfare.”(Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)When saying why the Jedi weren’t enough and the Republic should vote for creating a galaxy-wide miliary, the Republic’s propaganda laid the seeds of “don’t trust the Jedi”:         “Rather than detail the inevitable horrors of impending war, its singular lightsaber and well-chosen words instead demonstrate how undefended the Republic was. In crafting this message of vulnerability, the Commission for a Safe and Secure Republic (a nonprofit think tank based on Level 5121, Coruscant) also unwittingly seeded a secondary story that would grow during the Clone Wars—that no salvation lay in the direction of the Jedi Knights.”(Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)Showing just how little choice the Jedi actually had:        “In the blink of an eye, it seemed, the galaxy was embroiled in a full-scale galactic war. The Separatist Alliance congealed into the Confederacy of Independent Systems, a coalition of loosely aligned worlds united for war. It pooled its resources to purchase huge quantities of battle droids, creating a ready-to-deploy army. The Republic mobilized its newly activated clone forces and hurriedly brevetted the Knights of the Jedi Order into military commanders.”(Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)         “A lot of people say, ‘What good is a lightsaber against a tank?’ The Jedi weren’t meant to fight wars. That’s the big issue in the prequels. They got drafted into service, which is exactly what Palpatine wanted.”  (George Lucas)         “Absent from this hero-making were the Jedi Knights. Citizens who witnessed the Jedi in action were understandably in awe of their abilities, but it was the clone trooper who was the public face of the war effort. The mystic Jedi remained forever inscrutable to the Republic citizenry at large. To the Separatists, they were branded as hypocrites (thanks to firsthand criticism by Count Dooku). That they could so callously brandish a clone army—“slaves bred for war,” as Separatist propaganda proclaimed—did not speak well to their character, though few among the Separatists knew that the Jedi were given no choice in the matter.”(Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)When pointing out uhhh the Jedi aren’t actually like that, it was once again that other people shaped their image for them:         “After three long years of conflict, which included military strikes that reached the heart of the Core Worlds, public opinion soured on the war. More and more citizens saw the conflict as fruitless and demanded a negotiated settlement. It was during the height of this discontent that Chancellor Palpatine shocked the galaxy by exposing the Jedi Order as traitors. Despite some muted protests in the Senate, Palpatine easily spread this claim by reminding the galaxy that Dooku, the Republic’s greatest threat in a thousand years, was a former Jedi.“ (Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)And the part that sums everything up the best of all:        “Anti-Jedi sentiment was more a product of their cultural absence rather than a refutation of anything substantive. Separatist worlds that had experienced lawlessness attributed that to Jedi neglect, a failure of policing. Indeed, the war itself was a failure of the peacekeepers. To these disaffected worlds, the Jedi were just one more symptom of an inattentive Core World. They imagined the Jedi to be cultural elites, or in the case of this piece, a zealous sect of warmongers.        “Had the Jedi made more of an effort to engage in the populace, such deadly misunderstandings could have been avoided.”(Star Wars: Propaganda | by Pablo Hidalgo)This book is the best example of showing how things got to where they were and it’s a really good example of showing why the Jedi chose the paths they did–for one thing, they were drafted into the war, both in-world and out-of-world sources have said so.  We’ve seen them try to object to things like, THEY DID NOT WANT TO SEND ANAKIN TO TATOOINE, PALPATINE MADE THEM, they did not want to let Anakin hang around Palpatine, but had no evidence to object with and so Palpatine shut them down, they did not want to put Anakin on a Council he wasn’t ready for, but Palpatine made them, Mace wanted leniency for Boba Fett, but the Judiciary Branch ignored his plea, when Dooku was a Jedi, he talked to the Senate to ask for help for Outer Rim planets, they told him him that he was stepping out of line to address them this way, to stop trying to influence them (an implication of “don’t you dare use your weird and scary mind powers on us, you weirdo Jedi!”, I think) AND how they eschewed getting deeper into the propaganda because it romanticized war, as well as they believed their traditions and faith would speak for itself, BUT that allowed over and over and over again to have OTHERS shape the Jedi’s image.By the time they would have realize it was a problem, so many of them were already dead and they had thirty tire fires to put out and they were exhausted and still had more to do and nobody really wanted to listen.The above shows an incredibly consistent pattern of the Jedi were drafted into this war, they weren’t given a choice about the clones, their image was spun by people who had an incredibly vested interest in painting them as the bad guys for their own manipulations, and they eschewed public imagery because they didn’t want to become known as warriors, they didn’t want to romanticize this war.So when the people of the GFFA are like, “Yeah, the Jedi are just part of the Core World Elites!  They never come down here with us lowly folks!” that’s playing into the propaganda that was spun about them (look how it also conveniently ignores how many “lowly” worlds they’re visiting and working with), it’s playing into what Palpatine was selling, what the Separatists were selling, and ignoring what the Jedi were actually doing and saying, what they actually had feasible options for.When people accuse the Jedi of starting the wars, it’s supposed to be contrasted against the audience knowing the truth–that Palpatine started that war, but that we know he was a master of propaganda and manipulative lies.  That girl accusing them of starting the war isn’t meant as truth, the idea that the Jedi were Core World Elites isn’t meant as truth, it’s meant as part of the political landscape that they weren’t prepared to navigate (because they’re not meant to be politicians!), but that people painted them that way because Palpatine wanted to make sure they were to blame for everything wrong in the galaxy so that when he murdered their children and burned their home, people would just stand by and watch.That girl saying it was the fault of the Jedi is a huge part of the story, how the galaxy believed the lies about them.  She’s wrong, but she was fed a steady diet of GFFA FOX News and we know exactly what’s going to happen because of it.

[antihero-writings]

Reminded by a Flower—Pandora Hearts fic for Phmonth19, Rainsworth Trio, Day 6: Flowers (Full fic)

Fic Title: The Simplest Gifts

Chapter Title: Reminded by a Flower 

Fic Summary: Christmas may not be the happiest time for the Children of Misfortune, still, sometimes it's the simplest things that can bring joy

Notes: This was a Christmas fic I started during Phmonth18 last year. I wasn't able to write Break’s chapter for it, so I decided to use one of the Phmonth19 prompts to finish it this year! Oh, and you dont need to have read the other chapters to understand this one! 

Fic: 

Kevin crouched beside a flowerbed. Most of the flowers were white, especially considering the snow, but as he dusted off the frost he found a single red bloom amongst the rest.

“Which of them is to be tonight’s victim?” a voice only he could hear said behind him.

He glanced over to the group it was referring to, which probably looked like a lavish dinner table to the Chain.

Christmas had taken over the town. Evergreen trees were set up like well-decorated sentries at the corners of streets, a large one guarding the town square. Candles, tinsel, ribbons, bells, and other assorted decoration had claimed shops and houses as their own, inside and out. There was barely a person without a candy cane, gingerbread or other cookie in their mouth. The children were especially affected by its cheer, making angels and fights out of the cold.

People did litter the area, carolers, rich folks in suits and fancy dresses, chatting in benches, poor people in rags sharing bread and a smile, kids slipping and giggling as they fell on on the ice, families, parents holding their children’s’ hands, friends drinking together.

The world rarely looked so alive, so…merry. Often he wouldn’t care, his eyes glazed with the potency of his goal…Today was different.

He returned his gaze to the flora, reaching down and picking the red bloom.

“Master?” Albus asked.

*****

He had never seen the place so alive. The manor, the family, always radiated a sort of warmth, but the glow of the assorted candles, the fires in their places—picture perfect, like everything else— the reflections in the ornaments and plates glittering like the sunset on the ocean were enough to make anyone feel the cheer of the time of year. The sweet scent of pine flittered down from the trees, the aroma of cakes, gingerbread, and other treats drifting in and out of each room. The hubbub of party guests, along with music, floated in the air like butterflies drawn by the lamplight.

Kevin stood by the door, his eyes sharp, surveying the room, the guests, like a guard dog, always trying to find a threat, never fully relaxed. It was his job of course, but the festivities didn’t appear to interest him in general. The guests, with their fanciful dresses, words, and smiles, didn’t seem to notice the young man either, like he was just a decoration, a painting in black, white, and red, on the back wall.

Two did notice him, however: a rather large man, with a brown—greying—beard, wearing a nice black suit, (the tie only slightly askew), with a white flower on his lapel, a smile on his face, and a little girl with short blonde hair sitting on one of his shoulders.

“Roman-sama,” Kevin bowed to his master. “Do you require my services?”

He laughed a little. “No, no…Well, yes. Actually…seeing as it’s Christmas, little Emily wants to give you something.”

Kevin blinked, as if waiting for the punchline. The thought that his master’s daughter would give him, a servant, a gift for Christmas, was at the least improper, at the most mad.

Upon seeing the quizzical look on his face, Roman grinned. “Come now, it’s Christmas!! Will you not allow one little gift?” he leaned over and spoke behind his hand, (though she could probably still hear him), “if you don’t accept, the little tyrant might just get offended. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Who can tell what her majesty’s ruling would be?”

“Please, I couldn’t possibly accept—”

“Keeviin!!” The little girl moaned. “Just let me do something nice for you, you dummy!”

He blinked. He knew The Sinclairs to be both benevolent and stubborn, but this was something else.

“My apologies, Ojousama,” he bowed.

The little girl had been attempting to hide something by keeping it behind her father’s back. Roman now lifted her off his shoulders, giving her to the floor. She pattered up to Kevin and offered him the gift with the innocent smile only little girls are capable of.

It was a red flower.

He blinked, reaching down and plucking it from her hand.

“It’s a…I forget what they’re called. But I’ve only ever seen these flowers be white. I’d never seen a red one, and it made me think of your eyes!”

The aforementioned eyes widened.

“See, I’ve never seen a person with red eyes either! I think they’re really pretty…and I just thought maybe you and the flower should be together!” She put her hands behind her back and swayed back and forth.

Others had noticed his eyes too...’noticed’ was a bit of an understatement. At her age he often got bullied for his strange appearance, but as he grew older people would often avoid eye contact, or seem very uneasy beneath his gaze…and those were some of the milder reactions.

“Well, what do you say?” Roman said like someone had just complimented his young son. Kevin cleared his throat and spoke properly and simply. “Thank you…I appreciate it,” he added when she continued staring at him.

She grinned, giving a small curtsey. “Good. Then I won’t have to behead you for your impudence!”

Something of his expression must have shown his shock because her father laughed, patting her head, ruffling her hair, “Always the little jester, this one.”

“Father! You’ll mess up my hair!” the Sinclair girl put her hands on her head, scowling at him.

“Sorry, sunshine!”

She took his hand, dragging her father back out into the party.

“We’ve leave you to keep manning the fort!” Roman saluted, and Emily waved.

Kevin leaned back against the wall, twirling the stem, watching the petals twist like a dancer in a red dress, trying to hide his smile.

*****

Kevin twisted the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

The same flower, but the times were so different.

A lot can change in a year.

“Master?” Albus asked again.

Kevin stood, looking the way of the painting-like scene the Chain looked at as a menu.

“It’s Christmas,” he said softly.

On this day last year, he was in a warm manor, the knight of an even warmer family. On this day last year he was a part of these traditions and games, even if on the sidelines.

Now he was cast out of that world, and no fires warmed his skin, no glittering lights peppered his vision, no candy or cake gracing his tongue…Not that having come now could sooth the ache in his stomach.

“And?”

His eyes darted from the twirling children to the twirling petals in his hand.

But others could still enjoy the warmth of this day. Even he was alone, and cold, his eyes attuned to the dark, others still gave each other gifts, and told stories, and ate sweets in the firelight. Others still had families they could sit with, and who they would be devastated to lose…especially tonight.

He began walking forward, tossing the bloom to the ground, it landing like a drop of blood on the snow.

“I won’t be killing anyone tonight.”

*****

“Break! Break!” the little girl toddled up to him, her feet carrying her as fast as they could in the snow, causing her to nearly topple over in her oversized coat. “I—” she panted, “I found something for you!”

She held up the bouquet of unevenly picked flowers like a trophy of war.

“Mother said you’re supposed to put flowers on people’s graves.” Sharon explained once she’d caught her breath, “I don’t really know what that means, but I made sure to pick the prettiest ones I could find.”

He blinked at her, taking them in an almost ginger way. It took him a moment to notice the red bloom hiding, slightly wilted, amongst the white.

“Do…Do you like them?” she asked, drawing circles in the snow with her boot.

He tried to smile, “Yes. Thank you, Sharon.”

Reim caught up with his friend, then gasped when he saw the makeshift bouquet.

“Sharon! You shouldn’t have picked those! I was just reading somewhere; the red variety is very rare!”

“You have nothing better to do then read about flowers?” she put her hands on her hips, “Why not pick up a book about something exciting,” she flourished with her hands, “something that will actually strengthen your mind… like a romance novel!”

“Shelly told you you’re not ready to read those!”

As the children squabbled—(he tried not to smirk at their fight…he’d slipped her that romance novel)—Break carried the bundle to said graves.

He pieced out the group, setting a few blooms on each, until only the red one was left.

As he let it drift onto the last stone, he murmured, “Merry Christmas, Emily.”

*****

Break strolled through the frosty Pandora garden. Reim had left his notebook back here—(…either that or someone hid it from him)—and he had commissioned (more like drilled) everyone in a nearby radius to help him look for it.

The garden was mostly barren at this time, though there were a few flowers that bloomed in winter. In particular, white blooms lined the pathway near the ground. He thought nothing of them until he rounded the corner to find a bit of a disaster on the pathway:

Petals were strewn about the stones, the stem in fractured pieces, like flower had offended someone, and this was their revenge.

Break knelt down and picked what was left of the bloom, guessing exactly who had decided to take whatever frustrations he had out on the innocent flower—(he made a mental note enhance those frustrations later).

“Oh, there you are Break!” Sharon ran up to him, hugging Reim’s notebook to her chest, “I found—Oh! What’s this?” She knelt down, observing the crime. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I think a rat may have gotten in here.”

She frowned, standing back up. “That’s too bad, I would have liked to put it in a vase. I think I remember someone telling me the red ones are very rare variety. It’s pretty... It kind of reminds me of your eye.”

He tried to laugh it off, crushing what was left of the flower and standing, joining her to return Reim’s property, thinking all the while it probably reminded Vincent of his eye too.

*****

“What is it, Sharon?” Reim asked.

She had stopped, before proceeded to running off to a nearby patch of flowers.

He couldn’t recall their name, but when he caught up to her, he saw that they were white flowers, blending in to the surrounding snow. Sharon knelt down before them and plucked one.

The one in her hand, however, was red.

“It’s been a long time since I saw a red one of these,” she said softly, twisting it in her finger.

“Yes,” he leaned over her shoulder, trying to get a better look at it, “I believe they’re quite rare.”

She proceeded to add this red flower to one of the bouquets she was carrying.

“My apologies for the detour,” she mentioned properly as he helped her back up.

They finished the rest of their journey, stopping before the graves. She knelt down and set one down at each respectively, removing the red flower and carefully placing it on top of the headstone.

His wife tried to smile as she said, “Merry Christmas, Mother. Merry Christmas, Break.”

[novantinuum]

Crack the Paragon, Chapter 8

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 6.5K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter summary: In which together breakfast can’t solve everything.

You can find the first/previous chapter and AO3 links in the reblogs! (I have to omit them from the original post these days to ensure this will show up in the tags.) If you enjoyed this, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos on AO3 as well. 

_

Chapter 8: Fissures

In time, the rest of the household bursts to life.

His dad wakes up an hour or so later on his own accord, rolling out of bed and groggily stumbling into the bathroom to soak in the shower for a solid twenty minutes. Steven eagerly shares the good news— I’m whole again!— after he finally emerges, and while it takes a fair moment for his still half-conscious mind to fully grasp what he’s attempting to explain, when the message finally lands Dad lifts him off the floor and spins him around in his arms, laughing with joy. Compared to Pearl, his reaction to the gem’s rotation is minimal, which comes as a sweet relief.

“I’m just glad to see ya’ smiling and in one piece again,” he says, holding him close.

After sharing an amicable nod of greeting with Pearl, his dad sets out from the house to check on his van, promising he’ll be back in a few minutes. Apparently he needs to lock it, because he totally forgot last night. Again. Also, he did say he’d grab the waffle iron before he went to bed, so fingers crossed for that. Steven’s mouth waters at the mere thought of Dad’s homemade waffles, golden, crisp, and stacked sky high, their flavor— buttery, with a hint of lemon zest— bursting like fireworks against his tongue. Nobody makes waffles like he can, not even Pearl. While waiting for Dad to return with breakfast materials, he changes into clean jeans and a shirt. Lazily, he flops onto his belly on the couch with plans of playing Splashy Shark on his phone, only to find...

Steven groans, dropping his head face first into the middle of the cushion. His phone’s battery is so low it won’t turn on at all. Dead as a doorstop! It seems he forgot to plug it in before falling asleep once more, for the umpteenth thousandth time, even though he tried to remind himself early this morning on the beach. Typical.

“Is the world ending again over there?” Pearl— currently lounging at the kitchen counter— asks with a playful lilt to her voice. “Do we need to call in the rest of the resistance?”

“Noooo, it’s fine,” he replies, drawn out. “This is a path I must walk alone, for I’m the lad who forgets.” He rolls over onto his back, stretching his free arm towards the ceiling as if desperately reaching towards the stars. “And to forget is the dark burden I bear,” he whispers dramatically.

“You didn’t plug your phone in last night, did you?”

“Whoa, how’d you guess??”

“Steven, you do realize I’ve lived with you for almost three years, yes?”

“Oh,” he says, brows shooting up. “Right!”

Humming, he pulls himself off the couch and trots up the steps to the loft. He sets his phone on his nightstand and connects it to the charge cord. Unfortunately, it'll take a while for it to build up enough juice to turn on again. That’ll teach him. Or maybe it won’t, time will tell. He hopes it won’t be out of commission for too long, though, because he really should call Connie about all this…

The temple door begins to open. He rapidly turns upon hearing that familiar sound, just in time to see Amethyst emerging from the depths of her room. Her hair is a mess, her eyes droop in exhaustion, and for a moment one of her fingers digs halfway up her nose. More than anything, she looks like she needs a great big hug.

“Hey,” she mutters, and yawns. “Any word on ol’ Steven 2?”

“Amethyst, Amethyst, Amethyst,” he hollers, beaming from ear to ear, and leaps from the loft to greet her. He doesn’t even bother floating, with no need for a soft landing from this height. The impact of his bare feet against the floorboards reverberates through the whole house. “Guess what??”

He flings himself around the purple Gem, almost knocking her clear over in the shock of surprise affection. (Although by this point, if she’s not used to his hug attacks that’s her problem.)

“Uhhh, what?” she says, face blank even in the wake of his effervescent enthusiasm.

Pearl’s hands go to her hips. “Steven, what have I told you about jumping from the loft?

“I’m the full package again,” he declares, and throws his arms wide, pointedly ignoring her for the moment. “My gem reformed and then we fused!”

Despite her low energy otherwise, Amethyst cracks a grin at his good news. “Whoa, really? When was this?”

“This morning! I was up super early. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Sheesh. You and me both, bud.”

“At least you don’t actually need to sleep. Lucky.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been making a habit of it for so long that not sleeping pretty much has the same affect,” she says, and crosses to sit on the couch. She stretches back, body sinking into the familiar curves of the cushion she always claims. She props one of her hands behind her mass of lavender hair. “Ah, that’s more like it! So… after everything,” she begins cautiously, balling the other hand up against her gemstone, right against the facet she herself cracked about a year and a half ago. “How do you feel now?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. “Okay, I guess. I’m in one piece, but… everything’s different now, y’know? Even though I don’t want it to be.”

Her expression grows more downcast, the fringe of her hair shadowing her features. “Yeah.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steven catches Pearl watching their conversation from the kitchen. It’s painfully obvious she’s trying to keep her dutiful surveillance on the down-low, her side glances interspersed with time spent washing raspberries and gathering waffle ingredients for his Dad, but he doesn’t get why this secrecy is necessary on her part. It’s not like they’re not openly discussing this in the middle of the house. If he and Amethyst really wanted to talk privately they’d wander outside, or into her room. Nonetheless, there’s nothing he could say that Pearl hasn’t already heard.

Although now that he thinks about it, there’s plenty of stuff he hasn’t told Amethyst yet. He purses his lips, unable to shake the thought of her visceral reaction to the reveal about his mo— about Rose— that dropped like an anvil on their family last night. With that in mind, how will she respond to the permanent visual reminder of this change that he now embodies?

With a quick glance between Pearl and the doorway his dad left through, his mind is made. If he isn’t forthright now, she’ll find out eventually. He figures it’s better she hears it from him rather than through the grapevine.

“Y’know, I should probably mention,” he says with a half laugh. “My gem did a bit of a weird thing. It kinda… flipped?” To prove his point, Steven lifts up the hem of his t-shirt, barring the diamond for all to see.

Amethyst squints as she peers at his gem. “What the fu—“

“Amethyst,” Pearl interjects sternly, crossing towards the pair of them.

“—uuuuuudge is that? Gems can do that??”

She rolls her eyes. “Somehow I doubt that every Gem can—“

“Oooo, lemme try!” she gleefully squeals, leaping to her feet in one bound and throwing her arms aloft.

Her gemstone begins to glow a soft purple as the finer details of her form blur into an indistinguishable mass of light. The edges of this light bend and wobble, and she seethes in intense concentration, but despite her efforts her gemstone refuses to budge.

Gasping for breath, her hard light form snaps back into its customary shape like a rubber band. The light fades, revealing her scowl. “Aww man, no fair! Everyone else gets all the cool powers.”

“Haha, well I didn’t exactly do it on purpose,” Steven says, shrugging nonchalantly.

The screen door slams open, prompting everyone in the room to sling their attention to the man standing tall and proud with the cast iron kitchen appliance brandished like a sword in his hands.

“Who’s excited for waffles??” he asks, his grin contagious.

Steven shoots his hand in the air. “Oooh, me, me! I’m excited for waffles!”

“Then guess today’s your lucky day,” he chuckles, moving across the house to the counter. “Pearl, ‘ya wanna help a man out here?”

“Ah, yes!” she chimes, raising en pointe as she triumphantly jabs her finger in the air. “Of course! I’ve even taken the liberty of gathering the ingredients for you already.”

Dad stutters for a moment, clearly not expecting this turn of events considering her former animosity towards him. Their family trip to Empire City— the night the tides forever changed— wasn’t that long ago, after all. He threads anxious fingers through a thick length of hair.

“Wow, you, uh- thank you.”

Steven follows them to the kitchen area, stars in his eyes as he rapturously watches their amicable interactions. Showcasing a surprising capacity for teamwork, they set up the waffle iron and start to prepare that gooey, delicious batter. His mouth waters at the mere scent of the lemon his dad squeezes into the bowl. Acting on unspoken impulse, Pearl grabs a whisk and accepts the bowl from him, beating the mix of ingredients until it’s reached the perfect consistency. The tastiest pancakes and waffles come from batter that’s still a little lumpy, his dad always says, since that causes them to rise better. In any case, his taste buds can hardly wait.

“I’m so hungry I think I could eat like, four bazillion waffles,” he tells Amethyst in the most candid voice he can muster, relocating to the couch she’s lounging on with a hop and a skip.

“Heh,” she says, a suitably up-to-no-good smirk framing her face. “Not if I get to all of ‘em first!”

“Whaaat? Naw, come on, you wouldn’t do that to your favorite Steven!”

“Are you kidding? I’d steal food from myself! After I swallowed it.”

“Ewww,” he laughs, his nose scrunching up.

They continue to laugh together for a solid few seconds, but the enthusiasm holding their facades together so precariously soon fades. Meanwhile, in the background Dad and Pearl converse as easily as if they’d never carried a decades-long feud to begin with. (Oh, the sweet irony of this reversal!) Steven clamps his lips together, for once clueless what to say to Amethyst to make everything better. Their conversations aren’t usually like this. They aren’t so… stilted, like he has to traverse across a lake of thin ice. He sighs, feeling his chest rise and fall with a weight almost heavier than the memory of the last few hours. That’s the one thing he fears most, if he’s honest about all this— that as a consequence of the mess Rose left him, his relationships with the Gems will never be the same again.

He can only guess Amethyst heard his sigh, because she’s the one who first moves to break the silence.

“Hey, uh,” she begins quietly, and shoots a quick glance at Pearl, meeting her eyes briefly before looking back at him. “I’m sorry for… well, everything, really. That I said last night.”

He frowns, the memory of her words’ sting suddenly looping itself in his mind like a broken record.

“And then, what? She creates you just so she doesn’t have to deal with the fact she’s a liar?”

“Oh. You, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, “you don’t need to apologize for that. We were all pretty stressed, I get it.”

“No. I do!” she insists, her expression stretching wide. “What I said, it wasn’t just mean, it was wrong. Like, I still feel like I don’t know anything about Rose, or Pink, or whatever anymore, okay? But just because I don’t get anything doesn’t make you— gah, forget it,” she says hurriedly, waving the thought away. “The point is, I’m sorry, y’know? For real.”

The earnesty of her apology covers his wounds like a salve. Blinking heavily, he throws his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.

“Apology heartily accepted,” he says, muffled.

The stiffness in her form eases up, and she finally, truly allows herself to hug him back.

“Thanks, dude.”

From that point forward, the atmosphere of the house grows lighter. No longer needing to worry about the state of his relationship with Amethyst, Steven throws himself into the nuttiness and excitement of family time feet first. The two of them horse around while Dad and Pearl continue making breakfast, wrestling each other in front of the warp pad. It doesn’t take long for a stack of waffles to pile up on the counter, cooked to a golden brown perfection. Catching his breath from all the play fighting, he eagerly rushes to sit himself at the counter next to the purple Gem, empty plate and utensils already set in front of them. His legs freely dangle, not long enough yet to reach the foot rest midway down the stool. He’s not paying attention to hear it, but his dad must have said something witty because Pearl is chuckling breathlessly. It’s probably one of his corny dad jokes. Pearl will never admit it, but she has a secret sweet spot for his puns.

The temple door slides open— a rush of slightly stale air wafting in to greet them— as Dad removes the last waffles from the iron. Beaming, his attention immediately peels away from the promise of food in favor of the entrance of one of his favorite people.

“Garnet!” he calls, throwing his arms wide.

“Good morning, Steven,” she says with a slight sing-song lilt in her voice, crossing the room towards the rest of the family. With a slight smile, she places her hands solid on his shoulders. “I presume you figured out how to fuse back together with your other half.”

“Yup! All together,” he grins, titling his neck back to peer up at her.

“Except his gem flipped, and now it’s all funky,” Amethyst interjects in a flash, playfully jabbing him right at his navel.

Garnet’s comforting grip slackens, her hands slipping free.

“Hey!” he giggles, smacking Amethyst’s arm away. “No tickling!”

“It’s not tickling, it’s revenge!” she says with a loud raspy chortle, and puts him in a headlock, scruffing at his hair until it’s a frizzy mess. He kicks his legs in futile protest as she mounts her attack, laughing until the pressure in his lungs is too much to handle and tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. It’s the most he’s laughed since… well, since before he was cracked.

The others, however, aren’t smiling. They don’t seem to be paying any attention to their antics at all. Pearl’s hand is balled at her chin, her soft blue eyes pinned on the Crystal Gem leader. Even his dad’s peering at her with concern, the spatula dangling off one finger.

“Garnet?” his dad asks, his frown deepening the faint wrinkles around his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Pearl chimes in.

“I…” She clenches her fists, averting her glance. “I don’t understand. Your gem—“

Amethyst scoffs. “—is all diamond shaped now, and it’s totally weird. Steven, show her!”

He gives a slight scowl, subtle enough that the others wouldn’t pick up on it right away. It would be nice if she wasn’t being so pushy about this, if he could find the right moment to tell Garnet himself. But with everyone here watching in anticipation, there’s really nothing else he can do.

Sighing heavily, he lifts his shirt, exposing his gem. “After I fused with my gem half, it was just like this. I still don’t get why.”

Her visor may cover her eyes, but he knows the spectrum of her expressions well enough that he doesn’t need to see them to know all three pupils have shrunk into pinpricks. Her mouth widens into a circle, crystallizing in her shock.

“Oh,” she breathes heavily, grinding her teeth against each other hard. “I- I never foresaw this possibility.”

Sweat beads at his brow. Even though she’s trying to mask it (probably for his sake), he can tell she’s struggling to keep from falling apart. Her hands are visibly quivering, and the gems inlaid in her palms pulse with light. He swallows hard, lump hanging in his throat. “Heh, what can I say?” he shrugs with a nervous laugh. “Guess I’m just really unpredictable!”

“Perhaps,” she says quietly, thankfully managing to pull herself together again. She flexes her fists, their tremor receding. Crossing her arms, she moves to lean against the wall by the fridge.

The household falls so quiet that Steven can hear his own stomach gurgle, everyone staring at the fusion in wordless worry.

His dad coughs. “Well, anyways,” he says, spinning the spatula in a circle. “Who else wants waffles?”

“Lay ‘em on me,” Amethyst says, holding out her plate. He serves her two to start. She shoots him a pair of finger guns, and digs in.

“Okay. I’m assuming none for Pearl?”

“That would be correct, thanks.”

He promptly turns towards the Crystal Gem leader, a weak grin stretching across his face despite the soured atmosphere.

“What about you, Garnet?” Wanna try the ol’ Universe family recipe?”

She shakes her head in singular motion. “No.”

The churning in Steven’s stomach fades into obscurity in light of the bitter prospect of his guardian’s emotional instability. So much for daring to hope that they could all make amends where needed, refrain from obsessing over their problems, and move on. He slumps on his stool. Dad deposits a pair of golden, buttery waffles on his plate, artfully garnishing the stack with a dollop of whipped cream and a cluster of raspberries from the bowl of them that Pearl washed earlier, but the idea of together breakfast no longer sounds very appetizing anymore. After all, it’s not the food that makes a together breakfast, it’s the company. And with Pearl and Dad standing nervously to the side, Garnet struggling to remain stable, and even Amethyst sapped of her usual spunk in the light of their demons, this is about as far from together a family can get. What did he do wrong? Why isn’t this the sunny future Garnet showed him last night?

Leaning his cheek into the palm of his hand, he aimlessly picks at his breakfast with his fork.

Amethyst glances over at him, already neck deep into her own meal. “Eat up little man, they’re super good!” she declares.

His mouth turns up into a small grimace the longer he stares at the food. It looks wonderful, but...

“Actually, I’m not all that hungry anymore.”

“Steven, you need to eat,” his dad says.

“I just said, I’m not hungry.”

Dad’s brow furrows as he leverages one of his rare father knows best faces at him. Steven looks to Pearl for rescue, but she (perhaps wisely) averts her eyes, choosing not to interject herself into Greg’s parenting.

Amethyst, however, is more than willing to take up the charge. “If you don’t eat up in two minutes, I’m claiming them,” she threatens, deadpan. “I’ll lick them, nice and slow, with lots of slobber, and then they’ll be mine.”

“Okay, okay!” he says, holding his hands up defensively. “Geeze.”

He blows a weary burst of air past his lips, grabs his fork, and begins digging in to appease his dad. The first bites settle like stones in the pit of his empty stomach. He has to admit, even if his appetite is zilch, at least they’re good tasting waffles. All his guardians visibly relax upon seeing him start to eat breakfast. Amethyst’s tensed shoulders drop. Pearl allows herself to lean back against the counter. Garnet uncrosses her arms. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of the fusion picking up the can of whipped cream and squirting some directly into her mouth when she thought the other two Gems weren’t looking. The corner of his mouth perks up. Looks like someone has a secret sweet tooth!

He’s halfway through the second of the pair of waffles when the short quartz sitting next to him grins devilishly.

“Hey, Steven…”

“Hnn?” he utters, muffled through the food in his mouth.

She flicks a raspberry at him. “Catch this hide!”

He yelps, just barely ducking in time to miss the fruit. It falls apart upon impact on the floor, its juices exploding outward across the wood.

“Touchdown,” she says, and blows off her finger as if it were a pistol.

The edge of his lips curve up, chipping away at his melancholy. “Oh, I see what you’re steppin’ in!”

Pearl groans, throwing her hand against her temple. “Must you two really—“

“Let them have this,” Garnet says coolly as she leans back against the fridge, the whipped cream can still dangling at the edge of her grasp.

“But we just cleaned this place!”

Amethyst chucks another cluster of berries at him, but this time he’s expecting her fruity projectiles. He cranes his neck back, letting his mouth fall open wide. One of the raspberries bounces off his chin. Close, but not quite. If he’s quick enough, maybe he can catch one in his mouth. That’d be pretty awesome! Thankfully she seems to catch on to his ploy, because she starts to toss them underhand. He stifles giggles as he successfully snaps one— no, two— berries right out of the air.

“There’s some days I feel like we’re raising two children,” he hears Pearl comment to his dad offhand, as they watch them fool around with their food from the sidelines.

“And there’s some days I feel like I’m raising four,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

He coughs into his fist. “Uh, nothing!”

She raises a vaguely disgruntled brow at him, but doesn’t say anything more on the matter.

He and his quartz sibling gleefully continue messing around with their edible projectiles until they grow bored of it, soon returning to eating their food like (mostly normal) beings. Really, he can only speak for himself, since she’s recently taken to eating the paper plates along with her breakfast. He grins through a mouthful of whipped cream. This is one of the many things he loves and admires about her, that she always knows how to cheer him up when he needs it. Before their little food fight, the soured atmosphere of his household left him almost feeling sick, but he already feels a lot better now. Needless to say, with his restored appetite the last waffle doesn’t take long to disappear.

“Next time you really gotta try one!” he enthuses to Garnet as he discards his paper plate, weaving between Pearl and his father as they begin to clean the kitchen. “Dad’s waffles are batter than anything!”

He contorts his features into the most exaggerated expression he can muster, waiting with baited breath for the shoe to drop. On the other side of the counter, Amethyst snorts.

Her nostrils twitch with an uncertain air, the straight edge of her visor casting a deep shadow on her face. She stands with her arms wrapped tight around her torso, like a tourniquet wrapped around a bleeding wound. “Hmm. Perhaps one day.”

And in the space of those three simple words, his little heart breaks into pieces. She almost always chuckles at his corny puns, always! So for her to barely even acknowledge them, for her to bottle away all her usual joy and confidence and quiet wit and hide it under a rock solid mask of falsified indifference, it stings more than anything. He thought she’d grown past this.

“Garnet, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice cracking in his anguish. The others all look up from whatever they’re doing with obvious curiosity, all of them silently asking the same question but none of them having the courage to approach their leader directly. “You’ve been like this all morning, ever since—“

With a shallow gasp, his eyes grow glassy. Her mood drastically changed the moment she saw his flipped gem. He clamps his hands over his mouth.

Oh, shards.

He did this.

Both Pearl and Dad move on automatic at the sight of emotional distress, the Gem solidly clasping his shoulder, and his father wrapping his arms around him. Across the room, Amethyst bites at her bottom lip, expression alight with genuine compassion.  

“Steven.” Garnet kneels to address him face-to-face, sighing heavily in her exhaustion, worrisome as that is. He quickly blinks through the burn of unshed tears, glancing up at her. “The truth is, I— we have something we need to share. With all of you.”

The room fills with uncomfortable tension, the shock of her admission and its concerningly specific wording sinking in like maple syrup soaking through a waffle’s airy layers.

He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. “W- we? I don’t—“

Pearl steps towards her, shaking her head in a daze. “Garnet, no, surely you can’t mean that…”

“Ruby and Sapphire have decided they want to take some time apart. Indefinitely.”

His mouth falls ajar, but there’s nothing he can think of to say. Steven’s chest rumbles, shaken with cries anchored too deep in his soul for him to actually express. In a heartbeat his dad pulls him closer.

“But… why?” Amethyst asks, face painted in shades of faint betrayal.

She adjusts her visor. “Because in the wake of recent revelations, we’ve realized that we only remained Garnet because of her.”

“Garnet, you—“ Pearl stammers— “now you know that’s not true! You saved each other’s lives, you fell in love with each other, you—“

“We stayed fused because a diamond took us by the hands and ordered us not to question who we were as Garnet,” she corrected. “Ruby and Sapphire, they never truly got the luxury to seek self fulfillment as individuals, not like you or Amethyst did. We… we both need time to reflect on what’s happened.”

Slowly swaying in his dad’s embrace, hugging those sturdy, dependable arms to his chest, Steven quietly speaks up.

“If both of you have been hurting ever since last night, then why didn’t you unfuse already? Why push through it just to come to breakfast?”

The fusion pauses, probably considering her phrasing. She briefly balls her hand at her chin, fingers pressing against one of her gems, and then taking a breath, allows her visor to shimmer away entirely. Her eyes glisten as she imparts her honest answer.

“If I unfused earlier, I wouldn’t have gotten to hug you goodbye.”

He can’t stifle his sobs any longer. Breaking away from his dad, he throws himself at Garnet and— pressing his cheek against her chest— gives a keening cry, the mounting pressure abruptly releasing from his chest but manifesting across his features as dry as a bone. He’s cried too many tears in such a short span of time that he almost wonders if he’s finally hit the bottom of the well. His fingers grip at her familiar form as if he can single-handedly keep her here together with him forever. He dry sobs in her arms until he aches, vying to burn the comforting sensation of his guardian’s solid hold, the assurance of the even thrum running through her hard light body, into his memory forever more.

The other two Gems join in the embrace, kneeling on the floor with him and wrapping themselves around him like a blanket.

“You- but you can’t just leave us,” Amethyst whispers brokenly. “Not now!”

Her voice hitches. She sighs, pressing her forehead against the smaller Gem’s. “I know this is gonna hurt you, I know. And we’re sorry. We’re so, so sorry. But we need time to reflect, to understand who we are apart from Garnet."

“Yeah, but…”

“Listen to me,” she says gently, pulling back and lifting her chin. “You are enough. An inimitable cut of quartz, just as you are. Please. Even in your darkest moments, never let yourself forget the depth of your worth.”

She nods, her lip quivering.

“And Pearl.”

The ebony Gem peels away from the hug at her beckoning to catch a glimpse at her, her pale blue irises glinting through the liquid pooling over them.

“In my absence, I need you to be strong. Not only for yourself, but for all of us. The Crystal Gems will do well under your leadership.”

She hums in confirmation, taking her new mission to heart. “Of course,” she says, straightening her back and sniffing away her tears.

Garnet turns her saddened gaze to him next, passing her fingers through his tangled mop of hair. “Steven.”

“Y-yeah?”

“None of this is your fault.”

“B-b-but—” he blubbers.

“None of it. The past is not your burden. And any time you begin to fear it is, I want you to pause… take a deep breath… and remember how much we all love you. You are your own Gem."

He bobs his head slowly, sniffling as his breath evens out.

The fusion sits back on her heels, ending their long embrace.

“Greg,” she says as she stands, leveling her three eyes directly at him. Though Steven has no clue what, some silent conversation passes between the two of them— like charge passing through circuitry— in a series of subtle, indecipherable expressions. “Take care of my family.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies evenly, wiping a stray tear away from his own cheek.

Closing her eyes, Garnet begins to glow white, the gems at the core of her being shifting and separating into two smaller light bodies. They’re still holding hands at the moment the glow fades. Sapphire is the first to let go, letting her gloved fingers fall loose against the skirt of her dress.

Ruby’s face is a blank stone wall, one that’s been visibly chipped away at. Her eyes clearly glisten, as if she’s about to fall apart at any moment yet is stubbornly holding this outburst of emotion back until she can escape to a place of privacy. Sapphire, on the other hand, makes no attempt to mask her distress. As always the fringe of her hair covers half of her face, but the tracks of her tears flow down her cheek and to her chin, threatening to drip onto her bodice.

Despite the unfortunate nature of their appearance, Steven can’t deny he’s still glad to get a chance to see them.

“Um… h-hi, Ruby, Sapphire,” he stutters with his best attempt at a smile. “Long time no see?”

“Hello, Steven,” the blue Gem responds in amicable but still relatively formless monotone, as she clasps her gemless hand over the other. She sniffs, wiping the stray lines of hard light based fluid away from her eye and nose before allowing her expression to crystallize again. Gathering herself, she turns to face the group. “If all of you will excuse me, I need some time to think. Alone, for once.”

With not another word— not even an attempt at greeting the others, or consoling Ruby, who looks ready to cry at a moment’s notice— Sapphire turns on a dime and effortlessly glides across the warp pad to the temple door. She holds her right palm to the crystals embedded in the stonework, the blue one glowing bright in response. The seldom used entrance unlocks with a sonorous click. They all watch in stunned silence as she disappears through the opening, into the vast depths of the Crystal Temple.

The group stands ramrod straight, no one budging an inch as they stare vacantly at the doorway. Ruby folds her hands tight together, pressing them to her chest.

Pearl, thankfully, is the first to break the spell. (He’s thankful because he isn’t sure if anyone else here could’ve gathered the courage in the light of everything that just happened, himself included.)

“Oh Ruby, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, balling her hand against her mouth.

“D’ya wanna go punch some stuff in the Kindergarten with me?” Amethyst offers softly, slinging her arm around the shorter Gem.

Steven weakly raises a finger in suggestion. “Or we could play some games here. I finally found that limited release console version of Fight Fighters a few days back, if that’s up your alley.”

“And I could always take you for a quiet drive up the coast,” Greg says.

She shakes her head, shrugging away from Amethyst's attempt at comfort. “I- I don’t really wanna talk to any of you right now, to be honest. S’ not your fault, but—“

Ruby pauses, her small form nearly shaking as she averts her gaze from them all, staring into the middle distance with glassy eyes.

“I think… for now, I jus- I just need to run away,” she croaks. “Sorry."

Not even bothering to hold back her sobs anymore, she barrels across the room in a flurry of anguish and climbs the steps to the warp pad. Everything happens so fast that no one can react quick enough to stop her before she activates it, a burst of cyan light springing forth to whisk her away into the stream. In seconds, she’s gone.

Steven shuffles his feet, feeling for all the world as if some antagonistic force of the universe just stole a decent chunk of his heart away.

“Well, now what?” Amethyst says with a big shrug.

Pearl crosses her arms, her lips curving into a subtle sneer at the glibness of her attitude. “What do you mean, ‘now what?’ We’re going to go round them up, sit them both down, have a calm, rational discussion, and fix this!”

“But you can’t just— ughhh,” she groans, throwing her head back. “They’re not inanimate objects for you to sort into piles, P! You can’t expect to throw them together and like, make them fuse again! That’s not how it works!”

“Now, that’s not what I meant, I—“

“Bull! It’s exactly what you meant!”

She haughtily turns up her nose, aghast. “I don’t appreciate the accusatory tone you’ve taken with me!”

“And there you go, gettin’ all defensive,” she says, throwing her arms up. Her form glows white as she effortlessly shapeshifts into a picture perfect purple doppleganger of her. “Blah, blah, blah blah blah,” she spits in the most exaggerated voice she can muster, twirling the bottom ribbon of her sash on her finger. “I’m Pearl, and I know better than everyone else ‘coz I’m always right!”

“Amethyst! That’s enough!”

He pales as he watches the two of them outright self destruct. In many ways, it’s a disappointing step back. He hasn’t seen them spat this badly for almost a year. His feet shuffle awkwardly beneath him, bare toes twitching as his mind yearns for some brilliant idea that could stop this fight in its tracks, but at the current moment he’s got nothing.

“Daaaad,” he whispers lowly, obscuring his mouth from their view with a cupped hand. “Help me out here?”

His father grits his teeth, nervously stepping forward between him and the two Gems at each other’s throats. “H-hey, you two, how about we all take a deep breath a—“

“Shut up, Greg!” they shout in unison, whirling on him.

He throws his palms up, immediately backing away from their vitriolic spat. Steven grabs onto his arm once he’s returned to him, hugging it close to his chest, which is growing tighter and tighter by the second. He absolutely hates seeing his family fight, more than anything, but when they refuse to listen to reason, what can he do about it?

“As I was trying to say, you’re completely taking my words out of context,” Pearl hisses, advancing on her.

“No, I’m not!” she hollers, her voice echoing into the rafters of the compact beach house. She jabs her finger under the other Gem’s nose, the action violent enough in its intensity that Steven can’t help but flinch at the sight. “You still wanna think you can wave your little hand and have everything go back to the way it was, poof, like magic! But guess what?! You can’t!! Garnet’s gone, we have no real leader, Ruby disappeared to shard knows where, you can barely explain a single thing without locking up, basically everything we ever knew about Rose was a complete lie, a-and, and—“

“And now it’s Steven’s turn to leave,” he declares abruptly, the tension held in thick knots within him easing at his bold decision.

This is apparently enough to snap Pearl out of her emotional tizzy, his guardian whirling to face him with an embarrassed flush blooming blue across her cheeks. “Oh, Steven, I—“

Spinning on his heels, he scrambles away from the others as fast as he can, heart racing, only pausing to retrieve his phone from where it’s been charging and to slip on sandals. “I’m sorry, can’t talk, I’m headedtotown, needsomefreshair, bye!”

He lets it slam behind him as he races out into the arms of Beach City’s breezy, overcast morning. His flip flops clap rhythmically against his heels.

“Wait! Steven!” his dad calls after him, but it’s already too late. He’s not going back in, he refuses. Not now, not with everyone being so sullen and argumentative and weird.

He thought they could move on, he thought all this repressed pain and feelings of betrayal could heal and they could all grow closer for it, but apparently he’s wrong. Nothing about this messed up situation is ever going to get better, is it? He doubles over as he passes the mailbox, his sprint slowing to an abrupt halt. His teeth clench, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans like rose barbs through delicate skin as he catches his breath. Steven digs into his pocket for his phone.

“Hoh geeze,” he mutters, holding down the power button to force restart. “This is such a mess.”

At least he was wise enough to grab his phone in the first place. Blessedly, the screen finally lights up.

And as feared, he’s met with a hefty cluster of missed notifications from Connie. Sweat beads on his brow as he begins to scroll through them, even though he knew darn well this was coming.

Connie: Um?? How was any of that supposed to not make me worry?

Connie: Are you okay?

Connie: Steven? ???

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:02 am.

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:04 am.

Connie: Pls call me when you can

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 7:51 am.

Missed call- Connie Maheswaran, 8:47 am.

Connie: Seriously I’m kinda freaking out rn what’s going on over there, I’d come over as backup if I could but I’m packing for the India trip and mom won’t let me leave

He purses his lips, silently smacking himself for sending that stupid, stupid text early this morning in the first place. “Yeah, I should probably clear this up,” he mumbles.

Steven swipes to unlock his phone, navigates to Connie’s contact, and presses the video chat button. Forget calls. This is definitely a scenario in need of face-to-face communication. If they can’t be in the same place at the same time, a video chat is the second best thing.

He plops himself down in the sand, and patiently waits through the first and second dial.

____

Notes:

Woo, this was a fun one (see: heart wrenching) to write. I enjoyed tackling a wide variety of family interactions here.

Some random notes for this chapter:

-HC: while Pearl hates eating, she's actually a fairly good cook. She's the one who makes sure Steven's getting some good ol' healthy food in him.

-Uhh, that game Steven was gonna play before he realized his phone was Dead with a capital D, 'Splashy Shark,' is just this universe's version of Flappy Bird, honestly. Don't ask why, haha, I thought it'd be amusing. XD

-I HC that non-diamond type Gems wouldn't be able to flip their gemstone like Pink/Rose/Steven can. It's something that requires a whole lot of power to carry out. Thus why even Amethyst, the shapeshifting master, can't manage it. As an added point, Rose was able to shift the color of her skin to a far lighter shade and completely change her eyes, whereas other Gems tend to retain their color scheme when they shapeshift. Rose definitely had an extra strong shapeshifting ability in the first place.

-After chapter five, the insinuation is that Garnet went into the temple, unfused, and Ruby and Sapphire had their little falling out there. They only fused again to come out for breakfast because they realized Garnet never got a chance to hug Steven goodbye for now- and they weren't sure when (if ever) they'd be fusing again. Whether this softened the blow or made it worse for the kid is up for debate.

-That being said, I want to clarify that this definitely isn't the end of Ruby and Sapphire's relationship. I'll tag more thoroughly once I start diving into specifics, but their arcs will be about self discovery, both about who they are as individuals and in relation to each other.

-I did not expect to end up writing a Pearl and Amethyst spat in this chapter when I first planned it, but I'm certainly not complaining. It just sorta... organically happened. XD

-The title of this fic actually has a double meaning... the word 'paragon' can refer to both a diamond, or something that is an example of perfection. The divergence in this world led to Steven's gem being cracked, but it also essentially shattered the perfect little family dynamic that he'd had for so long at this point.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Hoo Noo Shmoo?

Never let it be said that this blog is flagging in its enthusiasm for flogging horses so dead they’re found in the glue bin at Office Max.

To whit, the Scorsese vs MCU brouhaha.

Bottom line: Scorsese is right.  As well made as MCU movies are, they ain’t cinema, they’re glorified commercials to sell MCU product.

Full disclosure: I should know, since I wrote for G.I. Joe, Transformers, and a host of other toy-based syndicated animation shows.  I’m happy with the work I did, I can point proudly to specific episodes I wrote that aspire to be more than mere half-hour commercials…

…but they ain’t art.

They ain’t art, despite our aspirations to do the best job we could, because ultimately we creators were not allowed to create what we felt best for our stories, but what Hasbro deemed vital to their sales.

(The closest we got to art was when Hasbro cancelled The Inhumanoids toy line in mid-production of the TV series, and said we could finish our broadcast commitment however we saw fit so long as it didn’t result in an FCC complaint.  As a result, we went nuts.)

My Hasbro / Sunbow experience remains a highpoint of my creative life, so I’m not denigrating the talent, skill, ability, spirit, and enthusiasm of those making MCU movies.

…but they ain’t art.

Now, those who love MCU movies think Scorsese’s comments are a slam against them.

Welllll…no, not directly.

But they do underscore how popularity -- especially of media designed to push product -- is a faulty measuring stick for artistic merit.

Case in point: The Shmoo.

Wuzza shmoo, you ask (and thus proving my point)?

Shmoos were extremely popular in the late 1940s.  Part of the wonderfully wacky world cartoonist Al Capp created for his hit Li’l Abner comic strip, shmoos represented a parable on American consumerism, modern day geese laying not mere golden eggs but birthday cakes with candles a’blazin’.

As Capp described them:

They reproduce asexually and are incredibly prolific, multiplying faster than rabbits. They require no sustenance other than air.

Shmoos are delicious to eat, and are eager to be eaten. If a human looks at one hungrily, it will happily immolate itself -- either by jumping into a frying pan, after which they taste like chicken, or into a broiling pan, after which they taste like steak. When roasted they taste like pork, and when baked they taste like catfish. Raw, they taste like oysters on the half-shell.

They also produce eggs (neatly packaged), milk (bottled, grade-A), and butter -- no churning required. Their pelts make perfect boot leather or house timbers, depending on how thick one slices them.

They have no bones, so there's absolutely no waste. Their eyes make the best suspender buttons, and their whiskers make perfect toothpicks. In short, they are simply the perfect ideal of a subsistence agricultural herd animal.

Naturally gentle, they require minimal care and are ideal playmates for young children. The frolicking of shmoos is so entertaining (such as their staged "shmoosical comedies") that people no longer feel the need to watch television or go to the movies.

Some of the more tasty varieties of shmoo are more difficult to catch, however. Usually shmoo hunters, now a sport in some parts of the country, use a paper bag, flashlight, and stick to capture their shmoos. At night the light stuns them, then they may be whacked in the head with the stick and put in the bag for frying up later on.

Of course, in the original strip continuity, the shmoos were quickly eradicated, driven to extinction by food packagers who feared bankruptcy.

It was a sharp, biting message, and one that looked critically at both insatiable consumerism and capitalism’s claims of superiority.

Capp, of course, was too savvy a marketeer himself to eliminate the shmoos entirely, and so he provided for one breeding pair to survive…and for the shmoos to make repeated appearances for the rest of Li’l Abner’s run.

Shmoo mania ran rampant with shmoo dolls, shmoo clocks, shmoo games, shmoo candy, shmoo snacks, and shmoo apparel.  

The money truck basically backed up to Capp’s front door and dumped its load on his porch.  Shmoos proved insanely popular and it seemed the mania would never end…

…except it did.

To mangle metaphors, you can only take so many trips to the same well before your audience starts asking “What?  Beans again?”

And then, in a fickle flash, it’s over.

I’d be hard pressed today to find anyone younger than the boomer cohort who ever heard of Al Capp or Li’l Abner unless their school or community theatre presented the Broadway musical adaptation of the strip (the show remains popular with amateur theatrical troupes such as high schools and colleges because the huge cast of Dogpatch citizens guarantees everybody who tries out for the show will land some part in it).

For all their popularity and merchandise and media impact -- songs on the radio, big spreads in weekly news magazines -- the shmoos left virtually no cultural footprint.

(Full disclosure yet again: I wrote for a Scooby-doo knock-off by Hanna-Barbera called The New Shmoo and it was a piece of crap, abandoning the whole consumerism point of the original shmoos and making them -- or just “it” in our case -- a pseudo-funny dog sidekick for a squad of mystery solving kids.  And it wasn’t a piece of crap because we didn’t try our best, it was a piece of crap because the shmoo was treated as ubiquitous “product” under the misconception that of course everybody younger than Joe Barbera would recognize the name and love the character so deeply that they’d simultaneously develop amnesia about what made the original character so appealing.)

Product.

That’s what one of the most brilliant, most poignant, most spot-on commentaries on rampant consumerism and ruthless capitalism ironically reduced down to.  Product.

There’s a line in Jurassic Park that resonates here:  ”Life will find a way.”

Let’s paraphrase that to “Art will find a way” because like life, art is an expression of the creative urge.

Right now, by and large, it’s trapped in the giant all encompassing condom of corporate consumerism, providing fun and pleasure and excitement, but not really creating anything new, to be wadded up and thrown away when the suits are done screwing us.

But every now and then there’s a tiny pinprick in the sheath, and when that happens there’s the chance of something wonderful, something meaningful, something of lasting value emerging.

It is possible for art to emerge from a corporate context, but only if the corporate intent is to produce a work of art for its own purposes.   Michelangelo carved David as a work for hire, the local doge commissioning the sculpture because he wanted to impress peers and peasants by donating the biggest statue ever made by the hottest artist of the era (and even then Michelangelo needed to resort to subterfuge to keep the doge from “improving” on his work with “suggestions” [read “commands”].)

The very first Rocky movie was a work of art because the producers focused on telling a simple, singular story about a loser who could only win by going the distance, not by defeating his opponent but by refusing to be beaten by him.

It’s a great cinematic moment that rings true and it’s going to last forever…unlike sequels Rocky II - V where Rocky fights supervillains like Mr. T and a robot (hey, that was the movie playing in my head when I watched Rocky IV and it was a helluva lot more entertaining than what I actually saw onscreen).

The suits castrated Rocky, reducing him from a unique universal cultural touchstone down to…well…product.

The MCU movies are product; rather, they are two-hour+ commercials to sell product in the form of videogames, action figures, T-shirts, and Underoos.

The real art occurred almost 60 years ago when Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko knocked out page after page as fast as they could, drawing deep from the wellsprings of their own interests, experiences, and passions.

(“What about Stan?” I hear you ask.  Look, we all love Stan, but truth be told his great contribution to the MCU came in his service as drum major for the Merry Marvel marching Society.  God bless him for firing up the fan base’s enthusiasm for the Marvel bullpen’s work, but compare what his artists did before and after their collaboration with him to what he did before and after his editorial tenure at Marvel and it’s clear upon whose shoulders the muses rested.)

As much fun as MCU movies are (I’ve seen about 1/3 of ‘em and enjoyed most of what I saw), I also recognize in them the harm they do.

They are promoted heavily to sell product to raise the fortunes of one of the biggest corporations on the planet, a corporation that holds control over five of the largest, most popular entertainment brands on the market.

To protect their cash cows, Disney chokes potential rivals in their cribs.

Think there’s going to be another Alien or Predator movie now that Disney owns them and Star Wars?  Why create rivals to a mega-successful property you already own?  (I will be genuinely surprised if we see another Guardians Of The Galaxy movie in light of the faltering popularity of Star Wars in Disney’s eyes; they’re going to want to shore up their billion dollar investment rather than call it a day and let some upstart -- even an upstart they own 100% -- rob them of revenue.)

Disney’s battle plan to choke out all potential rivals leaves no room in the DEU (Disney Expanded Universe) for independent minded creators.

They want competent hired pens who can churn out the product they desire in order to bolster sales of other products derived from those.

(Even more full disclosure:  I wrote for Chip ‘n’ Dale’s Rescue Rangers as well as some Aladdin and Scrooge McDuck comic book stories.)

Disney’s MCU, for all its expertly executed whiz-bang, is a bloated, soulless zombie, a giant gaudy inflated parade balloon blocking the vision of others.

There’s a scene in the movie The Founder -- a genuine cinematic work of art that comments ironically on the selling of a product --  that applies here.

Ray Kroc (Michael Keaton) relentlessly browbeats the McDonald brothers (Nick Offerman and John Carroll Lynch) into letting him replace their real milkshakes with what will come to be known as the McShake, an ersatz product that at best reminds one of what a real milkshake should taste like.

The McDonald Brothers are horrified.  Not only does it not taste like a real milkshake, but it goes against the very grain of what they desire as restauranteurs:  To provide quality food quickly for their customers, trading value for value.

Kroc will have none of this.  To him the customers are simply one more obstacle between him and their money.

He doesn’t see them as the source of his revenue, but as impediments to same.

What benefits them, what nurtures their diets, what gives them pleasure, what trades value for value is completely unimportant to him.

They exist only to make him rich and powerful.

By the end of the film, Kroc has effectively declared war on his own partners, his own employees, his own customers.  He recognizes he is not in the business his customers and employees and partners think he’s in (i.e., fast food) but rather in the real estate business, buying land that McDonald’s franchises must lease from him in order to operate.

By the end, he’s not concerned with how well his customers eat, or how well his employees are treated, or how financially secure his franchise managers feel.

By the end, all he wants is the money, and he doesn’t care how his franchises make it so long as they pass it along to him.

As a result, McDonald’s contributes heavily to America’s obesity and diabetes epidemics, advising their employees to take second jobs so they can afford to continue working for them at substandard wages.

Disney’s MCU is a super-sized Happy Meal™ that’s ruining the cultural health of its consumers.

   © Buzz Dixon

[the-ravens-requiem]

The Beginning

The alchemist's shop seemed to have manifested itself out of the gloomy air that surrounded Darkwood late one autumn night.

The sun rose over the trees, the morning fog lifted -- and there the cottage sat, surrounded by a garden and a tall iron fence. The building itself was situated on a flat piece of land near the lake, where weeds and brambles had grown in the past. On a wooden sign in front of the cottage, there was a picture of a black bird with a red ribbon in its mouth. 

The name of the shop was painted neatly underneath: The Raven's Requiem.

The townsfolk were afraid to approach the warm-looking cottage, citing old superstitions. The location of the shop was in sight of a road, and although the placement of it was only frequented by foot traffic like local fishermen and hunters -- surely someone would have seen the place being built over the summer?

The bravest of the townsfolk craned their necks as they found reasons to walk by the shop, curious eyes hungry for a single glance of their new neighbor -- but never daring to cross the threshold between the shop  and the road. Some swore they had seen a dark figure move amid the orange glow in the windows --  yet others claimed they'd been haunted by an image of a cloaked figure hunched over the plants that lined the sides of the building. Whatever the case, none could say or prove that they had actually seen the shopkeeper for sure.

And so a wealthier resident of Darkwood hired an outsider to look inside the shop. She was to report back to him with whatever she found, and tell him all she could find out about the shop’s owner. The wealthy man was just a simple trader, and he found the sell-sword in a small tavern by chance when on his usual travels. He hired her on the spot for a small amount of gold. She promised that she would complete the job before the week was out.

As she stood in front of the simple cottage with the painted sign out front, Amelia felt like laughing. If she had not personally seen the fear on the trader's face when he told her of the so-called 'strange' shop, she would have thought the job was a complete joke. 

He claimed that the townsfolk sensed an evil presence of some sort when near to the place, but she felt no such thing. He had told her that they were afraid to fish or hunt near the building, afraid that there was some sort of poisonous miasma -- superstition, no doubt.

It was just a simple cottage; The roof built with wide eaves, and in the style that was common in the northern areas of The Middle Kingdom. To look upon this place and assume that there was evil here was downright silly -- madness even. There was no haunting here -- no ghosts, strange creatures, or ancient magics.  

Amelia had made up her mind already, even without having stepped a single foot inside. The townsfolk were simply mistaken, and there was no way that the shop had sprang up out of the weeds and grass overnight. The cobbled stone and wooden framework looked worn, as if the building had been there for decades. The glass in the windows and the small greenhouse in the back seemed cloudy with age.

It had to have been some kind of mistake. Amelia tried to piece together what could have happened for the townsfolk to get so hysterical. 

The explanation could be that the owner simply had restored the building recently, cutting away overgrown grass and ivy and settled in to open up their shop. Maybe it was the new sign which alerted folks, and thus had created this widespread notion of a whole house appearing overnight.

The mercenary examined the area around the cottage, noting that it seemed to be a lesser-traversed road. There were no deep wagon-ruts carved into the roads, and the grass and stones seemed to be relatively undisturbed. 

Amelia was no detective, but  this she was sure of: A whole shop -- a whole house and garden, even -- could not just appear overnight. And even if one could, why would such a power be wasted on a little town such as Darkwood?

To Amelia, this sort of fanciful thing was simply not possible. In her short life and in all her travels around The Known World, she had never heard or seen anything like it. Therefore, it simply could not be true. Fixing her leather armor for the last time and double-checking her scabbard, Amelia confidently strode past the sign along the road and trekked up the worn path. 

The cottage loomed, nestled between the sky-reaching conifers. It reminded Amelia of a painting -- the kind a noble might commission, for it was almost too fanciful and wistful of nature to be real. It was a quaint little place for sure -- and well kept, too. The fallen leaves and nettles were raked into neat piles on the far side of the house, and the garden seemed fragrant with late-blooming flowers and cold-weather plants.

It was clear that someone lived inside, simply because the grounds were kept nicely. The grass and bushes were clear-cut, and the path seemed to improve the farther up she went -- as if someone had recently fixed it up for easier travel. The windows were aglow with light, too. 

A bell above the door jingled cheerfully as she entered the shop -- the door itself heavy and carved with intricate symbols Amelia did not recognize. She thought that they were likely decorative, if nothing else. The interior of the shop was mostly wooden -- the floors, the counter-tops, the shelves. Baskets of dried herbs and bottles of elixirs, tonics, and potions lined every inch of space in the large central room. 

Doors leading beyond -- possibly to the shopkeeper's personal home -- were situated to the north and east. The eastern door looked like it lead outside, having a short hallway between it and the shop proper. To the west lie what appeared to be a sitting room with shelves of books that did not appear to be for sale -- and what laid beyond, she could not see.

Amelia called out a polite greeting, glancing every which way to see if she could spot the shopkeeper. After a few beats of silence, she stepped further into the shop. The pleasant smell of freshly dug dirt and perfumed herbs filled her senses as she began to walk around, noting the way the wood groaned and creaked with age beneath her feet.

A bottle caught her eye, far into the shop on a shelf. It was a sort of reddish color, and looked viscous. The bottle seemed to be made of a clear sort of glass, though she could not read the label from where she was. Amelia walked over to it, stepping carefully so as to not disturb any of the various baskets and bottles on the many shelves and tables that filled the space. 

As she approached, she realized she could see into the sitting room more properly. The bottle forgotten, curiosity got the best of her. She moved closer. At this angle, it looked more like a small library, with pots of flowers and herbs and other assorted plants decorating the room. The chairs looked comfortable and well-worn, made of fabric and dark lacquered wood. 

The prolonged silence of the shop began to make her feel like she was intruding, and an acute sense of dread began to overcome Amelia. What if the shopkeeper was out? What if she had accidentally broken into the shop because they had forgotten to lock the door? She may be a mercenary, but she was no thief. 

A  sudden break in the solemn silence startled her, and with a gasp Amelia spun around to see what she assumed to be the shopkeeper standing directly behind her. 

It was a decidedly peculiar and rare sight to see someone in a full plague doctor ensemble, as the guise was often seen as frightening to common folk. Of course, it often heralded many deaths to illnesses, but there hadn't been such a widespread case of sickness in years. As it was, it did indeed catch the mercenary off guard, and so she was giddy with nervousness at the sight of them. Especially so, because she wasn’t certain how such a heavily costumed person was able to sneak up on her.

"...You are the shopkeep, I presume?" She offered politely, setting an embarrassed smile onto her face. "I saw the sign along the road. I...Have to admit, I was a bit curious. You don't see many alchemy shops outside of the cities." The mercenary realized her hand was on the hilt of her sword, and she quickly removed it for fear of coming across as aggressive.

The figure seemed to draw slightly nearer then, making a motion not unlike nodding with its black beaked mask. "Yes," A muffled but pleasant voice drifted from behind the stitched leather, "I suppose they are a fair bit more rare in the countryside. I thought it clever to open one here for that very reason -- though I must say it hasn't been quite as fruitful of an endeavor as I originally assumed. I must confess, you are my first visitor."

Amelia nodded, slightly more relaxed now that she knew there was a rather well-spoken person hidden beneath the heavy layers of garb. She noted that the quality of the doctor’s voice was surprisingly youthful, if perhaps a bit smokey in quality. "I hope business picks up for you, then. It's quite a lovely place you have here, it would be a shame if it never saw much prosperity."

"Thank you, that's quite kind." The plague doctor replied, "Besides curiosity, is there anything in particular you were looking to cure? I have many things here for sale."

Amelia's face warmed slightly. She hated to lie, though she really was curious despite it being her job to come here. "Oh, no. Well --" She floundered for a moment, "A-actually, do you have anything I can use to keep Rot away from wounds suffered in battle?" 

She wasn't normally one to use poultices or tonics, far favoring field dressings and bandages -- but she would be lying if she said she didn't feel compelled to buy something. After all, Amelia felt a bit sad that she had been the first customer the shop had seen. The easy money from the trader who hired her would be more than enough to offset the cost, anyhow.

"Wounds suffered in battle?" The doctor questioned in a conversational way as they turned to presumably seek for what she asked for. "May I ask what line of work it is that you do?" The unabashed curiosity in their voice compelled Amelia to answer truthfully. 

"I'm a mercenary." She muttered, watching as the doctor stopped in front of a set of shelves. "Quite an unsavory job, all things said and done. But I've always liked to travel, and I like helping people." 

"Is that so?" The doctor hummed thoughtfully, drawing a gloved hand over a few vials and jars. Amelia watched the slightly eerie way the doctor moved, almost too smooth and precise. She supposed that they were just extremely comfortable with the layout of their own shop, which made sense. Or perhaps it was an elf under all those layers. She couldn’t be sure which.

"Yes." She answered, and still more spilled forth in an attempt to get the doctor talking. " I - I guess...I've always been this way. I wanted to see the world ever since I was a little girl. When I was young I trained to be a guard, but I realized I didn't want to be stuck in the same city or town on duty. So I became a sell-sword instead." 

The doctor was quietly listening, taking various jars and bottles from the shelves and looking at their labels briefly before putting them gently back. The silence between them practically compelled her to continue talking, though she was not usually uncomfortable with such quietness. 

"...I personally only take honorable jobs, mind you. Escorting caravans and whatnot. It's good money, too..." Still more silence, save for the sound of her feet shuffling nervously, and the waxy fabric of the doctor's ensemble every time they moved. It almost seemed like they were waiting for her to finish her thoughts. She worried she was being rude by leaving the quiet between them. "...I might start my own mercenary company one day. I've been wanting to for a while. To make sure I only have good folks in it -- not that the company I work for has bad folks!"

The doctor's head turned, the sun's glow from the window catching on the red glass that covered the eyes of the mask. "That seems to be quite the lofty goal for such a young woman. I think the world could always use more kind-hearted people with initiative, like yourself."

Amelia couldn't help but smile at that, though she wasn't sure if it was due to the flattery or because the doctor had finally broke the silence. "Thank you, ser. I agree."

The doctor pulled a small jar carved from wood from off of the shelf. "I suppose you'd want something easy to apply, with no prior preparation to be had. On the field, things can be chaotic and messy, correct?" Amelia nodded in response as she stepped closer to them. "...Staving off Rot and stopping the spillage of blood is of the utmost concern. This should do nicely, I think." A gloved hand placed the jar into hers. 

"...What is it?" The mercenary asked.

"Oh! My apologies. It's a paste, which only requires water to be activated. Apply it thickly to a wound like one would butter a piece of toast, and it will keep the Rot away while also soothing the pain. You can then wrap the wound with bandages, and it will harden into a plaster to stop the bleeding over time. When it begins to crust and peel, you may scrape it off."

"Thank you. It sounds like exactly what I needed." Amelia took the jar in one hand and shuffled around her belt for her coin pouch with the other, "Now, how much do I owe you?"

The doctor held up their gloved hands in a surrendering motion. "Oh, please. It's free, madame. In honor of you being my first customer. Hopefully a kind gesture such as this will bless the shop with prosperity in the future." 

Amelia laughed, pulling a gold piece from her pouch. "I insist. That's no way to run a business, ser. If word catches 'round that you give out your wares for free, what will you do then?" She grabbed one of the doctor's gloved hands and pressed the coin into the leather palm. "Even so, if you insist on it being a gesture of goodwill so that the Gods will favor you, think of this as a gift -- for the pleasant conversation."

The doctor seemed to regard her for a moment before closing their fingers around the coin. "You are too kind." They hum thoughtfully. 

Amelia made her way toward the door, bade the doctor farewell, and shortly thereafter stepped out into the evening air of autumn. When she closed the door behind her, she sighed heavily. She'd have to give a full report to the trader tomorrow when they met again at the tavern. She could only hope that maybe the shop would start to see more customers after she gave the all-clear. The doctor seemed to be a nice person -- or whatever they were. With such a kind demeanor, Amelia could only wish the best for them.

She smiled once more, shaking her head. Small towns like Darkwood were home to many superstitious people, but she supposed that was good for business. She’d been called to many jobs such as this one -- an odd noise from the woods, skittering from a nearby cave. Her swordcraft thrived off of folks like the trader, of small towns like Darkwood.

The odd visage of the doctor and the look of the cottage had been enough to scare them into hiring her to have a look-see. But it had been a simple task for good coin, and she'd have been a fool to turn it down.

She glanced back up at the shop.

...If the paste worked, Amelia would likely be back again to purchase more from the doctor. 

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