#like verge of destruction and they still want the other to know they hatred can outlast any apocalypse

[aaandbackstabbed]

Just to clarify Beakley and Duckworth are both homosexuals and that is part of their rivalry

[loloalin]

Raven Analysis (Part 1)

Deconstructing the myth, legend, and symbolism of one of the most fascinating DC characters, Raven, through her origin tale.

Note: This is a VERY long, thorough post.

So let's take it from the start. Raven is the heroic daughter of darkness, a half-demon empath who constantly fights Trigon's evil and her own alike to save the universe from destruction. She formed the Teen Titans roster that most people know well in order to do that.

On the surface, her character and story represents the classic struggle of good vs evil and triumphing in the end. And trust me, I do like that about her character. But in reading her origin, I've realized that there's a lot more complexity to how this battle plays out for her.

And I'd like to think others would think the same if they looked specifically at her origin. So to no further ado, let's jump in. Marv makes it a point to say that Raven refused to tell her story, unlike the other Titans. Despite them being her only friends, she still struggles with truly treating them as such...because she can't.Raven has been trained from birth to control any and all of her emotions, so much so that she doesn't even allow herself to really feel anything. But, as shown below, she does have an inner desire to show that she cares.

So she finally opens up this once, and this is where I start taking notes of the symbolism, the themes expressed. Angela Roth was someone who, unlike her daughter, had the freedom to experience ALL emotions, yet was so plagued in life that she never had a grasp on them.

This isn't included in the tale, but further information tells us that CLASSIC Angela was either abandoned by her birth parents or orphaned, and she was constantly in search of some meaning, some purpose to her life. And this desire was so huge it allowed her to be swayed EASILY by emotions in a way that Raven could NEVER have allowed herself to do the same. They're both broken by the way emotions have affected them, but one is allowed to release it while the other must reign it all in. It's a great juxtaposition between the two that shows how they're both different, yet in a way similar.

After all, Raven doesn't only carry the sins, the experiences of and lessons from her father, she's also carrying Angela's troubled history and pain with her too, and people forget this, forget that Angela's ordeal with emotion would influence Raven's future experiences as well.

As Raven continues talking about Angela, it becomes clear that her mother's emotional turmoil ALREADY HAS weighed on her in more subtle ways. She describes her own mom as someone who "allowed herself to be used" and "too weak" to slay her. There's no doubt that Raven cares for her mom and blames Trigon first for her pain, but there is an inner resentment towards her at the same time....it's almost as if Raven wants to ponder why she couldn't have made better decisions and is disappointed in them.

And no doubt, it should be obvious that Raven has deeply internalized self hatred as well. Even after all the training she's done, she still sees and describes herself as a horror, as someone who should have been killed to begin from the start. And she's right that she's a horror, but should she feel guilty about that? Ask this to yourself. Moving on, we see that an on-the-verge-of-death pregnant Angela is welcomed into Azarath. It's glorious, nirvana-like. No pain, just peace, and interestingly enough, despite carrying a 'horror' as Raven calls herself>

she gets renamed Arella, which specifically means "the messenger angel". That's a bit....offputting considering she's bringing them Raven, but also in a way understandable. I think there's 2 meanings to this.

On the one hand, she's bringing them someone who they can train properly To use her powers for good and thus save the Earth from destruction...but on the other is the hidden meaning, imo, of what Raven can be. She's someone with incredibly destructive powers, while at the same time having empathic powers naturally...someone who can deconstruct the meaning of evil in a way that many others can't....IF SHE IS TRAINED IN THAT WAY. Azarathians may not have trained her as such since they mostly taught her to fear her powers, but Arella being the messenger angel implies that Raven could TRANSFORM in a way that would allow her to not just defeat, but destroy evil in a way that would permanently change how we view and think about it. But I'm getting ahead of myself..lemme continue

Raven tells us how Arella seems to be loved, but hatred and fear still boils underneath. Juris does not believe in the heroic potential of either Arella or Raven, and when Raven is born, his fears seem proven right.

Raven reality warps Azarath upon her birth, permanently darkening it and instilling a sense of fear. Juris tries to kill Raven (and himself) by casting them into the Great Door, the entrance to Limbo, but Trigon murks him right before he does it.

Now...there's several things happening here symbolically. Just take Raven's name. In general, ravens are very important to many cultures, symbolizing omens of darkness but also knowledge-bringers, wisdom, TRANSFORMATION.While they can be considered BORN of primordial darkness they can also be seen as bringing light. I point this out because Marv Wolfman (NTT creator) chose Raven's name intentionally. Considering all this, Raven's reality warping shows in obvious and subtle ways her role as a transformer. Of course, we see the destructive side that reasonably would cause fear, but on the other is the implication that not only should Raven survive, whether it's Trigon or other Azarathians who want her to live, but also that to kill her is to kill a truly special being whose needed to change the world. Despite Coman knowing that Raven could cause more death, he and the other members of the high council are willing to take that risk just so she can live. They may not know it that obviously, but subconsciously they view her as a needed force, even in knowing they'll never fully get rid of her evil.

After all, why put yourself through all the stress and worry of trying to control a demon capable of nigh-infinite power when you could just...y'know, cast them away. Even if killing is not your way, why feel guilty about not protecting the sanctity of a being forever bounded by evil?

All these questions posed, and the answer I come up with is that Raven is the DC comic character version of the double-faced symbolism that her bird counterparts represent. A bringer of death...and life. A chance for despair....AND HOPE. A revolutionary, transformative force whose story is one of the best examples of how CHOICE trumps so-called fate in the end.

[septicmomma]

A Master in Mourning:

What I love about this Master is that he's totally aimless, after having his entire identity upended, he has no idea what to do with himself. He’s literally born out of self-destruction. Utterly ruled by spite and hatred, which comes to define this specific incarnation.

I view Dhawan’s more manic moments in an attempt of masking self-control. He only fully lets loose of his lunacy when he thinks he’s winning. (Plane scene, Rasputin dance, Cybermaster catwalk) entering a showmanship style fit of self-aggrandizing. In spite of that, there’s still a deepened sadness buried beneath.

Even the Master invoking past pleasantries isn't just reminiscence for the sake of it, he requires that sense of normalcy their dynamic formerly ascribed to regain his sense of control. His ability to conceive a future based on the patterns of the past are gone, they can’t help but continually judge their present negatively in order to reaffirm their identification with the past. You can’t use the typical Doctor/Master semantics in this case because this Master no longer views that as their current dynamic, he’s someone who’s actions are informed by how TTC reflects on his��entire sense of self, it’s not simply speaking to their base level traits.

 Even when plainly asked what he wants there are a few seconds of hesitation as if he himself doesn’t know. He’s searching, he needs confirmation from the Doctor of what and who he is. Even killing which usually comes second nature to him, he does it out a sense to feel purposeful “it’s like…how would I describe it? knowing I’m in the right place, doing what I was made for” and yet, he’s never looked more sullen and hallow than in those scenes.

 There’s an obvious undeniable shift from having previous Doctors refer to a man as 'The Master' to having a woman doing it, but that’s purposeful It’s supposed to feel uncomfortable. Their most quoted phrase is quite literally “I am the Master and you will obey me” they’re an inherently violatory character. He wants to see the Doctor helpless and degraded, it’s a total power play. He desires affirmation in the context of his identity being upended, so he falls back into old habits to regain that sense of control.

 13 is also clearly not nervous or passive during it. She's rolling her eyes with a dismissive "can you believe this guy" kind of look. she's still able to maintain her agency given a few moments later she's regained control of the situation, chastising him about his lack of control over the Kassavin. Seconds later he immediately kneels down next to her, putting them on the same level. Despite his posturing, he's still desperate for her attention, and once he has the Doctor calling him "Master" he's so emotionally overwhelmed he tears up and droops to the floor, breathless and exasperated. They’re almost divorced from the usual formalities they typically display; It balances itself between benign bitterness and betrayed yearning.

Similarly, in his admission of destroying Gallifrey he looks almost on the verge of tears, tired and weary.

He crouches down to level the Doctor, as she waits in dreaded anticipation of his explanation, only to be hit with rage and sorrow. He stands assertively, presenting his dominion over the situation as well as the Doctor. “but why would I make it easy for you, it wasn’t for me”.

 

For a character whose one of their most defining traits is clinging on to life by any and all means necessary, his sudden change of perspective in the Spyfall clearly communicates something isn’t right which is further expanded upon during The Timeless Children/The Power of The Doctor. In those stories we essentially see two people going through an identity crisis where one learns to let go of the past and the other continues to slip deeper and deeper into their own delusions.

Looking at the next logical step of 'I want to be the Doctor's friend' with the catalyst of the Timeless Child reveal. Resuscitating Timelords as Cybermen not just to rule over the universe, but to lord over the Doctor how he’s twisting her “creations” into warped despots, rebuking his hatred into an undying force of nature. During their “final” confrontation in TTC he continuously urges her to “Become death. Become me” taking into consideration his suicidal thoughts before their interaction, his demand could be read as a “mercy killing” he’s too cowardly to outwardly kill himself, but if he can barter the Doctor into doing it for him then that’s a decision he’s willing to die for. He wants to bring the Doctor down to his level morally and to be on her level literally, by being the very genesis of a species.

Even the simple visual metaphor of the Doctor being shrouded in light while she looks down on the Master highlights exactly how he views their dynamic now. It's less about him wanting to be the Doctor, and more that he doesn't want to be the Master. Especially taking into consideration the factors that lead towards Missy’s death. Holding onto the facet they once were because they can’t cope with the feeling of what they’d be without it, exemplifies their co-dependency on the Doctor a lot more poignantly without having to verbalise it so explicitly through exclusive callbacks.

 It's frustrated me how people infer Missy's ark as a 'redemption' when her ark is presented as more of the hope of a possible redemption which makes her death that more tragic. Missy’s ark is very much a one way street that can ultimately only end in failure as by their very nature they’re simply incapable of committing to changing themselves for better as marked by her particular exit, so they resign to the fact that this is how they’ll always be. Under 12’s strenuous parameters she could never realistically achieve her goal of acquiring friendship, all she's done is create a cycle where being “good” starts with murder which especially in the eyes of the Doctor is not a good thing. Even without TTC Dhawan couldn’t have been anything more than an emotional trainwreck, coupled with the irony in it being a literal death of her own making. She gave her life for the Doctor “without witness, without hope, without reward”, only for the Master to find out his continued existence is a mire product of the Doctors being, falling back into his deep seeded self-loathing. The way I see it the Master has always been on this blackslide, and the TDF is a story where they fully concede to that principal. The line “this is our perfect ending” embodies this sentiment the most, Missy is continuously coerced into regression until she finally does it, not out of a desire to but ironically enough, choosing to stand by the Doctor. The Master is permanently doomed to repeat the same cycle of self-destruction. No matter how hard they try to change themselves, they’ll always be their own worst enemy.

[kob131]

So, inspired by Shuttershocky’s own character opinions, I think I’ll start doing my own.

And no, I’m not doing Mordred first. She comes later.

Nah, considering a certain Ruler’s recent reveal, I think I’ll talk about a certain Shirou-face.

So quick overview of Angra Mainju-

He’s not actually the Zoroastrian god of Evil. No, he’s actually more like Sasaki Kojiro- The guy who the myth of Angra Mainju is BASED off of. He was just some ordinary villager who drew the shortest of straws and was used as a scapegoat for the sins of his villagers, tortured for decades until he died of old age. Because of this, he has a pretty nasty hatred of humanity. Which you would think would disqualify him from being a Heroic Spirit (I mean, logically who would consider him a hero?) but it’s said that his torture put the villagers at ease, meaning he did technically do a heroic deed and thus was preserved by the Throne of Heroes.

In the Third Holy Grail War, the Einsberns tried to summon the evil god but, for a multitude of reasons that include it not existing in the first place, they got him instead. Problem? The guy isn’t a normal hero, he’s a village boy who got tortured. He doesn’t have any special powers or even a proper Noble Phantasm. So of course, he gets his ass kicked. But thing is, he was so weak the Grail thought he was a human and thus tried to grant his wish.

Which was to actually BECOME All The World’s Evil.

And so the Grail tried to do it...but things got fucky. So the next two wars are basically just attempts at bring his wish to life. He...kind of exists here? Issue is that in Fate/Zero and Fate/Stay Night, Angra Mainju is more a force of nature or a being of pure evil rather than the tortured village boy he actually is. So for simplicity’s sake AND due to how radically different ‘All The World’s Evil’ is- I’ll just skip over his supposed presence in those two and move on.

Despite his wished for form’s destruction in Fate/Stay Night, Angra Mainju survived. In fact, his time as “All The World’s Evil” turned him into a proper Heroic Spirit, giving him an actual Noble Phantasm and actual status as a Heroic Spirit. Here, he gains a sort of obsession with granting wishes. So he goes around looking for someone’s wish to grant. During this time, he finds Bazett Frega McRemitz (AKA The ACTUAL Master of Cu Chulanin before Kirei decided to do what he does best: Fuck people over) dying, wishing not to die. And thus, Angra Mainju does his best to keep her alive. For 6 months, this meant keeping her alive but in a vegetative state. 

After being discovered by Caren Hortensia (Kirei’s daughter. ... This is kind of important later), this meant keeping her alive AND sustaining her consciousness. To do this, he creates Fate/Hollow Ataraxia’s four day loop (the same length of time he survived his war.) Through this, he tricks Bazett into thinking that she’s participating in the Fifth Holy Grail War. Issue being, Angra knows little more than jackshit about said war so what ends up happening is that he uses the Third Grail War structure with Fifth Grail War players as stand-ins. He is also only active with Bazett at night, the catch being that the person that the player thinks they’re controlling (Shirou) is actually an unaware Angra, living out his own wish of a normal life.

At first, Angra is just being selfish and indulging himself during this time. However, over time, his interactions with the people in Shirou’s life, Shirou’s own influence over him (as having lost his identity, he effectively needs to adopt another’s to exist) and, most importantly, his new found relationship with Bazett and Caren causes him to try and end the four day loop. This going against his Master’s wishes, as she fears that she will die due to finding out about the loop and losing Avenger, who is assumed to become nothing once again. However, he manages to convince her by revealing he really did save her life and that she had to move on. So at the end, he and Bazett race to opposite ends of the Grail, Bazett back to life and Angra Mainju embracing oblivion once again.

So...yeah. Pretty heavy stuff even with me skipping some stuff.

We only really learn about Angra Mainju in Fate/Hollow Ataraxia, since that’s where we truly meet him as a person. And at the beginning...he’s not a good person. Avengers in general are known for being highly destructive, malicious and dangerous Servants because their Class effectively puts them on edge at all times, constant consumed by hate. As the first Avenger, Angra both embodies this and subverts it at the same time.

Yes he is consumed by hate. ... But said hate is not an emotional state like other Avengers. His hate is his nature by the point we meet him. Meaning he isn’t on edge like his fellows, he isn’t clouded by extreme emotion. For all his cynicism and malice, he’s by far the calmest and most rational Avenger we have seen so far. Which makes some of his actions (like killing a family to draw out his enemies) come across as even worse than normal since he isn’t openly insane. Even beyond this, Angra is a sarcastic asshole who loves fucking with people and being insulting.

However, as things go on, as he lives the life of Shirou Emiya and the Servant of Bazett, he gets better. Sure, he’s still rude as all hell. But the guy does show he cares about Bazett and thinks about her well being. He falls in love with Caren, who does love him back (if you’re wondering how: I believe it’s implied Caren suffers from the same condition Kirei did in regards to empathy. So makes sense she’d love an embodiment of hate and vengence) and he did enjoy living as Shirou, revealing that beneath the hate that became his nature- He’s just a normal guy who got SEVERELY fucked over. Hell, when Medusa was on the verge of morphing into Gorgon, Angra walks by and talks to her. He gives her a speech on what it means to be a monster and ends up helping her prevent her transformation, even though having her become a monster would help him make people suffer (and maybe even someone who understands him, as Gorgon is an Avenger herself.)

Just as his lack of emotional distress makes his evil actions worse, it also means he’s capable of change and becoming good. He learns love and care despite having lived a life no one could even comprehend, forced into a Class that is more like a curse than an honor. Despite his hatred of humanity, he still believes in it somewhat. He adopts some of Shirou’s heroic traits through living his life. And at the very end, this jackass who started things off by killing random innocents...ends up making the ultimate sacrifice, one where he gains nothing but loses everything, where he really doesn’t want to do it...all because he came to care for Bazett.

I’ll admit, I sobbed at the end.

Now, Angra isn’t really used in any serious manner after this. He appears in the Accel/Zero and Christmas in the Underworld events...mostly as jokes. However, I would like to note his Bond 10 Craft Essence. These CEs are effectively summations of the characters themselves. For example, Mordred’s Bond 10 effectively sums up her identity issues. And Angra Mainju’s?

It’s all about how he was a necessary evil, his life taken from him, hatred burned into him...

...and how Caren, despite seeing it all, still loved him.

And the CEs effect? A Guts buff and the ability to hurt Beast class enemies in a way no other Servant can replicate.

In essence, that love gives him the ability to keep living (with his strongest skill KILLING him btw) and to more effectively protect the world. And considering how the Beasts are related to humanity, it might just be because that love made him human again.

In short, Angra Mainju is a person forced into a role, his nature overwritten by his torture, cursed by fate because of others, indulging in his role because it’s all he knows-

And yet, even he finds a way to become a better person. All culminating in a sacrifice that can only be described as ‘Heroic’.

He truly is a Heroic Spirit.

[pastelsandpining]

Santa Tell Me (New Love)

The eighth prompt in 12 Days of Christmas by @zelink-prompts​, the prequel to prompt seven here

Prompt List

Words: 2419

Summary: Zelda finds a friend in the little forest boy who claims to be the Hero of Time. 

Ocarina of Time, post-game, child timeline(???)

Zelink-mas 2020  l  Masterlist

The Princess of Hyrule was bubbly and bright, and she felt like she could take on the world. She wanted so badly to go on a grand adventure, to escape the walls and locks of the castle and explore the kingdom she was set to rule over one day. How did she know what was best for her people if she never met them? But her father wouldn’t hear a word of it and Impa wouldn’t let her try. Little Zelda was forced to instead play by herself in the courtyard. She liked to pick up sticks and pretend to fight, and she liked throwing crushed up leaves and berries into a water filled hole to make potions. She liked to fall in the dirt and scrape her knees. 

She did not like practicing the ocarina.

“But you promised!” she whined, tugging at the arm of her caretaker. “You said you’d teach me how to be Sheikah!”

“I promised to teach you Sheikah ways,” Impa corrected as she stuck the little blue instrument into her hands. “But not today, little princess. You haven’t practiced in weeks, and you promised your father you would.”

Zelda huffed and gripped the tear-drop shaped piece of wood tighter. 

“But it’s so boring!”

“You’ll have to do many boring things in your life as queen,” Impa replied, ruffling the cap that covered her hair. Zelda scrunched up her nose and, defeated, brought the ocarina to her lips. It was drilled into her where her fingers should go as she played a set of scales to warm up. 

The three note melody her family named after her (or, rather, after Zelda in general) came naturally, and she played it twice before stealing a glance at Impa. She didn’t look satisfied, so Zelda huffed and turned around to face the window instead. There was her father, sitting on his throne while speaking with a man—a man she’d seen a few times before. He was tall, and his eyes seemed to glow with an evil that made her nervous. But her father wouldn’t listen to her when she tried to tell him that he scared her.

“How did you-“

A ruckus followed Impa’s unfinished question, so Zelda turned with furrowed eyebrows. Stood before her was a boy no older than her, dressed in green with a sword by his side. She stumbled a little backwards. He resembled the forest boy from her dreams a little too perfectly to be real. And yet something about him felt so familiar.

“Who..?” she started to ask, but the boy dropped to a kneel in front of her.

“Princess,” he greeted, his voice shaky and quiet. “I’m Link. I.. I’m the Hero of Time, I think.”

Zelda blinked. She’d never heard of such a thing, but he sounded too serious to be joking. But despite everything she’d felt within the past few weeks, she was unconvinced. 

“How can you be something without knowing it?” she asked, placing her hands on her waist. 

“You’ve gotta believe me!” the forest boy pleaded. “Ganondorf’s gonna get the Triforce and take over and destroy the world!”

So, the Hero of Time was here, as nothing more than a child, making the claim that her dreams would come to pass. As ridiculous as it probably sounded to Impa, it shook Zelda to her core. But her father didn’t believe her, much less a little kokiri boy. She was running out of ideas.

“Prove it,” she challenged, holding the ocarina out to him. “This is the Ocarina of Time, an heirloom of the royal family for generations. Play something only the Hero of Time would know!”

Link took the instrument from her hands and raised it to his lips. Zelda pulled at the sleeves of her dress in anticipation, shifting on her feet. What was she expecting him to play? Would he be able to play? If he could, how would it prove anything? 

Her lullaby was being played back to her.

“How..? You--you heard me playing it!” she accused, taking a step back. It was the only explanation, it had to be.

“You taught it to me! Right here! Don’t you remember?”

He looked so crestfallen and scared. He was as small as she, yet he spoke as if he’d seen war. If he really was who he said he was, then… he had. And he was there to warn them.

“Tell me everything,” Zelda demanded, holding her head a little higher. 

“Princess--”

Zelda looked over to Impa and whispered a soft “please”, then shifted her gaze back to the little kokiri boy. 

Link was hesitant, but he retold everything he could remember. He told her that she sent him to retrieve the spiritual stones, and he pulled the Master Sword, and that Ganondorf had followed him into the Temple and touched the Triforce, sealing him inside of the Sacred Realm. He told her how he woke seven years later to Hyrule in disrepair, with Ganondorf as the new king. He told of the temples and the destruction, and how he was forced to travel back and forth in time to undo all the King of Thieves had done. By the end of his story, Zelda was on the verge of tears. It was her plan that caused such a downfall--the very same plan she’d wanted to share with him as soon as he appeared before her.

“We have to tell my father,” she said, spinning to face Impa. “Please.”

Impa too was hesitant, but Zelda wiped at her tears and grabbed Link’s hand, pulling him towards the entrance to the castle herself.

“Princess-” Impa called again, but the little princess was determined. Ganondorf was leaving just as they entered, and she felt Link’s hand tighten around her own. But she couldn’t stop now. She had to make her father listen if there was any hope at all.

Just as she’d expected, her father was dismissive. He wanted to write it off as a childish nightmare, but Zelda forced Link to recount everything he’d just told her. The king remained unconvinced, but he looked a little bothered and she could work with that.

“Zelda, it is very immature to get this little boy in on your fantasies,” he scolded. “I cannot arrest the Gerudo king on the account of two children, not when we’re so close to mending the split caused by war.”

“But you heard his story! The Hero of Time said he fought Ganondorf himself!” Zelda argued, stomping her foot.

“Your little friend snuck onto the castle grounds unpermitted, so I would hardly deem him trustworthy. Unless he can prove that he is who he says he is, I will not take action.”

Link lifted the ocarina to his lips again and Zelda waited anxiously for the three note lullaby to hit her ears--but it never came. 

“I’ll pull the sword again,” Link declared, standing up as straight as he could. “I’ll travel to Gerudo Valley and find Nabooru--she’s a Sage and she could tell you everything Ganondorf has planned!”

“I will not send a child to that desert-”

“Then take me to the Temple of Time,” the hero challenged. 

The king looked hesitant once more. He scratched his beard as he looked between Link and his daughter, and Zelda tried to look as serious as she could manage.

“Link’s story is exactly what I saw in my dreams. You know daughters of the goddess can have pro.. prost-”

“Prophetic,” Impa supplied. Zelda nodded once.

“-prophetic dreams because you said mother had them too!”

“I cannot take you into the Temple of Time,” the king said, slumping back into the throne. “If you really are the Hero of Time, then there’s no telling what pulling the sword will do. But I will look into this. If I find nothing, then the two of you will be in very big trouble.”

Link didn’t look happy, but Zelda would take it. She was admittedly too scared to keep thinking about it, and any action her father took would be better than none.

“Promise?” she asked her father, stepping up to his throne and sticking out her pinky.

“I promise,” he replied, wrapping his larger finger around hers. He wiped at her cheeks after that, and Zelda leaned into the comfort of her father. She didn’t want to lose him too. 

Link was allowed full permission into the castle after all that had transpired. Zelda met up with him any chance she could get, and they would run around the courtyard together with sticks and matching bruises. His stories sounded far less scary when he acted them out before her, and Zelda often stole Impa’s headband and pretended to be a Sheikah named Sheik--just like the other Princess Zelda he spoke so highly about. 

Their courtyard playdate was interrupted when a figure passed by the window. The Gerudo king had arrived in chains, and Zelda grabbed Link’s arm and pulled him out of view.

“What’s going on?” he asked, but Zelda pressed a finger to her lips and snuck towards the entrance so they could hear what was happening. There was a lot of yelling, but she heard her father condemning him for plans of overthrowing the monarchy.

“--guilty of treason of the highest measure. For the crimes you have committed, you will be taken to Arbiter’s Grounds and executed.”

Zelda nearly tripped over Link as she stumbled backwards. The Gerudo king was being led their way. His eyes, burning with hatred, settled on her and Link, and he ripped himself free from the guards’ hold. Ganondorf reached for her with hands twice her size and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. She tried to think of what Sheik would do, but she hardly got a chance before Link was in front of her, his kokiri sword pointed at the King of Thieves’ hands. Ganondorf laughed, a deep, evil sound that shook her to her core, and the guards took hold of him again, and he was dragged away, still laughing. 

Link turned around and wrapped her in a hug, and Zelda, still shaking, grabbed his shirt and closed her eyes. The yellow eyes of the Gerudo king would follow her into her nightmares, she was sure of it. 

In the following week, her father held a ceremony to acknowledge and thank all of those who saved Hyrule. 

Link and Nabooru, who’d acted as an inside source, were gifted with titles of honor and medals of service. Zelda too was awarded for her wisdom and insistence, but she didn’t think she deserved it as much as the other two. It was her fault Link had gone through all he had to begin with, and she didn’t think she could ever shake that feeling of guilt. But the party afterwards helped to lift her spirits, because her father told her she could have as many sweets as she wanted, and she could stay up as late as she wanted. 

“We did it!” Zelda cheered, once she’d found Link in the crowd. People were gawking at him and asking questions, but she threw her arms around him anyway and they landed in a pile on the floor, giggling like crazy. She could hear Impa in her head, scolding her about how improper and unladylike she was acting, but the princess didn’t care. A war had been avoided, and she made a good friend in the process. 

A friend who took her on adventures around Lake Hylia now that there was no threat, and protected her from any monster that tried to show its face. He took her to Lon Lon Ranch, where she met Malon and Epona and rode a horse of her own. He took her to Zora’s domain, where she met the little Zora princess who looked too interested in Link for her liking, and he took her to Goron City (under the supervision of Impa) to meet Darunia. 

But their time together was short lived, because their courtyard playdate took an awkward turn when Link held out a handful of colorful flowers and told her he had to go. He looked so sad, and she wished she could squeeze him tight until his sadness was gone.

“I lost a friend,” he explained, avoiding her gaze. “Every kokiri has a fairy, and I lost Navi when.. when I was sent back. I need to find her.”

She wanted to ask if he had to go. She wanted to beg him to stay here and find another fairy. But even as a selfish child, she could tell how much had been taken from him and she didn’t want him to hurt more than he already had. She would be a bad friend if she didn’t let him go.

“Will you come back?” she asked as she held the flowers tighter. 

“I’d never leave you behind,” he answered, giving her a shy little smile that made her cheeks burn.

“Do you promise?” she questioned, sticking out her pinky. 

“I promise,” he replied, wrapping his finger around hers. Zelda hesitated for a moment, but she leaned forwards and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You better not break your promise, or I’m gonna be really mad at you,” she said as she pushed him away and looked at the ground.

“Just watch! When I come back, I’ll be your knight and we’ll get married,” he replied, wrapping her in a hug. Zelda giggled and held him tightly, because she wouldn’t be seeing him again for a very long time.

“You’re gross!” she declared, but the little princess liked the idea, even if she didn’t know the full story of what a marriage involved. They were too young for that anyway, but Impa told her later that love had no age and that souls that were meant to be together would find each other again in time. 

She didn’t know the word for what she was feeling when he left the courtyard for the last time. He looked back at her with a wave, but she couldn’t find it in her to raise her arms. They felt heavy and tired. She spent the first few months in naive hope, waiting in the courtyard and playing the ocarina as if her songs could bring him back. She held onto Impa’s words and onto the matching medals they had, and she came to question herself if she did indeed love the little boy from the forest. 

Perhaps when she saw him again, she would tell him properly.

[crystalsexarch]

Six: Avatar - E

You have some nerve, Hades. Blushing like a virgin.

Allow me just this once to play the role.

-

Explicit. Second-person ambiguous WoL. Despite their differences, the Crystal Exarch and Emet-Selch pine for the same Warrior...and develop similar habits.

CW: tentacles?

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge

A wisp. A wanderer. A shadow of a shadow. You are to him what moths are lanterns; a sign that light is there, but not the light itself. Never the light. No, not even close.

And yet he watches you. Something in your affects sways him—the spark behind your eyes, the way you carry yourself from room to room. You remind him, almost, of what it felt like to be truly vulnerable.

Eons have passed. Empires have come and gone. Vulnerability was long ago rooted out from the Ascian Emet-Selch’s repertoire. However, for you—for something shaped like you—he has worn many masks in private. As you wander about the First, trying your damnedest to impede his patient plan, he goes through the motions of brooding, craving, and pining in his private quarters somewhere ancient beneath the sea.

You’ve been many things to many people. A traveler. A voice from ages past. A cackle on the battlefield, before would-be defeat. A secret reason to keep fighting. You are the least imperfect iteration of the worst possible you. As much as you are an argument to stop at seven Rejoinings, you are even stronger evidence that he needs to keep going. That he needs to go all the way.

He could do it like a beast on hand and knee. He could do it like a man, hunched over and pitiful. He could conjure something to fuck—in the image of something worth fucking—but why limit himself to one option at a time? In this foolish dance, he does his very best to please every part capable of feeling pleasure. And when the bliss fails to change his mind, he knows again that the way forward is a bitter one. He knows the resolve of his mind is greater than the lust of his body.

The lust always begins and ends with you. Old you, ancient you. The one strong enough to take him as an equal. Sometimes, he kicks his boots up on his useless dining room table and fits both of his hands around his cock, tossing his gaze elsewhere like he’s too bashful to bear the sight. A show of shyness for no one but himself. He imagines how the teasing might go.

You have some nerve, Hades. Blushing like a virgin.

Allow me just this once to play the role.

You’ll have to work hard to convince me.

He can never get your voice right, but he hums in amusement anyway. Once he’s had enough of using his own hands as a hole, he bids away his clothes with a flicker of magic. Dark particles scatter, leaving him fully exposed to an audience of none.

How exciting. He loves to play for a crowd.

One natural benefit of remaining unsundered—he retains the full scope of his abilities. Thus, calling up a chorus of slick, swollen-headed vines is a simple task, accomplished with his eyes closed. Spreading his legs, he lets them lap at his body and vie for the right to plunge inside. Two hardy tentacles bind his hands high above his head.

Oh my, warrior! What are you up to?

Silence, Ascian, and let me work.

He doesn’t know when new you, broken you started slipping into these moments, but he cannot deny that flashes do come. It’s laughable, that your pitiful, sundered form would appear to taunt and tease him with tentacles. None of your magic could spread him how he spreads himself. Two arcane heads leak upon his hole until one presses inside and starts pumping. A tiny rush of cool air leaves the ring of his lips with a muted groan.

Look at yourself.

He keeps his eyes closed, despite your imagined command. The fog of limbs tugs his right leg from the table. Another arm of darkness slaps onto his chest and squeezes. Emet-Selch treats himself impolitely, and he pretends any version of you would do the same. If you called him disgusting, he would laugh and tell you to fuck him harder as punishment for wanting it so badly.

And he does want it badly. The second head slips in. Both vines fuck at the same tempo, spread apart by a single beat. One at a time they find his sweet spot over and over again, until he’s whimpering out loud.

“Harder…”

He forgets he is safe here, sometimes. He forgets this place is untouched by yours or any other presence. He can process loss if he wants. He can weep into his hands and no one shall ever be the wiser.

“Harder. Please…”

But doing so would force him to admit a weakness. This dramatic mess is the closest he shall get to re-processing what he thinks he’s already processed, confronting what he confronted centuries upon centuries ago. One tentacle wraps around his cock and another sucks at his head, while the rest double down on their assigned tasks. Every sense he has is firing in full force all at once, and soon—

Come for me, Hades.

Everything is gone in an instant. He rights himself in his chair and hunches over, folds his hands in his lap. This is the only way he can stomach longing, because it’s the only way he can believe it’s just for show.

You are the center of his mission. The focus of his hatred. The seat of his passion. You are the thing he wants to destroy, and that which he seeks to recreate through destruction.

//

A beacon. An absolute. Sometimes the thought of being close to you is enough to make him weak and weeping. That his name—his title—might share the same page as yours in a history book is solace from the fact that he shall be remembered as a villain.

If all goes according to plan. And in the Crystal Exarch’s mind, after centuries of browbeating himself into accepting the dark path, all must go according to plan.

When he touches himself, a bitter aftertaste follows the pleasure. Your victories have inspired more than hope in his private chambers. A Lightwarden slain, a hooded man hardened. He likes to sit on his knees and lean his head against his desk, looking down upon the want he’s nursing. He uses his hand of crystal to pressure his inner thigh and his hand of flesh to stroke.

The first time he indulged like this, he tried to get it over with as soon as possible. Once he granted himself permission to imagine you straddling him, the escalation was quick and effective. He was able to come and clean up in a matter of minutes. He was able to walk away half-believing he wouldn’t do it again.

But he does. Dozens of times, sometimes more than once in quick succession, like he’s a hot-blooded scholar finding partners at the Find. Your presence, while inherently new to the Exarch after decades of waiting, is also intoxicatingly familiar. As he remembers the scent of your room in the Pendants, he recalls what it was like to fill somebody twice and still want to keep going.

The first orgasm comes with a gasp. He catches it with crystal, while his spoken hand jockeys for a few more complete motions. Up and down he rubs, until he’s shivered through the brief oversensitivity that chases even the most virile of miqo’te after climax. As it passes, he takes a deep breath and makes a V of two crystal fingers, sticky with cum. His tail whips beneath the mess of robes at his back, as he smears the letter down his shaft. He’s ready for the next, and so is his imagination.

A hero. A message. A promise. A symbol of a future worth fighting for, and one future worth avoiding. Hope incarnate. Victory incarnate. A walking, breathing legend, whose stories shall fill the annals of history from wall to wall.

A human. A person who wants things, perhaps wants people. What if you wanted him?

He starts stroking again, and his eyes flutter closed. Your mouth would be so warm around him, your tongue so deliberate at his slit. He imagines you lapping until you taste the leak of precum, then lowering your lips to the root. He would grip you by the hair and force you down, even when he knows you can go no further.

He would. He would—G’raha Tia, a scholar, an archon, an Exarch. His eyes cross at the concept of compelling you to do anything, much less let him fuck your mouth. He squeezes his cock from the base and focuses on his memory of your body—all the places you are strong, all the places you are soft. By the time he pulls his second orgasm, his tail is thumping like a hare's foot against the floor of the Umbilicus, and his legs are on the verge of cramping from the strain.

He looks down again and watches himself bob against the flat of his palm. Is he a fool to imagine he has any more right than the common admirer to jerk off to your image? In his deepest fantasies, he often plays the role of a romantic hero himself—one you might see as an equal. Though he imagines getting rough with you, he'd be just as happy to let you have your way in all ways, he thinks. You are a chance he must never take. An arrow that must not be plucked from its course. He might call you his reason for living.

Ultimately, he believes you'll be the reason anyone is able to survive.

[fanficflaneuse]

One Day - Part 6

A/n (and disclaimer): Dear magical tumblr friends, I’m really moved by the great reception this series has had. It is my baby, my first series and also my way of  navigating through these trying times. I hold it dear to my heart and knowing you guys like it just makes me ten times happier. Thanks for all the love and support. 

Having said that, please don’t hate me for this chapter. It’s peak drama. It can’t get much worse than this (in this series, at least). It broke my heart a little, tbh, but it is important. There’s angst. Both Draco and Ernie behave like arseholes. A little bit of swearing...I’m crossing my fingers for you to like this. 

I have also have some news. Remember when I said on the last A/N that chapter 5 was the middle of the series? I lied a tiny bit. I had planned for 10 parts. Now we have 12 lol So this is the actual half of the series.

Dear anon who sent me that angsty / fluffy request, if you’re reading this, last night I came up with a very detailed story line which I’m really excited about. I’ll write that as soon as I finish all of this. 

This part includes a quote of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brönte. Also, one or two quotes come from the actual movie.  

Anyway, enjoy! 

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 2184  Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist

3 May, 2003

(Y/N) sat in the farthest corner of an intimate muggle restaurant. She looked at her wristwatch for what had to be the twentieth time. Draco was two hours late. By now, (Y/N) figured she shouldn’t be surprised. What disconcerted her the most was the fact that she had waited for him. She was about to ask for the check and apparate back home when he waltzed into the restaurant. The man who (Y/N) saw approaching to her was not the sweet and very troubled friend she cuddled with, but rather the asshole that used to bully her and her friends back in school. He walked with his chest puffed, a cocky smile on his lips and an arrogant expression on his face. He was not her Dray, but rather Malfoy.

It took her no time to figure out he had been drinking. (Y/N) rolled her eyes, trying to disguise the hurt and disappointment she felt. He regarded her seriously for a minute. Draco hadn’t seen (Y/N) since that incident at the manor. They tried really hard to keep in touch. Draco’s life at the moment, though, didn’t allow for a lot of profound communication, mainly because he wasn’t honest, not even with himself. He’d drink every single day and party every other night. He’d wake up with strangers, squander his fortune in casinos and pick up stupid fights. Without fail, their owls would travel back and forth every week, but the letters sometimes mounted to absolutely nothing.

Seeing her in front of him, Draco found (Y/N) as beautiful as ever. He realized he was still in love with her, despite his efforts to drown his feelings for her �� along with everything else. Perhaps, as contradictory as it sounds, the frustration he felt while having (Y/N) (Y/L/N) in front of him, made him behave like his old self. She was a symbol of everything he wanted and couldn’t have, of every bad thing he thought about himself, of how undeserving and inadequate he was. Much like when he was in school, all of that turned him into an absolute prick. 

Draco asked for a whiskey. As he did so, he checked the waitress out. (Y/N) scoffed.

“What?” he defended, as the redhaired waitress walked away, “she’s pretty for a muggle.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. He had changed so much in three years after the war…and now he made comments that took her back to her first few years at Hogwarts. (Y/N) wondered why had she accepted his invitation for dinner in the first place. What was she expecting, really? Her friend – if you could call him that at this point – was not there anymore. He was replaced with the insufferable git Draco Malfoy was meant to be all along.

“So,” he said, trying to diffuse the tension, “what’s new with you?”

(Y/N) didn’t feel much like speaking to him right now. She looked away. Draco was hurt by this, but he pressed on. He needed her confirmation that he was a tosser. He needed her to tell him that he was worthless, that she didn’t love him or believed in him. He needed that reminder because he wanted to kiss her so badly, but he knew he wasn’t good enough for her. He wasn’t good enough for her love or her forgiveness or faith. He wasn’t good enough for redemption. He was a villain. He had been, anyway. And people believed it. So, he had to play his part.

“Are you still with MacMillan?” he asked, trying to act nonchalant, as if the news of her relationship hadn’t affected him deeply.

As (Y/N) nodded, Draco’s whole body was filled with jealousy. He knew he couldn’t be with her. He knew she was better off with someone like Ernie MacMillan than himself.

And yet.

(The combination of those two words seemed to haunt him whenever (Y/N) was the topic).

“Even you can do better than that,” he spat.

He was being so nasty that his self-hatred was reaching dangerous levels. People believed this façade to be his true colours, even more than when he actually tried to reveal himself as he truly was. Why, then, wasn’t (Y/N) leaving? Why was she still sitting in front of him? Why would she look at him with those wounded eyes, with that broken heart, and yet keep giving him chances?

The waitress came back with their drinks. The brief interruption allowed (Y/N) to take a deep breath. She still didn’t know what she was doing there. Even if it was her love for him that glued her to the table, at this point he had already exceeded what was acceptable and even healthy. She was on the verge of tears.

“Why are you behaving like your idiotic Hogwarts self?” she asked.

“Speaking about Hogwarts, how’s the teaching?” he countered, completely ignoring her question.

(Y/N) sighed and for some reason decided tell him. Maybe that would shift the atmosphere a little. She told him that her approach to DADA tried to resemble professor Lupin’s: theory and practice in every single class. (Y/N) talked so passionately about her job and her students that it was hard for Draco not to hang onto her every word. For a second there, (Y/N) saw the ghost of a genuine smile playing on his lips. In that fleeting moment, she felt satisfied.

This feeling, of course, came crashing down with his scornful remark: “that’s good enough, I guess”.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked through gritted teeth. She wished he had just shrugged it off again, but he had an answer ready and he shot to kill.

“Well, (Y/N), you know what they say,” he said, not even meeting her eyes. His finger was playing with the rim of his empty glass.

“No, Draco, enlighten me. What do they say?” she asked, bracing herself for a scathing remark.

“Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach,” he answered offhandedly.

(Y/N) felt the anger scorching her insides. She glared at him, a fire in her eyes Draco hadn’t seen in the longest time. In that moment, all of her sadness fuelled her irritation as she stood up. The seat fell behind her.

“And she who can’t will hex you,” she stammered before stomping out of the restaurant.

Draco had finally pushed away the only person that believed in him. He thought he was going to feel a bit better, given that had sacrificed himself for her safety. She deserved better. Then why was he feeling so empty and stupid? Leaving more money than he had to on the table, he rushed after his best friend. Draco followed her to an alley where she was about to apparate. He grabbed her by her hand and noticed she was crying.

“What do you want, Draco? What else do you want?” her voice was hoarse and desperate.

“I – I’m sorry,” he murmured.

(Y/N) had to conjure all of her self control to answer to him. “I don’t know what’s the reason for you to put up this horrible façade, Draco. I can read right through you and I trust this…this git I had the misfortune of spending my evening with is not the real you. But I can’t do much about it. Do you want to live your life as the entitled prick you were back in school? So be it.”

“(Y/N)…”

“I love you, Draco. I really do. I just don’t like you anymore.”

(Y/N) didn’t even spare him a second glance before apparating. Once alone, Draco broke down completely. This was not what it was supposed to be like. 

...

(Y/N) wiped away the tears in her eyes as she opened the door to her flat. The lights were on, every single one of them. She specifically recalled turning everything off before leaving, so she clutched her wand and walked cautiously around her duplex. Much to her relief, all she found was Ernie sitting crossed-legged in the middle of her bed. She relaxed at first, but then she realized that was also a very strange sight. (Y/N) noticed that he was clutching a notebook in his hands and was eyeing it furiously.

“What are you doing?” Ernie’s eyes shot up. She realized that the notebook he was reading was her diary and her heart almost stopped.

“What is this?” he shouted, tossing her diary at her.

(Y/N) flinched. She knew exactly what he had read and guilt started to eat her up.

“(Y/N),” he roared.

She didn’t meet his eyes, fresh tears welling on her own. Ernie picked the notebook from the ground and started reading out loud.

“I love Draco. I love him with every beat of my broken heart?!” he pressed all of his anger into very single word, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

(Y/N) didn’t want to listen to her own foolish words. “Stop! Stop, Ernie!”

“I believe Draco feels undeserving of a good life,” he carried on anyway, “I, (Y/N), know he is undeserving of a good life.”

“Ernie, please,” she said, her voice barely audible at this point. She tried to take the book from him, but he just ran out of the room, reading and mocking her in the process.

“I hope those self-destructive behaviours don’t consume him,” he continued, “I, on the other hand, sincerely hope they do.”

When (Y/N) could finally retrieve her diary, they were engulfed by a rancorous silence. They stared at each other for the longest time, not moving an inch. She was inconsolable. His heartbreak pushed him to behave like Draco less than an hour before him.

“I am also a pureblood, (Y/N).”

“What?” the comment seemed very out of place.

“My last name is on the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” he said, adopting a haughtiness she had never seen in him, “My family can be traced back to nine generations of wizards and witches.”

“Ernie, what does that have to do with anything?”

“For the past three hours or so I’ve been racking my brain, trying to think what in the world could you possibly see in Malfoy. The only logical solution I see is that you’re more biased towards blood purity than what you actually admit. Now, I can’t blame you, but –“ (Y/N)’s hand collided spectacularly with Ernie’s cheek.

Had it been a different situation, she would even feel proud about the print of her palm on his face. But rage was seeping from his every pore and (Y/N) felt humiliated. Before he could retort, she barked:

“How dare you!”

“I’ve given you everything. I tried to make this work, (Y/N). I really fancy you, love you even. But not even once have you said those three words to me and yet that…that death eater trash gets all the praise and love and poems and multiple entries on your diary? Bloody hell!” 

(Y/N) didn’t know why, but the first thing that occurred to her was to defend Draco Malfoy from Ernie: “he’s not death eater trash.” In that moment, she seriously wanted to slap herself.

Ernie looked at her as though she was insane. “Is that seriously all you got from what I just said?” he said in disbelief.

Before she could even answer he just shook his head. “You know what? Just forget about us, (Y/L/N),” he said before storming off.

(Y/N) sat down in the middle of her room. She felt like a bad person, a very stupid bad person. She had let Draco stomp all over her feelings and broke Ernie’s heart in the process. Why were feelings and relationships so hard and confusing?

All of a sudden, she felt a pair of arms engulf her in a hug. She smelled Ernie’s cologne and sobbed loudly into his chest.

“I am very sorry,” she said.

“Listen to me, (Y/N). I hope we can be friends in the future. I’m much too hurt right now…and I’d be lying if I told you I don’t resent you,” he said wiping away the tears from her eyes and forcing her to look at him. He was also crying.

“But you’re precious and I’d be honoured to have you in my life in whatever capacity,” he finished.

“I feel terrible, Ernie,” she sniffled, “but it would be an honour and a pleasure to have you as my friend…eventually.” They shared a hug and cried a little more.

When they both calmed down, things were strangely nice and light between them. Ernie praised her writing and encouraged her to publish even more.

“I know you adore your job as a teacher, love, but this,” he said pointing at the catastrophic diary, “is really your thing and the world needs more of your writing.”

(Y/N) couldn’t believe her luck. The fact that he was still here, regardless of what had just happened between them, made her heart swell. She was mesmerized by his Hufflepuff traits, his loyalty and friendliness showing up even when he was hurting.  

Before he left, he kissed her forehead and told her a few words that would haunt her dreams:  

“Be careful, princess. Malfoy really doesn’t deserve you.”

Tags: @fandomscombine @okaydraco @naomi02hook @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @happycomb

[vs-redemption]

Bad Day (Dabi x GN!Reader)

This wasn’t a request, but it’s been something in my mind that I’ve wanted to write for a few days. I’ve had some family drama the past couple weeks and whenever I’m sad I think about Dabi lol I’m not sure why. Anyway, there’s a whole second part of this that I was planning to write, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get to it so I’ll post this by itself for now!

ANYWAY! My requests are still open so feel free to check out the rules and my masterlist.

⚠️ There are some suggestive themes (nothing crazy)

⚠️ There are mentions of alcohol consumption

It had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Actually, why sugar coat it? Things had not been great for a while. Today had just been one the times when everything finally came to a boil. With your mind filled with anger, you make your way to the only place you can think to go. You crash through the doors of the tiny bar where the League of Villains stayed in secret, not bothering to hide your rage as you stomp over to the counter and plop down onto one of the old wooden stools. Kurogiri walks over calmly to ask if he can make you a drink.

“Yes, please.” The politeness sounded forced, but at least you’d somehow remembered your manners even through the whirlwind of emotions rampaging through you. You stare at the man’s misty form as he walked away, trying to make out a pattern to the way the purple tendrils twisted and curled as he moved. There was something off about the guy, but you could never quite figure it out. Maybe it was because he seemed more like a babysitter than an actual villain. Or maybe it was because he was the only one who rarely left the bar. Contemplating the possibilities wasn’t enough to distract you and you began to unconsciously pick at the skin on the inside of your pointer finger with your thumbnail. It was a habit that always seemed to manifest when you were on the verge of a breakdown.

You look around the bar once and find that it’s empty aside from you and the villain bartender. You weren’t sure if you were grateful for that or not. You’d been a member of the league for a while now, but you weren’t particularly close to any of them. It wasn’t as if you had a deep hatred for heroes or a passionate desire to destroy the world like the others. The one thing you did have in common was that you were a misfit that didn’t seem to belong anywhere else thanks to a quirk that had slowly driven everyone around you away. You’d agreed to help out the league with their dastardly plans in exchange for a place to just exist in peace.

“Can we put on some music or something?” You ask Kurogiri once your first drink is gone. Without saying a word, he walks over to a small radio on the shelf behind the bar and turns it on. You continue to pick at the skin on your finger as the melody of a stupid love song begins filling up the empty bar. It didn’t do anything to calm the fury in your heart. Your mind wanders to the messages you’d received from your family earlier that day. They were suddenly asking you for favors after almost a year of ignoring your attempts to reach out to them time and again. They’d distanced themselves from you just like everyone else had. You’d lost track of how many friendships you’d lost due to people’s inability to accept you the way you were. They only got in touch when they needed something from you.

You were halfway done with your second drink when the door swings open again and someone else walks into the bar, bringing in the smell of burnt flesh with them. Dabi comes into the room at a much more leisurely pace than you had and silently plants himself in the seat furthest from you. Kurogiri was already preparing the man’s usual drink.

“Why are we listening to this shit?” Dabi asks flatly while throwing an annoyed glance over to the old radio. The signal wasn’t too strong so the song kept fading into static every few minutes. Kurogiri walks over and turns the dial until finding another clear station that happened to be playing classical piano. “Awesome… thanks.” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable. You quickly down the rest of your second drink.

Dabi had always been intimidating to you. He had deep purple burn scars covering half his face, most of his arms, and a bit of what you’d seen of his chest, plus he was a dangerous murderer. None of those things were what really got to you though. You knew that everyone in the league had killed at some point, but at least most of them had been somewhat friendly to you. Even if Toga was a bit much for your taste, she’d still jumped at the chance to make a new friend when you had showed up. Twice was always good for a laugh too. You’d even had some interesting conversations with Spinner and Mr. Compress. Dabi though, he always kept to himself. And there was always something so distant and cold about his intense blue stare that made him difficult to even approach, let alone talk to.

“Would you like another one?” Kurogirl picks up your empty glass.

“Yeah.” You glance back over at Dabi, feeling a sudden urge to move. You weren’t doing nearly enough to deal with the negative emotions still running wild inside you, and they were twisting and contorting like Kurogiri’s mist, trying to force you into finding a more effective way to express them. You look around the bar once, wondering how mad Shigaraki would be if you tore through the place until you’d destroyed enough to tire yourself out. That was probably out of the question. You hop off your barstool and walk over to Dabi. Maybe he wasn’t that bad. You climb up onto the seat right next to him.

“Hey.”

He turns his head to meet your gaze with a bored expression. Being this close to him felt dangerous, yet exciting. The smell of burned skin was stronger up close, and you had no idea if it was from overusing his self-destructive fire quirk, or from the people he’d undoubtedly turned into victims that day. Kurogiri walks over and puts your new drink in front of you. You take a sip and find it cold and refreshing.

“Did you need something?” Dabi asks. It was a question but it sounded very dismissive. You decide to ignore your urge to run away.

“I’m bored,” You shrug. Dabi only raises his eyebrows slightly before turning away from you.

“Not my problem.” He says.

“Come on,” You weren’t backing down. “We could go scare little kids by popping out of dark alleys or something.” Dabi swings his head back around to face you with a scowl, only to find you grinning playfully back. Kurogiri’s drinks had made you brave.

“That’s your idea of fun, huh?” Dabi asks.

“It’s an idea,” you confess. “I’m open to suggestions if you have a better one.” The villain just continues to stare at you with his eyes alight with irritation and just a hint of confusion. You’d never spoken to him before except short polite greetings, so the behavior you were exhibiting now was probably throwing him off just a bit.

“Fine,” you sigh while waving your hand toward the radio which was still playing the same slow piano music, “do you fancy a dance?”

“No.” He actually sounded kind of pissed now.

“Wanna fight then?” You quickly change tactics and the look of surprise on his face was extremely satisfying. It was the first time you’d seen him express any sort of emotion aside from irritation or apathy. “Not to the death or anything,” you give him another cheesy smile. “Just a friendly little match.”

“No.” He turns away again which causes you to panic because you didn’t want him ignoring you. Without thinking, you reach out to grab his arm. Dabi goes stiff and his eyes slide back to meet yours. You’d really caught him off guard this time. You look down at your hand, thinking that you should probably let him go but not actually wanting to. The burned skin under your fingers felt different than you expected. It felt leathery, but wasn’t as coarse as it looked. You rub your thumb back and forth over his forearm a couple times, marveling at the warmth it radiated due to his quirk.

You finally glance back at his face to find all his features dead aside from his blue eyes which simmered with mysterious emotions. You got the impression that if you said or did the wrong thing, he might just drag you outside and turn you into a pile of ash. That didn’t actually sound so bad. Maybe it was all right to keep pushing your luck. Your eyes drop from his eyes to his mouth. His whole lower lip and jaw were scarred with the same deep purple burns. The staples holding his damaged flesh together ran from the corners of his mouth, along his cheeks, and up towards his ears. You lean in towards him and peek back up at his eyes. The life you’d seen in them just a moment ago had been locked away, and now his stare was flat and guarded.

“So, we’re doing this now?” He asks in a low voice. Even though you’d never intended for things to go this way, you were glad that you finally had his attention.

“Is that a problem?” You smile back, batting your eyelashes once flirtatiously. His expression doesn’t change much.

“Guess not,” He shrugs before grabbing his drink off the bar with his free hand and chugging it down.

You continue to exam his face for a moment, letting your eyes wander over the burn marks under his eyes and the small piercings on the side of his nose. You were close enough to smell the liquor on his breath now and you drag your hand up his arm to grab his shoulder and pull him closer. You glance over to check on Kurogiri, but he was no longer in the room. You wonder how the misty man must think of you now that he’d witnessed your shameless attempts to use Dabi as a way to avoid your feelings.

“Are we doing this or what?” Dabi’s voice pulls your attention back and you catch a glimpse of uncertainty in the depths of his blue eyes. The reality of what you’re doing hits you suddenly like a ton of bricks. You grimace at your own actions and pull away from Dabi as fast as possible. You cover your face with your hands and let out a groan.

“Ugh!” You shake your head before looking at the man in front of you to see anger written in his glowering eyes and scowling lips. “Jeez, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that.” The fury on Dabi’s face intensifies, making you feel even worse. Without saying another word, he hops off the barstool and storms out. The crushing weight of your guilt settles in your chest and you put your head down on the bar. What was wrong with you? Even if you hadn’t really interacted with Dabi much before, he was still a member of the group that had taken you in and accepted you. If he or Kurogiri decided to tell Shigaraki about what you’d just done, you might end up back on your own or dead. Your very bad day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

[waywardfangirl]

Write This Down

General Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply

Baz Pitch/Simon Snow | 3,305 words | Complete

Summary: Inspired by Write This Down by George Strait - Baz and Simon love each other, and they know it. But, Baz came close to losing Simon once, and he doesn't intend to let that ever happen again.

***A big thank you to @foolofabookwyrm​ for editing this for me literally the second I finished writing it! I love you!!!***

Baz

The first time I told Simon I loved him, tears were pouring down both of our faces and we were absolutely miserable. It was one of the worst days of my life, and I hated the fact that every nice thing Simon and I have, every special moment and milestone in our disaster of a relationship, is marred in some way by tragedy. We kissed for the first time in the middle of a burning forest when I was so deep in the throes of self-hatred I couldn’t find my way out without Simon to save me. Instead of the honeymoon phase that every other couple gets, Simon and I received death and destruction and trauma, and then hearings and interrogations before the Coven. When we tried to go on vacation, to take a break and do something to pull Simon out of the pit of depression he had spiraled into, we almost died multiple times. When I finally propose to him I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that dark creatures can’t find us, the weather can’t ruin us, and even our well-meaning but nosy friends can’t disturb us.

But I’m getting too far ahead of myself. I can’t start planning for a proposal just yet, because I’m still not sure that I won’t lose him one day. He told me he loved me with tears streaming down his cheeks, and then he tried to break up with me.

I had started crying around that time too; I wanted to be in control, I wanted to shut off my emotions so Simon wouldn’t be hurt by my own anguish, but instead traitorous tears came streaming down my face and I started babbling out every thought I’d ever had – please don’t leave me and I’m not happy without you and no no no don’t go, Simon, please don’t and eventually I love you, I love you too, I love you so much, there’s nothing for me if you aren’t here, I love you. So, no, it was not one of our better moments.

Once I finally convinced him that breaking up with me would, in fact, not help me at all, we agreed to put serious effort into working on our relationship. This has also meant that both Simon and I found ourselves going to (separate) therapists, and coming together once a month for couple’s counseling too. Put together, we’re utilizing three-quarters of the magical word’s mental health resources. (It’s helping.)

(Read the rest on AO3, or under the cut)

I don’t know exactly what Simon discusses with his own therapist (although I could probably make a few guesses), but my therapist has been encouraging me to work on my own anxieties as of late among other things. I haven’t been able to shake my fear that Simon might decide to leave again, and that crying amidst declarations of love won’t fix things this time. So, since I can’t control the actions of others, I can only control what I think and do myself (yes, thank you Amy, the once-weekly sessions are working and I now hear your voice in my head when I evaluate my own thoughts), I’ve decided on a course of action that will help both Simon and myself.

I start by stealing his phone. He only uses the notes app to write down things he wants to bring up in therapy, so I ignore all the existing memos and start a new one, just three words – I love you.

(The numpty never bothered setting a passcode, I should modify his phone more often. He needs a new lock screen.)

 Three days later, Simon emerges from his bedroom after his appointment, face blotchy and tear tracks drying on his cheeks. Every muscle in my body pulls to gather him up in my arms and give him shelter in the form of an embrace, but I know in moments like this I have to let him make the first move. Luckily, he walks straight over to where I’m putting the dishes away and immediately buries his face in my neck. His arms cinch around my waist, and I waste no time in pulling him closer to me, carding one hand through his curls.

“Alright, love?”

He nods, pressing in closer, then mumbles into my skin, “I love you.”

Ah. He found the note, then. Good.

“I love you too.”

*****

The next week, I walk into Simon and Penny’s apartment after classes, only to find Simon asleep on the couch. Netflix is playing some action movie on the tv, and Simon’s face is twitching slightly, still reacting to the sound even while fast asleep. I know he was up late last night preparing for a big presentation, so I let him rest. As I pull my laptop out of my bag to study at the kitchen table, I grab a sticky note as well, and attach it to the center of the television screen.

I love you

An hour later, I hear the tv shut off. Simon wanders into the kitchen, sitting down at the table and scooching his chair over until it’s pressed up next to mine. He kisses me on the cheek, and then on the mouth when I turn my head.

“Hi love, how was your day?”

“Good. Better now.”

*****

Finals are upon us, and of course the worst academic weeks of the year are also the time when Simon and I decide to try spending the night together again. (Just sleeping, but sharing each other’s space for that long, being there together when we wake up the next morning.) I feel like all of this should be so much easier, like other couples just make it look so effortless – we love each other, why can’t we show it? Why is it so hard to turn those emotions into actions and words? I don’t ever want to be beside anyone else, how can I prove that to him?

After the first few nights, it starts to feel normal. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the feeling of Snow’s arms wrapped around me, his muscles relaxing as we both fall asleep, but I don’t want to get used to it. I want it to be novel every single time, I always want to feel this in love with him.

Tonight, though, I can’t let myself lie down until I finish this last essay. I’ll edit it tomorrow, but I can’t stop writing until I’m done or I know I’ll lose momentum. Simon went to bed at least half an hour ago, and that’s all the incentive I need to keep my fingers flying across the keyboard; the sooner I’m done, the sooner I’ll be back beside him.

I close my laptop at half past midnight, and attempt to straighten the academic mess on the kitchen table before breakfast ruins a textbook tomorrow morning. Snow has left his books in a perilous heap, on the verge of teetering onto the floor, so I straighten the stack, then pick up the top book.

It’s a textbook, An Introduction to Social Services, because my brave and caring boyfriend wants to continue saving the world in any way he can. The first half of the book is filled with bookmarks and flags, highlighted passages and scribbled notes in the margins. He’s been attacking his studies with a vigor he’s never shown for academia before, and I’m so proud of him. I pick up a pen and add a note of my own under the practice review he’s flagged with tomorrow’s date (when did he get to be so organized? He’s wonderfully full of surprises even now) – You’re absolutely brilliant, love.

I leaf through the book to the next practice exam, this one flagged for three days from now. You’re the most caring man I’ve ever met, you were born for this work. The review in the middle of the book gets a simple (true) I’m so proud of you, and then I start leafing through the pages I assume Simon will be using next semester. I don’t let myself question the future, I don’t let uncertainty and anxiety creep in, I just write notes on random pages, to be discovered in the middle of lectures or homework or studying.

My darling

You’re the only sunshine I need

Have I told you lately how handsome you are?

I adore you

You’re my perfect other half, I’m so happy we match

Finally, I leave an index card mixed in with the ones he’s been using for review.

Q: How much do I love you?

A: More than I can possibly say.

*****

Simon Snow can still go off. He’s less physically destructive now, nothing in the flat gets burnt to a crisp and he doesn’t leave craters behind, but sometimes his emotions get stopped up until they come out in a flood of yelling and crying, and he erupts.

We’ve both been trying to be better about handling our outbursts, and trying not to take bad days out on the other, but sometimes it still happens. I don’t know exactly what happened today, but from what I can make out it seems like small things just piled up until I rolled my eyes when Simon suggested watching Star Wars, and that became the straw that broke the camel’s back. Old habits die hard, and we both still give as good as we get when fighting, so fifteen minutes later Penelope came home to find a screaming match in the living room and neither of us even aware of what we were saying or fighting over anymore.

She made us sit down and go through all the skills we’ve learned (use “I” statements, list your emotions, say what you admire about the other person – fine, thank you Amy, your voice is still in my head) until finally we had calmed down enough to be there for each other again.

I held Simon as he cried into my shirt, and we crawled into bed together still holding hands. We kissed before falling asleep and the last thing I remembered was Simon’s breath ghosting over me.

Now though, I’m awake, pulled from sleep and my boyfriend’s arms because I needed a glass of water, and I suddenly can’t stop reliving our argument. We’re fine, I know we are, we’re going to be okay. All couples fight, what matters is that we sat down and talked about it afterwards. We’re both sorry and we both love each other.

I can’t help the voice in the back of my head though, the voice that insists that Simon still thinks I don’t love him and that he might leave me again. I ignore it, then tell it how wrong it is, before finally giving in to my anxiety and tearing a blank piece of paper from the notepad on the fridge. I leave the note on his bedside table, so he’ll see it first thing in the morning, when he inevitably wakes up before I do.

Simon, my dearest, I love you so much. I promise, I love you, no matter what.

*****

“Baz! Did you get it?”

Simon Snow is bouncing on the soles of his feet like a toddler crossed with a golden retriever, and if anyone else were acting like this I would make a point of ignoring them, but because it’s Simon I just kiss him quickly and pull the book out from behind my back.

“Yes, love, I got it. Hot off the press, specially for you.”

Simon’s never been much of a reader, but after discovering ‘the best book in the world’, as he puts it, he’s been devouring this series. The newest one was released today, and I promised him I would pick it up from the bookstore on my way home. (I’ve read them too, and they are quite good, although Simon is definitely more enchanted with them than I am.)

“Can we start reading it right now?” He’s got it clutched to his chest like a child, and—no, that’s dangerous territory to enter, I can’t let myself start thinking of Simon with a baby or else I won’t leave this flat until I’ve proposed to him, and he deserves a nicer proposal than whatever happens to fall out of my mouth right now. Besides, I don’t even have the ring with me, it’s still hidden in my sock drawer back in Hampshire.

“Are you suggesting skipping dinner?” I hold up the bags of takeaway I’ve brought. He looks anguished.

“Can’t we do both?”

He’s a disaster. I love him.

“Alright you bottomless pit, you can eat your dinner and I’ll read to you, will that work?”

He kisses me again in response, a proper snog that’s only interrupted when Bunce wanders through to the kitchen, remarking loudly to Shepard, “They have their own room and everything, but they still insist on doing this sort of thing out here in the open.”

Simon good naturedly flips her off, and I pull away to smirk.

“He’s far too attractive for me to confine my affection to only one room in the house, Bunce. It’s not fair to expect me to restrain myself when my boyfriend is so criminally handsome.” I take Simon’s hand and tug him into the living room to settle against me as I start to read.

When all the food has been devoured and my voice is starting to lull Snow to sleep, I grab a scrap of paper, scribble I love you on it, and then insert it in the book to mark our place.

*****

Simon has been baking up a storm. He’s determined to figure out Cook Pritchard’s recipe for sour cherry scones, because she won’t give up the secret and he hates having to wait for Pitch family gatherings to eat them. He’s going through butter like a fiend, and all of our neighbors adore us because he keeps giving batches away.

When he leaves the kitchen to go retrieve something from his bedroom I slip a note into the fridge, to be discovered the next time he picks up the butter.

I love you

 Three days later, I find the note affixed to the freezer door.

*****

“It’s so empty!”

Simon’s voice bounces off of the walls, and it almost echoes. The house really is empty, at once both exciting and intimidating – this is ours, this is where we get to keep building our life together, this is where we’ll make more memories, this is where we’ll start our family.

“The rest of our furniture will be here tomorrow, love, the movers said they could have it in before nine.”

I hear running footfalls, and then Simon comes sliding down the hall in his socks, crashing into me and almost knocking me over.

“Maybe we should keep it like this, and we can use the first floor for sock races!” He’s laughing, and so happy, and I adore him.

“Mmm, perhaps not,” I say, pushing his curls back from his face. “As enchanting as that idea may be, I expect you’d be sad if Penny and Shepard stopped visiting us because they had no place to sit. And I’m sure you would miss having a dining room table, too.” I kiss him on his nose, because it always makes him laugh, and then I lean back, grab his hands, and spin him around in circles in our empty living room.

Once we’re both too dizzy to stay standing, we collapse on the floor together, struggling to swallow our giggles. Eventually, I pull Simon back up to standing, and nudge him to start unpacking what we can. Dishes go in the cupboards, and sheets go in the linen closet. One of the boxes I open has a hammer and nails, and Simon finds the box that we put our pictures in. Some have to be set aside until the furniture is arranged, but we hang a few in the kitchen and the entry hall. Right before we blow up the inflatable mattress and go to sleep for the first time in our new house, I lead Simon back into the living room and pull out one last photo to hang.

The picture itself is quite large, a candid shot taken during our engagement party. Simon was laughing at something I’d just said, and he’s as bright and radiant as ever. I’m gazing adoringly at him, looking every bit the lovesick fool I am. Penny and Shep are in the background, along with Fiona and the rest of my immediate family, and everyone looks so happy to be celebrating the two of us. It’s one of my favorites, enlarged to sit in a frame over the mantle, where everyone who enters our home will be sure to see it.

It’s a bit of a struggle to get it to hang straight, but eventually we manage it.

“That looks lovely. I didn’t even know you’d had that one framed, I like it.”

I kiss his neck, and wrap my arms around his waist, hooking my chin over his shoulder and holding my wand out in front of him.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

We watch together as three words start to curve around our bodies in the portrait, shiny gold cursive tethering us to each other and stating simply, I love you.

Simon leans back into me, turning his face up for a kiss. “I love you too,” he whispers when we pull apart, “Show-off.” Then he’s walking backwards down the hall, leading me towards the stairs, and going to break his neck if he tries to go up the stairs without first turning around. I’ll tell him tomorrow that the spell I cast will only show those words if they’re true and if I still mean them. (They’re going to be there forever.)

*****

We go ring shopping together. We want our wedding rings to match, and to also complement the engagement rings we gave each other, so we block off an entire Saturday to find the perfect bands. (It turns out that the perfect rings are hiding in a jewelry store just a few blocks from Simon and Penny’s first apartment, which I think has a lovely symmetry to it.)

The rings themselves are simple, gold bands that compliment both of our complexions with a delicate scattering of engraved stars barely visible on the surface. We know immediately that these are our rings, we hardly need to glance at each other to confirm it.

As we’re being sized and filling out all the necessary information, I hand over a folded slip of paper.

“I would like this to be engraved on the inside of his ring, please.”

Simon’s mouth falls open for a moment, then he reaches into his jeans pocket to pull out his own slip of paper.

“I’d like this engraved inside of his too, please,” he says, and I can’t help but loop my arm around his waist.

“I suppose great minds think alike, don’t they Snow?”

He wrinkles his nose.

“You’re going to have to start calling me Pitch before too much longer, you know.”

I wasn’t prepared for this argument, and I’m far too in love with him to have a satisfactory response ready.

“No I won’t. Pitch will be your last name, and Snow will become your middle name. You call me by my middle name already, so we’ll match,” I add, as a happy afterthought.

The jeweler chuckles.

“You really do. You want the same engraving and everything.”

I feel like he maybe should have understood that those messages were meant to be a surprise, given Snow’s obvious shock, and the folded pieces of paper, but I’m a little too happy to care. Our wedding rings are going to match, inscription and all.

I love you

[shmowlwrites]

Business Man From Origins But He’s He’s Chat Noir

@the-navistar-carol @eve-valution So Eve was watching origins and saw that business man that just walks right on past Fu and was like “what if he helped Fu? He would’ve been Chat Noir!” So here we are. Nothing motivates someone like procrastination and finally, I am out of my writer’s block so maybe I’ll get my prompts done soon. No salt, except Gabriel Agreste hatred, as usual I had no idea what I was really doing until half-way through, there will be a second part to complete Origins, which I also have no idea what I’m gonna be doing with Also, I promise that ending is v much innocent, why are adult-teen friendships hard to write?

Gabriel had places to be. Things to do. Cases to win. Oh, you thought this was Gabriel Agreste? No. This was Gabriel Durand, a powerful lawyer who ruled the court with an iron fist. He knew more details about you than you did. If you faced him in court, you might as well tell the judge that you forfeit, you’re going to lose anyway. 

Now, Gabriel thought of himself as a humble man outside of his ruthless court tactics. He tried to help people on his way to and from work and his research projects for work. So when, even when a little behind schedule than normal, he came across an old man on the sidewalk trembling as he reached for his cane, he stooped down to help pick the man up and set him back to his feet. 

However, before he could ask if he was alright, the screeching of a car drifting right in the middle of the street to pull up on the sidewalk as a young blond began running up the stairs. Two adults got out, one scarily huge and the other Gabriel was familiar with due to her standing in for the recluse that shared his name. So that must be Adrien Agreste… 

Gabriel’s face set. Gabriel- the fashion empire- had always been something that set him off. He switched his phone on to record- they were close enough that recording the altercation from his pocket would do fine. The couple of seconds long interaction found Gabriel with new information. What exactly was going on in the Agreste household?

He turned to the old man who now had a pensive look on his face. “I’m sorry about that- Are you alright, sir? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” He asked.

“Oh, I’m quite alright,” the old man gave him a sating smile. Gabriel had been around enough snakes to spot a smile meant to placate hiding behind the facade of being genuine.

“Is something troubling you?” Gabriel asked. “I don’t mean to pry, if there is something.”

“Oh no- I just noticed that you tried recording what happened with that young man there. Why?” The old man’s brow furrowed.

“That was Adrien Agreste and two of Gabriel Agreste’s employees. I’ve always thought something was off with that family, but I’ve never had proof of my thoughts. Funny how you employ your son as a model for everything you make and keep him hidden in the house.” Gabriel looked to the school’s stairs, remembering Adrien’s plea. What was the wrath of Gabriel Agreste like? 

“Ah, I understand,” the old man hummed, leaning forward on his cane. “You worry about that young man?”

“Indeed,” Gabriel nodded, turning back to the elder. He checked his watch and nearly choked. “I’m so sorry, sir, but I’m running late for work, I must go!” Gabriel wheeled around and ran for it. 

And then there were the tremors in the earth, the walls nearly caving from the measured shakes. Fearing an earthquake, the court ran. It didn’t matter about the case- they had just finished up. As Gabriel slid under a bench, he noticed something off about his briefcase. It was soft, meaning he could see if there was a lump in the leather. And indeed- there was a lump. Pulling it out, the lump turned out to be a hexagonal black box with an intricate red design on the cover. Now wasn’t really the time to check out strange items in your briefcase, so he stuck it back in. Just at that moment, a police officer barged into the courtroom, allowing for its occupants to hear the screaming outside. Declaring there was a monster outside, the officer required everyone to run for an inner hiding place. 

Gabriel ran for his office. The earthquake wasn’t an earthquake, rather the steps of the stone monster, so while he waited for whatever to happen, he decided to finally check out the contents of the box. He froze when a green light appeared and floated around him. He only blinked when a cat-like bug-thing materialized out of it. 

“Oh, fils de pute.”

“Oh, do you kiss your maman with that mouth?”

Gabriel didn’t like this. Why did he let Plagg convince him to do this? Here he was, standing on a rooftop of all places, dressed in something he would never normally were. A lawyer, Plagg had mused and decided this would be fun. Here he was, in a black suit, black button-up, black bowtie, black loafers he wouldn’t normally wear that had grippy cat paw pads on the bottom. Now if the gothic suit wasn’t enough, he was wearing a masquarde-esque black mask that reminded him too much of the Batman masks, with their pointy “bat ears” sticking up from them. He tried tugging it off. Turns out it was like the mask was superglued to his freaking face.

Now, if Gabriel thought he looked ridiculous, it had nothing on the stupid belt tail and, upon looking in a mirror, his cat eyes. His eyes were normally brown, but now they were a glowing amber. 

Unbelievable. 

No, what was even more unbelievable was that whoever gave him this miraculous, didn’t find another adult. No. They gave it to some young teenage girl. Who stuttered and had confidence issues. He wasn’t a dad! He was bad with kids! How was he supposed to help her?!

“Uh, don’t worry too much,” he tried a smile. She still looked at him with wide, scared eyes. “I mean, I’m also new at this. I don’t even know the first thing of what I’m doing right now. Plagg, my kwami, told me a few things, but he didn’t really give me a confidence booster besides telling me-” he mimicked Plagg’s voice “-it’ll be fun! Loosen up, law-boy!”

It seemed to work, the girl giggled at his impression of Plagg. “A-ah, thank you.”

“So, what does your miraculous do? Perhaps we can plan before shoving ourselves into that situation,” Gabriel asked, grabbing the black-matted chrome bo-staff he had been trying to figure out when the girl ran into him. One of the golden paw-pads slid a screen up, and he finally found out that he could read his powers on there. 

“Uh, Tikki told me it was…” the girl frowned. “If I say it, even in a sentence, will it activate it?”

“Probably,” Gabriel grunted. “It looks like I’m your support though. I can destroy things at a touch, I can also send a ball of destructive energy out, but I’m not too sure about trying that right now.”

“My power is something lucky. I have to tear the item the Akuma is hiding… and…” the girl’s face started to show panic again. “What else was I supposed to do?!”

“Don’t worry right now,” Gabriel crouched so that he was looking up at her. “Let’s prioritize. There is an- what did you call it?” He had heard her, but he wanted to keep her grounded.

“An Akuma,” the girl answered, her fists still clenched tightly. 

“Okay, so we need to find that. We need to break it. In words, it sounds easy. I’m sure with your power, it’ll either give us great luck or give us something helpful to increase our chances. So now, the words sound a little more plausible. If anything goes wrong, we’ll fall back and regroup and plan. Does that round alright?” Gabriel asked.

“Yeah…” the girl nodded. “Um… What do I call you?”

“Hm…” Gabriel hummed. “Well, my miraculous is the black cat, yeah? Call me Chat Noir.” He didn’t ask the girl, and perhaps he should’ve, but he felt she would’ve panicked on finding a name.

They found Stoneheart at the DuPont stadium, chasing a young teen. Gabriel vaulted off the wall, extended his bo-staff to slam down between Stoneheart and the teen. 

“Don’t you know assault and property damage is illegal?” he found himself asking, buying the teen time to run while Stoneheart was focused on him.

Having no clever words, Stoneheart instead decided to try to squish him underhand. Swinging his bo-staff at Stoneheart, he tried to trip him. Instead, the staff bounced off and Stoneheart grew in size.

“Merde, merde, merde,” Gabriel muttered, finding himself flipping away. Where did his sudden athleticism come from? He was a lawyer, for God’s sake! And where was his partner? Please don’t say she bailed on him, he would more than likely kill Stoneheart than “free the Akuma” if he used his power on Stoneheart.

Speaking of which, the monster picked up a soccer goal post and tossed it at him. Unaware of his surroundings, he batted it away, only to then realize there was a person in the way. He tossed his staff, sending it flying after pressing the extend button. Right before the goal post hit her, the staff reached and the civilian was unharmed. However, that left him without a weapon, and Stoneheart grabbed him.

“What are you waiting for, super red bug? The world is watching you!” The civilian called, and Gabriel found solace in that. The girl was still there, but she was perhaps still on the verge of a panic attack. He didn’t think that would help her; in fact, he thought that would only send her further down the rabbit hole. 

However, suddenly the teen slid under Stoneheart’s legs and had a brave smile on her face. “Animal cruelty? How shameful!” And with a mighty tug, Stoneheart was sent onto his back and Gabriel went flying into the goal post on the other end of the field.

“Sorry I took so long, Chat Noir,” the girl fretted.

“It’s alright,” Gabriel grunted as he rolled to his feet. “You were nervous and that is fully understandable. But we’re together now, aren’t we?”

The girl gave him a beaming smile before looking back at Stoneheart with a frown. “Any plans? He gets bigger with every attack… We’ll need to do something other than attack, right?”

“I think it’s time to use your luck,” Gabriel nodded to her.

The girl made a sound of confirmation and tossed her yo-yo into the air. “Lucky Charm!”

A wet suit fell into her hands. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” She shrieked. “How am I supposed to break anything with this?”

“He’s made of stone…” Gabriel began to analyze their opponent. “His right hand is clenched, he only uses his right. You think he’s holding his Akuma?” Gabriel suggested.

The girl perked, her eyes taking in other things while Gabriel kept his attention on Stoneheart. “Here’s my plan!”

Gabriel spared her a glance. “Anything you need me to do?”

She poked the hose at their feet into the wetsuit and then wrapped her yo-yo around his legs. “I’m sorry- do you mind being bait?”

Absolutely he minded! But, he only gave her a nervous grin before he was tossed towards Stoneheart. Now caught, he turned his attention towards the girl, confused as she called towards the monster. “Catch me if you can!”

And she was also caught, but he noticed the purple wadded ball of something fall to the ground. She turned towards the girl that he had saved earlier. “Alya, the tap!”

Did she know the girl?

But either way, the girl- Alya - turned on the hose and his partner popped out of the giant’s hand. She stomped on the paper ball, and a purple-black butterfly fluttered away. Gabriel fell to the ground with the disappearance of Stoneheart and the appearance of a rather large teen.

“Are you alright, boy?” Gabriel found himself asking, sitting on the ground and folding over his knees.

“I- What happened?” The boy asked.

“You were… I guess the word would be Akumatized,” Gabriel offered. He felt bad for thinking of him as a monster- he was only influenced by the Akuma! Would all so-called monsters just be victims of Akumas? “But it’s alright. My partner and I helped you.”

The sound of his partner’s voice brought the two out of their conversation- she was reading the paper that had held the Akuma.

“Kim wrote it,” the boy sighed. “He’s always making fun of me.”

“You know, you shouldn’t get so bent out of shape about that. There’s no shame in telling someone you love them, Ivan.”

Was this girl a classmate? She knows the name of two teenagers- of which there were probably a million in Paris- and knew a lot more about the situation than he was.

“How do you know my name, miss?”

That sent the girl into a nervous giggle fit. Thankfully, she was saved from answering that. Alya was recording them at an uncomfortably close distance. 

“Uncanny! A-mazing! Spectacular! Are you gonna be protecting Paris from now on? How did you get your powers? Oh, I’ve got a ton of questions to ask you… uh?”

Gabriel looked to his partner. He wasn’t about to promise anything she was too nervous about. The girl met his eyes and nodded. Gabriel stood, helping Ivan to his feet as well.

“Ladybug. Call me Ladybug,” the girl held her head up.

“Chat Noir,” Gabriel dipped his head. “We’ll protect you and find the source of this phenomenon.”

Gabriel found he kind of liked the whole experience, once the threat of death was gone. Ladybug was a nice girl, he hoped she stuck around despite her anxiety.

[anxiously-introverted]

Can you write a a scene about Will first activating his powers and losing control and El and Mike ( Mike is there cuz it’s the holidays so they’re all visiting eatchother) and maybe Joyce idk and they have to snap him outta it and calm him down? What others powers/other stuff can he do with his electricity?

On top of being able to manipulate electricity, I also like the idea of Will having telepathic powers like El’s. However, instead of being able to enter the minds of people, Will is able to enter, and even control, the minds of the creatures from the Upside Down (such as the Demogorgon).

Here’s the scene I was picturing! Please be aware, Lonnie is a jerk with homophobic views in this and the kids like to swear. Hope you enjoy!

 “Why is it that every time something seems to go wrong here nowadays, it’s because of you?” Lonnie snarled, hand twisted into the fabric of Will’s shirt as he cornered his son against the brick wall of the local convenience store. It was cold, wind nipping harshly at Will’s skin as he stared up at his father with wide eyes.            

The past few days had been going so well for him. The Party had already had several hangouts and movie nights, trying to spend as much time as possible together before Will and El had to return to their new home in New Mexico. So far, it almost felt as if things hadn’t really changed. Sure, Will still felt that particular pang of hurt when he saw Mike and El showing each other affection. Yeah, there came a certain sting when he heard about how some kid at their school was so great at Dungeons and Dragons, yet the group never wanted to play when Will had been suggesting it. Maybe he did still feel left out when everyone talked relationships while he knew he could never discuss the feelings he had without the others being disgusted.           

 Perhaps there was still a lot of pains that still rattled him, but the small flashes of happiness with his best friends that made up for it. For the most part, at least.           

 Yesterday, though, there was a sudden change in the mood. Lonnie Byers had blown into town like a glowering tumbleweed, the news of what happened during the summer making its way back to him after a long delay.            

His unstable son, after going in and out of a lab that was eventually shut down permanently, had also been involved in a huge incident at the mall which resulted in it being destroyed. There was gossip of Russians and the disappearance of the chief of police.           

He insisted that he would’ve come sooner to see Will, if only Joyce had given him their new address. He told Will he’d been so worried, that he didn’t know what to think when he’d gotten random bills from the lab and the hospital. He assured that had he’d known everything that had been happening, he would’ve been here. But, he said, he was here now.           

He said he wanted to know what was going on.           

He said he wanted to help.            

Will felt like a fool for believing him.            

“It wasn’t bad enough that you had to be a dirty little queer,” Lonnie said with curled lips, as if the taste of bile came up with the word. “But now I’ve got people around here sayin’ my kid was moved to a looney bin outta state, locked up with the other bleeding hearts and crazies. You have any idea how goddamn humiliating it is to have the town freak as my son?”            

Tears stung at Will’s eyes, though he refused to let them fall. He tried blinking them away, hazel eyes clearing up the blur minimally as he tried to retort, “Why do you care? You don’t even live here anymore! I don’t even live here anymore!” He was shaking, he was struggling. He felt like he was in a cage with a lock that was on the verge of breaking.           

“Oh, so it’s fine to turn your family into a fucking joke?!” Lonnie snapped. “Not to mention all the damn bills that keep flooding in from the hospital. You have any idea how much money-“           

 “All you care about is money!” Will cut in angrily, fear and frustration coming out in a rage that had been smothered and repressed for as long as he could remember. His chest felt like it was burning, his head feeling weightless and as if a boulder rested on it all at once. The building resentment paced in his mind like a tiger in an enclosure two sizes too small. “I know about how you tried to sue Sattler after the funeral! I know you only cared about making some quick money before ditching mom and Jonathan all over again!”            

For a brief instant, there was shock on Lonnie’s face. He had never heard his son, embarrassingly weak and shamefully reserved Will, speak to him with such venom. If he weren’t so pissed, he may have felt proud. Instead, Lonnie hatefully shot back, “That money would’ve done us a hell of a lot more good than what you’ve been doing! Meltdown after meltdown, disaster after disaster, not once have you ever dealt with any of this like a man! That money wouldn’t have ruined this family’s reputation, and it wouldn’t have dragged us to the brink of debt!”            

Hotter, hotter, hotter, there may as well have been lava in his veins. Will felt more and more tears gathering in his eyes, hatred for himself and the man in front of him strangling his heart with barbed wire. There were so many things he wanted to scream. It wasn’t his fault the Demogorgon came after him; it wasn’t his fault the Mind Flayer haunted him every day until eventually robbing him of his autonomy; it wasn’t his fault Billy and the others were possessed, nor were the deaths or the destruction of StarCourt his fault. He didn’t want any of it to happened, he didn’t mean for any of it to happen. All he wanted was to forget, to move on, to start a new chapter-            

“It would’ve been better for everyone if you just stayed dead!”             

A tear broke free, gliding down his cheek. The lock on the cage broke and Will raged.               

In the Wheeler’s basement, Mike looked at the clock hanging on the wall for the fifth time within the hour. His worry and agitation was palpable, setting the other Party members on edge. El rested a gentle hand on the other’s arm, commenting, “I’m sure he’s alright, Mike.”            

“They should’ve come back by now,” the teen insisted, his brown eyes flicking worriedly to hers. “Something must have happened.”            

“He’s just out with his dad, Mike. What could happen?” Max asked, looking up with a raised brow from where she was playing cards with Dustin and Lucas.             

Mike shook his head, “You don’t know his dad, Max. He’s… He’s a major asshole. He’s been a dick to Will since elementary school.”            

“He’s right,” Lucas said, his lips twisting into a frown as memories came to mind. “He would yell at him, call him all sorts of names. And that was just what he did in front of us.”            

El’s face pinched into a look of concern at the information. She knew Lonnie was a sore subject for the Byers family, but she thought perhaps it was just the bitter aftertaste of a bad fight or the awkward hurt that had settled after the divorce. Asking questions wasn’t really an option, she felt as though it wasn’t her place to go digging into old wounds. Not to mention that Will had seemed off for what seemed like days, perhaps even weeks, now.            

She now wishes she had learned more about her new family.            

Mike stood with a hardened expression and said, “I’m going to go find him.”           

“I’ll come with you,” El said, coming up from her spot on the couch as well.             

“Do you need us to come with you?” Dustin asked, his head popping up from where he was laying on the floor.            

“We should be fine. We’ll radio you if we need help, but stay here in case my mom asks where I am,” Mike said, putting one of the radios into his sweatshirt’s pocket. With that, he and El made their way up the stairs and out of the house.            

The sky was overcast with flashes of blue.             

No words would be sufficient to describe the way Mike felt as he took in the scene before him. Lonnie lay on the ground, clutching his upper arm as he stared with petrified eyes at Will. His skin looked burned, almost charred, as if struck with a bolt of unbridled energy.            

And Will…            

Screams of anguish, rage, heartbreak; the cries of one who’s been broken one too many times cut through the air like a razor. His eyes were alight with electric energy, his irises turned dark despite the flashes of neon blue crackling out of them and emanating from the rest of his body as if he were an overpowered battery. The very air around had turned to static, almost burning with the intensity.            

One by one, shop windows began to rattle, crack, and break. Street lights flashed in bursts of blinding light, the hum of constant electricity humming through them like a chorus. The sky above them rumbled, almost gurgling on the blue energy being blasted into and out of it. Veins of blue and black danced along Will’s body, a sickening tango of power intermingled with overwhelming grief.            

Lonnie screamed, “Fucking monster! He’s a fucking monster!”            

Another bolt shot out at Lonnie, but he managed to roll out of the way just in time for it to strike and scorch the ground beside him. The man yelped as he accidentally put pressure onto his injury, his legs scrambling to get him up onto his feet.            

El could relate all too well to the scene in front of her. The lack of control, the surge of emotions, feeling as though you had all the power in the world and yet none at all. She looked at Will screaming, sobbing, breaking, and saw herself. She could see the steady stream of crimson pouring from his nose, pouring like a faucet as his body poured his very soul into the outburst around him. It was so familiar, she could almost feel the blood on her own lip.           

Willing her voice to be steady, she called out, “Will! It’s me! It’s Eleven!”            Screaming broke into choppy outbursts before stopping, as if an old engine were struggling to stop. The scratch and catch in Will’s throat could be heard from where the pair stood. Mike snapped himself from his reverie, following El’s lead, “Will, it’s Mike! Listen, it’s-“            

“Do not say it’s going to be okay!” Will rasped, heat and venom seeping through the hurt. “Nothing’s okay now and nothing’s ever going to be fucking okay!” There was a pulse of more intense energy, as if a second kick jolted within the brunette and poured out as even more strands of tangled lightning.           

“Will, please, what’s going on? You can tell us. We want to help you!” El continued, brow furrowed as she watched the boy struggle. “But first, you have to calm down!”            

“Calm down? Calm down?!” The enraged teen demanded, electricity crackling. “I’ve been told to calm down for the past three years! And it never. Fucking. Helps!” Two more bolts shot out, one striking the brick wall behind him, another striking a lamp post and shattering the bulb with the surge.            

“Then tell us what will help!” Mike pleaded, taking a small step forward. “Tell us what you need, Will!”            

“It-it,” Will struggled, gripping his hair tightly with white knuckles. “Why do you care? Just-Just stop pretending! Stop acting like I matter to you!”            

El shifted toward Will, her hands lowered and body language open. “We’re not pretending! We care about you, Will. All we want is for you to be okay.”

            “You want me dead!” Will screamed, though his energy was dipping. “You all wish I had died in that quarry! You all wish I never came back!”            

“That’s not true!” Mike said, fire coming back to his voice. “We never wanted to give up on you! Seeing your body coming out of the water, the funeral… It killed us, Will! It killed me!” The crack in the dark haired teen’s voice seemed to dim the intensity of the light coming from Will. “When we found out you were still alive, when El was able to contact you, it meant the world to us. It was… Will, do you remember what I told you that day in the shed? Do you remember what the best decision I ever made was?”            

Only the quiet crackling of electricity broke the silence.            

“It was becoming your friend, Will,” Mike said, taking two more steps forward. “That decision changed my life for the better. You made my life better, Will. You make all of our lives better. Please, Will, believe me.”            

El stepped forward as well, coming closer with small steps as she added, “You help us, Will. You helped me at school, with my homework. You took me to the movies, made us waffles, put up with shopping with me. You took care of me. Let us take care of you.”            

With a shuddering breath and a heartbroken tremble, the lighting died away and Will fell forward, angry blue and black veins disappearing as he landed into the gentle and loving arms of his sister and the boy he’s loved in secret for years.             

For the first time since 1983, Will Byers felt safe.

[bitchynaruto]

Missing Scene - The Country Between Us (CH.3)

Embarrassingly I forgot to include this scene in ch. 3 which is actually kinda important to Sasuke’s headspace and his relationship with Suigetsu + coping. ANYWHOM, it’s included now in TCBU but here is a quick link to just read the one-shot instead of rereading the entirety of the chapter again lol.

Anyway this scene takes place after Suigetsu is recruited and right before Karin is recruited into Taka. More under the cut!

Night comes and the terrain grows more dangerous in the cover of darkness. Sasuke agrees with Suigetsu about finding a place to rest, and remembers the location of a nearby town at the midway point between Orochimaru’s hideout and prison.

“Thank fuck I’m giving my back a break from the dirt,” Suigetsu says with a relieved sigh. Stretches his back until it pops before shrugging his shoulders enough to loosen the joints. “You must really be liking me today to rent us a room for tonight, eh, Sasuke?”

Honestly, Sasuke was growing tired of sleeping on the hard ground, but Suigetsu didn’t need to know that.

“We’ll see,” Sasuke replies, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I can still leave you outside if I feel like it.”

“Cold. Ice cold. I like that in a man.”

Sasuke gives a tch and a roll of his eyes, letting the comment slide off him like water. Whatever energy he has for tolerating Suigetsu’s games is at the lowest threshold, and he doesn’t much feel like indulging them any further tonight.

They make their way into town. It’s out in the open and small, quiet and glowing with lanterns and the insides of homes, lighting up the dirt paths. Noise travels from the center of town, where a few food shops are still open, and people surrounding a bar that also serves as an inn. When they step inside, the place is loud and filled to the brim with people, alcohol staining the air and burning his nose. All of the rooms for the night are taken except one, but there’s only a single bed and a couple cushions to use as a makeshift one. Sasuke takes it anyway.

The woman in charge of the inn takes the money with only a mild look of contempt for the two men standing before her, until she leaves to clean up the room. Suigetsu is already at the bar attempting to order something, only to be slid a cup of water that makes him hang his head in shame even as he takes the drink. A curl of Sasuke’s lips escapes him at the scene before him, amused, until a light of reflecting metal catches his attention. 

Across the bar, a man with a Hitai-ate, carved with the symbol of a leaf dead center, hangs his head back and laughs loud and drunk without a care in the world. 

Sasuke’s about to flash his Sharingan, fingers twitching to his sword, before he realizes the man is too drunk to notice him. There’s only two other Leaf Shinobi surrounding him, one with his head pressed flat against the table while the other is matching him shot for shot. Only then does he relax his muscles, take a deep breath before making his way towards Suigetsu.

Now tell me, Sasuke, a familiar voice echoes within his mind, I thought I taught you better than this.

The voice has Sasuke stilling, narrowing his eyes. Now that he knows Orochimaru is a figment of his mind, and cannot harm him aside from manipulating memories and visions, he’s no longer caught off guard. Won’t let himself be fearful again. That doesn’t make him unweary, or stupid enough to believe Orochimaru won’t do anything less than cause a scene.

You really think I would allow any harm to fall on my precious vessel? Sasuke-kun, you disappoint me. I pegged you smarter than this.

Taking a deep breath, settling the anger and annoyance burning through him, Sasuke finally asks through gritted teeth, “Get to the point.”

I believe your enemies are vulnerable in front of you as you speak, and yet you’ll let them pass you by without taking an opportunity to better yourself. Shameful.

“If they get in my way, I’ll kill them,” Sasuke points out, knowing Orochimaru can sense the truth in that statement. “Right now, they’re not in my way.”

Don’t be so shortsighted. There is a reason why your paths crossed, and it is ignorant of you to believe otherwise. Knowledge, Sasuke, is power.

As much as Sasuke hates to admit it, the snake has a point. It is strange that Konoha Shinobi would be out so far from the Land of Fire, even though this were in fact a mere pitstop on the way to or from a mission. If there’s more of them near here, Sasuke shouldn’t make light of their increased presence.

Afterall, Sasuke’s a wanted man.

Sasuke makes his way through the crowded bar towards the booths and tables where the men talk amongst themselves. Most of the patrons are drunk, or are older than him, and pay him little mind—in fact, actively ignore his presence. It doesn’t take him long to settle into the table behind the men, back towards them as he focuses out the abstract noise of the other patrons aside from his target. 

None of the men notice him either. 

“I swear, I can’t wait to get back home,” one of the men drawls out, clearly on the verge of drunkenness. “Nobody makes katsudon like my girl does.”

“Don’t torture your poor lady by coming back home,” the other says through fits of laughter. “She’s probably having the time of her life without your ugly ass there.”

“Oi, fuck you.”

The men at the table burst out into a fit of full-bellied laughter to which Sasuke rolls his eyes at. He should have realized they were too drunk and off-duty to give anything worthwhile for Sasuke to pick up on. Listening to Orochimaru has never yielded in anything positive, and to do so now only proves his point further.

Don’t turn away now. 

But Sasuke’s already standing, about to leave the table and go upstairs into bed. No more entertaining Orochimaru’s desires any longer. Sasuke may have to deal with the snake slithering in his thoughts and mind, but that didn’t mean he had to act on them.

Sasuke’s about to head over towards where Suigetsu’s at, until a name has him freezing.

“Danzō’s a little crazy over this Orochimaru business anyway,” the third man says on the quieter side, sounding more sober than the rest. “How long has he been dead for now? What we really should be looking for is that traitor, Sasuke.” 

The man spits Sasuke’s name with so much venom and hatred, but it’s only a fraction of what Sasuke feels for them. Cute, in its own way. 

“You know our orders,” one of them slurs. “Find the prisoners and rescue them. Strengthen Konoha in our numbers.”

Sasuke’s blood turns to ice at that statement.

“What do you think he’s doing with them all anyway?”

“When’s the last time you’ve been in Konoha? Can’t go anywhere without an ANBU breathing down your neck or walking the streets. Not hard to figure out where they’re all ending up, and then we get stuck on these boring rescue missions. It’s unfair.”

“Shut up,” the more sober one seethes, smacking the other with the palm of his hand. “You’ve got a loose tongue. If we continue to do well, hell, maybe we’ll be assigned to hunt down that bitch Uchiha. Think of how fun that’d be.”

“Finally, it’s time someone put an end to that cursed clan,” says the other. “I’ll give the Hokage that much. Nobody has come close to bettering Konoha this much since the Senjus were in charge.”

The others murmur in agreement, laughing, and Sasuke’s already stomping past the group, fuming. Heartbeat pounding in his ears, the hatred and rage surging through him is all he can feel, all encompassing. 

All of them had wanted the Uchihas gone from the start. They didn’t need to know the details, but they had accepted Danzō’s role in the decimation in the clan—had even claimed his decisions made Konoha better, stronger. Sasuke’s read the journal belonging to the second Senju, has read the vile words of hatred without any fancy words hoping to hide away their true intent. 

After the massacre, so many of Konoha’s people looked at him with sympathy or pity. Approached him in ways they never had before. Sasuke had thought it came from their inability to understand his situation and trying their best to mask it, to push through it in order to offer their best sympathy to a boy who had lost everything in a single night. He knew the village thought of him as a survivor, a relic of an extinct and powerful clan, a piece in the machine to showcase the village’s strength and superiority to the rest of the world. 

Reality crashes into him and shatters the last illusion he had about Konoha. None of them approached him because of the tragedy of what happened, they only approached him because he was nothing to fear on his own. A fledgling Uchiha to control and use for Konoha’s own benefit.

Like Orochimaru had chosen him.

Now you understand why I sought Konoha’s destruction, Orochimaru’s voice slithers through his thoughts, I was made by Konoha. Only I could understand the pervasive nature of its being, and knew to avoid anything worse birthed from that village, it would need to no longer exist.

“Shut up,” Sasuke snaps as he goes up the stairs towards his room. Second on the left if he remembers the innkeeper correctly, but it’s hard to focus with his racing thoughts and Orochimaru’s voice. “Your reason for destroying Konoha has nothing to do with my reasons for my mission. We are nothing alike.”

You may say that now, but Konoha birthed your hatred and anger also. We are cut from the same cloth. Perhaps you believed you could fulfill your mission without me, but you’ll soon realize you still need me, my precious Sasuke.

He shuts his eyes so tight until all he can feel is his pulse pushing against his. The laughter comes back, echoing, and the muscle in his jaw threatens to jump right out.

“Sasuke?” Suigetu’s voice comes through as he steps inside the room. When he opens his eyes, the other has a glass of water in his hands, quirking a single brow at him. “You good?”

The laughter cuts off like a scratch of a record, and Suigetsu’s presence delivers the silence Sasuke had been seeking. 

After a moment to revel in the quiet, Sasuke answers, “Fine.”

Suigetsu eyes him a moment before he shrugs, moving to take off his shirt and get into his sleep pants. As always, the other doesn’t care for modesty, and as he’s changing into his sleep pants, says, “I saw you hanging around those Konoha jerks and thought you were getting into trouble.”

“No,” Sasuke replies. “Trouble usually finds me.”

“You can say that again,” Suigetsu says with a feral grin. “Never a dull moment with you around, Sasuke.”

Sasuke eyes him, and the anger and hatred burning through him has smoldered. “Is that why you came with me? For a good time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the only reason.” That piques Sasuke’s curiosity, gets him to keep listening—the blatant honesty of Suigetsu surprisingly being one of his more endearing traits. “Nobody else has the balls to kill Orochimaru, not even that pesky Hokage of yours could. You woke up one day and figured it was time for that old bitch to die.”

A quiet huff of air leaves past his nose, lips twitching upward momentarily. “It wasn’t as simple as that. I spent a lot of time researching on ways to kill that snake, trained until my body gave out, and waited until he was at his weakest.”

“And modest, too.”

“Not modest,” Sasuke replies. “Just telling you the truth.”

“Either way people tried to kill him, and you were the only one who didn’t fail. Orochimaru tried to make you his bitch, but you came out the other side,” Suigetsu shrugs, turning to Sasuke with a smirk on his face. “ I listen to you and I don’t hear a bullshitter. I hear someone who can get shit done.”

Sasuke stares at Suigetsu, at the way the words fall off his tongue and the heat in the pools of his eyes. The longer he does, the further the grin split across the other’s face continues to grow. Suigetsu steps closer and closer, until he’s standing in Sasuke’s personal bubble.

Funnily enough, Sasuke doesn’t care.

“What?” Suigetsu asks, tilting his head down towards Sasuke. A pleasant warmth spikes in him, electrifying in a way the overwhelming anger from earlier drowned out anything good. “Said too much?”

“No, just enough.”

“Oh?” 

“You had a point, before,” comes Sasuke’s words as he undoes the belt holding his white tunic together. Doesn’t break eye contact with the other, not even when Suigetu’s gaze drops to where his hands are pushing the fabric away. “Weeks after we first met.”

“Remind me what point I made, my brain’s forgetful around men who look like you.”

“I was holding back before.” Sasuke chuckles, dark and deep. Hooks his fingers into the waistband of Suigetsu’s pants and pulls him close. From this close, he can see his own reflection in Suigetsu’s dilated pupils, a mirror of his own eyes staring back at him. “Abstaining from what I really wanted for some idea of a nobler cause.”

Maybe he was holding onto an outdated notion of what he must do to make sure the Uchiha were avenged. Taking off the head does nothing if the claws are still attached and the venom still surges throughout the veins within the body. 

Konoha created Danzō, Orochimaru, and Itachi. It is not enough to simply take out the leaders when the village itself is the poison. 

Which is why the Leaf Village must be destroyed. Only through destruction can the world be purged from its insidious beliefs that plagues not only the Land of Fire, but the entire world. Anyone who stands with Konoha is as guilty as its leaders, and deserves equal punishment for the crime of passivity for believing in the sham that is the Will of Fire. 

“Not anymore, though.”

Three words are all the other needs, and Suigetsu is all over him. Hands roaming over him with enthusiasm. When Suigetsu presses his mouth against him, he is reminded that this is his body. His choice. 

Everything up to here has been ruled by other’s actions besides his own, but now he’s truly broken free and can see the future with clear eyes.

Sasuke’s mind and body is his own.

No going back to how it was before.

[tangledstarlight]

choices we make (they can define us)

SPOILERS for nemesis games and babylon's ashes. seven years after the ships vanished through the gate, filip makes a call that he should have a long time ago.

' He couldn’t change things with Marco. It was a ship that had long since sailed and vanished. But Naomi was still out there. If he wanted to, he could try to talk to her. To reach out and try to salvage the remains of a relationship they barely had to begin with. '

i just wanted a filip and naomi reunion moment in ab or pr or a whole novella i dont care so i made it myself ok. (first time i’ve done an expanse fic so like. be nice? ikd) 

also on ao3

Filip.

His name had been Filip Inaros once upon a time. He had meant to be part of something big, something amazing, something history altering.

And then he hadn’t been.

He had met his mother. He had met the people his actions affected. He had seen the destruction and wreckage he had caused in a new light. He had let the little voice in the back of his mind to get a foothold and power through.

He had thrown away his gun, his terminal, his uniform. He had thrown away his name.

As far as anyone knew, Filip Inaros had vanished and died through the ring gates with the remnants of the Free Navy and Marco. In a way, he supposed it was true. If you wanted the solar system and its inhabitants to think you were dead, there wasn’t really a more spectacular way to do so.

He had been sitting in the waiting area of the workers union, his attention, like everyone else's, had been on the screens showing fifteen ships speeding for the ring gate and the certain destruction of the lone gun ship on the other side. Filip doubted anyone else in the room had known the true significance of Marco’s hatred for the Rocinante and her crew.

And then all fifteen ships had vanished. Between one blink and the next. There then gone.

Filip could still remember the silence that had fallen over the room, over the whole station. Everything that happened after that was a blur. He couldn’t remember getting his job assignment. Or when he moved into a tiny crappy hole in the worst part of the station. For long months he just went through the motions of living while his brain came to terms with the sudden gaping loss in his life, his heart.

He should have been on the ship. Should have been strapped into one of the crash couches next to Marco. Should have vanished into atoms along with the rest of them. Should have. Should have . Should have . On repeat in his brain.

News of the Rocinante making its way back to Sol for some big important meeting broke through the fog in his mind. Life was still going on. People were scrambling and trying to fix all the problems Marco and his Free Navy had left behind. It was the first time he remembers hating him, for caring more about them and ‘wrongs’ they had caused him instead of the Belt.

They were supposed to show the Inners their strength, to build a better future for all Belters, do something history altering. All Marco managed to do was destroy the Earth and leave everyone on the verge of collapse and death, at the mercy of the Inners. All because Naomi Nagata had walked away from him twice and never looked back. He wanted to hate her for it too, but he couldn’t find the hate for her anymore.

Where they should have been celebrating victory, freedom, only Filip stood. Doing what he could to help fix the station he had helped wreck on his fifteenth birthday.

Because Filip Inaros had been meant to be part of this something big, something amazing, something history altering. And it hadn’t happened. It was a dream lost to the void and it’s place taken by Filip Nagata who wanted to try and ease the guilt simmering in his chest, wanted to be no one important, wanted to live his life based on his own choices.

Working on environmental systems was something he knew how to do, knew how to fix and improve. It gave his life a sense of monotony and he couldn’t complain. It was what he had chosen to do. But when the announcements came through that the newly formed Transport Union was looking to hire on crew for some of its new ships, Filip felt a longing for ship life he hadn’t even known was there.

 He wanted to be part of a crew again.

So he had signed up. No one had even looked at him twice when the name Filip Nagata was called and he found himself stretching out on his new bunk, smiling at the sounds of a ship around him.

He was pretty sure, if Marco was alive and could see him working for the union that had been James fucking Holden’s idea, he would have found himself in an airlock and a countdown to put on a vac suit. But Marco was gone – had been assumed dead for five years and counting – and the Belt had found its saviour in Michino Pa and a peace with the Inners even he couldn’t deny was beneficial to everyone.

They’d done everything Marco had promised, raised the Belt up from the ashes and gave them a voice. Made them strong and important in the new world order. Sometimes he wondered what Marco would think.

Alaya was born on Mars but had lived and worked on Ceres since she was fourteen and her family had relocated. She was part of the maintenance crew on the ship and they first met when Filip dropped noodles on her foot. She was sweet and funny, didn’t mind when he went quiet or that there were parts of his past he couldn’t talk about. She introduced him to new music and Martian shows he begrudgingly found funny, she was the first person he had been with for longer than a few nights before having to leave.

He was pretty sure he loved her.

So when the news came that her mother was dying and that she needed to come home, Filip went with her without a second thought.

Though the second thought came while they were in the middle of docking and he remembered Anderson Dawes banning him from Ceres for shooting a security officer and he wondered if anyone would recognise him despite the time that had passed and the change of his name.

Filip didn’t want his past to be revealed to Alaya because he was getting arrested or deported. The thought came that maybe it was time to tell her everything. Unburden his soul and hope she was there to catch him if he fell.

Seeing Alaya with her parents, the way they hugged each other, smiled and asked how she was, listened to her tell stories from the ship, it made Filip realise he had never really experienced it. The unconditional love of a family unit.

Because he had Marco by his side his whole life teaching him, helping him, preparing him for a life as a Belter in an self made army. He had spent his childhood on ships and surrounded by people who said they loved him and cared about him like family. But Marco had never sat down and listened to him talk the way he was seeing now. Never asked him what he wanted to do with his life. And he would never get the chance to change that now.

Because Naomi had left before he could really remember her, forced out by someone trying to make her someone she wasn’t. Forced to leave him behind because everyone said she was crazy for not wanting to kill Inners like a true Belter. And Filip was old enough now, had had enough time to think about the past to realise how much it had probably hurt her to leave him behind, how much strength it had probably taken to keep living after. He couldn’t hate her for it anymore. But he wasn’t sure if he was ready to wholly forgive her either.

He couldn’t change things with Marco. It was a ship that had long since sailed and vanished. But Naomi was still out there. If he wanted to, he could try to talk to her. To reach out and try to salvage the remains of a relationship they barely had to begin with.

The whole idea was terrifying.

He found a secluded corner and opened up a new comm and looked at himself in the little viewing window. His hair had grown longer after months on the ship and there were signs of patches of hair on his face from the beard he was attempting to grow. He wondered if she would recognise him. He found himself hoping she would. If he sent the message it would leave the choice up to her about what happened next.

Maybe she wouldn’t even care.

He needed to know if she cared.

“Naomi, it’s Filip. Thought I should tell you I never got on the Pella when he went after you. Know I should have sent this long time ago and but I–” he paused looking away from the terminal and tried to find the right words for what he wanted to say. Seven years of emotions wanting to spill out. “Didn’t know if you’d want to know. Didn’t know how to say it, yeah? Told me to find you if I wanted to die. Didn’t want to die, me, just wanted out. So got out. Spent a lot of time trying to figure out who I am in the last few years. Got people I care about, people who care about me. Want to be someone who helps fix things, not break them. And wanted you to know that I’m okay,” It seemed like an insignificant explanation but it was the best he could do. “That I’m living a life I like. Been thinking me, yeah? On Ceres for a while, lots of time to think about things. About the past. Me and you, if you wanted, still chance to get to know each other, yeah? Past is past but we still got chance for a future maybe.”

Filip looked at himself in the viewing window, trying to decide if there was anything else he wanted to say. He could still delete the message, push his terminal back in his pocket and pretend he’d never thought about it. But then he remembered watching Alaya and her mom just that morning as they drank coffee and talked quietly together about plans they might not get to have.

He pressed send and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.

☆☆☆

Naomi.

The message came through while Naomi was alone on the ops deck and in the middle of checking through their inventory, flagging what they needed to get once they hit Ceres. She had been expecting a response from someone about discounted replacement parts so hit play without checking the recipient. Her heart stuttered a beat as Filips voice filled the silence.

“Naomi, it’s Filip. Thought I should tell you…” She stopped listening. Her heartbeat echoing in her ears as all she could do were stare at the screen, at her boy as he talked. Not dead. He wasn’t dead. Naomi wasn’t sure she was breathing. Wasn’t sure she knew how to breathe anymore.

She had left him twice, had lost him three times. She had mourned. Had been mourning since the day she first left Ceres. And had never thought she would hear his voice again, see his face. The message had stopped play, was frozen on the screen with Filip facing the camera but looking away, jaw clenched like he was struggling with something. Forcing a breath out through her mouth, Naomi counted to five slowly before she played the message again, prepared to hear his voice this time and listened to what he had to say.

She listened to it another five times and didn’t notice when she started crying. She didn’t hear Jim coming up in the lift until he was standing behind her.

“Shit is that–?” He didn’t finish the sentence as Naomi paused the message and turned around in her chair, using the chuffs of her coveralls to wipe at her cheeks.

“Filip. He’s not dead.” Those three words started repeating themselves in her head, bouncing around as she tried to believe them. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

“Shit,” he said again as if it was the only thing thought in his head. She couldn’t blame him. Her thoughts weren’t any more coherent right now either. “Can I?” Jim gestured to the message, asking permission to hear it. Naomi played it again, listened to it for the sixth time. Listening to it with someone else made it feel more real, made her believe it wasn’t a dream.

The two of them sat in silence for long seconds after it finished both of them lost in their own thoughts and emotions.

“What are you going to do?” Jim asked his eyes on hers and a small smile on his lips. As if he already knew what she was going to do before she had even decided.

“He wants to get to know me. I–,” Naomi shook her head once and closed her eyes to order her thoughts, her emotions. There were too many to sort through, so she clung to the joy and relief and new found hope. She could worry about the rest later. Opening her eyes she let out a deep breath and turned to face Jim with a small smile of her own. She knew he would support her whatever her choice. “I need to reply. Tell him I want the chance too.”

“Okay. Want me to keep everyone out of here while you do it?”

“Gonna do it in our room. Quiter. Might take me a while.” She got up from her crash couch, stretching her arms above her head, paused to kiss Jim on the cheek once before heading towards the lift, already trying to work out what she was going to say. She stopped before she headed down, looking back to Jim as he watched her. “Can you tell the others, please?”

“Of course. I’ll be in the galley if you need me.” And she knew he meant it, if she needed him for anything he would be there. She loved him for it, even more for him knowing she needed to do this alone.

Alone in her and Jim's room, Naomi sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her terminal. Everything she wanted to say seemed insignificant, seemed too small, seemed too late for the situation they were in. But he had reached out to her, and Naomi wasn’t about to let him go again. Opening the message she let it play again, using the minutes to calm her racing heart and focus her thoughts. When the prompt to reply flashed, she hit it.

“Hello Filip. I– thank you doesn’t seem like the right thing to say, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Knowing that you’re not– knowing that you’re okay, it’s something I never thought I’d hear you say. I’m glad you’re okay. All I ever wanted was for you to be okay, to be happy, yeah?” She tried to smile, hoping it came across as genuine and not so grimaces as it did to her. “You have been part of my heart from the second you were born, I’ll take being part of your life in anyway you’ll let me. We’re docking on Ceres in a few weeks, if you want we could meet? Talk, dinner on me,” she shrugged with one hand, trying to nonchalance but failing and not caring. “Up to you. I'm glad you’re okay Filip, I hope you’re happy too.”

She didn’t stop to review it, knowing she would never be able to make it perfect the way she wanted it to be. There probably wasn’t a way to make it perfect, this wasn’t really something people did every day. She just hit send, watching as the file loaded and zipped off at lightspeed along with all the hope she didn’t know she still had.

The reply came two days later while she was in the galley with Bobbie as they stood around the coffee machine. It must have been obvious from the look on her face what it was.

“Want me to go?” She asked and it took Naomi a split second to decide she didn’t want to be alone this time.

“No, no it’s okay. Stay,” she looked up at her over the top of her terminal and Bobbie gave her a reassuring smile as Noami took a deep breath and hit play. She was ready for his voice this time, ready to see his face. It still felt like a punch to the gut though. It was a short message.

“Dinner sounds good. Things to talk about, no light delay make it easier, yeah?” There was a hint of a smile in his voice she thought, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. “Send details after you dock.” It seemed like that was all he had to say as he a small furrow appeared between his brows before it vanished and he spoke again. “I am happy. Glad you’re okay too.”

Naomi blew out a breath and closed her eyes. He wanted to meet, have dinner, talk. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or shout with joy. Instead she let out a strangled sounding laugh.

“That’s good, right?” Bobbie asked and Naomi opened her eyes at the hint of concern she heard in the Martians voice.

“Yeah, no yeah this– shit this is good. I didn’t...I didn’t think he’d want to meet.” She accepted that her relationship with him would consist of short messages and that would be okay. Being able to see him in the flesh seemed unreal. Last time it hadn’t exactly ended well. Idly, Naomi wondered home many second chances she would get at this.

Bobbie squeezed her shoulder once and smiled.

“We’ll brainstorm some good places for you two to have an easy meeting. I don’t think any of our usual haunts are gonna cut it, karaoke and emotional reunions doesn’t seem like a good fit.”

Naomi laughed shaking her head a little but what Bobbie said worked to calm her thoughts down, easing her anxiety for a moment. She had just under two weeks to figure out a plan. She could do that.

☆☆☆

Filip.

Filip leaned against a wall opposite the entrance of Clock Work and tried to keep his fingers from tapping against his thighs as he waited. He’d already thought about turning back three times on his walk here and he was pretty close to making that four times. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he didn’t need questions answered or a relationship with his estranged mother. He could push away from the wall and walk back to the hole him and Alaya were renting and knew she wouldn’t judge him for it. He balled his hands up into fists.

It wasn’t until the reply from Naomi came that Filip knew he needed to tell her about his past. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. She had had a lot of questions. They’d both cried. She’d told him he was a good man. He didn’t think she was right about that. But she had convinced him that meeting Naomi would be a good thing for them both.

“You said it yourself, she wants to try. You’ve both got questions and only the two of you can answer them for each other. You go. You sit and you talk. If at the end you don’t want to see her again, you’ve gotta hope she’ll respect that. If you want to get to know her more then at least you’ve got a starting point.”

So he’d said yes. And then gotten a text message two days ago asking if he was free today during the second shift and could meet at Clock Work two levels up from the docks. He’d almost said no before he had agreed. He really hated waiting.

Ten minutes before agreed upon time Filip saw her come around the corner. Her hair was longer and the way she held herself seemed different from he remembered, though he guessed when you weren’t somewhere against your will it did change the way you walked. For a moment Filip considered – for the fifth time, but who was keeping count? – turning away. He still had time, she hadn't spotted him yet.

And then she did. She hesitated midstep, causing people to swerve around her with annoyed grunts but she didn’t seem to notice. She was just looking at him. Deep down Filip was pretty sure if he decided to turn away now she wouldn’t follow him. He pushed away from the wall and took a step towards her, towards the tiny restaurant she had picked and she followed him. Neither of them talked while they entered and picked a booth at the back, not that it mattered, the place was empty.

“Glad you came, wasn’t sure you would,” Naomi said and there was a small hesitant smile there. He was glad she was finding this as hard as he was, and didn’t miss the honesty in the statement.

“Thought about turning back couple of times.” If she could be honest, he could too.

The silence between them was awkward and tense with so many different emotions he didn’t know which they were meant to address first. Maybe there was too much past in their past to move on from. They each ordered without talking and Filip began scratching at a part of the table top that was peeling away. When Naomi broke the silence he startled.

“So do you live on Ceres or just visiting?” Present was the safe subject, he wondered if she was building up to talking about the past.

“Visiting. I–” he paused deciding if he wanted to talk about working for the Transport Union, about Alaya. It only took him a few seconds to decide he did. “After, lived on Callisto for a while, working on the environmental systems there, helped set up the new ones for the shipyard. Transport Union put out adverts for crew for some of their new ships, yeah? ‘Bout two years ago. I signed up. Work the Inners’ roots, don’t go through the rings. Met this girl. Alaya. Her– Her mom’s sick, she needed to come back home, I came with her.” He shrugged with his hands and dared a look at Naomi, to try and guess what she was thinking. He couldn’t decide what he saw on her face.

“Alaya. Wh-What’s she like?”

So Filip told her. About how they’d first met, about how she made him laugh, about how she was going to force him to visit Mars one day but that he was kind of excited about it. And he asked her questions too. About what she had been doing, what it was like going through the ring gates, visiting the new worlds. He didn’t mention Marco and she didn’t either. It went unsaid that in all her stories James Holden was present too, but that wasn’t a subject either of them were ready to touch yet.

They ate when their food came, keeping up their steady stream of easy conversation. He was smiling at her without thinking by the end of their meal and he found himself asking one of the questions that had always bugged him.

“Why him?”

She didn’t ask who he meant and she went quiet for a moment, frowning down at her bowl like she was thinking something through. When she blew out a breath and looked back up at him Filip knew he’d ended the time for pointless topics.

“After I left here the first time, ran away and signed up with the first long haul ship I could find, I shut myself down. Tried not to care about things like before. Promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice, that I wouldn’t ever follow the fanatics or let people control me. Leaving you, broke something in me. Something I’ll never be able to fix. Didn’t leave looking to find someone new. Me and Jim,” she paused, and Filip watched a soft smile touch her lips as she shrugged at him, “Not something either of us was looking for or expecting. He’s...he’s there when I need him and knows when I need to be alone. He always respects my choices even if he doesn’t understand them. He doesn’t try to fix the broken things in me, doesn’t mind my past. He makes me laugh. He loves me and I love him. Can’t always choose who you love Filip, but I’d always choose him.”

Her hands were on the table, palms up and open. If he wanted to he could reach across and hold her hand, squeeze it and tell her he understood. Because, he did understand. Someone loving you despite your past was something he was just beginning to understand, he couldn’t hate her for finding that and not wanting to let it go.

He reached across and up his hand in hers. There was a split second where she didn’t react, frozen by the sudden contact, and then her fingers were wrapping around his and they were both squeezing a little too tight.

“Why did you decide to leave?”

Now it was her turn to ask a big question. His fault for starting the conversation down this road.

“Marco he–” Filip frowned a little not knowing why it was hard to talk about this with Naomi, “He said we were going to help the Belt. That everything about the Free Navy was to help the Belt to independence, to make it stronger. Kept said we were winning when we were just running away. And we were hurting the Belt too, yeah? Not helping. Reason Belters were dying. All he cared about was racing to the ring, to stop or kill you and Holden. Not about the Belt anymore. Nothing was his fault, all someone else's,” he stopped, trying to figure out where his thoughts were. He didn’t know how to explain it in a way that made sense.

“Wasn’t just one thing. Lots of little things, became big things. Way he treated me. Always a new plan pretending to be the original because the first one failed. Didn’t wanna be part of it anymore. You were right, yeah? Always got the right to walk away. So I did.”

“It must have been hard.”

Filip shrugged, he tried not to think about those first few days after he threw away his terminal, and had decided to leave everything behind. He wasn’t even sure he could remember what had happened, everything had been a haze back then. Tears pricked at his eyes and Filip used his free hand to wipe at them. He swallowed down the lump in his throat as Naomi squeezed his hand again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you then. Here for you now though,” there was such kindness in her voice Filip couldn’t help but look at her or stop the smile.

“Okay.” He didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t seem to matter, she seemed to accept the answer for what it was. Clearing his throat once Filip slowly pulled his hand back, tried not to notice the frown he saw on her face. “Should be going. Said I’d help Alaya with something.”

“Right, of course,” she smiled at him and then shook her head when he reached out to pay his share of the tab. “Said I’d pay. Meal on me, remember? You can get it next time.” It was asking the question without even asking it. He was grateful she did and he wouldn’t be left wondering if maybe this was a one time thing.

“Yeah. There’s a place I know that does good kibble. Always got fresh spices,” he gave her a smile.

Saying goodbye brought back the air of awkwardness, though not as obvious as before. Neither of them seemed to know what to do with their hands, both knew they weren’t at a hugging stage but just parting without anything seemed wrong. Before he could decide if a handshake was worse then nothing Naomi grabbed his hand in both of hers and squeezed once, giving him a smile.

“Thank you. For all this. For reaching out. Kibble next time. Oyedeng, Filip. Stay safe, yeah?” She squeezed his hand again and then let go.

“Yeah. Bye, Naomi. See you again soon.” He didn’t wait to see if she watched him walk away, and he didn’t look around to watch her leave either. He just walked.

There was still a lot of pain and hurt between them, Filip didn’t know if they would ever be able to clear the air fully, but he was glad they had the chance to try now. He was glad to have a chance to get to know her. Would even – one day – be glad to know her new family. It was a long way off but knowing the choice was there meant everything.

[nauseateddrive]

BACK ALLEY SORCERY by Turner Odorizzi

There's nothing like getting that text at 11:30pm from your dealer. Unsolicited, he tells you "HMU. I got it." You know what 'it' is, because you asked him for it two nights ago. At the time, he told you "out, sry", and then to your roommates you said "Fuck. He just responded and he's out." Your roommates start to fight with passive-aggressive jabs that morph into screaming. All the way up the stairs, you could hear it outside.

But he's got it.

I'm at a bar with two shots in front of me, and the bartender snarls at me for taking my phone out as I was ordering. To satisfy him, I put it up and mumble a vague apology. I turn around to see that everyone else in here is under red lights, faces bathed in pale blood, behaving like there's a comfortable toxin drifting around. All sweating. I slug the two shots and leave the red babble into the back hallway where the bathroom is, but I apologize to the bartender for real before I leave.

He says he can meet me two blocks away in an hour.

That's a long time when you've started to become drunk. The first phase of it materializes convex feelings that flip a mental switch and turn you into a false prophet. I'm so transparent when drunk lately that it's become my default setting. I think I am a false prophet.

I often have these waking nightmares when I'm drunk, usually concerning the haphazard and brutal way the world maintains itself. Lately, they've become increasingly unreal.

I finally leave after debating, and as soon as I step out onto the street, I smell the falafel drifting out of that long white truck across the street. To my right, a homeless woman snaps at this girl's ankles while they're talking; the girl likely deserves to have been bit. She's what I would call a talker: one of those placating the downtrodden with a lousy quarter, iPhone in hand. These people on the streets are treated like a dogs, so it's only natural that they react as a dog would.

I digress.

There's an hour before my dealer can meet me, and now I'm thinking I could become a runner of his, you know? A loyal soldier.

A text comes in, but not from my dealer. I'm becoming angrier and spewing emotion like piss out of my eyes.

It reads: 'What r u doing? I'm downtown. Derek and I just picked up. Wanna join?'

She knows me well enough to know I'm getting drugs. It's got nothing to do with her. My anger is vitriol that's been forcibly caged, ready to gnash its teeth and make a feral attack, but I'm sure I'll be more kind when I'm high. By that point, I'll be knee deep in the oblivion I burn into my stomach, and less acquainted with how lucid and fractured all the days seem. Hopefully I'll be nicer then.

I text back: 'Yeah, maybe. Running errands first.'

Errands always means drugs in my world.

There's something unfair about being robbed of my self-image in a place so low-lit. How dare they take me for such a simple projection?

Goddamn, he should be here already.

He knows I'll linger on this stool until he strolls up, grinning like he's got a secret, however late or tempestuous he seems. I’m a cool condensation on a tall glass, just waiting like hell to fall.

But then he taps me on the shoulder. My mind snaps to attention, the neurons all firing with voracious action potentials, and it feels like a stroke but good and warm; my mouth is drowning in saliva. Finally, I can just feel serene and let the drug do its goddamn job.

"Come on. Hit the bathroom with me."

I trail him back to the bathroom, around the corner. He hands me the bag; I hand him the money in the same motion. We do a bump together and then I'm sent on my way to do my drugs in peace.

She texts again:

" At Carrie's. No cover tonight. Would love to see u."

I must be more drunk than I thought, because I don't remember getting here, or being checked for ID. I only remember getting this drunk. But here I am at Carrie's, the bar where she is and where she wants me to meet her. Here. What an absurd concept under the cover of night, blinded by the drugs and the drinks, especially since I could just as easily be there as here. Here or there? I'm already drunk, and I can't tell.

When I first see her, I'm stuck in the memory of our last encounter where, at the wrong moment, I wilted.

About a gram in with twelve drinks washing it down, I looked down to a flaccid dick. Hyper-flaccid. I was on my knees behind her, so she couldn't actually see, but she could definitely feel it. Trying to maneuver it then, in that faltered state, is like death throes in the aftermath of a waning battle, where she's standing there waiting on my surrender to it, because she's seen failing infantry before. She's waiting for me to run down the hill, pants hanging sloppily around my ankles, bellowing that I'm not dead yet.

It happened so quick and mutated to become furiously disappointing. Wilted flowers limp over the edge of the vase, unable to photosynthesize or cope. The question: Does she remember? I'll never let it go; my dick happens to be a good three quarters of my personality. I still remember what she said to me when I huffed and leapt off of the bed like some wounded coyote, to go out for a cigarette.

"Come on! Turner? It's fine, I swear! Please just come back to bed, you can smoke that in here, and we will just open the window. Please, you know it's not a big deal."

She kissed me, and I felt marginally better...but I had stumbled onto my curse.

She stroked the back of my neck while I laid horizontally across her lap. Scorched ego; Typical male bullshit. But that's what chaos looks like for me. Destruction is my motif.

In my head, my dick would never work again, for good or ill. It was permanently soft with embarrassment and inability and extraordinary self-loathing. Without that crucial three quarters, what am I?

He's nobody. He's faceless.

We go upstairs to the balcony dance floor, one step and then two at a time. The staircase is made of new, stained wood steps. Reminds me that this is the point of the night where all highs coalesce and I am... boisterous.

Once we get a drink, she tells me she dropped her small bag of coke when we hugged by the downstairs bar. She must have lost some of it in the process, maybe all, because now she turns to me morose, verging on drug tears in the middle of the dance floor. She asks me if I had bought any from Stone earlier.

She leads me to the darkest stall in the most remote corner of the bathroom.

"Did you pick any up, baby?"

"I don't like it when you call me baby, so please don't. But yeah, I bought some. I met him at the bar, but I waited longer than I wanted to. I should've left."

"I'm glad you didn't. Can I have some, baby?"

Now she's doing it on purpose.

I'm already feeling the pretense to the emotional crash which is requisite in the valleys with uppers. It's fingering my spine, and my ass is cold.

That crash acts as a proving ground to see which drug users will spill over into the abyss.

We finish off what I had left, both of us licking the top of the container earnestly afterward. It's clean by the end.

My fugue state is resolute, allowing me to float through all of this as if it were a dream. But I have sparse hopes, and I want to cry. Badly. There is something welling up, and I need to cry.

"What did you just say?"

"What?"

"I'm asking you what you just fucking said, you drunk-ass."

She chuckles in between drinks.

"I don't...really know. It just feels like I really need to cry right now."

"Um...okay. Did I, like, do something to you?"

In moments like this, I wish there was more booze in the world than I could handle. Like so much booze, that it spews from and falls over the sides of all of those high rises downtown, raging throughout the city, happy to pick me up and transport me to some other place. A place where it's okay to be catatonically fucked up on a daily basis.

Meanwhile, the coke is really getting on top of me.

"No, I never said that. Look, it's not you, and honestly it has nothing to do with you. I just...I can't explain it. I feel gravity more than anyone should, I don't know. That seems like the best way to describe it."

She looks forward.

"It's ridiculous. Fucking tears."

"Well, do you want a hug or something? Or...maybe you need another drink?"

There's a tone in her voice that's covered in moss. Furtive, too. Judging by her oblique reaction, this is what nullifying the rules of engagement is like. Sensory destruction. I can feel that dogging me.

"No, just...never mind. I'm going outside, but I'll be back. I need a cigarette."

I won't see her again tonight, unless darker forces are at work.

Somewhere, in a grand tower with walls of cinder-colored brick, there's an aging wise man, with eyes like surreptitious black pearls, wearing what I could only describe as an onyx-colored warlock's cloak. The cloak trails behind him while he mans the strong brass bell at the top of the antechamber like a ringing monument. It chimes in step with those darker forces.

I sit down on the front steps of a hotel, searching my pockets for...no, there it is, my wallet. I am still me. How fucking disappointing after all the drugs, the alcohol, that some catalytic change didn't materialize. If only I could use alchemy to transmute myself into something productive, maybe someone or something else. As above, so below won't fucking cut it anymore. Those platitudes are hanging from that bell tower as shredded banners.

Can't the warlock hear me over that goddamn bell?

She's texting me again, realizing I'm not good on my word.

"WTF. Where did u go? Are u getting more? I'll pitch on it if you just meet me."

"Pls. Text back. I'm going to Line Bar. Meet me."

I can't help but wonder whether the beginning of hatred is always so subtle? I mean, is it always so...slippery? That I cannot exhale. She won't see me for the rest of the night, except as a useful vision of drugs but I'm just an outline there. A... falsehood. But that doesn't matter, because I would rather smoke on these steps in mute conversation with the warlock, listening carefully as he heaves back and forth, tugging the rope that bids the bell to toll.

Now It's clear that we're approaching the point in the night where the residual effects of all highs begin to wane and shrink up into themselves. They're dull, lanky fingers tickling the insides, fading quickly.

Fading toward an end.

The word of the hour is ‘terminate’. It comes from the Latin word terminus meaning border or end. We're approaching that end. Of everything: the night, the bell, the protective haze of the drugs and the booze. The warlock is shedding his cloak right there by the bell and watching it settle with the dust on the floor. He looks like me, but older, harder; He's just as close to total annihilation.

I don't hate her because I should, or because I have a rationale beyond self-loathing, or even because I'm some noble man saving her from my affliction. I look at her, or anyone, and it's easier to stomach while I'm drunk. Who can survive with that kind of doped up blanket? Better yet, who would want to?

It's getting colder as I sit here and suck down cigarettes all the way to the charred filter.

Wait.

If I'm right I think I... Do I hear...a bell? No, that's just the violent squeak of an Uber driver's horn. Couple the squeak with the image of two homeless and yellow-eyed men fighting nearby, and then you've got the whole picture. Now, one of the men’s knocked the fuck out on the sidewalk, breathing like he's smoking in his sleep.

The warlock whispers, "He's nobody. Now, grab the knife."

Drunkenness is making a hard comeback now. Confusion of...me? Am I not me? The most pressing concern I have is the warlock fading in and out of my vision. Who is he, and why does he keep prodding me to grab some presumably nonexistent knife?

It’s the drugs, I swear.

Am I swearing to the warlock? If so, that begs the question as to whether or not he can hear me.

Who am I?

Only after the haze has made its comeback do I realize I'm no longer on those steps but am walking in the direction opposite the bar where she implored me to meet her. While weaving through crowds and lines of people on the sidewalk, I see a couple standing on the precipice of the curb next to a mangled pile of scooters, fighting about something. They fight like good omens, and I can see...well...something about them. Maybe it's the brutish mannerisms of traitors and bullies.

The girl thrusts out her arms in a half-baked attempt to tell the guy to fuck off; she tells him to leave. Perhaps she doesn't want him to, but he does; he's frustrated, yelling 'fuck you' over and over, alternating between tripping on the curb and the street.

I’ve been there, in those shoes. I've been the brick wall of a person she collided with, only to remain solid and immovable.

I need another drink or to crash, whichever can make it first.

Another text. Two, actually.

"Fuck you. U said seee u later."

"Why di you leave?"

When I look up, I'm at some dive bar, but it's impossible to tell which one. There are old beer signs glowing all over, and everything has a thin, nostalgic dust covering it.

Would that I could feel sorry, but I'm too volatile now. There's a corrosive quality to these things I do. I bleach skin with every word and eat through the rest, like the worst dissolving agent ever conceived. Even then, I'll go on knowing its wrong and stand perfectly still.

My dick deserves to never work again. Perhaps I should take the knife the warlock keeps taunting me with - the short one I notice is sitting there on the bar mat - and turn myself into a eunuch, and then, after the dust has settled, I can take my severed dick and paste it up on the wall like some anti-trophy.

I could see that.

The bartender hands me the last shot of the night, and it tastes like nothing, feels like vapor and kicks me straight in the liver with a twelve-pound steel toe.

After some time, the bar staff ushers us out like drunken cattle, and everybody descends into their phones.

But something happens in that flood of people, among the fucked up din of their cries and slurred shouts. There are far too many people crying outside of the bars tonight, and it's shameful that I'm not even one of them. By the way, how do you cry? Can someone tell me, because I'm drawing a wide blank? What are the mechanisms and motions? If only I could give someone five dollars just so they would teach me how to cry, like an in-person tutorial.

In a bizarre twist, I've become a zealot for crying in the vicinity of bars tonight.

But the bells start again; I hear them ringing out, chime after full, throaty chime. Bells, like the fucking Edgar Allan Poe poem repeating 'the bells' line after line. The warlock has really dug in.

I can't keep ignoring him.

My phone buzzes, but it feels more neurotic and nagging every time it vibrates, and I can sense that neuroses summiting my spine, hovering there like a curse.

I slink down along the wall next to a cluster of dumpsters, the alcohol taking control of basic motor functions this time. I grab my phone with violence in mind.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! STOP! GODDAMN, STOP! SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP."

I rear back and chuck it at the wall opposite me. It hits the brick with a plastic thud and shatters slovenly. I can hear all the words escaping from it into the air. It flashes and breathes with little electric impulses, the life finally going out as something shuffles up beside me.

"You asked it to shut the fuck up y'know. Bit dramatic, heh."

"What? Where the fuck did you come from?"

"I'm Lenny, yeah. Just sayin', yeah...it did what you asked."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks?"

He gazes down at me, fiddling with some glass thing between his fingers and tossing it from hand to hand. Crack pipe, is it? No. Maybe? Well, if it is, and If I ask him, he might toss some my way, which could be a great way to pass the time while I lose my mind up against this filthy alley wall. It will just be a small hit, you know, just enough to take me away for a second.

Before I can ask, something overtakes me. I can't tell if this man is real.

My vision is blinded by an esoteric haze, and I can't be sure Lenny isn't just a facsimile of something or someone I've encountered in my worst dreams, because he does look familiar. Maybe he's never touched a drug in his life. I envy him. He's scruffy, but smiling. I think it's me who is the junkie.

Even better, this could be the warlock passing himself off as a man living off the street, like a messiah.

The bells come back fuller, and they ring louder as I feel psychosis encroaching on me, daring me to go just one step further and fall over my edge, to cross that border and finally come to the crucial end. The last stage, and the whole world's a stage. What a stage this godforsaken alley will be when this is a play in some dinky theater.

Dong, Dong, Donggggggg.

"Hey man, let me ask you, you got a dollar?"

"No. Uh, No, man, I'm sorry. I don't have a phone either."

He grunts and whispers something about me lying, which I am. I'm a liar. Tonight is full of these strange thoughts and lies. How...fucked up am I, really? How much more miserable can I get? Those are the thematic concerns of my whole fucking life. Those studying me will have to accept my capricious self and take these fundamental themes with them, because there's nothing left: no cigarettes, no drugs, no real me.

In fact, I think this would be as good a place to die as any. Better here than someone else's bed; the light is good enough to show that I don't seem the kind of person who should die in an alley, adjacent to shit and sewer water.

The bells are ringing out across my mental landscape. I can't hear anything else, I can't feel anything but the warlock's gaze. He's not laughing, just looking down with placid eyes. What does he see?

I look at my reflection in the puddle where my dead phone lays. Is this me?

Smile.

There's always tomorrow.

Turner Odorizzi is an author that lives in Austin, Texas. He is a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin's English and Creative Writing programs, in addition to being an intern for the Bat City Review. As of yet, he is previously unpublished.

[codenamesazanka]

Here’s what I think went down: 

All For One invaded the Shimura household, held captive everyone there. He singled out Tenko, and started whatever thing he did to condition into Tenko the wrathful instinct Shigaraki gets with the hands, a la Pavlov. 

This involves torture - most likely making Tenko participate, as well as something happening that caused the injuries to Tenko’s eye and lips. It also killed everyone, but preserved the hands. He reinforced, besides traumatic fear, aggression and anger, knowing that it would be there later and he can redirect it.

Eventually, All For One cleaned up, scattered Tenko’s memories, and had him run away, confused and unable to remember or explain to anyone what happened even if he did get someone to stop and try to help. 

-

(Long post!! I thought about putting it under a spoiler but I feel like this is my magnum opus of meta and creating a theory, so sorry! You gotta scroll through! Please! I hope you read and find it convincing!) 

Everyone is pretty much theorizing that All For One was the cause of the Shimura household demise, because what are the chances AFO was able to come across a dead family with hands all intact, a traumatized and very impressionable 4-year-old with a extremely destructive quirk, and is the grandson of his previous hated enemy and essentially the nephew (come on, All Might thought of Nana as a mother, he would’ve loved all her family like his family) of his current hated enemy? 

All For One was there. The question is, what happened and what did he do? 

I realized in a previous post that Shigaraki’s reactions to the hands reads very much like a conditioned response a la Pavlov’s experiments. Little Tenko first sees the hands and immediately has a strong psychosomatic reaction, as well as an unexplainable, powerful sense of anger. Ever since then, whenever he wears the hands, he still feels that rage. 

Maybe a bit far-fetched - AFO using an elaborate psych experiment? But AFO has shown that he’s willing to go the distance and create meticulous plans years in advanced, and he’s a master at psychological manipulation. 

And two things: 

the flashback of the corgi, which yes, serves as an even more heartbreaking piece of Tenko’s memories, but also, Pavlov’s experiments is famously known for his use of dogs. The corgi is symbolic and a hint. 

@sweetened-apples​ noted that Gigantomachia seems to have been conditioned to calm down and respond to AFO’s voice. 

There’s that extremely visible ‘click’ sound, also a known and commonly used conditioned stimuli, and without seeing the scene, the Doctor knows immediately Gigantomachia must have calmed down. 

This is what convinces me greatly that AFO did something to conditioned Shigaraki, using the hands as the trigger. 

The ask from a wonderful, wonderful anonymous contributor (thank you!!) helped me piece more of the scene together. 

In chapter 88 and 222, Shiga's shirt is dark, and his pants are light. In chapter 69, they're both light. Why is this? If he ran away after killing 'Father' which happened in that chapter...

[...]

there’s a bunch of blood running down his arms and on the floor, pooling around the hand. [...] Exactly how much blood did he get covered in? How, why, no one noticed and now its gone? No stains, nothing? Also, for the anon and what you said, your right. Blame whoever attacked him for the injury to his lips, there was blood there in the flashback. Could it’d have been the weapon?

Chapter 69: As anon noted, the shirt and pants are both light-colored. Also, the shirt is bloodstained, blood is dripping down from above, also likely staining the pants as well. 

Chapter 88 and 91:

And that’s consistent in Chapter 222:

It’s implied in the same chapter that after what happened to his family, Tenko had ran away, looking for help - he did so right afterwards. If so, how is he so spotless, after being covered in blood? Plus - why would he make sure to change his clothing, if he was in such a rush? 

From my other post, regarding the scene in Chapter 69, let me restate: 

We thought this hand was the ‘father’ hand, but it’s not. The hand Shigaraki wears on his face is a left hand. This is a right hand. It’s so carefully intact. Shigaraki is covered in blood, the blood coming solely from above him, ruining his shirt but not his pants, not even fully covering his hands. You would think a chaotic situation would mean a mess, everywhere. Tripping and slipping, knees and hands in a puddle of blood. But Tenko is not.

Finally, this scene:

There’s what looks to be a bloodied weapon of some sort, and the shadowed, crazed fearful look of an adult. We assume it’s Tenko’s father (also Nana’s son).

Then we see that Tenko is found with his eyes and lips wounded. 

I think yes, that weapon was used to hurt Tenko, and I think the one who did so is that man in the right part of the image. But why would he hurt Tenko? Why would he look like that? 

Well, where have we see a similar look? 

The story of Rei Todoroki is also a tragic one, where, during a mental break, she injured her son, Shouto Todoroki. 

I think, maybe, AFO had did something to Tenko’s father, making him hurt Tenko. Caused a mental break, forced him to attack his son? Forced Tenko to kill his father in self-defense? The oneshot Tenko had the titular character’s father also attempt to kill his son, and though it’s not the same motivation or context at all, I feel there’s a good chance of a parallel.  

And isn’t that just as sadistic as AFO is? Having Nana’s beloved son attack Tenko, as well as forcing Tenko to retaliate to protect himself, thereby killing his father? We already know AFO has a habit of putting Shigaraki into life or death trials to prove his worth. 

Speaking of the oneshot Tenko, the character in that was also filled with rage, starting when he had to watch his father kill his mother. 

It’s a very natural reaction. You watch someone kill someone you love, and you gain intense hatred, aggression, and anger toward them. 

Here’s another interesting thing to note: In the oneshot Tenko, Tenko’s mother had taught him to redirect his rage. She told him, that his power isn’t one to used for killing, that he should think of other ways. This leads to Tenko redirecting his anger at samurai and swords, vowing to destroy all of it to rid the world of war. 

Looking back at Chapter 88, during the raid scene, during Shigaraki’s first flashback of AFO finding him, I always found it just a little strange that his internal state went how it went. Shock, then fear at being defeated, then a flashback to what seems to be a melancholy but hopeful, touching, scene of AFO rescuing him, then climaxing in anger. 

I’ve tried out several analysis of that scene - that being bound and on the verge of arrest made him feel helpless, like he had did as a child; Gran Torino asking about his Master made him wish for his Master to come save him again, like that time; them trying to get to AFO, who saved him, made him angry that they would try to hurt his Master; anger that the heroes, who wasn’t there for him when he needed them to be, was suddenly here to be his ruin? But most of all, why ‘I hate you’? I mean, yes, all those feelings are wild, negative, and the raid is a high-adrenaline fueled moment where reason isn’t big on the mind, but. 

For what was supposed to be a bittersweet memory of someone coming to his rescue, Shigaraki has instead associate it and filled it with a hellish wrathful. 

I think, after what AFO did to his family, after creating the hands, Tenko rightfully had nothing but fury, had wanted to kill AFO. Maybe it was so much so that AFO would later call it a ‘innate warpness’. Like AFO wanted to induced - just can’t have it be directed at AFO! So he messed with Tenko’s memory, made him forget exactly what went down, but Tenko would always associate that fury with the hands. 

Finally, finally, with Tenko confused and pretty much amnesiac, AFO had the child clean up. Wash away all the blood, put on a different clean set of clothing, hence the reason for the different outfits in the flashbacks. A blood-covered child would get everyone’s attention, would immediately bring police and Heroes onto the scene. 

But a well-dressed child, with what seems to be only slight cuts on his face, scatter-minded and unable to tell anyone what had happened because he can’t remember? A lot more benefit of doubt. 

So yeah. This is my theoretical outline of what went down. 

[ombreecha]

The Uchiha’s Wife

FF.NET Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Rating: M Summary: She was an otherworldly being of healing. An absolute nymph of spring. He was an otherworldly being of destruction. An absolute god of war. In a world where war makes him death, and chaos she will be the life, and love his people will talk of for years to come. AU x Warring States Period.

Author Note: Ayyyyye, dooooooooooope I'm still alive. Somehow? My dudes I'm officially 27 today haha and so with this birthday I present to you chapter 19. I've been up to my eyeballs in foam, glue, and more with Katsucon being next week. I wasn't about to not keep my word though, and so here we are. I get to dip my feet deeper into ol' maidhood, and you get new content.

Anyways. . .Man I'm gonna eat some motherfuckin tiramisu to celebrate when I get back from Katsucon and it's gonna be fuckin great #inserttonythetigerhere

Until then, please get some cake or whatever the fuck ya'll like. I love celebrating with you guys even if I can't IRL until after my shoots. Fanfiction is a pretty sweet way to celebrate yisssss.

Chapter 19 The Pandemonium 

Exhausted and worn she’s fallen with her hands digging within the earth. Those scarlet locks the only thing vibrant in this state. It’s those strands that keep him connected to the present.

The oxygen she’s taking in makes it perfectly clear how much this task has drained her. The nine tails is no longer bound by the Uzumaki. They’ve seized him and taken control. 

Words linger upon his tongue never entering the air even as he watches Obito reach down and grip a hold of her arm. After everything she’s done to remove the tailed beast they’re still not done with her. There’s a part of him that feels the need to stop this—there’s something eating away at him as he watches this.



This feels wrong, but this is what Madara demands.
 All of this feels like it’s too much.

What they’re doing right now—could you possibly say this was right?

Was this what their ideals had turned into? Had they become as cruel as the Senju and Uzumaki who had painted their love in the blood of others?

Were they truly any different? Were they not one and the same using such methods?

“You know what you have to do.”

He doesn’t need to be reminded of what’s expected from him. He remembers the words scrawled upon the scroll. He knows what his part in this is. Yet, it doesn’t lessen the way this continues to dig further and further upon his moral compass.

Hesitant. Unsure. He’s of two minds. Yet, he gives that nod of his head.

The way this man drags off his teammate has him wanting to reach out—to yell for him to stop.

To extend his hand and take a hold of her. Protect her. To save her.

He won’t. He can’t. To do so would be to go against what Madara has already put into motion. The way their treating her—she’s no more than a tool.

She was a person. She held a heart. She held a purpose beyond that of a tool. She was no different from him or them.

She had a worth beyond this plan.

“Sasuke! Help me!” her hand flies out as if to reach for him before being yanked without care.

As if she is nothing more than an object.

She’s never dared to say his name without a horrific attached. No apology he gives will ever be enough for what he’s allowing them to do—for allowing this person who had stood beside him unwavering and all on her own to be used so maliciously.

And now against her own will.

The scream she produces and the desperation that echos with the night haunts him. It twists him in uncomfortable ways. Refusing to lift a finger as she tries in vain to stay only makes this feel even more disgusting—more sickening.

He can do nothing. He is not the leader of their clan. He is just an heir meant to inherit the throne.

That’s how he’ll battle the guilt—the wrongfulness of his part in this. He’ll cling to the fact he’s not in control.

Inhaling deeply and removing his eyes from her only increases the disgust before he casts his eyes upon the male who can no longer defend himself.

Step after step—each one slow and careful. Naruto Uzumaki is no longer a threat. He’s on the verge death after having lost the nine tailed beast. Madara had gotten what he had wanted. Obito had succeeded and now all that’s left was to finally be rid of the blonde.

Yes.

Madara demands this. He orders it.
He will follow his leader down this road.

He’ll further dirty his already scuffed moral compass. He’ll ignore the increasing cracks that form upon it. He’ll ignore the voices screaming within his head. 



It’s bittersweet as he watches the weak rise and fall of his chest. He’s known this boy since he could remember. Their mothers had been close friends—a war separated them but they defied refusing to lessen their bond. It was overlooked and it was ignored all because she was a direct heir.



Whispers had filled the funeral when she had passed. —they had mocked and made claims no child should hear.

If she hadn’t been friends with that Uzumaki maybe she’d have lived.


Maybe she wouldn’t have left her children behind.

Traitor.



His tongue slides against the roof of his mouth. The resentment from that time has lessened over the years. It has become a dull ache.

This boy hadn’t harmed his mother—no, she just happened to be on her way home from visiting them when she was murdered in the name of war. Senju and Uzumaki were one and the same to him. They stole his mother from him, and robbed him equally of his father. The days where they played in their garden were nothing now. 



Could you have called them friends? 
Naruto had chosen the Senju, and he had chosen the Uchiha.
 They knew nothing of each other now outside of the battlefield.


No. They were never friends.
Their mothers were, but they, they, were never friends.



What would his mother say if she saw him preparing to kill her bestfriend’s son? 

His throat constricts at the thought. He loved his mother far more than that. He would do whatever it took to avenge her.

He feels lost in time—if he waited here forever would this feeling die? 
Would this sudden fear that his mother will forsake him disappear?

 He won’t cry if he kills this boy his mother had doted on as a child.

He won’t regret this.


They had tried to kill each other plenty of times before this—
Never had they been so close.



This is different. This situation is real. He’s going to kill this man—he’s going to kill Naruto Uzumaki.
He’s going to kill someone his mother had cherished.

She’d understand. She’d know he was doing what was right by her brother’s decree. There would be no shame upon her face for doing what he needed to in times of war. Fingers curl around the hilt of his sword and as it clicks from its hold it’s slide is slow and steady. That floral pendent his wife had given him swaying equally as slow with such movements. 



“Sasuke-kun! Stop!”



Freezing he can’t help but follow the call of her voice—how? How had she found him deep within the chaos? The grip upon his sword becomes loose as he takes her in. She’s out of breath and followed behind.

Seeing someone so close to her makes his grip tighten once more until he can clearly see who is with her—this man had made it clear he adored his wife during the festival.



“This is war Sakura.” 



Can she see how conflicted he is in this moment? Can she see how much it’s twisting him to know he’s going to kill someone so precious to his mother? 
Can she see the way his moral compass is spinning erratically?

Does she see the disgust brewing inside for himself? Does she know he’s dying inside?



Those even steps are there and there’s no missing the wounds she’s suffered on the battlefield. They’re not serious. They’re not fatal—but there is blood, and discoloration upon her skin and that’s terrifying enough.

It’s around her throat, and so many other places.

But as terrifying as that is there is something far more frightening in this moment that he’s clinging to. Is this where her love came to a halt?

She’s stopping him. She’s keeping him from slaying the enemy. They knew each other. Naruto had said it right before her dance. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t meddled and now it’s clear he should have. 

Had they always been close even before she became his wife?
Was he also cherished by her as well?

Naruto had gained his mother’s affection and now he would take Sakura’s from him just the same.

This. This is what hurts. This is what makes him question what he’s done to deserve his enemy taking everything from him. All of this—everything he’s ever lost—was thanks to the Senju and Uzumaki.

He loathes himself or being so weak. For playing into such thoughts—but how could he not?

He had reached out for her when he had known better. He had known not to give her any part of him. He had—he had given in to her. He had fallen for the anguish he had put her through. He had been desperate to fix all the cruel things he had done to this woman he had finally begun to see as his wife.

He rightfully deserved such things—yet the self pity in him refuses to accept that. He had lost so much already and the world was continuing to take everything from him.

He hates this blonde. Because projecting his self hatred onto him is easier to accept.

Fingers tighten around the hilt only to loosen a moment later. He wants to scream at her—she’s the one being cruel now.

How can she stand with them when she said she supported him? She’s not with him—she’s betraying him.

She is the one who’s cruel for coming into his world and lowering his guard. She’s the one who had made claims she wasn’t intending to keep in this moment.

She is the one he had desired to go further down the road of life with and now they were diverging.

He’ll loathe her too instead of overcoming his own faults—his own disgust for what he’s willingly becoming.

If it wasn’t for her he wouldn’t feel like this.

His mouth has gone dry as he tries to keep himself composed. She’s ruined him. She has completely destroyed it all. He wants to take back everything he’s ever tried to do and every attempt he had made to understand her better. He wants to take back believing she had become an Uchiha.

—as if it had been her birthright. As if she had loved him deeply.

He had never asked for a wife. He had never asked for any of this. All of it had been decided for him.

He wasn’t given a choice in any of this. Yet, he had been the one to let her in.

He wasn’t good enough for her. He wasn’t good enough for her to put him before the enemy.

The tightening of his jaw slackens and then the control he always seems to have in place breaks in two. There’s no way to stop the way his eyes flutter and the way his mouth quivers alongside his heart that drops so painfully within his being. His eyes descend from her to the dirt below only to clamp down in an effort to keep himself together.

“S-Sasuke-kun?”

Teeth dig painfully into his bottom lip as she speaks—she sounds as if she’s panicking. She has no reason to be panicking. She’s not the one being betrayed. She’s not the one being cast aside—he’s not the one abandoning her.

It’s just her pushing him away for the family that came before him.

He had wanted a family with her—he had wanted her to be he one that brought a new life into his world.

He had wanted her.

His eyes snap open and it’s here and now that he realizes he has to stop her. He had done what his leader had told him not to—there’s was no guarantee she wasn’t carrying his heir.

He would not have her rip more from him.

Hands shake. Palms sweaty. Eyes burning. Sword raised high.

She had dug her roots deep—she had squeezed through iron and pushed through stone.

He would cut them down. He had said he would not gaze upon her with these eyes so many feared.

He had been wrong.

He can barely hold his sword still—his heart is loud and the trepidation it sends throughout his body only seeks to send his mind further into the confusion and loathing that’s painted within him.

“You don’t have to do this! Sasuke-kun, please!”

That’s all she has to say to dislodge his voice from the bottom of his throat—it’s filled with petulance soaked in disquietude, “Shut up!”

The way she shrinks back before him sends his heart aching before him, “Not another word—not from you!”

“S-Sasuke-kun—This isn’t war! This is a slaughter.”

He’s seen this look upon her face before. He saw it when he murdered that medic so long ago. He saw it upon that woman’s face when she begged him to give mercy. She’s covered in terror as if he’s already run her through—

He can’t take her back—not when she’ll betray him again. If he can’t have her he’ll be damned if the Senju will.

Can she see how he’s vacillating as she protects Naruto? Can she see how much her choices have completely twisted his world?

Does she know how much he’s dying inside?

He won’t cry if he kills her. He’ll rebuild what she’s dug her roots into.
Their ideals had truly been far too different—

He’ll burn everything down.

His spring wife is daring a step closer and those fingers that had brought him comfort within their two years are raising. She’s stopped all at once with a hand on her wrist.

Yes. He’ll burn it down to the ground.

“This isn’t her betraying you.” there’s an exhaustion in those words as that male he had trusted in Konohagakure to keep his wife safe restricts her from coming closer. 



Here she is against him—not with him. Yet, this man claims otherwise.



He is a criminal without a crime. His good fortune had run out this time. There’s always a reason. There’s not always a rhyme to follow behind it. Those eyes of hers are glowing and just as equally those viridian are showing all that she intends.

She stands before him unable to compromise. That much is clear.

When he was already so hesitant and so lost in the direction his leader was taking them she does this to him. She sends him over the edge, and she casts him aside. Why should he care if the Uchiha are no better than the Senju?

Why should he care?

“Sasuke-kun.”



He’s not crying. He won’t do so in front of her again.



Those shallow breaths, and those twitches that come from her muscles. Tense cannot even begin to describe this moment between them. He’s out of time. He must make a choice, he must follow a faith, and he must cast this ache aside and move forward. Not once has she ever stood before him quiet like this, “Sasuke-kun!” 



No he’s certainly not crying.
 But he is most definitely dying. 



He’s absolutely running out of time. He’s lost in time and he’s certain this ache will never die. He’s truly a criminal. 
—and he holds all of their crimes. He is the one meant to be the example. He is the one meant to show his people where to go.

He’s choosing his leader. He’s choosing what he knows is wrong.

He’ll choose anything that’ll hurt her the way she’s hurting him right now.



She’s never turned against him. She’s never been one to lie. That look upon her face—the tightening of her jaw, and that gaze that bleeds through the night—she’s always been honest and she’s always held her heart upon her sleeve.

It’s the joining of two people. A union. A marriage.



He can question it all, and yet he knows he won’t find the answer of how they now stare back at each other at odds. This woman was his wife, and the one he meant to keep beside him. This woman was one he had allowed himself to trust, and the one he had wanted to bring new life into the world.



This woman.
 He trusts her.
 That’s what makes this bittersweet.



She loves him. 
 Deeply. 
She asked for his love to be just as deep.



He had agreed and allowed himself to feel such a way when he decided that the Uchiha clan was just as much her birthright.


He had trusted her. He had felt so much pride in her.

If I could bring all of that pain you hide onto myself I would do so.

He knows this battle is wrong—he knows it’s exactly what she says. This is a slaughter. There’s no denying the claim. This was no longer war. This blood bath while great and one of the largest was no battle. She was here to rein him in. She was here to make sure he didn’t falter and head down the wrong path. She was the voice that would lead him back from the chaos.

She was the voice inside his head as Karin was dragged from him.

Could he kill her? Could he kill what he had allowed her to obtain? Could he close her out as he had when they first met?

To anger and fight Madara would be to go against the Uchiha. Could he go against his leader? Could he go against his family?


Isn’t that what he is expecting of her?


A shift of his foot and the fall of his crimson from her viridian comes. He doesn’t know what the answer is. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to pick.

Would following her down this unknown road be the right choice? Would he regret not killing Naruto down the line? Would he forever harbor feelings of distrust because of what she’s doing now?

Why do you continue to follow blindly at his call?

His hand wavers and with it his sword scrapes the earth. He’s at the end of the line. Alone in his head—waiting for something divine to answer him. Drowning in silence he prays to make it through. Out on the edge as all these things echo internally.

The storm winds are blowing. His dreams are falling apart. Just like her.

He’s crying internally. Because he cannot do this—he cannot harden himself to do what he has to.

That concept of him and her. It’s blowing away.

And he hates himself for it—he places such hate upon her to make it easier to live with.



It’s that lack of time that seeks to make it clear he’s lowered himself upon the battlefield. It’s that pounding of his chest and that pain deep within his gut. This man. This Senju always catches him when he’s bewitched, and it just proves she would be his end. 



It’s her voice that makes his eyes force themselves open as the contents of his stomach cover the grown and upon his person. The gravel and stone he had set to walk upon with her has given him padding but scratched all that it could touch—

he’s here. 



The force is harsh and enough to send his head back and mind reeling. That punch has made his mind halt to two simple questions—what was he doing here, and was this ever even truly a war?



It’s the collapse of waves echoing out internally.
 Why does his heart feel like it’ll break further than just in two?



“Kisetsuma-san!”



He cannot control the roll of his head and that blur of his eyes. She’ll leave him and there’s nothing he can do. She’ll return to this man who sought her out so violently. 

He can’t protect her—he can’t protect any of them.



“It’s okay.” there’s so much warmth in Kisetsuma’s words for his wife, “We’ll take you back here and now. I’ll protect you from him.”



He feels it deep within—



“Kisetsuma-san, what are you—?”



“I won’t let the Uchiha hold you any longer. You will no longer be a prisoner of war.” 



This exchange. 
 It’s the death of a desire—



The vexation. The distress. The exasperation. The absolute loss.


It’s her choice. It’s always been her choice.



She could hate him. She said she loved him.
 She’s slipping through his fingers. This man will take her even though they—



“Kisetsuma I am not a prisoner—”



“What lies have they been feeding you all this time? These Uchiha—they’ve done everything they can to turn you against your family and friends”



—even though he’s the one she said she loved with all of her heart. He must confess that he feels like a—

“I will protect you.”



Monster.

All of that loathing, and poisonous vexation he’s placing upon everyone but himself. It’s revolting.



He’s barely aware of what he’s even doing. Everything in his world has fallen out of reach. He can’t protect her. He can’t protect the Uchiha. He can’t even protect himself. He’s lost his sword somewhere. He’s lost the ability to feel just the same. He’s lost his mother. He’s lost his father. He’s lost his brother. He’s lost his uncle. He’s lost his grandfather.

—and now he’s losing his wife and any possibility of a child. He’s losing the possibility of a family.

His heads thrown back as this Senju strikes him once again, but that doesn’t stop him from throwing his own fist right within their jaw. Dirt finds its way deep within his nails as he twists to make himself rise.

“Sasuke-kun move!” her voice is shaking, and terror-stricken as it comes within his ears.

She’s calling out to him—if he caught sight of her right now would she be in tears? Hadn’t she abandoned him already? Why is she calling out for him at all? She had chosen to protect Naruto over standing beside him.

She had chosen them over him.

He’s managed to do as she’s plead out, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s raising his hands up and lacing his fingers together before bringing it down upon this Senju’s back and preparing to raise another fist. All of these things are barbaric. All of these things aren’t strategy. They’re literally beating each other down. They’re doing everything in their power to harm the other.

She’s clouded all of his judgment with her abandonment—that’s what he tells himself when he feels that foot connect with his stomach before the ground shakes with an almost godly force. It’s enough to make them both halt and look to her.

She’s taken her arm back, and that male of silver stands beside her ready to attack, “Don’t touch my husband.” her breathing is erratic as if she’s been sent over the edge just the same.

It’s enough though to send his mind back into pandemonium. She’s claiming him. She’s making her position as his wife clear—even though she stood against him.

Even though she—

“Don’t you want to come home?”

His knees are weak but he’s pushing himself up. There’s a stagger to his stance, but he’s not backing down. There’s swelling in his left eye, but that doesn’t stop him from looking at her with his right just the same. Pressing his hand against a tree he’s steadying himself even more, “Sakura.”

“He is my home—” her voice has broke and it’s as those fingers twist within the fabric of her warn torn clothes against her chest that she finds it once again, “To hurt him is to hurt a part of me!”

He’s still and there’s the lightest of feelings within his chest—this woman saw him as home. It hadn’t just been him looking to her for that feeling of home. These words. These feelings.

They’re a lie.

He can’t trust what she says. She’ll trick him once more.

She’ll lower his defenses and then twist the knife she’s dug between his shoulder blades deeper.

How can she say these things?

Yet, here she is. Here she is making her feelings clear even to this man who had sought her out. She had said she loved him with all of her heart—and that’s what makes his mouth drop. She felt that his pain would harm her just the same. She saw him as a direct part of herself.

Is this what marriage was? A union? A joining of two?

His fingers curl into a fist and his teeth grind together—he had never asked for a wife. He had never asked for any of this—but he definitely wanted her. He wanted to keep his trust in her. He wanted to keep that unbelievable pride for her.

He wanted to have a family with this woman. He wanted to continue walking down this road with her. He wanted to travel through the gravel and stone. He wanted to come back to that world of spring she makes a possibility—yes, he wanted her.

God, does he want her.

He can’t. He won’t.

Because it’s all a lie. Everything this woman spills is for show and not out of love. If she had loved him she wouldn’t turn against him at a time like this.

Yes. She’s brought him into complete disarray.

His mind had broken out into pandemonium—and she almost sadistically continues to shove him into it further without remorse.

He can barely hear her. All he hears is noise. It’s loud. It’s hot upon his ears. It’s too much to take in. Shaky fingers hesitate to raise. Lightning flickers upon the tips. To reach for her out of comfort or in an attempt to harm her he’s unsure. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

She’s thoroughly split him in two. He’s of two hearts.

It all truly echos internally. 
Failure. Just like him.

He can’t find such things like that right now—she’s completely out of arms reach as his head cracks against the tree he had used for support, and his body is thrown up within the air. The instinct to defend himself is there but it doesn’t lessen the blow of being tossed across the battle field as he seeks to shield himself with his arms.

Her voice is so much further now than it ever had been—it’s masked and drowned out. He’s crying.