#might post on ao3 at some point idk yet

[read-write-thrive]

part 1

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop”, while pessimistic, seemed to be a running theme in Charles Rowland’s life. It wasn’t really a phrase he heard when he was alive, to be fair, but at some point he’d come across it (probably hanging out with too many Americans, but can’t remember for sure) and it felt a little too much accurate. His dad’s come home angry again? Time to wait for the fallout. He’d gotten written up at school for not paying attention? Just a disaster waiting to happen. He goes against his best mate’s advice? There he goes, literally torn from Charles’s arms and back to hell, just as he’d said. Maybe the last one was a little dramatic, but that’s the gist.

The looming anxiety of it all usually slid off of him for the minor stuff, and was otherwise bottled up and shoved far away for the heavier stuff, but regardless he didn’t let it show. Have to keep up appearances and all. He’d only had one real instance of all those emotions blowing up (and he still blames the Night Nurse for all that mess) so he thought he was doing a bang-up job keeping himself together.

That was until his dad died. Yeah, it was rough, and he ended up berating the old man on his death bed, which probably was a shitty thing to do. And yeah, he’d needed a bit of a cry afterwards. So what? Blokes cried sometimes, and he was man enough to admit to his emotions and all that. The girls had done a good job of emphasising that he (and, mostly, Edwin) needed to express their emotions more. That it was healthier to let it out than bottle it all up. Not sure if they still needed healthy habits as ghosts, but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Just a little uncomfortable.

All that to say, it felt like his friends had been treading on eggshells around him ever since his dad died. Which was infuriating, yeah, but also didn’t make sense to him. Especially after he’d already cried—did they expect him to get angry again? To blow up over a dead man? He thought he’d gotten it out of his system just fine, so getting these weird vibes was starting to stress him out more than anything. He’d resolved to bring it up on their next movie night and ask why they were acting funny—didn’t want to mess up a case, after all.

However, he didn’t get the chance before it all came crashing down on his head. Ultimately, Edwin was the messenger.

“Charles, I—“ he took an unnecessary breath, “Have you checked on your mother lately?”

His undead heart went cold, but his default smiley ways were still stuck on, “Not really, why?”

Edwin’s eyes were sad, which was never good. He didn’t emote unless it was serious, “I think you need to visit her. She’s not faring well.”

And so they went. Turns out everyone hadn’t been waiting for Charles to blow up, but rather for his mother to pass and then for him to break down all over again. Edwin had been checking on her daily since his father’s passing, deducing correctly that Charles would be too swept up in the emotions around his dad dying to remember that his mum wasn’t getting any younger.

The girls weren’t free until the evening, but they promised to stay in touch and maybe visit later if they could (particularly if they could figure out how to visit the Hospice without rousing suspicion). And so Edwin and Charles were on their own.

Charles had rushed into the room, as if running at the issue would evade the emotions of it, or as if getting there quickly would reveal it was all a lie—neither of which were true.

Instead, he was face to face with a dying woman with some resemblance to the photo on the mantle in the house he grew up in—his grandmother, or maybe his great grandmother, or some favourite aunt, he couldn’t remember anymore— hair gone fully white, pulled back into a tight bun so as to keep her curls controlled, keeping her gaunt, sleeping face exposed. Unlike that photo, this woman was in a hospital gown, tucked into sterile sheets, with a tube under her nose to help her breathe. Gone were her usually loud and ornate earrings, her bare fingernails stained from years of colour. There was a singular blanket laid across her lap, on top of the sheets, that almost looked more familiar than the woman it covered. It was her, but apparently he hadn’t stopped to just look at her any time recently, if ever. It felt too much like looking at a ghost, as ironic as that felt.

She was awake, but halfway to dozing. There was someone at her side, adjusting the blanket and murmuring reassurances in what was definitely Punjabi. It had been so long since he’d heard it, added to having never properly learned anything besides English under the threat of his father, that he couldn’t make out the words. That realisation left a stinging feeling in his chest.

“A relation of yours?” Edwin asked at a whisper, coming up to stand beside Charles, almost entirely copying his position from that fateful hospital room. It didn’t seem as if either of the room’s living occupants had noticed them.

Charles blindly reached for Edwin’s hand for comfort, not looking away from the scene in front of him and matching his partner’s volume, “No idea. Don’t think I’ve seen them before.”

Edwin hummed, “Perhaps a little too young to have met you. Or someone your mother reconnected with recently—“

“I’m not really in the mood for deductions, love.” Charles said, not unkindly. Everything felt too fragile to be picked apart like that.

“Right. Apologies.” Edwin squeezed his hand and went quiet.

Charles squeezed his hand back in forgiveness, joining in the silence. He kept going back to what the stranger was saying, familiar consonants both soothing and devastating. What kind of a son was he, failing to comfort his dying mother, unable to speak her mother tongue, a stranger to his relatives? His tears were thankfully silent.

It took much longer for his mother to see them than his father. Several days passed, with the mystery relative coming and going more days than not, and the usual nurses and caregivers administering various care. Over time, the boys (the girls couldn’t figure out how to enter the space, but were supportive from their distance) had learned that the stranger’s name was Sangeeta, and she was a niece of his mother’s who’d noticed her steady decline and was the one to take her to hospital and then to hospice care. Charles’s mother had apparently stopped taking care of herself after her husband’s death, and she had refused other care, so at this point all they could do was make her comfortable. Charles spent a whole morning ranting to Edwin about it, how unfair it was that her life was so tied up in his asshole father’s that she wasn’t even trying to live after he was gone. Edwin, the deeply kind person he was, had let Charles rant until he ran out of steam, then gently pointed out that she’d been under the thumb of his father for far longer than Charles was, and that she’d now had to mourn her husband and her only child, which presumably takes a toll. Charles had started crying before Edwin had even finished talking, and Edwin had held him close on the plush sofa for the rest of the day.

It was hard to tell if it was a comfort or not when she finally saw them, but Charles decided that wasn’t important to think about right now, if ever. Right now, his mother could see him for the first time in forty years, and they didn’t know for how much longer. And yet, with all this time to prepare, he still found himself speechless when the time finally came.

“Mere laal,” She beat him to the punch, eyes glazed over but clearly locked on Charles, “I am glad to see you again, beta. It’s been so long.”

Charles let out a shakey breath, “Hi, mum. It’s—well— it’s been longer for you. I’ve visited a few times, over the years.”

She reached out a sinewy hand on a bone-thin arm, and Charles flew to the seat by her side, keeping his focus to make sure his hand stayed solid in her grasp. He vaguely noticed Edwin taking the seat beside him.

“Such a handsome boy. You were so young.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, all anxious energy and nerves, tears of his own threatening to spill, was quick to respond, “It’s alright, mum, I’m alright. No need to cry over me.”

She huffed, “Nonsense. You were the light of my life. Who else should I cry over?”

They were both crying at this point, tears streaming as they sniffled in turns. Edwin laid a careful hand on Charles’s back in a show of comfort.

However, that seemed to give Charles an idea, “No, really mum, it’s okay! See the bloke next to me? His name’s Edwin, and he’s been by my side all these years! He’s the one who first found me, and we’ve been helping people ever since. It’s been aces. Not sad one bit.”

Edwin stiffened at the mention, then all but froze when her eyes turned to him. He knew he looked night and day from Charles, and if he started talking she was bound to find him as abrasive as everyone always did, so why had Charles pointed him out!? If ghosts could sweat, Edwin would be drowning in his nerves.

Her gaze stayed on him for a long moment before she broke the silence, “He’s been good to you? Not like those other boys.”

Edwin wasn’t sure what to do with that, but thankfully Charles was quick on the uptake, “Not like them at all. He’s— he’s the best, mum. None of those tossers could even compare.”

“Because the boys— the ones who—“

Charles gripped her hand, “I know, I know. He’s a genuinely good person, Edwin. I was bad at picking friends in life, but thankfully I chose well with this one.”

His attempt at joking was overlooked completely by her, “Those boys, how could they do that? I knew their families, John Parish’s mother went to your funeral… Such cruel boys…”

“I’m alright, mum, I’m okay.” Charles kept going, smiling even as the tears continued, “It’s all in the past.”

“I should’ve fought harder for you… kept you close… mere laal, taken from me…” She was sobbing, her whole frame shaking with hiccoughs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Charles took a steadying breath, “You know I couldn’t have stayed in that house, mum. And no one could’ve known those lads would go that far…”

Her sobs were worse for a moment, then stilled suddenly as she fought for oxygen. She coughed weakly.

At that, Charles’s crying intensified, despite all he did to keep himself together. He could tell. He knew what was coming. It was still devastating to see. Edwin pulled him in for a proper side hug, taking care not to jostle his grip on his mum.

This did not go unnoticed, and the dying woman suddenly smiled, as if the devastation was forgotten with the oxygen. She looked back to her son, “I am glad you have been happy, beta. You deserved happiness.”

“I’m happy, I’ve been so happy mum, I promise,” Charles tried to calm himself down, stuck in his reassuring her.

“Mere laal, light of my life, darling boy,” She breathed with difficulty, smile dropping, “Can you forgive me? I failed you…”

Charles’s frame shook with his vigorous nodding, “I forgive you, mum, you did the best you could, I love you so much—“

Her weak smile returned, glinting in the lamplight of the evening room, “Thank you, beta. You were too good for me, for this world…”

“All because of you, I swear it, all thanks to you—“

“Charles.”

“I love you, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son, I’m could’ve been better, gotten you out of that house—“

“Charles, darling.”

“You deserved better, I love you, I forgive you—“

“My love, the light—“

Edwin was right, a deep blue light had filled the space, illuminating the still body of his mother. Her face was pulled into a slight smile, eyes closed, as if she was having a pleasant dream, even as the tear tracks dried on her cheeks.

“No, no I’m not ready—“ Charles immediately started to protest, gripping onto her hand like a lifeline.

“Charles—“

“I only just got to see her! She only just got free of him! No, no, I won’t—“

Edwin gently but solidly grabbed under Charles’s arms, “I’m sorry my love but we should go—“

Charles was nothing but hysterics by this point, head thudding onto the sheets for a moment before Edwin fully pulled him away. He said more, but Charles was too overwhelmed to process it properly, buzzing in his ears and headache behind his eyes making him feel alive in all the worst ways. Maybe it was just the first time he had cried this hard in his afterlife, or maybe being this close to an active death did something to their physiology—

Everything was a blur as they returned to the flat, Edwin all but carrying him through the mirror so that he wouldn’t get lost on the way. They collapsed onto the sofa, extra large cushions taken up by their ghostly presences. The girls were already there, and joined into the cuddle pile without another word (or perhaps with a few, Charles still wasn’t all there yet). Edwin jostled them all slightly to better position everyone before settling in again, making sure Charles was properly surrounded.

Charles sobbed for a while longer. He wasn’t quite sure for how long, or what day it was, or if he was bothering his friends by taking up their time and space like this. His devastation had seemed to take over his entire being. But, when he did breathe a little easier, when he was finally able to sit up, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. His mom was dead, yes, but so was he, and dying had granted them both freedom from that man, from that house, from the cruelties of the world. And in his death he was surrounded by people who loved him, people who were there for him when he needed them and would still be there for him tomorrow, and the next, and the next. The other shoe had dropped, and it certainly hurt, but thankfully he had people around him to help him through it. He was truly lucky to have them.

~

hope you enjoyed this impromptu series exploring Charles and his parents and grief and loss and all those lovely things. this was inspired by the complicated emotions I have / had after my grandparents passing, and I heavily encourage you to do something similar if you’re ever struggling with these big emotions—therapists and such will say that journaling is where it’s at, but sometimes it’s easier to project onto fictional characters and that’s ok !!! and, just to drive the point home, I want to reiterate that you are loved, and there are people around you who are there to support you, I promise ❤️

also, just to make it abundantly clear, I’m a v white midwestern american and as such have vvv limited knowledge of cultural aspects of Charles’s mom—I did research and tried my best, but if I screwed anything up PLEASE let me know so I can fix it!!!!! same goes for Britishisms ig but mostly looking for feedback on her Punjabi and her various cultural elements :)

[candyriku]

I unfortunately find myself unable to work on my current Soriku fic today due to my mental state, but I was able to make a bit of a teaser for the next big Soriku fanfiction that will be coming sometime after JTSYS is finished.

You can read it under the cut, but TW for blood, death, and uh, general misery. This has been cathartic for me to write but the whole idea of this fic is that things are impossibly doomed, so be warned - this is not the happy fun zone.

Blood. There was so much blood.

He had smelled it before even seeing it, the metallic scent thick in his nose before he had even rounded the corner. He had tried to convince himself that it was his own bleeding wound that he smelled, or maybe the blood of something else, someone else, but in his heart, he knew the truth. He picked up his pace, sprinting at top speed now, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles on the wet pavement. 

When his eyes finally came to rest on the crumpled form at the end of the alley, the breath was knocked out of his chest as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his sternum. He knew, of course he knew, but he had hoped-

No. It didn’t matter what he hoped for. Hopes and wishes weren’t for people that walked his path. He had been denied the right to hope for anything ages ago. When he had signed that contract, signed away his soul, he forfeited all the cushy pleasures of a normal life. He had given up his chance of knowing peace.

But it had been worth it. If it was for Sora, anything was worth it.

Standing over Sora’s blood-soaked body, Riku tried to remind himself of that truth, the one thing that he had tethered his heart to all this time. It was worth it. Even if the chance of Sora making it out alive were next to none, there was still a chance. He could still fight.

One of these loops, Riku would get it right. He would figure out how to keep Sora safe, how to protect him from this accursed dimension where everything was designed to end his life. They would break out and live a normal life together, just the way they had always planned. 

There was a happy future waiting somewhere for the two of them. There had to be. Riku had gambled everything on it.

He crouched down, his shaking fingers gently brushing Sora’s tear-stained cheek. He could hardly stand to look at his face, but the sight of his broken, bleeding body was no better. The wounds were precise and lethal, and Riku was far too late.

No matter how many dozens of times he had watched Sora die, it never got easier. It never stopped feeling like his chest was a black hole caving in on itself, his heart squeezed until it was nothing more than dust. 

He couldn’t look. He couldn't look away.

Riku kneeled and placed both of Sora’s hands over his heart. He was about to speak and begin the incantation that would throw them both back to the starting point again, but Sora suddenly stirred, weakly reaching one hand up towards Riku’s face.

“Riku…” his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“I’m here,” Riku said, the words catching in his throat. “Don’t speak. You can rest now. It’s okay.”

He hated to say it. He wanted to plead with Sora, wanted to beg him to stay. But if Riku had learned anything throughout the loops, it was that nothing came of begging. There was no one to answer his prayers; benevolent forces did not dwell here. At best, all it would accomplish would be making Sora sad in his final moments. At worst, future loops would be impacted by Riku’s words to Sora, twisting the knife further. He had seen it enough to know what to avoid now.

“I don’t want…” There was a weighted pause. “...Don’t want to leave you.” The pool of blood continued to grow. Riku knew - though he wished that he didn’t - that Sora wouldn’t be able to maintain consciousness for much longer at this rate. He could hardly believe Sora was awake even now. 

“We’ll meet again.” he assured Sora softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t worry. It'll be okay.” 

“You…” This pause was longer, much longer, and Riku was all but sure that Sora would not speak again. Finally, with a wet cough, Sora continued. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Riku lied. He leaned forward and kissed Sora’s forehead, his lips lingering there for several long moments as he took steadying breaths. 

“Mm… ‘kay.” Sora managed. “Love you… so much.” 

“I love you too.” Riku said, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He wanted to scream. After taking a moment to compose himself, he sat up and offered his best imitation of a smile to Sora. Better for him to see that than to see how broken Riku really was. 

The all-too-familiar faraway look settled on Sora’s face as the last of his breath left his body. Riku collapsed over him, the tears finally coming, the weight hitting him all at once with the force of a tidal wave. Even knowing that he would see Sora alive and well again in mere moments did nothing to comfort him. 

It didn't matter how many times Riku had seen it. It never got any easier to watch Sora die.

[paigemathews]

Throwing around ideas for Billie’s kids for next gen stuff and uhhh thinking thoughts about preteen twin witches with incredible power and the brain cell and a half that thirteen year olds share. (Please note that this is so tentative that I might scrap the entire thing but it amuses me anyway so.)

Introducing the next gen of the Jenkin family: Stephanie and Emily Jenkins, Billie’s preteen twin daughters. Stephanie has telepathy like her aunt, but is a lot more on the good side of things. Emily inherited her mother’s projection, but has the more limited art projection form. They’re both thirteen and absolute losers (but we love them anyways). 

They’re obsessed with superheroes because, again, thirteen. (Is this drawing on my thirteen year old self’s obsessions? Pft, no. It’s on my sister’s.) Steph keeps creating mental links to act as “coms.” Emily accidentally turned everyone into superheroes and is too excited to fix it. (vague concept of Emily getting kidnapped by demons and Stephanie tapping into her power to transform other next gen kids into superheroes except the sisters are arguing over Marvel vs. DC. Ft.

Bianca as Deathstroke - “She isn’t Black Widow! You’re just saying that bc she can do the leg thing. The world’s best assassin with healing abilities and a sword is obviously Slade!” “Okay, fine, you have a point.” (the twins arguing while Bianca can’t decide if she should be offended or not.)

DJ Morris as Iron Man - “Come on, he’s literally a detective! He’s totally Batman!” “Batman doesn’t shoot lasers!” “It’s not lasers!” (DJ “I’m a private investigator actually, but also do not change your mind about this while I’m literally twenty feet off the air in a magic suit of armor please.)

Sebastian Johnson (half-manticore) as Black Canary - “Steph. Steph,-” “Yeah, that one goes without saying.” (Sebastian is a little disappointed that he doesn’t get a fun power upgrade but he looks good in fishnets at least.)

Chris Halliwell as Scarlett Witch - “Mentally damaged witch who manipulated reality one time and moves thing with their mind.” “You’ve got me there.” (Chris “What the fuck, Stephanie- Okay, actually, I’ll let this go because this is badass.” Chris gets to be the powerhouse just this once.)

i’m not doing every next gen kid, bc that feels like it’ll take too long. but uhhh, extra thoughts:

Wyatt as Superman - ideal hero with extraordinary power that everyone’s afraid will go evil

One of the Cupid girls (probably Parker) as either Green Arrow or Hawkeye bc of the arrow thing

One of the girls at Zatanna bc of the magic and poetry thing

Derek (half-manticore dad) as the Hulk

[writing-hat]

shattering

/!\ Spoilers for Dragons Rising S2P2!

(very original title) hiii i'm still not dead <3 sorry i'm not active but y'know. life.

here's a jay fic!! about him experiencing shatterspin for the very first time but this is actually more me trying to make the wolf masks kinda gory and made out of flesh it's. it's an experiment. as well as like. physical effects

i'm just having fun and trying out some things (ig it's not really a fic then but idk adfkjsegd)

/!\ TW : Blood, Gore, Wounds, Death (tell me if I forgot something)

Also not beta read and I don't read that well behind myself yaddi yadda y'know the drill (especially since this is more of a bunch of scraps assembled together and not a real fic akfjzsgv (I might cross post it on AO3 at some point we'll see))

This is around 6.8k words so it's half a short? anyway enjoy

Jay narrowed his eyes at the mask he held.

It seemed to be looking back at him. And to be frank, he wasn’t a fan of how it looked back.

A shiver crawled down his spine as he passed his fingers on the front. It was meant to be a mask, but the fact that there was hair there, even if short, was somewhat disturbing to realize. He didn’t know how to feel about the idea that these could be made of real fur. Or worse, that they were somewhat organic, and used to be alive.

He checked the eyes; they seemed colorless, and dull, when inactivated. Glassy.

Dead.

That last realization brought relief. Yeah, it was dead.

Whatever it was.

He knew he was supposed to put that shit on at some point, but… it didn’t seem like a great idea, in hindsight. At least that’s what his guts were telling him.

His mind was on a whole other setting. He trusted Ras, after all. Why shouldn’t he? He had saved him, from the insanity that the Administration had been.

Thank goodness this is over. He was grateful to the man, and had taken the time to hear his interests, and plans. Things Jay wasn’t bothered by, too big to be of a concern to him. But since they were important to his savior, well, who was he to refuse helping him?

He passed a hand on the fur again, before turning it around to see the inside. He winced.

It had been… somewhat ‘polished’, but one could not look away from the flesh that had probably been ripped apart from some unfortunate creature, the whole mask made of stitches between different kinds of skin. But he didn’t dare to touch it to confirm his fears. Had it been the same specie, every time? He did wonder if asking himself that wasn’t the most unimportant question of all.

Living beings had to die, for these masks to be made.

Jay hated how his brain was sure of it.

That, and there was some… sort of taint, at the bottom of it. Where the mouth was supposed to be.

It wasn’t on all the masks, but enough of them had it to pique Jay’s curiosity.

He hadn’t talked about it to Lord Ras yet, of course. He doubted others had noticed what these visages were made of. He wasn’t even sure how he had noticed the details in the first place.

Perhaps due to his weird anxious nature about everything that’s been happening since starting his life in the Administration. His only life, actually, since he couldn’t remember shit from before.

The medallion felt heavy in his pocket. Its sudden presence making itself known made him frown.

This piece of metal was all that was left to him. He wasn’t even sure how the ones that had found him in the Land of Madness hadn’t taken that away from him, just like all his previous belongings.

He placed the mask back in its place, giving it a final glare, before walking away.

He looked at himself, unsure of what to think of his clothes.

They were comfy, that was for sure. Much better then the suit he’d been forced to wear for years in this damned Administration. And looking much better. He did enjoy the patterns that had been added to go along his powers. Symbols of wolf could be seen as well, on his chest, making sure people would know which clan he belonged to- in case the mask wouldn’t be enough.

But the fur covering his neck, and the gloves… he didn’t like as much. They hid away scars, important parts of himself.

Then again, he still had the ones on his face, definitely due to his own powers when it came to the lightning paths, and probably from fights where there were cuts, and skin that had been torn.

He wasn’t a fan of keeping them away.

But, having his body completely protected when it was clear he was going to fight in the future wasn’t that bad of an idea. Are we going to fight now? Jay doubted it. A lot of the new recruits had probably no idea of what they were getting into. Had probably been enrolled with the idea that they were going to become better fighters, with something close to powers. Lots of people didn’t listen fully when about to drastically change their lives, he had seen it many times in the Administration.

With a heavy sigh, he passed a hand on his face. To be honest, Jay hadn’t thought that long about this idea of joining Lord Ras’s forces as well.

But I owe him. He was there when no one had tried to help. It was all that mattered.

Jay could hear people getting closer. He turned around, seeing Cinder and Ras coming towards him.

The latter still had the same expression as always, severe, and mildly pissed off at people for breathing in front of him. The master of smoke, on the other hand, often had a smug expression there, knowing he was above everyone else, and enjoying it way too much. Not too far from them, he could see Jordana, the sort of witch- he didn’t completely understand what her deal was- who looked away as soon as she saw Jay noticing her.

He didn’t get to focus on that, though, when Ras made sure to be the only thing in his vision.

“I take it you’re ready for today.”

No. Not at all. But this wasn’t what their Lord wanted to hear. “Yes.” He took a deep breath, doing his best to resist the need to fidget with the fur around his collar.

“A first test, to make sure everything will go smoothly for the first battle.” Cinder chuckled at Jay’s expression, before handing him the wolf mask. “You’re lucky to try it before the real deal, Jay.”

He glared at Cinder. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Though, with how the master of smoke was looking at him, mocking, he wouldn’t call any of this luck.

Inhaling sharply, he tried to not let himself show how nervous he felt. He hadn’t expected to wear it so soon. He grabbed the mask that was given to him, nauseous at how he was about to wear unknown skin on his own.

He tried to compare it to leather, but fuck that had nothing in common. He passed trembling fingers on the inside, wanting to confirm his fears.

…Yup. Organic tissues. It was repulsing.

Cinder quirked an eyebrow. “Are you hesitant now?”

There was a threatening growl coming from Ras that echoed with the other’s words. Jay closed his eyes, and shook his head. At least… there weren’t any smell to go with the thing. “No. Not at all.”

“Good.” Ras crossed his arms behind his back, walking towards the arena. “Then get ready. You will be tested along our new soldiers.”

Soldiers. Why did he hate that designation? Wasn’t he supposed to be more, with his elemental power?

He adverted his gaze, focusing it back on the inside of this mask. “Sure.”

It was the first time he entered the shadow dojo. The outside had been eerie, with nothing but the strange orange and red light on their paths, but the inside was a whole other deal.

It was… poorly lighted, somehow, despite the bright lights coming from outside, with candles offering a soft blue glow all around them. He wasn’t sure how the flames managed to stay in that hue, but couldn’t really focus on that when he was trying to avoid all the others that entered with him. Some were chatting, apparently already knowing each other.

Jay didn’t want to know anyone in here. He didn’t see the point.

There were runes everywhere as well. He had no idea of what they meant, but they were glistening too, in that same color as the candles. Plants had grown as well on the wall, somehow.

He sat on the ground, unbothered to stay up like the others. From here, he could see that the only one on the ground like him was someone with a large hat, covering most of his face. His eyes were revealed briefly when he raised his head to watch who had come here for the first trial, allowing Jay to recognize him.

He was the guy he had seen many times speak with Ras. Although speak was a light statement; more so yelling and arguing, with the latter always having the last word, letting the other clearly frustrated.

Nokt. That was his name. He remembered him due to the electrical device placed on the back of his head. Even if he wasn’t sure he had heard his name right earlier, since it seemed like he preferred to keep to himself, as proved when he lowered his hat down again, effectively shielding his expression away from everyone else.

But there was something Jay managed to see before he did.

A spark of amusement, of all things, akin to one about to watch some sort of entertainment unfold.

…Jay didn’t think he was going to like that guy.

His attention shifted back to their leader, when he hit the ground with his hammer. He gave a speech, one Jay half-listened to, about being ready to change their lives for this better form of power, and so on and so on. Monologues are always so tiring.

…Where had he heard boring monologues like these before?

A glimpse of- something, from before, barely there, that escaped him as soon as he tried to look for it, smothered away by another hit of Lord Ras’s hammer against the ground, and someone getting on their feet and walking to the center of the room. Jay thanked his luck helping out for once, since he definitely wouldn’t have heard his name if he had been first.

Watching the guy, he gave way to his urge, and started to play with the fur around his neck to keep himself calm. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like his anxiety was eating him alive, starting with his insides, and pulling on his guts and get him to run away from there as fast as he could.

He gnawed on his lip. He couldn’t make himself worry about nothing. This was just… apprehension, that came with every test he had to take.

Except if he failed this one, he might’ve to be forced back into the Administration. Damn it.

Deciding on ignoring the painful cramps his overreacting unconscious gave him, he focused back on the scene before him, observing the one that had been called.

The guy nodded his head to Lord Ras, and placed the mask on his face. Jay winced, clutching his other hand around the one he was holding; he really didn’t want to know how centuries old flesh would feel on his face. But he supposed he had no choice.

Holding his breath as Ras approached the gong, he tried to think of the power that wearing this mask would mean for him. He knew there was something about a forbidden technique of some sort, the Shatterspin, which he’d been taught the basics, but what about his powers? What would be the effects?

He’d seen Cinder. He’d seen how much quicker and agile he became whenever the mask would fuse with him, and gift him an armor instead of staying as a mask. The red eyes, he wasn’t that fan of, but if it meant finding who he was supposed to be, by feeling his powers better then ever before…

The scar under his left eye throbbed, forcing him to rub it. Not that he didn’t feel his power now, but he didn’t quite think he had a good grasp on it. He managed a few zaps here and there, and sparks to help him when it was completely dark, but other then that, not much else.

There is potential within you, Jay Walker. These had been Lord Ras’s words.

And he couldn’t wait to unleash that potential.

The gong was hit a first time.

Jay jumped out of his skin when the one put on trial shrieked in pain. Someone beside him gasped, letting him know that he definitely wasn’t the only one to be surprised.

He walked back, holding his face in pain and doubling over as the mask’s glowed that bright cyan. Not letting him the time to rest, or even wonder what was happening to him, the gong was hit a second time with a sound that echoed all around them. It was enough to make the room shake, and dust fall from the unexpectedly stable walls of this place. All the blue lights turned red.

The guy screamed again. Jay watched as he tried to remove the mask, pulling on his hair when trying to remove the strap that kept it in place. But it didn’t budge, despite his knuckles turning white from the force he was using for this one thing.

Jay felt sick, witnessing all this. Glancing around, he noticed how disappointed Lord Ras looked, and the way Cinder let his disgust appear.

…Shit.

His attention shifted back to the man in the center when he heard him puke. From here, he couldn’t really see what came out, and couldn’t help his flinch when the sound of retching reached his ears.

Chocking sounds could then be heard. It surely didn’t help when he threw his head back, gasping for air, too far gone to realize that he was making things worse.

Jay couldn’t look away from him. Doing so… doing so would mean he wasn’t cut for this role. It would mean showing weakness, and not being worthy of the chance offered to him.

Doing so would mean abandoning the man to his fate, a far side of his brain whispered. Jay took a deep breath, brushing that thought aside, just like he always had back in the Administration. Kindness and pity weren’t the way to go when one wanted to master Shatterspin, and the power of the Wolf Clan. He remembered Ras’s warnings too well.

Speaking of which, he couldn’t help but check a second time their leader, breath getting stuck in his throat when he did.

Lord Ras was watching them, not the poor guy struggling to survive against the surges of powers that went in his body forcefully. He was quick to understand; he wanted to see who was able to stomach it, and who would be useless in the future to him. And fuck, Jay didn’t think he could do that, but he didn’t have a choice. His body and mind didn’t have a choice.

The man screamed in pure pain and terror one last time, turning Jay’s insides. His hands grabbed at his skin, scratching with abnormal nails that had grown after the gong had been hit a third time. It made deep wounds, forcing crimson to pour out, but it seemed like the man couldn’t care less, just wanting to get rid of that cursed mask.

He heaved, then coughed, falling on his knees with a final yell, yielding to the pressure of energy that must’ve been coursing through his body. Unable to adapt.

And then…

He fell to the ground.

As soon as he did, the red lights came back to the blue hue they had first seen when entering the room.

When others gasped, and some cried, one, Jay heard a snicker. He looked around, trying to see who was sick enough to have that kind of reaction to someone dropping dead in front of them.

He frowned when he found out who.

Now he knew why Nokt had seemed amused at the beginning. He must’ve known this could happen. What a fucking psychopath. He looked away from him, and back at the center of the dojo.

Ras growled, stomping his boot on the ground at the result. He then turned towards Wolf Warriors, a finger pointed at the now dead man. “Get it out of here. We aren’t done yet.”

Shit. Shit. Jay swallowed hard, unable to look away from the blood, as well as the one the corpse left behind when pulled away in a messy trail.

Their leader hit the ground with his hammer, demanding attention from everyone in the room. “The reason he failed, was his resilience against our power. To become powerful, one must learn to bend to the rules that make it all. Only then, can you be one with the Wolf Clan’s powers.” He pointed his weapon towards the recruits, snarling when most of them took a step back in front of it. “Another one of his mistake was doubting me, and being a coward.”

His eyes scanned the room, glaring. “If any of you feel that way as well, you may as well leave. Now.”

That would be a mistake. Yet, some people immediately hurried out, not needing to be told twice. Not a lot- four of them, he counted. Jay closed his eyes, and tried to ignore how two Wolf Warriors followed after them, their claws ready.

What had he gotten himself into? What was going to happen to him?! How many others were going to die? Not that he questioned of the others’ loyalty, but there was no doubt that witnessing that guy’s death must’ve changed their will to join.

Now that Jay knew this was the consequence of failure… fuck. Fuck. His guts were twisting in there, hurting his stomach physically, at this point. His ears were ringing, clouding his mind from everything else. What if all that he had done, all this ‘surviving’ shit, had only lead to his demise?

Jay clenched his fists. He’d never allow that. Cinder had managed to do it, so why wouldn’t he?

This was an opportunity. To find purpose, and a place where he would belong. He couldn’t screw this up. He wasn’t a damn coward. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to fight back the power that was about to allow him a new beginning.

This was a cruel world after all. Hadn’t he learned that over and over again? And he couldn’t be at the bottom of it all just because others weren’t able to keep up.

He would not. He would survive through it all, no matter what it meant to wear that mask.

No matter the price.

Ras called his name. He was the second one to be tested.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his head, and faced the Lord’s eyes with a fierce glare.

Slowly, he got up, ignoring how his stomach still felt like a pit, and how his head was still hurting from the panic he had felt earlier when seeing that man die, his pulse somehow perceivable in his ears.

Still, he got to the center of the room. Only when he did, his eyes found themselves unable to detach from the splatters of blood everywhere. Some were older. Some were on the walls.

They had all witnessed that many times, hadn’t they? And they hadn’t told anyone.

It was… it was…

He took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time to loose it.

A dark paw handed the mask to him. It allowed Jay to focus his eyes in front of him, and away from the red splatters. Something he regretted doing, when meeting Ras’s eyes.

They were harsh, and unforgiving.

Jay couldn’t mess up.

He was being given a chance. A chance, that could be taken back, and handed to any other elemental master. He wasn’t the only one gifted after all, Cinder was the proof of that. Ras didn’t need him for this grand plan; he had an army, and people ready to follow his every order.

On the other hand, Jay needed Ras. And he owed that new chance at freedom, to him.

Straightening up, he grabbed his mask, and tried to not think back on how it was made of skin. Instead, he tried to concentrate on how there was metal there as well. When tying the strap behind his head, he tried to not remember how the one before him hadn’t been able to remove it when wanting to escape.

No turning back.

Darkness cornered his vision, the latter becoming defined by the constricted sight given to him.

Once settled, he placed both his arms along his body, and nodded to Ras with a dry throat. The latter growled, rearranging his hold on the hammer.

The gong was hit a first time.

The wave of its sound exploded in the room, reaching Jay’s body. It froze him, both his physical shell, and thoughts. Everything had gone silent in his mind, and around him. And he wasn’t sure if this was due to the effect of its power.

Even breathing seemed impossible, in these short seconds. He was completely petrified, finding himself feeling as if he’d been stuck in something so dense and heavy, holding him back. No noise could make it out of his mouth, despite the pain that had started to build up in both his face and chest.

Something had cracked inside of him.

Just as he sensed it, the gong was hit a second time.

It felt like a blow to his chest, making him back away. His bones felt breaking as he did, making him wonder if they could’ve been weakened by the power he had been hoping to obtain.

His ears unblocked. It caused him to be suddenly dizzy, and made his head heavy with the lack of oxygen.

Then his breath hitched, as soon as he noticed the paralyzing effect was gone.

Like breaking out of shallow waters and reaching the surface, he gasped, greedily sucking air. His legs wobbled, making him feel like he was about to loose balance, as both his hands reached for his neck to protect the precious air he was barely able to keep in his trachea.

His skin was itchy everywhere. Something was going on inside of him, turning his veins icy cold.

Something was wrong, and hurting. Something was very wrong.

The rush of his blood too was fast, and strong, making him think that his blood vessels were doubling in size, and perhaps stretching his skin as it grew, leading to his articulations becoming harder to move. It left the impression that everything was about to blow inside of him.

For a second, he wondered if he had died, and if he was about to fall on the floor, just like the man before him had, but then realized that the sound of his heartbeat was still there, and as fucking loud as it was quick.

He was alive. He was-

The gong was hit for the third, and last time.

The final wave forced him to puke, which he went along with, trying his best to not suffocate with it like the first guy. A blink, and he noticed that it was blood, coming out from his mouth in worrying amounts.

His insides abruptly felt like shattering, and he yelled, as his whole body seemed burning up, a harsh and painful contrast compared to what he’d been feeling seconds ago.

Jay wasn’t able to keep a shriek from escaping him, when the power he’d felt in him for as long as he could remember reached for his limbs, and exploded. The scent of burning skin made it to his nostrils, and he held his middle, as if trying to stop his insides from escaping him like his powers had. Only when he did, he sensed his lightning breaking apart.

Millions of pieces, made of parts of his powers, going absolutely insane, and making his body spasm.

Getting electrocuted was a familiar feeling. One he despised, but was never able to escape for too long when it came to dealing with his own incompetence and ignorance. Or when he would redirect lighting on their ship, to protect the ones he cared about.

But just like his power, these thoughts were shattered, making him cry, as his head hurt too much for him to keep up with.

So he didn’t.

He let these words and images get torn into pieces, shards feeling like they came to his heart, pulling his whole torso in a constricting sensation that once again made him think like he was about to die, just like that. The boiling sensation kept on increasing, causing his whole body to feel like he was burning alive.

Something clicked, then, and his vision became too blurry to understand. The red lights made it so he didn’t know where he was anymore, the distant image of people he used to know breaking apart again and again, causing his mind to shatter as well.

And once it was all gone, he vomited again, hugging himself tightly as if trying to at least keep his body in one piece. His shoulders slowly felt heavier, and the fur that had been around his sensitive skin suddenly ceased to be.

Though this was the last thing Jay cared about, as he fell to his knees, the collide with the ground making his bones almost rattle. The way his fingers kept twitching made him wonder how they hadn’t broken yet.

His breathing was difficult, with a voice that had turned hoarse at yells and cries of pain he hadn’t even been aware to be letting out.

He was about to die. He didn’t know how the feeling was so familiar, perhaps due to the blood that accumulated in his breathing pipes, akin to water, filling his lungs until there could be no air passing through. His heartbeat was diminishing, yet it stayed as the only thing Jay could hear.

So he caught it. He caught his heart, for it was all that was left to him.

His will to stay alive. His will to have something of his own, that would make him whole.

And it was a heart burning with rage.

This, was what pulled all the pieces back. What once had tried to escape him, was now caught back by the sheer amount of anger he felt at how fate and destiny had treated him.

What does it mean? The question went away as soon as it brushed his mind, the violent waves of power crushing anything that wasn’t meant to be like it away.

Thoughts. Feelings.

They no longer mattered.

All that mattered was power. Stitching back all that had been separated.

His lightning felt growing. Launching itself and balancing his body in positions and forms that meant both a cry for a help and the picture of a violent force forbidding anyone to get close.

Then came the fusion.

The skin that made the inside of the mask slithered in through his pores, pulling and tearing its way through to have full possession of him, and share its cursed strength to the one that had dared to agree with its ways. Jay wanted to wonder if this was what it meant to meddle with dark magic.

But he couldn’t even do that, screaming again with his broken voice at the violent intrusion he had allowed for someone else’s game.

Foolish. Foolish. He always was foolish.

The foreign matter didn’t bother to be careful, before settling in- although not without damaging the inside of his mouth some more. It forced out more blood out, kicking out whatever was left that wouldn’t be useful to this newfound power.

A final deep breath, and Jay felt…

Liberated.

Gone, was the weight that had been caused by his soul and mind shattering and leaving behind too many pieces to carry. His whole body now felt light, lungs freed enough to give him as much space as needed for the air he needed to live.

The power felt lurking in his systems, flowing and giving him feelings he’d never felt before.

It was pure bliss.

After a few minutes, Jay blinked, his vision coming back, although with nothing to muffle it this time. The euphoric sensation slowly escaped him, letting reality settle back in his mind. Feelings of what was around and on him came back, making him tighten his fists.

He felt as though his sweat had drenched all of his clothes, along the blood. His chest kept expanding in grand moves, each breath making his body quiver, as he tried to catch his breath properly, and return oxygen to his brain.

When he did, his head returned to its previous heavy state, with each pulse increasing the pressure at an impossible rate. Yet, this stayed incredibly dull compared to what having worn the mask the first time had felt like.

He opened and closed his mouth, stretching his jaw to check if it hadn’t changed, or if the muscles there hadn’t torn apart. They had certainly felt so. He checked his limbs as well, particularly his hands, by opening and closing them multiple times.

Everything was good, it seemed.

Bringing his hands up, he checked his face, wanting to make sure everything was still there, and if he hadn’t just imagined the mask going inside of his skin.

But he hadn’t. The mask wasn’t here anymore.

He rubbed at his neck, but scratched himself, making him hiss. He looked at his hands.

Claws had grown, there. The gloves hadn’t even torn, having adapted to the new form they had gained. Closing his eyes, he then oversaw how his powers reacted to the newly added strength.

The response was immediate, surge of powers making his body twitch, and forcing him to gasp for air again. Opening back his eyes, he saw these bridges of electricity between his fingers, going all the way to the tip of his fingers, before disappearing, over and over again.

He chuckled, snapping his fingers. It created a small blow, enough to shake his curls. He then got back up, not bothered to look at the people around him, despite the loud whispers. Directing his gaze in front of him, he then aimed for a wall with his fingers, before sending his lightning there.

The stone that made the wall exploded, pieces of wood and rocks flying everywhere in the room, and allowing dust to float freely.

Jay snickered, feeling this happy buzzing inside of him, always here in the aftermath.

Fuck yeah.

He had missed this so much.

…I wonder who thisused to be.

Walking away from the gravestone, he added the wood to the fire he had prepared for the night.

A caravan was in that junkyard, but he didn’t feel like he was allowed to get inside, even if no one was there. No matter how cold it could get in the desert at night, this wasn’t his home, and he was simply there as a guest. He wasn’t even sure why he had traveled all the way here, but by the time he had realized where he had gone to, the sun had been long gone, leaving him with no choice but to set up camp here.

At least this spot was empty. It was a welcoming change compared to the crowded and suffocating places that had been the Administration or staying with the Wolf Clan. Although he had always been on his own in these previous positions, here the loneliness was one much better then what he’d dealt with in these last few years.

Jay hoped that there at least wouldn’t be any wild creatures to attack him. Fighting back without his powers had proven to be more difficult then he had expected. Thankfully, he had kept the gun from his time in the Administration; a great way to defend himself.

He sat on the ground, and looked at the fire crackling in front of his feet, relieving the itch on his face by scratching it as much as he could. No doubt his skin had not only turned red, but with marks left behind as well. Damn it.

…Being without that mask was going to be very hard. It had adapted to his skin- or maybe it had gifted him a second one. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t understand any of this.

All he knew, was that whenever he had been wearing it, even if for a short time, it had been granting him such an incredible thrill that he already knew just couldn’t be compared.

Oh, he had felt like he was on top of the world. As if nothing could’ve ever stopped his powers and him, from getting back at everything that had been unfair to him up to this point.

Now, all he had left were scars. From wearing this cursed mask, and bearing these powers that had never been truly his, but another’s hidden through his own element.

Jay had no idea if he missed the mask, its power, or if this was all caused by how much he missed his lightning.

His eye twitched; he should’ve listened to his urge, in that moment, and killed her. Destroyed her. And now that he hadn’t, the feeling of regret was unbearable.

He wanted to tear at his skin, but he didn’t even have the claws left for that. Only his poorly taken care of nails, dirty and gnawed by his need to relieve his anxiety and surges of powers every time he hadn’t been wearing the mask.

…Jay missed it all, as much as he cursed it all.

Had he not followed Ras, he would have never lost his powers. Had he stayed in the Administration, in this false life of his, he would have never been bothered by flashes and addictions he had never been prepared to face. He would’ve found his own way to his demise, sure, but at least through a path never led by others.

How had any of what I heard so farsounded right? How could I fall for their lies?

Jay frowned, thinking back on what he had listened to again. He didn’t believe them at all. Their fake stories…

Everyone lies. They’re all the same. Great warrior my ass. Jay now didn’t doubt that Ras could’ve lied to him, and it upset him greatly. What for?! To give him hope, and then crush it all in the next moment because of his so called failure? Gah!

He thought back on that woman he had fought. She too, had pretended to know him.

The sweet tone he could remember from her voice made him grit his teeth.

Even if she and her team had been right, why had they never come for him? It had been years. He had found himself all over again, since then.

“Let’s theorize that it was because they had no idea of where I was. Fine.” Jay clenched his fists. “Why didn’t they come get me when I was kicked out?”

His words were barely above a whisper, not even heavy enough to be carried around by the wind.

He stopped moving, forbid himself from flinching, focusing on the sounds of the burning fire so he could shift it as a background noise so his brain wouldn’t have to bother itself with. He then closed his eyes, and just… listened.

Strong wind, making the abandoned metal around him creak softly, and passing through small and tight openings, whistling all around him.

Deep down, he knew he waited for another noise. The snap of a branch, or the crunch of the sand under someone’s shoe that would make his hair bristle in apprehension. The sign that someone would come for him.

So he waited.

Until moments later, silence was still all that answered him.

He cursed, bringing his knees up to hug them, and huddle in a smaller position.

Jay didn’t know what else he had expected. Of course this wouldn’t happen.

He was alone. He’d always be, in the end. And it seemed like… he wasn’t enough. Not enough to make up for the help given to him, nor enough for people that were supposed to care about him to come back and find him. Loneliness was all that awaited him. He understood that.

… And despite feeling like this, he didn’t feel as he thought low he would’ve.

No. Quite the contrary.

Jay was… appeased. After all, that meant he could finally build a life. Even if it wouldn’t be much.

Throughout the years, he had learned that he had to move forward in order to survive. To do as told, and never question what he was ordered to do, or face consequences. Whether it had been the Administration, or Ras’s Wolf Clan.

So now, knowing for sure that no one and nothing was going to hold him back was freeing. Enough to get rid of these incessant thoughts bugging his mind, at least. Yet not quite enough to get rid of that pressure in his stomach.

Because all of this meant that he had nothing. He never had, and he never would. It left him… empty.

At the end of the day, it meant that he was nothing.

He watched the sparks escaping the fire. Like lightning’s, in a sense, but much less volatile, and not as comforting. He followed their trails, until his gaze ended up towards the stars. Had he known their names, a lifetime ago? The paths they traced, and how they never changed?

But it must’ve changed after the Merge. There was no doubt about that. Even something supposed to never be in motion except throughout centuries had completely shifted, no matter how infinite and big it must’ve always felt to him.

Everything had changed.

How was he supposed to find his past self if nothing was the same?

I don’t. That’s how. There was no need to waste time for something so meaningless. At least he hoped.

He sighed, glad to be protected from the chill of the night.

Warmth whenever it was cold was always a better thing. It was a comforting presence he had never admitted to enjoy in front of him. His… his heart kinda regretted that now.

Jay blinked at the dark sky.

…Who-

Something flashed before his eyes, too fast for him to identify what it was. It aimed for him, reaching its target in a millisecond.

Lightning had just struck him.

He shouted, feeling his powers immediately coming back to him, making him fall on his hands and knees.

Fuck. He hated that feeling. The one of his body getting electrocuted by his own life source, because he just couldn’t control it right.

Come on! He hit the ground with his fist, spitting on the grass as he grasped at the insanity of his power. He kept gritting his teeth, until finally, the lightning settled in, and buzzed happily to be back in its rightful place, with its rightful owner.

Jay took a deep breath. Yeah. Missed you too.

Since the start, his lightning had been the only thing there for him. To be reunited with it again brought tears to his eyes, both of joy, and anger.

At having lost them in the first place. At losing them to that damned water ninja.

I love you, Jay. I will always love you.

The memory of the woman’s desperate face flashed back when he shut his eyes to get rid of his tears.

An act. It wasn’t that difficult to pretend emotions after all, was it?

If he ever saw her again… he was pretty sure he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.

She hadn’t hesitated to defeat him. Pretty fucked up for someone who was supposed to care, like she wanted him to believe.

Or maybe she’d been following orders, like I was.

Jay shook his head. Whatever the reason, it clearly wouldn’t justify anything. Nor would it tarnish the way his heart dripped hatred into his blood, making him even angrier then before.

The medallion felt heavy in his pocket.

Too heavy, this time.

He took it, and looked at the shape.

…It was a missing piece. He could see that now.

Jay didn’t want to be that. The missing piece of someone instead of being his own person. Of a puzzle he had nothing to do with.

What kind of life could he expect if all he was supposed to be was a pawn placed by others, and never able to have his own free will? The piece in a long chain of supposed important people. Full of important tasks, to serve the greater good of some kind of Great Administration, or a Great Cause of some Delusional Clan.

He’d be no one’s missing piece. No one’s lost part.

He was his own soul. No matter how shattered it felt, and how many little pieces of it were left.

Jay threw the heavy piece in the fire, the weight in his heart never tarnishing during the long time he watched it in the flames, as the moon advanced its course. He stayed that way, holding his limbs tightly against him, while taking deep yet suffocating breaths.

Until, it finally started to melt.

The slightest tint of gold, pearling down as it became a liquid again, and advanced on the darker metal it was attached to.

Never again.

[freddie-77-ao3]

sup yall we're vibing here

anyway. hey, my name's freddie, and i'm finally trying to write an actual intro/master post which... we'll see how this goes.

important stuff is highlighted in orange.

so, basic stuff:

as I said, my name's freddie. he/him pronouns. i'm a college student (majoring in accounting, might add a psych minor). not gonna say which college but i'm currently in california.

i've been on tumblr since 2019 i think? not under this account, this started as a fandom account and then spiralled out of control... really fast. um, my regular tumblr which i've not actually opened in ages is @chronicchthonic14 so. yeah.

not particularly relevant to this blog, but i might mention it at some point so, i have autism and adhd. and some other things but. like. that list is very long and those are the two most relevant because i promise if i come off wrong/mean, i didn't mean to, i just forget to make my words normal. but. those are the two most referenced. if for whatever reason someone wants to know more or has questions you can send an ask ig?

i'm scottish, born there. moved to US when I was four. finishing uni and moving back.

some quick warnings

this blog definitely contains cursing/vulgar language, whatever you want to call it, so if you're not comfortable with that, probably not the blog for you, as i don't tag cursing or anything for you to filter out.

if, for whatever reason, if i ever reblog something that contains a slur (against racial minorities, queer people, anything) i will ABSOLUTELY tag that though.

also if anyone has any trigger warnings they think any content needs, please let me know-- asks, dms, comments, reblogs

the cursing thing also applies for sort of dirty jokes? think that only applies to like. two posts and very not explicit. those aren't currently tagged but if they get any more explicit they certainly will be.

queer identity because the explicit reminded me, i'm asexual, and probably straight. maybe bi? dunno, don't particularly care. and i'm trans. ftm. this isn't the blog i talk about that on usually though, unless it relates to a specific ask or a fandom thing.

which, getting into what this blog is for because i can't think of anything else i need to add here (guys let me know if i forgot important stuff, please, i'm an idiot!!! i will forget the important stuff and write random shit instead!! i've already deleted three tangents from this!!)

sooooo

fandoms!! ones i write and/or post about or will potentially post about

percy jackson extending to hoo, toa, tkc (definitely post way less about this), mcga (again, way less). haven't read TSATS or COTG yet, but spoilers are fine. i post way more about minor characters. write fanfiction for and have some posted (both on here and ao3) and a bunch of snippets.

dcu-- films, comics, animated shows, all of it. personally, my favorites are young justice (the comics, not show version), new teen titans, and batman inc (batgirls, nightwing, and red robin esp). late 90s yj run is my favorite, and i loved the DCeased event. favorite batman comic is definitely court of owls run. no fanfics posted, but some on docs.

mcu-- way less so, but have a stucky oneshot. slowly making my way through in timeline order.

throne of glass. i'm an aedion and chaol apologizer because they do a bunch of dumb shit but then WHO DOESN'T in this series. fanfics in doc, not posted.

this would go on for ages if i listed everything so instead, here's an ask i answered on my fandoms/genres and everything. feel free to send me asks about anyone. if you send me something about radium girls i may cry though (tears of joy) so there's your advanced warning.

main things you'll see on my blog are incorrect quotes, snippets, and the occasional fic

this^^

my... idk, contact policy? seriously what do i word this

asks are always open, anon is on.

if you send hate... whatever. i'll probably delete it.

unless i find it funny. then I'll post it. there's really little you could say to me that would hurt.

when i say asks are always open, you can drop anything you want.

literally anything

you need to vent? want advice? want to request headcanons? request a fic? give me a prompt? ask random things about me? something else I've forgotten? go right ahead

if you want to ask me to update my fics? go right ahead. sometimes i forget i didn't post something.

send as many asks as you want, i don't care if it might be spam

i can't promise i'll respond to asks in a timely manner, sometimes i open my inbox and forget they exist for months, i'm sorry. if it's something you really want answered you can send another one

dm's are alright? if you want to be friends or something, go right ahead.

anyone can reblog any of my posts/comment/heart, i don't care. you want to heart 50 things in a row? i adore you. if i had kids, you would get my firstborn

if we're mutuals you can ask for my insta/give me yours.

now, other accounts:

anyway, i think that's it?

[desceros]

might I request a brief summary of the blurple villain au?

of course you can [clears throat and turns on the powerpoint presentation] sorry did you say the word 'brief'? i'm afraid i don't know what that word means

so the overall genesis of the au came from this text post discussing the allure of a wolf/lamb/herding dog trio.

and i was like. hm. what if there was an au where leo got separated from the others while splinter was getting mutated into a rat, so he had to grow up alone on the streets. this would obviously harden him, and since he didn't have his family to act as an anchor, he'd turn into this super smart, super conniving little monster who could outsmart anyone to get whatever he wanted. he grows up into a kind of nasty dickhead who's smug and calculating, not trusting anyone, working sketchy mercenary jobs in the hidden city and living in the seedy part of town

meanwhile there's you, the lamb in the scenario. you live at the lair for, uh, reasons i haven't explored yet. probably something like you wandered into the sewers as a little street rat and splinter took you in idk. but you've grown up with them, and donnie has kind of... latched onto you, marking himself as your protector. (he is the herding/sheep dog in the scenario.) at some point while you were kids, you did the whole when we grow up let's get married thing, and he's just taken that to just be the fact of his life. he's in love with you, you're his; and you're also in love with him, though you don't quite... recognize it yet? but you do know that you're his.

but donnie is, ofc, a bit overbearing in his protectiveness. so eventually, you start to wander out of your corral like the curious little sheep you are. and one day, you wander into the territory of a particularly hungry wolf, who goes to eat you—except you see in him echoes of someone you trust with your life. because what is a wolf but a slightly wilder dog? and you know a dog, and you love a dog, so surely a wolf can't be so scary. this guy reminds you of donnie, so you don't react the way you probably should, and that intrigues him.

eventually leo decides that you're his. and he takes things he wants. the only problem is that you're not exactly, uh. free for the taking. so though you're on board, donnie, your sheep dog, is very much not.

thus begins the complicated relationship where you're dating leo, then you realize that you're also in love with donnie, and you start dating him, and the two of them have to learn how to share if they want a piece of you, in the process learning that really they're not so different.

edit since this gets asked sometimes. no it is not tcest. it's a poly relationship where you're dating the two. they aren't dating each other. c'mon people. let's have a little tiny bit of reading comprehension. as a treat.

so yeah. it's the blurble villain au bc you're dating leo and donnie, and leo's a dick and donnie wants to beat him up a lot. here's the tag of stuff if you wanna get caught up. i've got one proper fic on ao3 for it and a few floating around here, plus some short fragment type things. also i should say that while i started it, this has turned into something i consider @gbao3's au as well since they've put just as much into it with me. so you can go talk to them, too!

[elronds-meleth-nin]

Never Too Late - Part Two: Agh Burzum-Ishi Krimpatul

I know the first part of this fic was a little bit weird, but hopefully things will make more sense with this part. Thank you all for putting up with my strange fic experimentation! Given what has happened and this fic's overarching theme of hope (which will become clear soon, I swear) I want to continue this fic before all others. This, of all things, needs to see the light of day.

Part One here.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Adar (RoP) x Maia!Reader

[A/N: Suggestive positions/actions and nudity in this chapter, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, mentions of scars, mentions of torture, nudity, description of the aftermath of flogging (not terribly graphic but still enough that I think a warning is necessary), mentions of blood, Morgoth is his own warning, as is Sauron, kissing, angst, hurt/comfort, I swear this will have a happy ending at some point, idk what I'm doing tbh but I'm trying.

~*~

Elf he was, but Uruk he became. Ruined, tortured, and scarred, the Uruk with no name was promised one by his master. 'Adar' he swore he'd be called. 'Father.' The Uruk had wanted children, even if he'd guarded the secret of the woman he loved with his life. He buried her name so deep within his heart that he nearly forgot it himself.

But, Morgoth never pulled it from him. Only his desire to have a family. To have children. He had seen nearly all of the Uruk's heart, both dark and light, but not the small crevice in which he'd hidden his love.

At the start, he did not understand how Morgoth planned to give him that which he desired, but he'd been foolish enough to choose this path. He had to see it through, no matter the end. It had, undoubtedly, cost him the respect of his lady, so however Morgoth chose to fulfill his wish, he prayed that it would be worth such a sacrifice. But, in his heart, he knew it never would be.

Having been robbed of his lady, the Uruk who would become Adar stewed in self-loathing. He accepted his master's discipline - regardless of the method, hook, cane, or whip - without protest, uttering barely a sound. He believed that he deserved this pain for bringing sadness to she whom he loved best. He wept in the shadows, but not all of it was from Morgoth's torture. The beatings he could endure, but the loss of her warmth, her light...that was the pain that changed him.

To the rest of those in Utumno, the dark lord's stronghold in the far north, Adar presented the façade of strength unbreaking and cold ruthlessness. But, ever in his heart there dwelt a love so fierce it threatened to split him open every time he thought of her. Across the long centuries as he was molded by his master's hand, Adar never forgot who he had been or the light he'd felt streaming over his skin beside the riverbank.

The light was meager in that dark stronghold, however, and soon the feeling was little more than a far distant memory which comforted him through the horrors. Then, it was bolstered by the small cries of the first Uruk children to be born. They might not have been the family he desired to have with his lady, but they were children, young and as yet innocent - precious gifts. Despite anything that Morgoth or Sauron said, he knew his children were worthy of the breath of life, and he would protect them accordingly.

Then, Morgoth ordered the Moriondor to prove their loyalty through suffering. Many tasks he set them, each leaving them more scarred and damaged than before. The final of which was to be carried out atop the dark peak jutting up from the barren wastes of Utumno.

They were led to the top, and each of the thirteen was forced to their knees, arms pulled back at a painful angle, and chained that way. Their clothing was stripped of them beforehand, baring them and rendering them vulnerable to the elements. And thus, they were left.

Hunger tore at them, the shadows writhed mockingly in the unending, suffocating loneliness. As days passed, one by one, the Moriondor cried out for mercy, fearing they'd been forgotten and left to die. Many wept, others screamed out in terror or anger, but not Adar.

Silently, he bore this latest torture. His shoulders protested, shooting agony down his arms, neck, and back at the terrible angle in which they were stuck. Yet, still he remained silent. Sleep came in fits and starts, jolts of pain waking him with a gasp before he became anywhere near fully rested.

If he died there, he thought, it would serve him right for ever leaving that beautiful spot beside the river. He longed to say his lady's name, but he did not wish for the dark lord to hear it or for her to be anywhere near this wretched place.

Days became a week, then two, after which he was so exhausted that he lost track of time. Finally, one day, rain began to fall, but it was different from that which he had felt before. It did not burn his skin. The drops were full of light, gentle and welcoming, an even larger wave of which washed over Adar's face, temporarily soothing the aches from the dark lord's latest round of punishment. The scars that were not yet fully healed - due to Morgoth's dark magic - stopped stinging, and he drew an easier breath than he had in...he could not remember how long it had been.

Lifting his head to find the source of both the rain and the light, he saw the impossible.

He saw her.

Dropping to her knees before him, the Maia from the forest - his muse, his lady, his dearest joy - looked up at him with sadness flooding her eyes. She could not be real. This was not real. Morgoth must have finally broken through that final stronghold in his heart.

But...if there was even the slightest chance that she was truly here, he had to warn her away. She would be in danger if she remained here.

"My lady," he rasped in a voice torn and tattered from screams and dehydration, "you should not be here in the darkness."

"Nor should you, my wordsmith." With a mournful smile, she reached carefully forward and cupped his cheeks. His breath caught in his throat and a sob escaped in its place.

Was she truly there? Nothing so gentle had touched him in years. Neither Morgoth nor his lieutenants would allow that. She had to be real, because all of the other illusions placed before him had felt beautiful yet hollow.

Her touch was warm and solid, safe and loving. Familiar. Perfect. Wondrous.

At first, looking at her had taken effort, as if her light was almost too much for his dark-conditioned eyes, but as time passed, seconds colliding before his eyes, he found her visage easier to behold. Even if it had not, he would never have looked away. Not from her. He had adored her for so long, he'd clung to the hope of seeing her again, even from afar for so many years that he was certain looking away would kill him.

"The others will see you. He will see you," Adar warned. "Flee while you can. Please, my dearest lady, you must do this for me. I am beyond hope. Even my blood has been infiltrated by shadows. It is too late for me, but you can still save yourself. The knowledge that you are alive, walking along the river in the noonday sun is enough to sustain me to whatever end I shall meet."

"None are beyond hope," she promised skimming her thumbs so lightly over his cheeks. Their path brought relief to the raised, puffy skin that would soon be thick, callused skin. "You need not fear for me. The others cannot see me, nor can Morgoth. The rain conceals me from their sight."

Adar's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Then, how...? How am I able to see you? I have experienced the same darkness that they have." His lady smiled indulgently at his question.

"Because your light has not dimmed completely. It takes a great deal more to reignite a fire than it does to stoke the embers of one into a roaring flame. This rain is infused with light. It blinds the darkness. He cannot tame you any more than he can me, my brave poet," she murmured earnestly.

Her words stirred the hope that he'd thought long dead in his breast, and a single tear trickled down his cheek - all that his body could produce in his current state. Without a moment's hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed it away as if she had done so thousands of times.

He did not deserve this kindness. He'd been such a fool. He should never have left the river. He should never have looked into the shadows.

He never should have left her.

"I can take you away from him," she began as she leaned forward far enough for their foreheads to touch. "I can take you away from this terrible place, but only if you ask. We cannot intercede in matters which do not directly relate to our missions to such an extent without a direct request. You must desire it."

When she pulled back far enough to search his face, pain was written all over him. He wanted to say yes, to give her the request, but he could not. The Uruk shook his head.

"I must accept the consequences of my actions. I chose this. I began down this path, and now I must walk to its end, whatever that might be," he murmured, and just as all those years ago, he could see agony in her eyes. He attempted to soothe it the only way he knew how. "I have found a name, melda heri. 'Adar.'"

A sweet, wet smile stretched her lips.

"Adar," she breathed, and he could not help the feeling of anticipation that thrummed through him. It felt so right for her to call him that. He savored the feelings she'd inspired within him. She laid a hand over her heart and bowed her head. "Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, heru Adar."

Though a few tears had trickled down her cheeks, she looked at him with such warmth that he thought his heart may burst.

"If you will not allow me to take you away from here," she began, caressing his cheeks, "then, please, let me do something smaller for you."

Unable to form words beyond the lump in his throat, Adar nodded his head. Wordlessly, she caught raindrops in her cupped palms, then blew into the pooled liquid until it began to glow, murmuring into it words which he could not understand. They did, however, sound familiar...like those which he'd spoken by the river so many years ago. Only when the water glowed as bright as daylight did she lift it to his lips and urge him to drink.

Adar obeyed without question, and as it trickled down his throat, he was filled with a warmth which he had not felt since those days spent together by the river.

"Might I ask what that was?" He inquired when it was gone. His voice still sounded raspy, but it was less gravel and more velvet - closer to what it had been before Morgoth. Speaking hurt less.

"Cauma," she whispered, laying a hand over his breast. Protection. His heart thrummed beneath his skin, but unlike so many years ago, it pumped black blood. Nevertheless, it responded to her, beating harder, stronger, more assuredly than before. "Protection that not even Morgoth can take from you."

"Thank you," he breathed. The words alone could never be enough. He wondered whether she knew how much he loved her.

Her lips met the corner of his mouth, and Adar's eyes fluttered shut.

"You do not need my protection, but you will always have it," she promised as she looked into his eyes one last time and stood. "You need only call my name and I will come. Never forget, Adar: you are stronger than any of them will ever know. You will see me again ere long. Do not give in, and do not forget who you are."

And before he could tell her that she was more lovely than anything under or amongst the stars, she was gone, borne away by the wind and rain amidst which she had arrived. Adar allowed himself to weep silently at the loss of her, but he was still dehydrated enough that no more tears fell.

He pulled himself together after several long moments, locking away his feelings as they had been before, so that neither Morgoth nor his lieutenants would know of his love for her.

Several days later, when Sauron finally came for them all, he looked down at the Moriondor one by one and asked them questions in a voice too low for the others to hear until it was their turn. Adar looked up as his master's lieutenant stepped before him, bearing a black, metal goblet.

"There was rain a few days ago," he began in that same low voice. "Did anything about it seem...unusual? Did anything or anyone appear to you amidst it?"

Adar knew immediately that Sauron meant his lady. How could he not? Regardless, he did what he always did when he guarded that last private bastion of his heart. He steeled his nerve and looked into the eyes of the deceiver.

"No. There was nothing more than poison rain," he replied in his dehydration-ravaged rasp of a voice. Every syllable should have hurt, but it did not, nor did he look away from Sauron's face. He did not flinch from the evil before him, daring it to call him a liar. If he received a punishment for hiding knowledge of her existence from the darkness, so be it. She was worth it. She was worth more than his life ever was.

With the snap of his fingers, however, Sauron released his bonds. The chains fell away with a loud, metallic clank, and Adar collapsed forward. His arms had been held at such an extreme angle for so many days that at first he could not move them. With patience and no small amount of pain, he managed to get to his knees. When he straightened, Adar found Sauron offering him the goblet.

"Drink. You have earned it," he said in that saccharine voice. The wine was as red as a blood moon. Almost too red.

On that dark and nameless peak, Adar drank it all down to the last drop. He relished it, though the taste was foul like everything else in this horrid land.

As he and the others followed Sauron down from the top of the mountain, he allowed himself the smallest moment to contemplate what she'd said. If he truly possessed strength unknown to the forces of darkness, then he would keep that knowledge a secret for as long as he could. He would not disappoint her by showing his hand too early.

--

After that fateful reunion, Adar's lady returned to him several times, shrouded by that same light-filled rain, or mist when they were in the subterranean parts of Utumno. Their meetings were short, but so desperately needed if their physical closeness was anything by which to judge. Many times they huddled together in out of the way passages and little known crevices.

Over time, he came to know that she was more than one of the Maia yet less than one of the Valar. She'd earned her own title: the Lady of Reflections. Shining light into the dark parts of one's soul and helping the viewer to learn from what they saw, she'd earned the respect of leaders from nearly every race in Middle Earth. Dwarves called her friend, Elves listened to her council with measured wisdom, and Men...well, as Men were more corruptible than others, they often feared her as much as they valued her advice.

No wonder Adar had felt as though she could see the depths of his fëa! The day she revealed to him the facts of her nature, he'd looked away from her, ashamed of what she must see within him. The Uruk surely disgusted her, or so he thought. Gently, she had pulled him into a hug, whispering reassurances against his neck as if she actually cared about someone as broken as he.

He did not pull away, though. Adar was not strong enough for that. He needed her, no matter how horrid he might be to her. She called him beautiful and gentle, and though he did not take those words to heart, her attempt to make him feel better still forced a blush onto his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears.

She laid soft kisses across his burning skin and called him sweet, which only made his reaction more pronounced. Thankfully, she'd allowed him to hide his face in the crook of her neck.

Those moments were peppered through the decades, brief, pleasant memories with which Adar sustained himself. Not long after that night on the peak, however, the War of Wrath began, and their meetings became more sporadic.

The air and ground shook with the rage of the Valar as they fought their enemy upon every front. From Utumno, Morgoth's armies made of monsters, Balrogs, unnamed evils, and Uruks poured forth. Morgoth never seemed to care for the fates of Adar's children, although truthfully, he never expected the dark lord to. He'd used torture to create them, so what would their pain mean to him?

After a particularly brutal loss, Adar took the punishment meant for his children. Morgoth had blamed them, though the loss was not their fault, and Adar could not let them face the horror of their master's wroth. Stepping bravely forward, he claimed responsibility for their actions as both their commander and their father. He insisted that he, instead, should take their punishment.

He expected to be killed for such insolence, but Morgoth had something more sadistic in mind.

Adar was stripped, flogged until his already-scarred back was in tatters, paraded through the camp in shame, and tossed upon the ground before his tent. He couldn't remember doing it, but he managed to crawl his way to his sleep roll and collapse onto his front. It could have taken minutes or hours, but he managed it. His eyes shut, and he did not expect to open them again. The pain radiating through Adar's back kept him from sleep, but he did slip into a deep, nearly meditative state.

Tears dripped slowly down his cheeks, and in a breath he expected to be his last, he whispered her name - his lady's name. He'd kept it locked up so tightly in his chest that this utterance carried more weight than even that of his love for her. Even if he could not see her again before the end, he could at least savor the taste of her name one last time. Would she ever know that his last thoughts were of her?

He should have told her how much he loved her before all of this began. Coward. He was a foolish Elf, then a cowardly Uruk. There was so much he'd never done.

As he remembered the river, the poetry, and the light of her eyes upon the peak of the desolate mountain upon which she'd found him, he lost consciousness.

--

His call did not seem real at first. A whisper across miles and consciousness, Adar's voice had sounded weak - a barely there plea for help. She'd been taking counsel with her father, the Lord of the Tides, when she heard his voice.

She did not hesitate, leaving in the middle of a sentence with barely an apology. Her rain fell with a vengeance when she entered Morgoth's encampment, creating muddy puddles in the trenches and cart ruts. Her armor gleamed in the darkness above her dress, her boots leaving behind nary a footprint in her wake.

Very few Uruks could see her to begin with, and all who did that day saw an incalculable rage in her eyes as she stalked through the lines, looking for their Lord Father. One very brave soul made his way to her and bowed low, stopping her in her tracks.

"C-Can I help you, my lady?" He asked, and she cocked her head curiously.

"What is your name?" Calm and soothing, her voice alleviated some of his fears as he straightened his posture. No wonder Adar never refused her company when she appeared in their camp.

"Gulug, my lady," he said looking upon her with wonder. He'd never seen eyes that gleamed and glowed like hers. The Uruk removed the cloth covering his head, clutching it between his clawed fingers like a Man would with his hat.

"It is an honor to meet you. Would you take me to Adar? It is urgent."

The Uruk acquiesced without hesitation, bowing again slightly before leading her toward the Moriondor's tent.

"I should warn you, my lady. The dark lord was not happy. He was going to take out his anger on us, but Lord Father drew his gaze away," Gulug muttered as they shuffled through the gloom. Shame filled his voice. "He took the punishment for us."

The Maia placed her hand gently upon the Uruk's shoulder when they reached their destination.

"Your Lord Father loves you very much. Please, for Adar's sake, do not tell anyone that I was here," she murmured, and because her gaze was so earnest, Gulug agreed easily. She began to move away, but he caught her hand in his, making her turn back to look at him curiously.

"Who are you, my lady?" He asked, and she offered him a small smile.

"The Lady of Reflections. A friend who now owes you a debt," she answered. "Should you or your descendants need assistance, they need only mention your name. If it is within my power, I shall help. You will know when the time is right."

Gulug released her arm and bowed low, thanking her several times before she disappeared into Adar's tent. The rain felt much more welcoming when he'd met its maker, even if its presence never failed to send Morgoth into a rage since he could not perceive its source.

--

When he woke, Adar believed that he was dead. How could he be alive after what he'd experienced? And why would gentle fingers be skimming through his hair, smoothing away the tangles and lingering upon the nape of his neck?

Fear, belated yet potent, stirred within his breast, urging him to try and lift his aching body out of harm's way. When he began to move, his back protested instantly, and he whimpered in pain.

"Stay still. Moving will only hurt you," a voice murmured above him, and Adar's eyes flew open. Beside him knelt the Maia with whom he'd fallen so desperately in love. "I have not been here long. You called out to me so faintly, I thought I would be too late."

Adar struggled to make his tongue form the correct words.

"I...am still alive?" He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but from the sad expression that crossed his lady's face, he knew he had failed.

"You are, and for that I give my most heartfelt thanks to the Valar," she answered as her fingertips traced the sharp curve of his cheekbone and jawline.

"I am sorry. I should not have...You do not deserve to see such carnage," Adar rasped as regret twisted within him. "You are made for sunlight and trees and dancing, not watching corrupted beings suffer. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive." Her voice was so warm and steadfast that Adar believed her. Despite all his doubts and fears, he believed her. "I am grateful that you called me."

"Please...do not leave me," he whispered, needing her courage to supplement his own. He sounded like a frightened child, and he would not have scoffed at the comparison. Despite the rain pattering a constant, soothing rhythm against the cloth of his tent, none of it leaked through.

"Hush, meldanya," she breathed. "I am here, and I am going nowhere."

She laid her hand on the ruined plane of his back, and the single jolt of agony he felt disappeared as quickly as it came. Light filled his tent, reflecting off the surface of her gleaming, discarded armor and caressing his skin in liquid trickles of respite.

A sob of relief tore from him when the pain stopped. His eyes fell shut again as his body trembled, and he reached his hand out until he grasped the edge of her dress. The light, beautiful fabric flowed over his fingertips, and for a single moment he was there, again, at the river bend.

A dull thud beside him pulled him back to the present...to the battlefield and his tent. Adar opened his eyes. His lady had collapsed beside him, blood seeping through the back of her dress. It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.

She'd taken his injuries. With whatever power her light possessed, she had taken his pain and his wounds and replaced them with comfort, marring her own back in the process.

"No," he rasped, forcing himself to move despite the persistent ache of exhaustion in his limbs. He shifted onto the floor beside her, caressing her cheek as he watched her dress bloom a horrible, undeserved red. "No, no, meldanya, what have you done?"

Quickly, he laid her atop his bedroll and started tending to her as he would anyone else who was injured. Carefully pulling away the fabric covering her back, he realized he knew more about her injuries than most who attempted to heal their patients. He was intimately familiar with every gash. He knew which parts would hurt her most, and gathered what meager healing supplies he had. Before he could apply his admittedly rushed treatment, however, she caught his hand and whispered his name.

He startled at her abrupt return to consciousness but turned his attention to her lips instead.

"Peace. Still your hands and calm your frantic mind," she murmured, and at the small smile she offered him, he forced himself to relax. "Watch."

Obeying her command, Adar turned his gaze to her poor back and noted with shock that already the skin was knitting itself together. To his horror, however, it was healing how his own wounds did - with knots and whorls, raised ridges and hollow divots which spoke the unique language of pain. The smooth canvas of her back had become a map of scars illustrating the cruelty and rage of the Uruk's master.

"You should not have done this. Not for me. I sought the darkness, I am not worthy of such a gift," he breathed without real thought. Every word was true, and though he was the one who had taken the beating, she still bore consequences which she should never have encountered. "You should not have wasted such grace on me. I could never repay such a kindness. I will spend the rest of my time trying to find a way, nonetheless, I swear it."

She pushed herself up on her forearms until she was kneeling before him. There was certainly an urge to allow his gaze to slip down to her exposed chest, but he was no monster, despite his scars. Her dress had fallen as she'd lifted herself up, but she obviously did not care. Why should she? She was exquisite in every conceivable way. Adar knew, though, that after what she'd done for him, she likely would not appreciate his gaze roving where it ought not.

Instead, he focused squarely on her face. Already she looked healthier than the moment before, but she now wore a concerned frown.

Was everything that she did beautiful?

"Adar...darling, I did not do this with the intent of seeking repayment. It is a gift for one whom I treasure...who has been with me always." Her small, gentle hands reached for him, but before she could touch him, Adar caught them in her grasp and began covering her fingers in kisses. His dark blood had dried in the bends of her knuckles and the lines of her palms.

Only upon tasting salt did he realize that his tears had escaped down his cheeks. When he finally lifted his head and chanced a glance at her he found himself entranced. Her eyes were the reflection of morning light upon the sea, turbulent and calm in turns. Her heart was both stout and gentle, and he deserved not one flicker of her attention. But, still she showered him with it. How she tolerated his folly, he knew not–

Soft, unmarred lips met his in the midst of his self-pity, and the Uruk's mind ceased to churn beyond the wondrous realization that she was kissing him. In the darkest depths of the world, she had deemed him worthy of both her help and her affection.

He realized a moment too late that he'd frozen in place at the contact, and when she pulled away, panic bloomed in his chest. She looked at him curiously, but before she could back away farther, Adar cupped her cheeks and kissed her just like he'd wanted to since the day they met. She was the apple of his eye, his most precious desire.

Feeling her melt into his arms was a pleasure he'd never expected to experience, but he did. He would treasure it for the rest of his days.

She shuffled close enough that her chest pressed against his, and animalistic triumph roared in his chest. He'd hungered for her for so long, but despite the impatience in his Uruk nature, he'd never push her further than she was prepared to go. After all, Adar loved her. Love was gentle. For he, he would be too. He steadied her with a careful grip on her bare waist, even though he felt anything but steady himself.

The rain continued on through the night, heavy enough for the pair to eventually lie down and fall asleep safely wrapped in each other's arms. She would have to leave in the morning, but for the moment, Adar savored her closeness.

For once, the scars on his nude body did not trouble him. How could they when she traced them so carefully with her fingertips?

~*~*~

Elvish Words (Quenya):

melda heri - beloved lady

Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, heru Adar. - A star shines on the hour of our meeting, lord Adar.

Cauma - protection

Black Speech:

agh burzum-ishi krimpatul - and in the darkness bind them

~*~

Taglist:

@asksizworld @bigblissandlove1 @gandalfthepimp @horta-in-charge @zoya-olenko

[cactusringed]

Etho and Bdubs' meeting | Political Intrigue AU

Putting it in a tumblr post because idk if I can commit to a full fic that'll be posted on ao3 yet so I'll share this way

Word Count: 3,715

Content Warnings: Depictions of a staged suicide

The blood moon illuminates the night sky, painting the surrounding clouds crimson. Looking up through the glass roof of the observatory tower, Bdubs knows that today is to be the day he dies. 

Even before his vision, he’d known, somehow, that the blood moon would signify his end. He was always attracted to it like a moth to a flame. Except moths aren’t aware — Bdubs doesn’t think — of the fate awaiting them once their delicate wings brush against the harbinger destined to extinguish their life. Bdubs is. He is, he believes, the most painfully aware one could be about their demise. The blood moon calls to him the way a jailer would a prisoner on death row, marching him through that last corridor towards his end. 

“No, wait, I think a siren would be a more accurate metaphor,” Bdubs muses out loud, rubbing at his scruffy stubble. He should’ve shaved. Perhaps he still can. No. He’s meant to look this way, he knows. Images of his destiny flash in his mind and Bdubs screws his eyes shut in hopes to chase them away. 

It doesn’t work. He takes one shaky breath, then another. His lungs ache. When he opens his eyes again, his vision blurs with tears that he quickly blinks away. 

After spending over a year aware of the grisly details of his own death, one would expect Bdubs to have come to peace with it. He certainly thought he did. Yet here he is, staring up at the moonlit sky for what he knows is the very last time. Fighting back not only tears but primal fear that screams at him to rattle the bars of the cage fate has sealed him in. His heart gallops in his chest with such force he swears he feels its echoes against his ribcage, all the way up to his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he forces his gaze downwards, to the workshop he’s built in the main observatory room. To his very last painting:

A landscape - that of the country of Oblivion. He’d hoped to finish it before his death, but he supposes the least he can do is bring it to an acceptable state. He wonders how much his work will sell for. He wonders if he can ask his murderer to burn it all before they leave. 

Bdubs picks up his brushes and palette, the oil paints still wet from his last session, and works at the landscape. He paints a tree — thin, spindly, and grey — only to cover it almost immediately. He refines the cliff-face, as he’s done dozens of times, overworking the surface into a mush of dull colors and clashing textures before he throws his equipment to the ground in frustration. 

His mind’s eye always had trouble focusing on the picture he wanted to bring to life, the shapes blurring together even after spending hours studying references of Obliviate scenery — but now, with the promise of death hanging over his head, he finds it downright impossible to not only focus but also keep his every muscle from shaking. Come on, he wants to tell himself, it’s not like you’re going up on stage to give a speech. It’s just the day of your own murder. Relax.

Bdubs worries he might puke. Or cry. That would be worse. 

Another couple of breaths in and out. Shakier than before. He’s restless, to the point he knows he won’t be able to sleep no matter how late it gets, but also won’t be able to get anything useful done. What is there to do that would be useful mere hours, or potentially minutes, before his death? He could draft a will. He doesn’t know how to write one. Maybe he should’ve learned before he had to go and die, but to be entirely fair to him… no, he did know it was going to happen tonight for some time now. Ever since he knew of the blood moon. It just didn’t feel real enough to warrant any preparation, somehow. 

Bdubs looks at the unfinished landscape. The sculk that snakes through every crack of the cliff-face. It’s too flat, despite how hard he’s worked at it. It resembles the sketches and croquis he’s studied in tomes, but not the feeling they elicit in him. That infinite darkness that threatens to suck him in. He reaches for his paints, but pauses. Gazes up, instead. Up and around himself, searching for that blackness, for that feeling.

It must be here. They must be here. Whoever Oblivion sent to end him. Bdubs isn’t stupid — he knows they’ve been following him for a while. Studying his every move, habits, his entourage. Yet he’s never been able to feel the weight of their presence. Not a shadow has ever been out of place. No matter how hard Bdubs has looked, how much he tossed his room upside down. How much he’s raised his voice.

But he’s got to keep trying.

“Assassin,” Bdubs speaks in the Obliviate tongue, struggling with the soft and flat tones it forces upon him. “Show yourself. I know you’re here. You have to be. You’re here to kill me, are you not? So, show yourself. Let me see my own murderer before I die.”

Bdubs waits. He waits for what feels like a full minute, only to be met with complete, suffocating silence. His lip twitches downwards, but he keeps his chin high, and continues to speak in a register he knows to be far more proper than he prefers to speak in his native Celesti tongue. He should’ve worked harder on his lessons. 

“I’m unarmed. I don’t deal in violence. I just… wish to see your face. Then you can kill me,” Bdubs walks slowly, carefully, to the oak desk covered in loose paper and canvas pressed against one of the walls. His fingers trace over his sketchbook. He lets out a soft laugh, peering back up at the ceiling, looking out for any movement overhead. “I bet it’s not often you get to speak with your victim. I can offer you some critique. Because I have to say, the method you have planned for me… Well, it’s a bit too quiet. It’s like….” he frowns, unable to think of the right Obliviate word. “It’s boring,” he settles on the Celesti equivalent, before he switches back to the assassin’s tongue. “It will make my retainers suspect foul.”

Still nothing but silence, no matter how long Bdubs waits. A long sigh, as he lets go of held breath. He takes his sketchbook, worn at the spine, and holds it to his chest. He turns, raises a foot, intends to take a step — only to let out a roar of terror as he’s suddenly faced with a tall figure come out of nowhere. 

Bdubs stumbles back, and as quickly as he began screaming he slaps both hands over his mouth to silence himself, letting the sketchbook fall open by his feet. His back hits the edge of his desk, and he waits as the figure stands still as a statue. One, two — his eyes dart to the door, listening for guards, servants, anyone who might have heard the commotion. Only when he’s certain no one intends to ruin his moment does he drop his hands down, letting out a high pitched giggle. 

“You scared the life outta me!” he exclaims in Celesti. “I mean,” he corrects himself in quiet Obliviate: “You sca—”

The figure holds up a hand, and Bdubs stills, before letting out another, softer chuckle.

“Right. You understand Celesti. There’s no need to translate,” He insists on continuing in Obliviate, but it does save him some time.

Another stretch of silence. The figure lets their hand drop. They remain still, and though it fills the air with an awkwardness that would normally make Bdubs want to keep yapping — he instead finds himself transfixed by their presence. 

Slowly, as to ensure they don’t take it as an offensive move, Bdubs leans down to pick up his sketchbook. He opens it towards the end, and meets with a sketch of himself laid in bed, arms stretched out at his sides, small rivulets of blood dripping down. The blood moon shining in the window. He’s transfixed by it for just a moment, his throat closing up.

He flips the page. More angles of his dead body. A few sketches of gloved hands taking hold of his wrist. The fingers are slender, long — one might call them delicate, even as they hold a blade to Bdubs’ wrist. 

A study of how the blood flows. It pearls at the edge of the cut at first. There’s a few attempts at getting it quite right. The amount of blood that begins to trickle, then pour out. The way it soaks Bdubs’ sheets. 

Then, finally, the main object of interest: The assassin. His sketches become more abundant, but less clear, as he focuses on them. Looking up at the figure standing in front of him, then down at his sketches, he’s happy to note he got their build right: Tall, slender, but not too much. Loose clothes that likely hide solid muscles. That’s another thing he realises he portrayed perfectly: Their outfit. The long, dark cloak hiding the near entirety of their figure. The large hood obscuring their head alongside a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of their face. The only part that remains uncovered is their eyes and a few strands of silver hair — easy enough to remember and portray, one would think. Yet it always remained blank both in Bdubs’ memory and sketches.

The surface of some of the pages have been rubbed raw from his eraser. Some have frustrated scribbles all over the assassin’s face. Others have just been left blank. It’s endlessly frustrating, and if he doesn’t get to do anything else before he dies, he hopes to at least fix this. 

“Can I…?” Bdubs reaches for the assassin’s scarf — only for them to suddenly jerk back before his fingers can even brush against the fabric. 

It’s the first movement he’s seen from them, a proof they’re not just a hallucination. It makes him jump, and he tenses in expectation of a blow that never comes. The assassin just adjusts their scarf securely on their face before peering down at Bdubs’ sketchbook. They point. A silent question hangs in the air.

Bdubs frowns. “Can you use your words?”

“No.”

Their voice is deep, surprisingly so. It’s also rough around the edges — the way one’s voice sounds after waking up in the morning. And a bit muffled by the scarf. 

“Very clever,” Bdubs grins, reaching to shove playfully at the assassin. They move away. “It does mean you can speak though, so— Oh, how do you say in Obliviate… you know, like… gotcha? Do you guys have a word for gotcha?”

Bdubs swears he hears a quiet, near inaudible snicker from the other. 

“You can switch to Celesti. I’d rather you did, actually,” they say in perfect Celesti. Not a trace of an accent. Not even an intonation amiss, despite how much more melodic Celesti is compared to the flatness of Obliviate. Bdubs could mistake him for a native if he didn’t know better, and if it wasn’t for the paleness of his face. 

“Right, yeah, I was tryna impress you, but turns out I’m real rusty. But hey, I was doing well enough, yeah? Since you came down from your little hidey hole?”

Silence. They’re still pointing. 

“...So, uh, what’d you want my sketchbook for?”

The silence stretches, until the assassin seemingly remembers it’s their turn to speak. “I want to see.”

Bdubs raises a brow. “Not the most eloquent sort, are ya?”

They blink.

“Just gimme a second, okay?” 

Bdubs reaches for one of his charcoal pencils, and holds the book open against his chest. He peeks up at the assassin, then down at the page, lightly finishing up one of his attempts at a portrait. He sticks out his tongue as he adds the outline of lips he can barely see through the scarf, refines the shape of their face, and draws the long, white eyelashes caressing scarred skin. The hint of sculk Bdubs can barely see, pulsing like veins burrowing deep within the assassin’s skin. He goes at it for a moment, before he finally gives up with a dissatisfied huff. 

“It’s not as pretty as you are in real life,” he holds the sketchbook out to the assassin. “But have a looksie, if you want. It’s kind of… Ah, well, you can keep it as a souvenir after you’ve killed me! I’m sure in a few decades you’ll be able to resell it for some pretty money. I mean, can you imagine?” Bdubs gestures when the assassin takes hold of the book. “‘The prophet prince’s last drawings.’ People will fight for it!”

The assassin doesn’t seem to find it quite as funny as Bdubs does. They stare at him blankly, jaw slack, before seemingly remembering to look down at the pages, ignoring Bdubs’ grin as they do. He doesn’t let it get him down. Instead he watches their piercing grey eyes dance across the pages. He doesn’t think he did them justice. He wishes he had more time. They genuinely are beautiful.

Their fingers run over the sketches. As they study the depictions of themselves knocking Bdubs unconscious and slitting his wrist, Bdubs can’t help but hyperfocus on their hands. They’re like a pianist’s. He wonders if they play instruments. Are Obliviate assassins allowed to partake in hobbies? Arts? 

“I wasn’t sent by anyone,” their voice force Bdubs out of his imaginings. They stop on a page depicting them hopping out of Bdubs’ bedroom through the window and disappearing into the darkness of the night. It was a bit of a challenging pose to figure out. Bdubs is proud of that sketch. He doesn’t think it’s what they’re admiring. “My actions were planned by myself, in opposition to my orders. You are dangerous, but no one seems to see that.”

Bdubs swallows heavily. A strange calm had settled over him, ever since the assassin revealed themselves — but their saying that turns his blood to ice. He’s suddenly aware of every inch of his body, and the way they scream at him to run, or hide, or fight — something. Instead, he stays frozen as the assassin circles him, takes in the room as if they hadn’t been spying on him for stars know how long. 

“You showing me this,” they tap their fingers on the pages. “It made me realise something I hadn’t considered before.”

Bdubs opens his mouth to speak, but the assassin continues before he gets even a sound out:

“If I choose not to kill you tonight. What happens with your vision?”

“I…” Bdubs looks down at his dead body laid on the pages. It’s hard to speak. He should stop staring. He can’t. “I don’t… know. Every single thing I’ve predicted has come true, no matter how hard I’ve worked to stop them. I don’t know what happens if… if they don’t. I think it would just push away the inevitable. If you don’t kill me today, then you’ll do it on the next blood moon. Or the one after. It’s not the first blood moon I’ve seen since the vision, after all. I could just be wrong on the exact date. Both of us could be.”

The assassin shakes their head. “Even if the date isn’t right, I won’t do it like this,” they gesture at the book. “So it still wouldn’t be true. Besides, you knew this blood moon was to be the one. I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’ve never called out to me the way you have tonight. You knew it was today.”

“I just… felt it, somehow. I tend to, with my visions. Even if nothing indicates a specific date within the vision itself, I just… feel it, when it’s about to happen,” he shrugs. “With normal prophecies — you know, the one they do all those fancy rituals for? With those, it’s kind of a fifty-fifty as to whether they’ll actually happen. But mine have always, always come true, no matter what. I’m just too good at this divination thing!” He laughs. It comes out wrong. Stilted. Tearful. 

The assassin watches Bdubs pace. 

Bdubs’ eyes find the image of the assassin’s bloodied blade, placed in his limp hand. 

“...I don’t wanna die,” he finally admits, quietly. A few tears roll their ways down his cheeks. “I just know — well, I don’t know… what’s meant to, to happen. If you stop it, I mean. I don’t know what happens if you don’t kill me. If I— If I wake up, tomorrow. I don’t know what… what would happen. I’m not meant to. It— It won’t. It won’t happen. You know?” he looks up, his lips trembling uncontrollably. 

He feels like a damn child. 

The assassin is obviously uncomfortable. Their previously relaxed posture grows suddenly tense. Their shoulders are almost all the way to where Bdubs assumes their ears would be. They reach into their coat and Bdubs gasps, sharply. His eyes squeeze shut. He expects the stab of a knife. For all of it to have been a ruse. A way to finally end their conversation and get to the very reason they came here. 

But nothing comes.

Bdubs takes one, two — up to three shaky, hiccuping breaths, before he opens his eyes again and looks up. What he sees is not a knife, but instead a handkerchief. It’s held in front of him awkwardly, the assassin staring at him unblinking. Bdubs hesitates, before he takes it and wipes the tears off his face. Except the very act of compassion coming from what should be his assassin makes his tears double, and Bdubs sobs embarrassingly against the cloth. 

“We’ll find out what happens when a vision of yours does not come to fruition, then. Because I won’t kill you. You won’t die by my hand, prince Bdubs.” 

Their voice is so gentle, now. Bdubs nearly chokes on air as he tries to calm himself. As he tries to listen. Take it in.  

“I was only sent here because we found out about your vision. Before you worry — none within your court knows. We’ve only inferred it through our surveillance. I will report back, explain what happened. They’ll send another spy to continue monitoring your safety. Oblivion never wanted you dead, so you won’t have to be afraid of them. And it means… you’ll know: There’s a way to stop your visions.”

Before Bdubs can say anything, before he can thank them, they turn away. They take a step to leave. Bdubs’ tears stop in an instant, and he reaches for them. For their cloak. He pulls them back towards him, and wraps his arms around them in a tight embrace, feels the air escape from their lungs as he squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says, voice only shaking a little as he clings to the assassin’s clothes. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you. I don’t even know your name, I—”

“My— My name’s not important.” The assassin’s voice is strained, as if in pain. They pat Bdubs’ hand in what he assumes is a gentle attempt to pry him off. He doesn’t let go quite yet. “We won’t meet again. Just… try to find a way to stop your visions. If anything, for your own sake.”

Bdubs shakes his head. “I won’t let you leave,” he declares. “Not after you saved my life. Not after you did… did this. You were sent to protect me, right? So you must be pretty good! Then, I want you to stay. I can write to Oblivion, get them to keep you here. Then you can help me stop the visions from coming true again. Yeah?”

He finally pulls away so he can walk around the assassin and face them, sniffing as he watches them shake their head.

“I’m not a protector. I’m an assassin. The only reason I was sent here was to neutralise your murderer. Since I technically have, there’s no reason for me to stay. Especially now that I’ve revealed myself to you. It… goes against almost every tenets of the code,” they sigh, reaching to pinch the bridge of their nose. “It just can’t happen. I’m sorry.”

“... Will they hurt you? For… you know,” Bdubs gestures. Could the price of his life be his would-be assassin’s death? Does he want to know? “...If not your full name, can you give me… I dunno, a nickname, the first letter —  anything? I don’t wanna forget the person who broke my curse. Please? Then I’ll let you leave. And I’ll promise not to speak a word of this. To anyone.”

The other furrows their brow, and studies Bdubs’ face. They shake their head again, and brush Bdubs’ hands off themselves. “Slab,” they finally offer. Bdubs recognises it: A clan name. A… very prominent one. “And what happens to me isn’t something for you to worry about. I’m… uh… Sorry. For causing you stress.”

There’s an awkward pause, then, before they take a step back. Bdubs lets them. He watches them as they climb back up to the rafters, open a window, and leave without a trace. 

“...Slab…” Bdubs looks down at his sketchbook, hugs it to his chest. Clouds creep closer to the blood moon, obscuring its glow. The observatory is plunged in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering candles on Bdubs’ desk. 

He’s alive. His vision has come and gone. 

He sits at his desk. Opens his sketchbook, picks up a pen, and begins sketching. 

He draws until the sun rises. A feverish attempt to burn the Slab assassin’s image in his head. Draws until one of his retainers knocks on the door and scolds him for not showing up at breakfast. Until they drag him out of the observatory, force him to breathe the fresh air outside. 

He’s free of the burn in his lungs as he’s smothered into unconsciousness, of the blade splitting his arms open. 

He’s alive.

[utilitycaster]

Off the top of my head Genshin Impact and Honkai Star Rail, in both games female characters heavily outnumber male characters and there are several canon and subtext heavy F/F ships, while some of the most popular M/M ships the characters never even interact. In HSR the main plot driving ship is F/F and it's the 10th most popular ship behind 9 M/M ships of varying degrees of dubiousness.

The last time I really saw this discourse was about Dungeon Meshi, when anime only fics about Kabru/Laios began rapidly outpacing Falin/Marcille despite Kabru and Laios not even meeting yet. That example is less valid now that the characters have actually met in the anime, but it was what kicked off the discourse the last time I remember this thing happening.

Finally, Beau/Yasha didn't overtake Caleb/Molly until 2022. I would also argue Caleb/Molly has always been an M/M ship that's sanded down to tropey archetypes.

so two things:

re examples, fair enough, I don't watch anime and it sounds like it might be specifically a genre where this is a problem; I'll try to clarify which areas of fandom I'm talking about in the future since actual play/fantasy spaces I've been in tends not to have this issue.

second, in the post that kicked this off I tried to be clear that there is a difference between "has fewer" than "is IMMENSELY far outstripped by a ship between two minor characters who haven't met". Like, to be clear, I think Beauyasha is great and I think Wido/mauk has essentially zero basis in canon and is actively bad, but it's not like Beauyasha was ever ignored or unpopular, and these are both between major characters. If you are bean counting the precise number of fics, frankly, that sounds miserable and you'll be happier not doing that. Caleb and Jester still have more fics as a romantic pairing than Fjord and Jester on ao3, and yet which wedding am I going to go see live in New York in October 2025.

I also feel like Caleb and Molly was given a similar treatment as Caleb and Essek? like idk it feels like M/M ships (good or bad) still get bespoke stupid tropes, whereas F/F (good or bad) often really get like. one of the two tropes I mentioned, actually, now that I think of it. To be clear, the point I am making is I think fandoms in general are more reductive of F/F ships even when they're popular and even when they're good in canon; I would rather have something that is better (in both canon and fanon) but less popular. wash garbage it's still garbage and so forth.

[boolger]

auction sounds super interesting, can we hear about that one? 😁

Hii❤️ and yessss!!

Technically it’s a Macgyver(2016) dark fic, that I posted on AO3 a while ago, called Canine affairs. While it’s technically marked done on there, i still consider it a WIP - esp bc I’m also working on a Call of Duty version in the same document bc I’m lazy lol.

It’s basically set in an AU where hybrids are collected as pets and a lot of people get their pets from different auctions.

The summary of the Macgyver one is like this;

Mac is a pet owned by the wealthy businessman Murdoc; since Mac is very loved by Murdoc, he has grown used to being spoiled, fucked and genereally being the center of attention for his Master, going with Murdoc wherever he goes. That changes when Murdoc has to go on several work trips and has to leave Mac behind. Murdoc feels bad and fears that his spoiled pup might be getting bored - so despite Mac’s many protests, they go to an auction to buy another pet to be his playmate. When Murdoc spots the hybrid Jack, a former Military pet, he decides on the spot that he must be the right one to keep Mac entertained - and hopefully help with Mac’s mood swings and misbehaving. The thing is however, that Mac doesn’t particularly like the angry, untrained Jack and it’s the same the other way around, Jack doesn’t like the spoiled Mac.

Currently in the Macgyver version, I’ve reached the point where Mac and Jack get along to a certain point, often fucking violently and finally getting caught doing this by Murdoc, who is quite pleased.

My thoughts about the COD version, kinda set in the same universe, are kinda similar but at the same time I’m not quite sure about it.

A part of me wants Price to have a pup, or some kind of hybrid, who is spoiled and needy and he is too busy, so he gets her one or several playmates - one of the rest of the team 141. However I’ve also considered changing it to something where Price - or another character outside 141 - moves to the country side and starts a farm, much disliked by the pampered reader who doesn’t like doing any chores outside and regularly throws tantrums. So farmer goes to an auction and buys 141, since they’re former military pets and therefore working animals — much to the hatred of reader, who considers them dirty brutes.

Whether it will be a sweet kinda fic or a dark noncon one, idk yet tbh 👀

Anyways thank you for asking, I will stop my yapping now🥰

[mr-bisk]

Fukkkkkk I want to spoil the surprises of my fics but i don't want to ruin them for who follows me on tumblr.... I guess fuk-ich, idk how to format a post, but it cant be that hard, am I Right!?

Spoilers and HC's under the cut:

Also TW: i can't continue w/o advising: if u got a cringe allergy, ingestion might block your throat. I don't want to kill anybody(yet) so maybe skip this one.

CW: Spoilers for the chapter amouts and last chapter; Transphobes DNI lol, I made all of them Queer and I'll die on this lane; Little Vents(more than one, kinda?); Mention of Fan-Childs.

First of all: The ending. The fanwork just will get 4 chaps cuz i can't drag stuff yet. To spoil the ending, Bill will have a panic attack upon not being able to avoid feeling queer at Josh's presence, gets a hold of his mother's whisky, drunkly and pathetically call Josh to come to his house and out of pity he will attend. They end up alone in Bill's room and end up kissing. It doesn't stop Josh from going to college, much for the opposite effect as he gets scared and confused, but plans to come back to Eltingville soon with a clearer mind.

Pete HC: 🅱️ete is transmasc, stealth-trans. His parents saw it coming from a young age and are actually supportive. They help him hide away his deadname and other stuff that would direct hate towards him. His dad loves having a male son that is interested in helping him with brute shit, although he doesn't endorse his interest in horror and nerd stuff, it is the exception.(also Jer knows his deadname as they are childhood frens.)

Jerry HC('s, theres A LOT of stuff): 1st, Jerry is transfem. 2nd, PeteJer is real. 3rd: I made BillJer virtually impossible timeline-wise bc Bill assumes himself as gay a little after Jer's Egg-Hatchin', also he has the fastest but most oblivios gaydar(maybe queer-dar, idk??) and never felt attracted to Jer.(also yeah, i hold a grudge for the flood of billjer we had when eltingville blew up. Like, Frrr? the whitest, most bland ship u cold think off got popular!?! No hate if u like it, theres loads of gr8 stuff under the umbrella, I'm just not kin.)

Vent: I still love eltingville, don't see the end off the brainstorm/interest flood on the horizon yet- ....Buuuuuut I can't hold myself from feeling like I'm making a disservice to the BillJosh tag. I just begun to write again and posted it on AO3 to prevent me from quitting, and The Damn™️, I feel like my work is meh at best. I'm a perfecctionist, and there are plans of it being re-written, so if u like it, hop in the future when i got enough EXP. and writing turned into a pleasure again.

Bacc to the fanfic. There will be at least 3 more projs. after I conclude this one: A continuation where Josh comes back to Eltingville to see Bill and ends up dragging him to Boston; A PeteJer bittersweet tale with two parts in which(as it is in my brain rn, change might come) mirrors the BillJosh plot, you'll have to wait to see; And a Jane-centered story BECAUSE I 💜 HER!!1!!

I.... Okay.... Last one. The cringiest and most personal yet: There will need to be a Miracle, a fucking change of heart of me to not put Fan-Childs at some point.... yeah. Look, I myself plan of becoming a Father/Ba irl and it pours in the way i see relationships. If thats a big ass No-Hell-No! to u, Maybe do not hop into the fishing line of my fanworks, because it is a big factor in the way i view it's development.

[cuephrase]

20 questions for writers

tysm for the tag @crows-murder!!

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

seven, but two of those are site skins

2. what's your total AO3 word count?

51,455, which is. so little. omg

3. what fandoms do you write for?

rn, exclusively batfam. i've also posted fic for bnha, and while i do think there's a solid chance i'll post more my hero fic in the future, idk when. i've also written for tmnt, voltron, and spn, but most of those never left my notebooks lmao

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

penance - ghost!robins au where tim dies + meets ghost!jason, and metric tons of emotional devastation ensue. MCD tagged bc yk. tim wakes up dead.

adds up to less - my sole bnha fic, platonic bakudeku that spans from childhood to after their fight post-all might vs. afo, centered around the fact that izuku knows katsuki's mom is abusive

despite all his efforts - whumptober fill for solitary confinement, dami and dick!bats and pain

bile is sweeter - whumptober fill for safety net, dick & tim where tim gets seriously injured on patrol. ambiguous ending as a standalone, but also ended up becoming the prelude to penance.

i know (do you know?) - whumptober fill for delirium, jason & dick, jason & bruce, bruce & dick sick!fic where jason is sick and bruce and dick are at odds but trying not to be.

5. do you respond to comments?

yes!! i love responding to comments. i am really behind atm, bc 1) penance got way more attention than i expected and 2) the comments are so frickin kind and like i short-circuit.

planning on responding to some more tonight, i want to try and wrestle my inbox away from hitting a like critical mass point

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

hmmm. i think it depends, especially on how you interpret the end of 'bile is sweeter', but my gut instinct is 'despite all of his efforts'.

7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

mmmm. none of them? jk jk, kind of. i think they're all bittersweet is the thing. maybe 'penance'? or ik(dyk)? actually no, it's def 'penance'. neither of them end super fluffy, (or fluffy at all? fuzzy at best), but like i personally think, as hard won as it is, 'penance' has a happy ending.

8. do you get hate on fics?

i have not yet!! shockingly.

9. do you write smut? If so, what kind?

cuephrase on ao3 does not have any smut posted

10. do you write crossovers?

no, at least not yet. i don't think i will?

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of 🤞

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope!! i don't think i've written anything popular enough to warrant a translation haha

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

not yet!! i think it would be super fun tho

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

uh. hmm. i don't know if i have one?? ships rank pretty low on my overall interest, relationships that stick with me forever and a day are siblings lmao. but okay.

overall, like regardless of fandom it's probs a tie between kyo/tohru from fruits basket and kabakura/koyanagi from wotakoi.

rn my top ship is timkon, no contest. love those two very much. platonic or romantic i am sat.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

any of them? all of them? i have one fic with like actual words written, everything else is percolating in my mind. i have a decent track record of finishing stuff i start...but starting is difficult. i'm trying to work on that tho!! i really love writing and every time i sweet talk myself into it i'm like omg why don't we do this more often. baby cue would be horrified at how little i write.

16. What are your writing strengths?

making people cry. at the ripe-old age of 7 i decided the best writing was the kind that elicited a physical reaction, which to me was either tears or laughter and i don't think i'm funny. so bringing the pain it was.

and dialogue. i'm super picky about my dialogue and i act out convos + read exchanges out loud. i worry sometimes that i like have too many "blah blah bla-" type lines, but like when people are arguing, nobody is getting out full sentences lmao. there's a balance to it, for sure tho

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

setting/description. i have the worst White Room Syndrome ever i fear. like, okay, so writing for me typically feels like i'm watching something play out and just recording what i see, and uh what i see is usually characters interacting. sometimes they're interacting with their environment but ehhhhh. so i have to make a conscious effort to have my writing not be talking heads interspersed with chekhov's guns

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i don't do it. too paranoid about it being wrong. i don't mind it when someone else does it, but if i was going to do it foreign language dialogue would probably be written like "<This is not English>." with a note at the beginning that dialogue in <> is X language.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

i was going to say tmnt, but then i remembered i wrote warrior cats fic way before i knew what fic was omg. stopppppp. i was like eight, i think? but like. consciously knew that i was writing fanfic? tmnt.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

hmmmm. this is probs a tie between 'penance' and 'ik(dyk)' rn, the former was just so much fun to write and the latter features robin!jason and dick bonding which i'm particularly fond of rn hehe this was sm fun!! no pressure tagging @androxys @librarylexicon @tevyaa, @coyote-nebula, @motleyfam and anyone else who sees this and wants to play!!

[bunnypeew]

the air in my lungs - Angel!Lucifer x Human!Modern!Doctor!Alastor part 1

CW: blood, hospital, unknown disease

okay so this prompt literally came to me via a dream,, I DREAMED THE WHOLE THING. I THOUGHT IT WAS REALLY GOOD,,, yeah this is gonna be a multiple parts thing. I'm gonna post it on ao3 as well so as a summary,, all I remember is the fact that Luci has this unknown disease that makes him unable to breathe on his own and also cough up blood no matter what, Yes he is an angel here, its because the world here is populated by angels all the time + sometimes they have diseases that Heaven can not control so they send them down,not as fallen but more as to not contaminate Heaven more idk how to explain it haha, so basically he didn't cause the garden of eden apple thing, but evil still found its way into Earth, only that God has no idea ooooh anyway enjoy reading!!!

Chapter 1 - Lucifer and Alastor

Waking up was painful, it wasn't unusual for him at all. He slowly got up in a sitting position on his hospital bed, he was wearing a sweater and some sweatpants, and his breathing tube was all tangled around his wrist so he made a motion to untie it he then tried to take a deep breath resulting in him coughing out blood on his hands. He was prepared of course he had a tissue box right next to his bed, cleaning his hands he then got up from his bed completely.

It was cold. After all, it was winter there on Earth, it was also 6am, making everything outside and inside the hospital dark. No one was around until 7am, so Lucifer took his oxygen tank and fluid with him and walked.

Everything was quiet, he loved that. in Heaven, there wasn't a single moment of chill since they didn't sleep usually so it was a constant ''you got work to do''. For him, it was awful because he never had time to do what he wanted and now that he got this disease he really had no time to do anything at all. It sucked, sure, but he liked the calm.

He arrived at the big window he usually looked out of, it was dark outside, save for the big lights hanging around, it was also snowing a whole bunch which made him smile. He had seen snow, of course, well the creation of it back in Eden, that's when he first got sick. The angels think that it is a disease contracted by staying in contact with humans since he went down to Eden a whole bunch of times to see both Lilith and Adam, something must have gone wrong by some animal or plant or something but for him, it definitely wasn't because of the Humans.

The funny thing is Humans had no diseases, so they couldn't really give them to someone else just like that! Especially not angels. Angels were pure entities with no possible way of getting sick, but yet they did, not very often but they did.

As he looked out the window as someone was walking up to the hospital he noticed that person had wings, which meant it was an angel. Gabriel.

He quickly took his tank and fluid and started running towards the main door of the hospital he saw him trying to get in but Lucifer gestured for him to stop, coughing really violently from the fact he ran. Gabriel stopped at the second door and looked at him in concern

"Are you okay Luci?,,

Gabriel says softly through the glass, putting his hands on the glass to support himself

Lucifer at that point had stopped coughing but he covered his sleeve with blood, he looked at it with a saddened expression, then looked up at Gabriel and smiled softly

"I'm okay Gabri, don't worry, just don't come in here you know the rules, you might get it,,

he said with a pained face then gestured for Gabriel to leave, turning around and going back to his room. As soon as he got there he bumped into someone, almost making him fall down, he looked to see who it was but had to look up since this person was very tall. It was a man with dark curls, big brown eyes and glasses hanging on his nose. It was a doctor, they did say he was getting a new doctor but he didn't imagine him to look this handsome

''hello??,,

Lucifer said softly, making the doctor look down at him, a big smile on his face which made Lucifer a little bit uneasy

''hello dear, you must be the angel Lucifer! I'm your new doctor, Alastor! It is a pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure!,,

he said taking his hand and shaking it profusely noticing too late that it was stained with blood, Alastor looked at his own hand still smiling then licked it out of nowhere! Lucifer flinched at the action with a slightly disgusted look on his face. What was wrong with this guy??

"okayyyy,, can you maybe let me get in my room tho?''

Lucifer says softly then tries to squish himself past the lanky man only for Alastor to let him go through right after. Luci went towards his bed and sat on it with a little bit of struggle, putting his tank next to it and the fluid back in its place, the bed was tall and he couldn't touch the floor so he let his slipper slip away from his feet and hit the floor, he then tucked himself back into bed and watched Alastor approach him, he had a clipboard in his hands, probably with his last exams and the symptoms he was having.

''so, this is some sort of angelic disease is it?,,

Alastor said looking down at the clipboard, scribbling whatever he was scribbling on the margin of the page

''It's kind of an immune system thing, something wrong with my lungs and stomach I don't know,,

Lucifer said making the bed mattress come up so he could sit with his back on it, to get more comfortable.

''Angelic diseases are odd on their own don't you think my dear? such an oddity...,,

Alastor said mumbling the last part to himself, Lucifer heard him anyway but decided to ignore him. He knew it was odd, angels were creatures of pure light, and they were never supposed to die or get sick, that's how God designed them after all, but obviously, something went wrong. The angels were saying that evil made its way from Earth to Heaven because some angels were hanging out with humans and all that stuff

when Alastor noticed he did not reply he averted his attention from the clipboard to the tiny angel, smile still on his face, now walking towards said angel

"what's wrong my dear, well other than your disease that is,,

he said, even giggling a little at his last sentence, he seemed like such a weirdo, laughing at the most unconventional moments. Lucifer scoffed and crossed his arms, not really knowing what to say. There wasn’t anything wrong with him he just didn’t want to reply to him that is all, so that’s what he did he didn’t reply, again. This made Alastor eye twitch slightly, still keeping his composure tho.

“you’re not going to reply, I see. Well one day you will,,

that sounded like a threat, Lucifer looked at him with a raised eyebrow and sighed.

this was gonna be a long therapy program.

OK SO WOOOW,,, it took me so long to write this,,, literally a month cuz i kept losing interest but now here we have it,,,,,,, its not something amazing and i’m not even sure i’m going to continue it,,, but if it gets a nice feedback i might! thank you for reading :3

[erosathelstan]

WARNING: Spoilers for Act 3

I don't really have much BG3 friends irl and I have a lot of thoughts that I cannot put into proper writing yet so I'll just post it here:

As much as I love the idea of giving Astarion an item that allows him to walk in the sun (my durge also does that, bcs in my headcanon the "Sunwalker's Gift" is the perfect item to do just that) I just want to talk about one other thing that Astarion mentions about being a vampire that I don't see a lot of people posting about: the aspect of hunger.

In one of his conversations with a Dark Urge PC, he mentions being unable to speak and think clearly when he wasn't able to feed for a long time because the hunger deprives him of reason. During one of the post-Cazador dialogues, too (if you kill Cazador without him, regardless if you're DU or Tav) he talks about being condemned to an eternity of hunger without being able to make a choice about it. Freedom to choose and consent is a major theme in Astarion's story, and with Cazador gone, that hunger then becomes the primary contender for his ability to choose for himself, because that hunger can literally rob him of reason when left unchecked.

Yes, he's also a murder hobo and wouldn't even blink twice if he had to kill someone, especially if it's for the sake of keeping himself safe and well-fed. At the moment, considering that our Tav/Durge is also a willing Personal Juicebox™ for his twink ass, then the guy is pretty much food secure. However, I don't think that later on in their relationship, he'd be comfortable with continuing that arrangement with their partner - whether it's due to old age/sickness on Tav's part, or some sort of self-realization that we can all only headcanon about. Him hunting down criminals/vagrants/random strangers also inadvertently puts Tav and whatever home they've made in danger, as someone at some point will want to hunt the vampire that killed their friend/family/workmate/what-have-you. Idk maybe some mofo with a strong sense of justice will also eventually go after his ass because he's a total menace to society.

Fighting is not a problem, or at least at first. Tav can fight. Tav literally led the group into fucking up an Elder Brain ffs, so what's a couple of vampire hunters and/or vengeful band of misfits, amiryt? But again, it will be kinda tiring to have to always be on guard, because someone might just kill you and the love of your life because you fed on someone else's. Also, again, he can fight for as long as he needs to, but what about Tav? Esp if our Tavs are not from long-lived races.

Part of getting Astarion's life back has to not only include making him able to stand in the sun again, but also ridding him of that hunger. Vampiric hunger can be an all-consuming thing that could put both him and his lover in significant danger. Whether he as a character would want to address this is a matter of our personal interpretations as fans/writers/artists, but I personally want to see more of this aspect of his vampirism being explored in fan works.

Anyway, I have said too many words. Maybe I need to finally give in and go hunting in Ao3 for this type of content. But for now, I slep 🙃

[adriancatrin]

Best Zukka fic recs and/or Azula centric fics (bonus points for both!) I'm desperate for more content.

(digging thru my bookmarks) hoo boy ok let's see

i'm gonna put a cut because this might be long!! idk what all of the zukka 'classics' you've read so i just included 'em if they're my faves. list is in no particular order, pls heed warnings/tags on AO3 as some include potentially triggering content ~

like the sun inside of you by ofherlionheart: Zuko is sixteen years old when he’s handed a crown, a throne, and a hundred-year ancestral legacy of colonial imperialism. He’s not scared of the work; he’s scared of being consumed by the responsibilities and burdens he’s claimed. What Zuko doesn’t quite realize, yet, is that he’s not alone in this. Still in progress, one chapter left to go. Very slow-burn Zukka, and some great Azula stuff

To Cleave These Roots We've Made by Erisenyo: Sokka and Zuko have been roommates and best friends through college and graduation, through first jobs and new jobs and promotions, through friends getting married and sisters being pregnant and everything in between. But that all ends in four days. Four days to pack up an apartment. Four days before Zuko goes to law school and Sokka stays behind. Four days to untangle two lives that Sokka and Zuko have spent ten years weaving together. Can you call it a divorce, if you were never actually together in the first place? I don't remember Azula's involvement in this, but gosh darn it's a good one

i won't stumble as i follow down this path (cause words that are spoken are just other things to have) by jublis: It takes Zuko one year to visit his sister again. Featuring birthday weeks, struggling with your own goodness, and a future. Pretty sure this is a Zukki, ft. Azula very heavily

Destiny in the details by salytierra: Sokka heard that story before. Of course he did, the turning point of Zuko's destiny, the single bravest and most noble (or stupid) thing he's ever done. He retold the thoughts that went through his head back then, the repercussions... but he left out a single detail. And it's that detail that changes everything.  I need to see his soulmark. Sokka thinks, heart hammering in his chest. Fantastic post-canon soulmate AU. Azula's not in it, though

Divine Intervention by AggressiveStress: Sokka has had a lot of dates but they never stick around and he doesn’t know why. Literally everyone else knows why. Honestly I don't remember much about this one I just know I really liked it hahaha

Maybe I Don't Want Heaven by inkfingers_mcgee: Zuko does not realize that he wants to break up with Mai until she says, “We need to talk about us,” with an unmistakable finality, and the candles around his meditation mat don’t even flicker. // Five years after ascending the throne, Zuko reaches yet another crossroads of self. Sokka helps him through it. Mai incites national legislative reform. Azula is listed as a character in this one but I don't remember her role. The fic is great though. slow burn in case u haven't caught onto the trend of my fave fics yet haha

Of Tea and Turtle Ducks (and the Turtle Duck Guy) by Erisenyo: Sokka is nothing if not enthusiastic about his interests--Learning. Campus traditions. The campus turtle ducks. The guy who's watching the ducks so intently this year.  Zuko is nothing if not intense about duck watching. (It's not really about the ducks.) (Is it ever?) No Azula again but gosh darn it this fic is so cute. (expect more erisenyo on this list whoops)

this ultraviolet morning light by GallifreyanFairytale: sokka and zuko break up, make up, go undercover, thwart a rebellion, watch the sunrise, and change the course of fire nation history. not necessarily in that order. I don't remember the level of Azula's involvement in this fic, but I do remember she's in recovery and Zuko thinks about her a fair amount.

Empty Bodies, Empty Smiles by attackfish: Zuko sorts through the wreckage of his childhood and comes across a doll given to his sister. Not a shipping fic, just a character study of sorts of Azula as a child. It's... very sad, but incredibly nuanced in its understanding of her as a very unhappy and unfortunately disturbed child

Will We Last the Night by CSHfic/VSfic: Chief Arnook never assigns Sokka to protect Princess Yue, so he goes to fight the Fire Nation with the other men. When the moon dies, and the ocean spirit takes its revenge, Sokka is caught standing on the deck of a Fire Nation ship. Sokka should have drowned… and he would have drowned, if not for a certain Fire Nation raft fleeing the North Pole. An enemies-to-lovers season 2 rewrite, where Sokka is separated from the gaang during the Siege of the North, and travels the Earth Kingdom with Zuko instead Azula is just S2 Azula w/o redemption I believe, but my goodness the Zukka is just so. SO sweet

Burning Bright by Erisenyo: On a particularly hopeless night, Zuko sends out a messenger hawk to nowhere. He didn’t realize that his messenger hawk is deeply committed to completing the job. And that Sokka happens to be traveling straight through nowhere, at the time. I'm currently rereading this series for the umpteenth time, it's amazing, highly recommend, Azula is hyper intriguing in it too w/ a very complicated relationship with Zuko

All's Fair by Lovely_Elbow_Leech: Book one ends with two major diffrences: 1. Sokka went on the mission with Hahn (it did not go well) 2. Zhao survives the North Pole and that proves unfortunate for everybody (except Zhao, obviously)  Imprisoned on Zhao’s war ship, Sokka and Zuko have to work together to survive. They are not very enthusiastic about this prospect.  And they argue. A lot. Another of my top faves. Book 2 is in progress

Real Slow by surveycorpsjean: “I see.” Zuko closes the scroll. “Is the Water Tribe sending a replacement?" “Uh yeah,” Sokka gestures to himself dramatically. “You’re looking at him.” No Azula I believe but heckin' slow burn

this is a gift (it comes with a price) by WitchofEndor: There is a ghost on the Wani. But the crew have grown used to - even fond of - Prince Zuko. And no matter how many times General Iroh tries to gently explain the boy’s predicament, tries to suggest that he might attempt to move on, Prince Zuko can always be found watching the sea. There is a prisoner in the palace. Not Zukka, but the relationships in it are fantastic, including Azula and Zuko.

 While Mighty Oaks Do Fall by WitchofEndor: The newly-crowned Fire Lord Ozai offers his firstborn son to service in the temple. This turns out to be a catastrophic mistake. Wacky crazy fic. There's something funky fresh happening with Azula, but it's an in-progress fic so. who knows where it'll go

I probably don't need to include The Art of Burning but it's in my fave bookmarks so. Same for Blue

Also in retrospect I have a lot of issues with this fic, but here's my post-canon Zukka w/ Azula redemption fic: New Heights

[phantomram-b00]

Imma use my hottake post to explain it since I felt I should give more context with this take to explain myself why I have this opinion on the topic of this.

For those who don’t know or don’t wanna look back with the link, it basically that my hottake is that I don’t like the theory of what Crowley’s angel name was/could’ve been. I know this might be a bit controversial since I think everyone in this fandom (not to assume ofc), and whilst I get the curiously since Crowley almost never talk about his time over at heaven, mostly for valid reason that I’ll get to. Before I get into this, I know it been month but I wanna still give that this haunted blog/post does contain heavy spoilers so if your planning to watch good omens or haven’t seen season two yet go watch it and come back here, or you can still read— what can I say, I’m only a phantom that have lot to say about good omens and making it everyone else’s problem. But still spoiler warning ahead! So without further or do,

let get into it and talk about our favorite snake demon and a good old fashion lover boy/girl/enby—

So, okay, seeing Angel Crowley, that’s cool and honestly wholesome— despite the poor trauma he’s going to endure and will sauntered vaguely downward for. I remember hearing the theory about how his name could be Raphael, seen some AO3 tags of Crowley used to be Raphael or just people buzzing what his name could’ve been (even some saying it could be Castiel or Cassiel). And while the curiously of it all is cool, for a while I couldn’t really pin it at first as to why I personally didn’t like it. And Idk if that make be boring or a bitch for not wanting to know, it just to me, I felt why does it matter if Crowley himself don’t even want to remember about his time at heaven?

Sure season 2 when he didn’t even say it might have been what spiked it, but i think the whole point about him is the fact that he clearly moved on from it. Does he still hold resentment? Of course, why wouldn’t he be? And from unfair circumstances too:

But, as we’ve seen from most of the flashback, he moved on from it. He using hell as long as he can (lonely? Yep, which is a perfect parallel to how Aziraphale following heaven—), he doesn’t want to remember the angel he is before, he even said it to Aziraphale when he tried to stop him from killing Job’s kids. But I think of how he’s dealt with is how his trauma grew seeing how he doesn’t want to be considered nice or kind; I feel it goes deeper than just because he’s a demon now, I believe (and this is just my observation), he rather not remember the kinder side he was once before because of how the “light” casted him away and how heaven runs things. So why would he want to be associated with those word when it remind him of his time, he rather not remember it (or in a case run away from heaven as much as he can), he rather associate himself from being mean or remember himself as a demon now rather than an angel he once was. (Even though, he is very kind and I wish to hug him. Don’t start-).

Plus, he more comfortable with his new name now, that’s why he even changed it back at the flashback of the crucifixion of Jesus as his named used to be Crawly (which honestly real.) and changed it to Crowley (now technically he changed it again to Anthony J Crowley, but we hardly heart anyone even Aziraphale say it outside from the blitz flashback, so I kinda wanna count it but I’mma not just incase, but I like the name tho-), and since then, he’ve wore that name proudly and never look back, and Aziraphale an ally he is suppose him and call him by his prefer name. That is him saying “I’m not whoever I was before, so I’m going to change my name to move on from my past”, and honestly I stand, I love the fact he want to move on from his time as an angel/move away from his deadname to be the person he is today, proud of the wily serpent ^v^

“But phantom, that still doesn’t explain why you dislike it?”

You’re right, it still doesn’t so imma explain it a bit more, I just feel it shouldn’t matter what his name was, it really up to his (or Neil’s but this is Crowley we’re talking about) own terms, it him that should be able to say his deadname. And if it never reveal, I wouldn’t care since Good Omens from both season shown, Crowley moved on from his angelic past even if he have the grudges he have now after 6000 years he rather accepts his life now and hopefully with the Angel that have supported him and stood by him. And I know the finally is making it seem like Azirapahel want to change him, but like I said here that I don’t think that the case, I don’t think he would ever want him to revert back to the person he was once before, he could never ask Crowley to do such a thing knowing the progress he made. Like I said and will say again, I think this was Azirapahle (in a poor way given the situation and that their communication is the equivalent of a ghost (invisible as fuck)) to give Crowley a change to fix the broken and toxic system heaven been running on since the dawn of time, to give Crowley the chance to fix what need to be fixed with Aziraphale, and Crowley said no, and I think rightly so in his point of view, heaven did treated everyone especially Crowley poorly and is the main source of his trauma, so I’m happy he said no, it not his place to fix the one thing that in his eyes was broken and have always been. So good jobs Crowley for standing your grounds.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, my point is that, Crowley have moved on and it shouldn’t matter what his deadname was, I think we should all respect that when it come to not just his but everyone’s deadname. Crowley clearly doesn’t have to remember his time on heaven, and I gotta respect that. Because if I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t neither if I was a bit braver than he was.

“But phantom what if it was revealed anyway?”

Again I wouldn’t care, like the commenter said (I don’t know how they feel about tagging so I won’t just to be respectful) and I do agree, if it had to be revealed it should be on his own terms. And I do agree, it is up to Crowley, he should be able to say it as it could garner the impactful moment, especially if he does say like “I’m not *this name* anymore” or whatever he’ll say in season 3, (which please let it be greenlit, I’m begging atp).

And honestly, I don’t doubt it really, it seem it might be revealed, which, fine, this is Neil’s work so gotta respect. Just I hope it on his term, and that no one else say it, I don’t even want aziraphale to say it. Just him. He deserve it.

But that’s my take on it. That’s my spew on this. Might be boring or lame to not be curious, but honestly like I said, he’ve going down a path away from heaven and accepted what happen to him. May not be in a healthiest way but regardless I love this demon and I am happy he moved on and I can’t wait to see him again in season 3, David Tennant a perfect Crowley and I wouldn’t have it any other way ^v^

But I hope you enjoy my yet another insane ramble of this show, frankly this show is becoming my life atp and I don’t hate it. I love this show, it my comfort, I’m happy to have this show; if you want to ask me any other questions you can in the AMA box or comments, but also tell me what do you guys think of this theory? Do you love it? Have qualms with it? Or anything? Tell me in the comments or reblog. As always this is phantom, imma go haunt somewhere else.