#no I will not elaborate you all must simply live with this knowledge now

[constelationprize]

I am devastated to tell you that Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey is a Jean Moreau song

[anne-chloe]

Trust Me | Five |

Jareth/Goblin King x F! Reader

Summary : As Sarah's next door neighbour, you're often Mrs Williams' last resort as a babysitter. Sarah had never liked this, but she can be extremely unreliable at times. One stormy night, Sarah grows frustrated with her baby brother and babysitter, resulting in saying a phrase that she later wants to take back. Now, you are stuck in The Goblin Kings realm with little hope to returning home again, unless Sarah can reach the castle and defeat Jareth in time.

The sound of a bell chiming pulled you back into reality.

Your eyes snapped open and you pulled yourself away from Jareth. He slowly opened his eyes, his smirk still very present, a smugness about him. You tenderly brushed your fingers against your lips, feeling a tingle and a spark, and it left you wondering what the consequences of kissing The Goblin King would be.

You glanced around the room and spotted a clock. It ticked away, as if the moments before didn't matter. You blinked, now noticing a sand timer sitting in the window.

You gulped nervously. "What's that for?" And why is it nearly empty?

Jareth joined your side, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you close into him. You didn't dare to struggle against him, but you did tense and become rigid at the action. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did he simply ignored it.

"It's for the runner in the Labyrinth," Jareth explained coolly, now pointing to the land behind the Goblin City. You could just about see it through the mist, and from what you could tell, it was large.

That must be the way out. Through the Labyrinth. It looked as though you'd have to navigate through the Goblin City first, but you figured it would be straightforward as long as you refrained from making any unnecessary detours. Then, you'd reach the Labyrinth itself and search for the way out—and finally you could return home.

But someone was already in the Labyrinth. And their timer was running out. What would happen if the timer ran out?

You looked to Jareth for answers. "Who is it?"

Jareth smirked down at you, but he refused to elaborate. You felt a chill run up your spine. Whoever it was, you prayed they'd finish Jareth's vile games before they ran out of time.

"What happens when it does run out?" You asked, "do they lose the game?"

"They become additions to my Kingdom. They become Goblins."

Who would be brave enough to challenge The Goblin King like this? In fact, why would they want to challenge The Goblin King in the first place? The mere thought of living forever as one of these Goblins, it made you shiver in fear. Living under Jareth's cruel rule for all eternity; that wasn't a fate that you desired to seek or challenge.

"How does someone become a runner in your Labyrinth? Are they wanting to leave your Kingdom?"

Jareth tilted his head back and sighed loudly. You blinked at his obvious annoyance, and flinched as he then directed his gaze back to you. It was clear he was trying not to show his irritation by your many questions. But you were curious about the area of his world that you might need to venture through in order to escape.

Jareth slipped his hands around yours, now holding them to his chest. You tilted your head in curiosity at what he was about to say. "This person made a wish, and they wanted to change it," he vaguely explained, and you felt indifferent to the way he deliberately missed out details. "I gave them 13 hours to complete my Labyrinth or face the consequences of becoming a Goblin."

Only 13 hours? Seeing the size of the city and Labyrinth made you feel as though 13 hours wouldn't be enough. Plus, even if it was, you knew Jareth wouldn't play fairly and would create obstacles for the runner to face, which would ultimately slow them down. It didn't seem right, but you knew Jareth must have done this deliberately with full knowledge that his rules weren't fair.

But this then encouraged the question of how many people made wishes with The Goblin King. You had never heard of him until Sarah recited that line from her book, and until you were whisked away you only believed that he was fictional. It made you wonder how many people had attempted the Labyrinth in hopes to reverse their wish, how many people regretted ever making a wish to The Goblin King.

You had made many wishes before. You'd thrown pennies into wishing wells, you'd wished with closed eyes upon a shooting star, you'd blown out birthday candles and wished for something. Did that mean you needed knowledge of The Goblin King, and to direct your wish to him, for it to come true? Or did he only select those wished that meant he'd gain another Goblin in his ranks?

But for wishes to come true like this, the person making the wish had to mean it. Right?

Or did The Goblin King obey the wishes made to him created out of jest?

"You've made the whole thing nearly impossible for someone to get through, especially in 13 hours," you mumbled, feeling a deep sorrow for the unfortunate person trying to navigate by themselves.

Jareth snickered, his hand gently stroking your hair. "Nearly," he emphasised. "It's entirely possible to complete my Labyrinth in 13 hours. You just need to know how to do it, and who to trust."

You stayed quiet, eyes falling on the sand timer, which continued to deplete with every passing second. You felt terrible for the fate of the runner, and more so curious about the wish they made and the repercussions it had caused.

You took a step away from Jareth, causing his arm to fall back to his side. You lowered your gaze to the floor, avoiding his mismatched, hypnotic eyes.

Jareth watched you curiously as you shuffled over to where Tobey lay fast asleep, sleeping on his side, his thumb hanging loosely from his mouth. You knelt in front of the throne, your fingers gently stroking Tobey's soft head.

Despite hating the idea of spending the rest of eternity trapped inside The Goblin Kings castle, you couldn't help but feel relieved that you were still here to protect Tobey. All you needed was time and patience in forming an escape plan, and then you'd be able to return home to where Tobey would truly be safe.

"You cannot escape from here."

You froze as Jareth's voice cut through you like a knife. You slowly turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, dread quickly settling back in. You briefly wondered if he could hear your thoughts, and that very idea frightened you.

"I can't?" You repeated, almost in a whisper. Too loud and you would wake Tobey.

Jareth only seemed amused by your response. "Only the one who made the wish has the power to reverse its effects, and only then they must complete my Labyrinth and speak the words against me."

Your heart sank at this new information. "I can't go home?" You weakly asked, wanting clarification, even though you already knew the answer.

Jareth walked closer. He crouched down in front of you, his hand lifting and tucking underneath your chin. He raised your eyes to meet his, and you watched, helpless, as his mismatched eyes held you in place.

"My dear," he muttered gently, though his wicked smile was a stark contrast. "You are home."

You felt tears form in your eyes, your vision blurring over at the thought of never seeing your parents again. You had said meaningless goodbyes this morning when they departed for work, and you left a hastily scribbled note in the kitchen to explain your whereabouts—which you were now far away from. You imagined they would be distraught when you were announced missing, they would possibly mourn for you.

As if to further injure your soul, Jareth began caressing your hair. "You have no power here," he crooned, his smile widening at the sight of your tears now rolling down your cheeks. "Sarah has condemned you to eternity with me. Tobey will become a Goblin, like his new brothers, and you will rule by my side."

You gasped as Jareth caught your tears with his thumb, now wiping them away. "Tobey... will become a Goblin?" You whimpered. You cast a despairing look to Tobey, who continued to rest peacefully, blissfully unaware of what his future awaited him.

"As will Sarah."

Sarah.

Sarah?

You frowned solemnly at this added information. "Sarah will too? I thought she was still at home—"

Jareth placed his hands on either side of your face, steadying your gaze and forcing you to look at him and only him. Your lips parted to speak, but no words came out, much to his enjoyment.

"Sarah is the runner in the Labyrinth," Jareth explained, his malicious intent reaching his eyes as he smiled so cruelly down at you. "Her progress is slow. She's wasted 8 hours already, and she hasn't even reached the Goblin City."

Jareth fell silent as he observed your reaction, loving every negative emotion that crossed your face. You let all that information sink in, now feeling worse than before upon knowing that you couldn't escape, and the 15 year old girl that you babysit was wandering aimlessly through Jareth's twisted Labyrinth.

You wished you had stopped Sarah from speaking those words before. You wished you had dedicated knowledge to The Goblin King, much like Sarah had, so you would at least possess some power to help you out. But you weren't very fond of that stuff. Instead you focused a lot on your studies; you dedicated your free time to caring for others and admiring the relationship your parents possessed.

"How long is eternity?" You weakly asked.

Jareth smirked. "Not long at all."

[blackjackkent]

OK. Some of the slightly less consequential Act 2 ending conversations now. Rakha has a lot fewer people in the Moonrise lobby than Hector did since pretty much all the tieflings are dead and Halsin has not shown up. (I'm assuming Halsin is missing for the same reason that he doesn't get his own tent in camp anymore, because the game didn't account for the possibility of him and Minthara both being around at once.)

The biggest remaining convo is probably Aylin and Isobel, but the one most immediately drawing Rakha's attention is Withers, who is being unusually vocal, plus she's surprised he's even here.

Rakha still doesn't really like Withers - he's mysterious, which pisses her off, and also takes no damage when she gets violent with him, which pisses the beast off. He did win back a few points with her by bringing her back from the dead after the Lathandrian monastery exploded, though.

So she gives him a sort of noncommittal grunt and waits to see what he has to say.

"Thy hunger denied. Selune's faithful yet shines. The balance shifts."

Rakha's head snaps up and suddenly she is playing much closer attention. Thy hunger.

Withers has shown little or no interest in the internal struggles that have plagued Rakha in the time they've traveled together. He keeps to himself; she never sees him unless they're camping, but he is always just... there, taking up space in a quiet corner, unable to be dislodged but not interacting with anyone unless he is spoken to first.

He has never said anything to her about her murderous tendencies. He only acknowledged Alfira once, in refusing to bring her back, and he seemed utterly unphased by the terrible night just recently where she practically turned into a howling animal. He has seemed utterly disconnected from all of it - until now.

"Thou hast seen with thine own eyes, and felt in thine Urges - the Dead Three unite. There are depths to this alliance yet unplumbed. Consider, mortal - do illithids possess souls?"

Rakha blinks, then scowls.

She wants to know what he meant by that first part. Her Urges connect in some way to the Dead Three, these gods that stand behind the Absolutist cult. It is not simply her nature, but something directly connected to her presence at Moonrise in the memories she's lost.

But of course he does not explain or elaborate, but instead mocks her with a question she cannot answer.

"Forget that," she says curtly. "What are you doing here, Withers?"

"Where matters of balance are concerned, I am eternally called," he says placidly, unbothered as always by her irritation. "I shall ask yet again. Do illithids possess souls?"

She breathes out sharply through her nose, briefly debating the viability of delivering her dagger straight between his eyes. It wouldn't have any impact on him, but it might make her feel minutely better.

But she sets her jaw and resists the urge yet again. He is being very insistent about this, and she must admit to a flash of curiosity through her exhaustion. "I don't know," she says after a long pause. "Don't all living things?" Such is her extremely limited knowledge, at least. Metaphysical questions haven't been a common camp topic of conversation.

"No," Withers says flatly. "Nor canst thou count mind flayers among them. Yet the Three amass an illithid army, void of apostolic souls that could imbue them with power." His eyes narrow to slits, focusing on Rakha with more attention than she has yet seen from him. "A flock without souls. Yet to what end, O tempted one? This is the question thou must come to answer. Until that time - be availed of my services."

(A/N: I'm wracking my brains and I can't remember if Hector was ever actually provided an answer to this question. :O Was this a plot thread that got dropped or did I miss something? I don't think we ever really learned a ton about the Three's motivations for fucking the world up. Maybe this is something we learn more about in Durge land.)

Rakha stares at him, baffled. It takes her a moment to parse through what he's saying. Gods, then, are powered by the souls of those who follow them. These gods, however, are converting people to mind flayers - and making them soulless.

Why?

And why do *I* need to answer? There was something unsettlingly specific in the way he said that.

"You know of these Urges," she says hoarsely. "What can you tell me?"

Withers looks back at her, steady and unreadable. "Nothing thou dost not already know."

A lie, she's almost certain of it, and her scowl deepens. She wishes she could take him by the throat and squeeze and shake until the answers he hoards fall out of him... but it would get her nowhere and only anger the beast in her head.

"You seem to know a lot about the Dead Three," she says instead, between her teeth.

"Yes," he answers. "Bane, Lord of Darkness. Bhaal, Lord of Murder. Myrkul, Lord of Bones. Once judged, ascended, then vanquished - as one, and as three."

Again his eyes narrow. Again that sudden, uncharacteristic intensity as he speaks words that make no sense at all. "The alliance is reforged, mortal. The planes thus quake, and the gods shudder."

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ruggie Bucchi Bloom Birthday Personal Story: Part 2

"Happy Birthday"

(Part 1) Part 2 (Part 3)

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Birthday Party Venue]

Rook: Now, I'll move onto the next question.

Rook: “What is your best class?”

Ruggie: That'd be animal linguistics. I super got that one in the bag. I can even chat with mice no problem.

Rook: Languages of animals such as mice are in itself such a high-level difficulty… You are astounding. Did you receive any special training for that?

Ruggie: Nope, nothin' special.

Ruggie: I kinda just casually picked it up from all the stray dogs, cats, and mice in my hometown.

Ruggie: Oh, and I got some experience from walkin' the dogs or feedin' the cats that the managers from some of my part-time jobs owned.

Rook: Hm, so I suppose one could say that your interactions with the animals around you nourished you well.

Rook: However, it cannot be said that just anyone would be able to pick up animal languages simply by living amongst them.

Rook: Even considering the advantage you have as a beastman when it comes to acute hearing, I still admire your ability to absorb such knowledge.

Ruggie: Shishishi, thaaaanks. Animal linguistics is definitely a subject that I wanna make sure I don't ever forget, neither.

Ruggie: It's real useful to have, so it can definitely help me get a job. I was even able to put it to good use at a previous job, too.

Rook: I'm sure there are many jobs that would benefit from animal linguistics. Could you elaborate a little for me?

Ruggie: Well, for example, I once was a pet-sitter that would watch over animals when their owner would have to leave the house for a while…

Ruggie: One of my clients once said to me, "I'm a little worried, because my cat doesn't have an appetite. Please take care of them."

Ruggie: So, while I was taking care of it, I asked, "What's wrong?" and it replied with, "I'm so bored of the same food."

Rook: Ah, I hear that is a rather common occurrence with domesticated cats.

Ruggie: Yeah, yeah. But looks like the owner didn't realize it. That's why when they got back…

Ruggie: I suggested to change up the cat chow they fed it. And then, I ended up getting another request to come over the next day!

Ruggie: I thought they were goin' to have me cat-sit 'cause they were leavin' again, but nah, they just wanted to give me somethin' as thanks 'cause the cat's appetite came back.

Ruggie: Boy, I sure was lucky to get paid for doin' nothin' that time～

Rook: They must have been extremely ecstatic. How wonderful.

Ruggie: Well, yeah. And then that client not only became a repeat customer, but they also let others know too…

Ruggie: I had a ton of requests for me by name, so for a little while, I was crazy busy. It's like they say, your skills'll keep you well fed.

(Part 1) Part 2 (Part 3)

[brdpch]

{5} a game of cats, mice and hearts like ice

desktop: previous ✧ next mobile: previous ✧ next

synopsis: in the world of deadly games and their lives at risk, a very smart sociopath meets a very cunning stripper who claims his life as hers.

warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic descriptions of violence, sexual abuse, substance abuse, niragi, literally everything, you name it.

formatting: it's a glued-together dynamic roleplay between me and @bvrdel-mama, so the replies are separated by ♠♥♦♣, and the dialogues are written like — This. — yes, the symbols look horrible on mobile, we know.

statistics: 1,795 words 9,888 characters.

author's note: it's a mix of manga!chishiya with show!chishiya. also! what's worth noticing - in this rp there are dice involved. the mechanic is called a d20 mechanic, and it's based on dungeons and dragons 5th edition. we also use other dice rolls for other outcomes, so future events might surprise both me and my roleplaying partner. enjoy!

Shuntarō nodded at everything she said, ignoring the gunshots, unfazed. He didn't know if it showed but he was very impressed by her quick thinking and ability to work under the pressure of time and looming death. He was right - the sweet, stupidish performance she put on hid a wolf underneath, just really similar to his blank emotionless one which hid a cold, calculating predator. He thought really hard about the flaws in her analysis of their situation but much to his disappointment he couldn't find any. The know-it-all tone wasn't lost on him as well, although he chose to ignore it just like the gunshots and screams of the panicked people below. She was dangerously intelligent, that could be a problem later on, one that didn't simply involve her questioning his intelligence in an elaborate way.

Shuntarō met her gaze now, still leaning over the balcony, putting his chin upwards.

— I have no idea, but I'm positive you will now enlighten me.  — he lowered his voice and uttered dryly.

He was following the horse-head on the opposite side from him, watching his movement and noting the floors which were targeted by his bullets. They must know where the room they're looking for is - it's a matter of noting down where their feet took them and where their sight and bullets go. She thought of the playing field well, let's see if she can come up with a solution to this game as fast as he can.

♠♥♦♣

She had to be used to the gunshots, but not because of visiting the shooting range or playing paintball; she was used to the real thing used in actual gunfights. She also had to witness death at some point, because she seemed unfazed by the dead bodies, screams and blood.

Another scream interrupted their conversation, followed by a rain of bullets, and then a pause. Something was dropped, Unmei was sure it was an empty magazine - she saw it from across the balcony. The tagger was reloading.

— Rupert Sheldrake, scientist, actually - currently biologist, — she spoke quietly, turning off the recording. — Theorized about atoms, which was actually proven a few years ago, have weight, but in this weight they carry widely understood knowledge. The atoms „communicate” with each other by the use of a morphogenetic field - which is, for us, the apartment complex. One thousand people were experimented on in the United Kingdom, answering a question about what's on two paintings. On one of them, there was a dog; on the other one - a woman in a hat, but here's the catch - these pictures looked similar to Rorschach test ones. — Unmei paused for a moment. — You know, those dark splotches on light background which are used in the psychiatric field. Anyway, back to the point - 3.9% of surveyed could recognize a dog, and 9.2% surveyed could recognize the lady. Next time they conducted the experiment they got much better results - about 10% rate with the dog, and 20% rate with the lady. It could possibly mean that this knowledge was already „discovered” and then „stored”, or rather „kept” in the morphogenetic field, transferred later on by more surveyed subjects. If there is someone who knows where the safe zone is, it's the tagger, and their knowledge - in theory - is stored in the atoms around us

Unmei waited a little bit for Chishiya to catch up to her with his thinking.

— Nonetheless, I don't really believe in this version of the theory. But if the tagger knows where the safe zone is, he'll reveal it to us sooner or later by protecting the right door. When the players are in enough distance, then he'll start actually chasing them. — she paused again. — There was no player limit, so they have to carry enough ammo and weapons for not only a few, but maybe even tens of people, meaning we cannot take them one-by-one. Have you already counted their magazine capacity? Tagger keeps going around the middle floors, so one of these doors could be the solution. Let's say that this apartment complex has one hundred flats, and there are fourteen of players - seven doors for each player to check, if we assume all of us are alive and we'll keep checking them efficiently, one by one. it's impossible to do in twenty, — she checked her phone. — Ten minutes.

♠♥♦♣

Unmei could deduce earlier that Shuntarō was a man of few words, who preferred acting from speaking. It was the case even now. Chishiya partly observed the tagger wandering around the lower levels, but partly listened to Unmei's words. It didn't seem like the massacre surrounding them was a problem to Shuntarō, quite the opposite - at times a dark smile would appear on his face when the echoes of players choking on their own blood reached their ears.

— It's good that you added that you don't believe in that theory. It sounds as probable as building your life on horoscopes. — he answered dryly, scanning Unmei from head to toe.

Shuntarō shook his head and then a focused look appeared on his face. He agreed with the part where Unmei mentioned that the tagger will lead them to the goal of the game.

— A standard machine pistol has either twenty-five or thirty-two bullets in its magazine. I assume the second option is more proba- — Shuntarō was cut off by a rain of bullets directed at someone on the other side of the complex. The tagger emptied out the whole magazine.

— Thirty two. — he said quickly, leaning over the balcony to check where the bullets go. Why would someone shoot from such a distance? From a weapon which loses its effectiveness the further it is from the target? They would shoot if someone is close to the right room - Chishiya answered his own question. 

After a second he pulled out the phone and opened the camera app, zooming on the walls of the opposite floors. Analyzing the angle in which the bullets entered the room is on the...

♠♥♦♣

— Do I believe in the experiment? Not necessarily. But I do believe in the theory itself. — said Unmei, leaning over the balcony. The girl with the short dark brown hair has just climbed over the railing to the upper floor, a salvo of bullets behind her, moments before she begged an older lady to change the floors with her.

— Morphogenetic fields are confirmed to exist by science. Besides, you're a Scorpio.

Blue ducked behind the half-wall, covering his ears in panic. Shaggy, despite the stern 'no' he heard from Hawaii, rushed to help Blue. Unmei tilted her head, paying close attention to them. Chishiya and her both answered the question about the safe room at the same time. Getting there was the problem.

— Hey everyone! — shouted Shaggy, revealing himself for a second. — Let's tell each other where the tagger is! We will find the safe room together!

♠♥♦♣

Shuntarō furrowed his brows and shot an irritated glance towards Unmei - then his gaze snapped to the girl that was prepping for a run in the lobby. Looks like it wasn't a run, but rather a quick climb around the complex. She was hanging from one of the balconies now.

— Ideal moment for discussing scientific theories. — he said ducking back behind the balcony, when a salvo of bullets flew their way.

Chishiya's eyes wandered towards the lower levels where the two young men were running about, and soon one of them spoke inviting all of the participants to work together. And he was right, there was no way Chishiya and Unemi could clear the game by themselves in the time which was left.

— Second floor, northern corner! — Chishiya shouted leaning over the balcony just to be greeted by 9mm bullets again.

♠♥♦♣

Unmei hid behind the wall, her head low, almost between her knees, as she squatted. She didn't come out when Shuntarō decided to get a look at the tagger yet again, only to hear him shout. She quickly put her hands on his head, pushing it down, pulling on his hair. It worked best, she knew it really well from her own experience.

Unmei held him like this for a second, their foreheads touching - she had to use her body weight to make sure he ducks on time, before a bullet makes its way into his skull. She held him in place for a few more seconds, not letting go, as to make sure he's not gonna get up.

— As I said, — she hissed, her voice barely audible from gunshots. — Don't get in my way. What do you think you're doing?

Her once ice-cold eyes were now ablaze, burning their way through Chishiya right into his non-existent soul. It was a scream-whisper, and as she let go, she started moving, her body as low as possible, knees on the rugged concrete. That'll leave bruises, for sure.

five minutes remaining.

— We'll take care of the tagger! — shouted Beach member number one, and as Unmei took a quick look around her surroundings, Hawaii responded. — You guys find the safe zone!

♠♥♦♣

Shuntarō laughed maybe a bit too loudly when his hair got snatched and pulled down by Unmei, then for their foreheads to touch - the woman not letting go of the clump of strands she clinged to, hissed at him through clenched teeth while Chishiya was still laughing in her face - literally.

— Mind the hair. — Shuntarō said through his giggling, then his demeanor changed drastically, his eyes became emotionless and a twisted grin appeared on his face.

— You are very annoying, you know? If you want me out of your way, sure. How about we bump up the difficulty level then?

He leaned over the balcony again and shouted to get the horse-head's attention, then got up and sprinted to the elevator, barely ducking through a barrage of 9mm bullets leaving marks in the wall behind him. His pulse was up, he was ecstatic, he finally felt something - anger, passion, the thrill of life. He had five minutes, the shout should give him at least a few seconds before the horse-head appears on the highest floor. He took Unmei's shoe that was stuck in the door - clicked the floor he last saw the horseman on and exited the elevator.

He then turned to Unmei and waved at her.

— Have fun! — he shout-whispered to the girl before turning around and sprinting down the staircase to the 4th floor.

[princess-of-anons]

you’ve got to talk more about the mario pmd eos retelling please please

HEY SO I WASNT EXPECTING ANYBODY TO ASK ME ABOUT THIS???? (Context in the tags here)

I don’t know who sent this but it’s been almost 12 hours since I got this when I’m writing a response I REALLY needed to sit on this to remember the details.

So when I said Mario characters I failed to elaborate on the fact that this was not just Mario characters. This is Mario characters, turned into Mario enemies, heavily redesigned to look like Pokemon. So you’ve got Koopas and paratroopas and other Koopa variants based off several starter lines, I think the torchic line was retrofitted over some goombas. And yes this all still (SOMEWHAT LOOSELY) plays out the plot of PMD: EOS.

All the in-between stuff was unplanned outside of the REALLY major plot points like the Beach, the Future and Temporal Tower, stuff like that. I must confess that EOS was my very first pokemon game, and all the other information I had on pokemon was based on a book I had on the Sinnoh Pokédex. so a lot of things like “does this enemy actually work as a good template for this pokemon” were completely thrown out the window because for some reason I couldn’t fathom just turning Mario characters into Pokemon.

I had a dedicated prologue that explains how the characters ended up in PokeMario Mystery Dungeon World, mostly derived from my headcanon that all the major Mario characters lived in Peach’s castle, yes even Bowser (who’s villainy is more of a day job because why else would he join them all in kart racing), yes even the other bad guys (including the dead ones), yes even Mario and Luigi (who I didn’t know had their own house). It was that two characters would leave the castle at night, go into the woods (like a moron) and they get Magic’d away. One of them would get sent to the beach, become the PokeMario hybrid I associated them with and meet the partner; the other would be sent to the Dark Future to play the role of Grovyle.

Now you may be asking, why are you being so vague about the characters here? Well to put it simply, I did this multiple times with multiple character pairings:

Mario and Luigi (Charmeleon? and Grotle)

Dimentio and Mimi (???? and Glameow. Sorry friends I have genuinely forgor what I turned Dimmy into for this crossover)

Blumiere and Timpani (Crobat and Beautifly)

There are others but I didn’t keep track of them because in my 9 year old mind I assumed this would be easy knowledge to recall 15 years down the line. Obviously this was not the case.

My memories are so faded that I honestly can’t recall what the point of the partner was. Or if I even included the partner at all. I just recall that that unlike canon EOS, your playable character did not lose their memories. In fact they are very aware of their past but just don’t know where their original travel partner went. The whole Planet Paralysis thing is just as much a surprise to Player 2 in the Dark Future as they are for Player 1. Also the fact that you don’t lose your memories and EVENTUALLY piece together that this other hybrid thing is your partner does make The Sacrifice sadder. I think the EOS postgame was not covered in this crossover because Player 1 and Player 2 would both wake up at home again after disappearing and saving time.

I can look through my old sketchbook in the morning to see if I can find drawings because I swear to god I have some. Thank you for listening to my unhinged ramblings.

I would ALSO like to note that within like, a few years of creating and discarding this crossover that I saw a video that combined PMD with Portal, subsequently introducing me to the Half Life/Portal universe and resulting in me replacing this crossover AU with a DIFFERENT crossover AU that was literally just the plot of the HL/Portal games with pokemon. I have lots of confidence in saying I could 100% bring back the Half-Life/PMD AU in the current day. Especially now that there is over 1000 of those little poké-fucks to attach identities to.

[missnight0wl]

Hi I was just wondering what you thought about Peregrine's motivations? They seem very ambiguous so far and personally I would hate it if JC went with the whole 'he's just an evil person narrative'.

Hello!

You know, I don’t think that Peregrine is simply evil for the sake of being evil. For example, look at how he talked about his career:

Frankly, I believe that it might be the only thing he was genuine about. And to be clear: I mean the parts about helping people, not about “deeply regretting” being a shitty father. He seems to be quite proud of his job, too. I imagine that in his mind, he was actually making many lives better. And let’s not forget that Rakepick told us that R’s mission is “saving the world”. The problem is that his approach to it is all wrong.

Peregrine is a megalomaniac with a bit of a god complex. Notice how he talks about joining R:

Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if he considers himself the Chosen One or something. And when it comes to power? Well…

But like… everything he says can be applied to R as well. Because what exactly makes him think that it’s R who’s supposed to take that knowledge and that power? Why the change is supposed to be made by them? Again, I suspect that Peregrine believes that they can make the world better. But the parts about the Ministry being corrupted etc.? Yeah, it’s mostly about eliminating the obstacles on a way to realising their vision of a better world.

Also, it’s interesting that they talk about Dumbledore in this scene. Because there’s another quote by Dumbledore that’s very fitting for this situation (well, I guess that from the game’s point of view, it wasn’t said yet…):

It is a curious thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it. Those who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and take up the mantle because they must, and find to their own surprise that they wear it well.

Yes, we all know that Albus is no saint himself and whatnot. But personally, I really like this quote. And as I said, I think it’s quite perfect for the occasion. Because Peregrine is clearly someone who seeks power. And in the HP universe, it usually ends badly, especially when one tries to excuse their actions by “the greater good”.

As for more specific ideas about what “saving the world” might mean, I actually talked about it more in this post. In short though, it comes down to the ability to bring people back from the dead. And to be honest, I still think it’s not a terrible guess. Especially now when – minor spoilers from the datamines – it was revealed that Olivia worked at the Department of Mysteries, where the Veil is located.

Overall, I wouldn’t say it’s a super complex or original motivation for a villain – but I guess it’s better than being evil for the sake of being evil. Of course, it could be elaborated by the addition of why Peregrine is so obsessed with helping people, for example. I don't see the explanation for that so far.

Also, I said it once, but I’ll say it again: I think that in different circumstances, Peregrine could’ve been a decent villain. My main problems with him are that his reveal had literally no build-up and that MC is basically passive about… well, everything.

[peachy-rambles]

Pirate Techno and ocean god philza, where philza gets hopelessly endeared to this terrifying pirate because he doesn’t hunt magic creatures or disrespect the ocean like most pirates. While Techno is not understanding why the ocean is always smooth for him or why most dangerous sea creatures leave him alone

Anon, did you read my mind because only a few hours before you sent this, I was gearing up and forming thoughts about a pirate AU!

Techno is one of the most feared pirates roaming the seas. He's fucking massive, towering over everyone and is frankly very terrifying. He's scruffy (as pirates are), with a beard and a long mane of pink hair. He also wears an eyepatch due to one of his eyes not working/missing and has a massive scar on that side of his face going over his hidden eye. No ones ever seen him with his eyepatch off so they don't know if he's missing an eye or it just doesn't work, and they don't know how he received the scar (there's lots of rumors and stories, but Techno never comments or gives hints). He seems mostly human (besides his height, which no human could ever achieve that height), but he has tusks potruding from his mouth that hint at his non-human heritage.

(He's a bear, ok? He is not a twink in the slightest, he's a massive fucking bear pirate)

Techno is an incredibly impressive fighter, capable of dual weilding swords (as well as being able to dual weild a sword and a pistol, although he favors swords more), and is merciless, earning him the nickname "the Blade". It's said that you never want to meet the Blade in battle, not if you don't want to die a bloody death.

Many assume that because of his great reputation, Techno is the captain of the ship that he sails on, but he isn't. The Captain of the ship is in fact a pirate named Puffy and Techno is her First Mate.

They work well together, Techno having joined Puffy's crew years ago under mysterious circumstances. He has great knowledge of the sea, knows the best places to sail and what places to avoid, not to mention owns countless stories and old books/maps from explorers past (including info on buried treasure they once hid away). Again, no one knows how or why Techno joined and why he's so knowledgeable, he's just a giant mystery. Literally.

With all the mystery surrounding Techno and his terrifying appearance/reputation, people would be shocked to learn that Techno actually has quite the gentle soul. He is quiet and shy, usually standing in the back of the crowd and observing. He respects the ocean and all of it's creatures, including the magical ones. He'll go out of his way to help baby sea turtles make their way to the ocean after just hatching on a beach, or will ignore the familiar flash of a mermaid's tail in the water (despite knowing a live mermaid could sell at a very hefty price).

He doesn't let others see this side of himself, not even Puffy or their crew, and keeps up the facade of the mysterious terrifying Blade.

One night, Puffy and their crew come across another pirate ship and a battle breaks out. It's just their luck that a massive storm hits at the same time, and it quickly turns into a fight for survival.

Somewhere in the chaos of it all, Techno is knocked off the ship and falls into the dark ocean depths.

It isn't until after Puffy and her crew manage to make a hasty retreat from the other ship, attempting to find smoother waters, that they realize Techno is missing. They search long and hard, but they're never able to find him and assume he's dead.

But he's not.

Techno is, somehow, alive and wakes up on the beach of what he assumes is a deserted island. He immediately sets the work, making himself a little shelter by a group of trees and exploring the island for food and fresh water.

He is unsuccessful and he goes to bed hungry very paranoid The entire night he stays awake, unable to fall asleep because he can't help but feel like he's being watched the entire time.

The next day, he goes out searching for food and water again, but fails. He has no such luck the third day and he is getting desperate because he knows he needs to find fresh water soon.

The fourth day when he wakes up, he is startled to see a pile of fresh fruit and a glass bottle with what he assumes is water sitting innocently next to him in his shelter.

Techno comes to the natural conclusion that he is not alone on this island and someone has been watching him, and for some reason left him food. Techno considers the fact that maybe it's poisoned, but he hasn't eaten or drunk in days and he knows he needs it. He eats the food and drinks the water, and it's the best thing he's ever tasted (SO much better than the food they ate on the ship).

He doesn't die, or feel sick afterwards, so that's a plus.

With newfound energy, he goes explorint that day and is finally able to find a small river with fresh water on the island, along with some native fruits.

Several days pass, and Techno continues building on his shelter and makes some attempts at fishing, but he isn't exactly the best.

When he wakes up to a huge pile of fish the very next day, he's somehow not too surprised.

This continues for a while, Techno searching the island and exploring more and more each day. One time, after Techno attempted (and failed) to hunt down a wild hog, he walked back to his shelter only to find the very same hog in front of it, dead.

Techno examines the animal, and realizes very quickly that a human didn't take it down. No, a creature or a monster must have, judging from the bitemarks on the back of the hog's neck.

Techno is now very concerned as to who or what exactly was also on this island with him.

He knows building a raft would not be a good idea, that he's most likely drown or starve at sea if he made his out there on a little raft. It was better to stay on the island, where there was food and water, and hope someone found him. In the meantime, he started to create weapons - simple things like small knives and spears.

Whatever was on this island, if it decided to hunt Techno down, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

After completing the spear he made and lamenting on how he missed his swords one night, old rusted sword appears in his shelter the very next day. Perhaps once it had been beautiful, but now it was dull and fairly useless to him.

Techno is just completely confused at this point and maybe loses his mind a little bit.

He begins talking to himself out loud, speaking about how he misses human contact and would like to just have someone to talk to about all of this.

He does not at all expect a voice to answer him back.

"You can talk to me, if you want."

Techno quickly grabs his spear and keeps it held tightly in his hands, "Whose there?"

He glances around, trying to find the source of the voice but all he sees is the beach and the trees from the forest.

"Where are you? Come out!" he demands.

".....I would prefer not to."

'Prefer not to?' Techno mouths to himself before letting out a growl, "Why not?"

There was only silence, until eventually the voice said in a much quieter tone, "...I'm shy."

Techno is dumbfounded and can only let out a, "Heh?"

He tries getting more answers from the voice, but it doesn't respond, whoever it was seemingly gone.

Techno doesn't sleep that night, wondering if any of that had been real or simply all in his head.

The next day, he doesn't leave his shelter and instead merely sits there, waiting.

Until, eventually towards the end of the day...

"....You didn't go out today."

Techno glances around, but again he sees nothing but beach and trees. Not a single person in sight.

"Nope, I didn't," he says with a sigh.

"Why not?" the voice asks.

"I was waiting for you," Techno responds back simply.

".........Oh."

Techno waits a few moments for the voice to speak more, but when it doesn't, Techno decides to ask a question.

"Are you the one who gave me the food and water?"

"Yes."

"And hunted the boar?"

"Yep! A big strong man like you needs lots of meat to survive, right?"

Techno pauses, unsure how to process that statment before clearing his throat and asking, "You gave me the sword as well?"

"I did! Did you like it? I tried to find the best one in my collection!"

"It was rusted and dull, but I appreciate it, I guess," Techno admits.

"My collection" so whoever this was had a collection....whatevet that meant.

"Oh. I could-I could...give you another sword if you like! I know how much you like your swords!"

"....What do you mean by that?" Techno asks and let's out a sigh when there's no reply.

When he wakes up the next morning, he indeeds find a sword. It's not the best, but it isn't dull and seems to be well taken care of, so there's that at least.

"Thank you," he says outloud and is surpised when he hears a quiet, "You're welcome," in response.

Days continue on (Techno figures he's been on this island for about a few months). Most days, Techno finds himself talking to the voice. It never stays for very long, but it's....friendly, at least.

"Are you real?" Techno asks one day, lying down next to his shelter and looking up into the clear light blue sky.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm real," the voice replies, letting out a quiet chuckle (it's light and sweet, the sound falling sootbingly onto Techno's ears)

"Well, I can't see you, for one," Techno says, "For all I know, you could just be a figment of my imagination."

"I'm real," the voice says, their voice clear and strangely assuring.

"Then, could I see you?" Techno asks.

".....I don't know."

The voice is silent the rest of that day. As well as the day afterwards, and the day after that. A whole week passes by before Techno hears the voice again.

"I don't want to scare you," it admits.

"Why, do you look scary?" Techno asks. He's working on another spear (his last one broke the night before) and casually listens as the voice speaks.

"To most, yes."

"You gonna elaborate on that or just keep being mysterious?"

Silence.

Techno sighs, "Mysterious it is then."

The voice continues to talk to Techno once a day, but it doesn't go back to the subject of it's appearance or showing itself to Techno. Techno doesn't push either. Instead, they just casually converse, the voice asking what Techno is doing that day and Techno replying.

Sometimes, Techno will talk about his and Puffy's crew, some adventures they went on and the treasure they found or silly mishaps that happened to them.

Sometimes, the voice brings Techno their own treasures from their "collection" - pieces of gold, old enchanted books, jewelry and sometimes just random things from the ocean like a pretty shell or rock.

Techno appreciates it all and grows a whole little pile or treasure in his shelter.

And sometimes, when they're talking, Techno will catch a glimpse of....something hiding behind a nearby tree or rock in the forest - a flash of gold here or the very tip of a swishing tail there.

Whatever it was, it wasn't human.

Techno tried not to worry too much about that and never mentioned anything to the voice, worried he might scare them off again by mentioning their appearance.

One night, when Techno is just beginning to drip off to sleep, the voice appears for the second time in the same day.

"I like you, Techno," the voice says, "A lot. Do you-do you like me?"

Techno thinks the question over before nodding, "I think so, yeah. I mean, I don't know you that well and you're kinda just a voice, and I don't know if you're real or not, but yeah you seem nice."

The voice laughs, seemingly endeared by Techno's words. "That's good, I'm glad. Good night, Techno."

"Good night."

The next morning, Techno wakes up and finds the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen laying there next to him, watching him warily with bright blue eyes.

They have long blond hair with a crown seemingly made out of coral atop their head. Massive golden wings potrude from their back, completely smooth and sparkling in the early morning light, looking as if seemingly made of silk.

Then there was the tail.

The creature has no legs and instead has a long thick fish tail of some kind, beginning at the bottom of their torso and unable to fit completely in Techno's shelter, extending out into the beach outside.

"....Hi, Techno," the creature says, in the voice that Techno had become so familiar with in the last few months.

"Hey," Techno says and reaches out, placing his hand on the side of the creature's face, cupping their face gently in the palm of his hand, "You're a whole lot prettier than I imagined."

The creature flushes a pretty pink color, almost matching the coral it wears atop of their head.

Techno suddenly realizes how close their faces are to each other and the creature seems to realize it too before they move closer, placing their lips on Techno's in a kiss.

Techno kisses back, pulling the creature closer to them and enjoying the little pleased chirps they make as he kisses them.

They eventually seperate, Techno lying back down and the creature placing their head on Techno's chest, seemingly content to lay there in Techno's arms.

"I'm Philza, by the way," the creature says.

"Philza. That's a nice name-" Techno starts to say before his eyes widen and he remembers where he's heard that name before and who exactly it belonged to.

Philza.

Philza, the ancient ocean deity that supposedly ruled the seas and was the protector of all the creatures who lived in it, who called it home. Philza, who was said to be a terrifying monster and could strike fear into the bravest men, who devoured the hearts of men and could sink even the sturdiest of boats in the blink of an eye.

Philza, whose name had been forgotten and lost for centuries, was nothing more than an old legend - a myth.

Except, apparently not because Philza was currently curled up on Techno's chest, pleased chirps escaping him as he reached out to place his hand in Techno's, intertwining their fingers.

Philza, an ancient and all-powerful deity...and Techno had just fucking made out with him.

[kurowrites]

Since you like cute fluffy prompts, how about everyone assumes LWJ and WWX will end up together for political reasons (which is fine, it's a smart match) but then slowly come to the realization that they actually really like each other?

Celebratory arranged marriage fic! This is probably not what you expected, but oh well! :D

---

"Wangji, are you sure this is what you want?" Lan Xichen asked.

Lan Xichen had invited Lan Wangji to the Hanshi to have tea with him, and although Lan Wangji had expected his brother to have something on his mind that he did not want to discuss in front of their uncle, he would have preferred if his brother had not voiced his concerns. It would have made things... easier.

Lan Wangji studied the bottom of his teacup for a long time before he was able to raise his gaze to meet the concerned eyes of his brother and speak.

"Xiongzhang," he finally said. "I have agreed to the proposal. I am not... unwilling. I never expected to fall in love."

Lan Xichen looked like he wanted to say something, but one glance from Lan Wangji had him maintain his silence.

"I do not place value on such impermanent emotions. To have a steady companion will be enough."

"Oh, Wangji," Lan Xichen sighed. "Sometimes I fear Uncle has had too much success with your education. You deserve to be loved, you know?"

Lan Wangji did not know how to reply to that.

He was not unhappy, that was the truth.

He had long known that a political marriage would be an inevitability, eventually. The steadily aggravating situation with the Qishan Wen sect, Jin Guangshan's own questionable ambitions; it had only been a matter of time until the other sects saw their hand forced. It was only natural that they would want to strengthen their own alliances and raise their defences. Arranged marriages were only too common in situations as these.

He should be glad, he thought, that his chosen partner would be Wei Wuxian. His uncle might not be as happy with the choice, might have preferred someone else, perhaps a woman. But to Lan Wangji, it had been the best choice out of the few that he had had. The Gusu Lan and Yunmeng Jiang sects needed a stronger alliance, and barring marrying Jiang Wanyin himself, Wei Wuxian had been the best choice. Naturally, Madam Yu would insist that Jiang Wanyin's wife would be a woman, someone that could bear the future sect heir.

Thinking rationally, choosing Wei Wuxian had been less of a choice and more of a given. The marriage needed to be both strong in terms of the ties that it created, but also unoffensive enough so that no other sects would object.

The only other possible choice would have been Nie Huaisang. But considering that Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen were already sworn brothers, the alliance to the Jiang sect took precedence.

Lan Xichen sighed again.

"I just want you to be happy, Wangji."

"I am content, Xiongzhang. There is no cause for unhappiness."

His brother said nothing, but Lan Wangji could read his thoughts on his face.

After all, he had deliberately evaded referring to himself as 'happy.'

---

When he had agreed to the marriage, he had thought about Wei Wuxian, and felt a sliver of worry. Lan Wangji might be content to marry for politics, and settle for nothing more than a companion, but he had always felt that Wei Wuxian would want more than that.

Wei Wuxian had always been a passionate person; it followed that he would be a passionate man when it came to love, as well.

Instead, he was going to marry Lan Wangji.

Would he be content with simple companionship? Lan Wangji had considered it once, offering Wei Wuxian the opportunity to practice... certain activities outside the marriage, to keep a lover on the side. But something deep inside him rebelled against the idea. He didn't know if he would be able to live with the knowledge that his husband would seek the embrace of another.

And Wei Wuxian had agreed to the marriage, after all. He had known who Lan Wangji was when he agreed, and he had known the conditions attached to the marriage.

Still, there was the smallest nagging voice in the back of his head that told him that someone like Wei Wuxian was made for love. Not for marrying men like Lan Wangji for the sake of politics. He still remembered when Wei Wuxian had visited Cloud Recesses for the first time. He had heard that Wei Wuxian had calmed down a little since he had become an adult, but Lan Wangji remembered all too well how much of a flirt he had been, how openly he had carried all his emotions on his sleeve. Wei Wuxian had not been made for politics.

Still, the marriage would happen. They had both agreed to the proposal, their families had agreed to the proposal. Soon, they would be here, and Lan Wangji would be a married man.

---

"So," Wei Wuxian smiled once they were finally alone, back in the familiar quiet of the Jingshi. "Looks like we're married, huh? I feel a little bad for you - you must have wanted a nice, quiet wife, and yet here you are, with someone who's neither nice, quiet, nor a wife."

He let his eye wander over the room in front of him, and Lan Wangji wondered what it looked like to Wei Wuxian's eyes. As the rest of Cloud Recesses, it must seem like a horribly boring place to him.

Lan Wangji himself had no eyes for the room in front of him, however. He looked at Wei Ying, resplendent in his red wedding robes, and tried to remember if Wei Wuxian had already been this handsome before, or if the maids had simply done an excellent job in anticipation of the wedding ceremony. He truly looked like a heavenly prince, in his red robes, his hair half done up with an elaborate braid, decorated with a hair piece that had been part of Lan Wangji's betrothal gifts.

"What about the living arrangements?" Wei Wuxian asked, rousing Lan Wangji from his thoughts.

Lan Wangji frowned. "It is customary that we share the Jingshi with each other."

Wei Wuxian sent him a look he found difficult to decipher.

"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Forgive me my bluntness, Lan Zhan, but I cannot help but think that my presence here will be a disturbance for you. I don't want to force you into bearing my presence and suffer my noise. I know you don't like to be touched; you can hardly be wanting to share a bed with me."

Lan Zhan felt his heart thump loudly. He had considered before that it was possible that Wei Wuxian might insist on a token marriage. That was essentially what it was, after all. But now that he was faced with Wei Wuxian's evident dislike of the idea to cohabit, he found himself... disappointed.

"I had hoped for companionship," he found himself saying, hardly even knowing what he was doing. "I- No. It does not matter. If you are unwilling to share quarters, I will look for another room. The Jingshi is yours."

His answer was met with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian exclaimed. "Why would you think I'd be unwilling to share? Or throw you out of your own home? I was trying to be respectful of your wishes! I-"

He suddenly fell silent.

"Wei Ying."

Wei Wuxian sent him another unreadable look.

But Lan Wangji was good at waiting people out. He stood there, silent, as he studied the beautiful embroidery on Wei Wuxian's robes, and watched his husband consider his answer.

"I had hoped for a hug," Wei Wuxian suddenly burst out. "That's it. I know I can't expect much from this marriage, Lan Zhan, and I don't want to force you into anything you don't want to, but I had hoped for at least a hug, now and then.  If I can't-"

He bit his lips and fidgeted with the seams of his robes.

"Look at me, doing my best to fuck this marriage up on the wedding night," he said, laughing quietly, even though there was nothing funny about it.

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji said again. Wei Ying looked at him, and Lan Wangji was almost sure there was something akin to fear in his eyes.

That was… distasteful. He did not want his own husband to be afraid of him. And he would never want-

He himself remembered a time when a hug had been all he had wanted, but he had never had the courage to ask for it. And now, all he had left was the bitter taste of regret.

He tried to find the right words that would adequately express that he was willing to work for the success of this marriage, token or not. That he was willing to accommodate Wei Wuxian, within the realms of possibility. They had both agreed to this marriage. They had to pay the price.  

But the words would not come, not as he wanted them to.

In the end, he could do nothing but uselessly lift his arms.

"I will hug Wei Ying," he said.

It was terribly nonsensical and did not help in illustrating the point he was trying to make. But Wei Wuxian smiled a sudden, brilliant smile, and stepped right into his arms as if it were nothing.

"Mh," Wei Wuxian said, his face pressed into Lan Zhan's shoulder.

And Lan Wangji closed his arms, giving the promised hug.

Maybe that was enough, for now.

---

The next morning, Lan Wangji woke before dawn, as he always did.

For once, however, things were a little different.

On this morning, he woke with Wei Wuxian still in his embrace, his face buried in Lan Wangji’s shoulder, occasionally huffing out a deep breath that warmed Lan Wangji’s skin through his wrinkled robe.

Lan Wangji considered his new reality for a moment. He decided that the assessment he had given his brother had been accurate:

He might just be able to be contented, indeed.

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIV

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  Part XI - - - - Part XII - - - - Part XIII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Plo Koon woke to find himself chained in a dark room.

Somewhere behind him he could hear steady dripping; it was uncertain if that was deliberate or not.

He strained to discern anything in the dim light, but the walls of his prison refused to form into anything recognizable.

Cautiously, the trapped Master cast his senses out, only to find them reflected back at odd angles. He decided to wait before attempting to push any further past what his captor wished him to see.

Time passed strangely, but sooner than expected there was the sound of a pressurized airlock opening and, distantly, a raging ocean.

The airlock cycled through its rotation and Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped out of the amorphous shadows looking...decidedly worse for the wear. 

Plo ached at the sight. His normally carefully maintained beard was a scraggly mess. His robes hung tattered and bloodied. Of particular concern was how dry he looked, skin cracked and bleeding for want of water. The figure standing before him with a dead-eyed glare resembled less an accomplished Jedi Master and more the wretched husk of one. 

“Who are you?”  Obi-Wan's shade hissed. The chains around the Kel Dooran tightened. 

Well, however he might view himself and others...at least he’s willing to fight to defend what remains? At the bare minimum he’s not acting intentionally self destructive...

“Good Morning, Obi-Wan. I am a Jedi Master and your friend. I have been attempting to reach you through your rather impressive shielding. I must say, you’ve done a remarkable job confining me in this mental construct, its been sometime since anyone has managed to get the best of me in this arena.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Don’t try and flatter me, you barely fought back. You could easily have forced your way anywhere, but for some reason you let me corral you, presumably to try and gain my trust. Now answer my question. Your presence is very much light so I doubt you’re Sidious or...Vader. I could be wrong obviously, but i can’t see either of themselves putting this much effort into that sort of mask...just tell me who you are, and why you’re with them.”

“I am Master Plo Koon, a High Council Member, and I am not unknown to you” he elaborated without hesitation. “I am glad that you can identify that I am a light force user. Can you not sense familiarity within my force presence, even so far within your domain?”

Obi-Wan reared back and the dripping noise in the corner stopped.

“It’s a trick. We might be in my head but that doesn’t mean I’m surrendering any of my thoughts to you,” Obi-Wan snarled. “I felt Plo Koon’s death, he was one of the first...and even if he somehow survived he would never work with the Sith to invade my mind. Never.”

“Obi-Wan. Listen to me. Please. I am not dead. I am not working with the Sith. I was brought in to reach you because no other method was working. You are in the healing halls at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.” Plo spoke calmly, but implacably, “We believe you have either experienced a uniquely detailed vision, or a run in with a dark-sider. Whatever has happened, I can feel the lingering impression of unsafety. But here and now, you are not in any immediate physical danger. There must be something I can do to convince you of your present physical location.”

“A uniquely detailed vision, huh? ha!” Obi-Wan replied, gesturing wildly. “Ha! You expect me to believe that what, the last four years of my life were a detailed prophecy? Why?”

“You...believe you have lived years beyond the rest of us. I take it the- what you remember has been dangerous enough to warrant maintaining abnormally tight control over your mental walls, precluding simply reaching out to ascertain the truth yourself.”

“Clearly my control wasn’t enough if you’re in here.” Obi-Wan muttered.

“I do apologize for the intrusion, but we’ve already used every other tool at our disposal to reach you. I repeat, is there anything that can be done to convince you that you are, from your perspective, ‘in the past’. You are a High Council member with a grandpadawan. It’s been two years since the start of the clone wars. You recently finished an extended clean up of the Mon Cala sector after your victory.”

Obi-Wan stared at him curiously. “If I set a test and you fail, will you agree to dispense with the pretenses?”

Plo-Koon hesitated. “Perhaps I’m making this deal in bad faith, as I am know I am Plo-Koon, and that everything I have said is the truth... but I swear that if you somehow prove that neither of those things are true and I am secretly working for a sith lord, I will...reveal that.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Best I’m going to get, I suppose.”

The chains holding Plo-Koon loosened. Before he could respond, there was a hurtling rising sensation that he struggled not to fight against. After a disorienting moment, he found himself in his own body, feeling vaguely seasick. Obi-Wan blinked awake, apparently unfazed by the precautionary bonds holding him in place. Master Aerdo’s gaze flicked between them intensely. Plo-Koon held up a clawed hand to forestall any interruption while the two gained their bearings.

Obi-Wan spoke first:

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation”

“...What?” Koon replied, honestly confused.

“Cihynglo was a renowned Kashykian Jedi, her mediations are, well i suppose were considered a quintessential example of High Republic cosmic poetry.”

“I’m familiar with Cihynglo- my master used to speak of her fondly.” Plo Koon said slowly. “Though I can’t say I’m familiar with her Fourth Mediation.”

“Hmm. Yes, well her poetry in the last few decades of her life got increasingly, well, esoteric. While most of her work was widely translated and distributed, she requested that those who wished to read her fourth Meditations do so in person, so as to experience without dilution the full calligraphy and artwork that accompanied her words. She only ever produced two copies. Any guesses where they were kept?”

Obi-Wan’s voice started out in the steady tones of a born lecturer, only to grow bitter towards the end.

“Is one in the temple?” Master Koon asked.

“Yes, one was held in the Master’s wing of the temple archives. The other was housed in a place of honor in The White Forest’s Great Tree of Knowledge. Considering both libraries were reduced to ash in the first month of the Empire, it is quite impossible, even for the Emperor, to find a copy.” 

His vague attempt at a smirk quickly fell flat. 

“I was privileged enough to be granted time to begin reading it once, but, alas, an emergency situation in the intergalactic war you created meant that I had to run off mid-sonnet. Bring me that book, let me hold it, read it, and I will believe that I somehow unlocked the secret of time-travel while overdosing on Spice.” 

Obi-Wan paused, catching his breath. “In the next fifteen minutes, please. Any more than that and you might try tracking down the few surviving Wookie scholars.” Koon flipped open his comm. “Master Nu, I have an urgent request.”

“Nu here, go on,” came the response.

“This may sound strange, but it is crucial that Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation be brought to the healing halls, room seven. Within the next 15 minutes.”

“You do understand you’re talking about a physical book, not a flimsi-stack or a holocron. It’s not meant to leave a climate-controlled room.”

“I promise you, I would not ask if it weren’t life or death. Please Jocasta, I’ll explain later.”

“I’ll be there in 10. It had better be one durned good explanation.”

Obi-Wan looked bemused. ”You’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“I am glad you were able to come up with a test you found meaningful. Remember, you have friends here, regardless of whether you experienced subjective time travel or an incredibly detailed vision.”

They waited a little longer. Obi-Wan critically examined Master Aerdo.

“I’m a Senior Soul Healer” they offered at the non-verbal prompting.

“How interesting.” Obi-Wan remarked dryly.

They sat in awkward silence for another minute. 

They were all equally trained in suppressing fidgets, coughs, or other nervous tics, which made the wait that slightest bit more unbearable, each second nearly imperceptible from the one before.

Eventually the sound of heavy boots moving at speed approached.

Master Nu strode in, gently cradling a great burden. The book gleamed large and vital in the light of its stasis wrap. Her eyes widened at they took in Obi-Wan, still cuffed to the bed. 

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation, as asked for. I trust you have an excellent explanation for how a book of poetry is a matter of life or death.”

“I’m hoping that it will convince our friend Master Kenobi that I am who I claim to be and we are where I claim we are.” Koon gently pulled the book from her grasp and reverently placed it on Obi-Wan’s lap. Obi-Wan stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Obi-Wan, I’m going to uncuff you now. I trust that you will use your freedom to examine our ‘proof.’ We will physically intercede if you make any attempts at self harm.”

Master Nu gasped. “Then the temple rumors...I don’t understand.”

Obi Wan picked up the book as if he was afraid it might bite him. With an irritated snort, he opened brusquely to the middle, and began carelessly flipping ahead.

Master Nu started forward, offended, but Plo Koon held her back. “Please Master Nu, patience-”

Finally Obi-Wan seemed to reach the page he was looking for and stopped. “..And still the rain fell like blood of the womb” he murmured. “That...I tried to think of how the line ended but I...”

Everyone watched as the book shook in Obi-Wan's grasp. He turned the page, gasping slightly and murmuring as he read. “This is...a little gross, but oddly touching. I certainly would not have come up with it myself...but its so clearly...” They watched his react, eyes darting wildly and brow furrowing in confusion.

Several pages later he dropped the book abruptly.

“This is impossible,” he gasped.

Nu darted forward, carefully snatching it from his lap, "I am endeavoring to practice tolerance, but how is destroying an irreplaceable piece of literature supposed to help anyone?!” she snapped

“I admit I wondered that myself, but when I imagined what harm the Sith could do with some of the archive’s more practical works, I understood your decision to torch the collection” Obi-Wan responded dreamily. “I suppose the more beautific works would likely have been destroyed anyway...”

“Torch the archives? I would never.”

“But you did,” Obi-Wan insisted feverishly. “I found your message when we searching for survivors. There were so many bodies piled at the archive door that I was almost hopeful that they had managed to...but I suppose they held out just long enough for you to complete your task.”

Nu backed away slowly. “That sounds like quite the disturbing vision, Master Kenobi.”

“It wasn’t just a vision, it was my life. It-visions don’t last years!” he said, finally growing hysterical. “I remember everything! That gods-awful mission to Cato Nemodia! Getting takeout food with Anakin! The smell of burning flesh in the creche! Singing to Luke! The last year of the war! All of you! You crying after Dooku’s death,” he added gesturing wildly at the archivist. “It was so awkward! You were embarrassed! You told me that for some stupid reason you had ‘held out hope’ it was all an insane uncover mission, that he wasn’t really- Three years alone in the desert! I remember three years of living on fucking Tatooine, how could that possibly be a vision!”

“I...hadn’t told anyone that,” Nu whispered with a hint of alarm. She glanced at Plo Koon, daring him to comment. “I know its very much unlikely at this point, and by any measure, he’s taken things too far, but he’s gone on such long shadow missions in the past...” she looked away.

“Oh, Jocasta...” Plo sighed.

“Master Kenobi. I cannot explain how you came to have such detailed knowledge of the future,” Aerdo said, drawing focus back to the bewildered Obi-Wan, who had shifted into a defensive crouch on the bed. “But I do know one reasonably sure fire way to establish that this, us, is the present. Open yourself up to the force, please, just let yourself listen to what it has to say.

“I...want to, of course I want to believe- but the idea that I’m here- it’s, if you’re real than you can’t possibly understand, its too good to be true.” Obi-Wan responded brokenly.

“I know things have been clouded of late, but, if nothing else trust in the force to not lie to you.” Plo-Koon urged. “If you keep closing yourself off like this, how can you possibly learn if things are better than you think”

Obi-Wan collapsed from his crouch, knees folding underneath.

“If I am...even if I am in the past... Sideous might be watching...i didn’t- i don’t know the extent of his gaze- even if...” he trailed off.

“If it makes you feel safer, you are of course free to again raise your shields to whatever extent you feel necessary once you have verified your reality.” Aerdo replied smoothly.

Obi-Wan looked warily at the three Jedi in the room.“I...” he started, trying to articulate the swelling hope and fear only to find himself at a loss for words.

Aerdo shot him a reassuring smile, “If you don’t feel ready right now, that’s perfectly understandable. We’re very happy you’re willing to reach out as much as you have already. Would you like to pause this discussion for now so we can find you something to eat? I believe a simple broth is a customary first post-bacta meal, but if you have any special requests I’ll do what I can.”

Obi-Wan let out a deep breath, dropping his head into his hands. “I- I need to know, don’t I?” he mumbled. “Force help me...you win.” He took one last, searching look at the faces of his fellow Jedi before closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the force.

He opened a small hole in his mental barricades and tentatively allowed his thoughts to drip out. Tentatively, he trickled over the bank of Plo Koon’s being (expecting a frigid burn) only to find a warm and heartbreakingly familiar pool of tempered kindness. 

He ran, slightly faster now, over the other Jedi presences in the room. Having finished his course without encountering any dark undertow, he ebbed back. There was an indistinct impression of something heavy giving way.

Obi-Wan’s Shields Fell Like A Dam Beneath a Tidal Wave -

[tg-headcanons]

More ghoul decriminalization headcanons, please!

YES

Ghoul decriminalization came with the cure. It’s a broad term for several methods that help ghouls function in human society without the need to kill, a vaccine that allows them to consume human food along with rc supplements, fake meat for those who are too young or sick to get it, and knowledge about what causes ghouls to panic and how to help them. It’s first created through tests on the quinx, then it’s exposed that the Washuus have been using these findings for themselves and a handful of wealthy ghouls who work for them. Once that was exposed, it became impossible for the CCG to hide that it has the ability to create a peaceful solution, and was forced through public pressure to perfect and roll out these methods

The CCG itself was completely overhauled, and so many scandals were exposed. From Fudging test results and data to convince the public that ghouls are more dangerous than they are, to extremely cruel methods of slaughter, to mistreatment of workers, everyone is laid out and they’re forced to strip the whole operation and rebuild. It’s now the Commission of Ghoul Services, headed by a handful of former CCG executives, strong ghouls, and two artificial ghouls who have lived in both worlds

Obviously, the CCG going “hey we fucked up actually there’s medicine and fake meat that you guys can have and you’re allowed to exist now and if you need help getting an ID or job or medical attention just come on down” is Suspicious As Fuck. Very few went to the CGS on their own because nothing has ever screamed Obvious Trap as much as that. When it became clear that ghoul hunting numbers aren’t going down as they don’t trust the CGS, they hire countless ghouls into their ranks to show that they’re allies.

This was not a smooth transition. All these humans spent their whole careers training and working to exterminate ghouls, and all these groups spent their whole lives being hunted and tortured by these humans. There was a lot of infighting at the beginning, and only calmed down as the humans were forced to see that these people are not sinister killing machines. It’s still an unstable work environment with all the baggage, but it’s working. Not only do ghouls make better muscle, but they can navigate their own culture better, and ghouls are slowly coming to the CGS for the vaccine and other help now

Organizations like Aogiri, though depleted in numbers, are still out there. as well as new militias formed from former CCG people who were fired for crimes brought to light or simply quit after learning they’d be working with ghouls, who also oppose the new order. Ghoul services must deal with these groups in addition to helping ghouls

There’s significant backlash. Humans freak out at the idea of having to live with ghouls that aren’t killed on sight, and there’s quite a bit of unrest when the law to decriminalize them passes. More laws are soon put in place to protect jobs, education, and housing for ghouls. It passes faster than any helpful legislation usually does since there’s so much pressure to do Literally Anything That Helps, and a surprising amount of the protections help vulnerable humans too, so there’s more incentive for people to support it.

Progress is slow at first, humans know next to nothing about ghouls, ghouls are scared that this is somehow an elaborate scheme to kill them, and it’s rare to see a ghoul actually openly admit what they are or take out their kagune in public. A big help in speeding things up is various public talks from none other than the ghoulfucker himself, Hide. The story of this collage kid who joined the CCG to protect his ghoul boyfriend, shot his way through the ranks by taking an experimental surgery, then fucked up the organization from the inside for the sake of ghoul loved ones takes the world by storm. It’s a start at least, some more ghoul are coming out of the woodwork

The news is blowing up with various notable people coming out as ghouls. An athlete here, an actor there, it’s a media frenzy. A singer saying “I literally talked about eating people in that song and y’all thought it was a metaphor for love. It’s amazing I haven’t been killed by now I was not subtle” became a big story

Part of the CGS’ job is to get ghouls who were forced to the fringe of society into schools, jobs, and homes. It’s heartbreaking hearing many of their situations, and is the final thing for many human employees that makes them no longer hateful towards ghouls

With information on ghouls no longer suppressed by the CCG, humans can finally learn what they’re like. They’re faced with equal parts hate and intrigue. For every human saying they wish the CCG would kill them for being such awful creatures there’s another asking if it’s true that they can detect seizures and what type or kagune they have

With ghouls now able to be their authentic selves, that means Anteiku becomes even more of a hub now that people can talk openly about how they’re run by ghouls. It’s frequented by ghouls and humans who are willing or seeking to get to know them

[alittlebitmaybe]

comme un écho

AKA whoops i talked to @yoursummerfrost about orpheus and eurydice and then tripped and fell on this very weird ficlet that is only sort of what i meant it to be. uh oh. (title lifted from “it’s never over (oh orpheus)” by arcade fire because i’m incredibly literal sometimes)

warnings: off-screen major character death

*

The mage had told him to perform the ritual in a field of wildflowers.

“Plenty of life,” she said.

Jaskier had asked, “For what?”

“To feed it,” she said, and did not elaborate.

And as he follows her instructions, surrounded by blooming weeds and swaying grasses, he sees that she was right. As the herbs and other unmentionables in the bowl burn, scorching the wooden sides, the green around him darkens to black. He feels the magic tugging at his energy and resists it. The ruin spreads from his epicenter, cursing the very dirt on which he kneels. A slow but inexorable exchange, and Jaskier thinks it fair. Geralt had watered the earth with his blood and now the earth must give back.

“You’re out of your depth, bard,” the mage had said as he turned to leave, her lips pursed. Was she amused or disapproving? Jaskier didn’t care, nor, he suspected, did she. Her pockets were full, and his own empty.

He hefted the lute higher on his back, clutched at the strap across his chest.

“And yet,” he said.

“He will not come easily,” she said.

“He never did,” Jaskier replied.

The flame in the bowl burns out with a flare of noxious smoke that stings Jaskier’s eyes, makes him cough. The world hums. It’s a tune of his own, as of yet unsung, plucked from his consciousness. It reaches out to him and burrows under his skin. Pulling. He follows it.

Between two gnarled, ancient trees, in the arch of their overlapping branches (Which belongs to which? Where does one stop and the other begin? If one was broken, would the other suffer for it?) the air shimmers.

The tune fades and in its place is a whisper saying, Come.

*

The stairs spiral downward for hours, days. Jaskier’s legs do not ache and he does not hunger, but it is ever so quiet. He takes the lute from his back and plays every song he’s ever composed in Geralt’s honor. Maybe Geralt can hear them. Maybe he will know Jaskier is on his way.

“Get ready, Witcher,” Jaskier says to the darkness. “Gather your underworldly things. You won’t be coming back any time soon. I can promise you that.”

And he says, “I’m sorry that you were alone. I’m sorry that I was too late.”

And he says, when the darkness presses upon him, when it seems the stairs will never end, “I don’t know when I began to love you, but it has been long enough that I don’t know how not to.”

And he says, “I’ve done this for you. You deserve to have a better life. You deserve to live.”

And he takes one more step and trips, for there is no stair where he expected there to be one. He taps the toe of his boot against the ground. It’s solid. He lifts his hand in front of his own face and it is invisible. There is no breeze, no sound, no smells, no light. There’s nothing down here.

In the face of such vastness, Jaskier is insignificant. He is nothing. You are nothing. You are less than a flea clinging to the fur of a great beast. You will be mine. You will become a part of me. You will cease. You will be forgotten.

“Hold on now,” Jaskier says, head whipping around. “Who’s there?”

I am everything that has been. I await everything that is. I anticipate what will be. I am.

“You’re Death,” Jaskier realizes, perhaps belatedly.

There is no such thing. I have no name. I have no need of it.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who or what you are.” His heart thumps arrhythmically, and sweat drips from his brow. He swipes it off on his sleeve. He is far under water. His lungs fill. He ignores it, swallows. Throws back his shoulders. “I’m here for Geralt of Rivia.”

There is no Geralt of Rivia.

“Bullshit.”

You are insolent.

“I’ve been told.”

You will be mine.

“Perhaps.” Jaskier licks his lips, an unbreakable habit. “But I will live on.”

You will not.

He laughs a little, despite himself, a nervous little giggle that he stifles as quickly as he can, clearing his throat. “On the contrary, I am an artist. I shan’t die as long as my art lives. And art does not die.”

Art? Art is not living. I have no use of it.

“Exactly,” he says. “Yes, precisely. It does not live or die. It simply is. Whatever you—whatever you are, being of, ah, all-ness…or what have you—whatever you are, whatever comprises you, you have none of art. You have no music, no stories, none at all. You will always lack it.”

There is a thoughtful pause.

I desire it.

“I can give it to you. Did you hear? I played my whole way down.”

I heard.

“Did you enjoy it? Three words or less.”

It was pleasing.

Jaskier exhales. “That’s actually a decent review, as these things go. I’m glad. I mean, would you like more? I could write you a song. Got a decent hand at improv, me. Won’t take a moment.”

A song. For me?

“Yes,” Jaskier promises, feeling the weight of it as it passes over his tongue, “a song, only for you. I shall never play it again. Well, um, on one condition.”

You want Geralt of Rivia.

“Oh, you were paying attention. Smart one, you are, Your…um, Majesty.”

I can retrieve him. If I am careful. He is me. I am him.

“Truly, I understand. His loss, for me, was…” Jaskier struggles for adequate words. “Irreconcilable. But you will always have the memory of your song to take his place.”

You sang of him.

“I do. Rather habitually. Every day of my life, in fact.”

Hmm.

“You sound like him already. So, whaddaya say?”

Play for me.

*

He plays, and every note that vibrates out from his lute, every note that leaves his mouth disappears from his mind. It is absorbed from him upon conception. He doesn’t know what the last measure was, nor what the next will be. He does not know what key or time signature his song is in, but he knows it’s a song. And that is all he promised.

It ends, and Jaskier does not notice. Possibly his jaw hangs open stupidly for minutes after it is over. He closes it.

“Was, um, was that…”

Yes. I will give you your reward.

“You will?” Jaskier asks, surprised despite himself.

I will release Geralt of Rivia, for you have given me something in return. And I will regain him, as I will gain you. We will meet again, bard.

“I—How do—”

You will walk forward. You will ascend, and he will follow. Until he emerges above, he is still a part of me. You may not look upon him, as you may not look upon me. You must not look back.

“How will I know he is there?”

He will follow.

“How will I know it is him?”

You must have faith.

“How—” Jaskier chokes now, tears welling up. He is glad no one can see. “Will he be—himself?”

Entirely. Once he emerges.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

It is time. Walk forward. In three paces, you shall begin to ascend. Be well, bard.

*

Jaskier climbs. The stairs remember his tread, the shape of his feet. It’s easy.

There are footsteps behind him. Are they Geralt’s? Do they match the way he shifts his weight, the deliberate heel-toe steps that Jaskier has been hearing for decades? He’s not sure.

Jaskier is afraid. More afraid than ever before. There could be anything back there. Anything at all. He must not look.

But he is not forbidden to talk.

“Geralt?” he says, tentatively. “Geralt, is that you?”

A grunt. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

And it is, thank the gods, it is. “Sounds like you,” he says, voice carefully measured, lest he sob in relief.

Silence. Four, five more stairs. They will not end. When will they end?

“How’ve you been, Witcher? It’s good to hear you again, my friend.”

“Where are we?”

“Well, who’s to say,” Jaskier says lightly. “Tell me, what do you last remember?”

“Bleeding out in a forest. I couldn’t get up. I waited to die. I…died. I died, didn’t I, Jaskier?”

Jaskier chooses to take that as rhetorical, and does not answer.

“Anything else?”

“Not until now. Is this a dream?”

“To my knowledge, no, Geralt, it is not. I pray that this is not a dream.”

“Then where—?”

Jaskier picks up his foot, sets it down. One stair at a time. There have been hundreds, there will be more. Is that light above? No, a trick of his eyes. He is still blind.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon be outside. It’s a beautiful day, you know. Big blue sky. Everything in bloom. Your favorite time of the year. We’ll have to do some foraging, stock up for potions. I have your things, of course, but I don’t know the shelf life of your concoctions.”

“A quarter year.”

“Ah, might have to make fresh, then.”

But no, it is growing brighter. Jaskier can see the faint silhouettes of his hands, the edges of the stairs to come. If he were to turn back he might be able to see the gleam of Geralt’s eyes, but he mustn’t.

Why mustn’t he? Oh, yes, the warning. He—can’t look back. He must not—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m dead.”

“You are, Geralt, yes, is that what you would like to hear?” Jaskier says, a little hysterically. “But you won’t be for much longer, if we just keep going.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where? Where?” His pitch climbs with the staircase. Around and around. Dizzying. So many circles. “Above, Geralt. Back home, of course.”

“Why?”

Jaskier has to stop himself from whirling around. “Good gods, you ask me why? I follow you for decades, I immortalize you in song, and the witcher asks me why.” He draws in a great lungful of air, releases it. “I love you, you great idiot. I have loved you.”

The response comes, so softly, a mere rumble, “I know. That’s why I asked.”

The stairs are made of warped stone. He can see that now. They are well worn, dipping in the centers. It can’t be far. “Please, Geralt, we’re almost there.”

“You haven’t answered me. Why you would do this.”

“I was supposed to let you rot, huh? I was meant to live on as if it was fine? As if nothing was missing?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come back.”

“Of course you did. Of course you do.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stops, and behind him the second set of footsteps also halts.

“It was peaceful. It was my time.”

“It wasn’t,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

There is a touch to the small of his back, a gust of air across the nape of his neck. So familiar. He aches.

“Jaskier.” A strong hand closes around his wrist. He doesn’t look down at it, not even a glance. “The world doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What about the monsters? The wars?”

“There is Yennefer, and Ciri, and Eskel and the rest. There will always be someone.”

With dread creeping through his limbs, Jaskier says, “You’re telling me you don’t want to come back. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He can almost hear the creaking of the intertwined, ancient trees above. It is just a few more steps.

“You can’t tell me that, not when I—”

Arms come around him, and he shuts his eyes. “Jaskier, I would rather have done what I have done and no more, than continue on and overstay my welcome. I would rather have my peace.”

“What if I need you?” Jaskier breathes.

“I am with you.”

“You weren’t.”

Geralt’s hand comes to rest over his heart. It is not cold nor hot through Jaskier’s doublet. It simply isn’t much of anything at all. There, but insubstantial. It trails its way up his jaw, traces over his bottom lip. “You forget,” Geralt says, “that I am in your words. That I will live on. Isn’t that what you said? Art does not die.”

“You heard.”

“I must have.”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier sniffles, knowing full well he sounds like a child. “I came all this way. I have always followed you. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I will sing of you until I can’t any longer, to anyone who will listen, and to many who will not.”

A smile, pressed to his ear. “I can think of no better way to be loved.”

Something nags at Jaskier, and he can’t say what. He is surrounded by a body he knows as well as his own, yet it’s not right. Why?

The body releases him. It says, “Look at me, Jaskier. That’s all you have to do.”

“You’re not Geralt, are you,” he says with trepidation, eyes still squeezed tight. “Are you? Don’t lie.”

“Jaskier.”

He breathes in. Opens his eyes. Grips the lute strap in both hands. Turns.

Silvered hair, sad golden eyes, a sharp nose, wispy around the edges.

“Geralt,” he whispers, reaching out even as the form dissipates. Called back to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” it says, and then it is gone.

[suoyou]

[wip] 真金不怕火炼; true gold fears no flame

incomplete wip. 2744 words, rated t. 

originally drafted for the wangxian weddings for maubrey collection. a sequel to baby’s first wangxian fic 蓝色生死恋; a blue love (to live and to die for)

Wei Wuxian wakes up the morning after his wedding a little cold and a lot sore, skin tingling like it’s new. He’s spent a lot of both lives waking up feeling like his skeleton had sneakily rearranged itself overnight in the worst way—a rib in his throat, a femur jammed up through his belly, vertebrae scattered around him like loose gravel. 

But today he wakes up with the sun in a crescent on his hip, smiling at the edge of the window, feeling like every part of his body for once is in the right place. Brain in his head, head on his shoulders, heart in his chest. Lan Zhan is, of course, already awake, staring up at the canopy of their wedding bed. Not wide-eyed, and possibly for the first time in Wei Wuxian’s life, lazy. 

“Lan Zhan.” He can hear his own voice vibrate against Lan Zhan’s body. 

“You’re awake.”

“What were you doing up, earlier?” Wei Wuxian presses a deep yawn into the side of his husband’s—husband’s!—neck, the kind that sends shivers all the way down into his ankles and feet. “It was barely dawn. Don’t tell me you weren’t tired? I can’t believe I didn’t tire you out last night. I don’t even know if I was awake for our last round.” The thought makes heat flare in Wei Wuxian’s cheeks. They’ll have to revisit that.

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says, and the low thrum of laughter runs through him. It’s mostly silent; Wei Wuxian feels it more than he hears it. “You were, but only just.” Then, “I thought of a song.”

“A song?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“You,” Lan Zhan says, both fondly and in a way that says this should be obvious.

“About my oral prowess, I hope.”

“It was not.”

“Is it happy, at least?”

Lan Zhan is quiet. “My other song for you is not very happy, is it?” 

“Well,” Wei Wuxian pushes himself upright so that he’s lying on top of Lan Zhan, rests his chin on his folded wrists. A constellation of hickeys and bruises stretches across Lan Zhan’s neck, and Wei Wuxian takes his time studying them. He hasn’t seen his own skin yet, but he can tell the violet blooms are already fading on Lan Zhan, burnt back by the heat of his golden core. “I think someone a lot lonelier than the Lan Zhan I married wrote that song, is all.”

“Mm.” Lan Zhan holds Wei Wuxian by the waist, steady, steady, like balancing the weight of the world on him in the cradle of his palms. “But you’re here now. To have you like this, it would be impossible to feel lonely again.”

“To have me like how?” Wei Wuxian asks, propping his chin in his palm, wide-eyed with mock wonder. “Will the esteemed Hanguang-jun care to elaborate?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes darken, narrowing for a flicker of a moment before he moves, and Wei Wuxian ends up on his back so fast that ah, there, there’s that feeling that his bones are all in the wrong places—in the best way, in the only way he hopes to know it again, with Lan Zhan’s hands on his body  and heart against his. Beating, beating, beating.

☄

For some reason, Wei Wuxian is surprised when he gets up and Lan Zhan offers him clothes that look virtually identical to the ones he’s always worn—dark, red accents, wristcuffs laced with ribbons. Everything is a little nicer, and even for someone who never cared to notice, the fabric folds heavy and well-made in his hands. There are cloud patterns embroidered in black thread along the collars, and peonies in the shoulder patches. 

He stands in the middle of their wedding chamber, naked as the day he was born, turning them back and forth without slipping them on. 

“Do you not like them?” Lan Zhan asks, already decent with his satin underrobe on.

“I love them, they’re just so—me?” Wei Wuxian lowers them. 

“Would you like me to put them on?”

“Yes!” Wei Wuxian says. He lifts his arms helpfully when Lan Zhan comes to him, slipping the sleeves of a new red underrobe over him and leaning close to do the ties at Wei Wuxian’s waist. He’s so close that Wei Wuxian simply leans forward and kisses the crown of Lan Zhan’s head. Then his temple. Then he stops, because if he doesn’t, they will never leave this chamber. 

“These were commissioned from a different tailor,” Lan Zhan says when he slips the black outer robe onto Wei Wuxian’s body. “I was concerned that they wouldn’t get your measurements right, but I’m glad to see it fits.”

It fits like a hug around Wei Wuxian’s body. 

“The collars of the underrobe are quite high?”

Lan Zhan looks at him. “That was intentional.”

Wei Wuxian stares blankly until the faint ache of hickeys registers, and he puts his hands over his face and groans, “Ohhh. Oh, I won’t make it through the week like this.”

“Wei Ying.”

“I love you, Lan Zhan, I really do, with all the force of ten thousand weeping mountains—a hundred thousand—but my heart will give out. It will cave.”

Lan Zhan ignores his theatrics and turns him around to run his hairbrush through Wei Wuxian’s hair. He’s always so gentle when he does it for Wei Wuxian—not that he’s rough on himself, but he certainly doesn’t seem to take as long, brushing out every lock of hair between his fingers. 

“I can’t believe the Chief Cultivator can’t even take a few days to himself. After his own wedding!” Wei Wuxian says as Lan Zhan twists his hair up into a soft knot. It’s elegant and something Wei Wuxian will likely never learn how to do himself. “I want to stay with you all day. I want to lie in the sun with you and then go running by the beaches at sunset. Well—I’ll run, you can walk gracefully, as you do. I want to sit in the grass with you and feed the rabbits until the wet seeps up into my robes.”

“Mm. So do I.” Lan Zhan pushes his hairstick through the base of the knot. “But it will be a short meeting. Just a report and a written acknowledgment that we are married, that the sects have bore witness that we are married. And that any assault upon you would be considered an offense to the Lan Sect.” 

Wei Wuxian’s knees go soft and it has nothing to do with the exhaustion from the night before. “Lan Zhan...”

“You could come if you like, but I would not ask you to.”

“Because you’re flawless and perfect.”

Lan Zhan exhales. It’s his favorite way to laugh. Then he smooths his hand down the free length of Wei Wuxian’s hair. “I’ll meet you in the Jingshi for lunch.”

“Come back to me soon.”

“Always.”

☄

For two weeks after the wedding, Lan Zhan has reduced duties and Wei Wuxian a leave of absence from classes, but it has been a while since he watched the sun turn the sky blue, then grey, then lace-white as it rises over the blanket of clouds. Once, on a night hunt, Wei Wuxian had climbed high enough in the Cloud Recesses that the clouds were finally under him, and he looked over the endlessness of it, feeling like he was standing at the edge of existence. 

By the third day, after all the guests leave, Wei Wuxian finally gets some much-needed solitude. It’s a weird thing to need, for him, anyway, considering how much time he’s already spent alone. When he sits in the meadow of rabbits in the back hills of the Cloud Recesses, he lies down with his arms spread until he can feel rabbit nosing at his pockets.

“I haven’t brought anything for you,” he says, eyes closed. The sun is orange and veiny against his closed eyes. “Since when did you guys even like me enough to look for snacks?”

There are voices coming down the mountain path, though, so Wei Wuxian sits up and brushes stray bits of grass off his back and knees, tries to pick some out of his hair. Before his wedding, he would not have cared, but he’s husband to the Chief Cultivator now. He needs to look the part. 

“Morning,” he greets, and blinks when it’s a handful of older Lan women carrying the rabbit feed today. Tending to the rabbits is disciple work, usually, but vaguely, he knows they had to change the structure of classes for the two weeks he isn’t teaching. 

“Oh! Wei gongzi. We didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“Hanguang-jun isn’t with you?”

“He’s busy in the mornings,” says Wei Wuxian, hands jumping to the collars of his robes. They’re bound tight, thank heavens. “I’ve simply been unwinding after a wedding like that. It really takes everything out of you, doesn’t it?”

“Being married does that to you,” says one of the women, sagely. Lan Danyi if Wei Wuxian’s memory serves him correctly. The other women nod, murmuring their assent.

“It...takes everything out of you?” he asks. That doesn’t sound pleasant, but he hasn’t been anything but happy since being married. Is he doing something wrong?

“When does it not?” says another. Lan Ruyi, who looks so much like her sister that they could be mirror images. “You’re lucky you married Hanguang-jun, Wei gongzi. Marriage is hard work. The first year of a marriage is the hardest year of any relationship.”

“It—it is? Why?”

“Well, of course,” they say, like this should be common knowledge. Lan Danyi bends down and begins feeding the rabbits their carrots. “You will probably have it better than we do, but when you get married, who do you become? You lose your sense of self. Before this, you’re your own person, but you don’t just belong to you anymore, don’t you? Of course, Hanguang-jun would never be so uncouth, I see that he doesn’t mind that Wei gongzi continues to wear his own robes. Which is as it should be, do you remember that Zhao Xiaohong that Lan Hongqi married a few years ago?”

“Oh,” says Wei Wuxian. He hadn’t thought of that. 

“Of course, of course,” says the third woman. Wei Wuxian well and truly cannot remember her name, which is going to be a problem if he’s going to be part of the Lan Sect now. “But your future isn’t your own anymore, either. You walk a two-person path now. When one person hurts their feet, you must check your own for thorns. Sometimes the path diverges and you want to take a different one than the one they choose.” She sighs. “And you have to choose the one they want to take.”

“I think learning how to walk one, honest path is romantic in and of itself, Jianying.”

“Perhaps. But not all of us can marry Hanguang-jun, so really, how romantic could it be.”

“So you can’t be headstrong, it’ll be such a pain,” Lan Ruyi says. “It’s easier for someone who grew up in the Lan Sect, but marrying in is always harder.”

“Which is what makes the first year of living together the hardest,” says Lan Danyi, nodding. “You don’t want to be someone difficult to share space with. But, Wei gongzi, I’m sure you and Hanguang-jun won’t have a problem at all. Right?”

“Right,” he says faintly. A morning with the rabbits is almost always calm and soothing, but today he feels neither calm nor soothed. “Uh, have a lovely morning.”

“Wei gongzi, go safely!” they call after him as he slip-slides back onto the path.

He gives them a wave, and starts heading back alone.

☄

“—ying. Wei Ying?”

 He blinks.  Then he comes to, piece by piece, chopsticks still aloft between his bowl and his mouth. A bite of married-couple spiced tripe drips its fiery oil into his food, a little red coin on the pebbled surface of his rice. Lan Zhan has leaned forward, mouth set in a taut line of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Wei Wuxian shovels his food into his mouth. “Nothing, Lan Zhan.”

His husband—will he ever tire of that title? Evidence points to no—is not convinced. Not that Wei Wuxian expected him to be, but he also doesn’t expect Lan Zhan to set his own bowl down, resting his chopsticks over the rim, and insist, again, “There’s something wrong.”

“Lan Zhan, it’s really...really, it’s…”

Of course, Hanguang-jun would never be so uncouth, I see that he doesn’t mind that Wei gongzi continues to wear his own robes.

“Well,” says Wei Wuxian, and Lan Zhan leans forward minutely to listen, “Lan Zhan, do you hate that I dress this way?”

This question apparently catches Lan Zhan off-guard. He blinks once, twice, then asks, “In what way, Wei Ying?”

“Like...myself.” Like my unmarried self. 

A faint ribbon of confusion slips between Lan Zhan’s eyebrows. “I love you regardless of what you wear.”

“You probably prefer me not wearing anything, right, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian jokes weakly. 

“Yes. But,” says Lan Zhan, as Wei Wuxian wheezes at his frankness, “what is this about?”

“I just thought,” Wei Wuxian says, feeling wild and stupid, because they’re married, they’re married, why is he being silly about this, “that. I don’t know, I’d look different after I got married. To you? That I should look different.” I want to look different. I want to look like I belong to somewhere, to someplace, to someone.

“Different how?”

“Uhm,” he looks down into his rice, chili oil staining the grains a bright, yolky gold. Gods, this is ridiculous. “Never mind.”

Lan Zhan is a quiet rustle of fabric and footsteps when he stands and moves around the dining table. When he sits down beside Wei Wuxian he’s a warm waft of sandalwood and camellia oil. “Wei Ying,” he says, brings Wei Ying’s hand into his lap between his own. “Something troubles you.”

“It’s not—I’m not troubled, Lan Zhan, I promise. But I guess I. I want to look married to you.”

Lan Zhan searches his face. The concern softens around the edges. “How so?”

“I don’t think I can wear all white or a forehead ribbon, or more than three layers,” Wei Wuxian warns, “but. I felt at home, wearing your white underrobe. It’s not that I don’t like red, but I only wore it so much so you couldn’t see the bloo—”

Wei Wuxian snaps his mouth shut. Really, is this a topic he should be bringing up a day after their wedding, at dinner, no less? He feels like an uninvited, rain-soaked guest falling through the doorway of a place he’s not welcome. 

“Stains less,” he finishes in a tiny voice. 

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, and he reaches up to tuck one of Wei Wuxian’s feathery wisps of hair behind his ear. “If that is what you want to wear, then you should wear it.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad. You commissioned those for me in mind specially.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Only because I mistook your preference for them. What you wear is your choice, Wei Ying. In this life, you do not have to look any way but the way you want to. All white. All black. A bit of both, or neither. The things we put on our bodies...they’re an extension of us. Whatever that looks like to you now is what I’ll love.”

“What if I want to wear a pink tunic and a green skirt and, and a gold belt, and no shoes?”

“You would look like Nezha,” Lan Zhan says very seriously, “and I would love you all the same.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, and then he kisses his husband right there at the dinner table, and he thinks that being married really doesn’t take too much out of you at all. Lan Zhan steadies him by the arms, and then pulls him into his lap, and Wei Wuxian’s ribs wedge into the side of the table and the bruise from even that will be sore and sweet the way a hickey is.

What a fortune it is to be married, Wei Wuxian thinks, when Lan Zhan has him on the bamboo mat floors and his hair in a dark fan across them, and have the privilege to be nothing but your messy, scattered, glimmering self. 

[neworleansspecial]

There’s been a push lately of including more trans characters and trans headcanons in fanwork lately, and that’s a good thing! However, most of the time, the content that gets promoted is by cis creators as opposed to transgender creators speaking from their real world experiences. While it’s important to boost trans voices, that’s not to say you can’t or shouldn’t write trans characters as a cis person. 

Please note that this post is not an attack on cis writers! Far from it, in fact. I would say the majority of the time, cis people writing harmful content are doing it unintentionally- they probably just don’t realize that it’s a problem. The main goal here is to educate on what’s harmful, why it’s harmful, and what to do instead. In addition, some trans people, especially young trans people, can fall into these tropes too- after all, all of us were raised in the same cis-centric society. 

That said, trans people can write about these tropes if they choose- we’re allowed to discuss our own experiences or those we identify with in a way cis authors can’t or shouldn’t because of our different relationship to gender. If you’re transgender and you write using these tropes, that’s okay! But remember to be self-critical, too; are you writing these tropes because you enjoy them or because they reflect your experiences, or are you writing them because that’s what cis people promote or it’s what you think trans narratives must be?

This particular post will focus on common tropes in writing about transgender characters, and why they’re harmful, as well as ways to counteract them in your writing. As this is a long post, it’s under a read more. Thank you to @jewishbucke​ for all his help and support.

For the purposes of this post, let’s lay out some basic definitions so that we’re all operating on the same playing field and understanding.

Cisgender (cis): Someone who identifies with the gender they were assigned at birth.

Transgender (trans): Someone whose gender differs from the one they were assigned at birth. Trans people may or may not experience one or more kinds of dysphoria. The level of dysphoria a trans person experiences is not relevant to whether or not they are transgender. 

Dysphoria: The discomfort caused by a disconnect between someone’s gender and the one they were assigned at birth. Dysphoria can be physical (related to the body), emotional (related to their feelings/sexuality), or social (related to other’s perceptions of them). 

Gender Expression: The way a person outwardly expresses themselves and their gender. This can include but is not limited to pronouns, clothes, hair style, and name.

Transmasculine: A transmasculine person is a trans person whose transition is aimed at becoming more masculine. Trans men are transmasculine people, but not all transmasculine people are trans men. Transmasculine people are transmisogyny exempt (TME), meaning they do not experience the specific combination of transphobia and misogyny that affects transfeminine people. 

Transfeminine: A transfeminine person is a trans person whose transition is aimed at becoming more feminine. Trans women are transfeminine people, but not all transfeminine people are trans women. Transfeminine people are transmisogyny affected (TMA), meaning they experience the specific combination of transphobia and misogyny directed towards transfeminine people.

That being said, my point of view making this post is as a transmasculine TME person. I can offer my personal perspectives and experiences, but I cannot speak over or for the specific experiences unique to transfeminine people and trans women. If you are transfeminine or a trans woman, you are absolutely welcome to add on or correct me if in my words, I said something harmful to you and your community. We are all in this together and it is never my aim to overstep boundaries on something I do not understand. So, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get into tropes common in transgender narratives. 

The Cis Savior

To start with, one of the most common tropes is the Cis Savior trope. This is commonly associated with the Trans/Cis trope, which I’ll elaborate more on later. The Cis Savior is often not the main character, but a supporter of a transgender main character. They can be a close friend, a family member, a love interest, or a coworker. 

In this narrative, the trans person is engaging in behavior harmful to themselves, often related to methods of their transition. The most common one you may have seen or written is the transmasculine person binding unsafely. In that example, a transmasculine person binds (flattens) their chest with something such as ace bandages, which are extremely harmful and can damage their ribs. The Cis Savior finds out about this behavior, scolds the trans person, and purchases or gives them a safe alternative like a binder designed to safely compress breasts. While this example is probably the most common one, it’s not the only one. In general, the Cis Savior trope is when a cis person finds out that a trans person is hurting themselves in some way and rectifies it with superior knowledge of safe practices and/or better resources than the trans person has access to.

The reason this is harmful is because it perpetuates two common misconceptions: first, that all trans people hate their bodies to the point of willingly harming themselves to relieve this self-hatred, and second, that cis people know better about trans issues and bodies than trans people themselves. That’s not to say that neither of these things is impossible. Trans people are not a monolith and there probably are trans people like that, at least for some point of time in their lives. In some situations, especially in reference to trans kids or people who have recently realized they’re trans, it’s possible that they don’t know their behavior could be harmful, or that there are safer alternatives. The problem lies in the repeated framing of this trope as the only kind of trans person and the idea that they can and will be destructive towards themselves until a cis person who knows better comes along. 

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives: 

A trans character behaves safely and explains how and why.

A trans character behaving unsafely is supported and educated by another trans person as opposed to a cis person (although this is something you probably shouldn’t be writing as a cis writer- some narratives are better left to us when it comes to the actual experiences of being transgender. Write about trans characters, not being trans!).

A trans character looking into transition on their own finds a supportive community. 

The Gender-Non-Conforming Trans Person

The Gender-Non-Conforming (GNC) Trans Person is a trans character who presents excessively similar to the gender assigned at birth as opposed to their actual gender- the trans man who wears dresses and makeup, the trans woman who has a buzzcut and hates skirts, etc. Like is pointed out above in the “Cis Savior” trope, trans people like this can and do exist! Some trans people are GNC for various reasons- personal style, sexuality, being closeted, or just because they feel like it. 

Narratives about the GNC Trans Person are very focused on the trans person presenting in a way that does not align with their gender, and is often No-Op (Does not have or want gender confirmation surgery) and No-HRT (Does not have or want hormone replacement therapy). It’s also often combined with the “Misgendered” trope. Trans characters in this trope seem to be extremely against presenting the way “expected” of their gender. For example, think of a transfeminine character not wanting to shave, be it their legs, armpits, face, or any other part of their body that cis women are expected to shave. This can lead to the character being mocked, dismissed, told they are not “really” trans, fetishized, and/or misgendered. These characters are often described as not passing as their gender.

This trope is harmful because it plays into the rhetoric that trans people are faking it or attention seeking. Like stated above, GNC trans people can and do exist. In fact, in my personal experience, a lot of trans people are GNC in some way or another. What is and isn’t considered conforming to gender is very strictly based on cisheterocentric ideas of gender presentation, and fails to take into account the intricacies of being transgender, especially if the person in question is also LGB. Trans people don’t have to conform to the restrictive societal views of what acceptable gender presentation is in order to be “really” trans. The stereotype of highly GNC trans people comes from the idea that they’re choosing to be transgender as a means of attention seeking, which simply isn’t true. Trans people didn’t choose to be trans- it’s just another part of them, like their eye color or the shape of their nose.

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

A trans character having fun with gender presentation- why not shop from both sides of the store?

A trans character expressing gender-nonconformity in smaller ways.

Multiple trans characters with different gender presentations.

The Misgendered Trans Person

The Misgendered Trans Person is another common narrative in which a trans character is misgendered, whether it be on accident or on purpose, by a cis character. This can be a family member, an old friend, or a complete stranger. This trope also includes dead-naming, the act of referring to a person by a “dead” name that they no longer use as part of their transition.

When it comes to this trope, it’s usually with a narrative similar to the Cis Savior- the trans character is defended by a nearby cis one. More often than not, the Misgendered Trans Person trope is also combined frequently with the Forced Outing. In this story, a trans person is referred to by pronouns they do not use- in particular, those associated with their assigned gender at birth- as a means of causing angst and discomfort. They may also be called their dead name, also to create drama in the story. For example, consider a trans character hanging out with their family, and their mother uses the wrong pronouns for them, causing the character discomfort. This also includes narratives about a character realizing they’re trans, in which the character is referred to by the wrong pronouns and their dead name until they realize they are transgender. More to that point, as a cis author, you should never write a story about someone realizing they’re trans- as said above, write about transgender characters, not about being transgender.

This is harmful because it minimizes the very real pain and dysphoria that can be caused by misgendering or dead-naming. Changing names and pronouns are often the very first steps trans people take in their transition, and an instrumental part of their identities and journeys. Consider it in terms of your face. You have your own very specific face and it is an integral part of yourself and identity. Imagine someone repeatedly insisting that it’s different. They tell you that your eyes are a different color, or your jaw is shaped differently. It would be uncomfortable, and it’s wrong. Obviously this isn’t an exact or fair comparison, but names and pronouns are not just words when it comes to identity and trans narratives. 

In terms of alternatives to this trope, there aren’t any. 

There is no acceptable or reasonable way to write a character being misgendered or dead-named as a cis author. This is especially true when you take it upon yourself to make up a dead name for a character. No excuses, no arguments. Just don’t do it. 

The Self-Hating Trans Person

The Self-Hating Trans Person trope is where a trans person’s dysphoria, be it physical, emotional, or social, is so extreme that they hate themselves and their bodies in an all-consuming way. This character is incapable of loving themselves and will often rely on a cis character for positivity, support, or self-esteem.

It would be impossible to acknowledge this trope without considering its ubiquity- while the description above is clear and severe, it overlaps often with many other tropes and less intense versions of it have a tendency to appear in most trans narratives. It’s associated with the trans character wanting to be cis (often worded as wanting to be “normal”), behaving in ways dangerous to themselves, and/or refusing to accept comfort. For example, a couple common uses of this trope are unsafe binding in transmasculine people, self harm or mutilation, and conversion therapy. The Self-Hating Trans Person narrative typically involves the character being aggressive toward people who question or try to combat their self hatred as well. 

As touched upon in the Cis Savior trope, this is harmful because it perpetuates the stereotype that trans people must hate themselves, and be willing to go to extreme lengths because of it. Plenty of trans people don’t care that they’re trans, or even like that about themselves. The idea that being trans is something that should make a person hate themselves implies that it’s bad or wrong, which it isn’t. There are some trans people who do have these negative feelings- and of course deserve all the support they want and need- but plenty of trans people don’t feel that way. Trans people can and do love themselves and their bodies. Some trans people don’t have severe dysphoria, or may not really have any at all. Trans character’s narratives shouldn’t always be about suffering.

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

A trans person who loves themselves and their trans body. (Be conscientious of straying into fetishistic territory, though- trans people are more than their bodies! When in doubt, ask.)

A trans person whose unhappiness is about something else, like losing a pet.

A trans person being loved and supported by their friends. 

The Forced Outing

The Forced Outing trope usually goes hand-in-hand with the Misgendered Trans Person. This trope includes a trans person, either closeted (not out, pre-transition) or stealth (not out, post-transition) having their identity as transgender being revealed to one or more people without their permission.

When it comes to Forced Outings, this usually happens around a cis love-interest, and is typically followed by said love-interest assuring the trans character that this doesn’t matter to them. Another common response is the trans character becoming a victim of violence, such as a beating or sexual assault. For example, a trans person gets “caught changing” and is outed to the person who sees them, without their consent. The “caught changing” is another common way this trope is expressed, usually in a bedroom, bathroom or locker room. Sometimes there’s a happy ending. Sometimes there isn’t.

It should be clear why this trope is harmful- outing someone, be it as transgender or gay or any other LGBT+ identity, is not just disrespectful, but it is extremely dangerous. Just because you wouldn’t react poorly doesn’t mean others are the same. Outing a trans person in real life could get them hurt really badly, or even killed, on top of being outright rude and presumptuous. While this is fiction, it’s important to recognize that the media we consume affects the way we view real world situations. In your story, things may turn out fine, but the harsh reality is that in real life, it usually doesn’t. Trans people can and do get killed when they’re outed. Besides that, it follows along with the rhetoric that someone is “lying” if they don’t immediately disclose that they’re transgender. Trans people do not have to tell you that they’re trans, especially if they don’t know you. 

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternative: 

A trans person already being out to and accepted by their loved ones.

The Predatory Trans Person

The Predatory Trans Person is usually same-gender-attracted (SGA) and/or transfeminine. They prey on cis people by coercing them into romantic or sexual relationships. Sometimes the trans person is considered predatory because they didn’t out themselves beforehand, or they use their being transgender as a means of guilting someone into having sex with them. It often overlaps with the PIV trope.

These narratives often revolve around sexual situations, and tend to focus on the cis partner as the main character. It prioritizes the comfort and feelings of the cis person. They’re uncomfortable, but can’t say it for fear of being seen as transphobic, or making their partner angry. For example, the cis character and trans character go on a few dates, and the trans character is presumed cis until they get to the bedroom. The trans character is pre-op and “convinces” the cis person to have sex with them anyway, despite them being uncomfortable. The most common form of this narrative is the transmisogynistic telling of a trans lesbian “coercing” a cis lesbian into sex.

This is harmful for two reasons- first and foremost, it paints trans people as being inherently predatory. It implies that trans people are only trans in order to have sex with those who otherwise wouldn’t be interested in them, reinforcing a long-standing transphobic notion that being transgender is related to sexual deviance and/or fetishes. Trans people are not inherently predatory. Trans people are not just rapists in disguise. Second of all, it makes assumptions about the genitals of trans people. Some are pre-op or no-op, of course, but not all of us are. Some trans people have had bottom surgery. Some trans men have penises, some have vaginas. Some trans women have vaginas, some have penises. And even those who haven’t had bottom (gender confirmation) surgery are still allowed and able to enjoy sex with the genitals they have, and use language regarding their genitals that they feel most comfortable with. There’s nothing wrong with that. 

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

A trans person having sex with another trans person.* 

A trans person and a cis person having consensual sex.*

A trans person participating in nonsexual intimacy with their partner.

The Genderbend

The Genderbend actually refers to two common transphobic tropes; the first is headcanoning a cis character as being trans as the opposite gender. In other words, headcanoning a cis woman as a trans man, or a cis man as a trans woman. 

It also refers to the common fandom trope of genderbending (also known as cisswap) to make a character of one gender into the “opposite,” typically associated with changing their physical characteristics to match this new assigned gender.

Narratives about the Genderbend trope rely on two primary assumptions. They assume every character is cis by default, and that certain characteristics are inherent to certain genders. The cis to trans version of this trope often focuses on a “coming out” story in which the character realizes they are trans and comes out to their loved ones before pursuing social and/or medical transitioning. 

Cisswap, on the other hand, completely avoids the concept of being transgender, and instead makes the character into the “opposite” gender while they’re still cis. This often comes with physical changes, such as a character made into a girl getting wider hips and a more “feminine” facial structure, as is associated with cis women.

These narratives are harmful because of the assumptions they make about all characters/people being cis by default, and that these characters must have the common physical characteristics associated with that body type. The Genderbend in which a cis character is headcanoned as the “opposite” gender perpetuates a harmful rhetoric that trans people are really just their assigned gender at birth with a different presentation. It pushes the idea that transfeminine people are men in dresses and transmasculine people are self-hating women, both of which are misconceptions behind a lot of transphobic violence people face. 

Cisswap relies on the idea that presentation or physical characteristics equate to gender, and that in order to be a gender, someone must look a certain way. This is not only harmful to trans people, but to any person who does not fit strict western binary beauty standards. It also fails to acknowledge that gender is not a simple binary of man or woman, but a spectrum that includes a multitude of identities. It should also be noted that the Cisswap trope relies on standards of gender and presentation that are intersexist, racist, and antisemitic as well. In general, the Cisswap trope is harmful to many marginalized groups of people, including but not limited to trans people.

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

Headcanoning/writing a character as being trans while keeping their gender the same.

A character being nonbinary.

Creating new OCs who are trans.

The Bottom Trans Man/Top Trans Woman (PIV in Trans/Cis Relationships)

The PIV (Penis in Vagina Sex) Trope is exclusive to Trans/Cis relationships, and typically revolves around same gender relationships. In the PIV trope, a pre-op trans person has penis-in-vagina sex with their cis partner. 

In these narratives, the focus is very heavy on the pre-op genitalia of the trans person in the relationship. It’s most commonly seen in m/m fanfiction, in which the trans man has vaginal sex with his cis partner, but also exists in f/f fic in which the trans woman engages in penetrative sex with her partner’s vagina. That’s not to say that trans people can’t or don’t enjoy sex this way, but in this particular trope, it is specifically written in a way that focuses in a fetishistic way on the genitals of trans people and makes broad assumptions about the bodies trans people have and the types of sex they enjoy. These narratives write all trans men as bottoms, and all trans women as tops. 

The reason this is harmful is because of the way it generalizes trans people’s bodies, their relationships to them, and the way they engage in sex. Of course there are pre-op (and no-op) trans people who do enjoy PIV sex with their partners, but that does not mean all trans people have those bodies or have that sort of sex. There are trans men who are tops, and trans women who are bottoms. There are trans people who have dysphoria about their genitals, and those who don’t. Some do not or cannot enjoy PIV sex, and that’s okay! The other common issue with this trope is the way that trans people’s bodies are described. Trans people often use words for their bodies that you might consider “anatomically incorrect” because it’s the language that they feel most comfortable with. 

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

A trans person having sex with another trans person.*

A trans person having non-PIV sex with their partner.*

A trans person participating in nonsexual intimacy with their partner.

The Trans/Cis Relationship

Finally, the Trans/Cis Relationship trope- this trope isn’t inherently bad- there’s nothing wrong on its own with a romantic pairing being between a trans and cis character. The specific dynamic this is about is the trans character requiring reassurance, validation, or other kinds of support from their partner that a cis character would not ask for. 

This trope is very commonly associated with Cis Savior and PIV tropes as well. It focuses on the trans person being in a relationship with a cis person who they depend on to “validate” their gender, help with their dysphoria, and protect them from transphobic behavior. It tends to infantilize trans people and make them into someone who cannot function outside their relationship with the cis character. For example, a transfeminine character relying on their boyfriend to make them feel “feminine” enough in their relationship. While Trans/Cis relationships are not inherently bad or wrong, it can be very easy to fall into a trap of writing the cis character as the Cis Savior, and often comes hand in hand with PIV sex when it’s a non-heterosexual couple.

The reason that this trope can be harmful is that it implies trans people are not enough on their own- that they need the support of a cis person who decides they’re “normal” in order to stay mentally well. It comes back often to the Cis Savior trope as well. Trans/Cis relationships written by cis authors may fall into these traps without meaning to. Beyond that, trans people can- and often do- date each other. In fact, some trans people are t4t, meaning that they choose to only date other trans people because it’s what’s most comfortable for them and may be safer depending on the situation they live in. Trans people do not enter relationships based on who will make them feel “valid,” but on who they love- the same as everyone else. 

Instead of writing narratives like these, consider the following alternatives:

A trans person’s partner being trans as well. (Although, again, be mindful to write stories about trans characters, not about being trans!)

A trans person being emotionally supportive of their cis partner.

A trans person being single.

Thank you so much for sticking with me during this! I know it’s long, and that it’s not easy to read things that make you question things you’re used to, or to reevaluate things you may have written in the past. Once again, none of this was an attack! The goal of this series of posts is to inform and educate, rather than shame. People who make these mistakes often do it because they don’t know any better, or haven’t been exposed to anything besides these tropes. I encourage you to look at what other trans people have said about portrayals, and when writing trans characters, look for someone who would be willing to beta for you if you’re unsure. When in doubt, ask. And remember- write about trans characters, not about being trans! There are certain nuances to being transgender that, as a cis person, you simply don’t have the background or experiences to write on, and that’s okay! We’re all learning and growing together.

*If you absolutely want to write sex scenes involving trans people, the best thing to do is to get a trans beta- and listen to them- as well as use language that may not be what you consider anatomically correct. Trans people may call their genitals by words that don’t “match” for their own comfort, and using language that focuses on pre-op genitalia can come across and/or be fetishistic. Be mindful and respectful when writing these scenes.

[inscribed-in-asteroids]

AN: Took a while but here’s chapter six! Make sure to reblog and like, or leave comments and kudos on AO3, which is still the best place to read it.

Title: The Ripple Effect

Characters: Hordak and Entrapta, feat. Glimmer, Bow, Aurora and Eon (OCs)

Rating: M (for smut)

                                            Repairing Harm Done

Hordak walks through the center of their new home away from home. Entrapta and he share their enjoyment of space, and going on adventures with her has been some of the greatest years of his life; however, Beast Island has been transformed into a multicultural landscape, where anyone could come here if they wanted, and stay here if they chose. While Odessa has been away with her friends, they opted to expand the lodgings here to accommodate growing numbers. Talon and he weren’t the only ones with children, and even without offspring, his siblings were finding life partners, and to add on top of that, visitors from nearby planets come to Etheria as well and, sometimes, like it so much they wish to remain.

Upon this realization, they made an organization to discuss blueprints, schedules and funding for such a project. The funding was no issue: Glimmer and Bow were more than happy to aid them, and have visited the island several times now to see what else was needed. It wasn’t necessarily money they needed, either, as everything on Beast Island was based on a trade system and very loosely; they have utilized the technology on the island well, and created elaborate new machines for daily living. Glimmer and Bow, simply put, love being involved. They offer their expertise, Bow on his own inventions and Glimmer with her magic, but they were enthusiastic to be present at all.

He notes his brothers above him in the trees, connecting large trunks with man-made bridges, where a community of apartments will be launched high above them. The groves are to be interconnected this way, allowing for more freedom of development and making use of every inch of the island, eventually establishing long pathways that will join all shores of the island. This will be the new dwelling place for many of the citizens on Beast Island, while the area he’s moving through will serve as the marketplace, with recreational centers, hospitals, schools and restaurants lined throughout the ground floor. They have been constructing it for a while, but high demand has allowed for a speedier process to take place. Underground it will be primarily used for laboratories, as he and Odessa have the largest ones. It’s also their excavation site for First Ones tech, which they still continue to find more than twenty years later, the deeper into the earth they go; it’ll also serve as their mausoleum, for when those days come.

Animals chirp in the branches, shadows moving along his frame. Looking up, he meets the eyes of his brothers hammering boards into place, and they wave down at him. Being in a good mood, he waves back—

A sharp pang goes up his shoulder. Wincing in surprise, Hordak holds his hand up for a moment. Confused, he shakes off the sensation and continues toward the direction of his residence. Opening the door, Hordak steps inside.

“Entrapta? I’ve returned,” Hordak announces.

No answer.

She must be out. Maybe he’ll go check up on Emily and Imp. The latter has been growing, which came as a surprise to everyone. No one believed Imp could actually get bigger. It’s about the time Imp needs to have tests run to check if he’s still healthy as his body develops, Hordak muses, beginning to climb up the steps—

His legs suddenly lock, and they buckle, causing him to sprawl on the floor. His palms and knees slam into the hard stone, sending waves of pain up his frame. Another shortly follows, stabbing through his body. And it’s never one type of stab—it’s sharp, a knife slashing through; or painfully dull, akin to being jabbed with a worn, flat spear. It may not cut, but it’s relentless. And he can’t ever tell which is worse.

Trying to stand, he finds himself unable to. He pushes up with his hands, and the pain stings up his nerves, all the way to his neck.

Hordak lets out a breath of shock, of anger, of fear.

No.

No no no no no no no—

He looks down at his hands, and the color recedes—the blue drains, melting from elbow down, streaks forming along his wrist, and he can feel them weaken at the shoulder.

Hordak yells out loud, hunched over from the agony, watching as his forearms split in two without warning right down the middle until they’re merely the width of bone within the muscles thinning blood flow slowing unable to move or feel or sense or know why—

Hordak lets out a cry of shock, jolting himself up. Breathing hard, he turns to his right. Moonlight cuts through the dark of his bedroom, the blinds never being tightly sealed enough for his liking. But for once, he’s relieved to see it.

His head falls into his hands, and he breathes in. Breathes out. He withdraws to look at them. His forearms show no signs of disease, stark in the dim room. His shoulders move as they should, and he rotates them to be sure. He claws the air with his fingers, two quick movements. Then he lets them go toward his palm, slowly, pinky first as the rest follow, moving in synchronicity. He repeats this motion four more times, and none of them hurt.

Entrapta shifts beside him, her arm reaching out for his body. Automatic. When she finds only the pillow, Entrapta opens her eyes. She props herself up on an elbow, reaching out to touch her husband.

“Hordak? Are you okay?”

Blinking, Hordak turns to look at her. Her hair is loose about her body, draping across her shoulders in long strands. She doesn’t wear clothes to bed, finding it more comfortable. She followed his example on that one. After decades of being in pain, he didn’t want to be constricted as he slept. It reminded him too much of how often he had to be bound in place by something or another to keep from falling apart. His body was attached by sinew and muscle, like anyone else, but it never felt like that. It always felt like one small gesture would render him incapacitated, and his shoulders would fall from their sockets.

Entrapta sits up, touching the small of his back, “Did you have a bad dream?”

Hordak sighs, “I… did.”

Entrapta brushes the side of his face, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hordak reaches up to take her hand in his, “It… It was the usual dream.”

Sidling next to him, Entrapta lays her head on his shoulder, “I know. It’s scary.”

He lets out a breath, unable to disagree. Adora had fixed him, permanently, in that other lifetime. Horde Prime wouldn’t allow something defective in his midst, so his body had been healed at the expense of his mind’s free will. But when Adora expelled Prime out, he was released from the confines of both mental and physical anguish.

He knows this.

His body has not known that pain in many, many years.

But there are days when he’s walking, sitting, breathing, and his thoughts turn to anxiety. Anxiety about the day, the moment, when his body will fail him again. He exercises every day, relishing in the activity he had been denied. The strength and power and agility that he long forgot about and wishes to keep. He makes sure to have that routine set out for himself, to have those thoughts at bay, to stop worrying him. He recalls how nervous he’d been when Odessa had been born—to have his daughter in his arms, and he would panic about the pain coming back and he can’t grab her in time before she collapses onto the floor and she dies. In a second, just like that.

Pulling his knees up, Hordak stretches his arms out onto them, giving a heavy sigh.

Entrapta rotates a bit, brushing his hair out.

“Entrapta?”

“Yes?”

“Can you check?”

Without further question, Entrapta moves forward, inspecting his back first. She notes the perfect coloration of his body, from neck to fingertip. Drawing aside the covers, she makes similar mental notes from his hips down to his feet. She looks up at him, smiling, “You’ve never looked better!”

Hordak sighs, relieved.

Entrapta lays her cheek on his forearm, “And I do mean that.”

He meets her eyes, and she wiggles her eyebrows.

Hordak laughs, allowing the anxiety to leave him, “You’re a pervert.”

Entrapta’s grin widens, “Can you blame me?”

Hordak leans forward to kiss her forehead. And she tilts her head back so their mouths can touch. Her hand caresses the side of his cheek, and he relaxes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he whispers, after a good while.

“Don’t worry about it,” Entrapta says. She pushes him onto his back, brushing her thumb along his mouth. “You’re not alone, you know.”

Hordak nods, staring up at the ceiling. Entrapta lays next to him, and she taps her chest.

Without a word, he turns, burying his face into her collarbone. Warm and inviting.

Her hands play with his hair, humming quietly. Stroking her fingertips down his neck, careful of the port located there. Entrapta doesn’t stop until he’s taking measured breaths, long and deep; once he does, only then does she fall back asleep.

                                                              -

Hordak steps out into the bright outdoors. Everything is in place. From the new construction in the trees, to the bustling shoppers around him, and, below, he knows Imp and Emily are taking ownership of Odessa’s lab while she’s away, as they tend to when she’s absent. Her friends are missed as well, and he will admit to himself, it’s good for her to have them.

Tristan’s general apathy tends to keep him anchored, but it lifts away as soon as he knows she’s back home, becoming more involved and energetic. Hydrangea’s eagerness to keep peace always stays in place, but she defers to Odessa’s knowledge and skill more often than with anyone else. Hordak knows that there could be no better allies to his daughter than those two.

They’ve been her friends since childhood, and they gravitated toward one another in a manner he found interesting. Despite being born a clone, he knows who he is, and he tends to keep to himself, save for Entrapta’s presence. His brothers tend to be more gregarious, which baffled him at first on how willing they were to interact with Etherians, and he surmised that, even among replicas, he stands out as incredibly reclusive. There are a few who took to his more stern and introverted nature, of course, he isn’t unique to averting social events, but he continues to have the shortest temper, if pushed enough, and is withdrawn. Talon is one of those individuals to match it, as he tends to be around his wife alone, but he doesn’t mind the spotlight, and that’s their difference.

Hordak’s gotten better at being around others, but he finds it exhausting after a while. Entrapta says that’s okay, and she wouldn’t change that about him and has outright stated to prefer it. Large groups are only ‘fun’ to watch, not be part of.

Odessa, meanwhile, enjoyed company, and Tristan was the first person she brought home. Hydrangea and Odessa liked each other very much, which delighted Entrapta and Scorpia; however, Tristan’s addition caught them by surprise. Mermista wasn’t the warmest woman when it came to who associated with her son. Hordak knows that his actions from the past were to blame, but she hasn’t done anything to damage his child’s relationship with her companion, so he says nothing.

Hydrangea’s mother, Perfuma, is no different, though she tends to have a lenient grip. Which he knows is due to her bohemian attitude, rather than an acceptance of Odessa. She wouldn’t stifle her child, as she has asserted that children should be allowed to do as they please and grow up how they will. It’s not a sentiment he disagrees with—he gave Odessa all the freedom she wanted. Entrapta was the one to spoil her, and he took on the disciplinarian role, for when it needed to be done, but overall, he and his wife encouraged Odessa’s desire to do what she wanted. Sometimes, her strong personality could be overpowering for others, but she’s not a bad person.

Despite what others may think.

“How are you doing, hon?” Entrapta asks, getting up to his level.

“I’m doing fine,” he responds. “Did you need something from me?”

“No,” Entrapta smiles. “You always ask that.”

“Ask what?”

“If people need something from you.”

He pauses in his tracks, “Do I?”

“You usually ask that when I’m looking at you, or wondering how you are,” Entrapta states. “And when I say people, I mean just me. You don’t do it with others.”

Hordak looks at the ground, silent.

“That’s not a problem, Hordak! It’s an observation,” Entrapta assures him.

He doesn’t question it further, for now.

“Oh, hi, guys!” Entrapta says.

Hordak faces behind him, finding Glimmer and Bow waving at him. For a flash of a second, he’s stricken with concern, but remembers that they’re supposed to be here today. That must be why they were in his dream, and it has nothing to do with premonitions of impending doom.

“Hey! Hope we’re not late,” Bow says.

“You’re right on time!” Entrapta replies.

Glimmer smiles, “Good! I hope you don’t mind—we brought Aurora today.”

Hordak looks past them, their daughter standing near the portal. Utterly disinterested. Without thinking, he says to Glimmer, “Was it wise to bring her?”

She looks at him, surprised, before waving her hand and laughing, “Oh, Hordak, she’s fine! She’s a big girl. Aurora, come here please!”

Aurora’s expression belies her unwillingness to be present, a polite smile on her face.

He doesn’t want to be rude— Well, that’s not true, he wants to be rude. It just isn’t prudent. Aurora isn’t a person who tends to be engrossed in what’s going outside of her social circle.

Glimmer looks up at Hordak, “I brought her because as future queen, she needs to participate in what’s happening throughout Etheria. You and I are working on this together, so I figured she would benefit from learning how things work with other kingdoms outside of a council meeting!”

Hordak nods in understanding. Makes sense.

Entrapta looks at Aurora, “Hello!”

“Thank you for welcoming me,” Aurora curtsies.

“What’s first on the agenda?” Bow asks.

Entrapta laughs, “We’ll go up into the trees first! We’ve designed a mode of transportation that takes us all to the top!”

Hordak silently walks behind the group. Entrapta leads them to a lift that operates when people enter into the rectangular container, made of nearby materials, predominantly the wood and bark of trees, as they’re the sturdiest thing at the moment. It’s in its rudimentary stage, Entrapta explains, and hopefully it will be changed into solid metal soon, since they didn’t want to waste resources at once. They had to see if it worked first, and they needed to design a glass case to hold it. All of them are elevated toward the top, allowing them a view of everything below.

Glimmer looks over the side of the box, “Wow, where did you come up with the idea?”

“Remember Horde Prime’s ship? He had this sort of thing aboard. We figured it would help get people around easier,” Entrapta says.

“So, you took the contraption of someone deplorable and used it for yourself?” Aurora asks.

“Yep!” Entrapta says.

Glimmer stares at her child, and Bow’s brows rise an inch.

Hordak’s arms remain folded, glaring at the back of Aurora’s head. Not liking her tone.

She doesn’t approve of it. And while he may not like owing Prime anything, it isn’t conducive to advancement as a group to ignore advantages simply because it came from a heinous individual. Good people have bad ideas, and bad people have good ideas, it depends on how it’s used.

“I don’t see how this is sensible of your time,” Aurora says.

Entrapta laughs, “Not everyone can teleport like you and your mom! We have people who can’t jump and climb the way we can.”

Aurora gives a delicate sniff, unimpressed with the explanation.

Glimmer claps her hands together, “Well, I think it’s a phenomenal idea. Prime was a monster, but his ship was incredible.”

“Mama—” Aurora begins.

Bow points at the distant grove, “Oh, look, pookas! Aurora, these were the animals that I met with Adora while looking for Entrapta.”

“The very things that would’ve eaten you all, and my grandpa, alive. You don’t say,” Aurora dryly answers.

“They’re friendly now!” Entrapta corrects, hair morphing into a hand with a forefinger pointed up.

Aurora grimaces when a pooka chitters at her, stepping away.

Hordak comes forward, unable to deal with it any longer, “Perhaps, it would be better for Aurora if she went and explored on her own. There is a plethora of activity in the market, and the main thing we would all be discussing is infrastructure.”

Bow turns to him, “Oh, I don’t think it’s necessary for her to leave.”

Glimmer nods, his suggestion more than welcome, “Actually, he might be right. Sweetie, why don’t you go down and check things out?”

“Thank you, I will,” Aurora says, giving another polite smile. With that, she teleports to the ground.

Entrapta yells over the side, “Byyyeeee!”

Bow and Glimmer share a long glance at one another. Aurora is a pleasant young woman, and now at eighteen, she should be engaging with more outside of Bright Moon. Neither Glimmer or Bow could imagine not wanting to go out of their comfort zone, whether it’s irritating or boring. But Aurora had never been quite as easy with ventures toward the unfamiliar.

Aurora is a creature of habit and routine, so she tends to stick with people that she knows, which is why they gave Marlena and Clawdeen the day off, both to allow Aurora to expand her horizons on her own, while giving their goddaughters well-deserved rest. Adora and Catra serve, too, as Aurora’s respective godparents, for they had all promised to be the guardians of each other’s children. And it’s why they decided, when Aurora asked if she could visit her extended family on the outskirts of the Whispering Woods, they pushed her to join them on this trip to Beast Island.

Aurora’s behavior since arrival was troubling Glimmer; she’s sure it wasn’t obvious, but her daughter radiated displeasure. Aurora is normally so genteel, with impeccable manners, which were inherited from Angella, and nurtured more by Bow and his relatives. Glimmer, even as she gets older, could never get rid of her fire to engage with every little aspect of life as much as she could. There was so much to do and see and experience, and she likes to believe that Aurora’s the same, even with her personality being softer than her own: mellow, caring, even shy. She knows her daughter is a good person.

Everyone always says so.

Bow and Entrapta have gone ahead, chatting animatedly about inventions and the latest in revolutionary designs. Addressing Hordak, Glimmer murmurs, “I’m sorry about Aurora.”

Hordak looks at her, “I don’t see the need for an apology. She doesn’t have to hide her disdain.”

Glimmer pokes him lightly in the arm, teasing, “Why? Because you’re the same?”

“Exactly,” Hordak replies, giving a light chuckle.

Sighing, she holds up her face with her hand, “Still, I don’t know why she’s upset today. I know kids don’t like to be with their parents after a certain age, and want to be with their friends—I was definitely that way—but I thought maybe she would have fun, you know? Engaging with the people, the mix of culture. Beast Island is so grand now!”

“I’m glad to hear you approve of what we’ve accomplished thus far,” Hordak says.

“That lift contraption is useful, but nothing will ever overshadow the day we got indoor plumbing in the palace.”

Hordak smiles, letting himself relax in the easy conversation.

                                                              -

Aurora walks through the throng of individuals bustling around. She didn’t expect so… many clones. She knows this is one preferred habitation, along with the kingdom of Dryl, and they are sporadic in other parts of Etheria. But to have so many of them present is a sight to behold.

She doesn’t approach any of the shops, but watches closely. Etherians, too, are wandering from stall to stall, store to store, and she ponders why any of these citizens would want to leave their kingdoms. Do their leaders not provide enough for them that they feel the need to come to a place still in development? She has heard of Beast Island’s many, many changes from childhood to adulthood, but she doesn’t see the appeal of coming to a location that isn’t as established as the rest of Etheria. New Chelicerata is an exception, since restoring a ruined kingdom isn’t a simple task, and that was in no part thanks to the Horde destroying the land and water.

To add on top of that, Aurora notes the strange carts being driven around the area. Compact metal transportation vehicles that are hovering above the ground, or whizzing through the canopy. An invention from Entrapta, no doubt. She tends to be the mind behind the majority of the designs. Those cannot possibly be safe.

Aurora treads lightly along the ground, a little dash of levitation magic that she’s been practicing. A gaggle of children, both Etherian and mixed, run past her, and she sidesteps out of the way. None of them are paying attention to where they’re running, almost doing the same to a couple of people. She quietly shames their parents for not teaching them respect better.

“Hey! You all have to slow down!”

She recognizes the voice, stopping in her tracks.

“Aww, but we wanna run!” chime youthful voices of reckless abandon.

Her eyes shift back and forth from either side, not risking looking behind herself, wondering if she can slip into a nearby building.

“You want to run? Go that way into the woods and return after a while. Whoever’s fastest wins and gets bragging rights.”

“What if one of us gets lost?”

For a moment, she wonders if she could master the invisibility spell this very second—

“Your parents didn’t tell you, but that’s the price of being fools running around without a care: you didn’t get to learn map reading. It’s a curse, so it’s inevitable you’ll die in the jungle.”

The children laugh, “What? No way!”

As the conversation turns to protest, Aurora darts behind a wall, letting out a breath. Crisis averted.

“You know, I heard that if you run like mad back to your homes, and don’t get lost, the curse is lifted! But you can only try when the moon’s half full.”

A gasp comes from one of the children, “Oh my gosh! It’s half full tonight!”

“I guess you kids better practice for this evening!”

Aurora peers around the corner, listening to the children fall for the outlandish lies, while unable to see anyone.

She’s startled when the next sound is that of quick steps coming her direction, darting past her—

Instinctively, she teleports, narrowly avoiding collision with a child. She closes her eyes and sighs.

Why can’t she go home?

“Aurora? What are you doing here?”

She tenses.

She didn’t plan where she’d wind up.

Slowly, Aurora tilts back her head, giving her signature smile, “Eon. I didn’t expect to see you.”

Peering down, Eon quirks a single brow, “You didn’t expect to see me where my family is? Do you not know how visitation works?”

Aurora withdraws, realizing with embarrassment how her head had been resting on his chest. He stands there, nonchalant, several stacks of flour levitating above his palm. He wears Mystacoran attire, deep, noble colors of purple with the usual white or gold accents replaced with his signature black.

Standing out as much as her, if she’ll admit anything. She attends any event wearing dresses, colored soft pink with whites trimming her sleeves and the hem of her skirt. She smoothes out her outfit, looking at the fabric, “I know how visitation works. Normally, you’re locked up in your room.” She side-eyes him. “Doing nothing to better yourself.”

Eon gives a cocky grin, “At least I don’t fake being busy to drown out the monotony enveloping my life.”

Decorum be damned, Aurora’s expression turns mocking, “I happen to like monotony. Schedules keep things together.”

“Another way of declaring you’re uptight,” Eon retorts, sauntering past her.

Aurora emits a light scoff, teleporting beside him, “I am not uptight! I appear that way to the lethargic. It wouldn’t hurt you to make an effort.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Eon replies, spinning on the ball of his foot and giving a small bow with his head. “I forgot that commoners like myself need your example to show us how we could improve ourselves.”

Aurora tosses back her hair, “That’s part of being a princess—leading by example.”

Eon rolls his eyes, continuing his path, “Of course. I wouldn’t want to contradict you.”

“But I would contradict you,” Aurora replies. “I don’t understand why you’re carrying the sacks like that.”

“Like what?”

“Magic isn’t something to do menial tasks with. Did your muscles atrophy from being bedridden?”

“I happen to enjoy using my magic for all my needs,” Eon says. “If it makes things easier, why not do it?”

Aurora shakes her head.

“So, what are you on the island for? Did your family finally admit you were found among the beetles, and that’s why you have those wings?”

“Are you insinuating I’m a pest?” she questions, annoyed, folding her arms.

“Beetles happen to serve a very good purpose,” Eon tells her. “I wouldn’t imply such malicious concepts about you.”

Aurora gives him a pointed glare, “If you must know, I happen to be tagging along with my parents. They wanted to check on how construction is going for your people.”

“Ah. That’s nice,” he says, sincere.

“For you, maybe.”

Eon resumes being distant, “Well, I thank you for showing you care. Your presence graces us.”

“I suppose this will do as I’m waiting for them to be done,” she replies, looking around with annoyance.

Eon stops in front of his destination, setting the cargo carefully on the ground. He waves at an uncle, who nods his thanks before continuing to help a customer.

“Why don’t you take it inside?” Aurora asks.

“They know where it is.”

“It’s nicer to put it inside,” Aurora insists.

Eon grunts in annoyance. Levitating them back up, he goes around the corner. He halts, turning to her, hiking a thumb in his new direction, “Are you coming?”

Blinking, Aurora glances behind him. “This job doesn’t require two people.”

Eon leaves the sacks floating, pivoting around, “If you’re going to make demands of me, the least you can do is watch me do it.”

“But—”

He gestures to the building, “Would you rather loiter outside this public establishment?”

Aurora concedes, following him to the back door. She supposes it’s better than being out in the open.

                                                             -

Hordak lets his mind wander as his companions take rein of the conversation.

The nightmare threw him off more than he’d care to admit. He has had this sort of dream before, however, he was shaken to his core with this one. It was the most vivid he had ever experienced, and an aspect of slumber he’d care to not go through again.

Bow and Glimmer head to a group of his brothers who are in the midst of adding beams together.

He took it upon himself to take a break in a home that was under development. It needs a little more work left, but it’s otherwise complete and ready for furnishing. No one will bother him here.

Entrapta looks into the house, noticing his posture. He’s staring out a window that overlooks the trees, the drop going straight down, hands behind his back. His thinking position. She swings over to where he stands, closing the door behind her, “Are you still holding up?”

Hordak’s brow twitches. He doesn’t tell her that it’s a poor choice of words, because he knows he’s a little more sensitive to this matter than usual.

But Entrapta touches his shoulder, “Oh, I’m sorry! I meant to ask if you’re fine.”

“That is not something you need to concern yourself with. They’re mere words.”

“Words that are insensitive,” Entrapta replies. He doesn’t give a reply. She sits on her hair, gazing right at him. Unmoving.

Hordak’s eyes flick over to her for a second. He continues to stare straight ahead. “Entrapta, you needn’t apologize or feel responsible.”

“I believe you when you say that,” Entrapta says, not removing her eyes from his features. Suddenly, she gives a bashful smile, “I just care about you.”

Heart twinging, Hordak stiffens. He knows that her concern is sincere, and he appreciates it. He raises a hand to her cheek, brushing it, “I know.”

Entrapta flushes, his gaze intense. She can’t help but look down then, soft giggles leaving her lips. His finger traces the shell of her ear, and a shudder snakes along her spine. Body growing warm from the attention. He always knew how to make her feel special. After Prime’s defeat, Hordak had layers of emotion to sift through. He had been angry for many years, and she knows there’s parts of that residual rage underneath the calm. But one aspect of his nature that blossomed was a sensitivity that left her speechless. Hordak doesn’t believe it, but he can be very romantic by simply being honest with her.

“Hordak,” Entrapta whispers, touching his hand.

He tilts his head, “Yes?”

“You know I love you,” she says.

“Yes, I do,” Hordak replies, surprised. “And I love you too.”

Entrapta gives a breathy laugh, turning her face into his palm, hiding. She peers up at him with one eye, “Really?”

“More than you could comprehend,” Hordak tells the truth.

“Aww!” she coos, pressing his hand into her cheek, slightly muffled as she buries her face into his palm again.

A light blush tints his face, and he gives a soft laugh, “Entrapta, what’s this about? Are you upset that you cannot help me with my problem?”

“A little,” Entrapta holds his hand in hers, kissing the inside of his wrist. “I don’t know what to do sometimes, and I don’t know if me being around helps at all.”

“You’re a great help,” he assures her, thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Don’t doubt your affect on me.”

Entrapta grins, “I know some of the ways I affect you, silly!”

Hordak steps closer, smile widening along his lips, teeth flashing. His voice lowers, “Do you?”

“I like to think so,” Entrapta teases, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, fingers moving into his hair.

Her lips touch his, and he pulls her close. Her body curves against his, and even after decades of being near her, he’s always amazed at how she feels. Hand angled behind her head, his other one shifts down her back, sliding down her thigh.

Entrapta moans into his mouth, and she realizes that she’s been wanting to do this all day. His breathing grows ragged, moans interspersed with her name, sounds that she never gets tired of, because he only makes them with her.

Hordak pushes her against the wall, and he feels her hair slacken through her frame. Her legs wrap around his waist, allowing herself to be held up by his hands. Entrapta gives a soft groan, pulling him close. Her mouth caresses his neck, causing his body to shiver. Her hands glide down his back, grazing over exposed skin.

His hand snakes up her frame, and angles between her legs. Against the fabric, he begins to rub her clit, and Entrapta gasps in welcome surprise. Grinding against his fingers, she gives a small bite to his ear lobe, hot breath tickling his skin.

Hordak presses harder with his fingers, and he knows she’s growing damp. He captures her mouth with his, swallowing a moan she emits, flushed and excited. She grins against his chin, giving a small chuckle.

Encouraged, Hordak stops petting her. He looks at her, “Entrapta, remove your clothes.”

“Ooooh!” Entrapta does as he says, discarding everything but her shirt.

With ease, he lifts her back up, pushing her securely upon the wall and placing her legs over his shoulders. He has no hesitation as he leans in, breathing in, and glides his tongue up slick folds, rubbing over the clit with the end of his tongue.

Entrapta gasps, closing her eyes in pleasure. His tongue moves slowly, taking his time. It moves through the sides, around, teasing the clit, but never going in. Entrapta’s hands caress his hair, brushing through dark blue locks. His moans vibrate into her skin, mouth burning hot on burning flesh.

Hordak’s tongue suddenly darts in, and Entrapta’s back arches, mouth parting open. Groaning deep in her throat, Entrapta’s fingers grip his hair harder. Hordak pushes her legs further aside, nails digging into tender skin. He pulls away, giving her a brief glance, as his teeth graze along the delicate skin of her inner thigh.

“Hordak…” Entrapta whispers.

“Hmm?” he hums, mouth covering her clit, sucking hard.

Her moan escapes in a staccato, trembling. Biting her lower lip, Entrapta forgets what she’s supposed to ask. Lost in the sensation of his mouth on her clit, tongue dragging along swollen lips. His fingers squeeze the sensitive flesh of her backside, his ears twitching when she says his name. Soon, she’s soaked, unable to think or speak, overcome by physical touch. His arms, once the most obvious area of his defect, don’t waver from the weight, keeping her steady without qualm.

She would love him no matter his appearance, but she’s happy that he has the body he lost before. It brought him so much pain and agony, leaving him enraged and bitter. Entrapta would watch him suffer every day in the Fright Zone, even with her modifications. He felt inadequate, pathetic and alone. She would never think of him this way—he was the most brilliant mind and kindest heart she’d ever met, valuing her for who she was. Loving her despite her own imperfections. She never gave a thought to her physical appearance. What she always worried about was how her mind, her personality, her feelings would be perceived.

He accepted all of it.

And she wants to help him overcome whatever fears remain in him. That the imperfections of his body wouldn’t ever be the only thing of him she’d accept—it would be the doubts, the worries, the anger. He was her friend and husband. He, and he alone, would always be enough.

The heat in her stomach spreads throughout her body. Growing feverish, sweat shining on her skin, her toes curl into his back. Hordak’s ministrations are relentless, breaths muffled as his tongue moves back in, deeper than before, making circular motions within her body.

Shaking with incredible force, it bowls Entrapta forward, clamping her hand over her mouth. Eyes shut closed, brows knitting together, she trembles from the orgasm rocking through her every nerve and muscle. Slowly, her eyelids open, finding him staring up at her.

“Wow…”

Hordak smiles, pleased at such a reaction.

As he wipes up his chin, Entrapta brushes aside his hair, tugging strands over his temple. “Oh... I remembered what I was going to ask…”

“Yes?”

“I was going… to ask… if you think anyone will notice us gone…”

“Perhaps. But I don’t believe there’s a problem, so long as we begin going back now.”

Entrapta gives a gentle pat to his shoulders, and he sets her down. Beginning to dress, she grins, “I think this house is ruined.”

“Nonsense,” Hordak returns, waving a hand. “We need only open a window.”

Cackling wildly, Entrapta leaps up into his arms, nuzzling his neck, “You’re so bad!”

Hordak kisses her cheek, “I try.”

“I can be bad too,” Entrapta says, leering down at his groin.

“I don’t think we have the time,” Hordak replies, arm wrapping around her waist. “As favorable as that outcome would be.”

“Awww… You don’t want to make an attempt?”

“I believe, unfortunately, we have been gone long enough to arouse suspicion.”

“That’s an understatement,” Entrapta replies, wiggling her eyebrows, hand stroking over his clothes. “We definitely can’t hide that.”

A boyish grin and light blush changes his normally stoic demeanor. The expression staggers her mind to a halt, mystifying her on the rare moments it occurs. He’s so pretty...

“Entrapta?” he asks, smile still in place.

Finally recalling what needs to be done, Entrapta moves toward the door, grinning, “I’ll go on ahead, okay? You take your time!”

He nods, and she blows him a kiss that he, on reflex, pretends to catch.

Squealing at his playful attitude, Entrapta bounces out the door.

Hordak hears her voice grow distant, and he notes the faint replies from their friends. Hordak looks back out the window, catching his reflection in the glass. He looks down at his arm, touching it where he can remember missing bone and sinew. He takes in a breath, feeling the air move through his nose, into his chest. The power in his body undeniable.

It’s an odd feeling. Being afraid of nothing.

                                                             -

Aurora follows Eon throughout the market. He, apparently, was needed today. His magic lent significant help to his people, restoring broken objects, fixing machinery, and taking deliveries to several places. She won’t admit it, but it was a welcome relief from simply milling about by herself. Granted, these are tasks servants would be doing, but it made her feel normal, like she was accomplishing objectives at Bright Moon.

Eon looks down at her, “Don’t you have other places to be?”

“If I did, I would’ve left,” Aurora replies.

“Are you bored?”

“No, not at all,” she shakes her head. A little surprised she means it, too.

Eon takes her word for it. He hadn’t expected her to trail after him the entire time, and he would catch her standing by, occasionally offering unwanted critique, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. Early on, he certainly did. But the day has been long and he’s hoping to rest soon. She always does what she wants.

“Are you almost done?” Aurora asks.

“Yes,” he replies. “This is my last spot.”

Aurora looks at the sparse appearance, not even a sign put outside. Eon opens the door, singing its soft chime, and Aurora steps in after him. She’s struck to find rows of jewelry arranged along the four walls, painted navy blue, with cases planted into the middle of the floor. Though empty, they are meant for future displays.

Eon heads over to the case closest to the back door, tapping a bell resting on top.

Aurora joins him, “Is anyone present?”

“Should be,” Eon replies, turning around to face the front. He puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s not an issue if no one is—I can come back later.”

Aurora peers at the glass case, looking at dazzling necklaces, bracelets and rings aligned on vermilion velvet stands. She didn’t expect a store of this magnitude on Beast Island. The quality of the items are beautiful, with delicate designs.

Eon watches her from the corner of his eye. Her expression is intrigued, perusing the case with calm interest. He closes his eyes, waiting for the merchant to arrive. He listens to the faint tread of Aurora’s feet on the ground, the soft tap of her fingers on the surface of glass. He lets his mind wander in peace, glad to have a moment to himself.

Aurora eventually returns to his side, “Are you sure they’re here?”

“Yes,” he answers, not opening his eyes. “If you prefer, you can go find your parents.”

Aurora turns around, skirt slightly shifting about her feet. She stares up at Eon, debating whether to take him up on the suggestion or not. Her parents might be done, but if they’re not, she wouldn’t be able to leave again as smoothly as before. Staring at each side of the room, she says, “This is rude.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This wouldn’t happen in Bright Moon.”

Eon gives an exasperated sigh, “No, of course not. Nothing bad ever happens in Bright Moon.”

She ignores it or doesn’t hear. Aurora boasts, crossing her arms, “Right! Glad you see it my way.”

“Your Highness,” Eon scoffs, turning to face her. “If everyone could see things your way, we’d have a greater need for service animals.”

She blinks, “Why is that?”

“Everyone would be blind,” Eon answers.

Aurora says, tone clipped, “Oh, what would you know?”

“A lot more than you,” Eon replies, feeling vigor return.

“I doubt you possibly could!” Aurora’s head tilts at an arrogant angle. “The only thing you’ve proven today is that you make an excellent mule.”

Feigning injury, Eon clutches his chest, “Ah! You hurt me. But I could’ve sworn that you were fine with loyal, hard-working creatures. Unless that only matters when it’s useful to you.”

Aurora crosses her arms, huffing quietly.

Eon has known Aurora his entire life. Aurora has proven time and again that she has an elitism that tends to push her away from most people. Her parents are open-minded, cheerful individuals, and together they tend to liven any situation. Aurora can be charming, but she lacks sincerity. While not brash, her keeping an absurd distance from the folks around them during his errands proved that she was around him because he was the one thing she knew, rather than any intention toward actual civility.

Aurora inspects her shoulder, finding a loose thread. She points at it, and it dissolves in the air.

“I thought magic wasn’t a toy,” he says, taunting.

“This isn’t the same,” she snaps.

Before Eon can retort, the door opens behind them. The two turn around and find a woman standing there. Full-figured, with brown hair, hazel eyes and pale skin, the merchant is dressed in Bright Moon garb. Silver arm bands go up to mid-forearm, and she removes a light blue cape to hang on a coat rack.

“Eon, hello! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. My meeting ran late.”

“No worries. I thought as much,” Eon replies.

The woman stares at Aurora for a moment, stunned, then smiles, “Your Highness! Welcome to my shop.”

Returning the warm greeting, Aurora nods at her, “Hello, I’m pleased to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Minette, Your Highness. If I may ask, what are you doing on Beast Island?”

“Royal duties,” Aurora gives a dainty laugh. “It’s been lovely!”

“I’m glad to hear that!” Minette says, walking over to a desk.

Eon bends down, giving Aurora a deadpan stare.

Aurora shoos him back, returning it with a glare.

“So!” Minette begins, causing the two to stand upright before she can notice. “Eon, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“What is it?”

With an excited skip in her step, Minette returns to the chair behind the larger collection of jewelry, “I needed a model for some of my jewelry, and using you would be really helpful!”

“Really? That’s it?” he asks, a bit surprised. “I don’t need to patch a hole in your roof or magic up boxes?”

“Sorry! I understand if you’d prefer to do those things instead,” Minette jokes.

Eon takes his seat, a little relieved that this is the easiest job he’s had today. Aurora sits in a chair nearby, crossing her right ankle under her left, hands in her lap.

“Your Highness, you can scoot closer,” suggests Minette.

Eon gives Aurora a brief glance.

“No, thank you, I’m comfortable where I am,” Aurora says.

“Nonsense! You can try anything on too!”

Aurora is about to decline when Eon rises to his feet and stands behind his seat. He indicates to it with a quick motion of his head, and Aurora elects to accept it. He pushes the chair under her, before levitating the one she’d been in next to it.

Minette smiles, bringing out her first batch, “How is Nyxia?”

“She’s doing well,” he informs her. “She’s likely in a meeting herself.”

“Your mother isn’t usually doing business with other people, correct?”

Eon peruses the jewelry that she places out on the table. Picking up a silver-banded ring, a crimson gem laid in its intricate center, he says, “I suppose she isn’t. But she will occasionally meet up with someone. I think she had to discuss matters with the council on Mystacore.”

“No doubt causing a stir of some sort,” Aurora adds, slipping a white bracelet onto a delicate wrist.

Eon glances at her, “You would know how to do that, wouldn’t you?”

Aurora gives a demure grin, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Playing coy only works on the dim, Aurora," he tells her with a smirk. "But I don’t blame you for being outside of familiar company that you think it’d work on me.”

“Ha ha.”

Minette watches with curious fascination, beaming at them, “You two must be good friends.”

Aurora and Eon turn to her at the statement.

“Am I wrong?” Minette asks, unsure now.

Aurora gives an awkward smile, a little odd on her lips, “Oh, it’s not that! We’ve known one another for years.”

“For how long, if I may ask?”

“A long, long time,” Eon replies, trying on a bracelet as well, shining black. “My mother knows her aunt.”

“Ohh, I see! I wasn’t aware that you knew the royal family, Eon.”

“Not many do,” he answers.

“How do you know Eon?” Aurora returns the question to the other woman.

“He lived near me at Bright Moon,” Minette explains. “I was a resident of the complexes there.”

“Really?” Aurora asks, shocked. “Why did you move here?”

“I always liked to engage in the unusual,” Minette tells her. A happy smile grows on her face, “It was delightful having Eon move in next door. I had become acquainted with his family when they would visit, and they informed me that my designs might strike a chord with a different crowd too, so I decided to set up shop outside of Bright Moon. I’m going to live here permanently, but I’ll be keeping my place over there to be in touch with my family.”

“Oh, I see…”

Minette notes the slight change in Aurora’s disposition. She sets down a narrow container on the table, “Do not misunderstand, Your Highness! Eon and I had been neighbors for a good few years, and he talked to me about the changes occurring on Beast Island. It seemed like a good opportunity to try my business out here too and build a second location. I grew up in Bright Moon, of course, but a change of pace now and again doesn’t hurt, right? I love my home, but knowing that Beast Island had potential was exciting!”

Eon gives Aurora a brief glance, “Surely, you understand what she means.”

Aurora goes quiet, not wanting to look at him. The two enter a chit chat that doesn’t involve her, to which she finds relief. She doesn’t fully… understand Minette’s motivations. He, unfortunately, is correct. An overachiever herself, Aurora can comprehend pushing toward her goals. But her ties to her home are so valuable, that she can’t help but feel a little slighted that a subject of hers decided that it was better to live here, in an underdeveloped metropolis. She can’t disconnect that success is tied to her kingdom and all its facets. It figures that Eon would be capable of convincing someone that, an idea they’d never considered before, might be what they want. He was always good at that.

It has been… ages since they’ve been in each other’s presence. They don’t interact often, but when they do it can be rather... tense. Tense is how she describes her relationship with Eon. His personality is both sardonic and frigid, which can lead to frustrating discussions. He has been more than pleasant thus far—even with his tendency to argue with her. She attempts to be cordial when she can, but she finds his quips to cut to the quick bothersome.

Then he does things like hold out chairs for her, or open doors and allow her to enter first, and she’s a little confused how someone can hold her with contempt and yet high enough esteem to do favors.

Maddening is also how it can be expressed being around Eon.

Aurora’s curiosity rises when Minette pulls out another box, dark and smooth, with a simple crescent moon latch on the front.

“These are my latest earrings!” Minette says, opening it. An array of different sets are revealed, but Aurora’s eyes hone in on a simple pair: pink tear-drop shaped earrings, not looking like anything special, but they have a soft sheen to their color that’s appealing.

“Your Highness, you seem taken with these,” Minette pulls them out. “Would you care to try them on?”

“Oh! Um, yes, thank you,” Aurora holds them in her hands, delicately pinning each one through her earlobes. Minette places a mirror in front of her, and Aurora discovers that she not only finds them pleasing, but she’s enchanted by it. They dangle as she moves her head, and she smiles. Genuine and delighted. “These are beautiful.”

“Thank you!” Minette turns to Eon. “And what about you?”

Eon stares at Aurora, and he pulls himself out of his reverie before Aurora can turn to face him. He looks down at the velvety interior, checking the selection. He does find his eyes trained on a similar pair, but in lovely lavender rather than the rosy pink she chose, their diameter wider a bit at the tip before becoming more rounded at the bottom by comparison as well. He picks it up, staring at it for a moment.

“Try them on, try them on!” encourages Minette.

Eon does as she says, and he checks the mirror too. He gives a light chuckle, the side of his mouth tilting up, “You do know how to win a man over.”

Minette claps her hands excitedly, “Good! Do you two like them enough to get them?”

Aurora nods, beaming, “Yes, absolutely!”

“Yes, I definitely want them,” Eon begins. He reaches for his pocket, “How much is this, Minette?”

“Eon, you silly boy,” the older woman giggles. “Consider them a gift from me to the both of you, hm?”

Aurora waves a hand, “Oh, that’s sweet of you, but you should be paid for your work!”

Eon nods in agreement, taken aback, “It doesn’t feel right to have them handed over. I can pay for Aurora’s set as well.”

Aurora, a little flattered despite herself, coos, “Aww, really?”

“Yes, really,” he answers.

Minette wags a finger, “Ah-ah-ah! I won’t hear of it. It really is my way of saying thanks to Eon for helping out today and times past; and Your Highness, I’d be honored if you wore them!”

Grinning, Eon shrugs, reclining in his seat, “Well, who am I to turn down a free present?”

“Thank you very much, Minette,” Aurora says. She looks at the mirror again, enjoying herself for the first time today.

                                                            -

Glimmer stands next to Entrapta, looking over a couple of blueprints that the engineer created with a team of clones. The day has passed with little event, and Glimmer was glad about that. She addresses Entrapta, “How is Odessa, by the way? Will she be home soon?”

Entrapta nods, widening her smile, “Yes! She will be home in a month.”

“Ooh, that’s exciting!” Glimmer says. “I bet you’ve missed her.”

“I knooooow!” Entrapta flips in place through the air. “I told her if she found anything interesting to bring it back!”

“Where did she go again?”

“She went to visit our family in Inicos. It’s a long journey, but the return trip is much shorter.”

Glimmer nods, then glances at Hordak. She leans in, whispering, “Do you think Hordak is excited?”

Entrapta picks up the cue, and whispers back, “Yes! Hordak doesn’t show it, but he misses our baby too.”

“That’s so cute!” Glimmer says.

“I know!”

From where he stands, Hordak’s ears twitch a little, looking over his shoulder at the women. They simply wave at him, and he resumes conversation with Bow.

Glimmer turns her attention toward the darkening sky. It’ll be about time to head back to the castle. She’s been enjoying herself since she’s arrived. Even with all the experience she has now, she cannot help but feel unsettled when she’s in the palace for too long, and it has been an overdue time in regards to going out. Beast Island may not be what individuals think of for relaxation and enjoyment, but without all the technology trying to kill you, it’s fun. Bow can attest to that.

The sound of the elevator is familiar by now that none of them turn to it. But a moment later, Glimmer hears, “Hi, Mama!”

She looks over Entrapta’s shoulder, and she rises to greet her daughter, “Aurora! Hi, honey. Did you have a good time?”

The princess gives a delicate shrug of her shoulders, “I suppose.”

“Are those earrings?” Glimmer asks, pointing to her ears. “You didn’t have them on before.”

Aurora touches one, “Oh, yes! Do you like them?”

“I adore them! They’re such a compliment to your face—” begins Glimmer, when her eyes slide over to the left. She lets out a loud gasp, “Eon!”

Eon continues his strides, giving a salute with his hand, “Hello.”

Glimmer, despite being dwarfed by the younger man, teleports over the remaining four feet and crushes him to her. “Oh my gosh, how’ve you been?”

“Not broken,” he remarks.

“Oh, I know you’re fine!” Glimmer laughs, releasing him. She holds his wrists in her hands, appraising him. “By the moon, you’ve gotten tall.”

Eon brushes his hair from his face, grinning down at her, “Thank you, it’s genetics.”

Entrapta bounces over, giving him an affectionate pat on the back, “And your strict diet!”

“That too,” he agrees. “I’d kill to have a slice of cake.”

“Were you with Aurora just now?” Bow asks, walking over to them with Hordak.

“She accompanied me all day,” Eon informs the couples. “She performed good samaritan duties.”

Glimmer can’t help her astonishment. She looks at Aurora, “Really?”

“He happened to be walking by, that’s all,” Aurora explains. “He worked, I watched.”

Bow holds his daughter by the shoulder, pulling her to him, giving her a happy shake, “You learned a thing or two though, didn’t you?”

“Sure, Papa.”

Eon leans down to Glimmer, “You know, she actually got dirt on her.”

“For once, huh?” Glimmer jests back.

Flushing, Aurora crosses her arms, “Mama, please…”

Hordak turns to Bow, “Will you three be returning to Bright Moon now?”

Bow nods, “Since Aurora is here, and it’s getting late, we likely should.”

Glimmer turns to the clone family, “Would any of you be interested in coming back and having dinner? The cooks don’t mind that!”

Entrapta shakes her head, “As much as I’d like to ask for tiny food from your chefs, Hordak and I have a previous engagement to attend to, so we’ll have to say no!”

Hordak nods at them, “Perhaps another time.”

“Got it!” Glimmer says, looking up at Eon. “What about you? You can have that slice of cake with us!”

“I got something to finish up here, but thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Eon, please, it’s Glimmer!”

“Sorry, Glimmer.”

Bow adds, “You should come by the next time you’re around!”

“Thank you,” Eon says, glancing at Aurora. “I’ll consider it some time.”

After a few more pleasantries, Eon bids farewell first. Hordak and Entrapta accompany the family to the portal about halfway before they veer off to their own place.

Glimmer stares up at her husband, “This was a great outing, wasn’t it?”

Bow stretches his arms toward the sky, “You bet! It’s good to get out of the stuffy meetings now and then.”

Aurora purses her lips, “I think we could’ve gone home sooner.”

Glimmer looks at her daughter, “Didn’t you have fun with Eon?”

“I had as much fun as one could while watching someone do menial labor,” Aurora replies.

“It’s good to get out regardless,” Bow says.

“I did always like that boy,” Glimmer tells them.

Aurora sighs, not understanding how he can win her parents over. He can be charming, to be sure, and he surprised her today by how useful he was to others. Even thoughtful. But he doesn’t have anything else going for him. She finds it to be a lucky thing that he enjoys being distant from her too.

Today was a fluke.

After all, he is a clone’s son.

                                                             -

Entrapta holds Hordak to her chest, brushing his hair as he falls asleep, “Did you have fun earlier today?”

“In the house or with our friends?”

“Both!”

Hordak smiles at her. His fingers slide up to touch her face, “I did enjoy myself.”

Entrapta leans forward, kissing the bridge of his nose. She puts their foreheads together, “Are you sure you don’t want me to do anything?”

“You can return the favor to me later,” Hordak says. “I’m comfortable.”

Entrapta continues petting his scalp, finding that she is also in a cozy position, and maybe they will just have more fun tomorrow. She yawns, voice getting drowsy, “Are you happy Odessa is coming soon?”

“Yes, I am,” he replies. “There’s much to discuss with her.”

“There is…”

Hordak’s eyes drift to his wife’s collarbone. Breathing in the scent of her skin, Hordak pulls her closer. His thoughts begin to pick up in the quiet of the room. Churning. Once his mind finds something to think about, he can have as much a difficult time letting it be as Entrapta could. And their daughter was, for better or worse, the same.

He asks, with unusual hesitation, “Is Odessa keeping something from me? She has a strong wanderlust, and she enjoys visiting family but... she doesn’t feel like herself. When she left, it seemed as if she was unsure of how to approach me. That she didn’t want to inform me of any event she experienced. Am I imagining it?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Entrapta?”

The question receives light snores as a response.

Sighing, Hordak kisses the column of her throat before settling into her chest, unable to stop thinking of his dream from earlier. The sense of unease he has balled in his chest.

He is curious what this odyssey would entail for his daughter and her friends.

And he is worried what the outcome may be.

[twokinkybeans]

Better Than Google - Starker

Summary: When Peter realizes that Friday knows everything about Tony, he can't help but ask questions. It starts innocent enough, but soon enough the questions become more... Sexual.

Warnings: Pining, masturbation, daddy kink, nff

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“Friday, what’s Tony’s favorite color?”

“Friday, does Tony like pineapple on pizza?”

“Friday, how did Tony find out that I’m Spider-Man?”

Peter likes asking Friday questions about Tony. The habit had started a little over a year ago when he’d wanted to surprise his mentor with a nice cup of Starbucks - but had no clue what type he liked. He’d asked the AI. It was the fact that Friday answered it so smoothly that Peter realized how she knew everything about Tony. Like Google, but better. No rumors, no assumptions, only plain facts. How could Peter possibly let that opportunity slide? He’s curious by nature. If anything, it’s Tony’s fault for giving Peter permission to use the AI in the first place. He’d been wary at first. Scared Tony might figure out how Peter was stalking him. Tony never said a word though. Didn’t treat him any differently. So Peter… Well, he figured he could start asking personal questions. Obviously, only slightly related to his crush on the man.

“Friday, what’s Tony’s sexuality?”

“Friday, what’s Tony’s biggest kink?”

“Friday, how… How big is Tony’s cock?” “Flaccid or erect?” “Eh, erect?”

-

Peter hums happily as he slumps onto the comfortable leather couch in Tony’s living room. Tony is gone for the weekend, attending a science fair in Washington DC. He’s asked Peter to keep an eye on his place. Although it was never said out loud, both of them knew it wasn’t because a sitter was needed. No. It was a nice, luxurious break from the tiny college dorm Peter lived at.  “I trust you to keep an eye on it, kid. Friday’s there to help if you need anything.”

Peter chuckles. If only Tony knew just how much Friday had been helping him. Her answers to his questions igniting and fuelling his sexual fantasies about Tony on and on and on. Peter knows so much about him now. He knows that Tony likes getting his balls sucked on. Knows that Tony likes being called daddy. Dammit, Peter often finds himself actively refraining from saying the word out loud to him. Peter knows Tony is a massive top. That the man loves doggystyle. But also how Tony likes to hug and cuddle his partners after sex.  Peter knows he’ll never actually have any of this, but it’s the closest he’ll get and he cherishes every second of it. Especially now that he’s in Tony’s home, it’s so damn easy to pretend he’s Tony’s boyfriend - waiting for his lover to come home. This place simply breathes Tony and Peter is sure going to make the most out of it.

“Friday? Is Tony vocal during sex?”

“Friday, is he passionate?” “Please elaborate.” Peter blushes.

-

Peter has been asking questions all weekend long. At this point, he’s simply too horny to care - palming himself through his jeans while imagining what Tony would taste like on his tongue. How the man’s cock would fill him up just perfectly, stretching him and hitting that sweet spot with every relentless thrust. He wants it. Needs it all. A tiny gasp leaves his lips as he palms himself a bit harder.

“F-Friday,” he breathes, shifting his weight to spread his legs more, “-when’s the last time Tony watched porn?” “Two hours ago, Peter.” “Oh God, oh- What did he watch?” “Would you like me to show you?” “Yes,” Peter moans and cranes his neck to see Friday’s projection. A flashy image appears in front of him. It’s two men, fucking passionately. The obviously dominant of the two is driving his cock deep into the other, while grabbing a fistful of hair to make the sub arch his back. The bottom’s cock hard and neglected between his legs. Their moans loud and echoing throughout the room, the sounds mixing together with Peter’s. Peter wants to get off. Never in his life had he chased his high so desperately. The knowledge that Tony had watched this earlier, had gotten off to it and- Well. Had he?

“Friday, did Tony orgasm today?” “No, Peter.” “Oh fuck- W-Why not?” “He likes to edge himself.” Peter groans out loud, quickly shoving his hands down his pants to grab his cock. His long fingers wrapping around the throbbing shaft deliciously. He can imagine it. Tony’s hard cock, painfully erect and dripping and the man’s voice ordering Peter to take care of it. He needs it so badly. He drags his hand up and down, faster, gripping harder. 

“Friday, does… Does Tony ever say my name when he touches himself?” “You mean during masturbation, Peter?” “Yes, fuck yes that’s what I mean.” Peter chokes out, his orgasm already building deep inside of him. He knows the answer will be no, but after this weekend he’s feeling so bold and he just needs to know, he wants closure and- Friday stays silent. Peter frowns, stalling his movements for a second. The AI must have not understood his answer. “Friday, does Tony say my name when he jerks off?”

“Peter,” Peter jolts, scrambling upright and turning around to find Tony standing in the doorway. Peter swallows, his cheeks burning with shame and he quickly grabs the nearest pillow to cover the very obvious bulge in his jeans.  “M-Mr. Stark, I can explain.” “Oh, can you now? Why don’t we let Friday explain? She knows everything after all, doesn’t she?” “Mr. S-” “Friday,” Tony speaks slowly, carelessly dropping his keys onto the coffee table, “-do you report to me what people ask you throughout the day?” “Yes, boss,” Friday’s voice answers loyally. Peter wishes he could make himself invisible. Disappear completely. He should’ve fucking known that Friday wouldn’t let this go unnoticed. Should’ve known Tony is too smart to not check on it. “Tony, I am so sorry, I-” “Hush now. I’m not done yet. Friday?” “Yes, boss?” “Answer Peter’s last question, do I say his name while jerking off?” “Yes.”

Peter’s eyes widen as he stares at Tony, his gaze drifting lower to glance at Tony’s crotch. The outline of his cock is very visible in his jeans and Peter clears his throat. “I-” “Peter?” “Yes… Daddy?” “Do you want to suck me off?” “Please.”