#no those two tags don't contradict each other

[fandoms-in-law]

Ghostly Assistance

Summary: In 1989 Charles and Edwin have only been friends a few months when Steve and Robin meet them, sent to England by El who insists someone in London can help them get Eddie back. Steve isn't pleased when the ghosts suggest it sounds like Eddie is dead but Edwin and Charles agree to help regardless.

Author's note: Anyone else wonder how the detectives got their office? Cause I do. Also yeah, my idea for today was angsty and that's basically never my vibe. Thank you that this is out of my brain now, it's over shadowed multiple of the fics I've been writing this month just by knowing it was coming up at some point. Also decided my idea doesn't work for questions the fic and Steve bring up quite vehemently.

My Idea prompt for today: Steve finds out he can see ghosts by meeting the Dead Boy Detectives, which would be fun if it didn't explain why he's been able to see and hang out with Eddie when no-one else can. They'd hoped it was some upside down thing instead

/\/\

Eddie was alive; he had to be. Steve could see him, talk to him, just not touch him, but that just meant he was trapped in the Upside Down and they needed to save him. It couldn’t mean he was dead, no matter how the kids worried.

If Steve was somehow seeing a ghost, he’d surely be seeing more of them around Hawkins. It would be ludicrous to suppose that out of everyone killed by the Upside Down, Russians and US experimentation, only Eddie had become a ghost.

His faith in Eddie being alive, and El’s certainty there were people in London who could help bring him back was everything pushing him onto the plane, and Robin coming along made it almost feel like a holiday for them. Time away with his best friend to help save the man that meant so much to them all. It felt more like the adventures the kids described from their DnD games than anything they’d gone through yet.

Three years of quiet from the Upside Down, of worrying that it might come back but being assured by Will and El something was preventing that, assured by Eddie that he’d let them know if something bad was about to happen, and they finally had names of people El was sure would help. Even if the threat of danger wasn’t gone from Hawkins it was at least quiet enough for the trip to happen. Especially when they ensured their return flights could be brought forward free of charge.

/\/\

The names El had given them weren’t in any London phone book Robin had found and she’d taken to leading them around London, as if hoping to just run into them somehow. Steve didn’t think that would work but he also hadn’t been allowed to keep the note El had written with the names of who they were looking for.

Just having it calmed some of Robin’s frantic energy over doing this so he hadn’t argued that much. He was beginning to want to know what the names were though, having forgotten since boarding their flight.

Just as he turned to ask her Steve realised he’d been about to walk into a very formally dressed boy and dodged out of the way, tugging Robin further in also as a second boy was talking to the first he’d seen. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He apologised quickly as the odd looks he received.

“Steve?” Robin asked, sounding bewildered.

The formally dressed boy just nodded, “It’s fine.” He said, nodding and turning as if to carry on, but the second boy paused a moment, looking him over as if wanting to say more.

“Why are you talking to the air? What’s with yanking me here? Nobody is there.” Robin huffed, pulling herself out of his grip to gesture directly at the two boys.

“What?” Steve frowned now looking at her in confusion, “Oh, have a good day,” He called after the boys, focusing back on his friend, “The boys we just passed? They’re right there, still.”

She shook her head, following his gesture again, “Nope, nobody other than us on this street.”

“I don’t know what prank you’re trying to pull, Robs, but they’re blatantly there.” He huffed, gesturing again as if that would force her to stop denying it.

The second boy, more casually dressed, made a thoughtful noise, “You think it’d help to tell him we’re ghosts?”

Steve turned at that, eyes narrowed and looking over them again. “I’d know if I could see ghosts. Hawkins must have tons by this point.”

“Who mentioned ghosts, Steve?” Robin gripped his upper arm, looking around confused and concerned now.

“He did!” Steve repeated, gesturing back to the pair.

She shook her head, “Nobody is there.”

“Where is Hawkins and why would there be a lot of ghosts there?” The formally dressed boy had pulled out a notebook and was looking at him intrigued.

“Just admit is Eddie somehow got here.” Robin carried on, talking over him as if she couldn’t hear him at all and Steve was beginning to believe she wasn’t joking or just acting like she couldn’t.

He still glared at her and the boys. “It’s not Eddie and Hawkins, Indiana, America. The amount of death and shit that’s gone on in that town in the last 6 years, there’d be more than enough ghosts I’d know I could see them before now.” He huffed, but held up a hand when he could see another question about to be asked, “And Eddie is someone stuck in the Upside Down who I can see like you, she can’t and do not suggest he’s anything but alive.”

The casually dressed boy laughed, “Mate, you named somewhere the Upside Down? What is it? A pub?”

“Also I would assume Eddie is, in fact, dead, if as you say, you see him like us while others cannot.” The formal boy added.

Steve didn’t reply to either of them, turning to head back the way they’d come as quickly as he could while still walking.

Robin hesitated, looking around where they’d been before jogging to catch up. “Steve? Steve, Don’t storm off. I’ll get lost! Or you will.” She called, only pausing for a second after catching him up to place a comforting hand on his back, “Did the ghosts suggest Eddie’s dead?”

“He’s not dead.” He insisted.

She didn’t reply for a moment, looking torn between agreeing or trying to comfort him about that being a possibility. He heard in that moment the formal boy remarking “What an unusual couple. Charles? Why are you following them?”

“Mate, hey, sorry Edwin said that. Sounds like you’ve been through some stuff. We’re trying to help people where we can. Maybe if you tell us more we could help you, or your friend, Eddie, was it?” The boy called, catching up to them easily and earnestly meeting Steve’s eyes as he offered.

Robin sighed, nodding at something in Steve’s expression though he couldn’t guess what or how it’d changed with the boy offering to help them. “I believed you Eddie is alive before now so I’m sticking with that. But seeing ghosts? That’s pretty cool, right? Bet Dustin would call it metal.”

“No Robin, I don’t think so and doubt Dustin would either when they’re saying Eddie’s dead. Also they’re still here, offering to help.” Steve grumbled. He didn’t want help from people saying Eddie was dead.

“Okay, then listen, they’re willing and the first people we’ve had actually talk to us. All El gave us was 2 names and nothing else to find these people she thinks can help. Can you at least ask them about that?” She suggested gently.

“In a city like London it’s unlikely we’ll be able to assist, but I suppose we can try,” The formal boy, Edwin? Agreed with a heavy breath as if against letting his friend offer their help.

Steve glanced at him for a moment, “Thank you, except, Robs, you kept the note. I know one name began Ed but wasn’t Edward and the other might’ve been Charlie? Charlotte? Something charred but I haven’t seen the note or been told the names since we boarded the flight.”

As Robin huffed and muttered about having said them so many times while trying to find them and riffling through her jacket pockets to find the note, the casually dressed boy, Charles?, grinned, “Your flight from America? Yeah, I’d have forgotten them too. Guessing whomever you’re looking for isn’t in a phone book either.”

“She checked that as soon as she could with no luck.” Steve sighed as Robin half cheered, pulling the note out.

“Oh! Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland! That’s what El wrote.”

The names got a reaction from the pair talking to Steve and given the names he’d heard so far he could guess why. Edwin was smirking and Charles burst into laughter, “You’re kidding. That’s aces. Glad I stopped you storming off.”

“Quite so Charles. We’re the people you’re looking for apparently.” Edwin agreed, before his brow furrowed. “I would invite you to join us somewhere but Charles and I don’t currently have a residence. Perhaps we could reconvene at your hotel?”

Steve shrugged, “Guess we’ll have to. How would ghosts get a residence, anyway?” He asked offhand, before turning to Robin, “El asked us to find these ghosts. Apparently your method of randomly walking around London worked.”

“I told you it – So I flew all this way to help you find them and I can’t even see them? Why didn’t El ensure you got all the information instead of me?” Robin began to gloat before pausing in frustration.

“Haunting where they died most often, however neither of us are inclined to remain at the school we died within.” Edwin answered, gesturing to Steve for him to lead the way.

Steve nodded at the answer before replying to Robin’s question, “Probably because you were insisting on coming with me despite being very anxious over the idea of flying. El knows we share everything with each other eventually anyway. We’re going back to the hotel now, come on.”

The walk back was taken over by Robin wondering aloud about ghosts and occasionally Charles or Edwin explaining something more so Steve could share it.

/\/\

It had been a joke the last time they’d helped a ghost solve their unfinished business and been gifted something in return; a bag that Charles had been told to be careful with since it could store many things but also injure those removing items too harshly. He’d suggested trying to solve people problems for payment as their plans for their life and getting an office to do it from.

Edwin was wondering if that joke wasn’t as absurd as he’d thought now, listening to these two humans explain their friend’s situation as well as why Steve was so certain he was alive even 3 years after he was last seen in his body.

It could certainly give them a place to form a reference library for these sorts of problems.

“What about the ghosts, Robin?” Steve exclaimed. She’d been repeating the facts about ghosts that had been shared again, comparing it to Eddie but he clearly had his focus on a different detail. “I can listen and repeat what these boys are saying all you like, but why is there only Eddie even slightly ghost like in Hawkins?”

Edwin cleared his throat, “If I may, you might not have recognised ghosts in your town as such. Perhaps-” He broke off at the glare shot to him.

“You don’t know Hawkins. I can name 5 unjustified deaths without blinking and at least half I know would have unfinished business or a reason to stay. That’s ignoring the kids and that lab which killed or experimented on them until their deaths. If Eddie is a ghost, which I absolutely don’t believe, where are the rest? Why isn’t Barb still trying to reach Nance to ensure her boyfriend is good enough, or Chrissy, I don’t know, haunting Jason’s old mob? Why aren’t El’s siblings doing anything to show they’re there and mad over the guy who killed them still surviving and plotting?” The rant burst out of Steve and frankly left Edwin with more questions, enough that he stood back and started noting down what seemed to be important deaths or locations in Hawkins.

“And why is El also saying Eddie is alive.” Robin added quietly, as if coming to a realisation over Steve’s frustration.

Steve clicked at her, “Remembered that have you? El doesn’t lie.”

“Mates, I think you need to actually tell us what’s gone on in Hawkins. Just talking about Eddie clearly isn’t enough information.” Charles said, gaping slightly between the pair. “What was that about a lab killing kids?”

The story of Hawkins was disturbing, but Edwin was still dubious over the help they wanted. Moving to another country to help, even temporarily, seemed to be an extreme decision. Steve and Robin had barely finished their tale when he stood. “Charles, a word?” He gestured to the closet, deciding it was best to at least remain with the pair until their decision was made.

“Are you truly considering going to America to help these people? They’ve already got plenty of assistance from what they’ve said.”

Charles nodded, “And are getting nowhere with the issue. Sounds like they’re basically just waiting for it to kick off again instead of facing the guy causing all the deaths.” He gestured to Edwin with a grin, “And who better to help than the man who in a matter of months has gained more knowledge about magic and supernatural beings than most ghosts we’ve met? Besides, I know you’re curious. You wanna prove yourself right over Eddie as well as figure out why they haven’t got more ghosts around. Come on.”

Edwin fought the smile that wanted to break through. “No I-”

“Did you just gesture that they’ve hidden in the closet from us?” Robin’s voice came from the room outside the closet.

Steve huffed as if he’d tried to keep her quiet. “Edwin isn’t on board with coming back with us yet. Charles is convincing him.”

“In the closet? Are they-?” Her words drifted of, clearly implying something from the quiet groans Charles and Steve let out, Charles shaking his head.

“Don’t think so and definitely not currently. Best friends like us, I’d guess.” Steve replied after a thump that sounded like he’d shoved her lightly back.

Robin laughed, “Or two boys in a closet.”

“Convenient place to argue with the illusion of privacy. You think we should try that at home?”

“Nah, imagine how insufferable the kids would get if we started going into closets together all the time?”

Charles laughed, meeting Edwin’s eyes, “Guess Steve could hear us too.”

“Clearly. And You’re correct. I’m curious, but what if helping reveals us to death, or puts us at risk of whatever has prevented ghosts from forming in Hawkins?” Edwin returned to their conversation. “Or worse, since I’ve already encountered information on things that destroy ghosts entirely.”

“Wait!” Steve called, yanking the door open, “Death exists? Did I hear that right? Would you prefer we try and contact him directly?”

Edwin rolled his eyes, “Her and no, that would be the height of stupidity. Please close the door and refrain from further eavesdropping.”

Steve barely nodded as he did so, already turned to Robin. “Robs, Death is female! I wonder what she’s like?”

After a moment to hear the two friends start gossiping over death together Edwin and Charles finally continued their discussion over whether they should help, hopeful that Steve wasn’t listening still.

/\/\

“Do you think they’ll really get us a place?” Charles asked. They had decided to wait at London airport for the day or so it would take Robin and Steve to get home and were wondering over something Robin had offered. “Would be brills if they could even get it in London.”

Edwin wasn’t quite so convinced or excited by the thought. “We’ll have to wait and see, Charles. Although I would be grateful for a place to collate our research and cases.”

/\/\

“Are you the pair El said would help?” Eddie hesitated, ready to run from the two boys who’d appeared through the mirror in his trailer bathroom. There wasn’t a gate forming at least so he didn’t worry about the Upside Down being pushed to merge with Hawkins again.

The first boy to come through paused, looking him over. “Yes we are and despite El and Steve’s insistence you definitely seem to be a ghost.” He said.

“He’s Edwin. I’m Charles. Are you Eddie?” Charles greeted, having straightened up from where he’d fallen.

“Yes and no, I’m not dead. Vecna doesn’t let ghosts form. Come on, I’ll point out where my body is to you.” Eddie gestured, leading the way out. “I don’t think he can see me, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

Edwin kept his voice hushed while replying, “You’re friends were beginning to think Vecna is dead.”

“Annoyingly he isn’t. I was hoping they’d believe that if it stayed quiet for long enough though. They’ve not been relaxing and have only just figured out patrols that don’t leave everyone a bit sleep deprived. I’m keeping him here for as long as I can.” Eddie explained, crouching behind some trees where they could see one of the gates El had mentioned needing to close each time they reopened.

“How?” Charles asked, seeing Eddie’s body moving to go through the gate and being pulled back somehow.

Eddie grunted, putting effort into yanking Vecna away from the gate. “Whatever Vecna did to kick me out of my body still lets me refuse to let it leave here. I go and see Steve or El if he’s distracted and I’m certain he won’t try to go through for a while.”

“It’s difficult to do.” Edwin observed. “This is a very unusual occurrence but then I still don’t understand El’s powers either.”

“Bet I could beat him though.” Charles offered. “If he’s got a body of his own around here, that is.”

Eddie snickered a little, “Yeah, please don’t kill me going after him.”

Charles nodded, “Course, Mate, would hurt someone Steve likes so much. You okay if we go back to him now though, do some research and planning to see if we can help?”

“Just keep me up to date on any plans.” Eddie waved them off, staying close to the gate just in case his body tried breaking through again.

/\/\

Steve was fuming, heartbroken, and an entire mix-up of emotions he couldn’t break down enough to understand. He was also staring at Edwin and Charles as if they were speaking Russian until Robin stepped in front of him. “Steve? Steve? Are Edwin and Charles back? What are they saying? Your reaction is scaring the kids.”

“Vecna took Eddie’s body. I’m going to kill him.” He blinked back to himself, going to grab his nail bat from the hall closet.

“No, put the nail bat down.” Dustin immediately jumped up, trying to tug the bat from his grip. “You aren’t killing anyone until Eddie has his body back, whatever that means.”

“Steve, you can’t go after him now.” Robin appeared at his side again. “You’d risk killing Eddie yourself if you did.”

Charles looked around at the various people there, focusing on Will and El as the other two who could see him. “Does this Vecna guy have a body?” He asked.

“Yes, we’ve gone against him before and he was in it then.” Steve growled out. “So let me in there to beat it to shreds. Kill the body and he’ll have to leave Eddie’s, right?”

El shook her head. “He’s possessing Eddie’s now, possibly because it’s less connected and stronger than his own without the vines.” She mused.

“It reduces your ability to find him too. I guess that’s why your early attempts to connect and fight him mentally failed, but if you faced him, went to meet him at a gate or something, could you get him out of Eddie’s body? Send him back to his own? If these two can find his own body and like blow it up at the same time, even better.” Steve suggested, looking between El and the ghosts imploringly, seemingly unconcerned that he’d gone from wanting to be the one to kill Vecna to planning for others to do the most damage in an instant.

Edwin shared a glance with Charles before nodding, “An astute plan, Steve. El, are you able to do that?”

El barely managed to agree before Mike interrupted, “Please tell me one of those ghosts had a better plan you’re agreeing to than the nonsense Steve just spewed.”

“Edwin said the plan was smart.” El simply replied.

“Steve? Smart?” Mike scoffed, “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

Watching Edwin slam one of the research books nearest Mike shut and the boy jumping away from it had Steve and a few other snickering, but soon sobering.

El waited for Edwin to finish his repetition of the praise before relaying it for everyone to hear, “Edwin says of course. Steve’s the one noticing the details that have helped form a viable plan to resolve Eddie’s situation and the threats over our town. Charles also thinks the plan is brills and is asking whether he needs to get explosives himself or we can provide some.”

“Great.” Mike groaned, but was called to start planning by Hopper and Nancy who were ready to fine tune Steve’s idea now someone had one.

/\/\

Hopper stared at Steve and Robin, bewildered and obviously questioning their sanity. “You want to buy an office, in England, for some ghosts who helped you with this? When since the plan to get rid of Vecna and save Eddie succeeded there’s been countless hauntings here?” He listed, breaking each question off sharply.

“I can help with most of those and El is working through the rest. Half of them just need telling what happened with their deaths and that the man orchestrating them all is dead himself now, definitely in hell to please them more.” Steve reasoned.

“Besides, we only asked Charles and Edwin to help us save Eddie and we did promise to get them their own place in payment.” Robin continued. “And if you don’t cosign to confirm it’s legit, Steve’ll just fake his father’s signature and make the Harrington accounts cover everything in case Edwin and Charles struggle at all.”

Steve had been ready to continue their arguments but paused at that. “Actually Hop, you’re right. We should do that as the first option. Charles has said he’ll write still anyway.”

“Brills.” Charles muttered behind them. “Please tell me your parents are rich assholes who never show up?”

“Correct in one. Let’s get you two back to England so we can set up your office.” Steve nodded, turning around. “Eddie’s coming with us and we’re going to have a few days holiday to sight see while we’re there too.”

Charles grinned and Edwin had a small smile also. “You really are being very generous to do this for us.”

“And you were very generous in agreeing to help us and everything you’ve done.” Steve mimicked his speech a little, smiling to show it was just teasing. “Seriously though, this doesn’t feel like we’re doing enough. Are you sure an office space is what you want?”

“Indeed. Along with all the games the other boys are insisting on you bringing back with you I’m sure it will be plenty enough.” Edwin confirmed. He knew the games being given to them wasn’t purely out of kindness; most of the kids had parents pushing them to clear out games rarely played with, but they seemed like a pleasant way to pass an evening at least.

[daryascurse]

𝙲𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙾𝚁

── Part II: Ferae Naturae

Coriolanus didn’t lunge at you. The tendons in his neck tightened, and his palm ground into the wall. But when the two of you collapsed into each other, the violence met at your mouths in a kiss harsher than the one shared the night before.

chapter pov : 2nd person, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns ❀ tags: hate sεx, semi-public, coitus interruptus, fingering, oraI, (female receiving), biting, teasing ❀ word count: ~4.2k ❀ ao3 ❀playlist

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

See header "Caveat Emptor" link for table of contents/ chapter 1.

a/n (dec. 14 2023): thank you sm to everyone for the support and encouragement!! asks/ posts related to this fic are tagged #caveatcoryo. popping in to share that i have finally seen the movie like halfway through writing this. I absolutely loved it but will still be sticking to more book-canon details, but I don’t think anything outright contradicts movie canon, so it’s fine. By the way, it’s pretty likely every chapter will have some kind of smut. Idk, it’s what I like to write.. just to clarify for people who don't like things 100% explicit all of the time that it shooould be expected here. (Also, I think I learned through this that I prefer writing Coryo POV, but, I think switching off makes sense for a fic like this so yeah.)

-

“…your valedictorian, Coriolanus Snow!”

You were sure he’d seen you. It was all suggestive; barely a hairline crack in his veneer before that golden halo dipped back down, but Coriolanus’ eyes had met yours when he looked up from the podium. He paused a moment, adjusting the microphone with a suddenly fixed concentration, before he leaned in to begin speaking. And he spoke well. The notes he had been shuffling say ever so conspicuously forgotten at the edge of the curved stone podium. You felt the slight strain in the small of your back as you straightened up, fixing your gaze straight ahead.

His hand had lingered at the stem of the microphone, and you watched his fingers as they unwound from it. Those fingers that had stroked the serpentine sash across your body and held you aching and open, how they drew your attention in pale daylight as Coriolanus swam them through the air in emphatic, perfectly-timed gestures. He was an undeniably good orator.

You shifted again in your seat, feeling the resonance of last night within you still. Barely last night – it had been just past three in the morning when you wrapped your coat around your frame and left the club. But despite rinsing and gargling, properly cleaning your teeth before bed and after rising, the side of your mouth still smacked with the taste of him. Shifting in your seat brought the sweet ache to your muscles, your thighs tense from the motions of riding over his thighs. You clenched your fingers in your lap, opened them, and closed fists again, as if wrapping around his shoulders once more.

Early that morning, dressing for graduation with sleep still coating your mind in static, you’d realized the tip of a nail had chipped sometime in the dark velvet room. You looked down for a moment at your fingers knit in your lap, remembering the flaw, before looking back up at Coriolanus again.

And how this graduation ceremony seemed like an inversion of last night– with you, gazing up at him on stage, while he performed in costume!

You could relax the muscles of your face into a slack, neutral expression, but you could not keep your gaze from fixing on him. Perhaps that had been the same concentration he’d had last night, unable to keep the hunger from his eyes as you slunk across the stage. It had been clear, from the moment you pushed back the curtain and shivered into position, that he hadn’t recognized you.

And that itself hadn’t been a surprise. Coriolanus Snow was wildly popular, but he chose to make and keep few friends. It had been a relief. If any classmate were to happen down those basement steps, pick your face from the catalog feed, and watch you step onto the stage, Coriolanus Snow would be the least likely one to recognize you. It still hadn’t felt particularly nice, though, to see anyone from University sitting in that leather chair. Especially the night before graduation, when you were so close to making it out unscathed.

The broken chip in your manicure was brittle when it brushed against your skin.

If anything about last night was a surprise, it was how good it was. That even as Coriolanus starved the pleasure from you, the ache for it drove harder, weakening your thighs and panting your breath.

You adjusted your seat again.

At the end of his speech, when the applause began sprinkling through the crowd to roll into a thunder, Coriolanus hesitated a moment longer at the podium. His eyes flitted across the group of students again, a honeybee’s tense flight that avoided your area like brambles. His hand was at his side, as if to dip into the pocket of the graduation gown, but he turned to scoop up his abandoned cards and tucked them inside before stepping down. Instead of clapping, you ran your hand over your nail’s broken groove.

When the ceremony was over, after you had stood in dutiful line, crossed the stage, tucked the diploma and graduation program under your arm, you made straight for the refreshments table at the back of the hall. The silk pantyhose, regrettably in fashion, itched as the net shifted across your sore thighs with each step; the clack of your heels irritatingly sharp on the polished stone. Valerius Yeoman, who’d been your partner in dialectic seminar, gave a half-salute and pained expression where he stood hanging his head in the shade as his parents and grandparents fussed over him, adjusting the sweep of his gown and smoothing his cap. You smiled in response, raising your eyebrows at his pallid visage as you hobbled to the coffee pitchers.

The school-provided coffee was bitter to the point of being sour, and the taste stuttered your grip around the thick ceramic mug seared with the University coat of arms. A half-mouthful slid from your lips to your chin. You quickly wiped it away with the back of your hand.

“Good morning.”

You turned at the measured tone.

It was half a shock that Coriolanus had found you. Not that it was strange he’d been milling around the reception hall with everyone else who hadn’t rushed off to celebratory brunch reservations. But this was confirmation that he had seen you, recognized you. Now, acknowledged you, even if privately. Maybe only because it was private. Like you, he didn’t seem to be enveloped in familial support at graduation. Even his friends, the ones you knew to be his friends, weren’t nearby. That beady eyed Livia Cardew who usually dragged at his elbow was nowhere to be found.

You gestured at him with the coffee mug.

“Wonderful speech, Coriolanus,” you said.

He smiled, but the rest of his face betrayed its insincerity. His nostrils tightened, flared, ever so slightly. His pretty face turned so ugly. The crack in the mask deepened.

“So, you knew who I was?”

Last night lingered in the air to finish the sentence, lashing off his tongue in a way he couldn’t afford to snap while graduates and guests still flowed in the hall.

“How could I not?” you said, and returned the coffee to your mouth to take another sip. The caffeine had begun to rattle through your veins, push at the side of your eyes, hasten your tongue. You couldn’t hold back a wide grin. “The golden boy, our University’s valedictorian, and they said, next Head Gamemaker. Congratulations.”

Another man would be humbled, perhaps feel the heat of embarrassment not to recognize someone in turn. But Coriolanus Snow rarely turned his head to the back of the classroom, always looking ahead. He looked visibly disconcerted at the way you identified him, threw every label back in his face.

“Do you remember me yet?”

Care to know my name now?

You put the coffee down on the reception table and slid the program from under your arm, turning the pages and folding the spine back. You anglde the thick creamy paper towards him and ran your finger down the list of graduating names, stopping, tapping, when you reached the smooth black cursive marking your own.

Coriolanus studied the page. Or stared at it.

“We had Dr. Campbell’s memoria class together last semester,” you said, and he nodded. His eyes were still tight as they slid back to your face.

You closed the program and slipped it back under your arm, where the roll of your diploma had begun to crush.

“So, what do you want?” Coriolanus asked before you barely had a chance to pick your coffee back up. You blinked at him over the edge of the mug. “Bit late to spread schoolyard gossip, but, what, did you think you could blackmail me?”

“Sorry, what do I want?”

His eyes were cold, his words were terse.

“You knew me. You admitted it. So what are you looking for?”

“No, it’s not what you think,” you said, and the light grin began to fade from your lips.

A cheer of his name drowned out your words. It came from a girl and her family walking by – Persephone something, you’d seen her around – and Coriolanus turned, almost automatically, to give a genteel wave. Through his teeth, he hissed, “Go.”

“Excuse me?”

You almost spilled the last of your coffee down the front of your gown when he gripped your forearm, steering your back to the hall.

“That way,” Coriolanus said, jerking his chin to the entrance, and you managed to put the mug down, your diploma and program slipping from below your elbow. The papers splashed across the marble floor.

“That’s my – hey.”

Coriolanus stepped with you, his hand firm, and a thrill spiked through you at the thought of whether or not he had strength he could apply to the grasp. Strength enough to bruise, to fracture. The previous night certainly suggested he could.

“I’ll scream,” you said, loudly enough to make the old woman rubbing a lipstick kiss off Bergenia Wolfe’s cheek tilt her head.

But his grip tightened, and he leaned in, his voice so low that only you could hear over the ambient noise of the hall.

“It won’t change the fact that we need to talk. And I’d prefer it be in private, especially if your voice keeps rising.”

That was fair.

“Fine. But keep your hands to yourself,” you said, and shook your wrist free. You could feel the warm press of his fingers still as the two of you ducked through the archway at the end of the hall. Graduation morning had left the campus empty of usual academic operations, and the first door he tried, jerking the laboratory-grown ivory handle down with such vigor it made a springing sound when he released it, opened into a cold, empty seminar classroom. You rubbed at your forearm under the sweeping graduation gown sleeve, looking up at the cameras at the front of the room. The University had introduced a new policy to cease providing classroom recordings that last year of school, claiming that it encouraged students to pay closer attention to lectures and not rely on the film whilst studying for final exams.

You squinted at the lens, untrusting, even without the telltale red recording light.

Coriolanus must have had the same thought, because he jerked his finger irritably to lead you forward into a corner just out of view of the lens. Away from any proof that the two of you were together.

“I’m asking,” he said again, with frustration etching his features, “what you could possibly think you can gain from this.”

Coriolanus Snow was a certainly a man of multitudes. You had wondered, last night, as you pressed into the carpet and made your way towards his waiting boots, if that was the real him. If stripping aside the anemic University smile warped those lips into a stone-cold smirk, the point of his foot swaying on his heel as if he were tempted to flatten you below his sole, a woman whose time and body he had bought. Or, the earnestness you vaguely remembered from his televised introduction to the nation at those lost Games years ago – if that lust for life was real. But perhaps this was it, this was Coriolanus Snow, superior scleral show gleaming with barely-bridled rage, with his hand still forming a cage as he pressed into the wall besides you to keep you like a fox in the corner.

“What ‘this?’” you asked, and tried to keep the belligerence from creasing your face as well. “I swear. I only just knew who you were, your reputation here. That’s all.”

“And you think you can blemish my reputation by telling people you saw me at the whorehouse.”

“We – you just saw me, once -”

“There is no ‘we.’ Let’s be perfectly clear on that.”

“Fine,” you said, putting your hands up in a mock surrender. “Fine. Trust me, Coriolanus, I have no interest in getting anything from you, holding last night over your head, anything.”

His nostrils flared at that.

“Really,” you said. Your teeth gnashed with the heat of the word.

“Oh, really?” Coriolanus snapped, almost echoing your tone.

You wavered. Just a moment.  

Maybe this was quid pro quo.

“I’ll tell you,” you said, quickly, burning the words from your tongue as they left. “If it convinces you that I’m not trying to blackmail you, if last night is so serious a secret that you’re seeing shadows, I’ll tell you my secret. It was my last night because I don’t need the money anymore. Every bit went to cover my tuition, because I’ve needed it. Some of us haven’t been so lucky to lick from silver spoons our whole lives. So now you know my shame, and you can trust me to keep yours.”

You practically spat the word at him. At Coriolanus Snow, the adopted scion of the Plinths, son of the Snow dynasty itself; who had taken his leisurely choice to spend unmerited riches on a whore’s company in a thinly-cloaked room, and had the audacity to be furious with her for it.

“And I’m sorry,” you heard yourself continuing, wildly, “for tainting graduation for you with the inconvenience of my presence. But seems you had a fine morning anyway. Looks like you had a perfect day even if my eye contact happened to startle you. Your valedictorian speech went well, you’ve secured a job, and Livia Cardew has the pleasure of returning to your penthouse. She’s probably looking for you, waiting for you now -”

Coriolanus didn’t lunge at you. The tendons in his neck tightened, and his palm ground into the wall. But when the two of you collapsed into each other, the violence met at your mouths in a kiss harsher than the one shared the night before.

His knee slotted perfectly between your legs, the sweeping expanses of gown encasing your bodies like fine satin sheets. Your hands, still raised in that tableau of defense, were caught uselessly between your bodies as you leaned forward and pressed your chest against him. Coriolanus kissed you hard, with his own hold gripping your shoulders, your upper arms, with more strength than had fanned his furious grasp of your wrist. He tasted the same as he had last night, the bitter wind of coffee ghosting over both of your tongues with the same desperate touch as your thighs pressing against each other.

You turned your head for a gasp of breath, head dizzy, the anger ebbing into a more primal form of passion, and Coriolanus took the motion in stride. He moved his lips down to the juncture of your neck, drawing sinful, light pictures with his tongue before his mouth closed on the sensitive silk of skin over your collarbone, right where the graduation gown dove to a demure v-shape. You inhaled second breaths back in at the sharp suction.

“Ouch,” you gasped again.

And then – “please,” you heard yourself add even as your hips shifted forward against his, “don’t leave marks.”

Coriolanus made a humming sound, voice trapped against your collarbone.

“Why? Do you need to stay in perfect condition to sell your body to another man?”

Under other circumstances, more rational responses would have stuttered to your mind: I don’t want any questions. Love bites are just so juvenile. I told you, I quit. I told you, last night was the last night. I told you to trust me.

“Fuck you.”

He straightened up and cupped your jaw, turning your face back and forth to look at you, your bright eyes, your hot cheeks. The window was to his back, his face clouded in harsh contours of the shadow, but his teeth were wet. “That’s not what you said last night.”

You drew your lips back as much as possible. “That’s not what you paid me to say. It’s a little too late to return your purchase,” you said, with less punch than you would have liked.

Coriolanus smiled, terribly, blonde curls falling over his forehead. “Well, I never said you weren’t good at your work.”

He let go of your face. You grabbed his gown in fistfuls of fabric against his chest, ignoring the snag of thread against the chip in your nail. You pulled him closer to kiss him again with a shuddering sigh, to gather his bottom lip between your teeth and bite. The groan that came from you was more like a growl. And Coriolanus’ hands busied to pluck at your waist, gathering the fabric and pulling it higher, his yanks sharper with the pressure of your teeth against him. Your heels tottered on the floor.

“No marks.”

“What about where no one can see?” Coriolanus whispered back, the words cutting between kisses. He had hitched your gown high, your knees exposed and skin uncomfortably warm beneath the cling of your nylons.

Where no one – oh – you thought, just for a moment before he was down on his knees. He lifted the skirt of your gown and you caught it in an instinctive reflex, raising it high and bunching the fabric in desperate clutches as he skimmed his hands over your legs. You sucked in a breath at the friction of skin so nearly almost against skin, the nylon somehow feeling rough and exfoliating under his touch. Coriolanus ripped it between nimble fingers, right at the rise of your thighs, and you gasped. Your feet tottered again, wider, opening for him.

“Maybe,” Coriolanus breathed, his breath hot against your skin, his tongue sliding along the edge of his teeth, “we should have blocked the door.”

“Do you think that’s a problem?”

Your fingertips were trembling, your palms sliding with sweat against the gown.

“Suppose we’ll find out,” Coriolanus said, half-mindless as two fingers tugged at the fabric of your panties, the elastic snapping when he let go. “Or else someone will see me marking you up.”

The words burrowed under your skin, flames at the side of your face, and you ground your teeth together. He kissed your thigh, bottom teeth raking against your skin, and then they dragged across the expanse of your body as his fingers shred more nylon away. He bit you, a flashing pinch of pain, before his lips curved to create a vacuum for his tongue to sooth, wash away the sharpness in a coy play. Then the suction came again, with a smacking of his lips louder than the teasing over your collarbone.

You yelped animalistically, almost dropping your gown as he did it again on your other leg. Your skin smarted.

“Oh-”

“Mmm.”

There was no warning before Coriolanus had pulled your panties to the side again, his tongue pressed flat at the seam of your cunt and a low moan rising from his throat. It reverberated into you, split you, as his tongue dragged up.

“Oh – fuck -”

Coriolanus’s lips curved off your hot skin long enough to give a hissing shush of warning, and you turned your hands tightly in the bunches of fabric.

One hand came up, thumb smearing over your hip and popping another run in the nylon fabric, and Coriolanus pressed at your lower back until your hips canted forward. You were arching for him, feet weak in your heels and pussy exposed, open, to meet his mouth.

“It- fuck – feels good,” you whispered feverishly.

His other hand was open and pushing at your thigh, making room for his face. His thumb was hooked around your panties in a way that made the waistband cut into your hip. His spread fingers were wide over your thigh, and he tensed at the plumpness of curved skin. His fingernails just barely pricked, claws on your leg as he slid his tongue between your folds. Coriolanus rolled his tongue right over your clit, breaths murmuring into you quicker, and quicker. He began to move his tongue in darting lashes and coated your sensitivity in his saliva. You twisted your hips as much as you could between the hold of his hands, almost bucking into his mouth.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

Coriolanus’s head tilted back, and you clutched at the gown in a weird, frenzied anticipation of another scolding.

But instead he ran his hand back down, away from your back. You still pushed back against the wall as his fingers wound over the thigh that locked your knee straight, leg firm to the ground. Coriolanus teased at your folds with these fingers now, and you shook, waiting in agony for him to sink them inside you.

“You’re dripping,” he whispered, so low you almost didn’t hear him over the sound of your own breath in your ear. “So wet and so empty.”

You whined in your throat.

“Bet you’d feel so warm,” Coriolanus breathed.

“Please,” you said, and you’d said it without thinking.

“Please – what?”

You breathed through parted lips, watching his own close briefly and open again – swollen, blooming with furious kisses and bites.

“You know what,” you said, and gnashed your teeth.

Coriolanus let your panties slip out of the hook of his grasp, snapping against your skin. You squirmed. His teeth split again in that grin, gleaming eyes winking up at you.

“And you know what I want to hear,” he said.

But you didn’t pay for it this time, you thought, but you still said it:

“Please touch me.”

His thumbs were busy and nimble, and you couldn’t see what he did when he ducked his head back under your skirt; but there was the flash of devious smile against the angelic blonde hair and there was a whisper of response – “good girl.”

You moaned, and he was hungry.

It felt like he had turned his head, his nose burying against you as he yanked your panties away again with a vigor. He pumped his fingers in and out in steady rhythm, building speed as your hips began to shake in response. You rocked into Coriolanus’s mouth, riding his face as he licked over you and fucked you with his fingers.

“Oh, oh…”

He sucked your clit, every nerve on fire and the smooth walls around his fingers wet and tight and gently opening, weakening, with each coaxing touch. You had to concentrate on the fists of fabric in your hand to keep the gown from dropping, from getting in his way, but all your muscles ached to do was convulse, to claw for him, to pull him closer. Coriolanus built speed, as if the touch of his fingers were attuned to the miniscule way you clenched and pulse. There was the panting of breath, the wetness of skin, the ravenous, beastly groans coming from two throats. Something was close. Something was getting closer, and close, and you let your eyes fall closed.

“Coriolanus…”

Your name broke through the room suddenly, shrill, on the intercom, and your eyes sprang open in horror. Coriolanus froze, and your hands clapped over your mouth to hold back a scream. He jerked his face away, harshly, and you sank to the floor in turn, letting your graduation gown balloon over your trembling legs and weakened ankles. Coriolanus fell back on his heels, looking up at the speakers in the corner as it came again.

“If you are still on University premises,” the dry voice continued, “your diploma has been recovered from the Main Hall and can be collected from the administrative offices.”

The fucking diploma.

You covered your face in your fingers, and exhaled sharply. Your thighs felt heavy, hot, sweat trapped against ripped strands of nylon webbing across your legs. From between the knit of your fingers you could see Coriolanus slowly heave to his feet, a visible straining in his pants before he smoothed his gown to stand.

Something had shifted in the room. It had shifted from the first kiss. It was only now that you could feel it.

You lowered your fingers, dragging them across your cheeks. The side of your chipped nail cut across your skin.

Coriolanus looked down on you, an animal cowering in a cage of your own making, his chest rising with the same speed that hurtled through your veins. He lifted a hand, smoothed the side of his hair.

Looking up at him, you felt something else in the air shift in an uneasy way.

“I should go get my diploma,” you said.

He glanced up at the camera, still facing the rest of the room away from the privacy of your corner.

“I’ll leave first,” he said. “They’ll be looking for me.”

His words were shaking, but his tone was cold again. His friends, likely; his family, his lover. You turned your face away.

“Yeah. I can wait a minute after you.”

“Count to ninety,” he said, and his voice was fast, as if he were already thinking of something else.

Before the sound of Coriolanus’ footfall echoed through the room, there was the sound of something else – rustling, and something falling to the ground. You looked up, at the stiff retreat of his back as he strode quickly from the room, his reach for the door, and the way his shoulders slipped through the gap. When it slammed, you turned your flushed face down to the floor, the place where you had clawed your cheek beating hotter.

He had flung money at your feet.

Part III: Sui Juris

[radiomonkeys2]

Human vs Saiyajin: Horatio vs Yulaan, courtesy of Salvamakoto

Taken directly from Hokuto no Ken, during Kenshiro's fistfight with Raoh.

Something of a follow-up to 

1965 Bering Sea, near Mekoryuk, Alaska

Sol Yulaan and a fellow sailor named Billy Davis have a nice, calm discussion about who was Western history's greatest war hero

Horatio in the back there doesn't think Yulaan is being considerate of Billy's opinion that Davy Crockett is better than Leonidas and Achilles. 

And don't worry, folks— Billy survives and the two settle their differences over alcohol (which does little for a Yaban but it'd be rude to not celebrate a good fight discussion).

Admittedly, Billy might've initially disregarded Yulaan for being a dame, and she may have had to politely remind him she's a bolloi, but it all worked out

On that trip through the northwest seas, Horatio is one of those men who gets tickled by the prospect of fighting Yulaan. But you see, especially in the 1960s, a male fighting a female in direct physical combat is utterly verboten— at least in public. Even with the arrival of Yabans on Earth, the idea of men fighting bollois just is not palatable despite the clear differences bollois present vs human women. And bollois, at least those well integrated into Earth culture, know better than to publicly challenge men to fights for a similar reason: the whole "men mustn't fight ladies" isn't just due to pure chivalry but also due to the potential humiliation and shame if a man were to lose. It's sort of a double standard: men can't let women win honestly because to be a man bested by a woman is to be utterly emasculated and seen as pathetic and weak, but a man can't let a woman lose because how dare a man strike a lady in battle! So best to just not let the two fight at all to avoid that contradiction— better for a man and a lady to do the other f-word with each other. And for bollois, who nevertheless still carry the form and tag of ladies for two, ahem, very obvious reasons, this can get frustrating seeing as their blood screams for battle and challenge. Hence why they do often fight in private instead, as for men interested, the sheer strength and ability of bollois is second to none, and said private battles don't carry the potential for social stigma or humiliation. These will likely never be televised until some future more liberal age comes to pass, and most people know these go down behind the walls of society, but at least at this point in time, few make a big deal out of it. It's a similar phenomenon to courtesans and prostitution when you think about, except for the obvious differences.

This is what gets Horatio to try this chances against Yulaan, though as just himself, he wouldn't stand much of a chance, so Yulaan gathers a chi multiplier for him to exploit: one which boosts his human abilities enough to actually give her a secular challenge. By this point in time, the other men of the King Salmon know what Yulaan's about, so this is an impromptu shadow-duel. 

[shannonsketches]

Can I just say I love how you can be somewhat critical about certain things about totk without completely and unnecessarily trashing it and even adding humor. I wish more people were like that.

Aw, thank you! I'm just trying to make sure folks feel safe to enjoy things here (as long as, yknow, the respect goes both ways).

I definitely used to be someone who would trash stuff unnecessarily, and I'll always credit a mutual (although I did forget their handle,,,I'm so sorry) I had at the time for just letting me go on a long rant about why something bothered me and went, "That sounds really personal, but that got nothing to do with this." And all at once I realized I'd been projecting my needs/wants/expectations onto other peoples work (commercial or otherwise), and holding strangers responsible for serving me, specifically! Which is an absurd thing to expect from anyone!!

And sometimes I still forget the world doesn't revolve around me, glorious me, and I have to go back and apologize and do my mental health homework to figure out why I reacted a certain way, and why I took something so personally. But it's been really helpful to try and do the homework first, or type that whole salty take up and delete it or draft and review it again in the morning, before you make a stranger (or a friend!) feel bad or unsafe with you for the crime of enjoying something you didn't (which I have done, many times, and feel very bad about).

Plus, I've learned that if you're someone who is always analyzing and critiquing things, those moments can be really good practice for (respectfully! privately! in your own space! not on that stranger's post! not in that poor dev's DMs!) considering what you might have done differently, assuming you had the same parameters and resources available. I find this is especially good practice if you plan on entering a creative field! I promise you get a lot more sympathetic with how things turn out when you force yourself to dream within a budget and a deadline.

(also being nice to professionals is good practice! Some of them are jerks, true, but 99% of devs artists designers directors etc are just doing their best under a ton of stress and pressure to make everyone happy, and they're usually really proud of what they're able to accomplish, and they are absolutely not getting paid enough to deal with the comment section)

Once you let go of that need to be Correct and have control over stuff that isn't about you, you end up having a lot more fun and a lot less limitations for playing in the sandbox, and with other creatives! Plus you learn about yourself, and what your priorities and tastes are. You become a better story teller and collaborator when you can not only find but actively look for the good in things you may have completely dismissed as a kneejerk reaction to not liking something about it.

And again, I'm definitely still an ass, a lot more often than I'd like to be. I still struggle with that need to be Correct and to have complete control over my sandbox. I still get defensive and have to navigate rejection sensitivity when someone's idea contradicts mine. I definitely understand the reactivity when something means a lot to us, and it takes practice to share when you're used to being protective! But it's so, so worth it.

You meet such amazing people and find such wonderful, supportive communities when you embrace two cake theory. I highly recommend making an effort to expand your perspective and be a part of that support.

Supportive Community Pro-Tips from a Fandom Old Guy:

You don't have to adopt a theory to enjoy or appreciate it!

If someone's takes upset you, just block them. It's okay.

Don't critique someone's work unless they ask for critique

Don't RB someone's work with negative/contradictory comments, just make your own post

DO freak out in the tags/comments/inbox if you like something

Obviously don't wish harm over ships/headcanons/etc, just block!

Remember someone else's work is not about you

Remember someone else's work is Not About You

Are they experiencing a thing? Are they sharing their experience with you? That's a gift! Treat it like one!

Elitism is a mind killer. Newer ≠ Lesser, Older ≠ Greater. We all have stuff to offer and we all have stuff to learn.

and if I may impart the most important thing I've ever learned in fandom:

BE NICE TO EACH OTHER, WE'RE ALL JUST MAKING STUFF UP!

Thank you for the lovely message and for letting me ramble I'm!! Sorry this got so long and preachy, haha

[uselessheretic]

Harm Reduction in the OFMD Fandom: Izcourse Edition

I keep wanting to write something up about this, but getting stumped on how to even begin. Largely, because I already know exactly what bad faith arguments are going to be made off the bat, and I feel reluctant to clog down my writing trying to dispel every weird take about things I didn't say. So, it is what it is. If you have questions please ask politely and use a bit of critical thought beyond trying to find anything to grab hold on to contradict.

The Izzy fandom gets harassed. A lot. Nobody here understands why either. When referencing harassment, I'm most likely referring to either direct abusive messages such as anon hate through Tumblr, or talking about the OFMD through a holistic view that includes harassment through Twitter of common dogpiling, stalking, spreading of false rumors, the occasional doxxing, and other things. I'm including Twitter in this conversation because the world doesn't revolve around individuals on Tumblr, and for some of us, it's beneficial to talk about the greater context of fandom without assuming that we are blaming random Tumblr users for Twitter drama. That said, a lot of people use both platforms and the two of them are closely linked, especially since a lot of meta from Tumblr gets poorly replicated on Twitter.

So we're on the same page, the way I'm defining harassment is: The continuous or severe targeting of an individual or group through harmful behavior that includes physical threats, name-calling, impersonation, spreading malicious rumors, and encouraging others to harass a target. This is not an all-inclusive list, but I want to create a baseline for what I'm talking about. This also means things such as stating you dislike a character, responding to another's post to disagree, or speaking positively about a character. This also means that instances of conflict are not inherently harassment either, although this is murkier as we move through the gray area of "continuous or severe."

I'll also be using the terms "Izzy likers" and "Izzy crit" since those seem to be each respective sides more preferred terms and things like "Izzy stans" or "Izzy antis" can hold negative connotations. I'll also be referring to the anon hate received as from a singular person, unless noted otherwise, and as "L anon."

So, I guess let's dive into it?

I've seen the question posed a few times "Well, what do you want us to do about it?" when Izzy likers have brought up the topic of harassment or alluded to the fact that Izzy crits as a group contribute to this. It's true that our individual ability to stop harassment completely is an impossible task, however, there are actions that can be taken as a collective to reduce the amount of harm being done. I don't believe it's true that harassment is an aspect of fandom one must accept to be within it. I also don't think it's right to equate messages telling Black people to get lynched as the norm in fandom everyone has to deal with. I understand that anon hate is common throughout fandoms, but the vitriol and noticeable escalation of L anon is an anomaly that deserves to be taken seriously.

Actions I'm proposing (and will elaborate on) are for Izzy crits to STOP:

Minimizing the harassment of Izzy likers

Separating this harassment from greater conversations of misogyny, transphobia, racism, and antiblackness

Engaging with L anon unless it is to very clearly condemn him without caveats

Encouraging the association of liking Izzy as being an indicator that someone is racist, abusive, homophobic, etc

Using the #Izzy Hands tag as a place to post character hate, criticisms of Izzy likers, or to find meta focused on disliking him.

Minimizing harassment and distancing identity

This includes things such as suggesting that the harassment might not exist, that it isn't that bad, it's just a troll, turn off anon, everybody deals with this, and the idea that people are using discussions on harassment as an excuse. Minimizing harassment normalizes the behavior and continues a narrative that Izzy likers should expect to get harassed online. Downplaying the effects or severity dismisses the victims of it, and refusing to recognize that this is a form of passive endorsement.

I feel some type of way about this personally because I don't appreciate my experiences of racist harassment being treated as something I should just get over or normal in fandom. Like sorry to keep bringing it up I guess lol but like?

This isn't okay and it goes beyond "normal" fandom harassment and I feel like I'm going crazy having to argue that this isn't just something shitty that happens to everyone, but an awful, violent, and frightening message(s) to receive. It genuinely concerns me to see white people in fandom brush it off and make a choice to instead focus on the implications of shipping Izzy with his boss. It points towards a trend of dehumanization online where we no longer see people as people, but characters in our screen who have lesser value than our favorite blorbos. I cannot believe I have to say this.

Purposely separating L anon from identity is another way of passively justifying abuse. Whenever people brush off L anon, it's often in the context of anon hate happens to everyone and ignores the fact that more marginalized identities are getting the brunt of this which includes rape threats, suicide baiting, and overt antiblackness. It can often be followed with reminders that Izzy crits of color also receive racism. The thing is, saying that Izzy likers are receiving racist harassment, doesn't mean that other groups of fans do not. The harassment Izzy likers gets still matters, even if you don't view it as unique. It's concerning to hear white allies especially utilize this rhetoric as if they have a limited capacity of caring for poc.

Engaging with L anon

A lot of people do straight up delete L anon asks. On the Izzy likers side at least, there's been an uptick in people posting the hate they receive or collecting screencaps before blocking out of a necessity of proving that the hate exists. I think a lot of us would prefer to not have to do that!

It would help if Izzy crits made an effort to stop engaging with the anon unless it was to condemn his actions. Certain forms of engagement can be viewed as encouragement whether intentional or not, and it feels noticeable that in the last few weeks L anon has gotten increasingly violent.

You don't have to tell L anon that "I'm not even an Izzy stan so you have the wrong blog anyways" because this normalizes the idea that he should be focusing his attention on Izzy likers. You don't have to argue and justify to L anon that you actually dislike Izzy or prove that you're critical of him for the same reason.

You certainly don't need to tell L anon "I don't care if you harass Izzy stans" and it's insane to pretend like this is anything but a dick move.

Telling L anon "you act just like an Izzy stan!" or that they're "Izzy coded" reinforces to him that Izzy likers are abusers and racists, therefore affirming in his mind that they're acceptable targets.

Seriously, if your response is anything other than "sending these messages is fucked up and nobody in fandom deserves this for liking a character" then just block and delete the ask. Any amount of attention can be twisted into positive affirmation and adding on "harassment is bad" doesn't negate the impact of confirming to anon that you view Izzy likers as racist abusers.

Encouraging the association of liking Izzy as being an indicator that someone is racist, abusive, homophobic, etc

It sucks stop doing it. We can draw a difference between Izzy the character and Izzy likers. In the end, your interpretation of a character is yours and nobody can stop you from having it. Putting thought into how you frame meta, however, could help lessen this association.

Be careful with your language and ensure that you are referring to the character when discussing the show. "Izzy stans refuse to see that he's X" is an unnecessary statement when it can just be that "Izzy is X which you can see from scene Y." When there is a specific trend of harassment being justified via claiming a group of people is bigoted, it's worth the effort of minimizing feeding into that assumption.

Saying shit like "Izzy likers who are poc are desperate for white approval" is like for one really shitty lmao? But also feels bad in a climate where people are being called Candace Owens race traitors who should be killed.

There's a great article that touches on this and the way that even when someone isn't directly harassing a person, their separate posts in combination with others, reifies the idea that the victim in an appropriate target.

The author further elaborate in her research about third order or indirect harassment.

The examples she uses here are a bit more extreme, but this is the same framework she's utilizing in her article discussing harassment on the left and in queer communities.

When you answer L anon and say shit like:

or respond to concerns about racist targeting like this:

I am in fact going to feel some type of way about a week later seeing L anon increasingly escalate his behavior until I get six messages in my inbox calling me a race traitor bigoted cunt. It doesn't matter if you say "it's bad to be racist" when you're already confirming the idea that Izzy likers are the main exporters of racism in fandom which is explicitly L anon's justification for sending hate.

Tagging character hate

I still can't believe that this is an argument when it's a basic courtesy within fandom and has been for years. Tagging character hate doesn't constitute as harassment. However, it does exacerbate an already hostile climate between fans and allows for more conflict that could be easily avoided.

If a meta post is in the character tag then people are going to respond to it. It being tagged communicates that this is something people can respond, especially when you encourage people who agree with you to comment.

If you want less Izzy likers to respond to your Izzy meta then just stop tagging it as #Izzy Hands. It will greatly decrease the amount of interaction! Putting posts into the tag ends up baiting people into responding, continuing to draw out a conflict that nobody wants to be in.

If you don't like Izzy and you think he's too popular a character or his fandom is where you end up seeing the most toxicity come from please consider not going through his tag. If you instead look through tags of characters you like, you will be rewarded with content of that character. The character tag will not function adequately as a place to locate critical content for them, so just cut out the middle man, and stop using it because it's just pissing both sides off and "I have a right to be here!" is the dumbest hill to die on.

Using alternative tags for organization literally just makes things easier for everyone. Tagging things with #Izzy crit or something like #Dizzy Izzy allows you to have a space to locate similar posts without having to expose yourself to a group of people you don't like. It also provides an easy tag for people to block and avoid seeing on their dashboard. This is better than people just having mute the tag to filter out when going through his character tag, because it doesn't require an entire community to cater towards your need to post things in a tag on principle. People who are new to the fandom and just happen to like the character also don't have to be confused by seeing chara hate in the tag and going to argue with it.

It is good to center your fandom experience on things you like instead of being set on asserting your right to be within a space you don't like! I promise!

[kyogre-blue]

Hey so, I wanted to let your know that I really love your Naruto: Dashing Rescue fic. It's one of my all times fave time travelling fic. I still have the tumblr tag followed lol it's a lil reminder to self to reread whenever I come across it in the 'followed tag' section

I don't ever if you ever confirmed that it's abandoned work or not, I was wondering if you had anything to share about naruto rescue? Maybe your thoughts while writing it or scraps. Maybe not, it's been years also

Anyways, the main purpose was that I wanted to let you know that I really love your writing and a lot of your old works (oh khr too! but esp Dashing Rescue). You were an author that made me smile whenever I see your name as a teen learning about fandoms and searching out fics. I really enjoyed reading a lot of your works!

(Dumb me refresh the page before sending so I had to retype that twice and ahh I realised this got long. My bad)

Wow, that's really nice to hear. I'm glad that you enjoyed those fics! Looking at the dates, it's been almost 10 years since I posted that particular one... hard to believe.

Time travel has always been one of my most favorite fic tropes, and Naruto was really great for those because we had so many time periods, each with their own cast. The possibilities were endless.

For Dashing Rescue, I can see I posted three parts. I dug up my old doc, but there isn't much in it past those. I think I considered part 3 a good stopping point, though it looks like I wrote about a page of part 4 and outlined a few general ideas after that. I'll add that under the cut, in case you're curious.

Aside from that, the only thing I recall is that was using the movies for material and visual inspiration, but that part was probably obvious.

Anyway, thank you again for this really sweet ask. I really appreciate it ^o^

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part IV: Sand and Black Iron

Summary: AU, time travel. Finding himself in the past, Naruto has so far managed to hold back the tide of the Third Shinobi World War. That proves increasingly difficult as the Sandaime Kazekage goes missing. 

~.~.~

“Thanks for agreeing to see us, Jiji,” Kushina said, bowing deeply in complete contradiction to her impolite way of addressing the Hokage — she had picked it up from Naruto. Next to her, Minato did the same. Both of them spared a glance at Sakumo, who was also waiting in the Hokage’s office and greeted them with a friendly nod. 

“This is about Naruto, isn’t it?” Sarutobi guessed, setting aside his brush to give them both his full attention.

It had been two years since Naruto became an official member of the Uzumaki clan, and thus Konoha. That time had been plenty for the Sandaime to start feeling like he was going grey under his hat. 

Especially after Naruto took off for Suna a few months ago and refused to come back, despite the many diplomatically worded but rather displeased messages Sarutobi received from Suna. He just hoped that whatever this was didn’t turn out to be an international incident. 

“Yeah,” Kushina said bluntly. “He, uh, sent me a message.” 

Or rather, he and Kushina had set about abusing the fact that they held two halves of a single bijuu, which could communicate with each other regardless of distance or circumstances. Kurama had been nothing resembling pleased at being used as an elaborate communication system, but agreed to relay urgent messages in exchange for Kushina changing the form of confinement she used on her half. She still had no idea how Naruto managed to sweet-talk the bijuu into it from his side. 

“The Kazekage’s disappeared,” Kushina relayed, “but Naruto thinks he has a lead, and he wants help tracking the person responsible.” He had been increasingly evasive about what exactly he knew or at least suspected, and why, but Kushina didn’t mention that. Naruto got like that sometimes. 

Still not used to these sorts of things, especially stated so baldly out of nowhere — the Kazekage, really? — Sakumo choked a little, but quickly swallowed his surprise. The Sandaime simply closed his eyes and sighed. International incident didn’t begin to cover it. 

“With the Kazekage has gone missing, it’s naturally a very urgent request,” Minato added. “I might be able to expedite the journey there, if I can be assigned to the team.” 

Kushina nodded sharply. “And I can file the mission request for him,” she offered. 

“There is no need for that,” Sarutobi said, forcing down the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. “I will offer our services to Suna as a peace gesture.” 

“Who will you send?” Sakumo asked, as he finally processed what he had heard. 

“Sakumo-sempai, perhaps you could…?” Minato suggested. After all, there was no doubt about who possessed the best tracking skills in the village.

Sakumo shook his head. “That would be a terrible idea. They hate me there,” he summed up. “I was on the Suna front during the Second War, and…” 

There was no need to continue. That was where Sakumo gained his fame — and notoriety, upon a path of corpses. He didn’t regret what he had done for Konoha’s sake, but war bred hatred in a vicious cycle. Back then, he had been the same, hating his enemies for what had been done to his comrades and paying back with the same in turn. 

“Sending me would be more like a declaration of war than a peace gesture,” Sakumo concluded.

“It would not send the correct message, and would be a complication in itself,” Sarutobi agreed. “Unfortunately, most of the others who would be my second choice are out of the village and won’t be able to return quickly enough. Do you have a recommendation, Sakumo?” 

Frowning, the man looked out the window across the village. There was more at stake than first appeared — a situation like this, involving a Kage, no less, could easily deteriorate quickly and violently. So far, they had just barely managed to avoid the outbreak of another war, but the balance was delicate at best. If Suna faltered, it wouldn’t take Iwa long to strike. And then...

On the other hand, this was Konoha’s chance to build a strong alliance with Suna. It would put the Suna council, and possibly even their Kage, in Konoha’s debt. They would be able to present a united front against Iwa, and further strengthen their position with Kumo as well. 

A chance to bury the ills of the previous war…

“Kakashi,” Sakumo said, startling the others. “I recommend Kakashi.” 

“Sakumo, are you sure?” Sarutobi asked, his brow furrowing as he sat forward and studied his old comrade. 

“I’m sure. Kakashi has been a chuunin for four years now. He lacks experience, but his skills are top notch. His nose rivals mine, he’s observant and analytical, and he can call on one of our summons to assist him,” Sakumo explained.

The pride was clear in his voice. Minato, as Kakashi’s jounin teacher, nodded in agreement, though he also still appeared surprised by the choice. 

“And… This is our chance to bury the grudges of the past. We have to take the first step. What better way to prove that we trust Suna and are serious about this alliance?” Sakumo smiled. “And I trust Minato and Naruto to keep him safe, should something go wrong.” 

“...I won’t let anything happen to him,” Minato promised, recovering first. 

Sarutobi took several moments longer to consider the suggestion. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Then I will dispatch Minato and Kakashi to Suna in all haste.” 

“What? I want to go too! We’ll be a four-man team then!” Kushina protested. 

While Sarutobi tried to think of some subtle way to tell her that the Kyuubi jinchuuriki wasn’t going to be allowed off into a foreign village, which could very well turn unstable at any moment, all without letting Sakumo know the situation, Minato quickly spoke up, “I don’t think I could take you that far,” he said apologetically. “Kakashi and myself will already be difficult…” 

Kushina eyed him dubiously. Even though she was one of the few who understood the theoretical underpinnings of Hiraishin, she didn’t have the experience to judge how much and how far Minato could teleport. 

Theoretically, Hiraishin’s chakra cost depended on the size and weight of what he was teleporting, though there were some specific caveats regarding distance and the placement of the seals — it all depended on how you went about it.

Kushina was right to distrust him. Minato might have still been able to manage another person, but at least this way there was a legitimate reason for her to stay in Konoha. 

But she didn’t call him out on it. “He better come home after this,” she said instead. “It’s been months.” 

Minato nodded sharply. “I’ll bring him back once we’re done.” Even if it meant a quick ambush. 

“I’ll let Naruto know you’re coming,” Kushina said, and both the young jounin took their leave. 

Left alone with Sakumo, Sarutobi shot the other man a considering look. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I have no doubt Minato and Naruto will protect him to the best of their ability,” and that ability was really quite impressive, “but you don’t have to risk Kakashi on this. We can send someone else.” 

aaaaaa

///////The Third World War was put off, but relations are rough, especially when the Kazekage suddenly goes missing. (Minato is eighteen, Kakashi is ten, and Naruto is twenty one.) 

Naruto knows that the true cause is Sasori. He talks to Chiyo and takes off, with Minato and Kakashi following. Chiyo suggested that Sasori would have gone to the old Rouran ruins.

Naruto asks Sakumo to make Konoha into a village that never abandons even one of its people.

—————

Timeline

Naruto arrives 21 yrs pre-series, 25 yrs pre-Shippuden, 10 yrs before he was born.

Part I, Kumo's kidnapping attempt Minato, Kushina — 13 Kakashi — 5 Naruto — 16

(Part II — 3 years in between)

Part III, Sakumo's mission Minato, Kushina — 16 Kakashi — 8 Naruto — 19

Part IV, Kazekage abducted Minato, Kushina — 18 Kakashi — 10 Naruto — 21 Sasori — 15

Kannabi Bridge, old timeline Minato, Kushina — 20 Kakashi — 12

Kyuubi attack, old timeline Minato, Kushina — 22 Kakashi — 14

—————

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part IV: Bare Your White Fangs

Summary: AU, time travel. 

The Third War almost breaks out when people with bloodlines start to go missing, 

Pakura from Suna, Gari from Iwa, Toroi from Kumo, and Mei from Kiri.

Obito gets kidnapped by Hiruko, Orochimaru's childhood friend and assistant. 

Orochimaru is disgraced for his support and participation in the research.

—————

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part V: Rose-tinted Dawn

Summary: AU, time travel. 

Jiraiya gets word of his old students being in trouble and asks Naruto to look into it. It's Madara confrontation time. 

Minato and Kushina get trapped in a genjutsu world where Naruto is their son, and blond. It's really weird for them.

—————

Because the third war never happens, Minato is not nearly as famous. Orochimaru is not a Yondaime candidate either. Instead, Sakumo takes it.

—————

[mybworlds]

Chapter 10: Into the depths

Pairing: The Hound x Sansa Stark

Summary: Arya, Sandor and Sandor continue their journey. Arya and Sansa keep arguing, while Sandor notices how different the two sisters are from each other.

Chapter Warnings: language, violence

Masterlist

Before to start... thank you to follow me, if you want to be tagged in the next chapters, please let me know! if you want to ask me smt, you can write down here or you can inbox me. Please remember English is not my first language. And in this chapter you can read about the scene between Arya and the Hound in the 8th episode of the third season of Game of Thrones.

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

"You're a bloody old hick!" cried Arya.

"One more word and I'll make you eat that tongue!" barked the Hound angrily.

"You're a murderer, you're … so horrible that even Hell doesn't want you!" resumed Arya.

Arya and the Hound had done nothing but quarrel since they had left the Whispering Wood, Sansa in contrast had become tremendously taciturn. Sansa sighed from time to time and prayed that she might be able to save her mother and brother lives.

"Say something to this-this filthy worm!" hissed Arya, turning for the first time to her sister in the hope of finding support, but Sansa-who sat on Stranger-only gave her a long, stern look. Arya seemed to see her mother's reproachful gaze and lowered her gaze, finally becoming silent.

"Seven cursed Hells be thanked!" blurted out the Hound, and Sansa smiled.

However, Arya's verbal - and then physical - confrontations toward Sandor Clegane continued so that he finally blurted out in exasperation, "Next time you try to hit me, I'll tie your hands behind your back. Next time you try to run away, I'll tie your feet. Scream, screech, try to bite me, and I'll put a gag on you. We can ride together, or I can slam you sideways into the saddle like a slaughter sow. The choice is yours."

Sansa turned a glance toward her sister; she wanted to silently tell her to stop acting like a wild horse, but her sister mimicked an obscene epithet with her lips that made her blush violently.

The two sisters stood together, but each ignored the other: Sansa watched the fire crackle and felt tremendously alone. Arya stood aside in a tree with her legs dangling.

The Hound was watching the scene and for some strange reason, he felt almost obliged to approach the little bird who had a tremendously sad expression painted on her face.

"Your sister is not easy," he said as he approached her.

"Yeah. She always has been in truth, but since she has been completely alone she has gotten worse. She's aggressive, always furious, always … looking for something."

"Revenge." completed for her Sandor "She in a way reminds me of me, angry and always wanting to avenge the wrongs she has suffered."

"Yes, but she takes it out on me for everything. Even if it rains! I am the cause of his every misfortune, maybe I was wrong to take Joffrey's side, but … I thought doing so was the right thing." she tried to justify herself "Arya will never forgive me."

"Maybe." he said, "Or maybe time a moon or two and she'll laugh about it."

"Arya? You don't know her." contradicted him Sansa "Besides, she hates that I take your side, she says you're … a murderer."

"But I am," he agreed.

Sansa looked at him "I know who you are, but I also believe there is good in you."

Sandor looked at the red-haired girl "You're too good, you only see what you want to see." he shook his head and for a moment looked at the flames "But there is nothing in me but death and destruction. Those four pricks in that cave reminded me of that."

She looked at him in amazement "So the words of Beric Dondarrion and Thoros were enough for you to believe this again!"

"I am that! Only death and destruction for Sandor Clegane."

"I don't believe that! I mean look at what you are doing for me and for Arya! Isn't what you are doing a commendable act?"

"I'm doing it for money, not for the fucking desire to travel, sleep in the open, and piss wherever!" barked the Hound.

Sansa swallowed as she looked away: she didn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.

In truth, he did not believe it himself, but he said it in a tone that was particularly convincing that the eldest of the Starks desisted from further words on the subject.

Sandor did not sleep that night: he watched over the two Stark sisters. The youngest went to sleep away from the fire and hid behind a bush; when Sandor went to check on her she addressed him with an epithet worthy of Flea Bottom. The eldest, the one who had entrusted herself totally to him, curled up not far from the fire and fell asleep shortly after telling him, "I trust you."

Why was that sweet little girl constantly reminding him how much trust she placed in him?

What did she really want from him?

But had she really seen his face?

Didn't she know that he is a murderer, a monster?

But what expectations?

Yet she persisted in seeing that tiny, invisible part of him that she called "good."

The Hound thought he would do anything for her, but especially not to disappoint her expectations.

If Stark was under the illusion that those pretty little words she liked so much were enough to turn him into a prince or a lord, she had completely mistaken the person!

He was a free man whose goal was to bring a person home in exchange for money, period. What could have been praiseworthy or good about that?

Nothing, he answered himself.

But then why did he feel that those words about making that trip for money suddenly rang false to him?

With that question in his mind, he slowly slipped into a sleep tormented by the heat of the fire and the burning of flesh, of his flesh.

At the first light of dawn the first to awaken was Arya who would have very, very much wanted to strike and kill that monster, but she saw with horror that instead the monster had fallen asleep within a stone's throw of her sister; she approached Sansa who was sleeping with her lips parted and her arms abandoned near the now extinguished fire and roused her.

"Wha - ?" she made to ask Sansa, but Arya clamped her mouth shut.

"Let's go away." she mimicked with her lips so that the Hound would not hear her.

Sansa shook her head and stood there, still.

Arya took her sister's hand "Do it for our family." she told her in a whisper.

"He," Sansa said, pointing to Sandor, "is taking us to our mother and brother."

Arya shook her head "It's a deception. He wants to sell us. I heard that."

Sansa thought perhaps her sister had a point, but something made her trust the man as strong as he was uncouth, and so she did not move.

"You are so stupid," Arya scolded her.

"He is our best protection," Sansa reminded her.

Arya cursed her sister and went off to train somewhere.

Sansa was now awake, the Hound was still resting, so she told herself it might be best to freshen up: she walked over to the river and gently bathed her feet. The water was cold, but Sansa found it most pleasant. She closed her eyes and prayed that they might make it in time to get the rest of her family to safety, that Arya might love her again, and that the Hound might find some serenity.

Praying to the gods, she took off what was left of her dress and carefully observed that the scratches and bruises from that horrendous episode in the woods were almost completely gone, then she entered the water and felt a sense of well-being, wet her hair and sang a dirge that her mother used to sing to her when she was a child.

When the Hound opened his eyes Arya and Sansa Stark had disappeared, he got up suddenly and drew his sword, where on earth had they gone?

Had someone kidnapped them?

But as he wondered this, he barely got into the grove and saw that little demon Arya Stark prancing and moving like a Braavos dancer.

He approached her, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Practicing." she replied concentrating and resuming moving her little sword and doing a little somersault in the air shortly after.

"In what? Ways to dying?" he asked, mocking her.

"No one's gonna kill me," she replied confidently.

"They will if you dance around like that. That's no way to fight."

"It's not fighting," she explained to him, "it's water dancing."

"Dancing"? Maybe you ought to put on a dress. Who taught you that shite?" he laughed.

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived: Syrio Forel, the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos."

He spat upon seeing that kind of dance "And where is he now?"

"He's dead."

"And who killed him?"

"Meryn Trant."

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived, killed by Meryn fucking Trant? Any boy whore with a sword could beat three Meryn Trants."

"Syrio didn't HAVE a sword! OR armor!" she screamed.

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived didn't have a sword?" he laughed again "All right, you have a sword. Let's see what he taught you."

Arya twirled the little sword and struck the Hound, but his armor was too thick and Arya's sword too blunt to really do any damage, and so the only result was that the little girl's weapon barely grazed Sandor's armor, who, tired of the little Stark's words and gestures, struck her and reminded her that it was useless to try to hurt him or send him to Hell: he was the only chance to try to get to the Twin Towers before his uncle's wedding.

Then he turned away to go look for the other one, the little bird.

As he thought about where she might be hiding, he heard an angelic voice singing a sweet song, a song he did not know, and he slowly approached and saw her in the river. He should have immediately retraced his steps, but the backward vision of that little body stopped him in his tracks, her small back, the curve of her buttocks half disappearing between the waters of the stream and her arms washing over her paralyzed him.

He felt as if gripped by a force that even he could not defeat, even if he wanted to.

His heart began to beat strangely and differently in his chest….

A noise roused him from those thoughts that were taking on sinful overtones, and then, not to be caught looking at Sansa, he shouted looking the other way, "STARK!"

Sansa winced and covered her breasts bringing her arms to her chest and lowering herself just to cover her buttocks, how long had the Hound been there?

"Wait, please don't turn around," she shouted to be heard and having said these words she stepped out and covered herself wearing that little dress-once so beautiful and precious-now tiny.

The dress adhered to her figure leaving little to the imagination of others.

When she reached the man, he took a long look at her and she felt … strange.

"You're cold." he told her in an almost amused tone.

"I'm not." she asserted, but she was lying.

Sandor observed her body noticing her nipples turgid from the cold "Your body says otherwise."

Sansa looked at herself, then blushed and replied by telling him, "Don't look at me!"

"It's impossible not to, little bird," he bounced her, smiling wryly.

"Well, do it!" she ordered him, "From today, please don't look at my body anymore. You make me uncomfortable!" he added.

And it was true, every time Sandor looked at her, even a handful of seconds longer, it made her feel uncomfortable, something she could not even define, but it started from inside, from the center of her body and made her feel … incredibly strange and nervous.

Sandor smiled, grotesquely, but he smiled.

How long he had not been smiling he could not even remember!

With that little girl by his side, however, everything was easy for him, even smiling at those nervously charged words from her.

A few moments later Arya caught up with them, but she did not greet her sister nor did she have any kind words; on the contrary, she reprimanded her, telling her that with that dress on she looked like a whore. Sansa lowered her head deeply humiliated, perhaps that was why the Hound was smiling?

Because she looked ridiculous?

"Stop that right now, little girl!" scolded Sandor.

He hated that little girl by his side, hated how she posed, but especially how she spoke to her sister. Agreed, he was not the man who could make judgments about sibling relationships, but hating a sister for a damn wolf and some unspoken words in her defense seemed too much even for someone like him.

"What do you do otherwise? Draw your sword and kill me like Mycah?" the younger one taunted him.

Sandor shook his head and set Sansa on Stranger.

Arya looked at that scene and a strange sense of foreboding came over her.

"What did you really do to her, monster?" she asked him.

Sansa and Sandor looked at her for a long time.

"My sister is a fool and it must have only taken two little motions for her to believe who knows what! What did you promise her? A castle, that you'll get her a prince and in the meantime she can bang you?"

"ARYA!" shouted Sansa, the girl somewhat clumsily got off her horse and hit her sister with all the strength she had causing her to fall backward "Talk to me like that again and I'll have you left here."

None of the three spoke again for the next few hours: Sansa was wounded, deeply wounded in her soul; Arya was disgusted by her sister's attitude of total trust in the murderer who was escorting her - according to Sansa - home; Sandor was astonished at how the former had struck her sister, but Arya had brought it on herself!

[blurred-lines19]

"One bite and five days are all it took for the world to come to an end. Nearly two months after an unexplainable, violent illness swept throughout the globe like a raging wildfire, after cities have crumbled to ruin and most of humanity has been wiped out, only a few survive. Some of those still alive are just trying to survive, while others are searching for an answer—a reason why and what caused people to turn into walking, cannibalistic corpses that decay but never seem to truly die. Now, a group of survivors—a dog, few adult figures, and a bunch of teenagers—search for a cure and must figure out how to live with the undead amongst them, and how to deal with each other as relationships strain and tensions rise."

†· Word Count: 5198 †· Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types †· Rating: Mature †· Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death †· Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Jason Grace/Piper McLean, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, Hazel Levesque/Frank Zhang, Silena Beauregard/Charles Beckendorf, Thalia Grace/Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano †· Characters: Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson, Leo Valdez, Nico di Angelo, Frederick Chase, Frank Zhang, Luke Castellan, Hazel Levesque, Jason Grace, Piper McLean, Grover Underwood, Juniper (Percy Jackson), Katie Gardner, Travis Stoll, Connor Stoll, Chiron (Percy Jackson), Will Solace, Silena Beauregard, Charles Beckendorf, Clarisse La Rue, Thalia Grace, Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano †· Additional Tags: Angst · Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence · Inspired by The Walking Dead · Title from a My Chemical Romance Song · Found Family · Bittersweet · Based on a My Chemical Romance Song · I'm so sorry · Everyone Needs A Hug · Hurt/Comfort · Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse · Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson-centric · Betrayal †· **First Person POVs** †· Rated Mature for strong language, violence, sexual references, etc..

Annabeth

My breath hitches, a chill running through me as if I'm frozen in place.

"Drop it and turn around slowly," the person—I think it's a man—orders.

I do what he says and turn around with my hands up, reluctantly setting my dagger on the floor. The guy, who can't be much (if any) older than me, stares me down with hard, sea-green eyes. Did he come through the window? He must have since there is a barricade in front of the only other viable entrance.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" he asks, his words sharp and suspecting. With his eyes and the barrel of his gun still trained on me, the boy reaches behind him and grabs a long piece of scrap wood. At first, I think he is going to hit me with it, but all he does is start fixing the barricade in front of the door. "I asked you a question," he reminds me.

"I hardly think that's important," I respond. "And it is a pretty stupid idea to shoot that in here. Imagine how many walkers will show up at your doorstep. Then what?"

I still have my gun on me. Maybe I can wound his gun hand? (It contradicts what I just told him, but I'm mostly just trying to buy myself some time.)  I don't want to kill him; as far as I'm aware, he's just trying to survive like everyone else. 

My gaze drifts to the large black lab standing beside him. The dog lets out a low growl, but its owner puts a hand on its head, easing it back. Taking the hint, I revert my eyes back to the gun barrel aimed at my head.

"I didn't take your gun, but I'm about to."

Shit.

The guy sighs, clearly tired and irritated. "Look, you don't have to tell me your name—I don't even really care about that. I just want to know what you're doing here and what you want."

His messy, tangled black hair hangs in his eyes, obscuring most of his face. Everything except for his eyes, which look almost as if they’re glowing. 

I could possibly take him; his arm has to be getting tired. Except, despite appearing weary, he still looks as though he can easily defend himself. I'll keep it as a secondary option if I can't talk myself out of this.

"I got lost and somehow ended up here," I say, leaving out that I was in a group. "It was getting dark, and I was just looking for somewhere to stay for the night. That's it. I swear."

The guy looks me up and down, then holsters his gun. He definitely doesn’t trust me—and I certainly don’t trust him—but I'm grateful to not have a gun pointed at my head.

For the time being, anyway.

He turns back around and tinkers with the barricade a bit more, making sure it's secure. Just then, a thought strikes me. Is he trying to lock me in here?

"Whoa, wait a second," I say. "What are you doing?"

"You said you needed somewhere to crash, and you sure as hell can't go back out there," the guy informs me, his muffled footsteps following him as he walks out of the carpeted living space and into the kitchen; I can still see him because of the half wall between us. "They'd eat you alive in a minute.” He rummages through the cabinets.

"So, what, you're keeping me here because you don't want me to die? You obviously don't trust me—"

"Of course I don't. Still, I'm not the kind of person to send somebody off to their death just because I don't trust them," he tells me, his voice stern yet softer than before. Either way, it's an improvement compared to earlier. "But you're gone as soon as you can walk well enough. Got it?"

I watch him for a moment, trying to determine if he intends to kill me in my sleep or if he genuinely means well. (I reason the latter.) "Got it," I respond. Besides, he’s right; I’m blood in an ocean full of sharks. Not to mention that I can’t walk without nearly falling over, and my perception of everything is skewed.

He looks back at me for a second, an expression resembling something of contemplation, then turns his attention back to the dining table where he is taking out loot from his bag, which I assume is from a recent supply run.

Not sure what else to do, I sit on a dusty couch (vertigo and fatigue winning out) and look around the small apartment. Half of the furniture has been burned at some point by the looks of the bare, open space of the living room, void of any personalization; it looks like a stock photo of an apartment—not like somebody lives here. The only thing that does give it away are the sporadic, clean rectangles on the wall where paintings or photos would have been. A pile of photographs in the far corner of the gloomy, dust-covered room catches my attention. I don’t dare get up and look. (One: I will probably fall down; two: I don't want to start snooping around this guy's apartment.)

From where I’m sitting, I can see that the photo on the top of the pile is of a man and a woman, who has dark hair and blue eyes—from what I can make out in the dim light—both smiling. There is a young boy between them, about eight or nine, that looks similar to the guy before me. He has sea-green eyes, the same as the boy in the picture and the man standing by him. (They look almost identical. However, the man’s face is sterner. Moodier than his younger counterpart’s.)

The little boy, his face covered in blue frosting, is grinning from ear to ear like he’s the happiest kid on Earth.

The guy in front of me only vaguely resembles that now.

A sound like a thousand tiny alarm bells starts going off in my ears, sending a harsh pain through my skull. I press a hand to my ear, wincing at the pain. I’m all sorts of fucked up. Speaking of injuries… My ankle. I don’t want to look at it, but I need to. So, I glance down at it, and the sight of a red bruise peeking out from my boot makes me nauseous. Grimacing, I undo the laces on my boot, pull it off, and roll down my sock. Yep. I am definitely fucked. I force myself to choke back the bile threatening to come up my throat and assess the state of it. Blue and purple—almost black—bruises flourish around my ankle; they are worse than I thought they were.

“Here.” The boy with sea-green eyes appears beside me as I shimmy my foot back into my boot—I have no clue when he came back into the living room—holding out a wet cloth.

I blink at him, confused. What’s that for? He’s standing there, somewhat awkward at this point, as he waits for my reply. He taps his temple. “You’re bleeding,” he tells me quietly.

“Oh,” is all I say as I take the rag from his hand.

The guy’s brow furrows for some reason (I don’t know why). Then, his eyes widen as if he has made a realization. “Shit. I forgot,” he scolds himself. "You aren't bit, are you?"

"Um…" I look down at my arms and legs—I don't feel any pain other than in my ankle and the sore, hot, aching pain in my muscles. "I don't think so?" God, my head hurts. I just want to sleep…․

He walks around the couch, looks me over again for good measure, and nudges me forward to examine my back before determining that I'm clear.

Without saying anything else, the guy returns to the kitchen and resumes putting away cans of soup, SpaghettiOs, and bottles of water.

I wince as I dab the side of my head, seeing thick, sticky, dark red blood as I pull the damp cloth away. The bleeding must have slowed down. 

“Thanks,” I blurt.

He nods. “Sure. It’s not as bad as it looks, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“Your head. What did you even do?” he prods. “I’m gonna take a guess you had something to do with the car alarm. You nearly got me killed, just for the record.”

I brush the dark curtains aside and peek through the blinds at the street below, the car alarm still blaring. Walkers are milling about the sidewalks and in the middle of the road, the deafening scream of the car alarm drawing more and more of them. It should have stopped by now, and I really wish it would because it is doing nothing but drawing walkers and making my ears ring. Hopefully, it will shut itself off soon; I don’t want to think of how many there could be if it doesn’t stop. Who knows, though? They tend to get bored after a while, so maybe they will start moving away soon.

“I bashed a ghoul’s head on the hood,” I murmur. “Sorry about that.”

“Whatever gets it done. Next time, I would try to avoid setting off car alarms in the middle of New York City.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t intentional.”

Looking back out the window, the few street lamps that miraculously still work make the undead horde—which has gone from around fifty to a hundred or more in the past half hour—more visible. Most of them are swarming the car, becoming confused when there is no living, breathing human or animal inside; they attack the car nonetheless. Some of the others are simply looking around, dazed.

“…Almost killed myself getting back.” I was distracted by the walkers down below that I didn’t realize the boy was talking to me.

I close the blinds, turn my attention back to him, and pretend like I was listening. “I’d imagine,” I reply.

He raises his eyebrows. "What's that meant to mean?"

I really must have missed something—the context of the conversation, most likely. This concussion really isn't helping my ADHD. "I just meant that, with how everything is, it wouldn't be all that shocking if you almost got bit."

The guy looks at me, slightly amused. "You weren't listening, were you?"

I groan, rubbing my face. "My head is throbbing right now. Cut me some slack."

"Well, I gave you Aspirin a few minutes ago," he tells me, putting something in a bowl. "Didn't you take it?"

What? I don't remember him giving me anything. "You did?"

The guy sets down whatever he is doing and walks over to me, grabbing two white pills and a bottle of water off of the coffee table in front of me, forcibly placing them in my hands. 

"Take them." He has his arms crossed, hovering over me—almost like a parent—to make sure that I take it. 

I don't question him and pop the Aspirin in my mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of water. In hindsight, I definitely should, but he's taken me by surprise.

Before I can say anything else to him, a horrible, blood-curdling scream resounds through the streets—so loud that it’s hard to pinpoint where it is coming from. Alarmed, the guy rushes to the window, hurriedly pushing aside the curtains to peer through the blinds. The blood drains from the guy’s face, and I don’t have to guess why. Following his gaze, I see a boy—twelve or thirteen years old at most—getting swarmed by walkers, falling in the middle of the street as he writhes in agony, the living dead tearing him apart. The boy screams and screams, his entrails hanging out of his torso and out of the mouths of the cadavers.

I quickly turn my head away and squeeze my eyes shut as if it will drown out the noise, unable to watch any more of it.

The guy throws the curtains closed, slamming his fists against the wall. “Damn it,” he grits out, pressing his forehead against it.

We sit in silence, the boy’s screams fading into nothing more than background noise. I’ve watched people get torn to shreds; none so young, though. That’s what makes it so much worse.

“Did you know him?” I finally ask.

The guy shakes his head absently, a faraway look in his eyes. “No,” he responds, adding: “I ran into him once while I was out a few days ago. Gave him some food and a knife. So much good that did…”

“At least you tried,” I tell him. “That boy wasn’t your responsibility, but you tried to help him anyway. You did what you could.”

“There could have been something more that I could have done. Taken him in— Something .”

He stands, staring at the shut curtains as we both realize that the boy’s wails have stopped. Hanging his head, he starts back to the kitchen, his shoulders tense with anger at the monsters who ripped apart an innocent child.

"What's your name?" I ask the guy before he can leave the room again.

"Why should I tell you mine if you won't tell me yours?"

Fair enough.

I relent. "It's Annabeth." I'm not even sure why I was so hesitant in the first place. What would he even do with it? It's not like he can use it against me, and I highly doubt the walkers care about anything I've done.

"Percy," he tells me.

A few minutes later, Percy offers me a bowl of lukewarm soup, which I take from him gratefully. 

Between the pain meds—I’m relieved to report that they really were Aspirin—and food, I’m able to think clearly. This begs the question: why did I agree to stay here with a guy I don’t know, let alone why he would let me. Percy doesn’t know me, either. For all he knows, I could want to kill him or take his stuff. The guy seems nice enough—cautious sure, but aren’t we all?—yet I still feel uneasy. Not because of him, I’ve determined, but from the exertion of everything that has happened today—it’s been a few hours, and my nerves are still on edge, even now. And it’s hard to trust anyone since all of this started.

After we finish eating, having said very little to each other, Percy takes our dishes and puts them in the sink. (I’m not sure how he plans to wash them since there isn’t any running water anymore.)

As I start to get settled in for the night, he throws me a blanket from the other end of the couch, telling me that I can sleep there.

I thank him. But a concern dawns on me.

“Aren’t you worried about them getting in?” I inquire.

Percy waves it off dismissively. “Of course, I worry a little bit,” he admits. “It would be stupid not to. But as long as I’m quiet, none ever come up here.” He follows his comment with: “Most of the time.”

I roll my eyes. “That makes me feel so much better.”

A slight smirk makes its way onto Percy’s face. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Percy goes to leave, yet he pauses at the door frame, pursing his lips as if mulling something over. He looks as though he is about to say something but just shakes his head and enters his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

I didn’t think that I would feel safe enough to fall asleep. However, my body seems to have other plans, and I begin to doze off.

†††

When I wake up, I immediately note that, despite how I got here, I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I rapidly sit up before discovering that that was a mistake. A feeling like somebody twisting it the wrong way while simultaneously squeezing it as hard as they can courses through my ankle, sore and painful. I grit my teeth in pain, covering my mouth with my hand to avoid making any noise. Even though I’m sitting down, I feel dizzy. 

I fall back onto the couch, lying down as I wait for the room to stop spinning before I make any more attempts to sit up. I glance down at my ankle, seeing that my boot is missing and has been replaced by a clean white bandage. I must have really been out of it to not notice somebody taking my shoe in the middle of the night. And, though the bandage covers most of it, the bruising has diminished significantly, leaving only (from what I can tell) pale purple ones in their wake; it still hurts, but not nearly as much as it did yesterday. A guy—he told me his name, but I already forgot what it was—I remember, offered to let me stay and gave me some pain medication before I went to bed last night, which has clearly helped a tremendous amount. Now that I think about it, even my head feels better (voiding the dizziness that came from my first attempt to get up). Like my ankle, it’s still pounding. Even so, conversely to yesterday, it is tolerable—more irritating than anything else.

The room has stopped spinning now, so I decide it’s time I try to get up again.

Okay. Take two.

Carefully, I pull myself up, my arm slung over the back of the couch. I wince as my muscles, still tight in pain, strain at the minimal effort, but relax once I get myself into an upright position. I swing my legs over, my feet touching the carpeted floor. That was easy enough.

Looking around the room, I don’t see the guy anywhere. I can’t imagine that he would still be asleep. (Then again, I have no clue what time it is.)

I remember that I had my bag with me, but I’m not sure where I set it. Hopefully, the guy didn’t take it. (Not that there is really anything of value in it, but it’s still a nice bag.) 

Oh, fuck. My dagger was on the couch beside me in case something happened, but I can’t find it. Before I start freaking out though, I see that my backpack is at my feet. Along with my dagger and missing boot.

Sighing in relief, I slip my foot into my boot, taking a minute to properly wake up. Yesterday was so hectic that I’m surprised I actually made it through the night. Truthfully, I should be dead right now. I guess I got lucky, at any rate.

Sunlight bleeds through the curtains, brightening the room in a soft yet dim light.

The events after that are a bit fuzzy. Nevertheless, I somehow ended up in this guy’s apartment, who offered to let me stay for a day or two.

A sound like someone walking over a metal grate comes from above. Faint at first, then slowly growing louder as it approaches. My fingers curl around my bronze dagger. One of those things should have no reason to come in here—I haven’t made a noise, and there isn’t anything that would typically draw them. Having said that, they don’t appear to be the most intelligent; they don’t need a reason to roam and lurk in the shadows. They’re half-dead, so what else are they supposed to do? There aren’t any hospitals to help them—they all got overrun within the first three days—and they don’t know what they’re doing.

Whatever it is that is coming down the fire escape is getting closer, the rattling of the metal dull yet loud enough that it could mean trouble.

Despite my current state, I still feel like I can take the walker (or person) coming down the fire escape. I hadn’t noticed when I initially got up, but the guy’s dog—I recall now that he said his name was Percy—is curled up in the corner of the living room, near the door. It doesn’t appear too concerned. That doesn’t change my worry, however.

Right as I stand up, ready for a confrontation, the black lab bounds across the room, its tail wagging happily behind it. I see a tall man outside the window, whom I presume to be Percy, carrying two pails of I’m not sure what. He carefully sets them down on the platform beneath his feet, and opens the window to the apartment; Percy picks the pails back up, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the bottom of the open window as he steps through.

The dog jumps on him, licking his face and nearly making him fall over. “Down, Mrs. O’Leary,” Percy says in a hushed tone. The dog doesn’t listen. “Easy, girl!”

Mrs. O’Leary, albeit rather reluctantly, hops off of her owner and returns to her corner, turning in circles a few times before laying down and resting her head on a stuffed lamb.

He looks in my direction, noticing that I’m awake. “Oh, good. You’re finally up,” Percy says.

“What time is it?” I question, tying my tangled curls into a ponytail to keep them out of my face.

He squints out the window, the sunlight bright and blinding. “About 1:00, I think,” he replies, closing the curtains. “You were out for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

Percy shrugs. “Two days.”

My eyes widen. I knew I was in rough shape, but I didn’t think it was that bad. “You are joking, right?”

I highly doubt he's joking, though I hope, rude as it would be, that he is. I’ve got to get back—not that there is anywhere to get back to, necessarily. We have a rendezvous point in case something happened before we could get to Virginia where my father is waiting for us. All the same, wherever my friends are is where I need to get back to.

“Nope. You had me worried for a minute,” he admits, carrying his buckets to the kitchen. “How’s your ankle, by the way? I did the best I could, but I’m not a doctor or anything.”

I move my left ankle around a little bit—carefully (I learned my lesson from this morning)—flexing it and moving it side to side. It still aches, but not as bad as it did a few days ago. “Better, thank you.” I watch him as he holds the buckets over the sink, pouring out some sort of liquid.

Whether or not it’s a good idea, I walk toward him, doing my best to avoid putting too much weight on it.

Compared to the living room, the kitchen is lighter, despite there being no windows. The living room walls are a pale shade of blue, the color muted by dust and grime. With the dark curtains in front of the windows, though (not to mention the disarrayed state of the room), the room looks ten times darker than it is. In contrast to the depressing atmosphere of the other room, the kitchen, while also a bit of a mess, is tidier. The counters are cluttered but otherwise clean. And the table, well, I can’t say much about it. Like the counters, it is littered with empty cans and dirty dishes stacked on top of each other, and the floor isn’t swept. In his defense, it is the apocalypse, so I doubt that is at the top of his priority list.

“What’s in the bucket?” I ask, sitting down at the light wooden table.

Percy either ignores me or simply doesn’t hear me.

“Now who isn’t paying attention?” I joke, a call back to yesterday—the night before last.

He turns around, a look of surprise on his face, as if he hadn’t known I came in. “Huh?”

“I asked what was in the buckets,” I repeat, stifling a laugh.

“Oh!” Percy says, setting down the now empty bucket and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. I’m beginning to realize that this guy is weird. (Not in a bad way, just…odd. He probably hasn’t seen or talked to anybody in a month, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.) “Sorry, I didn’t hear you talking.” I can see that. “It’s rainwater,” he informs me. “Since the water is shut off and everything, it’s the only way I can get any without going out and getting myself killed.”

Pouring some dish soap in the sink, Percy slides the dishes beside him into the soapy water and starts scrubbing them.

“You do have a way to purify that, right?” I wonder. “You can’t just drink rainwater without filtering or boiling it first.”

Percy doesn’t look back at me, but responds, “When I can. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s probably not a good idea to light a fire inside. Besides, this isn’t for drinking.”

“Fair point.” I pause for a second, thinking of an alternative. He has to have some way to purify it—he said it himself. “You said, ‘When I can,’ so you must have some way of doing it.”

“Well, when I can get away with it, I make a small fire and boil it while I’m up there during the day.”

How didn’t I think of that? I’m ninety percent certain that this concussion is making me stupid—and I’m not okay with it.

Since I don’t have much else to do, I ask if he wants help with the dishes. If I’m going to barge in on him, I should at least help out or something, especially considering that he kept me from becoming one of those things’ dinner. Percy accepts and offers to pull over a barstool.

“Why do you stay here?” I ask, the question having nagged in the back of my mind for the past ten minutes. “There isn’t anybody left here. Quiet frankly, I’m surprised you’re not dead yet.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he states, his tone transforming into something of forlornness; a dark shadow falls across his face. “This is all I know, too. Most of my family is probably dead now, anyway, so it isn’t like I have a purpose in leaving.”

“Leave to stay alive,” I advise, turning my head to look him in the eyes. He appears cleaner than he was the first time I saw him, I note. “Just because you don’t have anyone to look out for doesn’t mean that you just give up. You stay alive for yourself.”

Percy smiles a little bit, almost wistfully. “I’m not giving up—I can’t. It’s… It’s like somebody forcing you to move away without a reason. You just can’t bring yourself to it. You’ve lived in that place for as long as you can remember,” he explains. “I’m not going to just let these things take my home from me. Stupid bastards have already taken everything else from me—”

In his rising ire, he had been gripping the plate he was washing so tightly that it finally snaps under the pressure.

Percy just sighs and carelessly sets the broken dish in the empty trash can at the end of the counter. “Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly.

“It’s okay. We can talk about something else,” I offer, worried about him breaking yet another dish and accidentally attracting the undead.

Percy thanks me and starts up a different conversation—he’s more talkative than he was a few days ago—which I attempt to oblige him in, though I don’t feel much like talking after a while. The familiar pain in my ankle begins to slowly return, as does the throbbing in my head.

Percy stops drying the dishes, detecting my fatigue. “Hey, why don’t you go sit down,” he tells me quietly, taking the hand towel from my grasp. “I’ve got this.”

I nod without protest. We got most of the dishes dried off, so I don’t feel guilty about leaving him to finish the rest.

“I got some more stuff for your ankle,” he mentions. “It should be on the end table.”

On the end table beside the couch, as he said, is an instant cold pack and an ankle brace—the kind you would get at a drugstore. I have no idea how he got his hands on this stuff—at this point, most everything has been looted by people trying to survive or get out of the city. Still, I choose not to dwell on it too much; Percy had done this a few times while I was out, apparently. One thing that I will question, however, is why. There really isn’t a reason to risk his life running errands for the girl who broke into his home. I never asked him to.

“Why are you going to all this trouble?” I finally ask. “You’re lucky you haven’t gotten yourself seriously hurt yet.”

He stands silent for a minute, thinking of a response. I wait patiently—he doesn’t have to answer me. We’ve only talked a little in the time I’ve been here (half of which I was unconscious for).

After a few minutes, he answers. “Because you seem like a good person. And I told you when you came in here a few days ago, I’m not the kind of person to let someone die. Even if they did barge into my house with a dagger and a loaded gun strapped to their ankle,” he adds. “That,” Percy continues, “and the sooner you’re better, the sooner you can leave.”

Despite the last part (which causes a twinge of hurt, for some reason or other), it makes me feel more grateful.

“Thank you for everything,” I say. “But I don’t want you going out there anymore just to get stuff for me.”

He grins—the first time I’ve ever seen him do that, really—the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk like I said something amusing.

“Seriously. I’ll be back on my feet in another day or so,” I scold. “Stop going on suicide missions.”

“Who are you telling me what to do, Wisegirl?” he laughs, momentarily forgetting about the corpses above and on the streets below.

“What kind of nickname is that?” I ask, bemused.

“A fitting one,” Percy decides, quieter than a moment ago as he puts the last dish away.

I roll my eyes, shrugging it off.

After rewrapping my ankle, I nestle into the couch, which has been my temporary bed for the past three days. However, as I start to fall asleep, a sense of déjà vu strikes me. Something about Percy seems vaguely familiar; I’m not sure what, exactly. His personality, maybe? I feel like I've met him—or at least seen him—somewhere before all of this came crashing down. I can’t think of a time or place where I would have. I’ve definitely met him briefly at some point, though (or have run into him, at any rate). Thinking about it, there may be a chance that he recognizes me, too. There was obviously something Percy was going to ask me the other night before I passed out, but he never did. For a second, I contemplate asking him. However, I think better of it. He’s already asleep, and I don’t have enough energy to get up.

Read on archiveofourown.org <3

[snek-eyes]

Hi Vee! How are you? I hope you had a great start into the new year 🥳

I have a meta question! I'm not very good at comprehending stuff sometimes, so it might be a dumb question but alas. I'm ace, so it really bothers me not to know which is why I think you could help.

When Shax dresses up as hitchhiker and talks to Aziraphale on the way from Scottland, she says she's bemused as to why Crowley would risk destruction for him because "you don't seem his type at all". Does she mean judging by Crowley's looks and coolness and so on or does she mean Crowley had other lovers before and Azi doesn't fit in with them? The latter would bug me ngl, I'm the kind of romantic who even wants that kiss we saw to be the first kiss for both of them 😅 And then again Neil said that they can still be ace because the kiss was romantic but there is "no evidence for sexual relations" between Crow and Azi which then must include that of course there are also no hints that they've ever been involved with others...right? (I'm ace and I'm aware aces can have sexual relations if we want to but I think since Neil says they can be ace because there's no evidence of that, it means he includes those of our community repulsed by sex, too.)

I'd love if you could shed some light on the matter 😄

Cheers!

- 💫

Hey, happy new year! ✨🎉

So first, to actually answer your question, I think Shax in the car is just trying to rattle Aziraphale, like she does later in the bookshop by calling him Crowley's emotional support angel—except the one in the car doesn't work because Aziraphale's not going to be made to feel too lame to be Crowley's type, pfft. He's confident by this point that he very much *is* Crowley's type, even if they haven't acknowledged it.

Secondly: IMO, one of the funnest things about shipping Aziraphale and Crowley is how versatile they are. The only thing for certain is they, against all odds, have become each other's most important person. What exactly that means is pretty open to interpretation. All that to say, if you think they're Ace or even Aro, absolutely rock on!

I have a great appreciation for how Neil keeps emphasizing that canon is only whatever's "on the page," (or on the screen, in this case), and whatever he or anyone else might say outside of that technically doesn't count. He and Terry wrote these characters, but ultimately, they aren't real people with a real tangible history. The gaps in canon are free real estate for the viewers to respond to and mentally fill in.

There seems to be nothing in canon that says either of them have kissed anyone before—or that they haven't. Sex is always going to be part of shipping culture in one way or another, but just because someone might interpret Shax's statement to mean that Crowley's had lovers before doesn't mean you're not just as free to believe that was their first kiss with anyone ever. Even if interpretations contradict, both are technically headcanon and can be equally valid until something in the show itself says otherwise. Have fun!

[Personally: I love Ace AC! It's actually my interpretation of canon. I'm also on team "neither had ever kissed anyone" because that just feels like it makes sense, both for their characters and frankly that's how it feels like David and Michael acted it (those two men know how to kiss, if they wanted it to feel like something other than 'desperately attempting something both of them had only seen before' they would have).

But reading fics where they're *not* that can be fun too, even if I personally don't think they were actually making out just offscreen this whole time. I've read and enjoyed fics I thought were blatantly out of character, but still told me a good story. And man, I will never forget feeling like an absolute king on AO3 in the months after I watched s1, putting in whatever combination of tags I was in the mood for and finding piles of gold.]

[burr-ell]

🔥🔥🔥

I am here to start a war.

1, 10, and 13 for CR and FE3H

choose violence ask game

That's a lot and I'm here 👏 for 👏 it 👏 I'm gonna split the posts for CR and FE3H so they don't get in each other's tags; this post will be for CR.

1. the character everyone gets wrong

Vex. I've talked about it elsewhere, including here on twitter for those interested, but it's really irritating to me that so many self-proclaimed fans of hers keep flattening her into a Joss Whedon woman (while simultaneously decrying those very tropes). I've seen it a lot of times among Vex/Keyleth shippers who tend to project themselves onto Keyleth and thinks Keyleth "deserves" to have the character they think is the hottest, but I've also seen it among Percy/Vex shippers who are hardcore Vex stans who also think she's being oppressed at pretty much every turn (except by Percy who worships the ground she walks on and is therefore perfect for her). It also happens among the old C1 commentariat, though they use it to bash Vex and Laura for [bleep blorp misogyny].

Vex is complicated. She's resilient, clever, resourceful, beautiful and confident about it, compassionate, pragmatic, frosty to those who haven't earned her trust, desperate for approval, and frugal to the point of obsession. She's a survivor of abuse and racism. Her most defining relationships are with three male characters. She stole a broom for no reason other than that she wanted it. She spent 15,000 gold to free two slaves. She has the most explicitly political career out of everyone in Vox Machina, including the tribal leader and the scion of a noble house. If Syldor and Syngorn hadn't been so horrible to her she'd have become a diplomat like her father, something Laura explicitly said. She and Syldor try to repair their relationship post-canon. She has no problem topping Percy. She gets flustered by Percy.

In short? She acts like a real person. If you're watering her down to "greedy bitch", "step on me queen", or "most victimized character ever", then honestly, I think your tastes are unspeakably boring.

10. worst part of fanon

There have been too many posts to count about my main frustration—that fanon is seen as sacrosanct compared to canon simply because fans came up with it, and that fans get so wrapped up in fanons and headcanons (that are, if I'm gonna get really violent, rather adolescent in scope and tone) that they're genuinely righteously outraged when canon contradicts it or other fans dislike it.

So since we're choosing violence, I'll just say glasses!Imogen. Round cute sweet little uwu baby bean glasses!Imogen. It's symptomatic of that larger problem, it largely exists purely in the context of a ship (which is symptomatic of another larger problem), and it's not an interesting enough concept to justify its existence after everyone and their mom has done it and demanded that everyone else validate it.

13. worst blorbofication

Honestly? I gotta go with Percy, and I say this as someone whose blorbo is Percy. There are two strains of this:

1. The old guard C1 fans who have spent years coming up with ways that Percy, as Vex's simp, will absolutely adore everything she says and does and do whatever she tells him to and never challenge her or consider himself in any way, and

2. The more traditional Uwu Baby Boy types who really seem to like making him as soft and romantic as possible. The character tag is uninhabitable if you don't block characterxreader blogs on sight.

Honestly though, I'll take type 2 over type 1, because I don't remember the type 2 folks throwing a hissy fit over Matt's portrayal of Percy and comparing him to Syldor. If you're genuinely trying to argue that Matt portrayed Vex's husband similarly to her abuser and that either Laura or Taliesin would be okay with that, I would cordially suggest removing your head from your colon.

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Ralph what do you think are the most potentially detrimental forces affecting Harry’s public image at the moment? There are those rumors (from a v unreliable source) about a superbowl halftime show which would really force him front and center in American pop-culture.

Anon 2: Can you explain more about what you mean when you say 'there are real questions about Harry's public image'?

********

I don't think there are external detrimental forces anon 1 - I think basically there are two contradictions in Harry's career that are probably not sustainable forever. Four nights at Wembley says they're absolutely sustainable now, but I do think there are questions in the long term and maybe the medium term.

There are basically aspects of Harry's career that I think have contradictions that will not be able to hold forever. Although I think it's really hard to tell when things will change for him in a meaningful way.

The first, which is discussed reasonably often is his desire to engage with queer culture, not discuss his sexuality and perform heterosexuality. I think the external environment plays a huge role how difficult it is to hold those various aspects, but I also think there are contradictions even outside the unfortunate fact that people believe that 'queerbaiting' exists and that it's useful intervention in the world to name things you think are 'queerbaiting'.

The other aspect of this is that Harry doesn't say very much - he doesn't say very much musically and he says even less as a person. This has lots of advantages, because it allows people to project a lot onto him. But it cannot last forever - Harry is not a gas who can expand to fill any space. He does have to occasionally exist in a form that people can react to.

It seems like neither him or his team are particularly good at identifying the risks in that moment. Harry was saying 'things like this don't happen to people like me' - at many many shows and I was writing 'what are you talking about Harry?' in my tags each time, before he said it at the Grammys and lots of people who are much less generous than me assumed they knew what he was talking about.

The post Grammy backlash was singificant and I think that shows that there is plenty of fertile ground for anti-Harry sentiment. But because he was on tour at the time he knew that it hadn't impacted on his core fan base. But there's a question of how it's impacted how he's seen and understood, which hasn't been tested - and also when any of this does affect his core fanbase?

[fritextramole]

I’m 98% that Gossip Girl as the narrator tells the audience stuff that the characters in-universe don’t seem to then know, which strongly suggests that the narration and the actual, in-universe blasts are two distinct (if sometimes overlapping) things. Using the pilot as an example, there’s that disgusting little line Gossip Girl The Narrator has about Jenny potentially becoming one of Chuck’s victims (“I love parties” 🤢) - yet neither Serena nor Dan nor anyone onscreen actually receives this information via blast despite otherwise having received text updates from Gossip Girl throughout the rest of the episode; it’s only after Jenny’s 911 text that Serena and Dan learn she’s with Chuck. There are also times when I’m pretty sure the information given by narration and the blasts in-universe directly contradict each other (I’m thinking 1x16, but it’s been awhile since I’ve rewatched that episode so I can’t be as positive there). All in all, I think the most logical assumption for the audience to make is that Kristen Bell’s narration as Gossip Girl is just a framing device used to tell the story, and that only those blasts which we see onscreen or that are directly discussed by the characters have actually been sent out by Gossip Girl The Blog.

[2/2] Also come to think of it, in the pilot we’re also shown at least one instance of a blast coming in (Serena showing up at Blair’s Kiss on the Lips On The Lips party despite not being invited, quelle horreur) without any accompanying narration. I’m 99.9% sure there are other examples of that throughout the series, further suggesting that the narration ≠ the actual, canonical blasts.

I had always kinda figured that bc gossip girl (theoretically) blogs about a bunch of people from different schools, you could subscribe to blasts about certain people ??? like of I have a newfound interest in Blair or whatever I could go to gossip girl and subscribe blasts tagged "Blair Waldorf" and receive any about her. which could help explain why people don't see certain blasts ???

I was talking to @buffyspeak about it last night and she suggested that some of it was quotes pulled from the longer pieces we see GG write later and yeah that makes sense. like they aren't going out as blasts so people don't see them as quickly (or at all) but GG's still publishing the information

idk I'm with you I don't think all the narration is blasts that go out. but tbh I've mostly forgotten to pay attention to gossip girl and what she's saying at any given moment bc she's usually remarking on something the viewer already knows

[multigenderswag]

hi! you seem pretty cool and i'm not sure where else to find multigender communities so i'm sorry if this isn't the kind of ask you like to receive, and feel free to ignore or direct me elsewhere, but— i'm pretty sure i'm multigender (male & xenogender(s??)) but i know basically nothing about multigender besides the obvious "multiple genders" part. i tried searching "multigender" into tumblr's search function to learn more but it was mostly discourse posts at the time and i got too scared to try again. i see a lot of multigender posts and i relate to them a lot, except a lot of them are about men who are also women and i'm only half binary (i tend to just say i'm a "non-binary man" because i have non-binary gender(s) and i'm a man and i like the "contradiction").

multigender still feels pretty right for me though and i would like to know more about like... multigender 101 basics essentially? because i don't even know what the multigender flag is (i've seen a few bigender ones but i assume that's different...?)....

i saw on your pinned post that you like to talk about being multigender so if you have anything you want to say or multigender history to bring up, i would love to hear!! anything would help since i'm basically completely new to the concept of the multigender umbrella (?) and would love to have more words to describe my experiences!

either way i hope you have a nice day!!

All asks are asks I like to receive! (Unless they're unfunny hate asks, I don't like those.)

Congrats on the cool gender! Male + xenogender is a very fun combination. Sorry about the discourse when you tried to look into it, though, tumblr is a terrible place.

A majority of multigender content is about male + female multigender identities, and it sucks that other ways of being multigender don't get more visibility, but I'm doing my best & hopefully soon we get more diverse multigender content.

Multigender 101!

At least in my experience, being multigender has largely meant for me that I hate being confined to a single gender, even if I like being that gender. As much as I like being male, I don't want to be solely male. Another big thing for me is that I get dysphoria from one or both of my genders being ignored, even if it's done to validate another one of my genders. I despise being called a "non man," even if it's said in the process of acknowledging me as a genderqueer butch.

On the euphoria side of things, I really like using labels and terms that are seemingly contradictory. "Boygirl" is one of my favorites. I like being two different genders, even if it doesn't make sense to other people. Especially if it doesn't make sense to other people. The more confusing and queer, the better.

My experience obviously isn't universal, but that's how being multigender feels for me, and you might be multigender if you relate.

The multigender flag looks like this:

It's not very commonly used, and I think people tend to go with the flag for their more specific multigender identity (bigender, polygender, pangender, etc), but you wanted to know, so that is the flag.

Transmultiphobia is the word for multigender-specific transphobia, which is unfortunately something I mention a lot on this blog. If you want to learn more about multigender issues without finding hate in the tag, searching transmultiphobia on tumblr might help- to my knowledge, transmultiphobes aren't really aware of the word yet.

As far as multigender history, I'm doing some research on that! It's going kind of slowly, and most of it tends to be very bigender (male/female) focused, but I've posted some of what I've found on this blog under the tag "history," if you want to look through that.

In conclusion, being multigender is incredibly cool and sexy, and your genders can coexist without invalidating each other, and it's fully justified to punch anyone who says differently. Thank you for your time.

I hope you have a nice day too!

[apocketfullofpoesis]

I'm sorry if you're getting bullied or your hard work isn't being appreciated but in terms of you as a person you come off really judgemental, arrogant and rude. Even professors have to do chores and so do you. Being a topper doesn't make you a superior person. I'd rather be friends with a kind academic failure who whores themselves around than you for all your excellent grades. Be successful, know your own worth and don't dim your own light. But at the same time don't ram your success down others throats who aren't, can't be or don't want to be your intellectual equal. It takes all sorts to make the world go round. Confidence and humility are a tricky balance I know but you're going to up bitter and twisted with this mindset you're propagating

this is the problem with venting out on social media platforms. the very first line you apologized to me if I was being bullied and then you go on to contradict those lines yourself. i have a lot of friends, I am kind to each one of my batchmates (not just classmates), and keep helping them that's why I never complained about my friends in that rant. However there are some people in my family, and around the society i live in who blame their insecurities on my capabilities even if the two are far from being interrelated. the fact that you found me arrogant and rude bc i vented out my bottled up feelings, lowering my guard down speaks volumes why some people refrain from putting their views forward on the internet. I did not even get what you said about professors because mind you, my professors are very supportive to me and my classmates but there are some who are pure sadists and they constantly try to bring people like me down, who are academically good and focused. trust me.

Being a topper does not make me superior. Yes. Thank you for admitting it. That is another thing that people like you have stereotyped about us. But even if it does give some sort of peace to us, thinking we are actually good at something (re-read my post where I said this line) is there something wrong with that? There are people in my class who are super talented at dancing and singing and they feel superior to others because they're good at it. Theres nothing wrong with it. Similarly, if we feel superior because we can actually do good academically, why is that a concern? Some toppers are annoying, ngl. Do not generalize us. Unless some of us don't bully you and ask you to worship at our altar, why is that a bad thing? I will also give you a very common example. Some of my classmates still have a stage fear in even texting our professors and suggesting them changes in the schedule so they text us because they know we got this. I'll share a screenshot of a chat from today, in this reference:

regarding who you would rather be friends with, why would I care? you do you. I wrote it in frustration bc my friends are suffering and the entire semester I kept telling them that it's the final year and now they should at least try to get back on track. literally, these friends of mine follow me on Tumblr. They don't have issues because they know the context, so chill.

I am not ramming my success up anyone's throat. We're not in middle school ffs. In terms of success, i haven't even graduated yet. I don't consider myself successful so thanks to you if you do. That's one positive thing I'll take from your message. I don't bring anyone down in my process, i help them as much as I can. But it's of no use if they completely refrain from helping themselves. You really didn't get the point.

Lastly, I am not propagating my mindset. It seems to me that you are gullible if anything that I said influenced you to change your thoughts. For that I'd say, follow the advice you're giving to me because the world is crueler than the topper you're talking about lmao.

I wrote that rant because I feel that it goes unnoticed how nobody acknowledges the mental pressure that tags along with being a topper and this one time that I spoke about it, these are y'all's replies. Really stunned. But it also proved my point so it's alright <3.

edit:

I'd like to attach a meme based on yet another stereotyped notion and i kinda understand where you're coming from

DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU SEE ON SOCIAL MEDIA THAT FEEDS TO YOUR WRONG VIEWS!

[kcl1627]

I wonder what it is with us humans. What it is with our own made up non sensical stuff and then to create sense out of it.

Isn't it a man's ideas that nature is predictive and this can be simulated and hence we scribble signs and notations on paper and parchment all day long. To think if it all was actually a simulation at a party in some unrecognisable and unfantomable world just to decide a bet or a choice between two.

Even in these thousands of years we don't know what make us and yet we continue on. We continue on doing non sensical stuff and then we laugh. We laugh, looking at each other's face, sharing a joke, glancing at each other, hoping no one will notice. How would you describe the concept of a joke ? I think nowadays. We laugh, we talk, we share moments that even we will forget after a few hours. From the food we ate, to the reason why we wore what we did and what we observed, these little choices that have no importance except for maybe creating infinite realities and dimensions, we share with the ones we feel like it. With the people we assign the word friends, love, dear and what not.

And then we listen. To words, to noise, the buzz in the noise and the patterns and the buzz and then we call it music. Music is weird. It is like alcohol and we the addicts. While struggling, in our darks, at our lowest, even when we don't feel like it, we will always listen to these patterns of vibrations and the words and then resonate. We will always try to fill the void and ease the struggle with this almost non existent and easily disappearing waves, the displacement of particles about which we know nothing about. Don't forget that this relieving alcohol in itself is hard to create.

We are contradictory, the nature is contradictory yet we are here trying to explain contradictions and for somehow this whole grand scheme of things is beautiful. Because in the search for these answers, we unite. In the search to live, we find and experience. We group together, form networks and relations, feel emotions, discover empathy and at last disappear.

Disappear without finding the answers but with memories, the summer of the first born love, the winter where it felt a little too cold in your heart, the rains that cried with your eyes and the rains that belated with your heart. The stars that heard you talk and the breeze that wiped your face. The faces, the moments, the love that we felt for them, maybe the flowers, maybe the colours, maybe the words, maybe those dark pit nights where even if it had gotten darker, you would still be courageous because you still had them and that's what we humans call love my friends, that's what we call life and this was the rant of an overthinking mind. Thanks for tagging along.

[jigensass]

So if Jigen was Lupin's first heist

Yes yes this is a spin off/mini-series

But I present Fujiko and Jigen's dialouge, specifically at the end of Part 6 when they have to snap Lupin out of the trance

Their dialouge parallels each other, but more specifically, Jigen could be referring to the events in Lupin Zero. Who the fuck wouldn't forget busting the US army for bootlegging whisky in the fashion that those two idiots did?

Who would never forget their very first heist be your knight in shining armor's heart?

And Fujiko is also right. When hasn't she been able to just exist and get the man is on his knees like Denji with Makima? The answer is never. Lupin is the only man Fujiko constantly keeps coming back to because he gets her results, and Lupin is dumb enough to keep falling for the same trick even after she just leaves, yet most of the he's okay with it as Jigen slaps him up Gibbs-style. Not only does she steal the treasure, she keeps stealing his heart. Was it during their first meeting? Who knows?

And must I bring up the Part 6 Episode Balcony scene for the 20th time? Where Fujiko and Jigen settle their differences, realize they're both crazy to be around Lupin for this long, and Fujiko calls out Jigen for being a romantic and he kind of admits it?

This whole thing has been leading up to this.

In conclusion

Jigen is the cat TMS I know you're here.

Okay serious talk over (disclaimer everything beyond this is a shitpost)

Now I have a theory.

Y'all remember the ending to Part 5? The ambiguous one? What if that Lupin 3 was actually Lupin 2? Somehow Fujiko knew Lupin's dad like maybe he slept with one of her guardians (after she was born of course because then things would get really weird really fast) and years later like Lupin the Third, Lupin the Second is maybe a clone or has the power to not age. And she mistakes Lupin 2 for Lupin 3 at one point in time, possibly Lupin III was actually Lupin II throughout the entirety of Part 5 who fucking knows. 2 and 3 easily could have switched places between Parts 4 and 5, everyone left separately alone on that train in Italy. We don't know what happened between that departure and the beginning of Part 5 only that

1. Lupin and Fujiko got married after the divorce with Rebecca.

2. Jigen and Lupin met back up in France after the divorce with Fujiko.

Or maybe even 2 and 3 swapped places like- 2 did the proposal cause 3 knew he would be turned down immediately and 3 got to live the marriage life and realized it sucked. But that contradicts Jigen and Lupin living together because they get along just fine living in their hideout apartments in 5 and 6.

MAYBE MAYBE 2 WENT OFF AND MARRIED FUJIKO WHILE 3 STAYED WITH JIGEN? AND IN PART 5 DEPENDING ON THE EPISODE THEY KEPT SWAPPING PLACES?

MAYBE 2 AND THREE HAVE BEEN PLAYING TAG THROUGH THE ENTIRE SERIES

how do I know this? The latex female body suit.

In Lupin Zero, we find out Lupin 2 snuck into the competition in a female blow up body suit.

In Lupin Zero: First Contact, how do Lupin and Jigen first meet there? Lupin is in a female blow up body suit in lingerie and calls him 'darling'.

And how do we know Lupin 3 isn't really Lupin 3 at the end of Part 5? The latex mask.

Nothing is canon, yet everything is canon because of what we can't see under the mask.

However if Lupin 2 dies at the end of Lupin Zero this was just me vomiting my insanity onto my phone's keyboard.

But for my next trick I will now make you all believe it was actually Lupin who fucked Zenigata in that interrogation room instead of Fujiko in TWCFM