#not every character death is well written of course! but I wish people would approach the concept of character death more neutrally

[deus-and-the-machina]

arcane. Man. I feel like I’ve seen people have divisive opinions on it but it’s also only been like a day and we gotta let those thoughts settle beyond gut reactions. That said, despite there being just, a lot, and some things that could’ve been more fleshed out, the positives outweighed the negatives for me right now. Some of the most gorgeous shots were in the last act, all of episode 7 ;-; all the jayvik stuff was real good and powerful, jinx is my darling and she is so so sad. Go fuck off on that airship and change your name in some far off land girlie. I hope whatever the team tackles next they’re given more time (and episodes) to do it with, fortische deserves it

[glazelilyy]

before the roar of thunder

pairings (separately!) - diluc ragnvindr, kaeya alberich, childe/tartaglia, xiao x gender neutral reader (no pronouns used!)

word count - 4597

genre - angst, hurt/comfort

format - drabbles

warnings - blood/injury/wound mentions, cataclysmic destruction, violence, crying, kissing, character deaths with no graphic description (but not for the paired character or reader EXCEPT in childe's)

summary - a storm approaches but just before it does, you share a tender moment with your beloved for the last time

a/n - i have been mia for a while :') but this idea just kinda hit me out of nowhere so i decided to write about it :P i don't know if this writing will live up to expectations or any of my work from the past because i haven't written in a while but i'm trying to enjoy writing just because i like it rather than to live up to an expectation, so i'm gonna try and do my best :) i hope you enjoy this piece and thank you all so much for your patience and love these past few months i could not be more grateful that i am being interacted with and sent such wonderful messages <3 (also fun fact i listened to multiple vbs songs while writing most of this which just doesn't fit in with anything happening in these drabbles and majority of the time i had akito rapping in my ear while writing about death LMAO)

diluc loved.

he loved his city, born from the death of corruption and nurtured by the souls and free spirits of her people. he loved the crisp breeze that swept by falcon coast and cradled its peak in a bough of brevity where his worries would fly away and cast themselves up into the sky to become stars. he loved the shade from beneath the towering tree at windrise where memories of summers and picnics and childhood mischief came alight with a single glance towards her wavering leaves. he loved the cool touch of a crystalfly's perch upon his gloved finger.

he loved his companions; silently from afar he'd send well wishes in quiet messages meant only for their hands to caress or ears to indulge. he loved lisa; lazy as she might appear not once had she ever let him down. he loved jean: hardworking, disciplined, strong, courageous, but for every pedestal she was placed on was she ever more human—flesh and blood with a heart that pounded for others and never herself. he loved kaeya—his beloved little brother who always preferred the cool shade of his shadow and shielded his back from the many blades that sought his head.

he loved you. you who brought light with gentle hands and placed it within his heart. you who illuminated the dark, winding pathway of justice he thought he'd walk alone forever. you who showed him trust, who knew how he liked his tea (sweet, for a man who was even sweeter). you, who braided cecilias into his hair and peppered kisses across his ruddy cheeks and doused him in all the sugary sweetness that love could ever provide.

diluc loved, and loved, and loved, tremendously.

and he still loved, even as mondstat burned in a storm of fire.

he still loved, even as he stood over lisa and jean whose eyes had lost their brilliance and sparkle of life.

he still loved, even as he wept for his little brother who had feared death and spent his remaining strength gripping onto the tassels of his jacket and begged for him to stay; to reassure him in his last moments.

he stayed, despite the agony that coursed through his body and the never-ending sorrow that scorched his heart when kaeya stilled.

he still loved, even as he gripped your hand with tenacity laced in his veins.

soot and ash coated both of your bodies and faces as you stood at the gates of mondstat and watched the world before you crumble beneath your feet.

diluc felt his heart bob up and down in the narrow passageway of his throat.

he was always too late.

too late for his city. too late for his friends. for his brother.

the love in his heart was never enough. he was never enough. and now everything was gone. burning.

never before had he despised looking at his vision so much.

"they'll be back," you whispered hoarsely, and diluc turned to look at you, "the abyss order."

your hand seemed to squeeze his with every ounce of strength you had left, eyes wide and trembling with the flickering flames of destruction reflected in the glassy haze of your irises. the fresh tear tracks on your face twisted his heart into a knot.

"i know," he replied, never once casting his gaze away from you, "i'm still alive, after all."

diluc would not tell you that he could smell the unmistakable stench of abyssal magic from over the horizon. he couldn't. you'd seen horror after horror and now was not the time to tell you that more bloodshed approached. the abyssal army approached slowly and steadily, and soon they would be here to have his head on a stick. there was no running, there was no use escaping the inevitable.

"diluc..." you turned to him, doll-like and devoid of life with a tremble of sorrow buried in the abyss in your expression, "what do we do?" you whispered to him, as if he contained secrets of the universe that should only be shared between the two of you.

wordlessly, he pulled you close and rubbed a soothing hand in gentle strokes up and down your back. his embrace guarded you from the inevitable end that slowly crouched closer, rising with newborn sun. gloved, soot-covered hands slid up to your cheeks to thumb away at the tears that collected near your eyes.

diluc's heart wrenched in his throat uncomfortably, knowing well and good that this may be the last tender moment he'll ever share with you.

to that end, he found himself asking, "would you care for a dance?"

the question came out broken and hoarse, just barely under a whisper and lost was the man who once held a burning flame of retribution and tenacious blaze of justice in his eyes. you peered into a pool of tired red, glossed over with a misty haze of sorrow.

wordlessly, you allowed him to guide your hands and let him set the tempo as you moved carefully to avoid the debris scattered at your feet.

you'd always joke that he was much like a prince when he danced; so elegant and refined with the composure of royalty itself, he spun and dipped you much like a silk ribbon weaving through the air.

this time, however, diluc held you close and swayed to an invisible song. no elegant movements or dips from your prince. now, he was but a man clinging to the last remnants of life in his soul; the only thing tethering him to this world.

your hearts wildly pounded against each other's chests, horribly out of sync yet still so tremendously close that you'd fuse together if you could.

as the sun rose and illuminated his once beloved city, home to the people he loved, diluc leaned in and captured your lips one last time in a kiss that touched your soul and wrapped your heart in a blazing warmth of flame.

his hand wrapped so tightly around your waist and held itself firm at the back of your head, desperate to drink every last drop of your love and desperate to not let your eyes open and see that the abyssal army had breached what was left of mondstat's defenses.

diluc loved, and loved, and he loved you more than life itself. but in the end his love was never enough.

(continued utc!)

once, at the tender age of five or six, kaeya alberich witnessed death for the first time.

he'd grown fond of the butterflies that fluttered near the crystal clear lake behind dawn winery. their vibrant colors were foreign and new and his childhood intrigue urged him to watch with glowing eyes at each flap of its multicolored wings.

it was on one of these days where he found himself in the presence of the gleaming scythe of death itself when a colossal frog leapt from the waters and captured a butterfly within its maw.

he'd never felt such fear, and he convinced himself he'd never feel that fear again.

he now realized he was wrong.

he felt it again when diluc screamed, a horrifying sound, for his fallen father and kaeya did not know how to handle the immensive wave of relief that flooded over him. he felt it when a fiery blade swung itself down against his eye and believed his punishment was nigh. he felt it now, as mondstat burned to the ground and the corpses of citizens, knights, and abyssal monsters alike littered the once love-filled, lively streets.

death had always followed him closely like a friend—like a lover, he corrected himself. its arms wrapped around his body and cooed sweet nothings to him. death trotted after him wherever he went.

perhaps he should've gave into its embrace. maybe if he had, death wouldn't have found a lover in his home and snuffed the life and vivacity out of every mondstatian and every building within the city's walls. death would not have sunk its claws into jean, who took the abyssal army's leader with her when she pounded at the gates of celestia. or lisa and albedo, who fought at the western front for days on end only to succumb to the overwhelming onslaught of enemies with not enough manpower. what a shame, kaeya thought; he was rather looking forward to his daily midnight tea session with lisa and bothering albedo during his experiments. in some other universe, he is there and he is happy.

he loathed to think of it, but death had latched its talons into the flesh of little klee. a child was no exception to this hoard of monsters, but was the monster not truly him for failing them all? he wondered as he held her cold body close and wept.

death had always followed him but kaeya came to the conclusion that he was the one who truly wielded death. where he went, bodies dropped and lives fell into ruin. his prime example: his brother, who now lay at his feet with a sword through his back. a sword through his back, he seethed, because his attackers were so cowardly that they knew this uncrowned king would not go down so easy. it filled kaeya with an ugly rage that blotted out the tears in his eye. his shirt remained caked in diluc's blood from when the man brought him into a hug as he dangled at death's edge and whispered apology after apology into his ear.

always caught between the worlds of the blessed and the sinned, kaeya believed that he had grown quick enough to outmaneuver fate itself. but death remained steadfast and tenacious.

death was his lover and he was doomed to dance an everlasting tango so long as he lived. if not for him, the imposter in an aviary full of beautiful, golden-winged seabirds, perhaps the abyssal army would have left mondstat alone. jean would be here, ready to give him an earful for getting carried away with all the scars littering his body. albedo would chide him as he dressed his wounds while klee went on about another dodoco story while her little legs swung back and forth in the air. lisa would hand him a cup of tea and enjoy his company in silence. diluc...oh diluc, all the things he wished to tell his brother.

the only problem in his death theory was you.

you were still here.

you held him close as he wept for his beloved friends, for the little girl who always called him big brother, and for his beloved most treasured big brother whose fiery hair blazed no more.

how were you still here? was death not his lover? did he not bring death and sorrow wherever he went?

but if anything you were life. in your hands he renewed himself again, much like a butterfly unfurling its wings after cocooning for so long. warm smiles and fluttering kisses always greeted him after a long day's work. even now, as you wept beside him for your fallen friends, you remained his last thread of life keeping him tethered to this world.

"everyone's dead." you whispered from the crook of his neck as you both sat on the dust covered ground where the statue of barbatos once stood, mighty and proud.

"i'm sorry." he pleaded in return.

you shot your head up, bewildered and...offended.

"it's not- it's not your fault!"

kaeya laughed dryly, "oh, darling, you know it is."

death was his lover and he was succumbing to it. death was his lover and he drank in each of its poisonous kisses and sneaky touches.

you wasted no time in bringing him close, effectively delaying off death for a while longer. "it. is. not. your. fault."

"they'd be elsewhere if not for me-"

"mondstat would have fallen a lot quicker without you, kaeya," you interrupted, "you are no harbinger or vessel of death. you protected this city and its people with your life."

how did you always know what to say? perhaps you were an archon—that would be funny, wouldn't it? a sinner and an archon in love. kaeya wanted to laugh at the thought of it but all that left his lips was a broken whine that slid into a muffled sob. you were there to catch him as he fell into the overwhelming onslaught of sorrow that flickered around him much like the distant flames of burning houses and crinkle of crackling wood and stone.

"it should have been me." he croaked.

you shook your head and swept away the locks that clung to his sweaty forehead. "if it were ever you, i would go as well."

his heart ached in the cavity of his chest, eager to run away from this all. but he lay tired in your arms as you peppered kisses to his skin. even as you sunk to the ground on your side and gathered him in your arms, all he felt was the overwhelming tide wash over him.

death was not his lover, you were. and you were life. he loved living with you and with his beloved friends and comrades.

he lay beside you and kissed every inch of your face, covering you in his love. he cared not for the distant roar of abyssal mages and monsters anymore, not when he held life itself within his arms. life who kissed him back with just as much love and sweet tenderness that set his heart alight.

on this day, two butterflies sat perched on a perfect calla lily, waiting for the inevitable end of a frog's maw; their hearts and souls forever intertwined.

childe can't remember many of his dreams, but there is one he's clung onto for years.

he is in a soft bank of snow, surrounded by his darling siblings and cherished parents. his father does not look at him as if he's seen a beast dredged up from the darkest of nightmares. the world around him is pure and crafted of childhood dreams: there is no evil and there is no heart ache.

you are there and you are smiling at him, waiting for him with open arms.

this has remained but a mere dream of his for a reason.

in reality, there was only the cold, concrete ground of the fatui jail cell and dry, underground air that left him suffocating. slivers of eerie, ghostly blue light trickled in from the false candles that lined the underground jail. the rust-caked iron bars bathed reluctantly in the ghastly glow.

his eyes flickered up to the ceiling, hoping to make out shapes or cracks within the foundation. just give me some hope, archons if you're listening—please! but the gods stayed silent and the ceiling remained unchanged.

his vision and delusion had been stripped, weapons all but ripped from his hands. there was no hope left. childe let his gaze wander to you.

you lay in the cell across, face down, unconscious after taking the butt of a fatui gun to the nape. how cruel—to involve the lover of a scorned harbinger. for the god of love the tsaritsa was awfully sadistic. no matter how much he struggled and screamed that you should not bear the burden of his crimes it did nothing but urge the fatui to get their hands on you even more urgently.

childe wishes that he had accepted reality—wishes that he had never tried to desert from the fatui. steal away under the cover of night with you in hooded cloaks and cross the snezhnayan border for a life free of misery and a life where it'd be you and him together.

as much as the fatui have given him power, you have given him strength and courage and hope and love. there was no place for childe among the fatui, not when he wanted his place to be by your side. to feel your love each and every day and wake up to your smile.

you stirred from your cell, snapping childe from his thoughts. his hands snatched themselves at the bars, eyes blown wide and searching for signs that you were okay.

"hmmn...childe? where...where are we?"

his heart ached tremendously and beat against the skin of his throat.

"jail." he whispered.

"what?! but...but we were just about to cross the border when-"

"when we were caught by pulcinella's men," childe finished, "and brought here. i've been charged with desertion and my punishment is at sunrise."

childe hated seeing you feel anything but happiness—anything but love and the sunshine of emotions that you deserved to experience. he failed you when tears gathered in your eyes.

"but the punishment for desertion..."

childe smiled with eyes that swam in a sea of sorrow, "execution." he finished.

you lifted yourself up onto your forearms and dragged your semi-awake body to the edge of the jail cell. between each cell lay a narrow path, where you desperately reached your hand out to the other side. the tears that had gathered in your eyes streaked their way down in hazes across your cheeks as you suppressed your sobs and whines. your fingers shook with everything within you as you stretched and reached out to him, this beautiful, golden man whose wings would be clipped at sunrise.

childe scrambled to shove his hand past the bars and reach your hand. he only managed to grab onto the tips of your fingers but it was enough for him. you were in his grasp, it was enough for him.

he was thankful his family would not have to bear the brunt of his desertion, he should really thank mister zhongli for sneaking them out of the country into liyue. he regrets not having you go along with his family, but you insisted on going with him. it's his fault you were in jail.

reality was far too cruel.

"you'll escape, right? you've always got a plan." you pleaded between heaving breaths.

childe weakly laughed from an ugly, hopeless place.

he wished to make all your dreams come true, protect all your wishes and hold your smiles and laughter close like a warm trinket tied around his neck. anything but this ceaseless crying and sorrow that he felt slither from your heart through your arm and into your connected hands.

"come now, no tears, sunshine. you know i'll be okay, i'll figure something out." childe cooed, though he knew better. oh, lord, these lies would swallow him whole, but it is fated.

"do you promise?" you whispered brokenly.

his heart screamed at him not to do it, conscience pounding at the doors of self control in his mind. but childe was a protector of dreams and happiness.

a lean, scar riddled pinky looped in your own, holding tight to the invisible promise that linked the two of you. "i'll keep it all my life."

"if you break it i'll throw you on the ice myself."

the warbled smile on your face was enough. your watery eyes and tender touch gave him light that was not reminiscent of death like the flickering blue candles that lined the jail.

"of course. i'll owe you a duel as well. do you think you'll best me this time?"

you scoffed and tugged on his fingers, "of course i will, so you have to stay alive for me to beat you."

"well, i can't ignore orders from the top now can i?" he joked and reveled in the muted laugh that bubbled past your lips.

even in the bleakest of moments you gave him hope, like a light shining in a sea of never ending darkness.

"you'll always have me, no matter where i am. i promise you i won't let them hurt you." he whispered, and unlike that last promise, he meant it.

you held his hand until the guards came and even as you screamed and pleaded and cried with all your heart for him to stay, there was some morbid part of childe that was glad he got to hold your hand for the last time. he called out his declarations of love one last time as he fought against the grip of the guards and shoved his hands through your jailcell bars to cup to face and swipe away your tears. agony coursed through his veins as the guards ripped him from your grip and your fingers slipped through his hands like the sands of an hourglass. the last picture of your face would be one of horror and tear-stricken as the guards dragged him off. he whispered your name and as it rolled off his tongue it left in its wake a taste of sunshine and mirth.

i love you, more than anything in this world. more than power and glory and all the temptations of this world. you are my dream.

as he kneeled before the tsaritsa in handcuffs and chains nailed to the floor with her hand raised to deal the strike of death upon him, he smiled once more at the dream he cherished.

he is safe, and warm, and everyone he loves knows no sorrow.

though he promised to protect that dream, he knows his tongue will freeze over so that he may never spew lies again.

for as long as he's lived, xiao has prepared himself extensively for only a single thing: his death.

it wasn't a matter of sorting out the wares and material items he didn't own—such things weren't of importance to an adeptus like himself. rather, it was the acceptance of death itself. he was no stranger to this cloaked figure of fear that knocked on its hosts doors or barged in uninvited. blood covered his hands, dripped down the slope of his jaw and pooled at his feet. death invaded every crevice of his life much like a persistent parasite that sought to drive him to the brink of madness and back again. but it was familiar and offered a morbid sense of comfort.

as far as he could ever consider, xiao had waited for death for as long as he'd known the stars to dot the sky.

those same stars flickered down back at him, almost pitifully, as the ground shook with tremors that made the grass come alive and dance a morbid waltz of terror. crimson smoke painted the sky and blotted out the overhead glow of the stars. screams cried out in the distance and clashed with the sounds of blades and battle cries and war horns to produce a macabre melody that twisted a knot in his stomach.

fading bodies of monsters lay at his feet, numbers in the dozens. his breath caught in his throat, desperate to retreat yet needing to escape. he clenched his blood-bathed spear, fingers curling taut around the metal to cling to the last shred of hope he could muster.

his eyes flickered up to you, who mimicked his breathless, tired disposition as a mitachurl fell at your feet. your weapon clattered to the ground, your knees following shortly after.

xiao raced to your side in a blip, quick to grip your forearms before you could hit the ground. his polearm laid abandoned where he once stood, now its final resting place. his arms were now full of you and eyes clouded in worry. exhaustion crept its way onto your face and it was then he knew: hope was all lost.

the abyssal armies and undead, ancient gods raged onwards in the distance, they harrowing sounds a mere whisper in comparison to the loud thundering beat of your heart against his body.

reluctant as he was to touch you for fear of his karmic debt, xiao found himself hesitant to let go. for you to slip through his fingers and the fear of never allowing his fingers to trace the slopes and edges of your face invaded him like an intruder. your arms reciprocated and slid around his shoulders as a silent plea. this madness would never end, let's stop. you seemed to cry out.

perhaps this was the very moment he'd been preparing what felt like eons for. death crept its way around the corner, leaving war and destruction in its wake and its march to sink its fangs into both him and you was inevitable.

his knees buckled as you both sank to the grassy bed, bodies and limbs entangled and intertwined in a connection that seemed impossible to sever. as much as his conscience begged him to move and enact his long written duty, his body cried out a different tune, his heart a different dance altogether.

you shifted his body and laid his head on your lap, bracing yourself on a palm as your other hand worked to move the sticky strands of lush, forest-green locks from his sweat-covered forehead.

"rest, you've done well." you murmured with a gentleness in your eyes that made his stomach swim up to his throat and choked him ever so sweetly.

had he done enough? war raged on, lives devoured by the endless deluge of monsters and evil beings that sought death. his most reliable companion, death, would soon march up to his door and barge in with a demand for his head.

all the while, xiao believed that he was ready to embrace death. he pictured it perfectly: he'd meet his end in the midst of battle and his death would contribute towards a greater good. some would garner a chance to escape while the monsters gorged themselves on his death and feasted on his powers.

now, however, an unsettling sense of dread settled in his chest. the world around him burned and crashed and yet you remained intact, gently stroking his hair and humming a sweet song that you'd often coo to the birds on the railings of wangshu inn (and he loathed to look west and see the silhouette of a once towering, proud inn now toppled to the ground).

had he not readied himself for the one, singular thing that has been constant in his life? had he not witnessed enough to resolve the conflict that was life or death?

as he listened to the melody that fell from your lips with the world around him blotted out to nothing but you and him, he realized a truly frightening thing: he was not ready yet. death could not guarantee that you would be there to sit silently beside him on cool, summer nights and fold butterflies out of leaves or go crystalfly watching in the early mornings of spring. death would not ensure that he felt an uncomfortable yet welcoming warmth in his stomach when your eyes met his and a smile bloomed on your face (and though he'd never know how he should respond, you always seemed to somehow know how he felt).

he was not ready to be without you. a dreadful realization. he had failed at preparing himself for the one thing he knew was inevitable. but in this moment, as the world caved in and crumbled around you, he felt peace. his worn body lay tired and supplicant in your arms. once a weapon, now he found himself rusted and worn beyond repair left with only this beautiful longing in his heart to be filled with all of you. his eyes fluttered up to your visage and behind your kind eyes and warbling smile, the stars glimmered back down at him.

in these final moments, xiao wished to be nowhere else. with a heart so full of love, its wings unfurling and stretching high towards the sky where it'd soar on forever in an unmarked destination.

date published: january 30th, 2023

[lord-squiggletits]

Wanted to send an ask as well to hopefully provide some distraction from…recent events.

Are there any parts of world building in the TF IDW universe that you wish were explored/expanded upon more? Or that you want to explore in your writing? Like certain aspects of pre-war Cybertron, cybertronian culture, post-war Cybertron, etc?

Okay this is actually perfectly timed for a rant I wanted to go on about the way mnemosurgery is written in IDW1 because I hate how JRO basically made it an ontologically evil field of medicine both intrinsically and in terms of the average person who does it, like

First of all I want to preface this by saying I'm not accusing JRO of having any particular beliefs, this is just my commentary on how things came off and how his writing style contributes to both virtues and flaws in his writing. So I might say "he's basically saying this" but in the sense of "unfortunate implications, accidental or purposeful, in his writing."

But like... it makes me so mad because the worldbuilding around mnemosurgery kind of makes no sense to me? It seems like a really fucking wasted opportunity to cast basically every mnemosurgeon in the continuity as evil and to make it so that even just doing mnemosurgery is basically a toxic, destructive act that will literally kill you? Honestly, I don't think JRO even came up with mnemosurgery as like, "here's a thing that exists in this world and how it works" so much as, he took a character-first approach to writing (as he always does) and wrote mnemosurgery to work whatever way would work best for Chromedome and other character-related conflicts and plot points.

Like, mnemosurgery can view/alter memories from a living person but from a dead person it can only get moments from right before death. Makes sense. Mnemosurgery slowly kills you every time you do it??? Uh... honestly that comes off more as a handwave to make it so that any time the LL needs information they can't just needle it straight out of whoever's mind they need bc of course Chromedome can only do it when it's really important after all. Mnemosurgery... is only ever used for brainwashing people? Like, literally every mnemosurgeon except Chromedome is evil (and cartoonishly so, for Trepan and Sunder, like literally unredeemable monsters in every way) and any time they actually enjoy their field of medicine it's bc they're a sadist that likes to manipulate and oppress people? Kind of... uncreative.

Mnemosurgery is ADDICTIVE?? You're addicted to needling people's brains because mnemosurgery is ontologically evil and then it literally kills you? Okay like... do I even need to explain how tone-deaf it is to incorporate addiction of all things into the worldbuilding here? "You're an addict which makes you dangerous to society. The good ones stop doing the addictive thing because they're morally strong/care about others/aren't hedonists, but the bad ones who only care about doing their drug of choice are evil because the fact that they don't quit shows that they don't care about other people and OF COURSE the main/only fate that awaits addicts is their inevitable death by their own addiction!" Like, we get enough of that shit in real life, JRO. Did you really have to take an already heavily stigmatized condition like ADDICTION and slap it onto your ontologically evil mnemosurgery where the evil ones are evil because they love abusing/manipulating people and don't care enough about dying to stop being addicted to mnemosurgery? Come the fuck on.

Like, I understand that "the science of studying/altering memories" is heavily laden with nightmare fuel as is, and I don't have a problem with that (and stuff like the Institute) because the mind/memories are an intrinsic part of personhood, so any scientific field around it (or any government that wants to sponsor it) will abuse that knowledge just like with any other field of medicine. But to use human examples, why the fuck does mnemosurgery have to be inherently evil? What about stuff like Alzheimer's that degrades ppl's memories to the point of not even remembering a few seconds ago? Wouldn't it be beautiful if mnemosurgery could help with that? What about psychological issues where maybe people with intense PTSD/trauma/etc could have their worst memories be removed/dulled so that they become mentally stable enough for psychiatric/therapeutic interventions to become effective? What if someone has a TBI and wants help recovering the memories they lost?

What about non-scary, non-medicinal applications of mnemosurgery? What if someone just really treasures the memory of a particular day with their best friend and visits a mnemosurgery every couple years so that information creep doesn't slowly alter their memories of that precious day? What if it was possible for mnemosurgeons to intensify memories, so that maybe someone could have a happy memory intensified and think of it any time they're sad, struggling, having mental health struggles, etc? What if mnemosurgeons could take/copy memories from people's brains and convert them to video format in a way that other people could watch it? Imagine the sheer potential present in that when it comes to preserving history through literal firsthand testimonials of what happened! What if a mnemosurgeon could transfer memories from one person to another-- what kinds of breakthroughs in empathy, communication, and understanding others could happen if you could LITERALLY see a conflict from another person's perspective? In those ways, mnemosurgeons would basically be able to act as a hybrid of doctor, psychologist, diplomat, mediator, and archivist all in one!

But no... instead we just got "Mnemosurgery is evil and pretty much only used for brainwashing, 99.8% of all mnemosurgeons are evil creeps, oh by the way it's also addicting and will literally kill you if you do it too much." SMFH.

[rainbowvamp]

So, my original author's note in "Mess of a Dreamer (With the Nerve to Adore You)" is oppressively long. I'm going to post it here and link to it at the beginning of the fic.

I could just say less but... it's me. I'm not gonna do that.

Hello All, If you’re coming here from the letters fic (Unsent Letters: Nameless Stranger), welcome back. If you’re new, then simply welcome. This fic series has wormed it’s way very deeply into my heart (and soul, and all my other body parts honestly). I adore this second installation to the series, even though it has fought it’s own creation every step of the way I have been working on this beast of a fic for 6 months, and it is only half way finished. At the time of writing, this fic is a work in progress, but it is very thoroughly planned and I currently have enough completed chapters to post one chapter hopefully every week or two for the rest of the summer. Posting schedules and I don’t really get along, though, so we’ll see how that goes. I would like to thank everyone who read and commented so generously on the previous installation of this series. Reading through those comments has been what kept me motivated to work on this project when it was refusing to be cooperative. I'm not kidding about the fight it's put up. I will not promise that this fic will be what you wished for, or that it will be good, but I promise that it is written with love, and it is an offering from me to the very concept of dreams coming true. This fic is written in third person, limited to either Dream or Hob with a very occasional intercession of a more omniscient narrator. The first part of the first chapter is that omniscient narrator, so if you hate it, don't worry. It's not going to be like that often. I also want to talk about Gender as it applies to Dream of the Endless in this fic. Dream (in my own self-indulgent head canon) uses both he/him and they/them pronouns. My aim (and if all went well in the editing, my achievement) is to use they/them pronouns in the narrative spaces relegated to The Dreaming and he/him pronouns when Dream is in The Waking World. My rationale for this is that Dream is everything in The Dreaming, is every aspect of it, in fact, and so it would make sense that Dream would think of himself as “themself” not bound by gender, even though in the Waking World he takes on a masculine presentation (and pronouns). Of course, Dream never communicates this pronoun preference to Hob (shocker), and so anytime we’re reading through Hob’s point of view, Dream will be referred to with he/him pronouns, no matter if it’s in The Dreaming or The Waking World because that’s what Hob knows. I am very much taking the approach of “Dream is casual about their gender” and is in fact one of those people who when asked explicitly about their pronouns would respond “any”. While I was writing Unsent Letters I spent a lot of time exploring the depth of Hob’s love for Dream, his wonder at the world, and his growth over 600 years alive on earth. I don’t know if I can write prose as poignant as some of those letters felt, but these aspects of Hob’s character are so important to me, and so I am trying to do them justice while giving Dream the same sort of death and development. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit out of practice with writing prose, and so "trying" is the best I can do. This is still a work in progress, subject to small revisions and edits even after I’ve posted, so if you feel you have guidance to offer as a beta reader, please come and see me on Tumblr. I’d prefer these conversations happen in private. All that being said, I hope you enjoy this second installment. I have put my soul into this project and I hope that means it turns out well. Shout out to insanityallowance on Tumblr for doing an initial beta read. I have messed with this fic a lot since then, though, so all mistakes are 100% my bad. With all my love, Lore aka Rainbowvamp

[galadhremmin]

We have derived Caranthir liking the Dwarves (and vice versa) because apparently, Finrod succeeds in every field Caranthir fails, and at this point it's clear this derives from the in-universe writer of the Silm and his own biases. Think about it: "Dark Finwë" , a grumpy, prejudiced lordling, and "Hair Champion", most handsome, noble king, have met with the same people!! Yet the king of the first secret kingdom is everyone's friend, but the prince that trades with them regularly is not... seems sus.

Hence, Caranthir is friends with the Dwarves. (But that is just an interpretation, so you're free to think what you wish, I just have several opinions on in-universe prejudice and the almighty narrative.)

I think that 'we' might actually have been Dawn Felagund years ago. Maybe this reading existed even before that, but I doubt that-- she's been very influential in silm fandom and was long before tumblr was much of a thing. https://dawnfelagund.com/caranthir-the-slandered

I wouldn't say it's 'clear' that what amounts to Caranthir's entire documented personality derives from the bias of the in-universe narrator, though as you can see from Dawn's writing it's a reading you can argue for. There are a number of different approaches you can take to the Silm and its biases anyway. One of the few times when it's absolutely clear the text isn't telling the entire story is when it talks about the Easterlings. I've posted about this before but the recorded names are, uhh.... the ones to betray the elves are unlikely to actually have been named things like 'ugly lord' and 'ugly beard.' 'Dark Finwe' on the other hand is a documented reference to his haircolour being dark like Finwe's own; hardly a negative judgement!

I personally think Caranthir can be exactly as ill-tempered and prejudiced as the Silm paints him without becoming an unsympathetic character. If a writer cannot make a moody, deeply prejudiced man an interesting character that is a failure as a writer; there are after all enough books who manage exactly that. That is not to say choosing not to write him that way is a failure (obviously not), but it's not necessary in order to make a reader feel for him at all.

Just going by the text, I think it actually might make for a more interesting narrative to explore in fic to me. Because he does change his mind about something, and at a very specific moment; when he meets the Haladin. That is much less dramatic if he secretly been as nice and popular as Finrod, and got along with everyone all the time already. He's been raised by Fëanor, who said things like 'No other race shall oust us!' and rallied the Noldor not motivated enough by vengeance for Finwë alone by playing on their deep-seated fear of being replaced by the Secondborn. Very unlikely that had no impact. At best it has made him uninterested in humans in his area (while they're not much of a threat to ruling instead of the elves anyway). The text says they paid them no heed.

And yet! Caranthir sees how brave Haleth and her people are. He 'does her great honour.' He changes his mind and offers them lands. His tragedy to me is not that of a slandered figure, but of this deeply, deeply prejudiced person raised to distrust the motivations of human beings -- who overcomes those beliefs, offers friendship, is rejected! then extends that same trust to the Easterlings anyway... and it's those specific Easterlings, not the ones who ally with his brothers-- who betray them all. And cause the disastrous ending of the Nirnaeth. It's the 'to evil end shall all things turn that they begin well' part of the curse hitting him in the least fair way possible. Someone finally changes for the better, and the outcome is treason and destruction.

That is a very good character arc to me, actually. His aesthetics-based scorn for the Dwarves is reprehensible but strikes me as deeply Elvish, and part of his prejudices. Naugrim is too unflattering a name for them for it not to be common. His temper-- well why can't he have one? Sure there's only one recorded instance -- but that's imo because there are hardly any conversations in the Silm! Anyway I like some people with tempers well enough. Personally I think people are missing out on opiniated grouches.

Obviously the biased anti-Feanorian Pengolodh reading is a nice one, and I have enjoyed a lot of stories written based it. But it's not at all a reading that is necessary for me to read Caranthir as a flawed but sympathetic character. He can have serious faults and still, ultimately, be someone I feel for.

What I was asking though was if I overlooked any canon evidence of Caranthir being particularly, personally fond of the Dwarves; and it seems I did not. Also; there is room for Caranthir growing to like the Dwarves over centuries without an anti-Feanorian bias reading this strong, there is simply no evidence for friendship in the rather barebones narrative (I'm not interested atm because it's wildly overdone to me & I like variety).

That said, in my opinion making Caranthir the hidden, slandered Feanorian Finrod equivalent with a dash of Curufin's Dwarf affection is not as enjoyable as simply working with what little canon character is actually there. Because there is one (and it's not the greedy tax collector of some fanon depictions either imo)

1. To start with, wrt Caranthir as the anti-Finrod, I don't think it works that well. Sure sure dark/light, open/prejudiced, repressed/shouty, but different motivations, different locations, plus they meet very different peoples even if both are Edain-- besides, Caranthir's own older brothers do successfully ally with the Easterlings without betrayal, while Curufin (much more so than Finrod! no Khuzdul for Finrod!) is the Dwarves' Friend(tm). Also, a flawed Finrod already exists. That's just the regular edition. He has his own faults and (very different) tragic arc.

If Finrod never seems to have strong prejudices to overcome, and if he's not confrontational (which... look he's a diplomat. Make of that what you will. Pretty awkward there in Doriath, buddy!) he does have trouble facing his own complicity (he wanted to sail those ships despite the murders) until Sauron beats him to death with it. He leaves Valinor with the idea of ruling but he has to give up the crown. He's ambitious, he seems emotionally repressed, he's.. possibly paying the greater Dwarves to drive the Petty Dwarves out of their ancestral home to build a city? Oops. Depending on the version you go with in that case, of course; there's also ones where he's free of the blame of that one. Not of wanting to sail those ships and being uneasy with the guilt wrt wanting to do so despite their being stolen and murdered for though. No he doesn't kill; but he wants to use the result of it anyway, and to make it worse he is actually half Telerin.

There's also (to be fair, only for sure after the disaster of the Sudden Flame because that's the recorded instance) his guards killing random innocent trespassers to keep his kingdom hidden -- yes, that's right there in Silm, yes he's still King at the time. Beren has to wave that ring. People just seem to miss that he'd be killed without it somehow.

I think it's just too easy to reduce him to the golden perfect opposite of Caranthir. Yes he's described more positively; he's also just mentioned more because unlike Caranthir he rules an actual kingdom, the greatest and richest in Beleriand in fact; and does things that have a lot of very longterm effects, like helping B&L steal a Silmaril. They don't 'meet the same people' anyway -- the Haladin have a different culture from the Beorians which contributes to their reaction to Caranthir (and iirc their later fate).

Sidenote: Dawn's essay attributes the Green Elves helping the Feanorians at Amon Ereb to Caranthir's diplomatic skills; but why not to those of Amras or Amrod? This is the quote; 'Caranthir fled and joined the remnant of his people to the scattered folk of the hunters, Amrod and Amras, and they retreated and passed Ramdal in the south. Upon Amon Ereb they maintained a watch and some strength of war, and they had aid of the Green-elves' -- nothing here indicates it was Caranthir who got them that aid. In fact A&A are the hunters, i.e. more likely to have roamed in various forests where they would have encountered Green Elves, imo.

There's also the very desperate times to consider in which this aid takes place. This is just post Sudden Flame, and even if the Green Elves didn't like Caranthir they probably liked him better than Morgoth. Also, speaking of cosmopolitans, Maedhros allies with, yes, Dwarves (Azaghal), Grey elves, Easterlings (and you might say: Fingolfinians); even part of the remaining people of Dorthonion rally to Himring post sudden flame (that means Edain and Arafinwean followers in Himring, at least for a time), and he manages to be friendly with Felagund despite calling him a badger. ;)

Finrod is not the only other leader to forge diverse alliances, and though B&L ends happily his people mostly do not. Caranthir's not much like Finrod in any way. Not in motivations, temperament, tragic arc. That's fine. No hidden kingdom for a dragon to eat either. Finrod could probably do with being a little less like Finrod sometimes, though he's well-intentioned and likable. Caranthir loves to shout and isn't sneaky. Good for him.

2. Curufin also already exists. His love for Dwarves is one of his defining and redeeming characteristics and boy does he need them. He's daddy's favourite, a sneaky overambitious bitchy bastard who is also a talented smith and linguist, and truly considered a Dwarf friend, which is apparently exceptional. He's quite flawed; tries to help Celegorm force a political marriage, laughs with a bruised mouth, seeming to lose his mind while attempting and failing murder after first losing his own stronghold and then the city he tried to take from his cousin. He's just... a personality. Mostly a bad one! You can feel for him though, because he seems like an utter mess. Many 'i would love to study you' feelings on my part. Would hate for him to be real but also I'd pay to be his therapist.

3. And then finally there's Canon Caranthir. A difficult, prejudiced person who despite that (which doesn't at all have to mean there is no despite, the despite is what makes it juicy)

- seems to be responsible for re-establishing (large scale?) trade with the Dwarves, whatever he might think of them (and they of him) to their mutual benefit. I don't think he's greedy either. It seems like a mutually profitable situation. Access to Dwarvish goods seems pretty vital to Beleriand, and facilitating trade is a real service.

As someone pointed out in the replies, the Silm does mention Dwarvish companies travelling east to Nan Elmoth and menegroth various times, but quote wrt Caranthir says 'Caranthir’s people came upon the Dwarves, who after the onslaught of Morgoth and the coming of the Noldor had ceased their traffic into Beleriand' and 'when the Dwarves began again to journey into Beleriand.'

They stopped at some point and Caranthir's people made it happen again.

- which means he's practical. He seems like he's good at organising, and setting his own feelings aside if necessary despite his prejudice and temper (which is an achievement it wouldn't be without his, hm, everything). Also he and his people as well as the Dwarves work together well because ''either people loved skill and were eager to learn,' despite their (initial?) mutual dislike. Those aren't bad characteristics; seems like it was an exchange of skill as well as goods and possibly providing safe travel opportunities.

I don't like the 'greedy Caranthir' fanon and don't think it is even that easy support entirely with canon. 'They had of it great profit,' the text says-- both Caranthir and the Dwarves. They exchanged skills and knowledge and Caranthir seems to have helped them start trading in Beleriand again. That's hardly Scrooge Mcduck.

- Another thing we can say about canonthir (lol) is that he apparently attaches a lot of value to aesthetics (was he a visual artist? is a he a sculptor like Nerdanel? WORSE: AN ART CRITIC?! Feanorian art critic is truly nightmare fuel) and that's why he dislikes Dwarves (of all things...). Either way points to 'aesthetics' as something apparently important to Caranthir. Which makes sense given who his parents are. What is interesting to me is that this apparently DOESN'T matter to Curufin, who is a lot like Feanor in most things. That's interesting!

I've never, never seen this but I think it would be very funny to attribute his aesthetic prejudices to Nerdanel. I love her; but why should her opinions be perfect? I know she wasn't considered beautiful herself, but she's an artist. She's got to have had some strong opinions on aesthetics anyway. I doubt it's the beards; Mahtan had one as well. And 'stunted'...at least some of this comes down to the Elvish obsession with height yet again. Hm.

- eventually Caranthir overcomes what have to be some very deeply held beliefs about human beings and their place in the world, and offers what for all intents and purposes looks like real friendship, not the ruling over Men Feanor seems to have had in mind at best. He's capable of real change!

Anyway his character works just fine to me from canon, and what he achieves and the ways in which he fails are more interesting that way rather-- neither slandered Feanorian Finrod 2.0 nor Curufin 'Dwarf Fan' Feanorion without the sneakiness and murder attempts pack the same punch as a stupidly prejudiced grouchy man doing his best anyway for centuries in this stupid ugly cursed land, eventually changing for the better, opening up-- and being brutally punished for it by the Doom.

Dammit. I hope there's therapy in the Everlasting Darkness.

hm a bit long but that's what I get for trying to gather my thoughts wrt why after considering it a bit transferring Curufin's love for Dwarves to Caranthir is a bit boring to me personally. Though there are still stories that still do it very well.

[glattandblade]

hanahaki fic with any character?

Sure thing! Thank you for your request <3 I’ve never written Hanahaki before, so I hope I did it justice :D Thank you again!

By Author Blade <3

Title: Hanahaki (C!Schlatt x GN!Reader)

Summary: You’ve developed Hanahaki disease. And the cure seems out of reach.

Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending!), lots of mentions of death, also lots of mentions of vomiting & coughing (related to flowers), cursing

Word Count: 1212

Recently, your illness has been getting worse.

What started as coughing up a few petals every couple of days has gradually grown into choking on full bouquets. 

Your doctor had told you it was Hanahaki, the disease of unrequited love. Your face had paled at that. The only way to cure Hanahaki was to have your beloved return your feelings. And God knows that wasn’t going to happen, on account of your “beloved” being kind of a dick.

Schlatt’s a self centered, rude, annoying, fucking dick.

But all the same, you loved him. 

It’s gross.

The flowers started forming when you began working for him. It was hard moving and starting a new life, but you found yourself very close to your boss- the President. He was kind to you… sometimes. Being his secretary, you had the power to fuck him over a bit, so he usually leaned on your good side.

That doesn’t mean you were free from his teasing and overall cockiness.

As the disease progressed, you started to wonder why you were in love with someone like him. Why go through all this pain for him? What’s the fucking point if nothing is going to come out of it? You’d be leaning over the toilet, choking on your third rose, wishing you could just Get. Over. Him.

But then he’d gently knock at the door, ask if you were okay, and your heart would squeeze. You’d quickly flush away the flowers, tell him you were fine, and hope to God that he didn’t see it as important enough to prod.

It worked for a while, but then it became a daily occurrence. 

You’d have to slip away from your duties after a terrible coughing fit to go get it all out of your system in the bathroom. At first, Schlatt was angry that you’d leave your desk or skip out on meetings, but then he noticed the pattern. He never pushed you further than asking if you were alright through a closed door whenever he passed by and heard the coughing. He did feel like his secretary’s health was something he should know about, though. He just never knew how to approach you about it.

Caring would look vulnerable, and he’s got a fucking country to run. He was never good with feelings in the first place anyway, so he just stuck to the sidelines, making mental notes on your health for the day. Maybe one day you’d tell him and he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Or you’d die and he would know the answer.

What he didn’t know was that thoughts like those were what was killing you.

After a particularly hard day, you spent the whole night over the toilet. He had touched you. A light graze of the fingers, sure, but it was enough to send the flowers into overdrive. You called in the next day, hoping everyone would assume that you were just overworked and needed the day off, but Schlatt was more aware of the situation than that, to your dismay.

He had showed up at your house. You could feel the flowers building up your throat. You held them down as much as you could as he talked to you, but it was hard.

You could barely register what he was saying as you started to cough so hard that you fell to your knees. He reached out and caught you, but that just made it worse. You couldn’t hold them back anymore, and the flowers started to fly out, all over the floor and all over him.

He stared at them with curious concern. He held you in a gentle way he didn’t think possible, taking one of the flowers between his fingers. 

Hanahaki.

Of course, he’s heard about it. Who hasn’t? The death rate for Hanahaki’s way too high.

The two of you moved to the bathroom where you finished your fit.

His voice was uncharacteristically quiet when he spoke, breaking the silence, “Who is it?” You almost didn’t hear him.

“It.. it doesn’t matter, Schlatt.” Your voice was hoarse, it hurt to talk. You could feel the flowers fighting to come back up as he got closer to you, sitting down on the floor next  to you. You coughed hard before continuing, “I-I’ll be okay.”

“Well I really fuckin’ doubt that, sweetheart. You just threw up my dead Grandma’s bouquet.” Usually, that would make you laugh, at least a little, but you could feel the flowers pushing at your throat and squeezing your lungs from just how close he was to you.

“Just tell me, (Y/N). Maybe I can help.”

You smiled at him, though it was sad. Those words only made it worse. He didn’t realize that the kindness he was showing you was only feeding the flowers.

“You aren’t going to be… mad? Or laugh?” It felt silly, but you needed the reassurance right now.

“We’re not fucking 12, (Y/N).”

“Right.”

You cleared your throat, hoping to suck down any stray flowers so you could speak. Your brain found it hard to find the right words, so you just went with the shortest, simplest thing you could think of. Something he’d understand immediately and you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. 

“I love you.”

He paused, then looked at you, eyes wide and mouth open a bit.

“You what?”

Okay, not the best reaction, but he didn’t seem mad, at least.

“Schlatt don’t make me repeat myself, my throat hurts as it is.” A tease, a joke. Lighthearted enough to distract yourself from the fact that if he doesn’t reciprocate, you’re dead.

“No, no. I get it. I’m sexy as fuck- I’m the president, for God’s sake. And any one knows that everyone and their mom wanted to fuck Obama-”

He rambled on for a bit like that, inflating his ego a little in the process. You stared at him blankly, waiting for him to finish to give you a proper answer.

“You’re my secretary, though! Isn’t that kind of weird? Actually it’s kind of hot-”

You rolled your eyes.

“But if people found out? My name would be smeared. Then again, you’re really pretty. Have I told you that? Oh fuck, maybe now isn’t the right time-”

“Schlatt?”

He turned to you, having looked away during his rant, “Yeah?”

“Are you going to kiss me? Or just ramble like an idiot?”

“I’m not an idiot. Maybe a fool, but I’m not an idiot.”

“So are you going to kiss-” And before you could finish, he leaned forward, cutting you off with a kiss.

And it was a damn good kiss at that, for this kiss was enough to seal that he did, in fact, give a shit about you. You felt a weight lift off your lungs, your throat cleared up, and for the first time in months, you felt happy.

His hands on your hips, your arms around his neck, the way he had to bend down to reach your lips and you had to push yourself up to reach his... It was uncomfortable, actually. You’re on the bathroom floor for Christ’s sake, but you wouldn’t trade this kiss for the world.

You were finally free of that wretched disease, and now you could kiss him whenever you wanted.

Masterlist

[getoutofmyjaneway]

Beta Cannon: the Pre Voyager Era of Kathryn Janeway | Mosaic v The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway

This weekend, I got a copy of the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway from a local book store. For how frequently we speak about Mosaic in the community (despite having some flaws) I was shocked that I had not heard a lot about this book and assumed it was a bad thing. And yeah in some regards it was (see @mia-cooper’s post on the subject). I have a lot of feelings (I’ll post a proper review at a later point) but one thing that did stick out to me is the divergence from what we have considered Beta Canon, aka, the extended universe of Star Treks told through novels, short stories, video games, etc. After completing the novel, I jumped right into my old standby copy of Mosaic, which has dictated a lot of Janeway’s back story since 96. Both of these novels cover the beginnings of Janeway’s life and how she was shaped into the woman we know. 

TLDR The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway changes a lot of things for no reason. Some of these are for the good. Some for the bad. And some, for like no good reason at all, like it was fine as it was, and was accepted cannon for like 25 years, but sure fine whatever.

I will mention that, as Mosaic has been a book in my library and I have read it too many times, so of course, I do have a bias toward it. Additionally, I feel like it is fair to mention here that authors of Fanfiction have leaned on this as their bibles since 1996 as Mosaic is written by Jeri Taylor, one of the show-runners for Voyager. Because of its connection with a showrunner, Mosaic is also integrated into the canon of the show. It seems that most points that are taken from Mosaic in the Autobiography are only included because of their existence in cannon material.

Anyway, this review is going to focus on the characters that shape Kathryn and I will end with my final thoughts. This is long so to respect your dash, you are going to have to click keep reading. You’re welcome.

Obligatory Spoiler Warning for ALL of Mosaic, chapter 13 of Pathways, and chapters 1-7 of The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway

Edward Janeway

In all media, I feel like we can safely say that Kathryn Janeway is in fact a daddy’s girl. Her relationship with her father is very important to her, so it is interesting to see how it is portrayed very differently in both novels. In Mosaic, a lot of the highlights of Janeway’s earlier years revolve around time spent with him. From giving her special attention after ‘Your Sister’ was born, to consoling her after her losing tennis match and subsequent walk home in the rain, and trips to Mars, Kathryn mentions great fondness of quality time spent. In the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway he is more described as an absent father, one that she always wanted to see and please. When he was home, she wanted all of his attention and to impress him greatly. She wished to follow in his footsteps after gaining a love of flight and the stars with a plane ride and a telescope he gave her. He tried to prepare her by detaining the events of the current conflict with Cardassia and inviting Starfleet brass over for dinner. Overall, in her early childhood, it makes more sense for Edward to not be around often. There is not a lot of conflict between the sources, other than the details of the aforementioned tennis match and different childhood nicknames.  

Edward is in a crash aboard an experimental ship on Tau Ceti Prime which leads to his death. This is where the big differences begin. In Mosaic, Kathryn and her fiancé are also on board. In  Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway, Kathryn is still on the Al-Batani. The fall out of this event has a great effect on Kathryn of course in both novels. As this is a missive shaping event of Kathryn’s life, I felt it very jarring to be changed. This moment shaped Janeway and gives us good context for why she handles situations the way she does. I see this trauma and I understand her character better, for dealing with the loss of two of the most important people in her life all at once.

Gretchen Janeway

The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway was good to Gretchen Janeway as her character is basically a blank slate. We know little about her from Mosaic as it mostly focuses on Kathryn’s relationship with her father (and other male influences in her life). It is nice to learn more things about Grechen as with Edward’s job, it is likely that Kathryn was mainly raised by her. Other than being an artist, she also wrote some of the Flotter holos and wrote a number of children’s stories about the people of Bajor during the occupation. She does a lot of humanitarian work with the refugees from Bajor during the occupation. She loves to garden and get her daughters involved. She has a close bond with Phoebe due to their overlapping interests, but you can tell that she strives to support her in what she does. Overall, I like getting know Gretchen to be someone of than Kathryn’s mother.

Phoebe Janeway

 I was shocked when researching Memory Alpha for this review, Phoebe is never named in any Cannon media up to this point (Star Trek Prodigy could very well change this). We know Janeway has a sister and she is an artist, but that is it. Both novels keep her very similar personality-wise. In both stories, Kathryn is not looking forward to being a big sister. They also both mourn the loss of their father together. In Mosaic, she is not mentioned much. Kathryn tells her she is not old enough on an off planet trip and Phoebe plays pranks on her. The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway goes much more into depth. They don’t get along when they are younger. They fight a lot. I feel this is a very realistic portrayal of real siblings, vying for attention and approval, snapping when they don’t get their way.  They both excel at what they do, Kathryn in her studies and Phoebe through her art. They seem to need to one-up each other at every turn.  As they grow up, they grow closer together, as many siblings do. Points added for giving Phoebe a wife, something which has been included in a lot of fanfiction. Overall, there are no big conflicting points.

Mark Johnson

Kathryn’s fiance at the time of the Voyager’s disappearance, Mark is a very different part of Kathryn’s life in both novels. In Mosaic, he is a childhood friend and went by his middle name Hobbs. Seemingly always two steps behind Kathryn, he did a lot of the same activities that she did, tennis and swimming in the underground cave systems. He did these poorly, and this makes Kathryn always look down upon him. They reconnected after her father’s death and she fell head-over-heels for him. Personally, I always felt this was a little uncharacteristic of Kathryn, to run away from her responsibilities to be with a man. It just seems very out of character and has always bothered me. The  Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway takes a completely different approach. She meets Mark as a friend of Pheobe and her wife as a widower. They hit it off and they fall hard. You can see the conflict in Kathryn as she debates how to move forward with a relationship as they have different outlooks on life. She has a drive to explore but does not want to be an absent parent. She debates quitting, which I don’t think is something Janeway would have ever done. Overall she decides to accept Mark’s proposal just before taking command of Voyager. This makes the Dear John situation a lot more believable as it makes sense that he would want to move on with his life much quicker. Overall, I have to just ask, why? I know Mark doesn’t have a lot of character, but why change basically their whole relationship dynamic? 

Justin Tighe

Justin is a character I actually like for selfish reasons. This explains why I was very miffed that he was nowhere to be seen in the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway. Justin is Kathryn’s first love, they were coworkers, engaged and in love, and dies in the same accident that takes her father. As a person who always wanted Chakotay and Janeway to get together, this incident perfectly gives the reason. She is afraid to get romantically involved with a crew member because of the nature of the job. This dynamic is seen between Picard and Nella Daren in TNG very well. Kathryn has learned the hard way that she can lose a person under her command and how it feels when you are in love with that person. In early Voyager, you can see she isolates herself from the crew and it takes time for her to get comfortable. And during Night she relapses to her old ways. This is the way I have always justified Janeway’s reluctance to have a romantic relationship during their time in the Delta Quadrant. By understanding her background, I have a lot of respect for that choice. Her relationship with Justin really shaped how she handles relationships and without the impact he had on her life, it actually makes her character weaker.

Owen Paris

Owen is Kathryn’s mentor. In Mosaic, they meet as he is reviewing her junior honors thesis advisor on massive compact halo objects. From here they gained a relationship built on respect and learning. It makes sense that, as he was her personal mentor, that she would be close with his family, and why she would seek out Tom as a person to bring with her to the Badlands mission. In the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway, she does not meet him until she is on the Al-Batani. This doesn’t only weaken her relationship with Admiral Paris, but moreover weakens her relationship with Tom. If he was her superior officer, why would she develop such a ‘big sister’ mentality to Tom if she didn’t have as many opportunities to meet him?

Tuvok

Mosaic does not go too much in depth with Tuvok and Janeway’s relationship, but its sister novel Pathways does. In Pathways, Tuvok meets Janeway when he is an ensign under her command of the USS Bonestell. The Bonestell and the Billings, two ships that Janeway served on, tend to get confused a lot. Most sources have Janeway’s first command as the Voyager, Including Voyager itself -  “It doesn't seem like my first command is shaping up the way I expected,” Janeway Shattered. The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway has her and Tuvok meet on the Al-Batani. I actually really like the dynamic between them, as they grow to respect each other over a much longer period of time. I also like that, though Janeway climbs through the ranks, it does not change their relationship dynamic as she still relies on him and asks him advice as if they were equals. I think giving them a longer time to build their relationship. Also would like to note that Janeway and Tuvok also had a friendship with the original CMO of Voyager, Dr. Fitzgerald. I always wanted to know more about the Pre-Caretaker crew and I would have loved to see this dynamic and how the grief of losing a close personal friend in the Caretaker incident would impact them both.

Also I feel obligated to shout out the Janeway and Tuvok story in Star Trek Waypoint One-Shot. I need to get around to doing a series retrospective, but this short story I have not seen anyone talk about and I love it so much. Please read Waypoint. Okay next.

Other characters

Cheb - Janeway’s boyfriend in Mosaic. He was kind of an asshole and got her into trouble. He is not in the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway and I see no problem with this.

Boothby - “[he is the] head groundskeeper at Starfleet Academy. When I was a cadet, he used to give me fresh roses for my quarters,” Janeway Revulsion. Boothby is not in Mosaic. In the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway, it is explained that her mother loved to garden and this was something that Boothby did as a gradian figure to make her feel at home and destress. Makes sense.

Aisha - A childhood friend of Katheryn’s. Only in the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway. Mosaic has this weird thing about highlighting the relationships with only the men in her life, so it is nice to see her have some other female friends.

Nexa - Katheryn’s roommate at the Academy.  Only in the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway. Nexa helps broaden Kathryn’s horizons by helping to learn about Exoliguisticts, first contact, and the Betazoid culture. Again nice to see her have other female friends.

Riker - Yes they go on a date in Mosaic. He is not mentioned in the  Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway. I know he is a gag character but I still liked it.

-----------------------

Final Thoughts

A lot of characters were changed between these two novels. There is a lot to like and a lot to hate. I really like what the Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway did with characters like Tuvok and Gretchen Janeway. Other characters were not so lucky (Justin, sweetie I’m so sorry that they would erase you like that, oh my god). It’s a mixed bag, but one thing I need say is... why?

We have had a good thing going here with the established canon as is. Mosaic (and Pathways) is the foundation of which the last 25 years of fanworks and the relaunch novels are based on. Why change history when it is already written?

Always, would love to hear your thoughts and thank you for reading my novel of a post. I will see you in the full review.

[haikyuuuuuhypeeeee]

Chapter 3

⚠WARNING: Mention of previous characters' deaths

• ────── ✾ ────── •

You have no idea how you got here.

Here, being in front of the lone coffee shop on campus, on your way to meet the stranger who’s had the misfortune to get Hajime’s old phone number and receive your sad ramblings meant for no one else.

And you, the author of those sad ramblings, written in moments of weakness, are going to sit with this stranger and….

You haven’t gotten that far yet.

Honestly, you’ve been more incredulous at the odds of this meeting even happening.

What the hell am I doing???

You really have no explanation, not even for yourself. The time is 9:58 and in two minutes you’re going to walk into the cafe and meet with a stranger who is going through a traumatic life experience similar to yours.

Ok, so you can explain what you’re doing. But the why is what’s escaping you. And frankly that should scare you more than it is currently doing.

Especially seeing how you haven’t told your friends what you’re doing. You bugged off lunch (much to Oikawa’s annoyance) but didn’t tell them why. Not only would Oikawa throw a fit but he, Mattsun and Makki wouldn’t understand your reasoning for meeting a stranger you met only a few hours ago.

They really wouldn’t understand why you don’t have a solid reason for meeting this stranger.

Put all the red flags together and you would find yourself locked in your apartment with no means of escaping under Oikawa’s watch.

To be fair, you are meeting them in a public place and you have no intention of going anywhere with the stranger. You’re just going to go have a cup of tea, shoot the shit, and then leave.

Yeah, it’s definitely doable. And not at all crazy.

You take a deep breath before walking inside the shop. It’s a bit crowded - the weekend mid-morning rush makes the employees hustle behind the counter to fill orders. All of the tables are full, leaving no space for two strangers to sit and….

Oh, this was a bad idea. A really bad and stupid idea.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out and nearly jump at the caller ID.

Your brain points out that it’s not Hajime but the stranger you’re meeting. You pick up the phone quickly. “Hello?”

“Heya, how’re ya doin’?”

You hope you’ve schooled your expression into nonchalance but you can’t help your eyebrows jumping hearing the clear Kansai dialect through the phone.

Besides the surprise at the unfamiliar drawl, you’re pleased to hear a clear and strong voice on the other line. Nothing creepy or weird or anything your brain was trying to convince would be the case.

“Hi.” You reply into the phone. You can hear background noise from his end, which assures you again that he must actually be here.

“‘M over in the corner with the baseball cap.”

Your eyes move to the corner immediately and zero-in on a figure sitting at the table there. It’s a man, wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a dark ball cap. And he’s staring straight at you.

You hang up the phone and walk over to him. You spot a coffee cup on the table in front of him and watch as he takes his hat off and sets it on the tabletop. His silver-grey hair is messed up from the hat but that’s the least of your concerns at the moment.

No, what has you almost faltering in your steps is the exhaustion that lies deep on his face. The bags under his eyes are heavy and stark against his pale skin. His mouth is drawn in a small frown and with his eyebrows furrowed slightly it makes him look troubled.

You recognize his weariness. This is a man who is burdened to carry an intangible weight.

However this man still meets your gaze and gives you a small, tired smile. The small gesture brightens his face considerably but doesn’t completely erase the empty look. But you feel your nerves settle when he smiles at you.

“Hi,” he says when you approach the table.

“Hello.” You sit in the chair opposite of his and shrug your jacket off. “It’s busy, thanks for grabbing a table.”

“No worries.” Hearing his calm and measured tone in person relaxed you more than you realized and you felt some tension release from your shoulders. “‘M here all the time and I figured they’d be a bit busy on Saturday. D’ya want me to grab ya something from the counter?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” You shake your head to emphasize your point.

“Nah, I insist. Coffee? Tea? Fancy mocha drink?”

“Uh,” you’re startled by his insistence but relent. “A tea, please. Jasmine if they have it.”

He nodded before standing and making his way to the register, letting you fully settle in your seat and try to still comprehend what the hell you are doing.

Mid-inner freak out (oh god, what if he drugs my tea, what am I doing?!) a cup materializes in front of you. Osamu comes around with another cup for himself and sits in the chair across from you.

“They had Jasmine and it smells amazin’.” He shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his coffee. “‘M not a big tea drinker but that smells like it would calm ya down real good.”

You send him a smile before lifting the cup up. The smell of jasmine tea was soothing and the taste was even better when you took a small sip. “It’s my go-to comfort drink. I’ve probably had a few more cups than normal in the past few months.”

The sympathetic look the stranger sends you makes you purse your lips, realizing too late what you said. You look away, cursing to yourself. Great, way to go and make it awkward now. It’s quiet for a bit, now awkward by your weird ~fun fact~

“My name’s Miya Osamu.” You look up at the man and see a rueful smile on his face. “I probably shoulda told ya my name earlier. ‘M a first year student at Sendai University.”

You blink. Of fucking course you didn’t know his name. You never thought to ask when texting him earlier. You met up with a LITERAL stranger for tea and coffee.

“Wow, I’m sorry for being so rude!” You hurriedly say. “I should’ve asked AGES ago. But my name’s L/N Y/N. I’m also a first year student at Sendai.”

“Huh.” Osamu (not The Stranger) says. “What a weird coincidence.”

You nod. “Yeah, um are you not from around here? I can tell by your dialect.”

Osamu hums. For the first time you see his face fall and set into something more stone-like. It’s a subtle difference but it’s there nonetheless. “Hyogo. Came to Miyagi for school and had to get a new number.”

“Oh.” It’s a dry answer that you really don’t know how to reply to. “Do you like it so far?”

He shrugs. “It’s not bad. Pretty far.”

You nod. “Yeah, it is.”

You both lapse into a silence that is neither comfortable nor relaxing.

Oh my GOD this is so awkward! Why did you agree to this? Why did you think this was a good idea?! Yeah sure, he’s not a freaking weirdo serial killer, you can check that off your list. But you didn’t think about what you would actually TALK about!

“Do ya wanna talk about Hajime?”

Your reply to his question is to spit your tea across the table.

You look up to meet Osamu’s concerned gaze. Neither of you move before you both reach across to grab napkins from the dispenser.

“Are ya alright?”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry!”

In your haste to clean up your tea the napkin dispenser gets knocked to the ground, and the napkins explode out like an explosion of white confetti.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” The napkins springing up startle you so much that your knee knocks into the table hard, almost upending Osamu’s coffee.

“Argh!” You lean down to clutch your knee as it throbs painfully but your head collides with the table instead. “OUCH!”

“Are ya alright?!” Osamu asks frantically.

You exhale deeply. “Yep, I’m just a klutz. Fuck, that hurt my head.” You wish you could keep your head down and disappear. But you look up, your face bright red with embarrassment, and meet the concerned look from Osamu.

“I’m ok,” you reassure. “Really.” You look around at the mess surrounding your table and catch a few people gawking. Good lord. “Besides my pride taking a beating, I’m all good.” You stoop down to grab the napkins scattered around, wincing at the waste. Osamu also bends down to help.

“It looked like a pretty hard hit,” he notes.

“It’d be worse if I had something in my head worth keeping safe.”

Osamu smiles at your quip, a little half-smile. It’s nice.

Soon you both stand back up to throw out the napkins. Osamu grabs the bunch from you, letting you sit back down. You try to cool the fuck out and you will your face to not resemble a tomato when he comes back.

“Are you sure yer alright?” Osamu asks again.

“Yes, really.” You nod. “I’m sorry if I spat tea on you. I was just really surprised.”

Osamu tilted his head. “From what I said?” You nod. “Why?”

“I mean,” you start. “It mainly just caught me off guard. I’m not used to it, like just talking about him.”

“Do ya talk about him at all?”

You want to nod, but thinking about it you honestly don’t remember the last time you were able to tell someone about Hajime. Not his passing, but just talking about the person that he was.

“Oh.” Osamu pauses, looking at you considering. “Well my old therapist said it’s good to talk about this stuff, so I figured that’s what ya wanted.”

You don’t know how to reply to his simple explanation. Because you do want to talk about Hajime. You want to so badly. You want to tell the world how amazing he is, how he makes the world a better place just by existing, how strong he is and how much lighter you feel when he’s around

Or, how it was.

But you haven’t been able to talk about him. Every time you tried to talk outside of group therapy with your friends, Oikawa shuts down and Makki and Mattsun get uncomfortable. Your therapist is always able to handle anything you throw at her, but it’s not the same as just talking about a friend to someone.

So maybe Osamu is right about just talking about Hajime.

“He has hair like a porcupine.”

Osamu gives you a look of confusion before you continue. “Our friend Oikawa used to call him prickly, and we’d tease him when he’d bristle up and say he looks like a porcupine.” You laugh at the memory of Hajime bristling up, constantly egged on by Oikawa. “It wasn’t even bad hair, it was just so sharp. It was weird.”

Osamu doesn’t say anything for a second before he bursts out laughing. “Atsumu had weird hair too - dyed bleach blonde. Thought it made him look badass.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

You wrap your hand around your cup of tea, hesitating. An obvious question hangs in the air but for the first time since sitting down Osamu looks a bit lively.

“Was Atsumu your brother?”

The lightness on Osamu’s face is extinguished when he nods at your question. “Yeah, he’s a pain in the ass but I love him.” He pauses, looking down at his coffee cup. “Well, he was.”

You can feel the pain radiating from that one word. You understand the horrid dread that comes when you realize you’d been speaking about Hajime in the present tense. Even more so when you have to admit it out loud.

You look at Osamu and frown upon seeing his withdrawn expression. You feel immense guilt, knowing that you’ve contributed to his change in mood.

You’re desperate to lighten the mood and bring that smile back to Osamu’s face. You search through your memories, trying to find something funny. A thought crosses your mind and you feel a small smile grace your lips.

“There was one time that my friend was determined to roast smores on Iwa’s head.” You giggle at the disbelieving look on Osamu’s face. “Yeah, it was the stupidest idea he’d ever concocted. We didn’t even get one marshmallow on his head.”

“We?” Osamu asks, his voice lifting in amusement ever so slightly.

“Of course.” You reply, a smile spreading over your face at the memory and at Osamu’s content face. “I too was curious if we could do it.”

Osamu snorts, shaking his head as he brought his coffee to his mouth. “That idea would have intrigued Atsumu for sure. He was all about the far-fetched plots to piss off everyone around him.”

You smile, leaning forward in your chair. “Oh yeah? Wanna share some notes?” Osamu’s face brightens slightly at your words and he begins to talk, more animatedly than before.

• ────── ✾ ────── •

A/N: So nothing bad happened with Y/N meeting the stranger (besides her being a clumsy klutz, where are my fellow klutzes at?) Thank you for reading, I hope this chapter was a little soft respite from the initial angst~

Taglist Open! Please send an Ask with the request to be added to It’s [Not] Okay Fic & SMAU (bold cannot be tagged): @psycho-nightrose @camcam1617 @kamalymaly @toobsessedsstuff @shookykookie30 @roro-707 @qualitygiantshoepsychic @cerealfrdinner797 @ara-mitsue @gray-444 @tanakasimpcorner @rintarovibes @jellien

[stolen-pen-name23]

Your prompt list is soo cool! I’d love to see 30 with Obi-Wan and whoever else you want!

Ahhh thank you for the prompt my friend!! I've never written Padmé before, so I decided to experiment with that. I hope you like it!

---

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan murmured.

Anakin probably couldn’t hear his quiet apologies. He was still unconscious from his surgery and likely would be for some time. Still, Obi-Wan spoke to him on the off chance he could hear him. Anakin would need a comforting word or two.

Obi-Wan could hardly bear to look at the metal arm that was now positioned in place of Anakin’s flesh one. It had been a clean amputation — the one advantage of being wounded by a lightsaber of all weapons. Still, looking at the arm made Obi-Wan’s stomach turn sour with an unpleasant mixture of guilt and anger.

The door to the medical suite clicked open and closed and Obi-Wan was pulled from his quiet musings and murmurings.

“Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan greeted, hiding his surprise behind a careful mask.

“Oh! Master Kenobi,” Senator Amidala said, not quite as good at hiding her surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Why not?” Obi-Wan asked. “We’re in the Jedi temple and my padawan has just suffered a terrible injury. Why would I not be here?”

The words came harsher than he wanted them to, but he could not help it. Obi-Wan felt all of the exhaustion, all of the fear, all of the anger he had yet to work through from the past few days start to claw at his chest and wedge itself into his words.

Kamino. His capture. Dooku. 212 Jedi dead because of him.

Anakin.

“He is my Padawan. My responsibility. I have every reason to be here.” He paused and pulled his gaze away from Anakin to look Padmé in the eyes. “In fact, why are you here?” he asked, ice coating the very cadence with which he spoke.

If his words shook her, she did not show it.

“I came to check in on Padawan Skywalker’s well-being. He has successfully protected me over the past few days. I only wish to see him alright.”

Padmé was steadfast and not easily cowed. Obi-Wan admired that about her.

Guilt started to dilute the mix of other negative emotions already swirling around within him. “Yes, of course,” he said, clearing his throat. He swore he could still feel the dust from the Geonosian arena lodged in his vocal cords. “Forgive me, Senator. It has been a difficult couple of days.”

“That it has,” Padmé agreed. “Are you doing okay? I know you didn’t walk away entirely unharmed either.”

Obi-Wan looked away to hide his grimace. “I’m all right,” he said softly, ignoring the pulsating ache in his arm and his thigh.

“May I sit with you?”

Obi-Wan wanted to say no. He wanted her to go away. All he wanted right now was to be alone with his Padawan and his thoughts.

“Of course,” he said.

Padmé sat beside him. Awkwardness hung in the air around them.

“I am glad to see you alright,” Padmé said. “When we got your message, we weren’t sure you were still alive.”

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly. “I’ve been through worse.” Even as he said it, he struggled to think of something worse than getting into a knock-down-drag-out with a Mandalorian, getting captured by his grandmaster, getting chained to a pole, presumably to be torn to shreds by all manner of beasts, and then watching his grandmaster maim his padawan all in the span of a few days.

Oh and the 212 Jedi. The ones that died to save him.

He struggled to come up with something much worse than that.

“Yes, well, I’m still glad you’re all right.”

“I’m glad you’re all right too,” Obi-Wan said. “You were very quick on your feet in that arena. It was impressive.”

“It was not meant to impress. It was meant to escape.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, I’m sorry. It seems both of us have frayed nerves at the moment.”

“So it seems,” Obi-Wan nodded.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Padmé asked, inclining her head to Anakin.

“If I know my Padawan, this will be an adjustment for him,” Obi-Wan said. “He’ll get through it, but it is going to be a long road for him.”

“I fear he will not have that much time to adjust.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “Quite right.”

Obi-Wan didn’t notice his knee was bouncing up and down until Padmé put a steadying hand on it. He looked down at her delicate fingers and then back up at her. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You can talk to me, Obi-Wan,” she said softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Obi-Wan hesitated before letting the flood gates open.

“It’s just… Our people, our galaxy is at war and I’m… I’m scared,” Obi-Wan admitted. He didn’t know why he was admitting that to a senator of all people, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “As Jedi, we do not fear death, because there is always the Force. We do not fear loss, because there is no attachment. But...”

“Then what is it you are scared of, Master Kenobi?”

“I fear we will lose ourselves,” Obi-Wan said. “We are not warriors, Padmé. We are not meant to fight battles on the behalf of governments. We are meant to bring peace and order to the galaxy. We are not meant to sow ruin. It is not our way.”

“You haven’t exactly been given much of a choice,” Padmé said. “People all over the galaxy need the help of the Jedi to protect them from the atrocities of the Separatists.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan said. “I know this and I will give everything to the fight if I have to. It’s just...”

“It’s okay to be scared, Master Kenobi,” Padmé said.

“There is no emotion,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “There is only the Force.”

“That must be comforting,” Padmé said. She was not being sarcastic. She meant what she said, and Obi-Wan felt himself warming to her.

“It is,” he said. “But even the most familiar of comforts can feel hollow in the face of war.”

“When I was a girl, I loved holofilms with happy endings.”

Obi-Wan looked at her in confusion at the quick change of subject, but her eyes stayed on Anakin. “How come?” he decided to ask.

“I liked the idea that even if the characters had a rough beginning, they would claw and fight their way through the middle. I liked the idea that, even if they struggled all the way through, they would be rewarded.”

“It is a pleasant notion,” Obi-Wan agreed, still not quite catching the senator’s meaning.

“There was always something nice about watching the hero go off into the sunset. The lovers living happily ever after. The children getting to grow up,” she continued.

“Why are you telling me this, Senator?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Because,” she said, turning her eyes to Obi-Wan. “What if there is no happy ending for us?”

It was a heavy question to ask and Obi-Wan struggled to find a response.

“I’m scared too, Master Kenobi,” Padmé said in his silence. “I’m scared this war will mean that none of us will get out unscathed.”

And in that moment Obi-Wan did not see the queen-turned-senator of Naboo. He saw a young woman struggling to come to terms with the new realities that came with war. He saw a young woman worrying about someone she cared about, just as he was.

He saw a friend.

It was not hard for Obi-Wan to slip into his role as a mentor, a teacher, a guide. If Senator Amidala could be there for him, he could be there for her. He cleared his throat.

“As Jedi, we are taught to stay focused on what is around us, not what is ahead of us.”

“It’s difficult,” Padmé said.

“I know. But if we dwell too much on what may be, we’ll never focus on what is.”

“Do all Jedi talk like you?”

“Most of us,” Obi-Wan laughed. “Though Anakin seems to have his own approach.”

“He certainly does.”

If there was a deeper meaning to her words, Obi-Wan chose to ignore it.

This time, when silence fell over them, it was comfortable.

“I should let you tend to your Padawan,” Padmé said after some time, she stood up and shifted her eyes away from Anakin and back to Obi-Wan. “Do let me know how he is when he wakes up. I wish to see him all right.”

“Of course, Senator,” Obi-Wan said.

Padmé took her leave and Obi-Wan was left alone with Anakin and his thoughts.

He took a moment to ponder what it would mean to have a happy ending before chasing the thought away.

Somehow he knew he wasn’t going to get one.

[ironwoman359]

You Don’t Own Me (You Don’t Even Know Me)

Chapter 4

Navigation: Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6

Summary:  As the son of a Baron, Roman Sanders always knew that when he married, it would be due to a political arrangement rather than true love. Still, when he is sent away to marry an older, more powerful Earl, he is determined to make the best of his situation. Despite the Earl’s indifference towards him, Roman forges ahead and prepares to become the best husband he can possibly be, making new friends along the way. But when his fiancé’s demeanor turns from cold to cruel, Roman must shift all of his focus to survival, and find a way out of his marriage before it’s too late.

Ships: Logince, side Moxiety and Dukeceit

Content Warnings (overall): arranged marriage, abuse, attempted sexual assault, murder, poisoning, character death, hurt/comfort, angst Chapter 4 Warnings: possessive behavior, verbal and physical abuse, angst, allusions to abuse and murder 

Word Count: 4067

Read on AO3: here!

A/N: Co-written with @5-falsehoods-phonated​, check out his masterlist here and check out mine here! 

---

“And when I tried to get down, Remus spooked the pony and it bolted, with me still clinging to the saddle for dear life.” 

Virgil snorted, then immediately brought his hand up to cover his smile. 

“You wound me!” Roman said dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Eight-year-old me was certain that his life was going to end, and you’re laughing?” 

“I can’t help that the mental image of you dangling off the saddle of a pony and screaming your head off is the funniest thing I’ve seen all week,” Virgil replied. 

“Be nice, Virgil!” Patton scolded, even as he fought back giggles of his own. “I’m sure it was very scary at the time!” 

“You’re telling me,” Roman agreed. “I wouldn’t set foot near the stables for a month.” 

“I can’t believe that after all that you somehow grew up to be a competent rider,” Virgil said. 

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my older brother Remy. He started taking me with him when he went out on his rides; I felt a lot safer riding double with him than I did by myself.”

“Your brothers sound wonderful,” Patton said, smiling. 

“Oh, they’re the absolute worst,” Roman said. “But also I love them more than anyone.” 

“I hope we’ll get to meet them at the wedding!” 

Roman’s smile went brittle around the edges, and he forced himself to nod. 

“I hope so too,” he said quietly. 

Patton’s brow wrinkled, and Roman knew that look, that was Patton’s “I’m worried about you” look, and as much as he had come to view Patton and Virgil as his friends, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to get into the whole “my twin brother ran away from home to escape noble life and I haven’t seen him in years and might never see him again” topic with them just yet. 

“Well this has been great,” Virgil cut in suddenly. “But it’s getting close to midday; I need to get back to work, and you need to get to your little lunch date.” 

“Excuse you, it is a perfectly professional business meeting!” Roman protested, and Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Sure it is. That’s why you meet with Logan every single day and always perk up or get this silly smile on your face whenever you mention something that he said, most of which has nothing to do with business.” 

Roman gave Virgil a deadpan look. “Do you really want me to retaliate right now?” he asked, glancing pointedly at Patton. 

Virgil’s cheeks flushed pink, and he waved Roman away. 

“Go on, then!” he said. “Go have your perfectly professional business meeting.” 

“I will!” Roman said primly, but as he stood to leave, he shot Virgil a grateful smile, and Virgil nodded in return. 

After parting with Patton at the house’s entrance, Roman made the short trek down to the library alone. He hadn’t been sure how he would manage living at the Howard Estate at first, but his life had settled into a predictable yet comfortable routine since the engagement banquet. 

Patton brought breakfast to his room every morning, and after Roman insisted several times that he preferred the company, Patton now stayed to eat with him most mornings. After breakfast, Roman changed into his riding clothes and the two headed down to the stables together, where Virgil was waiting for them with Angel. Roman took his morning ride, and Patton and Virgil did whatever it was they liked to do when they were alone together. 

When he returned, Roman helped Virgil groom Angel, and the three of them often fell into easy conversation with one another. At midday, Roman took his lunch in the library with Logan, and he spent the afternoons on his own, exploring the mansion or indulging in his creative hobbies. All in all, his days were mostly pleasant, until dinnertime, of course. 

His nightly dinner with Lord Howard was, to his disappointment, the most boring and uncomfortable part of Roman’s day. It became clear to Roman after a few attempts of engaging with his fiance that Lord Howard wasn’t even slightly interested in talking with him; what he wanted was somebody to talk at. Roman sat, night after night, and listened to the earl rant about frustrating business partners, idiotic city officials, and even tiny annoyances like a scuff on his boot or a fly in his office. It was difficult to not feel like an emotional punching bag, and Roman always left dinner exhausted from playing the polite, doting fiance that Lord Howard expected him to be. 

Roman stepped into the library, and smiled when he saw Logan sitting at a table beneath a window, the afternoon sun casting golden beams of light through his long hair.

At least there were more positives than negatives to living at this estate. 

“Ah, Roman,” Logan said, smiling as he approached. “Excellent timing, I was just beginning to review my weekly report for Lord Howard. Would you care to assist me?”

“Always,” Roman said, sitting down across from him. 

They poured over the receipts and summaries and work orders together, and Roman couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer amount of work that Logan did every single day. 

“Honestly, Logan, you do almost too much for the earl. Especially considering what he pays you.” 

Roman had seen the payroll receipts for all the staff, and he couldn’t help but be a little insulted on the servants’ behalf. One of the ways Lord Howard kept costs down was clearly at the expense of his staff. 

“While I may agree with your sentiment, the fact of the matter is that if I did not do all this, the estate would fall apart,” Logan said. “And regardless of any...personal feelings about his lordship, there are far too many people who depend on him and his estate for me to consider stopping.” 

Logan paused, frowning as he scanned a document, then sighed. 

“For instance, his lordship neglected to sign off on a shipment of new armor to the city guard, despite my reminding him to do so three times in the last week.” 

He scrawled something along the bottom of the document and set it aside, and Roman raised an eyebrow. 

“Was that Lord Howard’s name you just wrote?” 

Logan fiddled with his glasses, and he glanced around the room before answering. “This is...not the first time that his lordship has neglected his duties on what he perceives to be minor issues. I, uh...take the liberty of correcting such oversights for him.”

“You can forge his handwriting?” Roman translated, and Logan nodded sheepishly. “That’s amazing!” 

Logan blinked, looking up at Roman in clear surprise. “I...it is?” 

“Are you kidding me?” Roman exclaimed. “Of course it is...you’re so talented, Logan, really. I’m not exaggerating when I say you’re wasted as a secretary.” 

“Oh...well, thank you, Roman,” Logan said, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. “I must admit, you also have far more potential than his lordship would care to acknowledge.” 

“I’ll get him to see sense soon,” Roman insisted. “Then maybe together, we can make some real changes around here!” 

“I wish I shared your optimism,” Logan said with a sigh. “But I am glad to share your company, at least.”

It was Roman’s turn to blush, but before he could think of a reply, the sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up to see Patton approaching their table. 

“Sorry for interrupting, Kiddos, but I’ve been asked to fetch Roman here and get him ready.” 

“Get me ready?” Roman asked, and Patton nodded. 

“His lordship requests your presence at a business meeting he has in an hour with other estate holders. I’ve been instructed to dress you for the event and bring you to his lordship.” 

Roman forced down the twinge of discomfort in the back of his mind at the earl choosing an outfit for him like he was some sort of doll, and grinned as he got to his feet. 

“You see, Logan?” he said. “This is our chance!”

“If it is a meeting with other nobility, then I’m afraid I won’t be present,” Logan said. “Lord Howard does not wish for...commoners to be present at such negotiations. He instructs me on what measures need to be taken afterwards.”  

“That’ll be the first thing we change then, once I make him see reason,” Roman said. “You’ll see, this is going to be the start of something great!” 

“I hope you are right,” Logan said with a small smile. “Good luck, Roman.” 

“Thank you, Logan,” Roman said as he followed Patton out of the library. 

I’ll certainly need it. 

--- --- ---

Roman fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, shooting a glance over to the earl to make sure he hadn’t noticed. The silky fabric that his pants were made of stuck uncomfortably to his skin and made his legs itch horribly, but he had been in similar attire before and had had plenty of practice in the art of keeping his poise while screaming internally. Thankfully, even though he was seated right next to Lord Howard, he had yet to draw his attention. Howard had been too occupied bragging about his various business exports for most of the meeting to pay much attention to him. 

Even through his discomfort, Roman had been learning a lot about his fiance, dutifully keeping mental notes on everything he heard, from which parts of land he had inherited to which ones he had bought or negotiated into owning. Overseas businesses and local investments both let his power reach farther than one might first suspect, and all that put together was what kept the Howard Estate with its acres of land, sprawling mansion and extensive grounds and highly specialized staff all running smoothly. 

It was a lot to manage, so it made sense that Lord Howard had Logan figure out most of the work and only signed off on the most important things himself. Having someone as competent as Logan run things in the background so the true estate head could make the actual appearances as the business leader was a strategy many nobles used to keep their properties under control. 

Craning his neck to look up at his fiance from his lower seat, Roman furrowed his brow in thought. He wondered just how much Logan did that the earl never saw anything about until he reaped the benefits of it. Sure, Logan was extremely capable, but relying entirely on one person to manage everything seemed a bit foolhardy to Roman.

Tuning back into the conversation, Roman perked up as another lord gestured stiffly at a stack of documents in front of him, smooth calculation clear in his tone of voice. Negotiations were something Roman had always prided himself in handling, and handling well. He had often spoken circles around his own father in their practice debates, and it was rare that Roman participated in a discussion without gaining something in his own favor. 

As neither party at the moment looked particularly stressed, Roman figured with a slight twinge of disappointment that such measures shouldn’t be needed this time. He would have liked to show off just a bit and make Lord Howard see what a useful asset he could actually be in their marriage, but he supposed that could wait until a more appropriate opportunity.

“I have most of the influence in this field anyway. Signing your bit of land over to me now would cause fewer problems for you in the future; especially if I don’t have to take it by force when I’m looking to expand.”  Punctuating his statement with a firm tap to the papers, the opposing lord sat back with a satisfied smirk.

The icy glare Lord Howard fixed him with was enough to wipe the smirk fully off his face, however, and he tilted back slightly as the earl leaned forward to fold his hands smoothly in front of him. 

“I’m not in the habit of signing away what’s rightfully mine, Lord Rilken, Baron of Vilvik.”

Roman flinched slightly at the way he practically spat the other man’s title…a title he shared, and had never once felt insecure about until this very moment. The way he spoke to these men, these people in positions of power, like they were nothing but dirt to be brushed off his own much more impressive riches- it was enough to make Roman want to run all the way back to his own estate and beg for another way, plead to wait for someone else to ask for his hand or to find someone himself. He stiffened in his seat and shook the irrational thoughts away. 

No, this is how one played the game when negotiating important matters. Put up a cold and intimidating front until the other person backed down or bent to your own suggestions. If anything, Lord Howard's act was admirable; it almost immediately shut down any arguments, even if it hardly held any semblance of tact. Realizing this would be a good opportunity to show his skills, Roman leaned forward and placed his own hands on the table in front of him, gaining the attention of the opposing business owners quickly.

“It might prove advantageous to you both to simply form a partnership and share the land and business potential it holds. With as much power as the both of you hold over this branch, you’d be able to expand much faster and reap more benefits than you would if you spent all of your time attempting to take control over the others’ sections.” Pleased with himself, Roman glanced over to Lord Howard, expecting at least to have impressed him since he hadn’t really had the time to explain all that he had been trained in and what he could bring to the estate with their union. 

However, as he met Lord Howard’s eyes, ice ran through his veins. The earl was glaring, staring him down like a particularly resilient bug that he could hardly wait to smash beneath a steel-toed boot. The room went so quiet that Roman could swear that the other nobles were holding their breath, and glancing around in his peripherals, he saw everyone sitting around the table gawking at him as if he’d just committed high treason. Had he really said something so wrong? Was this not what was customary, nay, expected behavior of the soon to be co-owner of the estate? Shrinking down slightly as his ears burned red, he finally lowered his eyes as the earl turned away. Roman heard him take a deep breath before saying in a deliberately controlled voice:

“You must forgive my fiance, he hails from a country estate you see; he isn’t accustomed to the way things work here yet. If you would be so kind as to excuse us for just a moment so that I may explain a few things?” Not waiting for an answer, the earl stood and held out his hand for Roman to take. “If you would step into the hall with me, dearest?”

Recognizing the order under the request, Roman stood quickly and took Lord Howard’s hand, wincing at how tightly he was gripped and practically dragged out of the room. The door was opened just a bit too forcefully to calm his nerves in the slightest and he watched as Lord Howard seemed to barely refrain from slamming it back closed, instead closing it with deliberate calm before whirling around to face him and jerking his hand out of Roman’s to tower before him.

“Let me make this perfectly clear, you do not speak out of turn in these meetings. You do not speak above me or-”

“But I didn’t! I was only-” Roman didn’t register what the dull smacking sound echoing in his ears and making them ring was until pain bloomed and spread from his lower jaw to his entire cheek. Raising his hand to his face in disbelief, he felt a bit of wetness and looked to see blood on his fingertips. Fear and horror twisted in his gut as he realized one of Lord Howard’s rings must have caught on his cheek and opened a cut. His jaw ached and his teeth felt numb; the blow had been hard enough to rattle them in his skull. Romans looked up and flinched as he saw Howard’s hand still raised to strike should he choose to speak again, and he shrunk in on himself in an attempt to seem too small to expend more energy on.

“You,” The earl spat, “do not speak above me, or make suggestions on my behalf. You are not here to offer up useless opinions that were not asked for or needed. You were brought into that room to sit obediently and look pretty on my arm and that is the full extent that your role will ever be. Have I made myself clear?”

Roman hesitated for just a second too long, and Lord Howard reached down to grip his chin, tipping his head so he had no choice but to look his assailant directly in the eyes. “My dear, I believe I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”

Biting back a whimper Roman nodded as much as he could with his face trapped in the steely grip. “Yes my lord, I understand perfectly. I apologize for overstepping, it won’t happen again.”

The answer, as demeaning as it had felt to say, seemed to appease the still seething man, and Howard dropped his chin and stepped back with a wolfish smile. 

“Very good, see to it that it doesn’t. Now, I believe we’ve been here long enough. If you’re done blubbering, you may join me.”

Startling a bit at the choice of phrasing, Roman hesitantly reached up to touch his face, wincing as he realized there was more than just blood on his cheeks. Taking a deep breath, he carefully wiped the tears away before plastering on a small smile and moving to stand just behind the earl. He was loath to go back into the room like this, humiliation and blood reddening his cheeks, but he didn’t dare speak up for fear of more punishment. As Lord Howard opened the door and moved back to his place at the head of the table, he hardly spared Roman another glance, and Roman had no choice but to meekly follow. 

Sitting down, Roman realized most of the people at the table were staring at him like one would a fresh kill, their expressions a mixture of pity and approval while they averted their eyes. Sinking down even lower as the meeting resumed, he realized this was to be the second part of his punishment. He was to learn and remember his role as Lord Howard’s betrothed and eventual husband. Sit still and look pretty, step a toe out of line and be punished, and make sure everyone in the room knew that the power held over him was just as absolute as the power the earl held over everything else. 

“I’m pleased to know some people still know how to keep common folk in line. Truly, the disrespect-” Roman’s ears rang as someone close by whispered to another just loud enough for him to overhear, making him want to sink down even lower and let the floor swallow him. 

The meeting continued on for what seemed like forever, but unlike before, Roman didn’t absorb a single word of what was said. The voices of the other lords washed over him as he sat as still as he could, hands clenched in his lap to keep them from trembling. When at last Lord Howard stood, Roman almost stood up next to him, but caught himself just in time and sent a questioning glance up at his fiance. 

Lord Howard’s lips curled into a smile, and he held his arm out to Roman in invitation. Roman swallowed down his revulsion and stood, slipping his arm into the earl’s and schooling his face into a pretty smile. Lord Howard covered Roman’s hand with his own, and Roman’s skin burned at the touch. 

“Well gentlemen, this concludes our discussion for the day, I do thank you all for coming.” 

One by one the nobles stood, nodding to Lord Howard as they filed out of the room. Roman’s cheeks heated as several of them swept their eyes over him as they passed, their gazes lingering on the bruise blooming on his face. When at last, every one of them was gone, Lord Howard turned his attention to Roman, all false pleasantries gone from his expression. 

“I trust that after today, any...confusion about your role here has been cleared up?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. 

“Yes, my lord,” Roman whispered, and the earl smiled. 

“Good. Now go clean yourself up. Dinner is at seven o’clock sharp, and I expect you to look presentable.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Roman repeated, and as soon as Lord Howard dropped his arm, he practically bolted from the room. 

He hurried through the corridors of the mansion, head down and eyes stinging. When he finally reached his room, he all but slammed the door behind him, and collapsed to the floor, his shoulders shaking as he released the sob he’d been holding back for the past hour. 

He let himself cry, for how long, he wasn’t sure, not only for the sting on his cheek and the shame that came with it, but for every doubt, every grief, every pain that he’d pushed down and bottled up over the past month.  

After everything he’d been through, everything he’d sacrificed, was this really his fate? Chained forever to a man who only saw him as something to own, to display, to use... 

Roman lifted his head slowly. 

“Remember all that we've taught you, and you'll do fine." 

His father had taught him everything he knew about business, about politics, about matters of the state. He knew how to act with decorum, how to spot an opportunity, and how to charm a room while negotiating, all thanks to his father’s teachings. 

But now, with tears running down his face and a bruise blossoming on his cheek, he remembered another set of lessons. 

Lessons his mother had given him as a teenager, after time had run its course and he was no longer the slightly awkward, gangly kid he had once been. 

“You’ve grown into a handsome young man,” his mother had said to him on his eighteenth birthday. “Your father believes that when you are married, it will be purely for political reasons. You need to know that this may not be the case.” 

Roman had tried to forget the lessons his mother had passed down to him, had told himself that he would never need them...but here he was, sobbing on the floor, the first of what he knew would be many marks on his skin if he didn’t tread carefully. 

Roman learned everything he knew about running an estate from his father, but he learned everything about acting from his mother. Thanks to her, he knew how to conceal his emotions, how to smile when his stomach rolled over and how to sigh when his skin burned. He knew how to mold himself into the perfect husband, because if he did not let himself be molded he would find himself broken before it was too late. 

“Too late for what, mother?” the younger him had asked, eyes wide and horrified, and she’d smiled in a way he’d never seen before. 

“Did I ever tell you the story of how your grandfather died?” 

Roman knew what situations were most likely to result in “accidents,” what weapons were easily concealed and what poisons were difficult to detect. He knew how to pluck a nose hair to bring tears to his eyes and slap his cheeks so they appeared flushed. He knew how to appear calm and collected when he was suffering, and how to appear stricken with grief when all he felt was relief. 

He had been preparing for marriage his whole life...every kind of marriage. And now that he knew the kind of husband that Lord Howard really wanted, he knew exactly what kind of husband he was going to be. 

Even if he wouldn’t be one for very long. 

--- --- ---

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[angelicmichael]

hoax - chapter two

Michael Langdon x Mallory

Summary: Mallory tries her best to put her feelings aside and to tolerate Michael; however she finds that she gets tested in other ways that aren’t so easily predictable..

Words: 6.3k+

Warnings: more death and general mentions of it.. sorry lmao, angst, blood, manipulation, unhealthy relationships, mentions of satan and satanism, slowburn, plot heavy, enemies to lovers, also reminder that this is a dark fic so.. it’s just generally not that happy of a story lol

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry if this seems random since we just got new cody content and a new character but I thought I would just upload this anyway since it’s finished 👉🏻👈🏻. But this is also the longest thing I’ve ever written.. like ever so hopefully y’all like it haha. Also fyi; Michaels and Mallorys POV switches quite a bit throughout this chapter lol.

Previous Chapter

Michael watched Mallory intently. Looking as she continued to be lost in thought. Her gaze fixated downwards at her black boots, which twitched slightly as she continued to most likely debate whether he was worth it or not… to say yes or no..

Michael swallowed, wishing he could do something to make her say yes, to maybe offer something but after all; he had absolutely nothing. Even Michael by himself seemed to be too much of a burden on its own, to Mallory.

He let out a dry cough; hoping to bring her back to reality, back to him.

Mallory’s head snapped up - brown eyes looking up at him curiously.. as if she really did forget that he was still waiting for a response or some type of agreement. She tried her best to relax her shoulders as well as her mind before speaking. Trying to silently convince herself to not snap at him, no matter how much she still truly wanted too. However, looking at him made that far more easier..

Michaels words; the pleading and begging that Mallory was almost convinced would never stop.. The pure desperation and urgency only really reflected onto his appearance. Sandy blonde hair that nearly looked brown due to the disgusting amount of dirt in it.. clothes that were still horribly stained and nearly doused with blood made him look hardly short of intimidating anymore, but the urge to yell at him still didn’t wane.

Anger still stayed present in Mallory’s chest, but it was starting to become something she couldn’t just ignore anymore.. it flowed through her veins, hot and fresh. It made her skin warm and her cheeks flush cherry red. Something she was typically insecure about but she really didn’t have the time or patience to try and hide it.. she doubted Michael realistically was even paying close enough attention to notice anyways.

“Fine,” Mallory finally answered. Her voice was soft and low which was merely a result of her biting her anger back - something she still desperately wanted to show but knew realistically would get her no where with him.

She tried her best to avoid Michaels gaze which still stayed solely focused on her figure. He seemed almost taken aback by her words, as if he was expecting to be further yelled at.. which wasn’t exactly a wrong assumption. The only reason Mallory found it in her to be nice was merely sympathy. After all they both had a long day - it wasn’t just her discomfort she had to take into consideration anymore.

“Do you trust me?”

The words almost felt impulsive to say but she didn’t regret saying them - after all; if they were really going to be sticking around by each other for a while then.. it was a valid question.

Mallory knew realistically what he was going to say and she tried to brace herself as she saw his mouth open hesitantly.

“I feel like I should.. why?” He asked in a tone which sounded purely dismissive and a bit annoyed.

Mallory wanted to smile, she wanted to grin and laugh that she was finally starting to get what she wanted but.. she did neither of those things. Instead she found herself immeadietly distrusting him.. wanting to know why on earth she would ever think to trust his words for a second when she literally killed him in the past.. and that’s not counting the other times where she attempted to do so or even thought doing it but; this Michael didn’t know that. This Michael barely even knew her name, let alone anything else about her but that didn’t matter to him - and she couldn’t help but to be a bit relieved at that feeling of finally being able to be free from her past.

Atleast for the time being.

“I need to go somewhere but I can’t go alone.. I think it would be good if you went too.”

Michaels brows furrowed at this; his face almost upturning in a sneer. “Where?”

Mallory took in a deep breath but didn’t exhale at first.. feeling irritated that he just had to keep asking questions that she didn’t have the answer too.

“I’ll tell you later, when we get closer, okay? But we need to go before the sun sets,” she explained.

Mallory hoped desperately that what she said would be enough reason for Michael to go along with her.. but thankfully it seemed to be. Or he seemed convinced for the most part, anyway.

“What happens before the sun sets?” He asked.

His blue eyes glared into hers - as if he was trying to get a read on her.. just like how he used too at the outpost.

Mallory’s throat suddenly grew dry at this realization.. Feeling incredibly uncomfortable at how he looked at her, and his question. Not necessarily knowing what to do about either situations but - she hoped for a second he would retract his words or rephrase but he didn’t.

He still waited.

“That doesn’t matter, we just need to get going. You said you trusted me right?” Mallory reaffirmed.

Her face was mostly expressionless as she watched Michael solemnly nod in response.

“Yeah.. sure. I trust you.”

His sentence cut off almost abruptly; as if he wanted to keep talking but knew that Mallory wouldn’t have the patience to hear him out - or that she simply didn’t want too.

Michael couldn’t really pinpoint exactly how he felt around Mallory. Every time she met his gaze he couldn’t help but to be overtaken briefly by far too many emotions than he could count. It mainly was a fight over feeling intimidated and being in awe. Even though Mallory hadn’t really let her powers show since she basically assaulted him earlier; he knew to keep his distance now.. to a degree.

He approached her now; feeling a little less intimated than he was before since she seemed to be acting civil.

Michael couldn’t help but to blame her behavior on himself; maybe he was too straight forward.. maybe it was him who was the true freak in this situation.. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time that he found himself in a situation like this, another situation that was surely his fault.

God.. why was he such a fuck up??

The closer he approached.. Mallory.. she said her name was right?? He felt almost sick to his stomach when he saw the look in her eyes when she finally bothered to look up at him. Her eyes (which he remembered were a golden honey brown when she stood directly in the sun) were nearly black now.. maybe it was the fact that the sun was finally dipping behind the trees.. or.. something else? Annoyance was really the only emotion he could read from her at the moment - the rest of her face was even harder to read. He guessed she was trying to remain expressionless on purpose.

Mallory was the first one to start walking - and Michael let her lead. She seemed to have a some kind of idea on where she was going since she had claimed she said a destination in mind, or somewhere for them to go.

Hopefully that wasn’t a lie.

Mallory didn’t look back once as Michael continued to walk directly behind her once the path she had chosen to walk on had thinned down to a trail. The sound of his footsteps were good enough proof that he hadn’t wandered off or turned around. She didn’t want to necessarily look at him longer than what she had too - she was more than certain that he still wore that kicked puppy look he had earlier. It was pathetic and painful.. and only a sharp reminder of why things currently were the way they were. Why she was here; still in the forest with twigs and leaves snapping onto her overly expensive dress which now had to be ruined.. (as if it wasn’t already from Michaels death fiasco’s) and not back at Robichaux.. with the witches where she belonged. Even if none of them necessarily knew her anymore.

Mallory belonged with other witches, her sisters. People that actually understood her and gave a fuck - not.. whatever she could even call Michael now. Who was not quite human but probably not the antichrist now, either.

That was just something else that Mallory would have to do and figure out on her own but, this wasn’t something that was meant to be done solo - she knew that deep down.

Michael was following her diligently and actually listening now for a reason, she came to the forest for a reason, and as much as she tried her best to avoid thinking about it; she also talked to satan for a reason.. And even though he was mostly a manipulative asshole- no.. not mostly. That’s exactly what he was. Michael was also proof of that.

No matter what, her and Michael would figure it out together.. on their own or certaintly without the help of him. They didn’t need him, not again.. not now.. not ever. It didn’t matter if he apparently owned her soul or not - she still felt the same.. nothing could’ve changed that quickly. Right?

That’s what she would tell herself anyway - and there’s no way she would ever dream of telling Michael any of that shit ever happened. It’s not like he would remember anyway.

Mallory continued to keep her head down as they kept walking .. deep in thought and trying to focus on just finding their way out until she felt something soft brush up against the back of her arm..

Mallory immeadietly paused when she felt Michael touch her, looking at her arm almost awkwardly and bearing witness to how Michael was now gently gripping her.. Hoping naively that it was something that happened accidentally but of course it wasn’t. Nothing happened by coincidence with Michael.

He let go after a couple seconds of awkward eye contact.. most likely realizing that she wasn’t exactly a touchy person. Not with him anyway. Not after the kind of day they’ve been through.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Michael said sorely.

His voice shook when he spoke.. and even though it was tempting to ask exactly why he was apologizing - she figured it didn’t necessarily matter. At this point it was the effort and the fact he even cared enough to say anything, that made her feel a bit better.

She gave a slight smile, not really wanting to say that any of this was ‘okay’ or that it was ‘fine’ because she was truly tired of lying.. it was something she lost the energy for a while ago.

“Let’s keep going. I think we’re almost there.”

Mallory turned around to keep walking - looking up and realizing that she could finally see something beyond the tree line.. something that looked like vaguely like a skyline of a city.. Was that Los Angeles??

Biting the bullet and choosing to make small talk had its perks - Michael affirmed her suspicion that they were in L.A which was really neither a good or bad thing. She definitely felt more unsettled now that she knew for a fact she was farther away from home than she would like to be.. and also scarily close to Hawthorne, and god knows what else.

It didn’t take long for the two of them to reach the city; and now that she was here.. she really didn’t know what to do next or why she had the odd instinct to walk here in the first place, but thankfully Michael seemed to know.

It was obvious that Mallory didn’t exactly have a plan, in the way that she was starting to physically stall.. her steps slowed, her fingers fidgeted a bit more and picked at her clothes, and her gaze kept falling down to her shoes.. All little, minuscule things but Michael picked up on them all.

He didn’t bother to ask outloud if she knew where she was going. Instead he took the lead.. walking in front of Mallory suddenly and only briefly pausing to turn into a dark alleyway. Something that seemed entirely random but honestly wasn’t. He had a feeling, an urge that they were meant to go this way.. something was waiting for them both.

Michael only looked back to make eye contact for a brief moment; hoping that just for once Mallory would trust him.. but as he looked back into her dark brown eyes which still abnormally almost appeared black - she was still reluctant. He wasn’t necessarily thinking when he reached out to grab her hand. Something he knew that she would hate but he couldn’t help it. Physical touch felt nice, and her hands were soft..

They still were.

He still held onto her hand as he gently pulled and tried to lead her into where he was going - frowning slightly when he felt her grip loosen but he continued to keep walking into the alleyway. He kept going, nearly stumbling on the garbage and various shit that was left on the ground.. but he managed to find a door that was left slightly ajar.. just enough for him and Mallory to slip through.

Michael quietly opened the door further; the room that they suddenly found themselves in was barely lit. A dark, dim, red light was omitted along with several small candles but other than that, the room was kept blanketed in a thick darkness. Both physically and emotionally.

As soon as Mallory entered what she now knew had to be some kind of church.. she felt almost as if she had been punched in the stomach. She noticibly winced, physically withdrawing from Michael and reflexively pulling her hand back even further than she had previously but he wouldn’t let her hand go. Not completely.

The nausea and just the sudden heavy energy she felt made the rest of her body tense up.. and she found herself sort of being thankful that Michael still held onto her and seemed to be leading her to a seat.. but the gratitude she felt only lasted for barely a second. Just until she could actually take a deep breath and focus..

Where exactly were they?

It was clear as day that they happened to be in a church.. but no.

No.

Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t a normal church, nothing about this seemed normal in the slightest - the dark red interior and dim lighting, the candles, the late timing of the service and just.. what everyone happened to be wearing seemed horribly wrong.

Just like earlier, and so many times before today she felt herself starting to submit to panic. Her breath quickening and her skin started to grow incredibly hot.. she felt as if she was suffocating from the inside out but she felt foolish for feeling this way as she looked at Michael, as well as everyone else.. they all appeared nonchalant and completely unbothered. Particularly Michael, who didn’t look upset but instead almost caught in a trance listening to the high priestess of the church talk.

Mallory didn’t even notice the woman was talking until she finally bothered to make eye contact. Whom of which walked straight down the isle way that divided the two rows of benches apart; her blonde curls slightly moving as she spoke and moved. She continued to slowly pace up and down, speaking about.. exactly what Mallory had feared.

Fucking exactly what Mallory was trying to avoid.

The immeadite gut reaction to stand up and leave was nearly impossible to resist; and that would be incredibly easy to do given that they were sitting in a otherwise empty back row. But.. instead she didn’t move. She sat still. Barely moving, barely breathing but merely watching and listening.

Now that Mallory actually bothered to listen; she felt completely dumbfounded that Michael was actually buying any of this shit. However, that didn’t make the words that she heard coming from the blonde woman, the leader, any easier to digest. Currently she was boasting and bragging about her sins and how ‘evil’ she was.. or something along those lines. It was still nearly impossible to focus with the feeling that still layed dormant in her gut that refused to leave.

She winced at the words she heard being spoken. Her black nails curling into the soft skin of her palm and gently digging in. Something she consciously chose to do to try to distract herself but it still wasn’t enough. She needed to know that they were atleast sort of safe here.. or that Michael had a vague idea of what he was doing.

“do you know where we are?”

Michael turned to look at Mallory slowly.. looking almost furious - his lips slightly parted as if he silently debated on how to tell her off for interrupting his focus. She waited with baited breath for him to ignore her or to say some snide remark.. only exhaling when he did neither.

“Yeah, don’t worry. We’re in good hands here,” He said. Barely speaking loud enough for Mallory to even hear.

She couldn’t help but to slightly pout, not wanting to argue anymore but not really trusting his judgement yet either. She waited for him to turn his head back to blonde ‘cult’ leader but instead it dropped down her to palm where her nails still cut in.. pressing down until the point where blood was about to be drawn.

Mallory didn’t wince or show any signs of discomfort but Michael still noticed anyway. His gaze quickly flickering down from her palm up to her eyes in pure confusion in what the fuck she was doing..

His hand quickly went to hers without a second thought.

His fingers gently pried hers off of her own hand.. She didn’t try to fight what he was doing but rather looked into his eyes in a questionable manner.. probably wondering why he bothered to touch her again. Something that he truly knew better than to do but couldn’t help from himself from.

“Stop.. Why are you doing that?” Michael asked genuinely. His gaze lingered on her fingertips which now had blood lightly indented on the tips of her nails.

Mallory looked at him awkwardly. Sort of appalled that he even cared enough to notice or to even stop her.. his kindness wasn’t necessarily unwanted but it was something new.. and strange to say the very least.

Mallory wanted to apologize or to just give him a reassuring look but instead she carefully met his gaze and found herself muttering a careful confession, “im sorry I just.. I can’t stand it here. This place-“ her voice broke horribly as she whispered.

She suddenly grew paranoid that the members of this.. ‘congregation’ could hear her sudden disdain for the establishment; which made the feelings of dread and guilt she felt only multiply. She wanted to keep apologizing or to convince Michael to leave but.. that wouldn’t work for the sole reason that she couldn’t even pinpoint exactly why she felt this way. But all she knew is that she had to say something else. Something to make Michael not stare her like how he currently was.

Mallory was still terrified to make eye contact with him. Only bothering to briefly do so to simply affirm that he was actually looking at her - and it wasn’t something she was imagining.

Reality was starting to become something Mallory nearly craved; the day still wasn’t over and yet the fact that some of the earlier events weren’t real.. was something she still needed to process.

The fact that Michael even dared to follow her here, sit next to her, and let alone even give a fuck that she was unintentionally harming herself was beyond her. She wanted to know why, but she knew she still wouldn’t trust his answer if she were to ask. He’d lie.

Mallory spoke again in a tone that was far more quiet than the last, “Where are we?”

Michaels gaze bore into hers.. his face nearly void of any expression as if he was weighing his options on the best response.. calculating and thinking but he stopped the eye contact before he spoke. His eyes went to examine his hands instead which were loosely clasped together over his knees that he slouched tiredly over.

“Somewhere I thought I could feel close to my father.. I know- you don’t want to talk about it-“

“No.. it’s fine,” Mallory reassured hurriedly. Her voice was light and high pitched - happy that Michael was finally managing to communicate and be honest with her. Even if he was inherently right, this wasn’t a topic she wanted to remember or discuss at all but if this was how she got him to open up.. then there was no other option.

“Before you ask.. no. It’s not working. I don’t feel shit here,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “All I feel is just fucking overwhelmed.”

His hands were brought up to his face and Mallory watched him deeply inhale. His finger tips rubbed his temples and fell down the sides of his cheeks - and Mallory didn’t know what to do.

Should she offer him sympathy that.. as bad as it sounded, that she didn’t necessarily really feel? Sure she could relate to him but it wasn’t in the same way in the slightest - and it wasn’t fair to either of them to pretend that it was.

“People here are beyond pathetic.. their sins,” he sneered with something that almost could’ve been considered an chuckle that followed.

Michaels hands fell down to his lap again - suddenly refusing to meet Mallory’s gaze. Perfectly intent on watching whoever the high priestess was, someone that Mallory was more than thankful that she didn’t know the name of.

“Michael.. I can’t stay here-“

He gave Mallory an apologetic look, and for a second she thought he might almost finally agree but to no avail.

“Please. Just ‘till the end,” His face reverted back to the kicked puppy look. The one that finally made her not necessarily forgive him but.. made her realize that at this point he didn’t necessarily deserve to be yelled at.

After all, he wasn’t exactly the same Michael that had planned the death of seven billion people.. not yet.

“Okay,” she quietly agreed.

So they waited until the end of the ‘ceremony’. Or Mallory waited while Michael watched and listened- looking both completely horrified and elated as he did so.. However, Mallory waited and counted each minute that passed.. every one seemingly longer the last.

Even when the blonde woman that was apparently named ‘Hannah’ finally finished talking and most members of the congregation had left; Michael still didn’t budge.

His back, instead of slouching was now pressed up against the bench as he sat.. looking for exhausted and more tired than ever. Tears (or what Mallory suspected were tears anyway) made his cheeks glisten in the dim lighting. She stared at him for a moment - wondering if she should ask if he was okay or if he needed a moment when she felt someone suddenly tug sharply on her clothing.

It was her top, a quick pinch but it was enough to make Mallory’s head turn back immeadietly.

Her resentment toward touch wasn’t just exclusive to Michael, then.

“What is this? Chanel? Loui V? Do I want to know what it took for you to take this?” Hannah spoke in a amused tone.

Hannah stood behind their bench, both equally between Mallory and Michael - like she had the intention of speaking to them both and not one or the other.

“I didn’t take this.. it was a gift,” Mallory answered truthfully and a bit.. bashfully.

She felt insulted that Hannah assumed she would ever steal but then again, with where they were, maybe that wasn’t exactly the insult that Mallory thought it was.

“Yeah.. okay. Like I’m supposed to believe that,” Hannah laughed with a snort.

Mallory was about to retort anyway, but Michael cut her off to her surprise.

“What do you want?” He asked curtly.

His words were cut short. Obviously irritated and put on edge - the fact that he still had tears left on his cheeks explained his behavior plenty.

Hannah immeadietly looked taken aback - disobedience wasn’t something she was used too.

“What do you I want? Do you even know who you’re talking too?” Hannah answered without missing a beat.

Mallory’s eyes darted to Michael. His jaw was clenched, his eyes sharp and focused and his mouth was drawn in a straight line that slightly curved downward.. he looked pissed.

Why was he bothering to argue with Hannah? Someone who he should inherently love or atleast respect with the shared connection of their love for his father.. And over something as trivial as Mallory’s dress? This wasn’t making sense..

“I think I could say the same to you,” Michael answered with a clenched jaw, standing up as his hands started to go to the left side of his face. Inevitably headed for his ‘666’ mark that Mallory heard he was rumored to have.. but certainly wouldn’t have anymore. Not after what she had done.

Michael.. couldn’t. He wouldn’t. This couldn’t happen.

It was clear he was still under the false impression that he had powers, but Mallory wasn’t going to let him find out otherwise this way. Not right now.

“Michael-“! Mallory said urgently.

It worked for a second, just long enough to make him stall.

His hands came to a stand still, pausing as his eyes watched her. Waiting for her to continue but her mouth went entirely dry once she saw Hannah’s hand quickly fly to his shoulders. Screaming words that Mallory didn’t even try to listen too - blood suddenly roaring through her ears louder than any sound that Hannah could make.

Mallory didn’t think when she suddenly felt herself stepping in front of Michael; her feet accidentally stepping onto his as she tried her best to push him back beforehand with her arm but even so - the space in between benches was minimal enough as it was.

Maybe under normal circumstances, Michaels body being pushed up directly behind hers would’ve been distracting but.. Michael was really the last thing she was thinking of now.

Mallory’s hands flew to Hannah’s shoulders - grabbing them (and feeling almost sick with herself how she had done this to Michael not too long ago) with the intention to push her back as hard as she could naturally muster up the strength too. But, of course, that didn’t happen.

Her powers came flooding out unwillingly - the sudden loss of control and ache that was rapidly being released caused her to scream.. something that almost sounded quiet with the contrast of her adrenaline still pumping full force.

Hannahs clothes suddenly sparking a bright orange didn’t cause the immeadite alarm to Mallory that it should’ve; however.. maybe it was due to the fact that the color already blended in with the red atmosphere of the church.. She could only hope.

Hannah’s clothes quickly erupted in flames - the close proximity of the fire made Mallory’s skin quickly grow uncomfortably hot. Forcing her to act on impulse. Selfish impulse.

She stumbled out from the bench and grabbed Michaels wrist clumsily, nearly dragging with him with her as they both stumbling back and away from her.

Mallory’s back was turned to Hannah.. her body shook as she hauntingly realized that the sound had stopped. Hannah wasn’t screaming anymore.. and neither was Mallory.

She couldn’t bring herself to turn around and look, only braving enough strength to look up at Michael who faced the general direction that Hannah was in.. or used to be in. She stared into his eyes and watched the reflection of the fire dance in them - not in wonder but rather pure dread and regret.

Fuck.. what the fuck?

Michaels expression was something she couldn’t really decipher.. the fact he wore a neutral face when she just.. had done something like this wasn’t going to be something she found solace in.

After all; he was still Michael Langdon.

And what she just did.. saying it was stupid wasn’t simply enough.

Forming more complex thoughts was simply impossible, she found herself stumbling away.. going the opposite direction as the room started to spin and melt into a blur of red and black. The ceiling, walls and floor quickly became indistinguishable - her legs were starting to feel weak..

Fuck!

Mallory’s vision flickered to black and her legs gave out from underneath her; but she felt someone’s arms hook underneath hers and pull her up before she could hit the floor.

Her eyes snapped open immeadietly - trying to balance herself back on her feet as quickly as she could so that Michael wouldn’t have to touch her.. still feeling entirely out of it from nearly losing consciousness.

Mallory knew immeadietly it was him without even having to look… and she hated that she was becoming familiar enough with his touch to even recognize that it was him so easily. The tempature of his skin - his palms gripping her upper arms a bit too tightly - was a dead giveaway.

She wanted him off.

Mallory stumbled forward, trying her best to appear nonchalant as she brushed his fingertips off of her arms. Trying not to look bothered by the smell that started to raid the church.. a mix of burnt flesh along with just general fire. She wanted to feel bad but if this really was a satanic temple; it probably had seen worse..

But that wasn’t the point.

Mallory’s gaze searched the walls, wanting to leave but not.. actually leave.

It was too much; she needed time alone. Time to maybe cry or to throw up until she couldn’t breath.. perhaps both, but she still didn’t want Michael to see her vulnerable. Not if she could help it.

Her hands gripped onto the sides of the benches as she passed them; stubbornly intent on walking on to the bathroom which she could now see - selfishly not giving a fuck that she would be leaving Michael but.. she deserved to be selfish for once.

After all, all her choices recently hadn’t been for her own sake.. it was for Cordelias, Madison’s, Zoe’s, The Coven, seven billion people, Michael.. but not her own. Never her own.. none of her choices were really her own lately.

Mallory tried her best to ignore the sound of footsteps following her. Pushing the door of the women’s bathroom open quickly but stopping once she heard Michael whine.

God, why was he always fucking whining?

“What the fuck was that?” He nearly hissed. His tone had no malicious intent but it still set Mallory on edge.

He looked alarmed, bewildered. Blue eyes widened and his lips slightly parted, his teeth clenched.

“What part?” She asked cynically with a dry laugh.

She met Michaels gaze for a second before fully slipping inside the bathroom - hoping Michael would get the memo to leave her alone but she paused once she didn’t hear the door shut behind her..

“Michael-“

“I know you don’t like talking to me but I’m asking you, just once. What the fuck just happened?? Did you-?” His voice quivered, breaking softly as he spoke.

Mallory was in tears, the thought and realization alone of what she did finally sinking in.

“No. No.. I-I didn’t.. that wasn’t me, okay? I would.. would never..” She spoke as a confirmation to both Michael and herself.

Her back was still turned to Michael - thankful that he couldn’t see how fucking close she was to full on sobbing.. her vision blurred by all of the tears that had gathered in her eyes that wouldn’t spill. Her throat clenched, growing tight and forcing her to stop breathing - but there was no way she was going to let herself cry in front of Michael out of all people.

Showing weakness, even now.. even when it was proven he was no longer a threat to her, was never something she would let herself do. She wouldn’t let herself become that stupid.

Pain centered itself in her chest, but the grief she felt, rapidly spread throughout her body. Consuming her until she felt herself succumbing to the feeling.

Fuck.

Mallory wanted to push past Michael and run out the door.

Mallory wanted to scream at him and tell him to get the fuck out of the women’s restroom.

It was so easy to blame him for everything she felt - but she knew better than that now. Even though it was easy; it wasn’t the right thing to do.. and it’s not really like she was used to take the easy route to things, anyway.

She didn’t exactly welcome the feeling but she gave up trying to fight it.. letting the first tear run down her cheek. She still tried her best to stifle her sobs, her throat still clenching almost painfully.. not really giving a fuck about showing weakness in this moment but more so just.. embarrassed.

Michael stared at her almost blankly - wanting to say something but he couldn’t help but to feel stuck.

He wanted to feel bad, and he did.. she was clearly hurt but he didn’t understand exactly how.. Did she feel remorse for what she did? Did she think that Hannah or whatever the fuck her name was, didn’t deserve it?

Sure he didn’t exactly know her intentions but it wasn’t anything pure.. and Mallory needed to know that.

He approached her carefully, knowing damn well that she had the capability to do the same that she had done to Hannah.. or to perhaps throw him up against the wall without even so much as laying a hand on him, but he wasn’t scared.

Mallory wasn’t intimidating.. she wouldn’t hurt him.

Her head was tilted up and her eyes watched the ceiling - avoiding eye contact. She slowly moved to the wall, leaning against it begrudgingly but still avoiding Michaels gaze. Patches of dirt and bruises decorated her arms along with some blood stains and a couple of nasty cuts. Her black dress looked like nothing special anymore. It was torn in some parts but - Michael wanted to laugh that he was critiquing her appearance in the slightest as if he had any room to talk.

He watched her carefully and curiously as he decided to stand next to her and mirror how she was standing until they were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Mallorys eyes which were previously closed suddenly opened. Darkly peering over at him and their sudden proximity, something Michael wasn’t going to apologize for this time.

“I still don’t understand you, or why you did what you did but it was completely unnecessary,” Michael said.

He felt flattered that Mallory was fond of him enough to apparently kill for him but - this wasn’t adding up. And plus, Michael still had his powers (or atleast to the best of his knowledge he did) so it’s not as if he was completely defenseless. He felt almost insulted that Mallory would assume that he needed to be protected. He wasn’t a child.

But didn’t she hate him? She could still barely make eye contact with him and resented every time they touched - something which hurt Michael a bit more than he would like to admit.. No one (except for his family, of course) had ever reacted to him like that before.. most people, espically women, practically died for his touch.

Mallory was different.

That was one thing he was certain of. Every move she made, every word that came out of her mouth was never something he could predict.. and to think he once hated unpredictability.. but he didn’t trust her. Not for one second.

“It wasn’t a choice. I-I just.. it just happened and I don’t want to talk about it,” Mallory answered sheepishly.

Michael wanted to argue but instead he merely nodded.

“That’s fine.”

Mallory looked at him almost apologetically after she heard the tone of his words; which were a bit too harsh and forced in nature.

“So.. did it work? What you came here for.. to feel closer to him-“ She asked out of sheer curiosity.

“My father?”

“Yes.”

Michael swallowed and broke eye contact. “No. I still don’t feel a fucking thing.. Do you?”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed and she shifted her weight back onto her feet, ceasing from leaning on the wall. “What?”

“My father sent you to me, so I figured naturally you would have some kind of connection with him.. you do, don’t you?”

Sneaky bastard. Mallory knew this conversation was for the sole purpose of him finding out more information about her; perhaps to better manipulate? She didn’t exactly know.

“I don’t know. That’s something I still have to figure out,” she admitted truthfully.

“Together?”

Mallory nodded.

“Yeah. I won’t leave you,” she said. Her tone a bit softer than she would have liked.

Mallorys lips started to upturn in something that was reminiscent of a smile - their eyes lingered on each other for only a second but it didn’t last.

The door suddenly was pushed open; both Mallory and Michael snapped their heads up. The sudden intrusion gaining both of their full undivided attention - fear both running abundant in their veins.

The first thing Mallory noticed was the loud clicking of high heels against the tile floor of the bathroom.. something she was sure meant nothing to Michael but.. Mallory knew better.

This wasn’t a coincidence. After the day she had - nothing was a damn coincidence anymore.

The first thing she noticed was long blonde hair.. a black, tight fitting dress along with black high heels.

It was too familiar.. she knew all too well exactly who this fucking was.

Another witch.. her sister.. someone she was far too accustomed too but also.. no.

No.

Sure the woman who just entered the bathroom was Madison Montgomery but it wasn’t her Madison. After all, why the fuck was Madison at a satanic temple?

Taglist: @michaellangdonstanaccount @langdonsexual @jimmason @blakescoven @dark-mei-rose @9layerdevilfoodcake @prophecy-is-inevitable @matildaofoz @beautyiswithinchaos @frenchlangdon @instinctsxbaby @melodylangdon @littledemondani @celestialrequiem @sojournmichael @ritualmichael @twilightzone24

Let me know if u would like to be added or removed to the taglist <3

[djarrex]

Countermeasures || 3

Anomaly

Fives x ofc!reader

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| main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 |

Rating: 18+ only

Word Count: 5.7k

chapter summary: Agreeing to help Fives proves to be both good and bad.

warnings: canon character death, a sprinkle of fluff (Fives can be soft but we all know he’s quite the opposite in the right contexts 😉), a dash of sexual tension, a dollop of groping, tons of inappropriate thoughts - lordy lord get some cold water splashed on them

note: I broke away from including Fives’ POV in this chapter. It may come back in the future, idk yet. This is the first real series I’ve written and I’m extremely grateful for the pals I’ve met on here who reblog and like my work <3 Tbh I’m having a ton of fun writing this because not only does it give me an excuse to watch the conspiracy arc a bunch of times for the details but I also get to write about Renna and Fives and I love them both and I just want them to fuck already.

***

This was crazy. How did you of all people end up in a situation such as this.

By “this”, you were referring to the strong embrace you were trapped in - the ARC trooper you’re shamefully crushing on being the captor.

No, you definitely were not complaining. 

After agreeing to help him, Fives you pulled into his body, his strong arms finding their way around your back holding you steady. Large palms nearly covered the expanse of your back, the heat from his skin burning holes right through your outer layers and into your flesh. Your face was practically smushed into his broad chest, your arms dangling awkwardly at your sides. The weight of Fives’ chin was pressing into your scalp. So many thoughts were swimming in your head as Fives held you as tight as he could without hurting you. 

He was... hugging you. To be completely honest, you thought the two of you would fuck - or at least do something along those lines - before he hugged you. It was the energy he possessed that led you to that conclusion, but you were proven wrong. 

You didn’t fight it - you knew how much it meant to him. These clones - these soldiers - were covered in plastoid from head to toe all day every day throughout their unfortunately short lives, and you figured they must be at least somewhat touch-starved. The way Fives held you was different than you thought he was capable of. You weren’t naïve; you knew the clones took off their armor at certain points, and hey, you knew that they even would have sex in their short spurts of time off. You read reports on clones who had contracted STD’s from their adventurous endeavors and were sent here to be treated. Even though they were created in a lab for the sole purpose of fighting in this ridiculous war, they were still men.

You wanted to keep up some at least some semblance of professionalism - to not touch Fives back, because quite honestly your body wanted more - but your heart started aching, and your body acted against your brain as your arms returned the embrace. 

Fives was thick. The clones as a whole aren’t huge men; they aren’t fed nearly enough - that much you knew - and are relatively slim with a very low percentage of body fat compared to all the muscle they were designed to have. They’re not that much taller than you, either. However, you’ve never held a clone before. Fives’ back was like a bag of ropes; hard, thick, and you felt every single muscle so beautifully poking out of his skin even through the tunic. You allowed your hands to splay out over his back - to really feel him. You were completely lost in this moment, but you heard it - barely noticeable, but you heard it - Fives inhaled quietly through his nose, taking in your hair’s scent. You knew deep down that he didn’t mean for you to notice him smelling your hair, so you didn’t mention it. Butterflies flapped around in your stomach - then the butterflies quickly floated away and that feeling was exchanged with pure lust; the fire in your belly burning hot with desire. 

You don’t know how long you held each other, but you needed to break away from him and get back to the matters at hand. You agreed to help him, and that’s what you’ll do. Maybe he’ll be so thankful for your help he’ll “hug” you again later.

“You do you have a plan, right, mister ARC trooper?” Breaking away from his embrace, you tried to shake your mind clear of any thoughts that didn’t include Tup.

“Of course I have a plan!” Fives’ tone suggested he was attempting to play off what had just happened, and it was cute. He walked over to the darkened window and kept his back turned to you. Perhaps he was trying to clear his thoughts as well. You wouldn’t know, but Fives was barely breathing in through his nose so that your scent lingered in his nostrils for as long as possible.

“Care to share?” You called to him, and Fives paused for a few moments before responding.

“Are you able to access all the equipment without the supervision of the long-necks?” He finally turned around, his brows raised. You blinked at him, just a little dumbfounded and slightly offended.

“Yes, Fives. Maker, I know how to work the kriffing equipment. I don’t need a babysitter.” You rolled your eyes then squinted them at him, crossing your arms to your chest with a huff.

“That’s not what I meant,” Fives chuckled as he approached you once again and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I meant, are you going to get in trouble if you’re working alone in there?” His gaze bore into you, making you feel slightly uneasy. Yeah, you knew how to work everything, of course. But this was all new territory for you; working - unauthorized – on a patient who wasn’t yours, performing an atomic brain scan unsupervised, breaking protocol…

“I- I’m not actually sure. I’ve never been explicitly told to not touch anything without them being there? I think it will be okay. It’s just that- that Dr. Nala Se said no to the scan. I don’t think she’ll like that I went behind her back and did it anyway. Although… I want to try everything in my power to save your friend.”

“Right. Then let’s get to it.”

“I’m sorry - let’s? You’re coming too? That doesn’t seem like a good-”

“It’ll be fine,” Fives quickly interjected. His confident tone faded with the next part: “Please. I want to be there - be there for Tup.” There they were again, those puppy dog eyes that get you every time. You doubt Fives even knows he’s doing it, but he had to catch on by now because you basically have never said no to him in the few short days you’ve known him. Your attraction to him made you break over and over again; this time was no different.

“Okay, fine. But you need to stay hidden.”

“I’m ‘Mr. ARC Trooper’, remember? I’ve been trained in the arts of being sneaky.” Wiggling his fingers and brows at you with a cheeky grin, you laughed and punched him in the shoulder. His grin only grew.

“Yeah whatever. Just follow me.”

You were the first to exit Fives’ room, peeking your head just outside the door to get a feel of the surrounding area. No guards in sight at the moment, so now was the perfect time to go.

“Quickly,” you stepped outside the room, motioning with your hand for Fives to follow. It didn’t take long to get next door, of course.

You pressed the controls on the panel and the door whisked opened; you shooed Fives in first. As soon as he entered, two guards came around the corner. You obviously didn’t want to look like you were doing something you weren’t supposed to, so you put on your best smile and nodded to the oncoming troopers. They nodded back and turned at the next corridor that led away from Tup’s room.

You stood there for a moment, just outside the room - thinking. You were obviously crazy, no doubt about that. You were breaking protocol, and basically risking your internship and everything you had worked for up to this point for Fives (and Tup). It was the right thing to do, right? Your insane crush on the ARC trooper aside, you were going through with all of this because it was the right thing to do. It definitely wasn’t right that the Kaminoans wanted to kill Tup off without entertaining more options and trying other procedures. It all seemed very… weird. As doctors, wouldn’t they want to try every possible way to find a solution without skipping over it all and just killing him? Although, why waste more time and resources when the “obvious” solution was to terminate him and find the answers through an autopsy? Maybe you should give it more time – Shaak Ti could be back soon with the Jedi Council’s backing. Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out – to turn around and coax Fives back into his room before you were both caught.

The moment was over when Fives’ hand reached out to grab your wrist, unceremoniously pulling you into the room. You nearly tripped as he yanked you inside, a murmured “hey!” subconsciously rolled off your tongue at the rough pull.

“Sorry, Renna.” He shut the door behind you, giving you an apologetic smile. “Did- did I hurt you? Sometimes I forget my own strength... I’m not used to manhandling pretty and delicate things.” Okay, let’s push that comment aside and table it for later on when you’re alone in your quarters.

Fives reached out to examine your wrist but you flapped your hands at him, “Really, I’m okay. Seriously.” You weren’t lying - it didn’t hurt. If you told him the absolute truth, you would tell him how you wished he’d manhandle you in other ways.

“Alright. Let’s get to work.”

Knowing how quickly you had to work for this entire plan to play out smoothly, you immediately made your way over to the controls and started tapping away. You turned your head to check on Fives – to see how he was planning on participating – and he was just frozen in place standing over Tup’s cot. Tup was still unconscious; his chest rising and falling rapidly in his comatose, shut eyelids flickering back and forth.

“Fives, push him over there.” You pointed at the scanner on the other side of the room with your back still turned as you tapped away at the screens, prepping the equipment. With one last tap of the screen, the scanner descended from the ceiling and Fives pushed Tup’s cot into it.

Tup’s chest rose and fell at an alarming rate, compelling you to consider - again - about turning back and aborting this plan altogether.

Fives came around the other side of the scanner where you watched the infrared picture of Tup’s brain from display screen, snapping you out of the thought.

“The scan’s almost complete.”

Fives moved in front of you and leaned closer to the screen, you shuffled to the side to give him to space. Your eyes unglued from the screen for just a moment to watch Fives; he was desperate. The look in his eyes told you that much, and his stance wasn’t as strong and sure as it always seemed to default to.

Your focus made way back to the screen. “Everything… appears to be normal.” Just as you said that the screen starting beeping; a red dot was blinking, pinpointing an anomaly in Tup’s brain.

“W- wait a second.” You softly pushed Fives out of the way and read the results displayed on the screen.

“What? What is it, Ren?” Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his little nickname for you, but there were more important things currently at hand. You can freak out about the way he says your name like that later.

“It looks like Tup has developed a tumor.” Your fingers started tapping away yet again. You’ve never seen a tumor in clones before. To be fair, you had never worked with clones like this before, but you’ve seen more than enough of their files to know that a tumor wasn’t exactly something that could just appear in a clone.

“A tumor? Is that even possible?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this in clones. Not in any of the files.” You ceased tapping, turning around to face Fives. His hand raked through his hair, a pure look of confusion and worry on his face.

“Then… what is it?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll need to do a biopsy to be sure.” With a nod, you offered a reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay, Fives. We’ll get this straightened out, and you and Tup will be off this stormy planet and back to your brothers in no time.” You weren’t sure you even believed your words.

“You’re gonna take it out of him?” Before you could answer, Fives whacked the tools all over the ground with one graceless hand movement. Your eyes widened as he bent down to grab at the mess. “Do you, uh, think anyone heard that?”

You raised your brow at him, and with a sarcastic tone, “The probability is high, yes.” You sighed. “You need to hide.”

Smacking his hands away as he continued to pick up the mess, you hissed, “Fives, hide.”

“I think it came from this room.” You both shot up; you ran over and pushed Tup out of the tube and started to power it down at the controls as Fives took cover under Tup’s floating cot. Interesting that an ARC Trooper chose that as a hiding place.

The door whisked opened. Nala Se stood at the entrance, looking around. Her bug-eyes landed right on you, then glanced over to Tup.

“Hello, Doctor.” Your tone was astonishingly calm despite the absolute terror currently running through your system.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She entered through the threshold and made her way over to Tup, assessing his condition with a scowl.

“I was only trying to save the patient,” You informed her, keeping your tone calm and professional. You were ignored, however. Apparently, Fives was not so great at cleaning up his messes, because one leftover syringe sat on the ground right below the Kaminoan’s heels. She reached down to grab it, and your heart started racing. You blurted out, “Doctor, I found something unusual in the scan. It appears to be a tumor… I think you should take a look-”

“You performed a second scan without my authorization?” Nala Se stood upright; the forgotten syringe grasped in her three slender fingers. How did she not see Fives down there? Uh oh… where did he go?

Your heart rate slowed. “Apologies, Doctor. I was only trying to-”

“Perhaps I made the mistake in assuming you’d be ready to work with the clones.” Nala Se turned around to shut off the remaining equipment; machines began powering off as they whirled back in place and Tup’s cot moved back to where it was before you started. One of the larger machines floated away, leaving Fives completely exposed. Ah, so that’s where he went. Your eyes widened as you looked between Fives’ shocked expression and Nala Se, who was still turned around and tapping at the controls. As much as you dreaded pressing further on, you needed to buy Fives enough time to make an escape back to his own room.

“But- but the tumor, Doctor. It seems to be blocking neuro-impulses from communicating with the brain. I think we should scan the rest of the clones to see if this is a problem with their base genetic model or a mutation with the current models.” The machines were all now back in place; you scanned the room with your eyes, hoping to not catch a glimpse of Fives.

“There is no tumor. Your scan is incorrect.” Nala Se departed the control panel, ambling over to the other side of the room. You really hope Fives had fled by now. Might as well keep on pressing, though. It did interest you that the Kaminoan doctor was so avidly trying to disregard what you were saying about a tumor. That was a thread you figured you should follow.

“But-”

“This clone clearly has a virus that remains undetected, but I will find the cause once he’s terminated.” You followed Nala Se until she reached Tup’s cot, her back turned to the exit. “Now leave. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

“Yes, Doctor.” You turned on your heels and walked out the already open door. You turned your head to watch Nala Se; she was still standing over Tup, but you were unsure of what she was doing. Something really didn’t seem right with this. You nearly crashed into Fives in the hall as you departed Tup’s room.

“I can’t believe they’re going to kill Tup!” Fives shouted in disbelief after you both had made your way back into his room and shut the door. Fives shoved the empty cot to the other side of the room, clearly frustrated.

“I know. I’m sorry, Fives.” All you could offer was a sincere apology. It didn’t seem like a great idea at present to bring up how you thought the entire ordeal with Nala Se seemed fishy.

“We were not created to be disposed of this way!” He slammed his fists on the cot, an action that seemed to be fueled by rage, but his eyes told a different story.

“Just- just think of it this way… Tup is sacrificing himself so that other clones like him can survive. Isn’t that something you said he’d want?” You went to reach for him - to offer a gentle reassuring touch - but he backed away.

“There aren’t others like him!” His raised voice prompted you to take a few steps back. You weren’t scared of him, but you understood they he may need some space right now. Maybe it would be best if you retreated to your quarters and called it a day. After all, Nala Se basically sealed your fate by undoubtedly reassigning you to the archives. It probably wasn’t appropriate that you been seen in Fives’ room anymore. Your own selfishness kept you there, though.

“I’m sorry, Ren. I don’t mean to take this out on you, I just-” You allowed yourself to take a few steps towards him. “Tup doesn’t have to die - you found a tumor. I’m sure that’s the cause of all this. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“But… how can we proceed? Dr. Nala Se basically reassigned me to the archives. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be here with you anymore. I could get dismissed, sure, but I have no idea what would happen to you.”

“Do the biopsy. I’m sure what you find will prove Tup doesn’t have to die. Your findings would bump you up in the ‘ranks’ I’m sure, and they would have no reason to send you back to filing paperwork.” A beat. “As for me… I’ll be fine.” You both knew that was a lie. You’ve seen what the Kaminoans have done to “defective” clones. It’s all in the files. It’s inhumane. There was no way you’d let that happen to Fives.

“I’m not so sure…. Dr. Nala Se doesn’t believe-”

“We’re not going to Nala Se with whatever you find. We’ll go to General Shaak Ti. She helped me once as a cadet and I know she values the life of a clone.” Now that, that was the truth.

“Fives… I’d be disobeying direct orders.” At this point, you didn’t care what happened to you if you were to go through with this. Fives was who you were concerned with. Not because of a hopeless crush, but because of his status of patient and you sincerely cared about him.

“Yep, and for the second time today,” He jested. Not funny. You scoffed. “Ren…” There they are, yet again - the puppy dog eyes. Those, paired with how he said your name. You’d break for sure. “Will you help me? Please.”

***

“Hurry!” Fives was hunched over the control panel with you, basically micromanaging you even though he had no idea what it was you were doing.

“Fives, you’re going to have to not rush me. I’m not a droid. Give me a kriffing minute.” Your fingers tapped frantically at the screen, hitting button after button until -

“Intruder alert. Intruder alert. All nonessential personnel report to a safe room for lockdown.”

You stood up straight and grinned over at Fives, who looked a little shocked.

“What did you do?” The alert played over again on the intercom.

“I made it so that the security scanners picked up an intruder in section C-6. We need to hurry, though. I doubt it’ll take them long before they realize it’s a false alarm.”

“They taught you how to hack a security mainframe at the fancy medical academy you attended on Coruscant?”

You rolled your eyes at him, hands on your hips. “Is that really important right now?” Fives chuckled and shook his head. Grabbing his wrist, you stretched your head to look outside the door. “They have guards stationed just outside. How are we going to get over there?” You turned towards Fives, who was pulling away from you and looking up at the ceiling. You followed his gaze, and you knew exactly what he was thinking. “The vents?” You sounded a little shocked, but it really was the only safe way out of there. He tilted his head down to look at you, a smile on his face. You snorted.

“Here, I’ll climb up first and then pull you up.” Your looked over at the door again, making sure you weren’t about to get absolutely busted, and grabbed his dangling hands.

You shook your head with a smirk. “You know, I’m starting to wish I had stayed in the archives,” you jested, as Fives hoisted you up and into the vent with him.

You never realized just how creepy it was up in these vents. To be fair, there wasn’t one moment that you would’ve pictured yourself crawling through them, but here you were. It was dark, every movement you made echoed, and it was freezing cold. You – for some reason – were leading the way, crawling through the cold durasteel tunnel. Fives was silent; he wasn’t making any comments, not cracking any jokes, not even expressing his concern for Tup. It dawned on you: he was totally checking out your ass. You had shed your long lab coat before he pulled you up, knowing that it would be harder to crawl with it tugging under your knees. Fives hadn’t yet seen you without it on… and you knew how good your ass looked in the leggings you wore. With a slight chuckle to yourself, you stopped crawling for a moment and looked over your shoulder to glance at him to the best of your ability.

“Fives, are you staring at my ass?” You tried to not let your giddiness get in the way of your accusatory whispering, but you found yourself muffling laughter. He didn’t reply right away – probably trying to think up a comeback or a way to wiggle himself out of the subject.

“Fuck yeah I am,” he murmured back, sounding as cocky as ever. You bit your lip and shook your head, resuming the crawl towards the oncoming exit vent. “I don’t exactly have anything else to look at from back here, you know. I got quite a nice view, so, no complaints.” Your face heated up at his smug comment, resisting the urge to shake your ass for him – to really give him a good view. Now was not the time.

You crawled past the vent so Fives could hop down first; he plopped onto the floor, graceful and stealthy as ever, before standing directly under the vent with his arms held out.

“Common, I’ll catch you.” It really wasn’t a long way down; you’d land just fine, though probably not as gracefully as he did.

“Uh, okay…” You lowered your legs out from the ceiling, keeping your grip on the cool metal for a moment while you steadied yourself. “Fives, I think I got it. I can just hop down like th-” Your grip from the ceiling slipped, sending you down and nearly hitting the floor in the worst way possible, when strong arms found their way under your ass and back.

Fives just saved you from breaking a bone or two, and all you could do was blink up at him as his hand slightly squeezed the plushy part of your ass, the other hand gripped tightly on your waist. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t notice the way he was savoring holding you like that, but you did. And you liked it.

“Nice to look at and feels nice, too.” Fives grinned at you before setting you down on your feet. He definitely shouldn’t be talking about how your ass looks and feels right now with his friend lying nearly dead on the cot barely an arm’s length away - but, is he was open to making comments such as those during these unsure times, you’d reciprocate. A boost of confidence surged through you.

“Glad you like it, trooper. Maybe some time you can see and feel it without these in the way,” you pulled at your leggings, looking him straight in the eyes with a smirk. Seeing Fives’ expression was well worth making the comment.

“Don’t say things you can’t follow up on, Renna.” His shocked expression quickly flipped to dark, catching you completely off guard and making you gulp. Your entire body felt as if it was on fire as tiny fireworks danced in your gut. There was absolutely no way you’d be able to follow up on your innuendo-filled comment unless you found each other in another life under different circumstances. You needed to shake it out of your system.

Firing up the laser drill, you looked over at Fives and studied his worried expression. He looked so soft, so concerned – it tugged at your heart harder than you cared to admit. His focus remained on Tup until the sound of the drill made him look up.

Your hands were slightly shaking. You felt it, but it didn’t appear to be noticeable. You had never performed a biopsy on a real, living, breathing lifeform before. Everything you had done during your schooling was on the deceased or on medical dummies. You were nervous, but this wasn’t about you. You finally had the chance to save a life. You needed to pull it together.

“Renna, are you okay?” Fives’ voice nearly came out as a whisper. You looked up at his eyes; he was studying you, deeply.  

You took a deep breath and nodded with a slow exhale. You turned your attention back to the drill, grabbing Tup’s head and positioning it to where you needed.

“You might want to look away at this part.”

***

You did it. A successful biopsy. Feeling a bead of sweat threatening to fall from your hairline, you wiped it away with your arm and looked up at Fives who still had his eyes squeezed shut.

“Is it done?” The absent sound of the drill encouraged him to open his eyes. You held up the tumor, encased in a transparent casing. You handed it to Fives; he studied it closely, bringing it up to his face with a sigh. The moment was over when the door whisked open.

“What have you done?” Dr. Nala Se came into the room; Fives didn’t appear frightened, but you sure as fuck were.

“We saved my friend’s life.” Fives whipped around to face the “long-neck” - as he calls them - holding up the tumor in an accusing manner towards her, “This tumor is the cause of his illness.” She reached out and tried to grab the encased organic matter, but Fives maintained a hard grip as they fought for it.

“Give me that!” Nala Se looked angrier than you had ever seen her. You ran up to them, trying to stop something before it started.

“You can’t be trusted.” Fives reached down to Tup’s cot with his free hand, grabbing a mysterious syringe, and held it up in a threatening manner. You reached your hands up to stop him, but Shaak Ti’s sudden arrival did the job for you.

“Stand down, trooper.” She stood at the doorway with her hand outstretched. Jedi didn’t need to hold a weapon; you knew what they could do with just one outstretched hand in the blink of an eye. You’ve never seen it in action, but you’ve heard stories.

Fives dropped the hand holding the syringe but kept hold of the tumor with his other. “I have evidence. It’s right here!” He sounded desperate. This looked way too bad. You were caught right in the middle of it all, too.

“I’m free…” A weak voice croaked from the cot, making all the heads in the room turn in the same direction. Tup. Fives let go of the tumor and whipped his body around to face his friend, crouching down next to Tup and leaned in close.

“Tup?”

“The mission… free.”

“What is he saying?” Shaak Ti entered through the threshold, a few guards flowing in from behind her with their blasters aimed at Fives.

“Brother, what mission?” It was apparent that Fives was trying to understand what was coming from Tup’s mouth, and could not care less that his own kind were holding weapons to him. It had been the first time anyone had heard Tup speak words that didn’t sound like “kill” and “Jedi” since his arrival.  

“You… you know the one. The- the mission, the one in our dreams…” Fives’ wide eyes scanned over his friend, searching for a clue, for anything. “…that never ends.”

You were frozen in your spot, taking in Tup’s bewildering words. You watched Fives’ expression as he frantically tried to decipher what Tup was murmuring. You glanced up from them, seeing the guards' buckets turn to look back and forth at each other. The mission - the one from their dreams?

“Oh, brother…” Tup’s hand lifted to the best of its ability; Fives grabbed it with his own and squeezed. This moment was so raw, so emotional, so real. You never would have thought…

“This is the end. Forget the mission.” Tup was fading away. You could hear it in his voice, and you knew that Fives knew what was coming. It looked as though Fives was holding back tears – trying to keep his composure. “Oh, the nightmare. I’m… free.” With that, Tup was gone.

You scanned the room. Shaak Ti bowed her head, hand over her heart. The other clones lowered their weapons down to their sides, heads bowing. Nala Se, however, remined the same. Her expression never changed. Heartless Kaminoans.

Fives was shaking his friend’s body, begging him to come back. “I thought I saved him…” You didn’t know what to do now. Tup was gone, and it was your fault. He was alive until you removed the tumor. Fives was in pain – mourning for his brother because of you. You took a few steps back, and leaned against the counter, your fingers combing through your scalp. Not only did you disobey direct orders twice today, but you also killed the very first lifeform you did a biopsy on, and to top that off, the patient you killed was important - a brother - to someone you deeply cared about.

***

Fives was placed under arrest just shorty after. Tup’s body wasn’t even cold yet.

You stood there in silence; Fives locked eyes with yours as he was almost forcefully escorted out of the room by the surrounding guards. It was clear that both of you were trying to communicate with the other using only your eyes, but no distinct message was coming across. You wanted to tell him you were so sorry for everything, and that you’d miss him, that you’d never forget him and Tup, and that meeting him changed your view of the clones entirely. But, there were no final goodbyes, no condolences given. Fives would be taken away, and you would be dismissed. You’ll miss Fives with all your heart, but you won’t miss Kamino.

General Shaak Ti followed behind the guards, leaving you in the macabre room with Dr. Nala Se and Tup’s lifeless body. It was silent for a moment before Nala Se looked over to you, shaking her head in disbelief. You were in big trouble.

“Miss Renna,” the long-neck approached slowly, closing the gap between where you were hunched forward over the counter resting on your elbows and where she was covering Tup’s body with a sheet. “I can not condone this type of behavior from an intern. I have no choice but to reassign you to your previous duties in the archives indefinitely.” You were not at all surprised. You nodded slowly, still not looking up at her. You felt numb. Only three days into real field experience, and you fucked up royally. You didn’t need to help Fives, resulting you in ending up in whatever this is. It was interesting that you weren’t dismissed like you’d assume you would be – just reassigned. The thing with Dr. Nala Se acting weird when Tup’s tumor came into play still was on the front of your mind; perhaps you would be able to look into these matters during your long, boring hours in the archives.

Finally looking up at Nala Se, “What… what is going to happen to my patient?” The words nearly came out choked as you tried to hide your worry for Fives. You needed to keep up the front – the professionality of it – so no suspicion would arise. She was scrolling through a datapad, clutching the tumor in her three fingers. The tumor. You tried to study it from afar - what it looked like, the coloring, how the cells neighbored inside it. It looked... dead. Depleted. You snapped your eyes away and over at the dead trooper, whose body was now completely covered by a thin sheet, when Nala Se spoke again.

“Do not worry about ARC-5555. It will be taken care of, so we can put this matter behind us. Just be thankful I didn’t dismiss you, Miss Renna. You are too valuable to replace with some other eager intern.”

Valuable? ‘It’? Taken care of?

“I am thankful, Doctor. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” You were motioned to exit the room; as you walked by Nala Se, you caught one last glance at the tumor, attempting to burn the image of it in your brain and commit it to memory. There was something about the tumor – something that prompted strange behavior from the Kaminoans – and you needed to figure out what that something was.

***

tags: @bvcketfvcker​ @deewithani​ @chromia7567 ​ @cyaniderainfall

[angstmongertina]

The Vision of Lachesis

Spoilers for Artem’s Entwined Fates SSR card story! Also, warning for angst and implied/mentioned character death, because I can only write so much fluff before things get angsty.

I had this idea almost as soon as I played the Entwined Fates card story because I am a sucker for outside POV fics, though the idea for the last scene came later lol. Incidentally, if you want to skip the angst, just stop before the little warning I put in there. Everything before it should be perfectly fluffy.

Cross-posted to AO3.

In his years living at Cloudbreak Temple, Master Lu has already seen many visitors pass through its gate, all with various different hopes and dreams and stories filling their souls. He has seen everyone, from new babies to old grandmothers, from shy young couples to blissful newlyweds and bickering old spouses. And still, the pair he spies entering the temple catch his attention.

He is, as is always the case during the busy festival days, pulled in all directions at once, guiding petitioners through the rituals of prayer and interpreting fortune, but even so, he cannot help but keep an eye on them. A man in front, tall and middle-aged, wearing a solemn expression that does not quite suit the laugh lines on his face, and a boy, not yet fully grown and quiet, shying away slightly from the noise and bustle around him but watching the proceedings with a bright, piercing gaze. The man says something, a gentle hand clapping the boy’s shoulder in a warm, fatherly gesture that brings a faint smile to the small face, before they dive into the crowd, and he turns his attention back to the couple before him.

Thankfully, they do not comment on his preoccupation and he puts the others out of mind as he helps them determine their fortunes.

The next time he sees the pair, they are with old Master Wang, which comes as no great surprise to him. Although Cloudbreak Temple may be most well-known for petitions to the star of wisdom, they accommodate many types of prayers, and while the boy may be of the age where success in learning and exams is important, one glance at the youthful face is enough to tell him that the boy has both intelligence and diligence to spare, and furthermore, a concrete attitude that would likely dismiss the thought of appealing to prayers for school out of hand. No, there is no need for prayers for success. But for safety, on the other hand…

He moves a little closer, still not yet so close as to be truly spying, but near enough to get a better look at the pair. The man is dressed casually, long brown hair pulled out of his face, and stands almost at a slouch, but the eyes that observe the world around him through thin-rimmed glasses are far from relaxed. Instead, their grey depths are cautious, sharp, clearly accustomed to seeking out the truth behind every person, every choice and interaction. It is only when they fall on the young man beside him do they soften with affection and concern. A man of action, of justice and strong morals, though perhaps of some impetuousness and with a fragility under it all.

A man, in short, who likely puts himself into the path of danger for the good of the people around him, but who also might shatter should he be pushed to the brink, should the lives of those he cares about be on the line.

And the boy…

Master Lu frowns, brushing a thoughtful hand over his chin and the faint beginnings of a thick beard as the man ruffles the boy’s hair and he looks up at his companion with a small but adoring smile.

The boy still has a whole entire life in store for him, of that he is certain. And one that will no doubt intersect with the temple again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the couple steps through the gates of the temple, the man sheltering the girl beside him from the crowds, he notices them immediately. Though many years have passed, he has learned to trust his instincts, even beyond what his mind may tell him, and his gut recognizes the man long before his eyes do. The boy has grown, of course, in the ensuing two decades, but the bright intelligence, the thoughtfulness and care, all harken back to the shy child of so long ago.

But rather than his old friend and mentor, this time, the man brings with him a companion of his own. At first glance, she is just as bright-eyed and curious as he once was, though perhaps with more anxiety than he had, focusing immensely on the tasks before her. And the way he watches her…

Before he knows it, he is approaching the pair, standing at a table for the star of wisdom, and offers his assistance. He sees her attention flit away as her partner leaves for his own prayer, following him through the crowd with her eyes and her mind; though she appears to be unaware of it herself, her partner knows, and he knows, that even apart, their hearts, their very lives themselves, are irrevocably entwined, two souls pulled together by an inescapable gravity that he had not seen in decades, if ever.

He cannot help his curiosity about them, about this pair that seems to confirm the very existence of fate itself. These two lawyers, partners, these two halves of a single whole, that the universe has brought together, in an act of perfect balance.

Their marriage fortunes, an offer he makes that is part personal interest, part guiding hand, come as a surprise, though perhaps it should not have been wholly unexpected. He has never been wrong before, not about the couples who have captured his attention, but this…

This is less of a gentle nudge from fate and more of a flashing neon sign.

She reacts to her fortune tag first and he cannot help but smile at the curiosity, at the innocence, in her eyes. “I cannot keep my heart, as it longs to be with you…” A straightforward fortune, as befitting the girl who watches her partner with subconscious adoration, who still does not see his unconditional tenderness, who still does not understand her own constant preoccupation, for what they are. In time, she will realize.

But her partner…

He knows from the moment he sees the man’s face that the meaning of his own fortune is not lost on him. “It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.” And it is fitting for him, for the way he turns away from this, his hesitant heart, cautiously hopeful for a sign that the undying flame he carries will not be snuffed out, bruised from this heavy blow from fate, determined to carry its burden alone, to push his feelings aside and pretend that all is well, as he has always done.

It is a cautionary tale, this particular fortune, and he can say nothing, can only look on in weighty silence, as its recipient takes his companion and continues down his ill-fated and forewarned path.

Or, at least, attempts to, but for the efforts of the girl by his side. He does not listen to the conversation not meant for his ears but he does not need to, not when her thoughts are written clear across her face, not when she tugs her partner back to hear his explanation.

Not when she, despite being still oblivious to the depth of their connection, to the direction of her heart, immediately moves to petition, to help, to find some way of reversing the luck, propelled by outward concern and hidden affection.

He gives them directions both to the wishing tree and for the method to improve one’s luck and watches as she leaps at each opportunity, apparently unaware of the implications, in her quest to lessen her companion’s misfortune. But the man, now wearing a near constant smile of stunned helplessness, knows, even if he cannot, or perhaps more likely, will not, let himself, discern the cause of her concern.

Not even when it involves her suggesting that they bind their fortunes together on the wishing tree.

He chuckles, running his fingers over his beard as he watches them, their gentle discussion and animated features, both conveying so much to the world that they are too close, too farsighted, to see. But in this moment, it is not his place to say anything, to interfere any further, and so he doesn’t. Fate has already shown her own interest in their future, one that they have accepted and furthered, without, apparently, even realizing it.

Ah, to be young and in love.

Waving off their thanks, he watches as they leave before shaking his head and letting out the full-bellied laugh that he has been holding back since he first met them. In all of his years working at the temple, he has never been wrong before, and he is certain that he will not be wrong this time.

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The first day of the festival dawns early and bright, with that telltale warmth that foretells another hot August day. Even before the temple is open for visitors, anticipation hums through the air, the faint buzz as everyone prepares for the inevitable rush of petitioners.

Standing before the steps to the main temple, Master Lu looks out over the entire grounds with a smile. While the outside world has changed drastically in the past decades, within the temple, it is like being transported back in time; the same old tables from years past have already been set up, and the decorations, while not entirely the exact same as those used in centuries past, have all been remade in the original style.

In the fast-paced and ever-changing world, it is almost a sanctuary from time itself, where the tags of decades of visitors remain for an eternity and the history and traditions of the ancestors are preserved for future generations.

Well, at least in some ways more than others, if the influx of technology, and not just from forgetful visitors, is any indication.

He shakes his head, chuckling at his own preoccupation as he dodges young Master Zhao, juggling his attention between the pile of fortunes carried in his arms and the phone jammed under his ear. Clearly, he has begun to get overly sentimental in his old age.

Alas, yet another reminder of the inevitability of the passage of time.

The entry of visitors, a veritable tsunami of petitioners all looking to arrive early, interrupts his thoughts and he turns his attention to them, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. As usual, the vast majority make a beeline straight for the table for the star of wisdom, drawn as ever to the promise of good scores and success. Young couples make their way to the table for marriage fortunes, fresh-eyed and smitten with each other. And others still filter towards the other tables, for peace and wealth and…

And safety.

He spots the small family almost as soon as they pass through the gates, though they are admittedly hard to miss. The man and woman walk arm in arm, slow and cautious against the crush of the people around them, his form shifting to act as a barrier to shield her against the worst of the crowd. The height of the man alone would have been enough to catch his attention, but it is accentuated by the tiny pigtailed girl riding on his shoulders, adding another head to their overall height. From her perch, she looks around with bright, curious eyes, a small hand pointing towards the main temple, and him.

Even across the distance, he can see the surprise and recognition flicker in the bright blue eyes that meet his, and he would not have been able to hide his grin even if he had tried. As it is, though, he does not try, instead stepping forward to meet them with a greeting.

“I don’t know if you remember us, but…”

He shakes his head, waving off the woman’s comment with a laugh. “I do.”

And of course he does. How could he not? They have matured, naturally, settling into one combined force rather than two beings still tumbling in each other’s orbits; her hair is longer now, pulled into a neat bun, and his more disheveled than he’s ever seen under the ministrations of toddler hands; but the same spirit, the same keen eyes and entwined fates, shine out from the pair, unique amongst the crowd of other visitors.

He grins. “Of course I do. After all, it’s not every day I draw two fortunes quite so complementary, and even more rare to have them be hung up together on the wishing tree like that.”

At that, she laughs as well, her cheeks reddening slightly, and pauses to shake her bangs out of her face. “Yes, well, you were right, and it all worked out in the end.” She turns to her husband with a playful look, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Even if it did take the better part of another year.”

“That is on you just as much as it is on me. After all, it took you just as long to realize,” the man retorts, though, to his amusement, his ears flush a faint red, which only deepens when their daughter points them out in a chipper voice, one loud enough that several visitors nearby turn to glance at them.

From the mouth of babes…

“What brings you back? Not just to check on your old tags, no?”

Shooting him a grateful look for the subject change, the man shakes his head, a faint smile curling the edges of his mouth. “No, though it is an added bonus. We’ve come for a new prayer for safety.”

His wife nudges him again, though gentler this time, and with less vigor. “Two, remember?”

He laughs openly, an expression that makes him look years younger, as he drops a hand to the gentle swell of her abdomen. “It may be a little early for that, still. I think he at least needs to have an official name first.”

She wrinkles her nose at him before laughing in turn. “Fine, fine. We will just have to come back again in a year or two.”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

“Daddy!”

A comically dramatic wince flashes across the man’s face when his daughter leans over, her voice projecting with unerring precision directly into his ear, and his wife is left hiding her amusement with some difficulty.

“Too loud, baobei.”

The bright blue eyes widen in distress. “Sorry, Daddy!”

He chuckles, reaching up to clasp her small fist in his hand. “It’s okay, baobei. What is it?”

Squirming from her perch on his shoulders, she points towards the back of the temple, where a few decorated branches of the wishing tree can be seen hanging over the roof. “Big tree! ‘S pretty! Go see?”

He shakes his head. “Later, maybe. First we have to—”

“No! Go see!” She leans over until she is hanging directly in front of his eyes. “Daddy, please?”

The man glances at his wife, who shrugs, mouthing the word “softie” while still wearing that same huge grin, and he finds that he has to struggle to choke back his laugh before anyone notices.

Given the soft snort that reaches his ears, he only partly succeeds.

“All right, then. Let’s go. We can come back for a prayer of safety”—the man glances back down at his wife, a faint but wondering smile dancing on his lips—“or even two, later.” With a solemn expression, the man offers him a deep, respectful nod, one that he is not quick enough to wave away. “Thank you, Master.”

“Bye-bye!”

Laughing, he waves at the trio, watching as they slowly weave their way through the crowd towards the back of the temple. Even across that distance, he can feel the affection and respect they hold for each other, can see the connection they share, which have managed to catch his attention time and time again.

When they finally move out of sight, he turns back to the temple and the flood of other guests, making a mental note to keep an eye out for the little family in future years. Maybe he can take a small break from drawing marriage fortunes in favor of overseeing prayers for safety for a few years…

STOP NOW IF YOU DON’T WANT ANGST.

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The sky is still dark with storm clouds when they first dare venture back outside to examine the state of the temple. In some ways, it is almost a miracle; despite the weeks of heavy storms, accompanied by shrieking gales and large hail, Cloudbreak Temple and its inhabitants have been mostly unharmed, save for superficial damages, just in time for the summer festival. Still, the mood is quiet, solemn, as everyone sets to work, clearing away the fallen branches, discarding the broken shingles, and making room for the stations as best they can in the limited time they have.

Wandering over the grounds, Master Lu shakes his head. Summer storms are not uncommon in the mountains, but even in the many decades that he has spent at Cloudbreak Temple, he has never seen a storm like that one, lightning seeming to rent the sky in two and thunder shaking the foundations of the temple itself, where there was naught to do but to stay indoors and safe. They were truly fortunate that nobody was injured and that most of the damages can be repaired.

Unfortunately, not all of the temple has remained quite so intact.

Stopping at the edge of the courtyard, he sighs, casting his gaze over the mess. It does not come as a complete surprise, given the lashing of the rain or the howling of the wind, but that does not change the sorrow he feels at the destruction that greets his eyes. Where there was once a majestic, venerable camphor tree is now a tired, wizened old thing, bowing under its own weight in the weak hints of daylight. Fortune tags lay strewn amongst the branches that had once held them aloft, once vivid symbols of the future now simply dark red and brown patches against muddy green, that he has to pick his way around as he wanders further in, taking in all of the damage.

But there is no time to clean up the mess, not in his old age and with everything else that will be happening for the day, and the visitors will understand, have to understand. He shakes his head, feeling all of his many years pressing down on his shoulders, almost as though he is fighting the weight of all the fallen wishes themselves.

“Master Lu?”

He looks up at the familiar voice and smiles. Master Chen, arms full of red cords, stands in the entryway of the courtyard, his bright eyes filled with concern, and he suddenly finds himself wondering when they all got so young.

“What is it? Do you need my help with anything?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, we are almost finished. There are enough of us to finish and handle the visitors, since there likely will not be many so soon after the storm. If you want, I could help clean this area…”

He shakes his head again, this time with a more genuine smile. “No, you go on. They’ll be needing you in the main temple, I’m sure. I can work here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Chen nods, putting the new cords on the nearby table before giving him a small, formal bow. “Thank you. Then I leave this to you.”

He waves the kid away, chuckling slightly as he watches him turn and walk back to the main temple before turning his attention back to the courtyard and the scattered fortunes, the remembrances of years, or decades even, of hopes and dreams.

With another heavy sigh, he squats down, tossing some fallen branches aside before picking up the wooden fortune at his feet. It is old, the carved text worn down by the elements, and he runs his fingers over the inscription, a brief statement on the virtues of hard work. A student had hung it there, once upon a time, and he closes his eyes for a moment, hoping that they achieved their goals, before tucking it into his robes and continuing forward.

In some ways, it is almost a walk down memory lane. Prayers to the star of wisdom from students that have long since graduated, who may even be teachers and professors now. Prayers for safety for people who have moved beyond that point, who may have even already passed. Marriage fortunes, ones that he helped distribute and interpret, for young couples that are now parents or even grandparents of their own…

He stumbles to a stop, staring down at the ground by his feet. Lying in the grass, so hidden by mud that he almost missed them, are two wooden cards. Their surfaces are almost entirely obscured by the dirt, but he still recognizes them instantly, the pair of fortunes so opposite to each other, so perfectly complementary. Held to the branch and each other by a red cord that has split and frayed under the years, no doubt hastened by the tempest.

Heaving another sigh, he leans over and…

“Master?”

Caught off-guard he snaps upright, turning around with a polite refusal on the tip of his tongue, but his instincts, ever reliable, stay his reply as the appearance of the visitor sinks in.

Dressed in dark, muted colors, he is easy to overlook, blending into his surroundings, into any crowd, with little effort. His face is drawn, haggard, lines of exhaustion etched into his skin, making him look years older, while his dark hair is disheveled, streaked with gray. Altogether, the man in the entryway, tired and worn, is almost unrecognizable from the young, joyous father of his memory. In just the few years since he last visited, he has aged a decade, his strong, confident form now frail, once bright azure eyes now dimmed, haunted.

And the man approaches, moving forward with slow, hesitant steps, eyes fixed on the tags he holds in his hand.

“That… Is that…?”

The voice nearly breaks around those few words, hoarse and almost inaudible, but he doesn’t need to hear the rest of the question, doesn’t need an explanation to know what the man wants, to know what must have happened.

Closing his eyes, he bows his head. “Yes. It is. They must have fallen during the storm.”

He hears a labored, shuddering breath, one that makes his own chest tighten in sympathy. “I… May I?”

“Of course.” He steps forward, gently placing the tags into his outstretched hands, watching as trembling fingers brush over the faded markings, the broken cord, as the pale face twists with fresh pain. “I…” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Daddy?”

They both turn at the same time, where a small girl stands in the entryway of the courtyard, holding the hand of an older woman as she cradles a bundle in her other arm. Pulling free of the restraining grasp, she runs forward to join them, grabbing her father’s free hand. “Daddy?”

Something resembling a smile tugs at the corners of the man’s lips as he squats to his daughter’s eye level. “What is it, baobei?”

“Are you sad?”

The sound that leaves the man’s throat is more of a rasp than a chuckle, but neither of them seem to notice. “Yes.” He wraps an arm around the girl, lifting her into the air as he stands back up. “Yes, I am.”

To his surprise, the girl only nods solemnly before looking at the tags in his hand. “What is that?”

The man sighs, holding it up so she can examine it more closely, running her small fingers over the wood as he wipes away the mud. “Mama and I came here years ago and hung it up when we were here. Before you were even born.”

“Oh. It’s pretty.” A slight frown on her face, she studies the fortunes and the cord linking them before raising her gaze. “Do you miss Mama?”

He has to shift his gaze away as the smile on the man’s face crumbles, turning his attention back to the mess of branches and fortune tags, but even so, he cannot escape hearing the slight hitch in the quiet voice. “Every day.”

She sniffles, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. “Me too.”

“Anthea!” The older woman reaches them, her face a mix of concern and frustration, and he can’t help but turn his attention back to the family. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think she would be so quick.”

The man shakes his head as she reaches for the girl, instead shifting her position in his arms. “It’s fine, Ma. Besides, you have enough on your hands. And you’ve done more than enough for us now.”

“Still…”

“Ma.” The man closes his eyes, gently shaking his head, before meeting her gaze with a determination that even he can feel, that makes him tear his gaze away once more, feeling vaguely like he is eavesdropping. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I…” A sigh that hangs in the air between them. “I need to do this. For her. But thank you for… for everything. And…”

A hand suddenly appears in his vision and he looks up to find the man before him, standing up straighter with a mix of sorrow and resolve dancing on his features. “I don’t know if you remember me, but…”

He shakes his head. “I do. Still.”

“Of course.” A small but genuine smile cracks his mouth as the man draws a deep breath. “I… I remember you said once that fortunes should be returned to the temple once they’ve come true and…” He swallows once, hard. “Can you put these back for me?”

“Yes, certainly.” He reaches for them, hand closing back around the fortunes that the man holds out.

Two little wooden tags have never felt so heavy in his palm before.

For a moment, the man stares at them, as though in his hands, in these fragile pieces of wood, he carries all the weight of the world, before tearing his gaze away to meet his. “Thank you.”

Oddly enough, when he opens his mouth, he finds a sudden lump in his throat and instead of trying to speak, he only inclines his head, but it is enough. The man smiles again, a soft, ephemeral expression, before turning and walking away, still carrying his daughter while his mother paces alongside him with his son in her arms.

As he watches them leave, he brushes his thumb over the worn fortunes he cradles, gently tracing the text that he still remembers like it had been drawn yesterday.

It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.

Leaving the courtyard, he silently enters the main temple, ignoring the questioning looks from his fellow masters and visitors alike as he sets the tag, still tied to its partner with muddy red cord, down amongst the various other fortunes of years past, and sits back on his heels, reading it over one last time.

And so it is.

[wonda-cat]

Some Thoughts on Tommy’s most recent stream (4/29)

(For the record, this isn’t going to be like my other formal analyses. I’m genuinely just ranting here, possibly unedited too. I’m only referring to the characters, unless stated otherwise.

Also obvious warning, this will be fairly negative/critical of the DSMP’s writing, so scroll past if that might bother you. I tend to criticize the media I love, so this is just par for the course in my case.)

Let’s start off with—

The Things I Liked

All of the comedy at the beginning of the stream was wonderful. Ghostbur was incredibly endearing and entertaining as usual, as well as the moments between bench trio. Tommy’s change of plans made sense and the entire journey through the prison was tense and fun to watch. As well as the moment Tommy got caught (it was inevitable.) 

It goes without stating, but cc!Wilbur and cc!Tommy’s acting was wonderful—they knocked it out of the park. I liked the little moments of Tommy calming Ghostbur down as Sam screamed at him. I also loved Wilbur's speech about his time in the afterlife when bench trio found him. 

As well as the moment with Wilbur admiring the sky and calling it ‘his sunrise.’ I’m also glad that the afterlife was explained to be caused by the Revival Book’s existence and not some general eternal torture every character will be sentenced to regardless of anything they did in life. 

But, sadly, that’s about where I stop and have to go into what I didn’t like as much, which is—

Everything Else

I’ll be talking about my major gripes with this particular stream in later bullet points down the line, but for now I’ll bring up the little things that annoyed me. This is all basically nit-picking and isn’t as awful or badly written as some of the others I’ll be discussing later. 

First off, Why is Ranboo There? In the stream before this one, Tommy had Tubbo promise to not tell anyone else about their plan. Did he just decide to tell Ranboo anyway? Why? What was the point of asking him to keep it secret if it didn’t matter? 

Adding to this, Tubbo and Ranboo were rather unnecessary for any of the other scenes that took place. They didn’t have any meaningful conversations with Tommy besides Ranboo asking why he was dreading Wilbur’s revival so much, as well as Wilbur’s comments to Tubbo about him being president. But other than that they have little to no notable speaking lines. 

They don’t Do Anything? Sure, they’re nice to have present so Tommy can vent to someone else and find comfort but, in the end, Ranboo was oddly angry and accusatory with Tommy and Tubbo was practically absent from the scene. The impression I got from Tommy and Tubbo’s conversation in the previous stream implied that Tubbo would be serving a larger role as a distraction, but I guess they changed gears or something? 

Then we have Ghostbur’s involvement, which, yeah, makes sense. Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo are not allowed inside the prison, so it’s best to find someone else who can get in without suspicion. But my first assumption, upon seeing Ghostbur with the group was, “Oh, he’s gonna go in there and Dream’s gonna use him to revive Wilbur. That’s the only reason why Ghostbur is here and not anyone else, who would also be willing to kill Dream. It’s not like they’re in short supply right now.”

And I ended up being right, which only frustrated me more. I wanted something unexpected. Something new. Something interesting. Yet, I got the most predictable outcome instead—Tommy fails, Wilbur is revived. 

Next, we have another big serving of ‘Tommy gets blamed for things he has no control over’ part 241. I am so, so sick of characters getting unreasonably mad at and blaming Tommy for anything and everything. It’s not new, it’s not interesting, it’s not fun. It’s just miserable. 

It is,, awful. And it’s highkey frustrating. I refuse to sit through another arc of Tommy being endlessly hurt and blamed for stuff he didn’t do or cannot control. Pick a new event in the plot. 

Try something out of left field. Do something, anything different to this. I’m begging you. 

Now, we get into the major writing pitfalls and shortcomings. Starting with—

We Need to Talk About Sam

I have no idea what is going on with Sam’s character right now. It is so genuinely confusing. I have no clue why Sam reacted the way he did to Tommy because it just doesn’t make any sense. Sam’s entire inner conflict is about him trying to cultivate and protect his humanity and morality while upkeeping a strict, closed-off demeanor.

He follows the rules, even if it hurts the people he loves. Even if these codes force him into a position to be unethical. He feels it is his responsibility should anything go wrong or if Dream escapes, because it puts others in danger.

His strict approach got Tommy killed, and it also took a life and an arm from Ponk. Both of these people are precious to him. So why on earth would he threaten to kill Tommy when, in their last interaction, he was glad he was alive—after he promised to never let something like that happen again?

He respected Tommy’s wishes to stay away from him, and rather politely too. Why would he then threaten to kill him just after weeks of saying Tommy’s death was his biggest regret? That’s not even touching on Sam saying, “This is why I let you die,” as well as blaming Tommy for something that was directly a result of his own refusal to act.

Why didn’t he have Ghostbur also hitch a ride on the same platform with Tommy? Why did he even let Ghostbur into the prison in the first place if he:

A.) Told Ranboo he wasn’t going to let anyone in there after what happened to Tommy.

B.) Also wouldn’t let people in lest they find out about Quackity’s plan.

C.) Couldn’t even kill Ghostbur because he’s incorporeal and thus cannot fully upkeep the contracts he is signing.

There’s also the issue of Sam breaking the rules he abides by when he decided to not kill Tommy after he snuck into the prison, despite it being in the contract. Why is it different now? He went against his own protocol but was also following it by refusing to let Ghostbur come back to the other platform?

Why does Sam refuse to listen to Tommy? Their argument is mind-numbingly ridiculous. Sam refuses to hurt Dream, despite him only being alive because Sam claimed Tommy wanted him alive.

But now Tommy is there, begging Sam to let him kill Dream, and Sam just goes, “No. We’re not killing Dream.” Fucking why??? Sam! You said you wanted to kill Dream at least four times by now! Maybe more!

You were on your way to do it with Quackity and the only thing that stopped you was your promise to Tommy. But now Tommy’s here, telling you to kill Dream and you fucking won’t???? I am absolutely baffled.

No matter how you spin it, it makes no fucking sense. However, if I tried,,, I could possibly come up with a reason or two. Maybe Dream is blackmailing him. Maybe Quackity is forcing him to keep Dream alive until he can get the info he needs (even though,,, why would he trust Quackity over Tommy, who he’s outwardly stated he trusts just as much, if not more?)

It feels like these plots are dancing around each other, trying to keep up this faux sense of conflict that doesn’t exist. But, here’s the thing, contrived conflict is never compelling. I can’t overstate it enough.

Dream’s Plan is Complete Nonsense

The method to revive Wilbur makes Dream seem even more short-sighted than I remember commenting on, during the stream where Tommy was brought back to life. He told Tommy that his plan was to test the book to see if it worked (which, okay fine, I can buy this.) But then he says all along he was planning to revive Wilbur in order to break out of prison, which is ???? This is baffling if he needed Ghostbur in order to pull this off. 

Which,,, I can’t even begin to explain how ridiculous it is that Dream’s entire plan hitched on not only the book working on people to begin with (which he tested on Tommy,,, for some reason, even though he would’ve lost his ‘favorite toy’ if he fucked it up. Which,, why even take that chance in the first place? there are other visitors he could’ve tried this with, surely. Like Sapnap and Bad,,) and it also relied on Ghostbur voluntarily going into the prison just to visit Dream?? And if he didn’t need Ghostbur after all, then why didn’t he bring Wilbur back weeks ago? 

That’s not even getting into the issue of Dream assuming that Wilbur, once brought back, would: 

A.) Want to be alive in the first place.

B.) Actually be willing to help Dream, instead of telling him to fuck off.

C.) Be even slightly capable of helping him at all when he has no allies, no PVP skill, no weapons, no armor, and no knowledge of the prison or its innerworkings. 

Why are the current DSMP writers so committed to making me think Dream is a fucking idiot? I don’t enjoy this. I used to like his character and think he was smart. Stop. 

ALSO, why did Tommy or Tubbo or Ranboo not think of the possibility that Ghostbur could very well be necessary to revive Wilbur? Why did that not cross any of their minds? It was the first thing I thought of when I saw him.

Another big thing that irks me is Tommy and Sam saying they saw Dream physically holding the Revival Book, which,,, how? Why? Dream said in previous streams that he burned the book and that was entirely the thing that kept him from being killed outright. If there was a book still in existence, did he hide it somehow? 

How did Quackity not find it? Why did Sam not take it from him when he was first arrested?? What? 

Also how the fuck did Dream kill a ghost?? They’re incorporeal? How does he not need the body to perform necromancy? That seems almost redundant. 

Also it took a matter of seconds to perform? It took,,, ?? nothing but words and sheer willpower to bring someone back to life? Why does it seem so easy? My mans just,, uses his vibes to bring people back from the dead??? 

Unless the book has instructions regarding that or has a proportional price in order to use, then I’d be more forgiving. But I’m guessing it doesn’t have too steep a cost if Dream could offer Tommy immortality despite that. But I’m sure we’ll get more information on this once Quackity (inevitably) gets his hands on the book. Hopefully… 

Which brings me to my last point—

Wilbur’s Revival (Derogatory)

Since the Revival Book was introduced, I have been actively dreading Wilbur being revived. It is the most predictable, low-hanging fruit of a plotline I could possibly conceive of. I understand that he’s a fan-favorite with a large audience (I love Wilbur more than you’d expect. cc!Wilbur is actually the reason I got into the DSMP in the first place), but there are other characters who could be developed more—utilized more. 

Unpopular opinion, I know, but I am just so incredibly unenthused about this plot development. In fact, I’d almost go so far as to say hate it. 

The Revival Book in and of itself is my least favorite thing the DSMP has ever introduced. It is a lack of consequences simplified. It’s also a lack of commitment to those mortal consequences. 

It is a ‘get out of jail free’ card for when they kill off a character and don’t want to deal with the hole that character will leave behind. Or a way to work around the reason they shouldn’t kill Dream on the spot. 

With Wilbur back again, I no longer feel compelled by his arc the way I used to. There is nothing to really leave a lasting impact anymore. Of course, there was a cater where L’Manburg once stood, but that was dug even deeper later on. You can’t make the death of a friend, of a loved one, worse than it is. It is death. 

The thing I found extremely interesting about Wilbur’s death is the way the other characters portrayed loss. It has consistently been the thing that was most comforting to me, oddly enough. When people die, there will always be loose ends. 

There will be holes left behind and things left unsaid. An unfulfilled promise. A forgotten relationship. A hollow memory.

What I always found compelling was the way Tommy and Fundy and Niki took this mutual loss and had to live with it. How they had to come to terms with the fact that Wilbur was gone and he wasn’t coming back. That they had to make peace with his memory, his legacy, and their connection to him. 

That they’d miss him and love him or hate him and try to forget him. It is a tragedy that someone like Wilbur wanted to die for so long, and in the end, he did. Because in reality, the people you love will die. 

There may be someone in your life that leaves you behind and all you’re left with is the broken pieces. And it is how these characters move on that brings me bittersweet company as someone who’s lost a lot of people. There is nothing more irritating than a story going back on its establishments—to have their cake and eat it too. 

All I want is the bare minimum—a story with narrative stakes and consequences.

The only way I could ever see myself enjoying this plot development is if Wilbur has a redemption arc and attempts to make amends with Tommy, Fundy, Niki, and Eret. OR if he aids in Dream’s downfall in some way and enjoys the simple realities of life and wants to live for the sake of living. I’d find that at least new and somewhat interesting. 

But if he’s just here to be a moustache toiling villain (or somehow worse than after his previous downward spiral), when the market is already so deeply oversaturated with antagonists, then I will probably drop the series altogether. 

Hopefully it doesn’t come to that because I love the Dream SMP and I want to keep loving it for as long as I can. 

I will hold onto more reasons to stay, so long as they keep giving them to me.

[prose-for-hire]

Love, Hate, Love: Part two

Part One // Part Three

Pairing: Spike x fem!vamp!reader

Request: Spike and the reader really dislike each other until she recalls his human "identity". They were best friends as kids and wrote poetry together and upon remembering this their perception of each other begins to shift. This is part two of three.

Originally requested by: @therapieliteratur​

A/N: Head’s up: The timeframe is switched up a bit, Angel left earlier and Spike stayed in Sunnydale since like Lover’s walk or something. It’s vaguely set in season 3 but with very little season 3 written about. 

You smiled, skipping through the tall grass. Your best Sunday dress was starched rigid. Binding. But you had not wished to change, anticipation getting the better of you.

You were going to meet him again. It was a youthful love, you had only been a teenager. It was three, maybe four years before your death. Aged twenty.

The summer was uncharacteristically warm. Your eyes viewed this dream in sepia.

There he was. Your love. He averted his gaze as soon as you approached. He did this every time. He was shy, with a poet’s heart. You had always been the more confident one. He had caught your eye, he had been in awe of you growing up. Watching you from afar.

Ever since he could remember, his eyes had only been for you.

You had started to meet this way. Stolen moments. You sat under that large oak tree, on the hill. You could see for miles from up there, but your entire world was right there beside you both.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to meet him this way, you knew it. People would talk. But your hearts had sung when you were together. You sneaked glances at each other, your faces bathing in sunlight.

God, you missed the sunlight. Those youthful eyes transfixed on your own. Sparkling in the hazy afternoon sunlight.

You both wrote poetry, that had been how your minds connected. With your hearts following. You were well-educated for the time and he adored that your wit matched his own. That he had someone that could appreciate beauty and every other emotion you could find in nature. In life. Even in death.

You hid the last one close to your chests. It was macabre and others may have laughed. Others did laugh. When you spoke of life and love and death.

You had been viewed as outcasts but nothing mattered when you were together. When you had affirmations of his blossoming love.

Oh, you wrote such poetry. Together you could change the direction that the Earth would turn. Your love, your sweet and undying affections could stop the world on its very axis. You often read aloud. Your own work and others. You gushed over the others beautiful prose.

But this day, this one was special.

He had asked you to marry him that day. Through his carefully thought-out poem. You were both young, but there was no question in your mind. You had known him since you were a child. Your love growing from childlike friendship to subtle affection, before weaving into this unquestionable love. The foundations of your adoration so solid. There was no doubt in your mind.

This thought stuck with you, in your dream. You remember it now. This was a memory, no mere dream.

His love had made you weep like a baby. You could feel the salty tears welling, threatening to spill over your cheeks. Your hand grasped his, so tight.

Yes.

This was his turn for tears to well.

You were just smiling at each other now. You leaned in, initiating this. He had been anxiously awaiting this moment. Had written of it over feverishly. And you felt this now, where you hadn’t in reality. You felt his emotions, knowing they were pure. A pure love.

Your lips met, in a sweet kiss. It was simple and quick, but it was new to you both. Your lips barely grazed his and you found yourself instantly wanting more.

But, you pulled back to look at him. I mean, really looked at him.

Your decades rushed back to you. The wisdom of your age, all you had seen. Growing out of your naivety and the promise of this sweet matrimony. The wedding that never was.

You suddenly recognised him. You knew who was looking back. And you noticed he was doing the same thing. Scanning your face, trying to recall more of this forgotten youthful romance. This innocent love you had shared.

Something shifted as the penny dropped. The recognition. A storm started around you, one that had never occurred on that day. It had been a happy day, you hadn’t known what was to come.

You both started to be pulled in opposite directions.

You tried to cling to him, your hands grasping for him and he reached out. Trying to take your hand. You screamed, being pulled out of the dream backwards.

You recognised that look in his eye. Those crystal blue eyes that had seen you with such favour in your youth. Was the man, no, vampire you now detested.

And you knew it was him. Really him. He was dreaming the same thing. You didn’t know how, but you did.

You woke up with a start. You sat up instantly in bed, breathing heavily despite there being no need. You ran your hand through your hair in disbelief.

Oh no. Oh, God, no.

Don’t let it be him.

It stung. That your only true love could be the root of your current hate. This man, this infuriating man who stood for everything you now fought against.

Oh, you hated him so. For making you feel this way. All these contradictions weaved into the crumbs of affection that were starting to surround you. Leading you to a path you hadn’t travelled since. It was overgrown now, your heart protected by thorned bushes. By barbed wire and electric fencing.

You had let nobody in the same since. Had hidden yourself away, made yourself more reserved. Especially since regaining your soul.

Dreams are funny things. Sometimes abstract. Often a reflection of your subconscious. And apparently, today, they were shared memories of a lifetime ago. You hadn’t even thought about until it all came rushing to the surface that day.

Neither of you knew why now. Why had your minds hidden such glorious moments of your youth?

Of course, you both knew the answer. It was too painful. To remember what happened. The love. The loss.

At the same moment as you, he woke up with a start. His hand still outstretched for you as if he could have pulled you back out of that dream with him. Back into his bed, the way he had dreamed of having you all those years ago.

Oh no. Oh, God, no.

Don’t let it be her.

“Anybody but bloody her” He muttered, pulling the covers from his body in disdain and stalking towards his mini-fridge to get out some blood.

He hated thinking about who he had once been. William. He could barely remember much of that life anymore. He had consciously ignored that part of himself. But now it was all he could think of.

You. Oh God, how he had adored you. He couldn’t recall even now feeling as elated as he had when you had agreed. That summer’s afternoon. Sneaking around after and finding places to kiss you. To hold you.

Stupid, lovesick idiot. That was all he had even thought to do at the time.

His mind swam with such contradictory thoughts. Of course he had tried to reach for you, yesterday. To comfort you. Because you were her. God, he hated you for that.

You both spent that night walking directionless through your own memories. Ones that only now had been unlocked again. It was painful, bittersweet.

The gnawing realisation that your hearts were tugging you closer towards the other was ignored. Pushed away.

You couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not again.

You were sat in the demon bar. You had steered well clear for a few weeks but there really was nothing like drowning guilt, sorrow and now a fixation on a vampire you had thought you hated like drinking alcohol beside demons that loathed you as much as you loathed yourself.

And, of course, just as you ordered your drink he arrived.

You caught each other’s eye briefly. Both snapping your gaze away immediately once the other met your eye. He didn’t make a beeline towards you straight away like he usually would. You didn’t keep an eye on him to make sure he wasn’t doing anything stupid this time. You wouldn’t dare let him see you looking.

It had been every day since last you saw each other. The same, or similar dreams. Of your youth. Your love. It was hard to face someone after that.

After a long while of arguing with his own mind, he moved to look at you. His silent strength (that you had loved about him) now showing. He would have to study your face, he couldn’t not. He had to check that it was you.

He sighed, taking a massive gulp from his drink. You were so different. Not in appearance but in character. You looked almost broken now. Melancholia pumped through your heart rather than blood. He could tell, his heart almost ached, knowing you were wracked by guilt or whatever it was that happened when vampires gained souls.

You looked up, glaring at him before dropping your look to your drink despite it never doing anything to you. He couldn’t not say anything. What had once been a quiet courage was now a bolder one.

“Oh, look it’s the Slayer’s pet. She loosened the leash tonight, did she? Let you walk around all by yourself?” He prodded. But his heart wasn’t in it, you could hear his usual amusement was failing him tonight. You stayed silent hoping he would just go. For very different reasons than from your last interaction.

You had been exhausted last time, indifferent.

Now it was because it was starting to mean too much. Hurt too much to look at him.

“Pet?” He asked, knowing you didn’t like it. Usually made you talk to him when he called you that. You just continued to stare into your drink, but words started to form in your mouth. A way you wouldn’t speak anymore.

“My heart is leaden, to my grave the thoughts do beckon.”  You recited the line from memory. A memory you hadn’t been aware of until recently. You didn’t look up from your drink, you were aching. Guilt and sorrow and him.

His eyes widened, he knew those words. It was you. It had only ever been you.

He couldn’t stop the words that left his mouth, the desperate grasping at the past, “Y-you saw it too, didn’t you?” He pressed. His voice wavered and his jaw tensed at his own nature. His eyes willed you to agree, willed you to show him that you hadn’t changed beyond repair. Hadn’t hardened the way he never thought you could.

“I don’t know what you mean” You said shortly, getting up and downing your drink before moving to walk away.

He swung you around to face him. Your fist clenched expecting a fight. But there was no more fight. You just stared at each other, feeling the proximity more intimately than you ever had before.

Your faces started to soften and you felt it. Because his touch was now reminding you of how he had held you. Stolen kisses and silent confessions of affection. Handwritten love notes and poetry that would make you fall deeper in love. Sunkissed faces and those freckles he used to get when the summer was particularly warm.

Oh God you just wanted to lean in and kiss him and now he was feeling exactly the same. Your minds fought against the embrace.

He dropped your arm as if it was white-hot. Scolding him. As if he couldn’t bear it.

It hurt you both. Stung. His action. You were both in your own heads though. Your minds in turmoil, a tsunami of your own making.

You hated that it was the other. You hated that your hearts had started to hope. You hated that a part of you would easily trade in everything to be back in your dreams. Or to really be back there. Together.

How could it be him? How could that beautiful man, with that beautiful heart, be him. The killer of slayers. The evil, big bad that tried to kill the only people that had been kind to you since you moved here.  

How could it be her? How could that once confident, glowing woman be you. The miserable, brooding souled vampire. The one that shone with arrogant self-righteousness. Tried to be good.

Without a word you just walked away from each other. No fight. No subtle jabs at the others opposing nature.

Words failed you now, but your minds spun. Such discordant unending lines of jarring poetry. Cut and spliced together. Love and hate and hope and dread.

It was all-consuming.

Because neither of you were so sure that you were these opposites. Not anymore.

The next day you were sat in the Sunnydale school library. It was a lot different from the education you remember. For the better, you decided.

You were supposed to be lending your expertise, what with the age and knowledge of the demon you were facing this week. But you weren’t really contributing.

You could get quiet sometimes and Angel had warned them not to press you too much about it, understanding why. But you weren’t usually like this. You didn’t brood like Angel did, but you were very obviously troubled by your past.

The group had taken you in, they were fond of you. You had lived through most of their troubles already so you gave them advice when you could. Even with Giles, you offered assistance that he took gratefully. You were the one vampire with a soul he could actually rely on after what happened with Angelus last year.

You were staring at a book as if it were written in gibberish. You were like a statue, you weren’t breathing or blinking.

“What’s up with spooky the soul-haver?” Xander whispered, as if you couldn’t hear it. The boy thought you would have a romance like Buffy and Angel’s. You told him otherwise. He was working on accepting it. Still.

“She’s been having dreams” Willow shrugged, it was all she could get out of you. Buffy looked up, slightly worried. She knew Angel had struggled with visions and bad dreams.

“Spooky can totally hear the human gremlins when they speak words” You muttered and Xander went red, and the others’ eyes scattered away from you which made you half-smile. You began to explain a quick excuse but you were quickly cut off.

“Don’t wig, it’s so far beyond nothing-”

“Slayer!” A familiar voice shouted, “Slayer, come out and face me!”

He had become tired of hiding in the shadows. Since Dru left. He wanted to beat the Slayer. Do something to take his mind off you. He slammed his hand on the walls as he stalked along looking for her.

Everyone shared a look and Buffy took the nearest weapon to her, a sword, and sped off through the corridors to find him before he ran into a teacher who had stayed behind to catch up on their lesson plans.

Both fought, hard. Trading blows with Buffy nicking his skin with the sword. You uncharacteristically stayed to the side.

It was equally matched until Buffy held his shoulder, he had cast an eye towards you. She took the chance and slid the hilt deep into his torso. He groaned in pain. You felt it as if she had struck you herself. You clutched your own body, where the wound was on his.

She didn’t stake him, as if he weren’t worth it. Merely warning him to give up. Buffy turned, satisfied and the others began walking away. Leaving him wounded, his knees buckled and he was on the floor.

All you could think was that he was hurt.

“William!” You shouted without thinking. It was him, no matter what had happened since. It was him.

Your mask had slipped. He saw those kind eyes. You used to look after him, the one that would try to fight any of the bullies of your youth. He had held you back more than once, fearing you would get a reputation. For being improper. And he, for being laughable. Emasculated.

“Didn’t think you cared, sweet” He said, his tone still hard. So different from the lyrical assurances he would whisper in your ear. But the moniker gave him away. Sweet.

He had always called you that. His sweet.

“I-I don’t…” You lied. This was the first time you understood properly that those feelings hadn’t been lost in your youth. They had been hidden. Repressed. Because it was so painful. There had always been something missing, only now you realised.

Losing his favour had been more painful than your own death.

William was waiting at the chapel, the entire day was thick with humidity. The skies grey and threatening to spill.

You had chosen an intimate service. Something that was yours. Just you and those that would witness the union. You would leave your hometown and make a life together. Away from the hard eyes and cruel tongues.

“Oh, I am the very spirit of vexation! Where is my wife to be?” William paced, the sun was starting to set. Darkness settling in.

“She will be timely, do not fret” the vicar spoke with assurance but he was concerned.

Time spun. It slowed and started to stop, dying as his hope did. You never came. He waited into the evening but you never arrived.

He wept, his heart broken and leaking. Salt water rubbing into the wound. Unimaginable pain. He ran. Sobs echoing around the empty chapel.

[onetruesporkbot]

Apparently, to some would-be gatekeeper, snarky criticism of bad writing, and snarky memes emphasizing those criticisms, are equal to death threats against creators.

I got notified by email that I was mentioned by someone I don't know, in this really long post about Tumblr users attacking creators, one of whom, allegedly, made threats against the lives. The post included some my past posts, some written, some photoshopped pictures I made, voicing my displeasure about James Tynion IV and his writing (specifically, how bad it is). The post was...not well structured (which may in part be because of Tumblr's format), and was not easy to read...or skim, for that matter. I don't think it's right to threaten a creator's life, so on that much we agree, but calling me out felt more like...

I don't advocate threatening writers or artists, no matter how much I dislike their work. If I find a severe lack of redeeming qualities about said work, I will point it out. If someone wants to disagree with me, that's fine. But to equate "here's why this comic/writer/retcon/story is total crap" with "GRRRR, ME WISH DEATH ON WRITER ME NO LIKE"...is intellectually dishonest on its face.

The post included "orders" for people to "leave the fandom" and "stop buying comics". Funny, since DC's been certainly inviting me to do so with so many terrible decisions for the past decade. Setting aside the erroneous attempt to command a complete stranger you took no time to genuinely engage with (regardless of what excuses were made), I have every right to share a viewpoint you don't have (or like), even if it's about a creator you enjoy. Plenty of people dislike things I like, I just don't make a crusade about it.

Don't lecture me about "thinking the characters were real" (but sure, if they were real, they'd TOTALLY think the way YOU think they would, and that's not a hypocritical fallacy at all). Someone did a bad job; his work made a poor-but-lasting impact on characters he never seemed to "get" as well as he claimed he did. He had absolutely nothing new to say or do with these characters, and warped them into something barely recognizable. They would be done more justice by abandoning the restrictions of pointless, reductive changes and hollow narrative ploys. One of my favorite characters was done horribly, and kept to a horrible standard, for inexplicable reasons. I've been told "everything's fine, they fixed things," only to find...that's not quite the case. I'm apparently supposed to be wildly impressed by minimal efforts in course correction, and just like something because it alleges to have a character I like, and if I don't like it, don't say anything. But I guess I'm crazy and evil for having a personal investment in a character and CARING ABOUT COHERENCY AND COHESIVENESS IN STORYTELLING AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

If that's not important to you, random blogger-person, then I can't control that. No more than I can control how you seemed to ignore OTHER posts I made, where I was much more diplomatic. But if you're not going to actually attempt to form a remotely cogent argument, and instead make some "rallying cry" to "kick people out" and lump drastically different approaches together...because you think you make the rules?...then you've already lost whatever argument you started.

I will continue criticizing as much as I please, if the mood strikes me. I will not make or endorse death threats, because I don't approve of such actions. However, if my words get a little...harsh...coarse...vulgar, if you will...that is due to factors that are, frankly, none of your business. You come off as one who, like many I've encountered before, choose not to see beyond their own opinions, and instead pretend to understand the opposing side when they clearly don't. Maybe you wrote this in a particular frenzy of emotion and got carried away (it's happened to me, too). But to suggest some Simpsons images and rehashed memes are the same thing as threatening someone's life? That's when you've need to take a few steps back and reassess.

I don't like the crappy, crappy, terribly awful and crappy reinvention for Cassie Cain. I feel she could be written better without that crappy, crappy, terribly awful and crappy reinvention.

Boo.

Freaking.

Hoo.

James Tynion IV may be a super guy at parties, I don't know. But I find him a barely serviceable writer, most of the time, and pretty bad the rest of the time. That is not me wishing or threatening death on him, or anyone. If you like him, go ahead and like him. Me criticizing HIM is not me criticizing YOU. Anyone criticizing anything you like, is NOT an attack on you.

I challenge you to meditate on that fact.

P.S. I actually haven't used Tumblr much for over a year...haven't much felt like it...but someone went and gave me a reason.