#not putting this is the main tag because I do not need any crazed fans telling me to git gud or whatever

[asleepinawell]

hi Sarah, idk if I missed it but have you posted your thoughts on pathologic before?

hmm, I don't think I have. it was pathologic 2 specifically that I played. never tried the first one

I generally really liked pathologic 2. the atmosphere and aesthetic were completely on point and I actually bought it without knowing a thing about it after my friend sent me a screenshot of the plague doctor executors. I was just like ah yes a game for me. also playing it during a pandemic was, uh, quite something. but I like the tone of it and the mounting sense of desperation and how random and surreal it is. like the one part where you have to report to the town hall and the whole town freezes and you follow the trail of pointing tragedians was super cool. also the soundtrack was great and that opening where you walk through the doomed town gave me chills. and I loved the bulls! and artemy's snarky dialogue

oh also the mind map as the 'journal' or task page or whatever was a really cool system and I wish other games would try out something similar

on the flip side I had a low tolerance for some of the meta stuff with mark immortell which just felt kinda pretentious. I know a lot of people loved it but not my thing. to add to that I didn't like the very similar tone the actual devs took when they were finally convinced to add difficulty sliders for the game. that said something like 'we understand not everyone wishes to be enlightened by their experience' or something equally pretentious. their whole shtick has been making games so difficult and grueling that most people will never finish them. and no thanks, I will never think that adding accessibility options to games is a bad thing

on a somewhat related note, I had the misfortune to play it on console which I would really strongly advise against. the console versions crash constantly, corrupts your save files (sometimes multiple saves in the stack), has ridiculous load times to....walk down the street and while your game is trying to load the next area and you're frozen in place the rest of the game might start back up and oops you've been stabbed to death or caught the plague before you get control back. considering that each time you die you get a permanent penalty applied retroactively to all your saves, this sucks and makes the game even more miserable to play on top of the intended frustrations. so don't play on the console. (the pc version is much better). but yeah when you die because the game froze up briefly and then have to go listen to mark immortell, who embodies the devs, be condescending to you about your death that was caused by the shitty optimization of the game it's just like...fuck the entire way off my dude

my other sort of complaint was about the endings. I generally prefer the nocturnal ending, but I've done both and it felt kind of lame that there wasn't a middle ground ending. not because I wanted a perfect happy ending or anything like that, but because the conflict that was set up between the kin and the townsfolk mirrors a lot of real stuff in the world and it felt very lazy and unimaginative to be like well you can only ever have one or the other there's no other choice! it felt like it kind of negated some of the themes in the story too.

I've complained a lot in this post but I swear I really did enjoy it a lot and I'll probably play the other two parts if they ever come out (not on console though lol). I'd recommended it if you enjoy very challenging games with immersive narratives and high stakes and love the creepy surreal aesthetic. Also there is absolutely nothing wrong with turning down the difficulty sliders and just enjoying the story with the minimum amount of annoyance because it's (intentionally) hard to experience the full story on the intended difficulty, something I have opinions about that you can probably guess

I also enjoyed the marble nest, the dlc that went with it. it had more of the meta game stuff in it but I found it more tolerable and it was just a cool little game with those same great aesthetics

as a final note, I've seen very mixed opinions on the portrayal of the indigenous people of the steppe, the kin (who I don't believe are based on a real people but I won't swear to that), and I don't feel qualified to sort through that myself especially with only a couple vague tumblr text posts to go off of but I do think it's worth noting that there are some criticisms there and keeping that in mind while playing

[sailtoafarawayland]

The Things We Don’t Say - Ch 2 (modern AU - actors)

Summary:  No one is perfect, and sometimes, two people are just so perfectly flawed that those pieces fit together and make something beautiful. When sparks fly between two leads of a new hit show, is there a happy ending in sight, or will their own mistakes overshadow any chance they had at something worth fighting for.

Rated: Explicit    

Warnings:   This is a joyfully Captain Swan story, but there are a few warnings. It does start with Emma/Neal and Killian/Milah. I don't write non-CS, so there won't be any sexual anything happening 'on screen', so to speak, between those couples, but I won't guarantee there may not be a mention. This story contains numerous episodes of cheating. If any of these things make you squick or are not your bag, carry on.

AO3 - FF

- or read below the cut -

As always, let me know if you’d like to be tagged (or removed) for further updates.

Tag list: @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @teamhook @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @kmomof4​ 

Chapter Two

Killian sighed into the hard press of his fingers against his tired eyes, listening to the soft hum of the elevator as it climbed to his floor. He’d look like a drunken raccoon by the time he got into the apartment, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. An early morning shoot that had dragged late into the day left him feeling more dead than alive, and he hadn’t bothered with his normal clean up on set. The time saved getting back to his bed was the bright side—the downside was a few fans had recognized him when he jumped out of his uber, his trademark eyeliner and messily styled hair a giveaway. He’d managed a few weak smiles as they snapped pictures and hurried on his way, taking a few strange turns and slipping a spare beanie he kept in his pocket over his head. That, a popped collar, and hunched shoulders normally did the trick. Being famous certainly had its perks, but crazed fans knowing where he lived certainly wasn’t one of them.

It was usually simpler to drive to set, but lately he’d been to worn out to trust himself behind the wheel. The past two weeks had been a nightmare of last minute reshoots and publicity, and he couldn’t wait for it to all be over.

The elevator doors slid open, Killian staring at them for a moment before he realized her was staring at the familiar artwork that spanned the hall outside his condo. Desperately trying to blink away sleep, he trudged down the hall, leaning his forehead against the cool metal door for a brief second before unlocking it and heading in.  

God, he hoped Milah was content to have a quiet night in.

Everything was blessedly dark and quiet when he stepped into the entryway, shrugging his leather jacket off and hanging it on the waiting hook, his boots next as he eased them off his aching feet and lined them up neatly below the jacket. He rolled his neck and stretched, wrinkling his nose as he realized a fifteen-hour day filming had left him less than fresh.

A hot shower and bed—that was the plan. With any luck, and the darkened apartment seemed to be on his side, Milah would already be stretched beneath the covers and he could slip in behind her and fall asleep pressed to her warmth. It would be the perfect start to a weekend otherwise free of engagements and obligations.

“Milah?” he whispered, not wanting to startle her if she was relaxing in the living area.

There was always the chance she’d gone out with friends earlier and wouldn’t be home until late. It was a Friday, after all.

His back ached as he stretched his shirt over his head, balling it up and launching it toward the hamper as he walked into the bedroom. A glaring light greeted him from around the corner and he realized that Milah was indeed home, but not where he’d hoped. It looked as if a tornado had blown through the walk-in closet—every pair of heels she owned were tossed onto the floor and the chaise was covered with a haphazard pile of glittering dresses. Milah was standing in front of the mirrored wall, a sequined, black strapless number pulled over her body but left unzipped as she adjusted a pair of large earrings, her brow furrowed.

“Oh, thank god your home,” she huffed, flashing an annoyed smile over her shoulder as she slid her second earring in. “This zipper is absolutely impossible.”

He smiled and stepped into the closet, taking care to avoid the dresses that had sloughed onto the carpeting.

“I’m happy to help, darling,” he assured, catching the nearly invisibly zipper and easing it up her back. There were certainly nights he would have coaxed her into agreement that off was the far better option, but tonight he was more than happy to get her dressed and out the door if that was what she so desired. “Headed anywhere special?”

“It’s that opening of the new club—you know, the one with the glass ceiling that everyone has been going on about. I mentioned it the other night—good lord, Killian, you positively reek.”

Killian flashed a tired smile in the mirror, but her frown only deepened.

“Honestly, Killian, you can’t go out like that. You’ll need to have a quick shower.”

Killian’s brows echoed her own displeasure as he realized what she was implying.

“Did you want my company, as well?”

“Do you even listen when I speak? Sometimes I wonder. I told you two nights ago that Lara and William were expecting us. They’ve barely seen you.”

Killian couldn’t remember a Lara, but he seemed to recall a bright, friendly man with reddish-blond hair who may have been a William. No matter who they were, he had no interest in spending the evening with them, and even less in spending the evening on his feet in an obnoxious club.

“It’s been a long day, Milah—every day for the past couple weeks has, and I’m exhausted—”

“You’re absolutely right, Killian, it has been a long day, a long few weeks, and I’m sorry that I thought I might get to spend some time with you at the end of all of it. How foolish of me,” she snapped, and Killian felt the words like a slap to his face.

“No, you’re right. It’s—I’m sorry. I’ll have a quick rinse and get dressed.”

Milah beamed at him, adjusting her hair and checking that everything was just as she wanted it to be in the mirror. Killian pressed a soft kiss to her bare shoulder, the warmth of her smile washing away a bit of his exhaustion.

He wanted her to be happy, and perhaps the past few weeks had been more difficult for her than she let on.

“It will be a lovely night, I promise,” she said, shoving him gently toward the bathroom as she turned to reappraise the pile of heels.

* * * 

Despite Milah’s initial enthusiasm that he’d agreed to join her and two people he most definitely did not remember—apparently William had brown hair and was quite pretentious—it was not a lovely night. The hot shower and the warmth of Milah’s arm in his had been enough to fool him into think it might be the tiniest bit enjoyable—after all, it had been some time since he’d been to a club—but he’d been wrong, very wrong.

Everything from the moving lights to the music to the stench of hot bodies pressed against one another was giving him a pounding headache, and he slid down further into his chair, nursing a rum and casting about for Milah, wherever she’d gone. He’d wanted to give her a nice evening at his side, but he hadn’t been able to find it in him to join her on the dance floor—probably because his feet had blisters from filming in his costume boots all day—and she hadn’t been able to find it in her to forgive him.

He’d been able to keep track of her at first, but soon she was lost in the crush of bodies and he was lost in his rum—at least it helped dull the sounds a bit.

He didn’t know if it was the insane schedule he was booked to finish shooting for his latest movie, or just the lack of free time, but nothing felt quite right lately, and he was worried a change was needed. Milah was clearly unhappy with his schedule, with how much distance it put between them. He found himself wondering if perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad time to step back a bit, to get away and really dedicate some time to the two of them.

It was a question he’d come back to more than once in the past few months, and as much as he wanted to feel that doing so was the right answer, his gut kept telling him it wasn’t.

He loved her, he certainly didn’t want her to be miserable, but the thought of missing out on opportunities at the high point of his career, it did worry him. Liam had worked more than any person should have to help put him through school, and he’d only ever wanted happiness for his little brother. Liam was a big enough man to know that for Killian that meant acting, even if it was a hard path. If Killian were to step back now, would that be doing justice to his brother’s sacrifice. What if he started turning down offers and never bounced back from it?

He searched the dance floor once more, but there was no sign of his Milah. Knowing she was probably hurt enough to ignore him for the rest of the night, he whipped out his phone and started scrolling through emails, most of them simply things his manager had already spoken with him about over the phone. It wasn’t until he scrolled farther back, nearly hypnotized by the small boxes flying along the screen, that a flagged email came to his attention and he stopped. The details were familiar, and he only just remembered the conversation he’d had with Cora.

It had been an offer for the lead role in a new series, but he’d turned it down due to the filming location. He’d been worried about having to uproot Milah, but scanning through everything once more, he found himself second-guessing his first decision. Perhaps it would be the answer they needed, and the more he thought about it, the more it appealed to him personally.

Maine was certainly quiet and would allow for more quality time together—and the pay was bloody obscene, which never hurt. According to Cora, the role had been written specifically for him. He wondered how the showrunners had taken it when he declined.

His finger hovered over reply.

He should probably discuss it will Milah first, but then thoughts of Liam tugged at his tired mind and he reread the arc for the lead role, each sentence making him more inclined to see if taking it on was still a possibility.

He’d earned his name and place in Hollywood by becoming the face of playboys and scoundrels, all of his characters well-known for their rakish appeal, but to be honest, he was starting to become concerned he may not be offered anything more diverse if he didn’t branch out soon. This role—this would be something different, something Liam would be proud of. The series treaded water somewhere between a fantasy show and a piece that examined the very fabric of what is real, the main character a man who suffered great personal tragedy and loss only to have his independence and health rocked.

The more Killian looked at it, the more he knew it was for him, the words swimming with possibility...or rum. He didn't know what about his previous roles had drawn the showrunners to him of all their choices, but for the first time in a while, he really wanted something.

He really wanted this.

A feeling of certainty settled in his gut and he shot off a reply to Cora.

K: I want this, do what you need to do.

The message sent and he almost expected to look up and see Milah hovering over him, a flushed smile on her cheeks from dancing, her hair falling in tendrils around her face, but his table is still empty and the dance floor is still a writhing mass of faceless people.

Raising his glass in a lonely toast, he took another drag of rum and closed his eyes.

He wants to dream that she’ll be as happy as he is, that’s all he wants for her.

[hiccanna-tidbits]

I agree with you SO MUCH about j/slsa and Mo/arel!

Like, I saw in tags that people are giving more reasons why they ship those two pairings but... let's be honest.

The main reason they ship j/elsa is that they both have similar powers and white hair. The main reason for mo/ariel is that Ariel lived (past tense!) in ocean and Moana loves ocean. And it's just.. stupid for me.

Their personalities just don't match with each other and even if they were together that wouldn't last long.

I think that Jack would totally annoy Elsa. She is more calm and she's even sometimes annoyed at Anna's behaviour. So Jack would be just get her angry. And for Jack, Elsa would be boring, cuz she can't have fun or sth like that.

Moana would like Ariel, but after a while it wouldn't work either. Moana would love to be close to the ocean while Ariel would prefer be on land. After a while, I think, there would be a lot of arguing about this and finally they would break up. In friendly way, but still.

ahh, sorry, but reading about that couples made me kinda annoyed.

But it's okay cuz they not that as popular as back then (I mean J/elsa).

DUDE I FUCKIN KNOW RIGHT???

Like highkey they’re both such shallow ships and their personalities don’t mesh well at ALL like...they’re neat aesthetically but that’s about it???

Right on the nose about j/elsa, like Elsa would NOT be attracted to his antics. And highkey his and Anna’s personalities are really similar, and I straight up cannot see Elsa wanting to date someone who reminds her of her little sister??? Kinda weird :/ And Elsa seems to not have much patience for men in general, so honestly Jack would work her every last nerve. She might eventually come to be fond of him as a little brother figure, but I can’t see her ever being interested in him romantically. Elsa I feel like mostly likes women anyways, and would be pretty picky with her men. And Jack seems like he would like girls who are fun-loving and energetic, and like...Elsa CAN have fun, but she doesn’t seem to like...value it as much as Jack does. Like Jack will always make room for fun, while Elsa just has fun if she has time, but it’s not a priority. If that makes any sense. She’s generally reserved and serious, and Jack would get bored of her pretty fast and be annoyed she was putting a damper on his fun XD

I can see Moana being interested in Ariel because she’s a mermaid, and Mo is like “whoa, people who live IN the ocean??? COOL!” But Ariel’s personality itself I don’t think Moana would jive with because like you said, Ariel’s all obsessed with human culture on land and leaving the ocean behind and Moana would be like “Literally WHY??? You have the option to explore the ENTIRETY of the ocean UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL UNDERWATER and you wanna...give that up???” And hearing that Ariel wants to give up being a mermaid because she’s “in love” with some dude she hasn’t had one (1) conversation with??? Moana would roll her eyes SO damn hard. Like she’d be like “this girl needs to get better priorities” lmao. Doesn’t help that Moana has big gray-ace gray-aro vibes, so the thought of someone doing something THAT drastic to leave the ocean for a goddamn CRUSH of all things would be even MORE baffling to her. I can imagine Mo being like “dude you have EVERYTHING that I could ever want, and you want to give it up for a guy because he’s...hot? Excuse me???” Meanwhile Ariel would be too busy fantasizing over the next hot human who catches her fancy to spend a long time, if any time at all, swooning over Moana XD

Dude you’re so valid, I internally kinda go “Uggggghhhhhh” whenever I see J/elsa or Mo/ariel so I couldn’t read about them without getting annoyed either XD It’s honestly kind of a relief to me that the J/elsa craze seems to be mostly over, because I was super not a fan of seeing them everywhere XD

Steaming hot take maybe but good aesthetics mean nothing if your ship ain’t compatible *shrugs*

Also watch me make a mermaid!Merida x Moana moodboard solely out of spite XD

[chaoticneutralwriter]

Deleted Scene; Off-Chance Meeting

What if Jimin met....Jimin?

guardian demon!Jimin x reader

genre: fluff, romance, angst, comedy, supernatural

word count: 4.2k

Related works: See masterlist under guardian demon!Jimin

A/n: So this was like....a half developed scene that I was going to put in for Interlude: Second Best buuuuut I didn’t want to make the chapter too long because the main focus was guardian demon!Jimin’s POV from the events in the previous chapter. However! It’s been mentioned as a ‘what-if’ so I completed it as a fun deleted scene. Hope you like it and hope yall are doing okay! take care, be safe and I’ll hopefully see you soon again for another update, this time with story progression LOL

BTW! Thanks for the 1,026 follows!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺💖💖💖💖💖💖

Tag List: @cherryjiminiee @kokobaekkie @breathebangtan @itsadoozie @thatshylatinagirl @chiminieboi @azulamakesmeblank @sectumsemptae @awkwardwookie @aduky @poisonseashell @shortannoyingginger @caramelmac-chiato @sana-b @jiminstinct

Jimin’s game plan to blend in is quite simple because it really only consists of one step; grab a staff member so that he can duplicate the lanyard ID they have. Even though he promised to not use his powers to you for the most part, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t found ways to work around it. He easily locks onto a target — a male staff exiting the artist room to step out into the hallway Jimin’s in, presumably on a short break as he strides down to stop by a vending machine. The male staff has his head down, eyes glued to his phone for a while until finally, he takes a quick glance up to view the selection of snacks before ducking his head again, clearly in no rush at all.

Jimin’s lips quirk and he makes quick work at slipping closer, steps light and so undetectable that he may as well be a ghost rather than a demon. At the last minute, Jimin cloaks himself, sneaking up on the unsuspecting male just as he reaches into his back pocket to grab some change. The demon’s touch feels nothing more than a draft, fingers barely caressing the back of the colourful lanyard hanging around his neck but it’s all he needs. The male staff carries on, punching in the numbers and watches as the bag of chips falls into the slot below. Taking it, he walks away, none the wiser.

Jimin pays no mind to him anymore, focused on slipping the thin silver chain necklace out from under his shirt and with a soft blow of his breath, the silver chain morphs into the lanyard, a perfect copy. Normally, he would do without a need for something tangible to cast the illusion but this way, he wouldn’t have to use too much magic to keep it up — a weight to the illusion is more believable than simply thin air.

Satisfied, he lets the cloaking spell disperse, rolling his neck a little at the relief that he can finally walk around more freely without the worry of hiding or arousing suspicions.

“Now… where to go?” He mumbles quietly to himself, eyes darting before deciding that he should scope out the way to the area under the stage. Just as he rounds the corner though—

“Woah!”

Jimin’s fast reflexes has him jerking back in time before he collides into the other body. With a step back, his eyes immediately catch sight of the sparkly jacket and they widen almost simultaneously in realization.

Face to face with him was none other than his own mirror, Park Jimin of BTS, only he has honey blond hair and a glowing complexion.

“Ah, I’m really sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” His eyes are a little wide, stormy grey contacts shining as he apologizes.

For a moment, he’s frozen, stuck rigid in place with shock and split second panic before realizing that he has the safety of his mouth mask and drawn up hood to protect his identity of being the idol’s face stealer. Also the fact that the idol has yet to pass out from shock at seeing his own clone or give any sort of huge reaction was a good indicator.

“A-Ah….” The demon’s voice catches in his throat, and he awkwardly coughs, embarrassed as he ducks his head and mutters gruffly in Korean, “No, it’s my mistake.”

The singer smiles amicably, teeth showing and gaze so warm and so friendly that the demon almost has trouble meeting it.

“Hey now, don’t worry! It’s nothing serious.” There’s a pause, a slight tilt of his honey blond head before those artificial stormy grey irises blink, brows furrowing. The demon starts to actually sweat, eyes refusing to meet as he unconsciously begins to lean back to put space in between. But there’s no escaping the curious gaze of the twenty-four year old singer. “Ah, I— I don’t mean to sound rude or offensive but…. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before?”

Oh shit, shit, shit, shit…

He swears his plan would’ve been completely foolproof if he hadn’t ran into the very person he’s going around parading as. The chances of the demon running into said idol was 1 in 200 and yet it’s as if fate had cursed him with the unwanted luck a fan could only dream of having. But there’s no time to curse heaven and fuck all because his mind begins to race with possibilities of escaping this situation. Maybe he could get away with enthralling the idol for a quick second, trick him into thinking this is all some sort of hallucination from being overworked and then when he’s all good and spaced out, the demon can make his escape. His fingers just about twitches when the singer’s eyes widen and his mouth opens, face alight with an epiphany.

“Are you perhaps new?”

….What?

A beat unknowingly passes between them, with the demon blinking owlishly at the young man, completely gripped in disbelief and the singer staring back expectantly.


“Am I mistaken…?”

The hesitancy creeping into that question snaps the demon from his stupor and he finally blurts out, “No, I’m new.”

Relief washes over the idol’s handsome face (he’s never gonna get over how fucking trippy this is to watch), shoulders visibly losing some tension and the singer even places a hand over his chest.

“Ah, that would’ve been really bad — I usually am able to recognize everyone on the team.” His eyes creases again from the smile forming on his face. “Why haven’t we met yet, um….?”

“Ju—“ The demon stumbles on his words, thinking at the last second that your impromptu Korean name you had given him when he met Jaehee sounded too similar to the idol’s so his mind jumps to the next one he remembers off the top of his head. “— yeon….Kang Juyeon. This is my first day.”

Jimin the idol makes a noise of understanding, presumably taking his sloppy introduction as nerves in good strides. He inclines his head graciously in an almost small bow that catches the demon off-guard. “It’s nice to officially meet you Juyeon-ssi. I look forward to working with you.”

He bows robotically in return.

“Are you on break right now?” The young singer asks innocently.

“…Yes…” The answer comes out unsure, like he’s testing the waters and seeing where this could possibly lead — hopefully with the idol leaving him be and carrying on back to the artist room, surely much too busy to entertain a seemingly nervous new recruit. To his surprise though, the demon is proven wrong.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I must be taking up your time. Have you gotten anything to drink or eat yet?”

“Well, no but—“

The idol’s mouth gapes open almost immediately, “Would you like to head over to the catering room now? We can grab something.”

The demon is baffled, to say the least; so taken aback by Jimin’s friendly disposition to someone who he only just met that even though he really shouldn’t be overstaying his welcome like this, a part of him would actually feel guilty for turning down the offer. He’s so glad he’s wearing a mask right now because then the idol wouldn’t have to see the borderline crazed smile slowly stretching over the demon’s lips, the disbelief too strong.

But looking at the original owner of the face he wore, seeing it completely reflect a drastically different personality than his own invokes something in him; a morbid curiosity taking hold and stoking the fire to a long buried question —

Who is Park Jimin?

Beyond the worldwide renown Korean idol and a pretty face with killer vocals and dancing, the demon knows very little about who this person is, this person whom you adore so much. What is it that drew you to him specifically amongst the other members. He highly doubts its looks alone (you’re definitely not the shallow type), or maybe even the amount of talent because from what he gathered, all the members were pretty much on par with each other in all departments.

So what made Jimin special?

He really shouldn’t follow this rabbit down the hole, but he’s a demon by nature and impulsivity is practically his middle name. Without another second thought, he agrees with a nod of his head, “Okay.”

Curiosity really should be a sin.

He gets a blinding smile in response, eyes disappearing and pearly teeth on display (he spies the slight crooked front tooth that somehow only seems to add to the singer’s charm rather than a flaw). They walk off towards the room that acts as a communal dining area for the staff and artists themselves, the large selection of hot foods lined up like a buffet self-serve while there are tables available for anyone who wants to sit down for their meal. There’s only a few staff members gathered there, each preoccupied with their phones or simply grabbing a quick bite to eat before rushing back to where they’re needed.

The singer walks in and of the few people that are hanging around, he inclines his head in greeting to them. The demon has no choice but to follow in order to not draw suspicions (even though he gets a few raised eyebrows from wearing a full hood and mask but is ultimately brushed off).

“There’s a lot of choices here so please help yourself. Don’t be shy.” Jimin gestures, grabbing a plate and going for one of the rolls of kimbap. Though the demon has no intention of eating anything — for obvious reasons, he still makes the effort to thoughtlessly pick out random food items to place on his plate for the sake of keeping up the facade. He gets as far as two scoops of sweet and sour pork before the young idol turns to him and his eyes dart to his modest portion.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?”

“Uh…Yes?”

That immediately draws out a noise of disapproval, handsome face pinching along to match the tone. “Ah, Juyeon-ssi; you need to eat to keep up your strength. You can’t hold back on something as important as that.” Before any words of protest can be formed, a kimbap roll is placed on the empty space of the demon’s plate.

And then another.

And then a spring roll.

And then a hefty scoop of black bean noodles and some rice.

It goes on until his plate is adequately full, the idol satisfied as they migrate over to an empty table. The demon takes a seat and he feels his lips quirk as he observes the fact that Jimin’s own plate only consisted of two kimbap rolls and a few pieces of fruit he’s currently nibbling on. The stark contrast and adamancy is already so telling of his character, sans personal dietary considerations.

“Has the job been hard so far?” The singer asks casually.

“Not particularly….”

“Ah, that’s good to hear. Have people been nice to you?”

“Uh…Yeah, I guess.”

He gets a nod of approval, and the demon vaguely likens the feeling of a mother asking their child if their first day of school went well (or if he’s being generous, an older brother). It’s strange experiencing something so familial yet coming from the idol, it all seems so natural as if they’ve known each other for years and not just in the span of less than an hour.

It’s quite the culture shock — something he admittedly doesn’t have a good grasp on and it’s that curiosity to know that has him daringly (or perhaps, no doubt to his colleagues, foolishly) diving deeper. The wooden chopsticks in his hand push around the food on his plate meaninglessly, a gesture meant to disguise the hidden agenda he has; dissecting the idol and seeing what makes him tick.

His lips instinctively quirk under his mask but he makes sure that it doesn’t translate in his gaze as his eyes focus on the idol.

“I’m sure your job is much more tiring.” He says, taking on a tentative tone, implicating for an open ended discussion.

The singer takes a pause, eyes wandering in thought before he sucks in a breath after some serious considerations, “I don’t really think my job is any harder than some of the other staff here…” He stops, as if collecting his thoughts again and then continues, “I think it’s thanks to everyone’s efforts that the members and I are able to do these show successfully and safely. If I were to really break things down…. I really only do a small part.”

“But there’s no point to a show if there’s no performers.”

There’s a hum in reply to his statement but after the idol swallows the strawberry he’s popped into his mouth, he says, “I can see how you would say that, but I think more importantly, there’s no point to a show without the fans.”

The demon doesn’t miss the gentle affection that slips through — that quiet, soft whisper that carries the words near the end, giving way to something much deeper. It’s something he’s seen before, reflected in himself, and it’s whenever his thoughts wander to you.

Fondness.

His chest gives a twinge at the memory, jaw clenching a little as if to physically repress the feelings that begin to stir.

“You don’t even know the fans….” It comes out more as a low murmur to himself, but the contempt underlying his tone seeps through all the same. It’s just…. How could the idol possibly share the same sentiment he has with you, someone who he’s actually spent time with and come to know all the little quirks to — what makes you happy, sad, laugh, the way you laugh, the little noises you make when you eat something you love, see you at your highest and lowest points, with a group of people (not even a single person) who he’s had less than ten seconds worth of interactions?

It’s far too superficial, too scripted and said too many times with no real meaning. He wants to scoff at how impractical it is.

“Maybe so, but it goes beyond that.” The familiar sound of the idol’s lilt halts the demon’s thoughts quite suddenly, still in that soft spoken way but there’s something else with it. A sureness — steady and unwavering, and just the barest hints of….passive-aggressiveness?

That gets a quirk in the eyebrow; so this kitten does have claws after all.

“There are times where I wonder why there are so many people who like us and support us the way they do.” The singer continues seriously, already getting lost in deep thought. “Probably because we work hard, but who doesn’t work hard? Others make good music and do their best too so why us? We try our best to communicate to our fans but everyone does too…..These sorts of things are something I often think about.”

A pause, as if to find the right words, “But whenever I read the fan’s letters or things they post on SNS to us, saying how much we’ve helped them with our songs when they’re going through a hard time, it makes me realize that we’re not so different. We all have flaws and maybe it’s because we’re not perfect that they like us. Starting off with nothing and then little by little, seeing more people coming to support us…. They’re the ones who put us on the stage, so I— We cherish them a lot. They give us energy and comfort us, and we do the same back, like a deep connection, an understanding.”

The young singer stops in pushing around the remaining strawberry on his plate, a ghost of a smile tugging on his lips, like he’s recalling a particularly pleasant memory. “So we want to give back by making good music and showing them our best. Ah, reminds of something really cool Namjoon-hyung said.” He takes the time to tilt his head, “He said how even if it’s just one person he could help, he’ll continue to keep trying. That really touched me, so even if we might not know them personally, they’re the ones who motivate us and makes all of this worth it.”

Once he finishes, the demon is left a little more than bewildered, overwhelmed in fact that all he could do was blink. Granted, it was a lot to take in, never having expected such an arduous confession but what’s even more baffling to him is the conviction the singer had saying all of it, so earnest in his words. Now, he’s no lie detector per se, but as a demon, he does have a more innate ability to pick up on cues and inflections that would give a person away, revealing their true nature. He’s used to it after all.

And then along comes Park Jimin.

This twenty-four some odd year old idol, thrusted into the cut-throat world that is the entertainment industry, young and bright-eyed, armed with nothing but potential, a good work ethic and a dream, yet comes out on the other side, a little bruised and scathed but otherwise, un-jaded; that young and bright-eyed innocence not diminished, instead it matured into something more resilient.

He can probably count on his finger how many people he can actually say that about. Hell, the only closest people that would qualify would be saints, and even that is debatable.

It’s....irritating because he’s faced with the fact that as much as he had wanted to dislike this person, he’s proven that he can’t.

A rush of air leaves his nose and he has to contain a rueful smile. “You’re a very admirable person Park Jimin-ssi. Not that many people keep to their beliefs so strongly like that.”

He gets a bashful giggle in return, light and melodic.

“Aish, what are you saying? I’m not all that impressive….I think I still have a lot to learn.” The singer almost whines from behind the back of his hand covering the open mouth smile he has. Once he calms, it softens. “All I really want is for the fans to remember BTS for our sincerity. I just hope that I’ve been able to help convey that so far.”

The demon lets out a breathy chuckle, finally getting up from his seat. He gazes down at this young man who’s face reflects his own yet wears it in such an entirely different way — glowing with a passion and radiance that is warm, sincere, kind, compassionate and loving.

Perhaps the way it’s meant to be worn.

And it’s with a bittersweet reluctance that the demon places a hand on the singer’s shoulder, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze. “Keep doing what you’re doing and never lose sight of yourself. As long as you remember what you’re doing this for, the sincerity of your members and you will be conveyed.”

Stormy grey eyes widen a fraction, a little confused as they blink up at him, clearly not expecting such encouragements (honestly, he didn’t expect this either yet here he is).

“Wh— Um, I—…” The idol reaches a hand up to comb through his meticulously styled hair, tousling a few loose strands as slowly, the apples of his cheeks begin to dust in a pink hue and dark eyes can’t help but watch on in amusement. As if sensing the focus shifting to his quickly reddening face however, the young man lets out a sputter and lightly smacks the demon’s forearm, refusing to meet his gaze. “Ahh Juyeon-ssi! What’s with you saying that all of a sudden to me? You sound as if you’re way older than me when we’re probably friends in age!”

Friends…

“What makes you think that?”

“W-Well… I don’t know how to explain it but…. I feel a sense of familiarity with you when we met. Like, a vibe….” The sentence pewters out into a shy mumble, the tips of his ears matching his cheeks now before comically, grey orbs whip up, suddenly concerned. “Unless you’re not….?”

The snort that leaves the demon’s mouth is quickly covered by clearing his throat but he’s sure the restrained mirth still reaches his eyes as he assures, “No, we’re friends.”

He’s met with a brilliant grin, full of teeth and a twinkle in his gaze. “Oh thank goodness. I would’ve died on the spot out of embarrassment.”

He refrains from rolling his eyes if only to dismiss the overly-dramatic relief that overcame the poor young man. But regardless, it’s his cue to go — he's starting to feel a little too perturbed being near someone so good-natured. With a final pat to his shoulder, the demon begins to depart.

“It was nice talking to you Park Jimin-ssi but you’ll have to excuse me, I have to get going now.”

“O-Oh? Is it really that time? If that’s the case— Ya! Kang Juyeon-ssi! Did you even touch your food? You—!”

“Jimin-hyung!”

“Oh?” Jimin’s attention whips to the new voice that called him from the still full plate of food left on the table. His eyes immediately meet doe-eyed ones, usually dark as coal but are currently a more lighter coffee colour, bringing out more of the brown that’s hidden in its depths thanks to the contacts. The youngest member approaches him with long strides, the sequins on his own stage outfit glitter with each step.

“This is where you were? Should’ve told me you were hungry, we could’ve gone to snack together.”

“Ah, no I was just talking with Juyeon-ssi.”

“Juyeon? Who’s that?”

“Kang Juyeon; that person who was just leaving, you must’ve seen him on your way in.”

But that only gets a head tilt from Jungkook, who swivels his head back towards the entrance, “He doesn’t sound familiar and I didn’t see anyone leaving.”

“….Huh?” Equally confused, Jimin swerves around the tall form of Jungkook to get a look however, to his surprise, he doesn’t see anyone. Glancing around lets him know that at most, there was only three other people in the room, excluding him and Jungkook but they were all immersed on the couch in the far corner, away from the entryway. Does Juyeon walk that fast?  “Aye, quit messing with me. He had on a face mask, around my height? With his hoodie pulled up; probably the only one here who does too.”

Jungkook shakes his head, genuinely clueless on who Jimin could possibly be referring to. “No, I swear I haven’t seen anyone around like that.”

The furrow in Jimin’s brows deepen, mouth falling open in disbelief. The scrunched up, troubled expression the older member makes was too good to pass up on teasing so Jungkook can’t help but to lean close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“What? Were you speaking to a ghost this entire time hyung?”

“Aish! Don’t say that! That actually gave me chills!” Jimin scowls, smacking the youngest repeatedly on the arm and causing Jungkook to cackle and skip away from the assault.

“Anyways, Namjoon-hyung wants to go over the script again so I went to go find you.”

“Oh, okay. Let’s go then.”

Brushing down his jacket, Jimin gets up, taking both plates with him, discarding his own empty one while Jungkook gleefully takes the one Juyeon hadn’t touched. The two head out and begin to make their way back to the artist dressing room, with Jungkook talking around mouthfuls of food about what Jimin had apparently missed while he was away but all Jimin could think about was his meeting with Juyeon.

There’s no way he could’ve imagined it all in his head — he’s too young to be going senile. Plus, it felt too real for it to be some overworked hallucination (besides, he doesn’t feel that jet lagged). So there’s a perfectly, logical explanation for it. Yeah, he just…walks really fast.

“Jimin-hyung is here!” Jungkook calls out to the rest of the members. He gets a myriad of boisterous responses and greetings. The sound makes him inadvertently grin.

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming. I didn’t think you would miss me that badly; I was gone for ten minutes.”

Thoughts of his mysterious friend are pushed away for some other time but the wise words he’s been given remain at the forefront of Jimin’s mind. Perhaps the next time he runs into Juyeon, he’ll treat him to a drink or two during the celebratory dinners — get to know him better.

He’s not sure what it is about Juyeon that makes him want to befriend him so intently, like there’s something about him….

Something that’s a little melancholy….and maybe, he dare say, a little lonely.

But to the singer’s dismay, he never really did see him again.

[numbjaw]

Plenty Good Enough

No amount of experience changed the following: attacks would always happen, and they would always happen fast.

It was an expectation that had embedded within the nerves of every pro-Hero from the moment they entered a university, to the day they earned their license, and then every numbered day after that. But despite this instinct, even the best ranking pro-Heroes could be caught off-guard; Quirk or Quirkless, humanity was all the same - flawed and fragile.

Even before losing One For All, Yagi had gradually been coming to terms with this fragility, which only seemed to worsen in the aftermath of his final brawl with All For One. The pain in his chest had graduated from a dull ache to more of a constant sharpness whenever he moved. His arms, once capable of carrying eleven people from smoking wreckage, could hardly summon enough strength to carry groceries. His fingers, once balled tightly into fists that terrified even the worst of foes, were lately too weak to open a jar. Most days, Yagi really only felt comfortable sitting or lying down, but he’d never admit it, even to himself...

Shouta knew, though. He’d noticed Yagi’s persistent tiredness, which was enough to (almost) rival his own. He saw the evidence in the form of dropped paperwork in the hallways and a curious receipt left on Yagi’s desk for an automatic can opener. But most of all, he noticed it in Yagi’s eyes; though they had been sunken in from the day Shouta saw his true form, the once electric-blue light within them had dimmed in a way that resonated beyond all of the physical clues. Toshinori Yagi, the man who believed in always smiling, was deeply troubled.

Yagi picked up on Shouta’s concern over him pretty easily. Ordinarily, he would have shrugged it off, but lately, he was finding it harder and harder to deny Shouta’s gestures, which ranged from holding the door open for him to accompanying him to the store - though, it wasn’t because of his growing weakness.

Yagi wasn’t sure when he had fallen for Shouta. Much like his illness, it had developed gradually over time. All he knew was Shouta somehow made his chest hurt in a way that wasn’t bad.

An autumn sunset was bathing the Kamino ward in lilac hues as the nightlife of the city began to stir. Yagi had been invited to see the statue that had been unveiled of him - of who he used to be, anyway - and Shouta, without being asked, had tagged along for the trip.

“What did you think?” Shouta asked, after the ceremony was over, and after Yagi was quiet for too long.

“Oh, I think it’s amazing…” Yagi started, “I can’t believe how fast they rebuilt this place…”

“I meant your statue,” Shouta corrected, causing Yagi to still, “What did you think of it?”

“Oh… it’s…” Yagi scratched the back of his head, fighting for the right response, “It’s very humbling, and I’m most appreciative!”

Shouta looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. For whatever reason, Yagi challenged him.

“What?”

“I’m not the media, y’know,” Shouta mumbled, tucking his hands into his pockets, his face partially hidden by his ever-present capture weapon wrapped around his shoulders, “You don’t have to give me such a generic response - you can be honest.”

“I am being honest!” Yagi said, far too defensively, “I do appreciate it…”

“But…?”

“It’s just,” Yagi sighed and looked down at Shouta’s boots, “Not many heroes have a statue made of the exact moment they stopped being a hero… it’s a bittersweet feeling. I mean, I’m not ungrateful or anything, I just - ”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Toshinori,” Shouta said, “I understand.”

Yagi took as big of a breath as his remaining lung would allow as he followed Shouta down an alleyway to a side street, opting for a potentially quieter route from any would-be fans still lingering on the main boulevard. Yagi smirked; Eraserhead was a master of avoidance.

Shouta knew Yagi was struggling a lot more than he was letting on, a stubbornness that had well-preceded his retirement. Would he ever drop the facade and just admit he needed help? Flashbacks of All Might deteriorating on live television mere blocks from where they were walking flashed in Shouta's mind. He froze.

"Yagi," Shouta said suddenly, "You may have retired, but that doesn't really mean you 'stopped being a hero'.”

Yagi watched as Shouta looked over his shoulder towards him, momentarily stunned by his words. Yagi supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised - this was Aizawa he was dealing with after all, yet…

"That's… kind of you, but I don't think you do understand. I can barely hold a textbook. If anything were to happen to the students, or just an ordinary citizen walking down the street, I'm completely useless,” said Yagi, “How can I still be a hero if I can’t do anything?"

"Idiot," Shouta glared, as if he were about to use his Erasure, but instead, he pointed to Yagi’s chest, “It’s still here. Continuing to teach, continuing to guide Midoriya, the effort you put in just to get out of bed every day… it might not be your idea of what a ‘hero’ is, All Might, but it’s plenty good enough.”

Yagi could only watch as Shouta’s finger pressed gently into his chest, before retreating back to his pocket. Shouta turned and continued on, and Yagi was unsure if Shouta was aware of the impact of his words. Yagi slowly reached towards his chest, finding the spot over his heart that Shouta had touched. He smiled to himself, then followed after the fellow teacher, taking in the cool air, the comforting hum of cars driving nearby, and in the distance, a lone dog barking.

Yagi watched Shouta’s form, hunched over and broody, his dark hair blowing with the breeze. A familiar pain radiated in his chest, not from his lung, but from the moment. This small little moment with Shouta that he never wanted to end... He’d become so entranced, that he missed the second Shouta’s capture weapon sprang to life.

“Get down!” Shouta shouted, the rushing noise of his binds zipping past Yagi’s frame towards an enemy that had jumped down right behind him.

Yagi dove towards the street, only hearing the sound of running footsteps - Aizawa’s - and the grunt of whoever was on the end of his binds. But before Yagi could look, the sound of a gunshot pierced through the once-calm side street. Yagi’s heart went into a free-fall as he saw the gun sticking out from the binds, still smoking. The crazed man holding it was smiling wildly at Aizawa, who kicked the gun out of his grasp and slammed his head into the nearby wall. The man slumped immediately, his grin still ghosting his face.

“Yagi, call the police,” Shouta instructed, still with a white-knuckled grip on his weapon.

‘He doesn’t seem injured,’ Yagi thought, part of him still shaking with adrenaline as he reached for his cell phone, ‘What a relief…’

Shouta continued to look down at the assailant that had just attempted to murder Yagi. He was Quirkless, but a villain none-the-less. His gaze traveled to the pistol, which he reached to pick up - it was only then that the pain hit. Shouta felt his left arm weaken with the realization. Next, his fingers stopped cooperating and the binds fell from his hand, slumping onto the ground between him and the attacker.

A warm sensation, accompanied by a hot knife-like pain twisted at his side. He clutched the area with his free hand, his skin immediately met with the tell-tale warmth of blood. His breath caught and he looked to Yagi, who was faced away, attempting to describe their location to emergency services.

“Tell them to bring an ambulance,” Shouta called to him, but Yagi didn’t seem to hear him.

“Tell them…” Shouta tried again, realizing that his voice was just above a whisper, “Ambulance…”

Yagi was scratching his head as he squinted at the sign on the backdoor of one of the buildings - some kind of a clothing store.

“We’re behind… Dirt-Cheap Donki-Oote…” Yagi explained.

“Who is the Pro you are with, Mr. Toshinori?” asked the dispatcher.

“Shou - Eraserhead,” Yagi answered, smirking a little as he turned to Aizawa, who… was on the ground.

Yagi froze, only for a second, before dashing to Shouta’s side. In the glow of the streetlight, he could see blood was quickly pooling around Shouta’s torso; it completely covered his hand, which was feebly attempting to clutch the wound, his other hand still gripping the weapon wrapped around the shooter.

“Send paramedics - my friend’s been shot!” Yagi yelled to the dispatcher, who had been questioning his silence.

“Where has your friend been shot?”

Yagi reached towards Shouta’s hand, trying to ignore how much his own was trembling. “I don’t know, h-he’s wearing all black… lower stomach, maybe…? Torso. Lower left side… Shouta, where were you hit?”

“Here…” Shouta said, cringing as he pressed on the spot in his side, the blood-soaked clothing sticking slightly to his fingers.

“Is he bleeding?”

“Y-Yes, a lot…” Yagi said, making the mistake of locking eyes with Aizawa, who had a look on his face Yagi had never seen on him before, but had seen on the faces of countless people before - people who knew they were in grave danger.

The dispatcher’s tone rose in seriousness. “You need to apply pressure - “

“I know, I need to put down the phone, please - just hurry!”

“Sir, wait - ”

The phone was set aside, just a few inches from the gun.

Yagi gently nudged Shouta’s hand away, then placed his own hands over the space on Shouta’s side.

“Here?” He asked, to which Shouta nodded.

Yagi swallowed hard, then pressed down as hard as he could. Shouta grunted and closed his eyes tightly while Yagi tried not to react to the sight of the blood bubbling up between his fingers; he hadn’t seen a sight like this since the USJ incident, which had also involved Shouta and a lot of blood.

Back then, he had been able to save him.

But now...

Only two minutes passed before Yagi’s arms began to strain. Still, he kept the pressure on, keeping a careful eye on Shouta, the dazed attacker, and the gun between them. He swallowed hard when he noticed the capture weapon was starting to slack. Shouta’s grip was slipping.

“Shouta, hey…” Yagi tried, “Help is on the way. Just hold on.”

Shouta mumbled some kind of acknowledgement, and after the fourth minute, every nerve in Yagi’s fingers were on fire. Still, he kept the pressure on, listening for anything that remotely resembled a siren approaching, but the quiet ambiance still remained; the far away dog kept barking.

Yagi glanced at his phone, which was still on the call with the dispatcher. He thought about picking it back up, or trying to put it on speaker mode, but before he could even consider how to do so without letting go of Shouta, he saw the capture weapon crumple in his peripheral vision. Shouta had let go, and much to Yagi’s terror, Shouta’s face was now as white as a sheet.

“Shouta, talk to me…” Yagi said shakily, looking between him and the attacker, who still seemed to be unconscious. No longer held by Shouta, Yagi could only hope that the bastard stayed knocked out or the police would arrive soon. Yagi would wonder about who he was and why he had tried to kill him later...

Shouta opened his eyes, studying Yagi closely. “You… talk to me instead.”

‘What am I supposed to say…?’ was Yagi’s first thought, before a lifetime of instinct rushed back to him.

“You’ll be fine,” Yagi said, but the words came out stilted at first.

Shouta somehow managed to smirk a little. “I think you should try that line again…”

“You’re going to be just fine,” Yagi said once more, “Because I am here...”

It wasn’t as boisterous as Shouta had heard him say it so many millions times before, but it was just as sincere. Shouta felt Yagi’s renewed spirit tighten the pressure on his side; there was no doubt holding his wound was taking a profound toll on Yagi, yet here he was, holding on anyways, with everything he had. Yet, Shouta was drifting. He couldn’t feel his capture weapon or the street beneath his back anymore. He couldn’t feel his fingers or legs. All he could feel was Yagi’s hands.

‘I can’t die…’ Shouta thought suddenly, ‘I can’t let him think he failed…’

Yagi could feel the urge to cough clawing up his throat as his hands trembled. Eight minutes, now.

“Just a little longer, okay?” Yagi said, looking carefully at Shouta, who had closed his eyes again. Suddenly, the feeling of a hand brushing against his. Shouta’s.

“Not…” Shouta rasped, as a thin line of blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth, “Not… your fault…”

Everything within Yagi came to halt. “W-What…? What’s not my fault?”

Shouta’s hand came to rest over Yagi’s. “...if I don’t make it.”

Those five words, uttered by Shouta Aizawa, were worse than any punch, kick, or bite than Yagi had ever received in his life.

Nine minutes.

“You’re going to make it,” Yagi argued.

‘You have to make it. The world needs you. UA needs you. Class 1-A needs you. Midoriya needs you. I need you.’

Through the white-hot pain flaring from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his shoulders, Yagi felt Shouta still.

“Shouta?” Yagi asked, his voice cracking.

Ten minutes had passed and Shouta stopped moving, even as the sound of sirens finally emerged in the distance, echoing indiscernibly between the tall buildings of Kamino. He didn’t move, even as Yagi continued to call out his name. He didn’t move, even as the criminal beside them began to stir.

Yagi looked quickly from Shouta to the man, the bundles of Shouta’s weapon in a heap around his lap. He watched as the man opened his eyes, taking in the realization of Yagi and Shouta, and then the gun just within his reach. The sickly smile he’d had before returned to his face.

Eleven minutes.

“How can I still be a hero if I can’t do anything?"

“It’s still here... it’s plenty good enough.”

As red and blue lights flashed over the surrounding buildings, Yagi forced his left hand down and snatched Shouta’s capture weapon with his right, yanking it back as the man leapt for the gun. The binds hissed as they instantly constricted the man, stopping him just inches from reaching the pistol. Yagi kicked his leg out, sending the gun spinning away from them towards the oncoming convoy of police and ambulances.

The very next thing Yagi knew, he was in a hospital bed...

No amount of experience changed the following: a Hero was bound to wake up in a hospital bed, definitely more than once.

Yagi noticed the IV in his arm first, then the familiar feeling of a paper-thin hospital gown fitted awkwardly over his frame, before the memory of Shouta sprang him forward. Heart pounding, he looked around, his sight catching on a curtain that was pulled between his bed and the next one over.

‘Please…’ He thought, reaching out to grip the edge of the curtain and pulling it back.

The sunlight streaming through the window blinded him at first, delaying the sight of the familiar disheveled UA teacher resting right beside him.

The sound of the curtain being drawn back so rapidly stirred Shouta from whatever morphine-induced daydream he was in. He wasn’t surprised to see Toshinori staring back at him as if he were a ghost, his panic reflected in the sudden erratic beeping of the EKG attached to him.

He supposed Yagi’s concern wasn’t too far-fetched; apparently he had been clinically dead, but only for a few seconds during the ambulance ride. A bit of hemostatic, blood transfusion, and the removal of the bullet - which thankfully hadn’t been a hollow-point - and Shouta had woken up around 4:30 in the morning, just as he always did, briefly wondering if he could make it to class in time. Once he noticed Yagi was in the bed beside him, however, he texted Hizashi about the situation. Class 1-A would have to wait.

Unsurprisingly, Naomasa arrived only a few hours later, having already collected the preliminary details on their attacker: a man named Fuyuto, whom, as Aizawa had figured, was Quirkless and had a criminal history. His exact motive for targeting Yagi wasn’t yet known, but Naomasa was already suspecting the possibility of a link between Fuyuto and the League of Villains. Shouta was too rational to make any assumptions this soon, especially concerning the League; for all they knew, Fuyuto was merely ill and the attack was completely random.

“What happened to Toshinori?” Shouta asked Naomasa.

“No major injuries,” Naomasa assured, “He exhausted himself, is all. When first responders arrived, they found him holding onto you, and using your scarf to hold Fuyuto down, and while doing all that, he’d managed to kick the gun out of reach, too. As soon as they cleared him to let go of you, he collapsed.”

Shouta looked off in the corner of the room, suddenly remembering the last words he had said to Yagi. For whatever reason, Shouta tensed up with guilt. ‘It’s not your fault if I don’t make it…?’ Ugh. Just how much blood had he lost? Yagi would’ve blamed himself, regardless of anything he said. He should have said something else. Something that he had been trying to say wordlessly for years, in the form of opening doors, bringing him coffee, and joining him for the absolute media Hell that was a statue unveiling.

Come to think of it, after all this, the Kamino ward had certainly seen the last of them - willingly, anyway - for a long time...

A phone call had beckoned Naomasa out of the room and a nurse came in right after, closing the curtain between the beds as she checked on Shouta’s dressings. After she was done, she neglected to place the curtain back when leaving, and it was a little after noon when it suddenly snapped back, revealing Yagi had woken up.

And here they were...

“Shouta,” Yagi breathed, “You’re okay… I… I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“Take it easy,” Shouta warned sternly, “You did a number on yourself.”

“Oh, r-right…” Yagi said, gazing down at the space between them as he sat back on his bed, somewhat resembling a drooping sunflower. It made Shouta’s heart squeeze.

Yagi continued to look at the floor, even when he saw Shouta’s bare feet step into view. He looked up to see Shouta standing before him, staring down at him intently. He was… really close, Yagi realized, much closer than he’d ever been to him before, or anyone for that matter. He couldn’t commit much more thought into it as Shouta had now taken his hands in his own. Yagi felt a familiar pang in his chest as Shouta’s thumbs slowly stroked the tops of his hands.

“Sho…” Yagi started, just as Shouta leaned in and kissed his forehead.

Yagi stilled, only able to look forward at the dipping collar of Shouta’s hospital gown, revealing his normally-elusive neck and upper chest.

Shouta figured his gesture might make Yagi cough up blood, just not all over him. But before Yagi could start sputtering apologies over it, Shouta squeezed his hands gently.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shouta assured him, ��You were covered in plenty of my blood last night. Let’s just... call it even, I guess.”

Yagi grinned, then looked down again. “I love you...” 

Yagi wasn’t sure why he said it. Much less so suddenly. The words just escaped him, like a caged bird. He looked back up to Shouta again, ready to bury the words under a slew of platonic phrases, but Shouta kissed him before he could even try.

This was a prompt sent to me by @jsml-universe: Erasermight prompt: shouta gets hit by a bullet while protecting toshinori who no longer has ofa and yagi must unfortunately apply pressure to aizawa to stop him from bleeding out. Help is on the way.  It's a painfully long 11 minutes

Thank you for the prompt! This was my first attempt at erasermight - I hope you liked!

[volturi-or-die]

Crazed: Chapter 2- Losses

Previous Chapter: Chapter 1- Trials

Next Chapter: Chapter 3- WIP

Point of View: Minalia

Word Count: 1858

Warnings: Explicit language

Crack.

The branch underneath me gave way, sending me backwards into the ground below. I attempted to maneuver myself into a crouching position, but it seemed fate wasn’t on my side. I hit the ground on my side, hard. 

“SHIT.”

Alec looked at me, completely unphased by what just happened. This was only the 20th time I tried to practice this move, and failed. I readjusted myself to lay on my back and placed a hand on the rib that was slightly fractured. I waited for a few minutes until it was back to normal then got up. 

“Again.” 

“Alec it’s not working.”

“Again.” He was disinterested in my attempts to reason with him. In the days we had been here, we had gone through multiple theories to trigger a transformation but none were effective. We tried everything from meditation to Alec’s ridiculous time of day theory a few days ago, nothing was working. Two weeks and no results.  

I spotted another tree I could practice on. Maybe the 21st time would be the charm? Alec’s latest idea involved tapping into animal instincts, or as I liked to put it, becoming one with the cat. Needless to say, Alec didn’t find that quip funny either. 

Our relationship was different now. The softness and kindness from that night wasn’t there anymore. I thought, maybe, just maybe, we would actually become friends, but I was wrong. The Alec I knew that saved me left, replaced by the one I believed to detest my very being. He resented me. He was here, far away from his own life, his own family, to help save mine. 

I was so lost in my thoughts that my foot slipped as I climbed up, and once again I was flat on the ground. 

“Minalia are you even trying?” 

Oh that was it. Of course I was trying. This was my life that I was fighting for. He didn’t have anything to lose in any of this, just maybe his pride. In all honesty he could afford to lose some of it. I wasn’t going to stand here and be disrespected like this. Yes, I was failing, but not through any fault of my own. 

“Yeah I’m trying you total jackass.” At that he turned to look at me, a tinge of shock present. Finally. I got his attention. “You heard me. I don’t need to put up with this, or with you and your stupid condescending attitude.” 

By this point I was up and looking up at him. 

“Fine, then I do not need to put any more effort into training you,” he snarled. 

“Oh right because me falling out of a tree over and over again is definitely training.”

“It would be if you could actually land.” 

He really was an insufferable jackass sometimes. I didn’t have to put up with this, nor was I going to. I turned around from him and began to walk away. 

“Where are you going?” he called out after me. 

“Away from you!” I picked up the pace to a full sprint and began making my way through trees. I caught the scent of the sea breeze and made my way towards the beach. With an island so small, I wanted as much space from Alec as possible. I slowed to take my shoes off before going into the water. 

I stood there letting my body soak up the sun. I just wanted to scream, let all the anger go, but that would only summon Alec to me. So instead I did the next best thing; I cried. 

The waves sprayed water all over me as the tears felt. Why could I not get a grip on my transformation? How was this even possible? Jacob could transform on the whim and turn back so easily, yet here I was failing at the first before I could even fail at the second. It was so easy that night, so easy to give myself over. 

I remember the feeling of my paws in the dirt, the musky smell of the vampires around, sounds of heartbeats. It wasn’t me. It was an animal. I died and in my place there was a creature. I woke up to my body being that creature’s body. The voice didn’t wake me up, it woke up a beast. 

That was the last time I heard it too, that voice of warning. Maybe that was for the better. Stupid thing only caused me trouble anyways. It caused me more troubles than those damned nightmares I was having too. If only Renesmee were here. She could help me with them in a heartbeat. 

I wondered how Ness was doing. What was Emmett up to? I missed them. I missed going rafting with Ness. I missed watching movies with Jasper. I missed cooking with Esme. I missed painting with Rosalie. I missed them all. That was my family. I needed to live for them. I needed to keep trying for them. I couldn’t fail them. 

I had to keep trying. 

My outfit was soaked now, the salt water making my skin itchy. I willed myself to get out of the water and go back to the house. It was a relatively large property for being the only one on the island. Alec explained to me when we arrived that it was only truly there for appearances, to keep people away from why a shell corporation had a private island. It did draw attention, but it was better to allow people to conclude it was a billionaire’s private getaway rather than anything else that could pique their curiosity.

Although the island’s initial purpose was for training, but not for me. It was for unruly newborns, on the very rare occasion the Volturi actually took any in. In even rarer cases, it was for hiding the kings and the wives away from danger should the compound in Volterra ever be threatened. According to Alec, the last time that happened was during the war with the Romanians. 

The same ones that I met that night. Stefan was his name. I tried getting more information from Alec, but he swore he did not know why I was captured. He told me that Stefan was concerned about my death and that Renesmee was just a pawn to get me. Neither of those things I understood, and it was perhaps the one instance in which I wish Alec would’ve lied to me. 

Speaking of the devil, I finally reached the main door to the house. Oh how I did not want to face the argument we would surely have. However, when I opened the door I was hit with the smell burnt...chicken? I hurried into the kitchen to see smoke coming from the oven. Alec was huddled over it fanning it with a dishcloth, his brows furrowed. 

“Alec, what on earth are you even doing?” I took the cloth from him and grabbed a mitt to pull the pan out of the oven. I opened the door to the porch and placed it there and left the door open to air the kitchen out. 

“I attempted to cook,” he replied, trying to keep the shame from his voice. 

“I can see that. I’m asking why.” 

It was clear he did not want to answer me. I gestured for him to answer me. “It was an apology. The past two weeks have not been easy on either one of us. I have not been mindful of your struggles with this, so I wanted to apologize. I have not been in this position to truly train and lead someone before, and I am sorry.” 

There had to be only one explanation for this. “Did Demetri yell at you again?” Alec glared in response. I held my hands up, “Just asking. Last time that’s what happened.” 

“I am perfectly capable of knowing when I should apologize.” Uhuh. So he says. But I wasn’t going to question him on that now.

“So what exactly were you trying to make?”

“It was something my mother used to cook.” His mother? I had never heard Alec speak of anyone besides Jane. In fact I did not know much of what actually occurred in Alec’s own past. I simply knew the stories how formidable his abilities were and roughly how old he was, but everything else was unknown to me. 

“You remember something that detailed from your human life?”

He paused before answering, “Truthfully, no. I remember my mother and the meals Jane and I would share with her. It was something to this effect, but I do not know what it fully was.”

I wanted to tease him. I doubt Alec knew the basic thing about cooking human food. The oven being set to 500 degrees Farenheit was proof enough. I pressed the button to turn it off and faced him. This wasn’t a time to really critique him, so I hugged him. “Thank you. Does this mean you’ll listen to me now?”

He placed his arms around me to hug me back. “I will take your ideas into consideration, and if you truly believe something is not working then we shall stop.” 

“That’s all I can ask for,” I replied as I loosened myself from his grasp and looked around, “Now, help me clean up the mess you made.” 

We cleaned the kitchen silently. I put away the various spices he tried to use; somehow I doubted Alec’s mother used ginger during her time. In less than 10 minutes we were done. 

“Are you ready to go back out and try again?” Alec asked. 

I shook my head no. “Let’s try a different type of training?”

Alec looked at me curiously, “What plan do you have?”

There was a possibility he could say no to this, but it was worth a shot. “Let’s not focus on what I can’t do but just pretend I can. If I am to be an effective member of the guard, we will have to trust each other right?” 

“Yes.” He seemed puzzled by where I was going with this.

“So, let’s stay in and get to know each other a little bit. I’m not asking you to divulge your deepest darkest secrets, but Alec, we can’t work together if we don’t know how we work. Two weeks secluded together doesn’t really work if we don’t really talk except when bickering.” 

“That may be the most sensible thing you have ever said.” Glad to see Alec had not lost his ability to be as blunt as possible. “Very well, we shall stay inside and talk.” 

“Fantastic!” I exclaimed as I grabbed his hand and led him to the living room. We spent hours talking. It was basic things, our simple interests. I learned that he liked to read most of the time, although he had a special interest in poetry. I told him of the games I liked to play with Emmett. Simple things. Small things. I learned more about him in the hours we spent talking in the entire time we had been here. 

Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad.

--

Tagged: @alecvolturi @volturisecretary @lamiafantasia @phil-dwyer-stan-account @janes-eyebrows 

If anyone wishes to be tagged, please let me know. 

[writeyourownlifestory]

L-I-G-H-T-S U-P

Chapters: 4/20 Fandom: IT Rating: M Warnings: No warnings at this time Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh/Ben Hanscom Additional Tags: PunkRocker!Eddie, Writer!Richie, Beveddie!Friendship, No Clown Written by: myself & @ahardlife​ Tag list: @richietoaster, @beproudtozier, @that-weird-girls-blog, @s-onora, @s-s-georgie, @bellarosewrites, @iamcupcakefrosting, @reddieonwheels, @ghostnebula, @madidraw @madi-main, @gazebobullshit, @thoughtfullyyoungduck​, @airbenderking

Puff piece writer Richie Tozier is given the chance of a lifetime to interview his celebrity crush: Dr. K, the lead singer of punk rock band, Trashmouth. Dr. K is about to release his first solo album and Richie wants to get all the dirty details. But all is not what it appears to be and the two realize they know each other from a different time, in a different place, when they were both very different people.

Chapters one, two, three

Angels - Robbie Williams 

I sit and wait Does an angel contemplate my fate And do they know The places where we go When we're grey and old 'Cause I have been told That salvation lets their wings unfold So when I'm lying in my bed Thoughts running through my head And I feel the love is dead I'm loving angels instead

Richie felt like he was running a mile a minute, even when he was behind the wheel of a car. His throat was tight and his head felt it had been pound against concrete. He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, trying to collect himself as he sat in the parking lot of the hotel. He couldn’t go in there looking like a deranged lunatic.

He had his badge from Paper Boat and made sure to dress appropriately before heading to the hotel. He didn’t want them to think he was some kind of crazed fan who had a weapon on him. And yeah, maybe he was partially a crazed fan, but he wasn't carrying any weapon. When he went to the front desk, asking for the room number, he showed everything he had to. After checking with Dr. K’s assistant (Beverly, of course) he was given access and lead up to the suite.

He knocked on the door, practically holding his breath as he waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. And for a hot second, he thought maybe he wasn’t even there. He was a fucking rockstar for God's sake, who fucking knew what he was doing with his time!

And then the door opened and Dr. K was standing there, looking as gorgeous as ever. He didn’t seem all too surprised to see Richie there, but he also didn’t look like he was expecting him either. “Richie. Hi.”

“Hey.” He breathed softly.

“What’s up?” Dr. K asked with a soft smile. And there it was… a glimpse of the old Eddie he used to love. Used to? Or still loved? Did love ever truly die or was humanity just too soft?

“Oh. I was just . . . in the neighborhood.” Richie said, rolling on the balls of his feet, setting aside the rambling in his head. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Dr. K stood there for another moment before stepping aside. The moment he was allowed access, Richie rushed right in, his fingers combing through his hair slowly. “I lied,” he said as soon as the door was closed behind him. “I wasn’t in the neighborhood.”

“I sort of guessed that Rich,” the other said with a slight chuckle as he walked up to him.

“I came here because you’re . . . you.”

“I’m me.” Dr. K breathed out with a shrug.

“You’re . . . shit, man.” Richie began pacing back and forth, breathing deeply.

He had thought about it over and over again in the car. All the things he wanted to say to the other man. All the emotions that he had pent up and buried deep inside since they were just kids. And now it was his chance to spit it all out, but he just couldn’t.

He didn’t look like Eddie. Eddie was short and wore bobby socks and short-shorts with a rainbow pattern. A polo shirt and bleached white shoes and always carrying around an inhaler. The little boy with the perfectly cut hair and adorable dimples. That was the Eddie he knew. The Eddie he loved.

This man wasn’t that kid anymore. He was in jeans and a black shirt. Muscles that could be seen through the shirt and combed back hair. He had tattoos and bags under his eyes.

Though that smile. That stupid fucking smile was the same. Richie knew it from the moment he saw it in person.

That beautiful, boyish smile. After a decade and a half that still hasn’t changed.

“I thought you were dead!” Richie snapped after a moment, turning to face the other man. “I thought . . . you just fucking disappeared, man. You were there and then you weren’t and I never heard from you again.”

“I said goodbye,” Dr. K mentioned somberly.

But it wasn’t supposed to be their goodbye. Eddie had snuck out one final time before his mother moved them away. They were just thirteen but so much shit happened between them. They were kids who were forced to grow up due to the hate that society wore as a badge of honor.

Richie thought about that night often, dreaming of it until it slowly began to haunt him like a nightmare it was. Living with the knowledge that he’d never see this one person again. Eddie was the only person who made Richie feel like he was worth something and then he was gone in a flash and all he had left were the memories he wished he could forget.

“I tried to find you, but nothing came up,” Richie confessed to him. “Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t exist anymore.”

“He doesn’t. Not really. I don’t have personal social media or any of that shit. Beverly keeps all my personal information under lock and key.”

“This is . . . I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone, man.”

“I know this isn’t ideal Rich, but I’m glad you know.” Dr. K -- Eddie, he was Eddie -- admitted. “The moment I found out that you’d be the one interviewing me. Rich, I thought I was losing my mind.”

“ You’re losing your mind?” Richie laughed aloud. “I’ve seen you over a dozen times in concert! I have shirts with your face on them. I’ve fucking jacked off to you dude, and now I’m finding out you’re my fucking childhood sweetheart or some shit.”

“Why are you mad about this?”

“I’m not mad!” Richie snapped. “I’m just . . . I’m not good with my emotions, okay?” He moved to plop down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands. “After you left, I had no one okay? It took a ridiculously long time for me to get around with being comfortable in my skin again. I tried to forget about that time, you know? I tried to move on, but it’s hard. And I thought I accomplished it, but now you’re back and all those memories and emotions are coming back.”

Richie didn’t know if he wanted to run away or vomit. Maybe a bit of both. He honestly had no clue, but what he did know was that he needed to focus on something other than the harsh reality, mostly because it wasn’t all that harsh, to begin with.

For years he had hoped and prayed that he’d see Eddie again and know that the other guy was all right. That his mother didn’t hurt him or send him somewhere that killed his beautiful spirit. Richie didn’t know how Eddie went from being the sweet little kid with the inhaler in his fanny pack to the punk rock God that was Dr. K but he was sure the transition was interesting enough.

Eddie was beside him suddenly, a hand placed on his shoulder as they sat together on the couch. “I missed you, Rich.” He admitted quietly.

“Fuck, Eddie.”

He was Eddie. He could call him that now. He could look to this guy and not only see this amazing rock star but also his childhood best friend all grown up. They were both all grown up and that scared Richie more than anything.

“I have like . . . nine hundred questions.” He admitted with a soft laugh.

Eddie smiled in response, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well, I’m free for the rest of the night, so if you want to ask, lay them on me.”

Richie didn’t know where to start so he just started babbling out questions at lightning speed. What the fuck happened to him after he moved away? How did he survive his mother’s intolerance? How did he join Trashmouth? Fucking Trashmouth !

“I can’t believe my favorite band is named after me,” Richie mentioned quietly. “That’s like, a total mind fuck dude.”

“The label was putting it all together and needed something extremely alternative,” Eddie admitted, leaning back on the opposite side of the couch.

They were sitting together, face to face the same way they would on the old hammock in Richie’s backyard. Legs tangled, feet near the face.

“Trashmouth sounded so ridiculous and they ended up loving it.”

“I feel like I deserve some revenue or something.” Richie teased. “All right. One name down. Now I have to know the other. Dr. K?”  

“You’re the one who gave it to me,” Edde mentioned fondly. “Every time you’d wipe out on your bike or do something to get yourself hurt, I’d bust my ass to get you fixed up.”

“Dude, I was making a Kevorkian joke,” Richie admitted, laughing as he thought back to all the teasing he had done to the poor kid until their true feelings came out.

Of course, even when they were technically an item and disgustingly in love despite only being twelve and thirteen, they still teased one another. It’s just how they were. That was their thing and it worked wonderfully for them.

“Yeah well. Some people say I kill on stage, so it works.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Richie said, raising the tiny water bottle they had taken from the minibar and sipping at it. As it turned out, Eddie wasn’t a hard drinker. He had gotten over that part of his life it seemed. He confessed to Richie that he dabbled in the rock star lifestyle a little too hard in the beginning and gave it all up so he wouldn’t join the 27-Club.

Too many nights snorting things he shouldn’t be snorting and waking up in a bed with someone whose name he never learned left Eddie slightly scarred and he wanted nothing more to do than to grow from those experiences and be better.

There were still so many things that he wanted to ask him, so many answers that he wanted, but he knew they couldn’t go over it all at this moment. He tried to keep it slow, not wanting to bombard Eddie the first time they got to do this.

Eddie was moving then, suddenly sitting up so he was in the middle of the couch, resting in the entanglement of their limbs. “Did you see me sixteen times?” He inquired.

“On the third time I had the chance to go backstage, but I dipped last minute due to my nerves,” Richie admitted, quietly wishing he had something harder to drink.

“Seriously? God, if we had . . . Rich, we could have reconnected so much earlier.”

“Trust me, you did not want to know college-Richie, okay? My hair was greasy, and my face was all sorts of fucked up. I was in the closet and I desperately needed to be held.”

“Rich. I think you’re forgetting that I used to swap spit with eighth-grade-Richie, who sounds identical to college-Richie.”

“I can’t believe you said swap-spit without cringing. Where did my little hypochondriac go?”

“I think he died of a cocaine overdose a few years back,” Eddie joked dryly, going to lay back on the couch.

“So that’s really what rock and rollers do? Do drugs, sleep around, and drink until you can’t remember your name?”

“Something like that,” Eddie drawled out. “When they put the band together I wasn’t in a good place. I was good and I knew that. People told me that constantly. People said I was talented and put little white lines in front of me and offered me girls and when I said I didn’t want girls they offered me, guys. Some people were put off with the idea of a gay rockstar but others thought it would be a new wave or inventive. Woke or whatever.”

“Will you tell me about it? How it all began?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

Richie raised a brow, taken aback by the question. “Wait you wanna see me again?” He asked dumbly.

“Hell yeah, I wanna see you! We have seventeen years to catch up on, asshole. I wanna know what else you’ve been doing up to this point.”

Richie snorted, really, really wishing he was drinking something stronger. “I can assure you, it won’t be half as interesting as everything you’ve been doing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Eddie had something to do the following morning but he’d be free the afternoon. Richie had already told Bill that he wanted to work in the article so he’d use that excuse to not show up to the office.

It was strange, making plans like these. With a friend. With Eddie. Eddie was his friend. Not a best friend like he had been years ago, but it was still something.

Richie left the suite wondering what in the hell just happened. After years of wondering and searching, he finally found that long lost best friend and there was barely an ounce of awkwardness to it.

Okay, maybe an ounce only because it was still so hard to see him as Eddie and not Dr. K. Richie was eager to know how he got from point A to B but he’d wait for that.

If Eddie stayed in his life then he’d wait forever.

[serenagaywaterford]

It’s fucking crazy how in a show meant to wake the general populace up, people really do seem to hate majority of the female characters. Note it’s only the complex ones, because god forbid Margret Atwood wrote them as shades of grey and not as definitively “evil” or “good”.

I’ve been in quite a few shitty fandoms in my day but I’m not certain I’ve been in one quite as overwhelmingly tone deaf as The Handmaid’s Tale fandom. I have never seen so much hypocrisy and virtue signalling and fake wokeness in a singular fandom with source material (in terms of the original novel and S1/2 at least) that directly opposes those things. Like I was in GoT fandom for a while and holy shit the misogyny there. So, I know what it looks like. But the thing about that hellplace was that there was still a fairly recognisable and approachable faction that loudly and actively spoke out about the sheer number of issues with GoT (racism, misogyny, etc.) I feel like those people gave up on the show about mid-run, and GoT was left with a bunch of idiots and “libfems” by the end.

The thing about THT is that it appears to be 95% idiots and fake-woke “feminists” I put it in quotes cos they are NOT feminists. They just like to identify as that cos it’s trendy. They have no idea what feminism is if they centre Nick in the THT narrative, or refuse to engage with any female character other than June or Emily in any rational way and instead wish rape, violence, torture, death, and/or intense suffering on any female character (or apparently actor who plays said character!) they personally dislike because they don’t have the braincells to understand what Atwood specifically was trying to do.)

When THT becomes all about a MALE and his precious fweelings, and his uwu luv stowwy wiv Jwune and all they focus on is how “cool” June is for bullying other Handmaids into suicide, and how “awesome” she is for being 1000% selfish and self-absorbed and not caring at all about all the other women (esp. poor women of colour) she tramples on to get what she wants, that is NOT GOOD. This is a character who purposely and actively manipulated a domestic abuse victim to go back to her abusive, violent, cheater, rapist husband for June’s own ends. (And surprise, surprise that blew up in her face and people really take June’s side 100% on that cos “Serena deserves Fred” aka “Serena deserves to be beaten, raped, and abused by her husband because she’s a bad woman who has done bad things herself”. When you are saying a woman, no matter who they are, deserves to be beaten and raped and imprisoned in that situation, you are not a feminist because that isn’t justice for Serena’s crimes. That is torture.) Nothing June did in S3 was heroic. She is almost no better than the woman she hates at this point. I see very little difference between June and Serena anymore, and yet… YET fans think the sun shines out of June’s ass and Serena should be raped to death (aka “Wouldn’t it be soooo cool if Serena became a Handmaid?! Omg so cool! She deserves it! Hurr durr I am FEMINIST!!!!”).

O.o

There is zero nuance in THT fandom. It’s fine to dislike female characters. It’s fine to be critical of them. It’s fine to like male characters (I guess…). But centring men in a woman’s story and then parroting Gilead’s ideals unironically while calling yourself woke? It’s terrifying. 

June is so gross in S3, and when she isn’t being awful, she’s written as some child-crazed, hysterical woman. The writers’ full sexism and internalized (or externalized lol) misogyny on clear display. And the fans just LAP IT UP with no critical thought. No complaint. Like, “Yes, this is what a woman should be!” nevermind the entire purpose of the commentary in the novel (and S1) was that women are MORE than just hysterical, overly emotional baby-machines or housekeepers. Women are not mere resources to be harvested like cattle. Women have more personality than just “ME WANT BABBY!!!” Women are resourceful and complex and not all good, not all bad. Women are conflicted and conflicting. Meanwhile, now the show presents women almost identically to how Serena Joy wrote about them, and how Gilead has identified them, and the fans are like “Yeah! This is fine! I don’t see any problems with this at all!”

And if you dare say, “Um, guys, that’s a pretty bad take. Do you understand what you’re actually saying?” you get called a “rape apologist!!! HURRRR!!!! WHAT ABUT 2x10!!!!!” And it literally doesn’t matter what you challenge these fans about, whether it’s Nick, the themes of THT, Serena, June, etc. They see you are a fan of Serena and suddenly the discourse deteriorates completely to “Nazi!!!! you’re a rapist nazi sympathizer!!!!!!!!!” 

So, there’s no point in talking to any of them. Yeah, cos I’m the one saying women I don’t like deserve to be raped and beaten until they die as slaves in an oppressive fascist regime. (That’s actually you guys, jsyk.) My favourite was being compared to an MRA. Like, do you people even read what you write? 

I’m not the one talking non-stop about how great Mr. Soggy Pancake Man is and how we must protect this precious bean in a story about massive female oppression uwu. “BUT WHAT ABOUT NICK?!?! MOST IMPORTANT CHARACTER!!!” I hate men, lol. I can’t count the number of times I’ve literally said, “I don’t give a shit about ANY of the men in THT. I only care about women and you people are misogynistic pigs for the way you talk about women.” yet I’m a Men’s Rights Activist?

What I hear when I go into the tags: 

“All women are awful harpies and stupid or boring except this specific one cos we want her to bone the Cute Boy we’re obsessed with and she’s just basically a self-insert for our own lonely fantasies and we need to only hear about the Cute Boy, not these annoying women. If a woman character interferes or challenges my heterosexual fantasy OTP in any way, that woman must suffer and die, and I’ll laugh and cheer as that happens, especially if she’s beaten by her husband or loses her mind/commits suicide! They deserve it! Also, who really cares about all those other women’s stories elsewhere in the world. BORING! My white saviour self-insert main female character can do no wrong because I am perfect! I’ll even go out of my way and actively search out people who aren’t doing anything to me, aren’t talking to me at all and just keeping to themselves, and send online threats, hate, and insults to anybody who doesn’t agree with me about how great Mr. Stale Bread is and they’re Nazis for not agreeing with me.” 

And I’M the MRA? I’m the crazy one?

No self-awareness at all. No nuance. No critical thinking skills. And a HELL of a lot of projection that they don’t even seem to know they’re making. There are grown ass women (like 40 YEAR OLDS!) who worship Nick Bland’s ugly dick, online bullying literal minors who don’t subscribe to the Serena-Hate groupthink. It’s a cesspool. THT fandom fucking SUCKS. I’m gonna guess it’s these same morons who wished that Yvonne would lose her baby cos you hate SERENA. Like, if you don’t think this is disgusting, I don’t know how else to get it through to you that something is VERY WRONG with the vast majority of online THT fandom.

99% of this fandom doesn’t seem to give a fuck what Atwood was trying to say in her novel, or what the show intentionally set out to do challenge and prove. Anyway, anon. I feel ya. I hate this fandom which is why I never check the tags anymore, never go on Twitter, unfollowed the Insta, don’t go on FB, and stick with my very wonderful small group of non-crazies who also appreciate the complex, difficult character of Serena here – and block everyone else I can because I just don’t have time for that kind of constant drama and aggravation from ignorant people.

Wow. Okay. Sorry. Rant over.

[thealphabetmurders]

for the fanfic asks- 1, 3, 9, 10, 14, 17, and 20? (sorry for so many lmao they're all really interesting questions)

Anon, please never apologize for sending me lots of questions for a writing ask. Someone actually being interested in my writing is more validating than you can even imagine. 

1. If you’re an author, how many WIPs do you currently have? (Be honest!)

This is a bit tricky. Short answer; 2. Long answer; I have 2 WIP that I am periodically publishing, a WIP that I may never publish, and an outline for a fic I may never write. 

3. Do you prefer canonverse or AUs?

It really depends on the fandom, but in general I prefer AU’s because you have more creative freedom and you can really world build and make the characters your own (even if they are not). 

9. Fake dating or arranged marriage?

Fake dating. 100%. If anyone out there is reading this, then, let me tell you that off the top of my head, fake dating AU’s are my favorite tropes of all time. I have not slept for 26 hours so my mind is a bit foggy, but I really cannot think of any other trope I like better than fake dating. 

10. Mutual pining or enemies to friends to lovers?

Good one, anon. That is tricky. Again, all depends on my mood. For writing purposes, enemies to friends to lovers is better for long form/chaptered fics while mutual pining I use more for one shots. For reading purposes, however, it really depends on circumstances. For E2F2L, I need to know: why do they hate each other, is this something they can overcome, was there an incident or just blind ignorance, what do those close to them think of the rivalry. For mutual pining: are we in a limited POV or is it omniscient/changing, how long have they liked each other, what event has brought about a story to shift the mutual pining to dating. 

14. (For authors) Post a line of dialogue from one of your WIPs without context.

The inferno reflecting in his glasses and lighting up the partially dark parking lot they were sat in, but only in their little corner.

Ooh, what could that be from, hmm. 

17. Describe a fic that is still in the ‘ideas’ stage.

I mentioned an outline earlier so I will just go off of that. I won’t say fandom/character names just yet. 

This is set in a superhero universe. We have our hero. Cold, brooding, but a good guy, it just takes a bit for him to open up. We have a late night shock-jock whose radio show is all about heroes: calling them out when they do bad stuff, talking about their powers, updates with humor. Our Brooding Hero thinks it is funny. But he also enjoys company with the barista at the local coffee shop where all the superheroes go to avoid press/crazed fans. He hates this local vigilante who does not really follow the best moral code and always like to taunt and get a rise out of those stupid Lawful Good heroes. Well, guess what. All three of them are the same person. 

I really like the idea, I just need a place to put conflict in, that is when I can start writing. 

20. Do you have a favorite fanfic or author? If so, tag them/post a link and share the love!

Goddamn, I like a lot of authors. I will divide them up into the two fandoms I am in right now. Be careful, it is going to get long. 

BNHA: 

@jello-fello: I love Regenerate, Fate, it is one of my favorite fics. I began reading a little bit ago and you used to update like a mad-man. You updated every day, I could not believe it. I commented on a chapter once and asked you to take care of yourself and thank goodness you are now. You are an incredible writer and vigilante Izuku has my heart. 

@/midorito on AO3: Their fic called Webcams, Fries, and Heterochomatic Eyes is quickly becoming one of my favorites fics ever. 

Sanders Sides (this one is going to be a bit longer): 

@centrumlumina: All of your fics make me feel a lot of emotions. World building and character development are always spot on. I began reading your fics with No Starting Over and then I read them all. Incredible. 

@impatentpending: Kill the Lights is my favorite Sanders Sides fic of all time. The smoky noir style that you have developed while staying true to the characters makes it truly a work of art. 

@rosesisupposes: Your fics make me laugh and they make me cry. You write a lot of Logince which I do not get enough of, and your shorts are always incredible. 

@maxiswriting: I have read a lot of your fics on AO3 and one day I decided to click on your page and I realised that so many incredible fics are written by you. “Oh god, I need a drink”? Amazing, I love drunk shenanigans. Look Into My Eyes (It’s Where My Demons Hide)? I was never too big of a fan of supernatural fics, but because of you, I love Vampire!Logan. With This Dream, I Inflate (Painted Skies In My Brain) has got to my my favorite Logince one shot ever conceived . You are a fantastic all around writer. 

@mystrangedarkson: I started my journey reading your fic Fun and Games (which is my all time favorite) and then you kept pumping out more amazing content. Lost Ourselves in the Bright Lights is incredible, another incredible fic, it is almost too good. Too Much made my heart ache. Moxiety is not even one of my main ships and I adored Cinderfella. Wonderful. 10/10.

Thank you Anon, for sending me that. This was a lot of fun. 

Send me Fanfic Asks. 

[diamondarmored-blog1]

this is whiny af. and very long. bit of an explanation of some stuff (aka why I am like this) and a wee request. 

warning, there’s a brief mention of sexual abuse and A LOT of historic drama. I’ve tried really hard not to appear in search tags for the relevant areas, so please try not to cause it to appear by mentioning the fandom or muse name without cutting it up (e.g. sei//fer) because as you’ll see, I don’t want these people near me. 

sit down and let uncle charlie tell you a horror story.

I’ve been slow again on here, I’M SORRY!! I was making an FFX blog. I know I’m getting a reputation for being a serial blog hopper, but the reason for that is, I’ve had two muses I really really loved and nothing else has ever come close. One was my Chuami, who naturally dropped in intensity as time went on (I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing - you can’t keep forcing a muse into ever more dramatic scenarios without giving them a break or they end up mutated and OP). The other was V//elka. Seifer is the closest I’ve come, but there’s still a void  :,(

V//elka did not die naturally. You may have seen me mention “the other fandom I was in” and how it’s a cesspit of bullying asscreases, sexual harassers, liars, stalkers, thieves and assorted other villains. But you have not heard the tale. What you’re about to read sounds like a lot for six or seven people, but this fandom is unique in that it’s 70% non-RPers. People who follow RP blogs and treat them like their personal entertainment. I’ve never seen another like it. So whoever is most popular with them has influence, because the hate anons and the nasty criticism is coming from outside the real RP community, and the senders will enforce whatever their faves say. The pressure to align with whatever is doing well with the viewers is extreme because the chances of being run off your blog if you don’t are far higher than usual. 

There was one other blog for V when I made mine. I asked her - the writer - if she’d be okay with another being around, even though I’m not obliged to ask permission to make a blog, and she completely ignored me. I thought maybe it was a weird thing to ask, and my other blog in that fandom was welcomed and pretty popular with the non-RPers. I was the only one of that character active. So I just went ahead and did it, thinking it would be no big. I was Wrong. Within not-very-long, the girl and her friends, who had huge followings of, shall we say, less mature users, to begin with as most of them didn’t really write - they drew on request, and you don’t need to have a reading age to appreciate free art - began to employ every trick, tactic and scheme they could to bully me into abandoning, including but not limited to: forcing new RPers to choose between them and me, stealing my content, freezing out anyone who was seen to interact with me (leading to newer users abandoning because no one would talk to them but me), stealing my friends’ muses(! yeah, the whole thing), copying my backstory and ships when ridiculing them didn’t work, incorporating my headcanons into their muses in the same way, copying my art (one of them was an art student and I am a very bad beginner - she would take my drawings and redo them with a higher level of skill and collect the praise for it), making PSAs about how I wasn’t entitled to be in the fandom and how nobody wants to thread with me so stop posting, sending spies to pretend to be my friend to trick me into insulting them so they could get caps, lying about me (one of them spread the rumour that I was some kind of sex obsessed pervert and you guys know how stupid an idea that is), and blaming me for their personal issues (e.g. a historically kind and well mannered user who had been absent for months made a callout post and @’d them all, explaining that he couldn’t come back because they had bullied him and made fun of his abusive history - this was somehow declared to be my fault, they said I put him up to the post because I was jealous of them (?), and they actually responded to him by saying “sorry your daddy touched you” and “sorry if you think its our fault you got abused but we don’t really care” and making public jokes about how they’d never be friends with someone as low as him, spamming the word “elitist” wherever they could... non-ironically). Eventually, even though me and my main ship partner had a shitload of non-RPer fans for the work we were doing and our partnership was very popular, neither of us could even log in anymore. Every time we spoke or moved, some stupid plan was enacted to make sure it backfired on us. We were replicated by members of that group, and our muses turned into pandering caricatures of what they originally were until we left. My muse was a real point of pride for me, she was the best example of a strong, confident female lead I had ever written, and she was made into a sex crazed goth domme by the very people who accused me of that and declared it abhorrent. My partner’s was turned from a complicated, fiercely proud, genderfluid(?) killer to a fragile little flower with a dick in a dress. It wasn’t just us, by the way. Every good writer who joined the fandom is gone; they started leaving not long after I arrived. I tracked some down and asked why, and they all told the same story. One of them told me the process is cyclical and now that I’m gone, they’ll choose someone else in my place. Meanwhile - here’s the kicker - the group responsible don’t even fucking write. The only time they do is when they’re using it as a weapon against somebody, by stealing their plot or their ship and acting it out themselves. Now that the writers have embarked on a mass exodus and none have come to replace them, all they do is shitpost because there’s no one left to target. The stolen muses’ blogs are dead. As if this didn’t sound like a problem enough, three of them have a penchant for little girls.

Where are you going with this, Charlie? Well, chums, it goes a little way to explaining my aversion to smut (one of their number was a self-proclaimed “sex negative feminist” who told me I was a shit RPer because all I ever did was smut and talked about me like I was a prostitute - at the time, I had written NONE, and she had five sideblogs she only made for ships with her friends... she had some serious internalised issues around that, she seemed to deny the existence of her own hypocrisy). It explains why I bang on about welcoming other Seifers so much, why I’m so strict on drama now, and why I’ll bite the head off of anyone who claims to be the sole granter of permission to make a certain muse. It will go some way to explaining why I hardblock anyone who looks like they might cause me similar melodramatic problems at any point in the future, no discussion, no exceptions. I am extremely wary of people with rules full of red flags, and people who make a lot of unprompted ~everybody love your duplicates~ posts, because they’re never truly unprompted. They’re usually an attempt to get in first, so the one who didn’t post it looks automatically less friendly. I didn’t handle it well at the time, I didn’t want to make things worse so I allowed myself to get steamrollered, and the more they got away with, the more they pushed it. The final straw was poor C and that callout post, but it came at about the same time my ship partner’s muse was copied onto one of their sideblogs, so the end was near anyway. If it happened again now, I’d waste no time in telling them to shove it up their festering assholes. ANYWAY I’m telling you all this because my search for a replacement muse has gone cold, and that’s left me feeling a bit dead and uninspired, which leads me to keep losing my flow with Seifer as well. I logged into her blog earlier with the idea of reclaiming her somehow. It felt like cleaning a house someone died in. I changed her url, wiped away all the content that was bothering me and I blocked about 200 people - fucking everyone from that fandom who was following me. I might change her theme too, I’m not sure. I’ve added a request-only line to her original verse to deter anyone who joins that fandom in the future (that’s how badly I need to keep away). I’ll need to replace all her tags to keep them from digging me up again. So here’s where the request comes in. I’ve sketched in some FFX and FFVIII verses. I would like to try to bring her out of there and closer to here. I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve never explained why. Can I count on the support of any of my friends and neighbours here? I feel like she’s locked in a room full of dangerous weirdos and I can’t get to her unless I can totally extract her. I could really use some help in pulling her out and creating a new space for her. You don’t need to commit to anything, just treat her like any other OC. If it fails and she dies off, at least I’ll have tried. If I succeed in clawing back some of my focus, the blog hopping will stop. If anyone feels like doing me a solid, that’d be great. To be honest, the experience tainted RP as a whole for me, sapped my motivation and confidence, and I’ve never been as into it since.