#not to mention how vague the reasoning for denying treatment usually is

[iscratchdoors]

i know this is the trans website and im preaching to the choir here but there is something to be said about the medical gatekeeping around transition being largely based on the idea that transitioning medically is the risky, dangerous option, while denying that transition to people actively seeking it is safe and harmless. all the medical professionals i've dealt with so far seem to understand the harm that comes to a cis person who mistakenly transitions and makes irreversible changes to their body, but the idea that that same suffering is also experienced by trans people who have not yet been allowed to transition, to a greater degree even, seems basically non existent. a cis person's ideal gendered appearance is treated as a thing inherently worth protecting and maintaining, while that of a trans person is treated as something they deliberately chose to pursue and don't actually need. the harm that comes to a trans person through putting off any sort of medical (and as a consequence, legal) transition is a thing that does not exist to these people. only the harm that comes to people who regret it is deemed worth considering. that's been my experience anyway

[storm-driver]

I can't be the only one who thinks Kairi being "repeatedly sidelined" is an overexaggeration, right?

Right?

(slapping this at the beginning, but i did NOT realize how long this was getting until i realized my hair had dried with how long i’d been sitting here, typing out my response. i am really passionate about these topics, so my apologies if this was too long.) 

I don’t like putting my harsher opinions about Kingdom Hearts too far out in the open since I really love these games, in spite of its flaws and in spite of the reasons other people dislike them. If Final Fantasy XVI and a new Kingdom Hearts game were being released on the same day, I would play KH with zero hesitation. It’s basically a part of my life since I’ve been watching and playing these games since I was a little kid.

That being said, my harsher opinions about Kingdom Hearts boil down to me realizing how the series could be greater. I’m younger than Kingdom Hearts, believe it or not. Only by a year, but this franchise is older than me. And I’ve matured far more than it has in the span of two decades. I’ve had a lot of crap happen to me that definitely woke me up more to the harsh realities that come with life, so I won’t deny it when I say I was hoping Kingdom Hearts could also wake up to those kind of realities. 

Especially now that I’ve seen the other characters and how they’re written. The guys in KH, particularly Riku and Roxas, are some of the most phenomenally well-written characters I’ve ever seen in this type of medium. And I want to see Kairi get that same kind of treatment. 

Now, I’m not denouncing the writers. I’m actually really excited for the next Kingdom Hearts game that will feature Kairi as a main character, and I’m excited because of Melody of Memory. KHMoM wasn’t the Kairi game everyone was hoping Kingdom Hearts 3 would be. And I think that’s a fair judgement for people to have regarding KHMoM. Especially with that gorgeous boxart of Kairi taking Sora’s seat in the throne. But I have my reasons for not being upset.

First of all, Melody of Memory was NOT advertised to be a huge game. Almost all of the advertising was heavily based around the rhythm game itself, and not the story. What few story segments we got were usually plastered at the end of trailers, and they were extremely vague. There was no Anti-Aqua level of spoilers, or Roxas throwing his hood off. All we ever saw that could CONSTITUTE as a spoiler was Sora being there. And even then, we didn’t know what that could’ve possibly meant. 

People got insanely excited for what is effectively a filler, side game. And I think following up KH3 with this sidegame, especially after the misstep that the writers took with how they used Kairi in KH3, fans were expecting something FAR different than what was being shown to us. 

I won’t deny, I think it was a little deceptive that a, quote, “Kairi game!!” was coming out following her writing misstep. But I am also going to point out that it was stated, SEVERAL TIMES, prior to the release of KHMoM that this game was not going to have huge impact on the story, and thus, the characters. It feels more akin to the secret movies we got at the end of KH1 and KH2, teasing what was to come and setting up for the next major arc. 

That being said, to talk about what actually happened in Melody of Memory: Kairi didn’t get sidelined. I don’t believe she was shafted at all. The writers went out of their way to tell us where she was going next in the story, and are even setting up for us to be able to see that happen. Kairi and Axel training together might’ve been a fun thing to watch. But now we’re getting into the things that Kingdom Hearts fans have always wanted the most: character interactions.

The sheer amount of things that can happen with Kairi, knowing she is now training under an official Keyblade Master (that master is Aqua, by the way!!!), are kinda endless. This is also some really good set-up for what Aqua, Ventus and Terra are going to be doing now that they’ve all effectively recovered from their respective hellscapes, comas, and possessions. They each have some really big potential with regards to interactions with Kairi, and I think that’s exciting as all hell. 

Imagine how Aqua will approach training Kairi. Not to mention, Aqua is now approaching being a Master with pupils for the first time. No doubt she’s training Ventus still (and possibly Terra). But she knows those two, they’re like family to her. Kairi is just a young girl that she met over a decade ago. The two hardly know each other. Kairi is still trying to get a grasp on how to fight, while Aqua will now get a better hand at training a new student. 

And think of her interactions with Terra. He probably doesn’t know to what extent Xehanort harmed the others until he’s told. And Kairi may recognize the face of someone who harmed her years ago, as she might’ve reacted to Axel. She’s a forgiving person, and someone who must find it hard to hate others. She could have such a positive influence on Terra, especially following all of that self-doubt he seemed to have throughout BBS. 

And then there’s Ventus, oh my god, Ventus. These two have such similar stances with where they are and have been. They’ve both been the weaker one, the one that needed to be protected and was believed to be too weak to fight. And Ventus’ similarities to Sora, arguably her best friend, would doubtless make them steadfast friends. She may still feel just as weak, and she may find herself confiding in Ventus. And Ventus might just see some of himself in that same perspective that Kairi probably has, feeling weak and helpless, yet knowing she’s capable of more if she can just find the strength. It would be good for Kairi to have a friend around her age who’s arguably on the same skill level as her, if only he’s been training for longer. He’d know what to say to help her, and probably act as a better de-stresser friend after a long day than if she was just alone.

(Side note, I KNOW Ventus is older than her, and probably older than everyone if KHUX is anything to worry about. But he’s still physically and mentally the same age, as far as we can tell.) 

I don’t think Kairi’s been put on the side at all. I feel like story arcs are being set up, and hers is going to involve Ventus and his missing memories. While Riku is going to be out and looking for Sora. Maybe Roxas and the others will get involved in each side of the conflict in future games, but it really feels like everyone’s getting a piece of this next major arc. 

So, the short answer to your question is:

yes, I think it’s an over-exaggeration. You are absolutely not the only one. People that are jumping on that claim have the right to that opinion, of course. The same way I have the right to mine, and you to yours. But I can assure you, I don’t believe she’s been side-lined whatsoever. I think she’s getting amends to some of the writing errors of the past and this was just one of the first few steps that the writers are taking. 

[leviathans-watching]

Sticks & Stones Chapter 9 (final chapter)

wow I can't believe we're at the end

tysm for reading and staying till the end if you did! I appreciate the love this fic was shown 

I do take requests, so if you’re interested in that you can submit an ask or smth

masterlist here for newcomers!!

*

You had politely declined Asmo's offer to help you get ready for the movies with Mammon, which is how you found yourself in your bathroom, trying to make yourself presentable.

It wasn't that you didn't want his help, it was just that if this did turn out to be a date, you wanted Mammon to be going to the movies with you, not the you Asmo made up.

You knew your line of reasoning was kind of silly, but whatever.

Leaning over to rinse your face, you marveled at how soft your skin was after Asmo's treatment. He had gone all-out with the spa treatment and you were grateful, as it left you feeling refreshed and cleansed.

I'm never going to look good, I should go ask Asmo- You thought, before cutting yourself off.

No, this was something you had to do for yourself, and plus, you had the reassurance Mammon already thought you were attractive.

Thinking back over the past week, you were amazed. You never knew the boys could be so sweet, and even if it had been awkward, all of their words had been nice, albeit slightly overwhelming to hear.

Asmo had apologized for the night before, saying he hadn't meant to lose control, and you had thanked him of apologizing and reassured him it was alright.

You guessed you needed some tough love every now and then.

Brushing your hair, you styled it, smiling at your reflection, satisfied.

Checking the time on your DDD, you realized you had a little less than an hour until Mammon said he would swing by your room, which was perfect.

Pulling on the outfit Asmo had helped you pick out the night before, you sat on your bed to wait.

Putting on a show, you let your mind wander, back to the boys. You just couldn't stop thinking about all of the sweet things they had said and done for you. They would deny it, but Lucifer even let you take a day off from RAD, which was a big deal.

They had all been there for you and made sure to watch out for you, saying all these kind things that were totally out of character for them.

Maybe they had made a big deal out of a couple of bad days, but you were touched.

So it had led to you and Mammon fighting, but you had forgiven each other, realizing you both needed to let it go and accept you were both in the wrong.

You knew, even while you were mad at him, he had no ill intentions to you, and was just trying in his own way to make sure you were okay. Plus, he probably was pressured into telling by the rest of them.

Honestly, you weren't sure why it took you so long to realize you liked him.

You always would seek him out, and it went way more than in an "oh he's my best friend" type of way. Your eyes would instinctively go to him whenever something happened for his reaction, and you just felt so comfortable with him.

You would just chalk it up to you being terrible at deciphering your feelings at leave it at that.

Checking the time on your DDD, you realized it was nearly time.

Mammon had a habit of running a little late, so you weren't expecting his head to peek around your door. "Ready to go?"

Standing, you met his smile with one of your own. "Yep!"

Mammon led the way, and the two of you walked down the front walk. "I figured since it's so nice today we could just walk," Mammon looked over for your opinion, and you nodded.

It was unusually warm, even for spring, the sun providing ample warmth that was offset by the light breeze.

"MC, I uh," Mammon hesitated, and you looked over at him. His face was red beneath his sunglasses.

"Yeah?"

"You look nice," He got out quickly, not meeting your gaze, and you felt a matching blush heating up your cheeks.

"Thanks! So do you." He did look nice, in the same jacket he had lent you earlier in the week with a white button-down half tucked into back skinny jeans. It was obvious he had put effort into making his hair look artfully messy as well, but you had to admit, he could pull it off.

"Thanks," Mammon stuttered out, and you felt your heart flutter in your chest.

You were not as nervous as you expected yourself to be. Mammon always set you at ease, and this time was no exception, so it was natural to step closer to him, so your arms brushed.

Making it to the theater, you got in line, as there was already a short one formed. The movie wouldn't start for a little bit so you had time to get popcorn and snacks. Wondering what they offered in the devildom in lieu of movie snacks, you jumped slightly when Mammon tapped you.

"What kind of food should we get?" He asked, and you shrugged.

"I don't know." Looking over the menu you saw they did have popcorn, which you were thankful for, but you didn't recognize anything else. "How about popcorn and then your favorite thing, since I've never had any of it?"

Mammon pursed his lips. "What if ya don't like it?"

"More for you, I guess."

Falling into comfortable silence, you checked your DDD, opening Devilgram. As usual, Asmo's story was wild, making you huff out a laugh.

Mammon stiffened beside you, and you looked up questioningly, tuning in to the sounds and conversations around you.

Two girls, a witch and a demon, were gossiping behind you, talking shit about how you must have dragged Mammon here.

"...He's so hot, too. It sucks that he's unavailable all the time now, dealing with them. And they're not even cool like Solomon is..." The voices faded out as the girls walked away.

Mammon put his hand on your arm, but you just rolled your eyes, surprising him.

"This week taught me more than I expected, I guess." You explained, and Mammon smiled. "Plus, what do you think they would do if they knew THE great Mammon was the one who wanted to see this movie in the first place, not me?" You teased, and Mammon laughed, eyes still not losing the worried edge.

You were fine, though. You were at the movies with Mammon, the second born demon lord, for maybe a date, and had just spent the last week with the rest of the demon lords falling over to try to reassure you of your worth.

So, you didn't really care what those girls had to say. They were probably jealous, anyway.

With this revelation, that you, a human, could make a demon and a witch jealous, you got a burst of confidence.

"Hey, Mammon, is this a date?"

"What!" Mammon sputtered, face turning red. "MC, ya can't just say something like that!"

"Mammon," You whined, feeling like you had the right to tease him. "Are you saying this isn't?"

"MC," He tried, and you looked up at him, ready to go at him some more, but the words on your tongue faded when you saw something in his eyes that gave you pause.

"Do you want it to be a date?" He finally asked after what seemed like an eternity of staring at each other, and you licked your lips nervously, watching as those damn blue eyes flicked down to track the movement.

"Do you?" You got out, and Mammon sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Isn't that obvious?" He asked with a wry smile, and your heart skipped a beat.

"Well, good, 'cause I want it to be one too," You nodded, and Mammon relaxed.

"Good."

"Good."

You stared at each other for a second, but during the conversation you had made it to the front of the line and the attendee was waiting on you to give him your tickets.

Awkwardly letting Mammon go through the transaction, you let yourself get used to the idea, that yes, Mammon had confirmed you were on a date.

"Hey," Mammon got your attention, handing you a thing of popcorn and your cup. Smiling gratefully at him, you let him get the receipt before walking over to the drink machines.

After properly doctoring up your popcorn and filling your cups, you made your way to the showing room and found your seats. At first it was fine, the light conversation flowing easily between you two distracting you, but as soon as the lights dimmed and it got quiet, you knew you were in trouble.

Mammon was just... so distracting. You weren't watching the film, instead looking at him, trying not to be too obvious.

He was focused on the screen entirely, leaving you able to observe how the light flashed against his skin and how his expression would shift thought the scenes.

You were going crazy.

A couple of times your hands brushed while reaching for popcorn, and he turned to look at you then, lips quirking up in a grin.

It was so cheesy.

When the lights came back on, you stood with him, stretching, listening to him babble about the movie. You had a vague idea of what he was talking about, but the more nuanced stuff was lost on you, but you listened anyway, following him as he excitedly led you out of the theater.

When you made it outside, the air was cool against your skin, and Mammon immediately offered you his jacket.

"Wow, really pulling out all the stops, huh?" You took it, slinging it around your shoulders, and Mammon scowled lightly at you, but you could tell there was no heat behind it.

"Ya should be honored!"

Getting the sense that he didn't want to go back home as much as you, you wandered, eventually ended up sitting on the same park bench you had sat on almost a week before.

"MC, I really like ya," Mammon was hesitant in the dark and you almost wished you could make out the blush that accompanied those words. "I think you're the smartest and bravest and coolest, and not to mention, ya put up with all of us, which puts ya in a league all on your own," Mammon continued, and you chuckled. "And I guess I wanna make sure ya know you're not alone."

"Mammon," You breathed, and very gently, his hands were cupping your cheeks, cradling them.

"Can I kiss ya?" He asked, and you nodded, knowing he could feel the motion.

His lips were soft and gentle, pressing against yours in an unbearably sweet way. You sighed a little, and Mammon hummed, smiling into the kiss.

He drew back slowly, reluctantly.

"So don't go thinkin' you're alone if ya feel bad or somethin' stupid like that." Mammon pressed his forehead into yours, and you nodded once more, finding his hand and squeezing it.

Mammon was your best friend. You could show him every ugly part of yourself, bare every inch of your soul, and he'd be there to wipe your tears and make it better every time, and you knew, you'd do the same for him. It only made sense that the feelings went further than either of you knew.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

Tags: @nimeryaa​ @omgapolarbear​ @crispyarttravelhumanoid​

Chapter 1

Masterlist

[jooheonspinky]

Little too Late

Characters: Sehun x Gender Neutral Reader Genre: Hanahaki Disease, angst Word Count: 3K Warnings: Mentions of blood ────── 〔✿〕──────

You plop into a bench at your favorite café, exhausted from your days’ work. You loved coming here. The atmosphere was always quiet and peaceful; the only sound the clinking of metal spoons against ceramic cups and the hushed murmurings of the patrons as they placed their orders. The background noise and your favorite latte was what helped you unwind after a long day.

Most people would say a cup of coffee at this time of the night would only assist in keeping them awake, but for you it was different. The warmth and flavors only soothed your soul, making you forget the stresses you’d endured that day. It settled your mind, which helped you sleep better.

“Good evening,” you hear a soft voice you don’t recognize interrupt your thoughts.

Glancing up sharply, you have to remind yourself to respond as the handsomeness of the young man standing at your table momentarily renders you speechless.

“Oh, uhm…Hello,” you finally stammer out.

His gaze was so intense. The dark irises, the color akin to espresso, bore into yours through the fringe of his off center parted bangs. The tiniest of smiles quirked one side of his perfectly shaped lips. Even as you lost yourself in the warmth of his eyes, you felt a vague nudge at the back of your mind signally to you that you had seen them before, once upon a time.

“Misty told me you were a regular and you get special treatment,” he winks at you and you swear you feel your heart stop in your chest.

Blushing, you laugh, waving off his comment, “Oh, no no. She just likes to spoil me because we went to school together.”

“You went to school with Misty?” he asks a bit surprised. “I did, too, but a long time ago.”

This time you look over him, but not with the eyes of someone who was admiring his chiseled beauty. Now you take time to picture him much younger, your brows furrowing as you concentrate.

“What’s your name?” you ask as you tilt your head slightly.

“Oh Sehun,” he replies with a smile. “Yours?”

Even as you reply with your name, your brain unlocks the image of the young boy you’d adored as a preteen. He’d only been two years older than you, but to your twelve year old self he seemed ages older and so cool. You’d lived on the same street and had walked to school together. He was popular and always surrounded by both girls and boys. Even still, he had a gentle and kind heart, making sure to say hi to you, trying to always include you whenever you were around. He treated you like a sibling, though, nothing more than friendship ever having bloomed between you two.

Your heart was broken when he moved almost three years later. His father had accepted a job in his native country of South Korea and just like that he was out of your life. Of course, time has a tendency of dampening the sadness and ache in ones heart until it is not but a distant memory. A mere school crush is how you’d classified it when you would randomly remember that time.

You’re brought forth from your thoughts as he murmurs your name a few times until a spark of recognition alights in his eyes.

“Ah, yes!” his smile brightens as he snaps his fingers. “I remember you, Smidge,” he chuckles merrily.

“Huh?” you stare up at him perplexed.

“Smidge. Remember? I used to call you that because you were so small.”

“Oh, that’s right,” you mumble feeling your cheeks flush a rosy hue as you recall his pet name for you. 

This brought on another chuckle from Sehun.

“My shift is over in a few minutes, do you mind if I sit with you and catch up?” he asks, his eyes filled with the hopes that you’d say yes.

“Sure, why not,” you shrug as casually as you can.

“Great, so you’re usual right?” he quips.

“Right.”

“Ok, I’ll be back in a bit.”

You give him a nod and watch him walk back behind the counter. He catches you studying him as he makes your coffee, pausing to smile widely and wiggle his fingers at you. The tint on your cheeks brightens as you awkwardly smile back and then force your gaze towards the window next to you instead.

Wah, you would never have thought seeing him again would stir up those childhood feelings you thought you had long ago forgotten. But as you stare out at the crescent moon smiling down at you from the velvety black sky, you can’t deny the rapid thrum of your heart beating giddily in your chest.

  ────── 〔✿〕──────

From that night forward, Sehun joins you every Tuesday and Thursday after his shift. And while in the past you had so looked forward to your nightly visits to the café for the peace it left you in, now you had an extra reason to get excited about going. You dressed nicer and made sure not a hair was out of place on those days. All the while lying to yourself that it was not all to impress him.

You both chatted quietly over your coffees for about an hour on those nights before you would say your farewells and head to your own homes. You quickly learned his personality hadn’t changed much. He was still sweet, considerate and gentle. When you spoke, his eyes didn’t leave your face, making sure you knew he was listening to every word you said. His laugh brought on tingles in your belly, his smile made your heart swell and you wished nothing would ever cause him to lose that gorgeous smile.

It’s not until a month passes… maybe just a little over a month, that Sehun slips into the bench across from you, that sparkling smile slipping into an expression you hadn’t seen on him before. The change in his demeanor is so foreign to you that it takes you a few moments to decipher it.

Sliding your hand across the table you wrap your fingers around his, looking into his eyes with concern as you ask, “What’s the matter, Sehun?”

He looks down at your joined hands, sighing despondently as he gives your hand an appreciative squeeze.

“It’s Destiny,” he says softly, sadness lacing his words.

Your heart stutters, fluttering roughly in your chest.

“What’s destiny?” you ask, concentrating on keeping the tremor from your voice.

Releasing your hand, he encircles his mug as if trying to draw strength from it. You straighten, taking a sip of your own coffee as you wait for his response.

“Not what…who,” he clears his throat, now leaning back in the bench. Flicking his gaze up to yours, he adds. “Destiny is my girlfriend.”

You instantaneously feel your heart lurch, your blood running cold at his response. A tickle in your lungs startles you, causing you to let out a few coughs. Your eyes water as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Ow!” you groan your face scrunching in pain.

“Jesus,” Sehun stands coming over to your side to pat your back. “Are you ok?”

Shoulders hunched, you hope he can’t see your fisted hand rubbing circles over your chest as you try and soothe whatever that had been.

“Yeah, yeah,” you manage with a grimace. “I think the coffee just went down the wrong pipe.”

He had a girlfriend? What was he doing chatting it up with you until ten? God, how did you always end up in situations like this? Were you truly that bad at reading people? You had felt so comfortable in your talks with Sehun and he had appeared interested… But maybe he was just being him. Always wanting people to feel welcome and at ease around him. Ugh! How could you have been so foolish? He really did only see you as a friend now just like he had all those years ago.

“You sure you’re ok?” he asks again as he brushes the hair out of your eyes and pats your wet cheeks with a napkin.

Taking the napkin from him none too nicely, you brush him off, “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” He hesitates as he stares at you pensively, but then he finally accepts your words. Wanting his focus to shift from you, you say, “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

You try to bring the conversation back to what you had been talking about, but the coughing just won’t subside.

“I’m so sorry, Sehun,” you finally say between fits of coughing. “I’m gonna go.”

You swiftly stand, gathering the few items you had.

“Wait, are you sure you’re ok?”

He follows you as you head towards the exit with brows furrowed, but you don’t reply as you dash out into the buzz of the night. Not looking back, you hop into your car, speeding off as you continue to attempt to catch your breath. Once at home, you rush to your bathroom, your cheeks flushed as you glance in the mirror. 

Splashing water on your face, you try to sooth the heat in hopes it would calm the coughing, but another fit ensues. Your eyes widen as tiny red and pink spots speckle across the white porcelain of the sink. You cough again and it’s as if whatever had been caught in your throat is dislodged. You spit into your hand and feel fear grip your body.

A bloodied torn blue petal lies in the center of your palm.

“No!” you whisper roughly.

It couldn’t be! You take a few deep breaths and force yourself to relax as you focus on the fact that you finally feel relief, the tightness in your chest gone. Even the tickle in your throat is no longer there. You throw the petal away and wash your hands, rinse your mouth and clean the sink.

All the while your heart still races, terrified of what this all means. You are quick to shower and slip into bed, hoping the next day will reveal that what you believed this to be was not actually it.

────── 〔✿〕──────

Despite knowing Sehun had a girlfriend, you found yourself returning to the cafe. It was painful sitting across from him knowing there would never be anything more between you, but not seeing him or hearing his voice seemed to hurt even more. So you still showed up twice a week as usual and he still sat with you after his shift. 

At first he filled you in on the fact that things were getting a bit rocky with his girlfriend. But then he stopped bringing it up and you assumed they had worked things out. After all, he had said he’d had no intentions of leaving her. 

And so the coughing persisted, the petals still coming up. You did your best to hide any evidence from him, but he only grew more and more concerned.

“It’s just a cold,” you would try and reassure him, but you could see the doubt in his eyes.

He finally convinced you to get checked out.

You sit in the chilly room of the doctor’s office. He had not liked the sounds in your lungs and had sent you to have X-rays done in the building next door. Now you waited for the images to be sent over and for him to give you the prognosis.

You look up as the door opens and see the doctor step in. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instantly, your palms begin to sweat.

“Well,” he says on an exhale as he sits on his stool and rolls over to you.  From the examination table you look down at him nervously. “I’ve taken a look at your images and, it’s as I thought. You have the Hanahaki Disease. Do you know what that is?”

You glance away, sadness squeezes at your heart. The now familiar tickle in your esophagus threatening to bring on a coughing fit. You clear your throat as you return your gaze to the doctor.

“Yes,” you whisper tightly.

“Then you know your options,” he straightens in his chair. “Find a way for your love to return your feelings or I can perform a procedure to remove the roots. But,” he shakes his head forlornly. “You will never have the capacity to feel romantic love again.”

What kind of options were these? you think desperately to yourself. If there was any chance that he could love you back, you did not want to take that choice away from yourself.

“I don’t want to have the surgery,” you tell him firmly. 

He rolls over to the counter and scribbles onto a paper. Tearing it off he stands and hands it to you.

“Take this if you need help sleeping. The other will help mildly with the coughing during the day.”

I nod, accepting the paper.

“Thank you.”

“If you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” you give him a tight-lipped smile.

“Very well. Have a good day.”

────── 〔✿〕──────

As time passes, it only gets worse. Sometimes you retch up full blooms of blue anemone, the flowers beauty tainted with saliva and blood. The feeling of suffocating was the worst. There were so many times you wanted to give in and have the surgery, but knowing you could never love again frightened you more than anything. You told Sehun that you had been right. It was just a cold. You did not dare to tell him the truth for fear of losing his friendship. 

Glancing into your mirror you see how much weight you’ve lost. Your eyes are sunken into your face, dark circles making them look even deeper and lost. Your cheeks are hollow, your hair thinning. 

With glistening tears you apply makeup, bringing your face back to life. Sehun had invited you to have a picnic at the park. He said he had a surprise and you were excited. Perhaps he had finally decided to leave Destiny. Just maybe he had fallen in love with you instead.

You quickly dressed, then reached the park before him. There you laid out a blanket beneath the shade of a large tree. Opening the picnic basket, you begin to lay out some of the snacks when you happen to glance up and catch sight of Sehun. 

You smile, but he hasn’t seen you yet. In a pair of dark blue jeans and a butter yellow t-shirt his skin seems to glow and your heart swells in your chest at how handsome he looks out of his barista uniform. 

But then your eyes fall on the person beside him. You watch as he puts his arm across her shoulders and she puts one of her own across his lower back, hand resting on his hip. The sunlight glints off of an object on her finger and you know.

Instantly you know that his ‘surprise’ was that they had worked things out and he had proposed. They were engaged. Any chance you may have had...was lost forever.

You begin to cough, the sound harsh. A searing pain in your chest becomes unbearable and you look down to see something poking at your shirt. Through watery eyes you pull the collar of your shirt away from you and peer down. Eyes wide with terror, you see a stem growing out of the middle of your chest, a trickle of blood sliding down your skin.

Seeing him with her must have exacerbated the disease. Before you can grab your phone to call for help more stems break through your chest. You are screaming in agony, the sounds muted by the blooms forcing themselves up from your throat.

Writhing in pain, you fall back onto the blanket. Never had you ever felt anything as excruciating as what was happening to you now. Through the haze of pain you feel someone rush down beside you.

“Oh my God!”

It was Sehun. You turn tear filled eyes towards him and offer a crooked pain filled smile. He looks horrified and you wish you could reach out and smooth away the worried creases on his brow. His hands hover over you most likely unsure if he should touch you or not. Finally, he grasps the hand closest to him, his other hand brushing back your hair from your forehead.

The pain that wracks your body doesn’t seem so bad when he holds your hand so tenderly like that. You try to speak, but only gurgling sounds come forth.

“Call 911!” Sehun shouts to the woman. Within moments you can hear her responding to the operator and you tune her out, trying to focus on Sehun’s lips as he speaks to you. “What is happening to you?”

You are unable to answer as you begin to cough forcefully, sputtering as you try to catch your breath. 

“An ambulance is on the way,” the woman comes to stand next to Sehun. 

You both turn to look up at her. Her eyes are wide as she fixates on you, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

“Thank you,” he tells her, before returning his attention to you. 

“Please hang on. Stay with me,” he pleads. Some of the pressure alleviates and you inhale deeply. “God, this is not how I imagined this day to go.”

“I’m...sorry,” you croak, trying to breath through the torturous ache afflicting your body.

“No,” he chuckles humorlessly. “You don’t need to be sorry.” You tighten your grip on his hand as another stem pierces through your skin. “Jesus. Who did this to you?”

You shake your head desolately, squeezing your eyes shut in hopes he wouldn’t see. Tears flood down the sides of your face and when you open your eyes back up and your gaze locks on his countenance, you know he knows.

“No,” his lips turn down desperately. “No!”

Sirens wail in the distance. The woman squeezes his shoulder before rushing off to meet the ambulance.

“It’s not…your fault,” you try to assure him even as another burst of coughs plagues you. 

“I didn’t know,” he whispers desperately. “I didn’t know.” He lifts your head up onto his lap in hopes of making you more comfortable. “I would have said something sooner. That’s why I invited you here. God, I’m too late. I’m sorry. I’m so so sor-.”

His words are cut off as you let out a muffled scream. His wide horrified eyes are the last thing you see before a bush of blue anemones bursts forth from your torso.

────── 〔✿〕──────

Thank you for reading. Please feel free to comment and reblog.

[ladylynse]

I had a follower giveaway a couple months ago, and @raveniris57 won the bonus prize (which was intended to be a shorter fic, and I still overshot my goal of ‘short fic’, but it’s still on the shorter side). They wanted a BNHA fic, a One For All reveal to the classmates/Midoriya’s mother, and decided they’d rather I focus on the aftermath rather than the lead up to the reveal.

Discovered: [FF | AO3] They all know, and Midoriya can’t change that, but.... Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if one more person found out, too.

-|-

Midoriya wasn’t sure when it began or, even in hindsight, how it began. He didn’t know who it had started with, and he hadn’t been aware enough to track its spread. By the time he realized something had changed, it was too late.

He just knew that people slowly started to look at him differently.

It was…subtle. Iida was just a bit more formal than usual. Mina and Hagakure still whispered together, but they stopped whenever he walked into the room. Mineta and Kaminari whispered, too, but that didn’t always stop when he walked in on it; it was just accompanied with jealous glares (especially on Mineta’s part) that seemed unwarranted, especially since none of the others who had the opportunity to work with pro-heroes were getting the same treatment. He thought Kirishima was trying to get them to stop, had seen him talking to them, and it did lessen, but…. He couldn’t deny that that made Koda’s strange offerings of baked goods or the way Jiro would let him pick what they listened to when they all hung out together in the common area even more welcome.

They weren’t the only ones making a point of being nice to him, though. Sato, Shoji, Ojiro, Sero— They all did little things, like holding the door or trying to make sure his favourite spot on the couch was open. It wasn’t much out of the ordinary for what they usually did, at least he didn’t think it was, but once he became conscious of it, he saw all of it.

Tokoyami, on the other hand, had told him to his face that he was going to give him space and to seek him out if he wished to talk, and Midoriya had barely seen him outside of class in two weeks.

Tsu-chan and Uraraka were clearly making an effort to treat him the same, but in light of everyone else, it was easy to see the overcompensation for what it was. The way Uraraka would sometimes glance away too quickly or jump on something else as a distraction or change in topic, or the way Tsu-chan’s smiles would be too wide, her silences too calculating.

Aoyama had slipped him in a note. Midoriya hadn’t seen him do it, but it had turned up in the middle of his private things in his room, and he was pretty sure Aoyama was the writer. Even if it weren’t for where he’d found the note, its vague but familiar content told him all he needed to know. I’d always thought you’d understood, but I didn’t realize I was wrong in thinking why.

The fact that he thought he was wrong in thinking why, though, when Midoriya had never corrected him, had never really thought he had cause to correct him, since it was true in its own way—

And then there was Yaoyorozu. Though Midoriya was still unsure of the occasion—occasions—she had taken it upon herself to bring in more treats, the sort she typically reserved for special occasions or when she thought someone needed cheering up. And he’d caught her talking to Kacchan more frequently than he ever had before. Not that there was something weird about that, exactly, except that it usually took much longer than Midoriya would expect for Kacchan to storm off in a huff, and Yaoyorozu always looked a little sad and unsurprised when he did, instead of angry or frustrated or any of the reactions most other people had when talking to Kacchan for extended periods of time.

Kacchan himself hadn’t really changed. If he had a slightly shorter temper than usual around Midoriya, well, it was difficult to tell. He knew Kacchan. He’d have a shorter temper just because he got a little less sleep—which, frankly, they all were these days. So that wasn’t really cause for concern, not on its own. It was actually comforting, the fact that Kacchan hadn’t changed. The fact that he didn’t look at Midoriya differently, even when it seemed like everyone else in class was.

Midoriya didn’t figure out what was going on until Todoroki—who had also been avoiding him more than usual, however much circumstances were made to seem like he just happened to have something on when Midoriya was free—cornered him outside of their dorms after a late practice session. “Just tell me, Midoriya,” he said, “is this the real reason why you tried to get me to accept the whole of my own power at the sports festival?”

Midoriya frowned. “What are you talking about? You know why I said what I did.”

“I know what you said, but….” He trailed off. Took a deep breath. Met Midoriya’s eyes again. “You know who my father is. You know the legacy I’m expected to meet. To exceed. I…. If you feel the same pressure, I’m forced to wonder why you’d help me. Whatever my potential, I’m not your strongest opponent right now. You know I failed the provisional licensing exam—”

“What?” Midoriya glanced behind Todoroki, half-expecting this to be some kind of trick, but though the lights were on in the dorm, he couldn’t see anyone else outside. “I helped you because you’re my friend. Because we all need to help each other. Because—”

“Because you think it’ll be an easier transition between generations if the top two heroes of our generation mirrors that of our fathers’ generation?”

Midoriya blinked. “What?”

“I don’t mean to imply that All Might is your father, but you have to know that would be a better story to tell than the truth. The potential for chaos and the sheer amount of danger involved isn’t worth the risk.”

Something cold spread across Midoriya’s chest and trickled down his spine to settle as a pit in his stomach. “The…the truth?”

“Your quirk.” Todoroki’s voice was quiet, but it sounded entirely too loud to Midoriya’s ears. How could he know? When had he found out? Who else knew?

Was this why everyone—?

This was bad.

No one was supposed to know about One For All. It was just too dangerous a secret to spread. He hadn’t even told his mom about it. He knew she must have wondered. This wasn’t a quirk similar to anyone’s in the family, and he’d been declared quirkless. The joy of discovering that he wasn’t, that he did have a quirk after all, on top of the rush of getting accepted in UA and going to school— She might not have questioned it then, but once he was gone and she’d had time to think? She would have wondered.

Kacchan had certainly wondered.

And he’d figured out more of the truth than the rest of their classmates. Or he had. Until now, apparently. Or…earlier. At least two weeks earlier. For Tokoyami, if no one else.

“Who….” Midoriya licked his lips and tried to focus. “Who else…?”

Todoroki stepped back and, for the first time, looked uncomfortable. “I thought you knew. Didn’t Aizawa-sensei tell you?”

“Aizawa-sensei knows?” Midoriya squeaked. It wasn’t the entire school, was it? If this got out into the public, if any of All Might’s enemies—

“He pulled each of us aside to speak with us once he realized we knew. I assumed he’d done the same to you.”

He had not.

Aizawa-sensei had not given any indication that he knew anything about Midoriya’s quirk, much less how it was connected to All Might and what all of that meant.

But maybe that was a good thing. Nothing changing in class made it more likely that it hadn’t spread beyond Class 1A. He certainly hadn’t noticed anything beyond the usual rivalries with other classes, 1B especially, and Aizawa-sensei would have an easier time keeping this secret than some.

But still.

If Aizawa-sensei knew, if his entire class knew, it would only be a matter of time before All Might caught wind of this and…. Midoriya wasn’t entirely sure what would happen then. A frank conversation, maybe in smaller groups. To get everyone to understand the gravity of this secret. That it wasn’t something to be used or mentioned even in passing. There were so many villains that could overhear and use that information, and All For One—

That wasn’t over.

Midoriya knew it wasn’t over.

Whatever had happened, there was more yet to come.

Somehow.

And with so many people knowing….

“I need to talk to All Might,” Midoriya said, stumbling back. “I’m sorry. I…. I just need to talk to him first.”

He was off running before Todoroki could reply, using just enough power that he wouldn’t be caught unless Todoroki decided it was time for a rematch.

Which he wouldn’t, because they weren’t supposed to be fighting each other outside of planned training sessions, and Todoroki couldn’t afford to pick a fight while he still hoped to get his provisional license.

For the first time, Midoriya was thankful that some of his friends had failed the first time around.

XXXXXX

All Might spit out his coffee, some of the spray narrowly missing Midoriya. He wiped off everything that hadn’t missed him—plus the spots that had hit his wooden chair; what if it stained?—as All Might spluttered, “Everyone what?”

“Everyone in class knows,” he repeated, “and so does Aizawa-sensei. I don’t know how. I just…. They know. And I think I should tell my mom. If you’ll let me. She can keep a secret, I swear, and if one of the others can’t….”

“If one of the others can’t, you think she’ll be in danger.” All Might rubbed his temples. “You do realize we’ll all be in danger? You most especially?”

“I know. And if I can’t protect her, and someone tries to get at me through her…. Doesn’t she deserve the warning? Just in case?”

All Might blew out his breath and sat back on his couch. “You’re sure everyone knows?”

“Todoroki told me himself.”

“He told you about One For All?”

“Well, he—” Midoriya broke off and chewed his lip. “He mentioned my quirk. The truth about it. And…and what would happen if it got out.”

“So you don’t know that his truth and our truth is the same truth?”

“Not exactly,” Midoriya admitted at length.

“Then we don’t say anything about it until we know they have the right of it.”

“But what if they do?”

“We’ll address it then.”

“But….” He was sure they knew. Avoiding it until they explicitly told him wouldn’t stop the rumours from spreading, and what if the rumours got beyond the class?

Maybe All Might was right, though. Maybe this wasn’t what he thought it was. All Might had lived with this secret for far longer than he had, after all, and he must have faced similar situations.

“You running to me won’t have helped matters, you know. You could have sneaked back here after finishing that conversation.”

“I was just…worried. Mom…. I feel bad about keeping this from her. Especially when my friends know. Probably know,” he amended, seeing All Might’s look. “Please, just…. Can we tell her? Just her?” A select few knew the truth about All Might, after all, and they wouldn’t have all known from the beginning. He must have decided to say something to some of them.

All Might was silent for a moment. Then, “You know enough to decide that for yourself. This is your burden to bear. You worry about the risk of your mother’s ignorance, but knowledge has consequences as well, and the risks are just as great.” He fell silent again. Midoriya was trying to figure out what he could say to that when All Might added quietly, “You know your mother better than I do, my boy, and you know me well enough to know what I think, but this is something you should decide for yourself.”

“All Might….”

“Try to get some rest, Midoriya, and let me know when you’ve made your decision.”

XXXXX

He could imagine his mother twisting the phone cord in her hands. He’d told her to sit down—to sit on the floor, specifically, though he’d heard the creak of the wooden kitchen chairs earlier and knew she hadn’t taken it that far—but he still half-expected to hear a thump and then silence. Instead, he finally heard her whisper, “Izuku….”

“I wanted this, Mom, and—”

“I know. I know. You found a way to achieve your dreams. You’ll…you’ll make a wonderful Symbol of Peace one day. I’m so proud of you.”

He could hear her sniffling. She was crying. She was being so supportive, sure he’d be just like his hero one day, but…

But she wasn’t questioning any of this, not like he’d thought she might. Like he thought anyone might. Maybe she didn’t fully understand. The implications…. Maybe they weren’t as clear to her as he’d thought.

He started telling her again, in a different way, just to be sure, but she stopped him.

“I knew you weren’t just a late bloomer, Izuku,” she said. He wished he could have done this in person, but the circumstances hadn’t allowed for it, and he hadn’t wanted to wait. But if he could just see her expression right now, see her beyond the image he held of her in his head as he sat on his bed with the phone in one hand and a picture of the two of them in the other…. “I knew you were quirkless. I didn’t know there was a quirk like this out there, but I’m not surprised you found it—or that it found you. You aren’t afraid to work hard to achieve your dreams, and you’ll exceed whatever expectations All Might has for you. I know you will. You’ve always exceeded mine, and you’ve always had a greater faith than I ever did. I’m trying to be more like you. You’re already my hero. You know that, right? And if you need anything, either of you, know that I will do anything I can for you.”

“Mom….”

“I love you, Izuku, and I always will, whether you have a quirk or not. But I will always worry for you, too, because I’m your mother. Please, be as safe as you can be while you are doing everything you must to save others.”

He blinked back tears of his own. “I’ll try,” he said. It wasn’t quite I promise, and she’d know that, but she’d also accept it for what it was. He didn’t intend to go out and break almost every bone in his body, but if it was a choice between that and not saving someone, well, his safety didn’t matter at that point. He’d certainly do as much training as he could to prevent that, though, and that had to count for something. That was trying. Trying wasn’t always succeeding, but it didn’t have to be.

Learning was just as good.

“Thanks for everything.” That wasn’t enough on its own, but he didn’t know what to add to it. Actions would matter more than words now. He’d have to make her proud, to give her good reason to be his strongest supporter, even though he knew she would be regardless. “I love you.”

He’d just have to do his best, whatever the future held.

Whatever his friends knew.

Whatever his enemies might discover.

“I love you, too,” she repeated. “Good luck.”

Good luck. He’d need that now, navigating this new path forward. Even if he didn’t talk to his friends about this—to Aizawa-sensei about this—until they specifically brought it up to him, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be talked about. Especially after what had happened with Todoroki. He’d been in his room by the time Midoriya had returned, but….

But that wasn’t the end of it.

It was only the beginning.

And he could only guess at what lay ahead.

“Thanks, Mom.” Whatever happened next, he’d do his best. It was all he could do. If he made mistakes, if this had been a mistake, he’d work to correct it. If any of this somehow got out, if word spread, if All For One found out—

He might not be able to contain every spreading ripple, but he could enlist help doing so, even from those who didn’t know the whole truth.

If he did become the Symbol of Peace one day, he’d do it with the help of his friends. With his mother’s support, with All Might’s guidance, with his teachers’ lessons. And, despite what Todoroki had implied, he wouldn’t be alone. They would all stand together. It was harder to break apart a braid of teamwork than to topple a single figure from the top of a pyramid.

They would all do their best, and their best would be brilliant.

(see more fics)

[anghraine]

“the jedi and the sith lord” - chapter fourteen

Last chapter:

“And don’t stiffen up your arm.”

Lucy stared at him, eyes wide, then down at her hand. For a moment, she could hardly breathe. Her father was here, alive, teaching her what she’d wanted to know for so long. Her father—

“I won’t turn to the Dark Side,” she said.

“You don’t need the Dark Side to hold a lightsaber correctly,” said Vader.

This chapter:

He couldn’t deny the fuller truth. He’d started training her because he wanted to. That first moment of correcting her grip had come without thought beyond a vague and instinctive sense that she should know. She was his daughter, the child he had expected and then thought dead, standing alive and well in front of him. She had a right to know such things.

chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen

-

“I don’t see the point,” said Lucy.

“Good posture is critical for—” 

Vader broke off as he realized, horrifyingly, that his voice had fallen into the exact cadence of Obi-Wan’s. Instead, he laid his hands on her shoulders and straightened them. Lucy twitched, but he only sensed annoyance and a confusion he couldn’t quite identify, not fear. 

“Hold this position and try the third form,” he ordered.

“There is no try,” said Lucy, looking down at her stick. Determinedly, she lifted it. “Only success or failure.”

“Nonsense,” Vader said, though he was aware his men probably thought he believed such a thing. “The point of practice is to attempt techniques. You repeat your attempts until you can succeed consistently, or until success is no longer possible. You do not give up after a single failure.”

Or many failures. He’d learned that painfully and repeatedly. 

Lucy heaved a long-suffering sigh, then straightened to her full, if tiny, height and lifted the stick. She adjusted her footing and lunged forward. 

“Better,” Vader told her. “Now, try again.”

“I’ve done it twelve times today,” said Lucy.

He didn’t doubt that she’d counted. Lucy, he’d quickly discovered, was one to nurse her grievances. In anyone else, he’d have soon crushed the quality; with Lucy, he reluctantly recalled his own youth, and suspected that some cosmic justice had caught up with him.

He told her, “Then another twelve will not hurt you.”

She groaned.

“A Jedi,” he said, “must be disciplined and relentless.”

“I’m not a Jedi,” said Lucy, pushing her hair out of her face. “You said so yourself.”

You will be. 

Vader laid his hands on her shoulders again, holding them in place. “Try again.”

It was what had become a typical day. Palpatine had given him a kind of limited leave in order to turn Lucy—Vader suspected the new project had some part in this—and he was able to carry out his more urgent duties from Bast Castle or Vjun’s orbit. When not preoccupied with Rebel attacks and Imperial machinations, or the painful regimen of treatments made necessary by Obi-Wan, he found himself tracking down Lucy. Sometimes he simply oversaw her practices without comment, but more often, they spoke, Lucy either slinging questions at him, or arguing, or sometimes, eagerly listening to what he had to say.

He didn’t term it training; she’d refused that, and he knew that if he presented it in that sense, she would back away again. But, however rudimentary the techniques he taught her—Obi-Wan seemed to have made an even more inadequate teacher to Lucy—it was very little short of full Jedi training. He even consulted the databanks they’d preserved from the Temple, his memories of those early stages of his padawan training no longer sharply clear, and in any case, not something he wished to remember. 

He avoid mentioning the Dark Side. Her rejection of the necessity awaiting her remained strong, and this was the first real progress he’d made with her. He had to break down her defenses before she would choose to walk down her destined path. 

This, he told himself, was the reason he’d started observing her practices and then intervening in them. It was their first step to ruling the galaxy.

Yet he couldn’t deny the fuller truth. He’d started training her because he wanted to. That first moment of correcting her grip had come without thought beyond a vague and instinctive sense that she should know. She was his daughter, the child he had expected and then thought dead, standing alive and well in front of him. She had a right to know such things, however little she enjoyed hearing them or demonstrating them. 

And sometimes, in fact, she did seem to enjoy one or the other. 

Once, when she set down her stick after a long practice, he said, “You weren’t trained with a lightsaber, were you?”

“A little,” said Lucy. Then she paused, plainly hiding something. “But that was more about defense. Mostly, I did other things.”

“Ah. What types of things?” he asked, intrigued. It took all his resolve to restrain himself from insisting on taking up her incomplete training in … whatever it was. 

Her brows knitted together, and he suspected she might refuse to answer. Instead, she said slowly,

“Well, there was a lot of running and jumping.”

“Running and jumping?” he repeated. “That is how you were trained?”

Obi-Wan had taught him a wide array of abilities, many certainly involving speed and maneuvers, but he’d always focused on the lightsaber above all else. Vader had no idea how many hours he’d spent practicing forms and deflection under his master’s critical eye, except too many. And then there’d been combat training, and then—well.

This weapon is your life.

“It helps,” said Lucy. 

“How?” he asked.

She seemed both thoughtful and bemused. Then she gave a little shrug. 

“Watch, Father.”

With no more warning than that, she took off running for the rung ladder on the side of the wall, scaled it with alarming speed, and all but bounced off the wall and onto a platform. She took an unhesitating leap to another platform, one her short legs could barely reach, then took another—and suddenly, she was burning in the Force, and somersaulting right off a high platform to one that her legs couldn’t possibly reach. 

The Force would protect her, of course. He knew that, but if he hadn’t known that, and if the suit didn’t regulate it, his heart might nearly have stopped.

With every appearance of little effort, she sprang over distances that no other person of her size could have made or, in all probability, survived. Finally, she threw herself at the wall, caught a rung with her hands, and clambered down like a spider, still shining. As she landed, she turned towards him, and her stick lifted into the air and soared into her waiting hand. 

Lucy jogged over.

“That’s the idea,” she told him. 

“I see,” said Vader. “Impressive.”

She actually grinned. He could sense none of her usual petty irritations and frustrations, or the sullen anger that usually smouldered beneath them. In that moment, she seemed happy.

-

As for further discussion of their respective pasts, they confined those to Lucy’s mealtimes. Even then, Vader generally diverted conversation onto Lucy’s past rather than his own, which he could hardly think about without feeling deafened by the echoes of the rage and despair that had dominated so much of his life. Speaking of it was still worse, and yet, he nevertheless found himself doing so now and then. Anything that made Lucy more amenable had to be attempted, and total ignorance would hardly serve her well. And in this, too, he felt that she had something like a right to know—particularly to know the things that Obi-Wan had obscured or omitted. 

“The Emperor was your mother’s mentor in her teenage years,” he told her. “She admired and respected him until their visions diverged.”

“Did she know what he was?” Lucy asked in a tight voice, between mouthfuls of some kind of vegetable soup.

She was the only person he knew who could eat soup aggressively.

“No,” said Vader. “None of us did.”

Us rang out oddly. It felt peculiar to class himself in with Padmé, who’d betrayed him, and Obi-Wan, who had more than betrayed him, and the corrupted Jedi Order of the time. But between them, they had comprised much of the galaxy for him, until he came to see more clearly.

Lucy, heiress to that galaxy, just nodded. 

“That makes it better,” she said. “Did you—”

“You said you knew Obi-Wan from your childhood,” he said abruptly. “Yet he did not interfere in your upbringing?”

She didn’t look fooled, but if he’d forced himself into a certain level of accommodation, so had Lucy. She accepted the change of subject without protest.

“I think Uncle Owen might have shot anyone who tried.” 

The horror of Shmi’s last hours had vastly overshadowed Anakin’s brief interchanges with Owen Lars. Dimly, however, he found himself approving of the man. It was a pity about the stormtroopers. A too-frequent pity, perhaps. Lucy might be able to more effectively take charge of them, once she became empress.

-

Lucy tried to consult her feelings. She’d learned to trust them, more or less—but only when she knew what they were. As it was, she felt a blurry mixture of determination and annoyance and resentment and excitement that gave her hardly any direction at all. Even at her calmest moments, the Light Side pouring through her, she had little idea of what she should be doing.

She didn’t see Ben again, and couldn’t trust his advice anyway. Chirrut only appeared in her dreams now and again, encouraging but bemused by the whole situation. Yoda was entirely inaccessible. When she referred to his teachings, Anakin almost always quarrelled with them, and often sounded convincing—but he was Darth Vader. 

She never let herself forget that, even as she learned what she could from him and followed his instructions. When she did, anyway. At night, she constantly questioned herself, worrying that she was sliding into the Dark Side against her own will, and certain that, at the very least, he must be trying to soften her up for it. But the Dark Side fed off anger and fear and hatred. However complicated her feelings about her father, she didn’t hate him, and rarely felt worse than a general aggravation. And she wasn’t afraid. Nervous, sometimes—but not afraid.

Sometimes, she was even happy.

That worried her most of all. She’d heard about people who became happy in captivity, who were trapped so long that they came to like it, or think that they did. People could get used to almost anything. And, in fairness, she didn’t have a whole lot of bad things to get used to, beyond the captivity itself and the disappearance of Tuvié, whose absent chatter still gave Ellex’s silences a heavy weight. Lucy knew it had to be purposeful: give her comforts, and an unspoken threat that they might be taken away at any moment, and it would grind her down. 

If she couldn’t sense her father in the Force, she might have focused on that, learning caution. But she could feel him, and the more time passed, the more clearly she sensed him. She knew there was more going on here, had known it from the moment he stepped out of his ship to recover her. She could feel his present and remembered rage, his shifts to cool calculation, his deep resentments. But she could also feel his anger subsiding into a simple close attention when he came to teach her, the Light Side then easier to grasp than at any other time. 

She sensed more than that, too. When she’d first shown him a part of what she could do, she’d finished with a decided sense of satisfaction and pride at her execution of the difficult routine and control over the Force—more satisfaction, in fact, than she actually felt. And she’d realized he was proud of her. Nothing more than that, perhaps, but nothing less: he had seen Lucy’s abilities, seen her succeed, and felt proud. 

That, in itself, didn’t have to say much about him, even if the awareness that her father was alive and proud of her made her feel like the darkest parts of the galaxy had turned inside-out and lit up like Empire Day. She was his daughter; it made sense that he’d see her, at times, as an extension of himself, and her successes as extensions of his own. It made all the more sense considering his ultimate plans for her. And yet it didn’t really feel like that. It felt like he—well, like he wanted her to succeed for her own sake, too, for no better reason than that he was her father and, in his way, he cared about her.

She dared not trust it. But she dared not disregard it, either, when she could see nothing of whatever futures might await her. And it made life here easier, feeling echoed pride when she did something well, and concern when she did something dangerous (not really dangerous, of course), and interest when she said anything at all. They felt like traces of the Anakin Skywalker he had once been, of some fractured inner goodness that somehow persisted. 

Was there still good in him?

She didn’t know. But in the end, Lucy could see no other way but forward.

-

“Ellex,” said Lucy. 

Ellex didn’t respond.

“Hey, Ellex!”

She looked at Lucy, managing to imbue the slight shake of her head with profound long-suffering. She still didn’t say anything.

“LX-3,” Lucy tried.

“I am the only LZ-line droid in Castle Bast,” said Ellex. “Quite probably, I am the only one on the planet.”

“Sure,” said Lucy. “I mean, it seems likely. But I had an idea for something you could help me with.”

Ellex shifted slightly, the red flash of her optical sensors about as encouraging as usual. 

Not very.

“Is it required for your basic functioning?” Ellex said.

“No,” Lucy replied, “but—”

“Then why should I assist you?” Ellex’s sensors flashed again. “You are a prisoner here. I will act to prevent any plans for escape you may have—”

“I don’t have any,” said Lucy.

“Given your history,” Ellex told her, “that seems extremely doubtful.”

Lucy stopped. She hadn’t lied; she really wasn’t thinking about escape. Maybe her exposure to the planet’s deadly environment had killed that idea, though she didn’t recall any specific moment when she’d given it up. She just hadn’t considered it for awhile. Shouldn’t that trouble her? 

It did, a little. But not much. She focused on her tangled emotions, trying yet again to pin down something that might guide her. But the Light Side supplied nothing but the general comfort of its presence. Maybe that meant that she was supposed to be here. Or maybe it just meant that she might as well be here as anywhere else, or—no, she couldn’t go through all that again.

Lucy shrugged the entire question off. “My idea isn’t about that. It’s about moving the platforms.”

She could feel her father approaching, though, so she privately gave up, even as Ellex tilted her head back to inspect the platforms.

“I fail to see a purpose in doing so.”

“You’d do it while I was up there,” said Lucy. “With the remote.”

Ellex clicked several times, then said, “I now see a purpose.”

Lucy honestly didn’t know if Ellex meant that she understood Lucy’s purpose, or would just find it entertaining.

“However,” the droid went on, “I do not wish to be—”

The door opened.

“—disintegrated by Lord Vader,” finished Ellex.

Vader glanced between them. Ellex clattered a little from some indistinguishable motion, but to Lucy’s senses, he seemed intrigued rather than angered.

“Who have I disintegrated today?” he asked.

Lucy thought he might be joking. If he knew how.

“No one,” she said. “I mean, I assume.”

“Miss Skywalker,” said Ellex, in faintly accusing tones, “was suggesting that I move the platforms while she is on them.”

For an instant, Lucy did feel afraid. It wasn’t her fear, though.

Vader sounded perfectly calm as he said, “Hm.”

“That’s why they move, isn’t it?” Lucy asked.

He didn’t answer, but just tilted his head back to examine the platforms. 

“This has got to be a place for a”—she remembered that she wasn’t a Jedi apprentice any more—“for someone with the Force running in them.”

“It was,” he said at last. “Very well. But there will be no acrobatics. For now, you will attempt the leaps, and that is all. Go on.” 

Ellex, with what Lucy suspected was decided droidly pleasure, took up the remote and began to adjust the platforms. Lucy scaled the ladder took her usual leap onto the platforms, then just took a running jump that nearly failed as the new platform shifted towards her instead of away as she’d expected. She managed the next landing, but she did fail the third, only managing to hang on to the edge of the platform by her hands, while her legs dangled in the air. The Force gathered around Vader, though she neither knew nor wanted to know what he intended. She managed to hoist herself up, adrenaline rushing through her. 

With all the stops and starts and adjustments, it took longer than usual to fully open herself to the Force, but once she did, everything became clear. Something in her instincts told her which way the platforms would move before they actually did, and after that, she smoothly ran and sprang from platform to platform until she finally tired out. Lucy made her final jump before the ladder, then let go of the Force, launched herself at the wall—and as the last platform shifted under her feet, she failed.

For real, this time. There was no way to grasp either the platform she’d leapt from or the rungs ahead of her. But she didn’t have time to yell, because she simply stopped moving, her body hanging in the air.

Vader didn’t speak, but as clear as anything, she heard his voice. Do not try to free yourself.

What?

Slowly, she floated down to the floor, and landed with a scuffle of her boots. Well, she hadn’t thought of using that on people. Could she, even? Lucy looked doubtfully at Vader as he strode over to her, the stick in hand.

“That was exceptionally dangerous, young woman,” he said.

She dusted herself off and smiled. “All things are possible with the Force, Father.”

“Not if you release the Force.”

Lucy thought about it. 

“That depends, doesn’t it? After all, it’s still around.”

He now seemed irritated, but also something else she couldn’t pin down. And—curious? 

“Anyway,” she went on, “you were there.”

“I am here,” said Vader grimly, though she wasn’t sure what he meant by it. “Open yourself to the Force.”

“I won’t—”

“I didn’t say the Dark Side,” he said, as if hadn’t ordered her to turn for weeks on end. 

Lucy eyed him with some suspicion, but she trusted that the Light Side would never lead her astray. She breathed in, recalling the moments when every shift of the platforms had fallen into place and her muscles had just seemed to know what to do, and with nothing more than that, it coursed through her. Her weariness faded, a little.

“All right,” she said. 

He dropped the stick into her hand. “Sixth form. Go.”

She almost refused, almost insisted, I can’t, I’m too tired, but remembered just who he was. With a heavy exhalation, she adjusted her feet and shoulders and swung the stick upwards, going through the movements of deflection even though nothing was attacking her. With her hands sweaty and her muscles aching, it seemed particularly pointless.

Still, she dutifully carried out the prescribed movements, feeling rather like a dancing puppet. Vader, as far as she could tell, was pleased, but also dissatisfied in some way.

“Well?” demanded Lucy, lowering the stick and rubbing her arm.

“Good,” he said, “though you will not progress further with a stick and no real opponents.”

“It’s not my fault,” said Lucy.

“That,” said Vader, “is extremely debatable. But it must be changed.”

She blinked, baffled. “How are you going to find opponents for me?”

“Quite easily,” he replied, and reached for something under his cape, then tossed it at her. 

Lucy caught it without thinking—and her hands closed around the hilt of a lightsaber. Lucy stared at it, instantly recognizing the shape and design as the one she’d carried for so long, then lifted her eyes to her father.

“What—”

Vader drew his own—his current—lightsaber and flicked it onwards, its red light jarring in the white and blue room. Lucy took a step back.

He lifted the saber.

“Defend yourself!”

[imuybemovoko]

So I just read an article that talked about brainwashing techniques employed in POW camps in North Korea. (It’s linked here.)

I’m inclined to take this article with a slight grain of salt, but there’s something very eerily familiar about the ten steps it lists for brainwashing. It reminds me quite a damn bit of the way your more fundamentalist churches will tell you to share the gospel. I’m going to take a quick run through them and show what I mean. For reasons I’ll explain as “about half shitty site design and about half trauma” I’m having a hell of a time finding specific examples of what I’m talking about here because it involves navigating confusingly executed ministry websites crammed with the exact shit that spent a childhood and five more recent years breaking me. For that reason I’ll make a shitty gospel tract in paint.net with a slide or two to illustrate each point. I’ll probably be annoyingly close to the real thing. Trigger warning here. If this is going to bring something up that you’re not ready to deal with, please do not read any further. 

With that in mind, what would our shitty gospel tract be without some kind of eye-catching title? I’ll take more of a Jack Chick kind of approach to formatting here; Ray Comfort has also been known to make terrible comics following a vaguely similar pattern and typically with far less diverse plots. (Hate-reading Chick tracts is honestly oddly fun sometimes because of the variety and the absolute over-the-top fearmongering about entirely innocent aspects of life and culture.) I’m shooting for a bit of parody energy, so for a title let’s go with:

God’s Blast Furnace Because that seems like the exact kind of cursed energy we should be going for here. I’ll go for a 2x1 aspect ratio here because that also seems pretty typical.

Chick tracts like... usually include people terrified by either God or the flames of hell. I chose the latter. The idea is as much fear factor as you can shove into one tiny page. If you think I’m exaggerating, prepare to be disappointed. Ray Comfort and a lot of campus ministry resources take a less... “in your face” approach to the hellfire bit, but they’ll make damn sure to mention it and how much it’s going to suck to be burned forever. But this is a parody, so if it’s somehow possible to be more over the top than Chick, that’s the goal here.

1. Assault on identity.  In most evangelism guides I remember, one of the first things you’re supposed to mention is that God created the earth and humans and wants us to worship him. Finding specific examples would be a bit of a mindfuck for me because this shit is honestly kinda triggering, but they have a strong tendency towards heavily focusing this in the beginning of their approach. A simple scroll through Chick.com’s tract inventory or, if you can find it, this kind of resource on other sites will show that this assault on identity is extremely important in their approach. Since our parody tract is going to include all of these steps (this is a common but far from universal approach; Ray Comfort tends to include them all but Chick will hyperfocus one or two in every piece of literature), let’s make the first page. The idea here is that they’re saying “you are not who you think you are”. If someone tries to tell you that you’re created by a god rather than a product of evolution, this is their true message. They’ll even mask-off this one, saying “these people think they’re accidental descendants of apes, they’re denying that they were created by God”. So for our parody, let’s do exactly that. I’ll introduce two characters, one Christian and one dreaded “other”, and I won’t bother giving them names; in the real industry, approaches vary. Chick typically gives names, Comfort typically doesn’t. They also tend to grossly caricature unbelievers, so I’ll do that too. I’m going for the “tiny graphic novel” approach here, so I’ll make a panel.

Notice how 1. the unbelievers are presented as strawmen, 2. the Christian is presented as totally normal and even wholesome, 3. he presents this like it’s a self-evident truth, and 4. the response by he unbelievers is angry denial. This is very common and based on prevailing perspectives about unbelievers. You’ll notice an approach quite like this in movies like God’s Not Dead as well, where they make a caricature of Christians that’s way tamer than they present in real life (the kid in God’s Not Dead is super vanilla and a lot of Christians are at best passive-aggressive about it) and a caricature of unbelievers, particularly atheists (they have the most problem with atheists for some reason) that’s straight up aggressive and hostile. In Chick’s tracts, sometimes they wear shirts not that different from the shittily-drawn ones I put on these two unbelievers. I also tried to give the one a mohawk, though the perspective probably isn’t that good. 

Some literature you’ll find in the wild takes a much more detailed approach to this, attacking established scientific facts such as evolution, but others simply present the creation narrative or something akin to it as self-evident and move on. I’ll take the second approach here to save space. Thus, having our unbelievers respond with “how dare you” fits even better because there’s a strong tendency for Christians to think they’re challenging the entire worldview of unbelievers (again, particularly atheists) by even presenting this “fact”. This sets us up perfectly for point 2. 

2. Guilt. In the evangelical view, and in these evangelism resources online, a combination of guilt and fear is very important. Point 2 of the ten in the article is summed up as “you are bad” in the paragraph detailing it; in these forms of Christianity, and very strongly in evangelism techniques, this should be summed up more like “not only are you bad, but the consequences for that are going to be unending and extreme when you die”. This is the strength of the hell narrative in a sentence. On someone who believes it or can be led to believe it, the impact is profoundly damaging. In every “properly-done” evangelism, it is included. Jack Chick goes fucking mental with this narrative and it features in most of his work with vivid pictures of fearful people being yeeted into the flames after pleading for their lives. Ray Comfort also hammers this point fairly hard, framing it as a natural consequence of a life not lived for Jesus and using a metaphor likening death to a long fall and his message to a parachute. In our tract let’s take a mixed approach. Our Christian will yoink Comfort’s parachute metaphor and, much later, we’ll show one of our unbelievers being Chicked. More on that later. 

I’ve started to establish a dichotomy of a type that Chick often uses here where he shows one person getting saved and one getting yeeted into hellfire. “lol sex is epic” is going to dig his heels in like the scary atheist and “there is no god” is going to have his world absolutely rocked by this news. Also, a common caricature is that unbelievers haven’t heard the hellfire bit before. "there is no god” gets this treatment while “lol sex is epic” digs in and gets mad. (It seems to me that the reader is likely meant to find this fitting because he’s the one with the mohawk.) Chick might draw shadowy demons around “lol sex is epic” here, but he doesn’t in every case. Also, note that I’ve brought our title, “God’s blast furnace”, into it here. “there is no god” is walking right into step 3 here. 

3. Self-betrayal. The trick here is to get you to agree that you’re bad. You don’t necessarily have to agree to the hellfire thing; Comfort doesn’t hit that very hard during this phase of a conversation. His approach, which I’ll more or less emulate here, is to get the person to admit that they’ve lied about anything at all, stolen anything at all, or had any lustful thought at all (and, with the latter, referencing Matthew 5:28). Most humans have done at least two of these things at least once (some don’t steal and some are asexual, and there’s most likely overlap, but I feel confident in saying literally everyone lies at least about minor things from time to time), so once he has the confession, Comfort will catastrophise it with a line like “ok so that makes you a lying thieving adulterer in heart” and then pressure the person into answering whether a “just God” will call them innocent or guilty based on this standard. Many people say “guilty” here, as desired. (He paints the ones who say “innocent” or question the standard as dishonest when he makes videos of this.) With guilt thus established, he then asks whether this means a person goes to heaven or to hell. Again, in a typical conversation, the other person answers that this means hell. Ray has triumphed in this moment, because whether he says it or not, the connection is made in the person’s mind that as one guilty of these “sins”, they are bad and deserving of hellfire. So, for our tract, let’s have “there is no god” ask some questions and learn just how “dire” this is from our Christian, a la Ray Comfort. 

“there is no god” betrays himself; “lol sex is epic” stays mad. 

In evangelism, at least in Ray Comfort’s approach, step 3 most often comes in tandem with a lite version of the compulsion to confession, step 6. I’ve condensed this process a bit to fit it into a single panel. “there is no god” now proceeds into step 4. 

4. Breaking point. “there is no god” is now in the trap. This has him questioning everything about himself, his life, and the world. I’ll change his facial expression for the next few panels to illustrate the change. In real life, it takes a lot of repetition, scare tactics and/or other abuse, application during childhood or a moment of great weakness, or a combination of more than one of these to get this done. Since these tracts are a caricature of reality, this is always shown as a fast process. The fast process is also seen as normative because of the belief that God is self-evident, but I am aware of almost no Christians who had this kind of shift because of a single conversation. To my knowledge, this is a months- to years-long process even in most cases of childhood indoctrination. In any case, the victim reaches a point where their view of the world has begun to shatter around them. Or, as the article puts it, asking “who am I, where am I, what am I supposed to do?” We’ll have “there is no god” ask this latter question and add an interjection from “lol sex is epic” to add weight to this. 

“lol sex is epic” gets mad again and says something that many Evangelicals caricature as a common saying of unbelievers, particularly atheists, and progressive Christians (who they have mad beef with for a variety of reasons. Like, I genuinely think they hate progressive Christians more than atheists sometimes). This shows that, in the evangelist’s eyes, “lol sex is epic” has missed the point. Meanwhile, “there is no god” has arrived right at that breaking point, questioning his moral character and asking desperately if there’s a solution to this problem. Our Christian is right there to provide an answer. 

5. Leniency.  Our Christian is going to give “there is no god” the out he’s looking for, declaring that God has given him a solution in the form of Jesus Christ. To show the remaining steps I’ll separate a few things out more than tracts often do. Let’s have a bit more rage from “lol sex is epic” and, for now, have him leave the scene because his use as a character is over until the “and then they both died” bit.

“lol sex is epic” is now gone. Meanwhile, our evangelist has a captive audience for the other steps of this process. 

At this point I’m going to list a couple of steps for each panel because I’m not completely sure how to parse it out the way I’ve been doing thus far. In my perception of this, I tend to view these more easily as far fewer steps. I’ll probably draw this as two or three panels, followed by one where “there is no god” is happy about the decision he’s made. (And wearing a new shirt.)

6. Compulsion to Confession.  Part of the process of salvation is a confession. The fledgling Christian must admit to their status as a sinner and their need of a savior, often in prayer but sometimes also in person to an evangelist or spiritual mentor. This is framed as a relief, a part of casting one’s burdens onto Christ or, as the article puts it, “ the target is faced with the contrast between the guilt and pain of identity assault and the sudden relief of leniency. The target may feel a desire to reciprocate the kindness offered to him, and at this point, the agent may present the possibility of confession as a means to relieving guilt and pain.” The person has been carrying a “lifetime of sin” and a “guilty conscience” and is now letting it all go for the first time. The Catholic church goes absolutely nuts with this, institutionalizing regular confessions. “there is no god” will be presented with a call to confess to Christ. 

7-8. Channeling of guilt; releasing of guilt. The groundwork for this was already laid in the beginning; I forgot to include that part in this tract, but many evangelists will touch on their beliefs about the beginning of the world and the fall of Adam. Thus, they establish the concept of an in-born nature towards sin in all humans. They can give this concept to their target in the form of framing sin as an inherited curse that they can’t avoid having, but isn’t their fault (their actions are but the curse isn’t) and thus can be considered the source of all their “evil” motivations and actions. In this process, a lifestyle of sin is what they channel their guilt into, saying, “I feel bad because I’ve been living this way and not believing in Jesus!” Then, they can use this curse of sin to say, “it’s not me, it’s my bad nature.” Thus, this sense of guilt is channeled and released. This is repentance described in a paragraph. 

9. Progress and harmony.  At this point, the target is encouraged to choose Jesus and the abuse and negativity will stop. They must now make an active and conscious choice towards belief. The fears of hell will be abated. (At least for now).

10. Final confession and rebirth. Evangelicals go full mask off with this, touting a “born again experience” as proof of someone who is truly Christian. Often, the previous several steps are confessed in what’s called the “sinner’s prayer”. I’ll paste it below for a full explanation before I draw the panels for this. At the end, the person invites Jesus into their lives and grants him lordship over their life, then thanks God for this occurrence. This is the end of this process, though the church behaves in ways that reinforce every step of this. You know, for maintenance.  The sinner’s prayer, in one of its several, similar forms: “Dear Lord, I’m a sinner. Please forgive me. Come into my life and cleans me of my unbelief. I believe in you and in salvation through the blood of Jesus. I turn from sin and trust in Jesus alone as my Savior. In Jesus name I pray, Amen.”

Here we see the Christian offering the solution and the broad outline of the sinner’s prayer. Also, “there is no god” is greatly relieved. I’ll make one panel of him doing the sinner’s prayer, then we’ll touch on the “after they both die” thing. Our Christian character is also disposable and this, in this case, is his final appearance.

Here he is getting saved. (His shirt changes alongside this.) And, of course, he ends this with a desire to go tell literally everyone about this. That’s normative in evangelical circles too.

After this, we’re back to more fearmongering, this time involving a dichotomy meant to imply hope, as I yoink a page right out of Chick’s playbook for a couple more panels. 

Here we see a (shittily-executed) great white throne with our Christianized “there is no god” and our angry unbeliever standing before it. The circumstances of their deaths are outlined (fuck you Jack Chick that’s a creepy vibe) and their condition now is clearly explained. Notice how “lol sex is epic” is still angry. But not for long...

The mask drops:

They never portray Jesus putting it exactly like this but this is the kind of energy, at least it’s how it comes across to me when I read these after deconverting. Tracts tend to give a more detailed reaction to the “but I was good” and “give me a chance” things if their damned victims say these things. They assert that deeds aren’t enough and no one is good. Convenient for brainwashing, there’s also an artificial sense of urgency in that this life is listed as your only chance to accept this message and avoid having your flesh boil away before your eyes over and over again for all of time. 

Chick is a big fan of showing the damned being dragged or frogmarched to the pit by angels. 

And here, mohawk man gets the big yeet. 

After this, particularly if they take the Chick approach and include the hell yeet scene and/or the thing at the throne of judgement, they’ll tend to have some questions like this:

Again, parody. They’re not this goddamn on the nose with it.

I could translate this entire thing in one image:

So this has been a painful little look at what goes into a gospel tract/the brainwashing inherent to the gospel message as understood by fundies/evangelicals.

I hate that I used to think this way and unironically tell people this kind of shit. It’s manipulative and stupid, and also deeply cringey. If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry/congratulations. 

Oh, and one final thought: People who don’t generally do this with tracts use verbal, often shorter, versions of the exact same process. CRU reduces it to five points in their resources (and this is a common approach): something like 1. God made the world, 2. we screwed things up and deserve the big yeet, 3. but Jesus makes a way to fix this shit, 4. He died on a cross and rose from the dead so we could be saved, 5. so believe in him and live forever in a realm that doesn’t have to be filled with fire all the fucking time. They’ll tell you to do something involving counting on your hand while explaining this shit. It’s goddamned cursed, and you’ll notice it goes through the exact process I mentioned above. It literally intends to break you down and mold a new person out of the shards and ashes this produces.

Evangelists are assholes. 

[sebeth]

Injustice #4

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

 Injustice: Gods Among Us # 4 by Tom Taylor.

 Dick and Damian spar in the Batcave. Dick critiques Damian: “You keep aiming for that killing blow, you’re trying to hurt me, which I’m trying not to take personally by the way, but it’s not all about the body and head. Your opponent has sticky -outy bits that are easier to reach. Not only does your opponent have sticky-outy bits, they may also have had some bad circumstances that led them to a point where you’re fighting them. Some criminals deserve a second chance. Second chances are harder with a severe brain injury.”

An angered Damian hurls an escrima stick at Dick’s head, which is caught by the newly-arrived Superman.

“That’s not very sporting, Damian.”

Dick assures Clark: “It’s okay, Superman. I knew it was coming. He tries it all the time.”

The opening scene is foreshadowing for later events in the series. Damion’s routine hissy fit with the escrima sticks will end up having severe consequences.

Events before the beginning of the series in this universe are rather vague. We don’t know the circumstances of Damian’s introduction to the Bat Family. I would assume it’s similar to the mainstream universe. Damian appears older than 10, possibly in the 13-14 years old range.

Tim became Red Robin in this universe but we aren’t given details. Did Final Crisis happen? Was Bruce lost in time and presumed dead? Or is Dick’s mentorship of Damian similar to the animated movies?

Superman is at the cave to speak to Bruce. Damian says Bruce is “broodier than usual.”

Damian thanks Clark for killing the Joker: “Not that the Joker’s gone, everything just feels safer, you know?

Dick asks Clark if he’s okay. Clark says he’ll manage.

Clark demands to know where Bruce was when Ma & Pa Kent were kidnapped.

Bruce tells Clark that he has to “stop what you’re doing”.

“I have to stop what? Stop saving lives? Stop bringing dictators to justice?”

“You’re scaring them.”

“They should be scared. They should be too scared to press the button. They should be too scared to pull the trigger. They should be too scared to hurt each other. You taught me that. You’d do exactly what I’m doing if you were me, if you could do what I can.”

“You killed a man, Clark.”

“I did. And every time you let that madman live, how many more did you condemn? Did you even feel responsible? Did you even feel guilty?”

“Every time. But we don’t get to choose who dies.”

“One death. To save millions.”

“One. Death.”

“It always starts with one. That’s how justification works. But once you justify something once, you can do it again and again. It becomes easier. Right and wrong blur.”

I find myself on both sides of their argument. Bruce is absolutely correct on the slippery side nature of taking the law in your own hands. Superman and company have no right to run the world. On the other hand, killing the Joker is something that should have been done years ago. The Joker’s body count is in the hundreds if not more. There is no hope of redemption for him – and even if he suddenly regretted all of his previous actions, there is no way to atone for his scale of murder. And this is before the Metropolis massacre. The Joker – and Harley’s – death toll is now in the millions!

A Japanese fleet harpoons whales in the ocean only to encounter a very angry Aquaman.

Aquaman sinks the ship causing the Justice League to respond.

Diana urges Arthur to withdraw. Arthur refuses – the ocean is his kingdom and he will protect it as he sees fit.

A worried Atlantean soldier blasts Diana, starting an Altantean-Justice League brawl.

We return to the Batcave where Clark accuses Bruce of loving the Joker: “You’re not sitting in the dark mourning Metropolis, are you? You’re mourning him. You’re angry at me for taking the Joker away from you. You loved having him around. Your constant nemesis. The two of you played your stupid game and people died. Why did you let him do this to me, Bruce?”

While the suggestion of a Bruce/Joker love match is disgusting, Bruce should have ended the Joker years ago. Honestly, the Joker should have been killed – and left dead – in the Death of the Family storyline.  After the paralyzing Babs/murdering Jason combo act, the only thing the writers seem to do with the Joker is have him commit yet another atrocity. Boring and redundant.

Clark continues his rant, bemoaning the loss of his wife an unborn child. Clark specifically mentions the loss of his unborn child denying the world of another Kryptonian, “someone who would have made me feel less alone.”

Maybe Clark should try being nicer to Conner!

Clark criticizes Bruce’s parenting skills: “You’re sitting in the dark, ignoring Dick and Damian. How many friends did they have in Metropolis? Have you consoled them? Have you held them? Your parents died and left you, Bruce. What’s your excuse for not being a father?”

I don’t know if the events of a future Injustice annual were planned out at this point but if they were, Clark’s speech is rather ballsy and hypocritical considering his treatment of the Titans in the aftermath of the destruction of Metropolis.

Did Clark ever consider Bruce is “sitting in the dark” at the Batcomputer because he’s searching for his missing son? The one Clark banished to the Phantom Zone?

Dick and Damian wouldn’t normally have “friends in Metropolis”. Jon was never born and Dick doesn’t hang around in Metropolis. Is Clark’s “friends in Metropolis” rant the first clue Bruce has regarding the whereabouts of the missing Tim and the Titans? Is that the reason Bruce punches Clark at the end of his speech?

Clark switches from angry to concerned in a second, examining Bruce’s hand. Normally, I’d say it’s a typical Clark move, but in the Injustice-verse it’s a sign of Clark’s growing instability.

The Batcomputer alerts the duo to the brawl in the Atlantic Ocean. Clark decides to head over there.

Bruce warns Clark: “You can’t yourself above us, Clark. You’re right. I’m not saying I’d act differently if I had your abilities. I’m not saying I wouldn’t try to impose peace but you…you’re a better man than I am.”

Not anymore, Bruce.

Alfred asks “Master Kent” if he’s staying for tea.

“I’m afraid not, Alfred. And you don’t have to call me ‘Master’”.

“Good. Let’s remember that.”

Alfred is not fond of Clark’s shenanigans.

Aquaman has summoned a creature so huge that its arrival causes a tsunami. That’s right, the Kraken has been unleashed.

Batman warns Aquaman via a communicator: “Listen to me. He’s coming. He’s in angry. He’s in pain. You’re hurting his friends. You need to stop or there’s no telling what he may do. Do as he says.”

Superman wants Arthur to withdraw the Kraken.

Arthur does after reminding Clark the League started the brawl. Which they did. Arthur attempted to calm the situation down after his soldier blasted Diana. Diana decided she was “tired of words” and started the rumble.

Arthur and Clark argue.

“I called for a worldwide ceasefire.”

“Even your voice does not reach down into the deep, Superman. If you wish to rule the surface world…”

“I do not seek to rule, only to protect.”

“I understand, with the destruction of Metropolis, you lost your kingdom. But you can’t have mine.”

“I do not want…”

“Superman, whether you see it or not, your reign is beginning. But the sea is mine alone to command.

The League realizes “Atlantean armies are rising in countries across the world.”

Superman: “Arthur, what is this?”

“A reminder. I am not some self-appointed leader of an insignificant country who can be bullied into submission. Every port. Every ship. Everything that flies over the oceans does so with my blessing. Your world would halt grind to a halt if I willed it. Every land mass borders the sea. Your entire world is inside mine. Consider this a show of strength. Now get the hell out of my ocean.”

Bruce fumes: “You idiot. He’s not going to respond to an ultimatum!”

Clark orders Diana, Hal, and Billy to accompany him: “Aquaman is using his strength. It’s time we showed him our strength. It’s time we showed everyone who would threaten the world just how much power they’re dealing with. No more holding back.”

The foursome then lift Atlantis out of the ocean and re-locate it into the middle of the Sahara desert.

That’s the show of strength? Lifting a city containing thousands of civilians, women and children, and putting it in the middle of an environment where they are unable to breathe or tolerate the extreme heat. Sounds more like a murder plan.

It should be noted the panels containing the “rising Atlantean armies” only showed the Atlanteans standing in formation on the coasts – not actually attacking.

I’m not defending Arthur – he, along with Clark and Diana, all acted like immature toddlers having a fit.

The forcible removal of Atlantis is where any remaining sympathy for Clark went out the window. He acted like a terrorist. A “proper show of strength” would have been engaging the Atlantean armies not threatening unarmed civilians. It boggles my mind that the rest of the Justice League has been fine with Clark’s actions.

Diana is clearly a more sinister version of herself in this universe. She’s been egging Clark on the entire team and she is the cause of the Atlantean confrontation.

Hal should know better – Sinestro was removed from the Green Lantern Corps because of Superman-like actions – but he’s shown bad judgement in the past so I could maybe see him siding with Clark. It’s still iffy as Hal hasn’t been traumatized by the destruction of Coast City in this universe.

Hawkgirl – well, if she’s “Hawkworld” version of Shayera then she would be comfortable in a military-run world

Raven – will be shown to have fallen under Trigon’s influence so she’s clearly fallen to the “dark side”

Cyborg, Captain Marvel, and Flash are simply too good/sweet to fall in line with the dictator posse. Boggles my mind to see the trio blindly following Clark and Diana’s orders.

Diana informs Clark that Arthur is ready to speak to him. Clark demurs, stating “I’ve achieved nothing by talking today.”

More like cowardly refusing to own up to his actions.

Arthur urges Diana to steer Clark “away from this course of action”, warning her that “you will have scared a lot of people today. Ordinary people who will not want gods and aliens telling them what they can and can’t do.”

Diana refuses as she believes “this course of action is what’s best for the world.”

Diana returns to Clark and informs him that Arthur “will pull his armies back into the ocean”.

Clark has Billy and Hal return Atlantis to the ocean, nothing “this action didn’t sit well with either of them.”

Diana tells Clark “Don’t worry about what they think. You did the right thing. You did what needed to be done.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I won’t let you doubt yourself.”

“What else?”

“What?”

“Surely Arthur had more to say.”

“No. Nothing.”

Diana omits Arthur’s concers and his expressed sympathies for the loss of Lois.

Diana is quite the sinister manipulator in this universe. She’s all but hurling Clark down the “slippery slope” of his actions.

It’s easy to see the reasons of Clark’s descent. He’s lost his wife, unborn child, and his entire city. He’s isolated his parents in a fortress instead of mourning with them. He has a fierce anger towards his best friend because of the Joker and is unwilling to listen to Bruce. Diana, his other best friend, is urging him to indulge in his worst impulses. And the rest of the Justice League – minus Arthur – is too cowardly to call him out.

Next issue: It gets worse. Of course, that could be the summary for every issue.

[t3hwh1t3p4nth3r]

Lotura Week Day 4!

Shiro was trying to bite back the pain, frequently hissing through clenched teeth.

 Keith removed his belt and folded it over before putting it in front of Shiro’s mouth. Shiro bit down hard on it as Pidge and Matt tightened the binding around what was left of his right arm. His mechanical one had been wrenched off by a large piece of debris, taking a fair chunk of his flesh with it. The belt didn’t keep him from shouting as they cauterized the wound shut.

 “That’s only going to work for so long.” Pidge said, tossing some of the blood soaked rags aside. “Without proper treatment, there’s still a fair chance it could get badly infected…”

 Allura was sat against a wall shaking her head, only a few feet away from where she had gotten sick. Everything had been going so well. They weren’t terribly far from Earth now. They had traveled so far for so long and had only minor incidents. This had to be Sendak. They had learned he was still alive, but they hadn’t known anything about his plan. Had he tracked them? Had he known that they would head to Earth? If he did…

 She was very nearly sick again at the thought alone.

 Shiro was the only one severely injured in the initial attack. Everyone else’s injuries were minor. They could tend to the majority of them themselves.

 “I think we really messed up…”

 Everyone turned their attention to Hunk as he spoke. He shook his head lightly as he continued, glancing around at all of them.

 “I think we really messed up… Turning on Lotor like that… Leaving him the Rift…”

 “What?!? You heard what he did! Romelle showed us what he did! You’re saying we should still be working with him!?! That we should have given him the chance to keep draining the life out of innocent people!?!” Keith may have changed in a lot of ways while he was gone, but it was apparent that his temperament wasn’t one of those things.

 “All I’m saying is that… We didn’t really hear his side back there. And he was the Galran Emperor. He was the only reason things were staying at all stable in the Empire. With him gone, what’s gonna stop them all from trying to seize power, planets and whatever else they want for themselves?”

 Pidge gave a small nod.

 “I think Hunk might be right… There’s almost no equilibrium any more. Without anything to stand in the way, everything has turned to chaos… We’d probably be better off if he was still here.”

 “With that monster gone, my people can finally be safe and truly free!” Romelle had remained rather quiet until now, tending to Lance’s larger scrapes.

 “We have a saying on Earth: Better the Devil you know than the Devil you don’t.” Matt kept his voice level and calm. It showcased the discipline he had learned while working with the rebel forces. “You may no longer have Lotor to deal with, but there has to be at least one other person that knew the location of New Altea. It’s likely that information could be used as a hefty bargaining chip by the right person. Your people are at even more risk now than ever, because now ANY Galran warlord could show up to claim the colony. What happened to your people was awful, I’m not denying that. But as things stand now, it could get much worse for the surviving Alteans.”

 The air in the room was heavy, the sounds of explosions and structures crumbling being the only noise.

 Shiro spoke, his voice weak and still showing his pain clearly. “Is there any way… We’d be able to even get him back?”

 Coran shakes his head. “It’s highly unlikely… We don’t even know if he survived… Overexposure to raw quintessence is incredibly dangerous and has shown itself to be lethal before. Besides… Even if he did survive, we have no way to access the Rift. We sealed the entrance to Rift that was at Daibazaal. There are likely similar Rifts scattered throughout the Universe, but we have no way of knowing where they are or how they’d be connected.”

 “Or IF they’d be connected…”

 “Exactly. And we simply don’t have the means to open a Rift without the Castle of Lions.” Coran’s expression dropped further. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do to get him back. We just don’t have the power.”

 A large blast from Sendak’s ship landed only a few buildings over from where they were hiding. Allura glanced out the window, spying the ship.

 “Power…”

 “What was that Princess?”

 “Coran. You said we didn’t have enough power to try to bring Lotor back from the Rift. If anyone did have such power, I think it would likely be Haggar.”

 “Oh, great idea…” Pidge’s mood had been incredibly surly ever since they landed. The sudden turn of the situation for the worse did absolutely nothing to improve it. “And I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to help us out. Not to mention, she’s probably halfway across the quiznaking universe.”

 Allura shook her head. “I don’t think so. Sendak… He’s essentially become her puppet. After all the times her Beasts failed her, I think she would want to stick close by. In case something went wrong. That way she could easily fix the problem. I think she’s on that ship with him.”

 “Ok. Let’s assume that’s right. Then what? We’d still have to find a way to make her use her powers to open the Rift and then figure out how to get Lotor out before she realized something was up and closed us in there too.”

 “I know, Pidge. But what better choices do we have? With Lotor’s ship fighting alongside Voltron, we could easily dispatch Sendak here and now before his damage can spread any further. We’ve already seen that Voltron alone isn’t enough in this fight.”

 That was a point no one could argue.

 Lance’s tone was soft and a bit rough from smoke he’d breathed in earlier. “If Allura thinks it’s the right thing to do… Then I’ll stand behind her decision.”

 They all looked around at each other, sharing glances that were at once determined but unsure.

 “Another impossible mission for Team Voltron…” Hunk sighed with a forced smile. “Well… What’s the plan?”

 000

 After making the necessary repairs to Green, Allura, Pidge and Lance made their way to Sendak’s ship, hidden behind the cloaking technology. After the drop off, Allura and Lance would be on their own.

 As expected, the ship was crawling with sentries and officers. There were a few Galrans who looked uneasy, almost scared.

 The likely cause of that discomfort made her voice heard.

 “I want you to double his restraints. Ever since he was a child he’s found ways to get loose.”

 “Mistress Haggar, with the restraint around his neck, I don’t believe that’s-“

 The man’s words are cut off with a startled, choking sound.

 “I was not asking for your opinion on the matter, Lieutenant. You could not possibly understand Prince Lotor like I do. Now, do as I say.”

 There’s the sound of a body falling to the floor followed by coughing.

 “Of course… Mistress Haggar..”

 Lance and Allura exchanged glances of vague horror and shock. Haggar did indeed have the power to open up the Rift. And she had already done it. She had already retrieved Lotor.

 Allura opened up the communication on her helmet, her voice a whisper. “Lotor is on the ship. Haggar said he was restrained. That… that means he must be alive.” The small break at the end did not go unnoticed. Her relief was apparent, especially to Lance who could see her face.

 It was bitter sweet for him. He was so happy to see her look almost happy. She hadn’t ever since the incident. Afterwards, she had started second guessing her reactions. They all had. Well, almost all of them. Romelle and Keith had remained adamant that they had made the right call in leaving Lotor behind. No one else could honestly say they shared that confidence, though. Like Hunk had said earlier: They hadn’t even tried to hear Lotor out.

 Though he was happy to see her happier than she’d been in a while, he was still a bit sad about it too. Sad that it wasn’t him who was making her happier. He’d tried multiple times, and he had succeeded in getting a lot of smiles to cross her lips. But they were usually pretty fleeting. They were small distractions, but they didn’t actually help to get rid of the hurt. And he did feel like they had been growing closer lately, just… not really in the way he had wanted. Their friendship was feeling stronger than ever. But he couldn’t help wondering if that was all it was destined to be: An amazing friendship. Nothing more and nothing less.

 But that was ok. He felt lucky to have a woman as incredible as Allura in his life at all, let alone as a close friend. He knew his feelings would probably never change. He would continue to love her, and to fight for her and whatever made her happy. And if that meant he’d be fighting for Lotor, so be it. As long as Allura ends up happy, he’ll be alright with whatever makes it happen.

 They carefully made their way through the ship, narrowly avoiding detection a few times. They had lost sight of the Lieutenant a little while ago, but they knew they were in the right general area. They ducked into an alcove as one of the doors opened, the Lieutenant emerging.

 “That ought to hold him.”

 They waited for him to round the corner out of sight before they dashed over to the door. They were surprised when the door opened without any sort of security measures seeming to be in place. They soon realized it was because this had been a rushed cell. The room wasn’t meant for containing prisoners or anything of value.

 As the door closed behind them, Allura removed her helmet.

 Lotor was strapped to what resembled an operating table, tilted upward slightly. There were two heavy restraints on each of his ankles, each of his wrists, each of his shoulders, around his middle and around his neck. Even Lotor wouldn’t be able to escape from this.

 Her voice came out soft and hesitant, not at all how she had intended.

 “Lotor?”

 His brow furrowed at the voice before his eyes slipped open. They were shifting between the eyes Allura had come to know and eyes of pure yellow.

 They snapped shut once more soon enough, Lotor turning his head as far away from her as he could manage. His jaw was tight, as was his voice.

 “Enough of your games, Witch!”

 Allura flinched at his biting tone but soon shook it off, trying once more.

 “Lotor. Please. It’s me. It’s REALLY me. Allura.”

 “ I already lost her! You needn’t continue mocking my pain!”

 Allura approached. As she did, she saw tears starting to spill from his shut eyes. Were they from anger and hate towards who he perceived her to be? Or were they because he missed her? Because he had loved her? And she had turned her back on him?

 Tears slid down her cheeks to as she moved in front of him.

 “Witch, I said –“

 Allura pressed her lips to his before he could get his thought out. His surprise was evident when she pulled away.

 “A… Allura? It’s… Really you?”

 His eyes started shifting less, settling on the familiar eyes for longer.

 Allura nodded.

 “Yes.”

 His eyes settled for the final time, back to the way they’d always been. His tears started to flow harder, his head hanging as much as the restraints around his neck would allow.

 “Allura, I’m… I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you, I just… I didn’t know how. I-“

 She shakes her head, gently covering his mouth with a hand.

 “I’m sorry too. I promise, I’ll hear your explanation. But it can’t be now. Lance and I have to get you out of here.”

 Lotor glanced over Allura’s shoulder, noticing the paladin for the first time.

 “How do we get you out of these?”

 Lotor shook off the mild embarrassment he felt at having cried like that in front of one of the paladins.

 “The panel beside Lance. It opens. They put the keys in there.”

 It took a moment for Lotor to get his legs under him. He had evidently been restrained for a while. Once he recovered, though, they made their way into the hall.

 “We’ll need to make our exit quickly. They frequently check to make sure I’m still there. The witch’s orders. It won’t be long until they discover I’m missing and realize someone got onboard.”

 “Where exactly are we going? Pidge’s drop off and pick up point is back that way.” Lance gestured in what he believed to be the general direction of where they had come in.

 “Lotor, do they have your ship here as well?”

 Lotor gave a nod.

 “Yes. They’ve been making repairs to it. Haggar realized the potential of it and likely wants to use it as a means to put an end to Voltron. She can’t do that if she doesn’t have it though.”

 “You know, to be fair, you kinda used it to try to put an end to Voltron too…” The look that Lance got from Allura read loud and clear: NOT THE TIME!

 Lotor winced slightly at the paladins words.

 “Yes… You’re right… And I… Well, there really is no way to apologize for what I did or what I said. There’s no excuse…”

 “Boys, we’ll discuss it later. The hangar is ahead.”

 Thankfully the only ‘people’ in their way were sentries. That didn’t make the fight necessarily easy, but it did mean there was a little less chance of an alarm being sounded that would send in more attackers.

 Only a little less. They had just gotten inside of the Sincline ship when a loud alarm started sounding. The hangar would soon be swarmed with sentries and officers.

 “Uh, Lotor!?! Not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything, but maybe getting us out of here would be a good idea!”

 Lotor growled as he fought with the controls trying to get Sincline started and going.

 “They made less progress than I had anticipated. It’s because they left it in one piece. Hold on to something! This will not be my best flying.”

 Allura and Lance did as they were told.

 Lotor gave up fighting the controls, aiming a sharp kick at it instead. It worked, jostling the stuck mechanism sharply into place. They shot forward just as the sentries flooded in, the ship taking multiple hits from the blasters.

 With the main mechanism back in alignment, Lotor had better control of the ship. It was clear to him that there was still much that needed repair. For now, though, he’d settle for a convincing bluff. He stabilized Sincline, facing toward Sendak’s ship. He drew the dual swords, hoping the threat alone would be enough to scare them off.

 He didn’t have to find out. Three of the Voltron Lions soon came up to join them.

 This clearly did the trick. It didn’t take long for the ship to create a portal and start to leave.

 “Shouldn’t we stop them!?! They’re going to get away!”

 “No, Keith.” Allura’s tone was calm. “All of our ships are too badly damaged to survive a true fight right now. We’ll have to wait until our paths cross again. I’m sure it’ll be sooner than we would like. For now, we should make repairs and tend to our injuries.”

 They all returned to the ground to do just that.

 It was a new start. A very awkward and tense new start. But a new start none the less.

(Holy shit this is hella long. I hope you enjoy it if you manage to get through all 2682 words of it. Shit. Anyway, this one is late too, but not as bad as my last one. Hopefully I can be on time for the next one at least)

(Prompts: Dystopian AU/ Equilibruium/ Complementary. That last one is  abit debatable)

[awfully-sadistic]

The enemy of my... wait.

“If someone told me I’d be working together with you, I would have laughed.” Dot’s tone didn’t give any indication that there had been any laughter behind her statement and the bite following caused Ada Wong’s hands to still in her task. But it was only a flicker of a moment because deft fingers worked to attach the muted mine onto concrete and Ada hurried back, taking Dot by the shoulders to usher her a safe distance away before it exploded.

“And told them they were stupid. And to stop talking to me ‘cause I hate liars.  But we promised to save some kids and that’s the only reason why I’m doing this--!” Dot was still talking as Ada placed her arms around Dot’s petite shoulders, curling herself over the younger woman to ensure nothing touched her when the mine activated, spouting debris everywhere. There was a timer ticking a countdown and something amazing soon happened afterwards. But the next thing Dot realized was that there was a hole in the wall and sound coming back to her ears.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, looking up at Ada. Then, realizing the other woman’s closeness, Dot began to shake her off her shoulders. Ada didn’t seem to mind, instead opting to answer Dot’s question.

“It’s a mute charge,” she whispered, turning back to the hole in the wall which the mine had cleared. She stuck her head out and looked up and down the darkened halls to ensure that no one was coming to give them any more trouble. “I manged to swipe some of the military tech lying around the facility and figured it would be useful.” It definitely did prove to be useful since there had been a wall standing in their path between here and the children. “We don’t want to draw anymore attention to ourselves and had agreed to let Leon do the heavy lifting, but we needed to get through. It emits a vibration-dampening field and mutes the noises of gunfire and explosions.” Once Ada saw and heard that no one had been alerted to their position, she turned to give Dot a smile. “Pretty useful, huh?”

Dot folded her arms and muttered something under her breath like, “I guess.” There was no way she was giving Ada any props or the satisfaction that things were going pretty well... considering the dangerous environment they were in and the fact that anyone could start shooting at them at any minute. And though Dot didn’t like to admit it, she had preferred prowling and stealthily moving around as opposed to standing around in a fire fight. Leon and Monica seemed to have that front covered as much as she worried about the two and as much as she would rather be with them at the moment helping in any way she could, she was with Ada. But she couldn’t deny that that stealth and cover was going to be needed to evacuate a dozen or so kids from the building.

It was somewhat by choice, too. That was what frustrated Dot the most. Once everyone had heard there were children being held captive in the building, finding out that they were being experimented on, Dot had already knew where she was heading. She knew where she was needed and there was no changing her mind no matter how much Leon protested they get rid of the bigger threat first. But Dot’s heart had always been with children (especially those in need!) and there was no guarantee that the children would have been safe to see this entire thing through. There were so many perils in this underground facility, Dot didn’t want to be around it another minute. She can only imagine what those kids were going through.

“I’ll go with her,” Ada had compromised. It had shocked Dot to hear that Ada was volunteering on doing something selfless and for children, no less. 

“I’m surprised you want to do anything to help anyone.” Dot couldn’t help the snarky response that flew from her mouth despite being vaguely grateful for the help to persuade Leon to let them go. If it bothered Ada, she didn’t let it show. She was used to the hostilities Leon’s partner and girlfriend harbored for her. Something about not treating Leon right? Instead, she gave Dot a fairly confident smile bordering on smug that Dot wanted to pop her one in the mouth and smear that red lipstick she wore so perfectly applied all over her face.

“I never said I was coming along to help the kids.”

Dot’s gaze narrowed and she frowned deeply. It figured she had some ulterior motive and one she wasn’t too keen on sharing since she didn’t elaborate on it. Leon looked helpless switching his gaze between the two women and Monica, who was awkwardly shuffling on her feet and looking anywhere else but in front of her, didn’t ask any further. The both of them were supposed to provide Leon Kennedy the backup he needed and running into Ada was just, yet again, another inconvenience. Dot wanted to argue but Ada was the only one who volunteered to go.

“Sorry, Dottie, I have one half of the EMP resonator Leon needs to install. I’d go with you but...”

“That’s alright, love,” Dot said, turning her gaze to give her best friend an encouraging smile. “Ada and I will go rescue the kids. You just need to give us a time frame to work with, we’d need the extra time to escape with them as well as an escape route before all the power cuts out and we get trapped somewhere stupid.”

Leon looked pensive as he thought the situation over. He was iffy about letting his girlfriend and Ada Wong, a rather un-trustful person, go off on their own. But he understood Dot’s worry. And he also cared about the fate of these children as well. There was proof they were still alive and caged in another part of the compound but...

“Splitting up is always a bad idea...” He finally said, raising his worried gaze to Dot. They weren’t setting off a bomb, but they were shutting off all the power to the compound as a means to hinder the private military company using and even trading B.O.W.’s around the globe. Experimenting on these children had produced faster, smaller, and deadlier B.O.W’s as much as it broke Dot’s heart to hear it. However, this EMP will also incapacitate the power on safety measures, shutting down or locking down some areas and restricting the exit points they could use as a means to escape. That was why it was so important Dot and Ada find a couple of reliable escape routes for their side mission. Their main goal had been to shut down any B.O.W.’s in production, stalling them in their test tubes and cryo-chambers. Leon had no doubt they’d get this task done but he did not know exactly what entails from shutting the entire place down. However, from his experience in things like this, it usually means it opens gates for bigger and larger obstacles. That was what scared him the most, being separated from Dot during one of those times.

“But right now, it’s the only option we have.” Dot pointed out. She agreed with Leon that splitting up was a terrible, terrible idea and she also knew the importance of this mission, but since there were four of them, it’d be no problem to focus their efforts on this one little thing. It was probably safer from actually doing the main mission.

“You’re right,” Leon stated, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He sighed deeply and settled his gaze on Dot. She could see the worry still etched on his face, the way he looked troubled at the turn of events and then finally having to make a decision to send his beloved girlfriend off to go through unknown elements but knowing they must do anything they could for those children, too. “they have to be saved and I can’t think of a better person to help them.”

Dot beamed proudly, reaching down to give Leon’s hand a squeeze; one he immediately returned. Leon and Dot were too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other that they missed Ada’s curious glance between the two, it had almost went unnoticed. Monica rubbed the back of her neck, wondering if Ada knew that she was openly staring, wondered if Ada realized she wasn’t as great at keeping a poker face as she had thought. There was blatant jealousy in the way her gaze lingered over their linked hands and Dot’s soft expression, her happy smile, and the minute Ada turned her gaze to lock with Monica’s, her facade was back up. That mask was on again. Monica gave the other woman a nervous smile and looked down at the handgun in her hand suddenly finding it much more interesting. It wasn’t like she could say anything about what she just saw. 

“How about if we...” Dot settled the map down on a nearby crate and Ada and Leon stood hunched over a map for the next half hour, going through all the escape points the girls could go through that’d support the escape of a dozen kids. They took into account how the children might not be at their best, either, weak and malnourished until they finally came up with a plan.

That was what brought the events up to now. Dot was still struggling to get along with Ada but she couldn’t help but notice something was different about the other woman when it was just the two of them. Ada seemed a lot more relaxed, not quite as cocky as when Leon was around. And Ada never addressed Dot in that same cocky tone she would use on Leon, either. Dot was open about her distaste about the woman but Ada never showed her the same treatment. It was almost enough for Dot to feel guilty about how hostile she was treating Ada when it seemed she was doing nothing wrong... but she has been around Ada for many years now, been privy to her attitude whenever she and Leon ran into her. Not to mention the many times she’s double-crossed them or done something to suit her own ulterior motives. 

Augh. That reminded her.

“What did you want, anyway? You don’t even want to help the kids, it’s clearly something you’re after. So what is it?” Dot brought up the question that was left hanging in the air from the small enclosure they had been in several minutes ago. Ada stood on the other side of the hole made by the mute mine, holding a hand out while the other supported herself on the wall as she leaned in towards Dot. 

“What did I want?” Ada asked, puzzled. When she saw that Dot was staring at her hand, she wiggled her fingers enticingly. “Come on, I just want to help you over.”

“Wha--” Dot blinked, “I can do it...” she argued a little confused. Dot wasn’t the type that was usually stubborn when it came to things like this. People helping her, extending hands to place in theirs. But this was Ada and she didn’t trust her.

Ada didn’t say anything but she didn’t retract her hand, either. She did, however, watch as Dot stepped over huge piles of concrete and rubble, stopping just before crossing over. Ada’s hand was still extended and she glanced down at it, still perplexed. Why???

Hesitantly, Dot did take Ada’s hand. If Ada wanted to help her across, fine. That’s her thing. Dot wasn’t going to be hearing about this later when Ada turned it around and made her look the bad guy for this--

“Wuh!” Ada had pulled Dot across the concrete barrier and was apparently a lot stronger than Dot had anticipated. She now stood IN Ada’s space, pressed against the other woman’s front, head craned back having to look UP at her.

Was Ada always this tall? No, it had to be the high heels, right? Yeah. That’s it. High heels.

Ada had that stupid smug grin on her face again and Dot made to move away, to push herself away, but she didn’t move anywhere. Ada’s other hand snaked around her back, her waist, holding her close.

“Were you asking what I wanted?” she asked. Her gaze roamed Dot’s face, taking in the way her lip curled, the obvious distrust, maybe even hate on display, for all to see. Ada couldn’t blame Dot. She has screwed Leon over many times. She just couldn’t help if Leon brought his girlfriend with him and she got caught up in things. It wasn’t what Ada wanted, well, for Dot anyway. She didn’t give a care for Leon S. Kennedy. if anything, he was like an annoying little brother who kept popping up and trying to get into her business. But Dot.

You know how sisters get crushes on their brother’s friends? It was something like that. 

Ada Wong had never been attracted to men yet they found her attractive and she used that against them; wasn’t it their own fault for being so gullible? So easy? She thought she could use it against someone like Leon when she had first met him but Leon jumping in front of her to save her many times and his selfless nature changed her mind and genuinely allowed her to see the man as nothing more than a good guy; one of the real ones out there. For as much as she deceived Leon, she also cast a helping hand too, and she felt like a big sister trying to guide a dumb puppy of a brother from getting himself seriously harmed. But when Leon started to bring his girlfriend around, it was like the world stopped for a moment as she settled her eyes on Dot Dreadful. Perhaps she was a little more cruel to Leon in those times when Dot was around because she was jealous.

Dot was a very attractive woman and Ada could find herself in the shoes of all the men she had deceived in the past if Dot had wanted to turn the tables on Ada one day.

Dot may have been asking what Ada wanted but Ada was never one for straight answers. But, like Leon, perhaps she’d cast a line to help Dot understand on her own. Slowly, she slid her arm out from Dot’s curvy hips yet taking the time to savor the feel of her in her arms.

“Its true what I said back then. I didn’t come along because I’m helping the children.” she paused before she turned around, starting to walk off to lead Dot to where she wanted to go. “I’m doing this because I’d rather help you.”

[radfemetc]

When Bindels speak*

Fourteen years ago, in an opinion column in The Guardian provocatively entitled ‘Gender Benders, Beware’, lesbian feminist activist Julie Bindel wrote that:

“I don’t have a problem with men disposing of their genitals, but it does not make them women, in the same way that shoving a bit of vacuum hose down your 501s does not make you a man.”

I vaguely remember reading this at the time, slightly bemused both at the piece and then at the subsequent outraged public reaction to it. Fast forward to a few months ago, and I’ve just published some blog pieces which, though not reaching Bindelesque proportions, have proved moderately controversial in my discipline, academic philosophy. As I discuss and defend my views on social media, and watch others discuss them, the name of Julie Bindel comes up repeatedly, as an example of company which, it is presumed, I absolutely don’t want to keep. A well-established male philosopher intones repeatedly about Bindel’s ‘offensive, transphobic’ comments in the past. Another describes her to me as a ‘loopy extremist’, and ‘potty’. I go back to find the article online and rather disbelievingly check whether it’s the same one I vaguely remember. It is.

Now, to attempt to mitigate against such perceptions, which perhaps you share, I could tell you about Bindel’s frankly stunning track record of effective activism, working on behalf of natal women and girls world-wide with an energy and bravery which borders on heroic. I could tell you that the context of her Guardian piece was partly a discussion of an attempt by trans women Kimberley Nixon to sue Vancouver Rape Relief for not allowing her to work with traumatised natal women fleeing male sexual violence: a case which rumbled on for another three years before Nixon lost, costing the shelter thousands of dollars to defend against. I could point out that the idiom of the piece was clearly intended to be comic, colourful, and frank, and was pretty funny in several places; for instance:

“When I were a lass, new to feminism and lesbianism, I was among the brigade who would sit in the women’s disco wearing vegetarian shoes and staring in disbelief at the butch/femme couples, mainly because they were having a better time than me”.

I could tell you that even so, she later apologised ‘unreservedly’ for writing the article. I could point out that many of the things she says in the piece are prescient, and over time have only got more troubling: worries about how trans ideology often essentialises wholly sexist gender stereotypes about masculine and feminine behaviour; about the development of a culture apparently in favour of cutting off parts of healthy bodies if one is ‘unhappy with the constraints of .. gender’; and about the harmful implied message sent by this culture to butch lesbians and camp gay men. And I could also easily manifest the anger I felt, as I read these online comments from middle-class heterosexual males, typing smugly and contemptuously about one moment fourteen years ago in the life of a working-class lesbian, who has devoted most of the rest of that life to addressing issues such as child grooming, sex trafficking, prostitution, and cross-border surrogacy; doing activism in the field, and not just from the armchair.

But to cite these facts as exculpatory of Bindel would suggest that an ordinary woman who had said roughly the same thing as her– that is, that trans women aren’t, in fact, women — and yet who was not already a heroic feminist defender of natal women, or who wasn’t partly talking about an odiously selfish individual such as Nixon, would be at fault. I deny this too. That is, I reject the near-pathological zeal with which trans activists, ‘trans allies’, and ‘woke blokes’ generally, seek to monitor and control natal women’s language in this domain: not just with respect to discussing whether trans women are actually women, but also in uses of particular names and pronouns, and gender attributions.

The statement “transwomen are women” has become a kind of mantra for so-called progressives. To understand what it is meant by it, we need to distinguish the use of that phrase, in those mouths, from two other contexts. One of those involves a claim about the law. Since 2004, those in the UK with a Gender Recognition Certificate are counted as having had their gender ‘reassigned’. This is not, and was never intended to be, any pronouncement on a biological fact. It is in fact impossible for a child or adult to biologically change sex. (I’m prepared to offer arguments for this, if needed, but most readers will, I hope, accept it as true). Nor was this law supposed to pronounce definitively on the question of whether a trans woman with a GRC ‘really is’ a woman. The Gender Recognition Act was at most intended to allow for a legal status — that of ‘gender reassignment’ — for the purposes of access to certain protections under the law.

A second version of the claim “trans women are women” is uttered for therapeutic reasons. One basis for self-identifying as a trans person is the condition of gender dysphoria. It is assumed by many medical practitioners that, on diagnosis of this condition, treating a person ‘as if’ belonging to their self-identified gender is helpful to their well-being; whereas confronting them with their ‘birth-assigned’ gender, or the biological facts of their sex, is not. We might easily interpret this as a kind of benevolent role-playing or method-acting, extending from the medical practitioner out into the wider community: act as if a trans woman is a woman, in most social contexts. But this is completely compatible with denying that trans women really arewomen, in a more committed sense.

Somehow, though, in recent years, a respectful concern for the well-being of trans people has supposedly morphed into a literal claim about category membership: trans women really are women. That is: trans women belong unambiguously in the category of women; the concept of woman literally applies to them. For most trans activists, this is supposed to be true whether the trans woman is a post-operative transsexual, or a trans woman on hormones, or whether she belongs to the significant proportion of trans women who are neither. She ‘is’ a women, whether she transitioned in her teens, or in middle-age; whether thirty years ago, or yesterday. Moreover, for many trans activists, not only are trans women literally women, but if they have children, they can be mothers. If they have female partners, they can be lesbians. They can be victims of misogyny. And so on. One by one, the familiar words women have used to describe themselves tumble like a chain of dominoes.

Such claims are usually unargued-for. They are presented more as self-evident truths; the outcome of revelation, perhaps, or as some article of faith which it would be downright evil to try to deny or complicate. As this description suggests, agreement with such claims is ruthlessly socially enforced by trans activists. Not only are you not supposed to refer to or imply, in front of a trans person, any fact about their natally-bestowed gender or biological sex; you aren’t suppose to mention these, even in their absence. To do otherwise is sometimes called a form of ‘violence’. Even on a massive UK discussion forum like Mumsnet, in a thread about trans people written by gender-critical feminists and directed towards fellow gender-critical feminists, you aren’t supposed to mention it. Even on a Whatsapp group chat involving natal women working at the BBC, you aren’t supposed to mention it. It doesn’t matter if your subject matter is Labour party all-woman shortlists, what to do about children who think they are trans, medical discussions, biology teaching, or presumably, your own relatives; you are never, ever, eversupposed to describe trans women as men or male, ‘deadname’, ‘misgender’, or use the ‘wrong’ pronouns out loud. Even trans women themselves aren’t supposed to do these things: see the bullying treatment that trans women in the UK such as Miranda Yardley, Kristina Harrison, and Debbie Hayton get, when they deny that they themselves are ‘really’ women, and seek a different narrative.

This is in itself quite striking, as for other false claims about category membership, people are normally socially permitted to assert them. Take the claims: “Elton John is straight”. “Marvin Gaye is white”. Those claims are obviously false, but there was, presumably, no inward gasp of horror as you just read them. Now contrast with: “Caitlyn Jenner is a man”; “Lily Madigan is biologically male; he is a man”. Even though I mention these as exemplary sentences, rather than assert them myself, I assume that at least some readers think I just wrote something awful. Moreover, this is presumably not just the feeling that I showed a lack of respect for the addressee’s wishes; for if I tell you that the composer of the song ‘Rocket Man’ is Reginald Dwight, presumably you don’t think I just committed ‘violence’ against Elton John by ‘deadnaming’ him.

Writing down those phrases about Jenner and Madigan just now, but without quotation marks, would be enough to have me banned from Twitter. Articles have been removed from Medium for less. This is not, despite what opponents have sometimes suggested, because such statements are obviously morally equivalent to denying the personhood or humanity of those who are racially different to oneself. (Again, I’m happy to offer arguments for this — it won’t take long — but I leave it aside for the moment, on the assumption that most readers aren’t so sophomoric). Nor is it reasonable to think that hearing such statements will generally cause trans people to have thoughts of suicide, as is sometimes dramatically suggested by Owen Jones, in a way that means we should never utter them.

A better explanation seems to involve the thought that, should a speaker X publically refer to a trans person Y by their natally-bestowed name or pronouns, even out of the earshot of Y, Y might later find out about it; or at least, some other trans person might find out about it, and by extrapolation to their own case, be caused to experience a distressing episode of dysphoria. Equally, presumably, it is worried that if a trans woman overhears a general claim such as “trans women are men/ males”, she will be caused great distress; perhaps too, a trans man might be caused great distress, again by extrapolating to his own case.

However, this reasoning clearly has limits. If gender critical feminists are talking to each other on a discussion thread clearly advertised for the purpose, or in a Whatsapp group, then it just seems too demanding to require they talk a certain way, just in case a trans woman or trans man reads or ‘hears’ them. The trans woman in question would almost certainly have to be specially looking. Quite often trans activists will equate misgendering along the lines of going up to a trans person and screaming ‘you’re a man!’ in their face(always ‘screaming’, of course). Obviously this isn’t what is happening in the contexts just mentioned: this is natal women talking to other natal women, about matters of great importance to them, as such, and with no reasonable expectation that they will be accidentally ‘overheard’.

In any case: even if one can foresee that trans people will overhear when one denies that trans women are women — is that a compelling reason not to say what one thinks? It rather depends on what is at stake. It was part of the original argument of my blog pieces that rather a lot is currently at stake in the UK with respect to this matter. There are several conflicts of interest that arise between trans women, as a category, and women, as a category, competing for the same spaces and resources. Trans activists seem to think that natal women should accede to all their demands. In that context, I think natal women should be allowed to speak freely in a critical way about the underpinnings of trans activist views. If natal women conclude after consideration that trans women aren’t women, they should be able to say so, whether or not they’re ultimately right.

Partly too, though, I think that the moral horror which unconsciously accompanies ‘misgendering’ in particular is, perversely, an artefact of sexist normative stereotypes for natal women and men. We tend to frame statements like “Caitlyn Jenner is a man/ male” in terms of insults launched at ‘butch’ or ‘manly’ natal women. The combination of a woman’s name and the epithet ‘man’ or ‘male’ sounds insulting, automatically. Compare: “Kathleen Stock is a man”. Were you to hear someone else saying this, perhaps you would empathically imagine me hearing the same thing and finding it distressing or embarrassing; you might assume that as a woman, I must aspire to the norm of a feminised appearance, and must suffer if I miss the mark. But — of course — to say e.g. that “Caitlyn Jenner is a man” isn’t an insult, in many contexts in which it is uttered. It is, in the mouths of many, a descriptive fact, not a slur or insult. Indeed, arguably it could only be an insult in the way just indicated, if in fact the speaker already assumed that Caitlyn Jenner was a woman. And this is, precisely, not assumed by those that tend to say it.

What else might underly the reaction to Bindel, in particular? I’m sure that part of it is to do with another sexist assumption: that women cannot be bawdy, frank, or colourful in their language; they must be sober, measured, cautious, responsible, kind. At this point we might as well also revisit Germaine Greer’s statement from the Victoria Derbyshire show in 2015:

“Just because you lop off your penis and then wear a dress doesn’t make you a fucking woman .. I’ve asked my doctor to give me long ears and liver spots and I’m going to wear a brown coat but that won’t turn me into a fucking cocker spaniel.”

This is a vividly Rabelaisian way of making the basic claim — which I have argued that natal women should be freely permitted to make, whether or not it is true — that trans women aren’t women. It caused an enormous fuss at the time, and is still regularly cited, along with other such statements, as evidence of Greer’s ‘transphobia’. Yet in her brilliant and funny seminal work of feminism The Female Eunuch, published in 1970, it is clear from Greer’s discussion of April Ashley that she held the same position then as she does now. Greer expresses herself frankly about many things, and always has. See also, for instance, this brutal passage, also from The Female Eunuch, about female students in Universities:

“Their energy is all expended on conforming with disciplinary and other requirements, not in gratifying their own curiosity about the subject that they are studying, and so most of it is misdirected into meaningless assiduity. This phenomenon is still very common among female students, who are forming a large proportion of the arts intake at universities, and dominating the teaching profession as a result. The process is clearly one of diminishing returns: the servile induce servility to teach the servile, in a realm where the unknown ought to be continually assailed with all the human faculties: education cannot be, and has never been a matter of obedience”. (p.75)

Now, you very possibly disagree with this, and so do I. And the style may not be to your taste. You might prefer your lady writers hedged, scholarly, sympathetic, and so on. Myself, I find it refreshing, like a bucket of cold salt water has been chucked over me after days of humid air. That is of course, compatible with saying that I disagree with a lot of what Greer says: as I have a mind of my own, this is hardly surprising. But whether Greer is to your taste or not, it is simply obvious that we don’t police colourful derogatory male speech in anything like the same way, whether the males in question are talking about natal women/ females, or even trans people.

The constant harping of progressive men on supposedly salutary examples like Bindel and Greer sends a message to natal women. Don’t say what you think. Don’t express an opinion on what women are; leave it to trans women to decide that. Don’t be assured. Don’t be bold. Don’t be whimsical or linguistically playful. Don’t try to be funny. Watch your mouth. Given the typical circumstances of female socialisation, natal women are already highly susceptible to such messages, and to feeling shame as a result. So here’s a task for any progressive males reading. Next time a natal woman expresses herself in a way you find unattractive, unseemly, unkind, or downright rude about trans people, then, assuming they aren’t “screaming it in a trans person’s face”: why not shut the fuck up and keep it to yourself.

Kathleen Stock 

[official-semiramis]

Alright so i was just going to try and ignore this hoping it’ll blow over and that she’d stop harrassing us that’s clearly not happening so

If you’ve ever interacted with a tumblr user going by or that has gone by any of these urls please do block them and possibly warn anyone you might know that she could reach: • elfsona  (current url) • lzayol (also current url) • despurr  • saikah  • amaneh  • ahngieh  • 0sani •anti-shizaya • cupup • saikabot • boostedana • solosa • super-milk-chan • princesszange (these are the more prominent ones, she quickly changes url weekly whenever called out, will update) She goes by Sonia/Osani, is 22 and from Texas (will also usually include being a linguistic major in her bios)  She’s my ex and is known mostly for: being abuser who’s sent numerous death threats before and has sexually harrassed minors, generally just hopping from groups and servers just to start drama and find an easy lay. She’s also the reason why my and @neckhorse ‘s inboxs are closed, as she’s prone to send endless harrassing and threatening asks 

That’s my inbox. Only about 20 of those arent from her. I’ll enclose some of the more striking ones below+context: (the context being me deciding to break our unhealthy relationship)

Trying to feel better about herself by shifting the blame on me:

I must precise our relationship was a ldr. She would get upset if i didnt want to sext her back and guilt trip me into doing it anything. Not wanting to admit that she tried to pin the blame on me somehow.

The context here was me having reblogged two (2) selfies of asian mutuals/blogs.

When i’d call her out her trump card would be calling me cracker or whitey because that gives leverage in arguments that aren’t about racism in the slightest. Also pretty unbecoming considering she’s voted Trump herself

Typing and sending something like this clearly shows superiority and innocence in any kind of argument:

Context here being ?? I deleted all pictures of her upon breaking and never mentioned. Probably trying to get a leverage on me using my phobia i guess. Also sort of hypocritical considering she’s threatened to impersonate me and go send my mutuals compromising pictures.

Just like 90% of her asks, once again completely unprompted My take here is that she’s trying to make me feel jealous despite being utterly disgusted by her The habit of finding new romantic interests monthly seems to be an ongoing thing she does but that’s just tea and not something that should be on a callout :eyes: but yeah she does have a history of approaching people just for intercourse and to try and force them into a toxic relationship just to deny everything and proceed to harrass them to kingdom come so watch out if you’re a friend of hers

context here is: 1-my brothers sexually abused me in the past (because comparing an abuse survivor to their abuser is something totally ok) 2-guilt tripping as usual

Here we can see her having no grasp on how healthy relationships work and how breaking off an almost year long relationship that made my mental health plummet to rock bottom due to daily emotional abuse was just me overreacting

Context is, once again, guilt tripping Also no there is no record of me ever making fun of self harming and never will be

Now these were from an ex mutual of mine The reason for such treatment? Following and reblogging posts from me

Here we can see her smartly admitting how she takes none of what she’s done seriously and is entirely unapologetic about it she’s merely playing the role of the victim trusting knowing her followers will blindly believe her

context: my suicide attempts

more kind asks after i reunited with my best friend after breaking up

more episodes of her approaching me from a freshly made blog unleashing her trump card

her being totally not creepy after our breakup

more of her specialty, guilt tripping

here’s her spam following me after her habitual remake (yes, the grand number of 100 times)

More accusations probably due to projecting

these (along with more) were sent to tumblr user @neckhorse, who’s also been abused by her in the past (and while underage)

Here’s more proof of her being disgusting and ableist towards various other people

This is my current blocked list on discord all people except the two i obscure are her the list will probably increase as she keeps going to the trouble of making new accounts for the sole purpose of harrassing me

Lastly is the reason i wanted to finally make a more or less proper callout post She recently made a post accusing tumblr user @neckhorse of being a sexual predator despite having no proof and that never happening since she was the who abused her The reason she asked her followers to block her is to prevent them from ever interacting with her since they’d end up knowing her true colours

                                                     (update) -i’ve been sent this ask the other day, just to prove how she’s still actively harassing people and especially mentally ill people using that. It’s sickening.

I most definitely forgot things seeing how massive her bad reputation is but if you desire more proof or explanation you can feel free to contact either me or @neckhorse for more details or info about other users she’s harrassed You can also check out @yousei-bitches if you’re curious about her previous history (considering she’s being at the epicenter of various drama in different occasions throught the past 2 years). Here’s also some tags of mine you can check for some of her previous answered asks or posts (mostly vague) about her • /drama • /cupup • /0sani • /snake.ask I sincerely hope no one will buy into her false accusations nor let her close enough to exploit your weaknesses or literally anything personal you’ve ever had the misfortune to disclose to her And that she’ll finally leave us alone Stay safe

[cyjprojectarchive]

It is so difficult to choose one hateful text because all of them give me angst feelings, but I will ask for "fuck your apologies, you can keep them". You know what pairing I want, bean.

prompt: “fuck your apologies, you can keep them.”group: got7genre: heavy angstwarning: lots of swearingpairing: choi youngjae & im jaebum ; 2jae // 2young are brothers!words: 3881

note: i agree, kelly - the angsty ones were just so good that’s why I decided to use that list! ;-; anyhow, I hope you enjoy! i said I was hoping to finish before you were off to sleep tonight, but oops ;; 

also, i cross posted this on ao3. here is the link to anyone interested in reading it there instead, maybe! other than that, careful with your heart and enjoy! ;)

still accepting requests!! please check this link for guidelines and the prompt list to choose from!!

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

“Are you coming or what?”

“He’s there.”

“That’s the point of the party, dumbass. We’re celebrating the release of his song.”

“It’s not his song,” Jaebum sighs as a hand runs down his messy waves of hair. “Hell, he was mostly harmony for the rest of it.”

Jinyoung doesn’t appreciate his best friend’s attitude for a few weeks now. On a different day, he would have been greatly surprised with Jaebum’s reaction towards the man in question’s celebration of being able to collaborate with a few of his favorite artists. They were all part of a tight knit group of friends, so everyone was obviously excited for this opportunity given to Youngjae—Jaebum was not an exception, seeing as he’s the boyfriend.

But Jinyoung had been seeing… differences between his best friend and his own brother’s treatment towards one another. He couldn’t—for the life of him—pin point what it was. All he knows is that it’s not good.

“Let’s not ruin the experience for my brother,” Jinyoung chides instead, tossing Jaebum’s car keys towards him. Landing on his chest, Jaebum grabs it with a reluctant sigh. He feels the tension of meeting Youngjae in a sea of people in his stomach, but the possibility of Jinyoung finding out what he had done to his brother frightened him.

He knew he was an ass for keeping it a secret. But at the same time, confusion strickens his core as to why Youngjae hasn’t revealed his act of betrayal to any of them either.

Maybe he was too focused on the song, too preoccupied with meeting new people, too in love with this new life ahead of him.

Jaebum grits his teeth at his thoughts, but Jinyoung snaps him back to reality.

“The car isn’t going to drive itself, Jaebum-ah,” Jinyoung notes, already making his way out of the bedroom.

Standing up, Jaebum dusts off his jeans and follows suit. He imagines how happy Youngjae is being the center of attention at the party—something he has forgotten to give him the weeks prior to the younger’s work travel to New York, the very reason he got to work on this song in the first place.

They walk to his car, and Jaebum cannot erase the image of Youngjae enjoying the time of his life with Sanjoy, or Elliot what-’s–his–face; he cannot set aside Youngjae’s bright and carefree laughter echoing in the chambers of his mind. Youngjae excited, thrilled, and happy—all the things that made him fall in love with the man, everything given so freely to someone else instead.

He closes the door louder than usual, squirming at his own actions. Jaebum starts up the car as he looks to the passenger seat and wait for Jinyoung to get in. His eyes wander around the area until he finds something pink, lacy, and frilly peeping under the seat.

“Shit,” he mumbles nervously, reaching as fast as he can. Shoving it further down under, Jinyoung finally opens the door as he’s taken aback by the sight of Jaebum’s face dipped under the car seat.

“What are you—”

“Nothing, nothing,” Jaebum pants, retreating to his place before placing both hands on the steering wheel with an iron grip. Jinyoung raises an eyebrow, lowering himself onto the seat as the door closes. Before any of them can comment anything else, Jaebum begins driving.

The dread doesn’t leave his chest, and he uses all the strength in his upper arms and calves to focus on nothing but the road. How dumb can he be to leave that stupid thing lying around his car? For almost three days?

Jinyoung glances at the driver, feelings of suspicion still evident in his eyes. He’d casually chuck his feet under the seat and feel the object having been shoved down there by Jaebum, but he didn’t want to anger him while driving. Jinyoung will have to wait.

He wishes he can turn back time.

Arriving at the venue Youngjae had rented for the party, Jaebum parks at a close enough area and promptly turns the engine off. He releases his seatbelt, yanks the keys out of the ignition and clicks open the car door.

“I have a question,” Jinyoung says out loud—enough for Jaebum to stop midway. The older nods once, signaling for Jinyoung to continue.

The younger hesitates, setting aside the real question in his head and asks something else: “Are you sure the two of you are okay?”

The immense dread only crushes his organs even deeper, and Jaebum physically winces at the pain. He could confess right now, show his remorse and beg for Jinyoung to help him reconcile with Youngjae—but he couldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t ruin this very moment his boyfriend had been dreaming all these months.

“It’s just a little misunderstanding,” Jaebum tastes the venom of his lies.  “I’m sure he’s forgotten about it now,” he adds, mentally punching himself in the gut for assuming such a selfish thing about his boyfriend to his brother.

While Jinyoung wanted to pry even more, he shared the same sentiments of not wanting this night to be stolen away from Youngjae’s spotlight. He accepts the vague answer for now, and decides to just mention it in passing to his own brother at the party. He might tell him the truth this time.

The party is not very extravagant, just the way Youngjae likes it—a few people from the recording company he is in, some friends from others, and of course the other four people in their group are already mingling about the cozy yet spacious room. Strobe lights dance around the walls and the speakers surrounding the venue blast the very song being celebrated as well.

“Damn, my brother has taste,” Jinyoung ponders to himself, chuckling as he takes in the vibe of the party. Jaebum’s head drops low, already regretting the invitation to come with. Hell, Youngjae didn’t even give him one at all.

“I actually helped him set up the place,” Bambam corrects the older as he approaches, Yugyeom and Jackson towing alongside him. They all hug, with Jaebum the most antsy of them all. He hopes they didn’t notice, as the bass of the music thumps hard beneath their feet.

They all chat mindless topics—but frankly, Jaebum wasn’t as interested. He knew they all saw each other just a few days ago at the usual; he was invited there but he politely declined because he had better—or should he say regretful —things to do that day.

Clenching a fist, he asks to be excused. They all didn’t seem to mind, except for Jinyoung.

“Can I come with? Are you looking for Youngjae?” Jinyoung says.

“No,” the nth lie that has ever came out of his mouth. “Mark—where’s Mark hyung?”

“By the concessions table, I think,” Jackson chimes in, pointing to the direction of a long table covered with different delicacies. Jaebum mutters a thanks, gives Jinyoung a look for approval to leave. Once the younger gives in with a sigh, Jaebum escapes the perimeter of his friends.

He sees a lot of familiar faces, some even greet him passing by. Jaebum has never been a social butterfly, but working in the same field as his boyfriend gave him a lot of connections to the same people—all the more reason to hate himself for what he did, Jaebum thinks as he grimaces.

Their circles are just too connected with one another, one slip up and that whole bond would just crumble to dust.

Jaebum finds Mark, back facing him as the older seems to be enjoying whatever dessert he found on that particular section of the table. Mark turns around, eyes widening at the sight of Jaebum before returning to his usual calm expression.

“Funny seeing you here,” Mark starts, popping the whole cake pop inside his mouth. Jaebum tilts his head slightly, eyes peering over his friend as he treads lightly into the conversation, “What do you mean? If anything, I should be on the VIP list of this party.”

Okay, so much for keeping it casual.

Mark smirks, and it makes Jaebum even more wary of what he actually knows. He offers Jaebum a cake pop but as he refuses, Mark puts another one in.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t hear your arrogance,” he reprimands with a playful tone, “But I’m serious. Youngjae doesn’t want you here, Jaebum-ah.”

“What do you know?” Jaebum asks, straightforward.

“Enough to know how risky it is for you to be here,” Mark answers with a shrug. “He didn’t say anything specific, but he was pretty fucking devastated when he crashed at my place the other day, Jaebum. I don’t know what you two fought over since he literally just got back from New York not even for a week yet, but I haven’t seen Youngjae that wasted off his ass since he couldn’t find the courage to ask you out three years ago.”

The information rendered Jaebum speechless, his voice scratching away at his throat. As much as he wanted to deny any and all assumptions from Mark, he couldn’t—he just couldn’t lie anymore. The more he covers this up, the more his chest is going to explode from the guilt gnawing away at his heavy heart.

“J-Jinyoung forced me to go,” says Jaebum, knowing of nothing else to respond.

“Because Jinyoung doesn’t know what shitty thing it is you did to his precious little brother,” Mark counters, the friendly tone in his voice officially replaced with a cold, harsh one. “We’re all friends, so it’s really hard to be mad at you—I shouldn’t even be meddling in your relationship, but—” Mark stops himself as he crosses his arms and stares at the younger with pointed eyes.

“I’m telling you, and it’s for both of your own good—even all of us. As much as you are Youngjae’s boyfriend, what you did to him negates every right you have to be here right now. So you can either wait outside until the party is over and then talk to him or go home and find the time to confront him.”

Mark’s eyes shift to the left as panic fills them in as well. “Y-Youngjae-yah—”

“It’s okay, Mark hyung,” Youngjae says dismissively. Stiffening in his place, Jaebum hitches a breath as he hears that soft and familiar music to his ears. He decides against turning to see him face to face, but he didn’t need to as Youngjae steps right beside him, with his arm excruciatingly close to his.

“He can be here uninvited if he wants to,” Youngjae continues, and Jaebum feels his glare scorching his face. “It seems to be something he is okay with himself, anyway.”

His eye twitches, feeling the burn of that statement. Jaebum closes his eyes, afraid of what he might say or do in front of the two of them. Remembering Mark’s words, he backs away, choosing to ignore the encounter entirely.

“Yeah, go and walk away, hyung. Walk away and pretend we ever meant something,” he hears Youngjae’s striking words reap his back, ripping into his spine and poisoning his veins. Jaebum’s face grows hotter, as he whips around with hands balled into fists and nose steaming with frustration.

“The fuck you on about, Youngjae? Who’s the person stubborn enough not to talk about it  and refuse to even understand the other side of the story? You’re the one who’s walking away,” Jaebum seethes, the scratchiness of his voice laced through angry words. Fortunately so, the music blared louder than his anger as Mark and the others were quick to hold him off.

“What’s going on?” Jinyoung demands, coming in between the two lovers. Mark has Jaebum’s arms trapped in his, but the latter swats him away convincing him he wasn’t a hazard to any of them right now.

“Nothing, hyung. Jaebum hyung was just about to leave,” Youngjae announces, eyes blurry with hot tears threatening to spill. Mark shoots Jaebum an expectant look, almost forcing him out the door already. The other three stand still, unaware of the tension brewing between their friends.

“What? Why are you kicking him out? Youngjae-yah, what the hell is happening?” Jinyoung continues, brows scrunched up in worry for his brother. Shaking his head vigorously, Youngjae zips his lips as he grabs Jinyoung by the arm and signals for everyone to follow him somewhere else. Other guests have noticed the encounter, most of them leaning towards Youngjae asking him if he’s alright.

Jaebum is left with Mark, but before Mark can tell him off, the younger has already stormed off without another glance.

Jaebum stays inside his car, punching the curve of his steering wheel repeatedly—careful not to target the center as the horn would probably irritate him even more. He didn’t know what else he could do; he couldn’t just leave right now, that’d be giving into what Youngjae accused him of. At the same time, his shame and guilt are on its way to devouring his sanity, and all he could think of to repair himself is to call Youngjae and ask to talk with him.

The party had been going on for a few hours at most, and Jaebum sees people coming out of the door already. He fell asleep for a while, but the moment his consciousness awakens he immediately grabs for his phone. Jinyoung had left him a few missed calls, but that wasn’t his main concern.

He knows how selfish he is becoming yet again , but if he didn’t plead for Youngjae’s time now, who knows when they can ever return to normal anymore.

Jaebum sends a message first, a simple hey, can we talk when you’re done? as he waits for a reply. Knowing he’s still probably talking to a few people, Jaebum shoots Yugyeom a text asking for help. The younger replies with a i’ll see what i can do and minutes after he concludes sorry, hyung. he really doesn’t want to talk to you right now .

Grunting, Jaebum hits the middle of the wheel as the startling noise rings in his ears. It is enough for him to get out the car, enough for him to take a deep breath from the cramped space he has been in for hours , and it is enough for him to go right back in the place and confront Youngjae without hiding in ignored texts and denied phone calls.

Just as he is near the front door, Jinyoung exits out and sees him. His eyes form into slits as his figure walks straight into Jaebum’s path, arms grabbing hold of his shoulders just to push him with much force to send him stumbling away.

“You fucking bastard,” Jinyoung shouts, not letting Jaebum go out of his sight. The older keeps his hand guarding his chest, careful not to make Jinyoung any madder than he already appears to be.

“Jinyoung, please—I know, I’m sorry—let me talk to him, please I’m—” Jaebum swerves just before Jinyoung lands a punch to his chest, and Jaebum sees Youngjae rushing out of the door, calling out to his brother.

“You don’t get to talk to him, you fucking asshole. You don’t even get to see him,” says Jinyoung, tone flaming in rage. Youngjae runs to his side, hugging his brother’s chest as he pleads him to stop. Jinyoung’s eyes soften to Youngjae’s whimpers, but he shakes his head as he tries to squeeze out of his grasp.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Youngjae. I can’t believe how much I trusted him to take care of you,” Jinyoung spats, looking Jaebum directly in the eyes.

“Jinyoung, I didn’t—please just fucking listen to me, I swear I’m sorry,” Jaebum chokes out, his tone wavering and his body wanting to disintegrate every second he sees Youngjae’s tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Youngjae. I was an asshole, I was weak, I was devastated you were gone, I was—”

“For two damn weeks, hyung! I was only gone for fourteen days and you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself!” Youngjae snaps, dragging Jinyoung away with him. “I wouldn’t have known if Mark didn’t message me saying there’s an unfamiliar car parked at your place one night. I wouldn’t have known if I didn’t call your phone early in the morning, hoping to hear just your voice but ended up talking to a girl.”

Jaebum takes a step forward, eager to explain his weakness to Youngjae—to do anything anything to turn it all around.

“Don’t even try, hyung,” Youngjae insists harshly, red brimmed eyes constantly wetting his cheeks.

Jaebum feels a shot to his chest as he breaks down with his own salty tears and moves faster to catch up to the love of his life. Jinyoung notices him advancing, so he quickly helps Youngjae get farther away and into another car.

Mark suddenly comes into the scene as he opens up his car and lets the two of them in. Jaebum is forced to stop, and watch the wheels scrape against the pavement as it takes Youngjae away from him.

He blames himself for the mess he made.

The night progresses, and so does Jaebum’s desperation. All of his clothes messily scattered on his bedroom floor, pillows and sheets buried underneath them. He didn’t want to drink nor result to any violence, so all he could do once he got home was take control of the things Youngjae’s presence heavily lingered on: his clothes.

Some of his sweaters were missing, and Jaebum vaguely remembers Youngjae borrowing them to bring with him on his trip to New York—one of which the younger already harbored months before even buying the ticket. Jaebum sits on the edge of his bed, fingers raking down hard across his scalp as his nails dig deep. He remembers Youngjae overly complimenting that black oversized sweater, and one day he just didn’t find it in his closet anymore. When Jaebum had picked Youngjae up from his apartment thirty minutes too early, he catches the younger red handed with his sweater dressing his boyfriend’s body.

Jaebum doesn’t notice the piece of fabric he is holding onto, and as his eyes scan the material, memories of Youngjae flash through his head once again. He holds it onto his lap, the vibrant red color straining his eyes but regardless, he reminisces the time Youngjae video called him at work. Jaebum was on his lunch break, and Youngjae had time to go shopping. The younger showed him a piece of track suit in blue, and Jaebum immediately blushed at the matching aesthetic Youngjae was hinting at. His boyfriend only grinned adorably—the way he always did whenever Jaebum strips himself vulnerable towards him.

He finally sets aside the article of clothing, wipes away the sweat on his forehead and exits out his room. He brings a lighter with him as he goes outside, the freezing air hitting his face with a blast. Jaebum continues to his car, opening the passenger door and grabs something he now finds indespicable underneath.

Taking one last look at the unwanted lingerie tainting his car, his reputation, his relationship , Jaebum spits out the flashbacks from the week before: starting from arguing with Youngjae about one misunderstood flight time which led to them not talking during the whole two-week he was gone which resulted to Jaebum getting himself drunk in a bar he’s never been to, meeting a girl he didn’t even get the name of—and everything became hazy after that.

The bits and pieces that came back to him when he found himself driving back to his apartment with a raging headache were incomprehensible, but as soon as he saw the pink bra left by this unknown girl, things started to make sense—Jaebum wish it didn’t; he begged for his mind to stop piecing things together and making him realize he fell to his weakness, to his loneliness, to his anger.

He lights it on fire as he stands next to the garbage bin. Watching it shrivel up to burnt fabric and yet knowing the consequences it held would stay with him for the long run, Jaebum cries out loud.

He dumps whatever was left, and starts making his way back to his apartment: numb and hollow. He sees a figure walking towards him, and Jaebum had to blink twice to confirm who he was seeing.

“Y-Youngjae,” he breathes out. A box in his hand, and a grimace on his face—Jaebum didn’t want to know what the box contained.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jaebum suggests desperately, holding onto the other end of the box as Youngjae tugs on it tighter. The younger places it just a few inches away from the door, and Jaebum can clearly see his beloved black sweater sitting on top of other things he knows hold memories of them together—memories Youngjae wants to give back.

“It didn’t have to end this way either, hyung,” Youngjae simply states, eyes hooded and avoidant. With shaky, cold hands, Jaebum clings onto his boyfriend’s arm. He whimpers softly, right into Youngjae’s back and the younger attempts prying him off.

“Youngjae, p-please. I’m sorry, please fo-forgive me. I can’t—I can’t do this without you, please—I’ll do anything, I’m sorry please—”

“Hyung, stop embarrassing yourself.”

“I don’t fucking care, Youngjae, please —I’ll do anything for you to forgive me. I was an ass, I didn’t know what I was doing—I was drunk but I caved, I’m sorry—”

“Hyung,” Youngjae deadpans, using everything in his might to push Jaebum off of him. He sees the older’s tired eyes, dry lips, and weakened stance. Jaebum never wanted Youngjae to see him like this , but the chance of the younger leaving him for good made Jaebum lose all sense of individuality.

“Youngjae, I swear to god I’ll do anything, let me—let me prove myself just please,” Jaebum whimpers, hands searching to intertwine with Youngjae’s, just like before. His fingers move around the air, and never find their place of warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating as Youngjae keeps backing away. “Youngjae, I’m sorry, fuck, I’m fucking sorry, please— ”

“Hyung, just go to sleep,” it didn’t sound like Youngjae anymore, but maybe because Jaebum tried blocking out all the noises telling him it’s over, and all he wanted to hear was the opportunity to prove himself worthy to Youngjae again.

“I’m—Youngjae, I’m sorry,” Jaebum croaks out once again, but it takes him a few seconds to realize Youngjae has left him. Out in the cold, with their relationship shoved into a box.

Jaebum kicks it hard, sending its contents scattered around his doorstep—much like the scenery in his room.

He didn’t want to believe he has lost Youngjae; he didn’t want to accept the fact that his ultimate stupidity is the cause of the most important person of his life to disappear.

A buzz interrupts his train of thought, and he chucks his phone out of his pocket and sees the sender, only to grow miserable once more from its message.

YoungjaeFuck your apologies, Jaebum. You can keep them.

[shevamp]

so....   i was looking up codependency symptoms for a different reason and i found some thinks interesting and vaguely....   relevant to siobhan’s psyche wise.

Feeling that you’re not good enough or comparing yourself to others are signs of low self-esteem. The tricky thing about self-esteem is that some people think highly of themselves, but it’s only a disguise — they actually feel unlovable or inadequate. Underneath, usually hidden from consciousness, are feelings of shame. Guilt and perfectionism often go along with low self-esteem. If everything is perfect, you don’t feel bad about yourself.

you can say siobhan is quite the actress.   outwards,   everyone sees the self confident,   take charge,   headstrong girl with a bit of a cocky and over reaching temperament who is generally carefree and self resilient.   really,   the only person who knows how shaky her mind and inner self can be is ryan.  she is bipolar ; she is undiagnosed and she absolutely refuses to get any form of treatment as that is not acceptable in her family either no many how many times ryan has hinted at it.   some of the above can tie into it.   let’s start with the first one:   unlovable.   she has accepted the fact she cannot love   (   or she believes it anyway   )    and that she is nothing to love or give to it.   she has been made to feel her whole life that her negative qualities outweigh the positive.   of course she’s gotten the whole why can’t you be more like your siblings?   they aren’t brats during her grieving process.   she cried,   mourned for her mother as any child would but crying was not acceptable but that’s not where the feelings of shame come in.   not fully anyways.   the real culprit behind that is how she was born.   the circumstances.   it was a gradual process for her stepmother to let her hatred for amanda and bitterness at her husband’s affair take hold as she tried to remember she was only a child but this woman who was the closest to another mother as she’d get in particular really hurt her and offered no nurturing support for the sake of her own bitterness.   she is fully aware of how she came about and was often made to feel the heaviness of that mistake.      perfectionism,   it’s pretty self explanatory there.   needless to say:   this is not a happy family as projected in the media.   it’s just...   real screwed up and i haven’t even gotten to the juicy parts that’s not family drama related.

Boundaries are sort of an imaginary line between you and others. It divides up what’s yours and somebody else’s, and that applies not only to your body, money, and belongings, but also to your feelings, thoughts and needs. That’s especially where codependents get into trouble. They have blurry or weak boundaries. They feel responsible for other people’s feelings and problems or blame their own on someone else. Some codependents have rigid boundaries. They are closed off and withdrawn, making it hard for other people to get close to them. Sometimes, people flip back and forth between having weak boundaries and having rigid ones.

i really don’t think i need to go into this either?   if you want specifics,   hmu.

Control helps codependents feel safe and secure. Everyone needs some control over events in their life. You wouldn’t want to live in constant uncertainty and chaos, but for codependents, control limits their ability to take risks and share their feelings. Sometimes they have an addiction that either helps them loosen up, like alcoholism, or helps them hold their feelings down, like workaholism, so that they don’t feel out of control.Codependents also need to control those close to them, because they need other people to behave in a certain way to feel okay. In fact, people-pleasing and care-taking can be used to control and manipulate people. Alternatively, codependents are bossy and tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. This is a violation of someone else’s boundary.

ALCOHOLISM.   i’ve always said she is probably a functioning alcoholic.   it would probably be in turn to option b:   hold feelings down.   when it all bubbles to the surface,   it’s.. explosive and messy and probably a situation you will want to avoid.   there isn’t a day where she hasn’t had at least one drink honestly.   she has to have the control over everything,   otherwise things turn negative and she hits into a major depressive episode and then after it’s over,   is fine.   it’s confusing to most others really because she will ignore texts,   calls,   and then when the episode is over she’ll pick up right where she left off like everything is fine.   and honestly, as bad as it is,   the italics represent one person who all know and love who is an absolute dork.    obviously,   we’ve seen many times she is bossy and will give the orders.   nothing new here.

Codependents have trouble when it comes to communicating their thoughts, feelings and needs. Of course, if you don’t know what you think, feel or need, this becomes a problem. Other times, you know, but you won’t own up to your truth. You’re afraid to be truthful, because you don’t want to upset someone else. Instead of saying, “I don’t like that,” you might pretend that it’s okay or tell someone what to do. Communication becomes dishonest and confusing when you try to manipulate the other person out of fear.

ahhh this is so important okay but she is legit the WORST at communicating genuine feelings.   thoughts?   no.   she’ll automatically expect you to understand them without explanation and if you don’t?   you’re not paying attention.

Codependents need other people to like them to feel okay about themselves. They’re afraid of being rejected or abandoned, even if they can function on their own. Others need always to be in a relationship, because they feel depressed or lonely when they’re by themselves for too long. This trait makes it hard for them to end a relationship, even when the relationship is painful or abusive. They end up feeling trapped.

really the only person she needs to like her is ryan.   if he’s mad at her,  it causes internal stress because he is the last and only thing she has remotely close to a family and will cling to him and gets extremely territorial.   the second half i’m still working on the character but essentially,   it was her relationship with a boy named nicholas christian or nick for short during the period she felt a relationship could be a thing   (   let’s not mention she is genuinely confused  on what real love is supposed to look and feel like - from her mother, it was unconditional.   from her father / stepmother ; it was not and all she had to a window of what a relationship is supposed to look like were those two let’s just say the view wasn’t great    ).   before she settled onto her usual one night stands / casual relationships from....   i wanna say 18 on up,   there was him.   needless to say,    she def was in that criteria of the latter half of the above.   anyways,   he was the one and only ‘serious’ high school relationship probably starting in sophomore year after hanging out a couple times if you catch my drift   (   if not... they were being intimate before sophomore year as this kid lost her virginity pretty young   )    -----    their relationship was typical on her end of abused children.   they typically enter their own abusive relationship and continue the cycle and no matter how many times she would end up with ryan,   trying to keep it together,   they drew each other back in and the cycle commenced   (   before ry talked sense into her bless   ).   even if she tried to convince everyone she was happy,   she was not.   long story short,   i think we see she is not with a trashcan and does her own thing now into adulthood even though she still struggles with her mental illness so i’m p happy about that.    though she does have an extreme fear of abandonment but that’s the loss headcanon i won’t get into here but will write up another day.

Problems with intimacy. By this I’m not referring to sex, although sexual dysfunction often is a reflection of an intimacy problem. I’m talking about being open and close with someone in an intimate relationship. Because of the shame and weak boundaries, you might fear that you’ll be judged, rejected, or left. On the other hand, you may fear being smothered in a relationship and losing your autonomy. You might deny your need for closeness and feel that your partner wants too much of your time; your partner complains that you’re unavailable, but he or she is denying his or her need for separateness.

we see she does not do intimate and serious relationships and even if she had them,   it’s hard to get a proper response when you want her to be open and close to you.   she would honestly rather be by herself than be suffocated once again   --   she likes the feeling of freedom and independence and really doesn’t need a significant other to compromise that.   siobhan is a very independent girl and will not settle for anyone restricting her freedom and as such above will feel,   “they’re demanding too much”   but if,   just if,   she falls into the right hands with someone who will not restrict her will to have freedom and independence,   there is a greater chance of things working out BUT GOOD LUCK GETTING THERE FRIENDS.  she is thick headed and stubborn.   :’ )))

[scraplette]

Details

Rating: General Audiences

Ao3 Linkage

Archive Warning: Mentions of canon typical violence but nothing graphic.  

Characters: Ratchet, First Aid

Summary: In the aftermath of the Red rust virus, ratchet asks a favour of First Aid. However, before anything can be done a few details need to be discussed.

Notes: I think enough time has passed for me to post my story featured in @projecttfzine. It was such am honour to be included in this book featuring so many talented artists and authors, and all for an excellent cause.

Whether or not you believed in Primus or the idea of intelligent design, there was no denying that Ratchet's hands were a work of art. Trained at the prestigious Iaconian Academy of Science and Technology, he'd gone on to hone those skills on and off the battlefield for untold millennia, earning the distinction and honour of being the only medic to save the lives of multiple Primes, whether they deserved it or not.

Medics, Autobot and Decepticon alike, traded whispered tales about Ratchet and his fabled hands. And while not all of them were true each and every story was told with equal amounts awe and respect, and often with a generous dose of fear.

Which was why First Aid couldn't believe what he was hearing. ���You want your hands removed?”

Ratchet, as if he'd been expecting this reaction, sighed. “I know I'm practically falling apart but my vocoder is still in good nick.”

First Aid's visor flickered wildly as his mind raced for something to say. Unfortunately all he could manage was a spluttered, and thoroughly uninspired “But they're you hands!”

“Indeed they are. So, I think I get a pretty big say in what happens to them.”

“There are treatments we can try-”

“Don't.” First Aid flinched. “Neither of us are idiots. And neither was Pharma. Say what you want about him but I can't deny he made himself quite an effective virus...”

If First Aid was intimidated at all by Ratchet's heated scowl then he wasn't showing it. He stepped up beside the medical slab and took a gentle hold of one of Ratchet's ruined hands. Despite his earlier mention of possible treatments he knew, deep down, that Ratchet's hands were beyond saving.

The once vibrant plating was now a faded grey, criss-crossed by jagged cracks. He stroked his thumb oh so carefully over the back of Ratchet's palm but even that gentle movement caused flecks of rust and faded paint to peel and flake, and fall silently onto the medical slab. It was almost enough to make First Aid weep.

Not trusting his own twitching grip, First Aid lowered the hand back to the slab. “If we'd only gotten the vaccine sooner.”

Ratchet snorted and First Aid looked up to catch the briefest flash of a bitter smile. “Please, my hands were already on their way out. Pharma's bug merely sped things up.” he pulled he hands into his lap, resting them across the tops of his thighs.

Something seemed off. First Aid had been a doctor for many years. From general practice right through to battlefield medic, he had the unfortunate duty of breaking bad news to a great many patients. Everyone reacted differently. Some raged against the prognosis. Others pleaded, hoping for some sort of mistake or clerical error. Then there were those who accepted the news with nary a reaction, as if their spark had already extinguished, leaving nothing more than fumes to propel their failing frame.

But Ratchet was reacting with his usual gruff and snark. No raging, pleading or terrible silence.

First Aid's visor narrowed as he fixed the CMO with a searching gaze.“I must admit,” he began, easing into conversation with as much tact as possible. “I'm surprised at how well you're taking this.

“Well, I've always been a bit of a pragmatist. Looking forward and all that. Plus, it won't really be an issue once you replace these useless lumps for Pharma's.” First Aid didn't react but the sudden tension in his frame was hard to miss. The older medic huffed. “Oh, don't give me that look. It's not like he'll be needing them any more,” he tried to cross his arms across his chest but gave up when his hands awkwardly bumped against each other, settling instead for resting them in his lap again.

“Tha- That's not the point!”

“It's not?

First Aid blinked. “Okay, in a way it is. But a procedure like that requires two medics.” he paused, waiting- hoping - for a reaction from Ratchet. None came. “I'm just a nurse...” he admitted, suddenly unable to face the other bot.

Obsessive compulsive tendencies. The words still stung even when voiced in the privacy of his own thoughts. First Aid knew the reasons for his odd behaviour- and would take that secret with him to the Allspark - but he couldn't blame Rung for his final diagnosis or the resulting demotion. He'd been so quick to accept Springer's mission. But while he had the skills necessary to check the damaged Autobrands, he'd lacked the subtlety needed to carry out such a task unnoticed. No, First Aid had no one but himself and his own starstruck eagerness to thank for that.  

A gentle nudge against his forearm pulled First Aid back to the present. “I head about your demotion,” the older bot said with surprising gentleness. “As Autobot CMO I think I can probably do something about that...” he let the promise hang tantalisingly but First Aid was hesitant to reach for it just yet.

First Aid went still, again. “Why me?”

Ratchet shrugged. “I got my reasons.”

Goodness, that didn't sound ominous at all. “Do I get to hear these reasons?” He raised an optic ridge.

“Maybe later,” Ratchet said, putting a stop to any protest First Aid might have had with a single look. “Right now, you and I need to go over some details.”

First Aid frowned. “We do? It's a fairly simple procedure.” So simple in fact, that First Aid was certain he could do the operation with his hands fused together. Next to basic maintenance and minor Nucleon poisoning, it was the most common injury type that the Delphi facility dealt with.

Ratchet nodded, obviously agreeing with him. “True, but you worked closely with Pharma for a number of years. Before we do anything I need to know you're comfortable with this.”

Although said with that same gentleness from earlier, First Aid still visibly flinched at Ratchet's words.

Was he okay with this? Limb recycling was a common practice but it was usually done with the patient's prior consent. Something Pharma doubtfully had time to give as he'd plummeted to his apparent death. If nothing had happened. If Pharma's deal with the DJD, and the Virus had been nothing more than a nightmare then yes, First Aid would've had some doubts about this procedure. But it had happened. Pharma, through an act of sheer desperation, had doomed them all. Killing his patients and then, in a final act of cruelty, mutilating their cooling frames for their Tcogs, all so a sociopathic monster could get his latest fix. It made his inner most energon boil knowing that someone he'd once respected and admired had let him down so spectacularly.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. “I... Ratchet. May I speak frankly for a moment?”

There was a short moment of silence. First Aid wondered if he'd someone offended the other medic and was about to apologise when Ratchet finally responded. “I'd prefer it. Go on.”

Although he'd been permitted to speak First Aid had to push down the sudden rush of anxiety that filled his spark.  If it weren't for Ratchet, and the other members of this Lost Light crew, things would've gone a lot differently. No ifs or buts. Everyone would be dead, with only his encrypted patient data floating about the subspace network as a vague clue to the truth.

The last possible thing he wanted to do was offend Ratchet. He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I mean... I might have worked with Pharma but you...” Dammit! Just say it! “You were his friend. I think? He used to talk about you. A lot, actually.”

Ratchet was famous for his sharp wit and just as deadly temper. So First Aid braced himself for a cutting rebuttal. Instead, he heard a sound so rare that many doubted it even existed. Ratchet laughed. “Ha! Did he now? How many of those times started with the phrase 'I'm a better medic than Ratchet and here's why'” his voice took on an haughty edge in a near-perfect impression of Pharma's former speech patterns.  

“Not all of them...” First Aid said, meekly.

“Yeah. I thought as much.” Ratchet smiled but it didn't quite reach his optics, which had dimmed to a dark blue.

Again, he wondered how Ratchet could remain so calm when faced with such a personal betrayal. “I'm sorry, sir.” he apologised.

“Don't be. I appreciate your honestly. It's something we're in short supply of these days.” Ratchet sank into the medical-grade padding with a deep sigh. “My hands are failing. And while it doesn't change what he did, Pharma was a great doctor. It seems a shame to waste a perfectly good pair of hands, especially if I can do some good with them.” There was a tightness to his expression as he frowned. “Something good needs to come from this...”

First Aid, not trusting himself to speak, could only nod in silent agreement.

The sombre silence was broken by an abrupt snap and then a plink as something hit the floor. Looking down, First Aid vents stalled. “Is that...?”

“Yes, that is my index finger.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we should push forward that surgery time. Hm?”

“Ah, yes. I think that's a good idea.”

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading Light - Part 1 - 1/6

Summary - Scully’s cancer returns and hope comes at a high price.

This is sort of AU but is set in season seven. There are references to season seven episodes but ‘All Things’ hasn’t happened.  We switch between Scully POV and Mulder POV throughout the whole fic.

I will post a chapter every day without fail.

PART ONE

Prologue

My Father once told me that secrets are like old wounds. That no matter how skilfully we hide the scars, they are still there, lingering beneath the surface. Invisible to the eye, but all too obvious if we take the time to really feel them. There are no good secrets. Even the ones we hide in our hearts to protect the people we love will eventually find a way to push themselves up through the layers of deception.

I've discovered that we can never hope to protect through lies and after all, isn't a secret just another name for a lie?

Semantics

Mulder would laugh if he could hear me now. Arguing with myself as I lay, eyes wide open, staring up at the patterns made by the street lamps refracted through the rain that streams down my window.

I'm not sure what time it is. I don't seem to sleep much, which is strange, because all I want to do at this moment is close my eyes and sink down into its welcoming arms.

To escape from the accusatory voices in my head for a short while would be wonderful, but I just can't seem to relax enough. If I'm honest with myself though, I'm well aware of the reason for my insomnia.

It is guilt; pure and simple.

I have a secret, and no matter how often I tell myself that I am keeping it from him to protect him, I still feel its presence every minute of every day. I keep it hidden because in doing so I am attempting to shield him from a truth he is ready to neither hear nor accept.

Every day I keep the truth from him is another day spent tiptoeing around him, so afraid that he will look into my eyes and see my lies. It was easy in the beginning.

Mulder was still shattered over the death of his Mother and I was there for him as he fell apart piece by harrowing piece, supporting him as he has supported me throughout our partnership. I watched over him like the proverbial mother hen as his quest threatened to take him over the edge, ready to drag him back should the need have arisen.

For once he didn't need me to catch him and as each day passed he learned more facts behind his sister's disappearance and finally, finally I was rewarded when he came back to me. Not entirely at peace sure - we have seen and experienced too much for that ever to happen - but I saw the stress literally roll off him as, in his own words, he was set free.

How can I take that sense of peace away from him now?

I have remained silent, promising myself, as I promise myself now, that tomorrow I will tell him, just as I have made the same promise on so many nights past.

Promises to myself I know I won’t keep.

Chapter One

Mulder is not in the sweetest of moods. He tries his best to hide it, but it was obvious from the moment he arrived flustered and dishevelled at my door this morning.

I'm not sure exactly why we started this whole car pool thing. It certainly wasn't out of any sense of wanting to save the planet, it just kind of happened.

I had offered Mulder a ride home one night when he was without his car - I can't remember why he was without it - and he decided it was only right and proper to return the favour. It seems to have set a pattern now that neither of us is willing to break, and it's strange really, but I kind of enjoy it. I like the fact that his face is the first one that greets me every morning.

Usually I like it that is.

But on days like today, when he is edgy and tense, I wish to hell I could just make him stop the damn car so I can escape out in to the clogged Washington streets and hail a cab. We have hardly spoken during the ride in, just the barest early morning pleasantries. No small talk, no innuendo, no teasing glances. In fact, so far all Mulder has given me is the charming view of his set profile as he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

We are running late for the office, which is never a good thing, especially not today. Today is the second Wednesday in the month. Second Wednesdays mean inter-departmental meetings. Which in turn usually mean bureaucratic scrutiny of our recently submitted expense reports. I hate the meetings almost as much as Mulder does. The difference being, that I don't tend to show it quite as blatantly. But at least we no longer have to suffer the dubious pleasure of AD Kersch as we attempt to justify flying halfway across the country on nothing more substantial than some redneck's sighting of lights in his cow field. Skinner is no less forgiving when we balls things up, but he’s more used to it and therefore more accepting of it.

Mulder mutters something under his breath as the car in front slows down to a virtual crawl. I don't bother trying to figure out what it was. The very fact that we are attempting to negotiate rush hour traffic pretty much tells me that whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant and certainly has no need for a response from me. So instead, I just lean my head against the seat rest and close my eyes against the headache that is beginning to pulse at the centre of my forehead.

I think that the headaches were the first clear sign that something wasn't right, although for a couple of weeks I was able to pretty much deny their existence. Self-denial is a powerful force, a bit like encasing a broken ankle in a plaster cast. The pain is gone, pushed in to the background, and it's almost impossible to imagine that the broken bone ever happened at all. Until of course you walk on it at the wrong angle and the pain is back to remind you to take more care.

That's how it was with me. Only my versions of the plaster cast were non-prescription pain pills. Until they weren't enough, even when foolishly, I was taking well over the required dosage.

And then came the day when I couldn't deny it any longer. I remember it vividly. A Saturday spent shopping with my Mother I was in so much pain I could hardly stand. She noticed of course and I remember making vague assurances that I was fine, made my excuses and headed for home. I made it through the door, watched as the room began to spin in that endearing way I had come to recognize from scant years back in the early manifestations of the disease, and woke up three hours later on the floor, still clutching my house keys in my hand.

I wish now with all my heart that I had answered the basic need that pounded incessantly in my head.

Call Mulder.

Instead I had called Dr Zuckerman.

Every day since then, I have been trying to find the right words, the right moment, to broach the subject with Mulder, and right along with it, I have found a thousand excuses as to why now isn't the right time.

Of course I realize that the right time is never going to happen, and that the longer I keep putting it off, the harder it's going to get.

Especially since I have already decided that this time, treatment to prolong the inevitable is not an option for me and whilst I don’t profess to really know or understand exactly what my ‘cure’ entailed the last time around, I am smart enough to realise that its mechanism would never be found written on a treatment protocol. So I have opted to do nothing. To wait out the inevitable. I will continue to work for as long as I can. Until I’m once again incapable. But for how long I can keep up the pretence is anyone’s guess.

Not to mention the fact that Mulder is neither stupid nor blind. Eventually he will figure this thing out for himself, and deep down, I can't help wondering if he already suspects something. A paranoid little voice is whispering that I am the reason for his dark mood this morning. Which when I think about it is ridiculous.

Oh yeah. Guilt really sucks.

Suddenly, I am catapulted from my musings and transported violently back in to the here and now as Mulder curses loudly, swerving the car savagely to the left even before the word is fully formed on his lips.

"FUCK!"

I'm not entirely sure what he has seen to provoke such a reaction. Mulder rarely, if ever curses aloud. And then I hear it. A sound I have become so attuned to over the years I could recognize it in my sleep.

The sound of gunfire. Close by.

My senses hone in on the sound, and beside me Mulder is already moving, unbuckling his Seat belt and reaching for the door handle in one fluid movement. Even as I automatically follow his lead I am still searching for answers as to why exactly we have come to a halt in the middle of rush hour traffic. But, like pieces of a jigsaw the answers fall together as I finally see what he sees.

My years on the job have taught me to assimilate information pretty quickly. Headache or not, this is no exception. In the space of a heartbeat my consciousness has thrown several words at me.

Bank. Alarms. Guns. Robbery

Great. Just another fun day in the lives of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, where even a ride to work has the capacity to become a fucked up nightmare.

The shoes I chose to wear today are definitely not made for pounding the pavement. More blisters for me tonight.

Mulder of course doesn't have quite the same fashion impairment and even before I have fully cleared the car door he has taken off like a track star, waving his gun around and cutting a swath through the early morning streets like Moses parting the Red Sea. He can move pretty fast for a guy approaching forty, and, whilst I am not exactly a slug myself, an extra six inches of leg length makes all the difference and I find myself trailing further and further behind.

As I run, I can hear Mulder shouting something, but the wind is against me and his words are lost in the slipstream making them almost unintelligible. Instead, I concentrate on keeping him in sight. The perp is somewhere ahead and by the pace Mulder is keeping, seems to have no intention of giving up the fight easily.

I'm not sure what happens next.

A deafening sound that threatens to split my now pounding head in two; Mulders horrified shout.

"SCULLY!"

A blow that stops me in my tracks and slams me to the ground.

It's funny actually, because even as I am aware of falling, I don't feel anything other than a faint buzzing in my head as the pavement rushes up to meet me. No pain, no fear and certainly no understanding as to what has just happened.

But through the white noise that surrounds me, I hear another gunshot. And then another.

The sound seems to act as a catalyst for my own awareness and the dreamlike quality I had wallowed in for maybe a couple of seconds is replaced by a burning hot pain that seems to radiate through my whole body.

Shit. This really hurts.

I am reminded of the time when I fell out of the tree house that my brother Bill had spent the summer building with his cronies. I had been mercilessly chased away every time I dared show my face. A seven year old younger sister - a girl - had not been welcome in that den of pre-pubescent masculinity.

So, tomboy that I was, I had snuck over there one night and undertaken the precarious climb through the twisted boughs to reach what was forbidden to me; I'd made it up ok -getting down though had been a different undertaking all together and trees tend not to be very forgiving to seven year olds who don't have the sense to realize when they are way out of their depth. I nursed a broken wrist for the rest of the summer, and it had taken years for me to forget the white hot pain I felt as that fragile bone snapped cleanly.. But, with typical childhood resilience I had forgotten.

Until now that is.

Flesh wounds hurt. Gunshot wounds hurt. Damaged bones hurt like a bitch.

I'm unsure as to how much time has elapsed since I first heard Mulder shout out my name although I suspect it is no more than a few seconds at most.

Mulder

Shit, where is he?

Three shots Dana.

Count em.

Three.

Oh Fuck.

My eyes snap open, which in itself is futile really because I can't seem to focus on anything other than the pavement which is tilting at an impossible angle before me. I can just make out a collection of coloured blobs in the near distance and although they are fuzzy around the edges I am able to recognize them as being human. From their size and shape I am also able to determine that they are crouched down, hugging the ground as thought their lives depend on it.

But my only thought right now is for Mulders well being. Nothing else matters to me and not for the first time I am aware that what I feel for him goes way beyond the accepted boundaries of our friendship, because, had it been anyone other than Mulder, I would just close my eyes and allow myself some respite from the terrible pain that now overwhelms me.

But sometimes, even the purest love cannot conquer the frailties of the human body. As I shift my weight fractionally to the right in order to release the arm that is trapped beneath me, I am engulfed in a wave of agony so intense that despite myself I close my eyes and scream. Maybe I screamed out his name. I don't know. But it doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters except the sudden feeling of Mulder's hands on my face, smoothing away the hair that is plastered against my cheeks. And I hear his voice from far away. He is frightened. I have frightened him.

Just like he's frightened me in the past.

So much fear for two people to bear in a lifetime.

"Sssshhhhhhh Scully, It's ok....don't try to move...it's gonna be ok. Ssssshhhhhhh."

Slowly the pain diminishes a fraction and I am able to open my eyes again. Maybe a little of the initial shock has subsided, or perhaps a gnawing desperation that needs me to know he's ok, allows me to finally focus enough to look deep in to his eyes.

Mulder has beautiful eyes, the most expressive eyes I have ever seen in my life. I could easily lose myself in their depths, which is why I don't allow myself to stare in to them too often. Right now he is fighting tears and not making a very fine job of it. I know how he feels. I've been there too. I've watched him hurting far more times than I care to remember and each and every time I have found myself crying real tears for him when he has been unable to shed his own.

Just like he is crying for me now.

Despite the pain, I am able to shakily reach up a hand that feels like a dead weight and catch that first tear as it escapes its confines. Watching as it traces a crystalline trail down my finger. I want to speak, to let him know I'm fine, but just that small movement has left me as weak as a day old kitten snatched from its Mother and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. Instead, I fix my gaze on his; attempting to communicate to him through sight what I am unable to do with speech.

I'm so sorry I didn't tell you Mulder. And now it's too late.

He is going to find out.

My secret is no longer going to be mine alone and I need to hang on to consciousness for as long as I can, because, I know that if I close my eyes now, the next time I open them, everything will have changed.

Continued chapter 2