#on the bright side i could not be in better circumstances for having limited abilities rn since i finished college and don’t have to work

[pussymasterdooku]

anyway ten and a half months into my wrist sprain(s) and i’m braced up again…got a cortisone shot the other day so hopefully that finally resolves it but it has been worse again for a couple weeks now inexplicably (to me, i’m sure a reason technically exists) thus my return to the doctor…if it’s not better in six weeks ie at the one year mark they’ll do another MRI and see if i did actually manage to make it worse but good God will it ever end.

[probably-a-fae]

Man, just after that 4-sided dive and seeing where some of the players feel about the whole God debate got me thinking again. I guess part of me had assumed that maybe the players would have been more protective of the lore of Exandria and thus more inclined than maybe their Charaters are to be on team Save the Gods.

Taliesin talking about Ashton being punk about the interventionist gods got me thinking too. Like, we can't change the fact that there are Gods in Exandria, but those gods live a very interesting role? Like, lore says that as they created Exandria and mortals, that the.views the mortals has of them helped shape who they became. So like, the gods as we know them became who they are because of people.

I once saw a post that explained that the flawed personalities of the Greek gods was because those gods behaved a lot like aspects of their domains. I think there might be something similar in Exandria. Like, the sun is bright and proud in the sky, so maybe mortals viewing that shaped how they thought of the Dawnfather. So like Vax said once, the gods are flawed, and flawed in very human ways.

But also like,,,,, The gods are interventionist beings, but they very specifically separated themselves to protect Exandria and her people??? Like after the disaster of the Calamity, they realized that mortals would be better if they left to no longer walk the face of Exandria. They separated themselves! They are purposefully limiting how they can intervene!

Like, what Tal was saying Ash was punk about becomes interesting in that regard. Like the gods purposefully limit their intervention to protect mortals. Now, should they in Ashton's view step back entirely? Let the fate of all mortals be up entirely to circumstances? Or do the gods, as being who have the ability to intervene, have a duty to interact with Exandria to try and improve things? Very interesting enough is that how we do mostly see the gods intervene is through the actions of mortals, people who have a free will to choose. And we have seen divine magic users too in Exandria who have complex feelings and interactions with the gods, so like they aren't just dishing out magic to only the mortals that are the most devout.

So like, the gods are flawed beings, much like mortals, who saw the damage them being in the world could cause, decided that it would best protect mortals if they set themselves behind the divine gate, but as beings of a higher power, do they not have a duty to try and help mortals live better lives?

Yeah! I dunno! I dunno. I think Marisha is right in that it is a fun thought experiment to question the gods in canon, but releasing a god eater is a whole other matter.

[forever-emo-phase]

Mission Status: Sick!

Notes: Hello this is my first fic for Sanders Sides! It is inspired by @illogicallyinclined​‘s hockey AU! If you haven’t ever gotten into it, do it! However, you can still read even if you don’t know anything about the AU! Characters: Virgil, Logan

Ship: The whole thing is pretty much just analogical pining Warnings: Panic attack is described Genre: Just guys being dudes being gay. Fluff maybe? It’s not sad and that’s all I can tell you. Summary: Which is how Virgil arrived at his current situation, Logan tensely sitting at his desk in the middle of the night with shoulders so tight he looked like he was seconds away from shattering.

'It's a good thing that my homosexuality is stronger than my pride', Virgil thought as he opened a capri sun and violently squeezed it onto his sheets.

Check it out on Ao3 here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/33804841

Anxiety sucks. Virgil’s nails are always bitten down to the quick, hands never still, and the insides of his cheeks chewed and raw. If Virgil had to find a bright side, it would have to be his ability to read people. With just a look, Virgil could tell by the slump of his shoulders when Roman needed a little bit of extra praise. He would notice the redness around Patton’s eyes and know that he would need more company than normal. 

But the one person Virgil prided himself on seeing was Logan. It was almost second nature for him to sense the tension in Logan’s shoulders without even looking, he could almost feel it in the air. He could see when Logan needed to get out of his head and stop pushing himself before he broke. 

Dealing with Logan’s emotions, however, was slightly harder. If his approach was too physical, like he would approach Patton, Logan would withdraw. If he tried to take the same approach he would with Roman, showering compliments tempered with a light bit of teasing, Logan would get uncomfortable and retreat.

Which is how Virgil arrived at his current situation, Logan tensely sitting at his desk in the middle of the night with shoulders so tight he looked like he was seconds away from shattering.

'It's a good thing that my homosexuality is stronger than my pride', Virgil thought as he opened a capri sun and violently squeezed it onto his sheets. 

The thing with Logan is that he doesn’t care about himself. He will push himself to his limit and keep going, but, if someone else needs something? He will help as much as he can, even though sometimes it may not be overly obvious that he is helping.

“Hey Logan?” Virgil says from across the room, staring at his now soaked bedding. 

“Yes, Virgil?” Logan doesn’t look up from his computer as he sharply replies. For a moment Virgil wonders if this scheme was the best idea, it could fail horribly and Logan could be angry and refuse. But, the wheels were already in motion, his sheets were already wet, and there was no turning back.

“I fucked up.” He said plainly, watching as Logan’s head turned so fast to look at him that he was surprised that he didn’t hear a crack. Realizing how ominous his statement was, Virgil raised his hands and quickly spat out a placating “No it’s okay i’m fine!”

Logan let out a sigh before replying “What did you manage to do that was so dramatic that it required that statement, while I was sitting in the same room, only a handful of feet away from you?”

“Well…” Virgil started, choosing his words very carefully to make sure his plan could not fail. “I was panicking a little bit while I was drinking my Capri Sun and I squeezed it a little bit too hard. It spilled on my sheets and my bed is soaked now.” 

Logan’s eyes assessed Virgil, making him momentarily wonder if his lie was believable. Did his dishonesty show on his face? Was Logan about to get angry and yell at him? His hands began to shake slightly and his breathing picked up and, he thought wryly, at least now he wasn’t lying about being anxious. His fears were eased when he saw the slight softening of Logan’s face. 

“Oh Virgil,” Logan huffed out, his face morphing into an expression of fond exasperation, “You need to stop having drinks in your bed, especially ones of the extremely spillable and sugary type.”

Virgil shrugged, “It is what it is, you know?”

“It does not have to be the way that it is?” Logan said with a hint of confusion sneaking into his voice. “You can very easily change the circumstance.”

A small chuckle escaped from Virgil as he watched his roommate struggle to wrap his head around the statement. Logan was extremely smart, that was obvious, but watching him puzzle out modern slang and sayings struck Virgil as endearing every time. “It’s too late to change it now, you know?”

“You are correct.” Logan intoned and Virgil could already see some of the tension leaving Logan’s shoulders as he began to relax during the conversation. “Do you have a plan for drying your bedding before it is time for you to sleep?”

“Not at all.” Virgil said as he absentmindedly brought his hand to his mouth to bite his nails, but stopped as Logan let out a soft click of his tongue as a reprimand. As he lowered his hand, he absent-mindedly wondered if Logan was even aware that he had made the sound. Either way, Virgil found it incredibly sweet. “I’ll probably just sleep on the floor. My pillow is dry.”

Virgil made a show of picking up his pillow and feeling around for a dry blanket so that he could make a temporary bed on the floor, however, he was quickly interrupted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan scolded lightly, “You can sleep in my bed. I will be up for a significant while longer doing work, it is no problem at all.”

Everything was falling into place for Virgil and he had to resist the urge to steeple his fingers together like a Bond villain. But his work was not finished, there was still one more task- Get Logan In The Bed.

“Dude no!” He exclaimed, “I’m not taking your bed! You’ve gotta sleep at some point!”

“Virgil,” Logan sighed, “I have a lot of work to do that I need to get done soon. I was actually planning to get up and pour myself some more coffee.”

Shit. If Logan got caffeine into his system, it was game over. His plan would fail and he would just be in Logan’s bed, and while that wouldn’t be the worst thing, it was not the plan. Panicking, he blurted out a quick “No!”

“No?” Logan said with a raised eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

‘Now or never’ Virgil thought to himself, before delivering the line that had inspired the whole plot.

“I wouldn’t feel okay with taking your bed, just in case you decided to sleep. Could we just share for the night?”

Logan looked puzzled, “I suppose, but I have already told you that I am not necessarily planning on sleeping tonight.”

“I know but.. I would feel bad.” Virgil said, his anxiety rising now that he was this far into the plan and there was truly no turning back. “Could you just… Would you just lay down for a minute? It would make me feel better.”

Judging by Logan’s expression, Virgil was convinced that he had lost Logan. His plan had failed and he felt a burn of shame in his chest, clenching his eyes shut. God he was so stupid! He should have just refused the offer to take Logan’s bed and slept on the floor! He should have not even tried this stupid plan! Virgil had not noticed his breathing picking up and his fingernails burying themselves into his palms as his thoughts spiraled into a pit of anxiety. He had not noticed until Logan’s voice washed over him.

“Virgil?” He said, somehow both softly and with authority. “Name five things you can see.” Virgil pried his eyes open, not really remembering when he had closed them. “Bed. Computer. Shoes. Water bottle. Posters.”

Logan nodded his head, with a small smile. “You are doing very well. Now four things you can touch.”

“Uhhh…” Virgil hesitated, eyes darting to Logan, “Sheets. Pants. My hair. Wet blanket.”

“Good job. Three things that you can hear now.” 

“Your voice. The air conditioner. Our obnoxious neighbors.” His breathing had started to slow and he could feel his body relaxing.

“Two things you can smell, you’re almost there.”

“Capri sun from my sheets and your disgusting coffee.”

“Last thing, one thing you can taste.” 

“Toothpaste.” With his breathing regulated and feeling calmer, Virgil smiled wryly back at Logan. “I’m sorry. That was… sudden.”

“You are perfectly fine. I have reassured you multiple times that I do not mind helping you.” Logan said soothingly. “Why don’t we go lay down? You are typically quite tired after these events.”

“Yeah… that sounds good.” Virgil said as he stood to move to Logan’s bed, straightening his sleep pants and he went. “Do… are you going to lay down too?”

Logan hummed, walking to his laptop to shut the lid, as well as flipping the main lights in the room off.  “Yes I suppose that I can for a moment. Just to assure you that I do not mind that you are in my bed.”

Virgil lifted the sheets of the bed and crawled under, scooting over so that he was next to the wall, leaving space for Logan to enter. “Alright. I promise I won’t keep you too long.”

“Well.” Logan said as he joined Virgil under the sheets, “I, in all honesty, could use the sleep.”

Virgil smiled at Logan with a soft “Good night then.”

“Good night Virgil.” Logan whispered, reaching up to turn off the light next to his bed, plunging them both into darkness.

The next time Virgil opened his eyes, the sun was shining through the window of the room and his head was resting on Logan’s shoulder. One of Logan’s strong arms was wrapped across Virgil and Virgil could hear Logan’s soft breathing against his ear.

Slowly reaching into his pocket so as to not disturb Logan, Virgil pulled out his cellphone, which was at 9%, and quickly snapped a picture before sending it to Remy with a simple caption.

“Mission accomplished.”

 (And that is the end! Feedback is very appreciated!)

[limitlessgojo]

Blood Bound: Blackened Bond (Ch 16)

Warnings: Action, Coarse Language, Fighting, Descriptions of Blood, Death, Gore, Japanese Mythical Folklore, No Major Character Death

Previous Chapter: 土御門天皇 (Tsuchimikado)

Next Chapter: Inferno: Flames of Hell

Word Count: 3.3k

Tags: Kamo Noritoshi x Reader, Soulmates AU, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Fem!Reader

Taglist: @lessie-oxj @rizzo-nero @whoreuc @fkngkumiko @isl3t @gojoussunglasses @onepotatostand-blog @s-t-f-u-b-i-t-c-h @sunaswife @lordguameow @track5enthusiast @nayydoesthings

Notes: If you want to be tagged for every update, and specify if you're okay with NSFW posts or not, please mention it in the comments below ty ❤

This chapter is LONG, a lot longer than I expected haha, happy reading!

Chapter 16: Non-Standard

Noritoshi was in a shitty mood to say the least. He went home to his clan immediately after getting a summon. The clan head had discussed their stance on the upcoming war and is readying their jujutsu sorcerers for battle.

His half-brother had made a not too subtle snarky remark about you. "You've already gotten yourself a woman? Wonder if she even likes you. I'm willing to bet Homura's cuter than her." Secretly his brother was curious about you, having heard about your special grade status.

Noritoshi steeled himself, knowing his brother's playboy tendencies at his school.

"That's enough. I am quite serious about her, so don't even think of taking her."

He watched his brother shut up upon seeing him like this and left him hanging.

'Heeehhh? That Noritoshi is actually interested in someone? Interesting…'

Other serious matters aside, his father, as usual, asked about you, only for him to find out you've both gotten into an argument.

The head of the Kamo clan only raised an eyebrow. "That’s normal for every couple."

Noritoshi kept his temper at bay. But he couldn't help resenting his phone call with his father that day. If his father was less controlling and obsessive over their clan status, maybe it would have gone better.

No... He was also influenced by the elders. Ashamed as Noritoshi was to acknowledge it himself.

“We… broke up…”

At that, his father shuts his eyes, mood obviously souring.

"You are literally a fated pair, how is that even possible? *sigh* If it proves too difficult with her… well we had that list of marriage partners set up for you. Homura has made it quite clear she and her family would be very delighted to assimilate with ours."

Is this what Noritoshi wanted? A woman who obviously flirted with him as she lusted for power? No, he wanted you, who never inquired about his status. Just about his family, his mom, dad and half siblings.

You made it very clear you were worried about his family's well-being. And whether they would like you or not. You want him to meet yours. You never even asked him for a gift or much favors. (Though he had a feeling your family was pretty well off, based on your clothes and jewellery.)

And he loved the fact that he could breathe like a regular teenage guy around you. The only thing you’ve requested from him so far was honesty and transparency.

"No. That won't be needed. Y/N is mine. She is the only one for me." He spoke slowly and clearly. This is the first time he actually disagreed with his father. He'd lose his sanity without you.

"I expected as much, I've never seen you this determined about something before. Soulmates are so complicated." His father sighed out. "Do as you wish. It isn't wise for me or the elders to interfere with something as sacred and ancient as this soulbond you share with her anyways."

Noritoshi felt himself earn a small win at that. He was growing a backbone. "Thank you father."

“However! You cannot force her to love you back. Surely you know this. If you don’t get married by the age of 25, as per our clan tradition I’ll have you set up with another woman.”

Noritoshi inwardly sighed, resigned to his fate.

◇◇◇

Needless to say, you trained like a demon as the eve of Christmas quickly approached. Nobody dared come 10 feet near you as you perfected your Blizzard and Tornado techniques. It was normal to hear the crack of a sonic boom and see flashes of lightning around you.

You were hesitant to use your cursed technique reversal. You barely use flames and Inferno in general, but it can't be helped. But now you hold a pack of matches in your hand.

You lit a match and manipulated the flames. It danced dangerously around your fingers before you moved it from one hand to the other.

You were doing well. Spending a lot of time here on campus helped you to control your emotions and not let anger fuel your cursed energy like you did when you were younger. Those were such bad habits.

A wheel of flame circled in front of you. Very clean and stable. All of the sudden, a strong whirl of wind and empty space extinguished the flames like a vacuum … Only one other person in Japan is capable of doing that other than you.

You turned your head to the side and saw an incredibly tall man with snow white hair and a pair of sunglasses approached you. His bright baby blue eyes gently twinkling and peeking over the rims of his shades.

“Satoru nii, it’s been a while. Why visit me now?” You tiredly asked. He came up just a few inches away from you, staring down at you.

“I got a call from Hiroki. I’m here to help you with your special cursed techniques. It’s time, you’ve stopped holding yourself back Neko-chan.” He leered down with his trademark grin.

◇◇◇

You spend the entire afternoon getting pushed around by Satoru. This man was crazy strong. He kicked you against a tree. “OOF” you heaved.

"You avoid using Inferno. Is it because of your childhood trauma? I'm not shaming you but it's something you need to overcome."

You frowned at his words.

"You only have today to train with me y/n! Aren’t you honored I went out of my way from Tokyo to Kyoto?”

"Like hell I am."

“You’re not using the full extent of your cursed techniques. That power is your one true ally in this world. Trust it a bit more. Apart from your soulmate anyways, but I can see you and Noritoshi aren't exactly swell right now." Your eye twitched at that statement.

Satoru eyed the broken strands of red ropes that floated around you. Not a good sign. It was reaching out to the distance. Maybe to where Noritoshi is huh, Satoru wondered. Until he spotted one thin string, still very much intact and alive. He grinned.

‘This prick and his fucking special eye abilities’, you grumbled. He hit your back hard, “What bad language you have. Imma straighten you up today kitteeeen~”

He pranced around you and squatted to lean down to your level.

"But seriously, you say you want to get strong but you fear your own power kitten. Don't do that." Satoru pointed straight at your eyes. “Remove the fear of hurting the people around you. Because you’re literally fighting to protect the ones you love, focus instead on harnessing your cursed energy to fight. Your messed up emotions could cost you a fight, even your life. Doesn’t matter if you’re a special grade like me. At this rate you won’t catch up to me.”

You slumped to the ground in defeat.

“To be honest, I feel like my growth has stunted. I don’t know if it’s the lack of powerful opponents I’ve had lately.”

He sighed out so loudly and obnoxiously that your anger flared up at him. “Thaaat’s what I kept telling you. You shoulda come to Tokyo Jujutsu instead of here! 100% I would enjoy teaching you and I mean it. I could teach you ya know, and Yuuta is there as well. Another Special Grade, although his circumstances are quite unique and with the way he is right now, you have a better chance at beating him one-on-one since he’s a newbie to this world. And yet you kept saying you wanted to be here for your family.” He shook his head.

You felt as though your head cleared up all of a sudden. “Because I was here…. I was meant to be here. Satoru. I know it deep in my soul. Because I met Noritoshi and…. “ Your heart throbbed so loudly you heard it in your ears. A deep pain stabbed into you.

Ah right. You said you were over him. You broke up with him weeks ago.

“And? You’re not together anymore. Figure out your heart and I could let you reconsider transferring to Tokyo Jujutsu High you know?” He said with a frown.

Why does the idea of leaving Noritoshi behind feeling like you were carving your heart out? He isn’t anything to you anymore and yet…

No. Enough of this. You’re here to train and fight that curse that killed Sora. Your emotions were all over the place. Satoru came up to you and wiped your tears off your face.

“What are you doing to yourself y/n? Don’t lie to yourself. I thought you wanted to live life as honestly as possible.” Even Satoru looked concerned and troubled over your state.

You gulped. “Yeah you’re right. I told myself I wanted to get stronger and protect the ones I love. Now I’m just running away. Noritoshi at least has been trying to reach out to me, but I shut him down.” Your heart is hurting.

Satoru stared at you and the cursed energy that was rapidly pulsing around you. Then grinned. “Then... Fight me one-on-one right here right now. Let’s make sure to keep the damages to a minimum and take care of the buildings. All the other students are still here on campus. Sky's the limit since both of us can move well in mid-air. I want to see you control your emotions and fight me properly. I’ll hold back.” He said.

You took a deep breath and looked back up. “Challenge accepted.”

You’ve envisioned this countless times. You wanted to see how you could match-up against Satoru and all his years of experience. You weren’t expecting to win, but you were not going down without a fight. Your cursed technique is actually a good matchup for his.

You can manipulate molecules. Though you suspect his control is on an atomic level, and thus could overpower yours due to his finesse and 6 eyes. But you could at the very least try.

Satoru, on the other hand, already knew of your potential. 'She is the only one I know who can actually touch and surpass me, given that she can control gravity and condense molecules. It will come down to timing and refining techniques.'

“Give me 5 minutes to suit up.” You asked. He agreed. You flew to your room and eyed the katana of your father. He actually planned to give it to Sora when she turns 16. But due to her death, he gave it to you instead on your 16th.

The name was Kintsugi, because it was made of two halves before being welded together in the centre with high grade steel. The center has a core of a fine diamond dust that’s infused with cursed energy. It’s a grade 1 special tool that multiplies the cursed energy you put into it by 10.

“Don’t break it. Don’t break it…. But It’s Satoru I’m going against. It will break.” And so you put it back and instead reached for your best twin blades and metallic whip. You coiled it around your wrist like a bangle, before flying back to Satoru.

“Done preparing, kitten?” He had removed his sunglasses and his blue eyes were out wide open as they assessed your cursed technique.

“Yep!” You yelled. “Ah Toru, shouldn’t we inform the elders or Utahime sensei that we-”

He didn’t give you time to speak as he appeared in front of you all of the sudden. Rushing with a right hook. You quickly dodged. He kept his word and is going easy on you at least.

You exchanged a few blows with him, both his limitless and your spacial barrier active so technically, no hits were landed.

Until you warped the space and forced the molecules around them to retract, making you actually reach and hit him.

He must have expected the solid punch, because in return, he kicked you as he warped off your spacial barrier. You eyed him as you regrouped. It’s anyone’s game huh.

“You’re still holding back! Are you going to be like this in a real battle? Are you okay with staying weak? Or do you have to wait for someone special to die before you ignite?!”

Oh no he didn’t. Your emotions raged, and you tried to calm them down. But all you saw was blood red. You never felt this angry at Satoru before. Before you knew it, you had activated inferno, making the entire surrounding area, which Satoru was in, combust and burn up in flames.

You lit up a match and pulled the flames on the ground and trees towards your smaller flame and held a massive ball of fire. Satoru was gone, it was only soot on the ground. You looked up to see him hurtling down at you.

You barely dodged, before wrapping the flames around you as you used it to strike at him repeatedly. You both rose up higher and higher into the air.

“Special art: Goldenrod,” you shot a bolt of lightning at Satoru only for him to dodge it. “Don’t just shoot it from your hands! Electricity is a current! You can make it run through your entire body!” He yelled as you both spiraled and fought over the campus.

He had the energy to teach you while you were fighting. You scoffed, but listened carefully, generating electricity in your hands before letting it wrap around you.

You were both dodging and striking at each other with such power. The trees swayed violently as winds and rubble were thrown about.

“What on earth…” Noritoshi and the other students stared at the flashes of fire, lightning, and wind above the campus.

The sky darkened. Good. If you had water, that was another asset.

He must have realized this as he immediately activated his Cursed Technique: Reversal. “Red.” You were forced back, plummeting to the ground. You swiftly turned and saw Miwa and Mai staring at you with horror.

You pulled yourself up back into the sky, still filled with fire and lightning, narrowly missing the building. You twisted your fingers to the side. The flames turned into the shape of the Dragon and you whipped back to hit Satoru from the front while your dragon of flame hit him from behind.

He danced around your attacks, teleporting from one area to the next to dodge them.

He then easily extinguished your flames with a flick of his wrist, but your lightning stayed. He can’t extinguish it, because it was coursing through your body, constantly moving.

You both stood, hundreds of feet high above the Kyoto Campus in midair. Lightning flashed above and winds howled.

You’ve never been pushed this hard your entire life. Not with Hiroki. Not with Todo. But Satoru was really on another level of strong. Unbreakable like a monster. He didn’t feel human anymore.

You tried for a Mach Speed hit, which you’ve never tried on anyone else; it would kill them on impact. “Mach 3.5” There was a loud BANG!

Going at Mach Speed has its limits of course. You can afford to do Mach 1, 5 times a day. Mach 2, 3 times, and Mach 4 only once.

A huge cone of smoke formed behind you as you launched yourself at Satoru. He was still able to evade you, but you pointed one hand to him, quickly following up on another attack.

“Fubuki.” Your blizzard technique was a combination of Niflheim and Tatsumaki. Cold air whipped around you and you thrust it towards Satoru. A mini tornado has formed around you and it pushed and pulled widely. But you were in the eye of the storm.

Satoru dodged your winds, but couldn’t escape them all, wincing as some small ice shards cut into his skin. He attracted debris and rocks towards you. One caught on your shoulder, making you yell in pain, but the rest you were able to guard against with your winds.

He immediately closed in on you to prevent you from doing another full blast and punched with ‘Red’. You countered with a roundhouse kick supercharged with your blizzard and lightning, neutralising his infinity jujutsu with a bit of mixed gravity control.

A huge gust of whirlwind was emitted from the impact, forcing everyone on campus down to the ground.

“GOJO! TSUCHIMIKADO! STOP THIS!” Utahime was screaming at the top of her lungs, still heard over the roar of thunderclap.

You both looked at each other and knew it had to end soon. Rain was starting to fall.

He threw his back and laughed out loud. “I hadn’t had this much fun in ages. You’ve grown really strong. Stop me if you can.” And flew away from the buildings and into the surrounding forest. You whipped your tornado around you and quickly followed him.

All the other students that had been watching you go at it followed. Utahime did as well. They stood from a distance as both of you exchanged more hits.

You lit another match and let arrows made of flames rain on Satoru, weakening his limitless barrier as much as you could. Only one arrow slightly singed his sleeve. Damn he was good.

Satoru attracted your body with “Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.” You felt like your insides were tearing as you tried to stop his force. But his limitless technique easily overpowered yours. You let go and rushed towards him with both your swords out.

He easily sidestepped and kicked them out of your grasp. The hit was so heavy, even though it hit your swords, you felt the force reverberate throughout your body.

Satoru grabbed your neck from behind, and for the very first time since you were awarded the Special Grade Jujutsushi status, you were forced down onto the ground.

You used your cursed technique to soften the blow as much as possible, but Satoru was relentless as he slammed you head-first down onto the grass.

Everyone winced as you hit the ground hard. "He's not human." Mai said. Everyone agreed, not used to seeing you at the mercy of another party like this. They were reminded of who exactly was the strongest sorcerer alive.

In order to win against Satoru, your goal was to touch him and move past his limitless barrier. Even if it’s just for a moment. You couldn’t use Niflheim or Inferno from afar. He would remain unaffected as he guards and stops the change in movement of molecules around him.

But now his hand was around your neck. Your twin blades suddenly rush to close in around his neck in an x position to gather his attention, while you use your technique to warp the space around his hand to weaken limitless and hold onto him.

You lashed out with your metallic whip, letting your cursed technique run through it. It worked and scratched his cheek a bit.

"Enhanced gravity: Output 30%", the ground cracked underneath the both of you as a massive weight pressed down. And then you shocked both Satoru and yourself with the lightning coursing through you. Screaming at the pain in the process.

He gritted his teeth as volts shocked his bones.

Utahime and the others stared at both of you. "What a huge amount of cursed energy." Todo said in awe. "Non-standard Jujutsu users are insane."

Satoru still had the strength to hit your lower back which caused you to heave out and stop Goldenrod from activating. Both of your clothes were literally toasted. “Haha. You’re a scary one y/n.”

That’s all you remembered before you passed out; you were out of cursed energy.

◇◇◇

Noritoshi rushed over to take you in his arms. Pulling your unconscious body close to his, he gave you a once-over. You had just fainted from exhaustion, there were no serious injuries. Good.

"Noritoshi," Satoru called.

"Yes, Gojo San?"

"Take care of her for me please."

He straightened up, "Of course. There’s no need to ask that from me." He then carried you to the infirmary, holding you gently in his arms.

Blood Bound: Table of Contents

Author's Notes: Me writing this entire scene: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!!! (x100)

Y/n was able to fight on par with Satoru, because he chose to limit his cursed energy output and match his skills to her level. A psychokinesis cursed technique would be a natural enemy for limitless since you can condense and expand space between molecules. But you still lack experience in battle. And if we were going to talk about Domains, Satoru would dominate the battle.

[consumeconstantly]

Those Who Are Kind

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Summary: Siblings are the last thing on Marinette’s mind as she begins her frantic search for Tikki. Really, she can’t even consider them siblings, not yet. But they’re along for the ride, whether she wants them to be or not.

Duke doesn’t know what to make of the current situation.

He’s always known that the Waynes are crazy, insane, even, but he loves them all the same, in the begrudging, cautious way he cannot shake. (This approach has served him well over the years, allowing him to avoid multiple schemes that Tim or Jason typically start up to rile up Damian. From there, everything is guaranteed to snowball. The only time things get really bad is when Cass gets involved.) To him, it’s always been a bit uncanny how similar all the brothers looked, despite the fact that none of them shared blood. All of them had the same sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes, chiselled cheekbones and defined bodies. Only Tim and Damian differed slightly, with Tim having a dancer’s figure instead of that of a body builder or demolitions expert, and Damian having green eyes instead of blue. It’s also disconcerting that everybody the Waynes are more intimately involved with have some sort of alter ego. He often joked with other members of the Justice League that heroism ran in Bruce’s blood.

With the new addition of Marinette to their family, he has to say that he’s been proven right.

A girl who had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes in any capacity other than the fact that she and Bruce share blood becoming a hero. The leader of a team. Fighting supervillains at the age of thirteen.

He’s very, very glad that he was not adopted by or shared blood with Bruce. He doesn’t think he could have handled being a superhero at age thirteen. He can barely handle being Signal now some days, and he’s an adult. The amount of responsibility on Marinette’s shoulders is difficult to understand. To be the sole wielder of magic that can revert an entire city back to its original state. To bring people back from the dead. 

Dick is strangely quiet. A car is driving them from a pit stop near a zeta tube to Marinette’s hospital. 

Hands down, Dick is the most sane male of the Wayne family, not including Alfred. But there are times when Duke sees the weight that he carries. All the times that he refuses to talk about the burdens that he bears. Moving forward with a smile when he’s in pain. When he gets in a mood like this, he’s hard to read. But given the circumstances, it’s fairly clear exactly what’s bothering him. 

“He’s known about her this entire time,” Dick says, tinted windows allowing Duke a glance at his expression, carefully devoid of any telling emotions. “Nineteen years. He kept her a secret.”

“It’s Bruce.” The man is known for keeping secrets. 

“Yeah, but Marinette is family. She should have been, at least. And now…”

Now she’s all alone when she should be surrounded by people that love her, praising her for her victory, for how she shouldered so much responsibility at such a young age. But by bringing her to a hospital in America, she’s been cut off from her team, and any support system she should have had is gone. 

“You and her,” Duke says, looking for a way to comfort him. “You’ll get along. You’re similar, after all.” After they brought Gabriel and Lila to the a top security prison and sent Emilie to a hospital that couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, they got two files from Tim. One detailing Ladybug and all of her exploits. The second, detailing Marinette’s life. 

Duke has watched the videos. Has watched how Ladybug leads by example, comes up with the plan and begins the execution. How she shoulders more battles than she should. 

He’s seen Marinette pull people together with a smile on her face, even while she’s running on empty after a strenuous akuma attack. 

Dick and Marinette are alike. 

“We’re too much alike,” Dick says. “I suspected for a long time that Bruce had another kid that he wasn’t telling us about, but I thought that if he was keeping her away from us, then maybe she’d have a shot at leading a good life. A normal life. Not the one she got. Sabine’s— Bruce’s biological daughter shouldn’t be somebody like me. She deserves better.”

Duke is acutely aware that Dick’s parents were also murdered, but whatever relation he had with Sabine is something he’s never been willing to talk about. There are pictures in his apartment of a petite Asian woman with a soft smile standing next to him, but whenever asked about her, Dick never gives a straight answer. 

“Nobody has the ability to change the past.” Duke claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He sags imperceptibly under the weight. 

Well— actually, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities, given the fact that magic, aliens, and metahumans all coexisted, supplemented by the fact that multiple members of Marinette’s team do have the ability to travel back in time, but that’s another matter entirely. There’s not a lot of information on the Miraculous, and all of their knowledge is coming from Wonder Woman, Aquaman, and Zatara, and even the three of them don’t know everything. 

“But you have the chance to do good by her. Be a good older brother, like I know you are.”

A thin smile appears on Dick’s face. “She’s going to need more than just one good influence on her life. And Damian is better, but you saw how he looked at her when Bruce brought her through the Zeta tubes. Tim’s not going to react well either, and Jason is a wild card. She’s not going to get the support she needs if she stays with us.”

Duke crosses his arms, knees brushing up against the back of the car seat. “The only person whose actions you’re responsible for are your own. Don’t worry about them. If they don’t like her, they’ll just avoid her.”

That’s certainly not true— all of the members of the Wayne family are notorious for going hard after all of the things they don’t like. But... it’s comforting to hear. Sometimes temporary and known lies are much nicer than harsh realities.

#

She’s gone.

All of her belongings are missing, the IV needle is hanging from the stand, the window open, and Marinette is missing from her bed.

At least she left a note?

Be back soon — Marinette

“Great,” Duke mutters under his breath. “Another incredibly vague, cryptic Wayne.”

Dick’s face turns to ash. “Her legs. Her head. She can’t go out so soon. Hold on, maybe Barbara can pull up some footage.”

“On the bright side, there’s no blood,” Duke says. 

“That’s not a bright side.”

“It is,” Duke argues. “She fell in the worst places possible, right on top of that broken glass casket. If she’s not bleeding that clearly means she didn’t pull her stitches on her mad escape out.”

When Ladybug fell, they’re not exactly sure what happened, because the screen showed Ladybug collapsing almost gracefully. When they arrived on the scene, she flickered between Ladybug and Marinette as her earrings beeped. Her legs were slashed from falling on the glass with a seemingly unnatural force— simply falling would not have garnered cuts that large— and her head was twisted at an odd angle, debris bloodied beneath her.

Somehow, the Miraculous Cure seemed to be working backwards. Not from the epicenter out, but rather from the edge of the damage, in. It worked slowly, every mile taking minutes instead of mere seconds. It hadn’t happened before in any of the battles.

It was useful in apprehending Hawkmoth and Pavona, who were still knocked out. But Marinette, even after the Miraculous Cure washed over her, didn’t get healed. Her injuries didn’t revert. There was still a gash on her stomach from Hawkmoth’s cane, still muscles exposed on the back of her legs and blood on her neck. When she was first brought in, the doctors feared that she may be permanently incapacitated. 

Good at keeping to her word at least. She came swinging through the window with worry on her face and grief in her eyes. 

“I need to go back to Paris,” she says. 

Dick will undoubtedly say no. He’s a very protective person, and Marinette is the center of his current efforts. 

But she doesn’t look injured. He eyes her stance. She’s standing with no effort, walks with no limp. No hospital dress, no blood on her neck, no bruises in all of the places he was expecting them to be. Marinette does not look like she just faced a world ending threat less than twenty four hours ago. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s permanently lost the use of her legs. There’s the familiar Wayne Brand Stubbornness in her eyes— no way she’s not Bruce’s kid— that tells him that she’s going to get to Paris one way or another, and that they’re either lucky they were even notified in the first place or that she wants to use a resource that they have that she does not have access to. It’s fairly obvious what that resource is, considering that Paris is nine hours away by any normal plane and it sounds like she wants to get there in minutes, and not hours. Duke also knows that if they don’t take what she’s offering now, she’ll use an alternative method that definitely won’t be as nice or clear cut. 

He jumps in before Dick can say anything. “We’ll take you as long as we go with you every step of the way.”

Oh, he’s going to get in so much trouble for doing this. Dick is looking at him with his Disapproving Dad glare, and he can imagine Bruce going into brooding silence when he hears that Duke allowed this to happen. 

Marinette’s lips pinch together, but she nods. “Where’s the nearest zeta tube?”

#

Barbara gets Dick’s text and sighs in frustration.

She’s already got her hands full with watching Tim, who’s spiralling trying to find information about the Miraculous, muttering under his breath in the way he does when he gets a particularly hard case to crack. He’s gone through six cups of coffee in the last hour, and he kicked off his research with a combination of 5 Hour Energy, Monster, three packets of sugar, and 10 caffeine shots. Soon, she’ll have to start limiting his caffeine intake, but right now it’s clear that any attempt to get him to stop his research now will fail spectacularly. At least she’s not in charge of Damian and Jason. Wherever they are, they’re definitely on the move and not happy.

She never thought she'd be able to say she’s happy about being paralyzed from the waist down, but she certainly doesn’t want to be chasing after one of the two hellions. Cass definitely has her hands full and whoever’s watching Jason— wait, is anybody even watching Jason? Typically Roy gets stuck with Jason-sitting duty, but he’s been out for a while. 

Barbara groans. Jason is probably on his own, wreaking havoc.

Great.

She’ll deal with that later, even though she has no doubt she’ll regret that decision, but if Marinette is gone from her room, Dick needs the footage, and somebody needs to find where she is. The nurse put in her latest report that her legs were almost healed and that she didn’t show any signs of a concussion, but Marinette was in bad shape when she got admitted to the hospital. Even though Barbara doubts that there was any misdiagnosis, given that Bruce sprung for a VIP room in one of the pricier hospitals, in a world where magic and aliens are present, who knows what’s true or not.

“Tibet!” Tim jumps up from his hunched over position for the first time in hours. “I’m going to Tibet, the closest zeta tubes are three hours by car away, but I can get somebody to loan Wayne Industries a helicopter while I’m over there.”

“Sit down, Tim.” Barbara takes her glasses off and pinches the bridge of her nose. Why can’t Bruce rein in his children? Why is she the one stuck babysitting? “Marinette left her hospital room.”

That certainly gets Tim to put the brakes on his movements towards the zeta tube in the bat cave. 

“What?”

“I said, she left her hospital room. Just sit down while I send the information over. It’s not going to do you any good to rush into things anyways.”

A quick review of the surrounding CCTV shows that Marinette didn’t travel far, just around the hospital. She’s looking for something, calling out for it, too. Barbara grabs that file and slows it down so she can read her lips. “Dickie? Do she and Dick know each other already?”

A quick text back to Dick reveals that Marinette has already returned to the room and—

Oh, hell. 

“Well,” Barbara pushes her laptop away from her, letting Tim watch the files she’s pulled up. “It looks like we’re taking a family trip to Paris.”

#

Somehow, Marinette almost manages to lose all four of them within the first four minutes of roaming around Paris.

Luckily, their family has an almost absurd amount of luck between all of them (not all of it good) and the person Barbara was half sure she could only find in prison, beating up Hawkmoth and Pavona, runs into Marinette on the streets and herds her back to them.

“Lose something?” Jason asks, arm slung around Marinette’s shoulder, the smaller, younger girl looking rather upset at having her plans thrown off.

“I told them that they could follow me,” Marinette argues without much real bite. It’s not my fault if they can’t keep up, is the clear meaning of her statement.

Again, Barbara is very impressed that the barely nineteen year old somehow managed to shake off vigilantes with decades of experience with ease. But it is, at least, partially due to her disability. Every time she goes out in her wheelchair, her heart aches a little, especially as the civilians she passes eye her with pity. Barbara doesn’t want pity. Doesn’t need pity. She shouldn’t feel anything when people look at her like she can’t keep up, because she can keep up.

Most of the time, anyways.

It doesn’t matter how she uses her tech skills to modify her wheelchair and deck it out with all the equipment she could ever need, or that she can easily get up to speeds rivalling sports cars for short periods of time before the power runs out. When she’s stuck in her wheelchair, she loses the maneuverability she had when she wasn’t paralyzed.

She couldn’t follow Marinette through the alleyways because she was stuck. Barbara was the one who noticed her escape first. If only she were more capable, she could have—

But it’s okay now. Jason ran into her. Marinette is back with them. 

“I need to search for something, and none of you can help.” She’s not intentionally being rude when she says it, and if anything, sounds apologetic. Barbara sees the similarities between Marinette and Bruce. It makes a lot of sense that the two of them are father and daughter, when the two of them are so insistent on keeping major issues to themselves. Marinette twists herself out from underneath Jason’s arm, clutching her purse. Her head doesn’t move, but her eyes are wild. 

“We can help,” soothes Duke, ever the voice of reason. “You know who we are.”

“And I’m guessing you’ve all either deduced who I am or have been told my identity,” counters Marinette. “Which means you should know why I can’t have you helping me.”

Barbara and Duke exchange pointed glances. 

“That’s not really clear to us, actually,” says Barbara. Marinette isn’t moving, but the way her shoulders tense makes her believe that the younger girl is ready to run at the drop of a hat. 

A small group of people from the parade on the streets tumbles into the alleyway they’re resting in. They smell like cheap booze and sweat. 

“What are all of you doing in this alley?” one says, after he finished vomiting up his last (very colorful) meal. “You should be out there partying with the rest of us! Celebrating Ladybug and her team.”

“Fuck Hawkmoth and Pavona,” says another solemnly, with neon face paint and pigtails with glitter string intertwined. “Their defeat should be celebrated by even the darkest souls.”

Jason, easily amused by their antics, looks very willing to join them. “Yeah Marinette, we should be celebrating Ladybug not—”

As one, everybody looks at the place where Marinette was, just moments ago. The alley is decidedly empty of a small asian girl with blue eyes and pigtails.

“Fuck,” Jason curses.

“Fuck is right,” Duke agrees, placing a hand over his temple. 

#

Marinette manages to disappear for three hours.

Three full hours.

“She’s good,” Tim says, typing into the holographic computer embedded into his sleeve. 

Paris’ CCTVs are painfully easy to hack into, though he suspects that the lack of attention to them may have to do with the fact that everybody in the city is celebrating. Policemen, politicians, artists, students, scientists—  people from all walks of life are in the streets today, screaming and shouting and being free for the first time in years.

He spies more than just a few dozen people bawling their eyes out within a few minutes. But that’s not surprising, considering how long Parisians have had to suppress their emotions for. 

Dick and Barbara are still in the midst of profiling Marinette, trying to determine the most likely places where she’d stop by, either as Ladybug or herself. All of Ladybug’s usual haunts are decidedly devoid of the young heroine, though Tim does manage to catch a good amount of footage of the other young heroes like Carapace and Rena Rouge, who are most definitely in a relationship based on their makeout session on top of the eiffel tower (one of the first places Tim checked), Viperion, who seems to be the only one from Ladybug’s team to be seeking out the crowd which seems rather atypical considering that the hero never frequented interviews or was spotted on news coverage all that frequently,  and Chat Noir and Queen Bee who Jason insisted were in a relationship as well, though the rest of them believed they were only embracing each other out of comfort— Chat Noir looks like he’s been crying for hours, and Queen Bee looks like she’s barely holding it together.

Ryuko has not shown up on camera once today. Neither has Ladybug.

The second place Tim checks is the bakery. She is not there either, though another girl is. It doesn’t seem like the girl has any ill intent, but Duke is more than happy to pull up past files to see if she’s been there before, if she has any reason to be there, and who exactly she is. 

Just as Barbara and Dick are debating the chances that Marinette would be at Le Grande Paris, she walks past one of the cameras focused on Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie. Tim has the system rigged up so that any facial matches for Marinette automatically alerts the room. He hadn’t been able to replicate that with Ladybug’s face for some bizarre reason which is why he, Barbara, Dick, and Jason are manually combing through the areas where Dick and Barbar think she may be (magic is why, but Tim has always believed that technology can be used against and with most forms of magic) so it’s lucky that she enters as Marinette. 

“Kagami Tsurugi,” Duke says triumphantly. “She visited often when Tom and Sabine were still alive. Potential candidate to represent France or Japan for Sabre in the next Olympics. Definitely friends with Marinette.”

“Thank God,” sighs Dick. “Now let’s get over there.”

It’s truly, truly unfortunate that they set up shop quite a distance away from the bakery.

They take too long to arrive.

#

Perhaps it was a mistake, telling Kagami first.

No, not just perhaps. It was a mistake. A bad one.

But Kagami was pushing so hard, and Marinette was so tired and so alone without Tikki at her side, without the knowledge that her parents would be waiting for her. Kagami pushed and pushed and pushed about why the house felt so empty, why there was dust on the floor, why the bakery was closed for so long, and where were Tom and Sabine? Why weren’t they there for the team yesterday, when the battle was won, when they knew how important it was to be there for Adrien who had just lost all three of his parental figures? 

The moment the words fall from Marinette's lips, she knows she shouldn’t have revealed it at that moment, because Kagami draws in on herself, lips turning downwards, hands curling into fists. 

Kagami has come a long way from the girl she was in lyc��e. The thrill of victory is still something she enjoys, but not something she needs to feel secure in her place in the world. She has trouble expressing her emotions, but when it comes down to it, she communicates everything necessary to understand why. 

With the news of Tom and Sabine’s death, she withdraws into herself, shifts back into that thirteen year old Marinette first met. Logic  and rationale thrown to the wind in favor of cold anger. 

It’s no secret that Ryuko, Ladybug, and Viperion are the main strategists of their team. Viperion, out of his duty of using Second Chance and his ability to keep a level head in the face of constant death. Ladybug out of necessity as her position as team leader and the power of Lucky Charm. Theoretically, the two of them should have been enough. But over the years, Kagami became Marinette's favored confidante; though Ladybug trusts all of her team to keep a tight hold on any information she gives them, Kagami is one of the few who is able to pick apart a given situation and transform the monsters they face into manageable pieces. 

Today, it is Kagami who has broken to pieces. Very angry, razor sharp shards that seek to hurt.

“You lie to the media, tell them a pretty tale of how they died due to a break in. Why do you avoid pinning their deaths on Lila as you should? To absolve a quality woman from guilt?”

Marinette can’t look Kagami in the eyes.

Her parents deserved a peaceful death. To pass on in old age, hand in hand. Not looking on as a family member died, in fear of what would happen next for their daughter. 

“The police know. The judges know,” Marinette protests weakly, but without much eight behind her words.

Kagami just scoffs. “Tom and Sabine were kind people. To not tell the media what truly happened— that’s preventing Lila from getting the full force of what’s coming to her. What happens if she gets out of prison one day? Without any real deaths to her name, she could just flee to another country to escape it all. And when another person loses their life because of her…” 

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. If somebody else gets injured in any way, shape or form at the hands of Lila Rossi, it’s Marinette’s fault. Marinette gets what Kagami is trying to say. She thinks the same thing, after all.

“My parents would not want their death publicized in that manner.” It’s the truth, but it’s said so weakly that the words come off as little more than a weak defense, and Kagami takes the words and twists their truth.

“You know little of your parents, considering that you’re their daughter.” Kagami stands stock still, not a single extra muscle moving. “Perhaps if you spent more time with them as Marinette instead of unsuccessfully gallivanting around as Ladybug, you’d have realized that Tom and Sabine admire truth above all else, even if it is painful.”

Kagami does not ask a single question about where Marinette was last night, or how Marinette felt over the loss of her parents or when she saw all those she held dear lying still on the ground after Hawkmoth and Pavona’s final attacks. She just purses her lips and sweeps out the door.

And then she’s gone, and Marinette is alone once more. 

#

The bakery is bone-achingly quiet.

Every step Marinette takes creates such a disturbance in the peace that moving hurts. 

But she can’t stay here. She can’t stay here. She does not deserve to stay here. Kagami is right. Marinette was a bad daughter. She could have prevented their death, could have given them justice sooner, could have— 

And Marinette can’t breathe. She tries to, she tries so hard to, but she chokes.

She kneels down on the floor— Kagami is right again, the place is dusty, because Marinette couldn’t bring herself to use the living room and kitchen without her parents, could barely bring herself to sleep in her bedroom because she knew that her parents were not sleeping soundly in the bed below hers— and scrabbles at her throat, vision coming in and out.

Her legs burn. She knows that during the final battle, her legs were cut towards the end of it, and they should be healed, she should be okay now, she’s better than this, she’s— 

Somebody gathers her in their arms. They smell slightly of Lotus flowers, just like Maman, and cradle her ever so gently.

Marinette’s eyes open— black hair, greyish eyes filled with understanding and love and— 

She can breathe again.

She falls asleep.

#

“Cass?” Dick’s eyes widen at her unexpected appearance at Marinette’s home.

“I thought you were on Damian guard duty,” Barbara says, fixating on the red around Marinette’s eyes and the barely dried tear tracks on her face.

“Where’s that Kagami girl?” Jason scuffs his shoes on the hardware floor, silently marking the footprints on the floor and getting a general idea of what occurred before they were able to get here based on Marinette’s current state and the other girl’s absence. “I want to have some words with her.”

Cass inclines her head sharply, eye sparking with anger. Jason’s fists rise unconsciously— Cass rarely gets angry, and whenever she gets angry at a specific person, that means they’ve done something very, very wrong— ready to hunt down Kagami. Marinette sniffles and shifts in Cass’ one armed embrace, to which Cass places a finger over her lip and shakes her head, a universal sign to be quiet.

 Jason scowls but settles down.

They’re quiet as they wait for Marinette to wake.

@biodad-bruce-month

Maribat tag list(to be added onto this pls send me an ask/dm): @our-precipreciousss @my-dear-friend-anxiety

Who Are You (and what will you become) tag list (to be added here just comment): @anjuschiffer @theunquiet-dead @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @cresentmo0n @allulily @myazael @zalladane @rebecarojas07 @keepingupwiththemalfoys  @frieddonutsweets @all-mights-asscheeks @thornalchemist23 @trippingovermyfeet @jiso-lee @redscarlet95 @ira-sairain @screechingflapbiscuitpeach @ramos123 @cutechip @theunquiet-dead @sleep-deprived-aroace @enternalempires @lilkymilky @woe-is-me0 @officiallydarkgeek @miyla-lokidottir @queencommonsense @demonicbusiness @iamablinkmarvelarmy 

@emark7 (i will have the edited version of these on ao3 eventually but i think the link to ch 1 on this one works)

where i ended this doesn’t feel very good but ehhhhhhhhhh my writing process is summary then word vomit that barely correlates which means nothing makes sense unless i edit but looking back at my work makes me cringe so at a crossroads yayyy

also can you guys tell which prompts ive written these for because i’m curious

[stillness-in-green]

Ahistorical, Absurd, and Unsustainable (Part Four and Conclusion)

An Examination of the Mass Arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front Introduction and Part One Part Two Part Three

PART FOUR: Thematic Problems

For all that portions of the Western fandom look at the MLA and see Evil Quirk Eugenicists and Hypocritical Ultra-Rich, they had legitimate complaints, and their goals, while overly radical if taken to their logical extremes—see Geten[51]—still offer a way to address a huge number of the problems this society faces. Locking them up and throwing away the key is shutting off one of the most prominent angles on addressing those issues. Consider:

The Problem of Heroics

Quirk-based prejudice is real, and a huge amount of it is based in the hero/villain dichotomy. This isn’t surprising; when you set up a group of people as “heroes,” it follows logically, linguistically, naturally that the people they fight must be villains. Villains are bad, are evil, are black-and-white figures with no motivation worth considering. Toss them in jail; who cares? They earned being in there with their Bad Actions. But that kind of thinking is insidious—it spreads.

If someone looks like a villain, if someone has a bad quirk, they may well be a Bad Seed. And if they aren’t, well, the responsibility is on them to rise above that prejudice, to become better than the people around them think they can be—but no one asks the people around them to maybe stop being so damn prejudicial all the time.

A horrifyingly stark example shows up in Chapter 310, in which a woman is being attacked by a group of three men for no reason save that they think she looks like a villain, so they assume she must be a villain. Her obvious villain trait? She’s a heteromorph—unusually tall, with a vulpine face. That’s it. She’s not dressed in a threatening or antisocial style; she’s not aggressive or angry. She’s just a heteromorph who didn’t go to a shelter right away because she thought things would calm down if she waited it out.

Love Midoriya following this up with, “I bet they were just scared too.” Way to chase an aggression with a micro-aggression there, hero. (Chapter 310)

Of course, tensions are running high right now, higher than would ever be the case under normal circumstances, but even in “normal circumstances,” this uncomfortable bias persists. Consider Class 1-A’s Shoji: Shoji wears a mask because he's a gentle soul who doesn’t want to scare small children, but maybe instead, people should be teaching their kids not to judge by appearances? Then maybe their kids wouldn’t grow up to be the kinds of people who attack others for looking a little scary and not going to sufficient pains to hide it?

As far as bad quirks go, meanwhile, Shinsou is the classic example on the hero side. He was told by classmates, laughingly, that he had a good quirk for a villain; he carries himself at all times like he’s got something to prove. I suspect the only reason he’s at U.A. and not running with the League of Villains is a supportive home life,[52] but either way, people are all too ready to apply a villain label to him based on an ability that was nothing but genetic lottery, and that’s because the existence of heroes defines itself by the existence of villains.

Of course, the otherization of villains and people-who-kind-of-seem-like-they-might-be-villains is only part of the problem. The other and frankly larger issue is the effect that limiting quirk use to heroes-only has on the cultural mindset—heroes, villains, and civilians alike.

Japan in real life fosters a sense of community support so profound that children as young as four can be sent on small errands[53] around the neighborhood, safe in the knowledge that if they need help, they will be able to get that help. It’s far more common for young children to walk or take public transit to school than it is in the U.S. Another example is the country’s enthusiastic embrace of publicly available AED machines, complete with easy-to-understand printed and audio instructions about how to use them on people suffering heart attacks, a movement that has saved the lives of many who might not have otherwise survived long enough for an ambulance to arrive.

In My Hero Academia’s Japan, though?

You wind up with people who don't even particularly want to become heroes enrolling in hero schools anyway because it's the only way they can imagine contributing to society. Uraraka and Gran Torino are obvious examples—Uraraka becoming a hero less because she felt a calling to and more because it seemed like the best way to ameliorate her family’s hardscrabble lot in life; Torino getting a hero license not because he cared about being a hero at all, but because he was in on the One For All situation and needed to be able to use his quirk freely to help fight that secret war.

An even more telling case is that of the main character himself. Midoriya desperately wanted to “save” people, and from all the evidence we have in the early manga, as far as he was concerned, the only way for him to do that was to become a hero. He never even considered e.g. signing up for any volunteer programs around his neighborhood or joining the police. It’s like he never even considered the possibility of helping people via other channels.

And this is a consistent issue! People who don't think that they can become heroes train themselves (and are trained by society) into believing that they are powerless, that it isn’t their responsibility to help when they see trouble, leading to things like Shimura Tenko's “long walk,” where countless people look at a child of five, bloody and alone, and then make the conscious decision to look away, because “a hero will help.”

Hell, it even spills over onto actual heroes, who in the first chapter stand around like chumps waiting for “someone with a better quirk” to come and do something about the sludge villain, because they don’t have the perfect quirk to solve the problem themselves, so they don’t even try.

Of course, even if they did try, it might not be welcomed. Consider cases where people wanted to do good, like Gentle Criminal or Vigilantes' Koichi, but had their road to heroism blocked—this led them to villainy or vigilantism, which in turn can lead to arrest and possible prison time, with all the attendant stigma.

Restricting quirk use to heroes-only has impacts beyond just how it distorts people’s desire to help, too. Evidence in the manga suggests that some people feel a stronger biological drive to use their quirks than others. What options do those people have, then, if their quirks—or their personalities—don’t seem naturally cut out for heroism?

In Tamaki Amajiki’s flashback in Chapter 140, a teacher tells his class, “People make fine use of their quirks at any number of jobs. Being a hero’s not the only option. How will you be useful to society in the future? That’s what we’re here to explore in quirk training.” This is the scene in the manga that most explicitly tells us that other avenues for quirk use exist, but we’re never once shown what those avenues might be. At best, this suggests that those avenues are drastically limited (e.g. only available to those whose quirks are deemed “useful to society”) and/or poorly explained to people in-universe—else why would Uraraka have chosen heroism despite her lack of interest in it if she could have just gotten some kind of job license for her quirk? At worst, it’s an example of Horikoshi throwing in a line that contradicts the surrounding canon. Either way, we’re left with people who feel a strong drive to use their quirks being pressured into heroism or straying into villainy for lack of other acceptable outlets.

All of these issues could be mitigated by less draconian restrictions on quirks—which Destro's followers are the only characters in the manga we've actively seen pushing for, rather than just heard about second-hand—and by not using an ideologically charged word like “heroes” to describe a glorified independent police force. Allowing people to freely use their quirks[54] means fewer people being pushed into a heroics job they're unsuited for, means fewer people being pushed into villainy, means a more rounded view on how quirks can be used, leading to less quirk-based prejudice and less—well, let’s talk some about false dichotomies.

All For Nothing, Nothing For All

Shigaraki stands as a fundamental accusation of the way the hero/civilian dynamic exacerbates the Bystander Effect, making people think of themselves as powerless, while at the same time putting untenable pressure on heroes to be perfect victory machines who don't experience pain or doubt or weakness. He further attests that this dynamic pushes out people who don't fit either category—victim or hero—making them villains. This is one of the fundamental thematic conflicts of the series—is one hero enough? Are heroes themselves enough? What are heroes, what do they fight, and what should they be fighting? Who deserves to be “saved” and what does it mean, anyway, to “save” someone? What happens to the people who aren’t saved? How will the world grapple with the consequences, the resentment, that stem from that failure?

In his work Underground, written to grapple with and criticize the way Japanese media covered the sarin gas attacks, author Murakami Haruki talked about the response to the incident being to call the members of Aum Shinrikyo evil, insane, diseased, other. They were spoken of as a monstrous fringe that could not have been predicted, about which nothing could have been done, rather than examined as bright, well-educated young people who by all accounts ought to have had good futures ahead of them but instead spiraled down into a doomsday cult. Murakami asserted that, because the Japanese public was unwilling to ask how and why that happened, was unwilling to self-examine, the country was locking itself into a repeating cycle. Memorably, he wrote, “Most Japanese seem ready to pack up the whole incident in a trunk labeled THINGS OVER AND DONE WITH,” to describe this resolute incuriosity, the strong aversion to looking into the face of evil and trying to find the humanity within it.

In this post and its follow-up, tumblr user @robotlesbianjavert discusses the problems that stem from that exact tendency as portrayed in My Hero Academia. She says, “Only making decisions that benefit the greater good is not the real solution that the narrative is rooting for. Not so long as it fails to recognize and address the needs of the victims that still come of it.” Hero Society will never stop creating its own villains so long as, every time it fails people, it does nothing but shrug and write off the victims as unavoidable, inevitable sacrifices for the greater good.

I would also like to highlight her point—which I hope she one day posts her own full essay on—about the way All For One and One For All serve as two extreme poles of equally unsustainable visions for society. This dynamic is all over the manga.

There are the characters of AFO and his younger brother themselves, each forever locked in battle to prove the correctness of his own way of thinking, and forever talking past the other even when they’re face to face.

There’s the contrast of heroes, giving their all to help strangers even when it hurts the people they love, with villains, giving their all to help the people they love even when it hurts strangers.

The flaws in the One For All model can be seen in the multilayered ravages it inflicted on All Might physically, emotionally, and socially. Thus, one for all is not always ideal.

The strengths of the All For One model can be seen in a team of heroes and police combining their efforts and will to help one single person—Eri. Nighteye even highlights this with his speech about everyone’s efforts coalescing into Midoriya and helping him to “twist fate.” Thus, all for one is not always about selfishness.

Once you start looking for it, this duality shows up everywhere, and I think—I hope—it’s an angle Horikoshi is conscious of. The obvious solution is that the extremes of this society are all undesirable—that total selflessness and total selfishness are equally unsustainable, and both are, ultimately, damaging. A more holistic approach is needed, yet if a holistic approach is what the manga ultimately proves to be seeking, it makes the mass arrest of the PLF particularly problematic, if it’s allowed to stand unchallenged. You cannot just choose not to see 115,000 dissatisfied people—some way or another, you have to reckon with them, and if you don’t do it in a way that actually helps them address whatever their core problem is, you’re just setting yourself up for more of the same further down the line.

The MLA believed that they were fighting for a just cause, for freedom, for the future. They absolutely had issues—Geten’s words indicate that much—but they were issues that would have been much better addressed by actually challenging them openly, rather than suppressing them. If they couldn’t get society to agree right away that the use of one’s quirk should be as unregulated as the use of one’s hands, maybe they would have accepted a tiered license approach to quirk use as a good starting compromise. If they wanted totally unhindered quirk use, such that people could murder with impunity? Well, that would never have gotten past the House of Representatives, but maybe a bill declaring that crimes committed by quirks should be treated no differently than crimes committed via any other means would have. A weeklong debate on the Diet floor would have stood a much greater chance of e.g. addressing the needs of the quirkless than the MLA alone would have bothered with.

The MLA didn’t get to have that kind of debate. Instead, they ran headfirst into Shigaraki Tomura, who made them far more dangerous. And yet… For all that Shigaraki twisted them, he didn’t change them so much that Re-Destro couldn’t still see the light of his ideals within them. Furthermore, even though the PLF didn’t win the battle we call the War Arc, it may be that they’re well on their way to winning the actual war.

“The Seeds Are Already Sown”

So what did the PLF actually want? Well, we have a few sources on that—Shigaraki’s desire to destroy “everything,” the cloned Re-Destro’s vision of liberation through “order without order,” and so forth. But a very instructive place to look is Hawks’ doomsaying in Chapter 258. While the PLF is a bit too scattered or imprisoned to appreciate it, a shocking number of the things Hawks laid out for the audience have actually come about, even if they didn’t happen exactly as the PLF planned. Consider:

Bring down the status quo by annihilating all heroes. Heroes—a number of whom died the day of the raid—are retiring in mass numbers. As the manga describes it, they are “being put through a sieve.” They certainly haven’t all been annihilated, but the ones remaining are having to do the work with little in the way of thanks or glory—the false heroes Stain spoke of have left the table.

They plan to attack all major cities at once throughout the nation. Gigantomachia stampeded over more than twenty cities in the space of less than an hour. A bunch of them were surely not major cities, but all the same, it was a rampage that caught the heroes almost completely off-guard (because they were all tied up arresting the PLF and didn’t think Machia would be an issue), leading to massive collateral damage and unspeakable loss of life.

With society brought to a lawless standstill… Thanks to AFO’s prison breaks, a bunch of villains are now out there raising hell to their hearts’ content, and there aren’t enough heroes around to always respond in a timely fashion. They’re having to open up schools as shelter zones, evacuating entire cities, which the common people respond to predictably poorly, leading to groups of people who were not previously villainous deciding to take the law into their own hands.

…Re-Destro and the Hearts & Minds Party will storm the political world. In Chapter 297, the less openly fascist guard worries that the remaining factions of the HMP[55] will still be stirring up trouble on the political front, especially given the enormous wave of brand-new complaints about human rights violations that he doubtlessly figured were incoming.

They will distribute weapons and extol the virtues of self-defense, calling it true freedom. Whether Detnerat picked up the pace of its black-market support goods sales, bankrolled Giran doing the same, or some other groups—yakuza, perhaps—stepped up, we already know that there are weapons and support goods circulating throughout society, and that people are using them for self-defense.

These people will throw the world into chaos and enthrone Shigaraki atop the rubble. The second coming of All For One. Far more so than anyone in the PLF would have wanted, this one has come horribly true with the AFO vestige’s possession of Shigaraki.[56]

While it is perhaps karmic that the PLF is in no position to enjoy the fruits of their villainous efforts, it’s striking how much of what they wanted has come about anyway. And how much of this can really be undone or wound back? Complete societal breakdown isn’t the kind of genie you can easily rebottle, and this, I think, is particularly illustrated by the civilians Yo and Tatami encounter in Chapter 307.

I’d like to wind this essay down by zooming in on that encounter somewhat.

The group of people the Ketsubutsu pair encounter in 307 are not nice, but neither are they violent. Having, like so many others, lost faith in heroes to protect them, they want only to protect their hometown and for heroes to leave them be. They’ve fended off a few small-time villain attacks and are bluntly uninterested in cooperating with condescending heroes (an impression Yo is not helping to mitigate) who have done nothing but disappoint them.

The spokesman in particular feels to me like someone who’s suffered a significant personal loss. The shadow over his eyes here is telling. (Chapter 307)

When Muscular shows up, they are 100% ready to put their lives where their mouths are. They are all in the process of charging outside, first to stop their town from suffering more damage, then to back up a hero kid they just got done telling to buzz off. And you know? It’s possible—probable, even!—that Muscular would have murdered every last one of them, and them charging in to fight him would have led to a horrific tragedy, one more to stack atop the pile.

And yet, while the narrative doesn’t allow them to actually assist,[57] neither does it entirely rebuke them, in the end. When all is said and done, the civilians agree to hear Tatami and Yo out, and they help Tatami get Yo inside for medical attention. The leader is a little abashed, but he doesn’t bow his head and admit to being wrong; his group doesn’t meekly submit to being herded to shelter. And that’s because the narrative is—wisely—unwilling to say that they’re wrong.

After all, how could it?

Midoriya Izuku and the jaded civilian's instincts. (Chapters 1 and 307)

For a last comparison, remember that in the first chapter, Midoriya Izuku—quirkless, untrained Midoriya Izuku—dove into a fight he had no way of winning, no way of even affecting. All he was doing was endangering himself and making the sludge villain even harder to target. Still, All Might and the narrative alike praised him for his action, because it was driven by a “desire to save.” In Chapter 307, a group of undertrained civilians witnesses a high school boy being attacked by the highest tier of villain their society knows, a Tartarus escapee, a gleeful and unrepentant serial killer with a devastatingly powerful quirk. Their response is to gather up their weapons and numbers and dive in to try and help. Regardless of the weakness of their quirks, regardless of their lack of training, regardless of the danger to their lives, their instinct is the same as Midoriya’s was back then—“the desire to save.”

How could the narrative possibly tell us that they're wrong?

And if they aren’t wrong, this group of people who are so very close to the vision the PLF had for the world after their revolution, the narrative simply cannot expect to retain the slightest hint of credibility if it tries to tell us that the PLF are worth nothing more than an authorial handwave and the slamming of a cell door.

Conclusion

What we are seeing in the manga now is a society that is fumbling towards a new way. It isn’t perfect; it has a lot of wrinkles to iron out. Yet in some ways, if this is a society that has gone back in time, it is also a society that has a chance to chart a different path forward than it did before, a more inclusive path, a more balanced one. Heroes can still exist in the same way that surgeons and emergency responders exist, but that doesn't mean people throw their first aid kits in the garbage.

People protest that untrained civilians using their quirks leads to collateral damage, and that's true. The same would be true, however, if a nation that relied solely on public transit suddenly faced the total breakdown of that system and found that, if they wanted to get anywhere farther than walking distance, they had to get behind the wheel of a car and drive there themselves with no previous experience handling a motor vehicle. With some basic training, or perhaps a test and associated license that is as ubiquitous as a driver's license, how much of the collateral damage caused by civilians fighting might be reduced? How might people feel more empowered to act when necessary?

I very much want to see that future in the manga. It will feel terribly bitter, however, if the people who always believed in that future the most don’t get to see it themselves.

Bit characters are bit characters, I know. Terrorists in fiction don’t typically get to walk away scot-free. But numbers aren’t just numbers, even in fiction, even when they’re villains. If all Horikoshi wanted was a sufficiently large, scary threat to throw his heroes up against, he should have stuck with mindless Noumu or maniacal robots. He didn’t. He chose to make that threat human. He cannot now choose to dehumanize the threat, just because those humans are no longer convenient to his story.

Or at least, he can’t make me look at his doing so as anything other than appalling—ahistorical, absurd, and unsustainable.

Come back next time for sources and further reading.

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

[51] And yes, as always, I do think that Geten-whose-name-means-Apocrypha is a radical, not a reliable barometer for the MLA norm.

[52] Contrasting Toga, the standard-bearer for bad quirks on the villain side.

[53] We don’t know if that practice—so widespread it became the subject of a long-running TV program—survived the Advent and raised crime rate, but if it didn’t, that only further suggests that kids wandering the streets unattended are probably in need of assistance.

[54] Within the same bounds other freedoms exist, e.g. they’re not unduly burdening others.

[55] Small political parties in Japan merge and fragment all the time, particularly in times of crisis, so it’s not surprising that the HMP has some sub-groups. I am somewhat surprised that these factions themselves weren’t dissolved as well, given the heavy-handedness on display everywhere else. This is about the only thing that suggests that the arrests might not be as totally over-the-top as is otherwise implied, though really, if that’s the case, it just brings us back to the problem of all the people who probably slipped the net if the HPSC did opt to undercompensate.

[56] Another enormous thematic issue I have with tossing away the PLF like this is that it renders Shigaraki and the League’s hard-fought victories in My Villain Academia all but meaningless—worse than meaningless, since settling into the villa instead of staying on the run or bunking up with Ujiko wound up losing them Twice—but that’s more a problem with the writing of Shigaraki’s arc than the themes of the series as a whole. Certainly, fumbling Shigaraki’s arc will have a nigh-incomparable impact on the themes of the series as a whole, but there’s time to salvage his situation yet, so I’m crossing my fingers and reserving judgement on that for now.

[57] It should have.

[newamsterdame]

a deadly education is tone-deaf at best and racist at worse; not the cure to jkr anyone was hoping for

Harry Potter’s massive cultural impact means that we haven’t seen the last of magic schools set in Britain, and we probably won’t for a long while. In some ways, the fantasy genre’s response to Rowling’s work is tiresome. In others, it’s exciting—because a generation of readers and writers have grown up to bring their own perspective to the limits of Rowling’s work and push it beyond the limits of its author. However, if you’re looking for a transgressive magic academy book that interrogates the limited morality, inclusivity, and perspective of Harry Potter, you should put Naomi Novik’s A Deadly Education back on the shelf and keep looking.

A Deadly Education tells the story of Galadriel “El” Higgins, a half-British half-Indian sorcerer attending a magic school where the consequences of any mistake might mean sudden death. El is a loner by nature and circumstance, but walking alone in the halls of Scholomance might mean being attacked and devoured by one of the school’s monsters. This puts El on a crash course with Orion Lake, the shining hero of her year who takes it upon himself to save the lives of his fellow students, including a less-than-grateful El.

The set up honestly sounds pretty good—a prickly protagonist, a heroic rival-slash-love interest, a deadly setting, and the potential for deep lore in magic and world-building. Unfortunately, not only does Novik fail to deliver on any of the premises’ strengths, she also chooses to weigh her narrative down with reductive, tone-deaf, and downright racist details.

El’s particular class of magic relies on language. El speaks English and Marathi, and picks up Sanskrit, Hindi, Latin and Old English in her study of language-based spells. It’s a little uncomfortable that Novik lumps dead and defunct languages like Latin and Old English together with actively spoken ones like Mandarin, Hindi, and Spanish, but that isn’t where Novik’s faux paus end. El approaches languages like computer programs to be downloaded onto her hard drive. Despite languages being the basis of her magic, she has no personal connections to the ones she’s speaking. She views other students and their languages the same way, identifying groups of students as “the Mandarin speakers”, “the Arabic speakers,” etc. Novik seems clueless about the relationships between the languages she’s building her world’s magic around, putting Sanskrit tombs in Baghdad and declaring that the Scholomance has a library aisle containing all of India’s languages. (About 800 individual languages are spoken in India, fyi.)

This clinical approach to diversity extends from language into character. El doesn’t try to make many friends, and honestly it’s not hard to see her classmates don’t try to befriend her, either. She doesn’t describe her classmates as people—she describes them as assets. And while that could be explained away by the premise that half her classmates won’t make it out of school alive, and El needs allies more than friends to survive, it doesn’t make it any better when El refers to others exclusively by the language knowledge they offer her. A character named Ibrahim has no personality or backstory, but he conveniently pops up when El needs someone who knows Arabic. A character named Kaito is thoughtlessly grouped in with the Mandarin speakers. An Argentine character exclaims in Spanish when she’s excited or relieved. There’s an uncomfortable distinction between the languages that get written out in the text—Spanish, French—and the ones that get narrated away—a character exclaims in Mandarin.

Novik goes out of her way to let us know that the population of Scholomance is diverse. There’s a group of South and West African students (only one of whom is named, and none of whom are important). There’s a “civilized” enclave of magicians in Toronto who value family and human life more than other groups. One character might graduate and go to Bangkok, but he’s looking to secure himself a place in Shanghai instead. Naomi Novik really knows the names of cities on at least four continents, and she’s not about to let you forget it!

But aside from names, languages, and cities, Novik has given no thought to what diversity means, or who these characters are if they come from diverse backgrounds. El calls on “Mandarin-speaker,” Yi Liu, exclusively by the name Liu. Is Liu meant to be this character’s first name? Or her surname? El doesn’t call anyone else by surname, but Liu is a Chinese surname, one of the most common in the world. El’s father is a Marathi-speaker from Mumbai, but El has no personal connection to Indian culture. Her father’s family prophesied that El would be a destroyer, and other than that rejection El has nothing to say about India or half of her culture. She refers to her Indian relatives in clinical English descriptors (my father’s mother, my great-grandmother, my uncles), even though she is purportedly fluent in Marathi and should know words like Panaji, Aaji and Kaka. El says that her Indian family is from an old Hindu enclave, and yet they have djinn as servants. (Djinn aren’t a typical part of Hindu cosmology, though they are a significant part of Islamic texts.)

Making El biracial seems like an afterthought, not something that affects her character in any way. It just creates some truly unfortunate optics, like when El goes on a three-paragraph description of how unnecessary she finds showers and how dirty she is at any given time. El’s father died making sure her pregnant mother (and therefore, El herself) would live, and yet El barely thinks about him. His name is mentioned once in the entire book. El complains that (presumably white) British people “assume she speaks Hindi” or call her the color of weak tea. But her Indian heritage is a veneer placed on top of a character who is otherwise just a default white protagonist.

All this adds up to a character (and a world), that reads as nothing so much as colonial. El feasts on the languages of others for her own edification, power, and survival, but she doesn’t see her classmates as people, and she doesn’t see language as a living thing related to real cultures. And I’m given to believe that Naomi Novik holds the same views, what with how she throws around the word “mana” as part of her world-building without considering its roots and real-life meaning to Polynesian and Melanesian peoples.

However, nothing makes the cultural tone-deafness of this book more evident than this passage:

Dreadlocks are unfortunately not a great idea thanks to lockleeches, which you can probably imagine, but in case you need help, the adult spindly thing comes quietly down at night and pokes an ovipositor into any big clumps of hair, lays an egg inside, and creeps away. A little while later the leech hatches inside its comfy nest, attaches itself to your scalp almost unnoticeably, and starts very gently sucking up your blood and mana while infiltrating further. If you don’t get it out within a week or two, it usually manages to work its way inside the skull, and you’ve got a window of a few days after that before you stop being able to move. On the bright side, something else usually finishes you off quickly at that point.

El’s pithy commentary about imminent death aside, I have a hard time reading anything but casual and thoughtless racism from this passage. The nefarious and deliberate myth of dreadlocks being unhygienic (and by extension, Black people being endemically dirty) is pervasive to this day. And Naomi Novik decides to include this passage in a book that has no major Black characters, in which dreadlocks never even come up in any meaningful way, just to remind us that in this magic world of hers, dreadlocks are dirty! Monster insects nest in them! The consequences are death! There was no good reason to include this passage, and all it does is draw on inaccurate and racist myths and perpetuate them into a world where anti-Black racism is never contended with. Although, I suppose, why would it? El never has need of any languages from the West or South Africans.

A Deadly Education bills itself as a subversive, even feminist, response to Harry Potter. But just like J. K. Rowling, Naomi Novik is a white author who uses other cultures thoughtlessly to build her own magic world. Other cultures and peoples exist, but only to serve the aims and needs of white (or mostly white-coded) characters. Novik has no empathy, no care and apparently no ability to Google anything about the cultures she wants to draw on. And the result isn’t just insulting—it’s boring. The world-building in this book is as dry and dusty as any history written by 19th century British colonizers.

Using some foreign names and making your protagonist biracial does not shield your work from racism. It does open you up to more pitfalls in depicting other peoples and cultures, if you don’t care to look out for them.

It would be nice to close by saying that despite its flaws, A Deadly Education is an enjoyable book. But it isn’t. It’s just a badly-researched, emotionless story told by rote.

[organabanana]

you're not saved until you leave this place | harley/ivy

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: DCU (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel

Additional Tags: Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Abusive Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Mild Blood

Series: Part 1 of the 2021 Writing Challenge series

Summary: Harley Quinn - she's not Harleen Quinzel anymore - has just been saved by Poison Ivy. The problem is Poison Ivy doesn't think Harley can really be saved. I just finished reading Harleen by Stjepan Sejic and I'm feeling A Certain Way. Reading it first is encouraged (and recommended because it's amazing) but not necessary to know what's going on.

Notes: This is not meant to be particularly true to any canonical storyline beyond using Harleen (the comic) as a starting point. I took the liberty of taking bits and pieces from different storylines because I could.Written for the prompt "I should be in pain . . . . . why am I not in pain?” for week 4 of the 2021 writing challenge made by @butterbee-writes.

[ao3 link]

Harley regains her consciousness slowly, as if she was struggling to emerge from an ocean of molasses. What a strange image, an ocean of molasses. That’s what it feels like, though. Thick and sticky and dark. As her senses begin to work once again, though, Harley realizes wherever she is smells nothing like molasses at all. It smells both fresh and damp somehow. Like she imagines a rainforest might smell like. Green and thick with life. And then there’s something else. Lighter. Floral, even. Jasmine, maybe?

“Doctor Quinzel.”

The woman’s voice doesn’t immediately ring a bell, but it feels familiar somehow. Under different circumstances, she’s sure she could figure it out. But Harley’s tired of fighting the not-really-molasses threatening to swallow her brain whole. She can’t play detective right now.

“Doctor Quinz—“

“It’s Harley,” she interrupts, her voice hoarse like she’s using it for the first time after a night of hard liquor. This doesn’t feel like a hangover, though. And she doesn’t feel like Doctor Quinzel anymore.

“Open your eyes.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” This may not be a hangover, but her head still feels like it’s balancing precariously on the edge of the kind of headache that drives people to insanity.

Heh.

Like she needs a headache for that.

“Your eyes might be damaged. I don’t have all day.”

The woman’s tone is hard to read. Somewhere between annoyed and caring, somehow. Like she wishes she didn’t care, but she does anyway. Harley can sympathize.

“Damaged by what?” Harley asks, already opening her eyes and struggling to focus. All she sees is varying shades of green. “What happened?”

The woman doesn’t speak. Harley sees a blurred light among the greens and feels that flowery smell grow stronger when the woman leans closer to her face. It reminds her of her time as Arkham’s psychiatrist, asking questions and being ignored. And that’s when it clicks. Arkham. Of course.

“Ms. Isley?”

“Ivy.”

Under different circumstances, Harley might have taken offense at the sharp tone of Pamela Isley’s correction. But she’s not exactly in a position to pick a fight with a supervillain, and - if she’s being perfectly honest - this may be the third or fourth time Ivy’s corrected her since they first met. No wonder she’s annoyed.

“What happened?”

“Your eyes are fine. Your vision may be blurry for a while. I assume your glasses are still in the acid. What’s left of them, anyway.”

“Acid? What aci—“

Harley’s eyes widen even if she still can’t quite see. The acid. The vat of acid, and Jay’s hands around Harley’s wrists, and his smile… and then the searing pain. She brings her hands up with some effort, and even with her limited vision she can see they look bleached white. And yet…

“I should be in pain…  Why am I not in pain?” She should also be in some major emotional distress, given the circumstances, but she’s more or less given up on her own mental stability these days.

“My abilities aren’t limited to toxins, Harley. You’re enjoying a very good, very potent, all-natural anesthetic.”

“You saved me?” Harley wonders, briefly, whether she has any right to sound this surprised when this is the second time Pamela Isley has done just that. Save her. “Thank you.”

“Like I told you last time, don’t thank me yet,” Ivy says, and there’s a certain emotion in her tone (Dr. Quinzel might have been able to define it, but she’s not around anymore) that makes her sound nearly human, “you’re only truly saved—“

“If I leave Arkham. I remember.” Those words haunted Harley’s nightmares for weeks. “But I left. This isn’t Arkham, is it?”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches for longer than it should, somehow. Like Ivy’s having to really think to figure out whether they are in Arkham or they aren’t.

“This isn’t Arkham,” Ivy finally says, “but you haven’t left.”

“What do you mean, I haven’t le—“

“I really don’t have all day, Harley.” That emotion — that near humanity — is completely gone from Ivy’s voice now. “Do you have a place to stay while you recover?”

“Yeah. I can- I can stay at Jay’s.” What does it say about her, that she doesn’t even hesitate to name the man who threw her in a vat of acid as her emergency contact of sorts?

If she was still working, she’d write a thesis on herself.

Pamela Isley doesn’t say anything else, and for a moment Harley wonders if she’s been alone all this time and her admittedly off-kilter brain simply hallucinated a beautiful, jasmine-scented supervillain for her to talk to. It wouldn’t surprise her. Nothing does anymore.

With some effort, Harley sits up and notices where she’s been laying all this time. It’s not a bed — not a normal one, anyway — but it’s soft and comfortable. It’s somehow both cool and cozy, and… alive, somehow. Like moss, but not quite. Which fits, because Pamela Isley happens to be human, almost, but not quite.

Harley doesn’t necessarily mean that in a bad way.

“What did you mean?” Harley says, looking at the blurry outline of Ms. Isley’s — Ivy’s — back. Her eyes are getting used to the light, and she’s pretty sure the current lack of focus is mostly due to her glasses being gone. “When you said I haven’t left?”

“You shouldn’t get up yet. You’ll faint, and pheromones won’t fix a cracked skull.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you want to call him to come pick you up?” Ivy pauses for a second, like she’s reconsidering her own words. “Does he even have a phone?”

“I—“

Harley clamps her mouth shut. She doesn’t know if Jay has a phone. She knows the exact location of every scar on his body. She knows exactly what to say and do to make him smile. She knows she can help him — fix him doesn’t sound nearly as good — and she knows she belongs with him. In his world. But she doesn’t know if he has a phone.

The giggles come before she can stop them. It’s not funny, but she’s laughing. She can’t stop. It feels almost like… like in a different life she’d be sobbing instead, but all she can do is laugh.

And it’s cathartic. Like a good, loud, heart-shattering crying session. Like a night of binge-drinking to quiet her thoughts. The laughter grows louder, shriller and more unhinged as she thinks about Dr. Harleen Quinzel no longer existing. Not just because Harley says so, but because she melted along with her glasses when Mr. Jay shoved Harley into that vat. She thinks about a job and a life she’ll never go back to. About the fact that she doesn’t know if Jay has a phone, but she knows the exact sound a skull makes when a mallet cracks it open.

It’s not funny, but she’s laughing. And when she stops, she feels different somehow. Like she’s laughed whatever was left of Harleen Quinzel away.

“Are you done?”

Pamela Isley isn’t laughing. She’s not even smiling. She’s just staring, in silence, like she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that being in silence is a recipe for thinking. And thinking… well. There’s nothing fun about that. Can you blame her for trying to entertain herself somehow?

“So. Pam.”

“What did you just call me?”

Pamela Isley is suddenly dangerously close. It may not be jasmine after all. It’s something… earthier. She’s so close Harley doesn’t need her glasses to see the dangerous glint in bright green eyes.

Harley could push it. She tilts her head to one side, smiling faintly as she ponders what would happen if she said it again. Would Pamela Isley kill her, if Harley called her Pam again? And, more importantly, would that be so bad, all things considered?

“Sorry,” she finally says, making sure the mocking tone is audible in her voice, “I figured saving my life twice would’ve kinda put us on a first name basis.”

“Not quite.”

“Right. Well, Ms. Isley—”

“It’s Ivy!”

Pamela Isley — Poison Ivy — raises her voice. Harley swears the plants around them grow, like they’re getting ready to attack her the second Ivy orders them to.

Except she doesn’t.

Does this count as saving Harley’s life a third time? Choosing not to off her when she could’ve?

“Why do you keep saving me?”

“Excuse me?” Ivy takes one step back, and it’s like the greenery deflates just so. Like it’s all lost steam all of a sudden.

“You heard me,” Harley shrugs, carefully standing up and noticing the oversized t-shirt she’s wearing for the first time, “why do you keep doing it? Not too super-villainy of you, if you ask me.”

The more time she spends with her eyes open, the better she seems to see. Can acid burn somehow fix someone’s vision? She’ll have to tell Mr. Jay about the  potential untapped marked in back-alley lasik surgery.

“I wouldn’t call myself a super-villain.”

“Your file at Arkham sure would.”

“Would it? And what does his file say?”

Harley stops staring at an exotic-looking flower to glare at Ivy instead. His file is wrong. His file is the result of a series of biased psychiatrists with questionable methods. They didn’t know him like she does. Nobody does. She’s the only one who understands.

He needs her. She can help.

“And what will yours say, Harley Quinzel?”

“I don’t have a—“

“Oh,” Ivy lets out a chuckle and it kind of feels like Harley figures being hit with her mallet might, “but you will.”

Harley licks her lips. Will she? Will she have a file at Arkham? Have a shrink sit across from her, on the other side of a bulletproof glass, and ask her what went wrong and when? Will she have to talk about Jay’s smile and his scars and the way he pressed her up against the padded wall of the interrogation room?

Will they call her call her a sociopath, too?

Probably. They’ll be wrong, though. She does feel remorse when she kills. It’s just she’d rather feel that than the absence of him.

“So don’t thank me, Harley. I never saved you.”

~*~

Harley doesn’t remember what she used to look like anymore. Harleen Quinzel may as well have never existed. It’s been three years since she fell into that vat of acid — it sounds better than saying someone threw her in, doesn’t it? — and so much has happened in her life that she can’t remember anything from before she was Harley Quinn anymore.

She’s been in Arkham… a number of times. Let’s leave it at that. She’s still with Jay. Mostly. On and off. Mostly on, though, other than that nine-month break she took for personal reasons when she went to stay with her sister Delia.

Mostly, though. Mostly, they’re on. And they’re so good when they are. Mostly. Mostly good.

You wouldn’t get it. Only she gets it. Only she gets him.

“Hey, Red?”

Ivy doesn’t even look up from whatever science-y stuff she’s working on, and Harley doesn’t really mind. They’re best pals. They don’t need eye contact to communicate.

“Why d’ya hate him?” Jay finds her new accent cute, like her higher-pitched voice and her red-and-black leotard.

“Huh?” Harley can feel Ivy’s frown even if she’s currently looking at the back of her head. “Who are we talking about?”

“Mistah Jay.”

She can feel the sour expression on Ivy’s face without seeing it, too.

“I don’t remember having said I hate him.”

“Ya don’t need to. I can just tell, y’know.”

“Can you.” Sometimes Ivy does that thing when she asks a question but her tone isn’t really question-y. Kinda cute, if you ask Harley. Over the years she’s grown to see many of the things about Ivy most people find intimidating are actually pretty dang cute.

“Yeah,” Harley stands up from her favorite moss-covered pouf (Ivy took offense last time Harley called it a beanbag chair) and sits on the edge of Ivy’s desk instead, “kinda like how ya don’t have to say it for me to know ya love me, Red.”

Ivy doesn’t smile, but her skin does. It turns this vibrant green and Harley knows it means Ivy’s smiling on the inside. It’s a whole thing. Just trust her, all right? She knows her Red.

“So. Why d’ya hate him?”

Ivy looks up from whatever botanical gibberish she’s been writing and stares into Harley’s eyes like she’s trying to read her mind.

Good thing her Puddin’s right when he says it’s mostly empty space in there, right?

Heh.

“You should’ve paid more attention when you worked at Arkham, Harley.”

Ivy stands up and leaves Harley there, dumbfounded and confused, because what does that even mean? She doesn’t even remember those months. She didn’t even think Ivy remembered. Had they ever even interacted back then? All she remembers are her… sessions, with Jay.

“Hey, wait! Come on, don’t be mean!”

Ivy rolls her eyes at Harley like she’s being overly dramatic (she isn’t), and starts collecting samples from this pots and plants.

“Why won’t you just tell me? Come on, it’s been forever, I don’t rem—“

The happy sound of a circus fanfare comes from outside Ivy’s lair, and Harley knows exactly what it means.

“Saved by the… honk, Red.” Harley winks, grabbing her mallet and putting on her hat. She can drop the subject for now. There’ll be more times. “I’ll bring ya somethin’ pretty from the heist, yeah?”

“Be safe.”

Harley’s already skipping towards the exit, but she turns around just to blow Ivy a kiss. “See? I knew ya loved me, Red.”

Ivy doesn’t just smile with her skin this time.

~*~

Harley watches the trial from the couch in the apartment she shares with Ivy and their (Ivy will deny it, but Harley knows she loves them) hyenas. It’s a happy little life. After so many years of super-villainy, switching sides has been kind of weird.

Well.

They haven’t switched completely. Just ask Batman. But they’re cool with the Batfolk now. Mostly. They promise to keep casualties to a minimum (she vaguely remembers Batman insisting on zero, but that’s a ballpark number, she’s sure) and help them catch the really bad guys, and in exchange they’re mostly free to do as they please.

It’s kind of weird, watching a trial on TV. A real trial, she means. But she figures when the person being judged is famous enough — and hated enough — it makes sense. And Gotham doesn’t hate anyone as much as they hate Jay.

He doesn’t look scared or nervous at all. Maybe he figures he’ll get out again whenever he pleases. But Bats said that’s not happening this time. Not with all the evidence Harley provided. Having bested it a dozen times herself, Harley can’t say she trusts Arkham’s security system that much. But it doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t really care.

“Ugh, commercial break. Can ya believe it?” Harley scritches Lou’s ear and nudges Bud off the couch so she can stand up. “They can call it a recess all they like, we all know the judge needed to pee.”

She chuckles to herself on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, and on her way back her gaze lands on the carton box Bats gave her when they made their deal. The one full to the brim with everything that used to be in her and Ivy’s files at Arkham.

And she’s about to flop back onto the couch when a little tape recorder catches her attention instead. Her old tape recorder, from about two lifetimes ago, when she still wore a white coat and was called Dr. Quinzel.

“Let’s see who’s in this tape,” she says out loud as she presses the rewind button, and the two hyenas sit at her feet like they’re waiting for the best kind of treat, “maybe it’ll be Uncle Swamp Thing!”

But when the tape begins to play, the voice that fills the room is Ivy’s instead.

“Oh, jackpot!” Harley grins, muting the television to put her full focus on the preserved moment from over ten years ago. She kinda knows how the trial ends, anyway. Bats spoilered her.

“I do appreciate it, you know… the fact that you’re using a recorder instead of paper.”

Ivy sounds so different. Harley wishes she could remember the conversation, but all she has from those months are snippets of moments with him.

“Others before you had different methods. One of my previous doctors, he brought a potted plant.”

“Well, that’s nice of him, right boys? Mama loves a plant.”

“Watered it with bleach in front of me.”

Harley gasps, both at the cruelty of what she’s hearing and the fact that she suddenly has the answer to the question she asked so many times over the years. Why did Ivy hate Jay so much?

Harley looks at her bleached skin and can’t help but grin. She’s the one thing Pam loves as much as she loves her plants.

“…Doctor, your hormones are elevated. Every time you smile, you blush. Usually, I have to kiss a person to elicit such a response…”

If she could still blush, she would. She feels her cheeks burn anyway, because back then it wasn’t her girlfriend making her hormones get elevated (or whatever the Ivy from the past just said) but now… well. Now she elevates them plenty.

But more than that, she realizes, suddenly, exactly what Ivy meant when she insisted Harley could not be saved until she left Arkham. How could she really leave when Jay still owned most of her heart?

“They didn’t have double decker poptarts, Peanut. Are you sure they even exist?” Ivy interrupts Harley’s moment of reflection by walking into the apartment carrying several grocery bags and sending the boys into a flurry of excitement. “The lady at the register looked at me like I’d just asked for dragon eggs, so— wait. What are you listening to? Is that me?”

Harley nods, even if she knows Ivy can’t see her while she’s bent over leaving all the grocery bags on the counter.

“What is it? Is that from— oh.”

“Mhmm,” Harley grins, stopping the recording for now. She has the real life version of Ivy right here, so she doesn’t need the past at all. “Ya liked me already back then, huh, Pammy?”

Ivy rolls her eyes, but Harley knows. She knows she did.

“Where’d you get the tape?”

“Bats brought all that over,” Harley points in the general direction of the box, “said we can have it since we’re no longer the baddies.”

Ivy looks in the box and seems genuinely surprised when her gaze returns to Harley once again. “Our files?”

“Mhmm. All of it. Gone.”

It’s only when she tells Ivy that it fully registers for Harley, too. Their files are gone. No more Arkham.

Somewhere in her peripheral vision, she can see the trial’s back on the air. He’s going back in, and she… she wouldn’t say she doesn’t care at all. But she’s not going in with him. Her heart’s not his anymore.

She’s left.

“Pammy?”

Pam doesn’t look up from her hands as they rummage through the contents of the box, but she doesn’t need to. Harley knows she’s listening.

“Thank you.”

“Why?” Ivy looks at Harley then, frowning slightly in confusion. “I wasn’t the one who negotiated with Wayne.”

“No, I know.” Harley smiles and walks over, just to be closer. To smell the jasmine on her girlfriend’s skin. “But you saved me. A couple times. So thank you.”

And for the very first time, Harley’s pretty sure she’s figured something out before her (very smart, super quick-on-her-feet) girlfriend. Because Ivy looks at the box again, and at the muted TV where the trial is still happening, and then at Harley… and she smiles.

“You’re welcome, Harls.”

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s Greenhouse Date (Eng Translation)

🍒Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers!🍒

Note: This is a cancelled date which will unlikely come to EN :<

More from this Collection: Gavin // Lucien // Victor

The date begins with MC commenting on how Kiro has been extremely busy lately. He hasn’t been picking up calls, and his messages have been short. MC also notes that although he appears normal on television, his eyes have become slightly dimmer.

MC recalls how Kiro has always been giving her strength whenever she’s feeling low, so she decides to do the same for him. She sends him a message:

MC: Miss Chips’ personalized mystery surprise, only applicable to Mr Kiro. Please claim this prize within the one hour time limit, or else it will expire~

After sending the message, I continue watching the television. However, I am entirely focused on my phone and alerted to every chime it makes.

Almost an hour passes and Kiro has not replied. While I’m hesitating whether or not to call him, my phone finally vibrates.

Kiro: This is the special prize winner Mr Kiro. I wish to ask Miss Chips – what exactly is my prize?

His tone is tinged with tiredness, but he still ends his sentences with a cheery lilt.

MC: It shall remain a secret. All you have to do is give me your time this Sunday!

Kiro is stunned for a moment, then a smile seeps into his voice.

Kiro: [laughs] When did you learn this trick of mine?

MC: Heh heh, I’m not telling you. Once you have accepted the prize, there’s no backing out!

Kiro: Yes, Mr Kiro promises Miss Chips.

MC: That’s great! I was even worried… ah, nothing….

Kiro: Worried about what? Were you anxious that I almost didn’t respond in time? I guessed correctly, didn’t I?

MC: Hmph, that’s because I didn’t want to waste my surprise.

Hearing this, Kiro chuckles from the other end of the line. The tiredness that was in his voice earlier has dissipated quite a bit.

MC: So it’s settled, I’ll come find you on Sunday.

Kiro: Even though it’s your surprise, how could I let you be the one to look for me? Don’t worry, I’ll slip away secretly and pick you up!

Before I hang up, Kiro suddenly mutters apologetically.

Kiro: Actually, my phone wasn’t by my side just now. It was only after I took a call that I saw your message. Were you very anxious while waiting?

MC: It’s all right. I was thinking that if you didn’t reply, I would tell you that the time limit got extended by another hour…

Kiro: [laughs] Do you know that hearing you say that makes me really happy? Even happier than hearing about the mystery surprise!

Kiro’s tone is gentle, and I can almost see a golden retriever from the corner of my eye, wagging its tail and smiling at me.

Kiro: All right, so it’s settled.

Hanging up the phone, I find myself smiling. Kiro has always been bringing me to his secret hide-outs to recharge my batteries. This time, it’s my turn.

MC has already planned how Sunday would go. Judging from Kiro’s busy schedule, he wouldn’t have had the time to go flower viewing. He also wouldn’t be able to go to public flower viewing places, considering his celebrity status.

MC: Or else, one wouldn’t be able to tell whether the crowd is there to see the flowers or Kiro.

Sunday arrives. While waiting for Kiro, MC recalls how she asked her father’s friend, Uncle Gu, for permission to use his personal greenhouse. When she was younger, she would visit the large greenhouse and her worries would melt away when surrounded by the gorgeous flowers. 

Even though she is unsure if Kiro would be interested in flower viewing, she thinks the change of scenery should allow him to relax.

While she is deep in thought, someone covers her eyes from behind.

The coolness of a ring brushes against my cheek, carrying the scent of its owner.

MC: Kiro…

?: Who is Kiro? I’m the special prize winner of your mystery surprise.

Pushing away the hands that are covering my eyes, I turn around to see Kiro wearing a pair of sunglasses.

He has deep eye bags, but his tired-looking expression has an insuppressible grin. I lean towards him.

MC: You look so fatigued. Did you not rest well?

Hearing this, Kiro furrows his eyebrows, his blinking eyes full of grievances.

Kiro: Yeah, I haven’t slept for three nights, and I feel so dizzy…

He says this slowly, and I hurriedly stand on my tiptoes, wanting to test his temperature.

MC: We shouldn’t have come out then… could it be a fever…

I look into Kiro’s clear eyes. He lets out a grin, looking a sly squirrel.

MC: You tricked me!

I purse my lips, my face flushing as I turn to the side.

Kiro hurriedly grabs on to my sleeve, a pitiful expression on his face.

Kiro: Okay okay I was wrong, don’t be angry, all right?

Kiro appears in my line of sight no matter which direction I turn my head. Looking at me with his bright eyes, my temper disappears in an instant.

MC: Fine, I’m no longer angry… Kiro is such a childish ghost.

Without a trace of anger or shock, Kiro continues smiling.

Kiro: Yes, I’m a childish ghost, and Miss Chips is the cutest~

MC: You’re shameless…

Kiro: I’m not. Isn’t it normal for a man to reveal his childish side to the person he likes? I even thought you heard about this saying before…

Kiro seems a little disappointed. He mutters, pulling me into the car.

I turn to look at him and see his side profile bathed in sunlight. The layer of gold makes his entire form look lively, fresh, and beautiful.

Now silent, Kiro’s face has a look of maturity that wasn’t there before. My heart suddenly does a flip, and I try not to think about what he said just now.

They finally reach Uncle Gu’s place, but it has been refurbished with additional features, so they have to walk through an eerie tree-lined pathway. MC gets goosebumps and nervously holds his hand.

Kiro: Eh?

MC: This is to prevent someone from running away suddenly.

Kiro: That wouldn’t happen. I’m not scared at all.

Trying to prove his point, Kiro tightens his grip on my hand, with an expression which says that he is unfazed by any circumstances.

We hold each other’s hands tight and walk forward step-by-step.

Kiro stands in front of me slightly, as though prepared to defend me at any moment.

His actions remind me of our experience at the haunted house, which he specially brought me to to prove his bravery. This time round, he doesn’t seem as afraid, though his palms are still sweating.

As we continue down the long pathway, Kiro seems to become increasingly relaxed. While he walks, he sniffs the air, just like an animal following the scent of food.

MC: What are you smelling?

Kiro: Dummy! I’m smelling the flowers of course.

MC: I don’t think I mentioned the greenhouse as being the mystery surprise. Can you really smell it?

Kiro: Of course! Also, I’ve confirmed that this place has a gigantic patch of Monet. I can already smell it!

MC: Monet? Isn’t he an artist?

Kiro: Heh heh looks like you don’t know! Here, follow me!

Saying this, Kiro pulls me into a run.

We run through the long corridor of vines, pass by a few patches of colorful flowers, and finally stand in front of a small wooden door with “Rosa chinensis” written on it.

Pointing at the sea of pink flowers beyond the wooden door, his eyes are filled with satisfaction.

Kiro: I was right! Like I said, there are Monets here.

MC: You’re saying that the Rosa chinesis is called Monet?

Kiro: Right! These pink flowers with yellow streaks are called… let me think! Yes, Claude Monet! They smell really good!

MC takes a closer look at the flowers and realizes that the flowers have a fruity smell. She can understand how Kiro could recognize them from afar.

MC: Are you very knowledgeable about the Rosa chinesis?

Kiro: Yes! When I was studying in France, I was a volunteer at the Botanic Gardens. Because some things happened, there was a period of time when I couldn’t attend school. I spent my entire day in the Botanic Gardens, and I learnt a lot about the Rosa chinesis. For example, how they differ from roses, the different parts of the Rosa chinesis, and the different types… only then did I realise that the simple-looking Rosa chinesis could also be so beautiful.

MC: It shares the same name as the prolific artist Monet though.

Kiro: Mmhmm, I originally thought that it got its name because it shared the same colours as Monet’s paintings. Later on, I discovered that it was far from that.

MC: Eh? Then what’s the reason?

Kiro: The Monet flower is extremely strong against diseases. It can’t be destroyed no matter what diseases plague it. Instead, it blooms even more beautifully. Monet was also such an artist. I saw his letter in the museum and learnt that he didn’t have a good life. He was sick and poor. Even so, he could bring people warmth. He taught me that sunlight is the most meaningful thing in the world, and that all of us have the ability to make choices.

Kiro keeps his eyes on the flowers, his expression lifting into a smile. It’s a different smile from before – a genuine smile that belongs to him, a smile stemming from his innermost heart.

I suddenly feel like I’ve been transported several years back, and I can see a younger Kiro standing amid the flowers with a brilliant smile.

When I return to my senses, Kiro’s big eyes are less than ten centimeters away from me.

I instinctively shrink backwards, but Kiro reaches out for my shoulder.

Kiro: Why are you dazing off while looking at my face? Be honest, what are you thinking about?

MC: I… I was just thinking about how you’re similar to Monet. You’re always bringing people brightness and warmth.

While saying this, Kiro continues staring at me, his pure eyes looking into my heart.

That person whose entire body exudes light, and is always giving me strength… he should have such pure eyes.

Kiro laughs, his eyes crinkling.

Kiro: Monet spent his life chasing after the light. That’s where we differ. I’m even better than him, because I have already found my light.

He blinks at me, as though he is keeping a major secret, waiting for me to probe further.

I am slightly stunned and am unsure how to respond.

Kiro: Why aren’t you asking me what my light is?

[Note: At this moment, Kiro has that “I’ve been flirting with you for the past year, thanks for noticing” face]

Looking at his expression, I laugh and play along with him.

Kiro responds with a sentence in French, and I don’t understand it.

MC: What did you say?

Kiro: I’ll tell you if you dance with me.

MC: How does that even work... you were the one who prompted me to ask that question…

Acting on his own whims, Kiro lifts up my left hand while hooking onto my right hand, pulling me into a dancing posture.

MC: …eh?

In contrast to my surprise, Kiro’s face is beaming.

His lips curve upwards, like a squirrel hugging a pinecone tightly and showing it off to its friends with pride.

His blue eyes are glimmering, as though they contain the entire galaxy.

In the center of that galaxy are two tiny faces, each of them belonging to me.

The atmosphere seems to have shifted suddenly.

MC: What did you just say?

Kiro: I said, dance with me.

MC: No, I’m referring to that thing you said in French…

Before I even finish, Kiro leans close to my ear and mutters something incredibly quickly.

Kiro: It’s too late.

MC: Huh? What do you mean by that?

Kiro: I just told you the meaning, so it’s too late to reject me now.

What…

My ears start reddening. Even though this is a private greenhouse, I’m slightly embarrassed to dance here.

MC: You-

Kiro: What about me?

MC: There isn’t any music so we can’t dance!

I instantly regret once the words slip out of my mouth.

Kiro: Music?

Kiro blinks.

With a sly grin, he starts humming a tune.

Only after five notes, I have already guessed what tune he is humming.

MC: …the doll and teddy bear dance?

[Note: I went to check and it’s an actual song bless his pure heart] 

Kiro: Yep. Don’t you think it’s similar to our current situation? Miss Chips~

He stretches out the way he says “Miss Chips”, ending with a smile in his voice.

MC: Am I the teddy bear? Or the doll?

Kiro: [laughs] Of course…

Kiro purposefully drags out his answer, leading me into a slightly inaccurate rendition of ballroom dancing. He twirls me around.

Kiro: …you are my Miss Chips!

I am tickled by his words. The embarrassment I felt earlier vanishes without a trace.

MC: Fine… don’t blame me if I step on you.

Kiro: Don’t worry, it wouldn’t happen!

Where does Kiro’s confidence come from?

I understand once I cooperate and start dancing with him.

MC: Stop, stop, I’m not dancing any longer! My head’s going to explode from the twirling. How is this considered dancing?

The reason why Kiro was so sure I wouldn’t step on him is because this isn’t the ballroom dancing I envisioned at all! Most of the time I end up getting twirled around by Kiro.

Kiro: Don’t you know that this is a sort of dance too?

With a smile, he leans close to my ear, saying this clearly. Several blurry Kiros appear in my vision.

Kiro: Don’t you find this blurry feeling amazing? It’s like how people go to bars to get drunk.

MC: So you’re feeling great now?

His words seem to take on a deeper meaning, but I’m unable to grasp them in my dizzy state.

Kiro: Mm, incredibly happy!

Kiro nods his head vigorously.

MC: All right. At least all that twirling didn’t go to waste.

The main purpose of today was to help Kiro relieve stress. So as long as he’s happy, that’s fine.

My pride doesn’t matter, and the dizziness doesn’t matter!

With this thought in mind, I let out a laugh.

Kiro: What are you laughing at?

I see three sets of Kiros reaching out to me with three hands. However, I can only feel one hand on my forehead, tidying my fringe.

MC: Because I get to see you being genuinely happy.

Kiro: You’re happy when you see me happy?

Kiro’s voice is laced with anticipation.

MC: Of course I’m happy. Normally, you’re the one taking me to your secret hide-outs to recharge my batteries and relieve stress. It’s as though you hold all the sunlight in the world. But I’ve never asked whether you ever feel down. This time round, let me be your rubbish bin and get rid of your troubles. I want to peel away all the grey clouds that are blocking the sun.

While I’m saying this, Kiro stands in front of me quietly, watching me with his head slightly lowered. His expression is serious, and his eyes are focused and deep.

He looks like Kiro on the stage, yet not exactly so.

MC: Hmm… even though I don’t know what you’re troubled by, or what pressure you’re under, I can sense that it isn’t because of a creative block. If you don’t want to talk about it, or if you can’t tell me-

Before the words “it’s okay” leave my lips, I am scooped into a pair of incredibly warm arms.

Caught off guard, I fall into Kiro’s embrace.

I hear Kiro’s heartbeats, like a tiny drum, fast and without rhythm.

My heart feels ticklish, as though thousands of ants have crawled into it.

I feel sunlight on the top of my head. It’s so warm.

It’s almost noon and Kiro has to return to work. Why does time pass by so quickly?

Kiro: MC, why are you so adorable! I am really, very very very happy today!

He speaks incredibly slowly. Every “very” seems to carry with it the solemnity of experience and time.

Kiro: MC, thank you.          

MC: A-are you happy today? Did you like my mystery surprise?

Kiro: Mm! I love it! Today is Kiro’s second happiest day.

MC: Which is your first happiest day then?

Kiro: Well… I will keep that a secret for now. I’ll definitely tell you in the future.

He puts a lot of weight on the word “definitely”, making me think that the day in question is somehow related to me.

MC: You still haven’t told me what you said in French…

Kiro hugs me even more tightly, and his voice travels to my ear.

Kiro: MC, you are my light.

🍯

Phone call: here

[raineydaywrites]

working on from then til now (part 3 of 5)

link to part 1 (x), part 2 (x), ao3 (x)

As more and more days passed with no sign that Angus had said anything to the Director about what Taako had told him, he started to relax a little, wondering if the kid maybe had chosen not to say anything at all.

Taako didn't understand that, but he wasn't going to question it when that might prompt Angus to reconsider. Maybe the kid had decided not to break up the Reclaimer team. Sure, Magnus and Merle could get the relics too, but the three of them worked well together and all, so it might be too much of a pain to replace him now.

Maybe the kid even decided to spare him because he liked Taako? He'd asked for more magic lessons after the first, and Taako had agreed, because he was still bored, and that first magic lesson had proven surprisingly fun, and Angus had talent. He was hard on himself, but Taako knew how to pick up on genuine talent when he saw it.

He really hoped it was one of those first explanations, and not the one that sometimes snuck into his mind late at night, when the worst thoughts always arrived.

He really hoped that Angus wasn't scared of him. He might be. Had a right to be. Taako had killed a lot of people, and he was a powerful fucking wizard, and he'd even threatened him- jokingly- about what he'd do if Angus ever surpassed him in wizardly talents.

Not to mention the fact that his Umbra Staff had randomly blasted Ango's macarons with fire for no apparent reason. Angus seemed to believe Taako when he said that the Staff had been acting on its own- but what if he didn't?

It was an irrational fear. Angus wouldn't have asked for more magic lessons if he was afraid of him. He'd just avoid him, right?

But irrationality never stopped anxious thoughts from plaguing anybody.

-

Angus didn't know what to do. He liked Taako. He enjoyed spending time with him, and he was really happy that Taako had agreed to keep teaching him magic.

He wanted it to be as simple as that.

But he couldn't forget who Taako was. He couldn't stop thinking that it was a betrayal to his parents to like their killer so much.

He couldn't stop thinking of Taako fondly.

The more time he spent with Taako, the weirder he felt about all of it. The more he found himself loving Taako. The more he found himself hating himself for the betrayal.

He needed to confront Taako, but instead he was befriending him. What was he thinking?

As he let his thoughts stew, he was embarrassed to realize that the Director was speaking to him. Probably had been for a bit, judging by the tone of her voice when she said his name.

"Angus?"

"I- I'm so sorry, ma'am, I got distracted. Could you repeat that?" Angus said, blushing.

"I was asking if you're okay, Angus," the Director said, brows furrowed together in concern as she watched him.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm fine!" Angus said.

"Really?" The Director did not seem to believe that at all.

"Well- no- I mean- I'm having a personal issue. But it won't interfere with my work, I promise!" Angus assured.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?" the Director said, and she hesitated before sitting down next to Angus on the little bench he'd been on for- he wasn't sure how long.

"Not really," Angus sighed. He wished that she could. It would be so nice if he could tell her everything and have her present a neat solution, but it couldn't happen.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Angus did. But if he told her, then it would only make things more complicated. If he told her, then she'd have to decide if Taako's abilities outweighed the fact that he'd been responsible for such a tragedy as the Glamour Springs disaster. She was a really good person, and Angus didn't think that such a decision would weigh easy on her mind. He didn't want to make things harder for her.

Maybe he'd tell her, if he thought she could actually fix everything, but he didn't. He was having a conflict of emotions and morals, and he had to figure it out for himself. No one else could do it for him.

Besides which, it felt like a betrayal to Taako to share something like that, that Taako had shared with him in confidence. He didn't want to get Taako in trouble when he still hadn't even figured out how he felt about all of this.

"I don't think- that I can. It's not my story to tell," Angus said, finally.

"I understand," the Director said. "But if you ever need to talk, please know that I will listen."

She stood then, but didn't walk away quite yet.

"But I urge you to talk to someone about it. Perhaps the individual whose story it is. It's important to communicate about your struggles. Sometimes you can't, I know," she said, and her voice took on a very sad, longing tone, and Angus wondered again what her life had been like before this. "But- through all the difficulties I've had, I've found that it's better when you have people at your side. There will always be problems that you cannot be open about, but that makes it all the more important to be open when you can."

There was a sincerity and a weight to her voice that made Angus want to listen to her advice.

"Thank you ma'am. I'll- see what I can do," Angus offered, giving a bright smile to thank her for her words. She so clearly meant them, and it meant a lot to Angus that she wanted to help.

"Good. I hope that your issue eases up soon. You deserve- I only want what's best for everyone," she smiled back at him, and Angus found himself feeling a little lighter.

She was right, much as he hated the thought of airing out everything.

He would never get past this if he didn't communicate about it.

He had to speak with Taako.

-

When Angus had asked to speak in private, Taako had immediately gone tense. This could only be about one thing.

He'd hoped that Angus wouldn't feel the need to talk about the situation ever again. It wasn't exactly something that Taako liked to relive.

But what was he supposed to do? The kid deserved to be heard out. He deserved to deal with the kid's reaction. And anyway, Angus had a sword hanging over Taako's head in the form of knowing Taako's biggest secret.

Taako didn't think that Angus wanted to blackmail him, but he also knew that Angus could and would under the right circumstances.

So he agreed, and found himself in Angus' dorm room, waiting for judgement.

Angus' room was kind of adorable, Taako hated to admit. It was small, and his bed had a bunk that no one used- the moon base had a limited amount of real estate, and clearly the Director had struggled with finding a space that was appropriate for a kid to live in. Angus needed his own room since he was, like, a child and couldn't bunk with an adult stranger, but the single bed rooms were mostly suites, with kitchens and sometimes other bedrooms, which Angus didn't need.

Kid had limited cooking experience, as evidenced by the sugar-less macarons, and he was too short for adult-human sized appliances and too tall for a gnome or dwarf sized kitchen to be very comfortable either.

It looked like she'd settled on taking a bunkbed out of one of the initiate-type dorm rooms, leaving Angus with a little more space and privacy. There was a desk against one wall, and Taako wasn't surprised to see that it was very neat, but the little stuffed toys lining the back of it were a cute surprise. They were clearly decorative, and Taako was sure that the kid would rather be caught dead than playing with them, but it was adorable anyway.

He had a bookshelf, half lined with colorful kids' chapter books, mostly Caleb Cleveland novels, and half with thick tomes in dark colors.

Taako tried to keep the grin on his face from becoming too soppy. It was cute yeah, but he was a stone-cold motherfucker, and he wouldn't be caught turning into mush over a dumb kid.

"So, what's up bubeleh?" Taako asked, dropping into the chair at the desk and leaning it back on two legs, trying to keep it casual.

"I need to talk to you about what happened at Glamour Springs," Angus said, his face drawn and serious.

Taako stopped rocking the chair, but didn't look over at Angus. So that confirmed that Angus knew everything. Must have done his research if he now knew where it had gone down.

"Shoot," Taako said.

"You killed forty people at Glamour Springs because you made a mistake with magic you weren't familiar with," Angus said.

Taako winced at the words like they were a physical blow, but they were certainly true.

Angus paused, but Taako didn't know what to say. What was there to say? He couldn't justify it any more than he already had.

"Two of them were Sam and Dianne McDonald," Angus said, voice wavering and thick. "My parents."

Taako felt his blood go cold and his mind go dark. No. Fuck. Gods, what had he done?

It had been a long time since Taako let himself think of his victims. He tried to avoid it most of the time. But here was a reminder, standing right in front of him, tears in his eyes. He found his mind casting back to that horrible moment all over again, trying to visualize them. Trying to pick them out from the crowd.

But he'd spent so long trying to forget that day, the crowd had just turned into a blur of horrified faces and dying people.

He'd always felt so bad about them that he'd rarely had much guilt to spare for the other victims- the families of everyone he'd killed. The parents and sibling and friends- the children that he had orphaned.

Whatever happened now, he wouldn't protest. His past had finally caught up to him, and he had no right to avoid it.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Angus said, and his voice cracked, and Taako felt a stabbing pain in his chest over it.

"What can I say?" Taako asked, and it was a genuine question. He wanted to say something that would help, but no words would undo what he'd done. "I'm sorry, Angus. I'm so fucking sorry."

Angus just sobbed at that. Taako always hated it when people cried, but he still found himself wanting to comfort the kid. He wanted to hug him and soothe him, which was a big difference from his usual tactic of running from emotions as fast as possible. But would his comfort even be welcome?

"I know you're sorry," Angus finally mumbled.

He brought up his hands to scrub tears from his eyes, pushing his glasses roughly out of the way in the process. He looked so little. He'd been even littler when he'd lost his parents.

Taako had expected anger if he ever met someone who loved any of his victims. Who wouldn't be angry at something like that?

But this was worse. It was so much worse than anger ever could have been. It broke his heart. He hated seeing Angus like this. He just wanted to make it better.

"Babe, come here," Taako said, reaching for Angus. It was instinctive, an offer without any conscious thought behind it. He wasn't good at comfort, but it seemed that his subconscious at least had some idea of how to do it.

He didn't expect Angus to listen. He hadn't expected the kid to immediately dart into his arms and start to cry into his shirt. He let it happen anyway. This was the least he could do after what he'd taken from the kid.

He held Angus close as the kid cried, offering soft comforting noises intermittently, feeling more helpless than he could remember ever feeling before.

Angus managed to cry himself into a state of exhaustion, and fell asleep right there in Taako's lap. Taako had never felt so guilty as he did then, realizing that the kid trusted him anyway. Realizing that he valued the kid's trust. Realizing that he never would have met this kid if he hadn't messed up so bad at Glamour Springs.

How dare he gain any happiness from that? It was selfish to be happy to have Angus in his life when it came at the cost of Angus losing his parents, and his parents and so many others losing their lives. He had no right to love Angus, let alone to be loved back.

Taako had long ago accepted that he was a selfish person, but this went so far beyond that. He couldn't seem to stop it though. And what was he supposed to do? Leave the kid to grieve alone, avoid facing responsibility for what he'd done? Surely that was worse.

Taako picked Angus up, gently, settling him onto the bed. He took off the kid's shoes and his glasses, setting them by the side of the bed for when Angus woke.

He didn't notice his own tears until one fell onto Angus' face as he was pulling the blanket over him, and then, having noticed, it was all he could do to keep his crying silent so as to not wake Angus.

He couldn't walk back to his room like this. He probably shouldn't leave Angus alone either.

Taako sat down on the wall farthest from Angus' bed, and clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back the urge to sob.

part 4 (x), part 5 (x)

[spidercakes]

SIM Prompt if you will - SIM had kidnapped Peter from the MCU dimension to replace his Peter that was murdered. Peter was taken against his will, but after receiving injections of Extremis, he forgets his old dimension and takes his place at SIM’s side.

Yaaaaas! And, because I’m a hoe for ‘only soft for one person’ Tony is only soft for Peter, kind of (like, he does kidnap the dude and force him into his own version of Peter against his will but he does it out of ‘love’).

Warnings: non-con experimentation with extremis, kind of non con in general? Like Peter is willing, but only after some real extreme circumstances that kind of strip him of his decision making skills. So like mostly non con dub con, I guess.

*

Peter is panicked and Tony figures he has a right to be. Holding someone with his strength hostage is difficult but he'd long ago figured out how to hold super people in his grasp- he’d had to kill a good number of them too. He could kill Peter too, but he’s hoping this one will work out. It had taken time to find him and this one is the most like his Peter, even his life events are the same. Not, he supposes, that he’ll remember that soon enough. But he does need to gain his trust first and that’ll be easier if he looks like his Tony. They’re already virtually identical, but the eyes are off. His Tony’s are a rich brown and his are a bright blue, almost unnatural looking but that’s because of the extremis.

Still, he needs to get Peter to trust him long enough for him to give him a dose of extremis, one of several he’ll need to properly rewrite over Peter’s DNA altered as it is. God damn spider, he’d had to find at least one hundred of the fucking things to figure out how it rewrote the victim’s DNA to begin with so he could properly modify extremis to code over it. Peter’s formula won’t allow for shape shifting the way his does and while he’s never had a use for it before, he’s already the perfect version of himself, he finds it useful now as he forcibly turns his eyes a dark brown. It looks off to him in the mirror, strange and unpleasant to look at, but it’s this or run the risk of Peter flailing around and he has no time for that. This has taken long enough, he wants his Peter back.

When he’s satisfied that he looks enough like Peter’s Tony, including a little grey in his normally dark brown hair, he makes his way out to Peter. He looks terrified, eyes wide and red rimmed as he looks around, locating Tony fast. Easy to do with super hearing. For a moment he stiffens, sure that he’s... well himself Tony is sure, but he relaxes when he notices the eyes. Excellent, then.

“Oh my god, Tony! Please get me out of here there’s another you and he’s insane and-”

“Shh,” Tony tells him as he steps up onto the platform that Peter is currently held on. He’s on his knees, arms drawn back behind him just a little too far to be comfortable. He’s found its the easiest way to hold people with Peter’s abilities. He supposes he can thank one Miles Morales for that knowledge. “I’m going to make you better, but you need to relax,” he tells Peter.

Peter frowns, “wha- what does that mean?” he asks, confused.

He brushes his fingers along Peter’s jawline, catching him off guard but it does result in him relaxing. Excellent, so he does have feelings for his Tony. Good, that’ll make this easier. Most of his memory will be wiped, but he’s hoping being here for the process will keep some of the knowledge of who he is around. It’ll make things easier later, when Peter takes his place by his side where he should be.

“I need you to relax, baby,” Tony murmurs, “this is gunna sting a little.” Peter frowns again but the needle is already in his neck and gone before he can think to shake his head any. Peter gasps, eyes going wide as the formula takes hold and Tony sinks down to his knees in front of him, letting his eyes fade back to their natural blue. “Shh, baby let it do its work. You’ll perfect after, just perfect,” he murmurs, petting Peter’s face softly. Peter whimpers and that hurts to hear but its a necessary evil.

*

The next round of extremis goes slightly better. Peter is disoriented and confused, but Tony tells him that he’s making him better, perfect, and he relaxes some. When he injects Peter the second time he waits, stressed, not too far away because a good number of his test subjects died at this point. Miles Morales had died, Jessica Drew, another version of Peter that had been just to the left of who his Peter was and he’s happy that he found this superior version of Peter now. The only thing off is his hair color, which is a little darker than his Peter’s. 

But after several modifications to the extremis formula Gwen Stacy lived so he waits to see whether its successful on Peter too. After this it’ll need one more dose to fully rewrite his DNA and rid him of his pesky memories of his past life.

He waits for what feels like hours until Peter pulls through successfully and he lets himself relax. Peter is breathing heavily as he kneels beside him, petting his hair away from his face as he releases him from his restraints. Peter falls into his arms immediately, curling them around him and he lets out a sigh that damn near resembles a sob. Oh, he’s missed this. “Shh, baby I’m here,” he tells Peter softly. “I’ve got you, you’re safe,” he says as he pets Peter’s hair. “Lets get you to a bed, hmm?”

*

He waits by Peter’s bed waiting for him to wake up form his third round of extremis, the proper amount to mostly wipe the brain of memory. Plenty remains, but anything about his past life should be gone by now and it shouldn’t come back. Gwen Stacy has yet to regain her memories of her past self and now that Peter is back he won’t need to keep her around as a lab rat anymore. His work is done and so is hers.

It takes time but eventually Peter wakes up and Tony raises an eyebrow. Peter smiles a little, completely unthreatened despite the fact that he’s not disguising himself as his old Tony. Good. “What?” he asks, propping himself up onto his elbow.

Tony smiles at him too, “nothing, its just that your eyes are beautiful,” he says. They’re a brighter topaz shade than they were before, too bright to be completely natural so it must be a side effect of the extremis. He doesn’t mind the difference.

Peter smiles fondly and he wonders what he remembers to be looking at him like that. “You’re too nice,” he says and Tony resists the urge to laugh. Its been a long time since anyone used that word to describe him. Might have been his Peter, before his untimely death, actually.

“Mhm. What do you remember, baby?” he asks, reaching out and settling a hand over Peter’s.

He’s surprised, but not disappointed, when Peter lays his free hand over his. “I um... remember that... I don’t know, I must have gotten kidnapped I guess but you were there and you got me out. I must have been sick or something because I felt really feverish and you told me you were gunna make me better and I guess you did it because I feel fine now,” he says.

So he has some memories of his past but... well, if he were to guess they blended with whatever feelings he previously had for his Tony and transferred to him. That’s... not an anticipated side effect but he’s not going to complain about it either. “That’s good, baby. Anything else?” he asks, hoping to tease out any problems before they become problems.

Peter thinks, frowning just a little as his eyebrows draw together. “...No. That’s really weird because- oh my god, I don’t... don’t remember us, I’m so sorry-” he starts but Tony shuts him up with a kiss.

“Shh, its okay. I don’t need you to remember how you feel to know, okay? We can work on that later. So that’s it then, you just remember a little of what happened?” he asks, purposefully evading reinforcing what actually happened. No need to give him more to go on, if he’s lucky the memory will mostly fade over time anyway. If he’s extra lucky he’ll forget it entirely.

Peter relaxes some before he perks up, “do we have cookies?” he asks and Tony can’t help his smile. His Peter had liked cookies entirely way too much too.

“Of course baby. And while you probably eat the whole box I’ll reacquaint you with the house,” he says. And all his stuff- well, the other version of him’s stuff. This Peter is the closest he’s found to his and he’s going to make sure he’ll be exactly what he wants right down to what he wears.

Unaware of his plans Peter looks excited, “awesome!”

*

Peter is curled into his side sleeping in one of his shirts exactly the way his Peter used to. Its relieving to see after so long and this one is so perfect, just like his old Peter. He didn’t even question his wardrobe, he just slipped right into the previous Peter’s outfits without issue despite the fact that he knows this Peter never dressed the way his did. He’s happy to see Peter back and he thinks the ache in his heart will lessen as Peter slowly learns his role. It helps that he’s fully reliant on him to explain what he did and how he did it and he’s so sweet, so trusting. He takes his word at face value and does whatever he says, no questions.

God, he loves Peter. He’s missed him so much.

“Boss,” Ultron says over the speakers.

Tony makes an irritated noise, “what?” he asks, annoyed to be interrupted with his time with Peter.

“It looks like the version of you from the dimension has breached into this one,” he says and Tony lets out another irritated noise.

“Would you shut up!” he hisses at the AI. “Where is he?” he adds.

Peter stirs and shit, he better not have heard any of that.

“Outter limits of the city,” Ultron tells him.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Tony panics for a moment. “Nothing baby, just a small snag outside the city I have to deal with. Go back to sleep, I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he murmurs, kissing Peter softly.

He melts into it, so soft and compliant. “Will you be okay?” he asks, eyes a little wide.

“Of course I will be baby, its nothing much,” he says, brushing a curl out of Peter’s face.

He lets out a soft huff, “then why do you have to go deal with it? Let someone else do it and stay here with me,” he murmurs, arms around Tony’s neck.

He sighs, giving Peter another kiss. “I’m the one who’s presiding over the city, its my job to deal with problems. I won’t take long, I promise,” he murmurs into Peter’s mouth.

Peter smiles, “great power comes with great responsibility. My uncle used to say that,” he says.

Curious, in this dimension his aunt and uncle died when he was a child. He happens to know that his parents died in the dimension Peter is from, though its strange that he remembers that. Or parts of it. Maybe he should keep Gwen around a little longer, prod her for more details of her past to see what bits and pieces she remembers. Strong emotional moments seem to be the connecting line so far, but he’s not looking to have to redo his extremis formula and risk Peter. But he’ll worry about that later.

“So it does. I’ll be back soon, baby,” he tells Peter, giving him one final kiss before he’s off.

*

He’s not hard to find in that ostentatious suit but Tony has to admit he’s impressed with the amount of anger on his face. “If you hurt him-” he starts and Tony rolls his eyes.

“He’s fine, perfect even. Go home,” he says, waving him off. He knows he won’t be nearly that easy to deal with but he can hope.

The other Tony snorts, “yeah, not a fucking chance,” he says as a line of iron man suits appear around them both. Theoretically they’re surrounded but he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve too.

“That’s cute,” he says, already half connected to the bots and that’s... strange. They seem to be connected to the other Tony’s mind too, but not via extremis. Hmm. Guess it’ll be a battle of wills then, and he’s not prepared to lose.

[winetae]

:: modern loneliness

⇨ prompt : android!hoseok x reader. 2205 words. drabble with a possible follow-up. it’s been 38 days since you’ve last seen and interacted with a living, breathing person and you’re slowly going insane.

.

[Week 1 of lock down.]

At first, you’re optimistic. 

Working from home comes with its own set of non-negligeable perks. Notably, no more commute time! No more squeezing in between sweaty men on the subway during rush hour just to get home. The new arrangement means that you’re no longer obliged to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to blow-dry your hair or meticulously put on makeup while stuffing a bagel into your mouth because you’re short on time. 

On Day 1 of quarantine, you roll out of bed and don’t even bother to change out of your pajamas. It’s quite the sight. Not that you care whether or not your hair looks like a bird’s nest or if there’s a small hole in your shirt. You’d gladly take your flannel pants and old university sweatshirt with the coffee stain by the collar over the rigid pencil skirt and stupid obligatory heels they force you to wear to the office. Ironing? You don’t know her. 

That’s not to say there aren't any inconveniences but as of now, the pros outweigh the cons. For one, you’re now allowed to add as much sugar into your coffee without susciting your coworkers’ judgement. You can blast angry rap songs while finishing your reports and no one will stop you. The list goes on. 

With all this newfound time on your hands, you have no more valid reasons to procrastinate. You start off by cleaning out the kitchen cabinets you’d been meaning to re-organize for months. Then you rearrange your wardrobe, dust off the top shelves of your bookcase that you usually skip over because no one can see them, and water the potted plants you’d been neglecting. 

It feels great to be so productive. Your friends tell you via FaceConnect that your productivity streak won’t last long, but you’re quick to shake off their doubts. 

“I’m a new me!” You insist when Mia’s laughter echoes around your empty apartment. “My life is back on track. I feel like a proper adult now that I’m not struggling so much to get everything done.”

“Sure,” she humors you. “Just don’t get upset when I tell you I told you so.”

.

[Day 8 of lockdown.]

Now that your apartment is cleaner than it’s ever been, you need to find other means of entertainment. According to the internet, now is the ideal time to learn a new language or acquire a new hobby, like crocheting or playing the guitar. But while it might be technically possible to learn a language, you’re definitely not an overachiever. You’re aware of your own limits. 

Today you try your hand at baking. To some it might not seem like a big deal. But for someone like you who solely uses the kitchen to boil ramyeon packets and chop the occasional vegetable, today’s venture into the world of cooking is the equivalent of a quantum leap. 

The molten lava cakes that come out of the oven 15 minutes later don’t look like the picture advertised in the online recipe. They don’t taste like how you’d expected, either. 

You try not to be too disappointed with your failed attempt. After all, it’s only your first try. Dry cakes aren’t that bad in comparison to the horrors that could have occurred. At least nothing is burnt and your oven is still intact. You’ll try again tomorrow with hopefully a little more success.

.

[Day 16 of lockdown.]

It turns out that baking is not for you. After numerous trials and errors you learn a few days later that you have no vacation to be a baker. You end up abandoning all attempts to acquire a new hobby and instead look for new ways to pass the time. 

Thankfully, your home server is offering free VOD for a limited amount of time, so you’re not short on distractions. You consume around half a dozen cult movies, the kind people always reference and quote without actually watching, before you finally begin crossing TV series off your to-watch list. 

You yawn. It’s 9 PM on a Saturday night and you’ve just finished binging the entire season of Tiger King. It’s the third show you’ve watched from start to finish since quarantine began and now you’re wondering whether you should start a fourth. 

“Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” you say before a grimace crosses your face. “Oh great... Now I’m talking to myself.” 

That can’t be a good sign, you think to yourself. How long has it been since you’ve last talked to someone? You used to call your parents every day but when there’s nothing new to report, the conversations become repetitive and dull. 

You should call Mia. Just to see how she’s doing.

.

[Day 24 of lockdown.] 

YOUR WEEKLY BASKET FROM FOODCONNECT HAS ARRIVED. ALL PURCHASES WILL BE ADDED TO YOUR MONTHLY EXPENSES CARD. REMINDER THAT DUE TO THE EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES, CONNECT CARDS ARE ALLOWED A 5000 EXCESS OVER FIXED LIMIT. TOTAL EXCESS HAS NOT YET BEEN REACHED.

.

[Day 38 of lockdown.] 

You’re browsing BH, hoping to restock your vitamins. Lately you’ve been feeling tired and mentally drained, despite your workload not being what it used to be. Why you’re so exhausted is a mystery you’ve yet to solve. In all logic, your energy level should be at an all time high now that you’re working less and spending all your free time lounging on the couch surfing the internet. 

According to the national health guideline, you’re supposed to be exercising an hour a day minimum in order for your body to remain in good condition. Your BODYCONNECT watch monitor beeps every hour to remind you that you haven’t completed the suggested activity. 

Ugh. 

You press the button on the side of the watch to turn the reminder off. It’s the fifth time you’ve had to silence it today but you can’t bring yourself to work up a sweat right this minute. You keep telling yourself that you’ll exercise later but like all things lately, later ends up being never. 

Come to think of it, this isn’t the first time you’ve caught yourself slacking off. Where did all your motivation during week 1 of lockdown go? You don’t even have the strength to do ten jumping jacks anymore; it’s like your bones belong to a person three times your age - feeble and brittle and threatening to break at a moment’s notice. 

LOW ON SEROTONIN? WE’VE GOT YOU COVERED. Flash promo over in 00:32:43! Limited offer while supplies last.

A bright yellow advertisement flashes on the top right corner of your screen. Intrigued, you follow the link without expecting much. The last thing you expect is to be brought directly to BH LAB’s homepage. 

“Um… I don’t think I have the budget for this…” You mutter under your breath and prepare to exit out of the page. 

Androids are usually employed by the government but the ones for sale to the general public are known to be exorbitantly expensive. 

A message reads: EXCLUSIVE 1 HOUR PROMO, 40% OFF YOUR FIRST PURCHASE. Click here for more details. Offer valid for new customers only. 

You pause and decide to click on the link. Looking around won’t hurt anyone, right? It’s not like you’ve decided to buy anything yet. 

The seven Dwellers available for sale are just as good looking as you expected them to be. Their unnaturally good looks and vibrant green eyes are what makes them easy to pick out from the crowd. 

You skim through each Dweller’s description. It seems that apart from the physical differences like their facial features and build, they each have their own specialty and characteristics. One of the best-selling models boasts the cooking ability of a 5-star chef, which you admit sounds very tempting since your skills with a knife are pathetic enough to make Gordon Ramsey cry. 

Another best-selling model specializes in...sex. You blink, your cheeks warming as you read over the model’s description (the “thick, vibrating cock that guarantees an orgasm every time!” comment makes you choke on your saliva). You can understand straight away why this particular model would be so popular. All of the models are pretty, but this one’s face doesn’t look like it’s from this world. Confinement would make anyone horny, and when promised a godly sex bot equipped with a vibrating dick, well…

Too bad you’re too tired these days to even think about having “mind-blowing sex for 5 hours straight.” Having such intense intercourse would probably make you pass out on the Dweller’s artificial cock, and there’s no way in hell you would want someone from CONNECT to intervene after receiving distressed signals from your body monitor. That would just be embarrassing. 

You’re about to exit out of the page, curiosity sated, when the last model catches your eye.

SEROTONIN BOOSTER. Low on energy? Feeling sad or depressed? Need a companion? 

This model is perfect for you! Model JHS is equipped with emotion sensors. They will fulfill your every need even when you’re not able to vocalize them. Stressed? They specialize in massages and are proficient in: Swedish massages, Aromatherapy, Shiatsu massages, Reflexology, among others. 

Personality : This model is energetic. They are very active and therefore requires a minimum 6 hours to recharge. They are extremely tactile and will easily engage in skinship such as hugs or holding hands. They are talkative and will hold passionate conversations with you about almost any subject. 

Likes : cleaning, working out

Dislikes : horror movies, strong smells

When reading the description, it feels they’re talking about a person rather than an android. You’re surprised to see that the Dwellers are programmed to have a certain personality that caters to specific needs because the only androids you’ve ever come across before are the government ones, and they’ve always been stoic and devoid of any distinguishing characteristic. 

It would be nice, you think, to have a companion. Someone you could talk to for real instead of through a pixelated hologram. As much as you enjoy your time alone, each passing day locked in your apartment makes you realize how much you long for a hug. You miss holding someone in your arms, feeling their heartbeat against your cheek and the rise and fall of their chest as they squeeze you back. 

Model JHS looks like he could fill that vacancy. Their smile is blinding, like they’re physically radiating sunshine through their expression alone. You don’t doubt their capacity to bring positive energy into your life. 

Before you can think twice about it you’re adding the model to your shopping cart. The site asks you if you want to pay more in order to customize them. For an additional fee, you’re able to tweak the Dweller’s personality or modify their physical attributes to your liking. You skip over the option. For one, you don’t have the funds to afford a vibrating dick enhancement and two, you’re more than satisfied with your Dweller as they are.

It’s not until you finish supplying all your information including your Connect Card details and shipping address that you realize what a monumental purchase you’re about to make and how empty your account will be by the end of it.

You stare at the price listed at the bottom of the screen and weigh your options. Even with the 40% reduction, it’s not a negligible sum. You could buy several models of the new Birkin bag you’d been saving up for with this money. 

Why purchase designer bags when you can’t even go out and use them? a voice argues. And - uh. Fair point. 

In any case, you’d have to stop shopping, eating out all the time and going on frivolous trips overseas. Not that you really have a choice, given the circumstances. 

You look at the laptop screen again. Are you seriously so touch-deprived that you’re willing to fork over that much money for a live-at-home android? Really? 

Fuck it. 

You click on [VALIDATE PAYMENT] before rationality has time to kick in and you change your mind again. Just as the screen changes and the new page loads, you feel your heart leap to your throat but it’s too late to back out now. 

PROCESSING ORDER …

...

CONGRATULATIONS! 

YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY ORDERED (1) DWELLER - JHS MODEL. WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR PURCHASE. 

(!) Your order is eligible for Instant Shipping (delivered to your door in 24 hours or less). 

(!!) Due to exception circumstances, your order might encounter delays. We are taking multiple steps to ensure the safety and hygiene of all products and shipments. For more information click here.

(!) All BH products are covered by a limited two-year warranty. Please refer to warranty details regarding your product in the Dweller E-HandBook, free for download here. Please register your product after purchase in order to qualify for future claims, returns, and support.

You expel the breath you’d been holding. Your father will throw a fit once he finds out you’ve blown all your money on a bot. The criticism is warranted.

What are you even supposed to say to defend yourself? You’ve bought a  Dweller on a whim while browsing for Vitamin C supplements.

Quarantine is really making you lose your goddamn mind, huh.

[citialiin]

                 ☆ @blossomingbeelzebug ESTABLISHED FIRST CONTACT.

     HE HAD thought about what it had said.

     MISUNDERSTANDINGS RUN abound between them, a perilous chasm which he cannot cross, vast and great like the parsecs between stars.  His translator is utterly incapable of making sense of some of the strange sounds etched out from its throat, those harsh, guttural snarls which tie his tongue in knots.  And although 683′s abilities in To Amass’s language are limited, there is no mistaking what it had told him, albeit mangled from incomprehension: we are meat eating.  Understand this, or we will perish.

     ATOMINA, THEN, offers no sustenance, only shelter.  The mephitic atmosphere cannot sustain organisms much larger than rodents, most of which depend on the Atominans themselves, their artificial oxygen, their continuous food supply; his people could never waste their precious scant resources on the covetous, foolish desire to rear livestock, and to slaughter another creature for the grotesque purpose of consumption makes one no better than an animal.  They are above this, they’ve evolved, they are higher life beyond the inimical throb of genetic compulsion.  Their incisors, then, are merely some gift from some ancient, savage ancestor; Atominans do not eat meat, and there is no meat on Atomina.  This knowledge weighs heavily on the frail redhead’s mind, constantly bubbling to the forefront of his thoughts like an oilslick over water: To Amass will starve, and he can scarcely do anything about it.  Blue and black irises search the paneling of his ceiling, minimal and without grace, for some answer, some solution.  There must be something he can do -- what a foul, fetid shame it would be to see him resort to eating the rats in the ventilation.  

     HIS SLEEPWEAR drowns him; he is small even for his species, frail and thin and delicate, waifish ankles swung over the side of the bed as he feels the acrid cold floor touch the soles of his feet.  Deft fingers creep along the wall, adjusting the lights to a dim brightness, pupils dilating to mitigate the dark.  ❝ To Amass, ❞ he murmurs, his voice low, and he stands, shivering slightly despite the temperature control.  This room is tiny -- he sees every corner, he even drops his knees and squints under the bed, searching for the flicker of four white eyes like dying stars blinking out of existence.  It is not here.  To Amass is not in his room.  And panic wells within him, a heavy, thick dread weighed down on his shoulders, rising up like bubbling bile in his throat as he scrambles to his feet and thrusts his hand against the sensor, the door sliding open with a sibilant swish as he stumbles, barefoot, into the dim hallway, skidding slightly as he looks left, then right, panting in his burgeoning panic to realize he sees no one -- Atominan or otherwise -- down or up the hall.  

     THE TROUBLE he’ll get into will be legendary: he will be ruined, he’ll be castigated unlike ever before, horrified that even the notion of punishment ( unheard of, incomprehensible, humiliating in a way he could never articulate ) might lurk just beyond the horizon of his future.  For lack of nuance, of grace, 683’s outright in some deep shit.  Perhaps it broke into the canteen or food storage to forage for something to eat: quite literally nothing could be worse than that, and he hides his face in his hands as he struggles to regulate his breathing, already on the verge of tears to think of what awaits him if he must pay the price for ruining their carefully planned rations for the community.  Stress to this degree is beyond him, foreign as a splinter stuck into his skin, and he’s ready to run to the communal dining hall and start tearing apart the chairs and tables in a frantic search for his missing alien before he hears -- something -- sees -- something -- a light -- and there should be no lights on, at this hour, everyone is asleep.  A crack of light, the corona of the sun a halo beyond the shadow of the moon; the door beside his is ajar, it’s 684, and the world suddenly seems darker, that thin white line suddenly seems brighter.  683′s frail hand meanders over the sensor, some perilous feeling of dread settling like frost over the lining of his stomach, digits splayed to the flat panel as the door stutters open, broken, pried from its track and hinges, and the vibrant smell of deep, ichorous copper fills his nostrils and leaves him gagging.  He -- well -- he’s found To Amass, hasn’t he.

     STRANGE.  IT’S all too strange.  He feels like he’s drowning.  He’s never drowned, though, never even been near water -- thus, this overwhelming panic is instinct, then, forged through in his DNA despite centuries away from danger, as ingrained and inherent as its need to eat meat.  He remains there, in the doorway, mouth ajar as he can practically taste the stale, putrid carrion before him ( and he’s never eaten meat, never smelled blood, but he knows exactly what it is, at least, some part of him does ). The cruel sentience he so thought was a gift refutes him the ability to simply dash to safety; there is a grotesque curiosity in the way their body lays limp and unnatural ( they have his hair and his eyes and his nose and his jaw and his everything, they are 98.34% identical, it’s a mirror of himself if not for the glassiness over the corneas and the green gore pooling from their torn throat ), the bulge of entrails rank like offal splayed from their body cavity.  Those belong inside, clearly, obviously, they aren’t supposed to be outside, and he’s suddenly acutely aware he’s got a matching set inside of him right now ( all suddenly cram into his throat and threaten to jump right out of his mouth ) -- he really ought to scream, shouldn’t he, do something other than stand there slack-jawed and stupid, to be appropriately petrified as prey before predator, because he was wrong to think there was nothing for To Amass to eat on this planet: it is eating them, it’s eating 684, and --

     HE CHOKES on his own spit as he sits up in bed, panting a great, heaving breath of air as he flails, arms and legs skittering on the mattress as he runs hands all over himself ( still in one piece ) and takes gulping mouthfuls of stale, recycled air ( a scent he’d never thought he’d appreciate, because surely anything is better than the smell of copper ).  A fist slams into the light control, a flooding illumination of white cast over the room as he is elated -- and simultaneously horrified -- to see To Amass sitting underneath his desk, blinking at him in astonishment.  A dream, then -- he has bad dreams, but never anything like that.  He wonders how -- how he knows what that kind of carnage looks like, how he so acutely smelled the scents and tasted the metallic twang in the air and knew, perfectly, acutely, entirely, what torn muscle and flayed flesh and dripping fat looked like.  Memory.  Not his own.  Given to him by ancestors eons past, remnants of savagery his people thought they outgrew, the instinct that anyone like him should be weary of things with as many teeth as this monster.  A whimper builds in his throat, swallowed down like the nausea, arm raised to hold his own shoulders, to draw his knees to his chest.  ❝ Did you, ❞ he chokes, his voice tight as taunt twine, brimming with a terror he can hardly hold back, ❝ did you leave this room ?  To Amass, you can’t go anywhere -- I need to make this clear ! ❞ he exclaims, dropping off the bed to the floor, snatching his wrist in his hand, grip as vice-like as his meager strength will allow.  ❝ You can’t leave.  You cannot go outside, under any circumstance, do you understand ?   You -- ❞ and he hesitates, eyes dropping to his clutches, and he releases it, fingers twisting together as he heaves a shaky sigh, draws his knees to his chest and drops his head to his folded arms.  His actions are illogical, outright dangerous, and yet -- 

     ❝ I’M TRYING, ❞ he beseeches it, ❝ to keep you safe.  And to keep everyone ... else safe, too. ❞

[dreamiesdotcom]

[12:51] "I love you," you whisper to air, something curious bubbling inside you. You remember events you've encountered, different kinds of people using the same words and getting mixed reactions: some cried, some laughed nervously, some replied with the same words and some with apologies. So, "What does that mean?"

"For someone who knows a lot, you sure are quite… different, aren't you? You're rather literal, so I assume you're really clueless?" someone seats next to you. For how many months you've been staying in this village, you've never really wanted to punch Lee Donghyuck as much as you do now, but if there's something this life taught you, it's to not kill a useful person. Later, you'll tell him that he shouldn't be eavesdropping and ask him about how much he's heard, but right now you still need some answers even if you didn't intend to ask anyone, "Tell me about it."

"Well, I guess you should know," he purses his lips, fixing his glasses that somehow still remains lopsided, "It's something you say to people you dearly love. Do you know what love is? If you don't… it's this feeling I can't clearly explain, but it's… something. It's something worth more than you could ever imagine. Ah, maybe I'm not the right person to ask? I'm a bit on the emotional side," he says with a look that shines brighter than the stars and thousands of unreadable words in his eyes.

His soft expression suddenly hardens and there's that annoying smirk again, "Do you live under a rock? What part of Earth hasn't heard of these words? Damn, what kind of world do you live in?"

"I-I know what love is, and to answer your questions; A rock? No. I cannot speak for everybody, but I'd say maybe my place," you let a sigh escape your lips, eyes unfocused with some sort of unexplainable ache in your chest, just where your heart lays. Your forehead creases, what was that feeling just now? That bitter taste on your tongue, that painful clench on your heart as you answer "And my world… is an eternal chain, a twisted game of terrifying, horrible clandestine."

He looks at you with something akin to wonder, like you're a subject that got him so fixated in a haze that you can basically wrap him around your fingers and make him move according to your strings. He doesn't look away even after you did, and you had to take it to yourself to break the silence, "It's amazing, don't you think? Those three words, how much they weigh," you try to not look the tiniest bit interested, "...how different they are."

"For some people it might be good, for some it might be rather negative. Either way, it's something worth my time," you continue when Donghyuck snaps out of daze, now listening to you rather than looking at you with eyes that begs you to do something you shouldn't, "People… are such interesting beings."

"There you are again, calling us 'people' like you're not one of us. Why are you always so robotic?" Donghyuck chuckles, the breeze fluffing up his locks and making him even more adorable when he beams, "It's like you're not human."

"I'm not," his expression darkens, his normally sun-glazed eyes as bright as the dull side of the moon. You wonder, what did you say? What's wrong about answering such questions? Being raised with suh different upbringing with these other people are such a pain, and you can't understand why they're so overpowered by their emotions. Still, you're not one to lecture them about this because you're lacking as well, and you make sure to remember that as you whisper, "I'm a mere piece of vessel made to finish what they started, carrying the blood I can never be proud of."

"You are, Y/N-ah," he seriously whispers, washing away like a sandcastke torn by the waves, passing through ears that are unwilling to hear. You look ahead with a blank stare and an empty grin as usual, "It's so easy for you to say that because although everyone has circumstances, you'll never get to experience how bitter was mine."

Anger fuels his eyes at the remembrance of the cruel past you confessed that had everyone's cheeks damp with yours not moving a muscle, and then at your moonlit face. It almost says that it's totally normal to you; to be a decoy, to be a doll, to be bound by something that shouldn't even be restraining you, programmed to be used and thrown away. He can't understand how you let this happen, why the people behind this even did what they did. Perhaps, he never will, but he knows that this isn't how it should be, that you're human and you should think about yourself like that. He curses himself silently.

"What would mine be, right now?", he mutters unconsciously, giving up at the past topic, making you look at him with cold eyes. You tilt your head the slightest bit in question and he quickly replies, "If you were to say three words to me."

Your mind runs an impossible speed in seconds, even faster than the passing of lights on a highway at nighttime. There's so many options to choose from, so many lies you could say and so many truths you could convey: Just give up. Leave me alone. Some could hurt you more than it could build you up, but some can tend to the wounds; I believe you. I trust you. I like you. I love you — You try to gather everything remaining bit of logic inside you to get a hold of yourself — I'll kill you. Don't come closer. Don't play with me. I bring danger. I will change. I want change. I want peace. Please, help me. Don't give up. I need you.

Come save me.

A bitter smile barely stretches your lips as you huff at yourself, fool. You're a pawn. Pawns are to be sacrificed. Pawns cannot be saved.

You're good here, though. Maybe if you could try, you could… be even better. Maybe you could live as a pawn who has escaped the cruel king, escape that bitter life your bloodline cursed upon you, break the chains and run into the arms of the people who accepted you despite knowing who you really are. You're doing good here, living as a human, experiencing the youth that was snatched away from you, the childhood you weren't allowed to have, the yearning for a decent family and acknowledgement that you keep running away from finally sated at last. For once, you don't want to leave. For once, you're not just a little piece in their chess game, but Y/N. You like being called by your name. You like this. Whatever this beautiful feeling is, you like it. You're doing great. You're okay. You're good here.

But good is never good enough, a little voice inside you whispers. You'd like to think it's logic, not the mass amount of brain wash and manipulation you've been through all these years. Everything suddenly tastes bitter, acidic, almost like bile. Second life came in the form of this place, of the people you have met who liked it whenever you call them friend. You don't deserve it, not a single bit. You don't deserve a second life but fate gave it to you and nobody goes against fate. No one refuses fate.

But you still don't deserve it.

Stay with me. If it wasn't limited to three words, you'd add 'Even if not forever, even just for as long as this life allows us,' but you look at the moon that's staring back at you and you lean back with your arms supporting you, smiling almost lazily, you can't say that. Instead, you close your eyes, basking in the feel of the summer night wind caressing your face, "You're… my sun." you whisper, making your way to stand up. You look down at his perplexed expression and the flush rising up his cheeks, looking up ahead to path lit by the moon, "Haechan-ah."

You're confident.

You're confident because he's your sun, and there's no place the sunshine doesn't reach in your own little world. With only the ability to shine upon it, light can't turn a blackened heart white, you remind yourself. You are to stay stained, never to be reborn pure, a product and producer of sin. You're helpless, but you're not hopeless. Light can't turn a blackened heart white, but maybe, just maybe, — even if it's a little bit, just enough to redeem yourself, enough that you can smile carelessly around other people again without the ghosts of the past you didn't choose the first place, to bring the peace inside your heart back — love can, and just like that, you're gone with the wind, everything around Donghyuck in standstill.

[dingoat]

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”  That’s the snapped answer one would get, if they asked Watcher Five directly about the ‘flagpole incident’ that Thirteen so delighted in alluding to. “It’s not my problem if he still doesn’t understand that he needed to better compensate for the possibility of a shifting updraught, or that half of the point of the exercise was to prepare for the chance that during a hazardous mission I could be taken out of the picture at any moment. But he likes to behave as though he can hold this over my head, as though he can influence and therefore threaten my reputation, as if every opportunity currently presented to him didn’t hinge directly upon my direction…”

Five would shake his head with a tight little scowl, an artfully perfected act. “I’ll have to have another word or two with him. I daresay there’s something he’s trying to gain, if he’s gone back to spouting that old story around the place. Pay it no heed.”

But Five’s memory of the incident paints a decidedly different picture.

No matter how hard he tries to smother it, rewrite the events in his own mind, he hasn’t yet managed to do away with the sick, tight feeling in his guts whenever that particular exercise is brought up.

---

Every Cipher has to put a great deal of trust in their Watcher, if they are to meet any measure of success. They have to trust that they don’t need the full picture, that they will be given what information is relevant and necessary, they have to trust that they will be directed toward what they need to focus on, that the parameters set for them, difficult or painful or unpalatable as they may seem, will always be with a bigger picture in mind that they need not be privy to. Always for the greater good.

And Cipher Thirteen was part of a program that necessitated an unprecedented level of trust.

Watcher Five reveled in it. He was just as delighted as his new charge to explore the new possibilities that Imperial Intelligence had to work with, just as hungry to push the limits and test the boundaries. But his excitement came with an edge; a new avenue of power, a new method of control. One couldn’t exactly call him reckless, he was far too methodical in the planning of his exercises for that. But some might consider the fact that he preferred to test Thirteen’s abilities in situ as an unnecessary risk.

Five would argue that utilizing the full extent of terrain that Kaas City and its surrounds had to offer was invaluable in regard to training purposes, and he’d argued long, hard and frequently enough, with impressive enough results to back up his words, that Keeper no longer tried to curb and redirect his enthusiasm.

He was expecting the flight to run through without a hitch, as every other one had. Thirteen had been put through every area before, after all, just not following the particular route Five had mapped out for him this time around. Five had assured him he’d calculated it down to the second, boasted that if Thirteen could maintain a steady speed he could operate his side of the exercise with his eyes shut.

Five was confident, and Thirteen trusted him.

Five was confident, and he didn’t think the comm call from a fellow Agent would impact his response time in the slightest.

---

Thirteen had been given the option of a running start, or to be pushed off the ledge. He’d chosen to be pushed, if for no other reason than to see the look Five got in his eye when he shoved him backward, naked, into the yawning chasm beneath them.

There was as much glory in falling as there was in flight, and Thirteen was able to experience the best of both worlds and everything in between as Five tracked his progress from his monitor and controlled his shapeshifts to best fit the situation. A man one moment, tall and lean and fit, a brilliant beast the next, impossibly huge and brimming with strength and chaotic energy. Then small and lithe, building up speed and angling his wings and body vertically to slot through a narrow pass, feeling the change come on again as he exited the crevice at the precise moment that let him kick off the rocky wall with legs that were both humanoid and reptilian, and land with precision on a scaffolding beam overlooking one of the great unfinished Sith monuments being worked on below. Wings turned back to arms, human feet found purchase on the textured metal surface, and then he launched again, ready for the agile hawkbat shape again that would let him catch a thermal and send him once more skyward.

He was ready.

Any second now.

Five was really cutting a fine line with this one, wasn’t he?

If he wasn’t careful someone working down there was going to see-

Five Five Five where are you what are you doing that pole is coming awfully cl---

Thirteen had trusted, trusted implicitly that Five knew what he was doing, that making such a close call was all part of the exercise. He encouraged it half the time, after all, the element of danger being something they both enjoyed to a slightly irrational degree. It was impossibly difficult to believe that his Watcher would actually allow him to become skewered on a flagpole over half a klick up, even if, in the last half second, that absolutely looked to be the case. He should have reacted sooner, but the idea that Five would knowingly let him be damaged was so unthinkable… Thirteen shouted voicelessly into the rush of wind as he tried to twist away mid-air, suddenly not knowing if the plan was for him to simply keep falling or to try and grab a hold of the pole; in that half second his body contorted, shrunk down, his holler turning into an animal screech, but he was already moving wrong and the next thing he knew was a shock of pain that nearly blacked him out on the spot, and he suddenly couldn’t move.

Reflexively, he tried to flap away, but only one wing was moving and that action blistered so much agony through his chest that he immediately gave up and hung limp, only for the pressure of sagging in place to become rapidly unbearable as well. He wrapped his good wing around the post, clung desperately for purchase with his legs and beak, and waited while stars spun in his vision.

---

“Well make sure you send it along as soon as y-“

Five stared at his tracking screen and immediately ended the call as his heart leapt into his throat.

Thirteen had stopped moving.

Why had he stopped moving? For a few furious seconds Watcher Five’s eyes, wide with unprecedented uncertainty, roved his monitoring equipment. The shift had gone through successfully, all of his Cipher’s readings demonstrated that he’d reacted properly to the implant’s signals, his heart rate was up though and his…

Five didn’t bother looking any further to try and determine remotely what might be wrong. He was in his speeder in a heartbeat, traveling at a speed that would earn a six digit fine to anyone else in any other circumstance. And he knew; he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d made an error, that he’d let his attention lapse for a few crucial seconds, that he’d cut it too fine and he’d triggered Thirteen’s change too late. He knew, when he saw his precious hawkbat wrapped around a flagpole, that it was his fault. Shame and loathing twisted his insides into churning acid, and as he set his speeder to hover his hands were shaking. Thirteen’s normally green eyes were bright, solid silver, and he thrashed and cried out and hooked his beak into Five’s hands as his Watcher attempted to pry him free. His beautiful sleek body patterned in purple and gold was wet and red, and Five realised that the pole had gone through him twice, one of his wings wrenched and twisted and stuck taut behind him.

Five realised that pulling the bat free was not an option, not if he wasn’t going to bleed out in the time it took to get him to the med labs.

It almost took too long to laser cut through the top of the flagpole as it was, and there was smoke pouring from underneath Five’s speeder when he skidded up to the landing pad outside Intelligence headquarters, bowling the taxi droid clean over the edge.

Guilt was not an emotion Five knew how to handle particularly well, and in the days that followed he was absolutely intolerable. His temper was hot, and his was just as quick with his fist as he was with the sharp edge of his tongue. He made sure that the recruit who’d commed him during the training exercise was fired, for perfectly sound and unrelated reasons. The Fixer who’d asked too many questions about what had happened found themselves stationed on Balmorra for seventeen months. The workers in the expansion district, upon whom Five had officially laid blame for the incident in his report, found themselves with pages of new documents to fill at the commencement of every day’s work outlining all of their communication relays, so that their signals wouldn’t ‘interfere’ with Intelligence work ever again. The project manager who argued about it being a waste of time had a nasty fall the following week.  Keeper finally agreed to Five’s insistence that they fast-track development of a system that allowed the Ciphers to control their implants internally, and Thirteen was to be the first fitted with the new tech.

Thirteen himself was left wanting for absolutely nothing during his recovery in Five’s Citadel apartment.

And Watcher Five’s comm was set to silent. Never again was it answered during any mission in which he was overseeing Thirteen’s work… not that he had to, after long. Balmorra was getting awfully full of recruits who’d tried to contact Five at the wrong time.

[ @halibellecter​, ask and ye shall receive! Five, of course, is my horrible character and Thirteen belongs to @askshivanulegacy​ who maintains all right to veto/retcon as necessary! These guys exist in our werewolf au where Imperial Intelligence has some very specialised technology and procedures for their top Cipher agents. Five and Thirteen are the best of the best of the best, sir, with honours... which means that for anyone on the other side of the conflict (or, frankly, on the other side of Five’s moods) they are the absolute worst. ]

[theshatteredrose]

Fighting For You (Chapter 8) - Trials of Mana Fanfiction

AN: I have nothing to say other than “poor Duran :’D”. Hope you enjoy reading~

Chapter 8:

Duran curled his hands into fists and tugged at his restraints. He knew he couldn’t break them on his own, and he wasn’t about to drain more of his strength. He was simply trying to find a position that was even remotely comfortable.

Not possible.

Everything hurt. His arms, his legs, his shoulders, his back. The way he was held and positioned; it was clear that not only was he to be retrained, but he was to be as uncomfortable as possible. A form of torture, probably.

The pain and discomfort, he could handle. It was his inability and knowledge that he couldn’t do anything to help himself that was difficult to contend with.

He had always been taught to face his troubles and problems head on. Preferably with a swing of a sword. Multiple swings if necessary. If that was not enough, then to train and get strong enough so that he could.

But he couldn’t do that here. Not with this situation.

Waiting…

He hated it. Unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything but lose himself to his own thoughts and fears. He hated it. He hated it so much.

Hawkeye. Kevin.

He hoped they were alright. They were strong. Yeah. Very strong. The both of them. He had seen them in battle. They…would be able to defeat those knights easily, right?

Right?

“Of course they will! They’re fighting for you.”

“Hold your head high and focus on that faith.”

Faerie? Shade? Duran thought he told the Elementals and Faerie to join with Hawkeye and Kevin. They would be of use with them. Not with him.

“I can’t leave. You’re my host, after all,” Faerie replied.

“I am needed here more,” Shade added, though would not say anything more.

…Ok. He was glad for the company, to be completely honest. He needed something to focus his thoughts on. To distract him from the slithering vines and the relentless firmness of the chains coiled around him.

A sudden, sharp pain to the centre of his chest caused Duran to throw his head back on a strangled cry.

Had something just stabbed him in the chest?! Where did that come from!

“It was a spiritual attack,” Shade replied quickly and grimly. “A flower had blossomed.”

What? A flower had bloomed?

Gritting his teeth, Duran peeled open an eye and looked down. On a vine around his left ankle, a flower. A surprising bright blue in colour with six petals.

Then that meant…there was twelve left.

But…why did it hurt him when the flower bloomed?

“These vines are what is attempting to sap you of your strength,” Shade revealed, his voice lower and darker than usual.

So, the chains were just to keep him in place while the vines worked to steal his strength and energy. A slow, methodical attack from the buds themselves.

Cowardly.

“This must be what the other swordsmen endured,” Duran murmured through gritted teeth.

“Indeed.”

Duran unwillingly tensed when a new voice was heard. Much like the ominous, overbearing voice from before. Yet, it did not have the hollow, echoing quality to it. Only the echoing of approaching footsteps.

Though it was somewhat difficult, Duran managed to twist his head in the direction of the noise. A form began to appear within the shadows, darker than its surroundings. The footsteps were slow, purposely menacing. No doubt designed to agitate and unnerve Duran further.

A few intense moments later, a figure finally appeared. They wore the typical armour of a knight, but of a mismatch of colours ranging from red, orange, gold, and silver. They also wore a deep red cloak, draped surprisingly regally over their shoulders.

“You?” Duran growled through gritted teeth as the knight stood before the flower patch of which had him restrained. “You’re the one behind all of this?”

A slow nod of a helmet covered head. “That is correct.”

Finally, the one responsible finally showed up. He was getting tired with staring into the void. At last, he had someone or something to yell at!

“Who are you? What are you trying to achieve?”

“You will refer to me as simply Agnar,” they replied briskly. “My goal is simple; I wish to possess your talents with a sword.”

Simple, huh? That didn’t sound very “simple”.

“Why can’t you just train like a normal person?” Duran couldn’t help but retort.

Agnar, however, was unfazed. Though, it was hard to tell regardless. “I am far from normal. Though, I was once a normal swordsman.”

Duran furrowed his brow. “Once?”

“It is a long story.” Agnar began to slowly pace in front of him, each step meticulous and loud. “I do not see the harm in telling. I do enjoy a captive audience.”

Duran’s eye twitched. A wise guy, huh? It didn’t matter. As long as the jerk was with him, they couldn’t go after Hawkeye and Kevin. They were putting themselves at risk already. They didn’t need someone like them interfering.

In current circumstances, delaying their adversary was the very least Duran could do.

“I was once sent on a journey. With a company of four. I was to be the guard of my Princess. Whom I had pledged my life to. It was a journey to search for the mysterious Dark Mana Stone. Yet, it was not long into our journey that we encountered a powerful creature. I did what I was trained to do; I put my life on the line for my Princess.”

Agnar stopped in his pacing with his back toward Duran. And just stood there for a few lingering moments. Likely lost in memories.

Just as Duran began to wonder if he should say something to prompt the knight to continue, a sharp pain erupted in the centre of his chest. Once again, Duran threw his head back, unwillingly releasing a cry of agony.

Th-that pain…had another flower bloomed?

“Hm. That is a sound I’ve heard many times before,” Agnar suddenly mused. “From myself as well. Though, my companions thought nothing of it.”

Duran gritted his teeth as he waited for the pain in his chest to subside. “What…do you mean?”

Agnar returned to his pacing. “When I stepped before an attack that was meant for my Princess, I received severe injuries. Crippling injuries. I had done what I was trained, yet my Princess and companions were not so grateful. I…my injuries were so severe that no amount of healing could restore me. I…could not return to the way of a swordsman.”

That caught Duran’s full attention and he stared at Agnar with wide eyes. What kind of injuries had they sustained? What monster had they encountered?

“They abandoned me,” Agnar suddenly stated, their voice still hollow, yet there was undeniable anger and resentment as well. “I was no longer of any use. I could not aide them on their journey. They left me to die within Burning Sands. A swordsman who cannot wield a sword is better off dead. My Princess, who I had sworn my life to, cast me aside. I was worthless, she said. Worthless…”

Abandoned? Would someone really do that to one of their companions? How could they? But…what princess were they speaking of? There were but two princesses that he was aware off. Neither of them could be responsible.

How old was Agnar? How long had they lured swordsmen into their grasp?

“But I would not die. My hatred, my resentment, my need for revenge sustained me until I reached Dinn Oasis. And there, I discovered a book. A tome filled with dark magic. Magic I could use to fuel my revenge. I knew from that point onwards that there was but one way to regain my skills. By taking the skills and energies from other swordsmen.”

What? Was that what they meant that everything Duran possessed would belong to them? They was trying to steal his abilities with a sword from him?!

That cowardly cur!

“And that is through a dark ritual.” Agnar paced over to stand directly before Duran and tilted their head back so that they could look up at him as well, “But there was a slight…side effect.”

Duran was almost too afraid to ask. But he did anyway, “Side effect?”

Raising their arms slowly from their sides, they reached for their head. Unexpectedly, they twisted the helmet sharply to the side, eliciting a click. For added dramatic effect, they slowly lifted the helmet.

Duran’s eyes widen, an expression of horror flickering across his face as he tried to understand what it was that he was seeing.

A skull. Nothing but a bleach white skull looked back at him. No flesh, no skin. Not an eyeball in the empty eye sockets. Just a human skull.

“Wh-what happened to you?” he spluttered. He would have attempted to scramble away in shock, but his bindings prevented that.

With the helmet clutched within their hands, Agnar continued to face him. Duran couldn’t tell if they were staring at him, or even looking. They had no eyes. Nothing at all. Just a skull. He couldn’t get over that.

A skull. It was just a skull.

“The ritual required that I release all my earthly bonds. Including my physical body.” The skull didn’t move, even as the sound of Agnar’s voice resonated from within.

“B-but the skeleton remained, huh? Ironic.”

Mercifully, Agnar moved to reinstate his helmet. “Unfortunate, yes. As I said, a slight side-effect. Though, the bones are merely a physical structure. I am not limited to the limitation of the human body. I cannot be harmed. I cannot feel pain. No blood, no muscles to strain.”

That…Ok, that didn’t make much sense, honestly.

“But plenty of bones to break,” Duran pointed out. “What then?”

Agnar shook their head. “No. As I said, I cannot be harmed.”

“I don’t believe that,” Duran fearlessly retorted. “Because, if that was true, you wouldn’t need the skills and strength of other swordsmen.”

Agnar didn’t reply. Not that Duran heard, at least. That becoming familiar sharp pain erupted from the centre of his chest once more. Forcing a scream from his throat and for him to tense against his bindings. He fell limp shortly after, panting for breath.

Another flower had blossomed.

The pain was increasing.

“Wh-why are you doing this?” Duran panted, his strength decreasing rapidly. “I…I didn’t take your skills away.”

“No. But you are a swordsman,” Agnar answered. “Noble, righteous, stupid. A puppet. Nothing but a puppet to be thrown away for someone, or something much stronger. The smallest sign of weakness and you will be cast aside. Like I was. It is inevitable. I am merely…speeding up the process.”

Cast aside? No. That…that wouldn’t happen to him. He companions wouldn’t abandon him like that. They wouldn’t!

“That’s right!” Faerie quickly chimed in. “We would never leave you. Not now, not ever!”

“Your companions are fighting for you as we speak,” Shade added.

That was right. Hawkeye. Kevin. The Elementals. They were defeating the knights and retrieving the keys. Duran just had to wait for them to return. Endure the pain for as long as it takes.

“There are thirteen flowers. When they all bloom, your power, your skills, your strength, everything you possess…will be mine,” Agnar reiterated, content to remind him of his predicament.

But Duran didn’t care how many flowers there were. “Don’t count on it! My friends will defeat your knights easily!”

“They’re not my knights they are battling.”

What?

“Wait…are they-?”

Agnar nodded their head sharply. Almost proudly. “They are the previous swordsmen who tried to best me.”

Duran tugged violently against his restraints. “Best you? You lured them here!”

“Seven so far.” Agnar turned sharply and marched toward the shadows. “You will be the eighth.”

“Not a chance!”

Wait, seven? One for…each chain?

That line of thought abruptly ended when another pain struck him in the centre of his chest. Another scream ripped from his throat, leaving him breathless.

B-blast it.

Was there anything he could do to slow the blossoming flowers? He couldn’t be completely useless, could he?

…power…power…master deserves power…

And now the whispering had started. Just like those of his nightmares!

…give in…give in…you cannot win…

Sh-shut up! He was trying to think!

“Ignore the whispering,” Shade instructed. “Focus your intent elsewhere.”

Wh-where, though? Everything hurt. Nothing made sense. It was so dark. It was so quiet. He was so useless.

“Focus on your friends, Duran,” Faerie pleaded with him. “Think about them. Remind yourself why you are friends.”

His…friends?

“Talk to me about Kevin.”

Kevin? Well, he was an interesting kid. Naïve and innocent in so many ways. He was a good guy, though. Earnest, easily confused but willing to throw himself into battle at a moment’s notice for the sake of another.

He could be adorable, too. Without trying. Though, he did wish that Kevin wouldn’t try to eat everything he came across. Pity about his disdain for boats. Duran had awoken many a time with Kevin grasping onto him. Usually clinging onto his back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Man, he had an iron grip! Nothing other than waking him up would remove the hold he had on him.

Honestly, that kid…he was what Duran imagined a little brother would be.

“What about Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye…?

He…was an interesting guy. Endured so much but managed to maintain his charming, flirty facade. Able to smile, despite it all. But Duran knew that it was more of a safety blanket. He was a thief. Hiding in plain sight was that they did, right?

He did…he did make him feel strange, though.

“What do you feel for him, Duran?” Faerie asked him softly, gently. “Tell me.”

How he felt…? He honestly wasn’t sure. He had never felt anything like that before. With anyone. The need to be close to him. To be with him. To have his attention upon him. Be it a serious conversation or simple teasing.

Like he had done in front of that elderly woman in Mintas. He was playful. Having fun. It…annoyed Duran, sure. And yet…yet Duran had enjoyed it. The way he had pulled himself close to him. His arm around his waist. The things he had said. Leaning against him. Saying some…loving things.

But it was all fake, wasn’t it? Even though…

“Go on, Duran.”

He had wanted it to be real…

It…could never be real, could it?

The loud sound of wood splintering and exploding abruptly tore Duran from his musings and he tensed, anticipating something dangerous. Something menacing. But it was the sound of someone panting while laughing prompted Duran to pool his strength together and twist his head around. To look toward the stairs.

“Hey, sorry for the wait, but I’m back~”

“Me too! Back with keys!”

Hawkeye…Kevin…

Duran sighed in relief as the other Elementals all made themselves known to him. They all chittered at him, clearly concerned. But they had returned. Hawkeye and Kevin were alive.

That…

As another flower bloomed and another screamed ripped from his throat, the sound of marching footsteps echoed around them. Moving quickly. Angrily.

“I didn’t expect you two to actually succeed…” Agnar was heard sneering.