#so setting time to just let my art take shape on its own accord and freehand it all without any particular goal in mind is just…

[hplonesomeart]

I can’t think of any funny quips to put as description for this one so uh- suppose this time around I’ll just let the art speak for itself lol

Enjoy the daily dose of fanart while it lasts because I can’t quite guarantee I’ll be able to keep up this speed throughout the upcoming month. But I’ll sure try to! Thank you all for the support <3

[syndrossi]

Reverberate AU Concept #2

Part 1 here. We're growing a plot because I am not capable of not doing so, apparently. Takes place roughly 3 months after the last, as we near the twins' first name day.

Aka "what if Resonant!Daemon woke up in the Stepstones shortly after the twins' conception, resolved the first Stepstones conflict in record time, and flew back to Runestone to convince Rhea to announce the pregnancy as her own?"

x~x~x

“Mooaw!” the voice on his left shoulder demanded. It was soon echoed by the one on his right. “Moooaw!”

Fighting back a grin, Daemon angled Caraxes upward for one more loop around Runestone and its northern coast. Spring had ushered itself in with great haste, quickly melting the remaining snow, until it had retreated back to only the very peaks of the mountains to the far west. The air was colder up high, but it lacked the bite of winter, and the very first wildflower blooms were visible in the grasslands.

As they neared the coast, Caraxes descended lower, passing over the occasional ship in the small bay. Most of the time, ships sailed past Runestone, their destination either Gulltown and eventually the Saltpans to ferry goods inland, or south to King’s Landing. One larger ship that they had passed last time heading northward had turned east, Daemon noted with interest, toward Runestone. It was difficult to make out details from their current height, but its giant mast seemed to be carved into the shape of a dragon’s head.

He ignored the demanding chant for more on their final descent, and Caraxes landed just outside the enclosure. As they neared their first name day, the twins were dangerously close to outgrowing Daemon’s own saddle-sling. He would need adjustments made soon.

He set them both down carefully, and they clung to a leg apiece to balance themselves before taking off as one toward Caraxes, whose contentment flowed easily through their bond as they grabbed for the smaller horns on his great head—though even those were far too large for such tiny hands to grasp.

It should not surprise him that they had already mastered the art of walking. Their first wobbling steps had come at nine moons, within a day of one another. They were yet too slow for their newfound mobility to greatly worry Daemon, but he feared when the day came that they could disappear of their own accord.

That was what Ser Willam was for, however. The dark-haired knight had stood in vigil at the enclosure during their ride, and watched the boys with alert eyes as they babbled to Caraxes. Their speech was growing more intelligible by the day, and Daemon took care to speak High Valyrian exclusively when alone with them, determined that neither would be forced to rely upon tutors to speak the tongue of their ancestors.

Free of his own saddle, Daemon came up behind the twins, mimicking the roar of a dragon as he swooped to pick them up in either arm, to delighted shrieks. “Let us bid Caraxes farewell,” he said to them. “And I shall fly you back to the castle.”

And fly they did, Daemon sprinting to the best of his ability with each tucked in one arm, growing heavier by the month. It no longer drew the same stares as it had the first few moons, though it was a struggle to maintain the breakneck speed for the full distance.

“You must not grow anymore,” Daemon informed them between pants once they’d reached the castle gates. He glanced behind to find Ser Willam trotting more leisurely to catch up. And ahead of them, Rhea had emerged from the castle to greet their return. Doubtless she had been watching from her solar.

“My brave dragonriders,” she said with a smile, kissing the boys on the cheek, and then Daemon. “We shall see if your father is so amicable when I take you out hawking.”

Daemon clutched the boys tighter, uncertain how he felt about them setting out on horse. “There are outlaws and hill tribesmen.”

To say nothing of the Craynes of the world who might be lurking for the opportunity to ambush and steal his children. His sons were safe up on Caraxes’s back. The same was not true of the roads and wilds of the Vale, which had seen them kidnapped before.

“Then we shall need brave knights to protect us,” Rhea said, nodding at Ser Willam.

Allard Stone—Willam’s squire this time, rather than legitimized and installed as keeper of the Gates of the Moon to further the plot to keep his sons hidden from him—slunk out of the shadows to stand at the knight’s side, shoulders tense in Daemon’s presence.

Rhea had intended for him to be yet another of the twins’ protectors, until Daemon had voiced his vehement objection through gritted teeth. His excuse had been that having a bastard guard the twins might call their own legitimacy into question, and that he was yet too green.

Rhea had been adamant, however, insisting that he be allowed to prove himself as Ser Willam’s squire. Perhaps the knight might make something of him, but Daemon would be damned before he let that cold-blooded snake near his children.

“They are yet too young,” Daemon said finally.

Rhea took Jon from him, bouncing him lightly in her arms. “What do you say, Jon?” She angled him toward the stables. “Would you like to ride with your mama on horseback sometime?” At his silence, she pointed at one that was out in the yard. “Can you say horsie?”

“Awazhee,” Jon said, with a stubborn loyalty that made Daemon smile.

“You ride Caraxes every day,” she said with a sigh. Rhea turned to Rhaegar, smiling at him with encouragement. “How about you, Rhaegar? Horsie with mama?”

His other son regarded her with uncertain purple eyes that looked to Daemon first, then back at her, then back at Daemon. Then he burst into tears. Daemon bounced him gently, and Jon began fussing, as he often did when his brother was upset, so he reclaimed him from Rhea.

“I fear you cannot compete with a dragon,” Daemon said, without the smugness he might ordinarily feel, because Rhea looked genuinely defeated by their reaction. “Perhaps some horse toys for their name day might change their minds?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

Rhaegar’s crying had subsided to sniffles, at which point Ser Willam drew his sword with a dramatic flourish, drawing the eyes of both babes. They quieted, staring as the knight angled the Valyrian steel blade back and forth to catch the sun. Jon reached out a hand, his chubby fist clenching and unclenching as though he wanted to hold it.

“That blade weighs half as much as you,” Daemon said, planting a kiss on the short locks of hair that had started growing in for both twins two moons ago.

Jon’s was lighter than he recalled, a brown almost like Rhea’s. He wondered if, like his and Rhaegar’s eyes, it would darken over time. Rhaegar’s own hair was almost completely silver currently, earning him the nickname of “old man” from Ser Willam, which both children found hilarious. Its final shade had been very near to Daemon’s own, but it was more than a little disconcerting just how similar in coloring Rhaegar was to his uncle Aemon in his first year.

Emotional turmoil averted, he dismissed Ser Willam to supervise Allard in the yard so that he would not have to contend with the sullen teenager lurking outside the solar. Rhea joined them for mealtime, which had progressed to the twins stubbornly trying to feed themselves and making an absolute mess in the process.

Daemon had a standing order in the kitchens for carrots and blueberries, but Rhea ensured there was always something new for them to try in addition to their staples. Today, it was a boiled cabbage that Rhea said had been a favorite of her mother’s. Jon chewed enthusiastically on his, once Daemon had cut it down to appropriate size, while Rhaegar seemed less convinced of its merits.

Maester Forsethe then poked his head in to summon Rhea to attend to lordly matters, leaving Daemon alone to clean up the mess afterward. He made ample use of the warmed water in the washing basin, then settled with both of them into a chair by the fire to read from an old collection of legends from the long history of House Royce, written for children.

Each tale had a full-page illustration that he let the twins study before moving on to the words themselves, but they seemed to derive their greatest enjoyment from his approximations of a wolf’s howl or the impact of a hurled boulder against the walls of a keep or even the chirping of birds.

There are no collections of tales for children of our own house, he thought with regret. And certainly none in High Valyrian. Perhaps I can find a suitable writer to commission such a work in King’s Landing, and translate into Valyrian.

“Woaf,” Jon demanded, head turning up to look at him.

Daemon pointed to the word on the page, then spoke its High Valyrian equivalent. “Zokla.”

Jon’s face scrunched up in determination. “Zogaa.” And when Daemon glanced at Rhaegar, his other son repeated it. “Zogaa.”

Daemon howled then, to squeals of amusement before his sons joined in, attempting to mimic him.

“Has a pack of wolves invaded my solar?” Rhea had returned, and though there was a smile on her face, it was a distracted one.

Daemon ceased his howling, feeling a stir of unease. “What is it?”

“I just received a delegation from Volantis that arrived in our port this afternoon. They seek an audience with you.”

His arms tightened around the twins, stomach twisting with equal parts fear and fury. “What do they want?”

It was a pointless question. He held what they wanted in his arms, in his very heart. Daemon glanced past Rhea, through the open doorway, his concern only partly allayed by Ser Willam’s presence outside it.

“They bear gifts for the twins, and a message from the triarchs for you and you alone. I was not permitted to receive it,” Rhea said, eyes narrowing as she noted his reaction. “One of them claims to be your cousin, by your aunt Saera.”

Daemon stared at her for a moment, thrown. He had assumed that his bastard cousins by his aunt Saera in Essos had either proved useless for Volantis’s plans before, or been killed by a warlock’s test. He had not thought he would ever meet one, let alone acting on behalf of the triarchs.

She had claimed to have carved out a kingdom of her own in Volantis, he recalled, spurning the opportunity to send any of her bastard sons to the Great Council to press their own claims. One of them had been the son of a triarch, if memory served. Whoever had been sent, presumably.

The twins had gone quiet, as though sensing his mood, and he kissed the top of their heads, mind still racing. Gifts. A message. He did not think they would be brazen enough to send a delegation, only to openly kidnap his sons. Did they think to try diplomacy instead?

“Where are they now?” he asked, already steeling himself for at least one sleepless night.

“Your cousin is acting as official envoy for Volantis. I had chambers set aside for his delegation.” Her lip curled in distaste. “He is ferried by two slaves on a golden litter. Only the lowly move about on their own feet, apparently.” She tilted her head at Daemon. “Their presence worries you. Why? Volantis is an enemy of the Triarchy, is it not?”

That was the excuse he had chosen, to convince Rhea that the twins needed protection. Triarchy retaliation. Daemon had no logical explanation for why they should fear Volantis.

“I do not know why they have come here, to me, rather than my brother,” Daemon said.

“Perhaps your victory in the Stepstones earned you the favor of their triarchs—a victory that was yours, not your brother’s.” Spoken by anyone else, that might have been flattery. From Rhea, it was a simple statement of fact. “They may seek to court your favor in return.”

The notion felt preposterous. Under no circumstances would he agree to part with his children, for whatever promised price. “What did you tell them?”

“Your cousin and his advisors have been invited to sup with us in the great hall.” She shut the door behind her and crossed the room, pulling the other chair over to sit facing Daemon. “Is there a threat that I should know of, Daemon?”

“I do not know,” Daemon said tightly. “I—” He flailed for anything that would not sound like utter madness. “What do you know of my family’s history? Do you know of Daenys the Dreamer?”

“She was…a seer, yes?” Rhea said with a look of faint recognition.

“Yes,” Daemon said, relieved she was familiar with the tales. House Royce believed in its own magic, after all. “She foresaw Valyria’s Doom, and urged our family to flee. Some members of my family have had this gift. We call them dragon dreams.”

Rhea studied him with something that was not quite skepticism. “Do you mean to say that you have had these dragon dreams?”

“Did you never wonder how I knew to return from the Stepstones? Or how I knew that we would have twin sons? I have seen it before, in something like a dream.” Daemon took a deep breath. “Just as I have seen a threat in the east, one that seeks to steal our children. At first I thought that it must be the Triarchy, but my dreams of late have been of Volantis.”

Rhea’s gaze went to the children, lips compressing into a tight line. “You think they will attempt such a thing here, in Runestone?”

“I do not know.” That was the problem. Before, Volantis had worked from the shadows. This was as open a confrontation as possible, and Daemon could not deny that he desired to see the face of his enemy, to take their measure. “I do not intend to let them out of my sight for a moment.”

“Nor out of Ser Willam’s,” Rhea said. “He must be informed to be at his most vigilant.”

She extended a hand, stroking Jon’s cheek and then Rhaegar’s, both twins still unnaturally quiet. When Daemon glanced down at them, their eyes were wide and solemn, and he kissed them each with a reassurance he did not feel. They are so very small. It was something he thought a dozen times a day, usually with glee, grateful for this second chance with them. But now it came with an undercurrent of fear.

An eight-year-old could fight, shout, run. An infant was utterly helpless, his only recourse to wail in fear. Someone could pick them up in either arm as easily as he held them now, could sprint as he had from the enclosure—

“Daemon.” Rhea’s hand found his cheek next, and his gaze locked on hers, her brown eyes calm and steady. “I will not let anything happen to them. I can send the delegation away, if you fear the danger is too great.”

“No,” Daemon said, once he had gathered himself. “It is better to know what they want.” Or were openly willing to state that they wanted. Sending them away would alert them to the fact that they knew of the danger. “Perhaps I am wrong.”

He desperately hoped to be wrong. But he could think of no other explanation for Volantis to send men directly to Runestone to approach him. His brother was king, not Daemon. The only thing he could offer that his brother couldn’t was his dragonriding ability—and his children.

Jon’s hand grabbed for Daemon’s hair, closing around a fistful to tug for his attention, grey eyes peering into him as though he held the secrets of the world. Would that I did, Daemon thought with regret, kissing his tiny fist.

“My apologies, Jon.” At Rhea’s questioning look, he explained, “We have not yet finished storytime.”

It was another three hours until supper. Time enough to read, put the twins down for their nap, and ponder whatever awaited from his cousin and the rest of the delegation. Rhea stayed for the next two stories, coaxed to join in on the animal noises, but the twins’ joy was muted. They have always been so sensitive to our moods.

Even Jon seemed upset when Rhea left to make the appropriate preparations for supper, and Daemon had to sing the sniffles away, bouncing them both on his lap as he did so. They were equally clingy as he set them in their cradle, a chorus of heartbroken kepas summoning him back within seconds.

“I will be no further than the desk,” he assured them, following words with kisses for good measure.

Daemon sang again, one gentle lullaby after another, until they both finally fell asleep—Rhaegar, as ever, the stubborn straggler. Rather than return to the desk, he lingered in his chair by their cradle, visions of their cradle—bare, empty—tormenting him.

He did not care how he managed it, they were not leaving his arms until the Volantenes were gone.

[cypionate60mg]

Hi! I love your work. It's really thrilling to find art at the intersection of philosophy, gender, and the erotic. You seem to be really thoughtful and intentional about your presentation of these pieces, so I'm curious about why you tag everything with "autoandrophilia" which IME is a pretty loaded word with a complex etymology. Would love to understand more!

Thanks, and good question. My answer is very long.

Before we go any futher, Blanchard's typology is transmisogynist bullshit. It's oversimplified, misinformed, and unimaginative. He actually abandoned the term 'autoandrophile' and has since switched to 'autohomoerotic'. More controversial online circles of trans people half-ironically identify with Blanchardian typology. For some, it's like MBTI, and for others, it's their self-diagnosis. Depends on the person.

When contemporary Western psychology began to take shape in the Wednesday Psychological Society's weekly meetings, one of the 'defects' they discussed was homosexuality. According to E. James Lieberman's biography of Otto Rank, he said in an informal setting that homosexuality is "love for one's self as seen in the persona of another like oneself whom one admires...strongly built up on narcissism. It is an ego symptom and not a sex symptom." Sound familiar? I don't think Blanchard's typology is all that different from that of early European psychoanalysis.

We see this same critique levied against trans people. That we're confusing attraction for identity, our self-love is fetishistic, and we're narcissistic neurotic perverts. But we can't just dismiss and ignore it, because we do indeed see trans people say things like "I can't tell if I want to be him or fuck him" or "become the person you'd want to date." 'Autoandrophile' starts to sound a lot like 'gender envy'. So what is actually happening here?

To even approach answering that, let's ask more questions. What does it mean to love people who look like you? If you are estranged from your own body, or if your body changes over time, is it morally objectionable to love a specific version of youself? Even a future one? It it also morally objectionable for that self-love to have a sexual dimension?

Trans people are expected to have the clarity of mind to separate who they are from who they're attracted to. (It's one of the demands society makes to ensure you are 'of sound mind' while still being suitably pathological to deserve hormonal/surgical treatment.) But if you don't necessarily identify with your body, then you already exist outside of that distinction. Like an open window, the barrier between inside (self) and outside (everything else) becomes troublesome.

Do you see now why I like the mirror metaphor so much? When you look in a reflection, that's not technically you. But it only exists because you are there to cast an image. The room's mirror image, too, is not necessarily real, but you gain insight into the room, maybe even see it in a new way, precisely because it's reflected back inaccurately. Your conception of yourself is filled out with detail when you cross-reference it with another version of yourself, one that doesn't exist in the same way you currently do.

It's some ontological quantum gender shit. And it's not unique to trans people. Cis people can experience it too, but they rely on the assumption that it's natural to have an oppositional 'counterpart', a 'complementary' partner. Somebody who completes them. Why, then, can't I complete myself?

We find ourselves back at your question. If Blanchard isn't going to use 'autoandrophile', then I will. One man's trash is another man's treasure. I'll use it to:

disrupt its definition.

challenge trans assimilationists.

discomfort cis men with my desire to be like them, or worse—to encourage them to define their masculinity.

provoke people into thoughtful discussions.

make people feel less alone.

But mostly, I use it so that when people look for the term, this blog will come up, and they'll see my porn. Or art. Or whatever they'll want to call it. And they'll start asking themselves the distinctions between any of these things.

There's so much more I could say about all this. Autoandrophilia's relationship to beauty standards, its usefulness (or lack thereof) as a coping mechanism for the limitation of transition, etcetera. But I'll stop here for now.

Much love, CYP60MG

[oceanbaby888]

"LET'S SEE WITH THE ASCENDANT" PART 1!

NOTE: WHILE I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL ASTROLOGER, I LOVE ASTROLOGY AND ITS ASPECTS AND I LOVE TO LEARN THEM! PLEASE DO NOT STEAL OR REWORD MY WORK WITHOUT CREDIT! THANK YOU :)

Hey y'all!

- I am finally settled and I am ready to give you some more astro knowledge to keep in the books!! Today we will be talking about the Ascendant (ASC for short) through the first 6 signs!! Part 2 will come out tomorrow!

- But first, what is an ASC sign?

-I'm glad you asked honey! First things first, your Ascendant is an angular house! Angular houses are the Ascendant, Descendant, IC (Imum Coeli), and MC (Medium Coeli). I'll do a post on what angular houses mean later on! Or do feel free to research on your own time :)

-Your ASC sign is what's popularly known as the sign (or sign traits) you may give off as a first impression to the outside world. According to the book, The Only Astrology Book You'll Ever Need by Joanna Woolfolk, she asserts that our personality is a blend of our Sun Sign in combination with our ASC sign. This has some truth in it as our ASC can also represent our self-interests, how we process self-awareness, our goals, our objectives, & how we assert our self-sufficiency! Think of your ASC sign as the sign when you walk in a room full of people.

- You can find your ASC here! Below is my chart( credit from Astro.com) for my visual learners! The ASC will be on the left side of your chart (marked AC); usually your angular houses are marked! In this example, my ASC is in the sign of Sagittarius!

-Have you ever had someone guess your sun sign but they were wrong? Chances are, they probably are guessing your ASC sign!

-With that being said, let's get into it!!!!

ARIES ASC:

Adventurous and pioneering!

Typically the ones to be "the first" at something.

Likes to get shit done! Act first ask questions later kind of energy.

Leader of the pack vibes.

Possibly have a very muscular, strong body.

When they walk in the room, they give such a strong sense of power, strength, and exuberance!

Possibly can be red-headed. Aries rules the color red and also rules the head. Doesn't mean every red-head is an Aries ASC though. Or they may like to wear alot of red.

They can give a direct, kinda bossy attitude but also a very free-child-like attitude I love it!!

Be careful with sharp objects. Sharp objects like knives are ruled by Mars (Mars rules Aries) and you may be a bit more accident prone so be careful, according to Woolfolk.

TAURUS ASC:

Very stable and calm energy when they walk in the room.

Patient & steadfast people.

Love the arts, could be talented at composing music esp!

Love comfort and the comfort their materials bring them.

Can have super beautiful necks. Necks/throats are ruled by Taurus.

Also, they may have larger, rounder eyes ooooo so cute!! Almost like a doe.

Can accumulate wealth over time.

Loves security and things that make them feel safe.

Many people think they are lazy, but that is not the case. A Taurus ASC does not believe in wasting time on things that don't bring them joy or comfort. They are hardworking, if it means they can attain the goals they set out for!! Once again, THEY ARE NOT LAZY!

GEMINI ASC:

Witty & charming.

Extremely smart and sociable.

Also can thrive in the entertainment industry as actors, writers, TV hosts, or comedians. They can really captivate an audience with their social and witty behavior!

Gemini rules the arms & hands, so they can have really nice hands/arms. If Venus is in aspect to their ASC, this can possibly point to someone who is a hand model.

The type to always want to be constantly stimulated and learn something everyday so they don't get bored.

May like to travel alot or move alot.

They also can marry more than once in their lives.

Extremely intellectual communicators. Very good with using their words as their best assets!

Could have big, wide eyes. This is just a personal take as I have seen multiple Gemini risings with big, wide eyes.

CANCER ASC:

Love security & comfort.

May have a oval face or round face. The moon rules Cancer so I won't be surprised if your face is shaped as round as the moon.

Sensitive to other's emotions & intuitive on how people may feel or react.

Amazing creatives. They use their emotions to make the best projects. Some of their projects (story writing for example) can be based on their lives at home or their hometown.

On the outside they may come off reserved and even cold. This is the "hard on the outside soft on the inside" effect. Deep down they are very soft, sweet, giving, & sensitive.

They want public recognition for their efforts, as you should!!!

According to Woolfolk, they are very good with saving money and handling it as well. Being the opposite sign of Capricorn (the sign of conservation), I am not surprised since opposing signs do share qualities of each other in one way or another.

LEO ASC:

Very grand people and luxurious YESSSS BITCH!!!

People may notice their hair first. Know how Leo is the lion? We see the lion's mane (or hair) first. This also applies for Leo ASCs.

A personal take- Leo ASC have this sun-kissed glow about them (lol pun intended). It's like their skin is so bright and glowy and it is so beautiful.

Give off a very happy and exuberant energy.

Extremely likeable people.

Views life as a stage!

Prides themselves on being a leader and delegator.

Can easily find fame or people will scout them out easily.

Also can be surrounded by alot of influential people. This helps their image if they want to be famous one day. Get to networking!!!

Can have a very nice back. Leo also rules the back.

VIRGO ASC:

Another personal take: why do so many Virgo ASC or Virgo placements have to wear glasses? That's interesting.

May have a frail looking body, but that does not mean they are sick yall.

Looks at life through a filter. Meaning, they like to hold on to valuable information that they can actually use and apply in their life.

^Yet, this can also mean that they may become too dependent on details to make decision. Don't forget to look at the bigger picture.

They love order and reason.

Thrive in intellectual pursuits. Especially if they are scientific and not philosophical.

Likes to gain rewards from their own efforts and not due to what others think. They love to listen and be assured in their own reasoning as YOU SHOULD!!!

May forget to take others' opinions into consideration.

Could come off shy and distant.

May own property in their later lives? Idk but Woolfolk mentions this and if anyone can chime in here I would be happy to hear it!

-That's it for PART 1! Part 2 will be out tomorrow!

-Also, to show your appreciation, do feel free to tip me! I have so much more content I want to teach and tell yall and I'm excited! You can tip me at my cashapp: $DellyRelly if you appreciate my content in more ways than just following me! Anywho, see yall tomorrow!

-Claude

[scorpionyx9621]

Do you think Jason Todd fandom is kinda toxic? Because it seems like NO MATTER what DC do, there'll always be complains. Forget the bad adaptation like Titans. Even Judd Winick cannot escape the criticism with how he potrayed Robin!Jason. They just never satisfied.

SORRY, IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS. I just moved from Washington D.C. to Seattle, which, for my non-American friends, that's 4442km away. And I DROVE THERE ALL BY MYSELF. And now I'm trying to find new work in a new city and trying to stay mentally healthy and positive. Life is exciting but hard and scary.

*sighs*

As someone who was a fandom elder with V*ltr*n. I've seen some of the worst when it comes to fandom behavior. I'm talking people baking food with shaving razors and trying to give them to the showrunners. I'm talking leaking major plot details and refusing to take it down unless they make their ship canon (I am looking at you, Kl*nce stans) For the most part, DC Comics has had a decades-long reputation of treating their fans like trash and not caring what they think so from what I've seen, we all just grumble and complain in our corners of the internet about how we don't like how X comic portrays Jason Todd.

The challenge with Jason Todd is that he's your clinical anti-hero, the batfamily's Draco in Leather Pants, he's a jerkass woobie, and on top of all of that, he's a Tumblr sexyman. It's a perfect storm for a very fun but frustrating character to be a fan of. It doesn't help that every writer decides to re-invent the wheel every time Jason comes up so his canon lore is confusing at best and inconsistent as a standard.

I guess starting with a general brief on who Jason is and what is uniform about him with every instance he's appeared in comics/media.

Grew up in a poor family in Gotham with a dad who was a petty-mid-level criminal, and a mother who dies of a drug overdose.

Survives on the street on his own by committing petty crimes and potentially even engaging in sexual acts to keep himself alive.

Is cornered by Batman and taken in after Dick Grayson quits/is fired

Becomes the second Robin, but is known for being the harsher, more brutal Robin.

Is killed by Joker after being tortured, but somehow comes back to life and regains senses through the Lazarus Pit

Resolves himself to be better than Batman by basically being Batman but kills people.

Where there has been a lot of conflict in the fandom is the fact that Jason Todd is not a character that is written consistently. DC Comics loves to go with the narrative that Jason was "bad from the start" and was the "bad robin" when, yes, he has trouble controlling his anger, but he also still is just as invested in seeing the best of Gotham City and trying to be a positive change for the world as any other DC Comics hero.

Where I get frustrated with the fandom is its ability to knit-pick every detail of a comic they don't like while completely disregarding everything that makes the comics great and worth it to read. My example being Urban Legends. To which most people had pretty mixed reactions to. I was critical of the comic at first but as it went along I ended up really liking it. I have a feeling DC Comics went to Chip Zdarsky and told him he had 6 issues to bring Jason back into the Bat Family, and honestly he didn't do a bad job. Did it feel rushed? Absolutely. I wish there was more development of Jason and Bruce's characters and their dynamic as a whole. However, where I see a lot of people being angry and upset with Urban Legends is that they feel Zdarsky needlessly wrote Jason as an incompetent fool who needs Bruce to save him.

Whether or not that was the intention of Zdarsky is up to debate. However, and this may be controversial, but I don't think he wrote Jason Todd out of character at all. For as fearsome, intimidating, and awesome as Red Hood is. Jason is a character who is absolutely driven by his emotions. Why do you think he donned the role of Red Hood? As a response to his anger towards The Joker for killing him, and towards Bruce for not taking action against The Joker and for seemingly replacing him so quickly after he died. Jason didn't care about being the murderous Robin Hood or for being the bloody hammer of justice against N*zi's and P*d*ph*les. He only cared originally about making The Joker and Bruce pay. It wasn't until he trained under the best assassins in the world and realized most of them were horrific criminals who trafficked children and were p*dos that Talia began to realize that the teachers that she sent Jason to train under started dying horrific and painful deaths.

The entire story of the Cheer story in Batman Urban Legends was started because it finally forced some consequences upon Jason. Tyler, aka Blue Hood's father was a drug dealer who gave his supply to his wife and kids. And when Tyler's father admitted he gave the drugs to Tyler, it immediately made him fall within the self-imposed philosophical kill-list of Jason Todd. And Jason, well, he proceeds to kill Tyler's father. When this happens, Jason is in shock. Tyler's dad fit the bill to easily and justifiably be killed by Jason. We've never seen Jason having to deal with the consequences of being a murderous vigilante on a micro-level. When Jason realizes what he's done in that he's murdered Tyler's dad, he's shocked. He tells Babs the truth. He does a rational thing because he's in shock. He doesn't know what to do, he never has had to face the consequences of his actions as Red Hood and now the gravity of befriending a child as a vigilante hero who kills people just set in when he killed the father of the same child he was just introduced to.

(Oh here's a little aside because it had to be said, Jason would not have been a good father or a good mentor to Tyler and absolutely should not have been his new Robin. Jason is a man who is in his early 20's (not saying men in their early 20's can't be good fathers at all) who is a brutal serial killer using the guise of a vigilante anti-hero to let him escape most of the law. the complications of having the man who murdered your father adopt you and make you his sidekick are way too numerous for me to explain in a long-winded already heavy Tumblr essay post. There's a reason why we don't advocate for a story where Joe Chill adopted Bruce Wayne or one where Tony Zucco took in Dick Grayson.)

The next biggest argument is that they feel that Jason is giving up his guns as a means to just be invited back into the Bat-Family. To which I will tell anyone who has that argument to go actually read Urban Legends. Already have and still have that argument? Please re-read it. Don't want to? That's okay, I will paste the images from the comic where Jason specifically says that he doesn't want to give up his weapons for Bruce and his real reasoning down below since the comic isn't exactly readily accessible.

Jason gave up the guns because he felt the gravity of what he had done and knows how it'll effect Tyler. Thankfully his mom is alive and in recovery. But Tyler doesn't have a father anymore. And Jason killed Tyler's father. It may have been in accordance to Jason's philosophy, but it was a case where it blurred the lines. Jason Todd isn't a black and white character, just very dark gray. He doesn't kill aimlessly like the Joker. If you are on Jason's list you probably have done something pretty horrific, and also just in general, being in his way or being a threat to him. Mind you, in early days of Red Hood and the Outlaws (Image below) Jason almost killed 10 innocent civilians in a town in Colorado all because they saw him kill a monster. That being said, Jason isn't aimless in his kills.

(Also can we just take a moment to appreciate Kenneth Rocafort's art? DC Comics said we need to rehabilitate Jason Todd's image and Kenneth Rocafort said hold my beer: It's so SO GOOD)

That being said, the key emphasis in the story of Cheer asides from trying to introduce Jason Todd back into the Bat Family and give an actual purpose for him being there, other than him just kind of being there ala Bowser every time he shows up for Go Kart racing, Tennis, Golf, Soccer, and the Olympic games when Mario invites him, is that Jason and Bruce ultimately both want the same thing. Jason wants to be welcomed back into the family and to be loved and appreciated. Bruce want's Jason back as his son and wants to love and protect Jason. Both of these visions are shown in the last chapter of Cheer while under the effect of the Cheer Gas. It's ultimately this love and appreciation they both have for each other that helps them overcome their challenge and win.

Jason Todd is a character who, just like Bruce, has been through so much pain and so much hate in his life. The two are meant to parallel each other. While Bruce chose to see the best in everyone, giving every rogue in his gallery the option to be helped and give them a second chance, hence why he never kills, Jason has a similar view on wanting to protect the public, but he understands that some crimes are so heinous they cannot be forgiven, or that some habitual criminals are due to stay habitual criminals, and need to be put down. But at the end of the day, the two of them both try to protect people in their own ways.

I am aware that through the writings of various DC Comics authors such as Scott Lobdell and Judd Winick, the two have had a very tumultuous relationship. And rightfully so, I am by no means saying that Scott Lobdell writing an arc where Bruce literally beats Jason to within an inch of his life in Red Hood and the Outlaws, nor Judd Winick's interpretation of Under the Red Hood where Bruce throws the Batarang at Jason's neck, slicing his throat and leaving him ambiguously for dead at the end of the comic is appropriate considering DC Comics seems to be trying everything they can to integrate Jason back into the family. That being said, a lot of these writings have shaped the narrative of Jason and Bruce's relationship and have an integral effect on the way the fandom views the two. It doesn't help that Zdarsky acknowledged Lobdell's life-beating of Jason by Bruce at the very end of Cheer by having Bruce give Jason his old outfit back as a means of mending the fence between the two of them. That does complicate a lot of things in terms of how they are viewed by the fandom and helps to cause an even greater divide between the two.

Regardless, I want to emphasize the fact that Jason Todd is a part of the family of his own accord. Yes, he's quite snarky and deadpan in almost every encounter. However, Jason is absolutely a part of the family and has been for a while of his own will. There's a great moment in Detective Comics that emphasizes this. Jason cares about his family because it is his found family. Yes, they may be warry about him and use him as a punching back and/or heckle him. At the end of the day, we're debating the family dynamics of a fictional playboy billionaire vigilante whose kleptomania took the form of adopting troubled children and turning them into vigilante heroes. Jason Todd wants a family that will love and support him. This is a key definition of his character at its most basic. This was proven during the events of Cheer and is being reenforced by DC Comics every time they get the opportunity to do so.

Now, none of this is to say that I hate Judd Winick. I do not, I don't like the fact that in all of his writings of Jason, he just writes him as a dangerous psychopath, and Winick himself admits to seeing Jason as nothing much more than a psychopath. Yet Winick is the one who the majority of the fandom clings to as the one true good writer of Jason Todd because 'Jason was competent, dangerous, smart' Listen, friends, Jason is all of that and I will never deny it. However, what I love about Jason isn't that he's dangerously smart of that writers either write him as angsty angry Tumblr sexyman bait or that they write him as an infantile man child with a gun. There's a large contention of this fandom that has an obsession with Jason Todd being this vigilante gunman who is hot and sexy and while I definitely get the appeal. It is very creepy and downright disturbing that all of you hyperfixate on his use of guns and ability to be a murderer. It is creepy and I'm not necessarily here for it.

What I love about Jason Todd is that despite all of the pain, all of the heartache, all of the betrayal, and bullying, and death, and anguish. Jason Todd is one of the most loving and supportive characters in all of DC Comics. Jason has been through so much in his life, but he still chooses to love. He still chooses to see the bright side in people. Yes, he takes a utilitarian approach and chooses to kill certain villains, but at the end of the day he wants to see a better world, and he wants to be loved. It takes so much courage and so much heart to learn to love again after one has been abused or traumatized. I would not blame Jason at all if he said fuck it and just went full solo and vigilante evil. He has every right to, but he still chooses to be with the Bat Family of his own accord. That's something that I see a lot of in myself. I have been through a lot of trauma and yet I try to be a better person myself in any way that I can. It is extremely admirable of Jason to allow love back into his heart when he really doesn't need to. He kills and he protects because he has this love of society. It may have been shaped by anger and hatred, but Jason has found his place amongst people who love him and value him. I think Ducra, from Red Hood and the Outlaws put it best in the image given below.

To end this tangent, I love Jason Todd and all of his sexy dangerousness, but it's far more than that. As much as Jason may be dangerous and snarky, he loves his family without a shadow of a doubt. I look up to Jason Todd because despite all of his pain and all of his trauma, he still choses to love. Jason Todd is a character who is someone I love because despite all of his flaws and having a very toxic fandom, he still serves as a character filled with so much heart and so much passion. I wish more writers would understand that. But for now I will live with what I have. Even though the fandom may be vocal about it's hatred for his characterization, I choose to love Jason regardless because he is a character who chooses love and acceptance regardless of his pain. Jason Todd is by no means a good person in any sense of the word. He has easily killed upwards of 100 people by now. He is a character who is flawed and complex but ultimately is one who powers forwards and finds love and heart in a place from so much pain and anguish. That is what I love about Jason Todd. After all, to quote a famous undead robot superhero, "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Jason Todd chooses to love despite all of the trauma and pain and grief. Yes, he is hardened in his exterior, but inside there is a man with a lot of love to give and someone who deserves the world in my eyes.

[darkacademicfrom2021]

The Dark Team (part 6)

<<Previous part Masterlist   Next part>>

Join the taglist in here (Taglist: @lucywrites02, @louieboo87)

“What did you fuck up?”, you heard Loki’s sharp whisper through the earbud, while you frantically searched through papers and papers and some more papers.

“I didn’t fuck up. I have the guy. I have information”, cleared Bucky. “Hey, DON’T MOVE”, he shouted at the kidnapped, cocking his gun. He cleared his throat before talking again. “Good and bad news”.

“Must be Christmas”, you said.

“No, Christmas is when you only have good news”, said Bucky.

“Not in my family. Generally, there was only bad news and food. Food was the good news”.

“I love how professional and focused on the mission you two are. Stark would be so proud”.

“Wait, I’m invested now. Tell me more about your family, y/n”.

“For the Norns, I don’t have much time. The information, Barnes”. You could hear Loki's footsteps resonate. According to plan, he should've been walking through a hall full of burocrats, so he was right; he did not have much time.

“Okay, so, I know who has the stick”.

“Good”.

“He’s dead”.

“Not so good”.

“Not really, no”.

“What do we do now?”.

An alarm on the building had set off and every door locked down, with a man on a speaker announcing the disappearance of an important object followed by an awfully accurate description of the three of you.

“We run, that’s what we do now”.

You didn’t have to say more. Bucky threw himself off the window before it finished closing. You looked around desperately, trying to find a way to free yourself from that office. Two security guards entered the room screaming for you to get on the floor, and instead you made an unstable wall with the desk and chairs, avoiding getting shot and giving you enough time to figure out some sort of weapon to take them down.

The watch was already used, the knives were useless if they had guns, you didn’t have a gun yourself (silly you), and the parachute was apparently not working anymore, so you couldn’t jump off the window like your teammates. Damn.

“By any chance”, you whispered through your microphone “could you tele…”, but Loki gave you no time to finish the sentence and teleported himself to the office, still in the shape of a security guard.

“My dearest friend”, he said to one of the shooters, opening his arms welcomingly, “how’s the family?”.

“What the fuck, Robert?” asked angrily one of the real guards. “How did you…”.

Loki kicked off his gun and touched his head with a halo of green lights, making him fall unconscious to the floor. He looked up and down at the second security guard and formed half a smile.

“And what about your wife? Is she well?”.

“You ain’t Robert, ain’t ya?”.

“Mmh, nah”.

You grabbed the second security guard from behind and made him trip, immobilizing his arms and legs, and held his own gun to his head. Loki watched you amused, and then transformed back into himself.

“Oh, there you are”, you greeted him. “Did Buck say anything about the walking dead?”.

“The… what?”.

“The man with the stick. If he’s dead, who activated the alarm? Someone has to have it”.

“He didn’t say anything else. Can’t you track it down?”.

“If I could, why would we have done all of this for?”.

“Point made”.

“I need to get back to our room, take some things off the checklist before going all in for a new plan”.

“Alri…”, he started saying, but his gaze fell back on the immobilized guard you were holding down. “What are you planning on doing with him? He saw our faces”.

“If you let me live I won’t talk about this at all”, he pleaded, face squished against the floor. “I have kids, please”.

“He’s lying, he has no kids”, he said with a neutral face, and you looked at him trying to tell him to communicate telepathically. Surprisingly, he understood. “What?”.

“I’m not killing him, what do we do?”.

“Just kill him, what’s all the fuss about?”. You looked at him horrorized and he rolled his eyes “alright, just threaten him enough”.

You let him go, still pointing the gun at him, and gestured to the door so he could leave. When he reached for the door knob, you shot twice at the wall, mere inches from his head, and he froze in place.

“Talk and I’ll find you”, you threatened.

“I won't say a word, I promise”.

You looked at Loki and he nodded, letting you know the man was telling the truth. You kept your eyes fixed on him while he ran away, terrified. Must be new, you thought. Loki grabbed your waist.

“What the Hell are you doing?”, you pushed him away.

“Teleporting us, as you asked”.

“You have to grab me to do that?”.

“I don’t have to. It’s so you get stability”.

“Oh. Give me a big bear hug, then. No, better, let’s cuddle” you spat with sarcasm. He sighed annoyed, massaging his temples.

“Fine. I’m not even touching you”.

As he teleported both of you, you felt your whole body tear its own cells apart and dissolve, and then regenerate them. Your head spinned like it never has, and something hit your head; but you weren’t sure if it was the floor, a wall or the roof, for your sense directions were nowhere to be found. You took a few seconds to compose yourself before opening your eyes once everything stopped moving. When you finally managed to realize where your head even was, your eyes met with Loki’s, who was holding back a smirk with his arms crossed.

“Reconsidering that cuddle next time, are you?”.

“That was… hilarious. Such a shame I missed the previous part to give me context, though”, said Bucky from the counter of the hotel room, munching on some chips. “Look, the tiny fridge had these. You were right, they’re actually great”.

“Yeah. Grab whatever, they’re on Stark’s”, you said, still with your head a bit fuzzed. Loki offered his hand to help you get up but you did it yourself. He sighed.

“How do you fit your clothes with that huge ego of yours?”.

“I don’t, I walk around naked”, you answered, opening the nearest laptop and starting to work on the checklist.

That night was like the last one. Dark, silent and with your head full on the work. Bucky was barely snoring, and Loki was sitting on his bed reading a book. Every once in a while you glanced up your work to look at how painfully beautiful he was. You hated every thought about it, of course, but you couldn’t deny his sight grew on you a bit. He was an asshole, of course. A parasite on your head. An inconvenience. A distraction, sometimes. But the warm light of the bed lamp and the shadows it formed on half of his face enhanced his features, almost like a sculpture, a piece of art.

While you thought of that you checked on his expressions, making sure he wasn’t listening to your highly embarrassing thoughts.

After a few hours, Bucky had already woken up and you were still spread on the floor, surrounded by the files and laptops from before. The light conversation had caught half the attention of the God, who was still reading peacefully. He seemed so calm you wondered what kept him up anyways.

“You think he still has it on him?”, asked Bucky, changing his shirt.

“I think it’s a possibility. I’m tracking his body down. Should be in the morgue by now, maybe they haven’t taken off his clothes yet. But if not, the security cameras would have recorded who took it from the body”.

“Groovy”.

"Oh my God, James".

"What?".

"What does groovy even mean?".

"You know... it's like saying cool beans".

"Coo... alright".

After a while, you collected all the data you needed for tomorrow. You were so exhausted your eyes were getting dry and blurry. Loki was still reading in that same place, not even fazed by the amount of hours that had happened. You got up to clean the dishes from the last meal, and he lifted his gaze up from the book.

“Wait”, he stopped you. With a wrist movement, the dishes got as clean as they could get and arranged on the shelf. You chuckled.

“I wish I had that ability”.

“Are you going to sleep now?”.

“A few hours”.

“Sleep here”, he said from his bed. You looked at Bucky’s; he fell asleep back again.

“You haven’t slept yet. I don’t want to occupy your bed”.

“I won’t, don’t worry”, you nodded, kind of worried he might pass out of tiredness in the middle of the mission. Why the hell was he not sleeping? “If it doesn’t bother you, I’d rather finish this book on here too”.

“I think there’s enough space”.

He moved and gave you space for half of the tiny bed, and you laid by his side with your arms crossed and a leg on top of the other. He went back to his book, and even though he was sitting and your sight couldn’t reach the pages, you were sure it was in Old Norse.

“What are you reading?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Doubtfully as in to share it with you or not, he then proceeded.

“Hamlet. It’s a translation in Old Norse from an author I adore. I’d say it’s an even better version than Shakespeare’s”.

You felt yourself about to smile. You tried not to, but you probably did. That was your favourite piece of literature of all times. You wondered how could that have gotten to Asgardian hands, and why would he (certainly a Midgardian hater) want to read Earth’s literature. You were so curious in that version. Was it really that good, that would be better than Shakespeare himself? Sadly, you didn’t even know how to say hello in that language.

“Do you like it so far?”.

“I’m re-reading it. Brings good memories”, he said with a subtle smile he had hoped you wouldn’t notice. But you did. Something in your chest warmed up a bit and you shook it off. No, no. Not feelings. Don’t confuse your physical attraction, don’t feed your touch starved soul. No. You had to repeat to yourself a couple of times. You were just very, very tired.

“Brings good memories to me too. I love this book”. You figured it was alright to open up a little. The situation was relaxed enough. He wasn’t snarky or avoidant. He looked… melancholic. Sad, even. Like a facet of himself he didn’t allow everyone to see.

You connected with that. Maybe you could even relate to him in some way. For years, you had a feeling of something not adding up quite right. A longing for something you couldn’t exactly pin up. Melancholy for a blank space.

But there you were, barely knew him for three days yet felt close enough. Not too much. Just a feeling. Just the traces of something that maybe happened in another life. But in this one, you would get the mission done and leave. So don’t get attached, you ordered yourself.

“It’s a really good version”.

“Wish I could read it but I don’t know Old Norse”, you said slower than you intended. Loki chuckled at your tiredness. Maybe you could push your curiosity a little further. What was the damage? That he could just say ‘piss off’ or something like that? “What good memories does it bring to you?”.

He sighed and muttered almost to himself “I used to read it to my beloved”.

You almost gasped, surprised he actually answered you. You didn’t ask for more. It was already a lot he had just trusted you with. He told you he had a beloved. You didn’t even know he had a lover, but of course he had. He was nearly a thousand years old; why wouldn’t he? Did he lose that lover, in past tense?

Curiosity grew bigger on you, but fear pushed you aback. But the questions floated around in your head as a lullaby. Your head started to weigh a little more on the pillow and everything happened slightly slower. Loki closed the book and left it resting on his lap. He whispered “I feel you have questions”, and you denied it with your head. Your eyelids fell heavier than before.

“I’m mmnmnnhnm”, you managed to sort of say before getting knocked down by sleep. You heard his laughter, but nothing more after that.

[yunhowhoitiss]

𝐜𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐮𝐦

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭!𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐟𝐞𝐦)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5k+

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, fantasy au (?), slow burn, angst if you squint, ft co-worker jongho :)

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You’re finally starting to make ends meet when you start working at your school’s local café, but the world is so full of surprises.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: reader panics a bit(?)

𝐚/𝐧: I came up with this at 4am a couple days ago so it’s not my proudest, but I felt bad just letting it sit in my drafts so here you go :) enjoy!

masterlist

The gentle smell of freshly baked pastries, accompanied by the stronger aroma of ground coffee beans, wafted through the comfy café. There was a constant chatter as customers scattered around the joint whilst waiting, disguising the soft hum coming from behind the coffee machine. Your face was out of sight, except your hair peeked out above the espresso machine where you were pouring a latté, entertaining yourself by decorating a small heart in the foam. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as your eyes turned to soft crescents when soft wisps of your hair had fallen out of your bun and across the sides of your forehead. The steam floating from the cup caressed your hands as you picked up the mug along with an assortment of macaroons. 

“Order for Julie: four macaroons, a chai latté, and an espresso affogato, extra dry!” You announced through the coffee shop, turning a few heads. 

You made your way back to the station to continue other orders but stopped as you noticed something missing; you had run out of cinnamon to top off drinks. Your coworker ought to know where another carton would be, so you turned towards the kitchen to find him wrist-deep in bread dough. 

“Jongho, where are the extra containers of cinnamon again?”

“Oh, those are in the grey cabinet below the pastry display,” he smiled back, all the while kneading the dough. 

Flashing him an ‘ok’ sign, you headed back to the front of the shop. You hadn’t been working at the Crescent Café very long, but you happened to be a pretty fast learner, according to Jongho; you could make latte art before other trainees could even make a latte. Quickly getting back to work, you served a customer until something caught you eye whilst jotting down an order on your notepad; had the writing been on your wrist all day? It must just be something I wrote down earlier, you thought.

As the sun made its way towards the horizon, you returned to the comfort of your small apartment to freshen up, eat dinner, and momentarily forget your academic responsibilities— homework, ugh-- before heading to school again the next day. You entered you apartment with a relived sigh and threw your keys onto a nearby dresser, mumbling "I'm home" to nobody in particular. Too lazy to go to your room, you simply undressed as you walked towards the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind you. Note to self: clean that up later. 

The moment you stepped into the shower, your shoulders loosened as the hot water washed away your tension. The writing on your wrist caught your eye again. Scrutinizing the messy handwriting, you saw what seemed to be a shopping list. 

“Eggs, lucky charms, and aftershave,” you read aloud. 

Aftershave? I don’t use that. Could it be… you were lost thought, not noticing the warm steam filling the bathroom. You rubbed at your soapy skin frantically in an attempt to wash off the pen, to no avail. Lately, although rarely, you’d started to notice small bruises or random marks on your skin; you’d never seen writing, though. You briefly wondered if there was possibly another person causing this, but you only saw such things in movies or books... right? 

Your heart rate started to pick up, and a heavy sensation built up in your chest. It isn’t possible, it can’t be. The cramped space of your shower started to feel suffocating. Nearly slipping, you jumped out of the shower and dried yourself off. You got dressed in whatever shirt and sweats you found hanging around your bedroom. Was something wrong with you? Am I imagining things? I’m not going crazy, right?  Worrisome thoughts flooded your mind as you spiralled deeper into a panic. Calm down. Don’t skip to conclusions. You threw yourself onto the bed. In and out. It’s that simple, you consoled yourself. Slowly but surely, you felt your heart come to a rest. 

When you lifted your hand up above your head the writing was still there, unchanged. So you weren’t losing your mind. Could somebody else be the cause of this? Was someone else somehow writing on your skin? No, you felt stupid for even considering the thought; otherworldly things like that only happened in comics or movies. Nevertheless, it was the only possibility that made sense to you in the moment. You let your curiosity get the best of you, and paced towards the living room to grab a pen off the coffee table. On your right hand, you simply wrote "Hi," in hopes of eliciting some sort of response.

The following day proved to be a rather sunny, warm Monday, but you had to spend your time in a closed lecture hall. The cold-toned ceiling lights were much too bright for your liking, and the monotonous professor spouted information maybe only a handful of people were genuinely listening to. That morning, you had woken up to find the list on your wrist gone, leaving only your own message from the night before. You started to think you'd really had a hallucination of some sort. 

Half an hour into the lecture, you were already bored out of your mind and absentmindedly sketching intricate doodles on your notebook. I should just give up on biochemistry and become an artist, you mused to yourself. You remained focused on your art, while marks started to take shape on the back of your hand. Your soft eyes widened almost comically at the sight, and you shot a brief look to the people around you to make sure they hadn’t seen anything. Whipping your head back to your hand, you saw that the words stopped writing themselves, leaving a short message saying “Am I going nuts?” 

Wondering the same thing yourself, you jotted down a response below it: “I dunno, you tell me,” followed by a cheeky smiley face. If this really was real, you might as well make a good first impression. 

Weeks trickled into months as you made short exchanges with your newly discovered friend. Some nights you would write “good night” followed by a drawn heart, earning a sweet “sleep well” in return. You would frequently wake up to thoughtful words written on the palm of your hand, or you'd kindly ask your companion how they were doing when you had a quiet day at work. Even so, all you had learned about this person was their name, age, and that they were a student as well. Yunho was a twenty-one-year-old elementary education major with a minor in physiology-- he also worked as a dance teacher on weekends. You still didn’t know much about each other, so the messages never went further than greetings and simple conversations. 

Be that as it may, you liked it like that. Your relationship wasn’t complex; it felt comfortable and pure, and you didn’t want to change it.

Mellow spring afternoons at the café had always been your favourite. The wispy clouds in the sky were painted a buttery yellow by the slowly setting sun, and a steady stream of nearby students stopped by for coffee. Your new friend had sweetly noted "It's golden hour. Made me think of you," on your palm, leaving you in a bubbly mood. You had started your shift by drawing a heart on your wrist, hoping your secret companion would see it. 

You worked by the espresso machine as usual, humming to yourself as always. The bell rang, indicating that customers had arrived; it was a group of what seemed to be three guys and a girl. 

“We’ll be right with you!” you called. You turned towards the kitchen.  “Jongho, can you take their orders?” Silence. “Pretty please? I need to clean up my station.” you persisted. 

“Fine, yeah,” you heard your colleague grumble. 

As you tidied up behind the machine, you felt as though someone was watching you from the counter. You lifted your head curiously, meeting a pair of inquisitive doe eyes coloured a soft hazelnut brown. The warm eyes instantly turned into friendly half-moons as the boy smiled shyly upon being caught staring. You hurried back to cleaning up your station, hoping to hide the pink tint of your cheeks, but the red shade consuming your ears gave you away. 

Jongho handed you the cups for their orders and walked over to the pastry display. You got started on a hot chocolate and three iced americanos, getting back into your “barista brain,” as you liked to call it. After finishing the drinks, you called out "Three iced americanos, a hot chocolate, and two blueberry muffins!” 

You turned around to grab straws, and you overheard one of the guys say “I’ll grab ‘em, you guys can stay here.” You made your way back to the counter, looking up only to be met with the boy from earlier. Butterflies littered your stomach, fluttering up into your chest. “Oh, um, here are some straws,” you smiled gingerly.

“Thanks. Could I please get a sleeve as well?” he asked, “For my hot chocolate.”

“Of course!”

As you handed him the cardboard sleeve, his hands caught your eye. Not only were they the most beautiful hands you'd ever laid eyes on, but the boy had a heart drawn on the valley of skin between his left thumb and wrist, exactly where you had drawn one on your own hand just a while earlier. He seemed to recognize the message on your palm as well; a confused expression ghosted over his face. Gathering all your courage, you nodded towards his hand and did your best to form a coherent sentence. “That’s—”

“Your heart,” he interrupted, “Right?” 

You giggled softly in response, barely containing your excitement.

“Right,” you smiled down at your feet in an attempt to hide the bashful grin that pulled at your lips. A hand popped up in front of you.

“Nice to meet you, y/n. My name’s Yunho-- Oh, but you know that already, don’t you?” Yunho chuckled sheepishly. You looked up and slipped your hand into his, shaking it gently. His hands were warm, fingertips ever so soft.

“Nice to meet you too.”

[im-the-punk-who]

Hi! I’m new to the fandom and I’m simply curious (not trying to start a feud or anything), why don’t you like Steinberg?

Hello dear anon! And welcome to the fandom! 

Oof. That’s a question. xD 

I’m going to try and stay as uh. neutral as possible. Because I’ve already written the post I know I failed but, the intent in answering this is also not to start a feud or hurt anyone’s feelings. 

Okay, so I got fairly negative in this chilis tonight, so I want to start by saying that even in light of the opinions I’m about to express, Black Sails is one of, if not my number one, favorite TV shows of all time. Certainly in recent memory - I’ve been hyperfixating on this show for 18 months with no sign of stopping, and I have a tremendous amount of respect for everyone who worked on the show - even Steinberg. (The one exclusion is Michael Bay, he can go twist.)

AND I think Stienberg is an incredibly talented writer. Black Sails is one of my favorite shows because it does such a wonderful job of weaving stories, creating characters, and melding things in a way that is both unexpected and makes sense narratively. I have changed as a person because of the show, and they will have to pry James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton from my cold dead knives-attached-to-them hands. None of what I’m going to say is meant to detract from that.

I will also say that a lot of these issues are not particular to Steinberg and are in fact a systemic problem with American TV + Film. And I’m not leaving Robert Levine out of my criticism, it’s just that Steinberg had the biggest hand in the pot(he wrote a full half the episodes) and a lot of what I’ve heard as far as talking about the show comes from Steinberg. So, he gets the brunt. But it isn’t that I think Steinberg was the only problematic element of the show. 

Also, these are all my opinions and are colored by how I interact with my fandoms. I am not only a fandom veteran, but I work and pretty much live in the entertainment industry. I work in indie film and theatre and am surrounded by artists and creators of all walks of life, like, constantly. I know what is possible, and when I see something that can be improved, I want to note it because it is important to me to always be striving forward. Like Miranda says about Thomas, this isn’t out of malice, or out of hate. It’s because I genuinely love this show, and I love entertainment as a whole, and I think in order to get to a better, more inclusive industry we have to have hard conversations and look critically at the media we consume, and it is frustrating to me to time and again see the same faces in the room. 

But if that isn’t your cuppa, that’s fine! Fandom isn’t meant to be stressful and if all you want to do is watch a show about gay pirates that is your tomato and I applaud you. Have at it you funky motherfucker.

OH! One more. At some point I’m going to talk about Silverflint. When I do, it is NOT meant as a ‘you shouldn’t/cant ship this’ or ‘this pairing is bad’ or any negative attack on the people who ship that pairing. My criticisms in this post are exclusively about what it means for Steinberg as a writer and Black Sails’ representation of gay and mlm men. While it’s not my cuppa, this is a sail your own ship blog. 

OKAY! SO! 

My main criticisms of Steinberg & Co boil down to:

The homozygosity of the writers and directors shows a complete lack of desire to include marginalized people in the writing of a show that is about them. Which leads to:

The centering of white men while choosing a historical setting and time period that was in fact dominated by people of color and specifically a black woman, 

The gratuitous inclusion of violence against women, particularly sexual violence, and again, that the female characters are often sidelined for the central male characters. 

SO.

Black Sails is a show centered around queer, female, and black leads, and yet there were only two non white-male directors (one bi-racial man and one white woman) and only 7 female writers - one of whom was Latina. The entire rest of the major creative staff was white men. I’m not going to comment on sexualities but none of the writers or directors are out as queer according to a quick google search. 

Let me reiterate the important bit there. 

In Black Sails, where the last two seasons specifically feature around a real, actually-happened-in-history event that shaped black history in the Caribbean, there was not a single black writer on the entire show. 

This is the main difference between inclusion for inclusion’s sake, and actually centering marginalized voices. Black Sails has a ton of gay, POC, and female rep in front of the camera but practically zero representation behind it, which leads to storylines and implications that Steinberg and his writers, as white men, simply would never realize.

It’s like why Silver and Miranda never realized the true reasons James was waging war on England. They just did not have the life experiences to realize they were missing a piece of the puzzle, and so they filled in their own without even realizing they’d done so. 

Because no one in the room of Black Sails was a part of these marginalized identities, nuances get lost or mistranslated, motivations get muddled through a white man’s gaze(or a straight person’s) and implications that someone within those communities might think is obvious won’t even come up.

And again, because there were no writers or directors of color in the last two seasons (the biracial man directed episodes 2x02 and 2x04 - WHICH MAKES SENSE IMO) the entirety of the historical lore that the show bases itself on in its latter half is filtered through a white man’s lens. And so there is no discussion of how changing something changes the meaning, how leaving someone out or changing their role to be more minor might affect people for whom that is their heritage. How the entire story they’re telling might change with one simple exclusion or addition.

So, how does this relate directly to Steinberg, you ask? Well, simply, because it was his show. 

Steinberg(and Levine) were involved in every major decision about the show, from its conception, to the script, to choosing the writers and directors. They chose how they wanted the show to look, to think, what stories to tell and how they wanted to tell them. Their decisions(and the biases that formed those decisions) are woven into the show.

And look. I don’t for a second believe any of this was willful or malicious. I don’t think that John Steinberg and Robert Levine sat down one day and said ‘you know what would make the gays really angry? If we locked the only two canonically gay men up in a prison camp.’

But the decisions that were made in the show were based in ignorance in a way that shows more than just simple negligence or laziness(especially given the attention to detail in everything else). The things they leave out or change in the Maroon War plotline for instance are not small details easily missed. They are big, giant waving flags. They are things that are irreplaceable to still have the same events and stories and tell them respectfully. 

It shows an insane amount of privilege to, for instance, write a show airing during a time when the Black Lives Matter movement was at the forefront of the American conscience, include black characters and black storylines, and yet not include a single black voice on their creative team. 

In a show that centers a gay man’s love and his journey in attempting to process the horrible things done to him and his lover because of it, we are given just forty minutes of the entire show dedicated to their relationship - and just fifteen of those minutes actually feature the lover! 

(Relatedly, the entirety of the gay romantic rep is two kisses, and a forehead touch. That’s the entirety of your gay intimacy representation. And yet there are in the first two seasons alone - because that’s all I’ve clocked so far - something like twenty seven minutes of scenes involving a naked or half naked woman. Five minutes of that is explicitly wlw sex.

Again, I just want to reiterate this because it’s important in recognizing bias. 

There is fully twice as much female nudity in the first two seasons, as the entirety of the time the two gay characters have together on screen. )

Steinberg is a perfect example of how a lack of understanding why the diversity you are representing is important, matters. I dislike Steinberg because he, just like every other straight white cis man I have known, profited off of marginalized voices without including them or creating with them in mind.

Art does not exist in a vacuum. You cannot create something - especially something as back breakingly, intensely a labor of love as Black Sails - without putting several pieces of yourself into it. But those pieces color your narrative. They will expose things about you that you don’t even realize. And it’s in these places we are weakest, and why a diverse group of writers with a diverse group of experiences can help a piece be stronger. But for whatever reason, John Steinberg thought that he could make art with only people who looked and thought and experienced like him. 

The lack of representation behind the camera in Black Sails was evident in front of it and yet Steinberg is out here getting to pretend like he created the most inclusive groundbreaking show that ever existed. It is important to me, personally, to acknowledge that. And that it kind of makes my skin crawl in the way all media made by straight white (cis)men makes my skin crawl. I wish I didn’t have to feel that way about my favorite tv show just because it was created by a man of privilege, but here we are.

SO. I hope that helped? Feel free to take what you want and leave what you don’t! 

Below the cut is a more in depth look at things that I think show what I’m talking about, but that up there ^^ is the gist. <3 |D

SURPRISE!

The Maroons and the Maroon War

So the first thing I want to point out is that the Maroon War was a real thing that happened. It lasted ten years, and resulted in the most substantial victory the Maroons ever achieved against the British. Not only that, there was in fact a KICKIN’ badass female leader of the maroons named Queen Nanny, who is to this day honored as a national hero in Jamaica. While they weren’t able to drive the British out, the outcome of this war led to a mostly self-governing Maroon population in Jamaica from the mid 1700s on. This was a long term fight that had a very tangible and real outcome, even if it didn’t end in the destruction of colonialism. 

And what is this war turned into in Black Sails? A white ‘madman’s revenge’  that is doomed to failure after six months.

That, my dear pirates, is a problem for me. (And those familiar with my brand of spiceyness know that I do not ascribe to the ‘Flint is a Madman’ trope, but that IS what Steinberg ascribes to, what he seems to have written the show thinking.) 

There was no narrative reason to include the Maroon War in the narrative of Black Sails. The Maroon War didn’t happen until a decade after the Golden Age of Piracy, and aside from Silver’s wife being a black woman there is no mention of Silver ever having contact with them. To me, this feels like the choice of a showrunner who found a cool historical event and saw a chance to up the stakes of their white male heroes while getting in some sweet sweet POC rep. 

Except that they then took the major events of the Maroon War and gave them to their white characters, Flint and Silver. 

Here’s the thing. If you’re going to take a piece of culturally important history and use it for your show, you NEED to have sensitivity writers. You need to have people who are at least familiar with those events and who care about them to do them justice. Have an expert come in and read your script or go over your ideas. Or just like. Hire a black writer. Hire ONE black writer. As a treat.

The important Maroon figures, Nanny, Cudjoe, and Quao, all get sidelined or ‘sexified’ and then used as plot points for the white characters. Nanny gets split into two women - the older mother queen and Madi, the young naive warbent visionary. Quao(Mr. Scott is the closest, or Kofi possibly) gets killed off because the writers realized they didn’t exactly have a place for him in their writing. Cudjoe(Julius) gets a few scenes and one good speech but his entire role in the war gets given to Silver. And THEN. That sexy Queen Madi figure gets used as emotional bait for Silver and then has to learn he has betrayed her and destroyed the hope and freedom she had wanted to bring to her people. 

Gross, pirates. Gross.

Anne Bonny/Max/Mary Read - a heads up, this section includes a semi in-depth discussion of both Max and Anne’s sexual assaults. If that bothers you, the paragraphs talking about that begin with a ***

COOL NOW LET’S TALK ABOUT LESBIANS. Words my 20 year old self would never have imagined coming out of my mouth. 

Specifically, I want to talk about Max, and Anne, and their backstories both involving extreme sexual trauma at the hands of men. And then Mary Read and the once again sexification of female characters.

(Actually while I’m here another criticism I have of Steinberg is that his writing does not seem to recognize how queer people existed in the past - again, likely because he didn’t have any gay historians to be like ‘actually buddy that doesn’t make sense also why is Anne not dressing as a man? If you want to fuck with anything and insert modern day terminology and ideas into this show, make her non binary and REALLY piss off the hetties.’)

(This same ficitonal gay dramaturg who is definitely not me has also questioned John Steinberg repeatedly about where Mary Read is, unsatisfied with the answer ‘well we wanted her to be hot so we made her a sex worker and then had Anne have to rescue her but then we realized it would be weird not to include her actual character so we gave her a five second cameo at the very end of the series and also made her like 13.’)

Anyway! So my main point in bringing up Anne and Max is the sexual trauma they are exposed to in the show, particularly being that they are the two primary wlw in the show, who Steinberg has said he views as being completely gay, and what THAT whole unexamined idea looks like. 

***Max. My dear Max. There was literally no reason to have her be repeatedly r*ped(and for the love of god there was even less reason to make it that gratuitous and graphic). Max being assaulted like that did not add anything to the gravity of Eleanor’s betrayal. The traumatic event was being tossed aside by Eleanor, and that could have been just as emotionally damaging without the sexual assault. And the only reason for her to be continually assaulted was to bring her and Anne together. 

***The reason imo that Max’s r*pe plot was added was because it was the only thing these white straight men could come up with that felt emotionally damaging enough to them. The act of betrayal itself wasn’t enough, the act of being thrown away, of having a lover put your life in danger because of her own ambitions wasn’t enough, they needed her to be r*ped to really drive home the point. 

***Anne, on the other hand, is never shown being sexually abused, but we are given an explicit account of her own traumatic history and how Jack saved her from this vile beast who was passing her around to his friends.

But here’s the thing pirates - that never happened. According to every account we have of Anne Bonny, she chose her husband, and married him against her father’s wishes. They were probably relatively happy until her husband started being a pirate spy and Anne started cheating on him with Jack. 

And yes, when they were found out. Her husband had her beat. That’s not fucking cool, and if they really wanted to go the damsel in distress route they still could have had Jack ‘save’ her from that. But at no point was she sexually abused by her husband(at least not in any accounts I’ve read.) 

You know who did likely sexually abuse her or at least manipulate her and Mary for his own benefit? If you guessed our Rat man Jack Rackham, you would be correct, because when he found out about Mary and Anne’s (supposed, but probably real) relationship, it’s implied he extorted both of them into fucking him to keep their secret from the crew. 

The addition of sexual abuse to Anne’s past isn’t done to be true to her character and was in fact explicitly untrue. Now of course I don’t know the reasons why they chose to do this, but I can guess. Just as with Max, the most traumatic thing a male writer can think of for a female character is for them to be sexually abused.

And the most disturbing part of this to me? The parallels it has to the real world of why straight men think lesbians exist. These characters who would be called man haters in present day are given these incredibly traumatic man-centered histories. It brings up something very uncomfortable in me about particularly wlw sexuality being viewed as a reaction to trauma at the hands of men. It’s just gross, I dont like it, and honestly there is no fucking excuse for it besides a room full of white straight men writing this bullshit. A room that Steinberg chose, because they fit his ideas.

In Fact heck, the women of Black Sails in general

***I honestly struggle to think of a single female character who I think was treated fairly in Black Sails. Miranda and Eleanor are killed for taking sides and not understanding their partners, Madi is betrayed in the worst way possible, Max is given a pseudo empowering ending but has that fucking terrible start. Idelle ends off fairly well, but tied to a man she may or may not have any actual feelings for, in what is essentially a political marriage. And Anne has her entire identity tied to a man who will be dead in two years as she is robbed of any agency whatsoever without him. (Oh, and the whole r*pe thing. And also her support for Max’s r*pe or death until she started having fee-fees. Who wrote this stuff. >_>)

Even though the characterization of each and every one of these women is PHENOMENAL - and again I will repeat that I absolutely LOVE these characters as they exist in a vacuum. I think they are well rounded, real, feeling people given motivations and drives and FEELINGS and they SHOW THEIR ANGER and i LOVE THEM. 

But the show punishes them for it. Miranda is essentially fridged to move Flint’s storyline along, and to make room for Silver. Eleanor is killed for the emotional damage it will cause Rogers. Madi is placed at the center of a conflict she explicitly says she is willing to die for and then not only is her entire cause taken from her, but when she tells Silver to fuck off he - in possibly the most predictable white man move ever - says ‘no i will stay until you change your mind. I will never leave you. I don’t care about your choice in this matter, I will wait forever for you. I’m your biggest fan. I’ll follow you until you love me. papa, - paparazzi.’ 

And I touched on this before, but I want to talk in more detail about what is possibly my hottest take to date, the sexification of Mary Read and Queen Nanny, as they are presented in the show. 

Max is to Anne what Mary Read is, historically. She is the lover that Jack Rackham discovers with Anne, and then he joins them in their bed. They form a triumvirate that upholds Jack at the expense of the women. But for some reason, Steinberg didn’t want to just include Mary Read as an actual character. For some reason he needed to make Anne’s love interest a sex worker who was in need of saving (and who, coincidentally, we never see working the brothel after she becomes lovers with Anne, because she is now a madam. :) Gross.)

And Madi. My dear sweet fucking Madi who didn’t fucking deserve any of this bullshit send tweet. 

So, historically, Queen Nanny was the Queen, spiritual advisor, and the military tactician of the Windward Maroons. She would have filled both Madi and the Queen’s character roles(and Flint’s, but who’s counting. A BLACK GAY LEAD? Inconceivable. I digress.) But, I guess, because they were wishy-washing with Silver’s sexuality or felt they needed to give him a female love interest because of Treasure Island, or because they were leaning a bit too hard into the gay shit and needed to backpedal, they took Queen Nanny and split her into a character who is for all intents and purposes powerless in the war and Madi, who is young and naive and does not have any real world experience outside of the Maroon camp.

Because that’s sexy, or something. They could have had the Maroon Queen be a fucking badass lady who works and fights alongside Flint and Silver and one ups them and teaches them shit and has her own ideas about where the British can stick it, but instead they made her into the perfect caricature of a female monarch, letting the big strong men handle the dirty work or something. Because white male power fantasies. 

Just let women be powerful and not nubile and let them have character arcs over fucking thirty and let them be CENTERED in their own. fucking. narratives. 

God damnit Steinberg.

James Flint, mlm extraordinaire

Oh, my love. My most amazing child. The light of my life. My purest cinnamon roll. 

~~And now we’ve come to the dreaded Silverflint criticism part of our programming. Please please know and remember this isn’t a criticism of people who ship Silverflint. As I said up top, Your Tomato Is Not My Tomato and that’s cool. Please don’t take this next part as an attack on Silverflint as a fandom ship.~~

My criticism of Steinberg as it relates to Flint is related to:

What a romantic/sexual relationship with Silver being the basis of the tension and plot means for Flint in particular as a gay or mostly mlm man. 

Refusing to confirm Thomas and James being alive at the end and honestly the whole finale in general but like I’ll try and focus.

The major problem I have with Silver and Flint being coded as in love with each other is the implications there in terms of gay men’s relationships to other men. 

From every corner, men are inundated with the idea that any close relationship between them must be gay. That intimacy cannot exist unless there are sexual feelings involved. That a relationship cannot be close, deep and soul shattering and life altering, unless one guy secretly(or not so secretly) wants to bone the other dude. That two men cannot value each other as partners or friends or truly know each other unless they are gay.

Seeing both of the meaningful relationships Flint forms with other men be sexually coded feels a bit the same way as Anne and Max’s sexual assault plotlines does vis-a-vis being wlw. (Even with Gates, Flint never spoke about Thomas or his plans - Silver is absolutely the closest person to Flint besides Thomas and Miranda.) And this is just as true for Silver. Having both Flint and Madi - the two people he trusts - both be people he’s in love with also just feels. I don’t know. 

It feels like a confusion between male intimacy and male love that is so so familiar to me as a gay man I could choke on it. Where they wanted these men to have a deep and really lasting connection, but could only figure out how to do it if they were in love. Friendship wouldn’t have been enough - only romantic and sexual love is enough for the gay man(or men, at all).

Just because it isn’t queerbaiting doesn’t mean it’s good rep, and I would have liked to see truly deep male friendships that did not center on sexual attraction - particularly for Flint as a confirmed mlm(and Silver too, if you’re counting him. The same arguments for why I dislike Flint being paired with Silver are also true in the reverse.) 

Even if both Flint and Silver were confirmed mlm I still would have LOVED to see a platonic relationship between them. In fact I would have loved that EVEN MORE. Men! Who fuck men! Not needing to fuck each other to be important to one another! Who made this. Very delicious. 

But because there weren’t any queer writers on the show, writers who understand this kind of struggle that gay and mlm men face, they thought ‘oh, let’s also have them be in love with each other. More gay rep is better gay rep, right?’ False. THOUGHTFUL gay rep is better gay rep.

Okay and here’s my last thing. The fact that Steinberg refuses to say whether or not the explicitly mlm men are alive at the end of the show - that the words he specifically uses are ‘up for interpretation’ is. Fuck, it’s gross, okay? It’s fucking gross. 

I have been around enough men, enough people in power, enough people with leverage who also know how to play the field, to know that when someone wants a group’s support but does not agree with them, their go to phrasing is that it is ‘up for debate’ or ‘up for interpretation.’

Say the gays are alive. Steinberg refusing to acknowledge the reality of the ending of his show to maintain his own sense of artistic integrity is what, honestly, really sets me off about him and I don’t care if this is a nuanced take.

Like yes, death of the author. I honestly don’t care if he thinks they’re dead or alive. What I care about is that he thinks he can get away with being clever and leaning hard into a story is true/untrue’ - doesn’t realize what the implications of that are, and didn’t when he was writing, and didn’t have anyone else in the room who would think about it either. 

ANYWAY. So this is....my long drawn out explanation for why I do not like Steinberg. Uhhhhh tune in next week for more of my totally unpopular opinions!

[thespianbooks]

A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter 20//

Masterlist

tags: @thron3ofbooks, @df3ndyr, @courtofjurdan, @art-e-mis, @herondamnn, @the-third-me, @im-still-trying-here, @emikadreams, @paytin77, @mis-lil-red, @sleeping-and-books, @lucieisabooknerd, @amandaraey-sunshine, @easy-p-lemon, @azymondias05, @dagypsygirl, @makeshift-utopia) *bold tags don’t work ;-;

Posting a little earlier because last week I posted a little later than I meant to 😅

XXX

"Eris is High Lord of the Autumn Court?" Mor asked carefully, her warm eyes widened in subtle horror.

In the weeks that followed the news of the civil unrest taking place in Autumn, all the courts of Prythian had been on a collective edge. As our spymaster indicated in his reports, Eris indeed sent letters to every court—asking for aid in the fight against his father, and almost every one had begrudgingly sent a small contingency of their armies; Kallias being the only one to outright refuse. After bearing witness firsthand to Beron's insolence at the summit, they all were hesitant to trust that Eris would be any better—especially Kallias, whose heavily pregnant mate had been targeted by the older male. They were surprised, however, to see the legion of Illyrians that Cassian sent; realizing later that we were retaliating directly against Beron for not only his assault against me at the summit, but for his attack on Velaris as well. They also knew of the tenuous alliance Rhys and I had with Eris for his help during the war, and one-by-one they offered their support for the male in a fortnight.

Azriel nodded in response to Mor, taking a subtle step closer as she loosed a shaky breath. After meeting with his brothers, Rhys had called for the rest of us to gather in the library in order to disclose the information they received earlier this morning—that Eris had beaten his father and was crowned as the new High Lord of Autumn, while his despicable father rotted in their prison, for now.

"What now?" I asked as Mor remained speechless, her eyes still darting from side to side as she processed the news.

The last decade of peace hadn't lessened the hatred she bore towards the Autumn male, and I understood how it must've felt to learn that the male who caused her unbearable pain—had left her for dead, was now elevated to a high position of power.

"Now that bastard keeps a leash on Keir, until we and the other courts can pull back our forces and recuperate before tackling our next issue." Rhysand answered, keeping a watchful eye on his cousin.

"How long will that take?" Amren asked from her seat next to Mor, subtly moving closer and offering the blonde her glass of wine.

"Two or three weeks, give or take." Cassian responded as Mor took that glass and gulped down the remainder of its contents.

"How exactly will he do that?" Elain asked timidly, she hadn't been very involved in the meetings where we developed our plan of action—the war with Hybern still too fresh in her memory for her to actively participate as she had back then. She was finally in a good place, nearly recovered mentally, and talks of going to war again only gave her painful reminders of what she had lost then.

I placed a hand over hers gently. "Rhys has been writing back and forth with Eris over the last two weeks. Once he started gaining an advantage over his father, Eris received a letter from Keir offering to create an alliance," I explained.

"You mean renew an alliance," Mor said bitterly as she stood and crossed over to the set of windows, hands on her hips.

I frowned, sharing a look with Rhysand. "But Eris is our ally in this coup. I have already instructed him to keep Keir sidetracked with false promises of a treaty while we work together with the other courts and replenish our armies," he reassured.

"You really think we can trust him?" Mor asked, turning back to face us. "He's been biding his time until he could win his father's throne, using us as leverage, how do we know he'll keep his word now that he has it?"

"He is ruthless, cousin, there's no doubt about that. He also knows that he would be at a severe disadvantage if he paired with Keir in the coup. His court just underwent a civil war, it is in shambles and he now has to navigate how to deal with his father's supporters and piece his court back together. Partnering with Keir would be disastrous and result in his court falling apart completely," Rhys explained calmly.

"If for some batshit crazy reason he does decide to side with Keir, we outnumber them now." Cassian added. "With the other courts on our side, they can't win."

Mor still looked unconvinced as she turned back to the window without another word. I saw Azriel watching her, a flicker of yearning in those hazel eyes, but he looked away as Elain spoke up again.

"Is there any news of Vassa…?" She asked quietly.

"She was recovered and returned to her home in the Mortal Lands, by Lucien." He answered her just as softly.

A pall of silence fell over us—Mor's rage continued to simmer as she stared out the window; while my sister and the shadowsinger exchanged a prolonged look before she finally looked down at her lap. Whether or not she acknowledged the fact that it was her mate that rescued the mortal queen, or whether or not she cared, I could only guess.

Rhys cleared his throat. "In the meantime, we keep waiting while Eris keeps Keir distracted. During that time, the other courts will be steadily sending their forces until those who fought in Autumn are recovered and can accompany the rest. If all goes according to plan, we have approximately two weeks until we're hosting the other courts and High Lords," he continued.

"Where are we going to host five High Lords, their entourages, and armies? We can't use the palace above the Court of Nightmares, Keir will know." I asked, bewildered.

"We'll host them here, in Velaris," Rhys answered with a rouge smirk.

"And their armies will camp out in the Northern Forests of the Illyrian Steppes," Cassian finished, crossing his arms over his broad chest with a crooked grin of his own. "We'll give them a little taste of what it's like in those mountains."

"What if Kallon gets reports of those gathered armies? He'll alert Keir," I challenged.

Rhys placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "They'll be stationed outside of Windhaven camp. Kallon is too busy rallying his rebels to bother checking in on his rival camp. We'll be setting up wards to shield them once they've become large enough; the other High Lords and I will take turns keeping them up."

I squeezed his hand back, leaning back against the cushion of my chair and running a free hand over my belly. Madja continued to assure Rhys and I that our son was growing at the expected rate and remained perfectly healthy. My recovery continued to improve, and the healer had alleviated some of the conditions for my confinement. I was now allowed out of bed for short walks around the estate; I could also paint and tend to some of my duties as High Lady, like writing letters and sorting through reports, but needed to maintain a light and easy schedule—nothing involving anything too strenuous. Since I was on the cusp of entering the last stage of pregnancy, only a few short months away from giving birth, she advised that I remain in the estate until my time came—when my period of nesting began, and Rhys would whisk me away to the Cabin in preparation for the birth of our son.

"Will there be fighting?" Nesta asked.

She stood beside Cassian; hands neatly folded in front of her as she turned a raised chin to the male. Though I couldn't see it, I knew the memories that flashed behind her fierce grey-blue eyes—of Cassian on the battlefield during the war; of the injuries he sustained.

"It's doubtful," Rhys replied for the commander. "We outnumber his Darkbringers and rogue Illyrians six-to-one. Once he and Kallon get word of the troops gathered in the Steppes, they'll come to meet us with their own. If they're smart, they'll realize sooner rather than later how ill-fated their cause has become and surrender."

Mor scoffed from her place at the window. "Like hell they will. You know that bastard won't go down without a fight."

"Then there will be a slaughter. Either way, they lose." Rhys said easily. "They'll be reminded of why previous coup attempts have been thwarted, and the Illyrians will be put in their place once again. As for Keir," he shared a meaningful look with his cousin as citrine and amethyst clashed. I pictured the paints I would use, emphasizing just the shape and fierceness of that shared look.

"So...we have nothing to worry about?" Elain asked hesitantly.

I took her hand again, "We're safe Elain. With our allies and this plan, the coup will fail. This confrontation is nothing like how it was with Hybern."

She nodded, her tense shoulders easing a bit. Amren crossed one leg over the other as a crooked grin lined her lips. "At least this time I won't be needing to sacrifice my life for you lot."

"We could always add you to the front lines. They don't know you don't have any powers; we could just use you to intimidate them to death," Cassian quipped.

"She's far too small for that," Azriel added.

Cassian roared in laughter as Amren glared at the spymaster. I half-heartedly laughed, noting the edge that lingered between my mate and his cousin; until Mor turned away and walked out of the library.

Is she okay? I asked through the bond.

As okay as she can be. She hates that Eris is High Lord, but I just informed her that I will be turning her wretched father over to her after this coup is over

Did that help?

Not as much as I would have hoped

Let me go talk to her. It's been a while since we've talked alone, maybe I can help her sort through her feelings.

Rhys only nodded in response before crossing over to stand in front of me and helped ease me to my feet. Despite my remarkable recovery, my growing belly still made my movements slower and slower. I was also beginning to notice that my balance was growing increasingly skewed but blamed it on the bed rest for now. The others hardly noticed as he escorted me to the door; their continued conversations and my departure a subtle indication that our meeting was over.

"How are you feeling?" Rhys asked once we were in the hallway, wrapping an arm around my waist as we walked.

"I'm fine. It's been nice to walk around again, even if I'm stuck indoors for now," I said.

A small frown came to his face and I quickly realized how my words sounded. The last time I had been confined inside an estate…

"It's not the same," I quickly amended. "I'm doing it for our little Bash," I said while rubbing my stomach for emphasis. "For both of our health. You're not locking me away and forbidding me from entering the city."

He took my hand in his free one, bringing it to his lips. "Never," he said. "Maybe in another couple of weeks Madga will deem it safe for us to resume our walks out along the Sidra. We'll get to enjoy the weather while it's still warm."

I smiled. "After this coup is over, and those responsible are taken care of, we'll get to enjoy it. We'll get to enjoy this," I said as I looked down at my middle.

Rhys's eyes softened as his gaze moved to my stomach, and I felt our son stretch in my belly. We stopped short of Mor's room and he pressed a kiss to my brow, his hands holding either side of my swollen abdomen. "Yes, we will."

I breathed in his scent and sighed lightly before pulling him in for a quick kiss. "You go take care of business. I'll talk to Mor and spend the day with her."

He nodded before taking a step back, "I'll be in my office if you need me."

"I'll be fine," I reminded him.

He smirked and kissed my belly goodbye before winnowing away. I took in another inhale before I stepped around the corner and approached Mor's door. Before I could knock, however, the door swung open with the blonde on the other side of it. She ushered me inside wordlessly and I followed suit, walking into her suite.

"You didn't need to come check on me," she said as she closed the door behind me.

"I figured you needed someone to talk to after hearing the news," I said as I worked to lower myself on the plush settee in the center of her room.

She sighed and plopped herself onto the seat beside me, helping me down and stared at her feet. "I knew it was bound to happen someday, especially after the deal Rhys made with him, but…" she trailed off.

"But it's different actually seeing it become a reality," I affirmed and touched her shoulder gently.

"I know, and you're completely entitled to your feelings. After everything that's happened, on top of this coup orchestrated by Keir," I shook my head and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sorry Mor."

She continued to stare at the ground until her dark-honeyed eyes finally met mine. "I'm well over five-hundred centuries old, and yet any knowledge of the two of them working together—even under a guise for our sake just…" she shook her head, truly unable to voice the rage boiling underneath her skin, her elegant fingers curling into fists.

I touched one of those fists, levelling my gaze with hers. "Mor, I promise you, if Eris so much as looks at us the wrong way, we'll take care of him. The last thing we do is trust him, and I know Rhys wouldn't hesitate to rip him to shreds if he tries anything like his father did." I promised.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward slightly, and she sighed. "I know the alliance is necessary. I'm just not happy about it," she lamented.

"Neither am I," I assured, and she dipped her head in approval before uncurling her hands and bringing one to touch my stomach gently.

"How is he?" she asked.

Ever since revealing to my sisters that I was expecting a boy, the news hadn't remained a secret for long. Elain had been so delighted and shared the news with Mor and Amren during dinner that same night; Cassian then boasting that he had known for some time, which launched into a debate with the entire inner circle. I then sheepishly promised Rhysand that I wouldn't reveal our son's name until after his birth.

"He's good, moving a lot right now," I answered and smiled at feeling a kick. "Feel that?"

Mor's widened grin was answer enough as she continued to stroke my belly, encouraging my son to kick more and laughed as he responded to her movements and words.

"How does it feel for you?" She asked.

I shrugged. "It's hard to describe, the more he grows the different it feels. Viviane once told me that once I reach the end stages, I'll start to feel feet, fists, and elbows in there."

Mor cringed. "Does it hurt at all?"

I shook my head. "I think he's still too small. His movements are noticeable but not painful."

She nodded and studied my belly for a silent minute, caressing it lightly. "I can't wait for all of this to be over so we can turn all the attention on you, little one. Auntie Mor already has so many presents for you," she cooed.

I blinked, "Presents?"

She grinned mischievously, "Wanna see?"

I nodded with a laugh, but as she got up and crossed over to her enormous closet, a knock came at her door. Raising a brow, she walked over and opened it; a sentry waiting outside of it before she allowed him in.

"Pardon me, milady, but Lucien Vanserra is here to see you," the sentry informed me, albeit a bit hesitant.

I balked at him. "Here on the grounds?" I asked to confirm.

Lucien was about the only male welcomed in and out of Velaris; due to his connection with Elain, and his desire to be closer from time-to-time after the war, he had his own apartment in the city. However, since constructing the estate, he only visited on a few occasions.

The sentry nodded, "Yes. He arrived moments ago, insisting on an audience with you. Lord Rhysand greeted him, but he still maintains in meeting with you alone."

I paused to think. Knowing my mate, he was leaving the decision to me. "Is he alright?" I asked cautiously. "He isn't hurt, is he?"

The sentry shook his head. "He seems well, but unyielding."

"Maybe it has something to do with his swine of a brother," Mor offered. "I'll go with you. If he's angry, the last thing we want is for him to lash out at you in your condition."

"Lucien wouldn't hurt me Mor. If anything, he's probably hurting too. I have a feeling something else has happened," I said before motioning her to help me stand.

I grunted a bit with effort as she helped me get to my feet, a little wearier than I had previously been. Mor frowned, "We can send for him after dinner, once you've gotten some food and rest."

"I'll meet him in the sitting room attached to my suite. I can rest there and talk with him, and I know you all won't be far," I insisted and linked my arm with hers.

"Tell Lucien I will meet him in my sitting room in five minutes," I said to the sentry, who bowed in response and left the room.

"Are you sure about this Feyre? If he upsets you and puts too much strain on you and the baby…" Mor began.

"It's all right Mor," I assured her as she escorted me out of her room. "I think it's Lucien's turn to vent to a friend about the new High Lord of Autumn."

Mor cringed, recalling the cruel revelation Eris had unleashed on his youngest brother at the summit months ago. Still, as she led me back to the sitting room adjoined to my suite, she waited with me for Lucien's arrival. Moments later, my disheveled friend strode in, his russet eye wide while the mechanical one whirring as he took us in. He didn't so much as look at Mor as he cautiously approached me.

"Did you know?" He asked me by way of greeting. "About Helion and my mother? About-" he began but cut himself off as he finally realized Mor was standing beside the chaise lounge I perched on.

I turned a look at her and she understood my request. "I'll be down the hall," she said before leaving us alone.

"Did you know about their affair? That Helion is my-" he cut himself off again, unable to say the words as he paced the room.

I only offered a small nod, watching him empathetically. "Yes," I said softly.

"When?" He asked, still pacing back and forth across the carpet. "When did you figure it out? Or who told you? Was it my father? I mean, was it-"

"I figured it out after I first met Helion; before the war with Hybern started and we all gathered for the first time at Thesan's palace. He told me the story of what happened to your mother, her sisters, and how he rescued her during the first war." I answered, interrupting his rambling questions.

He stopped pacing and faced me. "Did Rhysand know?"

I shook my head. "Not until I figured it out myself. I made the connection; Rhys didn't realize it until I did."

His arms grew slack at his sides. "So, it's not some well-known secret that all of Prythian knows about and just hid from me?"

"No Lucien, it-" I began but then he interrupted.

"So why didn't you tell me, Feyre?" He asked, both of his eyes wide and bewildered. "You've known all this time and you didn't think to tell me? I thought we were friends!"

I frowned as he snapped at me, my hormones surging and causing tears to well in my eyes. It must have been evident, because he sighed and took a mild step towards me before turning away and running both hands through his bright auburn hair with an exasperated sigh. I quickly put my emotions in check, not wanting my irrational mood swing to interrupt Lucien's moment.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"No, Lucien, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Honestly, I didn't think it was my place, and after what happened at the summit, I thought it was the last thing you wanted to hear." I explained.

He sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the ground. "My father...I mean, Beron, told me. When he attacked the Mortal Lands and took Vassa. He...claimed I was 'no son of his' and said I was nothing more than a Day Court bastard. I was shocked, and then he started the attack. I tried to fight him off, to protect Vassa, but then…" his voice faded as his eye turned hazy, the other whirring out of focus as he recalled whatever details that occurred that day.

I slowly offered my hand, still seated, and it took a minute before he registered my movement and took it. I motioned for him to sit beside me and he did, his shoulders slumped over slightly as an invisible weight pressed on them.

"When Eris was crowned, my fa...Beron, imprisoned; my mother summoned me back to the palace. She broke down and explained everything, told me of her relationship with Helion and that he was my biological father. She never told him," he went on, voice barely above a whisper.

"She loved him, Feyre, and her husband kept her there. Imprisoned to serve as Lady of the Autumn Court, even while she carried another male's child," he pressed a palm onto his good eye, massaging the stress from it.

I placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, squeezing it softly. "How is she?"

He sighed. "Relieved. Eris is granting her a separation from Beron before he...finds a way to deal with him, but when she told me about Helion, she seemed...broken." He met my gaze again,

"You were almost her. All those years ago with Tamlin, when I didn't do anything to stop it. I almost let what happened to my mother happen to you," he said, a subtle horror laced in his voice.

"What happened to your mother wasn't your fault, Lucien." I said, moving my hand from his shoulder to his hand.

"I knew. A part of me knew she wasn't happy with my father," he cringed. "Beron. Yet I didn't try to take her away. I didn't do anything, and neither did Helion."

I sighed and moved a little closer to him. "Lucien, there was nothing you could have done. Beron had complete control over her. Even if you could, she probably wouldn't have left for fear of him and what he might do."

"But that's the point, I could have," he jumped back to his feet, pacing again. "I could have done something for her, for you, and I didn't. I couldn't protect her, or you, and I couldn't protect Vassa! I couldn't even protect your sister, my mate, from what Hybern did to her and Nesta. What kind of male am I that I can't protect the ones I care for, the ones I love?"

I frowned, "Lucien-"

"No, I...he took Vassa, Feyre. He managed to find that sorcerer that controls her and forced her into her firebird form. The way she screamed; it was...I couldn't bear it. Then learning what he did to my mother, and remembering what happened to you...to Elain, to even Jesminda, and how I allowed it all to happen. I...what…" he looked around frantically, his chest heaving a bit as he paced.

I did my best to rise as quickly and cautiously as I could before I approached him and threw my arms around him in an embrace. His arms were pinned at his sides as I held him, his body going rigid at first—until slowly he relaxed, his arms going limp before slowly wrapping his arms around me in return. Despite the complicated past with Tamlin, the one instance where he did have a say, he was my friend and had more than made up for it since. Beron had given him a life of turbulence; him and his brothers making Lucien's life hell until he found reprieve in the Spring Court. Then, once his closest friend had begun turning into a tyrant reminiscent of his father, those feelings of being trapped returned—unable to help me to the extent he wanted. After escaping that, after the war, he once again found solace with his human friends...until Beron's latest attack.

Lucien had felt so out of control in his own life, and every time little moments of freedom were offered—whether by finding a home in the Spring Court, then being welcomed to Velaris and the Mortal Realm, it seemed to crumble before him. Now with this latest truth revealed to him, it was no wonder that he was beginning to crumble next.

I wouldn't let that happen.

"Your mother is safe. I am safe. Elain is safe, and Vassa is safe," I said. "We are all safe now Lucien. Yes, we each endured some version of hell, but we survived. Just like you are doing now," I pulled back at arm's length to meet his gaze.

"You saved Vassa. As for me and Elain, who knows what would have happened if you hadn't done your part during the war; if you hadn't guided the Mortals, and Drakon and Miyram's army down the right path. As for your mother, you did what you could. Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do while she remained subservient under Beron, but now she is free of him. There is so much to look forward to Lucien," I took his hands again, squeezing them. "There will be good days and bad—don't let the hard days win."

Lucien blinked at me; his russet eye growing soft while the golden one whirred quietly. He continued to stare at me before he embraced me again, pulling me in a little too tightly and I cringed at the pressure on my stomach. He gasped and stepped back.

"Are you okay?" he asked

I nodded with a weary laugh, holding my stomach. "I'm fine, you just squished him a little."

He looked at my stomach, as if he just noticed it and helped me back to my seat carefully. "I almost forgot how far along you were. I haven't seen you since the summit."

"It's weird huh?" I motioned to my enlarged belly. "Sometimes I'm still a little surprised when I see myself in the mirror."

"Is he okay? I heard what you did...after what happened in Velaris," he asked with a frown.

"We're okay. We had a little scare, but my healer took care of us right away. I was on bedrest for a while, and technically still recovering, but I'm better now." I answered, resting my arms over my stomach.

He shook his head. "Rhysand must've lost his mind. I nearly did when Vassa was taken, and she isn't," he stopped himself with another shake of his head—as if trying to erase the memory of what happened to the mortal Queen.

I raised my brow at the tone in his voice, his worry for the fierce mortal woman. I paused as he loosed a long breath, finally cooled from his panic. "Do you want me to call Elain? I know she was worried about Vassa too, maybe you can assure her that she's alright?"

Lucien shook his head. "No, it's alright, I should get back to Vassa," he said, but paused when he met my questioning stare. "And Jurian; the mortal lands."

I laughed. "But…" he started. "Will you tell her I was here?"

"Yes. I'll let her know you're taking care of Vassa."

He dipped his head in a subtle nod and sighed again. "Thank you Feyre," he said softly.

"Anytime Lucien, just remember what I said okay?"

He offered a stiff smile before leaning down to give me a parting hug before escorting himself out. Rhys appeared in the doorway a second later.

"Well," he started. "That was intense."

I sighed, slumping back against the lounge and running my hands over my stomach. "He was upset. Beron told him about Helion and his mother."

Rhys released his own deep exhale and crossed over to the lounge, scooping me up easily and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, resting my head against his shoulder. He walked us into our adjoining bedroom, laying me across the bed carefully and spreading out beside me. I rubbed my stomach lightly, watching it before Rhys placed a hand at the apex of my belly.

"He'll recover. It'll take time, but he will come to terms with the news," he said quietly as he ran his hand over the expanse of my stomach.

"Do you think Helion knows?" I asked.

"He probably suspects after the comment Eris made at the summit," he responded, voice still low. "Though I'm not sure what he'll do about it."

"What would you have done, if it were us? If I had actually married Tamlin, and in my time spent here to fulfill the bargain, you and I fell in love regardless? If we had conceived our son and I was stuck in the Spring Court, forced to name him Tamlin's…" I flinched at just the mere thought of it, of how easily it could have been me.

Rhys took my chin gently, tilting my head back to meet his violet eyes, sparkling intensely. "I would have torn the world apart for you, Feyre," he reminded me.

I smiled half-heartedly before he pulled me closer. "We don't know exactly how hard Helion tried to get her back, perhaps now they'll get the end they deserved," he said.

"Maybe," I mused, playing with the collar of his black tunic. "Did Eris...say anything about what he plans to do with Beron?"

"He's keeping him imprisoned until further notice. Said he might turn him over to us once we have Keir and Kallon in our custody," he said as his fingertips traced my side lightly.

I shivered at his touch, a part of me resenting Madja for deeming any sexual activity still too strenuous during my recovery. I hummed in response, "He'd actually let us execute his father?"

Rhys shrugged. "Beron will die regardless, along with Keir and Kallon."

"Mmm, what a fitting end for the three of them." I murmured, my eyes beginning to feel heavy as my mate's warmth continued to envelop me.

He noticed the fatigue in my voice and pressed a kiss to my brow. "All this talk of war and its lasting effects is wearing you down my love," he teased.

I rolled my eyes, closing them as I laid my head on his shoulder. "It wouldn't be if I weren't so busy growing a powerful high fae," I muttered.

I felt his dark chuckle rattle in his chest. "Sleep Feyre," he whispered as a hand ran down my back gently.

Sebastian must've wanted the same, because despite his constant movements and kicks just a while earlier, he was now calm—perhaps slipping into his own nap. I felt myself fading, too tired to respond with a witty remark and only stirred slightly when I felt Rhys move from my side and press another kiss to my brow.

I dreamt of Sebastian running through a pile of bright red and orange leaves, laughing and giggling as they crunched under his feet, Lucien standing at a distance with a content smile on his face—Vassa at his side.

[casually-inlove]

19 Days Character Archetypes. He Tian

This idea had been dancing around the back of my mind for a little over half a year now. I wanted to compare and contrast 19 Days characters with the list of archetypes proposed in the neo-Jungian research and finally, I got some time to spare. For this post, I am going to talk about He Tian. Before I begin, however, let me clarify a few things. Since the subject is fairly complex, I do not intend to write in detail about the theory itself or the studies mentioned because that is not the purpose of this post. I am only looking to give a quick and basic run-down of the common archetypes shared by the 19 Days characters.

What is an archetype? An archetype is a set of predefined characteristics, a mould. Carl Jung described the archetype as a “fundamental unit of a human mind” or a “primordial image”. Simply put, the archetypes are the recurring and simplified patterns — but also symbols. According to his ideas, these basic symbols exist universally irrespective of epochs, nations, cultures, races, places, etc. Jung believed them to be shared by the so-called collective unconsciousness. However, even before him, the philosophers of old introduced the ideas of pre-existing ideal immaterial forms which shape the material reality. Since the archetypes are fundamentally primordial, they permeate every single sphere of human life. Art, media, movies, day to day interactions — all of them deal in archetypes.

While working on his research, Carl Jung defined the driving impulses of the human psyche. In turn, that data helped him come up with underlying basis for human behaviour. Based on his findings, Jung outlined the so-called primary archetypes. Later his research served as a basis for many other studies and classifications, particularly for The 12 Archetype Model, proposed by Margaret Mark and Carol Pearson in “The Hero and the Outlaw”. Naturally, there can be an infinite number of archetypes, each having their subtleties; still, the short lists give the generalized picture. Deconstructing characters to these basic blueprints is a fair game because a character, no matter how complex, is still an abstract entity.

For this series of posts, I am going to rely on the 12 Archetype Model mentioned above. The list goes as follows:

1. The Innocent

2. The Orphan

3. The Hero

4. The Caregiver

5. The Explorer

6. The Rebel

7. The Lover

8. The Creator

9. The Jester

10. The Sage

11. The Magician

12. The Ruler

Having examined this list, I am led to believe that He Tian primarily represents a mixture of The Hero and The Rebel archetypes.

The Hero and The Rebel

Let us start with the most obvious, the Hero. This archetype is closely associated with the ideas of masculinity, and thus it is also referred as the Warrior, the Crusader, etc.

The Hero archetype characteristics

Motto: Where there is a will, there is a way

Core desire: to prove one's worth through courageous acts

Goal: expert mastery in a way that improves the world

Greatest fear: weakness, vulnerability, being a “chicken”

Strategy: to be as strong and competent as possible

Weakness: arrogance, always needing another battle to fight

Talent: competence and courage

These go very much in line with what we know of He Tian. His childhood flashbacks suggest that he indeed intends to be “the strongest”.

The failure to protect the puppy, the harsh words of He Cheng — all of it led him to become fixated on becoming the Hero, the one who swoops down and single-handedly saves the day. It is in the way he stands in to fight She Li for Guanshan or rushes to prevent Jian Yi from getting kidnapped. It is in the way he attempts to resolve the other boy’s problems with debt collectors. It is in the way he deflects the coke can and decides to meet his father for Guanshan's sake.

He Tian yearns to be the strongest because the alternative — being weak and helpless — has already scarred him in the past. Whatever joy he used to have as a child was taken from him, because he was not strong enough to handle things on his own. He entrusted the puppy to his brother and the man betrayed him — or so He Tian was led to believe.

More than that, he wants Guanshan to come to him, whether it’s talking about his complicated past or whether it’s about learning the guitar.

It goes without saying that He Tian is almost eerily good at anything he does — as such he believes he can learn music from scratch in a short time. That speaks volumes about the confidence he has in his capabilities, and yet to an outsider's perspective this might come off as blatant posturing.

Apart from almost baffling self-confidence that he shows, He Tian is also known for his nearly abnormal physical prowess. He managed to hold his ground against several armed adults (which is probably just flawed writing) and way back he even managed to impress Guanshan by effortlessly hopping over the school fence, so it makes one wonder what kind of training he had undergone.

However, the truth is, The Hero is also susceptible to weakness. In his work, Carl Jung has coined the term “The Shadow”, which became a stand-alone archetype in his list. The Shadow stands for our suppressed, ignored or denied traits, in other words, it is everything that we cannot see or refuse to see in ourselves. The concept of this hidden darkness has been since absorbed into a number posterior studies, such as Robert Moore’s and Douglass Gillette’s “King Magician Warrior Lover”, where they introduce triadic paradigms of the archetypes and their corresponding active and passive shadows. Notably, they link the aforementioned archetypes with the concept of “masculinity” and its development throughout adolescence into adulthood.

What is The Shadow to The Hero archetype? When The Hero cannot fulfill their purpose, they surrender to the shadow. The dark side takes their best qualities and transforms them into flaws. The confidence thus turns into arrogance and hubris, courage into foolhardiness, competence into bravado and posturing — or the complete opposite happens. Courage transforms into cowardice, confidence into insecurity, etc.

Whereas He Tian is concerned, before he had developed an emotional attachment to another person (and by doing so gained something to cherish), we could observe some of the definitive shadow patterns in his behaviour. Until he recognized Guanshan as someone to know and to protect, he used to goad the other boy, if not outright assume the position of his superior, demanding obedience and subservience. He Tian also used the snide tone when talking to Guanshan, and he did so in order to establish his power to steer the boy in what he deemed to be the right direction — that is attempting to curb Redhead’s short temper and brashness. And in doing so, he was not shy of subtly threatening the boy or using physical force to make his point.

To be in touch with his masculinity — that is to channel his energy constructively in order to feel strong and needed, — he required to have someone he could play the knight for. Once he could direct his inner impulses properly, his violent tendencies have subsided.

Even so, in his aspiration to be the ultimate good — driven by the hatred for his family background, perhaps — He Tian often opted for doing rash, foolhardy stuff, such as attempting to take on the debt collectors all by himself, for instance. Sure, he would have gotten to “save the day” and be the hero, but that single moment would have cost him his life.

Now, having glanced at the Hero archetype, let us move to the next one, The Rebel. This archetype is characterized by the following:

The Rebel archetype characteristics

Motto: Rules are made to be broken

Core desire: revenge or revolution

Goal: to overturn what is not working

Greatest fear: to be powerless or ineffectual

Strategy: disrupt, destroy, or shock

Weakness: crossing over to the dark side, crime

Talent: outrageousness, radical freedom

The Rebel is also known as the outlaw, the revolutionary, the wild man, the misfit, or iconoclast.

Indeed, He Tian rebels quite a bit in the manhua. First and foremost, his rebellion is directed at his flesh and blood — Mr He and Cheng.

Not much is known about He Tian’s childhood, yet it is pretty clear that he hadn’t exactly had a happy one. His mother died early on and he was left to grow up practically without parents since Mr He is a textbook absentee father. From what He Tian knows, his brother backstabbed him, an act that keeps plaguing their relationship years after, while his father is labeled as a monster — someone who is ostensibly capable of eliminating people who disobey.

It is also clear as the day that young He Tian is traumatized by whatever dealings his family conducts behind the scenes. At some point, we even witnessed a scene where HT is tossed out of the burning yacht, while his brother is covered in blood and holds a gun. A violent experience such as this inevitably leaves a scar — and actually get to see it. He Tian is shown to experience something closely reminiscent of PTSD, recurring violent nightmares, the fear of the dark, etc.

Back in the present day, we see that He Tian wants to put distance between himself and his family. It manifests in living separately from his kin and cutting the contact to a bare minimum. He makes a point of stating that he is independent, severing the ties he deems to be dysfunctional. Yet the same time He Tian cannot quite let go of his familial bonds. In particular, whenever He Cheng is concerned, the boy sneers and flagrantly shows his impetuousness and disrespect.

In many ways he’s practically stomping his feet, attempting to show that he doesn’t need his brother, yet by doing this he proves the opposite: he still yearns his bitter feelings to be validated by He Cheng — and by his father too, to an extent.

This results in bratty behaviour on his part: He Tian orchestrates property damage at the He mansion, impishly rejects Cheng’s gestures of goodwill, etc.That is the work of the Rebel’s “shadow” counterpart — when the desire to overturn things and break free takes on darker shade and slips into dangerous territory. Resisting and opposing then becomes a way of life, and only through it does the “shadow rebel” feel certain of their self. 

He Tian pushes at the boundaries of what is permitted and socially acceptable to feel in control of the situation. If we examine the way He Tian interacts with others, we will see that the shadow manifests in many other ways. He Tian is compelled to stir and instigate others, using his wit and cunning to make them uncomfortable or confused, and thus easy to manipulate to his amusement.

Speaking of socially acceptable behaviour, Chinese culture places a great emphasis on the respect towards senior family members — and I probably cannot stress this enough — He Cheng lets him get away with this lack of reverence. Deep inside He Tian seeks his brother’s approval and attention, but rejects it when he is given, and in the process he sets out to tear down anything that displeases him.

Establishing a connection with Guanshan let He Tian fulfill his Hero potential and channel his energy in constructive ways, and yet at the same time, it allowed him to tap further into his “Shadow” Rebel tendencies. That is, to it rub in into He Cheng’s face that he’s no longer welcome or needed.

Naturally, as a character, He Tian possesses traits of other archetypes — such as The Lover, for instance — albeit to a lesser extent, so I’m not going to dive deep in here. Let me just mention, that as a Lover, He Tian is compelled to increase his attractiveness to his love interest  — we often see him fishing for compliments and validation on Guanshan’s part, which underscores his inner need to feel needed and wanted, yet also turns into clinginess at times.

With that, this quick rundown of He Tian’s character patterns is complete. All in all, you could say that He Tian is fairly archetypal at his core, and yet it’s the combination of these “trite” features that mark him as an utterly realistic and believable character. It is because we’ve seen these archetypes countless times before that He Tian appears to be true to life.

Lastly, this is going to turn into a series of posts, but right now I cannot say when the next part is going to be up since writing this took me some time. In the meantime, you can read a bit more below ✨. 

 A bit more about He Tian | Support me at Ko-Fi 

[lizzy-williams]

𝐦𝐫. 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏)

((Howdy there, this is my first time writing on here, so I hope you enjoy!))

Masterlist

Summary: You accept a job as an assistant to the now world-famous Colson Baker, who shattered the charts with his album Tickets To My Downfall, and an Oscar winner for his success in the award-winning film titled Midnight in the Switchgrass, which also starred his ex, Megan Fox. But once you are accepted for the job, you seem to get closer than anticipated with Mr. Baker. 

𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑯𝑨𝑫 graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business administration, you had never expected to be getting a job like this. Sure, you had heard about your employer. He had won an Oscar for christ’s sake. Not to mention a Grammy-winning album. You had to say that personally, you were a fan, which was one of the main reasons you interviewed for the job. But never in a million years did you think you would land it. 

When you were employed, you were expected to start right after you had applied, which you obliged, even though his house was a thirty-minute drive away. 

So now, there you were, sitting in your car, taking deep breaths. You had arrived several minutes early. You had pulled into the driveway, breathing in and out as you prepared yourself. You were excited but scared out of your mind.

“Come on, AJ, you got this, just go in there and try to not be a nuisance,” you spoke to yourself. With a deep breath, you exited the vehicle brushing yourself up, walking up the long, intimidating stairs. 

You raised your hand up, taking hold of the lion-shaped knocker and knocked three times, the echos being heard even from the outside. The door was large and almost looming over you with its height. You took the waiting time to look around at the garden out front, trimmed to perfection and colorful pink roses littering the gravel. It was nothing less than stunning. 

“Who’s there?” a voice asked, making you jump, your eyes shifting around. 

You then realized the voice was a Ring doorbell system, and you mentally slapped yourself for not just using that. You leaned down slightly, trying to meet the camera’s eye, giving a warm smile. 

“Um, I’m Adeline Williams, I’m the new assistant for Mr. Baker, I was instructed to start today,”

“Yeah, I’ll be right down.” 

The voice was deeper then what you would think Mr. Baker would sound like, having seen plenty of interviews. Suddenly the door swung open, revealing a tall African-American male. He had to be at least six feet tall. 

“What’s up, I’m Slim,” He held his hand out for a handshake, which you quickly took. 

“Yeah, I’m Adeline, but you can just call me AJ,” you responded, “Where is Mr. Baker?”

“Yeah, he’s still asleep. His manager made you a binder for your duties and other stuff. It’s good to meet you though, just feel free to come in and grab your stuff in the kitchen.” He stated, stepping aside and motioning for you to enter. 

You walked in, taking in the entryway. The walls were littered with gold record plaques for collabs he had done with other artists. Paintings of him were scattered around, some furniture almost automatically spotted that looked more expensive than your entire apartment. The ceiling was high-up, light fixtures illuminating the space, giving off a warm feel to the area. 

You slipped off your flats, Slim already slipping away into the maze of the house, leaving you to find the kitchen by yourself. Your sock-clad feet patted across the hard floor, your eyes wandering around, trying to find the kitchen in the stupidly large house. 

You walked down a hallway, reaching another large room, but now the walls were covered in posters and guitars, a drum set in the corner, recording systems, speakers, and even a Monster Energy Drink sponsored mini fridge which was fully stocked, drawings and art above it, the window next to it letting a fair amount of light in, the curtains drawn. You walked over to the drum set, running your hand on one of the symbols, which had sadly had a light coat of dust on it. Come to think of it, so did most of the other instruments.

“You could play them if you want,” another voice said behind you, making you jump and whip around, your eyes instantly meeting the eyes of your employer. 

He was tall, six foot four according to Google, his exposed chest littered with so many tattoos, you couldn’t possibly count them all. His bleach-blond hair was long and shaggy on top of his head, meaning he had probably just woken up, grey sweatpants covering his bottom half, the hem of his boxers peeking over the waistband of the grey material, making you blush and meet his eyes again. 

“Oh, um, I’m sorry, I don’t play,” you then mentally slapped yourself once again, “Sorry, what am I saying. I’m Adeline - Um, Williams, I’m here as your new assistant.” 

He looked you up and down, taking in you attire, a slight sneer appearing on his face, only for a second. You guessed by his reaction that you were over-dressed. 

“You look like a kindergarten teacher.” he laughed. 

“Uhm, noted, do you... want me to take off my sweater or something?” you asked. 

He scoffed, biting his lip and turning away, holding back from saying something that you were guessing would piss you off. 

You sighed, slipping off your sweater and messing with your hands, “Would you mind showing me to your kitchen? Your friend, Slim told me that your manager had had something in there for me,”

“Yeah, follow me,” he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away, your own small feet scuttering across the floor, following him. 

And of course, the kitchen was as stunning at the rest of the house, the size, making it look like a gourmet kitchen. And there on one of the granite countertops was a .5 inch pale white binder. Colson walked over to his coffee machine, starting it up and watching you walk over, opening it up. 

It listed normal duties like setting up venues for tours, making appointments with the production company, merchandise shipment, and payment, normal duties for Colson himself, (Making iced coffee, booking flights, rides for Casie, his daughter, for school, etc.), and traveling with him to the recording studio for sessions, along with renting time for the studio itself. 

“So, what do ya think. The list gonna scare you off?” he asked, a sly smile on his face. 

“Well, seems easy enough. It just seems like a lot of booking things.” you smiled, “But it shouldn’t be a problem at all, Mr. Baker.”

He grimaced, “Yikes, just call me Colson. You make me sound like an old man. And if I’m going to be seeing you every day, we kinda need to be on a first-name basis.” he said, opening one of the hundreds of cabinets on the wall, pulling out a mug, “What’s your name again?”

“Adeline. But you can just call me AJ.” you looked back down at the papers, turning to a page to all the numbers needed for your position. 

“What’s the J?” 

“Huh?” you asked, not looking away from the page. 

“Well, in AJ I already know what the A is, so what’s the J?” He smirked, pouring the coffee grounds into the coffee maker, pressing start. 

“Oh, um, Jane.” you shrugged off. 

“Adeline Jane Williams,” he repeated to himself out loud. 

Your heart unintentionally fluttered. Never in a million years did you think that Colson Baker, Machine Gun Kelly, would ever say your full name. 

The day went by smoothly, your brain soon catching onto the rhythm of things, you and Colson making small talk as you typed away, sending emails to the publishing companies, his agent, manager, and PR team. Colson would occasionally text you to make him a drink, which you did, always getting right back to work afterward. People came in and out, paying you no mind. The only one you honestly recognized was Rook, his drummer, who only came in to grab a beer from the fridge. Soon enough, the time reached 5 o’clock. 

“So, what do you wanna eat?” he suddenly asked, walking into the kitchen area, leaning over the counter you were working at. 

The sound of the TV played as you heard the laughter of a group of people in the other room. 

“Oh, I honestly have no preference,” you answered honestly, looking up from your Chromebook. 

“You sure? Me and the guys were gonna Postmate some stuff, but they can’t decide either.”

“Ummm, I heard there’s a really good restaurant downtown called Beau Jo's. Hear they have a mean menu of Cajun food.” you perked up, 

“Alright, Beau Jo’s it is.” He responded, picking up his phone and walking away. 

Even though you two had small talk, you still felt like he was so cold to you. Like he didn’t like you, or he didn’t trust you. But you really needed this job. After you finished with your work, you walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. 

There, you were greeted with glancing eyes of 20 or more people, who were scattered throughout the space. 

A man walked up to you, looking eccentric as ever. You only knew him because you knew he dated Bella Thorne, but you would never tell him that. 

“Heyyyy, you must be the new assistant. Welcome to the best years of your life!” he greeted, slinging an arm around your shoulders, a cola in his other hand. The smell of expensive cologne. 

“Modern Sunshine, I presume?” I asked in a snobby British accent, making him laugh. 

“Yo Kells! I like this chick!” he called out to Colson, who was across the room talking to some blond broad in short shorts and a crop top. 

“Why don’t you come meet the rest of the guys.”

Well, you knew it was coming. It was the end of the night and everyone had gone home, and it was your job to order Ubers for everyone who wasn’t fit to drive. (Which was close to half the people there). 

You gathered up your things, sighing as you grabbed your kindergarten teacher sweater, packing it in your bag along with your computer and everything else. Finally, you tucked the binder into the back pocket. 

“You heading out?” Colson asked from behind you, his hand on your shoulder. 

Your arms formed goosebumps as you looked back smiling, “Yeah, I think it’s that time.” 

“Cool. Well, have a good night.” he said while you slipped on your flats, “Oh, and one more thing before you go.”

You turned your head to look into his eyes. 

“Tomorrow wear something more... spicy,”

[peaceoutofthepieces]

Sink Or Swim

tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @saraben00 @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane @odi-et-amo85

~^~

Thursday, 18:02

Song: Daði Freyr - Think About Things

Lucas finds himself pleased at how easy it is to pick Sander out from a crowd. If the white hair doesn’t give it away, the jacket does; if the jacket isn’t enough, the laughter is; and if that fails, the boyfriend is always a good confirmation.

Robbe is the one who spots Lucas first, wrapped up in his usual brown coat and then Sander, who whispers something in Robbe’s ear that makes him roll his eyes. Lucas’s heart clenches. Fondness and jealousy war inside him and tangle into a tight knot. A thin thread of fear completes it. He always marvels at them, at the openness of their affection, and yet he still finds himself casting his gaze around for the onlookers who don’t hold the same respect. Seeing them so free of any guards only makes Lucas’s heighten.

Especially when Sander turns to look at him, smile wide and eyes bright, but with faint shadows lingering underneath. He holds his hand out when Lucas is a few feet away and Lucas clasps it in greeting, allowing Sander to tug him forward into a half hug. “Hey.”

His tone is cheerful, light, and still Lucas does a discreet examination, noticing the tousled hair and drooped shoulders and worrying, until he catches sight of the faint bruise not quite tucked away under his collar. He moves his gaze to Robbe, who hasn’t unwound his arm from the other’s waist and holds a blush high in his cheeks, but seems pleased and unbothered, and he understands. He extends the same greeting to Robbe as he internally berates himself, remembering how his mother would react under the same scrutiny. Sander is the only one capable of knowing what he feels and what he’s up for, and it isn’t Lucas’s place to play doctor. Clearly, even the blonde’s boyfriend has learned that.

“So, why exactly have I been invited to third wheel for the day?” Lucas asks.

Robbe huffs a laugh. “I think that’ll actually be me today. I’m not exactly part of this plan.”

“You’re always part of my plan,” Sander dismisses easily, ignorant to the blush he earns in response as he grins excitedly at Lucas. “How do you feel about an actual lesson in art, protégé?”

“Wait, seriously?” Lucas raises a brow. He’d assumed, when Sander had reached out to him, that it was art-themed. But even now, he isn’t sure what exactly to expect.

“That is assuming you don’t already know what you’re doing,” Robbe amends. “How much practice have you had with graffiti?”

Lucas’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. “Really?”

Sander purses his lips, amused, as Robbe raises his brows. “Is that a lot, or…?”

“None. I haven’t done any. Yet.”

“Ahh,” Sander rubs his hands together, beaming. “Then today’s your lucky day. Come.”

Lucas doesn’t need to be told twice. He follows them closely down the sidewalk, the two in constant contact but never excluding, always trying to invite Lucas in. Lucas laughs at their teasing and nods at their explanations and listens raptly to their tales and only feels his excitement grow. Art is something he’s been neglecting, recently, aside from a few flurries of rushed sketches, but the passion has seemed to revive full force by just being in Sander’s presence. His love for the subject is obvious in every exaggerated word and extravagant gesture of hands, and Lucas is effectively entranced. Graffiti was never a medium he’d considered seriously, but he’s always admired. He’s more than aware of Sander’s talent for it, and admits that a lesson from such a person is not a bad way to start off.

It also makes him feel that bit more insufficient. He can’t possibly match up to either of these boys, be it in bravery or talent or both. It dims his excitement, just slightly.

But his spirits are quickly revived as they finally make it to their destination. Sander hands him a mask made from black cloth from his pocket and waits as he and Robbe tuck them over their ears. Only then does he don his own with a wink before rapping his knuckles rhythmically on the garage door.

The inside space is much bigger than Lucas expects, opening up to reveal rows of large containers, all decorated with at least one piece of art. Sander guides Lucas and Robbe through them, indicating artists he ‘knows’, complete pieces he’s captured while they were still in progress, and a few small things of his own tucked away behind new layers.

“Take a good look around,” Sander says, turning to wink at Robbe. Lucas only has a few seconds to be confused before he adds, “You might find the love of your life here.”

Lucas raises his brows. “This is where the two of you met?”

“Met is a strong word,” Robbe says, rolling his eyes at Sander. “I didn’t even see him.”

“No, he was too focused on his girlfriend at the time,” Sander agrees lightly.

“But he claims he saw me and it was love at first sight.” Robbe reaches up to pinch his boyfriend’s cheek, and Lucas allows a small laugh. “Even though he could barely see my face.”

“Didn’t need to,” Sander shrugs. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Robbe comes to a halt and tugs at Sander’s hand, drawing him around to face him. He pulls down Sander’s mask after tugging away his own, leaning in for a short kiss. It takes Lucas longer than it should to avert his gaze. He just doesn’t think he can ever get used to it.

While actually watching them, he doesn’t think he could ever do that. He doesn’t think he could ever be that.

But he wants to.

When he looks away, his gaze catches on a bright patch hidden amongst a cloud of grayscale. His feet carry him towards it on their own accord, and it takes a few moments for him to realise what it is. It’s a patchwork rainbow of colours, blended together but with dark, specific lines cutting through and outlining it to form a heart, in its scientific detail. Lucas would scoff, if there wasn’t something about it that had ridden him speechless in awe, hand reaching out to brush over the dried paint.

He doesn’t notice Sander until he’s right at his shoulder, then he jumps when he speaks.

“Huh?” Lucas twists to look at him.

“Nice piece,” Sander repeats. “I don’t actually remember seeing it before.”

“You don’t know who did it, then?”

“No. Even the style isn’t familiar.”

Lucas nods and lets his hand fall away, following when Sander sets off in a new direction. He’s led to a blank spot on one of the containers, with a crate of spray paint already waiting at the top of the short steps. Excitement bubbles back up in him as he jogs up after Sander, only to turn back in confusion when he realises Robbe hasn’t followed. He catches sight of him fist-bumping another guy in greeting, over a head taller than him and built like a wall. Sander follows his gaze and snorts at the picture, giving a little wave when Robbe turns his gaze on him suspiciously.

Then Sander turns back to the space and rubs his hands together. “Okay. Have you ever done any spray-painting before?”

“I haven’t even held a can.”

Sander immediately picks a can out and smacks it into his hand. “Then today is really your lucky day. We’re gonna start with a neutral layer then, just to get you used to how it feels. You can try with some vague shapes just to practice lines?”

Lucas nods, trying not to appear too lost already. Sander smiles slightly, anyway, and picks up a can of his own, giving it a vigorous shake as he finally tugs his mask back up over his face. Lucas copies him, getting used to the hold of it, adjusting his grip a few times until he feels more comfortable. When Sander uncaps his Lucas does the same. Then he watches as Sander sprays a quick, messy wave downwards in example.

When Lucas moves to copy him, Sander quickly catches his hand. “Woah, woah. First lesson—always make sure the nozzle is pointing the right way, yeah? We don’t want you losing an eye. Jens will never like me.”

Lucas flushes, turns the can around the right way, and hesitantly presses down when Sander nods. White covers gray in a sudden, heavy stream, and he carefully moves his hand in a small circle. He’s shading this in under Sander’s mildly impressed—but still watchful—gaze before the end of his words sink in.

“What has Jens got to do with spray-painting?”

Sander glances at him, then shrugs, raising his own can again and looping a circle through Lucas’s. “Not the painting, just you. You’re his new favourite, aren’t you? And he already didn’t seem impressed that we knew each other. Last thing I ever want to do is prove Jens right.”

“You don’t get along?” Lucas asks carefully.

“Oh no, we do. We just also like the healthy sort of competition we have going on. He acts like he’s annoyed and I annoy him a little more. It’s nice. Works well.”

Lucas smiles in mild confusion. “Why, though? You’re both really cool, you probably have a few obscure things in common. Wouldn’t you rather be closer?”

Another shrug. “It’s not completely up to me. I don’t know that Jens is acting, all the time.”

“What, you think you annoy him?”

Sander examines the little symbol they’ve created as he searches for a response. “I think I’m always worthy of concern, in his eyes. He’s very protective of Robbe, and I respect that,” he settles on.

It doesn’t entirely satisfy Lucas. “He doesn’t need to protect Robbe from you.”

Sander turns towards him and offers, from the new curve of his cheeks, what Lucas assumes is a smile. “No?”

Lucas shakes his head. “No one loves Robbe more than you. It’s not possible.”

That seems to brighten the other boy, slightly, and Lucas wonders if Jens is even aware of this doubt in their relationship. It seems unlikely. If he knew the way it weighed on the blonde, Lucas is sure he’d quickly set him right. It saddens Lucas, to see the tightly-drawn curl of Sander’s shoulders as he ducks down to collect a new can and doesn’t quite meet his eye as he rises again. He’s sure Jens wouldn’t like it, either.

“Robbe told you, right? About my…”

The reason for the tension suddenly becomes more clear. Lucas hates that the other boy can’t even say it. “Yeah. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to know, I wasn’t meaning to pry—“

“No,” Sander cuts him off, raising his free hand and giving a small shake of his head. “I told Robbe it was okay. I’m sorry that I couldn’t explain it myself. It’s usually...not an issue so quickly after I meet someone.”

“It isn’t an issue,” Lucas says softly, simply.

Sander shakes the new can and watches his own movements closely. “I would have just liked you to get to know me first. I understand if you—if it changes how you see me.”

Lucas tilts his head and sets a gentle hand on Sander’s arm, waiting until the other boy looks at him. There is, Lucas realises, a vulnerability in him that he hadn’t noticed in any of their previous meetings. A dull, contained sadness behind the eccentric persona. It strikes a chord more familiar in Lucas’s chest than the initial one, the one that had seen an outsider and an extravagant and an artist. Now he sees more clearly—a struggler and a fighter and a savior.

The only thing that has changed, in Lucas’s opinion of Sander, is that he’s ten times more interesting than he’d originally thought. Lucas views him as more of a kindred spirit now than before.

“How I see you,” Lucas muses. “You mean as the scarily talented, intimidatingly cool, older guy who is literally teaching me one of the most awesome art-forms ever right now? Yeah, Sander, it’s real disappointing.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving, and is gratified at the small laugh Sander lets out in response.

“Wait,” Sander teases, “do I have my first fanboy?”

Lucas scoffs, then nods his head behind them. “I doubt I’m the first.”

The mask works at hiding his cheeks, but Lucas still sees his neck reddening as he looks over his shoulder at Robbe. His eyes seem to brighten and soften at once when he finally catches sight of him. Lucas realises then how deep their affection actually goes. It throws him, how clear it is suddenly, how little Sander does to hide it, how easily Robbe feels his eyes and turns to reciprocate even though there shouldn’t be any way for him to know. They are that in tune, that in sync, that it baffles Lucas to watch them. He can’t imagine anyone ever looking at him like that.

Aren’t you lonely?

Lucas shakes the memory way and finds himself admitting, “My mom is bipolar, too.”

Sander looks back at him instantly.

“No one else here knows that, so. You’re the first,” he continues, awkwardly, pointlessly, stupidly. Where is he going with this?

It doesn’t matter. He just needed to say it.

“Oh,” Sander says. Then his tone softens. “Is that why you moved here?”

Lucas averts his gaze and gives a small, jerky nod. “My dad...he made us. He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t stay. I miss her. Everyday. It doesn’t make me love her any less. I just miss my mother.”

Sander’s shoulders slump, but before he can say anything else Robbe is climbing the steps and joining them. “How’s it going?”

Sander shifts his gaze to his boyfriend and Lucas feels the tension holding his spine seep away. Robbe and Sander pull their masks down again in tandem, sharing nothing more than a quick peck. It’s just enough of a distraction for Lucas to make himself look busy, as he sprays the hasty shape of a designer-heart on the container, next to their circles. Then he does a careful ‘R + S’ inside.

Robbe makes a small noise that may be a cheer as Sander snorts. “We have a natural here. I think he might even have something to teach me.”

Lucas turns to him with a retort ready on his tongue and stops when he sees Sander’s serious, but warm gaze. He realises that it isn’t about the painting.

He reaches out and knocks Sander’s shoulder fondly, smiling to himself when Sander squeezes his in response.

[inkweaver22-blr]

HOLY. MOLY.

This has to be the Lóng-est chapter I’ve written so far! It took me almost two whole days to complete!

Please enjoy the fruits of my labor as we all see what Tang gets up to next!

AO3 Link

<Previous | First | Next>

Scattered Cicadas - Chapter Seven: Scaled Siblings

Tang wakes up in Mei's mansion.

----------

Tang woke from the usual dream signaling the start of a new cycle when his alarm went off. With a sigh he sat up and reflexively clapped his hands. He blinked a bit in surprise when the lights turned on in response. He quickly put on his glasses and looked around.

The room he was in was not one he recognized. It was much larger than he was accustomed too, being the same size as either of the apartments he usually lived in. The opulent decorations also screamed wealth and old money to Tang, something he certainly never had.

As he climbed out of the king sized bed, Tang began to suspect where he was. The amount of green accents and jade adornments everywhere made it fairly obvious.

He was in the Lóng family’s mansion.

Shivering a bit as he rubbed his bare arms, (apparently this version of himself slept shirtless), he quickly made his way over the huge mirror that was standing upright in between a fancy dresser and antique armoire. He needed to know what was going on.

Tang’s mouth hung open when he saw his reflection.

He was young.

He was buff.

Tang gaped at his own body for a few moments. Sure, the scholar had never technically been out of shape in most timelines, but dang he had never been this fit before either.

Blushing in embarrassment once he realized he had just been staring at himself for over a minute, Tang did his best to refocus.

(But damn did he look good.)

He was much younger than usual as well. If the scholar had to guess, he’d say he was only a few years older than MK and Mei now.

He really needed to find out what was happening.

Tang took a breath and began his remembering ritual.

“I am Lóng Tang. I am the current heir to the branch of the Lóng family descended from Huánglóng, the Yellow Dragon.”

What the hell?!

Tang rubbed his temples as he felt a headache coming on. He thought being Tripitaka had been confusing enough, but this was on an entirely different level of unexpected. He needed to keep going or he’d get stuck on this single fact for much too long.

“Every family descended from a dragon traditionally takes on the name Lóng. Even though we aren’t tied by blood, all the Lóng branches consider each other family and treat each other as distant relatives.”

Fascinating, but that didn’t really help ease his confusion much. Next detail.

“I’ve been living with my aunt, uncle, and cousin, who are descended from Ao Run, the Dragon King of the West Sea, for the last four years.”

Well that explained why he was in Mei’s mansion.

“I’ve done so at the request of my aunt and uncle, who are hoping that by setting a good example, Mei will learn from me, grow out of her childish pursuits, and become a proper heir.”

What. The. Hell.

Tang searched his memories thoroughly. There was no way Mei’s parents would have said such a horrible thing to him directly.

He came up with no concrete evidence of his aunt and uncle having ever implied that they found Mei lacking in any way. It seemed this version of himself had simply made that assumption himself.

Tang rolled his eyes. He certainly knew how dangerous making assumptions could be. He needed more information to get a better conclusion.

“Luckily for Mei, I find her to be fun and do my best to act as a buffer between her and her parents. She introduced me to her friend MK back in my first year living here, and he quickly befriended me once I began sharing stories about the Monkey King with him. We all like to hang out at MK’s adoptive father’s noodle shop whenever we all have some free time.”

Tang smiled in relief. At least some things never changed.

“Right now, I should be making my way to the mansion’s training room for my daily workout before heading to my job at the city library.”

Tang blinked as he finally checked the time. 5:17 AM. Eurgh. He should not be feeling this energetic this early.

With a resigned sigh, Tang pulled out a set of exercise clothes from the ridiculously nice dresser and got dressed.

He had always heard exercising was a good way to help clear your head when you had a lot to think about. At least, that’s what a lot of martial arts fiction implied. He hoped that it worked the same in practice.

----------

Tang had never felt so in control of his own body before. The way it seemed to flow from one movement to the next as he began some warm up sets was extremely satisfying.

Just as satisfying was the fact that he was trained in martial arts in this timeline. He never had a real desire to fight, but just knowing how to defend himself was a bit reassuring with what he knew would be coming in the future.

He let his mind wander a bit as he let his muscle memory lead him through his pre-workout routine.

This cycle had broken Tang’s previously held conventions on what he had come to expect within these timelines. He had originally categorized them into five types.

The ones where there were no changes to the original timeline.

The ones where there were only small, relatively insignificant changes.

The ones where new events outside of the ones in the original timeline occurred.

The ones where he was the immortal Tripitaka instead of just his reincarnation.

Finally, there were the ones that combined any number of changes from the previous three types.

Tang moved on to a second, more difficult set as he pondered on this shift in perspective. It was obvious this was a new, sixth type of cycle he simply hadn’t encountered before. This one had completely rewritten his and Mei’s background, making huge alterations to their past that would surely affect the coming future events.

Tang felt a shiver of fear creep down his spine but kept his form steady.

Now that his personal history was almost completely unrecognizable, what did that mean for the “No Interference” rule? It didn’t seem to apply whenever Tang himself didn’t know what the outcome of events could be. So with him having an altered life, did that mean the outcomes of the events he knew of would have been altered as well? Could he get more involved than before now as he never knew what those outcomes would have been? Perhaps he couldn’t directly affect the outcomes, but surely he wouldn’t be punished for offering a bit of backup and support now that he could provide it.

Right?

He smoothly moved onto his final warm up set as another complication occurred to him.

This wouldn’t be the only cycle that would drastically change his and his family’s past. Like the other variants, now that he had experienced one, more would begin to show up with increasing frequency as time went on.

What worried Tang was that they would also share the unpredictability of the others. The vast amount of probable changes were too numerous to even begin guessing what might happen until a cycle began and he could remind himself of his history within it.

He supposed that there was nothing he could do about that until those cycles actually happened, so there was no real point in fretting over it now. He let his worries go as he finished his warm up and took a deep breath.

Tang felt good.

Better than good, actually, he felt energized. Charged up, so to speak. It was exhilarating.

With a grin, Tang focused on the part of himself that was dragon in origin. The energy that swirled within him was powerful; a strange mix of wild strength and immovable sturdiness.

He let warm power fill him as he held out his hand. In a flash of golden-yellow light, the young scholar summoned his family’s own sacred weapon to him. Tang examined it in awe.

Dàdì Zhī Yá.

Fang of the Earth.

It was a masterful work of art.

The magical guandao had been a gift to his ancestors from Huánglóng himself and, just like Mei’s Dragon Blade, seemed to be made entirely out of jade.

It wasn’t the same green jade however. It was made up of three other types of the precious mineral.

The intricately designed blade was a bright yellow jade, matching the color of the scales of its creator. The shaft of the weapon was a rich brown jade, symbolizing the element of Earth Huánglóng was associated with. Finally, the connector for the shaft and blade and the counter-weighted capstone at the butt of the shaft were a deep black jade. It was said to represent the color of ink as Huánglóng had supposedly gifted the knowledge of writing to mankind.

The only part of the weapon that wasn’t made of jade was the royal purple silk tassel that hung from the connecting piece near the blade. It complimented the earthy colors of the rest of the guandao rather nicely.

Tang took the weapon in both hands and got into the proper stance to begin his drills.

He had earned the right to wield the Fang of the Earth roughly six years ago according to his memories and had practiced diligently with it ever since.

Being chosen to be worthy of possessing it had forged a sort of connection between him and the guandao. Normally, the weight alone should have made it impossible for him to lift it, but the connection allowed him to hold it with little difficulty. He had still struggled a bit with how heavy it was despite that, but the years of training had helped him gain the strength and muscle to wield it with incredible precision and control.

Simply being able to pick it up wasn’t the only benefit to being connected to his family’s sacred weapon. It seemed to bond with the dragon energy within him, allowing the scholar to summon it to his side at will. The only drawback was that his hands had to be completely free to do so.

He wondered if the Dragon Blade worked similarly for Mei back in his original timeline.

Tang swung the guandao around skillfully, thinking about his cousin in this cycle.

Lóng Xiǎojiāo. Mei.

The young woman was an endless fountain of optimism and positivity. She had a passion for life and its experiences. Riding her motorcycle was just one of the ways she connected to her innermost self and channeled her enthusiasm for existence.

She was fiercely loyal to her friends and family. She may not be formally trained in a fighting style, but if you hurt her precious people you’d face her wrath.

Mei was generally cheerful and outgoing in most aspects of her life. The single exception had been her relation with her family and their legacy.

Tang frowned as he continued his drills.

In the original timeline, Mei had constantly been under the pressure to behave properly. At least she had until the Dragon Blade had been stolen and she unlocked its power. By embracing being a part of her family despite their differences and by being herself, she had become a worthy successor to her clan’s lineage.

But that was still four months away according to the current date. This was certainly the earliest he’d even woken up before the original events.

His presence here wasn’t helping matters. While he and Mei had become good friends, he couldn’t help but feel that she thought she was constantly being compared to him by her parents.

Again, he had no strong proof about whether that was the case in this cycle. It was just a suspicion he had.

Tang hummed to himself, trying to think of some way to fix this problem while slashing downwards with the Fang of the Earth.

He couldn’t do anything overt that could change things so that she accepted her place in her family too early. He was sure that violated the “No Interference” rule despite the changed history.

Perhaps he could try subtly raising Mei’s self confidence? But how could he go about doing that?

Tang twirled the guandao around him before ending his first set.

As he looked down at his own family’s legacy and heritage, he couldn’t help but think that learning to use the weapon had made him more sure of himself over the years.

Tang blinked.

Huh.

Perhaps he could use that.

He started into his next set of drills, already brainstorming about what he would need to make his plan work.

----------

Tang was certain his earlier suspicions about Mei’s parents were, thankfully, completely wrong. The dinners they shared as a family proved to him that they loved their daughter completely. They just didn’t see eye-to-eye on some things.

He was also able to get their permission and help with the idea he had. That showed how much they actually cared considering the things he had asked for weren’t something people only obsessed with their image and wealth would agree to.

It took nearly three weeks to prepare but he was finally ready.

“Uncle, do you remember that issue we discussed a few weeks ago,” he asked at dinner that evening.

“Oh, is it ready?”

“Yes Uncle.”

“Wonderful! Mei darling,” his uncle addressed the young woman, who eyed him warily.

“Yeah dad?”

“Tang here has come up with a bit of a surprise for you. Would you be willing to join him in the training room after dinner so that he may share it with you?”

“Uhh… I guess so,” Mei agreed hesitantly, glancing over at her older cousin.

“Don’t worry. It’s a good surprise,” Tang reassured.

“It’s also one we support and gave our full permission for,” Mei’s mother added. “Listen to what your cousin has to say and try not to dismiss it right away, dear.”

Tang winced a little as Mei glared down at her plate.

He clamped down at the growl that wanted to roll from his throat at the slightly tactless comment. Dragon instincts had been interesting to deal with these past few weeks. Especially the protective ones.

Dinner finished soon after and Tang led Mei to the training room.

“So what’s this big surprise you’ve got for me,” Mei asked, slouching as she looked around the room.

“Don’t sound too excited now,” Tang drawled as he pulled out a wrapped package.

“I don’t know. Something that has my parents' full support sounds soooo cool,” Mei snarked, earning a snort from the scholar.

“Trust me on this. You’ll like it,” Tang said, slowly unwrapping the item. “How would you like to learn how to wield a sword?”

“Wait, what?” Mei straightened her posture in surprise. She gasped when Tang finally unveiled what he was holding.

A replica of the Dragon Blade.

“Wha- But- How?!” Mei gaped at the sword. It wasn’t an exact copy, but it had the same dimensions as the original.

“Your parents allowed me to commission a copy of the Dragon Blade so that I can begin teaching you how to use it.”

That had been a bit of a hard sell. He had to agree to only go through a smith of their choice and all schematics of the blade had to be destroyed afterwards. But they had gone through with it, at least once he explained it was for Mei’s benefit.

Mei’s expression flickered between several emotions before settling on anger.

Uh oh.

“Oh I get it! This is because I’m ‘undisciplined’ isn’t it,” she bit out, a growl rising in her voice. “I need to be reined in! Taught how to be a dignified heir to the clan like you, right?!”

“No! That’s not-” Tang took a breath. He wouldn’t get through to her if he started yelling too. “That’s not what’s going on here, Mei.”

“Oh? Well it sure looks like it is to me!”

“Will you please let me explain?”

“Ugh!” Mei threw her arms in the air before crossing them and looking away in a huff. “Fine! But once you’re done I’m out of here.”

“That’s okay. No one said you had to go through with this if you didn’t want to,” he reassured. That seemed to make some of the tension ease out of her.

“First, this was my idea, not your parents’. The only thing I needed permission from them was to make this replica.

“As for why... I just wanted to spend more time with you is all.”

“Huh?” Mei looked up at the nervous scholar. “But we hang out all the time!”

“Yes, but that’s usually with MK as well. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Tang hastily added at her sudden glare. “I love the kid, really I do!

“But we don’t really do anything that’s just for the two of us. Since I enjoy training with a weapon, I thought it could be something we could share?”

Mei had her brows furrowed in uncertainty.

“But… Why go through the trouble of making a copy of the Dragon Blade then? Couldn’t you just teach me how to wield a guandao as well? That is the weapon you actually know how to use.”

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Tang conceded. “But what about when you claim the real Dragon Blade for yourself? Shouldn’t you know how to properly use it when that happens?”

“When I-” Mei’s breath caught. “You think I-! I’m not-! My parents would never-!”

“Mei, Mei!” Tang placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. “Take a breath. In and out.”

The young woman took a few deep breaths, calming herself. Then she stared into Tang’s eyes, looking for any deception.

“Do you really think mom and dad would ever let me use the blade?”

“I’m not sure what they might do.” That was a slight lie, but he couldn’t force her into a realization about her family too early. He was pushing it as it was just by telling her he thought she’d get the blade.

“But I do know you. You’re optimistic. You’re funny. You’re loyal. You’re incredibly brave. I’m sure that just by being yourself everything will turn out.” That was not a lie. His cousin was all those things and he admired her for it.

Mei, who had tears in her eyes, launched herself at him and pulled him into a hug. Her grip was powered by her dragon strength, but luckily for Tang this time, he had his own so he wasn’t crushed in the embrace.

“Thank you Tang.”

“No problem, Mei.” He held her for a moment before pulling away and asked, “So does this mean you want to learn swordplay?”

“Heck yeah it does!” Mei pumped her fists into the air. “This is going to be awesome!”

“Good.” Tang gave a mischievous smirk. “Then I expect you to be here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Mei froze in her celebrations.

“Uh… How early, exactly” she asked nervously.

Tang’s grin was filled with too many fangs as his eyes sparkled with humor.

“5:30 sharp.”

“NOOOOOOOO!” Mei’s dramatic cry of horror and slump to the floor made Tang burst out in laughter.

Who knew teasing a younger relative could be so much fun?

----------

Tang grit his teeth as he slashed through another bull clone with Fang of the Earth.

It was finally the day of Demon Bull King’s invasion and the group had just returned from the volcanic ring where MK had seemed to perish. They were fighting their way through the army of bull clones in an attempt to get to the center of the city where Demon Bull King was.

What they were planning to do once they reached him, Tang still had no clue no matter how many timelines he lived through.

Tang dodged a strike from his left and countered with a quick sweep of his guandao.

There were definitely way more clones than there were originally. He supposed that this was whatever higher power that controlled the cycle's way of balancing out his ability to actually help out.

He dispatched the group of enemies surrounding him and looked around.

There was Pigsy who was beating away clones with a loose pipe. Sandy stood next to the chef, deflecting any attacks that came their way with two trash can lids. Where was-

Tang’s pulse quickened when he heard Mei scream.

He searched frantically, dodging or redirecting the strikes coming his way when-

There!

Mei was backed up against a building, surrounded by clones. She was holding a gash on her arm and the broken remains of her training sword lay at her feet.

She looked scared.

Tang could feel it as his eyes narrowed into slits and a menacing growl tore from his throat. With a roar of fury, he leapt into the air towards Mei.

He let his power loose, manifesting an avatar of his dragon form behind him as he filled the Fang of Earth with golden-yellow energy.

“STAY AWAY FROM MY SISTER!”

He landed in front of Mei and shouted in rage as he stabbed the ground with the guandao. A shock wave of power spread through the earth around them, causing it to spike up to stab any clone it passed.

The energy dissipated once all the bull clones in the area had been destroyed. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, Tang swiftly turned around and began checking over Mei.

“Are you alright Mei?! What am I saying, of course you aren't! You’re bleeding! Let me see that.” The dragon scholar fussed over the young woman, inspecting the wound before tearing off the hem of his robe to serve as a bandage.

“Did… Did you just call me your sister?” Mei’s eyes were wide as she stared at him.

Tang froze for a moment. Had he?

Oh. He supposed he had.

Well that explained where the fondness and protective feelings he had developed for her over the course of their daily training came from.

Tang finished tying off the bandage before looking at Mei.

“Is… Is that okay,” he asked nervously. “Because if you aren’t okay with it I won’t call you that again- oof!”

He was cut off by Mei launching herself at him and hugging him tightly.

“Of course it's okay you goof!” He could hear her sniffles as she fought back tears.

“Oh! Well… That’s, uh, good,” Tang relaxed into the hug as his nervousness melted away.

Mei snickered and pulled away, giving him a blinding smile.

“Come on, big bro. We’ve got a city to save!”

Tang felt his own face light up as he picked up Fang of the Earth and followed his sister to regroup with Pigsy and Sandy.

He knew they were no match for Demon Bull King and would have to wait for MK’s arrival to defeat him, but right now Tang felt like he could take on anything.

----------

Tang grew accustomed to being able to help in fights. They had all been scaled up in scope so that while his support was useful, it was never the tipping point that could change the outcome into something different.

The cycle moved on swiftly.

He celebrated with Mei and her parents when she obtained ownership of the real Dragon Blade.

He fought in their resistance when the Demon Bull King invaded a second time.

He did his best to be there for MK when the signs of his stress began to show.

All too soon, the day of training in the desert came.

Lady Bone Demon’s attack was just as brutal as ever.

However, when he and the rest of the group jumped to attack her once MK got caught, Tang instinctively dodged out of the way of her retaliation.

Before he could think of the potential consequences of attempting to change the outcome, he began to slash downwards with the Fang of the Earth.

Only to be stopped dead in the air when the Mayor grabbed the blade with no effort.

Tang felt dread crawl up his spine as the demon smiled nonchalantly at him. Flashbacks to that early cycle triggered in his mind, causing him to freeze up.

The Mayor casually ripped the guandao from Tang’s loose grasp, tossing it over his shoulder like a discarded piece of trash. Then he punched the dragon scholar with enough force to launch him back onto the ship.

Tang could only assume the events continued as normal from there.

He was too busy having a panic attack to notice.

Years of training and experience and still he was powerless against that man! He vaguely acknowledged he had started to cry at some point.

“Tang! Big brother! It’s okay. He’s gone. We got away.” Mei was holding him as he sobbed.

“M-mei?”

“I’m here, big brother. We’re safe.”

Tang began to breathe deeply in order to calm himself. He wanted to be composed when Wukong showed up with MK so as not to worry them too much.

He hugged Mei fiercely before pulling away.

“T-thanks, little sister,” he said with a shaky smile. She just smiled back and helped him to his feet.

As he leaned against the younger woman, Tang couldn’t help but feel extremely lucky to have gotten to know her like this.

She was fierce, loyal, brave, and kind.

She was the best sister someone could have ever asked for.

----------

Welcome to the Golden Dragon Tang AU!

This is my own personal creation, and most of the prominent details (minus Tang knowing the future from timeline jumping) are laid out in this chapter. If I got any of the details about the Yellow Dragon wrong I apologize! I'm not a mythology expert.

A guandao is basically the Chinese equivalent of a glaive; a short sword mounted on a 1-2 meter pole. I may get around to drawing Fang of the Earth at some point. Also please forgive me if the Chinese for the name is wrong for I am but a humble google translate user.

In case you haven’t noticed, a few of the chapters have been dedicated strictly to character studies of the other members of the Monkie Kid crew through Tang’s perspective. Mei’s just happened to occur at the same time as my really long debut of the cool AU I had made up! Also does anyone have some good fanon names for Mei’s parents? I was dying never referring to them by name.

And yes, Tang does still have some issues with the Mayor. I’m sure that won’t be too relevant in the future.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought and see you next time!

[smalltragedy]

* ryan destiny, cis woman + she/her | you know kira blake, right? they’re twenty four, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, ever? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to babooshka by kate bush like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole lazily stretched out in a ray of light, daisy shaped irises and daisy chain braids, performing an intricate dance to move the ocean's waves thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is october 31st, so they’re a scorpio, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( james, 22, est, they/them )

hllo ive hd kira in my head fr a bit bt i also know ntohing abt her! this is me winging it even though i hv no right to <3 this is my third character maybe whose birthday is in honor of ella n coincidentally 2/3 of them r in this rp. yea im messy smirks sexily.

DEATH, GRIEF, DRUGS TW

mini playlist.

wuthering heights ;; kate bush / babooskha ;; kate bush / dreams ;; fleetwood mac / california dreamin’ ;; the mamas & the papas / lavender moon ;; haroula rose / time of the season ;; the zombies / after the storm ;; kali uchis / left hand free ;; alt-j / always forever ;; cults / wait a minute! ;; willow / your dog ;; soccer mommy.

statistics.

full name: kira blake

nickname(s): keely.

birthday: october 31st, 1996.

zodiac: scorpio sun, cancer moon, aquarius ascending. 

mbti & temperament: esfp & catalyst / sanguine. 

label: the ebullient.

sexuality: bisexual.

pinterest.

biography.

born to two original hippies which hs pretty much set up who kira is fr the rest of her life <3 the type of ppl who didnt like the boundaries of marriage n held off frm it fr as long as possible until theyd hd a spur of the moment elopement involving a celebrity impersonator at fannie’s <3 yea theyre lesbians lets go <3

nvr rly took things srsly until kira ws like 5 yrs old n then they were like ah gee ah fuck we probably shld probably settle settle. n they job hopped n worked many odd jobs until they found their footing in careers they liked n one of them probably does like. blown glass art. n the other prob fixes old computers n other ~vintage~ mementos of the past fr ppl.

they make a decent living n they live in delpinius heights n they try a few times fr another kid bt it nvr rly works out (raises an eyebrow. adopted siblings anyone?) n fr the most part kira as a child spends her time running around town and tugging on the hem of other’s shirts to ask them small favors (mostly to play a game with her)

often left unsupervised as a kid, bt not in the way tht her parents dnt care (bc her parents love her a lot a lot a lot like she is their world) bt in the way tht they simply raised her the way they were raised. running amuck all day n coming home jst in time fr dinner, front porch light always on, cat always waiting faithfully on their stoop.

pretty evident frm a young age tht kira’s mind saw things differently, in a different light - the world an array of light n mystery n sound n taste n sometimes those collided n created new experiences. prob hs some form of synsthesia bt dnt ask me which one yet. she’s a painting prodigy with an excellent understanding of color theory.

always ws known as a kind of like. rambunctious kid. a well meaning class clown who cld nt keep her mouth shut fr the life of her. grew up constantly with a yellow card beneath her name in school bt ws always well liked by her teachers n classmates alike.

jst a very bright child who did well naturally bt always ws turned more towards art.

feel like her parents very noticeably turned a cheek when she started smoking weed w the cool older kids when she ws 13. the type of person who wnts 2 b liked so bad she’d jump over a hurdle fr it. hs jumped over many hurdles n many fences n many other obstacles to be liked bt does it without breaking a sweat.

(edit: nw tht i think abt it hwevr i dnt think she does tht anymore i think while a bit of a mess atm she. likes herself. n doesnt rly want or need the approval of others anymore she jst does her own little thing. bt when she ws younger? she jst wnted 2 b friends w the entire world.)

nothing bad rly happened fr like. a good bit of her life. got into psychedelics at some point in high school n tht only heightened her artistic abilities. most of her high school art portfolio ws probably done while high bt <3 does it matter.

hd a high school sweetheart n they were pretty serious like. full on in love. a total believer of soulmates kira ws jst like. this is the one. there is nobody else i cn imagine my life with.

death tw

death tw

death tw.

death n grief tw // yea. sometime during their freshmen year of college. car incident. kira ws nvr the same though she’d like to pretend tht nothing’d ever happened. like theyd nvr existed. like she didnt plan out their entire lives together hiking thru hills n valleys n boating across various bodies of water n traveling together until they were old n wrinkly. end of death tw //

cld nt explain 2 u why kira hd bought a van n completely demolished it only to drain all of her savings remodeling it bt nw she lives in it by the beach. hd dreams of travelling the world bt cannot go long distances in a car without feeling sick. sees planes n feels envy. stopped painting fr a long time bt she’s started back up recently. took on surfing. told her parents tht it ws fine n tht she ws fine n theyre concerned bt shes always by the beach, her van rarely leaves. she’s trying her best bt its only been a few yrs n i think ppl cn sense tht shes jst nt the same cheerful girl as they once knew. end of grief tw //

anyways. tugs on my collar. tht’s kira! she lives on the beach n surfs everyday n is obsessed with daisies n is prob growing her own shrooms somewhere. 

personality & facts.

always been very emotional n a little dramatic. nt a drama queen bt is a little messy n does not hv like. many rational thoughts up in there. very cup full or cup empty.

regardless though she hs an. overall reputation fr jst being. enjoyable to be around. her her little moments bt shes also pretty like. laidback. in a way. KDSHFSDLKHGHFLKSD

prob bc she smokes a lot or is often <3 on a trip if u know wht i mean <3

god. got obsessed with the 60s n 70s aesthetic at some point n hs not gone back evr. big fan of psychedelic rock. is a prodigy painter bt her life dream outside of traveling ws always to own her own record label. hs nt happened yet, maybe will never happen? works at a record shop though n does hide the good vinyls tht she wants away frm the customers.

very cheerful n usually uplifting n she doesnt like to b negative around others bt smtms she cnt control it n smtms thinks tht ppl r out 2 get her jst out of. anxiety. hs long bouts where she’ll sit in a still sort of sadness n then shake out of it n hop back into conversation like nothing’s happened bt. its fine we’re fine kira is fine.

shes not gullible or naive bt wants to believe tht everybody hs a heart of gold even if its false. keeps giving ppl second chances bc she hs a savior complex n thinks she cn change ppl.

is very into zodiac n will judge u by ur chart. knows everybody in town’s natal chart. even newcomers. it’s a little scary hw quick she finds this information bt its very important to her.

kind of like. into spirituality bt i wont lie its very surface level n a little superficial. learning tarot cards bt cannot fr the life of her memorize the meanings so smtms she jst makes up things on the spot. hs so many crystals she will not stop buying them.

i think a part of her is desperately trying to cling onto tht like. think positive. self care. msg thts super prevalent online without addressing or actually helping any of her problems. it is her flaw </3

hates to admit when she needs help. wld rather do everything herself.

head is a little in the clouds n her parents r a little concerned fr her bc shes nt rly doing much rn bt like. she jst needs time i think. shes jst doing her little thing.

does not give up on ppl easily she absolutely hates dropping ppl frm her life even if she grows 2 resent them over time which is bad bc she is bad at hiding when she is upset at someone or when she doesnt like someone.

like shes jst passive aggressive abt it n does not properly communicate <3

bt this is rare i think ... negative feelings abt other ppl

self centered bt not selfish if tht makes sense. she will do things fr others without a problem n sometimes trips over herself 2 do it bt at the end of the day i think she cares abt herself the most.

hs only been in love once bt hs hd many infatuations n many like. admirations n very surface level feelings. her body is a temple n she loves 2 b worshipped.

prob does fkn. beach yoga. probably vegan bt also maybe breaks tht every once in a while. almost noncommittal its hard 2 distinguish between her being carefree, not taking care of herself, or jst hving commitment issues? flaky or not? who knows.

feels jst a bit too strongly bt tries to contain it. jst full of multitudes or smth. idk. icon <3

like. cares bt doesnt care. does thinks tht r purposely self destructive n then acts like shes like. cool girl monologue frm gone girl. bt does it while being like peace n luv on earth x

ok thts all i hv goodbye

wanted plots.

a pseudonym 2 fool ‘em... ;; jst hd this idea pop up bt i like the idea of kira going undercover 2 expose cheaters. whether she does this on her own accord or is personally requested by smbdy is up in the air. a plottable point. she h8s cheaters n is chaotic good she prob thinks shes the relationship vigilante testing the strengths of other’s relationships. once again she cld b. specifically going undercover fr smbdy 2 help them out. im sure she wldnt go 2 very. extensive srs measures like actually. sleeping w the assumed-cheaters bt once again. world is our oyster n i lov drama?

crystal visions ... ;; once again. shes super into crystals n astrology n she will base sm of her opinions of others on it. this is nt just abt her being judgmental of others bt also jst. catching her running around in the rain trying sooo hard 2 fkn. charge her crystals in the rainwater bc she forgot 2 charge them under the full moon the night b4. this is her giving wrong tarot readings. she hs no idea wht shes doing at any given time bt acts like she does know. acts like she knows the entire world. she gives crystals as gifts n will do ur natal chart for u bt will also pack her things n leave if ur a capricorn.

time of the season... ;; i dnt knw admittedly. this song’s abt being horny so perhaps? perhaps. kira isnt rly able to keep a grasp on long term relationships rn due to. factors in her life so she hops frm person 2 person often. smtms jst flings smtms its jst a relationship accidentally led on. shes noncommittal n a little flaky atm when she’s usually ride or die fr others. perhaps this is all in the name of some good fun! world? oyster. 

literally anything .dsfskhdkgs ;; god. shes so new i jst dnt know. childhood friends. current friends. friends shes hd frever. enemies n ex lovers n ppl shes constantly pushing away or scorned lovers or both or anything?? she pushed them out of the roller rink to make more room fr herself or maybe they did tht to her. perhaps theyre both constantly pursuing some sort of fkn. meaning in their lives tht they cnt quite grasp. mayb they go on an acid trip together. who knows. 

[glassworkspiderlilies]

portrait of a lady

Genshin Impact | Lumine/Albedo | AO3 Summary: Three times Albedo draws Lumine, and the two times he doesn't. Notes: mr. albaedo...

.

.

.

Dragonspine is only the beginning.

Albedo is well-informed about her by now, one would think, after running so many tests and observing her first-hand. But those were all in controlled scenarios of his own making, and so, he discovers, that outside of that, there is far more to Lumine, stranded Traveler of worlds.

Somewhat surprisingly, there are quite a few chances to see her out and about around Mondstadt. Albedo is, besides Chief Alchemist, also Captain of the Knights of Favonius’ Investigation Team—which means he too does his fair share of fieldwork, granting him opportunity to cross paths with her at unexpected moments.

But even so—the Traveler has her goals and he has his, and since Dragonspine, he spots her only in passing.

As such, in order to perform a separate study when he only sees her in such scattered moments, Albedo does the other thing that he does best besides alchemy and childcare—

He draws.

.

It is one thing to see her combat in a controlled situation, and another to see her fighting out in the wild. Even from the distance that he spots her, she is quite the sight. Lumine is strong; this he knows. But her movements are different when she’s in a trickier situation and does not have to account for the safety of another person. She is as vicious as she is elegant—relentless in her swordsmanship, flawless in her footwork.

It could be a dance, almost—and so too can he see that it is not one meant to be performed alone. The one who stands beside her can only be just as formidable—and of course it must be her missing brother, whom Albedo feels like he can picture despite never having met him. Still, she does what she must to make up for that lack of partner, and with one final array of slashes nearly too quick for the eye, the Ruin Guard falls. Lumine pockets the core of the monster before flipping her sword into the air, and it disappears to wherever it does.

She’s on her way again before Albedo thinks to call out to her, unwilling as he is to interrupt whatever mission she’s on without a particular reason.

Instead, he flips open his sketchbook. He has a very good memory, but he uses quick, broad strokes anyway to capture the basis of what he saw before a certain amount of detail is inevitably lost to the limits of brain capacity. He is in the middle of a field investigation with the command of other knights, so it won’t do to take too much time for something so completely unrelated.

That night though, he sits at his desk and refines the sketch. The sharp angles of her arm as she cuts through the Ruin Guard’s tough body, the fluidity of movement from one slash into the next, the flow of her hair as she whips her body around to dodge…

It is not perfect, but it is passable. There is only so much he can derive from such a short moment, without additional time with the model.

Still, it will do, until next time.

.

Miraculously, for all the dangerous maneuvers she tends to do, the Traveler’s flight license has yet to be revoked. She always falls just short of penalty, in a way that makes the Acting Grand Master’s lips pinch together and the Cavalry Captain grin in delight when they see her. Jean can only sigh and request for Lumine to simply be careful, to which the Traveler dips her head obediently and solemnly swears that she is, and would not let her flying jeopardize herself or the citizens’ safety.

There is something about the way she says that, so serious and matter of fact, that goes beyond simple confidence in one’s flight skills, and has the Knights questioning.

But they do not ask, nor can they really figure just what it is exactly they want to question.  

Albedo, of course, observes. She is so natural in the sky, the glider seeming like an extension of her body. She flew exceedingly well even after she’d been first gifted the glider, according to Amber, even when Stormterror’s winds had whipped her so suddenly into the air. Lumine has Barbatos’ blessing, it is true, even if not quite in the form of a Vision, but her skill does not feel owed to that. Jean, gifted with her Anemo Vision as she is, is not so remarkable in the skies; even Amber, three-time winner of Mondstadt’s Gliding Championship, does not quite have the particular easy grace that Lumine does.  

It is….baffling, this ever so slight yet just discernable difference that cannot quite be explained.

Albedo sees her sometimes out in the field, a large shadow overhead as she glides. On somewhat rare occasions she will accompany him while he experiments in the wild, and he watches with mild trepidation as she steps off the sides of cliffs so casually, unfurling her wings like an afterthought to retrieve an herb or some such thing down below.

Other times, she drops from such great heights that he can only marvel at the lack of fear.

He is painting below Starsnatch Cliff the first time this happens, suddenly hearing a soft call of Albedo! in the distance. It takes a minute to locate where it is coming from, and he squints to see the tiny figure of the Traveler atop Starsnatch’s tip, waving her arm. He waves back, but he cannot hear what else she is saying nor understand what she is gesturing at, and tilts his head in confusion. In another minute, she takes a running leap off of the cliff, gliding towards him. He watches as she soars, then takes out his sketchbook to capture her figure in the air. Albedo’s eyes follow her as she glides past him, and—ah, the band of hilichurls making their way towards him must have been what she was trying to warn him about.

But then—she drops suddenly, hurtling down with such speed that it is genuinely alarming, the wind whistling. Her sword manifests in her hand and she uses it to pinpoint her landing; she slams into the ground, the blade sinking into the sand before her knee does, her other leg bent and braced for support. The hilichurls are blown back from the resulting blast of power, and she’s up again in a flash, ready to fight.

Albedo blinks before adjusting his gloves, and joins her in the clean-up.

“Are you not afraid of falling?” he asks, immediately after the battle is over.

She turns to him with a faint smile, putting away her sword.

“Not when I mean to,” she responds. “Are you not afraid of surprise attacks, if you are so focused on your art?”

“I would not be Chief Alchemist or Captain of the Investigation Team if I could not handle such situations,” he replies politely, “Though I thank you for your concern, and assistance.”

She gives him an amused look.

“Are you hurt?” he queries, glancing at her knees, “That was…quite the landing.”

“It is not so bad with sand,” she shrugs, brushing off the grains that have stuck to her skin, “But I have gotten better at mitigating the damage.”

He raises an eyebrow, and her lip quirks up as she awaits his potential scolding. There are a few beats of silence between them before he sighs.

“I trust you know what you’re doing,” he relents, and her eyes grow more mirthful.

“As do you,” she says pointedly, and he holds out his hands in defeat.

They have a quick lunch—she splits her food with him despite his protests—and she’s off again, always busy.

Albedo stays behind until the sun begins to set, filling pages in his sketchbook, the image of her descent burned into his mind.

.

“You want a lesson on alchemy?”

He blinks at her in surprise as he lets her into his laboratory. She steps in carefully, looking around with interest and taking in its disorganization and clutter.

“This is not so different from Dragonspine, is it?” Lumine says, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and he coughs lightly in mild embarrassment. “And yes. Is it so surprising? Timaeus has been a great help, but I do not think it remiss to ask his teacher for guidance as I move on to craft more complicated things.”

“From what I hear, you are shaping up to be quite the alchemist yourself,” Albedo says, crossing his arms and putting a thumb to his chin in thought.

Both Timaeus and Sucrose, who had seen her craft in person before while he has not, had mentioned that she was taking to the process quite well.  

“You are exaggerating, surely. Perhaps it may seem that way when all one crafts is the occasional potion. But as I said, I find myself needing to make use of more complicated alchemy if I want to reinforce my weapons.”

Albedo hums, studying her. It is true that such a thing was one of his topics of particular interests for a time, hence her coming to him instead of Sucrose, who was far easier to find.

“Have you ever thought of becoming an alchemist, with this growing interest of yours?” he asks, motioning for her to come closer to his crafting table.

“Ah, Sir Kreideprinz, is two students not enough?” she teases lightly, “I’m afraid I haven’t the proper time to invest currently, as you must know. But I shall promise not to abuse any knowledge you are willing to impart upon me.”

It startles a laugh out of him—one, because it had not occurred to him that she would, and two, because what was considered misuse of the art was not always the same between alchemists.

“All knowledge is worth having,” he murmurs absently, and she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but he says nothing further on the topic of potential misuse. “Alright, then. Look here…”

She is a good listener, despite the complexities of the process he outlines. They discuss the theory, and he shows her how to combine the pieces she’s brought to higher-level material. She watches with a nearly hawk-like keenness, and asks him to repeat the process a few more times before she attempts it herself.

It is all about trial and error, in the beginning, and so Albedo steps away and takes the back seat as he watches her work out the formulae and arrangement of materials on the table to achieve what she wants. He pays close attention to prevent any dangerous accidents, but also idly puts a pencil to paper while he observes her.

Her focus, the way she drags her fingers lightly over the symbols as she thinks, the purse of her lips as she works out what she needs to…yes, drawing her is never tiring.  

Eventually, she succeeds in her crafting, straightening out her back and smiling in quiet pride as she turns to show him the results. Under his further guidance, she uses her newly crafted materials to reinforce her sword, and they both look upon the end result with satisfaction.

“Good work,” he says, as she prepares to leave, “May this serve your well on your journey.”

She glances at the papers he had set aside before coming to assist her again, unable to see what is on them from this distance. Still, there is a knowing gleam in her eye.  

“And may that serve you well in your research,” she replies, with a slight raise of her eyebrow.

His lips twitch in amusement, but he does not respond.

.

As much as Albedo loves Klee, she is a boundless ball of energy, and he must admit that he is not always able to keep up with her. It is why there is a rotation of knights to look after her when Albedo is particularly busy and cannot be disturbed—and playing with Klee comes to be considered tantamount to a training regimen. Oftentimes the girl will have left a string of exhausted knights—especially recruits—in her wake when he finally comes out of his laboratory.

So it is odd that this time, when he comes out to take down his “Experiment in Progress” sign, that the halls are unusually quiet. The knights seem fairly undisturbed, and he does not even hear any distant telltale explosions to signal her presence.

“The Honorary Knight is watching Klee,” he hears Jean say, and Albedo turns around to see the Acting Grand Master smiling at him as she comes down the hall. “The last I saw them, they were in the courtyard.”

“I see,” Albedo says, inclining his head in thanks, and goes searching.

Jean had spoken truly; the two are still in the courtyard, sitting on the grass, and apparently weaving stalks of dandelions into garlands. Albedo is surprised to see Klee so focused on such an activity, when she usually prefers more active games.

“Hello,” he says, to draw their attention, and Klee perks up immediately, rushing over to hug him around the middle.

“Albedo! Are you all done now? Can we eat dinner early? Can Miss Lumi come? We played all day so I’m really hungry!”

Albedo pats her head and murmurs acknowledgement of her requests, his eyes crinkling as he looks over at Lumine.

“Jean had mentioned you were watching her,” he says, “Thank you. I hope you were able to convince her to leave the fish population at Starfell Lake intact.”

To his incredible surprise, Lumine’s cheeks turn faintly pink, and Klee begins to jump up and down, still holding onto him.

“Albedo, did you know? Miss Lumi is really good at fishing! She can catch them with just her bare hands! We brought lots back, so can you make Woodland Dream tonight, pleeeeeeeease?”

He blinks at Klee, then looks back at the Traveler, who avoids his gaze and steadily continues to weave dandelions together with careful precision.

“With her bare hands, you say?” he asks, and his sister uh-huhs enthusiastically.

“Oh! But I want to finish making these first! Albedo, do you want to make one too? Miss Lumi says that in some other worlds, flower crowns are a sign of appreciation!”

“Alright then,” he says, though Klee is already dragging him towards the spot she had temporarily abandoned.

He is quiet for a while, letting Klee and Lumine show him how to bend the stalks carefully and weave them tightly without breaking. But as he falls into the proper pattern, he is too curious to stay silent.

“…Where did you learn to catch fish with your bare hands?” he asks innocently, without looking up.

“…The fish population is intact enough that, given a little time, Starfell Lake will be full again,” Lumine says first instead, sensing the question he is not asking. “But—nowhere in particular. It is simply a matter of practice. It was a silly thing that Aether and I had challenged each other to do one day, and then contested one another for the most caught.”

Her tone grows a little quieter at the mention of her brother, her eyes more melancholy. Albedo glances at her, but before he can say anything, it is Klee who broaches the subject.

“What’s Mr. Aether like?” she asks cheerfully, and Lumine startles at the question. “You’re twins, right? Do you look exactly the same?”

Lumine blinks, her eyes growing thoughtful.

“No,” she says absently. “But we do look…very similar. His eyes are a little sharper, and his nose is a little more pointed. His hair is sort of like mine, but he could never the front to lie flat. Back when both of our hair was long…I braided his, but he liked it so much that he kept it. He cut mine for me, when I wanted a change.”

Albedo looks at her, noting what she says, trying to imagine her other half.

“Go on,” he encourages, and her eyes widen a little as she pauses, thinking about stories to share.

Haltingly, she tells them a little more about her brother. How he favored the hotter months over the cooler ones, how he liked acrobatics when they flew, how he preferred darker clothing over lighter ones. As she speaks, Albedo forms a clearer picture of Aether in his mind.

In the course of this, Klee ends up dozing against Albedo’s side, though she tries hard to stay awake.

“Ah, I tired her out,” Lumine says, her eyes crinkling.

“Quite the feat,” Albedo murmurs, patting Klee’s arm. “Ah, Klee. What about dinner?”

“Woodland….Dream…” she murmurs, and Lumine chuckles.

“It was all she could talk about, at the lake,” she says, reaching out to stroke the little girl’s hair tenderly. “I have high expectations.”

“It’s my specialty,” Albedo says easily, “So it should not disappoint. Ah—here, this is for you.”

He gives her the garland he had woven, as well as the finished one of the two Klee had been making, as Lumine was undoubtedly meant to be one of the recipients. Lumine blinks, taking the crowns gingerly.

“Appreciation, right?” Albedo says, and Lumine nods.

She puts both on her head, and then places the one she made carefully on Albedo’s.

“My gratitude, for dinner,” she tells him, and he smiles.

“Well, you will have to come home with us first,” he says as he picks Klee up, and she blinks a little in mild surprise before smiling back.

Albedo leads the way, and it is not long before Lumine falls into step beside him.

.

He is finishing up some sketches in the library when she climbs through the open window, startling him out of focus.

“Hello,” she greets amicably, sliding into the chair across from him.

“Hello,” he greets back, “That was quite the entrance.”

“It’s faster this way, sometimes,” she says, and he blinks at her, unable to formulate a response to say otherwise. “How many hours have you been here?”

He blinks again, working out the time via the position of the sun, peering out of the window.

“Four hours, perhaps?” he guesses, and Lumine hums, looking at the papers laid out in front of him, which are all various portraits of her.

“Will you finally tell me what this is about?” she asks, propping her elbows up and putting her chin in her hands.

He smiles.

“Nothing so mysterious,” he says, gathering some of the drawings closer to glance at for reference, “I have said before you make a fascinating study, have I not? But I suppose I did want to try something.”

She raises an eyebrow in question, but Albedo signals for her to wait a moment as he makes some minor adjustments to the piece he is working on at present, which is tilted towards him against the edge of the table and thus out of her sight.

“Alright, then,” he says after a while, “Here—all of these are for you.”

He places this last finished piece on top of the small stack resting on the seat of the chair next to him, then hands the whole thing over, and she takes the little pile with open curiosity.

Her expression changes to shock when she looks down at the first drawing.

“…Aether,” she whispers wonderingly, her hand hovering over the portrait as if she is afraid this too will disappear in front of her.

“You paint quite a vibrant picture when you speak of him,” Albedo explains, “So I thought I would try my hand at actually putting him to picture. I am sure there are inaccuracies, but…tell me, how did I do?”

She is silent as she goes through the others—some quick sketches, some more detailed renderings, some smudged with color, and even a couple of full paintings. Her eyes grow wet as she looks through each page, pausing here and there to trace the lines with her fingers, or to relax her grip so she does not crinkle the paper overmuch.

“Near perfect,” she finally says, very quietly, as she looks at him. “Albedo, this is….remarkable. I feared…forgetting small things about him, with the time that had passed. Thank you.”

He is not sure what to say now that she is teary, so he coughs a little and pushes the sketches of herself towards her, as well.

“You are very welcome. I confess I may have given him some of your mannerisms, for lack of other reference. But when you fight, there is a space for him, and I can guess how he might compliment your movements as you must complement his. Of course, as I have never met him, I did take some liberties…”

He trails off when she looks at him again after studying her portraits, her gaze a little more intense.

“You…must have been studying me quite closely, to produce these,” she says, tone deceptively mild.

“Ah—my apologies, I suppose it was presumptuous of me,” he says, worried about losing her regard, “I—sketch people around Mondstadt so often, they have grown used to seeing me do so. But I should have asked your permission.”

“Oh—that is not what I mean,” she reassures him, tilting her head, “I just hadn’t realized you were paying quite so much attention to me. I would have sat for you, if you asked.”

His eyes crinkle at the suggestion; she bore his constant tests with great patience up in Dragonspine where others would not have so readily, and here she is still willing to do additional favors for his whims.

“I appreciate the offer, but it was not such a…staged manner that I was after. I enjoyed seeing you simply going about your activities.”

She hums, gentling putting down the stack of drawings before leaning back in her seat a little.  

“And now?” she asks, and he blinks at her, confused at her meaning. “Is this moment also something you are looking to draw?”

He stares at her, taking in her profile in this moment, a curious feeling creeping over him as he observes her. The quiet intensity of her gaze, the faint smile curving her lips, the weight of some sort of expectation in the air…

“I…suppose I could, but as I mentioned, I was hoping for something other than a controlled environment,” he demurs hesitantly.

“Ah, so you believe this a controlled environment?”

He pauses again, taken aback, and as if to purposely disprove his implication, a strong gust of wind rushes through the open window. The papers on the table rustle loudly, startling the both of them, and the two instinctively surge from their seats, lunging across the table in half-panic and slamming their hands down to prevent the sketches from flying away.

“Oh no—have we creased them?”

“No, they are fine, I believe.”

They look up then, realizing how close they have come to each other.

A few heartbeats of silence pass.

“…Do me a favor, if you please,” Lumine says quietly, as they try and sweep the papers back together. There is a balance hanging between them that has not yet broken while they do so. “Keep these portraits of me. If you…come across my brother, please give them to him.”

“I will keep them safe,” Albedo says, narrowly missing grazing her fingers as he lays another sketch onto the pile, “It is no trouble.”

She smiles faintly.

“I should hope not,” she murmurs. “I shall…entrust myself to you.”

She means the drawings, he knows, and yet there is a slight unguarded lilt to her voice, and he does not miss the double meaning.

There is a question here, an offering, if he chooses to accept it.

At this distance, they can see each other’s eyelashes; one slight movement and they could be touching. The delicacy of the moment is suspended as they stare at each other—Albedo’s blue, blue eyes are wide and searching, Lumine’s pink lips slightly parted. The gauzy white curtains are billowed upwards by the wind again, fluttering over them like a veil, hiding them from direct view.

A soft murmur, a gentle brush of cheeks, a warm puff of breath.

…Do you trust me, Albedo?

…Yes.

Their silhouettes slowly drift closer.  

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Don’t Forget Me

Art in banner done by me.

College Life / Mermaid / Kimi no Na wa (Your Name) inspired AU

It’s all nothing but a dream. A series of dreams that are all too real. That’s all it is. Your soul - or whatever it was - couldn’t possibly be swapping places with a Merman. One, mermaids aren’t real. Two, that’s not even possible! Is it? 

Mermaid!Bakugou Katsuki x Fem!Human Reader

Want to start from be beginning? Check the Don’t Forget Me tag. 

Genre: Romance / Angst Story 

Rating: Explicit | Adult Themes, Interspecies Sex (merman / human), Masturbation, Alcohol, Animal death / hunting (whales, fish, sharks, etc), Cursing, Descriptions of Injuries and Blood 

A/N: This is my part for the @bnhabookclub weekly collab event Just Add Water for MerMay! I know there isn’t much going on in this, but it’s just the first chapter to a new multichapter fic. Per the rules of the collab, I used the prompt “That’s just an urban legend”. I’m excited, because I’ve wanted to do a Mer!Bakugou x reader for a LONG time and could never think of anything. But when this theme was announced, I was watching Kimi no Na wa and immediately had this idea. So, full disclosure, the theme of switching bodies in their sleep / forgetting each other is inspired by that movie, but that is all that I take away from it. 

Prologue: Stone

Chapter Rating: Teen | Cursing

Words:  1,855

You were doing it again. 

How many times had you caught yourself staring at the delicate necklace in your hands? More than you could probably count on all your fingers and toes, and you were sure that number had nearly doubled just in the last week. You really weren’t sure why you were drawn to it so intensely, nor why it gave you such a deep sense of loss and loneliness. 

Where had you gotten it from? 

You couldn’t remember. In truth, you couldn’t remember getting it at all. As far as you could recollect, it had been around your neck when you woke up one morning, about two months ago. Since then, you refused to go a day without it, even if it didn’t necessarily match your outfit or any particular occasion. You felt so lost without it around your neck, like a part of you was away, off in some distant land or deep within the sea. 

Why did you think that? 

Of all things, why would you assume that this missing part of you was in the ocean? Was it because of the necklace? Probably. The silver clam shaped pendant that rested in your palm was most likely the culprit to make you think of the sea. But that particular piece of the jewelry wasn’t what kept you so entranced. Set in the middle was a small, perfectly round stone, and its brilliance is what you couldn’t help but stare into. To anyone else, it would just appear to be a small marble, with brilliant deep indigo, swirling turquoise and hints of radiant purples. There were sparkles of twinkling white, like light reflecting off a water's surface, and if you gazed into it long enough, you could have sworn that the colors were mixing and twisting, as if there truly was water inside the stone. 

It was so beautiful. Had someone given it to you? Whoever did must have cared about you so deeply to give you something so special. You had asked all your friends and family if they knew anything about how you got it, but no one knew anything. You received some weird looks and uncomfortable responses when you tried to ask them, but that didn’t bother you much, not when you had been dealing with people finding you strange for almost half a year now, anyway. 

Why did they find you weird again? You couldn’t remember.

All you knew was that it had to do with this necklace. You had tried to find out what it was made of to try and get any hints on where it may have come from, but each jewelry store or stone expert you took it to, they all had the same response. They just didn’t know. Many offered to buy it from you at varying prices, their interest peaked and their hopes of being the first person to discover a new stone pushing them forward. But you resisted, as just even letting it out of your hands so they could look at it enough to make you nearly burst into tears. You couldn’t let it go and you wouldn’t, either. Not ever. Not for anything. 

Because it was precious. It was the only thing that you had that could help to calm this nearly unending sense of longing. 

But what was it you were longing for? 

Or who? 

Why did that always pop up in your mind? There were so many pieces of scattered thoughts that you just couldn’t put together. A person. The sea. Feeling like a piece of you was missing. You wanted these feelings to end, but you knew that they wouldn’t, not until you found what you were searching for. 

With a frustrated sigh, you put the necklace back on around your neck, clasping it in place with skilled fingers. Standing from your bed, you shuffled your way towards your desk, lightly running your fingers down along the slender metal chain. Your mind was still in a hazy grip of sleep, barely registering that the electronic clock mostly hidden by books and other stationary read 5:49 AM, though that didn’t really matter. Your mind was racing with the overbearing thoughts, and as you sat down in your squeaky office chair, you were already near breaking out into tears.

The necklace wasn’t the only clue you had. Scattered among the desk were notebooks and papers, though you had refused to touch them for the last few weeks. At first, you had meticulously looked over every page and every written note, trying to do everything you could to learn about who this person was that you were missing. But now they sat on your desk, abandoned in defeat. There were many things in the notes that didn’t make sense to you now, though according to what you had written, you had understood it all at one point. 

What you had written. 

That was what was the most odd. There were two very distinct handwritings within the notebooks and scribbled on the scrap pieces of paper or sticky notes. Yours was so proper and easy to read, clean and steady. The other was rough with some of the characters almost completely illegible, requiring you to assume what the person writing must have been trying to say. Large and scratchy, it almost resembled the handwriting of a child or what you assume would be someone new to writing on paper. The phrases. The choice of words. All of it was completely different from yours. 

It had been another person. Someone sat in your chair, in your room, and wrote these messages to you. At first, you thought that it just had to be a prank. One of your friends was fucking with you. That was the only realistic solution. But none of them talked this way, and if you were honest, they weren’t exactly clever enough to pull off such a big ordeal over months and months. 

The way they talked… It was so strange. You just couldn’t wrap your head around it, and if you were honest, you thought that they must have been a little crazy. Yet, you weren’t all that rattled in most of your responses, like you knew what they had been saying to be the truth. 

The conversations were so… natural. In fact, most of it was like a diary, with the scratchy handwriting cataloging what had happened that day, how they felt about it, and what they had done. 

This school shit that you humans do is so stupid and pointless. Who the fuck needs to know about… what is it called? Calculus? You’re never going to use that shit, I’m not bothering with keeping up with it, fuck that. You always catch up on your own anyway. That bitch Midoriya or whatever gave you some fucking flowers today. I thought about stomping on them and telling him to fuck off, but I just took them and left. You need to tell that prick you’re not into him or this shit will never stop. Also, the way you humans handle courtship is fucked. I didn’t do shit today otherwise. Just stayed in the room. I did find your sketchbook though. You’re getting better, but you still can’t remember us for shit. 

Pulling your eyes up from the paper, they immediately landed on the mentioned sketchbook, which was tucked up beneath some schoolbooks. Carefully, you pulled it out, setting it down on the pile of papers to thumb through it. 

It had been so long since you had even opened this thing. The feeling of the coarse paper beneath your fingertips brought a small smile to your face, as did seeing all your old sketches and doodles. Though, the smile faded as you reached near the middle of the sketchbook, your eyes tearing up immediately at the contents of the page. The page was completely covered in drawings of what looked to be mermaids, or mermen, to be more accurate. They were mostly faceless and unidentifiable, the sketches geared more towards poses and anatomy. The only thing mostly consistent was the tail. It seemed to be the same over all the drawings, with matching fins and scribbled patterns. 

“Mermaids… I’ve never cared to draw them before, why did I…?” 

After another turn of the page, you were met with similar things, only this time they had heads and hair, jewelry, pieces of clothing, and even weapons. Only one of the sketches resembled the previous drawings, and his particular features called to you. The feeling of recognition and longing grew fiercer with another turn of the page, which was all nothing but sketches of that particular merman’s head with varying expressions and positions. He was particularly attractive, with slanted piercing eyes and a mass of fluffy spiked hair on his head. He had fin-like ears that were mostly drooped, but flared out on the drawings with a more intense expression, where his mouth was open in a yell or intense fanged snarl. 

A small gasp left your lips as a drop of liquid suddenly landed onto the paper, pulling you out of your daze. Crying? Why were you crying? Why did your heart feel like it was about to be ripped from your chest? It wasn’t possible for this to be the man that you had been longing for. You had drawn him as a mermaid! They weren’t real, and there was no way that was possible. He couldn’t even get into your room, let alone sit in your chair and write you letters. 

“I’m so ridiculous…” You whispered quietly to yourself, wiping the tears from your flushed cheeks. Had you been blushing? You didn’t even notice. “Mermaids… That’s just an urban legend. A myth. I must have just been in a phase… Maybe I saw a movie or an anime with them, and I got super invested? But then… they’re so…” 

Page after page, more sketches followed, some making you giggle while others made your chest ache so badly you thought you would pass out. But then, there was something scribbled onto a page that made your entire body grow cold, stomach twisting into such a tight knot you were sure that you’d vomit. 

Save me. 

“Save… Save you?” You choked out into the silent room with a trembling voice, more tears cascading down your cheeks as you reached up to grip the pendant around your neck tightly. It was in the familiar scratchy handwriting, though it was more frantic and messy than you had ever seen. Hiccupping, you brought the pendant up to your lips, pressing the stone against them as you struggled to calm yourself. 

Save you from what? What the hell happened? Did I save you? Why the hell can’t I remember!

It was then that you felt an odd pulsing against your lips, and as you pulled away in shock, your teary gaze was locked onto the pendant in your hands, which was pulsing slowly with a pale green glow. And with it came a thought, like a soft voice whispering in your ear that you couldn’t ignore. 

He’s calling to me…