#something about the old me not existing after trauma. a new me is trying to be born. and i have to breathe life into it

[voftdubsofficial]

Do you like how chaotic and mean spirited homestuck^2 has become????

Oh boy do I have so many thoughts about this topic haha. This is going to be a long one and I’m sorry in advance.

Personally I absolutely love Homestuck^2 and Beyond Canon. Tbh I wouldn’t be putting so much effort into a dub of it if I didn’t. And when it comes to Homestuck^2 and the epilogues, they were made to evoke specific emotions and the fact that some people feel that it was “mean spirited” and “chaotic” means that they are doing their job well.

I’ve always stated that, while one of the major themes of Homestuck proper was about being a kid growing up on the internet, one of the major themes of Post canon Homestuck is about living in the world as a traumatized adult. I may be a little biased about this because I waited to read the epilogues until I was 20 and felt very connected to the 23 y/o cast of post canon, but it struck me as very relatable watching the way their lives were playing out. Anyone past high school knows that when you finally get out into the real world, a lot of things and people change, even the ones you’ve grown incredibly close to. Some end up incredibly depressed, some end up fully occupied by their jobs and responsibilities, some become people that you barely even recognize anymore and no longer like, and some end up disappearing one way or another. It’s the way of life and it was really relatable to read through.

Another part of it is trauma and how the story has affected our cast. I think a whole lot about what comes after the story, how the protagonists return to their lives, how the adventures have changed them. When it comes to Homestuck, these were kids who were plucked from their normal lives at 13 years old and for some even younger, a time in your life you’re supposed to be doing the most growing up and maturing, and they had to spend it in a traumatizing life or death scenario that caused them to watch their friends die multiple times over. And then… they’re just dropped into the new world as gods, disconnected from society yet trying to just exist within it as well. There was no way for them to end up with a perfectly happy ending, not without a lot of bumps along the way.

Similarly the main conflict of the story is once again about endings. Much like in Homestuck proper Calliope is cast as an insert for one side of the fandom, however this time the other side is cast as Dirk. With Dirk being the side of the fandom that is scared for the story to come to an end, scared for him and all the friends he cares about fading away in to non-canon, scared to the point that he makes himself the villain to keep the story going. Calliope is the side of the fandom that just wishes for Homestuck to have an ending, attempting to rip the narrative away from Dirk, trying to stop his plans on Deltritus, and even so far as placing the candy timeline in a black hole completely severed from canon. I think it does a really good job of representing both halves quite nicely.

Speaking of meat and candy. They both are also meant to evoke specific emotions. The epilogues as a whole do a really good job with making you feel specific way. With the whole thing being text with no pictures, it feels a lot less accessible to the fandom because it’s not what we’ve expected from homestuck in the past. It already starts you off feeling off, just like John is. Then as you go on slowly you get more and more comfy before you’re given The Choice. Meat or Candy? Meat presents you with a story that is grounded, familiar, canon. Something that feels a lot like the Homestuck you know. While candy provides you with something that feels… off, unsettling, non-canon. In a way you can’t really pinpoint until John states that he feels it too. And there’s a lot of things that help provide this but the one I want to point out is Gamzee. He’s present all throughout the candy epilogue, showing up in places no one wants him and places he shouldn’t be. However, when a piece of canon finally pierces into the isolated timeline, when Vriska falls from the battle with lord english, the clown finally dies. Stuff like this just shows how well post canon does at making you feel the things it wants you to.

Overall the main point i’m trying to make here is that post canon in general is really good at making you feel emotions that match the themes and tone it’s trying to get across. It’s a coming of age story not for teens but for adults. So if you’re feeling like the story is chaotic and mean spirited, that’s because you’re supposed to. And I think that’s pretty cool.

[pepstarvanmoon]

Someone please get El out of there

Is it not obvious what this is? Do you really not know what you should be doing? SAY THE DAMN WORDS.

Why do you think she’s doubting you? Can you really not tell?

Mike, sweetheart, your relationship balancing skills are a terror to your friends, family, and romantic partners.

This is why people found Midleven cuter in S1/2, because the day you made it official marked the beginning of El’s doubts in your feelings for her.

You cannot seem to grasp that El is your friend AND your girlfriend, and somehow treating El like a girlfriend equates to treating her like shit.

You cannot make this up. El needs WORDS because Mike’s ACTIONS actively make her feel unloved. She does not feel it, so she wants some kind of verbal/written affirmation because of how emotionally distant Mike feels.

(someone talented please edit Elmike to Hamilton’s Burn or send an existing edit my way, thank you ♡)

His actions do not align to her expectations of love, not that it’s a good idea to let TV define romance for you, but you’re allowed to want/expect certain things in a relationship, and El isn’t getting that.

And let’s not act like Mike isn’t good at making people feel loved/cared for. Will is in love with him for a reason. El loves him for a reason.

(It was difficult to pick scenes for this because I’ve read arguments for how these aren’t really romantic at all, but from 12/13-year old, “fresh out the lab” Eleven, it’s as romantic as romance gets imo)

El has been trying to convince herself that their relationship is better than it is, because once she admits to herself that it’s not working, what does she do?

Her day-to-day life isn’t that great. Sure, she has her new family in the Byers, but her dad recently passed away and she’s being bullied at school. She has no friends outside of Will, and while I’m sure their relationship is great (wasn’t explored that much tbh), he can’t keep her from feeling isolated, and his own trauma with bullying keeps him from standing up for her.

One good, unchanging thing she has is her relationship with Mike. He’s the one who took her in and housed her, he taught her what it meant to be a friend, and… I’m having a bit of trouble here lol. I was going to say:

Never used her for her powers (not true lol)

When she was burnt out, he never expected more from her (not true LOL)

Never treated her differently for her powers (for this one, he found her awesome in an awestruck way rather than a Brenner “I’m gonna exploit this” way, but when he thought she lied about Will/hurt Lucas he was on her ass lmao)

My girl has those ‘first love’ blinders on. I keep having to ask myself what she sees in him besides ‘first person to accept me + we kissed’ like besides the latter, Dustin was right there. A lot of the parts of Mike I enjoy don’t reveal themselves around El outside S1 (barely S2). He’s shown as caring and protective, but he’s like that for all of his friends?? Especially when they’re in danger so idk what’s different. I’d have to peruse the milkvan tag to get a hint, but I’ll probably get a better idea watching Sleeping Beauty.

I’m a firm believer that Mike kept it ambiguous because he didn’t want to admit what the real problem was to Will.

“I couldn’t tell El that I love her.” - simple as that. Must be something about Will that has him holding his tongue because after S3 I doubt he’d have that much trouble telling Lucas.

Are you embarrassed? If you thought it wasn’t that serious you wouldn’t have told Will that it was something you “can’t come back from”. Is love serious to you, Mike? Because you can’t love El in the way she wants, do you think you’re incapable of it? Do you feel wrong? Do you not want Will to know?

Hit a little too close to home, huh.

(and let’s not get into the "team, friends, best friends" scene they had together like what was the point in having them make contact a SECOND time.

They already established a connection between them. Mike could’ve asked to be a team after the "guess it's gonna be up to us again," and Will could’ve taken the painting offscreen (the focus shot of Will grabbing the painting gets me so bad like WHY), but instead they wanted them to blush and giggle over each other AGAIN before they got to the van.

Make it make non-Byler sense I'm begging.)

You’d think that’d be good enough, but Mike still feels conflicted and has to make it Will’s problem (actually, Will kinda made it his problem. The way they shot the triple take makes it seem like Will dragged Mike away for another talk because of how spacey he was being. Who knows.)

Tf do you mean you didn’t know what to say? “Maybe if I said that thing” so you DO know? It’s painfully cut and dry if you take emotions out of it. El wants Mike to say that he loves her, so to fix this, to come back from that fight, Mike has to say he loves her.

Why is it such an internal battle for him? If I were to take it at face value, I’d chalk it up to what he said in the van scene.

So your solution is to push your relationship to a point that has El crying and throwing all the loveless letters you sent to the floor? To tell her that she’s incredible and a superhero and that she should know how you feel about her because, despite the tears streaming down her face and her DIRECTLY asking you if you still love her, she must know how amazing she is too?

NEWSFLASH, Queerler! She’s learning just how much she doesn’t need you right now, so I guess it’s time to face your fears!

This isn’t what I meant, but go off ig (don’t, actually, this is awful for everyone involved).

No way you expect El to buy this. You’ve expressed this fear of "losing El" to Will, I’ll give you that, but nothing you’ve done IN FRONT OF EL has conveyed this. Your letters weren’t helping, and you being there in person only made it worse.

Eagerly awaiting the day Michael Wheeler stops lying.

Well, I guess he doesn’t lie ALL the time.

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 6)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: Talks of death, Blood.

It was almost embarrassing how productive you’d been yesterday.

Not in a triumphant, academic breakthrough kind of way — more like manic focus masking a hollow ache. You had shut yourself inside your hotel room from sunup to sundown, hunched over the Old hotel desk, surrounded by coffee cups and open books, trying to make sense of centuries old trauma and the woman who somehow kept creeping into your research.

By midnight, you'd written nearly two thousand words about the sociopolitical function of scapegoating in 17th century Puritan Massachusetts. Half of them, you suspect, were thinly veiled projections.

You kept typing the word ���hysteria,” then deleting it. Too reductive. Too easy. But weren’t you starting to sound a little hysterical yourself?

You slept restlessly. No dreams you could remember. Just the feeling of eyes on you—watching, waiting, patient.

Now, morning sunlight filters through the gauzy hotel curtains in a washed out gold. You're standing in front of the mirror with a towel knotted around your chest, water still clinging to your shoulders, mentally running through the day.

Call Billy after this. See Irene around noon.  Don’t check Agatha’s address on Google Maps again.

What? Who said that!

You towel your hair dry, flipping it over and shaking it out like it’ll knock something loose. The last time you looked in this mirror — really looked — your skin wasn’t so pale. Your eyes weren’t so tired. And your brain wasn’t so loud.

Not from the research—you loved the research. But something about the way you’d slept, the way your body held tension now like it didn’t trust the air around you… it was catching up.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, thumb hovering over Billy’s contact. A small tightness curls under your ribs.

You should call. You want to call.

But what are you going to say?

"Hey, I think I accidentally developed a fixation on a middle aged woman who might be a witch?" 

You sigh.

Like Billy would judge you. He’s definitely heard worse. And it’s not like he didn’t already hear your first rant about her.

Though… you did tell him this trip was just for a thesis. Not Agatha.

Oh, to hell with it.

He should expect this from you by now.

You hit dial anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

You tuck the phone between your cheek and shoulder, curling onto the far side of the bed as Billy picks up on the second ring.

“Well, well, well,” Billy drawls. “If it isn't, the cryptid come back to life.” His voice becomes mock suspicious. “Do I need to sage my phone or something?”

You sigh, exhausted already. “Hi, Billy.”

“Dude, it’s been a week . I thought you died.”

“Not far off,” you mutter.

There’s a pause on his end. You can practically hear him cocking an eyebrow. “Okay, so… what happened?”

You rub a hand over your face. “I don’t know where to start…. I found her…Agatha…”

Billy goes quiet for a beat. “Wait, like ghost woman Agatha? She's real?”

You give a half laugh, tired. “Worse. She’s real. Very real. And… I think she’s messing with me.”

“Oh, so the ghost girlfriend has opinions now,” Billy says, amused. “What’d she do, haunt your dreams?”

“She read my notebook,” you blurt. “ All of it. My notes. My dumb theories. The stuff I scribbled at 2 a.m. with, like, chocolate on the pages. Everything.”

“…Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

Billy lets out a low whistle. “Okay, but how’d she get it?”

“I left it at her place the first day we met without realizing… and—God, she was so smug about it. Like, waving it around like she was proud of reading it.”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead into your palm. “And then she just—started quoting it. Out loud. Like it was funny . Like I was funny.”

“Honestly? A little funny.”

“Billy.”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m on your side.” A pause. “Mostly.”

You shake your head, voice dropping a little. “I’m just… embarrassed, I guess. She knows . That I came here for her. That I think she’s suspicious. And instead of denying it or clarifying anything , she just… smirks. Dodges. She won’t answer a single straight question.”

“So she’s hot and mysterious and makes you feel insane. Wow. Your taste is consistent.”

“Billy!”

He laughs again. “Okay, but real talk — why does it bother you so much? Is it just the thesis? Or…?”

You go quiet.

There it is. The real question.

“…I don’t know,” you admit. “I want it to be just the thesis. But every time I talk to her, it’s like I’m on the verge of something. Like if I just asked one more question, or stayed one minute longer, I’d figure her out.”

“And instead?”

You sigh. “She plays coy and calls me ‘hon’ like she’s older than time. Like she’s seen it all. And—god, Billy, I don’t even know how old she is. Her eyes—”

“Oh no,” he interrupts, voice teasing but laced with concern. “Not the ‘her eyes have seen centuries’ thing.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

“She’s definitely a vampire. Or a demon. Or like, a forest hag who got a glow up.”

“Not helping.”

“I’m just saying. You went looking for answers and instead you got hot girl gaslit.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Yup. That’s the thesis title now.”

Billy softened a little. “Hey. Jokes aside… are you okay?”

You were quiet for a beat. Then: “Not really.”

“Wanna fly home?”

“I can’t.”

“Because of the thesis?”

“…because of her.”

Silence.

You hated how true it felt. How your chest twisted just saying it out loud.

But before Billy could respond, your phone buzzed against your ear.

A text from Irene:  

Hey, just got home. Does noon still sound good?

You checked the time.  

11:45 a.m.

Shit.

“Billy, I gotta go,” you said quickly, sitting up. “This older woman I met—long story—is expecting me. She might have answers about some of the older trials.”

Billy groaned. “Ugh, fine. Ghost girlfriends and witch grandmas. You really are living the dream.”

You chuckled. “I’ll call you later. I promise.”

“You better. And hey—just… be careful, okay? Mysterious women in creepy houses have a reputation.”

“I’ll add that to my notes.”

“Add m e to the acknowledgements page when this turns into a horror memoir.”

You snorted. “Deal. Bye, Billy.”

---

Irene’s house sat at the end of a winding street, tucked behind a crooked gate and half a dozen rosebushes that looked like they hadn’t been trimmed since the Clinton administration.  

The door creaked open before you could knock.

“Come in, come in,” Irene said brightly, waving you in with a grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ polite.”

You stepped inside, immediately hit by the unmistakable scent of old books and something faintly herbal beneath it all — like dried sage or mint tea left too long on the stove.

The house was cluttered in the way only an old woman’s house could be. Not messy, exactly. Just… lived in. The kind of clutter that came from decades of refusing to throw away a good basket, or realizing too late that your cat had claimed the best reading chair. There were stacks of mail, ceramic knickknacks on every windowsill, and faded photographs nestled in dusted frames.

A shawl draped over the back of a chair. A teacup still on the table from last night.

“Ignore the mess,” Irene said, already shuffling toward the kitchen, voice lilting like it was just part of the house itself. 

You smiled despite yourself, shrugging off your coat and glancing around the room.

“Oh don’t worry, I’ve seen worse!” you said, following her into the kitchen. “You should’ve seen my grandma on my mother’s side. Now that woman could hoard.”

Irene chuckled under her breath, reaching for the kettle. “Ah, well—there’s a difference between hoarding and holding onto what still works. The trick is knowing which is which.”

She cast you a look over her shoulder — knowing, almost playful — as she set out two mismatched mugs and pulled a tin of tea from the shelf.

“You like mint?” she asked. “Or are you one of those fancy girls who needs three adjectives in her drink order?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Mint is fine.”

Steam curled up from the kettle as she started the steeping process, moving with the practiced ease of someone who made tea as often as she breathed.

“So,” you asked, watching her hands, “what is it you wanted to show me?”

“I brought my laptop and notes, like you told me to…”

You couldn’t help the flicker of anticipation in your chest. Irene had mentioned it offhand at the coffee shop — her late husband, the history teacher, his collection of old maps and books. Stuff that might help you. Stuff no one had digitized or indexed or filed away in some library basement.

“Old maps. Articles. Some books from my late husband, He taught history before he passed. Big on the weird stuff, like you.” 

You’d repeated the words in your head all night. Weird stuff. Like you.

Irene handed you a mug. “Perfect. Go sit in the living room, wherever you’re comfy. Make yourself at home.”

You nodded, taking the warm cup in both hands and moving back toward the front room, the scent of mint trailing after you. Irene, meanwhile, was already in the kitchen again, humming faintly as she sliced into the lemon cake she'd promised.

You sank into the nearest armchair, careful not to disturb the crocheted doily draped over the back. The tea was hot and sharp on your tongue, a welcome shock to your system after the restless night. Irene reappeared a moment later with two chipped dessert plates balanced in one hand, a slice of lemon cake on each.

She handed you one, then lowered herself onto the floral loveseat with a dramatic exhale.

“God, these knees,” she muttered, rubbing one of them as she settled in. “Don’t get old, sweetheart. It’s a trap.”

You smiled, curling one leg under the other. “I’ll try to dodge it.”

Irene grinned, fork already diving into her cake. “So. You really flew all the way from Washington for this paper of yours, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing a bite. “I know, it sounds a little unhinged.”

“Mm, not to me,” she said through a mouthful of cake. “My Harry would’ve called that dedication. Or madness. Or both, depending on whether you interrupted his football.”

That made you laugh. “He was a history teacher, right?”

“Thirty seven years,” she said proudly. “High school mostly, then he did some community college stuff after he retired. Couldn’t quite give it up. The man had a brain like a bear trap and no filter whatsoever.”

You sipped your tea, already picturing him: cardigan, chalk dust on his sleeves, a thousand strong opinions.

“He sounds like someone I’d get along with.”

“He’d have loved you,” Irene said simply. “Especially with all this witch trial business. He was obsessed with that era. Said it was where the country first learned how to be afraid of itself.”

That gave you pause. You looked up. “That’s… actually kind of brilliant.”

“He had his moments,” she said, smiling down at her cake. “Used to come home with weird little newspaper clippings or dusty first editions from estate sales. I’d be halfway through cleaning and find something like Witchcraft and Folklore in New England shoved under the sink.”

You laughed again, warming more and more to the space around you.

“Do you still have any of it?” you asked gently. “His books?”

Irene glanced toward the back of the house. A pause. A breath.

“Most of it’s still in his study,” Irene said. “Haven’t really gone through it since he passed. But I think it’s time.”

She stood, slower this time, pressing a hand to her hip with a faint grunt. She glanced back at you, her eyes catching the light — something soft in them, thoughtful, and just a little unreadable.

You offered her a small smile, taking a quick bite of lemon cake with a happy little hum before setting your mug down and rising to follow. Irene shuffled down the hall with the practiced sway of someone who knew every creaky board, and you trailed a few steps behind.

The hallway was narrow, wrapped in white wainscoting that had yellowed slightly with time. A dozen photos lined the walls — some black and white, probably from when Irene was a girl, and others full of faded seventies tones and wide collars. A few featured Irene beside a kind looking man with a thick mustache and a proud posture that had to be her late husband, Harry.

You smiled to yourself. Even something as simple as old family photos had the ability to make your historian heart flutter. Just a glimpse into another time, another life — preserved in paper and frame.

God, if only time machines existed. You’d sell your soul just to skip the guesswork.

Irene glanced back to make sure you were still with her, and something about it tugged at a distant memory — the first time you’d visited Agatha’s house.

Except Agatha hadn’t looked back. She’d just opened the door and walked in, certain you’d follow.

Agatha always seemed to know.

Know what you’d do. What you’d ask. What you were searching for.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until the soft click of a door jarred you from your thoughts. Irene had opened a glass paned door near the end of the hallway, dust lifting in the light as her hand curled around the knob.

“Here it is,” she said quietly.

The room smelled of paper and time. The kind of smell libraries tried to bottle and candles couldn’t quite replicate. It was musty, yes, but it had a kind of warmth beneath the dust — like the room had been waiting, patiently, to be remembered.

Your gaze swept the room — tall bookcases, the edges of volumes just barely visible through the haze of time; a sturdy desk piled with boxes, folders, and notebooks; and more stacks tucked into corners, waiting to be unearthed. You only recognized a handful of titles at first glance.

The sight made your chest ache in the best way.

It reminded you of the library back in Washington — the one you’d practically lived in. You wondered if Mrs. Calderu had noticed your absence. She always gave you that silent, knowing look whenever you missed a day, like a librarian’s version of a guilt trip.

Eight days now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but… yeah. You were starting to miss home.

Irene made her way to the desk, brushing dust from a large cardboard box. “So, Harry was… not exactly what you’d call organized,” she muttered, her lips twitching in a fond sort of grimace. “No matter how much I hounded that man.”

You giggled, stepping deeper into the room and peering into the box beside her as she began pulling out old papers.

“Some moon landing clippings in this one,” she said with a sigh, rubbing her temple. Then she turned with practiced ease and crouched — slowly — beside another box on the floor.

“I’ll help you look for anything about the witch trials. I know there’s a few boxes full. Harry was about as obsessed as you are.”

She tossed you a teasing look over her shoulder — eyes glinting with mischief.

“Except his obsession was with the history ,” she added. “Not a certain mysterious woman.”

Your face burned as you ducked your head, trying to hide the sudden flush. “No—well—maybe,” you laughed, shaking your head and waving a hand at her. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?”

“Not a chance, sweetheart,” Irene said, smiling as she handed you the first folder.

Irene helped you sift through the first couple boxes, making soft commentary here and there — the way someone might talk to themselves when they think no one’s really listening.  

“That’s from the old newspaper that used to run in the sixties — folded faster than it started.”  

“Yep, that’s Harry’s handwriting — barely better than chicken scratch.”  

“Oh, now this might be something, though it’s mostly speculation. He liked collecting fringe theories. Said the truth was usually hiding in the weird.”

After a while, she straightened up with a quiet grunt, brushing her hands on the front of her cardigan. “Alright, you’ve got your bearings. I’ll leave you to dig. I know how serious you research girls get.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks again for letting me look.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the truly bizarre stuff.”

She waddled toward the hallway, then paused in the doorway. “I’ll be back in a bit. Brought your bag in from the kitchen — figured you might want your computer or your notes.”

True to her word, she reappeared twenty or thirty minutes later, gently setting your bag on the floor beside the desk without interrupting your focus.

You murmured a quiet “thank you” as you sifted through another box — mostly political clippings from the 1970s and some odd astrology magazines.

Nothing helpful. At least not yet.

You kept digging. Some folders held property records, maybe even relevant for local witchcraft accusations — but it was mostly dry stuff. Minutes from old council meetings. Reprints of school articles. A few references to “land disputes” that might have hinted at something darker if you squinted hard enough.

You leaned back, sighing. Glancing down at your hands with a small grimave, your fingers had dust in every crease.

Then your fingers caught on the corner of a heavier box tucked behind the desk, half smothered under an old afghan. You dragged it out, coughing softly at the plume of dust it kicked up.

It was heavier than the others. Marked in faded black ink: 

WITCH / 1692-1694 — underlined twice.

Your heart skipped.

Inside were folders bound with string. Notes scribbled in the margins in different inks. Theories. Names you recognized. Names you didn’t. One old manila envelope labeled simply:

  The Hollow Wood Incident.

And in the bottom of the box, tucked between two larger books, something handwritten. Ink faded. Cover soft from wear. The title had been crossed out and rewritten in different pens over the years, the most recent inscription scrawled in blue ballpoint:

“Witch Lore, Local Accounts (Unverified — H’s Notes)”

You smiled, slowly, as your fingers curled around the spine.

Now this — this felt like a breakthrough.

The cover was soft with age, the paper inside a patchwork of different types — thick yellowed pages, some brittle as if they’d been near a fireplace too long, others torn from notebooks, or scribbled on napkins. No order, no index. Just thoughts, theories, clippings glued haphazardly alongside Harry’s looping scrawl. 

You flipped carefully through the first few pages — passages on local legends, sightings of women vanishing into the woods, ritualistic markings found on trees. Names. “Ann P.—seen at the river with no reflection.” “Martha K.—claim of glowing hands in the tavern.” Half of them sounded made up. The other half? Too detailed to ignore.

And then, something stranger: a loose sheet fell free from the back of the notebook and drifted to the floor. You bent to pick it up.

The texture was different — thicker, smoother. Almost waxy. The edges were scorched, as if it had been near a candle flame. The ink wasn’t black or blue, but brown. Dried blood, maybe. Or just very old.

It wasn’t English.

You held it up to the light. Latin — you thought. Though some words didn’t quite track. At the top, it was labeled:

"Invocatio ad Angthetham"

Underneath, a hand-scribbled note in English, smaller, messier:

“Can’t translate fully. Name unclear — resembles 'Agatha' but no root found in Latin dictionaries. Possibly fabricated. Possibly phonetic.” 

The rest of the text was indecipherable. A chant? A ritual? You didn't know Latin — not really — but you could pick out the rhythm. Repetition. Phrases beginning with veni... aperi... da nobis. 

Come.  

Open.  

Give to us.

You glanced toward the door, as if someone might be watching. The room had gone oddly still.

Tucked behind the page was something else — a photograph. You hadn’t noticed it fall. Black and white, faded. A group of people in front of a stone circle. Too many shadows to make out their faces, but one woman stood at the front.

She looked like Agatha.

Or maybe that was your brain playing tricks again. You squinted — the photo was too grainy to be sure.

You set it down, hands slightly trembling now, and dug deeper.

At the bottom of the box, under another folder marked simply “Misc” , was a bundle wrapped in muslin. You untied it carefully.

Inside were remnants. Objects. A short black candle, burned nearly to the base. A few half melted wax drips clung to it. A matchbook with only one match left inside. A pressed sprig of some herb — mint, maybe, or sage. A dull stone, smooth and egg sized. A dried flower. A brass coin with a pentacle engraved on one side.

And another slip of paper.

"Tested 3/19/85. Results inconclusive. Felt presence. Weather shifted. H refused to try again." 

The words felt heavy in your chest.

You sat back in the chair, blinking. The air in the room felt different. Stiller. Thicker.

Your pulse thudded in your ears.

You had no idea what any of it meant — not yet. But you’d found something. Something real.

And if this Angthetha was just a name… or if it was more than that…

You swallowed. Maybe Irene would have thoughts. She knew this town. Knew you well enough already to raise an eyebrow at your obsession.

And if not Irene…?

Well, there was always the forest.

Always Agatha.

You sigh, arms full of findings — the handwritten book, the scorched page, the photo, a few of the stranger objects wrapped in muslin. You cradle them against your chest like you're afraid they might vanish if you let go.

Back in the living room, Irene’s sitting. The lemon cake has been nibbled down to crumbs, and a half empty mug of mint tea sits forgotten on the end table. Her knitting rests in her lap — the same project you’d seen at the coffee shop, the same slow, steady progress. maybe a scarf, maybe a blanket. Hard to tell. She looked up when she heard your footsteps.

"Find anything useful?" she asked, her needles pausing midstitch.

You let out a long breath and lowered everything onto the coffee table, careful not to scatter the contents. "Uh. Yeah. Maybe. Definitely weird."

That got a chuckle out of her.

You picked up the old notebook — Harry’s notes — and turned it toward her. “This was at the bottom of a box labeled 'Witch / 1692-1694.' It’s all handwritten. Half of it reads like folklore, the other half like he was genuinely trying to make sense of it. There’s even a section called The Hollow Wood Incident.”

That got her attention. Her knitting paused again, this time for real.

“Hollow Wood?” she echoed, one brow arched just slightly. 

“I thought maybe it was just a coincidence,” you said, flipping to the burnt sheet of Latin text and sliding it toward her. “But then I found this.”

Irene leaned forward, pulling her glasses down from her forehead and resting them on her nose. She looked over the page without touching it.

“Latin,” she murmured. “Or something trying to be. Not your usual bedtime reading, I hope.”

You smiled faintly, watching her eyes narrow.

She squinted at the title. “Angthetham…”

You cleared your throat, feeling a little silly now that you were saying it out loud. “I thought… I mean. Doesn’t it sound kind of like Agatha?”

Irene didn’t respond at first. Her eyes lingered on the strange name, on the scrawled chant, on the note that mentioned Harry refusing to try again. Finally, she leaned back with a quiet exhale.

“Well,” she said, voice soft. “Harry always said the old names changed. Slipped through tongues like river stones. Wore down into whatever people could pronounce. You ask me, Angthetha could’ve been Agatha once. Or maybe something that came before her.”

You blinked. “Before?”

Irene just gave you a little shrug. “Who knows. Names have long shadows.”

You stared at her for a moment, but she was already knitting again, as if she hadn’t just casually nudged open the door to a hundred new questions.

“Irene,” you said slowly. “Do you think this… I don’t know. Do you think it could actually do something? Like — a spell?”

She glanced up at you with that same dry look from the coffee shop. “Do I look like someone who speaks dead languages and dances naked in the moonlight?”

You coughed on a laugh. “Not exactly. ”

“I think…” she paused, knotting a bit of yarn. “I think Harry believed more than he let on. That’s why he never threw that thing out, even after the fire in the shed. Said some things should stay buried. But he also kept it all boxed up . I think he wanted someone else to find it, eventually.”

That quieted you.

She glanced at you again, her voice gentler. “You think your Agatha’s tangled up in this?”

You nodded, sheepish. “I don’t know. Maybe. It feels like it.”

Irene smiled — soft, but with something bittersweet behind it. “Then maybe you’re meant to find her. Just… don’t go calling up things you don’t understand, sweetheart. Not all of them are interested in being found.”

You swallowed.

Too late, maybe. 

After that, you stayed a bit longer and finished her lemon cake. And true to her word, it really was a mean lemon cake.

But after a moment of silence, a question crept in, unshakable.

You glanced up. “Hey, Irene?” you asked, hesitating. “Can I ask something kind of… personal?”

She looked up, her expression still but open.

“How did Harry pass?”

Irene hummed low in her throat, setting her knitting aside. Her eyes drifted off, brow furrowing like the memory was a wrinkle she still hadn’t smoothed out. “Well… it wasn’t anything medical. No heart problems or cancer. My Harry was a health nut — even when he’d stay up all night with some historic mystery buzzing in his brain.”

You nodded, quietly, urging her on.

“He was found,” she said, voice distant. “Deep in the woods. You mentioned you went to the cemetery? Near the ranger park?”

You hummed in agreement.

“He was just past that. Some teenagers found him while they were camping. Maybe partying, I don’t know. I can’t remember now.”

She picked up the knitting again, though the rhythm had slowed.

“His body was mauled. By… something.”

You didn’t breathe.

“The last thing he told me before he left was that he was going out to do some research. Of course I said it was fine — my Harry never got into trouble… or, well, not that I knew of.”

You didn’t dare speak. You were on the edge of your seat.

Just what was out in the Hollow Wood forests that could’ve done that? 

And you’d been there. At that very cemetery. With that feeling — that creeping, awful sense that something was watching you.

“I thought it was murder, at first,” Irene went on. “Told the police it couldn’t have been some bobcat or wild dogs. I mean… his eyes were gouged out.”

You flinched.

“But the police…” she sighed. “They said animals always go for the soft spots first.”

You gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Irene sighed back, heavier. “No worries. I’m old now. And I’ve heard enough sorries.”

Then she turned to you, face suddenly more serious than you’d ever seen it. “So don’t go wandering near that cemetery again. Not while you’re here.”

You gulped, a chill dragging down your spine. You glanced at the stack of notes on the table… then at the clock ticking in the corner of her living room.

3:23 PM.

“I won’t,” you said, quietly.

You stood, shrugging into your coat, the weight of everything settling deep in your bones. “I guess I should get going. Digest more of this.”

Irene nodded, watching you move. “Take Harry’s things. The Latin. The notebook.”

You turned, surprised. “Really? Are you sure?”

She was already rising — muttering about her knees — and crossing to the table. She handed the items to you, her hands staying on yours just a moment longer than expected. Her eyes were steady, serious.

“I have no use for them,” she said. “Whatever Harry was doing… or looking into… he had to’ve been on the right track.”

She gave a faint, hollow smile.

“People don’t just die.”

---

Later that night, back at the hotel, you’d tucked some of Harry’s things into your bag — others were spread across the desk, waiting for a once-over.

Irene’s words echoed in your head.

People don’t just die. 

You chewed on your nail in thought, eyes drifting toward the window. It was nearing dark… probably an hour left of light.

Irene had warned you not to go back to the cemetery. Especially after dark. 

And she wasn’t the first.

“Though I wouldn’t recommend making late night cemetery visits a habit.” “Well. Don’t go again. It’s dangerous.” 

Agatha’s voice joined the chorus in your head.

Your stomach knotted. Irene knew something. Maybe the same thing Agatha did. They had to have met. Irene had mentioned her — back at the coffee shop.

And if Harry had been digging into this the same way you were…

And he’d ended up mauled in the woods. 

You grumbled.

Your mind wandered to Agatha again — her house, her voice, that look in her eyes last time when she told you to leave. Would she even let you in again?

You groaned and flopped onto the bed, arm flung dramatically over your face.

You couldn’t just show up at her place asking if she knew some eighty year old woman with a knitting hobby and a haunted past. That’d be a one way ticket to being kicked out permanently.

Your gaze slid toward your duffel bag.

There, right on the floor — the T-shirt and sweatpants Agatha had given you. Crumpled on the floor. Still probably smelling like her.

You paused. Took your nail out of your mouth.

…Okay. So maybe you couldn’t ask about Irene.

But you could return her clothes.

A harmless excuse. A friendly gesture. A reason to knock on her door again.

You shot up from the bed like a girl with a plan, grinning as you grabbed the clothes and tucked them neatly into your bag. You slung it over your shoulder, then paused in front of the mirror, giving yourself a onc over.

“You, beautiful lady,” you said to your reflection, dead serious. “Are brilliant. ”

And with that, you peeled out of the room.

---

The walk was quicker this time.

You slipped into the woods with practiced ease, past the cobblestone bridge, a left down the trail lined with old, whispering willows, then over the second bridge — the one that made it easy to cross the stream without getting your Shoes wet.

It was practically muscle memory now.

Your heart gave a small flutter. You were getting giddy. To see Agatha. 

Would she be happy to see you? Annoyed? Maybe a little smug that you'd come crawling right back?

Not that she should be surprised — you’d told her you were leaving for now, not that you were never coming back.

There was a rustle in the trees.

You paused, then brushed it off. Just Hollow Wood wind. Probably.

The pep in your step? Honestly? It should be studied.

Actually—scratch that. They’d find too many disturbing things in your brain.

The sun was sinking faster than you expected, but you were close.

Right on cue, you pushed past the final thicket and stepped into the clearing.

And there it was.

Agatha’s Victorian house. Just like before.

Purple door, ivy trailing up one side.

You smiled, soft and stupid, and marched right up the creaking porch steps like you were an old friend who belonged there.

There was another rustle behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder. Nothing. Just wind. Again.

“The weather here is odd,” you muttered under your breath.

You raised your hand, just like you had the first time, and knocked three times on the door.

You hummed. Shifted from one foot to the other.

Nothing.

You thought back to your first visit — how she’d taken a moment to open the door, and how you’d tried to avoid that awkward mid-knock face-to-face. 

So you waited.

And waited.

You sighed, glancing up. The sun was nearly gone now. The porch light clicked on overhead.

You jumped. 

Then immediately giggled at how dumb that was.

You looked back at the door. Still nothing.

Should you knock again?

It didn’t take this long last time.

You leaned in, knocked three times again. Counted to thirty.

Still nothing.

Again.

“What the hell…”

You huffed and leaned toward the side window, trying to peek through. Were the lights on? Was she just… ignoring you?

No lights.

You squinted, searching for movement. Anything. And that’s when—

Rustle. 

Close.

Too close.

Not like wind.

Not like leaves.

Like… breathing.

On the back of your neck.

You spun around fast — heart pounding — eyes scanning the woods.

Nothing.

But something moved. 

Far back, between the trees.

You squinted.

Your pulse thudded behind your eyes.

Not a bunny.

Not the wind.

Something was out there.

Panic spread through you.

Instantly, you knocked harder on the door.

“Agatha!”

Nothing.

You pounded your fist against the wood, harder now. “Agatha, open the door! Please!”

Still nothing.

Silence.

Too much of it.

Even the birds were gone.

You turned, something primal in your chest pulling your gaze toward the trees.

Something was watching you. 

You felt it before you saw it—goosebumps erupted across your skin, your throat went dry. The air turned sharp, metallic.

And then—

There it was.

Between the trees. Half shrouded in shadow, standing too still to be human.

Tall. Lanky. No real shape to it. Like it was wearing a human silhouette like a costume. 

No face.

Just a stretch of black. And eyes—

No, not eyes. Not really. But two pale yellow lights.

Like fireflies.

Faint. Flickering. But locked on you.

You couldn’t breathe.

The scent of blood hit you all at once—thick and iron rich, like a slaughterhouse left out in the sun. You gagged on it, stumbled back.

The thing didn’t move.

Not a twitch.

But it was there. Waiting. 

Your fingers fumbled for the doorknob again, hands shaking. “Agatha,” you whispered, hoarse. “Please.”

The lights blinked. Closer now. Somehow.

You blinked tears. It wasn’t moving. But it was closer. 

The woods around it swayed, but it didn’t.

Then—

The screech split the sky above you.

You ducked, but it was already on you—black feathers, flapping chaos, claws tearing through your sleeve and ripping your arm .

You screamed, hands over your head, stumbling off the porch. The pain was sharp, slicing.

The crow— that crow—was attacking.

Or that’s what you thought. 

You swatted at it, adrenaline flooding your veins. You turned and ran , sobbing.

“Get off me! What the fuck— what the fuck— ”

Branches tore at you. Roots caught at your boots. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. 

Your lungs ached. Your throat burned. Your arm was bleeding.

And behind you—the screeching stopped.

And so did the eyes.

Gone.

The thing— whatever it was —had disappeared. Just like that.

And the crow?

Nowhere to be seen.

Next Chapter

[pikahlua]

I mean at least with ochako, deku and shouto the author had them fight with the intention to try to save or understand himiko, tomura and touya. These characters were constructed under this little idea. But at the end none of them managed to do it and all the villains died as villains anyway and the ones that lived didn't change and afterwards the author decided to show a random kid being helped by an old lady as the proof of hero society changing or something. It felt cheap to me i guess.

"fight with the intention to try to save or understand himiko, tomura and touya" "But at the end none of them managed to do it"

...Do...do you really think they didn't manage to understand Himiko, Tomura, and Touya? Why? Why do you think that? I don't know how it could have been any clearer that understanding was achieved??

And I'm very concerned about this notion that "saving" these villains means they don't die and after surviving they completely change. Like, I'm sorry, but this confuses me the most about people who claim to be fans of the villains when they imply things like this. Think about what this would mean. Somehow these villains' grievances with society should have all been immediately and completely resolved and they change their tune like "Oops, guess I was wrong about everything ever! I love society now! Everything that happened to me was justified and I should never have complained! The heroes were right all along and I was just being silly! I will take steps for improving myself and rejoining this society that I used to hate because I mistakenly thought it wronged me!" Maybe that's not how you truly expected it to play out, but if Izuku, Ochako, and Shouto managed to talk-no-jutsu their villains in one go out of being villains, it would absolutely have come across that way. It would have been the message behind the culmination in Izuku and everyone "becoming the greatest heroes." It would have said yes, the status quo is good and correct, and people should just open up to the right people before they become villains and then they wouldn't be a problem for everybody.

What we get instead is the heroes coming to an understanding of what their villains' grievances are (again, why do you think this didn't happen?) and showing those villains that yes, there is at least one person in the world who understands them and wants to give them hope, that wants to make their lives easier. Tomura and Himiko both die with hope in their hearts. A piece of darkness inside each of the three of them is resolved by their respective heroes. Touya is granted his last wish to talk things out with his family before he dies. Himiko is faced with the question of incarceration or death, and she chooses death as a means of staying true to herself (i.e. her desire to never be caught, to live and die as she wants to). She also is able to live this new form of "love" in giving her blood to Ochako as she goes out. In destroying himself, Tomura also destroys the man who used him and was responsible for the existence of "that house" that represented all his trauma. Tomura also left a legacy for Spinner to continue in his absence and a question for Izuku to observe of society in the aftermath (which is why we see that moment with the old lady, who represented the legitimate grievance Tomura had with the society that failed to save him from AFO). All the villains maintain their LEGITIMATE grievances with society and refuse to bend to society's wishes, and thus their points, their ideals, their legacies live on. They endure within the hearts of others who are aggrieved by society, and they leave a stark impact on the heroes who couldn't change them. That's how we get Ochako dedicating her life to children's welfare. That's how we get Izuku telling all children they can be heroes whether or not they become pro heroes in the law enforcement system. That's how we get Shouto living a life where he can be and discover himself separate from the tainted legacy of his father. The lessons they take from their villains stay in their hearts forever because they are failures. Their failure was the point. They aren't perfect, they can't save everyone by themselves, they have to dedicate their lives to being the change society needs if they want to save more people, and their failures guide them in the directions where they can make that sort of impact.

Believe it or not, Crimson Riot says it best...

Yeah, that's right, the message has been prevalent in the story for a long time. It didn't come out of no where.

If the message feels cheap to you, I implore you (and EVERYONE) to engage in a thought exercise. Genuinely, try to imagine that someone in the world other than you finds the message of this story as not cheap but as earnest and meaningful and robust. Now imagine why this person would think that. What evidence is there in the manga that they would use to support it? What meaning would they derive from this ending? Try to understand the opposite point of view. Try to honestly engage with the text in this way. Horikoshi devoted a decade of his life to telling this story. Sure, some of it probably suffered from bad editing and weird changes due to elongating the story at times. It was a big story with a giant cast, and that can be a lot for any one person to manage perfectly over the course of 10 years. Maybe there are parts of the story that aren't as tight or clean as they could be. But, in good faith, please try to imagine WHY Horikoshi felt this story needed to be told. Try to imagine what message Horikoshi wanted to convey that matters to him. Don't just dismiss the ending out of hand because it doesn't immediately click for you. I think it's great you asked me about it, and I hope my answer gives you more to think about.

[rafesfavoritegirl]

where currents collide

chapter 2: escape

𓂃⋆.˚ Viv, John B’s younger sister, just wants to escape the chaos of the pogues for a little while, after John B decided she can't come to a Kook party. After a night of tension and betrayal, she seeks some peace on her own, but it’s never that simple when you’re surrounded by the Pogues. What starts as a quiet moment alone on the beach turns into something unexpected when old wounds and new faces collide.

word count 1.1k

Content Warning: Mild language, emotional conflict, sibling dynamics, mentions of substance use, and tension-filled situations.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of family trauma (loss of a parent), emotional distress, mild substance use (marijuana), and moments of secrecy and betrayal.

As I watched everyone leave the house, I accepted defeat with humility. They were always going to perceive me as a little girl. I was disappointed in Jj most of all. He never used to choose sides. But now, knowing how he really felt, it stung to realize he was just like the rest of them. It all left me mentally and physically drained, pushing me to take a nap and escape for a little while from everything that had happened.

༄ ༄ ༄

I woke up feeling dehydrated, still unsettled by everything that had occurred earlier tonight. In an effort to clear my head, I decided to build a bonfire. I do not often get the house to myself, so I figured it was the perfect chance. Stepping into the yard, I spotted the hammock that Jj, John B, and I had put up when we were kids, still hanging from the tree. I grabbed some extra firewood to revive the ashes from the bonfire a couple nights before and headed back inside for a lighter, my phone, and my headphones.

Once I was back in the yard, I started to light the fire. When the flames finally caught, I settled into the hammock, slipped in my earbuds, and blasted my favorite playlist. The cool breeze brushed against my face, and for a moment, I realized maybe it wasn't so bad to have missed out on the chaos of tonight.

Just as I started to get comfortable in the silence combined with the arguments that happened previously, I did not hear the infamous sound of the half-broken twinkie entering the front yard, muffled by the music still in my ears. Once settled in, they made their way into the backyard, and suddenly, I could not ignore the look on their faces. They sat down, unintentionally crashing my bonfire, their eyes landing on me in my relaxed state.

"See? Told you staying home wouldn't kill you," John B said with a smug grin, clearly pleased with himself.

It only fueled my internal anger, making it burn even deeper. How could they sit there, knowing I was still upset? No apology, just laughing and reminiscing about the greatest night they have ever had, like nothing was wrong. Seeing my best friends ignore my existence, continuing to smile and laugh while I sat there in utter silence.

Hearing them all talk over one another, what caught my attention was Kie's voice: "Dude, when Jj brought the gun! I swear we were gonna get arrested," she said, and the rest of them laughed, agreeing with her.

I pulled off my headphones, cutting in. "Wait, what gun? What happened?" I asked, concern and curiosity creeping into my voice.

Kie dismissed me with a casual wave. "It was nothing," she said, laughing as she spun around, her back turned to me once again.

That was it. I stood up abruptly, my frustration boiling over. "Fuck this," I muttered, walking off without another word.

I headed to my room, shutting the door behind me, and sat down. For a moment, I just stared at the wall, my mind racing, trying to figure out what to do next. It took a moment, the silence giving me too much space to think.

༄ ༄ ༄

The bright white full moon shined through my window, and suddenly, an idea sparked. I needed to get to the beach—just to clear my head. I knew everyone was asleep by now, either in the living room or in John B's room, given the lack of space in our house.

That thought reminded me of how I would get there? The idea hit me out of nowhere, like a sudden rush of clarity. I could just take Jj's weed and the keys to his dirt bike. I needed a way to get out—escape, even if just for a little while—and the bike would get me to the beach in no time. Jj would not even notice, right? It was not like he was gonna miss it tonight, or even notice it was gone. Fixating on the thought, I convinced myself I would be back in time.

I knew where he kept everything—he always kept his stash of marijuana in that jar on the communal nightstand, and the keys to his bike were usually tossed carelessly on the dresser. I could not even explain why I was doing it, but it felt like the only way to get some space.

With that thought in mind, I quietly crept toward his room, my heart racing, but my mind set on the plan. I quietly opened Jj's door and paused for a moment, glancing at him as he slept, admiring how peaceful and cute he looked. A rush of guilt hit me—doing this behind his back felt wrong, but I could not shake what he had done. I knew he would be furious if he found out, but I had to go through with it. I tiptoed over to the drawer, quickly sorting through his mess, finding condoms and loose jewellery, until I found his dirt bike keys, weed and rolling paper. I left the house swiftly, starting up the bike, the engine roaring to life. I glanced back at the worn-down house, checking the window to see if I had woken anyone up. Coast clear. I grabbed the items I needed, then rushed out of his room, with everything at hand, I knew there was no turning back now.

༄ ༄ ༄

The moon reflected off the blue ocean as I parked the bike and made my way down to the beach—the same one the Pogues had visited not too long ago during their rioting. A few kooks were still hanging around, but I paid them no mind. I spread out my blanket and got ready to roll up.

I sat there, the mix of marijuana and saltwater breeze filling the air. For the first time in a while, I felt at peace, the worn-down headphones that I had earlier playing softly as I drifted into a stoned calm.

The kooks from when I had first arrived were packing up. Their infamous jeeps slowly rolled off the beach, and a part of me did not care, but another part felt relieved to be completely alone now—no talking, no people. Just silence.

That was until I saw a tall, shadowy figure making its way toward me. I did not think much of it, assuming they would just pass by. But then, without warning, the figure sat next to me. I was confused—though, in my stoned state, it did not register right away. I glanced to my right and froze. It was none other than Rafe Cameron.

Follow the wattpad, this fanfic will be posted consecutively every week with new chapters! : https://www.wattpad.com/user/rafesfavoritegirl-

[daemon-in-my-head]

TELL US ABOUT YOUR PRE TADPOLE BHAALIST CHANGES 🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

SKDHSKSK alright alright, get urself a cup of something hydrating, take a seat nd get comfortable.

Here's the short version; Orin and Helena are no true Bhaalspawn, Sarevok is alive by grace of the spell Reincarnate and not whatever the fuck BG3 was doing, the Murder Tribunal exists but it's rly just beefy Sarevok and cult members doing funny shit they didn't necessarily sign up for, Sarevok is the Realms greatest grudge holder and the "ruling body" of the temple, including Bhaal himself, are much, much more fucked up than just good old "heres a high priest/ess have fun". Also everyone here is running on spite, generational trauma, and a fuck ton of delusion (also a bit of nature vs nurture cuz hi hello it's me). And we're back to lawful evil cuz they massacred my boys and I chose to turn a blind eye.

As for the longer (no geniunely) story;

Let's start with a brief, somewhat comprehensive timeline to make sense of shit lmfao (trust me this will come in handy)

1331 Fines Creation 1331 Adoption 1345 Sarevok's Birth 1349 The Urge awakened for the first time 1350 Banishment to the Shadowfell 1350 Tamokos Birth 1358 Bhaals Death 1368 Tamoko's Death + Sarevok's departure in 69 1407 Sarevok's Death + Reincarnation 1434 Helena's Birth 1440 Fine's brief return to the Gate 1440 Calimport 1441 Sarevok returns with Helena 1444 Gortash's Birth 1461 Meeting Gortash in Calimport 1462 Return to the Cult 1462 Orins Birth 1467 Fine is anointed as cult leader 1467 Helena's attempt on Orin 1475 Meeting Gortash as Banite 1776 The Raids 1477 Murder Spree/Blood in Baldurs Gate (in support of Gort) 1480 A blossoming, toxic situationship 1482 Chosen 1483 Ketheric joins 1491 Bormul Incident 1492 BG3 happening

Now with that all out of the way, let's actually go and start at the beginning, namely the end of the original story. Its 1369, Bhaal, Tamoko, Irenicus, Amelyssan, the 5, etc. etc. are all dead, the Bhaalspawn crisis avoided, Gorion's Ward aka Abdel Adrian is the Hero of Baldur's Gate (......), now-normal-mortal Sarevok got a bit of Adrian's Soul nd dipped, yada yada we all know this story. Except I'm going with that particular Sarevok ending that mentions he leaves for Kara-Tur (specifically Kozakura) where he buries Tamokos body.

And this is where my bullshit begins; instead of simply going there to burry Tamoko he decides to stay. After all, he's very much infamous in Faerûn for no particularly great reasons and considering their own political issues, finding work as an experienced fighter and schemer in Kozakura was quite easy for him. So he did just that, lived there as a mercenary for a second or two, staying as long as his contract demanded but not a second longer and relishing in his newfound freedom. If all had gone according to plan, that is.

See, the Spellplague of 1385 affected all of Toril, and in Kozakura specifically it only amplified the already tense political situation, escalating into a full scale civil war, constantly fueled by the scheming and mingling of a Wu Jen Society. And boy oh boy did it trigger Irenicus former little toy when he saw some people trying to pull weird arcane bullshit again.

So rather than leaving Kozakura like many others, Sarevok stayed back, tried to be a good guy for once, ended up being allowed to join a local clan and just having the time of his life beating up a bunch of people for a better cause than his own had been. And then he fucking died lol. But not to worry, if any place has an abundance of spirit folk, yokai and other "nature if it was human" creatures, it is Kozakura. And if any place was in need of people capable of fighting, it was Kozakura as well. So good old Sarevok earned himself a new, now 100% confirmed Bhaal free body, alongside an extended lifespan.

Life simply continued this way for a while, and albeit the scars of the war were beginning to show in all aspects of life, it was still bearable and Sarevok felt good about being able to beat (one of) his traumas arse and protect something related to that true love of his that he fumbled harder than anyone else ever fumbled in all of history.

And then Helena was born. See, Sarevok may have kept mainly to himself, but even he couldn’t avoid the trap of a found family in the home he'd chosen for himself. So long story short, when shit got really fucking bad and everyone was considering "well we can't rly afford any more mouths to feed maybe we should close a few here or there" rather than stand by as he would've done once upon a time Sarevok decided to grow bhaals, snatch that kid of his friend doomed to be one of those closed mouths, and vanish once again. He was certain he could make it out of Kozakura and manage life somewhere else with or without a little bundle of shape-changing something after all, so that's exactly what he did.

He changed little bundles name and went along, back to his earlier days of just enjoying whatever he wanted (except now with a bit more responsibility in the shape of a lil kid), and just tried to raise this kid that had been unwanted by so many others, much like he himself once was.

But this is still my durgetash bullshit and the magnum opus of my insanity so 1440 hits and he catches wind of a funny rumor about a Bhaalspawn returning to his old turf. And as a survivor of Bhaals reign and the first iteration of the Bhaalspawn crisis, good old Sarevok was not having any of it. So he took that kid and went back to the home of his nightmares, like any reasonable guy who sought avoidance rather than therapy or accountability would. :)

Upon his return, however, he learned that those rumours were seemingly unfounded and the only known Bhaalspawn still roaming around in the vicinity of the Sword Coast was his good old half-brother Abdel Adrian. Who was, much unlike Sarevok, overjoyed to welcome back some family. Especially considering the fact he may or may not ended up receiving intel that Dad's old followers are back, if one is inclined to believe they've ever left that is. But eitherway, something is happening in this beautiful never-quiet coastal town and as the figure head of the opposition and kind of busy co leader of this cesspool that calls itself a city; "pretty pls Sarevok whom I've given a piece of my fucking soul how about you help out ur good old pal and brother here hmmm?"

To which Sarevok agreed. Less cuz of Adrian and more so because of the lingering effects of growing up the way Bhaalspawn tend to grow up. Besides he got fucked over beautifully by Bhaal and the temple and if he can get back at them even just the tiniest bit more that's absolutely worth it in his humble opinion.

So Sarevok does end up finding the remnants of the cult, which are objectively doing "not good"™️ but surprisingly not that small in number and he decides that this won't be an in and out gone and done typa thing and resorts to the thing he does best; scheming. And as luck would have it he's wonderfully prepared for it. Because he may no longer be a Bhaalspawn, but once upon a time he was. And with no precedent to dispute his hypothesis, who's to say the taint won't return in a second generation? With no Bhaalspawn left to dispute his claims, who would out Helena as a fraud?

So Sarevok returns to the Cult, Helena his "daughter" in tow, remorseful about his "betrayal" and ready to give it his all in serving Bhaal again and definitely not just to do his best to destroy the faith from the inside (because fuck you Bhaal) and stop any attempts to resurrect the kinky murder lord immediately (because again, fuck you Bhaal).

And it would be so nice if the story ended here wouldn't it? So very nice. But alas. This ain't about him. And there's more Bhaalspawn around. 2 more to be precise.

20 years pass. Tiny Helena isn't quite so tiny anymore, and Sarevok regained some station thanks to her. And gods, how he missed it. Holding sway over people, having people listen and obey, clinging to his word like lives depend on it. As much as Tamoko wished to believe it was solely the rotten blood that caused all of their misery, perhaps he had always been a little rotten himself. But of course, this time he won't repeat his mistakes, he still holds onto his plan. This is, after all, to spite Bhaal and control the temple from acting out again. He's simply taking a more pleasing approach. One without nearly as many casualties. Adrian would understand, if they had been talking still. If he knew.

Anyhow, moral decay aside, generally speaking things were going swimmingly for Sarevok. A few hicups here and there couldn't be avoided, like when a boy and an imp showed up in front of the temple claiming that the boy was Bhaals long lost masterpiece, but lucky for Sarevok, his newfound brother was rather perceptive and it wasn't too hard to string him along. Perhaps the nativity from being isolated for longer than most humans lived contributed to that nativity, but today's Sarevok would probably find an explanation why he'd been the mastermind behind it all anyway.

And honestly with how he'd been managing things, it could've proceeded smoothly if not for this tiny, minor issue of Helenas pregnancy. The cult as it was now placed blood purity above all else. After all, with Bhaal missing and most of his spawn eradicated, a pureblooded Bhaalspawn was about as close as they could come to their god. And the boys arrival alone had been enough to highlight how important this belief had really grown within their ranks, and how easily opinions became divided.

But then again, this too wasn't an issue good old Sarevok couldn't navigate around. If this issue was the purity of Bhaals essence there's one handy way to get around it; eliminate the sources that could taint it. If Helenas true identity hadn't been revealed even after decades had passed it was unlikely it would be revealed now, and if the boy had a change of heart and exposed what Sarevok had done he'd ruin his own credibility alongside Sarevok's anyway. So he placed his bets and proceed to claim fatherhood. His consciousness did sting a tad bit but Tamoko would understand, he'd convinced himself of that. After all if this would lead to Bhaals certain destruction, it was worth every little white lie.

And well, from here on out, its pretty much the story everyone knows. Under Sarevok's careful guidance "Elli" learns how to resent Bhaal properly and how nice this particular flavour of power can be, both keep pushing off that destruction of the cult they're both definitely still pursuing, trust them, they'll do it tomorrow. And then Helena dies, one of them gets involved with a burly armed Banite and the other one is too busy feeling vindicated for suffering so much in his past to still care about anything else.

At least until Viekang grows a backbone (nah jk it's Viekang and I love how miserable he is; he was simply strung along by another branch of bhaalists cuz yeah that faith is bigger than just the Gate even if BG3 loves to forget that and not everyone falls for Sarevoks bullshit), Bhaal is resurrected and decides to visit his little failures. Like geniunely visit. Cuz yes the gods can casually drop by. And they do. Especially when the people they're about to visit can do fuck all.

Anyway after a brief visit from daddy dearest Sarevok is done. Bhaal knows what he did. He knows Bhaal knows. He failed everything he sat out to do and more, and again it happened because he was drawn into a false safety by his own hubris and realising that just absolutely crushes him. Theres no coming back from being destroyed like that twice. "Elli", unlike Sarevok, is a bit more rebellious (thx nativity); however he too is quickly put in place the second the world's greatest dad displays how little control "Elli" actually has. Especially over his own body. No the Urge was no unhappy little accident like he told himself, that was just the beginning.

Also because I can; yes Bhaal knows Orin is a complete scam. Yes he indulges it anyway. On one hand it's blatantly rubbing into Sarevok's and "Elli's" face that he's the one in power here, no matter what they try, if Bhaal decides it's the truth, it will become the truth, and also because it's just easier. Bhaal after all is an incredibly cruel and manipulative arsehole who knows how to turn a situation in his favour. He's perfectly aware of the power he holds and how to use it effectively, and I love that for him. Cuz he is murder personified and death, especially of that kind *is* cruel and malicious. Also, a nice little loyal puppet that doesn't know any better and already dedicated herself to him? For free? Without him having to do anything special? He'd be an idiot to turn that down. Besides if his other kid fucks up again (I mean theres a track record of that) he already has a spare ready. Thanks, Sarevok, "Elli", dad's finally proud of u guys :)

Oh also "Elli" babe? Yeah you don't get a choice in whether you become a chosen or not. There might be a consent requirement for normal people but being literally created by that God as an affront to nature and life itself kind of overwrites those rules. Hope ur fine with it, and we'll even if you're not; it's not like you could change it lol

[sweatinghoneybee]

Drew out what Glowburst would look like in the fic! Since there hasn’t been any concept art on what Glowburst looks like i’d like to take a crack on what she would probably look like by the little description that we do get of her!

I drew out her past, present and future looks cause since it’s confirmed that Glowburst looks differently from what she looks at present time at the fic and a future look cause i feel like it’s all set and done when she has her family whole again after reuniting with sire again, she’ll have a healing arc where she’s taking herself and gets to spend some quality family time. Even tho there’s a hint that she’s gonna die, but for now i’m gonna be an optimist and just hope that MC will not be tortured by the plot traumas of the future (i know this is in vain but a girl can only wish ok!!)

But disclaimer tho, some of the things i put on Glowburst’s design is sort of headcanons from me with the ideas i come up with the things that are hinted about Glowburst and hasn’t been said yet in the fic, so no one better tell me that i’m off track when future chapters are added cause this design is just what i THINK she’d look like not what she DOES look like at the moment! And I’m honestly just having fun with her design kay? Plus i sort of kind of re-using a failed draft of my version of MC when she got older.

I mostly start with the present one since we got a description from ms.seacucumber that Glowburst looks old and that her paint is faded and since it’s said by MC that she looks like her carrier i got a pretty good draft on what she’d probably look like. I tried to base her off of MC but with slight differences since the sire’s genetic also got inherited so i didn’t want MC and GB to look too similar, and also i sorta made her look like she’s covered up cause i feel like the modification that got hinted in the new chapter 23 would be put over her past armor somewhat like trying to contain the fire in Glowburst to prevent it from well, bursting. And sorta like a symbolism that she’s being constrained and forced to being something she’s not. Also little funny reason on her color picking, i got the idea from A.B.A’s new design in guilty gear where there’s like a theory of sort that her hair is made of copper and that’s why her red hair is now greenish blue because of time and the other theory that it’s because A.B.A tried to dye her hair but ended up coloring it wrong, and since it’s confirmed by Spring that Glowburst has ember color scheme in her past and ember has reds in them i just roled with that color idea. Tho i wonder if i put enough greenishnest in the fading blue paint tho. . . . ? Maybe i’ll meke it more greenish in the future with the blue. . .

And with the present done it’s easy to think of past and future since i just need to branch it out. The reason why I thought of 80s type of inspiration for the past look cause of the description of Glowburst being old and since transformers has already existed since the 80s, I thought that it’ll be a good fit! Tho also fun fact, to get some some ideas on 80s look i looked up 80s cartoons and one of the cartoons that i found on that 80s cartoon list is Jem and the holograms, and i was like “hey MC likes to sing, that could be a good inspiration fit for her mama!”. Also i just really want an 80s based look for Glowburst cause i wanted to give her the poofiest big bursting flames ponytail like those poofy hairs back in the 80s that were popular at that time! And come on her name is Glowburst! Her flames gotta be “bursting” from those “glowing” hues of flames of her’s!!

And the future look i just sort of mismatched both the past and present look since i feel like Glowburst would definitely want to look like back when she was in her past look but with how she’s grown she’s now matured better then her past, and hey blue ain’t a bad color for her just that she never took care of herself that she pretty much neglected her paint till it’s faded so i thought a more vibrant color of the blue symbolizes that she’s now healing since she’ll maybe reunited with her conjunx and now has met Nebula plus having grandkids so she’s a happy elderly now! Also i thought of Glowburst getting accesories that MC made since i thought that Glowburst would love to experiment with her looks plus 80s have some over the top exaggerated accesories so why not? Plus the transformation that i saw with the femmes in G1, their vehicle modes usually only have their chest and thigh parts showing on the outside so i believe that the accesories could work! Plus i mean there’s no way they haven’t figured out how to make accesories right? They already figured out spacebridge portals to teleport them threw galaxies and even multiverses but they couldn’t figure out how to make accesories for fun?

I’ll probably update on her design in the future cause i feel like Glowburst looks will be described more and who knows maybe i can add alittle more things in her design or just feels like that something could suit her more! This was a fun challenge tho, can’t wait to see what sire would look like so that i can make a draft blueprint for him too!

X - X - X - X - X

If anyone is curious and wants to read the fanfic that i’ve been rambling above on the fanart i made, here’s the link to the fic made by a lovely friend of mine!

Spring (the author) works hard to make this lovely work of theirs so please give them some love kay! They’ve been really sweet to answer my questions on what Glowburst looks like and oh darn are they just so sweetly patient with me cause i wanted to not miss a detail of Glowburst’s design since this is an old oc she made that she hasn’t even drawn yet so i wanted to give her design the justice it deserves!! Man can’t wait when Glowburst’s mystery gets revealed along with her conjunx!! I’m so excited!!

[acourtofthought]

This is the new argument from e/riels:

"Yes Lucien was feisty and powerful and sassy and funny in the first book, and that personality slowly started to fade in book 2. This happened because Lucien was originally supposed to be Nesta's mate, but then SJM changed her mind. Lucien slowly became a shadow of his old self to the point where he barely exists in the story. Yes it can partially be attributed to trauma, but he had lived through immense trauma already at the start of book one and still managed to be his foxy, witty self. This is because he will not be a lead in Elain's book or any book. SJM is purposefully downgrading him because he is not meant to fill the role of MMC. She realized that Azriel and Elain have much more chemistry, hence the famous statement about how sometimes she puts two characters together and they just won't work. She left readers a hint about the fact that she was doing this: 'Why make them mates? What if that is what she needs?' using Feyre's words."

What are your thoughts on this?

My thoughts? There will be many 😂

Feyre also said Az would probably never stop loving Mor.

Feyre also told Elain that Lucien cared for her and that he was a good male.

Feyre also once considered Ianthe a friend.

I don't think Feyre's word is one they want to get hung up on.

Lucien did experience trauma in book 1 however the majority of that trauma, the things that impacted him on a bone deep level, happened to him centuries prior. Lucien's main source of trauma in book 1 (to me) was not when Amarantha permanently scarred him but when he lost Jesminda and was chased out of Autumn after having spent years being tormented by Beron and his brothers. But he found some semblance of peace with Tamlin. Was he truly content? Not really but he had a friend, a place in Tamlin's court, the people of Spring looked to him to set the example (friends and purpose, sounds familiar, right?). Despite his past he had still had enough time to settle into his sassiness because his life was somewhat consistent.

However book 2 changed all that. Tamlin and his court began to suffer as a result of what happened during and after UTM. There was the added fear of what Rhys was possibly doing to Feyre and how that affected both he and Tamlin. The stability (illusion of?) he had grown accustomed too (even during Amarantha's reign), began to crumble and the threat of a war was pressing down on them all.

Should Lucien have remained sassy while worrying his friend and his other friends fiance was being tortured? Should he have been feisty knowing they were preparing to ally with the KoH in order to try and get her back? While his friend had taken to threatening him? While his friend was falling apart? While being sexually harassed by Ianthe than having to perform the Rite with her? It's funny how they claim Gwyn won't be ready to leave the library in her book or for sex with Az years after her SA but expect Lucien to be an absolute hoot while his was going on.

Should he then have been sassy knowing that Feyre was plotting the downfall of Tamlin in book 3? After finding out that his lost mate wasn't actually his mate and that his real mate had been taken by his enemy? Should he have been cracking jokes after his magic was stolen and he nearly died trying to fight his way to Elain's side to make sure she was alright? Should he have then been the life of the party while surrounded by multiple characters treating him like dirt in the NC?

Should he be witty and fun and snarky upon the realization that he had no place to go except the human lands after the war? When Tamlin gave him a black eye and cut lip?

SJM isn't putting Lucien through all of this so Az can lead a book with Elain. SJM is putting Lucien through all this so he becomes the ultimate underdog story. In an interview, someone specifically asked SJM if we were going to see the return of sassy Lucien and she said something along the lines of, "I hope so, he's going through a lot right now." The author knows exactly what she's doing with his character and it's not because he's being downgraded. Downgraded men don't get an upgrade to their father and Court they belong to. Downgraded men don't have the author confirming (after ACOMAF had already been written, the book she made Elain and Lucien mates) that Lucien has always been one of her favorite characters. Downgraded men don't school Cassian in his own book with a single word.

"Easy," Lucien said.

Cassian snarled.

"Easy," Lucien repeated, and flame sizzled in his russet eye. The flame, the surprising DOMINANCE within it, hit Cassian like a stone to the head, knocking him from his need to kill and kill and kill whatever might threaten -

If the author wanted us to believe that Elain and Lucien have no chemistry than she would not have had any reason to have Elain ignore him. Instead they would have shared many conversations on page and we would have seen that lack of chemistry playing out in real time. Instead she had Elain cut off communication with Lucien the second she no longer mourned for Graysen to the extent she once did. That's because a single Elain is an Elain that's going to fall in love with Lucien way too quickly, an Elain who shares very obvious chemistry with him and that can't happen before their book.

[transmothofaman]

Batfam AU

Okay so I have only come across one or two reverse!robin posts and don’t know how original these takes are. But whilst weeding i couldn’t help but think about the Batfam’s dynamics and how that would be altered, so I decided to dump a few hcs below (in order of appearance):

1. Duke Thomas: On paper, not much of his origin story really changes. Still has powers, is still Signal, still led something akin to the We Are Robin movement (except it wouldn’t be called that, because ‘Robin’ doesn’t exist yet), and still is part of The Outsiders. He is the first superhero/vigilante to really work with Batman on a regular basis, which of course is a struggle in of itself. He’s no sidekick by any means, but his help when needed becomes vital to Batman and helps the bat become more lenient to working with people.

2. Damian Al-Ghul Wayne: while Damian would have no older siblings constantly at the manor to be jealous of, I think his snobby attitude of instantaneously deserving the Batman mantle is something he still struggles with. He doesn’t really come up with a hero code-name for himself early on in his career (he thinks it’s beneath him); but goons and innocent civilians alike make comments about how he’s always lurking in the shadows and nickname him The Shadow. The nickname sticks, and many a joke can be made about Batman and his Shadow. (if anyone has a better hero name for Damian pls let me know)

3. Cassandra Cain (Wayne): her backstory and such remains the same, except she’s the one who created the mantle of Batgirl (which, of course, looks different from Barabra Gordon’s original batgirl). She’s the first of Bruce Wayne’s adopted children, and I personally don’t think their bond would differ any more than it would from canon. Because she’s introduced earlier in B’s life and can bring out a softer side of the dark knight, Batman’s relationship with the kids that follow are slightly shifted.

4. Timothy Drake: meets Batman because he kept trespassing on Wayne Manor property. Tim has been stalking Batman, figured out his identity, and wants to fill in the vacant spot left by a recently departed Damian [who either A) went rogue B) went off to partner with Jon or C) formed his version of the teen titans, dealer’s choice]. Batman, while comfortable enough with having Batgirl and Signal as assistance covering patrols or messy cases, is at first hesitant to have another constant “sidekick”, but eventually comes around to the idea. Tim would have his own cool name but I’m not that creative.

I didn’t want to dump Jason’s trauma on Tim now that he becomes the second son, but narratively I do think he would’ve ended up dying as well (if so, it’s because Joker Junior was fatal). Yes he ofc comes back, probably angry, but Tim is NOT Jason and will have different reactions/ ways to cope with that.

5. Stephanie Brown : Steph gets introduced mid-Tim’s sidekick run. I don’t think her lore would change much really, you’re doing great sweetie.

6. Jason Todd: Jason meets Batman the same way he meets him in canon, except this time Batman’s trying to cope with loosing Tim and his failed partnership with Stephanie (she’s killing it as Cass’ partner though), but decides to recruit and later adopt Jason anyways. Jason would take on Tim’s old mantle, but I think he would eventually carve out his own vigilante identity when he got older. He still becomes Red Hood after a very rough falling out with Bruce, but like in canon they’re slowly able to rebuild their relationship.

7. Dick Grayson: our boy wonder gets introduced in the same manor as in canon, he just does it later when Bruce has already gotten a bunch of kids. He still creates the outfit and mantle of Robin, and becomes Batman’s new main partner-in-crime fighting.

8. Barbara Gordon: Her overall dynamic with the other bats would change from canon (it would be her looking up to Cass and Steph rather than the other way around). I think she and Dick would have the same dynamic as in The Batman (2004).

I haven’t read every bat-related comic ever and would love to hear any thoughts/suggested changes you all have! Thanks for reading this monstrosity of a post!

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

WIP Wednesday

Hello, it’s me- the angst fairy- back again with something needlessly angsty. I was reminded recently about a scene I’d deleted from an old fic of mine. No regrets about deleting, it was the right decision, but I was sad to cut it. B-15 deserves more character analysis. So sharing it now.

Tagging just a few folks who I don’t think will mind the angst but anyone else who sees this and wants to participate in sharing their art or writing- please do! 💚 (And please tag me in your posts so I don’t miss it) @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @lgwilt @dewdropreader

Deleted scene from a fic where Mobius is trying to ignore his trauma but the memories of those he’s pruned keep on coming. B-15 helps him through it. (I noticed on B-15’s Funko Pop that she tracked her kills on her helmet and decided, as I do, there’s an angsty story there.)

Verity stopped and opened a small door to their left, pulling Mobius inside an empty room.

“I thought you said we were running late to another meeting?”

“There’s no meeting,” she said. “Just looked like you needed a break from the briefing. Take a minute.”

Mobius nodded and let his head fall against the door behind him, relishing the feeling of cool metal against his skin. It was quiet. There were no glaring lights, no beeping machines, no questions he didn’t know the answer to. Mobius took a few steady breaths until the headache pounding in his head subsided. He opened his eyes to find Verity watching him closely.

“Thanks,” Mobius said, pushing himself from the door and straightening his tie. “I feel better. Don’t tell Loki he was right. He warned me that a meeting on numerical code methodology for new timelines would put me to sleep.”

He turned to share a laugh with Verity but her face didn’t show any amusement. Instead, she looked concerned.

“I don’t think this was as simple as you falling asleep in a meeting,” she said carefully.

Mobius stilled. He had hoped his episodes weren’t noticeable but he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep them from Verity. She was smart. It’s why he named her Deputy Director.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked after a few moments of silence.

Flashes of a park on a sunny day, a couple laughing, a timestick in his hand, a scream of terror, and a case file— variants eliminated— sped through Mobius’ mind before they were gone.

“No… I don’t remember what I was thinking about,” Mobius answered honestly. It was probably for the best he didn’t remember.

Verity frowned. “You shouldn’t repress your memories.”

Mobius slumped back against the door with a groan. She was right. While they still didn’t quite understand what the TVA had done to them, they were beginning to understand how they could heal their broken minds. Mobius knew the steps a TVA worker should take when they felt their memories resurface —he’d help write the protocol— but it was time consuming. For an organization that existed outside time, Mobius sure felt they were constantly running out of it. He didn’t have time to practice the techniques he’d taught others.

“There are too many cases that need my attention right now,” Mobius said.

“You need to offload some of those. I keep telling you-”

“I know, I know. I will. I just need to get through this Mandarin case first.”

“And then?” Verity pressed.

“And then I’ll take a few days off and sort through some of this… stuff.

Verity gave a disbelieving huff.

“I will.”

A heavy silence fell between the two agents and Mobius looked at the room around them. They were in one of the storage rooms that used to hold confiscated variants’ possessions. Without the stolen artifacts filling the shelves, the room seemed hollow. Purposeless. Mobius didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it in the reallocation.

“You’re not the only one who’s struggling,” Verity whispered. Her voice was soft, so soft that even in the silence of the abandoned room Mobius hardly heard her. At first, he wasn’t sure she intended to speak the words out loud.

“That’s how I knew you were having an episode,” she continued, twiddling with the cufflinks on her new suit in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I get these… headaches sometimes. Everything blurs together and I can’t remember where or when I am. It’s like I’m lost in my memories or, no, it’s like I’m trapped… trapped by him again… like we never escaped.”

Verity clenched her eyes shut with a sharp inhale of breath as if she were trapped inside a memory right now and Mobius reached out, taking her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He knew how terrifying it was to be stuck in your memories, to feel like you were back under his control. They may have defeated He Who Remains but he was still here. He always would be. There was no amount of running they could do to escape him entirely. It made Mobius feel weak. He hated thinking Verity felt the same.

“Did you know I used to track kills on my helmet?” Verity asked.

Mobius nodded. He remembered. His memories might be splintered but he remembered enough. He remembered what they were a part of.

“I hated that thing,” she scowled. “I hated that number printed on the side. The paint was fresh when I started but sometimes I swore I could see the etchings of another number. The number of whoever I replaced when they were deemed ineffective. I wondered how long it would be before they replaced me.

“I thought if I marked my helmet as my own, if I made it look different, I would feel better. They wouldn’t paint over it so easy. I thought if I pruned more than anyone else, I could prove to the Timekeepers that I was better than everyone else in my unit. That I would feel useful, good, like what I was doing mattered but-” Verity’s voice cracked and Mobius squeezed her hand tighter. “I only ever felt more angry. So, I pruned more hoping that feeling would go away. It never did. It just kept getting worse and worse and worse until…” Verity trailed off.

“Until Sylvie,” Mobius finished.

“Until Sylvie,” Verity agreed, wiping her eyes and pulling back with a soft smile on her face. “Sylvie showed me everything I lost and suddenly it all made sense. I knew why I hated that number. I knew why I woke up furious at the world, looking to punish anyone who got in my way. It’s because that number wasn’t my name. Who they made me wasn’t me.

“They took everything from us and while we can’t travel back in time and change what was done, we can change our future. We have the opportunity to fight for something we believe in now. Sylvie and Loki gave us that.”

Warmth spread through Mobius as the mention of Loki’s name. He looked down at the ring on his left hand and smiled, running his finger along the band again. He would never understand how he’d gotten so lucky; he would do everything in his power to be the man Loki believed him to be.

“You gave us this opportunity too,” Verity added. “When we burnt down our old TVA, you built a new one and you didn’t dictate a new purpose but rather showed us what a new purpose could be. We chose to follow you. We choose this life. And…” Mobius felt Verity give his hands a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to carry it alone. We want to help you.”

Mobius carefully untangled his hands from Verity’s and took a step backwards. “I know.”

“Good,” Verity nodded with an air of finality. “At least let Loki help you. I don’t know what’s going on between you two but he’s started helping me with my cases.”

Mobius snorted. He could only imagine how that was going.

“It’s not funny, Mobius. He’s driving me nuts. You need to let him return to smothering you otherwise I might just send him to the Void without his TemPad.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mobius chuckled at Verity’s hollow threat. “I’ll talk to him. Now, come on. I think we both deserve a little treat after all this. Let’s see what Processing confiscated today.”

Verity hesitated. “Mobius, I don’t care how many different variations you force me to try, I’m not going to like any timeline’s Josta.”

“What?? After all that talk about hope and change. One day I am going to find you a Josta you like. But no, I actually wasn’t talking about Josta this time. I heard Processing just got back with a case full of strawberry margarita mix. If that interests you.”

Verity’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. “Now, you’re speaking my language. Lead the way, Director. Josta aside, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I’ll follow you anywhere.

Mobius’ steps faltered as he swallowed over the lump of fear in his throat at the words. Verity and the entire TVA would follow him. They were depending on him to show them the way, to fix things and Mobius couldn’t let them down. He wouldn’t.

Okay, I’ll write something fluffy and cute for next time. I promise I do know how to write sweet things 😅

[cas-readsandwrites]

~~ Masterlist ~~

Thank you for stopping by! This blog and my writing projects are a giant work in progress since starting up writing again about six months ago. I don't keep a posting schedule though I do try to stick around and be active, but it comes and goes with seasons of life. Feel free to peruse, drop me a message, or suggest something new for me to read!

The Last Of Us

Lavender: Interludes

Set in Jackson post TLOU S1 in the Lavender universe by @justagalwhowrites, a few little scenes of Joel, Doc, and the fam in Jackson. Listen I am not pregnant, I have no desire to be pregnant, so I don’t know WHERE this came from, but I love soft Joel healing from his trauma and finding love and joy in his family! Many thanks to Kit for being totally cool with this fanfic of her fanfic and encouraging me to post! All character credit, plot, and setting to her. Content: Reader is described as pregnant. There is smut. And fluff. And love. Grab some ice cream and your heating pads if you’re in the same time of the month as me. Minors DNI. 3.6k words One-shot, complete.

Traipse - in progress!

For @justagalwhowrites Birthday Challenge for our favorite TLOU main character. Prompts: Nightmares and Feral Joel. Setting: TLOU HBO series, set within the period of 5-20 years after the outbreak. Characters: Joel x OC Female, Tommy, Tess. Projected length: 10k+ Author’s note: This is literally the worst birthday present I could give anyone. Content warnings for canon-typical violence, character deaths, suicidal ideation, substance use. It is not a happy ending. It’s gonna be kind of long. Someone toss me down a well after this.  Credit to the lyrics of Traipse by Tremonti for story title and chapter titles 🖤 AO3 link

Welcome

Setting: TLOU, right after S1 finale, back in Jackson Characters: Joel x OC reader, Ellie Length: 2.5k Rating: This one is all-ages fluff (…for now?) Stands as a one-shot for now, might grow in the future!

[untitled] - prompted by a reblog *shrug*

‘Verse: TLOU, TV series, set before the show timeline Characters: Joel x Female Reader, only physical description is “not petite” so all you smol Joel lovelies can just imagine him effortlessly handling you. Length: 1.7k Rating: M, 18+ only, unprotected P in V, consent is sexy, practice safe sex IRL friends! One-shot, complete

death on the wind - a 600 word ficlet set immediately after s2e2

The Mandalorian

Tiny Chaos, Big Love: a holiday fic challenge with Hallmark-levels of cheesiness, featuring The Mandalorian x reader, their favorite little green sidekick, and a community holiday celebration.

Grogu's Dream - my very first fic shared here, dedicated to my subreddit friends and those who encouraged me to get back into writing and fanfic <3

Here

Setting: The Mandalorian, doesn’t matter when, Din exists, that’s all we need to know for now! Characters: The Mandalorian x female reader (AFAB, no mention of breasts) Length: 1.8k Rating: Minors do not enter! M for mature. Here be smut. That’s all it is. One-shot, complete

Prospect

To Leave The Green - Ezra & Cee, for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge prompt: groundhog day

Setting: Prospect. Set between the shootout where Ezra and Cee first meet and the end of the film… and how do we know it didn’t actually happen? That the Ezra we see in the film hasn’t already lived it a millenniary of times? “I like to think about what happens between what’s already been written, so I add new scenes sometimes, because then I get to spend more time in their world.” -Cee  Rating: PG-13, not quite as bad as the movie’s R, less language, similar content. Length: 2k One-shot, complete AO3 link

Due : King of Hearts (unaired pilot), 500 word challenge for @itwasntimethatdidit40 . new 3.16.25

Narcos - coming soon, see WIPs below :)

Star Wars misc

May the Fourth challenge

‘Verse: Star Wars, Rebels, set within S2 finale Characters: Chopper, Kanan, Ezra Length: 1.4k Rating: PG Oneshot, complete

The Old Guard

Nile

A slice-of-life dive into the characters' lives, following Nile's 3rd-person POV. Set immediately after the end of the movie and will stretch a few decades into the future as Nile settles into her new life and we see a glimpse of how the guard adjusts to gains, losses, and life between harrowing conflicts. There will be a few nods to the graphic novels throughout but this is mostly my "what happens next" after immediately finishing the movie. Series complete. Rating: We'll stick with the movie's R for language, canon-typical action/violence. AO3 link

A Sleep Token Collection: An anthology, very much a work in progress. new 2.21.25

Originals

Bravery - poetry prompt from @arianathepoet : Write about someone who taught you to be brave; what does bravery mean to you and how did that person teach you to embody it?

Collections

@pascalsanctuary fics of the day

WIPs and sneaky-peekies

Upcoming Joel Birthday Challenge ; and more ; another

I Won't Leave You

If Javi Calls ; and more ; a little more at the end here

WIP Tag Game ; another round

TLOU Music AU

Firefly/Mando crossover

Triple Frontier... Frankie afterwards, more

[olderthannetfic]

I have a question. I’m new to the discourse around fanfiction & censorship, so I was curious about what the general consensus regarding fic about underaged characters in live action media was. Underage is my biggest squick, but I feel pretty neutral about how people write/draw smut of cartoon characters, as they barely register as human for me. Characters played by actual child actors though… I guess I’m just wondering what’s going through the heads of people who write that stuff? Or minor rpf for that matter. What is appealing about it? I’m willing suspend my disbelief & accept that they don’t actually want to abuse kids, but like, what is fulfilling about that fantasy? I’m not in favor of censorship or arresting anyone over a fictional story, but I just can’t wrap my head around it.

--

That's quite a failure of imagination there, anon.

Other people are not you, and they don't necessarily have this squick. That's the main answer.

From people who don't try to problematize this, there isn't really any discourse. Fiction is fiction.

Cartoon characters register as people to plenty of viewers. (And moron antis think cartoon characters count just as much as live action ones when it comes to screaming about problematicness.) Actors playing teenagers are often in their 20s. Coming of age novels dealing with sexuality have been normal all over the world since forever.

--

But let's start with some low hanging fruit:

If you're 17 years + 364 days, you're below the age of consent lots of places. Do you, anon, honestly think it's weird to be into someone one day before their 18th birthday but not the day after? What if you live somewhere where the age of consent is 16? Is it still weird to be into 17-year-olds from places where the age of consent is 18?

Most people remember being teenagers. They may feel nostalgic. They may want to imagine the nice teenage experiences they never got to have.

Lots of fic writers are currently teenagers. Not as many as ageist online spaces think, but still quite a lot. Is it weirder for a 15-year-old to have a crush on a 15-year-old than a 40-year-old?

"They looked 18, Your Honor" is a weak-ass excuse for fucking underage people in real life, but that's not the same as finding characters on your tv hot. Not only are the actors usually above 18 because filming underage actors is a fucking nightmare logistically due to work constraints, but a lot of younger actors are often made up in ways that make them look like they could be way older. People also vary widely in how they look at various ages.

If you can accept that lust exists and is valid, you can accept that lots of people will see some teen and think they're hot. There isn't some specific categorical difference in how all teenagers look and how all 20-somethings look.

Doing something about it in real life and doing something about it in fiction are different.

--

Now, as for "child actors", that term is used for a wide variety of ages, but let's assume you mean Stranger Things wank, like most people moaning about underage actor RPF do, so we're talking about tweens who genuinely do look pretty young to grown-ass adults.

The first thing I have to ask you is why the fuck you would imagine that writers identify with some adult fucking these kids? It's far, far more likely that they identify with the characters themselves or the actors.

Why would they identify with them? It could be anything from working through their own trauma at a similar age to just liking the vibe of a character because of how the show is written.

Lots of people's brains barf out dark scenarios 24/7 without them ever having experienced any major trauma and without it meaning anything much. Some people channel that into fiction.

If you are a boring person who has both a vanilla brain and no imagination, this might seem surprising to you, but it shouldn't.

--

Moreover, your ask implies that underage fic is highly sexual or maybe coercive or something, but you haven't actually stated that. Are we talking about rapefic of 5-year-olds or about someone writing the Stranger Things characters holding hands?

Are you just not sexual at all, anon? Personally, I went from zero to MEGA HORNY at thirteen and a half. It was like a switch flipped. Sure, I wasn't getting any action because I was a zit-covered and socially incompetent 13-year-old, but I was definitely interested.

It's not strange that an artist or author of whatever sort would explore puberty in their art. It's not strange that they'd remember their own sexual awakening or that this awakening would be long before age 18.

It's also not strange if people write super dark shit about small children because it being extreme and taboo and horrible is often the point of art.

--

You're "willing to suspend disbelief"? How magnanimous! How generous!

Seriously, anon?!

The way you've phrased this question makes it sound like you have a brain the size of a walnut.

Would you ask such a stupid question in such an offensively loaded manner about all the coming of age novels that are considered Great Literature™? Would you ask why YA exists?

And if you wouldn't, why is it that amateur writing by women and sexual minorities makes you nervous when mainstream-approved things don't?

[laurasauras]

rose lalonde. that's it, that's the question.

isn't it just! god i love rose.

it's that she's one of those girls who pretends she has it all together, who thinks she's worth more because she is witty and can come up with brilliant burns exactly on cue, but she's also the girl who pretended her cat could talk to her and who would pretend to have a magnetic W as a mustache and is 13 and was probably making potions in the mud with a stick last week.

she's as cool and calm as a forest pond, and you know there are depths there but you assume those depths are things like "can commune with gods (really)" and "maybe she's telling the truth when she says she's read proust". and then you're 14 and so is she and you're finding out that the depths are "she learned how to cope with being bored and isolated and doomed from a mother she maybe shouldn't have forgiven".

and oh, i have all the pity in the world for momlonde. how awful to be put on this planet to raise a child who will end the world before creating a new one? how could you make friends under those circumstances, knowing they would all die because of what the universe has planned for your little girl? how could you sleep at night knowing that at the very least she'll be traumatised, but it's much more likely that she'll just be dead.

but rose didn't know any of that.

rose just knew that her mother wasn't around, not even to make sure she had the capacity to feed herself, let alone making sure that she was.

she knew that if she screamed that she wanted to kill herself or jammed needles in a (dead) powerpoint, her mother wouldn't talk to her, but she might be given a pony or something.

she knew that the only time her mother was around was when she was drunk, and when she was drunk she would be able to tell rose that she loved her and that she was perfect, and maybe she was merry or maybe she was crying but whatever it was, it was fucking hard to trust. because being sober next to a drunk person's sincerity is unbearable. you know that if they weren't drunk they wouldn't be crying or saying all of that, so it doesn't fucking count. and if you were so perfect and loved, then why would she even need to drink. you're 10 years old and you're supposed to be the centre of your mother's whole life, but you're not and you never have been. you're just the inconvenient kid she remembers when her breath stinks and she can't pronounce your name anymore.

and when you're 14 and she's dead and you're staring at the code you found while trying to make apple juice for someone who is your family (but you can't express your love for him), you remember being 4 and standing in her high heels, your ankles barely poking out of the toe of the shoe. and now they fit pretty damn well.

you're on a journey you can't speed up, knowing that at the end of all this bullshit that doesn't matter the people closest to you might be hurt, might be dead, and the air smells just a little bit doomed ... and in that golden window after two drinks but before five, your mom was charming and funny and beautiful, and she could actually say what she felt. if you're going on your first date with a woman who might make the meaningless tedium worth it, maybe you could use a little of that.

BUT ROSE ISN'T JUST HER TRAUMA!

Rose Is The Flame I Am Drawn To. She Makes Me Feel More Alive Just By Glancing At Me. I Am Bewitched By Her Intelligence And Electrified By Her Humour And Devoted To Her, Just Her, Everything That She Is

rose acts like shes a princess and like the rest of us should feel grateful that she even notices we exist but when you get down to it no one carries a bit like her. she matches me every goddamn step no matter what and she gets what its like to care without making some kind of deal about it

rose is just kind of a dork. it's funny how everyone thinks she's scary. okay, so in a battle between chuck norris and rose lalonde, chuck is going home crying about his kicked nuts and his mommy issues, but just because rose is badass doesn't mean she isn't also the kind of girl who snorts milk through her nose laughing at me pretending to be a walrus with breadsticks. last week. we are 40.

(dear god i'm sorry about the inaccuracy of those text colours, it hurts me too)

so yeah. rose lalonde. that's it, that's the answer.

[do-i-look-like-a-doctor]

okay but the Naruto universe is so fucking weird yet funny if you explain it and question it.

first, you have this lil orphan broke kid ninja boy named after a fishroll. then, you have an emo kid who acts like he got parents and a good way in life despite the fact he’s equally as much of an orphan as Mr. Broke-Blonde-Bitch. THEN you have this normal chick with pink hair who signed up for absolutely none of this nonsense yet got dragged into it. tell me why it’s these three against the world yet none of them can function together? it’s like watching ferrets hyped up on PCP fight over raw spaghetti noodles. dont even get me started when they were in school together, i can bet every person here 6 cents that at some point Sakura aka Ms. Fuckall got tired of Naruto and Sasuke’s bullshit and just tried to abandon them at an animal shelter.

speaking of school and general tomfoolery, why was the dude in charge of these three young squishy brained freaks the most depressed 20 something year old creature on the planet? i will admit, Kakashi is attractive and a great dude. he is so iconic, he misses his old team, and it’s clear he wanted best for his Group of Weird Children but he also reads porn all day and his mask probs smells like cheap aftershave.

if i was a 13 year old ninja child and i saw my sensai (who’s name sounds like cashew) doing all that i’d assume im either about to learn a sick ass skill (how to not cope with emotional trauma properly) or im about to get my ass handed to me. or im about to dropout.

back on track. so you’ve got orphan #1, orphan #2, Ms. Get-Me-Out-Of-Here, and Emotionally Repressed Man in one team. what do the kids do? beef for like 3048384 episodes. what does Kakashi do? try to teach them the power of friendship the entire damn series. oh, and let’s not forget that Naruto apparently has a demon fox inside him because of course he does.

anyways, once the team gets good at teaming they haul off to take their lil ninja exams. who do they meet? some kid named Gaara with smudged eyeliner and shaved brows. he’s a red-head, that’s cute. oh and he can control sand and tries to kill every child in the exams because his dad is a piece of shit hipster. who else do they meet? a kid named Rock Lee who can kick really hard, a girl named Tenten who wishes for all of us to stfu, and poor Neji who can’t keep doing this. there’s also some guy named Guy. yeah, the chunin exams nearly flop because Gaara doesn’t know how to act right.

all this is happening but the pivotal of it all? Sasuke decides to be extra emo and FUCKS OFF TO KILL HIS HALF BLIND SICKLY OLDER TWINK BROTHER.

then, Naruto decides he wants to harness his powers and FUCKS OFF WITH AN OLD ASS BUSHY HAIRED MAN WHO WRITES PORN. Jiraiya needs to be studied on a microscopic spiritual level. he is why SCP’s exist.

who let these kids out? i told you all not to feed the animals and look what happened. now theres beef between a group of kids and the akatsuki.

oh and the akatsuki?? don’t get me started. wtf is that. why is this group of fucked up people with weird powers who are being led by a ginger hive mind of corpses just wandering around? and why is Weasel, aka Itachi, in the middle of it with his goofy explosive hypnotic eyeballs? i want them all put down.

so you’ve got the evil eldirch horrors in the streets. thats fine. Naruto gets put into a new gang cuz Kakashi has to hospitalized. cool, whatever. Naruto decides to start hutning down his rogue boyfriend alongside Sakura, who became a sickass ninja doctor, along with his new sensei Yamato. wonderful… THEN SOME BITCH NAMED SAI SHOWS UP.

DO NOT GET ME STARTED.

what is that? why is it emo? why is its tongue tattooed? put it back outside bro i stg. i love him so much.

everything is just everywhere in this anime bro I can’t. Sasuke is no where to be seen, Naruto is doing fuckall across the world with his groupie, Kakashi is lowkey sad again cuz his kids are gone, and Sakura can barely breathe without issues occurring.

not just that but the twink brother named Weasel is being stupid and enables his own murder. yeah he basically wants Sasuke to come for his ass. meanwhile, Naruto comes home bigger, better, older but still broke and full of fox demon. still, not a single soul except his friends and teachers like him. shit gets even more wild, it becomes knock-off Cheetah Girls vs. The World.

girl i gotta go before i hurt someone. see yall in part 2.

(all of this is heavily unedited, apologies for mistakes)

[namig42]

Was chatting with my lovely mutual @mortalasystem about my Wyllstarion fic Just One Yesterday and some of the inspo that got me started on it, and I thought why not share those things with people who might be looking for good recs? With that, here are some of the biggest inspirations for my super involved story!

Friday Nights by @sadinasaphrite

So the first and probably most prominent inspiration for a modern au is this wonderful Bloodweave fic called Friday Nights over on ao3. I really loved the chemistry between Gale and Astarion in this one, and Gale's perspective was very interesting, especially with the mix of magic still in this au. Wonderfully written, very considerate of Astarion's circumstances as a sex worker, and a happy ending to wrap it all up nicely!

Read it on Ao3

Sex worker/Charity worker Halstarion AU by @malacandrax

This comic has nine parts as of now that are all little snippets of Halsin being a concerned social worker and Astarion as a sex worker in a 70s/80s UK setting. OP really took a lot of consideration writing this one and portraying realistic steps that someone in Astarion's situation could take, and I love how they really captured both characters so well. The progression between the Astarion and Halsin is really nicely done, even in such small snippets. 11/10, definitely recommend.

Link to Part 1 here

Perfect Slaughter by @imagineitdearies

This is a Tavstarion fic that honestly captivated me so much from beginning to end. It's a long form fic that is incredibly compelling and is an alternate au prequel to the events of BG3. Tyrus, the protagonist, is a very compelling original character, and his relationship with Astarion in the hell that is Cazador's palace was so well crafted. This was the story that had me wanting to explore more relationships with Astarion in my own writing, focus on dark topics and give them the respect they deserve such as trauma, abuse, and torture, and try my own hand at writing something long form. It's gotten a great deal of praise, all of which is well deserved, and I cannot recommend it enough.

Read it on Ao3

The funny thing about my Wyllstarion thing was that there was actually very little Wyllstarion inspiration. I saw some good art here and there on tumblr, but not very much at the time. My dash was mostly bloodweave if anything. Still, there was just enough of an inkling in my head of Wyll and Astarion, and then a dumbass idea came to me one day.

I wrote it in the first chapter's notes on Ao3, but the thing that kicked this multi chapter obsession into gear was...

Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy

A song off a ten year old album. That's what did it. Specifically the lyrics:

Anything you say can and will be held against you,

So only say my name. It will be held against you.

Those two lines had my brain swimming with a one-shot smut fic of a police officer Wyll and a sex worker Astarion, but a one shot wasn't enough for the romantic that is Wyll. I couldn't write him having a first meeting kind of fling. I wrote out the original one shot idea, let it sit for a couple months, and then suddenly, something clicked in my brain and the whole thing took off from there.

Still, without this lyric, the story wouldn't exist at all. Honestly, going back and listening to the whole song after everything I've written so far, I think it's a fitting title and song in its own way. Highly recommend giving it a listen if you aren't familiar!

---

That's all the big ones. If other things come to mind that I missed, I'll reblog this and add onto it. In the meantime, I highly recommend checking these things out and showing the artists some love! Thanks for taking the time to read, and I hope you found something new to enjoy!

[traumatas]

Saw your OC pie chart and was wondering- do you have a favorite OC? The one you spoil/draw/write the most and keep coming back to? Only if you feel like sharing!! :D

Very loaded question. At first I was like god a favorite OC? How shall I ever decide? But what am I fooling myself for? The obvious answer about who I keep coming back to would be Vince and Anise. They got to be the OCs of all OCs for me and my husband, I thinks.

This is them :]

And this is a little Vince Crochet Doll my husband made with little minifurniture that's all handmade too! He didn't. Have clothes till a few days ago which is why it took so long to answer this and my husband wants you to know he gave him decency just for you

And the rest was supposed to go under a read more but Tumblr didn't wanna make that work bc it's fuckinf busted, dude.

There's about a million AUs we have about them and I might focus more on the general idea of who they are.

So Vince and Anise, yeah? I'm going to try to stick a little with their ORGINAL scenario which we haven revisited in FOREVER.

Vince is a painter. Originally the entire base of him existing was the fact that I love the Van Goghs painting style a lot. The texture of it all, the subjects, etc, etc, you catch my drift? He used to live with his family but ended up kind of loosing his muse, in a way. Unsatisfied, maybe even struggling with selling his art at all and so he decided to take the leap to move to a town called Far Cove that's located on a Peninsula. Just removed himself from home in hopes to find new inspiration. He lives a little out of town, on a cliff, kind of old and run down house, not hooked up to the electric grid. Best he could afford. Very much your struggling artist Archetype. Rather pessimistic and reclusive at first, though at heart he's very much a people person and loves being around others. Big family guy too, hes the middle sibling of four. One older brother and two younger sisters that are twins.

Just kind of stuck in a huge creative slump.

Now Anise is a little harder to explain, but essentially, hes pure magic. A star come to earth in most scenarios wether he remembers or is aware or not. He works as a witch! Though his methods are very unconventional. He isn't doing things by the book, often not being taken for full, people not quite trusting his too good to be true offers. But he just loves helping people, firm believer of I help you and you help me. Kindness. Found his way to Far Cove, something rather magical about this place to him. Due to lore reasons. Anise powers are far beyond what he shows and he actually doesn't enjoy using his immense magical ability for big feats, part of it due to the trauma of being taken advantage off before. He can get quite intense when he truly believes in something.

In their original story set up he more or less wandered into Vince front yard, head to the ground looking for herbs and mushrooms. All while Vince enjoys his morning coffee and cigarette, looking out his kitchen window and watching this other person he's never seen start crawling under his porch.

To Vince Anise is very much an odd character at first but rather interesting. He's seen witches work in the city before, has heard of them and what they do but Anise is certainly different from that. All while Anise finds Vince equally as fascination because oh gosh! A painter! Isn't that neat.

What does he draw? Is it people, is it nature is it things that are only in his head? Anise is extrovert enough to also simply wish to make friends. After all he just moved here and at that point Vince been there a while.

Just... the whole romantic an sappy idea of someone becoming your new muse and allowing you to see things you thought you knew into a different like, allowing and helping Vince to find new joy in creating and away from what the city might have taught him he should draw like. And Vince giving Anise a sense of secutiy because he simply doesn't judge? He does not question the way he dresses or how he does his magic. Almost actively listening and encouraging and giving him outspoken support. Which is not something Anise is used to... he really wishes emotional connections and companionships.

Oh it might also be important to mention that they are like. Destined to find each other. Soulmates if you will...They are just huge comfort OC's for me and my husband... The world of Far Cove in general is VERY MUCH established, supporting characters, other OCs, even OCs we once had we integrated in here. Far Cove my beloved OC Universe.