#that its still worth fighting for and that it is much preferable to the alternatives everyone else is currently trying to sale me

[ameliafuckinjones]

Disliking online communist/leftists might be my strongest American trait, to be honest. But then again, I dislike them as much as I dislike the far right. Both are extremists who believe in acceleration. They both fantasize about some fanatic blood thirsty revolution/rebellion taking form to punish those who do not adhere to their ideology, but they don't ever imagine themselves partaking in that revolution/rebellion, but as a spectator from afar in the comforting bosom of their middle class lifestyle (which they imagine will still miraculously exist), far, far away from the political turmoil as the poor, who they've always seen as violent and animalistic, even if in a noble savage sort of way, throw themselves into the meat grinder. The left wants to bring about the current world orders downfall because it's "fascist." They don't look at the alternatives (Russia, the CCP, or Jihadists/terrorists organizations, all of whom are currently vying for power in their respective regions or the millions of people currently suffering under their regimes and the millions of more who will suffer if they should ever rise to such dominance) nor do they hold as much vitriol for these countries/organizations or hold them to the same standards they hold America and the West to. Some even root for them, even in light of what's happened in the past two years (especially in regards to Russia).

The far right wants to bring about the downfall of the current world order because it's to "liberal" or "progressive." There's to many people of color, to many immigrants, to many gay people and pronouns, the modern western woman is to promiscuous and fat and liberal, "look at what they took from you" they say, while looking at some 1960s propaganda slop of a world that didn't truly exist beyond a brush stroke. They to want Russia and the CCP and the Jihadists to come to rise, but not because they view these groups as beacons of progressivism and liberation as the leftists do, but because they view them as the opposite. The far right looks at Russia and sees a white Christian ethnostate going against the globohomo world order, they see the CCP as a conservative homogeneous ethnostate going against the globohomo world order, they see the Jihadists as a radical ultra religious group going against the globohomo world order.

In so many ways, the horseshoe theory is real because both sides see these groups and project upon them their ideologies and beliefs irregardless if these groups actually hold these ideologies and beliefs, and salivate at the thought of these groups rising to prominence to "own the libs". Most of these people are white and so I suppose that's why I have a hard time caring about their political grievances with America or the West, because I am not white and if they do get their way and see the downfall of America and the West we all know who'll be the first to go and it's not them :)

[applestorms]

thinking about how near refers to light at the end of the series— not really as light yagami, not even really as kira, and not quite as L, but rather an amalgamation of titles: L-KIRA, a twisted mix of two personas, masks on top of masks. no longer a person but a series of letters, a filtered voice through a screen. a man who has built his entire life in the space between lies, who cannot let himself stop for a second without the weight of his own guilt, his sins, crushing him. regrets repressed because this is the only way it could ever be, it has to be worth it, it has to, it has to, because you can’t even bring yourself to consider what it all means otherwise.

i am a firm believer that light yagami, the son, the student, the average human person, dies at the same time that L does. at least at the beginning of the series he has some semblance of normalcy to hold himself to, the Serious Student persona that keeps him walking to and from school and talking to people and eating dinner with his family at home. how many times do we really see him going outside, post-L death? how often do we see him outside of some L-based police HQ, talking to people he isn’t trying to manipulate? really, it’s no wonder he falls so far, alienated as he is from the rest of humanity. when was the last time he breathed long enough to remember what the sky looks like? hugged his mom, laughed with his sister? did he ever visit his father’s grave? does he remember what the breeze smells like? was he ever really happy? did he deny himself his only chance?

at least in the case of L and near the isolation feels intentional, a preferable choice, carefully and logically considered for all the pros and cons. light never asked for the position he fell into, that fell upon him, that he created for himself. he denies the death note being a curse, but it’s not like he could ever admit it if it was.

light’s story arc in death note really feels like a tragedy to me, specifically in the sense that he never really gets the chance to change. on a plot level this is true, much of the second half of the story post-L death is light utilizing the exact same strategies as before (taking away his ownership of the DN to Strategize, romancing a woman he doesn’t care for to use her, fighting a snarky troll of a super genius hiding behind a letter whose real name & face he cannot find), but it’s true on an emotional level too. light never really gets to grow up, he never gets the chance to truly question his ideals or goals without the world he’s built by himself crashing down around him.

i keep thinking back to the significance of matsuda asking him about his dad, how he could drag him to his death for the sake of all of this. light’s response, so truthful in its desperation, really sums it all up: he died for a reason. KIRA has to win, or his dad died for nothing. he cannot face the idea that he caused his own father’s death, so KIRA must be justice. there is no other alternative. KIRA is god, or light yagami killed his own father for a fairytale.

really, it’s so fitting that his name uses the kanji for moon. moonlight— not originating from the moon itself but a reflection, of something brighter, greater, more powerful than he could ever be. light dies the same way as every other criminal he passed his judgement upon, on his knees and desperate, pathetic, begging for life even as he knows he is doomed to the same fate of nothingness that he granted to everybody else. godhood denied. he said it himself, that he could never be anything more than a human, but somewhere in the fog he lost track of the person he once was. and it’s near’s cruelest observation that stands out the most to me in that final scene— that he never really had to be this. he could’ve stopped at any point, felt his guilt, paid his regrets, and moved on with his humanity still intact. light has spent far too long repressing and denying to ever consider that an option anymore— but there was still room for sympathy for the 17 year old kid who killed without thinking, long before he built up such a dedicated palace of lies to justify his actions and hide away his guilt.

L-KIRA dies on the floor of a dirty, abandoned building, surrounded by the people he spent years manipulating and lying to and betraying. light yagami dies in a helicopter, locked and chained to his only closest equal, holding a notebook that he would use to sound the death knell of his own fate and wearing his father’s gifted watch.

[chefwhatnot]

A Too-Close Analysis of the Double Exposure Treatments from Duskmourn (2/2)

We return to the Double Exposure cards from Duskmourn! This post will be going over all the cards I didn't talk about in the first part, which is all the legends that don't appear in the main story (not including Altanak, Norin, and Arabella since they're all at uncommon so none of them got Double Exposure printings). Now, because we don't know much about most of these characters, this part will include a lot more educated guesses. Quick shoutout to wotc for posting the "Legends of Duskmourn" article a little bit earlier than they usually do so I have a little bit more to go off of. Away we go!

(Oh, and if you missed Part 1, you can find it here)

Toby, Beastie Befriender-

A creepy Jack-in-the-Box looms behind Toby's profile. Could simply be that kids are afraid of clowns, or perhaps something more? A Jack-in-the-Box is startling, and even though Toby says he has his Beastie friends to protect him, that would not make him immune to a brief startle, would it?

The Mindskinner-

A hand. Who is its owner? Unclear, but the clawed motif on the gloves make it almost look like it belongs to a Razorkin. From the Legends article, the Mindskinner is the fear of Razorkin, and employs a much more gradual and insidious methodology compared to the rest of the nightmares in the House. Based on this double exposure, it seems that not even Razorkin are immune to being targeted by its cruel whims. Plus, the only way to drive off the Mindskinner is to have your glimmer nearby, meaning Razorkin, who've already given themselves in to maddening pain make for easy prey. It might have enough intelligence to find this delightfully ironic, to torture that which first gave it form.

Kona, Rescue Beastie-

Overlaid on Kona’s profile is a set of canine jaws, facing the same direction as her. Two interpretations: one, that the prey instincts that were within whatever animal later mutated into Kona are still active and alive, that she still fears being snatched up by the jaws of some greater creature and devoured. Or, alternatively: those are Kona’s teeth. Beasties are, at the end of the day, as monstrous as anything else in the House, their masks being their attempt to conceal that fact. A beastie knows that if a survivor sees its true face, they will immediately flee in terror. The biggest fear of a Beastie is that its monstrous nature will be revealed, that for all its efforts it will terrify and lose those it seeks to protect. Or worse, that it will be the one to take them away, slipping back into bestial instincts.

The Jolly Balloon Man-

I've spent so fucking long staring at this one trying to figure out what the fuck that even is and I honestly have nothing. A kinda fucked up looking balloon animal? Some kinda I got nothin’. I will say, though, that I think the JBM's rictus grin is a very good demonstration of the way Razorkin have fully fucked up senses of pain/pleasure and such. But yeah I don’t like this one. Pass.

Rip, Spawn Hunter-

A skeletal hand, reaching upwards towards Rip, who has her back turned towards the viewer. Rip used to be a member of the Doorblades, the group of survivors who dedicate themselves to fighting back and eliminating as many of the House’s monsters as possible. Which, we know from the planeswalkers guide, is a group with a very high fatality rate. Turn your attention now to the flavor text on Came Back Wrong and the Duskmourn printing of Pyroclasm. Rip has a practice of burning bodies of those who fell in the line of duty. The skeletal hand is that of one of her former comrades, whose body she had to burn and leave behind. It represents doubt, doubt that she’s doing the right thing by cutting off any chance of grim revival for those who’ve passed, doubt that the human toll of spawn hunting is worth it. No wonder she prefers to work alone.

The Swarmweaver-

Ahh! The Bees! Not the Bees!! A living scarecrow beehive, with a giant bee layered on top. Insects, crawling within its being, beneath its wooden skin and throughout its spindly form. The Swarmweaver is a wickerfolk: maybe in life they feared what they now wholly consist of? Not a huge amount to go off of here- is what I would say if the Legends article didn’t confirm that the Swarmweaver can indeed still feel the corpse bees crawling around beneath its wooden skin, that they are constantly in pain and the only way they have to relieve that is to send the bees to attack others. Do you think they’re still aware enough to feel regret, for sending the source if their pain towards others?

Victor, Valgavoth’s Seneschal-

In front of his face is a moth, symbolizing his total devotion to Valgavoth. In the flavor text for the Special Guests printing of Sacrifice, they describe a ritual where cultists allow their fears to be fully consumed by the house, allowing themselves to be reborn. Victor has apparently undergone this process dozens of times, no trace of his original self remaining. The chain of eye-marks on the moth’s wings connect to Victor’s glasses. His fears are now inseparable from Valgavoth’s being: in a way he has made himself part of the house.

Marvin, Murderous Mimic- Another hand! Now, originally I assumed that this was the hand of the Razorkin who used Marvin as an intimidation tactic and possessed him, but according to the Legends article, Marvin isn’t possessed at all, and merely “quickened” when the Razorkin grabbed him by coincidence. Which is… not what I expected from the Chucky analogue and makes it a lot harder for me to explain what the skeleton hand means. Cool. I do still think the hand might represent a lack of agency, a vague memory of being used as a puppet by whatever ventriloquist originally owned him. Beneath all of Marvin’s psychotic behaviors is the fear that he might still be no better than a puppet after all.

And that’s all folks! I hope you enjoyed this writing exercise and all my philosophical wankery about this silly card game. I’m literally in the middle of my prerelease event so I gotta go now. Also plz read my magic the gathering fanfiction i have a lot of it and crave comments

[dailycharacteroption]

Mutual Destruction Vanguard (Vanguard Alternate Class Feature)

(art by s2ka on DeviantArt, character belongs to rodcom1000)

With their power to manipulate entropy, the vanguard class has a nice mix of offense and defense, which is appropriate for a tanky melee-focused class.

However, what if you’re not that interested in defense? What if your strategy is to tear into your foes with abandon and simply outlast them as you both careen down the wild road to destruction together?

Enter the mutual destruction vanguard, who forgo many of the internal safeties present in other vanguards to overwhelm foes at the cost of their own health, as well as turn around and punish foes for attacking them in kind.

Some of these warriors may suffer a defect in the nature of their power, while others willingly choose to fight this way out of a nihilistic worldview, the sense of thrill, or perhaps a sense of shame and guilt that they feel makes them deserve destruction. Either way, this option perfectly encapsulates the vibe of the trope of self-destructive and costly power, risking their own destruction to take advantage of the power it offers, despite the risk.

As long as they have entropic power, these combatants can manipulate their entropy to improve the output of their entropic strikes greatly. This is especially potent if their own injuries start to mount.

Additionally, when they spend entropy to boost the power of such strikes, they prove even more potent at the cost of some feedback damage.

These vanguards cannot mitigate incoming damage the way others can. Instead, they can set up devastating feedback in foes to punish them for injuring the vanguard. Meanwhile, they can gain entropy by choosing to mitigate their own healing.

At the zenith of their ability, they can project a field that negates not only their own defenses, but that of their enemies, opening up for truly devastating carnage. In this state, they gain much more entropic power, and their baseline improvement to entropic strikes becomes truly devastating, and their reactions heighten, punishing every little gap in their opponents’ defenses as long as the field lasts.

A simple ability, but one that changes some base assumptions about the vanguard class. This alternate option can be used to dish out some devastating extra damage, which only grows more potent as you take damage. As such, I recommend taking at least a few defensive disciplines, for while you still can’t mitigate, there are other ways to reduce damage so that you don’t burn out quite so fast.

While nihilism and thrill-seeking are perfectly viable characteristics to see in characters such as these, I’d like to remark on the recent surge in popularity in recent years of characters that possess techiques that are actively risky and self-destructive, and why they would choose to use such things. Perhaps they are obsessed with victory at any cost, or perhaps they feel what they fight for is worth more than their own life.

Though it seems like a relatively primitive practice, the scepter that serves as the symbol of the office of planetary emperor of Bektuan is no mere bauble, but a technomagical artifact of great power… and it has been stolen! Currently, it is in the hands of the nihilisitic anarchist Tarrux, so the royal family is ready to pay handsomely for its return, preferably without engaging him in a fight, for his entropic powers cause a lot of collateral damage, and they don’t want to risk the artifact.

Once a plucky and eager explorer, the scuriday Pi**aka (read the double asterisk as a chirping consonant) was kidnapped early in his career and press-ganged into service aboard their crew, training him to use his burgeoning entropic powers for their purposes. He has long since left that life, but not unchanged. He is more willing to utterly destroy his foes without regard to his own safety, especially those that would enslave him again.

A rare few vanguard learn to invoke their entropic abilities to evoke different elements, including sonic vibrations. Those that focus on such seismic attacks sometimes seek to study creatures that naturally possess such adaptations. In one such case, the ruthless big game hunter Kovuks seeks to capture an intelligent starfaring predator called a valnarum and defeat it in single combat. The fact it is a sapient being is of no concern to him.

[spartanguard]

sons of love and death, 9/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Things stay a bit steamy this week in my @cssns story...hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​ !) rated M | 4.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

For the first time since Dorian had crashed into their lives, things were suddenly quiet after Killian’s encounter with him on the ship. No one was fool enough to think that meant he was gone—they were still ever on alert—but the reprieve from actively being on the defensive was appreciated. 

Killian still had a few magic lessons, but after his emotional breakdown, he seemed to have made an equal breakthrough when it came to using his powers at will. 

Even in the middle of the forest, he easily extinguished the ring of fire Regina conjured. She waved the subsequent steam away from her face with a wince, but then arched an eyebrow. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen magical flames put out. Impressive, pirate.”

He smirked and hoped she attributed the flush in his cheeks to the lingering heat and not the blush it actually was. 

It was mainly his elemental magic that he’d mastered, but he did begin working on testing out some more general magic. Not with much success, but Regina was unusually patient. “You’ve done the hard part; the rest will come with time,” she assured him. 

At least that was going well. He was having less success to adjusting to life without his hook. He’d searched all over the deck of his ship the morning after his confrontation with Dorian, but it wasn’t to be found; he had to assume his arsehole brother had taken it, but couldn’t fathom why (other than to make his life harder). 

He’d had that hook longer than he ever had a hand—it’s what he was accustomed to. 

He did, however, find a burn mark in the railing the size and shape of a cigarette; he was fighting back the part of him that wanted to similarly scar Dorian.

Until he figured something else out, he’d dug his false hand out of storage; it was better than nothing, but not what he’d prefer. It was too bulky and imprecise. But it beat the alternative of nothing, especially given that he wasn’t yet confident enough to go without his brace in public. (Though he had come to appreciate, since they’d begun to cohabitate, the way Emma massaged the blunted end of his wrist after he removed the brace at the end of the day.)

(He also wasn’t going to complain about the way the use of his false hand was apparently reminding Emma of their adventure in the past, particularly the ball, and that she’d taken to slow dancing with him in the evenings while holding tight to it. Or that it inevitably led to a more horizontal form of dance.

Perhaps he’d have to ask Regina if it was possible to learn how to transform clothing, to truly recreate that night—and finally act on the things he’d only imagined doing with her when he held her close in that red ballgown.)

At least now Belle couldn’t admonish his handling (or, rather, potential damaging) of ancient book covers as she once had, though it had long since become a joke. They were still doing research to figure out whatever they could about Dorian and what he hoped to achieve, largely from Gold’s personal collection; he may have given up the Dark One’s powers, but not their library. 

For what it was worth, Killian did also read the novel supposedly written about Dorian, but as its inspiration had said, it appeared to only be very loosely based in truth and while an enjoyable story, was less than helpful. 

They were following any potential lead they could, particularly anything about dark magic, but also whatever they could find about Killian and Dorian’s inherent magic. There was so much Killian didn’t know about his parents and family; if he could learn anything about his background this way, he’d like to. 

During their down time at the library, they worked their way through whichever books Belle had brought from home, if only to take stock of each one’s subject matter even if it didn’t hold any answers. 

Killian was skimming over a volume on magical botany (and quickly losing interest) when he noticed a sudden but well-known change in Belle’s body language as she studied her own tome. First, she leaned closer over the page. Then she followed several lines of text with her index finger. She picked up the whole thing, bringing it close to her nose, eyes darting as she read. 

Then she nearly slammed it back on the table (as carefully as she dared to slam a book that was twice as old as he was—which was saying something) and exclaimed. 

“Holy shit!”

Well, that took him aback; her excited outbursts were usually far less profane. “Language,” he chided, though far from serious. 

She clamped a hand over her mouth, briefly. “Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but, “but I found something big.”

“Something relevant?”

“Yeah—though I’m not sure how you’ll react.”

He quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it?”

“If I’m translating this correctly—and I’m almost positive I am—it implies that the magic of twins born around Cailleach is connected.”

Killian tilted his head. “How so?” He found that curious, given how long it lay dormant in him.

“Well, it’s anecdotal, but it talks of a set of twins who used their powers together. But then one died unexpectedly—and the other lost the ability to use magic.”

He hummed in thought. “It could have just been due to the loss of their twin, though—that’s a hard emotional hurdle to overcome.” He knew he’d have been unable to use his powers after the loss of Liam—at least, not with any control.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, but her eyes were still on the page. “But it goes on to talk about another pair who had lived apart for decades; their powers never faded, but when one eventually passed, the other’s magic went with it—even before they learned of their sibling’s death.”

“So…” He quickly did the math in his head. “You’re saying the easiest way to stop him…would be my death?”

She gasped at him. “Of course I’m bloody not saying that! I’m saying that if he died, you’d lose your powers.”

“That doesn’t exactly negate my conclusion.” 

She huffed. “I suppose not—but have a little self-preservation, okay?”

“Can’t say that’s something I’m known for,” he quipped back—though it wasn’t far from the truth, given his track record. 

But then he realized— “He likely already knows about that, then.” 

Now it was Belle’s turn to be confused; her brow furrowed, until she apparently remembered. “Oh, right; you died.”

“For a few weeks, if I recall correctly.”

She shrugged. “I kind of lost track of time when I was under that sleeping curse.”

“Fair,” he chuckled (because that was really the only reaction he could have to that entire line of conversation; as Emma frequently said, “What even is our life?”)

“But if he only just found out about you, then he may not have made the connection yet,” Belle pointed out.

“Mm, true.” He thought more about what they knew of Dorian’s plan. “And if he does mean to kill me, then that would be cutting himself off at the ankles before he even got to finish it.”

“...Which would make your death rather convenient,” Belle had to concede.

“Told you,” he teased.

They thought in silence for a moment, Belle staring away in thought and drumming her fingers on the table. “I wonder…” started, then skimmed over the pages again.

“Wonder what?”

She read for a bit more before replying. “I can’t find any specific evidence to support it, but I wonder if simply one twin losing their magic would be enough to cut off the other one.”

He leaned back and considered her hypothesis. It was certainly a safer option, but still had its risks. “Were you thinking him, or me?”

“That’s why I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” she told him.

He studied his hand—which, for once, wasn’t pulsing with blue lights, but he could feel it simmering under the surface. “It’s definitely the easier of the two options.”

“But?”

“But this is all I have to protect Emma from him. And if it doesn’t work, I lose that.”

“You know she can defend herself,” Belle lectured.

“Oh, I’m fully aware. But for once, I’d like her to not have to.”

Belle gave him a somewhat melancholy smile and placed her hand over his. “Let’s keep it in our back pocket, then, alright? Besides, we don’t even know how to remove your magic anyways.”

“Yes we do,” he quickly reminded her. While he wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea, it was a solid backup plan—and he knew exactly who to talk to.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

He probably should have called or texted ahead, but when faced with making such an odd social call, Killian found himself somewhat nervous. He wasn’t even sure how the phone number ended up in his device, as he’d never once used it, nor had they—it was purely for emergencies, which had thankfully been in short supply lately. 

So he figured it might be better to simply show up at the door and see what kind of reception he got. He still hesitated to knock, though; his hand hovered over the weathered wood as he second-guessed this entire meeting. 

Before he wavered any longer, he quickly rapped on the door, firmly and fast. And held his breath. 

It took a moment, but he heard footsteps approach the other side of the door, then saw the lace curtain in the window briefly move aside and fall back. The deadbolt turned, the door swung open—

—And a blade was at his neck. Zelena was holding a kitchen knife to his carotid, her other hand fisted around the open edge of his coat. 

“Which one are you?” she snarled.

“The one with one hand,” he snapped back. “Is this how you treat all unexpected visitors?” (It checked out, if he was being honest.)

“Glamour spells are easy,” she countered. “Prove it’s you: tell me how we escaped from the Dark Swan’s cave?”

He squinted his eyes shut at the memory (and also because he could feel the edge of the knife on his skin). That wasn't a moment he ever cared to revisit; as such, it had stayed private between the two of them. “I had an enchantment in my hook and used it to remove the magic-blocking cuff; you did the rest.”

She stepped back and let go of him, seemingly satisfied. He still checked his neck where the blade had been, but no blood came back.

Zelena leaned out of sight, setting the knife down inside the house, and then crossed her arms as she glared at him. “Well, now that that’s settled, what do you want? Robyn’s asleep so I’ve only got an hour to myself, if I’m lucky.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but might I come in? I wanted to ask you about something.”

She smirked and raised her eyebrow. “This should be good. Come on in.”

He’d somehow never been inside her farmhouse. It was cozy, if a bit messy, but not any less than the Nolan’s home; he supposed that came with the territory of small children. “I just put some water on for tea; care for any?” she called over her shoulder.

“Depends; is it laced with nightroot? Because we really don’t need another evil version of me,” he couldn’t help but quip.

“Fresh out,” she deadpanned. “I only have green.” 

“How in-character of you.”

They settled at the worn kitchen table and took a few sips from their mugs (it was actually very good tea). But now that he was here, he wasn’t exactly sure how to start the conversation.

Zelena had no such hesitation. “Out with it, then,” she started, setting her mug down. “What is it you come seeking my expert advice on?”

He let a sip of his tea wash down as he debated how to start. “When you gave up your magic, what did it feel like?”

“What, already tired of yours? Regina said you were actually catching on.”

It felt incredibly odd to receive anything resembling a compliment from Zelena. “Not quite, but…it might make things easier.”

“For you, maybe; it wasn’t for me. But you’re already used to doing things manually.”

“That’s it?” he asked, incredulous. “You could no longer wave your hand and have things done for you? That was the only change?”

“Of course it bloody wasn’t!” she said angrily. “It felt like…losing a part of myself,” she admitted. “It wasn’t unlike the emptiness I felt after I gave birth—like there was a hole inside.”

“Do you still?”

She stared at her mug. “Most of the time, no. Just like after I had Robyn, it healed, mostly—but it also left its marks. I still feel the loss sometimes.” She glanced up at him. “A few days ago, your twin was here and I just…handed over my daughter, because I thought he was you. I was so mad at myself. If I still had my magic, I could have sensed that he wasn’t who I thought—that he had his own magic. But what scared me the most was that I couldn’t have protected my child if he’d wanted to hurt her.”

That was a deeper confession than he was expecting. Despite all they’d been through together and the fact there was a tenuous level of trust, they weren’t exactly what he’d call close. But he did come here to seek her advice, right? 

“I appreciate your honesty,” he told her. “And I know how you feel—that’s my greatest concern as well.”

“You have a backup, though,” she scoffed. “You’ve got your sword and years of fighting experience to rely on; I’m not quite so skilled.”

“Those only go so far when your foe has magic,” he countered. “Especially when he’s out for blood.”

“Yeah, Regina told me,” she said. “I assume you think losing your powers would have an effect?”

He explained Belle’s hypothesis regarding the connection of their magic and the possibility of severing it. She listened intently and then sat back, staring up at the ceiling in thought. 

“It’s definitely a valid theory,” she told him. “I mean, that’s essentially what happened when I gave up mine—once that was gone, the Black Fairy couldn’t use those crystals anymore, even though they were more a side effect of my magic than anything.”

“Do you still have that object you used—that heart thing?”

“The Crimson Heart,” she corrected. “And I don’t, but Regina does; she stuck it in her vault for safekeeping, so gods only know where exactly it is in that mess.”

He glanced at the state of Zelena’s living room through the entryway from the kitchen, but made no further comment. 

“I’ll talk to her; we can probably get it out whenever you want. How soon were you thinking about doing this?”

“The sooner, the better,” he decided—not just on when, but that it was the right course of action as well. If it worked, Dorian was so reliant on his magic that its loss would likely render him bereft, and Killian was indeed skilled enough to fend him off. 

“I’ll ask Regina about it tomorrow, then.”

“That works,” he agreed. “Cheers,” he ended, offering his mug in a toast. 

She clinked hers against his and they made small talk as they finished their tea, as if they hadn’t just had a fairly serious conversation. 

Not long after, whimpers came from the baby monitor sitting on the counter. “I’ll leave you to that, then,” he said, intending to excuse himself, and stood up. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Zelena countered. “Robyn is in an intense water phase right now. If you want to return the favor, you’ll flex some of that magic for her before you ditch it.”

He had to smile at that. “Aye, we can manage something.”

Little Robyn was thoroughly entertained by the fountains, splashes, and whirlpools he created in the stoppered basin sink (and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Zelena was impressed, too—though he didn’t miss the bit of melancholy in her eyes, likely from what they’d previously discussed). 

He finally left feeling a bit lighter than when he’d arrived, though still obviously trepidatious. He’d talk it over with Emma, though; she’d either confirm he was doing the right thing, or tell him he was being a bloody idiot. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“You’re sure about this?”

“It’s the easiest way to ruin his plans. We don’t have a ton of options here.”

Emma had listened to Killian’s explanation of the plan to get rid of his magic, but wasn’t completely sure she was on board, even if it made sense. 

She set her mug of cocoa down on the kitchen table and leaned back in her chair. “I know, but you were there when I tried to give up mine. It might not be the easy way out you think it is.”

“I’m aware,” he acknowledged from his seat adjacent to her. “But we also both know that if I was just doing this because I didn’t want to take ownership of my powers, I’d have pursued this a week ago.”

“Yeah,” she conceded. “And at least it’s not Gold this time.”

She slightly regretted bringing up that memory when Killian shuddered; that whole situation—with the hat and subsequent theft of his heart—had been far more traumatic for him than her, though who knows what would have happened without Elsa’s intervention. 

“Indeed,” he finally said. “If this works the way we think it will, it’ll make sure this whole situation is resolved without any bloodshed—most importantly, yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hey—yours too,” she chided. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we come up with a new plan,” he assured her. “And I start wearing my sword belt again.”

She chuckled a bit, if only because she enjoyed the way the leather sat on his hips (though she also admired the fit of a gun holster on his shoulders, even if his stint as deputy was short-lived). But then she sighed. “I meant it when I said I was into the whole power couple thing,” she told him. “I’m gonna miss that.”

“You’re far better at it, darling,” he tossed back. “But perhaps if our time is limited in that regard,” he went on, leaning in and looking down coyly, “we make the most of it?”

Now he was glancing up at her through those long lashes of his, a smirk cutting a dimple into his scruff. 

Well. She could never say no to that. 

So she leaned towards his ear and whispered, “Race you to the bathroom.”

(She won, for the record.)

They’d long since mastered the most efficient removal of clothes; the lone perk to Henry being out of the house was that no one was around to judge them for the trail of shirts and underwear left on the stairs and hallway landing.

She may have assisted their water heater in getting the shower up to temp; once it was nice and steamy, she dragged Killian in and wasted no further time in getting on with things. It wasn’t the first time they’d had an encounter in the shower since he’d mastered his magic, but knowing this was the last time, she was impatient to get going (and was going to loathe the end).

As the hot water washed over her, she shivered, both at the heat on her skin and in anticipation of what was to come. Killian, too, was eager, it seemed—both by the way he wasted no time in pressing himself against her back and wrapping his arms around her waist, and by the beginnings of an erection that she could feel against her rear.

She turned in his embrace and similarly placed her arms around him, resting them at the small of his back, and aligning as much of her body to his as she could—even though the initial brush of his chest hair against her nipples made her arch her back. 

He smirked at her reaction, but then it turned into a softer, more intimate smile that she only ever saw come out in these shared moments, and he buried his hand in her wet tresses to press a tender kiss to her lips. 

They took their time, sharing languid kisses, hands gently wandering and gradually building the best kind of tension between them. 

The water continued to rain down on them, drawing meandering paths down their bodies. But…was some of it going backwards?

At first, she thought it was just spray bouncing up at her ankles. But then it felt like droplets were trailing up her back alongside his fingers. 

The sensation continued, swirling subtly up her legs and abdomen; when it eventually traveled over the sensitive area between her legs, she knew exactly what was going on. 

She went up on her toes—partly in reaction, and partly to look him closer in the eye. “I felt that,” she jokingly accused.

“I bloody well hope so,” he countered. “Was wondering when you’d acknowledge that.”

“Maybe I was enjoying it too much to say anything.”

“Then I suppose I better get back to it,” he said, just as she felt simultaneous threads of water swirl around her nipples.

After that, it was like every drop that fell on her had a destination; as much as his fingers drew designs on her skin, the water similarly made patterns all over her body: circling her breasts and navel, spiraling down her thighs, caressing her shoulders and back, even tickling the sensitive spot just under her jaw. (That one may have earned him a similar touch under his arms, making him briefly squirm away.)

She was getting completely lost in the sensation—of him and his magic all around her—when something made her jump. It felt like when Killian went down on her, but he was obviously still fully upright.

She gasped when it happened again—the same gentle but firm touch, right over her clit.

“Oh, that is so not—fair,” she admonished, stuttering as he did it again. Typically, he just raised an eyebrow at her, somehow both in pride and challenge.

Well. She had a few tricks up her sleeve, despite being very naked.

She slipped her hands around his waist and found his lips again, mainly as a distraction. And then she called her magic to her palms, making them tingle with heat and light.

She let her fingers graze over his hips, sparking a bit as they went, then reached down in between them to his hardening cock and gripped it carefully but firmly.

“Fffuck,” he hissed, throwing his head back. She smirked and stroked his length. “Bloody…hell,” he gasped.

“What’s it you say? ‘Turnabout’s fair play’ or something?” She was probably butchering that line but he couldn’t exactly respond when her extra-warm hand had a grasp on his manhood. 

But he could growl, which he did, making tension coil deep in her core. He placed his hand and wrist on her hips and rested his forehead against hers—she thought in bliss at first, as she continued to massage his shaft, but then a mini maelstrom took over their shower stall: droplets began to float and whirl around them, hissing into steam when they hit her overheated skin. 

That was new. To test it, she drew a line with the index finger of her free hand down his bicep; it sizzled the whole way, but left no mark. “Did that hurt?” she asked softly. 

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

She experimented further, letting go of his cock and pressing her palms against his pecs. She dragged her fingers through his chest hair and he sucked in a breath, both at her touch and the ensuing steam. 

His eyes had fallen shut, but he opened them when her hands reached his collarbones—and fire was in his gaze, almost literally given how hazy it had gotten in there. 

He surged forward and grabbed her ass, sliding his hand down her thigh to lift her leg and press his hips against hers. She inhaled sharply at the brush of his erection against her keyed-up clit. 

“Now?” he asked with a further nudge of his hips. 

“Not yet,” she answered; she was probably ready for him, but wanted to play a bit more first. 

She found his lips again and continued to kiss and press herself against him. Her skin was beginning to tingle as water drops continued to evaporate as soon as they hit her; she had to assume his was, too, as her wandering hands still hissed wherever they went, especially when she squeezed his pert, perfect rear end.

Well, that may have been her undoing—or close to it, because when she gripped those firm muscles, it brought them even closer together, making her realize just how much she was aching for him. 

“Okay, now,” she whispered in his ear. 

He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. He just carefully guided her to the wall behind her so it would be easier for him to get leverage. Normally, she had to brace herself for contact with the cool tile, but it was unusually warm tonight. 

Killian guided her leg to sit on the footrest she’d put in the shower for this exact reason; between that and the wall, it just made things so much easier. Although her foot slipped the first time she tried to set it down; despite no longer being directly under the shower head, water was still coming down on them, from every direction, it seemed; definitely Killian’s handiwork. 

Once she was in place, he pressed one more kiss to her lips, then gave his cock a couple of strokes (not that it really needed any further priming, but she certainly enjoyed watching). And then he expertly found her entrance and slid in. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes at first. “So warm,” he breathed; but she was caught up as ever in how perfectly they fit together. 

But now that he was inside, she craved friction; she moved a bit to let him know, and he took the hint. With the way they were positioned, it’d be more him than her in action, but she wasn’t worried about not finding her own release. 

(Not that she ever was, but there again was a stream of water gently circling her clit that probably meant she’d be coming sooner than anticipated.)

He pulled back and pressed forward, languid at first but then picking up the pace. She met him on each press as best she could, but now there was water on her breasts again—still all over both of them—and she was getting a bit overwhelmed as she quickly approached her peak. 

He noticed, like he always did. “How close?”

“Pretty damn.”

“Aye.” And then he increased his speed as much as he could, given the awkward angle, and it felt like her clit was going to drown, if that was possible, with the sudden whirlpool it suddenly was at the center of. 

She tried to hold out as long as possible—to revel in this experience—but—but—

“Let go,” he murmured—and she did. 

Her release crested over her much like the falling water had, until she was entirely awash in it. Killian came just a bit later; she could tell not only from his actions, but also because the constantly moving water suddenly stopped like it had been instantly frozen, sitting still on her skin. 

It wasn’t long until he pulled out and the water trailed away like it was supposed to, falling off their bodies to the tile below. He took her hand and led her back to the space under their shower head, letting it take care of the clean up. 

“That. That is what I’m gonna miss,” she told him as she curled into his chest. 

He placed a kiss on her temple. “Then we best make the most of this, eh?”

They certainly did, not fully crashing until a couple hours later. She made a point to memorize every detail of that night; hell, she was debating preserving it in a dreamcatcher. 

If that was the last night they’d have like that, then at least it was a perfect one. She smiled to herself, thoroughly content, as she drifted off in his embrace. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @stahlop @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[curiousb]

The Willoughby Family Album: Volume VII

Caroline's political success continues unabated, and it seems she can't put a foot wrong with the electorate. Being the most popular Mayor in over a half a century certainly has its perks, but sometimes they're more trouble than they're worth.

At the same time, everything is really coming together for Louie very nicely indeed. Promotion after promotion, and now a lucrative book deal - even better that it focuses on her culinary passion for the cuisine of Takemizu.

To celebrate their recent success, Louie hosts a sushi evening at home. Although Bennet seems to prefer low-quality, pre-packaged, grease-laden snacks to Louie's lovingly handcrafted offerings.

It all starts well, with everyone having fun in their own ways.

Until John can't resist hazarding a flirtatious exchange with the lady who has recently caught his eye - Ellen.

Just when he had finally regained some ground with Caroline. 🙄

He never learns, does he?

Louie might be dismayed over their dad's behaviour, but they have their blind spots too. Still cheating at chess with their mother...

...and apparently having no intention of remaining faithful to their new fiancée, Joanna, by continuing to string Sally along as well.

This time, John has run out of chances to repair his relationship with his wife, as Grim comes to claim him.

There's no way that Caroline is going without a fight though!

And she wins! (Thanks to @episims super Alternative for Permaplat mod.)

Louie is somewhat traumatised by losing one parent, and then almost losing another, on the same day. John might have been a big disappointment as a husband, but he was always a much-loved father.

However, Caroline wastes absolutely no time in making the most of her new lease of life, by reuniting with old flame Henry.

[snowdeity]

A part of me is I hate beauty then on the other hand I enjoy beauty and participating. Things are just getting so ridiculous online I genuinely prefer reality at this point I never thought I would say that. At this point for me it really is just an addiction. You can’t really escape the online world unfortunately everyone is linked to it even if you don’t have a smartphone you could be unknowingly recorded in public I just feel slowly I’m getting agoraphobia I don’t enjoy where I live no one is open to different ideas in England especially surrounded by mindless middle class pretending to be rich and the posh well being posh. I dunno none of this really makes sense I’m sick of people on the internet I’m sick of most people sadly as I get older even with family I feel myself sensing lots of people are just incredibly flawed. Even myself I feel like I never want to share my opinion because I feel like my face attached to it loses its meaning again I’m put into a category unfortunately because of my “image” which probably isn’t even exactly what I want to be because of social norms how I feel I should be presented (missing my more younger alternative years). I’ve lost myself becoming invisible I mean things have been shouted at me in public and I find it very overwhelming I have to think what I’m wearing so much everyone is just blindly led by their own stupid beliefs partly to do with the algorithm and well you could say well just wear what u want I wish it were that simple but it really isn’t years worth of trauma and I can’t unlearn that overnight.

Sometimes when I was younger I wish I was already retired I would walk to school and see old people living their life.I hated school and since birth i was burnt out. My autism makes me unemployable no one understands the struggle if you do not perform how they expect you too even thought you’re meeting targets trying your hardest to communicate effectively it’s still not good enough. I’ve been made fun of and bullied at different work places it burnt me out so much that I’m not even sure I can work for a while it’s so mentally draining. What’s sad is I’ll never get to the root problem of life and keep fighting. I believe it is autism that’s has caused so many problems but I’ll never get to the point of ever solving them. I need a diagnosis to move on with my life I bottle things up I never let myself go to breaking point and needing proper care. I never had the luxury of people looking out for me I have no second option I feel like I have no one. I feel so sensitive and I’m so embarrassed about myself I wish sometimes my brain could shut off it’s embarrassing. I don’t feel like I have a home.

Basically I’m an over sensitive Pisces. Even if something touched me to hard I would faint.

I think the only way I would be sincere through the narrow eyes of today is pretending to be a pretentious softboy studying art history and my words would suddenly have value. I know but in the same way I had an opinion 5 years ago and never shared due to worry of judgment then (thankfully) everyone starts to realise the world is shit it’s always been shit. But anyway I hate tiktok cause whenever I share a thought on social media especially tiktok I feel like I’m attacked or it’s just not understood.

[danteswaginferno]

Giant humongous post about tfbw

okie dokie back to tfbw posting! i just finished my first playthrough (it took me 19.5 hours lawl) i absolutely missed a shit ton of side quests and stuff in the game, but my first playthrough of games i always do blind with no walkthrough so i can experience it raw 

im definitely gonna do a second run through of the game, this time with a guide to fill in any gaps i missed on my first playthough! i probably wont be getting 100 percent cuz thats wayyy too much effort but whatever  overall i really, really enjoyed it! i think i prefer tsot just a little bit more, since i like the gameplay and story flow a little more (i got lost way more often with what exactly i had to do/what i could do in tfbw) but i LOVED the combat system like way more than i was expecting in the first place. i think tsot has a beat out a little bit in that regard too, but thats just because i prefer slightly more casual gameplay over high-strategy gameplay.  i did about 80% of the battles with scott malkinson LMFAO as soon as i got him as a playable chr he never left my roster unless it was a fight that forced him out of my party lmfao. hes just too good i loved him. near the end my party was almost always stan scott and alternating jimmy and cartman. i was really excited about clyde because i love health drain moves/chrs but he kept fucking dying no matter what i did so he got booted LMFAO  but seriously i LOVE the combat system. its really fun and it really made me think super hard on some fights. spoilers for some of the fights up ahead i just wanna talk about them..  the towlie fight was really fun, i just kept cartman on fire the entire battle and made him run around. i felt kinda bad but it worked really well since he’s kind of a tank

all the battles with that stupid timer stressed me the fuck out since im not super good at split second decisions (so like some of the battles in maphestos lab and the eldrich god fight) but it was still fun to do. 

the story was pretty good! i was never bored playing, confused sometimes yes but never bored. near the end i got a little fucked up with all the time jumping and i kinda lost the plot but once i got my bearings back i thought it was a pretty well done segment.  i wish there were more fast travel flags. the map is way bigger than in tsot so idk why they didnt add MORE fast travel flags. (there are 12 fast travel locations in tsot and 11 in tfbw if i recall correctly) i thought i was going insane. i think 3 hours of my total gameplay time was just like walking around.  TLDR i really enjoyed it! i think there are definitely some improvements that could be made but overall 8/10 i will be replaying to get my 45 dollars worth of gameplay out of it. what ive learned is that i love scott malkinson more than life itself and he’s awesome

[rutilation]

See these two?  I’ve been thinking about them.  A lot. So much so, that I’ve started getting ideas about what their deal is, what their roles in the story may turn out to be—that sort of thing.  Maybe the following is pure fanfiction, or maybe I managed to mind meld with Fujimoto after staring into space for long enough.  Time will tell.  But, I warn you now: I did not merely don a tinfoil hat to write this, but an entire Venetian ball gown’s worth of the stuff.  I’ll be attending the conspiracy masquerade dressed to the nines.  I’m gunning for the tinfoil crown.  Click the readmore if you’d like to be my date for the evening.

Before we can attend the soirée in question, there’s a big ‘ol something I need to unpack: I’m one of those people—those wretches who believe that Yoshida is secretly the Death Devil, and what’s more, a whole lot of my thoughts regarding both Yoshida and Famine are predicated on it.  While I only very recently started engaging with this work and its fandom, I’ve nonetheless gotten the distinct impression that this particular theory is something of a sore point for a lot of people—one that had already been argued to the point of exasperation and resentment by the time I got around to ticking Chainsaw Man off my reading list.

To any potential readers of this humble essay who feel that way, I have this to say for myself: while I can’t guarantee you’ll find my reasoning convincing, I can guarantee that my thoughts on the matter are more substantial than pointing at panels of Yoshida in a conspiratorial manner and trying to find the kanji for death, or the numeral ‘4’ amidst crosshatching.  I find that exactly as inane as you do.  With that said, I’m first going to address some common objections I’ve seen to this theory before I get into the real meat of my speculation regarding these two mysterious characters.

The Death Devil embodies a primal fear, and is too strong to be killed.  So whoever they are, they’re still in hell.  Paradoxical as it might seem on the face of it, the Death Devil might have an easier time dying than their fellow primal fears—who’s to say their mastery over death can’t extend to themselves?  If I were to put myself in the shoes of the embodiment of death, I can easily imagine being bored with the entire concept of self-preservation, turning off my regeneration, and letting myself die every now and then in order to bounce through different reincarnations, trying to sooth the crushing ennui of my cursed existence.  And what do you know, Yoshida seems pretty chill with the prospect of his own death. 

Why doesn’t he have the swirly eyes? Despite being a dead giveaway for the four horsemen, no one in the story ever notices or comments on them.  Yoru couldn’t even recognize Famine at a glance,* despite being close enough to clearly see her special anime eyes.  I’m thus inclined to believe that the concentric rings in their eyes exist for the benefit of the audience and are invisible to the characters, or even completely non-diegetic.  And something that is displayed for the audiences’ benefit can be obscured for that very same reason.  Alternatively: his eyes are black with black rings.

Why would the actual Death Devil get bodied by Quanxi? And why would he have to rely on another devil to fight, for that matter?  One: because she’s just that cool.  Two: If he is the Death Devil, presumably the most powerful in existence, it may be the case that it’s actually impossible for him to use his power offensively for anything other than mass, indiscriminate death.  Thus, he would have to rely on other devils or his own physical strength to fight in a remotely constructive way.  All else would be like using a nuke to open a pickle jar.  Another possible explanation is that his life would be upended if his identity were ever revealed, and so he goes to great pains to not let even a hint of it slip. If I’m correct about bullet point one, he would see dying and starting anew as preferable to the inconvenience of living with a constant target on his back, and thus wouldn’t use his own powers even when his life is in danger.

Kishibe, who is a living lie detector, trusts him.  There’s no way Yoshida could hide being a devil from him.  To the contrary, I think Kishibe is in on it, and I’ll get into why I think so once I’m in the meat of my speculation.

Makima would surely be able to smell it if Yoshida were the Death Devil, why would she want him of all people guarding Denji? Calling on your unfathomably powerful brother (who you’re hoping to kill in the near future,) for a sham security detail as part of a passive-aggressive power play is not only in-character, it is downright Makimacore.  I don’t think her primary concern in this situation is necessarily how powerful the hired help is, but whether or not they would have a reason to steal her precious Chainsaw in the first place.  Or, perhaps she simply couldn’t smell him properly for a reason that has yet to be explained.

Devils can’t make contracts with each other, so how could he have Octopus at his beck and call?  Maybe they’re buddies who go way back.  Maybe Octopus doesn’t want to anger the biggest fish in the pond, and serves him out of fear.  It could be anything.  Hey, if you think about it, the number eight is really just two fours.  In various east Asian cultures, the number four represen—

*I am taken out via sniper rifle.*

In the grand tradition of Fujimoto’s iconic female villains, Death, the final boss, ought to be the mommy-est domme of them all, and anything short of that would be an insult to the femme fatales who came before.  Listen, I also love his bad bitches.  No arguments there.  But who says the Death Devil has to be some sort of overarching supervillain in the first place?  I’d honestly find it more interesting if they weren’t.  Thus far in the narrative, death with a lowercase ‘d’ has been presented as something you grapple and come to terms with in order to fully appreciate love and life, and it wouldn’t be especially interesting if the character who embodies that concept were a Final Fantasy super-witch.  In my humble opinion, it’d be more profound if they were just as lost and pathetic as the rest of us.  I’d honestly rather Fujimoto pull a fast one and unveil Kobeni as the Death Devil, as opposed to giving us a scheming Ultimecia-alike for the role, you feel me?

I like Yoshida better as a tragic cog in Public Safety’s system.  Why can’t he be that instead of the Death Devil?  ¿Por qué no los dos?

If Yoshida were the Death Devil, it would ruin my ship.  Come on, don’t succumb to the quitter mindset.  I believe in you.

Now, far be it from me to undermine my precious bullet points after I just went through the trouble of writing them, but I don’t actually think this whole back-and-forth on what would constitute a plot hole is especially productive.  None of it matters.  At the risk of getting a bit abstract, I’m of the belief that a plot hole is something that only exists in retrospect, and as such, they aren’t useful guides for predicting how an ongoing story can or cannot play out. When you’re in the position of storyteller, you can spin things however you desire, and the reasons you come up with to justify your decisions are similarly arbitrary.  It is solely the audience, and not the author, that is relegated to following breadcrumbs and extrapolating based on what came before, a process that only becomes problematic if their fingers can catch on splinters and loose threads in the seams of the plot after the fact. Whoever the Death Devil is—whether they’re someone we’ve already met, or a yet-unintroduced character, their identity won’t be determined by the readership’s painstaking process of elimination, but by Fujimoto thinking “wouldn’t it be neat if [x] happened?” and then honing and molding the idea to make it fit into what was already written.

All this is to say, I’m invested in my interpretation not because of how well it slots in with the other puzzle pieces—all of which are malleable anyways, but because of what I think it could potentially add to the story.  And with that, I think I’ll cool it with the bloated preamble, and start getting into what I believe that potential to be, starting with the moments in the story that convinced me of this theory in the first place.

I’m sure people have harped on this moment before, but I want to reiterate that this, right here is, a truly ludicrous thing to ask on the face of it.  To my knowledge, even the anti-death transhumanist crowd envisions humanity’s ideal relationship to death as one where it is a voluntary option at the end of a very long life, which is a far cry from death itself being retroactively purged from the weave of time, unable to exist anywhere in any capacity. And the latter is exactly what it would mean for Pochita to eat the Death Devil.  It would create a universe inimical to any form of life aside from cancer cells, and anyone who’s given the matter more than two seconds of thought could understand that.  I can see why Makima would try it—she was so high on her own hubris that I wouldn’t expect her to objectively consider the viability of her whims—but why would Yoshida, who, by all accounts, is not lost in the sauce, want this?

For such an extreme desire, there has to be an equally extreme motivation. And I haven’t come across an explanation—or managed to think of one myself, for that matter—that satisfies those bizarre parameters other than Yoshida himself being the Death Devil.  The fact that he’s thoroughly unbothered by the thought of his impending demise one moment, and wistfully wishing the concept of death itself would disappear the next, feels like a smoking gun to me.  The best I can come up with is that he, like a certain other devil who deals in death, is sick of the burden that comes with his existential condition, of being constantly inundated with the grief and fear of the dying and the bereaved—and that it’s gotten to the point where he wants to be put out of his misery for good, consequences be damned.

The second scene that pushed me into the arms of this theory was the café scene in chapter 122.  I know a lot of people took this chapter as proof that Yoshida couldn’t possibly be the Death Devil, but for me, it was quite the opposite.  Something about his interaction with Famine here felt off to me, as if the reader is not privy to the full context of the conversation. Why does Yoshida feel comfortable approaching and threatening one of the four horsemen without leverage or backup? Why did she acquiesce to his threats regardless, all while seeming completely unafraid of them?  Why did Famine take him up on the invitation in the first place, something even he found strange?  What’s with all the terse, silent glances between both parties?

It’s fishy, quite fishy.  I actually have a lot to say about this scene, but I can’t get into my interpretation of it in any depth until I delve into my thoughts on Famine.  So, we’ll just have to put a pin in it for later.  For now, though, I’ll say that many of those niggling logistical questions go away if you assume that the answer is: ‘he’s a more powerful devil than her, and what’s more, there’s shared history between the two.’

So, because of those two scenes, I couldn’t help but consider Yoshida as the Death Devil to be a strong possibility.  But, beyond that, I also think it makes sense as a matter of narrative efficiency.  It seems to me that, among other things, Part 2 is going to be about the horsemen—who and what they really are, what their deal is, etc.  If I’m right in that assumption, then one would want to start getting all their ducks in a row early, especially if that someone is a design-by-subtraction enthusiast like Fujimoto.  So, the idea that we’ve already met the Death Devil, and have been given a little bit of context as to what drives their character, makes sense to me.

But, who am I trying to kid, pontificating the finer points of structure, and expectation, and all that jazz.  I’m wearing this tinfoil crown, so I ought to live up to it.  We have a ball to attend.  Wild speculation, ahoy!

Let’s imagine the sequence of event goes something like this: Pochita has his grand climactic battle with the four horsemen and weapon devils, vanishes from hell, and finds a young Denji, who seems to be about six or seven years old, shortly thereafter—he was freshly wounded in the flashback, after all.  If that incarnation of the Death Devil died during the fight (probably for shits and grins—see my first bullet point,) then his present incarnation could conceivably be around Yoshida’s age now, accounting for the fact that devils seem to skip infancy and are born as children. It may also be the case that rate at which devils mature is variable depending on the environment they grow up in; a devil being raised by a human would have the luxury of indulging an extended childhood, while one who’s basically a critter in the wilderness couldn’t afford to do so.  

Anyway, I believe Yoshida belongs to the former category, which brings me back to my assertion that Kishibe is “in on it.”  Like many, I too get the vibe that there’s some sort of father-son relationship between the two (a somewhat strained one, to be exact, but I’ll get into that in just a moment.)  What if the reason Kishibe thought it would be a sound idea to have Denji raise the new Control Devil was because he had already done the same thing with the Death Devil years earlier?  Perhaps he happened upon a young Yoshida, and, already weary from the deaths of his comrades in this endless meat grinder of a conflict, decided that killing him would be a futile act of kicking the can down the road, choosing instead to raise him as his son in the hope that the most powerful devil would grow up to become something other than a monster.

If all that is true, it adds a layer of tension to Kishibe and Yoshida’s relationship that might explain some of the latter’s aloof attitude, along with his stated aversion to emotional vulnerability.  Any affection he might feel toward his father figure is tempered by the knowledge that whatever love and care he was shown in this lifetime was given with the express intent of neutralizing his potential as a threat.  Even if this were a misconception, I could definitely see Kishibe being too emotionally constipated to properly correct it.  And so, Yoshida never pressed the matter, and never crossed a line.  In essence, he kept things parasocial.  Because, without the veil of plausible deniability, he might actually find out for sure what his relationship with Kishibe amounts to, and if the answer is one he doesn’t like, it might just crush him.  And so, like Asa, he leads a lonely life of being symbolically boxed in by his own speech bubbles.

This is a tangent, but while people often point to Kishibe and Yoshida’s conversation in chapter 67, along with the former taking Quanxi’s fiends hostage to save the latter’s life, as implicit proof of their relationship, there’s one other instance in the story that also gave me that vibe.  That implicit vibe.  It’s Kishibe’s comment that Denji is most fit for the role devil hunter out of anyone he’s met.  Given what we know of Kishibe’s philosophy, Yoshida would, as far as I can tell, more perfectly fit his definition of an ideal devil hunter.  He’s much more emotionally detached than Denji, he can go almost toe-to-toe with Quanxi—Denji’s not even close in that regard, and while he isn’t quite as galaxy-brained, he can still unnerve and outwit most opponents he comes across.  So, why Denji and not him?  Perhaps it’s because, in his heart of hearts, Kishibe doesn’t actually want his own kid in this line of work, even if he is God’s perfect little killer.

So, if Yoshida is, essentially, a domesticated primal devil, it would also give him a more personal stake in this prophecy business. The King of Terror mentioned in the prophecy could be reasonably interpreted as—if not Chainsaw man—then the Death Devil.  And if the devil in question is some moody teenager who wants nothing to do with the apocalypse, who’s spent his life trying to not be an existential threat, who may have even developed an entire complex about it, he’d have a strong incentive to directly involve himself in stopping the prophecy from coming to pass.

This is all a bit heavy, so I’m going to slip on my tinfoil party hat for a minute.  In addition to the Sturm und Drang, I believe there is quite a bit of comedic potential that could be mined from Yoshida being the Death Devil.  For one thing, it would be pretty amusing if our leads for Part 2 comprised a literal three-ring circus of portentous secret identities.  And beyond just that, it would also add a wicked and belated punchline to Asa and Yoshida’s farce of a first meeting—the one where Yoru brazenly hits on him, all while taking Asa’s humiliation smugly in stride.  But, if Yoru were to learn later on that she was, in fact, propositioning her own brother, then just imagine her reaction.  Comedic gold, imo.  It’s high time she felt the weight of her own cringe.

Most of my speculation up to this point had been slowly pin-balling through my brain in some form or other for a couple months, but I wasn’t particularly invested in any of it.  I thought it might be cool if Yoshida turned out to be the Death Devil, and wasn’t inclined to rule it out, but I didn’t think it was especially likely either, and I certainly didn’t have any desire to put myself out there, and breathlessly post about it.  Waiting and seeing seemed more appealing.  But, then, I started thinking about Famine.  I just about bored a hole through her head as I asked myself: what purpose do you serve, and why are you here?  Well, the answer I eventually came to excited me enough that I not only devoted some three thousand words to her, but I simply had to take Yoshida along for the ride as well, once the pieces really started falling into place.  And with that, I think I’ll start talking about Famine.

Whereas Part 1 is full of fragile, yet intense bonds in which the characters can find solace between their excursions through the meat grinder, Part 2 is all missed connections, people talking past each other, trust issues, and crippling loneliness.  With that in mind, what does it imply that the apparent villain for this stretch of the story wears the mantel of deprivation and disparity?  Chainsaw Man places such profound importance on food as an expression of love, be it wholesome, toxic, and everything in between.  So, there must be strong thematic significance to a character who is, quite literally, defined by its lack—a lack of food, a lack of resources, and a lack of love.  It’s a whole bundle of key concepts which the story has revolved around, all embodied in a single word.  So, while the series has had a few throwaway villains in the past whose purpose was, essentially, to look cool for an arc and then exit stage left without leaving much of a lasting impression, I felt fairly certain Famine wasn’t one of them for the aforementioned reasons.  Nevertheless, I struggled to get a read on her for the longest time.

I asked myself: what do I know about Famine?

She claims to be on Yoru’s side, and says she’d do “anything for my little sister.”

She’s insinuated herself in the devil hunting club at Asa and Denji’s school.

Yoru wants nothing to do with her, claiming that she’s dangerous, and unhinged. 

In addition, Yoru is averse to discussing her at length.

She’s in favor of Asa/Yoru turning Denji into a weapon.

She doesn’t care about hiding her identity.

She insists on being called Fami.

She’s at the very least aware of the prophecy, and Public Safety has reason to believe she’s working to bring it about.

She’s subdued and cold in her affect.

Her totemic animal symbol is a penguin.

Her design is full of asymmetrical elements (e.g. the moles and extra lobe piercings on her right ear,) which are meant to evoke the image of unbalanced scales.

She’s constantly slouching.

Her scale earrings happen to resemble Denji’s pullcord.

No amount of food satisfies her.

I also tried thinking about her in the context of the previous antagonist. Makima was presented initially as an ally, and did things that were technically positive and heroic.  But, she was up to so much underhanded and menacing shit that it was impossible for even the most careless reader to take her at face value, and much of story’s tension lied in whether she would be revealed as an outright villain, or merely a cutthroat, duplicitous ally.

Famine feels almost like the inverse of that.  She’s presented as an antagonist, and does some vaguely villainous things.  But, is she one?  There’s a dearth of clarity of intent by comparison.  While Makima held her cards close to her chest, her actions themselves were never ambiguous, if that makes any sense.  Famine’s motives, her aims, what she does and doesn’t have a hand in—they’re all completely obscure.  There are a whole lot of assumptions and impressions of her floating around from Yoru and Yoshida, and she’s probably involved with this Justice Devil business… maybe. But, the devil in question has very little to say for herself, as opposed to Makima, who, when prompted, could justify herself ‘til the cows came home.

Makima’s iconic expression was one of self-satisfied serenity.  Famine’s typical expression is, by my reckoning, one of constant, subdued dejection—the sort of look you might wear after glimpsing a dead bird on the pavement, feeling vaguely bummed about it for the rest of the afternoon.  Where Makima was consistently scary, Famine has been, at most, creepy, and, more often than that, simply awkward.

With all that in mind, I thought to myself: “Okay, she probably is a villain, but she’s definitely not of the Machiavellian girlboss persuasion.  Her vibes are completely different.  Makima shall keep her crown”

The degree to which Yoru avoids her was also interesting.  If Famine were “crazy” in a straightforward manner, I don’t think Yoru would be so reticent to talk about her.  If you think about it rationally, shouldn’t she want Asa to be thoroughly debriefed regarding a powerful enemy who just stepped onto the playing field?  For all of Yoru’s clumsiness in other spheres, she’s clever when it comes to fighting, to tactics, to all the things that war entails.  But instead, she withdraws into herself and refuses to discuss Famine beyond a single curt warning.  Whatever happened between these two, the emotions must have run high.

Then there’s the matter of penguins.  For those who aren’t compelled to keep up to date with the intricacies of Japanese wordplay as they become relevant to the story, let me offer a refresher.  In Japanese, Famine’s name is 飢餓の悪魔 (kiga no akuma.)  The most common term for penguin in Japanese is the loan word, ペンギン (pengin.)  However, kiga, when spelled 企鵝, is another word for penguin. She is properly introduced immediately after Denji stomps off to go see penguins, and his line about it is also the subtitle for the cover of volume 14—the one with her face on it.  To the Japanese readership, it’s readily apparent that Famine is being connected to penguins in much the same way as Denji is to dogs, Power to cats, or Asa to birds.  (As an aside, I’m not sure if this was purposeful or not, but Famine’s conspicuous fuchsia eyes seem reminiscent of a Macaroni penguin’s.)

Now, charming though that pun may be, the question of the meaning behind Famine’s association with penguins remains.  Prior instances of characters being personified as animals have always been thematically important, so it’s worth digging into.  Here’s what I envision when I think of penguins: they survive in an uncaring and unforgiving environment.  They gorge themselves on fatty fish so they can survive fasting as they huddle together for warmth through the sunless winter.  They are birds, but cannot fly.  They are effortless swimmers, but cannot remain in the water.  They live in cute little families, build cute little pebble nests for themselves, and use their cute little feet and bellies to shelter their chicks from the frigid air.  The choice to associate her with penguins evokes, in my view, a constant push-pull between profound devotion and stark deprivation.

The denouement of the aquarium arc makes me think I might be onto something with this interpretation.  While Kiga (飢餓) perches ominously atop a building in the typical villainous fashion, distant and forlorn, Kiga (企鵝) curiously waddles up to Denji looking for affection, for that all-important hug, which he is happy to provide.  And, in that same moment, Famine and Yoshida share a tense glance.  I’d like to think I know subtext when I see it, and this moment seems loaded with it.  At this point, I started to get the feeling that Famine was being subtly set up as a tragic figure.

It was when volume 14 was released that my synapses started really (mis)firing. When I first saw its inside cover illustration, I felt a heavy sense of significance that’s hard to put into words. There’s a sense of bleak exhaustion radiating off the page, and it fascinated me.  Okay, she’s definitely going to be a tragic figure, nothing subtle about it, I thought to myself.  I started pondering: just what could that tragedy be?  What would have enough gravitas to warrant representing Famine with such dire imagery? And then, the realization that made me obsessed enough to start writing down my thoughts hit me.  The four horsemen are siblings.  Siblings.  What if they’re actually a dark mirror to the would-be siblings we fell in love with in Part 1?  Certainly, if I were in Fujimoto’s position, I wouldn’t be able to resist drawing parallels.

I started absentmindedly walking into walls as I wondered to myself: okay, tragic siblings.  Got it. But, what is the saddest possible way one could combine these ingredients?  Well, how about something that Chainsaw Man has touched on, but never deeply delved into: the devils’ cycle of reincarnation.

I noticed something: neither Makima nor Yoru have ever indicated that they regard their fellow horsemen as siblings, much less addressed them with any implicit camaraderie or endearment—thus far, only Famine has ever done so.  And then, I started thinking about that in the context of my musings that the Death Devil might be more killable than the other primal fears.  Rather than Death, I venture instead that Famine is the horseman who has never once died. If that were the case, it would serve to explain why she has resting-depression-face, and why she slouches over as if she has something weighing her down.

Consider, also, her insistence on being called Fami.  There’s no way to know for sure until we’ve seen her talk to someone who definitely can’t be a horseman, but what if “Fami” (Kiga-chan) isn’t what she wants to be called in general, but how she wishes to be addressed by her siblings?  (I suppose Asa would be considered an in-law in this scenario.)  It’s a bit weird that Famine objected not only to Yoshida addressing her by her devil title, but also to him calling her Kiga-senpai.  It just had to be Kiga-chan.  Perhaps that’s how her siblings used to call her, once upon a time, and by insisting that they address her as such, she’s clinging to the vestiges of their old relationship.

Let’s say the story of the four horsemen goes something along these lines: Once upon a time, they were a loving family, found or otherwise.  Life sucks, as it does, but in finding solace in each other, they could weather whatever life threw at them.  One by one, though, each of them die, except for Famine.  That’s okay, though: all she needs to do is seek out their reincarnations, and they can pick up where they left off.  But, it’s not quite that simple, is it?  Because she’s the only one who carries the memories, the love, the expectations, and the trauma of loss.  Even if she managed to make it work out in earlier iterations of the cycle, by the time the story starts, all of that has completely fallen apart.  The four horsemen are now enemies bound together by nothing but a shared title, and Famine is the only one who remembers that they were ever anything else.

If all of this is starting to sound familiar, that’s because it’s what Denji is going to have to contend with when he reunites with Power.  While hybrids like Denji are very difficult to kill (I’m assuming they work off of lich-rules,) devils like Power don’t have a long shelf life in practice, even if their bodies have no definite lifespan.  Assuming he doesn’t get himself truly killed, or otherwise permanently dismembered, then on a long enough timescale, Denji is going to keep persisting while Power, and even Nayuta, are going to keep dying.  If he wants to keep their relationship alive, he’s going to have to recreate it every. single. time. a feat which will become increasingly difficult as Denji’s baggage grows, and the shared context forming the basis of their relationship gradually drifts out of synch.  That, I think, is the entropy which Denji will soon find himself up against, and Famine’s purpose in the story is to show its terminus—what it means to succumb to it.  

Like Denji, Famine will partake of the crapburger for as long as she has a purpose to cling to.  That purpose is her siblings, and their former relationship—one that, once upon a time, may have been as profound and loving as the bond between Denji, Aki, and Power.  And in that, we may have found the reason why Famine’s most prominent design element is one she shares with Denji.  Her pullcord-like earrings are meant to clue the reader in that these two are foils, a pair of middle-children who were thrust into a role of heavy responsibility after losing their siblings.

If Famine were to lay down her burden and let death take her, it might be a relief.  But, she has decided to bear the burden of remembering, of witnessing the arc of her siblings’ lives across their many reincarnations.  If she lets go, then who they once were, and the bond they once shared, would be completely lost to history, its final thread broken.  And so, she keeps on trucking, her expression growing ever more haunted, her feelings and actions becoming ever more unnerving and inexplicable to her siblings, her heart growing ever more twisted, and her signature stoop growing ever more pronounced with the millennia. And, while keeping all that in mind, let me remind you of Yoshida’s possible desire—to erase himself from existence.

Obviously, this all pure conjecture, (an entire Venetian ball gown’s worth, in fact.)  But I think an ordeal of this degree would give Famine a tragedy worthy of both her name, and her association with an animal that struggles to keep its family alive against a backdrop of utter desolation.  Not only that, it would also tie her into the ongoing theme of parasocial relationships: she can’t help but project her siblings former selves onto their new incarnations, unable to meet them where they’re at, and see them for who they are in the here and now—this disconnect may well be why Yoru is so creeped out by her.

(Speaking of all this reincarnation angst, do you ever think about how our silly little guy Beam seemed to recall his past life with perfect, nonchalant clarity, and simply never saw fit to share with the class?  I think about it all time.)

Anyway, if you assume that Famine’s goal is to protect her siblings, and that she’ll intercede whenever one of them is in danger of permanent death, her actions start to make a bit more sense.  Why would she want the prophecy that ends with ‘Mars’ reigning to come true? Because she shares Yoru’s worry humanity will stop fearing her, and that her sister will subsequently die for good. Why does she antagonize Chainsaw man? Because she knows her brother wants to use Pochita’s power to kill himself—something she could never abide by.

She may have resigned herself to never being loved or even understood by her family again, to perpetual emotional starvation, but if Pochita ate one of her siblings, then she’d never get to love them again, whatever wholesomeness they once shared would be unspooled from time itself, and not even her memories could keep them alive.  She’d fight like hell to stop that from happening, with Pochita and, by extension, Denji, rising to the top of her shit list.  This may also serve to explain why she wanted Asa to turn Denji into a weapon—something which would ultimately be counterproductive to Yoru’s goal of getting him to regurgitate the nuke devil.  If Famine wants to neutralize the threat Pochita poses to her siblings, merely killing him would only delay the inevitable, since he’d soon be reborn back in hell.  But, if she were able to trap him in some sort of limbo state, that might actually ensure he’d never be a threat again.  And thus, she sets the aquarium arc in motion.

TL;DR:  Famine is basically Homura.  Purple?  Check. SHAFT headtilt?  Check.  And with that, I’m finally ready to talk more about the café scene, and why I’m not normal about it.

Having heaped all that additional (highly speculative) context over top it, the scene between Famine and Yoshida at the café is transformed from a mere vehicle for exposition, to a fraught reunion between two people who were once close, but can no longer recognize each other.  It would explain why this scene made my subtext senses tingle the first time I read it. When I revisited chapter 122 in light of my speculations, there were several new things I noticed.

Something that had stuck in my craw for the longest time were these little symbolic gestures which connected Yoshida to Aki, of all people.  It made no sense to me.  Aside from their shared tendency to tower over everyone like a beansprout, what on earth does this smug jackass have in common with our dearly departed, single father of two?

But before I get ahead of myself, I should clarify what those parallels are. Part 2 is littered with small callbacks to concurrent events in Part 1, which seem to exist in dialogue with each other.  As for those linking Aki with Yoshida, it starts as soon as the latter’s introduction to Part 2.  Part 2 doesn’t have an equivalent to the muscle devil chapter; we go straight from the initial demonic possession to meeting the bestie and saving cats, as it were. As such, Yoshida’s introduction in the second chapter of Part 2 is essentially in tandem with Aki’s introduction in chapter three.  Next would be the scene of him and Denji in the café, which is in tandem with Aki’s scene in the hospital in chapter 11.  Both come after the Bat Devil is killed and a cat is saved, and both involve Aki and Yoshida respectively trying to bribe Denji with food into behaving.  This last one isn’t concurrent like the other two, but Yoshida sitting on Denji reminds me of Aki doing the same at the beginning of the International Assassins arc.  It’s all pretty conspicuous, and I’m far from the first to have noticed.  So, considering it’s almost certainly deliberate, what is it, then, that motivates comparing Yoshida to Aki?

After eating several rolls of foil, I realize something.  What if Yoshida is being compared to Aki because, once upon a time, he was someone’s Aki?  Famine’s, to be exact.  Given that Famine refers to Yoru as her younger sister, it’s probably safe to assume that the “birth order” of these siblings, as it were, is the reverse of the order they were introduced in the relevant verse from the Book of Revelations, with Death being the eldest, and Conquest being the youngest.  The comparisons, I posit, are meant to clue us in that they’re both older brothers.

And then… and then, I realized that, if I was on the right track, you could draw a clean thematic through line from Aki cutting the little bunny apples at Denji’s bedside to bribe him into behaving, to Yoshida taking Denji to a café to bribe him into behaving, to Yoshida inviting Famine to that same café for their stilted conversation.  And what’s more, they’re at the same table, and with the same seating arrangements—the only difference being that Famine takes Denji’s spot, providing her with yet another parallel to him.  I just about started seeing shrimp-colors, I was so starry eyed.

Maybe I’m hopelessly lost in the confirmation-bias sauce, and seeing something that isn’t there.  But, to me, it seems that Famine’s expression becomes slightly more crestfallen than usual after Yoshida threatens her outright.  It’s a subtle microexpression, and she’s back to her usual poker face on the next page, but assuming I’m not jumping at shadows, then this further convinces me that he means something to her.  I can’t imagine that just any old thing would be capable of putting a dent, however subtle, on Famine’s stony countenance.  But, for someone she loves to threaten to kill her?  That must still sting, no matter how long she’s had to get used to it.

So, that’s what I think the story of the four horsemen is building to: a millennia-long family drama that’s about to reach nuclear criticality, with both Asa and Denji poised to get caught in the blast radius.  

Phew, that was a lot.  And I’ll be downright embarrassed if none of it ends up panning out.  There’s nothing quite as jarring as pouring your heart and mind into an interpretation, downright making it your baby, only to later realize that you and the author weren’t ever on the same wavelength.  However, if we want the rewards of glimpsing shrimp colors, we must submit to the mortifying ordeal of crack theories.  To anyone who’s still here, thank you so very much for reading my brain vomit.  If even 15% of this ends up being ballpark-accurate, I will die on the spot. In the meantime, please talk to me about how Chainsaw Man is a stealth shonen reimagining of Mawaru Penguindrum; I feel like I’m going insane in my little corner here.

*I think there’s a strong case to be made that Yoru intuited who she was at the time, and was just in denial because she didn’t want to deal with or think about Famine, but my point stands regardless.  If she were able to perceive the rings in Famine’s eyes, there’d be no room for either doubt or denial.

[wevelocityteampresents-blog]

SEPTEMBER 24TH

I almost lost my concentration today. I'm glad I managed to get my act together.

Since I started using Yahoo! Japan, I suddenly noticed how better it was than the international version. I can't say much right now. But it's definitely the better alternative to Google. (They even managed to keep the Yahoo! logo after 20 years! Unlike the minimalistic design of its international cousin...)

In Pokémon Violet, I managed to escape the cave and fly back to Moussi Town.

Kieran and Carmine's family must be rich if they have so many nuggets behind their grandparents' house. What's not so rich is that Kieran ran off with the Teal Mask. So I went off to find him.

Do the farmers in this area know that giant crystal caverns with dangerous Pokémon grow in their crops overnight? I don't think the ogre is the only thing they should be worried about.

After I found Kieran, he challenged me to a battle and wasn't taking it as lightly as he did before.

After I beat him, he punched the shrine. And I WISH I managed to get a screenshot of that. (It probably isn't as cool as Dr. Eggman punching a crater into a wall of ice.) That punch didn't just look strong but was enough to reawaken the legendary Pokémon.

That's the thing I'd least expect a Pokémon like that to say.

After that, they all ran off to the festival site. I could've chased them down. But my study time was in a few hours. So, I stopped for the day. I expected Nurse Joy to say her usual lines. But she instead gave me a new pose.

This has to be the dumbest pose I've ever seen... I still had some time left. So, I participated in a few wonder trades. It was a good thing I did because I actually got something good out of it.

A shiny Pokémon that was obtained legitimately. Most of the ones I get in wonder trades (that aren't done in Pokémon HOME or Pokémon Brilliant Diamond) are always hacked by some website. I'm glad this one was the real deal. Goes to show that these wonder trades ARE worth it.

SEPTEMBER 26TH

I finally managed to redesign an old character of mine! The new changes to his design and personality should really win over some new fans. I should work on the other character first, though...

Aside from that, I finished working on a new page for my website! The only thing it needs now is a header image.

In Pokémon Violet, I sat back and relished in the townspeople's stupidity for nurturing the legendary Pokémon to full health.

I chased after them and had to fight against Munkidori.

It was a good thing I used Braixen for this fight because Munkidori helped improve her Special Attack.

Soon after the others had caught up with me, I was told to head back to town to gain information on the legendary Pokémon. I also gained the ability to walk Ogerpon and any other Pokémon.

I set up a picnic to feed Ogerpon after the nasty encounter she had a few minutes ago.

But she doesn't join you for picnics... (She also seems to prefer watching me battle from the sidelines.)

SEPTEMBER 27TH

I'm trying to practice with a specific program so I can better understand one of my classes. I'd say I'm doing a great job so far. (I just wish some of the stuff from the later chapters were put into the one I'm reading. They seem very simple compared to the things I'm learning right now.)

Besides that, I'm also getting back to doing more things with Pokémon Stadium 2. I'm mostly messing around in Earl's Pokémon Academy so I can increase my understanding of Pokémon battles. (Or, at least, the battle mechanics of the GS series.)

Even though Naomi says she'll start off with Murkrow before using Ghost Pokémon, there may be a chance she'll use Magcargo instead. (You can see it for yourself here.) A cunning way to embrace players for the real world of Pokémon battling.

I didn't actually get to do that much in Pokémon Violet today since I was too occupied with schoolwork. But that didn't mean I didn't run into any interesting stuff.

After discovering the legendary Pokémon's whereabouts, I was forced to meet with Ogerpon on the outskirts of town.

Considering she's been out in the open for so long, it's a miracle nothing bad happened to her. I chose Munkidori as my first target since I needed a stat boost for Braixen.

There is no way a creature like that can be so wise.

[real-fanta-sea]

Hello!!💚😊 do you still write kiss requests?? For Trevor/Mike ship and can I request something for 'bury the hatchet' mission with 11 or 57 number? I really love to see how Trevor saves Michael so😍😱

Thank you!💗

Hi sweetie! I'm sorry it took me so long, but it's finally here! Find it under "keep reading". If you prefer AO3, click here to read the fic. tw mentions of violence, kissing, kinky old men

"Get the boyfriend!"

"The WHAT?" Michael huffed out, along with a small puff of fog, as he crouched behind a thumb stone that felt too small to shield him. Of all things, why would they think they were dating? Like, that were the signs? Can't two guys share a trailer, a bed, a shower, a coffee mug, cigarettes, whiskey bottles and take-out receipts without arising suspicion? Can't two consenting adults watch each other read a porn magazine while relieving stress? Is it a sign of marital status to carry someone over a threshold while high on... whatever was Trevor high on? Michael cringed inwardly as a bullet grazed the top of the stone and made the falling snowflakes find refuge on the back of his neck. There was no time to mull that over. The crunch of footsteps and angry commands closed in, and he had to act fast.

He did the math frantically. His pistol still had 16 bullets ready to be planted into the brains of whoever he aimed at. There was another full magazine in his jacket pocket. Good. Michael peered above the top of the stone, now chipped into a monstrous row of teeth. The silence has been ruptured by the sound of breaks. Judging by the urgent stomping, there were far more than 33 men to bury that night. Michael ducked and ran towards a statue of an angel reclining over another piece of stone, big enough to hide him under its sorrowful wings. Finally able to stretch out, he took a deep breath and cracked his neck. He remembered the last time he had to fight off so many people and cursed when he shot a look back towards Brad's grave. At that time, there was no blanket and a cup of hot coffee waiting for him. At that time, dance macabre was all too real for comfort. But it was not a time to die; he convinced himself. Not in the freezy shithole called North Yankton. Not without a fight.

Just when he peered over the side of the sculpture, the world around him slowed down into a strange state of blue trance. He shot four men in a matter of seconds, retreated to his cover, and resurfaced again behind a different piece of stone. All he could feel was a stinging sensation on his face as he collapsed with snowflakes, a soft crunch of virgin snow below his feet mixed with the recoil of the gun in his hand, going off in time with the rhythm of his heart. He wouldn't have minded if the state of focus and tranquillity remained his primary state of being. To be faster than others, not feeling the bullets licking skin and flesh off of his body, killing without remorse - he missed such balance in his retired life.

Not many voices filled the graveyard when Michael finally threw his pistol away and snatched a gun from a random unlucky henchman whose blood was rapidly cooling on the ground. The relative silence unnerved him. The math didn't add up, and even when he cracked his neck again to relieve some of the pressure, the popping sound didn't fill the space enough to be comfortable again. Only when he ascended from the aisle, ducking, eyes darting all over the dark place, he noticed how fast he was breathing and that his hands were shaking.

Fuck it, he thought to himself, that one extra burger, coke and pizza every now and then, when he couldn't sleep, did hurt after all. Maybe Mandy was right to nag at him for smoking too. Before he could make an oath to himself to start exercising once he got away from the situation. Before he could even turn around in awe, the bushes behind his back rustled and gave birth to a furious Chinese man. The newborn didn't spare a second to hit the back of Michael's head with something Mike later identified as the butt of his gun and knocked the dumbfounded Michael unconscious.

It didn't take long for Michael to wake up, but the world was swirling around him into a smudged black-eye blue mush, and it reeked of puke. There was a horrible echo of voices nagging in his throbbing head, and it took a lot of him to recognize two twitching shadows dragging him through the muddy snow. For a split second, he felt weightless as the shadows threw him inside a gaping black space and the thunder of the van door being shut made him shriek in pain.

For what felt like an eternity, his existence was reduced to watching a streak of orange light running towards his chest and vanishing before it reached his head. Michael scrutinized the small cut out in the wall that divided his dark cell and the cockpit of the van and marvelled at the sounds emerging with every blink of the orange light. The slight rocking of the vehicle only served to make him more nauseated in between his scattered thoughts. Why haven't they killed him was among the first coherent questions his brain was capable of producing. Why would they want him alive? The light blinked away rapidly and brought about the noise of radio static and two voices fighting over what frequency to tune in. Get the boyfriend. Why was the question coming back then?

Michael groaned as the deafening sound of Channel X pinned him to the ground again. Boyfriend. He recognized the music. He remembered. They thought Trevor would pay whatever price they demanded in exchange for his safety. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, and he didn't try to stop it for a change. How they could still think that after witnessing their bickering at Brad's grave, Michael wasn't entirely sure. What he knew with paralyzing certainty was that no one was coming to save him, and it was Trevor's fault. In between the blinks of light and throbbing pain, his memories ran back to the moment Brad unknowingly shielded Trevor as it often did in the past ten years and wished once again Dave either pulled the trigger a second later or aimed for Michael's head.

He didn't know whether to be annoyed or thankful when screeching breaks interrupted his daydreaming session. Judging by the high-pitched angry Chinese, they either had some very unfortunate flat tyre, or they ran into trouble. Or, which was something Michael didn't want to think about, they arrived at their lair and discussed the best way to make a chop suey from his guts. He shifted slightly, shaking off the inappropriate thoughts his mind offered him. It did him no good to think about alternate universes where all his problems were gone, and he was roasting under Los Santos sun by his pool.

The sliding door opened, and Michael was immediately hit into the face with a sluggish white light and smell of iron. Just one glance at the tiles plastered all over the walls, hooks idly clinging in the draft, and he knew exactly where they were. A shiny tray with a handsaw grinned right back at him from the centre of silhouettes of men. Oh god, he was so screwed. So fucked over. He made a mental note to kick Trevor in the balls when... IF... he sees him again. A pair of hands grabbed his ankles and pulled him out of the car, his head bouncing off the ground when it hit ice-cold concrete. Michael shivered. Was it really all there was for him? Would the famous Michael Townley, the phantom of the north, end up minced into Flormart burgers? A curse escaped his lips when he imagined the limp, tasteless slice of pickle and an unnaturally orange slice of cheese tiredly melting on his flesh in someone's microwave. He could withstand any torture but that.

"Hey you, you are awake, aren't you?"

Michael winced inwardly and squinted his eyes against the bright light. "Oh, am I? I didn't know! Are you a doctor or something?"

There was a prompt leathern shoe planted into his face. Michael hissed upon contact, the smell of cheap shoe glue imprinting into his memory. So much for a well-meant, friendly sarcasm.

"Ok, I got it. I'll shut up."

"You better should, pig!" There were several snorts around him, obscured by the bright light. Michael's cheek throbbed. If he was a pig about to be made into bacon strips, he swore to take them with him. The guy who kicked him circled around like a shark.

"Now, tell me. Where does your boyfriend keep the drugs?"

Michael just snickered and shrugged as best as his tied arms allowed. The shadows stepped closer, towering above him. He felt another kick; this time, the shoe bit into his ribs, making him hiss.

"ANSWER!"

A pair of hands yanked him onto his knees. The floor crushed into them, a painful reminder he should have picked up yoga when his wife told him so.

"I DON'T KNOW!"

The sole of the shoe pushed into the middle of his back, stretching his muscles to their capacity. Michael's forehead was pearled with sweat. He could barely breathe. Any further, and he was sure he would throw up.

"Do you think we are stupid?"

The pressure worsened. Michael gasped for air.

"We've seen him carry you over the threshold, and we know from a reliable source you share the bed with him,"

A picture of Ron shaking in the middle of a hostile office, surrounded by the same shadows, flashed through Michael's mind before he blinked it away. Another mental note was taken. Kick Ron's balls right after kicking Trevor's.

"AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO CLAIM YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE HE KEEPS HIS ASSETS WHEN WE KNOW YOU SQUAT ON HIS DICK EVERY NIGHT???"

"Believe it or not," Michael gasped and tried to turn just enough to look the bastard who stepped on him in the eye, "I don't know anything. Oh, and it's not me who squats; I am more of the top kind of guy."

It occurred to Michael the Chinese guy who led the interrogation had a strange sense of symmetry because before he knew it, he had another pulsating bruise spread over the other side of his ribs. He wanted to think the remark was worth it, even though his body told him otherwise.

"Hang that fag on a hook - let's see if he remembers with more blood in his brain."

For a second, Michael panicked. There were too many hands grabbing and groping him, turning him, and he remembered how he, as a little boy watched spiders do just that with flies in their webs, both horrified and fascinated. He has always considered himself a spider in such situations. Oh, how the turntables! He now was the fly, and the spider was walking away.

"HEY, WAIT!"

The hands kept him floating in the air, and the man stopped in his path, turning around.

"Hm? What is it?"

Michael's eyes rounded, even though he desperately tried to fight the trepidation. "You are terribly wrong about this. I am not his boyfriend, just an acquaintance. I have no idea how you guys are affiliated, but whatever this is about, it all runs down to money, right?"

The man folded his arms on his chest slowly, visibly taking pride in Michael's panic, but his thin lips kept shut.

"I'll pay you if you release me. Generous money, actually. That's what you guys want, right? That's what everybody wants."

The man took a few steps closer, right under one of the beaming tube lights. Michael gulped when he saw the grin on his handsome face. It took him a surprisingly low effort to come close to Michael and grab his jaw in a vice grip.

"Have your whining ever worked on anyone?"

Michael shook his head ever so slightly. He got a shark-like grin in response.

"What we want is to know where your lover, Trevor Phillips, keeps his merchandise and take what is contractually, thus rightfully ours. Tell us, and maybe we will let you go."

His eyes were as black as Trevor's when Michael last saw them, yet there was no shadow of affection in these. The man who looked at him was by all means already dead inside. The hand slipped away from his jaw, but Michael could still feel where his new friend left purple imprints.

"I thought so. Never mind, after the night spent upside down, I hope your point of view will change. HANG HIM!"

All of a sudden, there was a roar of an engine from somewhere above. Michael tried to locate the sound, but it glided away, much to his captors' disdain. There was a cacophony of stomping and foreign words bouncing off the walls, mixing in with the cry of sliding door and hum of the engine coming back.

"HEY!"

His voice was too weak against the noise. No one noticed him twitching; no one cared he was still there.

"HEY, MOTHERFUCKERS, WHAT'S GOING ON!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" was the answer from one of the men, along with a sting of a gunstock on his eye. Michael didn't need answers anymore, though, as the barking of shots and cries of mowed down men crept through the open door. Not so silently, he cursed Trevor for dragging him right into the middle of mafia wars, something he had no desire to see up close. Leaving him in the graveyard alone with a mob? One kick in the balls. Letting them kidnap him and hang him like a piece of ham? Two kicks in the balls. Letting the mafia kill him in a shoot out? Thousands of years of haunting Trevor and another kick in the balls as soon as they both reincarnate. Gunshots from outside closed in on him.

Michael tried to break free from the ropes but only managed to swing back and forth.

"Oh FUCK, I'm going to KILL HIM! YOU'RE SO DEAD, TREVOR!"

"MICHAEL!"

At first, Michael thought he was hearing things. In his state of panic, his brain couldn't get a grip of how the hell Trevor knew where to find him, let alone come and rescue him after he almost shot him. Then he thought that some kind of vessel must have busted in his head, for the familiar voice was accompanied by an even more familiar tall outline topped by a crown of ruffled dark brown hair. He couldn't help but blink rapidly a couple of times, dumbfounded in the middle of the slaughterhouse.

"JESUS, MIKEY!!!"

There were rushed steps, a sound of a gun falling to the ground, followed by two trembling hands cupping his face. Michael closed his eyes and relied on other senses to confirm his suspicion. First, there was a smell of late-night coffees, morning cigarettes, diesel fuel and cheap soap he bought for Trevor not so long ago. Second, there were two big hands, fingers brushing around the edges of his bruises in a way they did years ago when they both were different people, but somehow they did remember how to soothe him. Third, there was a deep-set voice trembling with worry whispering his name. And finally, when Michael opened his eyes again, there were the amber eyes, glazed, terrified and hurt. There was no doubt anymore. Trevor came back for him.

"Oh god, I was so fucking afraid!"

Michael couldn't keep angry when faced with the first shy tears welling in Trevor's eyes, but his ability to speak left him as they fell down and disappeared into the blackness of Trevor's shirt. So instead, he let Trevor's hands caress him, oddly at peace with the gentle touch on his face.

"To think I almost lost you again!" Trevor bit his lip. Something about the droplet of blood blooming under his teeth left Michael breathless. "I was so angry, infuriated much, yes, but then I imagined you laying there with Brad and..."

Trevor gazed into Michael's eyes with such urgency it immediately reminded him of their first kill. The fear mixed in with the red gleam in his eyes, the sense of irreparable, coming back from the past to haunt them. Lost in thought, Michael didn't register the swift movement right in front of him and was caught by surprise by a feeling of having his lips pressed against Trevor's.

They were hot, trembling, and tasted of cigarettes and blood, a mixture Michael desperately tried to forget about. Where they first gently touched his, as if they couldn't believe he was still alive and well, they pressed harder in mere seconds, making Michael's eyes flutter shut. It was difficult for him to admit, but Trevor's lips were the only drug Michael craved for long and lonely ten years. For once, he let his nagging reason get hushed by the shy movement of Trevor's lips, and all the hatred slipped his mind momentarily.

At length, Trevor broke the kiss, and still holding onto Michael's cheeks, he gently propped his forehead against Michael's. Michael let him take a break, listening to his shallow breathing, and their thoughts were buzzing almost audibly where their skin touched.

"Oh god, to think I almost lost you..."

"It's ok, T; I'm still hanging on."

"Yeah, but what if I didn't turn around and follow that convoy? What if they killed you?"

"You could say I would hang around for a bit, and then they would kick me out."

Trevor raised his head and furrowed a bit. "What's that with you and emphasize on hanging?"

Michael raised eyebrows at him and waited till the realization would dawn on Trevor. It took three seconds for Trevor's eyes to round and his mouth to form a perfect 'o'.

"Oh, yeah, uh, I see. Wait a moment, sugar."

Michael's feelings on Trevor holding a knife were usually on the border between panic and deep fucking rooted urge to run for the hills. When Trevor approached him and swung it around his face, Michael was momentarily inclined to the second option, twitching nervously under the cold gleam of the knife. Trevor eyed him with palpable exhaustion.

"Stop wiggling goddammit, do you want to get cut?"

Michael pouted at him.

"Hey, don't give me THAT face, pork chop! It wasn't MY idea to tie you up and hook you here!"

Trevor's knife slowly cut through ropes, murmuring as it bit through thick threads. The very tip brushed against Michael's leg, leaving goosebumps in the wake of its cold touch.

"But I have to say this is kinda hot, eh?" Trevor's grin was back, the brightest light in the room. "How about we try it again when we get back home?"

"What the FUCK are you talking about, Trevor?"

Trevor leant in, still grinning, his knife gliding against Michael's waist.

"I mean, I will send Patricia shopping,"

The knife dipped lower, slipping under Michael's shirt. He gasped, inwardly cursing for giving Trevor the tiniest bit of gratification.

"then I'll take some nice silk rope,"

The dull side of the blade ran through chest hair lush between trembling peaks of his nipples.

"tie you up and make some sweet, sweet love to you, cupcake!"

Trevor's lips were so close, his breath on Michael's lips again, who was petrified with anticipation. His heart hammered against the patch of goosebumps on his chest, and if the last bit of rope didn't snap and let him slide off the hook, Michael would have leaned in himself and stole that kiss. But, instead of the sweet release, he was sent to the cold ground head first, folding like a rag doll upon impact.

Not only Michael sustained another hit on his head, swearing and kicking around, not unlike the turtle Amanda bought for the kids and that he and Jimmy used to torture by putting it on its back, laughing about the way it tried to turn over, but it was Trevor who was laughing his lungs out, folded in half. Michael tried to stab him with a menacing glare, but it didn't help in the slightest. Gathering the last shred of strength, Michael scraped to his feet and balling fists full of Trevor's jacket, he threw them both against deadly green tiles.

Trevor's laugh died out soon after the impact, but the grin remained despite Michael pinning him down. At first, Michael's intention was to beat him up, partially to let the frustration out, partially to get revenge for the stolen kiss, but he was taken aback when Trevor's hands closed over his fists and squeezed gently.

"Whatcha gonna do, Mikey?" Trevor uttered in an irresistibly husky voice that sent shivers of excitement to all the wrong places, "Beat me for saving your life?" Michael growled.

"You fucking..." but the words he wanted to say got sucked back into the vortex of emotion running free in his ribcage. No, beating wasn't what Michael's mind supplied him with when it came to what to do with Trevor. He could barely resist the vivid pictures of Trevor, hair running down his slender back, undressing in front of him, leaving marks on his neck and long scratches speaking volumes about how Michael liked to celebrate their victories. And then, on that day, Trevor was there. Older, but just as tempting, daring, enclosing Michael in the smell of both freedom and slavery with each exhale. Michael took a deep breath. He couldn't help but give in to the craving.

Trevor yelped when Michael crashed his lips with his so hard their teeth clinked together. That was the thrill he wanted to relive, and as soon as Trevor's hands rested against his lower back, pulling him closer, Michael surged deeper and dared to brush his tongue against Trevor's. The choked moan he managed to draw out fueled his fingers in their haste, letting go of fabric and instead bury themselves into Trevor's hair, pulling him closer. Trevor's skin could have combusted any second with the heat it emitted, and Michael couldn't resist yanking him closer, eager to get burned once again.

"Mikey... Jesus Christ!"

Trevor could barely breathe, so much Michael could tell by the heaving of chest caught between the wall and his own body. He was proud of the trembling in Trevor's touch, of shallow breaths and flushed cheeks right in front of him. He still got it.

"What?" Michael grinned impishly and let one of his hands slide down Trevor's back and squeeze him. Trevor yelped in surprise but didn't try to wriggle out of the embrace and even giggled when Michael let his hand rest there. Trevor leaned in closer, his breath sending shivers down Michael's spine as it touched his ear.

"Let's go home, cupcake."

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.35

Sacrifices to Save the World

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 9,582

Warnings: smut, LOTS of fluff, angst

A/N: (THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER! One more to go!) Here it is everyone! The moment I have been waiting for. I can’t really say much and I don’t want to give anything away so, I’ll just let the chapter speak for itself. I also want to say that I’m sorry that I haven’t been as diligent about responding to comments. Trust me when I say that I read and reread them often! I appreciate your thoughts and reactions so much. As always, if you happen to reblog, thank you so much for helping me spread my work!

Tags are closed!

Please DO NOT repost my stories. Reblogs are MOST welcome!

You bustle around the cottage sweeping cat hair and dust, mixing the white of the chalk dust with the crimson blood of Grandmother’s sacrificial cat.

Your attempts to tidy the space is wasted as you’re only making it worse, but rather than focus on her words you prefer to clean.

She watches you from the seat at her table where you placed her. A cup of water gripped in her withered hand, still trembling slightly.

“Stop cleaning, girl!” Grandmother chides, watching you with annoyance as you stop amongst the mess on her floor and throw your hands out to your sides in a clear indication of not understanding.

“What would you have me do?” You ask her, voice tight with distress. “You tell me that my husband will fight to his death and I am supposed to what? Dance?”

“Just sit down.” She points at the seat across from her, her finger crooked and weak.

You drop the broom where you stand and plop yourself down on the indicated seat while ignoring the creak of the weathered wood. The old woman would resist new furnishings though you’d managed to sneak in a new bed and kitchenware.

“You killed your cat.” You tell her, as if she doesn’t know.

“Yes.” She agrees and lifts the small cup to her lips to take a drink.

“Why?”

“I had to see.” She explains. “Something was…was there.”

“When I found you outside Steve’s office?” You check, though you know her answer.

“Yes.” With a sigh she captures your gaze and does not release it. “I have sensed a darkness growing in the world. Something elusive. Hidden. It has kept its face secret, behind that of puppets. It uses others to do its bidding and until today I had no idea what that bidding was.

“He is gathering six relics. Stones. Rich in magic properties. Richer than any other relics I have ever come across. Each of them with powers more terrifying than the last.”

“What kind of powers?” You ask her, voice feeble and wispy.

“Powers to control time. Power to manipulate the mind and the very fabric of space and reality.” She warns. “Powers to rule the world…or wipe it from existence.”

Your heart grows cold, slipping into the pit of your stomach as you picture Steve in his armor standing before such massive power. What could your warrior husband do in the face of such might?

“Who is he?” You ask her, eager to put a face to the threat.

“I don’t know.” She says, looking down at the necklace that always rests around your neck. The locket that is Steve’s insignia, with his picture along with your parents. “I cannot see his face. I can only feel him. He is stronger than the king. Stronger than many of those who fight here. Together they may defeat him, but I did not see them together. I saw only your husband, the bodies of those you love surrounded him, and he fell too.”

You get up, unwilling to let her convince you despite you having already accepted her words. “I cannot listen to this.”

“You must, girl. You must take heed of what I tell you and prepare yourself for what is to come. Take your daughter and go as far away from here as possible but even that may not save you.” She adds as an afterthought. “I feel this evil plans for more than death. He has such a will.”

Turning to her you consider her thoughtful expression and the way she seems lost to her vision. She believes it with every fiber of her being and your own heart is swayed into panic as you throw yourself onto your knees at her feet.

Gripping the hand she has resting on her lap, you raise it to your breast and hold it there to where your heart is pounding.

“There must be something you can do. Something that will save him.” You reason, pleading for her to see reason as if she held the very fate of Steve within her old hands. “Won’t you try?”

“I cannot.” She shakes her head. “Such magics are forbidden. I am no dark witch.”

Her insistence is fractured, her own eyes betray her as she eyes you up and then turns away.

Her fondness is clear. You know that she loves you despite the way she speaks to you at times. She has fought hard for your happiness. If you would beg for her life, you think she might give it up.

“Is there no way? Nothing? Surely there is a chance to change things without resorting to dark magics? Please, Grandmother…” Before you know what’s happening, you’re crying.

Tears flow freely across your cheeks but your voice is strong in the only way that it can be when you’re pleading for your husband’s life.

“I cannot live in a world where my husband is not alive. Please…help me. Help me save him. There must be a way. There must be…please. We just had our daughter…” You lay your head in her lap, overcome with fear at this future she’s seen. “Please.”

Her silence is heavy. You can feel her thinking, can feel her mind searching for a way to give you what you want.

You have always loved this old woman but until today, you had not considered how much she might truly love you as one would a true granddaughter.

“Give me time.” She sighs.

“You’ll try?!” You gasp, your heart soaring.

With an elated sob you drop your head onto her lap and with gentle, feeble hands, she strokes the back of your head.

“I will think on it. I will try. I cannot make any promises.” She warns you, reaching under your chin to draw your gaze up. “What you ask for will not be easy. Is he worth it?”

You blink, confused by her question because in your mind there is absolutely no doubt.

“He’s worth more. He’s worth everything.” You nod. “I love him.”

Grandmother’s gaze withers and she releases you, nudging you away.

“Go. Be with your husband and child. Let me ponder.” She orders and slowly you rise.

You’re so stunned you have to keep a hand on the table as you rise to keep your knees buckling.

“When will you know?” You ask her, sniffling from the tears you shed.

“Go.” She orders again, staring at the hem of your dress. “And change your dress. You’re covered in blood.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Standing still, you hold tight to the lower left post of your bed as your corset is laced again.

The copper tub by the roaring fire in your bedroom sits lukewarm, full pink and wine-colored peony blooms floating within its oiled surface.

“Why was there blood on your dress?” Natasha wonders, tugging tight on your laces making you gasp.

“It’s not important.” You tell her, then think better of keeping her completely in the dark. “There was a dead cat on the way to Grandmother’s and I didn’t realize it until I came upon it.”

Fuck, was that believable? Does she trust you enough to accept your words without doubt?

“You’re keeping something from me.” She counters, frowning as she ties the corset closed.

Apparently not.

“I’m not.” You argue, but after her silence pierces your soul, you sigh. “I’m worried.”

“About Hydra?” She asks, supplying you with an appropriate alternative to the truth.

���Of course.” You grasp onto this straw and lean your stress onto this very real threat. “The last time I was within their vicinity someone tried to kill me and Maggie.”

“That won’t happen again.” Natasha assures you, moving towards you with a long ivory gown. The slightly yellowish tinge to the flowing fabric is pretty, though you note this in the back of your head. You’re too preoccupied with the threats looming overhead to notice how pretty the dress is. “I should have stayed with you.”

“It wasn’t your fault Nat. Pierce knew what he was doing. He’d been to father’s many times and he knew that I’d be in that part of the castle. He knew that you’d all be focused elsewhere. He was going to find a way to me one way or another.” You reason, but you know that if Peter or Nat had been there with you, there would have been a better chance of getting away with greater speed.

“I will never leave your side again.” Nat declares passionately but you huff a laugh and turn to look at her as she gathers up the skirt of your dress, hooking her arms through it to make ready for you to wear.

“Nat,” You smile. “I love you, and maybe you’re right and things would have been better if you or someone else had been by my side that night. But you cannot be beside me always. You’re a wife now. And even if you cannot be a mother naturally, there are many other ways to have children.”

Nat drops her arms, watching you with a concerned and furrowed brow. She’s clearly focused on you and not herself. You want to remedy that quickly. You love her, how can you allow her to only ever let you be her concern?

“You two must have discussed it?” You prompt, knowing that Bucky would not give up on giving Nat what she most desperately desires. “I know you want to be a mother. You love children.”

She seems to realize that you are not about to let this drop, so she sighs, relaxing a bit.

“I have thought about it.” She nods. “And yes, I do love children but I’m not sure if it’s right for me with the life that Bucky and I lead.”

Your heart aches suddenly, a renewal of Grandmother’s words reminding you that your daughter could lose her father. She so damn right about that.

“I don’t blame you.” You nod, sitting yourself on the end of the bed. “This life that all of you have chosen is one most unwelcome to the traditional family. But it is possible. Father and Mother have Morgana, Lord and Lady Lang have their daughter. Steve and I now have Margaret.

“It may not be ideal, certainly. But possible.” You offer in encouragement.

You don’t want her to give up. You want her to be happy.

Nat looks down at your stocking covered feet and nods.

“You don’t have to. Of course, it is entirely your choice and Bucky’s. I’m not trying to say that you should have children. But if you should you choose to have them, it is possible to live both lives.” You really hope that you’re not putting any pressure on her to raise a child when she might not want to.

Natasha’s inability to have children naturally should not be a hindrance on her desire to be a mother if she should decide to try. There are thousands of children in orphanages across the Kingdoms that would benefit greatly from a loving home that you know Bucky and Nat would provide effortlessly.

At the end of the day however, you know it is their choice.

“I appreciate your support.” Nat admits, gathering your skirts again and then holding them open for you to put your head through. “Truly. It means so much to me that you think I could do a good job. As a mother.”

You stand and stick your head through the dress and begin to pull your arms through the large puffed sleeves as Natasha straightens your skirt.

The neckline is ruffled, heart shaped, and low. The sleeves are also ruffled, small cinches that wrap around your arm mid-bicep leaving your shoulders and neckline exposed. Nat turns you and quickly laces up the back of the dress. She pulls it tight so that there is no chance of it slipping down.

“Isn’t this a little-?”

“You look beautiful.” Natasha smiles, fixing a long pink sash around your waist that she ties into a long loose bow above the curve of your bum. “Shall I braid your hair again?”

Natasha’s hands work fast, her fingers nimble and familiar with your hair’s texture and flow. The skirt is so long and flowing that you wonder if something special has been planned for you to attend as you feel that despite the somewhat casual look of the dress, it also doubles as pretty in that formal sense.

Your fingers find the embroidered pink and white peonies on the bodice that decorate your breast.

“Am I seeing someone special today?” You ask.

“No.” Natasha smiles. “Just us. Lunch is being served in the garden for you, Margaret, and Steve. Bucky and I shall be nearby. Peter will be close too. No one special.”

You huff a laugh as she lists all of the most precious people in your life. “So, only those special to me then?”

Nat chuckles and finishing tying off your hair.

“Lunch is for you, Steve, and Maggie. Steve expressed a wish to spend some quiet time alone with the two of you. He knows he’s been busy the past few weeks racing about chasing leads on this new Hydra weapon. He wants to make it up to you and I know he’d appreciate you in this dress.”

Her explanation makes sense but you’re successfully distracted from the dress by the mention of Hydra.

“How was the search?” You suddenly wonder, remembering Steve’s orders for her and Bucky.

“We’ve spread the word and will go out again tonight to search. I’ll tell you if anyone is found.”

“I’d like to know what’s happening with this.” You turn to her, adjusting within her grip as she reaches down to fuss with your dress. “I need to know, Nat. I can’t be kept in the dark again.”

Natasha drops her hands, placing them on her hips as she considers the look in your eyes.

“You’re not saying something.” She realizes. “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing.” You say quickly, a shrug thrown her way just to brush off the concern. “I just don’t want any surprises. Not like before. This threat seems insignificant but what if there’s more to this mysterious weapon? I want to know what you’re all walking into.”

“Steve has promised to keep you appraised.” Nat promises you. “I will hold him to his word.”

Slowly, as the truth of her words shines through her eyes, a small smile stretches your lips.

“Thanks, Nat.”

~~~~~~~~~~

As you approach your renovated pavilion, peony blossoms blooming all around in varying shades of pink, you adjust Maggie in your arms.

You’re careful with your own dress. Double-checking the top of your bodice to make sure for the tenth time that you are covered after feeding your daughter. Nat made sure it was tight again but you’re fretting is ceaseless as a mother now.

The corset you’re wearing made especially for you since you are nursing, makes it easy for you to feed her without much fuss. Steve seems to favor it too though you’ve told him to be gentle and he’s avoided enjoying your breasts while you’re focused on raising your little one.

Aside from a loving caress and gentle butterfly kisses when the two of you make love, he’s avoided touching them.

Reaching the stairs, you fix your daughter’s dress—changed to match yours with endless ruffles but the same peony embroidery pattern on her little chest and pink sash around her little waist.

Steve rises quickly, rushing towards you with his arms extended.

Maggie coos excitedly, her little high-pitched squeaks and goos nearly make you swoon as she kicks her little legs excitedly. She’s not exactly screaming yet, but her noises are long and eager.

“There’s my princess.” Steve says proudly, his eyes flooding with love as he takes her into his large arms and kisses her chubby cheek.

He turns her to sit with her little back pressed against his chest and smiles at you while your own eyes are glued to your daughter.

“And my beautiful Queen.” He gushes, pulling your attention away from Maggie as he leans down slowly until he meets your lips with a long slow peck. “How are you?”

His voice is soft and deep. “I’m very well.”

It’s almost a lie.

In this moment, here with Steve and Maggie, you are most definitely well. You’re happy and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Your heart still weighs a ton with Grandmother’s news.

For a terrible moment as Steve walks away from you to sit down with Maggie on his lap, you remember her words and your knees almost buckle.

With him focused on the little one, you manage to sit yourself down before he can notice.

Rapid footsteps climb the stairs behind you. You turn to find Peter moving in to stand beside you both. He smiles excitedly as he watches Maggie. He, like everyone else in the castle, is head over heels for her.

No one draws a smile quicker than Maggie, even from the gentry that had so readily spread rumors about you.

This makes you happy. Your daughter accepted.

“Cook will be out with your meals shortly, your Majesties.” He informs you both.

“Won’t you join us?” You ask him, but Peter meets Steve’s eyes for a moment then reaches up to scratch behind his head, his cheeks flushing pink.

Clearly Steve had made it clear that he wanted to spend time with you and Maggie alone to more than just Nat. However, there’s something else in that rosy tint in Peter’s cheeks.

“I…I’m actually meeting Morgana in the libraries to help her with her studies. I will cancel with her if you wish me to stay?” He offers, though you see the disappointment in his eyes.

“No.” You hurry to assure him. “No, we’re fine. I just wanted to be sure you ate.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. I believe Cook is sending sandwiches to the library for us.” Peter bows and with an excitement in his step you watch him until he’s out of sight.

“They make a good match.” You smile, turning to take a sip of water from the silver goblet before you.

“Who?” Steve asks, confused. He bounces his leg to keep Maggie occupied while allowing her to hold his finger in her tight tiny fist. She drags it to her mouth and bites it with her gums, yet Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

“Peter and Morgana.”

“Peter and your sister?” Steve asks in shock. “But…she’s so young.”

“She’s fifteen, going on sixteen.” You remind him. “If they are engaged this year that will still leave them with two years of courtship before they’re married. That is the custom in Malibia.

She’ll be eighteen by then and Peter will be twenty-four. Some people would say those are two ages perfect for marrying.”

Despite the pleasant picture you paint, Steve’s frown only grows.

“What?” You chuckle, reaching into your skirts to find the pocket where you’d placed a few small towels for Maggie’s constant drooling.

You offer Steve the towel but he’s still frowning? No…he’s pouting! You get up and move around to wipe her chin before placing the towel in Steve’s hand.

“Why are you pouting?”

“I’m not pouting.” Steve grumbles.

It makes you laugh again. “Steve…”

“Maggie will not be getting engaged until she’s at least twenty.” He suddenly declares. “I’ll lock her up in the West tower until she’s that age and only then will I allow her to entertain the idea of a suitor.”

“Are you worried that you’ll only have her for sixteen years?” You chuckle, watching the worry in his eyes as he cradles Maggie closer, stroking her rounded cheeks with gentle thumbs.

“She’s mine right now.” Steve laments, looking down at her as she continues to chew on his finger. “I don’t want to part with her. I’ve waited so long for her for some boy to come take her from me.”

“Oh, my darling.” You chuckle but this time with full sympathy for his heartbreak. “We will have lots of time with her. And even after she marries, she will always be our daughter.”

Steve’s eyes are glued to her little face and he completely doesn’t notice Cook come up to serve your meal. A few roast chickens with potatoes and carrots.

You eat in silence but quickly. Enjoying the sight of him growing more and more enamored with your daughter. Steve doesn’t seem to notice the time slip by as he distracts her with the towel you’d handed him.

She chatters about nothing in her baby speak, drawing smiles and chuckles from your husband.

Finally, you eat your last carrot and slide your chair back.

“I’m sorry.” You tell him, rising to your feet knowing you have no reason to be sorry. He’s so in love with her. Luckily, you’ve still managed to eat fast enough that the food is still warm for him. “I should hire a maid to watch her when we eat.”

It’s true that you’ll eventually need to hire someone to take care of her when you must deal with kingdom affairs too. You’re so reluctant to let someone else care for her. Just as Steve claims her passionately, you feel just as he does. She’s yours.

“Not yet.” Steve counters, letting you take her from him. He adjusts in his chair, wipes his hand then proceeds to eat, stealing glances at both of you as you move towards the benches that line the inner edge of the pavilion.

Everything is so perfect. So lovely.

You’re almost content in this moment, with your little girl in your arms and Steve sharing a meal with you. You’re very nearly happy until you look at him and like a raging storm Grandmother’s words destroy your fragile peace once more.

Steve is going to die.

He turns to you and smiles. He smiles at Maggie. He confesses his love for you both with it pouring from his eyes and while your heart aches, you vow to do anything to stop this new threat from taking him away.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come to bed.” Steve pleads.

You glance at him through your looking glass, a hazy image because of the distance from your small table to the bed. The silver is in need of polishing or perhaps replacing. You don’t dare speak this thought aloud though.

Knowing Steve, he’d simply buy you a wall full of mirrors and you can’t have that.

Even blurry he’s a vision, an absolute fucking sight to behold with your daughter at the center of your bed his fingers tickling her tummy as she kicks her little legs excitedly. Her little hands absentmindedly stroking his arm.

He’s on his side, shirtless. His lower body hidden beneath the sheets of your bed as he lays naked underneath.

Despite that delectable fact, your eyes are glued to his gentle smile as he takes his hand and gently strokes the length of Maggie’s little nose. He’s noticed how that lulls her to sleep and does it to her every night to send her off when he’s not busy in meetings.

You finish tending to your hair, braiding it back once again to keep out of the way for your little one. When you turn in your seat to look at them, you find Maggie’s movements slowed. Her eyes are closing, little rosebud lips left open slightly.

She’s already fed and content. Your happy baby, so protected and cherished.

Despite his attentions to your daughter that you’ve spent the last ten minutes watching, when you look at him you find Steve’s eyes on you.

“Come to bed.” He urges you, a small twinkle of desire hidden in the tranquility of these moments he spends with Maggie but stares at you.

“Are you trying for a second?” You ask him, teasing as you rise and move to the bed. You know that look well by now.

Steve’s expression suddenly shift, concern etched across his face.

“Am I rushing you?” He asks, reaching for you as you kneel on the bed and gather your nightdress up so as not to trip on it. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He’s thinking of this morning, already having had you in his den.

Since you’d given birth, he’s been so careful with you. Even when you’d assured him you were ready to be intimate with him again, he’d hesitated. Worried about hurting you or rushing your body into doing things you should not be doing.

Your smile only grows, a small chuckle escaping your lips as you settle in on Maggie’s right. She doesn’t even stir. Steve’s hand remains around your forearm, fingers gently caressing your skin.

“Why do you laugh?” He asks, his mouth perking at the corners despite his worry.

“You are not like any man I’ve ever met or heard of.” You confess. “Some of the women in Bright Rise, when they still spoke with me, would tell me about their husbands. They were like you were at the beginning of our marriage. Worse, as they took without care for their wives’ wishes. Some of them were always pregnant now that I think about it. Always trailed by a line of toddlers and children.

“The men didn’t care about their wives’ bodies or how their need to satiate their hungers affected the other.” You shake your head. “Some of the women even confessed to me that they took on lovers to find the enjoyment in fucking again.”

“Something you would have been forced to do had I continued in my foolish ways.” Steve suggests, unphased by your still somewhat rural tongue.

“Maybe…in the future. It would have taken me years of neglect to get to that point.” You nod, “Even with Thor, his touch was…unwelcome. He didn’t force me, but I did not feel right accepting his affections. I’m married. Even unhappy that wasn’t something I took lightly.”

Steve’s hand moves up to the top of your arm then slowly he drags it down to your wrist.

“Were you always this considerate? I mean, before me?” You wonder, looking deep into his storm blue eyes. “Say with Margaret? Or, perhaps the other women you were with before we married?”

Steve turns, laying himself on his back.

He releases your arm and gently strokes the length of his chest, fingers dancing across the tuft of blonde hair that rails all the way down below where the blanket ends at his waist. His other hand he shoves underneath his head as he thinks.

You wait patiently for him to be ready to speak. You’ve never asked him about his habits with other women in bed.

He steals several quick looks your way which tells you he’s nervous about answering you. Wary, in case it should prompt a fight. You can see the moment he decides to give in. His lips part a little, they stutter, then he speaks.

“Margaret was strong.” He states plainly, as if that explains it all.

You wait.

“Not that you aren’t!” He rushes to say, sitting up as gently as he can to keep from waking your daughter.

Maggie still stirs and whimpers. You place your hand on her chest and soothe her until she stills again.

“Can you put her in her bed?” You begin to sit up too, ready to do it yourself but Steve is faster, rushing so that you won’t have to.

“Of course! I’ll get her.” He gently scoops her up into his arms then quickly moves around to your side of the bed as you follow them with your eyes, turning your body as they go.

Gently he places her in her crib and tucks her in, shushing and soothing her as she complains then goes silent once more.

She isn’t too close, but you can still see her from your spot on the bed. Steve double checks by looking at you to see if you can still see her.

When he’s satisfied that you can, he moves back to you, crawling over you and stopping to give the tip of your nose a kiss as he goes before plopping himself down on his side once again. This time he reaches for you, grabby hands tracing the shape of your curves as he pulls you a little closer.

“What I meant, is that Margaret was willful. She knew what she wanted, and she made certain that everyone else knew so too.” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous again. “In bed, she was just as certain of herself.

“Even though I made the first move, she was the one who took charge in our physical relationship. I knew that if something were to go wrong or if she was tired or too ill to be with me intimately, she would tell me.”

You listen without judgement and try to keep your face clear of all emotions other than the love you have for him. Even through this conversation, your heart pounds with dread as it repeats Grandmother’s words over and over, reminding you that every moment with Steve is precious.

“I never had to worry about Margaret’s body because she never had to compromise it for me. I did worry for her, but not in the same way.” Steve says, probably thinking about the risks that Margaret would have taken as part of the Avengers.

“And the other women?” You wonder.

“There weren’t many.” Steve assures you, looking down at your chest in embarrassment. “Only two.”

“You were grieving Margaret.” You nod, understanding. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t a man.”

Steve is silent for a moment, resting his head in his hand as he uses his elbow to prop himself up. With his other hand he traces nervous circles in the blanket between you.

“They were visiting ladies. Ladies who, like Margaret, knew what they wanted.” Steve sighs the lunges softly towards you, pushing you onto your back so suddenly it makes you gasp and then laugh.

As he settles his body halfway over yours, he smiles down at you.

His hands caress the sides of your face before he trails one hand along your sides, grabbing you with intent. You can feel the desire in his touch.

“Court ladies are all playing a game. It’s a language they speak that you don’t know.” Steve sighs heavily. “A set of rules that I’m glad you do not understand. You are nothing like them and I love you for it.”

“They had husbands?” You realize.

“Yes.” Steve nods. “Men who are too distracted by their own infidelities or too busy grasping at power to pay their wives any mind. With both of them it was only one night. It came and went so quickly I can barely remember them. I don’t even think I could tell you their names.”

His face grows solemn, sad as if remembering a painful memory that has since lost its sting but not the emotion of sorrow. “I didn’t enjoy myself. I was driven by lust, but I didn’t even…I made sure they were satisfied and left it at that.”

“Mm. You felt guilty.” You nod, understanding as you watch his full lips. The lower is so much bigger than the upper. You reach up and trace it, loving the soft plumpness of it.

“Does it not make you jealous?” He wonders, relaxing more of his weight onto you. “Does it not upset you?”

You meet his eyes again, a smile stretched across your face. You can see that he wants to know you’re jealous. He wants to know that you want him as much as he wants you.

So much progress…is this truly the man you married?

“Only as much as it would upset any wife to hear her beloved husband talk about his past adventures in fucking other women.”

Steve groans and buries his face into the side of your neck, wrapping his arms around you as you also wrap yours around his shoulders. You chuckle, caressing the back of his head.

“So, the concern is not normal?” You realize, feeling better but also worried that you’re not seeing the real Steve. That maybe he’s acting this way with you while acting a completely different way with everyone else.

Is this not who he is?

“No, the concern is normal.” Steve says, muffled against your skin, making you feel almost instantly better.

He pulls back to look down at you again.

“What I’m saying is that every woman that I have been with until you has never given me cause to be concerned. I didn’t hurt them the way I hurt you.” He frowns. “I didn’t take what they weren’t willing to give.”

You look away this time, the solemnity coming from you now. The shift of conversation making your heart ache. When you speak, your voice is quiet, subdued with the reminder of your wedding night.

“I wasn’t unwilling.” You correct him because you hadn’t been. Not that first night or any night after.

Your line was not one clearly drawn, certainly. You’d slept with him out of duty but that hadn’t meant you didn’t want to. He’s the most beautiful man you’d ever seen in your life. Of course, you’d wanted him.

You hadn’t told him no. You’d only told him to slow down. You know that for him, for Nat, for everyone who found out—that slow down had been enough. It should have been enough to stop him.

“You know what I mean.” Steve says, placing both his hands on the sides of your face to tilt your head back until you look at him. “I wounded you. I took something that was not mine to take.”

“But it was yours to take.” You correct him again, and he growls in his throat at you before shaking his head, the pain leaving his eyes to be replaced by admiration.

“I can still feel you, trembling and sobbing in my arms. I was disgusted with myself. I couldn’t believe that I could do that to anyone. And you were so…so kind and gentle. So eager to please and I took advantage of that.” Steve confesses. All of his thoughts spilling out of him like water. “I had turned this beautiful, sweet princess into a sobbing, fearful, and wounded creature. I was so consumed by my grief over Margaret and my anger at having to marry again when I wasn’t ready to do so that I wanted it over. In that moment, I didn’t care about the sweet woman beneath me.

“And even after I hurt you, when I came to see you, despite your fear your only concern was for the tears I shed.”

It takes a moment to find your voice, but you do. You swallow hard.

“I’d never seen a man cry.” You confess. “Much less a king.”

“I meant every tear.” Steve insists. “If I could take that night back, I would. If I could redo every night since, I would. I am concerned for you above anyone else, because in you I saw my darkest self and I never want to be that man for you again. I never want to hurt you.”

The two of you lapse into emotional but pleasant silence. Both hearts beating strongly against each other as his chest is pressed firmly against your own.

At last, you smile, a chuckle spilling from your lips as you reach up and tuck his hair behind his ear. It’s getting long again.

“Have you always made these long speeches? Or is that reserved for me as well?” You check, mostly just teasing.

Steve’s lips curl up, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I make sure to give every pretty woman I see a lengthy speech. Whether they’re enjoyable is a different matter.”

You bite your lip, glaring at him but only in jest. Quickly he dips down to kiss your lips, letting it linger for a moment before he pulls back only a bit so that when he speaks, his lips are fluttering against your own.

“My declarations of love, however, are entirely yours alone.” He whispers. “Tell me to stop and I will obey, my Queen.”

His right hand moves down, searching until it finds the hem of your nightdress which he begins to tug up until he finds the top of your leg. He traces the dip of flesh there, tickling your skin in search of your already yearning core.

As his fingers make contact, you gasp into his slightly open mouth and it draws his attention back up to your face. He licks your lips, just a gentle flick of the tip of his tongue before he kisses you, sinking it into your depths where you meet his eager kiss with your own.

You moan quietly, a whimper of yearning as his fingers spread your folds and begin to explore you. The noises his hand makes absolutely sinful.

Eager for his touch, you bring your knees up. You spread your legs for him, and he pulls out of the kiss to slide down along your body. He does down, down, down until he’s settled between your legs.

He grabs one and throws it over his left shoulder, then the other over his right. He kisses your thighs, trailing his tongue in small circles before every gentle pucker. The anticipation curls your toes as he moves closer and closer to your cunt.

“Steve…” You whisper, aware of the baby asleep in her crib and your need to keep quiet so that she can sleep.

He dives in, his tongue making one long swipe of your dripping core.

You gasp, curling up towards him as your body is sent into shivers.

He grabs hold of your thighs roughly, pulling you hard against his face. Opening his mouth, he suckles on your clit, the gentle sound of his sucking filling your limbs with fire.

As much as you enjoy his mouth where it is, there’s an impatience that wages war within you.

After months of waiting to enjoy sleeping with him, now that you do, it makes you eager to have him within you.

“Steve, please…” You beg, reaching down and tugging on his hair.

He likes that, growling a little at the lusty whisper that is your plea.

Pressing kisses along the length of your body while he shoves your nightdress up higher and higher, he finally helps you pull it off before taking your breasts within his mouth.

His lips are soft against them, gentle in their suckling as he knows how painful you can find it now.

When you whimper from the soreness, he steals a quick look at you to make sure you aren’t in too much pain before he simply kisses them around the nipple.

You run your hand over his hair, a promise that someday he’ll be able to enjoy your breasts again. He reads your reassurance but dismisses it as he rushes to meet your lips in a demanding kiss.

Without warning he pushes into you. He stretches you, filling you up so pleasantly that you throw your head back but swallow the moan you’d normally release.

Fuck…Your mind supplies, nails raking along the scarred flesh of his shoulders.

“Fuck…” Steve groans into your ear, stopping once he’s buried within you. Great minds think alike, you guess.

“Don’t stop.” You beg and wrap your left arm around his shoulders while the other reaches down as far as it can to grab as much of his bum as possible and pull him close.

He starts slowly, letting you both relish in the silky way his cock slides out of you then back in.

“Kiss me.” You tell him, needing his mouth to silence the moans you feel bound to make.

He obliges, roughly meeting your lips with a frenzied and lustful kiss as he loses himself within you.

He doesn’t pound into you the way he did at the cottage. He knows he shouldn’t, so he doesn’t. Even though you want it, you’re grateful for his forethought and instead focus on the way he seems to know which angles to adjust so that his cock not only pierces you but presses against the most sensitive spots inside of you.

He moves faster, reaching down to massage your clit as he kisses his way down your neck.

The moment is sudden, and it surprises you when your body goes tense for a moment as your climax washes over you.

You pull Steve down against you, gripping him hard as you hold him tight while your body is overcome.

Steve continues to push into you. Faster as he realizes that you’ve reached your limit. He grunts as he picks up speed, tracing the shape of your back down to your ass where he takes hold of it, fingers digging into the muscle.

He pulls up a little, searching for your lips with his own, tongue delving into your mouth as you give him what he wants. Both of you moan into each other, muffled and needy until Steve’s body stutters and his heat spills into you over and over.

He thrusts with each burst of ecstasy that overtakes him. His groans grow lazy. His body loose. Your own is already numb and you go still beneath him as he trails lazy kisses along the misty skin of your neck and shoulders.

He sighs, laying his head against your clavicle where he relaxes on top of you, your hands gently stroking his back.

You steal a glance at Maggie in her crib, but she’s sound asleep. It relaxes you to know she’s unbothered and without meaning to, you and Steve both fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

A loud thumping makes you twitch. It sounds distant but it startles you anyway.

In your arms, something large moves.

Your sleepy mind reminds you that it’s Steve and you sigh in your semi-sleep as your hands enjoy the feel of his hot body still resting on top of your own.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The thumping returns, this time louder and clearer.

A quiet whine to your right wakes you more quickly than the thumping and like you’ve been stunned with Thor’s lightning, you spring up from the bed, quickly sliding out from beneath Steve who also whines at your moving but peeks up at you as you rise.

“Whereyewgoin?” He asks, still mostly asleep.

“Go back to sleep.” You whisper to him from beside Maggie’s crib.

BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!

The thumping, which is actually a knocking on your door you realize, repeats.

Maggie whines again and you frown.

“Who’s there?” Steve asks towards the door, his voice more annoyed then upset.

“It’s Agatha, your Majesty.” One of the guards outside speaks.

“Don’t speak for me.” Grandmother’s voice grumbles.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty.” The guard says nervously, probably worried about the knocking, which means that was Grandmother and not the guard.

You look at Steve as Maggie begins to wake, her cries soft but rising as you continue to try and soothe her but now only halfheartedly.

Fear grips you, stealing you of your voice as you stare at your husband. Your little girl’s cries grow louder as she wakes but you’re frozen in place, terrified of what Grandmother could not wait until the morning to tell you.

“What, my flower?” Steve suddenly asks, sliding to the edge of the bed towards you.

“I…I should see what she wants.” You whisper, afraid to speak any louder despite your daughter already being awake.

“Go.” Steve urges you, grabbing your nightdress and moving towards you. He offers it to you as he reaches you. “I’ll put Maggie back to sleep.”

You take the nightdress with trembling hands. If Steve notices he doesn’t say so, but you don’t think he does as he’s already lifting Maggie from the crib, moving back towards the bed.

You dress in a hurry, then move to grab Steve’s robe as it’s closer and pull it over your body.

You’re tying it closed as the door opens upon your approach and find Grandmother pacing the hallway behind the two guards assigned to keep you and Maggie safe.

After what happened with Pierce, Steve is taking no chances.

“Grandmother?” You check, voice stronger but still just as terrified.

“We must speak.” She tells you, her voice strong and her eyes full of severity.

With a tentative nod you have her follow you into Steve’s den next door, shutting the door securely before you move into the room and offer her a seat in front of Steve’s desk.

“No.” She waves your offer off, pacing as you take a seat because your legs are weak again. “I have found a solution.”

“So quickly?” You gasp, hands balled into tight fists on your lap as you watch her pace.

“The sooner the better I would think in this situation. This is nothing like I have ever done before.” She admits. “It will take all of my power to do it.”

“It…will it hurt you?” You wonder, worried for her withered body.

“Probably not.” She shakes her head. “No way to know for sure. But it’s something I’m willing to die for.”

“What?” You gasp, suddenly terrified of losing her.

Finally, Grandmother stops her pacing and moves to stand before you.

“This threat is greater than I first thought.” She admits, slowly sitting herself down in the seat beside yours, turning it so that she can face you. “We cannot allow this power to grow. We can either stop it here, right now. Or we can let your husband stop it later. If we allow him to do it, it will take his life. There is no doubt in my mind of that. There will be others. He will not be the only to perish.

“Stopping this threat now is for everyone’s benefit and if I must pay with my life to save many others, I will do so willingly.” She declares.

“I can’t ask you to do that.” You shake your head, your emotions already raw.

“You’re not asking me, girl. I’m telling you that I must do it. I have already made my choice, now the only choice left to make is your own.” She fixes her gaze on you and you find you cannot look away.

“My own choice?”

“You asked me to save him. To ensure that he will live, a great sacrifice must be made. Separate from my own. I will provide the power, the strength for the incantation. Something else must be given for it to succeed.” Grandmother explains.

Your mind springs into action, thinking of the one thing you have of worth to give. Your life.

“So, I’ll…I’ll die?” You whisper, already in sorrow for leaving your husband and child.

“No.” Grandmother says. “No, I’m certain you will live.”

“Then what?”

“The price is impossible to know. It could be anything.” Grandmother gestures at you, looking you over from head to toe. “It could be your sight. Your ability to hear. Your voice. Your ability to walk. Whatever it is, it will be a great price to pay. Only you can choose to pay it but unless you do, I cannot go forward with the spell.”

“C-can I choose? Can I decide what it is that I sacrifice?” You hope, but what would you choose? What do you possibly have that could be worth your husband’s life?

“No. The magics will choose what to take. It will be equal to what it is you ask for, but only the magics can choose what that value is.” Grandmother explains.

This is impossible. This is unbelievable. This is torture.

You have to pay a price without knowing what it will be?

You know that your answer is yes. You’ll pay it. Whatever the price, you will give it willingly if it will save Steve’s life.

“I will pay it.” You nod. “Of course, I will. Yes.”

Grandmother takes your hand and squeezes it, a knowing look in her eyes. “I knew you would.”

She rises and you follow. Your hands feel weak but with the decision now made, you now it’s right and feel settled that you know this will soon be resolved.

Before the old woman can make it to the door, you reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her before she can leave.

“Grandmother…” You begin, waiting for her to turn.

She doesn’t. “Don’t get sentimental.” She says, voice strong though you’re sure that you can hear a small sadness in her tone.

“I want to thank you…for taking care of me. For loving me. I know that you could not always be there when I was young but you’re here now. Thank you.” You whisper, scared to speak louder in case you begin to cry. “I-I just wanted you to know. In case I cannot say it later or if you-”

You can’t even speak the words. She won’t die. She can’t.

With one withered hand, she reaches down and places it over your own. She gives you a squeeze, her hands trembling but reassuring.

“I don’t know when the spell will take effect. Go. Sleep soundly. Hold them close.” Grandmother advises then pushes your hand off her arm and disappears into the sleeping castle.

The very short walk back to your bedroom feels as if it takes forever. The guard make no comment as they open your door for you and you wander in, eyes searching for the loves of your life.

You find Steve snuggled up close to Maggie, his head pressed against the side of her own, his hand on her tummy and his eyes closed.

Maggie is not sleeping. She’s staring up at the ceiling with her little legs kicking gently as she coos and babbles her baby speak. One of her little hands is closed tightly around Steve’s finger, holding tight. As you move towards them, you notice how her hand doesn’t even close around his finger completely. She’s so small still. So fragile.

What if you can’t hold her after paying the price? What if you can’t hear her babble? What if you can’t see her little face or the way her eyes light up and her toothless smile spreads across her face as she spots you?

Just as she does now, she lets out a louder “Goo…” as she spots you and her legs go into a frenzy as she flails her limbs frantically.

You don’t want to cry but you feel the rush of sorrow overwhelm you. Quickly, before Steve can see, you drop onto the bed still wearing his robe and pull Maggie towards you. You hug her and turn her towards you, burying your face against her tiny chest.

Her little hands grab at you, whatever part of your head they can, and she pulls your ears, tugs your hair, scratches against your cheek but you don’t care. You inhale her scent, memorizing it just in case you lose the ability to smell.

After you’re sure you could never forget it, you tickle her sides until she’s giggling lightly, small bubbles and whines of amusement. It’s not a full laugh. She hasn’t done that for you yet. What if you never get to hear it?

You memorize this one anyway, put it away and lock it up within your heart where you know you will always be able to recall the pure sound of her innocence.

It takes every ounce of will power within you to stifle your desire to sob. Still, you manage it and when you’re certain you can face him, you pull back a bit to look at your daughter’s beautiful face.

She’s all Steve. You hardly recognize anything in her looks of you. She’s gorgeous. Pretty blonde hair, just like Steve’s only slightly darker in shade.

Her eyes are a piercing blue. Lighter than Steve’s but just as observant. She watches you, reaches out for your face where she places a small hand on your nose then slides it down to your lips which she casually grabs and releases before her eyes find her hand and she brings it to her mouth to taste.

You watch her for so long, you’re sure that it must nearly be morning, but the sky continues to be dark outside the windows of your room.

You sing to your little one. A quit lullaby that you hope she’ll remember if you can never speak to her again. You tell her you love her and sing some more.

She drifts off eventually, her little mouth open as she sleeps.

Finally, you turn your eyes on Steve, yearning to see him almost to an unnatural amount. You have never doubted it but in this moment as your eyes find him staring right back at you, you realize how much you truly love him. How much he’s changed your life.

Your world has grown since you met him. He’s changed you forever.

Will the sacrifice be your life? Will you be leaving them behind? Will you be wounding him again, just as Margaret had?

Even though Grandmother said it wouldn’t be, you can’t help but wonder and worry that you might very well be spending the last moments you’ll ever have with him and Maggie now.

What if you close your eyes and they should never open again?

At least she would have him. Maggie wouldn’t be alone. She would have her father. And he would have her.

If by some chance her father should also leave her behind, she’d have Nat and Bucky. She’d have Sam and Peter. She’d have the entire team to care for her. Father and Mother would probably try and take her to Malibia.

She would never need to worry about her meals or whether she could survive frigid winter temperatures. She would be protected and loved even if you aren’t around to make sure she is.

Steve blinks slowly. He’s sleepy but he’s trying to stay awake because you’re awake.

You’re not sure if he can tell that something is wrong, but you push yourself up towards him. You’re careful as you hover over Maggie, reaching to hook your hand behind his neck as he also pushes himself up and towards you.

You kiss him, slow and smooth until your heart begins to ache and your hand squeezes around his neck.

You kiss him with a bit more fervor and though he returns it, when you pull away, his brow is narrowed in confusion. Subtle concern.

“I love you.” You whisper to him, reaching down to trace the shape of his bottom lip with your thumb. You kiss him again. “I love you, forever.”

It’s a promise you have every intention of honoring. Will he love you even if you can’t talk? Will he love you if you can’t hear? Will he still love you if you are not the woman you are now?

You know that you can overcome anything. You can embrace a new way of living so long as it means that Steve and Maggie are safe. But will he see it that way? Will he love you for the woman you will become?

“You’re my entire world, Y/N.” He whispers back almost as if he can hear your thoughts and he wants to put you at ease.

His lips curl up at the corns softly as he blinks even slower than before as sleep begins to pull him under. “You and Maggie are my life.”

Your lip trembles as his eyes shut and do not open again, his head falling to his pillow.

“I love you…so…” He trails off, his words lost to dreams.

You stare at him and then Maggie. All night you stare at them, memorizing the way they breathe and smell. If you’re going to be changed forever, you’re going to remember this moment and cherish it until the day you die.

You will never forget it.

~~~~~~~~~~

1 Year & 3 Months Later

The sun is beaming. It’s strong. July is hot, even more so than normal. You groan as you look up to the sky and shield your eyes from the blinding light.

For a moment your mind goes hazy, full of fog. Something changes as it always does. Something shifts.

Something tugs at the corners of your mind. Something blurry and demanding. You get this way every single time you come here.

Every time you fill the wooden bucket, there’s a flash of something familiar.

You focus on the tug, allowing it to unearth the secret that eludes you.

There’s a quick flash that you don’t quite see. A golden hue. A storm blue circle.

Then your bucket overflows and the water splashes your feet, drenching your newly mended shoes.

They’re too small for your feet but it’s all you have.

“Damn.” You sigh, grunting as you lift the bucket and place it on the damp bank of the river.

Across the barren field, your little hut just at the opposite edge nestled into a grove of forest trees, Bright Rise begins to wake.

Another day, another scramble to find a way to keep your belly full.

“Time to check the traps.” You sigh, groaning as you lift the bucket and begin the trek back to your little hovel in the only village you’ve ever known.

The place you were born, but most definitely not home.

Your heart tells you that somewhere out there…somewhere else, your true home waits.

(THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER! One more to go!)

[voidsentprinces]

Every bit of Shadowbringers is the Scions it corresponds with.

Amh Araeng Prt 1 is very Alisaie. Mirroring her decision in A Realm Reborn, Alisaie wanders off to the outskirts of civilization. Choosing to observe the powers of the world and figure out a way to stop coming tragedies. We’re introduced to the threat and aggressively fight against it but in mirror the loss of Ga Bu and Louisoix. Alisaie loses someone dear to her by Tempering. Louisoix became a Primal and Ga Bu was tempered by Titan. (Though honestly I wish Alisaie would stop losing people dear to her cause after Requiem for Heroes it feels like the story likes to kick her while she’s down at this point)

Kholusia Prt 1 is very Alphinaud. There is a semblance civilization, a rule of law in the area, there is even a function in which the society works. Mirroring Alphinaud remaining well within spitting distance and very much in the middle of the comings and goings. He uses his diplomatic maturity, which once was made for personal gain with clever wit and scheme. He has learned from the Crystal Brave betrayal, corruption of Ishgards, the result of those who choose might means right and what it results in from his time in Ala Mhigo, Hingashi, and Doma respectively. Applying himself to better comes to grips with the peoples plight. Upon seeing how Eulmore treats those chosen but then thrown away and then coming face to face with Vauthry. Rather than turning a blind eye and just being, “That’s just how it is.” as he was with the Monetarists and Refugees of Ul’dah. He pushes back against the system, damn the consequences, leaving an easily position to effect the politics of Eulmore and even gets a bullseye placed on the back of his head.

Lakeland is very much the Crystal Exarch’s Domain. It is the place of mystery, where life heavily clings on and every time we venture out to it. We come into conflict with either Eulmore or the Sineaters, Vauthry is controlling. It is in Lakeland, we fight through the Holminster Switch. Come face to face with our first Lightwarden and see where there was once furtile farm land, peace, and people. Now chaos reigns and an apocalyptic wave of disaster has struck. Mirror the world, G’raha had woken up to after the Eighth Umbral Calamity. This is where our foot hold is. Where we first bring night back to the First and his plan for saving the Source is put in motion. There is also a sense of myth about the place, Bismarck, a fae being in this shard slumbers in the Lake aptly named the Source. And it is only by bringing together to allies we made that we allowed to travel to the Tempest when he is spirited away. Just as G’raha gathered allies and people to himself to build the Crystarium.

Il Mheg is Urianger’s realm and reflects the game, he has agreed to play with the Warrior of Light at the behest of the Exarch. It is full of beings, who make deals out of innocent furvor at the determent of all who are around them. Pixies trick travels and fellow fae a like. The Nou Mou live to serve mortal kind just as Urianger serves the realm as a whole, no matter what light history might cast him in. And the Amaro dream of comrades lost, wishing to feel the comfort the adventurers and merchants they once wandered with. Grieving in their own way just as Urianger did after Moenbryda’s passing. Il Mheg is the land of faeries, it is steeped in myth and legend just as Urianger always had his nose in a book. Titania lays at the center of the realm. Once the pinnacle of the fae, forever corrupted by the Lightwarden’s energy. A horrific mirror of what should happen is G’raha’s plan should fail and the paragon of heroism, his friend: The Warrior of Light. Could also become a monster wearing the skin of a kingly figure should his mask slip. Yet when we enter his abode in the middle of Il Mheg, the Waking Sands/Rising Stones music plays. Reminding us of home and the Scions, he calls family and he welcomes us as he ever did, cryptically.

“Unto a hero weary of heroes, a heroes wends [their] way...”

Rak’tika is Y’shtola of course. She has turned away from her light magics of conjury to the dark magics of thaumaturge. The great boughs rise up and block out the sun light of the Great Wood. Reflecting the living style of her mentor: Master Matoya. A person who prefers their solitude, away from the dealings of the world, but with great knowledge to progress the plot forward. Thancred and Y’shtola get into an argument on how each other has changed. The two of them stood side by side after the Bloody Banquet and were both flung into Aetherstream by her Flow spell. While Y’shtola adapted to her blindness and halfened life force. Thancred had to push against the constrains of no longer having access to his aether and briefly losing sight in one eye. His last moments were the thought of protecting Minfilia. Only to wake up in Dravania and find out that Minfilia is no more. Y’shtola rejects Master Matoya and Thancred’s choice of solitude. Making friends with the Night’s Blessed. Even though, she knows she might have to leave them behind all too soon. She becomes a pinnacle of the Night’s Blessed community. While Thancred wanders hither and tither unfocused with Ryne at his side. Slipping easily into her role as a Scion, she researches the clues left behind by the Ronka Empire and makes allies with a civilization who has also closed themselves off from the world. Y’shtola is the first one to recognize the faults in G’raha’s plan and is immediately suspicious of the Exarch’s intentions. We see Y’shtola never truly changed however as when it comes time to get the item that will save the world and protect her friends. She readily uses Flow once more. Damn the consequences. Her sacrifice for the greater good is, as always, her charge which she never hesitates to grant. She even bonds with Runar seeing him as a little brother despite his obvious want for something more, just as she has a sister back in Gridania with whom she has a friendly relationship with. Just as Y’shtola’s connection to Matoya opened up the path to Azys Lla. Her run in with Emet-Selch opens up the path to learn of the Ancients and Amaurot and the true nature of Hydaelyn and Zodiark.

Amh Araeng Prt 2 is Thancred. Its tedious, its nearly empty, full of the smallest hopes. Each challenge is made to be tougher than it should be and despite us being able to compliment Thancred when finding a Voebrite coin. He shrugs it off as he is wont to do at this point. We get Ryne’s inner turmoil deepening. Thancred comes face to face with another individual wallowing in their own grief for those he loss and suddenly after coming face-to-face with Ran’jit again. Thancred throws away his misgivings and brings Ryne into the fold as shoe horned and bad written as possible. So lets just skip this area and never talk of it ever again okay? Cause the story never really does save for the Fatebreaker Eden section

Kholusia Prt 2 is Ardbert’s story or what it once was. We gather our group together and besiege Eulmore only for the villain to escape our grasps. But we triumph in liberating Eulmore from Vauthry’s tyranny for a moment. Alphinaud gets his heroic speech, Alisaie gets to combat the threats of the Lightwardens, Y’shtola and Urianger work together to make a massive Talos, Thancred and Ryne keeping tabs on Vauthry and Mt. Gulg. We meet face to face with G’raha. For all intents and purposes our Cylva. A person with a schism coming to a head. We come together as a team for the first time since coming to the First and each shows their worth in their connections to the realm. Mirroring Ardbert’s journey, we are faced with multiple seemingly insurmontible odds and come out on top. Vauthry’s Sineater Guard fall, he himself becomes the last one. The night returns to the First. And. We. Fail. We fail due to the machinations of Ascians just as Ardbert’s group did. The Warrior of Light is brought low by the combined aetheric energies of all Lightwardens. G’raha’s plan fails when Emet-Selch appears and leaves us for dead. Sure the enemy was vanquished, Vauthry and Ran’jit for us, Loghrif and Mitron for Ardbert’s group, but the First still falls to a Flood of Light as the eternal day returns and we are left on the cusp of despair. For all our triumphs. For all the schemes. For all the fighting. We fail. And just as Ardbert learns to protect his world with the aid of the Word of the Mother. The Warrior of Light only survives due to the aid of Ryne. An Oracle of Light who has come into her own and not died on the battlefield. We wander the Crystarium afterwards listening to the tales of the people and what they think of the Exarch. Then immediately find our courage to plunge into the depths. Ardbert giving us the strength to move forward, that he didn’t have when he met Elidibus. No more desperation. Just courage in the face of oblivion.

The Tempest is Emet-Selch. We are bridged there by the mythical Bismarck and find a dwindling but prospering Sahagin alternative. Living and getting by the ruins of those who stood before. The one part of the world far, far, far way from the light of the First. From the people and things, he used to care for. We find he made a city out of nostalgia and even the ghosts become almost too real. He is at the depths of his grief in a world, he cannot forget and will not forsake. It is here, the one clinging to the past the most falls to those who look to the future they yet have. He covets the Exarch’s use of rift travel because he knows if he can harness it, he has a chance to go back and save EVERYONE! But, he can’t and he won’t. He can no longer go home and knowing Elidibus’s memory and personality has been slipping since he left Zodiark’s breast. He asks us:

“Remember us...remember that we once lived.”

The Crystal Tower is Elidibus. It is the shining beacon of hope, he wished to become as Emissary. From the day, he chose to become the heart of Zodiark. To every motion to move for or against his breathren. The Allaghan Empire’s greatest achievement. But ruled by an Emperor whose death dropped him into Nihilism. Conquest was nothing but ashes in the mouth of Xande and he wish to consume the Source in Void. Elidibus wishes the return of Zodiark. For it is his duty, there is no solace in memories he can no longer recall. A being frozen in time just as Amon had the Crystal Tower’s previous inhabitence. Telling us repeatedly that no matter what our Echo shows us of his past. It will not avail us to his present. So he takes on the image of the Warrior of Light, playing pretend at the role of the hero having possessed Ardbert’s body before. He speeds up the Heroes Journey. Has us actively fight against our own memories and in the end, his own brother reappears amidst the clash to grant the last Unsundered Peace in his fall. G’raha sealing away his essence in the Crystal Tower to become part of the beacon of hope and light. Though perhaps in his final moments, his true duty was that he was waiting for someone to return to him. Someone he looked up to in his younger years. A shadow in his memories he has clung to and taken into being the example off in their absence.

“The rains have ceased, and we have been graced with another beautiful day. But you are not here to see it.”

[cherry-valentine]

Spring 2021 Anime Season

Mars Red is one of two series this season set in one of my favorite periods, the Meiji era. It’s a vampire series that deals a lot with the politics of war as the Japanese military is attempting to establish a vampire unit, supposedly to compete with the British vampire unit (because of course that’s a thing). It focuses on a human military officer named Maeda who is charged with recruiting and managing vampires. Maeda is the type of character I really enjoy. Handsome, a little older than most anime protagonists, chain-smoking, overly serious, and voiced by Junichi Suwabe (who has to have the sexiest voice in all of anime). The series has a classic, romantic feel to it. Its take on vampires is somewhat traditional (they evaporate in the sun, drink blood, sleep in coffins, have super strength and speed, etc.). If it brings anything new to the table, it’s the concept of vampires having different ranks, from S-class down, and how lower ranks naturally fear higher ranks. Still yet, the classic vibe works in the show’s favor. Combined with the historical setting, it gives the show a certain charm. The art is lovely, from the backgrounds to the character designs, and the music is a high point. It easily has the best ending theme of the season.

Fumetsu no Anata e (To Your Eternity) is a unique series. I’ve seen a lot of people comparing it to Mushishi, but with an overarching plot, and that assessment is pretty accurate. The show follows an entity that comes to be known as Fushi. It begins as an orb, and as it makes contact with other objects and creatures, it learns from them and can possibly take their forms. Among the forms it most often takes are a white wolf and a young man. Originally, it’s a somewhat empty shell, incapable of communicating, but as it meets different creatures and learns, it develops a personality and begins to speak. The series is, overall, about Fushi’s journey through this world and all the experiences it gains, both wonderful and tragic. There’s a subtle beauty to the series, with an early focus on nature, but it also has scenes of trauma and violence. The animation is fluid and the facial expressions are amazing. There’s an overall natural feel to it that, like others have pointed out, reminds me of Mushishi (though it’s definitely faster paced than Mushishi). The show also likes to make you cry, so keep that in mind.

Joran: The Princess of Snow and Blood is the other series set in the Meiji era this season, albeit an alternate version of it that has a strange form of technology. To be honest, I’m a little fuzzy on some of the details, but it seems to be about a group called the Nue who work for the government to fight against a growing rebellion. The main character is Sawa, a member of Nue who has some sort of special powers involving her blood, which allow her to transform and battle monsters, or whatever else stands in her way. Her goal is to get revenge for the death of her entire clan (implied to be wiped out because of their power). Sawa is a decent heroine, a woman who craves vengeance and is determined to get it through any means, but is, at her core, a compassionate person who would rather live in peace. It’s this internal conflict that makes Sawa compelling (even if it’s not entirely original). The other characters are interesting, particularly Tsuki, whom I won’t talk much about because it would involve spoilers. The plot and details can get a little convoluted, but the action and animation are solid. When Sawa transforms, the art style changes, and it’s a really cool visual effect. The music is also nice.

Shaman King received a remake this season. I was a huge fan of the original, and so far I’m enjoying the remake, but to be honest, I’m having trouble seeing the point. The art is almost the same (just a lot shinier), the voice actors are the same, the plot is the same. Maybe it’s just that it’s been so long since I saw the original, I’m unable to remember the details and so I can’t tell what’s different. But to me it feels like I’m just rewatching the show. Which is fine, because I loved it to begin with. Maybe it gets different later on. Maybe it more closely follows the manga. I’ll keep watching to find out. For anyone new to the series, it looks like the remake is a solid place to start if you want to get into it. I won’t go into plot details for a story this old, so I’ll just say it’s a top tier shounen fighting series with a unique art style and some very memorable characters. If you like that sort of thing, and missed the original (or you just want a refresher), definitely check it out!

Godzilla Singular Point is a true delight. I’m a huge Godzilla (and kaiju in general) fan. I’ve watched every single Godzilla movie, as well as all the related movies (the Mothra films, Rodan, etc.), but I never watched the previous Godzilla anime that was on Netflix a few years ago. It just didn’t sound like something I’d like. Singular Point, however, is right up my alley. Set mainly in a small seaside town that’s suddenly attacked by bird-like monsters known as Rodans, we have two geeky protagonists using their intelligence to figure out what’s going on while more and more monsters appear. Mei and Yun are excellent heroes. They rely on their wits rather than physical strength, which is a refreshing approach. It’s also interesting that they have little to no face-to-face interaction. Instead, they chat with each other via text as they work separately. They often challenge each other with science questions. It’s adorable. The show’s overall feel is fairly upbeat and energetic. The colorful art and peppy character designs by Kazue Kato (who did Blue Exorcist) help with this feel. It should be noted that Godzilla himself doesn’t fully appear until halfway through the series. It says a lot about the quality of the show that I don’t actually mind that at all. Some of the science stuff does go over my head, but the general plot is easy enough to follow and the action is very well done. It also has fantastic music, with my favorite opening theme of the season. Even if Godzilla isn’t your thing, consider giving this series a shot if you like nerdy science types as heroes.

Burning Kabaddi is a sports anime about an unsual sport. I’d never heard of it before now, and if people in the comments were not talking about the very real sport, I would have assumed it was made up for the anime. The show is aware that the sport is obscure, so it takes great pains to explain the rules and details so that we can all follow the action. The story centers on Yoigoshi, a soccer prodigy who decides to drop all sports once he gets to high school due to all the drama and angst that surrounded him (mostly due to his teammates being jealous of his talent), and pursue a career as a streamer. All the various sports clubs at the school want to recruit him (especially the soccer club, of course) because they’ve heard of his skill and he has an athletic build. He rejects them all, but the Kabaddi club is strangely relentless. He ends up being manipulated into joining (the vice captain of the team straight up blackmails him by threatening to show his online streaming account to the whole school). Despite this rocky beginning, Yoigoshi actually starts to enjoy playing Kabaddi, and more importantly, begins to bond with his new teammates. It’s pretty fun stuff that doesn’t take itself too seriously. The art is serviceable for a sports anime and the music is fine. The series isn’t going to blow your mind, but it’s a fun way to spend twenty minutes every week. Worth a watch if you have a weakness for hot blooded sports anime.

The World Ends With You finally got its anime adaptation and I was so excited. The game is one of my all-time favorites. So far the anime is pretty good. The art is a near perfect replication of the bold, thick-lined art of the game. The battles are exciting and cool. Best of all, the anime often uses music from the game. This is important because the game has one of the best soundtracks, ever. Every time I recognize a song from the game, I almost squeal. If I had a complaint, it’s that the pacing feels a little off at times. It feels like the anime is rushing through the story, but that’s understandable. In the game, it took longer for everything to happen because you were walking from place to place, fighting battles along the way, stopping to scan NPC’s, shopping at stores, spending time in menus, etc. The anime has to cut most of that out, so naturally things are going to move faster. The result is that you don’t get to spend as much time with these characters, and so you feel less attached to them. Anyone watching the anime who didn’t play the game might feel like the emotional beats are lacking. I feel like this anime is definitely meant to be enjoyed by fans of the game, rather than newcomers to the story. But if you are a fan of the game? You should be watching this every week. It’s an excellent refresher on the story, just in time for the second game to come out this summer. Super high on my watch list.

Boku no Hero Academia has a new season. To be honest I don’t remember what number we’re on. This season, so far, focuses on a tournament-style competition between the two main hero classes. I would much prefer the plot to move on to something more exciting involving the villains, but I suppose they have to throw arcs like this in every so often just to remind everyone of which characters have which quirks. The plus point is that instead of being an individual competition, it’s team-based. What this ultimately means is that characters that are viewed as weaker or having more obscure quirks actually get a chance to shine. These are characters who definitely aren’t going to win one-on-one battles. In an individual tournament, it’s pretty much a given that characters like Deku, Bakugou, and Todoroki are going to win most of the matches. But in a team, everyone has to work together. The end result is that the lady characters, all of whom have fairly weak or situational quirks, finally FINALLY get to actually do stuff! Even better, in several of the match-ups, the girls have taken the lead in planning and strategizing. It’s been pretty nice to watch. The girls from the other class have been very proactive as well. I really wish the girls could do more in “real” battles with villains, since it’s clear that they can step up when they need to. Who knows? Maybe this is a sign of good things to come.

86 is a new mecha/sci-fi anime based on a series of light novels. The setup is fairly cool: In a country where everyone has silver hair and eyes, the people live in what looks like a utopia. There is a war going on outside their protected land but all combat is performed by automated robots, so there are no human casualties... or so the government would have the people believe. In reality, there is a district that exists on the outskirts of the country called 86, where people who don’t have silver hair and eyes are sent to pilot the robots and fight to protect the country that shunned them. Most of the pilots are children or teenagers. The mortality rate is high. Only a few people in the government know of their existence, mostly military types that include “handlers”. These handlers each take on an 86 unit and communicate with them through a system called “para-raid”. Using this, they monitor the battlefield from their safe positions and issue commands. Naturally, most handlers view their units as nothing more than tools in the war, and most 86-ers view their handlers as privileged snobs who know nothing of actual battle. The real plot kicks in when Lena, a young Major, becomes the new handler for a particular 86 unit. Lena is sympathetic to the people of 86, but it’s going to be hard getting her notoriously rough unit to accept her. The plot is a bit complicated and the show deals with some weighty themes (racism, privilege, war, child soldiers, death). Lena is a likable enough heroine and the members of 86 are all interesting and fairly well written. The music is fine. The art... well, it’s pretty to look at, but it feels a bit generic to me. A bit too shiny. The mecha designs are great, but I’m not crazy about the character designs, which feel like they could be from any other modern anime. I also find it sad but hilarious at the same time that the women’s military uniforms are clearly designed for fanservice (they include mini skirts, thigh-highs with garters, and a short jacket that opens up just above the chest to show the tight shirt underneath) while the men’s uniforms are just totally normal military wear. To be honest it’s just too stupid to actually be offensive, so it comes across as comical. Thankfully, the interesting setup and plot carry the show, making it good enough to overlook the generic visuals.

Moriarty the Patriot has a new season... maybe? I think it’s technically still season one, but with a split cour. Regardless, it feels like a new season so I’m treating it as such. The series focuses on famous Sherlock antagonist Moriarty, here represented as a trio of handsome brothers (though one of them is clearly the protagonist and the leader of the group) who work as “crime consultants” and basically help the lower classes wage class warfare against the nobility. This season shifts the focus away from the individual crimes Moriarty concocts and instead focuses on larger-scale conflicts that involve government conspiracies, corrupt cops, etc. We’re also treated to a lady James Bond (finally!), fixing one of the very few complaints I had about the first cour (that it lacked strong lady characters). The show remains very compelling, with beautiful art and excellent new opening and ending themes.

Best of Season:

Best New Show: Godzilla Singular Point

Best Opening Theme: Godzilla Singular Point

Best Ending Theme: Mars Red

Best New Male Character: Maeda (Mars Red)

Best New Female Character: Sawa (Joran)

[lupismaris]

sorry you’re feeling so crappy 😔 i hope you feel better soon!!

if you’re feeling up to it, maybe silverflinthamiltons on a lake or beach vacation?

SILVERFLINTHAM LAKESIDE HOLIDAY PART 1 with a surprise! and another segment to follow because this is them arriving to the lake!

(this got long so most of it will be under the cut.)

***

It was summer.

Summer meant blistering asphalt and bags of trash stewing on the curb each morning. Hazy sunlight blinding the street, dark cavernous pockets of shade where the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, but the air stayed stale and suffocating all the same. It meant too many people and too much noise and parties in the park that never seemed to end, one just replacing another in an endless cycle of hedonism, and bottles of chilled wine and cheap beer sweating on the fountain walls. It meant long dinners and longer lunches, ice cream trucks and Italian ice carts on opposite corners of the street carrying on an old world rivalry. It meant golds and blues and lush greens wherever your eyes happened to fall, be it on a back alley garden or storefront window display.

Silver loved summer.

He loved the warmth and the sprawling picnics and the baring of skin and the feral energy of a child free from school amplified to suit a city of millions and the heady summer storms that shook the glittering skyline in a kind of holy cleanse. He loved the summer fruits and the sweet aperitifs and the old school white linen shirts and open fire hydrants flooding the streets and the neon lights reflecting in the puddles left behind, still evaporating in the hot night, giving the whole world an ethereal glow.

Though he had to admit it was always better spent on a beach with a frosted drink and not a goddamn thing to do. But, if a beach couldn’t be procured, a big, cool, well air conditioned house that was paid for by someone else was an excellent alternative. His sister’s condo in Chelsea for instance was an excellent place to waste away a summer on parties and sun bathing and a private pool that no one else seemed to have the time to use. He had spent several summers with Max that way, even once the Rangers had become part of the picture, if Silver was on the east coast for the summer, he would drop in and waste away a while.

Now though, it looked like summers were going to be spent in Brooklyn, in the big cool townhouse that Thomas had paid for, with the truly miraculously internal air con that was always kept at a balmy 65 degrees from May to October, and with very little to do outside of whatever suited his fancy on any given day. Oh and sex, a lot of sex. This would be the first summer in a very long time where he could not only allow himself a libido, but he could also satiate it.

Silver was thoroughly content with the new circumstances.

He was less content however, with how the summer months, or maybe just the summer months in the city, seemed to bring out the worst in people as frequently as it did the best.

Flint, for example, did not handle summers as well as Silver did. In part it was due to the heat and the sun and the weird smells coming off the steamy side walks, and Silver understood Flint’s frustration with all that, he truly did. But summer also meant more tourists and more people going out for a good time, more people starting brawls in bars and fights in the street and parties spilling over from one bar to the next, or worse packs of bigots making the rounds and harassing whomever they find, everything the working class service folks of the city dreaded- in short, Flint’s stress levels seemed to just rise with the temperature. And considering an average day in July might easily crack 100, Silver was starting to get a tad worried.

“Is it like this every summer?” Silver had asked one Friday morning in June.

The kitchen was soft with the morning sunlight, Thomas in his silk night shirt and robe as he perused the menu for the cafe on the corner, Silver fixing them each an espresso.

“To a point yes. You know how James is about control,” Thomas said with a fond smile, “when he’s at his best he can combat every threat to his sovereignty without so much as flinching. But the summer gets to him, makes him a bit of a wolf in a cage, so to speak.”

“Was he worse in Manhattan?” the buildings sometimes reminded Silver of a cell block, the slivers of sunlight cutting through as hot as cattle prods.

“Much. Hal has tried talking him into not working as much in the summer, but you know how he is, can’t be told anything once he’s got his mind made up. Not to mention he’s never been good at simply existing. There always has to be purpose in it, work to be done, fields to plow and what not.”

Silver huffed a laugh and brought Thomas’ espresso over, feeling a sense of warmth at the notion that he and Thomas were able to share this, to share flint and all his eccentricities.

“I’m sure a man as clever as you thought of some way to keep his blood pressure down, hm?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Thomas took the espresso cup without looking away from the menu. He set it aside and pulled Silver in, kissing him sweetly in thanks. Ah, that was also a nice thing to share with Thomas, Silver reminded himself.

“Oh I came up with a few ideas, pet. How about we order breakfast, and I’ll tell you about them.”

By Friday, the three of them were packed into Flint’s old Range Rover heading upstate for two weeks of holiday bliss. It had taken multiple phone calls to Gates to make sure the bar would in fact be alright while Flint was gone and to make sure he barred Flint from being within a dozen yards of The Walrus once it closed on Thursday night. It had also taken coaxing, convincing, bartering, and eventually outright bribery with sex to get Flint to stop scowling about the idea of being away from his “ship” for longer than a weekend. There had been other phone calls as well, placed by Thomas in the early hours of the morning when he thought he was the only one awake. When asked about them he just waved the questions away with a mild, “oh just a little extra surprise for James thats all” and Silver did his best to trust him.

It was a five hour drive from the house in Brooklyn to the house on Lake Cayuga that Thomas had purchased during his recovery, to he and Flint would have a quiet place to heal and make up for lost time without the strain of the city grating on them. Silver had never been upstate, his various clients had always preferred houses in the Hamptons, but from the photos it was a cozy little cottage style house right on the shore, a couple bedrooms, an airy kitchen, lush garden, and a private pier that stretched out into the lake. There was also apparently a boat, a little hybrid sailboat of polished wood and deep blue paint, the name Ariel written in careful golden script. Silver wanted to ask whether Flint had bought it or built it, because he was the kind of high strung man to just build a boat from scratch instead of buying one or scheduling extra therapy. But the scowl on his face as they tucked the suitcases into the trunk told him it wasn’t worth the teasing. Not yet anyway.

Flint insisted on driving the whole five hours himself, scowling silently behind the wheel as he drove them through miles of lush farmland, leaving Thomas and Silver to chat about what they might do once they get settled in. There was plenty of hiking, though Thomas was worried the gorges might be tricky for Silver’s regular prosthetic, ample water falls and countless parks to explore. Lots of quaint small towns with seafood shacks and local fare and more wineries than even Thomas knew what to do with. And of course, most importantly, there was the lake.

Flint kept his silence till the last hour of the ride, the scowl firmly set on his jaw. Silver and Thomas had switched seats so Thomas could stretch out and nap in the back seats, leaving Silver to try and coax a smile out of his partner. Not that he had to do much. As the car climbed yet another rolling hill, Silver watched the horizon, his hand in Flint’s, trying to figure out whether the deep blue streak that had suddenly appeared was a dark patch of sky.

It wasn’t, for the record.

Silver frowned and turned to Flint, planning to ask if it was the lake and exactly how big was said lake- but the question died well before he could even open his mouth.

The scowl was gone, dropped from Flint’s face and replaced by the softest look of wonder Silver had ever seen on the man, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, making his mustache twitch. It was as if something had hooked its line into Flint’s chest and was slowly reeling him in, his whole body sitting straighter, the tension in his shoulders bleeding out until he was leaning into the steering wheel. His hand even held tighter to Silver’s, an unconscious need to keep himself tethered maybe, or to keep Silver close.

“Is that the lake?” Silver managed to ask with a soft smile of his own.

“Yeah. We’ll be at the cabin in half an hour.”

They got there in twenty minutes, not that anyone was actually counting.

The lake stretched out before them, a sea of deep blues and aquamarines, glittering with the hot late June sunlight that danced across it’s surface. It’s shores were patched with wildflowers and thick thatches of wood, little clusters of cabins and boat houses, who’s owners were out skipping across the surface like dragon flies on their small boats and kayaks. The afternoon air was hazy and sweet, the whole scene a postcard from the mythical summers of memory that everyone aspired to, bird song and the low hum of the radio escorting them along the final stretch of route 90. Flint pulled them down a narrow side road, passing a few comfortably sized homes with ample space between them, until they reached the dead end of the street, and the little cottage Silver had seen in the photos, with the shadow of the pier dark across the water, and the Ariel waiting like a loyal dog in her berth.

“Oh good,” Thomas said with a yawn, finally pulling himself back into a sitting position and stretching, as Flint pulled the car into the drive alongside what looked like a rental car. “I was starting to think we were lost.”

Silver looked back at him, ready to tease about old men and naps, but Thomas was looking down at his phone, his fingers quickly switching on the stop watch. “Thomas what-”

The range rover lurched to a sudden stop as Flint hit the brakes and Silver had to cling to the seat to keep himself upright. Thomas seemed completely unfazed, draped across the back seat in his half buttoned linen shirt and designer sunglasses, watching with an air of fond expectation as Flint threw on the parking brake and booked it from the car, leaving the engine running.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Silver asked.

Thomas laughed and reached around the driver’s seat to shut the car off. “Exactly what I expected him to do, though I’ll admit I expected him to at least properly stop the car first.”

“What? Thomas- oh my god he’s going in the lake?” Silver asked, watching as Flint cleared the back fence and striped off his shirt, leaving it on the lawn as he kept moving towards the pier. His boots, socks, and jeans followed, barely breaking his quick stride to strip them off.

“Last time it took him a whole ten minutes to get into the water,” Thomas said, helping Silver, who was too busy staring in shock at the sight of his stern and stoic partner racing across the back patio like a child, from the car. “He might clear five minutes this time.”

A few more quick strides and Flint dove from the end of the pier, breaking the surface of the lake with a thunderous sound and disappearing into the blue.

“He’s in the lake,” Silver said.

Thomas hooked their arms together, the two of them walking leisurely across the lawn. “Every visit, the first thing he does is go to the water. It’s even more dramatic when it’s the ocean, maybe I’ll book us a house on the coast next month.”

“More dramatic than stripping down to his boxers in the back yard?” he asked.

The back lawn of the house was a mix of a large patio and and a short green, with a fire pit and a grill, a small dining table and some cozy chairs, and what silver hoped was a hot tub. A woman was stretched out on one of the long beach chairs in a deep green bikini, her dark hair cut short and a magazine across her lap, though she was watching the water, where Flint had just resurfaced for a moment before diving again.

“Miranda?” Silver called, aware that Thomas was beaming behind him but not at all surprised to see his ex wife. That explained the phone calls, and the rental car out front.

“I believe our husband is in the lake my dears,” Miranda called with a laugh, getting up to come greet them. “God he’s like a little boy at a swimming hole.”

“I’d ask how you got here but that seems almost silly,” Silver said, letting her pull him into a tight hug. They had taken to each other from the first, which had left Thomas and Flint a little uneasy. Miranda’s humor matched his, her wit sharp and familiar, and Silver had learned very quickly why Flint and Thomas were both still in love with her. He wasn’t far from it himself.

“Thomas called, said James needed an intervention,” She said, letting him go to kiss Thomas hello and hug him tight. “I’m on break from teaching this summer and the fall concert season hasn’t started yet, could I come out and join you for a couple weeks? Which was a silly question, I was buying a ticket the moment he suggested it.”

Thomas kissed the top of her head, smiling brightly. “I had hoped you might be his surprise before he jumped in the lake, I’m sorry my dear.”

Silver watched them, feeling a bit dizzy. They were were a perfect pair, Miranda dark and elegant under Thomas’ arm, the cool dusk sky to Thomas’ golden hour sun.

“Don’t be, I’ll go down to him, maybe join him in the water for a bit.” She kissed his cheek, then Silver’s. “There’s some snacks laid out in the kitchen and dinner will be delivered in a couple hours, why don’t you get the bags inside and then come join us. Maybe we can even take Ariel out before dinner.”

“Oh now there’s an idea,” Thomas agreed, moving to go back and fetch the bags from the car. “Tell our husband we’ll join you in a moment. If you can manage to get him up for air.”

Miranda laughed, a bright sunny sound that always reminded Silver of how she played piano, and made her way down to the pier. He watched as she sat down on the edge of the pier, as the surface of the water broke and Flint emerged, staring up at her in shock. Silver heard her laughing, saw her reach out and watched as Flint reached up and pulled her into the lake with a joyful shout of her name. They were lost for a moment to the water, kicking up waves as Flint held her tight and danced them around, clumsy and free. Behind him Silver could hear Thomas laughing, felt his hand as it came to rest warm and sure on his lower back, pulling him in close, as he said something about wishing they’d gotten that on film.

For Silver, it was one of those moments where suddenly he remembered what all those old love songs were written about. He understood it.

And it was finally his.

[wizardofahz]

High School Reunion

A/N: Midvale is coincidentally set around the time Alex’s 10-year high school reunion would’ve been, so that’s when this is set.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alex heads down to the beach.

Spending the night in her childhood bed and the emotional release of her conversation with Kara had been nice, but leftover pent up energy is making her restless. A difficult run in the sand should help.

It does at first. It’s been a while since she’s run on a beach. All her energy is spent on reacquainting herself with the lack of solid footing, the way the sand deforms under her feet, how much harder her muscles have to work to extract her feet and carry them forward.

Not long after she falls into a steady rhythm, Alex spots two women walking ahead of her. They’re going in the same direction as her, but she passes them easily.

The monotony of her physical movements allows her mind to wander. Inevitably her thoughts return to Maggie. Actually, no, not Maggie but the coming out journey she had helped along. Alex’s self-realization may have come in National City, but the signs had started here in Midvale.

Vicki hadn’t been her only crush, she’s sure. Over the past year, other memories have come back to Alex, puzzle pieces falling into place with a startling new clarity. Alex wonders how many she’s forgotten. Her mother hadn’t been surprised when Alex came out to her. Maybe she remembers more.

Eventually Alex decides to head back. At this point, she can run half the way and use the last half as a cool down walk.

The two women from before are still walking in the same direction. Alex glances at them, prepared to give a courtesy nod, but recognition stops that plan in its tracks.

It’s Josie.

And Vicki.

Crap.

After Kenny’s death, the friend bubble that had shattered so quickly around Alex hadn’t lasted much longer for Josie.

Except Vicki.

Vicki had been so unfailingly kind to and well-liked by everyone that she had the unique ability to stand up for anyone regardless of social status. And so she did for Kenny, Josie, and Alex.

Until Alex had screwed that up.

Alex hopes they won’t recognize her. She really doesn’t need this reunion now of all times.

No such luck.

“Alex?” Josie says as Alex nears.

Alex skids to a stop, momentum carrying her past Josie and Vicki, so they all have to turn to see one another.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Josie continues.

Feeling more off-kilter than just her sudden stop can explain, Alex says, “I-- Josie, hi. Come to what?”

“The reunion.”

Josie’s words ring a distant bell though Alex doesn’t know how. She doesn’t really keep in touch with anyone from high school, though she sees the occasional update on social media. Maybe her mom mentioned it on a phone call. Either way, Alex has a vague recollection of hearing that her 10-year high school reunion is being held sometime around now. Apparently exactly now.

That also explains Vicki. From a brief moment of weakness when Alex googled her, she knows Vicki hasn’t lived in Midvale since she left for college either.

Vicki alternates between averting her gaze and shooting Alex odd looks. Once upon a time, Alex would’ve known what those looks meant.

“Oh, that’s this weekend?” Alex says. “Umm, I’m actually not here for that, just coincidence really.”

“Well, even if you hadn’t planned on going, since you're here, why don’t you drop by the reunion anyway?" Josie offers. “I’m sure we’ll be well-stocked with booze if nothing else.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alex says, her version of ‘thanks but no thanks.'

Josie seems to understand. “Either way, I’m glad we ran into each other. I wanted to say thank you and I’m sorry. The whole thing with Mr. Bernard...” She grimaces and shudders. “The more time passes, the grosser it feels. Thanks for ending it.”

“Just glad I could help,” Alex says. Maybe if Vicki wasn’t here, she’d ask how Josie is doing. But Vicki is here, which means Alex would very much like to be anywhere else. “I should finish my run before I cool down. See you around?”

Josie nods, looking a little lighter. “See you.”

Alex takes one last glance at Vicki.

The odd expression now looks like jealousy.

... 

Alex watches the waves crash into the rocks below.

As the water recedes, she hears the shuffle of someone approaching.

There are very few people who know about her hideout. It’s not the sort of place people find by chance. The rocky cliff face is sloped but occasionally steep. Getting to her particular little hole in the wall requires knowing that sometimes the best way across is going down then up.

Her father is MIA. Her mom wouldn’t know to come looking for her now. This area is remote enough that Kara typically flies, which only leaves--

Alex sighs.

“I’m not in the mood to fight,” she says.

“Me neither,” comes Vicki’s voice moments before she appears. “I thought you’d be here.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Josie?” Alex wishes she could sound calmer, neutral at least, but her voice comes out reeking of resentment. “Doing... whatever, walking? Something?”

“I’ll see her tonight,” Vicki says evenly, and Alex’s resentment grows. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Vicki tilts her head towards the empty space beside Alex, asking if she can sit. The cave can probably fit three or four people, but given the giant elephant in the room, the prospect of two seems cramped.

Alex nods anyway.

An uncomfortable silence settles between them until Vicki clears her throat.

“I wish I knew what to say sorry for,” Vicki says.

Confusion proves a preferable alternative to discomfort. “Why would you be sorry?” Alex asks.

“You know, when we were kids, I remember hearing a lot about heartbreak,” Vicki says, and Alex’s own heart convulses in her chest. “No one ever told me you could feel it as deeply with friends.”

Friends. Right.

“I missed you, you know?” Vicki continues. “In college and even now, whenever I learn something interesting but super nerdy, I think, ‘Alex would love this.’”

“Ouch?” Alex says--she's a nerd but is she that nerdy--but she knows what Vicki means. When reading feel-good stories on the internet, she often thinks that Vicki would do something like that.

Vicki smiles, a subtle quirk of the mouth. “Watching you with Josie just now... it seemed so easy. I wish I could remember why we fought. If I said something stupid or insensitive... I remember it was after your dad died and then Kenny.”

“What? No!” Alex says immediately. “At least I don’t think so. To be honest, I also have no idea what we were fighting about.” Then because she feels guilty about Vicki’s guilt, she adds, “I did sort of have an epiphany last year about why though.”

“Last year? That’s random.”

“Not really.” Alex's face is burning now. She wishes the cave was bigger, provided at least a facade of an escape. But then again, maybe with an escape, she wouldn’t be bringing herself to having this conversation. “I, umm, I came out last year. I guess I’m coming out again now. To you. But I-- last year I came out for the first time, and it sort of made me think about things, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I had a crush on you, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Vicki looks stunned, and Alex immediately regrets saying anything. All of her coming out experiences until now had been positive, but now Maggie’s story about her and Elisa is rattling around her head. Alex racks her brains, trying to remember if Vicki said anything in high school that even hinted at homophobia.

An even more panicked thought runs through her head. Alex is pretty sure she’s the stronger of the two of them. If someone is getting pushed out of this cave, it’s not her.

“You know what,” Alex says quickly, desperately retreating from that terrible thought. “We can forget I said anything.”

“No, I… Thanks for sharing. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to,” Vicki says.

Relief floods through Alex’s body. It’s not enough to calm her pounding heart and twisting stomach, but it provides a moment of clarity. She’d been talking a mile a minute and given Vicki less than half a second to respond before she went into panic mode.

“To be honest, I think I’m more surprised that you had a crush on me specifically,” Vicki continues. “You’re such a perfectionist. That you of all people could think that I was worth crushing on... It’s kind of flattering.” She’s quick to clarify, “Not in a weird way!”

Alex laughs, shaky but sincere. “Well if it helps, I don’t have a crush on you anymore.”

Vicki nudges her leg against Alex’s. “My turn to say, ‘Ouch.’”

Silence settles between them again. Alex wishes she could say this one is less awkward than the previous, but they still have ten years of distance between them.

Again, Vicki is the one to break the silence. “So what brings you to Midvale since it’s not the reunion?”

“I’ve been going through--” Alex lets out a weary sigh “--something. I don’t want to talk about it, but Kara thought it’d be a good idea to get away from National City for the weekend.”

Vicki respects Alex’s wishes and pivots. “And how is Kara? Seemed like Supergirl also had it rough for a while.”

Alex thinks she could rival Kara’s super speed with how quickly she turns to Vicki. “What? Why would you--”

“I’ve never said anything to anyone,” Vicki says with her hands up, “but I grew up with you. It’s kind of obvious.”

“No.” Alex sinks her head into her hands. “You can’t know.”

“I think it’s kind of amazing,” Vicki continues, oblivious to the panic once again coursing through Alex’s veins, “you two saving the world together.”

“You don’t understand,” Alex chokes out. “Do you remember Rick Malverne?”

Alex knows she’s breaking confidentiality by saying this, but she needs Vicki to understand the scope of the problem. If Alex missteps, it won’t be a great solution, but J’onn can wipe Vicki too.

Vicki’s brow furrows in thought before saying, “He liked you, right? Used to carry your backpack or something?”

“He also figured out that Kara is Supergirl, so if he knew, and you know, then how many other people in this town know?”

“Okay, uhh, even if other people do, no one is going to--”

“Earlier this year, he kidnapped me.” 

“Oh my God.”

“He wanted his father freed from prison, so he went after me, said that if Kara didn’t break him free, he’d kill me. Nearly did too. But the point is that I can’t do that to Kara again.”

“What about you though? Are you okay?”

Alex looks down at the water below. The tide is rising much like the water in the tank. Alex shakes her head to wash the memories away.

“I’m fine.”

Vicki looks at her skeptically.

“I’m fine enough.”

“Well, if it helps, when I said it’s obvious, I meant to me.”

Alex shakes her head. “He knew because of that day on the beach. You know, when Kara saved that woman and her baby from the car? Our whole class was out there.”

“Yeah, but Rick moved away not long after, right? That’s one of his last memories of Kara, and it left an impression. No, hear me out. Everyone else who was there remembers her as that weird kid they picked on or avoided for years afterward. I’m pretty sure at this point the ‘weird kid Kara’ reputation is not the good kind of weird you’d expect to find in a superhero--no offense to her. It’s obvious to me because I know you, and especially in senior year after everything with Kenny, Sheriff Collins, and Josie, spending time with you meant spending time with Kara. I got to see her for the good kind of special that she is.”

“I don’t know.” Alex rubs her temples. She wishes it was that simple, but she doesn’t think it is.

“You know,” Vicki says playfully, sending off alarm bells in Alex’s head, “one way you can make sure is to come to the reunion tonight.”

Alex rolls her eyes. “I’d rather be kidnapped again.”

“Want me to sleuth around?” Vicki offers. “I may not be a super spy or whatever it is you do, but I’ve got skills.”

“No, we have other ways of dealing with this.” Alex makes a mental note to talk to J’onn. “And I was serious about the ‘you can’t know’ part. At the very least, you’re going to have to sign a lot of confidentiality documents.”

“Fair enough. Do I go to your office or something? Does that mean we’ll get to spend time together again? This has been nice.”

“We have another field office closer to where you live, not that I know where you live,” Alex adds quickly, but to her relief Vicki just laughs. “So, umm, maybe we could do something non-business related sometime?”

“I’d like that.”